“Canine teeth!”
And this seemed to amuse him very much.
When Gonsalez came to breakfast the next morning, the waiter informed him that Manfred had gone out early. George came in about ten minutes after the other had commenced breakfast, and Leon Gonsalez looked up.
“You puzzle me when your face is so mask-like, George,” he said. “I don’t know whether you’re particularly amused or particularly depressed.”
“A little of the one and a little of the other,” said Manfred, sitting down to breakfast. “I have been to Fleet Street to examine the files of the sporting press.”
“The sporting press?” repeated Gonsalez, staring at him, and Manfred nodded.
“Incidentally, I met Fare. No trace of poison has been found in the body, and no other sign of violence. They are arresting Stephen Tableman today.”
“I was afraid of that,” said Gonsalez gravely. “But why the sporting press, George?”
Manfred did not answer the question, but went on:
“Fare is quite certain that the murder was committed by Stephen Tableman. His theory is that there was a quarrel and that the young man lost his temper and choked his father. Apparently, the examination of the body proved that extraordinary violence must have been used. Every blood-vessel in the neck is congested. Fare also told me that at first the doctor suspected poison, but there is no sign of any drug to be discovered, and the doctors say that the drug that would cause that death with such symptoms is unknown. It makes it worse for Stephen Tableman because for the past few months he has been concentrating his studies upon obscure poisons.”
Gonsalez stretched back in his chair, his hands in his pockets.
“Well, whether he committed that murder or not,” he said after a while, “he is certain to commit a murder sooner or later. I remember once a doctor in Barcelona who had such teeth. He was a devout Christian, a popular man, a bachelor, and had plenty of money, and there seemed no reason in the world why he should murder anybody, and yet he did. He murdered another doctor who threatened to expose some error he made in an operation. I tell you, George, with teeth like that—” He paused and frowned thoughtfully. “My dear George,” he said, “I am going to ask Fare if he will allow me the privilege of spending a few hours alone in Professor Tableman’s laboratory.”
“Why on earth—” began Manfred, and checked himself. “Why, of course, you have a reason, Leon. As a rule I find no difficulty in solving such mysteries as these. But in this case I am puzzled, though I have confidence that you have already unravelled what mystery there is. There are certain features about the business which are particularly baffling. Why should the old man be wearing thick gloves—”
Gonsalez sprang to his feet, his eyes blazing.
“What a fool! What a fool!” he almost shouted. “I didn’t see those. Are you sure, George?” he asked eagerly. “He had thick gloves? Are you certain?”
Manfred nodded, smiling his surprise at the other’s perturbation.
“That’s it!” Gonsalez snapped his fingers. “I knew there was some error in my calculations! Thick woollen gloves, weren’t they?” He became suddenly thoughtful. “Now, I wonder how the devil he induced the old man to put ’em on?” he said half to himself.
The request to Mr. Fare was granted, and the two men went together to the laboratory. John Munsey was waiting for them.
“I discovered those spectacles by my uncle’s bedside,” he said as soon as he saw them.
“Oh, the spectacles?” said Leon absently. “May I see them?” He took them in his hand. “Your uncle was very shortsighted. How did they come to leave his possession, I wonder?”
“I think he went up to his bedroom to change; he usually did after dinner,” explained Mr. Munsey. “And he must have left them there. He usually kept an emergency pair in the laboratory, but for some reason or other he doesn’t seem to have put them on. Do you wish to be alone in the laboratory?” he asked.
“I would rather,” said Leon. “Perhaps you would entertain my friend whilst I look round?”
Left alone, he locked the door that communicated between the laboratory and the house, and his first search was for the spectacles that the old man usually wore when he was working.
Characteristically enough, he went straight to the place where they were—a big galvanised ashpan by the side of the steps leading up to the laboratory. He found them in fragments, the horn rims broken in two places, and he collected what he could and returned to the laboratory, and, laying them on the bench, he took up the telephone.
The laboratory had a direct connection with the exchange, and after five minutes waiting, Gonsalez found himself in communication with Stephen Tableman.
“Yes, sir,” was the surprised reply. “My father wore his glasses throughout the interview.”
“Thank you, that is all,” said Gonsalez and hung up the phone.
Then he went to one of the apparatus in a corner of the laboratory and worked steadily for an hour and a half. At the end of that time he went to the telephone again. Another half hour passed, and then he pulled from his pocket a pair of thick woollen gloves, and unlocking the door leading to the house, called Manfred.
“Ask Mr. Munsey to come,” he said.
“Your friend is interested in science,” said Mr. Munsey as he accompanied Manfred along the passage.
“I think he is one of the cleverest in his own particular line,” said Manfred.
He came into the laboratory ahead of Munsey, and to his surprise, Gonsalez was standing near the table, holding in his hand a small liqueur glass filled with an almost colourless liquid. Almost colourless, but there was a blue tinge to it, and to Manfred’s amazement a faint mist was rising from its surface.
Manfred stared at him, and then he saw that the hands of Leon Gonsalez were enclosed in thick woollen gloves.
“Have you finished?” smiled Mr. Munsey as
