“How did you get there?” asked Manfred.
“I was taken,” replied Gonsalez simply. “I went to dinner at Martaus Club. I recognised Mr. Welby and greeted him as an old friend. I think he really believed that he had met me before I went to the Argentine and made my pile, and of course, he sat down with me and we drank liqueurs, and he introduced me to a most beautiful girl, with a most perfectly upholstered little runabout.”
“You weren’t recognised?”
Leon shook his head.
“The moustache which I put on my face was indistinguishable from the real thing,” he said not without pride. “I put it on hair by hair, and it took me two hours to manufacture. When it was done you would not have recognised me. I danced with the beautiful Margaret and—” He hesitated.
“You made love to her,” said Manfred admiringly.
Leon shrugged.
“My dear Manfred, it was necessary,” he said solemnly. “And was it not fortunate that I had in my pocket a diamond ring which I had brought back from South America—it cost me 110 guineas in Regent Street this afternoon—and how wonderful that it should fit her. She wasn’t feeling at her best, either, until that happened. That was the price of my admission to the Bayswater establishment. She drove me there in her car. It was a visit not without profit,” he said modestly. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a stiff bundle of notes.
Manfred was laughing softly.
Leon was the cleverest manipulator of cards in Europe. His long delicate fingers, the amazing rapidity with which he could move them, his natural gift for palming, would have made his fortune either as a conjurer or a cardsharper.
“The game was baccarat and the cards were dealt from a box by an intelligent croupier,” explained Leon. “Those which were used were thrown into a basin. Those in the stack were, of course, so carefully arranged that the croupier knew the sequence of them all. To secure a dozen cards from the basin was a fairly simple matter. To stroll from the room and rearrange them so that they were alternately against and for the bank, was not difficult, but to place them on the top of those he was dealing, my dear Manfred, I was an artist!”
Leon did not explain what form his artistry took, nor how he directed the attention of croupier and company away from the “deck” for that fraction of a second necessary—the croupier seldom took his hands from the cards—but the results of his enterprise were to be found in the thick stack of notes which lay on the table.
He took off his coat and put on his old velvet jacket, pacing the room with his hands in his pockets.
“Margaret Vane,” he said softly. “One of God’s most beautiful works, George, flawless, gifted, and yet if she is what she appears, something so absolutely loathsome that …”
He shook his head sadly.
“Does she play a big part, or is she just a dupe?” asked Manfred.
Leon did not answer at once.
“I’m rather puzzled,” he said slowly. He related his experience in Mr. Birn’s office, the glimpse of the red-haired man and Mr. Birn’s fury with him.
“I do not doubt that the ‘she’ to whom reference was made was Margaret Vane. But that alone would not have shaken my faith in her guilt. After I left the Bayswater house I decided that I would discover where she was living. She had so skilfully evaded any question on this matter which I had put to her that I grew suspicious. I hired a taxicab and waited, sitting inside. Presently her car came out and I followed her. Mr. Birn has a house in Fitzroy Square and it was to there she drove. A man was waiting outside to take her car, and she went straight into the house, letting herself in. It was at this point that I began to think that Birn and she were much better friends than I had thought.
“I decided to wait, and stopped the car on the other side of the Square. In about a quarter of an hour the girl came out, and to my surprise, she had changed her clothes. I dismissed the cab and followed on foot. She lives at 803 Gower Street.”
“That certainly is puzzling,” agreed Manfred. “The thing does not seem to dovetail, Leon.”
“That is what I think,” nodded Leon. “I am going to 803 Gower Street tomorrow morning.”
Gonsalez required very little sleep and at ten o’clock in the morning was afoot.
The report he brought back to Manfred was interesting.
“Her name is Elsie Chaucer, and she lives with her father, who is paralysed in both legs. They have a flat, one servant and a nurse, whose business it is to attend to the father. Nothing is known of them except that they have seen better times. The father spends the day with a pack of cards, working out a gambling system, and probably that explains their poverty. He is never seen by visitors, and the girl is supposed to be an actress—that is, supposed by the landlady. It is rather queer,” said Gonsalez thoughtfully. “The solution is, of course, in Birn’s house and in Birn’s mind.”
“I think we will get at that, Leon.”
Leon nodded.
“So I thought,” said he. “Mr. Birn’s establishment does not present any insuperable difficulties.”
Mr. Birn was at home that night. He was at home most nights. Curled up in a deep armchair, he puffed
