He chuckled to himself, and then suddenly became serious.
“They took you to their bosom, these policemen?”
Manfred nodded.
“They were very kind and charming. We are lunching with one of the Assistant Commissioners, Mr. Reginald Fare, tomorrow. British police methods have improved tremendously since we were in London before, Leon. The fingerprint department is a model of efficiency, and their new men are remarkably clever.”
“They will hang us yet,” said the cheerful Leon.
“I think not!” replied his companion.
The lunch at the Ritz-Carlton was, for Gonsalez especially, a most pleasant function. Mr. Fare, the middle-aged Commissioner, was, in addition to being a charming gentleman, a very able scientist. The views and observations of Marro, Lombroso, Fere, Mantegazza and Ellis flew from one side of the table to the other.
“To the habitual criminal the world is an immense prison, alternating with an immense jag,” said Fare. “That isn’t my description but one a hundred years old. The habitual criminal is an easy man to deal with. It is when you come to the non-criminal classes, the murderers, the accidental embezzlers—”
“Exactly!” said Gonsalez. “Now my contention is—”
He was not to express his view, for a footman had brought an envelope to the Commissioner, and he interrupted Gonsalez with an apology to open and read its contents.
“H’m!” he said. “That is a curious coincidence. …”
He looked at Manfred thoughtfully.
“You were saying the other night that you would like to watch Scotland Yard at work close at hand, and I promised you that I would give you the first opportunity which presented—your chance has come!”
He had beckoned the waiter and paid his bill before he spoke again.
“I shall not disdain to draw upon your ripe experience,” he said, “for it is possible we may need all the assistance we can get in this case.”
“What is it?” asked Manfred, as the Commissioner’s car threaded the traffic at Hyde Park Corner.
“A man has been found dead in extraordinary circumstances,” said the Commissioner. “He holds rather a prominent position in the scientific world—a Professor Tableman—you probably know the name.”
“Tableman?” said Gonsalez, his eyes opening wide. “Well, that is extraordinary! You were talking of coincidences, Mr. Fare. Now I will tell you of another.”
He related his meeting with the son of the Professor on the previous night.
“Personally,” Gonsalez went on, “I look upon all coincidences as part of normal intercourse. It is a coincidence that, if you receive a bill requiring payment, you receive two or more during the day, and that if you receive a cheque by the first post, be sure you will receive a cheque by your second or third post. Some day I shall devote my mind to the investigation of that phenomenon.”
“Professor Tableman lives in Chelsea. Some years ago he purchased his house from an artist, and had the roomy studio converted into a laboratory. He was a lecturer in physics and chemistry at the Bloomsbury University,” explained Fare, though he need not have done so, for Manfred recalled the name; “and he was also a man of considerable means.”
“I knew the Professor and dined with him about a month ago,” said Fare. “He had had some trouble with his son. Tableman was an arbitrary, unyielding old man, one of those types of Christians who worship the historical figures of the Old Testament but never seem to get to the second book.”
They arrived at the house, a handsome modern structure in one of the streets abutting upon King’s Road, and apparently the news of the tragedy had not leaked out, for the usual crowd of morbid loungers had not gathered. A detective was waiting for them, and conducted the Commissioner along a covered passageway running by the side of the house, and up a flight of steps directly into the studio. There was nothing unusual about the room save that it was very light, for one of the walls was a huge window and the sloping roof was also of glass. Broad benches ran the length of two walls, and a big table occupied the centre of the room, all these being covered with scientific apparatus, whilst two long shelves above the benches were filled with bottles and jars, apparently containing chemicals.
A sad-faced, good-looking young man rose from a chair as they entered.
“I am John Munsey,” he said, “the Professor’s nephew. You remember me, Mr. Fare? I used to assist my uncle in his experiments.”
Fare nodded. His eyes were occupied with the figure that lay upon the ground, between table and bench.
“I have not moved the Professor,” said the young man in a low voice. “The detectives who came moved him slightly to assist the doctor in making his examination, but he has been left practically where he fell.”
The body was that of an old man, tall and spare, and on the grey face was an unmistakable look of agony and terror.
“It looks like a case of strangling,” said Fare. “Has any rope or cord been found?”
“No, sir,” replied the young man. “That was the view which the detectives reached, and we made a very thorough search of the laboratory.”
Gonsalez was kneeling by the body, looking with dispassionate interest at the lean neck. About the throat was a band of blue about four inches deep, and he thought at first that it was a material bandage of some diaphanous stuff, but on close inspection he saw that it was merely the discoloration of the skin. Then his keen eye rose to the table, near where the Professor fell.
“What is that?” he asked. He pointed to a small green bottle by the side of which was an empty glass.
“It is a bottle of crème de menthe,” said the youth; “my uncle took a glass usually before retiring.”
“May I?” asked Leon, and Fare nodded.
Gonsalez picked up the glass and smelt it, then held it to the light.
“This glass was not used for liqueur last night, so he was killed before he drank,” the Commissioner said. “I’d like to hear the whole story from you,
