“Is that you, my friend?”
“Yes,” said the tramp in a sulky voice.
“Come inside.”
The tramp lurched forward, peering into the dark interior of the car. Then, with a turn of his wrist, he jerked open the door, put one foot on the running-board, and suddenly flung himself upon the driver.
“Mr. Headhunter, I want you!” he hissed.
The words were hardly out of his mouth before something soft and wet struck him in the face—something that blinded and choked him, so that he let go his grip and fought and clawed like a dying man at the air. A push of the driver’s foot, and he was flung, breathless, to the sidewalk, and the car sped on.
Jack Knebworth had witnessed the scene as far as it could be witnessed in the half-darkness, and came running across. A policeman appeared from nowhere, and together they lifted the tramp into a sitting position.
“I’ve seen this fellow before tonight,” said the policeman. “I warned him.”
And then the prostrate man drew a long, sighing breath, and his hands went up to his eyes.
“This is where I hand in my resignation,” he said, and Knebworth’s jaw dropped.
It was the voice of Michael Brixan!
XXXIV
The Search
“Yes, it’s me,” said Michael bitterly. “All right, officer, you needn’t wait. Jack, I’ll come up to the house to get this makeup off.”
“For the Lord’s sake!” breathed Knebworth, staring at the detective. “I’ve never seen a man made up so well that he deceived me.”
“I’ve deceived everybody, including myself,” said Michael savagely. “I thought I’d caught him with a dummy letter, instead of which the devil caught me.”
“What was it?”
“Ammonia, I think—a concentrated solution thereof,” said Michael.
It was twenty minutes before he emerged from the bathroom, his eyes inflamed but otherwise his old self.
“I wanted to trap him in my own way, but he was too smart for me.”
“Do you know who he is?”
Michael nodded.
“Oh, yes, I know,” he said. “I’ve got a special force of men here, waiting to effect the arrest, but I didn’t want a fuss, and I certainly did not want bloodshed. And bloodshed there will be, unless I am mistaken.”
“I didn’t seem to recognize the car, and I know most of the machines in this city,” said Jack.
“It is a new one, used only for these midnight adventures of the Headhunter. He probably garages it away from his house. You asked me if I’d have something to eat just now, and I lied and told you I was living on the fat of the land. Give me some food, for the love of heaven!”
Jack went into the larder and brought out some cold meat, brewed a pot of coffee, and sat in silence, watching the famished detective dispose of the viands.
“I feel a man now,” said Michael as he finished, “for I’d had nothing to eat except a biscuit since eleven this morning. By the way, our friend Stella Mendoza is staying at Griff Towers, and I’m afraid I rather scared her. I happened to be nosing round there an hour ago, to make absolutely sure of my bird, and I looked in upon her—to her alarm!”
There came a sharp rap at the door, and Jack Knebworth looked up.
“Who’s that at this time of night?” he asked.
“Probably the policeman,” said Michael.
Knebworth opened the door and found a short, stout, middle-aged woman standing on the doorstep with a roll of paper in her hand.
“Is this Mr. Knebworth’s?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Jack.
“I’ve brought the play that Miss Leamington left behind. She asked me to bring it to you.”
Knebworth took the roll of paper and slipped off the elastic band which encircled it. It was the manuscript of “Roselle.”
“Why have you brought this?” he asked.
“She told me to bring it up if I found it.”
“Very good,” said Jack, mystified. “Thank you very much.”
He closed the door on the woman and went back to the dining-room.
“Adele has sent up her script. What’s wrong, I wonder?”
“Who brought it?” asked Michael, interested.
“Her landlady, I suppose,” said Jack, describing the woman.
“Yes, that’s she. Adele is not turning in her part?”
Jack shook his head.
“That wouldn’t be likely.”
Michael was puzzled.
“What the dickens does it mean? What did the woman say?”
“She said that Miss Leamington wanted her to bring up the manuscript if she found it.”
Michael was out of the house in a second, and, racing down the street, overtook the woman.
“Will you come back, please?” he said, and escorted her to the house again. “Just tell Mr. Knebworth why Miss Leamington sent this manuscript, and what you mean by having ‘forgotten’ it.”
“Why, when she came up to you—” began the woman.
“Came up to me?” cried Knebworth quickly.
“A gentleman from the studio called for her, and said you wanted to see her,” said the landlady. “Miss Leamington was just going to bed, but I took up the message. He said you wanted to see her about the play, and asked her to bring the manuscript. She had mislaid it somewhere and was in a great state about it, so I told her to go on, as you were in a hurry, and I’d bring it up. At least, she asked me to do that.”
“What sort of a gentleman was it who called?”
“A rather stout gentleman. He wasn’t exactly a gentleman, he was a chauffeur. As a matter of fact, I thought he’d been drinking, though I didn’t want to alarm Miss Leamington by telling her so.”
“And then what happened?” asked Michael quickly.
“She came down and got in the car. The chauffeur was already in.”
“A closed car, I suppose?”
The woman nodded.
“And then they drove off? What time was this?”
“Just after half-past ten. I remember, because I heard the church clock strike just before the car drove up.”
Michael was cool now. His voice scarcely rose above a whisper.
“Twenty-five past eleven,” he said, looking at his watch. “You’ve been a long time coming.”
“I couldn’t
