“These claws must have been brought home, according to my idea, by a sportsman and traveller of experience, who knew the ways of the natives, and was able to baffle them. Men of that class are not very numerous, and most of them have published books of their travels. I am going to spend the rest of the morning in going to the libraries and publishers; and I want you to spend it in the Natural History Museum at South Kensington.”
There was no occasion for me to express the admiration I sincerely felt for my chief’s knowledge and resource. I waited in silent wonder for his instructions.
“I am not an expert in zoölogy,” he said modestly. “I know, of course, that leopards, or animals closely resembling leopards, are found along the tropical zone. They are called jaguars in South America, I believe, and panthers elsewhere. At all events their skins are sufficiently like the true leopard’s to be called leopard skins by an ignorant man like Gerard. What I want you to do is to ascertain if such animals occur in the East Indian archipelago, and particularly in the Island of Sumatra.”
It was a curious direction. What was there in the circumstances of the case to turn Sir Frank’s mind to one part of the tropics rather than another, and to one particular island? Perhaps it showed some dullness on my part; I can only confess that I had not the least idea of his motive.
“Sumatra,” he repeated in a meditative tone, “almost the largest island in the world, and yet the least known. Nominally it is a Dutch possession, but the Dutch have never subjugated it. They have never thoroughly penetrated the interior. The natives have been too fierce for them to subdue. They occupy one or two points on the coast, I fancy, but that is all. There was a Sultan of Acheen who fought with them at one time. I don’t think he was really conquered. A very interesting field for an explorer willing to take his life in his hand.”
And still I failed to grasp the mysterious connection between the vast unknown island lying on the Equator and the tragedy I had all but witnessed in a night club of London.
“You can take my card,” the specialist added. “You will find the people at the Museum most obliging. If they have the information they will give it to you willingly.”
I took the card, and the Piccadilly Tube from Russell Square soon landed me at South Kensington. As Sir Frank Tarleton had foretold, the staff of the Natural History Museum received it with all respect, and showed themselves ready to give all the information they possessed. The gentleman who took me in hand was confident that there were leopards in Sumatra; nevertheless, when it came to the question of positive evidence he found some difficulty in putting his hand on any.
“You have struck the least-known area in the world, you see,” he pointed out. “We know the fauna of the Malay Peninsula, and of Java and all the other East Indian islands as far as the Philippines, and one has always taken it for granted that the fauna of Sumatra corresponded with that of the neighbouring area north of the Wallace line. But if you ask me for an official declaration that leopards are to be found in the island I don’t think I can give it off-hand. We might be able to get the information by writing to The Hague. Or you might find it in some book of travels in the British Museum Library.”
“Sir Frank Tarleton is searching in the Library at this moment, I believe,” I said incautiously.