“My brother!” Dr. Oberzohn choked. “My sainted Adolph … murdered! By the so-called Three Just Men … my brother!”
“Very interesting,” murmured Captain Newton, who had not even troubled to look up. He flicked the ash from his cigarette into the fireplace and said no more.
Adolph Oberzohn had certainly been shot dead by Leon Gonsalez: there was no disputing the fact. That Adolph, at the moment of his death, was attempting to earn the generous profits which come to those who engage in a certain obnoxious trade between Europe and the South American states, was less open to question. There was a girl in it: Leon followed his man to Puerto Rico, and in the Café of the Seven Virtues they had met. Adolph was by training a gunman and drew first—and died first. That was the story of Adolph Oberzohn: the story of a girl whom Leon Gonsalez smuggled back to Europe belongs elsewhere. She fell in love with her rescuer and frightened him sick.
Dr. Oberzohn let the portrait roll up with a snap, blew his nose vigorously, and blinked the tears from his pale eyes.
“Yes, very sad, very sad,” said the captain cheerfully. “Now what about this girl? There is to be nothing rough or raw, you understand, Eruc? I want the thing done sweetly. Get that bug of the Just Men out of your mind—they are out of business. When a man lowers himself to run a detective agency he’s a back number. If they start anything we’ll deal with them scientifically, eh? Scientifically!”
He chuckled with laughter at this good joke. It was obvious that Captain Newton was no dependant on the firm of Oberzohn & Smitts. If he was not the dominant partner, he dominated that branch which he had once served in a minor capacity. He owed much to the death of Adolph—he never regretted the passing of that unsavoury man.
“I’ll get one of the girls to look her over this afternoon—where is your telephone pad—the one you write messages received?”
The doctor opened a drawer of his desk and took out a little memo pad, and Newton found a pencil and wrote:
“To Mirabelle Leicester, care Oberzohn (phone) London. Sorry I can’t come up tonight. Don’t sleep at flat alone. Have wired Joan Newton to put you up for night. She will call.—Alma.”
“There you are,” said the gallant captain, handing the pad to the other. “That message came this afternoon. All telegrams to Oberzohn come by phone—never forget it!”
“Ingenious creature!” Dr. Oberzohn’s admiration was almost reverential.
“Take her out to lunch … after lunch, the message. At four o’clock, Joan or one of the girls. A select dinner. Tomorrow the office … gently, gently. Bull-rush these schemes and your plans die the death of a dog.”
He glanced at the door once more.
“She won’t come out, I suppose?” he suggested. “Deuced awkward if she came out and saw Miss Newton’s brother!”
“I have locked the door,” said Dr. Oberzohn proudly.
Captain Newton’s attitude changed: his face went red with sudden fury. “Then you’re a—you’re a fool! Unlock the door when I’ve gone—and keep it unlocked! Want to frighten her?”
“It was my idea to risk nothing,” pleaded the long-faced Swede.
“Do as I tell you.”
Captain Newton brushed his speckless coat with the tips of his fingers. He pulled on his gloves, fitted his hat with the aid of a small pocket-mirror he took from his inside pocket, took up his clouded cane and strolled from the room.
“Ingenious creature,” murmured Dr. Oberzohn again, and went in to offer the startled Mirabelle an invitation to lunch.
IV
The Snake Strikes
The great restaurant, with its atmosphere of luxury and wealth, had been a little overpowering. The crowded tables, the soft lights, the very capability and nonchalance of the waiters, were impressive. When her new employer had told her that it was his practice to take the laboratory secretary to lunch, “for I have no other time to speak of business things,” she accepted uncomfortably. She knew little of office routine, but she felt that it was not customary for principals to drive their secretaries from the City Road to the Ritz-Carlton to lunch expensively at that resort of fashion and the epicure. It added nothing to her self-possession that her companion was an object of interest to all who saw him. The gay luncheon-parties forgot their dishes and twisted round to stare at the extraordinary-looking man with the high forehead.
At a little table alone she saw a man whose face was tantalizingly familiar. A keen, thin face with eager, amused eyes. Where had she seen him before? Then she remembered: the chauffeur had such a face—the man who had followed her into Oberzohn’s when she arrived that morning. It was absurd, of course; this man was one of the leisured class, to whom lunching at the Ritz-Carlton was a normal event. And yet the likeness was extraordinary.
She was glad when the meal was over. Dr. Oberzohn did not talk of “business things.” He did not talk at all, but spent his time shovelling incredible quantities of food through his wide slit of a mouth. He ate intently, noisily—Mirabelle was glad the band was playing, and she went red with suppressed
