Part 46 (2/2)

”Your master was in quite good health as he ate his dinner and smoked his cigarette?” I remarked.

”Quite. He came out of the room and standing here I gave him his hat, coat, gloves and stick. After he had put on his coat he drew on his left-hand glove. Suddenly he tore it off again, and rubbing his fingers together impatiently, said: 'I forgot, Folcker! I'm going to the opera, give me some white gloves.' They were in the drawer yonder,” the valet said, pointing to a great old carved Flemish cupboard. ”So I got them out and handed them to him. He drew one of them on and walked down to the gate to enter the car, when he suddenly fell upon the pavement outside. You see, just yonder,” and he pointed through the open door.

”Why did he rub his fingers together, I wonder?” I remarked. ”Was it a habit of his?”

”Not at all, sir. He seemed to have a sudden pain in his fingers.”

”A pain. Why?”

”I don't know, sir. It has only this moment occurred to me. He flung off the glove and tossed it upon the table. It's still there--as you see. Then he put on the white gloves and went down the steps and collapsed.”

”His head was affected?”

”Yes, he cried out twice that his head hurt him. The doctors attribute his death to heart failure. But, personally, I doubt it, sir! I'm certain that there was foul play somewhere.”

I crossed to the great carved table which stood on the opposite side of the wide hall, tiled as it was with ancient blue and white Dutch tiles, and from the table took up a pair of well-worn grey suede gloves. They interested me, because after putting one on the Baron had torn it off and rubbed his fingers.

”Is this the glove your master wore when he went to The Hague?” I asked, selecting the left-hand one.

”Yes, sir.”

I examined it closely and very gingerly. The exterior presented nothing out of the ordinary, but on turning it inside out, I found in the index finger a tiny piece of steel which tumbled out upon the table.

It was apparently a piece clipped from the blade of a safety razor, and keenly sharp. Anyone inserting a finger into the glove would certainly be cut by the razor edge of that sharp sc.r.a.p of steel. As it lay upon the polished oak I bent to look at it, the valet also standing near and bending down in curiosity.

Upon it something had apparently been smeared--some colourless jelly, it seemed.

Had Baron van Veltrup fallen victim to orosin, wilfully administered?

That was my instant suspicion, one that was afterwards verified by the great Dutch pathologist Doctor Obelt, who lived in the Amstel Straat, and to whom I carried the mysterious but incriminating sc.r.a.p of steel.

”Without a doubt this piece of razor-blade has been impregnated with a new and most deadly poison, orosin,” he declared to me on the following evening as I sat in his consulting room. ”The police have seen no mysterious circ.u.mstances in the unfortunate death of the Baron, who, by the way, was a very dear friend of mine. But now you have brought me this piece of steel which you took from his glove, and which no doubt must have caused a slight cut to his finger and, in consequence, almost instant death, I feel it my duty to take up the matter with the authorities.”

”I shall be much gratified, doctor, if you will,” I urged, speaking in French. ”The valet's suspicions of foul play are entirely proved.”

”Yes, foul play, committed by somebody who possesses expert toxicological knowledge. I confess that this is the first time I have discovered orosin. The hint you gave me caused me to search for it, and that I have found it is undoubted.”

Later that day I accompanied the doctor to the Bureau of Police, where we were met by a very stolid official who smoked a long thin cigar all the time he talked to us.

At first he treated the affair as of no importance. The medical evidence had p.r.o.nounced the Baron's death as having been due to natural causes. The police could not interfere further, he declared.

”Ah! but thanks to the Baron's valet we now have evidence of a most subtle and deadly poison,” declared the Dutch pathologist. ”I certify that I have found upon a small piece of sharp steel, which has been discovered in the dead man's glove, traces of orosin, one of the least known but most dangerous poisons.”

The heavy-jowled Dutch police official straightened himself in his chair.

”Is that really so, doctor?” he asked in surprise, holding his cigar between his fingers.

”Yes, it is,” Doctor Obelt replied. ”The body must be exhumed, and an examination made to ascertain if there is a small cut in the first finger of the left hand. If there is--then the Baron has been secretly murdered!”

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