The Law of the Four Just Men · The Man with the Canine Teeth (1/3)

The Man with the Canine Teeth

“Murder, my dear Manfred is the most accidental of crimes,” said Leon Gonsalez, removing his big shell-rimmed glasses and looking across the breakfast-table with that whimsical earnestness which was ever a delight to the handsome genius who directed the operations of the Four Just Men.

“Poiccart used to say that murder was a tangible expression of hysteria,” he smiled, “but why this grisly breakfast-table topic?”

Gonsalez put on his glasses again and returned, apparently, to his study of the morning newspaper. He did not wilfully ignore the question, but his mind, as George Manfred knew, was so completely occupied by his reflections that he neither heard the query nor, for the matter of that, was he reading the newspaper. Presently he spoke again.

“Eighty percent of the men who are charged with murder are making their appearance in a criminal court for the first time,” he said, “therefore, murderers as a class are not criminals⁠—I speak, of course, for the Anglo-Saxon murderer. Latin and Teutonic criminal classes supply sixty percent of the murderers in France, Italy and the Germanic States. They are fascinating people, George, fascinating!”

His face lighted up with enthusiasm, and George Manfred surveyed him with amusement.

“I have never been able to take so detached a view of those gentlemen,” he said. “To me they are completely horrible⁠—for is not murder the apotheosis of injustice?” he asked.

“I suppose so,” said Gonsalez vacantly.

“What started this line of thought?” asked Manfred, rolling his serviette.

“I met a true murderer type last night,” answered the other calmly. “He asked me for a match and smiled when I gave it to him. A perfect set of teeth, my dear George, perfect⁠—except⁠—”

“Except?”

“The canine teeth were unusually large and long, the eyes deep set and amazingly level, the face anamorphic⁠—which latter fact is not necessarily criminal.”

“Sounds rather an ogre to me,” said Manfred.

“On the contrary,” Gonsalez hastened to correct the impression, “he was quite good-looking. None but a student would have noticed the irregularity of the face. Oh no, he was most presentable.”

He explained the circumstances of the meeting. He had been to a concert the night before⁠—not that he loved music, but because he wished to study the effect of music upon certain types of people. He had returned with hieroglyphics scribbled all over his programme, and had sat up half the night elaborating his notes.

“He is the son of Professor Tableman. He is not on good terms with his father, who apparently disapproves of his choice of fiancée, and he loathes his cousin,” added Gonsalez simply.

Manfred laughed aloud.

“You amusing person! And did he tell you all this of his own free will, or did you hypnotise him and extract the information? You haven’t asked me what I did last night.”

Gonsalez was lighting a cigarette slowly and thoughtfully.

“He is nearly two metres⁠—to be exact, six feet two inches⁠—in height, powerfully built, with shoulders like that!” He held the cigarette in one hand and the burning match in the other to indicate the breadth of the young man. “He has big, strong hands and plays football for the United Hospitals. I beg your pardon, Manfred; where were you last night?”

“At Scotland Yard,” said Manfred; but if he expected to produce a sensation he was to be disappointed. Probably knowing his Leon, he anticipated no such result.

“An interesting building,” said Gonsalez. “The architect should have turned the western façade southward⁠—though its furtive entrances are in keeping with its character. You had no difficulty in making friends?”

“None. My work in connection with the Spanish Criminal Code and my monograph on Dactyology secured me admission to the chief.”

Manfred was known in London as “Señor Fuentes,” an eminent writer on criminology, and in their roles of Spanish scientists both men bore the most compelling of credentials from the Spanish Minister of Justice. Manfred had made his home in Spain for many years. Gonsalez was a native of that country, and the third of the famous four⁠—there had not been a fourth for twenty years⁠—Poiccart, the stout and gentle, seldom left his big garden in Cordova.

To him Leon Gonsalez referred when he spoke.

“You must write and tell our dear friend Poiccart,” he said. “He will be interested. I had a letter from him this morning. Two new litters of little pigs have come to bless his establishment, and his orange trees are in blossom.”

He chuckled to himself, and then suddenly became serious.

“They took you to their bosom, these policemen?”

Manfred nodded.

