The Complete Four Just Men Page 55

  And this seemed to amuse him very much.

  When Gonsalez came to breakfast the next morning, the waiter informed him that Manfred had gone out early. George came in about ten minutes after the other had commenced breakfast, and Leon Gonsalez looked up.

  ‘You puzzle me when your face is so mask-like, George,’ he said. ‘I don’t know whether you’re particularly amused or particularly depressed.’

  ‘A little of the one and a little of the other,’ said Manfred, sitting down to breakfast. ‘I have been to Fleet Street to examine the files of the sporting press.’

  ‘The sporting press?’ repeated Gonsalez, staring at him, and Manfred nodded.

  ‘Incidentally, I met Fare. No trace of poison has been found in the body, and no other sign of violence. They are arresting Stephen Tableman today.’

  ‘I was afraid of that,’ said Gonsalez gravely. ‘But why the sporting press, George?’

  Manfred did not answer the question, but went on: ‘Fare is quite certain that the murder was committed by Stephen Tableman. His theory is that there was a quarrel and that the young man lost his temper and choked his father. Apparently, the examination of the body proved that extraordinary violence must have been used. Every blood-vessel in the neck is congested. Fare also told me that at first the doctor suspected poison, but there is no sign of any drug to be discovered, and the doctors say that the drug that would cause that death with such symptoms is unknown. It makes it worse for Stephen Tableman because for the past few months he has been concentrating his studies upon obscure poisons.’

  Gonsalez stretched back in his chair, his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Well, whether he committed that murder or not,’ he said after a while, ‘he is certain to commit a murder sooner or later. I remember once a doctor in Barcelona who had such teeth. He was a devout Christian, a popular man, a bachelor, and had plenty of money, and there seemed no reason in the world why he should murder anybody, and yet he did. He murdered another doctor who threatened to expose some error he made in an operation. I tell you, George, with teeth like that – ’ He paused and frowned thoughtfully. ‘My dear George,’ he said, ‘I am going to ask Fare if he will allow me the privilege of spending a few hours alone in Professor Tableman’s laboratory.’

  ‘Why on earth – ’ began Manfred, and checked himself. ‘Why, of course, you have a reason, Leon. As a rule I find no difficulty in solving such mysteries as these. But in this case I am puzzled, though I have confidence that you have already unravelled what mystery there is. There are certain features about the business which are particularly baffling. Why should the old man be wearing thick gloves – ’

  Gonsalez sprang to his feet, his eyes blazing.

  ‘What a fool! What a fool!’ he almost shouted. ‘I didn’t see those. Are you sure, George?’ he asked eagerly. ‘He had thick gloves? Are you certain?’

  Manfred nodded, smiling his surprise at the other’s perturbation.

  ‘That’s it!’ Gonsalez snapped his fingers. ‘I knew there was some error in my calculations! Thick woollen gloves, weren’t they?’ He became suddenly thoughtful. ‘Now, I wonder how the devil he induced the old man to put ’em on?’ he said half to himself.

  The request to Mr Fare was granted, and the two men went together to the laboratory. John Munsey was waiting for them.

  ‘I discovered those spectacles by my uncle’s bedside,’ he said as soon as he saw them.

  ‘Oh, the spectacles?’ said Leon absently. ‘May I see them?’ He took them in his hand. ‘Your uncle was very short-sighted. How did they come to leave his possession, I wonder?’

  ‘I think he went up to his bedroom to change; he usually did after dinner,’ explained Mr Munsey. ‘And he must have left them there. He usually kept an emergency pair in the laboratory, but for some reason or other he doesn’t seem to have put them on. Do you wish to be alone in the laboratory?’ he asked.

  ‘I would rather,’ said Leon. ‘Perhaps you would entertain my friend whilst I look round?’

  Left alone, he locked the door that communicated between the laboratory and the house, and his first search was for the spectacles that the old man usually wore when he was working.

  Characteristically enough, he went straight to the place where they were – a big galvanised ash-pan by the side of the steps leading up to the laboratory. He found them in fragments, the horn rims broken in two places, and he collected what he could and returned to the laboratory, and, laying them on the bench, he took up the telephone.

