Manfred was pacing the little room, his hands behind him, a thick Egyptian cigarette between his lips.
“There’s a train leaves Paddington for Gloucester at ten forty-five,” he said. “Will you telegraph to Miss Goddard, Heavytree Farm, and ask her to meet the train with a cab? After that I shall want two men to patrol the vicinity of the farm day and night.”
Poiccart pulled open a drawer of the desk, took out a small book and ran his finger down the index.
“I can get this service in Gloucester,” he said. “Gordon, Williams, Thompson and Elfred—they’re reliable people and have worked for us before.”
Manfred nodded.
“Send them the usual instructions by letter. I wonder who will be in charge of this Barberton case. If it’s Meadows, I can work with him. On the other hand, if it’s Arbuthnot, we shall have to get our information by subterranean methods.”
“Call Elver,” suggested Leon, and George pulled the telephone towards him.
It was some time before he could get into touch with Dr. Elver, and then he learnt, to his relief, that the redoubtable Inspector Meadows had complete charge.
“He’s coming up to see you,” said Elver. “As a matter of fact, the chief was here when I arrived at the Yard, and he particularly asked Meadows to consult with you. There’s going to be an awful kick at the Home Secretary’s office about this murder. We had practically assured the Home Office that there would be no repetition of the mysterious deaths and that the snake had gone dead for good.”
Manfred asked a few questions and then hung up.