“They were very kind and charming. We are lunching with one of the Assistant Commissioners, Mr. Reginald Fare, tomorrow. British police methods have improved tremendously since we were in London before, Leon. The fingerprint department is a model of efficiency, and their new men are remarkably clever.”

“They will hang us yet,” said the cheerful Leon.

“I think not!” replied his companion.

The lunch at the Ritz-Carlton was, for Gonsalez especially, a most pleasant function. Mr. Fare, the middle-aged Commissioner, was, in addition to being a charming gentleman, a very able scientist. The views and observations of Marro, Lombroso, Fere, Mantegazza and Ellis flew from one side of the table to the other.

“To the habitual criminal the world is an immense prison, alternating with an immense jag,” said Fare. “That isn’t my description but one a hundred years old. The habitual criminal is an easy man to deal with. It is when you come to the non-criminal classes, the murderers, the accidental embezzlers⁠—”

“Exactly!” said Gonsalez. “Now my contention is⁠—”

He was not to express his view, for a footman had brought an envelope to the Commissioner, and he interrupted Gonsalez with an apology to open and read its contents.

“H’m!” he said. “That is a curious coincidence.⁠ ⁠…”

He looked at Manfred thoughtfully.

“You were saying the other night that you would like to watch Scotland Yard at work close at hand, and I promised you that I would give you the first opportunity which presented⁠—your chance has come!”

He had beckoned the waiter and paid his bill before he spoke again.

“I shall not disdain to draw upon your ripe experience,” he said, “for it is possible we may need all the assistance we can get in this case.”

“What is it?” asked Manfred, as the Commissioner’s car threaded the traffic at Hyde Park Corner.

“A man has been found dead in extraordinary circumstances,” said the Commissioner. “He holds rather a prominent position in the scientific world⁠—a Professor Tableman⁠—you probably know the name.”

“Tableman?” said Gonsalez, his eyes opening wide. “Well, that is extraordinary! You were talking of coincidences, Mr. Fare. Now I will tell you of another.”

He related his meeting with the son of the Professor on the previous night.

“Personally,” Gonsalez went on, “I look upon all coincidences as part of normal intercourse. It is a coincidence that, if you receive a bill requiring payment, you receive two or more during the day, and that if you receive a cheque by the first post, be sure you will receive a cheque by your second or third post. Some day I shall devote my mind to the investigation of that phenomenon.”

“Professor Tableman lives in Chelsea. Some years ago he purchased his house from an artist, and had the roomy studio converted into a laboratory. He was a lecturer in physics and chemistry at the Bloomsbury University,” explained Fare, though he need not have done so, for Manfred recalled the name; “and he was also a man of considerable means.”

“I knew the Professor and dined with him about a month ago,” said Fare. “He had had some trouble with his son. Tableman was an arbitrary, unyielding old man, one of those types of Christians who worship the historical figures of the Old Testament but never seem to get to the second book.”

They arrived at the house, a handsome modern structure in one of the streets abutting upon King’s Road, and apparently the news of the tragedy had not leaked out, for the usual crowd of morbid loungers had not gathered. A detective was waiting for them, and conducted the Commissioner along a covered passageway running by the side of the house, and up a flight of steps directly into the studio. There was nothing unusual about the room save that it was very light, for one of the walls was a huge window and the sloping roof was also of glass. Broad benches ran the length of two walls, and a big table occupied the centre of the room, all these being covered with scientific apparatus, whilst two long shelves above the benches were filled with bottles and jars, apparently containing chemicals.

A sad-faced, good-looking young man rose from a chair as they entered.

“I am John Munsey,” he said, “the Professor’s nephew. You remember me, Mr. Fare? I used to assist my uncle in his experiments.”

Fare nodded. His eyes were occupied with the figure that lay upon the ground, between table and bench.

“I have not moved the Professor,” said the young man in a low voice. “The detectives who came moved him slightly to assist the doctor in making his examination, but he has been left practically where he fell.”

The body was that of an old man, tall and spare, and on the grey face was an unmistakable look of agony and terror.

“It looks like a case of strangling,” said Fare. “Has any rope or cord been found?”

“No, sir,” replied the young man. “That was the view which the detectives reached, and we made a very thorough search of the laboratory.”

