“Oberzohn is entitled to his amusements, however vulgar they may be.”
“But this play isn’t vulgar,” protested Leon, “except in so far as it is popular. I found it most difficult to buy a seat. Even actors go to see the audience act.”
“What seat did he buy?”
“Box A,” said Leon promptly, “and paid for it with real money. It is the end box on the prompt side—and before you ask me whence I gained my amazing knowledge of theatrical technique, I will answer that even a child in arms knows that the prompt side is the left-hand side facing the audience.”
“For tonight?”
Leon nodded.
“I have three stalls,” he said and produced them from his pocket. “If you cannot go, will you give them to the cook? She looks like a woman who would enjoy a good cry over the sufferings of the tortured heroine. The seats are in the front row, which means that you can get in and out between the acts without walking on other people’s knees.”
“Must I go?” asked Poiccart plaintively. “I do not like detective plays, and I hate mystery plays. I know who the real murderer is before the curtain has been up ten minutes, and that naturally spoils my evening.”
“Could you not take a girl?” asked Leon outrageously. “Do you know any who would go?”
“Why not take Aunt Alma?” suggested Manfred, and Leon accepted the name joyously.
Aunt Alma had come to town at the suggestion of the Three, and had opened up the Doughty Court flat.
“And really she is a remarkable woman, and shows a steadiness and a courage in face of the terrible position of our poor little friend, which is altogether praiseworthy. I don’t think Mirabelle Leicester is in any immediate danger. I think I’ve said that before. Oberzohn merely wishes to keep her until the period of renewal has expired. How he will escape the consequences of imprisoning her, I cannot guess. He may not attempt to escape them, may accept the term of imprisonment which will certainly be handed out to him, as part of the payment he must pay for his millions.”
“Suppose he kills her?” asked Poiccart.
For a second Leon’s face twitched.
“He won’t kill her,” he said quietly. “Why should he? We know that he has got her—the police know. She is a different proposition from Barberton, an unknown man killed nobody knew how, in a public place. No, I don’t think we need cross that bridge, only …” He rubbed his hands together irritably. “However, we shall see. And in the meantime I’m placing a lot of faith in Digby, a shrewd man with a sense of his previous shortcomings. You were wise there, George.”
He was looking at the street through the curtains.
“Tittlemouse is at his post, the faithful hound!” he said, nodding towards the solitary taxicab that stood on the rank. “I wonder whether he expects—”
Manfred saw a light creep into his eyes.
“Will you want me for the next two hours?” Leon asked quickly, and was out of the room in a flash.
Ten minutes later, Poiccart and George were talking together when they heard the street door close, and saw Leon stroll to the edge of the pavement and wave his umbrella. The taxi-driver was suddenly a thing of quivering excitement. He leaned down, cranked his engine, climbed back into his seat and brought the car up quicker than any taxicab driver had ever moved before.
“New Scotland Yard,” said Leon, and got into the machine.
The cab passed through the forbidding gates of the Yard and dropped him at the staff entrance.
“Wait here,” said Leon, and the man shifted uncomfortably.
“I’ve got to be back at my garage—” he began.
“I shall not be five minutes,” said Leon.
Meadows was in his room, fortunately.
“I want you to pull in this man and give him a dose of the third degree you keep in this country,” said Leon. “He carries a gun; I saw that when he had to get down to crank up his cab in Piccadilly Circus. The engine stopped.”
“What do you want to know?”
“All that there is to be known about Oberzohn. I may have missed one or two things. I’ve seen him outside the house. Oberzohn employs him for odd jobs and occasionally he acts as the old man’s chauffeur. In fact, he drove the machine the day Miss Leicester lunched with Oberzohn at the Ritz-Carlton. He may not have a cabman’s licence, and that will make it all the easier for you.”
A few minutes later, a very surprised and wrathful man was marched into Cannon Row and scientifically searched. Leon had been right about the revolver; it was produced and found to be loaded, and his excuse that he carried the weapon as a protection following upon a recent murder of a cabdriver, had not the backing of the necessary permit. In addition—and this was a more serious offence—he held no permit from Scotland Yard to ply for hire on the streets, and his badge was the property of another man.
“Put him inside,” said Meadows, and went back to report to the waiting Leon. “You’ve hit the bull’s-eye first time. I don’t know whether he will be of any use to us, but I don’t despise even the smallest fish.”
Whilst he was waiting, Leon had been engaged in some quick thinking.
“The man has been at Greenwich lately. One of my men saw him there twice, and I needn’t say that he was driving Oberzohn.”
“I’ll talk
