FREYBERGER remained at his post all that night.
It was the bitterest experience he had ever known.
Without food, without fire, without light, half worn out from his
struggle with Hellier and depressed by the result, the chance of the
capture of Klein reduced to the barest possible, he still remained on
guard, watchful and ready to spring.
With the full light of day he left the place, bearing with him the only
scrap of evidence that could be any use, that is to say, the small
valise containing the suit of clothes and the jewel cases and the knife
sheath.
He had some food at an early morning coffee-stall in the High Street,
and then he proceeded on his way to the Yard.
The great Kalihari Desert is not a more desolate place than London in
the early morning.
There are no cabs, there are no omnibuses; there are no shops, no
people. You hear that which is the voice of a city’s desolation, the
echo of your own footsteps. The High Street of Kensington was empty from
end to end, experiencing the hiatus in traffic which comes between the
passing of the last market gardener’s cart and the passage of the first
cab.
Freyberger, with the valise in his hand, had made up his mind to walk to
his destination, when an early hansom turned out of one of the side
streets, and, getting in, he told the driver to take him to the Yard.
Here he delivered up the valise and the jewel cases, directed that a man
should be sent to St Ann’s Road to take charge of the house and make
inquiries, also that Sir Anthony Gyde’s tailor should be discovered and
the clothes submitted to him.
Then he returned to his lodgings, south of the water, to obtain a few
hours’ sleep.
“Well, Freyberger,” said the chief to the detective, when at four
o’clock that afternoon they found themselves together, “what have you to
report?”
Freyberger reported everything that we know as having taken place in St
Ann’s Road.
Had you been listening to his report, you would have admitted that if he
were jealous he was also honest, for he minimized nothing, nor did he
magnify anything or attempt to cast the blame for his failure on
Hellier.
He just told the truth. Freyberger loved the truth, not from any exalted
reason, but simply because it was the tool by which he earned his living
and made his reputation. The golden measuring rod by which he measured
statements, the crucible from which he distilled deductions, the glass
mask which he wore tied over his face to prevent himself being poisoned
by the fumes of misapprehension.
“You have missed him this time,” said the chief; “but never mind, you
are driving him back, you are getting him slowly into a corner. Another
move may mean checkmate.”
“If I had taken him yesterday,” replied Freyberger, “it would have meant
a life saved—who knows? Perhaps several lives saved. He is loose now,
like a wild beast, and the question we have to consider is this. If he
is seriously alarmed, if he suspects that we know of his monomania, may
fear overcome his madness and cause him to withhold his hand?”
“What is your opinion on that point?” asked the chief. “You have
considerable knowledge of the psychology of crime.”
“Well, sir, it is my belief that, if he is really alarmed, fear will
cause him to withhold his hand—for awhile.
“But fear, though checking, will not stay his desire to kill. He will at
first be careful, then, as time goes on and he gets farther away from
this murder, his caution will slacken and the desire become unchained.”
“You think fear is a check upon lunacy?”
“Not much. But I conceive the mind of this man to be essentially not the
mind of a lunatic.
“If I might use a simile, I would liken this man’s mind to a country
peopled with evil persons, and possessing one town peopled with
devils—that is the lunatic spot.”
“You almost speak as though you believe lunacy to be possession by
devils.”
“Absolutely, I believe that,” replied Freyberger. “Firstly, from a
prolonged study of lunacy; secondly, because my Bible bids me believe
it. I am a Protestant.”
“You have heard the report we have had about those clothes you brought
here this morning in the valise?”
“No.”
“Smalpage is, or should we say was, Sir Anthony Gyde’s tailor. He
identifies the measurements as being those of Sir Anthony Gyde, and his
chief cutter identifies the garments as his work, though, of course, he
cannot say for certain for whom he cut them.”
“That is evidence enough,” replied Freyberger; “the clothes are Gyde’s.”
“Yes, I think so. Then, again, Smith and Wilkinson, the jewellers,
identify the jewel cases as having been supplied to Sir Anthony; the
bank identify them as similar to those withdrawn by Sir Anthony.”
“That is evidence enough,” again replied Freyberger. “The things are
Gyde’s; the evidence is, unhappily, of little use at present. It will
help to hang our man when we catch him. There is nothing for us now to
do but wait.”
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