IF Hellier could only have seen into the consciousness of our friend
Freyberger, he would have admitted that the latter, although a
professional detective, had an open mind, and was not entirely bound up
in self-conceit.
Freyberger, as in duty bound, took a cab and made as fast as a London
cab-horse could carry him, through London traffic, towards the Yard. At
the Yard the Chief was just getting into his motor-car, when he saw
Freyberger he beckoned to him.
“Come with me,” he said, “I am going on a case.”
Freyberger knew what that meant.
Some crime of extra magnitude had just taken place.
When the chief went in person like this, it meant big things.
He got into the _tonneau_ without enthusiasm, for he had so much on his
mind that he did not relish the prospect of an additional burden, and
the car started.
It passed up Regent Street and then up Oxford Street in the direction of
the Marble Arch, and straight on towards Notting Hill Gate. At Notting
Hill Gate it turned down Silver Street, and turning the corner into High
Street, Kensington, headed for Hammersmith.
It had not gone more than a couple of hundred yards in this direction
when it slowed, and a mounted constable, who had been slowly patrolling
the street, turned his horse, and putting it to the trot led the way,
turning sharply to the right from the High Street up St James’s Road.
St James’s Road, not far from the grounds surrounding Holland House, has
a touch of the provincial town suburb about it; every house has a garden
in front of it, and every garden has one or more trees. It is a good
middle-class neighbourhood; a few of the houses are let out in furnished
apartments, though no bill or sign indicates the fact, but the majority
of the inhabitants are of the professional or retired business class.
About the middle of the road, by the right-hand kerb, a crowd of people
could be made out.
The car slowed down and stopped a few yards from the crowd, the chief
and Freyberger alighted, and, led by a constable, passed through the
throng up a garden path.
The hall door, at which they knocked, was opened by a constable.
“You have the body here?” asked the chief.
“Yes, sir,” replied the man, saluting.
“Bring us to it.”
The constable opened a door on the right of the passage, disclosing a
comfortably furnished sitting-room. A man was standing with his back to
the mantelpiece. It did not require the tall hat, standing on the table
with the stethoscope beside it, to indicate his profession. A
middle-aged woman, evidently recovering from some great agitation, was
standing by the table, and on the floor lay something covered with a
sheet.
“Shut the door,” said the chief to the constable; then turning to the
man:
“You are a doctor?”
“Yes,” replied the other. “I was summoned nearly an hour ago, and have
waited at the request of the police till your arrival. Life was extinct
when I came.”
“Thank you,” said the chief. “Sit down, Freyberger. A pen, ink and
paper, please. Thanks.” Then to the constable, “Were you the officer
called?”
“I was called at ten-fifteen, being on point duty, arrived to find
deceased lying on the pavement in front of his house. He was black in
the face; and, thinking it was a case of a fit, I unbuttoned his collar
and attempted artificial respiration on the pavement, as he lay, but
without success. This lady, here, was standing by the corpse; there was
also a crowd of some ten or twelve people.
“This lady told me deceased lodged with her and that she believed he had
been murdered.
“I had him conveyed into this room, sending messengers for a doctor, and
to the High Street, Kensington, Police Station. I again attempted
artificial respiration, and was so engaged when this gentleman arrived.”
“That all?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks. Now, sir,” turning to the doctor, “may I ask you just to state
the facts within your knowledge?”
“I was called at ten-thirty, about. I live in the High Street. My name’s
Mason. I found deceased here upon the floor and the constable attempting
artificial respiration. Life was extinct.”
“How long had the man been dead?”
“A very short time; possibly not more than half an hour, perhaps less.”
“Cause of death?”
“Strangulation. The man has been, in my opinion, garrotted, seized from
behind by the throat and literally strangled. The thyroid cartilage has
been broken, and there are the marks of fingers upon the skin of the
neck.”
“No other marks or wounds?”
“I have found no other.”
“Thanks. Constable, remove the sheet.”
The officer stripped away the sheet, revealing a terrible spectacle.
Upon the floor lay the body of a middle-aged man, judging from the
scanty hair streaked with grey; the face was of a dull purple, the
tongue and eyes were protruding.
The body was well dressed in a frock coat and grey pepper and salt
coloured trousers.
“Had he been robbed?” asked the chief of the constable.
“No sir; the watch and chain, valuable ones evidently, were intact, also
the money in his pockets.”
“Now,” said the chief, turning to the woman, “what do you know about
it?”
She told her tale in a broken voice.
Deceased had lodged with her for some years. His name was Goldberg, a
retired City man and well-to-do. Always of an evening he went out before
retiring to rest, and took a short walk up and down the road, rarely
being absent more than ten minutes.
This evening he had gone out as usual. She was in the front bedroom
upstairs, closing the window and about to pull down the blind, when she
heard a stifled cry from the street, and looking out saw two men
struggling on the pavement just before the garden gate.
She could not tell in the least what the men were like, for the light
was very indistinct.
She ran downstairs. Her husband was out, and she had no one in the house
with her.
