“This is The Snake,” said one.
“The house mustn’t know,” said Manfred. “He’s dead, of course?”
The doctor nodded.
Out in the passage was a big emergency exit door, and this the manager pushed open, and, running out into the street, found a cab, into which all that was mortal of Monty Newton was lifted.
Whilst this was being done, Poiccart returned.
“His car has just driven off,” he said. “I saw the numberplate as it turned into Lisle Street.”
“How long ago?” asked Gonsalez quickly.
“At this very moment.”
Leon pinched his lip thoughtfully.
“Why didn’t he wait, I wonder?”
He went back through the emergency door, which was being closed, and passed up the passage towards the entrance. The box was on the dress-circle level, and the end of a short passage brought him into the circle itself.
And then the thought of the lame man occurred to him, and his eyes sought the first seat in the front row, which was also the seat nearest to the boxes. The man had gone.
As he made this discovery, George emerged from the passage.
“Gurther!” said Leon. “What a fool I am! But how clever!”
“Gurther?” said Manfred in amazement. “Do you mean the man with the club foot?”
Leon nodded.
“He was not alone, of course,” said Gonsalez. “There must have been two or three of the gang here, men and women—Oberzohn works these schemes out with the care and thoroughness of a general. I wonder where the management have taken the girl?”
He found the manager discussing the tragedy with two other men, one of whom was obviously associated with the production, and he signalled him aside.
“The lady? I suppose she’s gone home. She’s left the theatre.”
“Which way did she go?” asked Gonsalez, in a sudden panic.
The manager called a linkman, who had seen a middle-aged woman come out of the theatre with a weeping girl, and they had gone down the side-street towards the little square at the back of the playhouse.
“She may have taken her home to Chester Square,” said Manfred. His voice belied the assumption of confidence.
Leon had not brought his own machine, and they drove to Chester Square in a taxi. Fred, the footman, had neither heard nor seen the girl, and nearly fainted when he learned of the tragic ending to his master’s career.
“Oh, my God!” he groaned. “And he only left here this afternoon … dead, you say?”
Gonsalez nodded.
“Not—not The Snake?” faltered the man.
“What do you know about the snake?” demanded Manfred sternly.
“Nothing, except—well, the snake made him nervous, I know. He told me today that he hoped he’d get through the week without a snakebite.”
He was questioned closely, but although it was clear that he knew something of his master’s illicit transactions, and that he was connected in business with Oberzohn, the footman had no connection with the doctor’s gang. He drew a large wage and a percentage of profits from the gaming side of the business, and confessed that it was part of his duties to prepare stacks of cards and pass them to his master under cover of bringing in the drinks. But of anything more sinister he knew nothing.
“The woman, of course, was a confederate, who had been planted to take charge of the girl the moment the snake struck. I was in such a state of mind,” confessed Leon, “that I do not even remember what she looked like. I am a fool—a double-distilled idiot! I think I must be getting old. There’s only one thing for us to do, and that is to get back to Curzon Street—something may have turned up.”
“Did you leave anybody in the house?”
Leon nodded. “Yes, I left one of our men, to take any phone messages that came through.”
They paid off the taxi before the house, and Leon sprinted to the garage to get the car. The man who opened the door to them was he who had been tied up by the pedlar at Heavytree Farm, and his first words came as a shock to Manfred:
“Digby’s here, sir.”
“Digby?” said the other in surprise. “I thought he was on duty?”
“He’s been here since just after you left, sir. If I’d known where you had gone, I’d have sent him to you.”
Digby came out of the waiting-room at that moment, ready to apologize.
“I had to see you, sir, and I’m sorry I’m away from my post.”
“You may not be missing much,” said Manfred unsmilingly. “Come upstairs and tell me all about it.”
Digby’s story was a strange one. He had gone down that afternoon to the canal bank to make a reconnaissance of ground which was new to him.
“I’m glad I did too, because the walls have got broken glass on top. I went up into the Old Kent Road and bought a garden hoe, and prised the mortar loose, so that if I wanted, I could get over. And then I climbed round the water-gate and had a look at that barge of his. There was nobody about, though I think they spotted me afterwards. It is a fairly big barge, and, of course, in a terrible state, but the hold is full of cargo—you know that, sir?”
“You mean there is something in the barge?”
Digby nodded.
“Yes, it has a load of some kind. The after part, where the bargee’s sleeping quarters are, is full of rats and water, but the fore part of the vessel is watertight, and it holds something heavy too. That is why the barge is down by its head in the mud. I was in the Thames police and I know a lot about river craft.”
“Is that what you came to tell me?”
“No, sir, it was something queerer than that. After I’d given the barge a look over and tried to pull up some of the boards—which I didn’t manage to do—I went along and had a look at the factory. It’s not so easy to get in, because the entrance faces the house, but to get to it you have to go half
