The man who had slipped into the room when he had escorted Elsie Chaucer to the door came from behind the curtain and stooping, loosened his collar. He stepped softly into the dimly lit passage and beckoned somebody, and Manfred came from the shadows, noiselessly, for he was wearing rubber over-boots.
Manfred glanced down at the unconscious man and then to the dregs in the whisky glass.
“Butyl chloride, I presume?”
“No more and no less,” said the practical Leon, “in fact the ‘knockout-drop’ which is so popular in criminal circles.”
He searched the man, took out his keys, opened the safe and removing the sealed packet, he carried it to the table. Then he looked thoughtfully at the prostrate man.
“He will only be completely under the ‘drop’ for five minutes, Manfred, but I think that will be enough.”
“Have you stopped to consider what will be the pathological results of twilight sleep on top of butyl?” asked Manfred. “I saw you blending the hyocine with the morphia before we left Jermyn Street and I suppose that is what you are using?”
“I did not look it up,” replied Gonsalez carelessly, “and if he dies, shall I weep? Give him another dose in half an hour, George. I will return by then.”
He took from his pocket a small black case, and opened it; the hypodermic syringe it contained was already charged, and rolling back the man’s sleeve, he inserted the needle and pressed home the piston.
Mr. Birn woke the next morning with a throbbing headache.
He had no recollection of how he had got to bed, yet evidently he had undressed himself, for he was clad in his violet pyjamas. He rang the bell and got on to the floor, and though the room spun round him, he was able to hold himself erect.
The bell brought his housekeeper.
“What happened to me last night?” he asked, and she looked astounded.
“Nothing, sir. I left you in the library.”
“It is that beastly whisky,” grumbled Mr. Birn.
A cold bath and a cup of tea helped to dissipate the headache, but he was still shaky when he went into the room in which he had been sitting the night before.
A thought had occurred to him. A terrifying thought. Suppose the whisky had been drugged (though what opportunity there had been for drugging his drink he could not imagine) and somebody had broken in … !
He opened the safe and breathed a sigh of relief. The package was still there. It must have been the whisky, he grumbled, and declining breakfast, he ordered his car and was driven straight to the bank.
When he reached his office, he found the hatchet-faced young man in a state of agitation.
“I think we must have had burglars here last night, Mr. Birn.”
“Burglars?” said Mr. Birn alarmed. And then with a laugh, “well, they wouldn’t get much here. But what makes you think they have been?”
“Somebody has been in the room, that I’ll swear,” said the young man. “The safe was open when I came and one of the books had been taken out and left on your table.”
A slow smile dawned on Mr. Birn’s face.
“I wish them luck,” he said.
Nevertheless he was perturbed, and made a careful search of all his papers to see if any important documents had been abstracted. His promissory notes were at the bank, in that same large box wherein was deposited the necklace which had come to him for the settlement of a debt.
Just before noon his clerk came in quickly.
“That fellow is here,” he whispered.
“Which fellow?” growled Mr. Birn.
“The man from Jermyn Street who stopped the payment of Eden’s cheques.”
“Ask him in,” said Mr. Birn. “Well, sir,” he said jovially, “have you thought better about settling those debts?”
“Better and better,” said Gonsalez. “I can speak to you alone, I suppose?”
Birn signalled his assistant to leave them.
“I’ve come to settle all sorts of debts. For example, I’ve come to settle the debt of a gentleman named Chaucer.”
The gambling-house keeper started.
“A very charming fellow, Chaucer. I’ve been interviewing him this morning. Some time ago he had a shock which brought on a stroke of paralysis. He’s not been able to leave his room in consequence for some time.”
“You’re telling me a lot I don’t want to hear about,” said Mr. Birn briskly.
“The poor fellow is under the impression that he killed a red-haired croupier of yours. Apparently he was gambling and lost his head, when he saw your croupier taking a bill.”
“My croupier,” said the other with virtuous indignation. “What do you mean? I don’t know what a croupier is.”
“He hit him over the head with a money-rake. You came to Chaucer the next day and told him your croupier was dead, seeking to extract money from him. You soon found he was ruined. You found also he had a very beautiful daughter, and it occurred to you that she might be of use to you in your nefarious schemes, so you had a little talk with her and she agreed to enter your service in order to save her father from ruin and possibly imprisonment.”
“This is a fairy story you’re telling me, is it?” said Birn, but his face had gone a pasty white and the hand that took the cigar from his lips trembled.
“To bolster up your scheme,” Gonsalez went on, “you inserted an advertisement in the death column of The Times and also you sent to the local newspaper a very flowery account of Mr. Jinkins’ funeral, which was also intended for Chaucer and his daughter.”
“It’s Greek to me,” murmured Mr. Birn with a pathetic attempt at a smile.
“I interviewed Mr. Chaucer this morning and was able to assure him that Jinkins is very much alive and is living at Brighton, and is running a little gambling-house—a branch of your many activities, and by the way, Mr. Birn, I don’t think you will see Elsie Chaucer again.”
Birn was breathing heavily.
“You know a hell of a lot,” he began, but
