Leon nodded.
“He was not alone, of course,” said Gonsalez. “There must have been two or three of the gang here, men and women—Oberzohn works these schemes out with the care and thoroughness of a general. I wonder where the management have taken the girl?”
He found the manager discussing the tragedy with two other men, one of whom was obviously associated with the production, and he signalled him aside.
“The lady? I suppose she’s gone home. She’s left the theatre.”
“Which way did she go?” asked Gonsalez, in a sudden panic.
The manager called a linkman, who had seen a middle-aged woman come out of the theatre with a weeping girl, and they had gone down the side-street towards the little square at the back of the playhouse.
“She may have taken her home to Chester Square,” said Manfred. His voice belied the assumption of confidence.
Leon had not brought his own machine, and they drove to Chester Square in a taxi. Fred, the footman, had neither heard nor seen the girl, and nearly fainted when he learned of the tragic ending to his master’s career.
“Oh, my God!” he groaned. “And he only left here this afternoon . . . dead, you say?”
Gonsalez nodded.