CHAPTER XI

IT was after ten the next morning that Raymond, the butler, made the discovery. Knocking at the door of Sir Anthony’s room and receiving no answer, he opened it, and found the body of the valet.

Had Raymond, instead of calling in the policeman on point duty at the corner, telephoned instead to New Scotland Yard, he would have found coming, as a reply, neither Inspector Alanson or Fairchild, both being away on duty. He would have found a much younger man acting as their locum tenens. A clean-shaved, almost boyish person, suggestive of a café waiter in his Sunday clothes. In other words, he would have found Gustave Freyberger, then unknown, now a European celebrity.

Freyberger, a naturalized Englishman, was exactly twenty-six years of age when the Gyde case fell into his hands like a gift from heaven and it fell into his hands at half-past ten in the morning, heralded by the ringing of the bell of the telephone connecting Marlborough Street Police Station and New Scotland Yard.

It was half-past ten exactly when the message came through, and the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department, who had just arrived, received it in person.

“Who’s on duty?” he asked, and on being told “Freyberger,” sent for him.

“Take a cab,” he said, “and go at once to 110B Piccadilly—man dead there—make your report to me personally here as soon as possible.”

“As soon as possible,” answered Freyberger, and, taking his hat and overcoat from the waiting-room, he ran swiftly down the two flights of stairs, across the hall, and into the street. There was nothing to indicate that tragedy stood behind the solid and respectable oak doors of No. 110B. They were opened by a policeman, and the detective, having entered, they were immediately shut.

“You have touched nothing, altered nothing, meddled with nothing, I hope,” said Freyberger, as he slipped out of his overcoat.

“Nothing,” replied the man in blue. “The corpse is just where it fell when it expired.”

“Who sent for you?”

“The butler.”

“Call him up.”

The officer of the law disappeared for a moment, and then returned, followed by Raymond. Raymond was very white and shaky, and had evidently been fortifying himself with strong waters, but he was quite capable of telling what he knew.

In a few words he told how Sir Anthony, his valet and secretary, had arrived the night before; how the household had retired to rest; how he had received instructions from the secretary, Mr Folgam, not to allow him to be awakened till ten.

How he had searched for Leloir, without finding him, to tell him of this order; how he had gone into the bedroom to find Leloir lying dead on the floor, and Sir Anthony gone.

“Gone!” said Freyberger.

“The bed had not been slept in,” replied the other.

“Before proceeding further I will go up and see the body,” said the detective. Raymond led the way, and Freyberger followed him to the fatal bedroom; bending over the body was a tall, clean-shaved man.

“Dr Murrell,” said Raymond.

The doctor rose to his full height, and exposed what he had been bending over. It was a sight that gave even Freyberger a thrill.

He introduced himself. “I can’t find a trace of injury,” said the police surgeon.

“What do you think he died of?”

“Fright,” replied Dr Murrell. “Most possibly he had a weak heart, we will see at the autopsy; but it was fright that killed him—look at his face.”

Now Freyberger was a junior man at the Yard. He recognized at once that this case was no ordinary case of a man being found dead. The position of Gyde, his great place in the world, his absence, and the extraordinary death of his valet, conspired to make it an affair of the first importance.

A weak man might have sent for assistance, but he was not a weak man by any manner of means, and as he stood looking at the object on the floor, it seemed to him that he could hear the waters of that flood that leads on to fortune.

In a moment he had made up his mind. Leaving the corpse exactly where it lay, he withdrew downstairs to the dining-room, asking the people around to accompany him.

He shut the dining-room door and began to interrogate Raymond.

“How many people slept in the house last night?”

“Sir Anthony, sir, myself, the secretary, Mr Folgam, Leloir and the servants.” Then, answering the questions of the detective, he told nearly all that we know.

As he was finishing, the door opened, and Mr Folgam came in; divining the presence of the law he introduced himself, and told of the cry he had heard and of how he had met Sir Anthony dressed, apparently, for going out.

“In what state was the front door this morning,” asked Freyberger of Raymond.

“The chain was undone, sir, all the bolts drawn, and the door held only by the latch.”

