The Complete Four Just Men (52 page)

‘Heredity?’ interrupted Manfred quickly. ‘What was wrong with Miss Faber?’

‘I don’t know,’ shrugged the other, ‘but the Professor had heard rumours that her father had died in an inebriates’ home. I believe those rumours were baseless.’

‘What happened last night?’ asked Fare.

‘I understand that Stephen came,’ said Munsey. ‘I kept carefully out of the way; in fact, I spent my time in my room, writing off some arrears of correspondence. I came downstairs about half past eleven, but the Professor had not returned. Looking from this window you can see the wall of the laboratory, and as the lights were still on, I thought the Professor’s conversation had been protracted, and, hoping that the best results might come from this interview, I went to bed. It was earlier than I go as a rule, but it was quite usual for me to go to bed even without saying good night to the Professor.

‘I was awakened at eight in the morning by the housekeeper, who told me that the Professor was not in his room. Here again, this was not an unusual circumstance. Sometimes the Professor would work very late in the laboratory and then throw himself into an armchair and go off to sleep. It was a habit of which I had remonstrated as plainly as I dared; but he was not a man who bore criticism with equanimity.

‘I got into my dressing-gown and my slippers, and went along to the laboratory, which is reached, as you know, by the way we came here. It was then that I discovered him on the floor, and he was quite dead.’

‘Was the door of the laboratory open?’ asked Gonsalez.

‘It was ajar.’

‘And the gate also was ajar?’

Munsey nodded.

‘You heard no sound of quarrelling?’

‘None.’

There was a knock, and Munsey walked to the door.

‘It is Stephen,’ he said, and a second later Stephen Tableman, escorted by two detectives, came into the room. His big face was pale, and when he greeted his cousin with a little smile, Manfred saw the extraordinary canines, big and cruel-looking. The other teeth were of normal size, but these pointed fangs were notably abnormal.

Stephen Tableman was a young giant, and, observing those great hands of his, Manfred bit his lip thoughtfully.

‘You have heard the sad news, Mr Tableman?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Stephen in a shaking voice. ‘Can I see my father?’

‘In a little time,’ said Fare, and his voice was hard. ‘I want you to tell me when you saw your father last.’

‘I saw him alive last night,’ said Stephen Tableman quickly. ‘I came by appointment to the laboratory, and we had a long talk.’

‘How long were you there with him?’

‘About two hours, as near as I can guess.’

‘Was the conversation of a friendly character?’

‘Very,’ said Stephen emphatically. ‘For the first time since over a year ago’ – he hesitated – ‘we discussed a certain subject rationally.’

‘The subject being your fiancée, Miss Faber?’

Stephen looked at the interrogator steadily.

‘That was the subject, Mr Fare,’ he replied quietly.

‘Did you discuss any other matters?’

Stephen hesitated.

‘We discussed money,’ he said. ‘My father cut off his allowance, and I have been rather short; in fact, I have been overdrawn at my bank, and he promised to make that right, and also spoke about – the future.’

‘About his will?’

‘Yes, sir, he spoke about altering his will.’ He looked across at Munsey, and again he smiled. ‘My cousin has been a most persistent advocate, and I can’t thank him half enough for his loyalty to me in those dark times,’ he said.

‘When you left the laboratory, did you go out by the side entrance?’

Stephen nodded.

‘And did you close the door behind you?’

‘My father closed the door,’ he said. ‘I distinctly remember hearing the click of the lock as I was going up the alley.’

‘Can the door be opened from outside?’

‘Yes,’ said Stephen, ‘there is a lock which has only one key, and that is in my father’s possession – I think I am right, John?’

John Munsey nodded.

‘So that, if he closed the door behind you, it could only be opened again by somebody in the laboratory – himself, for example?’

Stephen looked puzzled.

‘I don’t quite understand the meaning of this enquiry,’ he said. ‘The detective told me that my father had been found dead. What was the cause?’

‘I think he was strangled,’ said Fare quietly, and the young man took a step back.

‘Strangled!’ he whispered. ‘But he hadn’t an enemy in the world.’

‘That we shall discover.’ Fare’s voice was dry and businesslike. ‘You can go now, Mr Tableman.’

After a moment’s hesitation the big fellow swung across the room through a door in the direction of the laboratory. He came back after an absence of a quarter of an hour, and his face was deathly white.

‘Horrible, horrible!’ he muttered. ‘My poor father!’

‘You are on the way to being a doctor, Mr Tableman? I believe you are at the Middlesex Hospital,’ said Fare. ‘Do you agree with me that your father was strangled?’

The other nodded.

‘It looks that way,’ he said, speaking with difficulty. ‘I couldn’t conduct an examination as if he had been – somebody else, but it looks that way.’

The two men walked back to their lodgings. Manfred thought best when his muscles were most active. Their walk was in silence, each being busy with his own thoughts.

‘You observed the canines?’ asked Leon with quiet triumph after a while.

‘I observed too his obvious distress,’ said Manfred, and Leon chuckled.

‘It is evident that you have not read friend Mantegazza’s admirable
monograph on the “Physiology of Pain”,’ he said smugly – Leon was delightfully smug at times – ‘nor examined his most admirable tables on the “Synonyms of Expression”, or otherwise you would be aware
that the expression of sorrow is indistinguishable from the expression of remorse.’

Manfred looked down at his friend with that quiet smile of his.

‘Anybody who did not know you, Leon, would say that you were convinced that Professor Tableman was strangled by his son.’

‘After a heated quarrel,’ said Gonsalez complacently.

‘When young Tableman had gone, you inspected the laboratory. Did you discover anything?’

‘Nothing more than I expected to find,’ said Gonsalez. ‘There were the usual air apparatus, the inevitable liquid-air still, the ever-to-be-expected electric crucibles. The inspection was superfluous, I admit, for I knew exactly how the murder was committed – for murder it was – the moment I came into the laboratory and saw the thermos flask and the pad of cotton wool.’

Suddenly he frowned and stopped dead.

‘
Santa Miranda
!’ he ejaculated. Gonsalez always swore by this non-existent saint. ‘I had forgotten!’

He looked up and down the street.

‘There is a place from whence we can telephone,’ he said. ‘Will you come with me, or shall I leave you here?’

‘I am consumed with curiosity,’ said Manfred.

They went into the shop and Gonsalez gave a number. Manfred did not ask him how he knew it, because he too had read the number which was written on the telephone disc that stood on the late Professor’s table.

‘Is that you, Mr Munsey?’ asked Gonsalez. ‘It is I. You remember I have just come from you? Yes, I thought you would recognise my voice. I want to ask you where are the Professor’s spectacles.’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘The Professor’s spectacles?’ said Munsey’s voice. ‘Why, they’re with him, aren’t they?’

‘They were not on the body or near it,’ said Gonsalez. ‘Will you see if they are in his room? I’ll hold the line.’

He waited, humming a little aria from
El Perro Chico
, a light opera which had its day in Madrid fifteen years before; and presently he directed his attention again to the instrument.

‘In his bedroom, were they? Thank you very much.’

He hung up the receiver. He did not explain the conversation to Manfred, nor did Manfred expect him to, for Leon Gonsalez dearly loved a mystery. All he permitted himself to say was, ‘Canine teeth!’

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.’