FREYBERGER left the bank and betook himself to the Yard, there to report proceedings.
Again he felt himself a step nearer this mysterious personage, whose subtle and sinister processes he was slowly exposing to the light of day, or rather to the light of reason. Not one, of all the things he had discovered, would give in itself a clue. Collectively, they were perplexing. But they had given to Freyberger this great advantage, he was beginning to follow his adversary’s process of reasoning.
Their two minds, like two armies on a dark night, were already in touch. Neither could see the other, except in occasional faint glimpses. But any moment the moon might break through the clouds, giving light to fight by, and the general action commence.
At the Yard no more information had come in of any worth. Several men answering to the description of Sir Anthony Gyde had been arrested on suspicion and had been released. Freyberger, off his own bat, had done more to cast light on the case than the whole force of the Yard, and though the light he had cast only showed a mass of confusion, the light was not the less valuable for that. I have said that the chief, for some time past, had recognized Freyberger as a coming man; this case had already confirmed his judgement, and he was quite prepared to give him a free hand and back him with all the colossal force at his disposal.
The power at the back of the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department is prodigious. He has the Treasury of England at his disposal and the law officers of the Crown; an army of ten thousand picked men, such men as are not to be found in the ranks of any other constabulary in the world, and a general staff of the keenest detectives in Europe. He can arrest and cast in prison, he can practically place an embargo on ports. He holds the rod of the Wapentake, and there is only one living man he may not touch with it—the King.
Freyberger, having detailed his actions, and given a hint of his private opinions about the Gyde case, the chief fell into a reverie for a few moments. Then he said:
“This man Klein, alias Kolbecker; this man, whom you suppose also to have figured under the name of Müller. Well, let us consider him a moment. Since the hour when Sir Anthony Gyde called at the cottage, since the hour Klein was supposed to be murdered in, we have had no hint that Klein has been seen in the flesh, whereas we have numerous witnesses who have incontestedly seen Gyde. If we suppose Klein to be living and Gyde dead, this fact seems strange.”
“Excuse me, sir, but one man has seen Klein, alias Kolbecker, alias Müller—the valet Leloir. Witness the retinal photograph.”
“Yes, that is true, if we can consider the retinal photograph a true picture of Klein. I have examined it in conjunction with the photo which is incontestibly (from the landlady’s evidence) a photo of Klein; well, I admit that the faces may be photographs of the same person in different moods of mind and taken under different conditions, but one could not swear to the fact.”
“Sir,” replied the other, “there are many facts one cannot swear to—yet they are facts. Instinct requires no affirmation, and some instinct tells me that not only is Gyde guiltless of the murder of Klein, but that Klein is the murderer of Gyde.
“The face of the man Müller, which is incontestably the face of the man Klein, speaks to me in the old and long-written language of human expression. It is a terrible face and full of evil, full of logic, and subtlety and craft. It is the face of a mathematician, yet the face of a satyr. It is cold as ice.
“The face in the retinal picture is filled with fire, the fire of the infernal regions. I construct from the two pictures a personality rare in the annals of crime. A criminal genius, actuated by more than ordinary motives, using extraordinary precautions, inventing new ways. The extraordinary folly of the ordinary criminal is nowhere to be found in the mass of evidence before us. Even the cleverest criminal we know of is clever only intermittently; his work is not, as a rule, a masterpiece, thought out to the very last detail, if it is it is planned on old-fashioned lines.
“I can say this of the Gyde case, that in my humble opinion it is a flawless piece of criminal work carried out on entirely new-fashioned lines. The work of a genius, and we must treat it as such. I have said that I believe Klein is the active agent and is alive here in London possibly. Well, I entreat you not to search for him in the ordinary way, not to send his photograph to the papers. I could almost say not to circulate his photograph amidst the force. Don’t search for him.”
“Why?”
“Because you will not find him. A man like that is not to be taken by ordinary methods. Our one chance is to leave him lulled in security and under the impression that Gyde is being pursued. Were he to see his photograph in the papers, were he to imagine his photograph was in circulation amongst the police, he would....”
“Yes?”
“Vanish, become some one else, or, at all events, his genius would not nod in fancied security, but keep wide awake and watchful.”
“I will give you forty-eight hours, Freyberger,” said the chief, “forty-eight hours to tackle this man in your own way; use all your powers, do what you will. If, at the end of that time, you do not bring me Klein or reasonable evidence that you are close on his track, I will search for him in the ordinary way. I will drag London with a drag-net.”
“Forty-eight hours,” said Freyberger, “and only sixty minutes to every hour; well, I can but try.”