(1929) The Three Just Men by Edgar Wallace Page A

not far away. Did you see his companion, Pfeiffer?”
    Meadows nodded. “Yes, he was cleaning boots when I arrived.”
    “How picturesque!” said Gonzalez. “I think he will have a valet the next time be goes to prison, unless the system has altered since your days, George?”
    George Manfred, who had once occupied the condemned cell in Chelmsford Prison, smiled.
    “An interesting man, Gurther,” mused Gonsalez. “I have a feeling that he will escape hanging. So you could not find him? I found him last night. But for the lady, who was both an impediment and an interest, we might have put a period to his activities.” He caught Meadows’ eye. “I should have handed him to you, of course.”
    “Of course,” said the detective dryly.
    “A remarkable man, but nervous. You are going to see Mr. Johnson Lee?”
    “What made you say that?” asked the detective in astonishment, for he had not as yet confided his intention to the three men.
    “He will surprise you,” said Leon. “Tell me, Mr. Meadows: when you and George so thoroughly and carefully searched Barberton’s box, did you find anything that was suggestive of his being a cobbler, let us say—or a bookbinder?”
    “I think in his sister’s letter there was a reference to the books he had made. I found nothing particular except an awl and a long oblong of wood which was covered with pinpricks. As a matter of fact, when I saw it my first thought was that, living the kind of life he must have done in the wilderness, it was rather handy to be able to repair his own shoes. The idea of bookbinding is a new one.”
    “I should say he never bound a book in his life, in the ordinary sense of the word,” remarked Manfred; “and as Leon says, you will find Johnson Lee a very surprising man.”
    “Do you know him?”
    Manfred nodded gravely.
    “I have just been on the telephone to him,” he said. “You’ll have to be careful of Mr. Lee Meadows. Our friend the snake may be biting his way, and will, if he hears a breath of suspicion that he was in Barberton’s confidence.”
    The detective put down his knife and fork.
    “I wish you fellows would stop being mysterious,” he said, half annoyed, half amused. “What is behind this business? You talk of the snake as though you could lay your hands on him.”
    “And we could,” they said in unison.
    “Who is he?” challenged the detective.
    “The Herr Doktor,” smiled Gonsalez.
    “Oberzohn?”
    Leon nodded.
    “I thought you would have discovered that by connecting the original three murders together—and murders they were. First”—he ticked the names off on his fingers—“we have a stockbroker. This gentleman was a wealthy speculator who occasionally financed highly questionable deals. Six months before his death he drew from the bank a very large sum of money in notes. By an odd coincidence the bank clerk, going out to luncheon, saw his client and Oberzohn driving past in a taxicab, and as they came abreast he saw a large blue envelope go into Oberzohn’s pocket. The money had been put into a blue envelope when it was drawn. The broker had financed the doctor, and when the scheme failed and the money was lost, he not unnaturally asked for its return. He trusted Oberzohn not at all; carried his receipt about in his pocket, and never went anywhere unless he was armed—that fact did not emerge at the inquest, but you know it is true.”
    Meadows nodded.
    “He threatened Oberzohn with exposure at a meeting they had in Winchester Street, on the day of his death. That night he returns from a theatre or from his club, and is found dead on the doorstep. No receipt is found. What follows?
    “A man, a notorious blackmailer, homeless and penniless, was walking along the Bayswater Road, probably looking for easy money, when he saw the broker’s car going into Orme Place. He followed on the off-chance of begging a few coppers. The chauffeur saw him. The tramp, on the other hand, must have seen something