“Had Sir Anthony any valuables in the house?”

“His jewels, sir, in the big Morocco case he always carries about with him travelling; he keeps papers in it, but there are some very valuable jewels.”

“Where is the case?”

“In the bedroom, sir.”

“Go with the constable and fetch it for me to see.”

Raymond departed, and returned with the case; it was open, at least it was unlocked.

Freyberger opened it; there were no jewels in it, nothing but papers; he gave it into the care of the constable. “How was Sir Anthony dressed when you saw him at his bedroom door?” he asked, turning to Mr Folgam.

“Dressed for going out, even to his hat,” replied the secretary. “He had a dark overcoat on; Sir Anthony nearly always dressed in dark things.”

“Did he seem excited?”

“Well, I could not see his face very well, and as to his manner, no, I do not think it betrayed any excitement.”

Freyberger paused a moment in thought; Gyde vanishing from the house without having slept in his bed, the vanishing of the jewels, the death of Leloir, and the scream heard by Mr Folgam, all pointed towards the sinister.

But it was all vague. Gyde might have gone out on some business of his own at that late hour, taking his jewels with him; the scream heard by Folgam might have been an illusion, the death of Leloir might have been accidental. Each incident in itself was not impossible, viewed by the light of natural causes, but the conjunction of the three spelt, in lurid letters, crime.

There was work to be done, but it was not here.

“Who are Sir Anthony’s bankers?” asked Freyberger of Raymond.

“Coutts, sir.”

“Thanks, now I must be going. You will have the corpse removed to the mortuary, and—should Sir Anthony return, you had better telephone us, and we will send some one to interview him.”

Freyberger left the house with the doctor.

“It’s a queer case,” said the police surgeon.

“Very,” replied the other, hailing a passing hansom.

“I wonder what he saw before he died,” went on Dr Murrell.

“If we knew that,” replied the detective, “the case might not seem so queer.”

“Or queerer?”

“Perhaps.”

“That man died of pure blank terror, I’ll stake my reputation on it,” said Dr Murrell. “Out in Bulgaria, in the riot time, I saw a woman who had died like that. I have made my mind up to try and find out.”

“What?”

“What he saw.”

“How?”

“I shall photograph the retina by Mendel’s process.”

“Ah!” said Freyberger.

“Whatever he saw was seen by electric light, for the lamps in the bedroom were still alight when they found him. Electric light is more favourable even than sunlight for retinal pictures; he died instantaneously; the conditions could not well be more favourable.”

“You are a photographer?”

“Amateur,” replied the police surgeon, with a fine assumption of modesty, considering that photography, its highways and byways, was the hobby of his life.

“You will let me know if you are successful,” said the other, getting into the cab.

“I will,” replied Dr Murrell.

When Freyberger reached the Yard, he had to wait for a full quarter of an hour before being admitted to the presence of his chief.

He found the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department seated in that half cheerful, half sinister room, which is the central bureau of an army for ever at war with crime.

The walls of this room are hung with pictures of noted criminals; over the mantel, in a glass case, are weird-looking instruments of the expert burglars’ art.

In the centre of the room, at a large table covered with papers and documents, sat the chief; a young man, well dressed and groomed, with a quiet manner and a calm, cool, steadfast eye.

Freyberger, without much preliminary, plunged into the business before him, and told all we know. Occasionally the young man at the table made a note. He listened attentively, asking a question now and then.

When his subordinate had finished he said, “Is that all?”

“Yes, sir, that is all I have to say.”

“Hum—well, since you went, there has been a warrant issued for the arrest of Sir Anthony Gyde.”

“A warrant,” said Freyberger. “I beg your pardon, sir—”

“Issued by Sir James Coatbank, Justice of the Peace for the Division of Carlisle.”

“What is the charge?” asked Freyberger.

“Murder,” replied the chief. “I have been in telephonic communication with Carlisle for the last quarter of an hour and have received all the details. He is accused of the murder of a man named Klein in a cottage on the fells, near Blencarn.” He then methodically, yet quickly, began to give the details of the case, omitting nothing, yet not using an unnecessary word. What he told Freyberger here follows, but in other words.