“It was ajar.”
“And the gate also was ajar?”
Munsey nodded.
“You heard no sound of quarrelling?”
“None.”
There was a knock, and Munsey walked to the door.
“It is Stephen,” he said, and a second later Stephen Tableman, escorted by two detectives, came into the room. His big face was pale, and when he greeted his cousin with a little smile, Manfred saw the extraordinary canines, big and cruel looking. The other teeth were of normal size, but these pointed fangs were notably abnormal.
Stephen Tableman was a young giant, and, observing those great hands of his, Manfred bit his lip thoughtfully.
“You have heard the sad news, Mr. Tableman?”
“Yes, sir,” said Stephen in a shaking voice. “Can I see my father?”
“In a little time,” said Fare, and his voice was hard. “I want you to tell me when you saw your father last.”
“I saw him alive last night,” said Stephen Tableman quickly. “I came by appointment to the laboratory, and we had a long talk.”
“How long were you there with him?”
“About two hours, as near as I can guess.”
“Was the conversation of a friendly character?”
“Very,” said Stephen emphatically. “For the first time since over a year ago”—he hesitated—“we discussed a certain subject rationally.”
“The subject being your fiancée, Miss Faber?”
Stephen looked at the interrogator steadily.
“That was the subject, Mr. Fare,” he replied quietly.
“Did you discuss any other matters?”
Stephen hesitated.
“We discussed money,” he said. “My father cut off his allowance, and I have been rather short; in fact, I have been overdrawn at my bank, and he promised to make that right, and also spoke about—the future.”
“About his will?”
“Yes, sir, he spoke about altering his will.” He looked across at Munsey, and again he smiled. “My cousin has been a most persistent advocate, and I can’t thank him half enough for his loyalty to me in those dark times,” he said.
“When you left the laboratory, did you go out by the side entrance?”
Stephen nodded.
“And did you close the door behind you?”
“My father closed the door,” he said. “I distinctly remember hearing the click of the lock as I was going up the alley.”
“Can the door be opened from outside?”
“Yes,” said Stephen, “there is a lock which has only one key, and that is in my father’s possession—I think I am right, John?”
John Munsey nodded.
“So that, if he closed the door behind you, it could only be opened again by somebody in the laboratory—himself, for example?”
Stephen looked puzzled.
“I don’t quite understand the meaning of this enquiry,” he said. “The detective told me that my father had been found dead. What was the cause?”
“I think he was strangled,” said Fare quietly, and the young man took a step back.
“Strangled!” he whispered. “But he hadn’t an enemy in the world.”
“That we shall discover.” Fare’s voice was dry and businesslike. “You can go now, Mr. Tableman.”
After a moment’s hesitation the big fellow swung across the room through a door in the direction of the laboratory. He came back after an absence of a quarter of an hour, and his face was deathly white.
“Horrible, horrible!” he muttered. “My poor father!”
“You are on the way to being a doctor, Mr. Tableman? I believe you are at the Middlesex Hospital,” said Fare. “Do you agree with me that your father was strangled?”
The other nodded.
“It looks that way,” he said, speaking with difficulty. “I couldn’t conduct an examination as if he had been—somebody else, but it looks that way.”
The two men walked back to their lodgings. Manfred thought best when his muscles were most active. Their walk was in silence, each being busy with his own thoughts.
“You observed the canines?” asked Leon with quiet triumph after a while.
“I observed too his obvious distress,” said Manfred, and Leon chuckled.
“It is evident that you have not read friend Mantegazza’s admirable monograph on the ‘Physiology of Pain,’ ” he said smugly—Leon was delightfully smug at times—“nor examined his most admirable tables on the ‘Synonyms of Expression,’ or otherwise you would be aware that the expression of sorrow is indistinguishable from the expression of remorse.”
Manfred looked down at his friend with that quiet smile of his.
“Anybody who did not know you, Leon, would say that you were convinced that Professor Tableman was strangled by his son.”
“After a heated quarrel,” said Gonsalez complacently.
“When young Tableman had gone, you inspected the laboratory. Did you discover anything?”
“Nothing more than I expected to find,” said Gonsalez. “There were the usual air apparatus, the inevitable liquid-air still, the ever-to-be-expected electric crucibles. The inspection was superfluous, I admit, for I knew exactly how the murder was committed—for murder it was—the moment I came into the laboratory and saw the thermos flask and the pad of cotton wool.”
Suddenly he frowned and stopped dead.
“Santa Miranda!” he ejaculated. Gonsalez always swore by this nonexistent saint. “I had forgotten!”
He looked up and down the street.
“There is a place from whence we can telephone,” he said. “Will you come with me, or shall I leave you here?”
“I am consumed with curiosity,” said Manfred.
They went into the shop and Gonsalez gave a number. Manfred did not ask him how he knew it, because he too had read the number which was written on the telephone disc that stood on the late Professor’s table.
“Is that you, Mr. Munsey?” asked Gonsalez. “It is I. You remember I have just come from you? Yes, I thought you would recognise my voice. I want to ask you where are the Professor’s spectacles.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“The Professor’s spectacles?” said Munsey’s voice. “Why, they’re with him, aren’t they?”
“They were not on the body or near it,” said Gonsalez. “Will you see if they are in his room? I’ll hold the line.”
He waited, humming a little aria from El Perro Chico, a light opera which had its day in Madrid fifteen years before; and presently he directed his attention again to the instrument.
“In his bedroom, were they? Thank you very much.”
He hung up the receiver. He did not explain the conversation to Manfred, nor did Manfred expect him to, for Leon Gonsalez dearly loved
