“SO,” said Freyberger, when this detailed description of the affair had
been given to him by his Chief, “it is briefly this: Gyde was being
blackmailed by this man; he called on him, murdered him, and cut off his
head, put it in a bag, came to London with the bag and slipped out of
his London house, carrying with him his jewels. It is an extraordinarily
strange case.”
“It seems clear enough.”
“Not to me, sir—excuse me for saying so.”
The Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department had long had his eye
on Freyberger. He recognized genius in the man. He knew his temperament
also, and that, if given a full rein and let speak and act as he liked
he blossomed; but, if snubbed or kept in check he wilted, and became
just an ordinary detective.
“Just explain yourself,” he said. “Give me the points in your mind that
strike you.”
“Well, sir,” said the other, “why did this man leave those utterly
damning letters behind him on the mantelpiece?”
“You know as well as I do,” replied the Chief, “that in every criminal’s
brain there is a black spot, a vacant point that betrays him, and leads
him to do some act, some extraordinarily stupid act, which in turn leads
him—here.”
“Quite so. Why did he cut off his victim’s head—what in the name of
heaven did he want to burden himself with a human head for? The man was
known in the neighbourhood, his body was there to be identified; taking
the head away would seem to serve no known purpose, unless he intended
to keep it as a curiosity or memento.”
“I confess it puzzles me,” replied the other.
“On top of these two puzzling facts,” went on Freyberger, “we have the
death of Leloir the valet.”
“He may have opened the bag and come upon the head.”
“I have thought of that, but the explanation does not satisfy me, for,
from the expression of his face—” Freyberger stopped.
“Yes?”
“Well, I am convinced he saw something worse than an ordinary human
head.”
“Remember that to open a bag and find a grizzly thing like that would
give even the most stout-hearted man a shock.”
Freyberger shook his head. “There was a look of wild horror on his face
that was caused, by what I know not, by what I even fail to imagine, but
by something, I am very sure, much worse than the sight of a human head.
I can almost fancy—”
“Well?”
Freyberger gave a little laugh, as if at the idea that had struck him.
“I can almost fancy a man dying with an expression on his face like that
after he had seen the—unimaginable. Excuse me, I am a German by birth,
and we Germans have wild thoughts sometimes. Let me be practical. With
your permission I will telephone now to Coutts’s, they are Sir Anthony’s
bankers; it may be as well to see if they have any knowledge of his
movements.”
“Use the telephone,” replied the Chief.
Freyberger went to the instrument, spoke through it, received an answer,
and spoke again. Then he listened attentively, and as he listened a
faint smile stole over his face.
“He has been there at ten o’clock this morning, just as they opened,
taken the box containing his late wife’s jewels, given a receipt for it,
and departed. He evidently determined to collect all his resources. He
has done it with great coolness. No professional criminal could have
done it better.”
“You must remember he was a financier,” said the other.
“True,” replied Freyberger, “and now, if you will permit me, sir, I will
go about the business of finding the cabman who drove him this morning,
or last night. He is pretty certain—” He stopped, for at that moment a
knock came to the door and a sergeant appeared.
“Telephone from Vine Street, sir, relative to 110B Piccadilly. A
dismembered human head has been discovered.”
“Ha!” said the chief. “Any details?”
“No, sir, only the statement.”
The Chief went to his private telephone and spoke through, “Messenger
come with word, no details, go at once Freyberger and report.”
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