  The laboratory had a direct connection with the exchange, and after five minutes waiting, Gonsalez found himself in communication with Stephen Tableman.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ was the surprised reply. ‘My father wore his glasses throughout the interview.’

  ‘Thank you, that is all,’ said Gonsalez and hung up the ’phone.

  Then he went to one of the apparatus in a corner of the laboratory and worked steadily for an hour and a half. At the end of that time he went to the telephone again. Another half hour passed, and then he pulled from his pocket a pair of thick woollen gloves, and unlocking the door leading to the house, called Manfred.

  ‘Ask Mr Munsey to come,’ he said.

  ‘Your friend is interested in science,’ said Mr Munsey as he accompanied Manfred along the passage.

  ‘I think he is one of the cleverest in his own particular line,’ said Manfred.

  He came into the laboratory ahead of Munsey, and to his surprise, Gonsalez was standing near the table, holding in his hand a small liqueur glass filled with an almost colourless liquid. Almost colourless, but there was a blue tinge to it, and to Manfred’s amazement a faint mist was rising from its surface.

  Manfred stared at him, and then he saw that the hands of Leon Gonsalez were enclosed in thick woollen gloves.

  ‘Have you finished?’ smiled Mr Munsey as he came from behind Manfred; and then he saw Leon and smiled no more. His face went drawn and haggard, his eyes narrowed, and Manfred heard his laboured breathing.

  ‘Have a drink, my friend?’ said Leon pleasantly. ‘A beautiful drink. You’d mistake it for crême de menthe or any old liqueur – especially if you were a short-sighted, absent-minded old man and somebody had purloined your spectacles.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Munsey hoarsely. ‘I – I don’t understand you.’

  ‘I promise you that this drink is innocuous, that it contains no poison whatever, that it is as pure as the air you breathe,’ Gonsalez went on.

  ‘Damn you!’ yelled Munsey, but before he could leap at his tormentor, Manfred had caught him and slung him to the ground.

  ‘I have telephoned for the excellent Mr Fare, and he will be here soon, and also Mr Stephen Tableman. Ah, here they are.’

  There was a tap at the door.

  ‘Will you open, please, my dear George? I do not think our young friend will move. If he does, I will throw the contents of this glass in his face.’

  Fare came in, followed by Stephen, and with them an officer from Scotland Yard.

  ‘There is your prisoner, Mr Fare,’ said Gonsalez. ‘And here is the means by which Mr John Munsey encompassed the death of his uncle – decided thereto, I guess, by the fact that his uncle had been reconciled with Stephen Tableman, and that the will which he had so carefully manoeuvred was to be altered in Stephen Tableman’s favour.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ gasped John Munsey. ‘I worked for you – you know I did, Stephen. I did my best for you – ’

  ‘All part of the general scheme of deception – again I am guessing,’ said Gonsalez. ‘If I am wrong, drink this. It is the liquid your uncle drank on the night of his death.’

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Fare quickly.

  ‘Ask him,’ smiled Gonsalez, nodding to the man.

  John Munsey turned on his heels and walke
d to the door, and the police officer who had accompanied Fare followed him.

  ‘And now I will tell you what it is,’ said Gonsalez. ‘It is liquid air!’

  ‘Liquid air!’ said the Commissioner. ‘Why, what do you mean? How can a man be poisoned with liquid air?’

  ‘Professor Tableman was not poisoned. Liquid air is a fluid obtained by reducing the temperature of air to two hundred and seventy degrees below zero. Scientists use the liquid for experiments, and it is usually kept in a thermos flask, the mouth of which is stopped with cotton wool, because, as you know, there would be danger of a blow up if the air was confined.’

  ‘Good God?’ gasped Tableman in horror. ‘Then that blue mark about my father’s throat – ’

  ‘He was frozen to death. At least his throat was frozen solid the second that liquid was taken. Your father was in the habit of drinking a liqueur before he went to bed, and there is no doubt that, after you had left, Munsey gave the Professor a glassful of liquid air and by some means induced him to put on gloves.’

  ‘Why did he do that? Oh, of course, the cold,’ said Manfred.

  Gonsalez nodded.

