“I don’t want you to go after him,” said Staines slowly, “because—well, he has been found.”
There was something very significant and sinister in his tone, and before he could take the little slip of paper from the portfolio on the desk, Michael Brixan knew what was coming.
“Not the Headhunter?” he gasped. Even Michael knew about the Headhunter.
Staines nodded.
“Here’s the note.”
He handed the typewritten slip across to his subordinate, and Michael read:
“You will find a box in the hedge by the railway arch at Esher.
“The Headhunter!” repeated Michael mechanically, and whistled.
“We found the box, and of course we found the unfortunate Elmer’s head, sliced neatly from his body,” said Staines. “This is the twelfth head in seven years,” Staines went on, “and in almost every case—in fact, in every case except two—the victim has been a fugitive from justice. Even if the treaty question had not been settled, Mike, I should have brought you back.”
“But this is a police job,” said the young man, troubled.
“Technically you’re a policeman,” interrupted his chief, “and the Foreign Secretary wishes you to take this case in hand, and he does this with the full approval of the Secretary of State, who of course controls Scotland Yard. So far, the death of Francis Elmer and the discovery of his gruesome remains have not been given out to the press. There was such a fuss last time that the police want to keep this quiet. They have had an inquest—I guess the jury was picked, but it would be high treason to say so—and the usual verdict has been returned. The only information I can give you is that Elmer was seen by his niece a week ago in Chichester. We discovered this before the man’s fate was known. The girl, Adele Leamington, is working for the Knebworth Film Corporation, which has its studio in Chichester. Old Knebworth is an American and a very good sort. The girl is a sort of super-chorus-extra, that’s the word—”
Michael gasped.
“Extra! I knew that infernal word would turn up again. Go on, sir—what do you wish me to do?”
“Go along and see her,” said the chief. “Here is the address.”
“Is there a Mrs. Elmer?” asked Michael as he put the slip into his pocket.
The other nodded.
“Yes, but she can throw no light upon the murder. She, by the way, is the only person who knows he is dead. She had not seen her husband for a month, and apparently they had been more or less separated for years. She benefits considerably by his death, for he was well insured in her favour.”
Michael read again the gruesome note from the Headhunter.
“What is your theory about this?” he asked curiously.
“The general idea is that he is a lunatic who feels called upon to mete out punishment to defaulters. But the two exceptions disturb that theory pretty considerably.”
Staines lay back in his chair, a puzzled frown on his face.
“Take the case of Willitt. His head was found on Clapham Common two years ago. Willitt was a well-off man, the soul of honesty, well liked, and he had a very big balance at his bank. Crewling, the second exception, who was one of the first of the Hunter’s victims, was also above suspicion, though in his case there is no doubt he was mentally unbalanced a few weeks before his death.
“The typewritten notification has invariably been typed out on the same machine. In every case you have the half-obliterated u, the faint g, and the extraordinary alignment which the experts are unanimous in ascribing to a very old and out-of-date Kost machine. Find the man who uses that typewriter and you have probably found the murderer. But it is very unlikely that he will ever be found that way, for the police have published photographs pointing out the peculiarities of type, and I should imagine that Mr. Hunter does not use this machine except to announce the demise of his victims.”
Michael Brixan went back to his flat, a little more puzzled and a little more worried by his unusual commission. He moved and had his being in the world of high politics. The finesses of diplomacy were his peculiar study, and the normal abnormalities of humanity, the thefts and murders and larcenies which occupied the attention of the constabulary, did not come into his purview.
“Bill,” said he, addressing the small terrier that lay on the hearthrug before the fireless grate of his sitting-room, “this is where I fall down. But whether I do or not, I’m going to meet an extra—ain’t that grand?”
Bill wagged his tail agreeably.
II
Mr. Sampson Longvale Calls
Adele Leamington waited till the studio was almost empty before she came to where the white-haired man sat crouched in his canvas chair, his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, a malignant scowl on his forehead.
It was not a propitious moment to approach him: nobody knew that better than she.
“Mr. Knebworth, may I speak to you?”
He looked up slowly. Ordinarily he would have risen, for this middle-aged American in normal moments was the soul of courtesy. But just at that moment, his respect for womanhood was something below zero. His look was blank, though the director in him instinctively approved her values. She was pretty, with regular features, a mop of brown hair in which the sunshine of childhood still lingered. Her mouth firm, delicately shaped, her figure slim—perfect in many ways.
Jack had seen many beautiful extras in his career, and had passed through stages of enthusiasm and despair as he had seen them translated to the screen—pretty wooden figures without soul or expression, gauche of movement, hopeless. Too pretty to be clever, too conscious of their beauty to be natural. Dolls without intelligence or initiative—just “extras” who could wear clothes in a crowd, who could smile and dance mechanically, fit for extras and nothing else all the