Gonsalez was kneeling by the body, looking with dispassionate interest at the lean neck. About the throat was a band of blue about four inches deep, and he thought at first that it was a material bandage of some diaphanous stuff, but on close inspection he saw that it was merely the discoloration of the skin. Then his keen eye rose to the table, near where the Professor fell.

“What is that?” he asked. He pointed to a small green bottle by the side of which was an empty glass.

“It is a bottle of crème de menthe,” said the youth; “my uncle took a glass usually before retiring.”

“May I?” asked Leon, and Fare nodded.

Gonsalez picked up the glass and smelt it, then held it to the light.

“This glass was not used for liqueur last night, so he was killed before he drank,” the Commissioner said. “I’d like to hear the whole story from you, Mr. Munsey. You sleep on the premises, I presume?”

After giving a few instructions to the detectives, the Commissioner followed the young man into a room which was evidently the late Professor’s library.

“I have been my uncle’s assistant and secretary for three years,” he said, “and we have always been on the most affectionate terms. It was my uncle’s practice to spend the morning in his library, the whole of the afternoon either in his laboratory or at his office at the University, and he invariably spent the hours between dinner and bedtime working at his experiments.”

“Did he dine at home?” asked Fare.

“Invariably,” replied Mr. Munsey, “unless he had an evening lecture or there was a meeting of one of the societies with which he was connected, and in that case he dined at the Royal Society’s Club in St. James’s Street.

“My uncle, as you probably know, Mr. Fare, has had a serious disagreement with his son, Stephen Tableman, and my cousin and very good friend. I have done my best to reconcile them, and when, twelve months ago, my uncle sent for me in this very room and told me that he had altered his will and left the whole of his property to me and had cut his son entirely from his inheritance, I was greatly distressed. I went immediately to Stephen and begged him to lose no time in reconciling himself with the old man. Stephen just laughed and said he didn’t care about the Professor’s money, and that, sooner than give up Miss Faber⁠—it was about his engagement that the quarrel occurred⁠—he would cheerfully live on the small sum of money which his mother left him. I came back and saw the Professor and begged him to restore Stephen to his will. I admit,” he half smiled, “that I expected and would appreciate a small legacy. I am following the same scientific course as the Professor followed in his early days, and I have ambitions to carry on his work. But the Professor would have none of my suggestion. He raved and stormed at me, and I thought it would be discreet to drop the subject, which I did. Nevertheless, I lost no opportunity of putting in a word for Stephen, and last week, when the Professor was in an unusually amiable frame of mind, I raised the whole question again and he agreed to see Stephen. They met in the laboratory; I was not present, but I believe that there was a terrible row. When I came in, Stephen had gone, and Mr. Tableman was livid with rage. Apparently, he had again insisted upon Stephen giving up his fiancée, and Stephen had refused point-blank.”

“How did Stephen arrive at the laboratory?” asked Gonsalez. “May I ask that question, Mr. Fare?”

The Commissioner nodded.

“He entered by the side passage. Very few people who come to the house on purely scientific business enter the house.”

“Then access to the laboratory is possible at all hours?”

“Until the very last thing at night, when the gate is locked,” said the young man. “You see, Uncle used to take a little constitutional before going to bed, and he preferred using that entrance.”

“Was the gate locked last night?”

John Munsey shook his head.

“No,” he said quietly. “That was one of the first things I investigated. The gate was unfastened and ajar. It is not so much of a gate as an iron grille, as you probably observed.”

“Go on,” nodded Mr. Fare.

“Well, the Professor gradually cooled down, and for two or three days he was very thoughtful, and I thought a little sad. On Monday⁠—what is today? Thursday?⁠—yes, it was on Monday, he said to me: ‘John, let’s have a little talk about Steve. Do you think I have treated him very badly?’ ‘I think you were rather unreasonable, Uncle,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I was,’ he replied. ‘She must be a very fine girl for Stephen to risk poverty for her sake.’ That was the opportunity I had been praying for, and I think I urged Stephen’s case with an eloquence which he would have commended. The upshot of it was that the old man weakened and sent a wire to Stephen, asking him to see him last night. It must have been a struggle for the Professor to have got over his objection to Miss Faber; he was a fanatic on the question of heredity⁠—”

“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.