  ‘Without gloves he would have detected immediately the stuff he was handling. What artifice Munsey used we may never know. It is certain he himself must have been wearing gloves at the time. After your father’s death he then began to prepare evidence to incriminate somebody else. The Professor had probably put away his glasses preparatory to going to bed, and the murderer, like myself, overlooked the fact that the body was still wearing gloves.

  ‘My own theory,’ said Gonsalez later, ‘is that Munsey has been working for years to oust his cousin from his father’s affections. He probably invented the story of the dipsomaniac father of Miss Faber.’

  Young Tableman had come to their lodgings, and now Gonsalez had a shock. Something he said had surprised a laugh from Stephen, and Gonsalez stared at him.

  ‘Your – your teeth!’ he stammered.

  Stephen flushed.

  ‘My teeth?’ he repeated, puzzled.

  ‘You had two enormous canines when I saw you last,’ said Gonsalez. ‘You remember, Manfred?’ he said, and he was really agitated. ‘I told you – ’

  He was interrupted by a burst of laughter from the young student.

  ‘Oh, they were false,’ he said awkwardly. ‘They were knocked out at a rugger match, and Benson, who’s a fellow in our dental department and is an awfully good chap, though a pretty poor dentist, undertook to make me two to fill the deficiency. They looked terrible, didn’t they? I don’t wonder your noticing them. I got two new ones put in by another dentist.’

  ‘It happened on the thirteenth of September last year. I read about it in the sporting press,’ said Manfred, and Gonsales fixed him with a reproachful glance.

  ‘You see, my dear Leon – ’ Manfred laid his hand on the other’s shoulder – ‘I knew they were false, just as you knew they were canines.’

  When they were alone, Manfred said: ‘Talking about canines – ’

  ‘Let us talk about something else,’ snapped Leon.

  The Man who hated Earthworms

  ‘The death has occurred at Staines of Mr Falmouth, late Superintendent of the Criminal Investigation Department. Mr Falmouth will best be remembered as the Officer who arrested George Manfred, the leader of the Four Just Men gang. The sensational escape of this notorious man is perhaps the most remarkable chapter in criminal history. The “Four Just Men” was an organisation which set itself to right acts of injustice which the law left unpunished. It is believed that the members were exceedingly rich men who devoted their lives and fortunes to this quixotic but wholly unlawful purpose. The gang has not been heard of for many years.’

  Manfred read the paragraph from the Morning Telegram and Leon Gonsalez frowned.

  ‘I have an absurd objection to being called a “gang”,’ he said, and Manfred smiled quietly.

  ‘Poor old Falmouth,’ he reflected, ‘well, he knows! He was a nice fellow.’

  ‘I liked Falmouth,’ agreed Gonsalez. ‘He was a perfectly normal man except for a slight progenism – ’

  Manfred laughed.

  ‘Forgive me if I appear dense, but I have never been able to keep up with you in this particular branch of science,’ he said, ‘what is a “progenism”?’

  ‘The unscientific call it an “underhung jaw”,’ explained Leon, ‘and it is mistaken for strength. It is only normal in Piedmont where the brachycephalic skull is so common. With such a skull, progenism is almost a natural condition.’

  ‘Progenism or not, he was a good fellow,’ insisted Manfred and Leon nodded. ‘With well-developed wisdom teeth,’ he added slyly, and Gonsalez went red, for teeth formed a delicate subject with him. Nevertheless he grinned.

  ‘It will interest you to know, my dear George,’ he said triumphantly, ‘that when the famous Dr Carrara examined the teeth of four hundred criminals and a like number of non-criminals – you will find his detailed narrative in the monograph “Sullo Sviluppo Del Terzo Dente Morale Net Criminali” – he found the wisdom tooth more frequently present in normal people.’

  ‘I grant you the wisdom tooth,’ said Manfred hastily. ‘Look at the bay! Did you ever see anything more perfect?’

  They were sitting on a little green lawn overlooking Babbacombe Beach. The sun was going down and a perfect day was drawing to its close. High above the blue sea towered the crimson cliffs and green fields of Devon.

  Manfred looked at his watch.

  ‘Are we dressing for dinner?’ he asked, ‘or has your professional friend Bohemian tastes?’