She put the hall door on the chain and, opening it as far as possible
with the chain on, she peeped through the opening.
She saw a dark form on the pavement beyond the garden gate. It did not
move.
There was no sound to be heard, and, plucking up courage after awhile,
she opened the hall door and came down the garden path towards the gate.
Mr Goldberg was lying on the pavement, “all of a heap.” She screamed,
and a woman from over the way came across the road. The woman ran into
the High Street for assistance, and a policeman came. The woman across
the way had seen nothing of the two men or the struggle.
“Had Mr Goldberg any enemies, to your knowledge?”
“No, sir, he was the best and kindest of men.”
“Had he any relatives?”
“No, sir, only a brother in Australia.”
“Has he heard lately from his brother, do you know?”
“Yes, sir; he had a letter only yesterday.”
“Well, Freyberger,” said the chief, “have you any question to ask?”
“None, sir; but, if you will permit me, I will have that crowd cleared
away from the street outside. I would like to examine the road.”
“How many men have you outside?” asked the chief of the constable.
“Four, sir.”
“Go and clear the crowd away. Send for assistance, if necessary.”
“If you will permit me, sir,” said Freyberger, “I will go with the
constable.”
“Do so; I will wait here until your return.”
Freyberger left the room. He did not return for some twenty minutes.
“Well?” asked the chief, when he returned.
“I would like to have a moment’s conversation with you in private, sir.”
The doctor had already gone, the chief asked the landlady to withdraw,
and Freyberger and he found themselves alone in the room with the
corpse.
“I have found nothing, sir,” said Freyberger, “I went as a matter of
routine. I have, of course, searched narrowly the pavement, the gutter
and the road for any possible trace, any dropped article that might
possibly furnish a clue. I did not expect to find anything.
“Why?”
“Because, sir, the man who has murdered Mr Goldberg is not a man to
leave clues behind him.”
“You know him, then?”
“I believe I do, sir. I believe the man who has just committed this
crime is no other than Klein, _alias_ Kolbecker, _alias_ Müller.”
The chief made an impatient movement.
“You must have that man on your brain,” said he. “What on earth
connexion can you make between this and the Gyde case?”
“One moment, sir; you have had a large experience. Have you ever come
across an exactly similar case to this, that is to say, the case of a
harmless, elderly gentleman strangled openly in the street for no
apparent reason?”
“No, I can recall no such case.”
“The fact of strangulation alone marks it as a crime by itself.
Murderers use every sort of weapon save their own hands.”
“The hand, as a rule, is the weapon of the madman.”
“Yes?”
“Well, sir, I will tell you, in a few words, why I connect this crime
with the case of Sir Anthony Gyde.”
He then detailed the facts he had learned about the crimes that had
followed the murder in the Rue de Turbigo.
The chief listened attentively.
“So you think—?” he said.
“I think, sir, that the ravening beast roused in Klein’s brain by the
murder committed in Cumberland is now beginning to show itself by its
actions. I think if we do not seize Klein over this business another
murder of the same sort is sure to occur. Maybe several more. Our main
hope is to track him now. If we miss him now, we will have several more
chances, but that will mean several more victims. With your permission,
I will not return with you to the Yard to-night, I will remain in this
neighbourhood. There is a strong possibility that he has a den somewhere
round here, in the shape of a furnished room. I wish to remain about the
spot. I will take a room here for the night, if the woman of the house
will let me have one. I must get a list of all known lodging-houses in
the neighbourhood, and I must be on the spot here early in the morning.”
“Very well,” replied the chief; “act as you think fit. I give you a free
hand in the matter.”
Freyberger accompanied him outside. He got into the motor-car and drove
off, and the detective was returning to the house when a stranger, who
had just come up, accosted him.
“I am on the General Press Association,” said the stranger; “you are, I
believe, Inspector Freyberger. Can you give me any details of the crime
just committed?”
“Certainly,” replied Freyberger, with suspicious alacrity. He gave a
short account of the murder, which the pressman entered eagerly in his
notebook.
“Any details known as to the appearance of the murderer?” asked the
representative of the General Press Association.
“The landlady says that, as far as she could see, the assailant was a
tall man with a black beard,” replied Freyberger.
“Thanks,” replied the other, “good night.” He hurried off jubilantly to
get his copy in and Freyberger went up the garden path to the house.
“When Klein reads that description of himself in the morning papers,”
said Freyberger, to himself, “he will smile, if that face could ever
smile. It will make him feel even more secure than if the truth were
told that the landlady could not describe the assassin at all. Of
course, the coroner’s inquest will contradict what I have said. Well, we
must get hold of the reporter at the inquest and doctor his account.
Damn the Press, for one criminal it catches it assists in the escape of
twenty.
“Now, what will Klein do first thing to-morrow morning? He will most
possibly buy a newspaper, therefore every newspaper shop in the
neighbourhood must be watched.
“I say, most possibly. I would have said, most probably, were Klein an
ordinary criminal.
“However, we must leave no stone unturned.”
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