  ‘He is of the new school,’ said Leon, ‘rather superior, rather immaculate, very Balliol. I am anxious that you should meet him, his hands are rather fascinating.’

  Manfred in his wisdom did not ask why.

  ‘I met him at golf,’ Gonsalez went on, ‘and certain things happened which interested me. For example, every time he saw an earthworm he stopped to kill it and displayed such an extraordinary fury in the assassination that I was astounded. Prejudice has no place in the scientific mind. He is exceptionally wealthy. People at the club told me that his uncle left him close on a million, and the estate of his aunt or cousin who died last year was valued at another million and he was the sole legatee. Naturally a good catch. Whether Miss Moleneux thinks the same I have had no opportunity of gauging,’ he added after a pause.

  ‘Good lord!’ cried Manfred in consternation as he jumped up from his chair. ‘She is coming to dinner too, isn’t she?’

  ‘And her mamma,’ said Leon solemnly. ‘Her mamma has learnt Spanish by correspondence lessons, and insists upon greeting me with “habla usted Espanol?” ’

  The two men had rented Cliff House for the spring. Manfred loved Devonshire in April when the slopes of the hills were yellow with primroses and daffodils made a golden path across the Devon lawns. ‘Señor Fuentes’ had taken the house after one inspection and found the calm and the peace which only nature’s treasury of colour and fragrance could bring to his active mind.

  Manfred had dressed and was sitting by the wood fire in the drawing-room when the purr of a motor-car coming cautiously down the cliff road brought him to his feet and through the open French window.

  Leon Gonsalez had joined him before the big limousine had come to a halt before the porch.

  The first to alight was a man and George observed him closely. He was tall and thin. He was not bad looking, though the face was lined and the eyes deep-set and level. He greeted Gonsalez with just a tiny hint of patronage in his tone.

  ‘I hope we haven’t kept you waiting, but my experiments detained me. Nothing went right in the laboratory today. You know Miss Moleneux and Mrs Moleneux?’

  Manfred was introduced and found himself shaking hands with a grave-eyed girl of singul
ar beauty.

  Manfred was unusually sensitive to ‘atmosphere’ and there was something about this girl which momentarily chilled him. Her frequent smile, sweet as it was and undoubtedly sincere, was as undoubtedly mechanical. Leon, who judged people by reason rather than instinct, reached his conclusion more surely and gave shape and definite description to what in Manfred’s mind was merely a distressful impression. The girl was afraid! Of what? wondered Leon. Not of that stout, complacent little woman whom she called mother, and surely not of this thin-faced academic gentleman in pince-nez.

  Gonsalez had introduced Dr Viglow and whilst the ladies were taking off their cloaks in Manfred’s room above, he had leisure to form a judgment. There was no need for him to entertain his guest. Dr Viglow spoke fluently, entertainingly and all the time.

  ‘Our friend here plays a good game of golf,’ he said, indicating Gonsalez, ‘a good game of golf indeed for a foreigner. You two are Spanish?’

  Manfred nodded. He was more thoroughly English than the doctor, did that gentleman but know, but it was as a Spaniard and armed, moreover, with a Spanish passport that he was a visitor to Britain.

  ‘I understood you to say that your investigations have taken rather a sensational turn, Doctor,’ said Leon and a light came into Dr Viglow’s eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ he said complacently, and then quickly, ‘who told you that?’

  ‘You told me yourself at the club this morning.’

  The doctor frowned.

  ‘Did I?’ he said and passed his hand across his forehead. ‘I can’t recollect that. When was this?’

  ‘This morning,’ said Leon, ‘but your mind was probably occupied with much more important matters.’

  The young professor bit his lip and frowned thoughtfully.

  ‘I ought not to have forgotten what happened this morning,’ he said in a troubled tone.

  He gave the impression to Manfred that one half of him was struggling desperately to overcome a something in the other half. Suddenly he laughed.

  ‘A sensational turn!’ he said. ‘Yes indeed, and I rather think that within a few months I shall not be without fame, even in my own country! It is, of course, terribly expensive. I was only reckoning up today that my typists’ wages come to nearly £60 a week.’