“You must remember he was a financier,” said the other.
“True,” replied Freyberger, “and now, if you will permit me, sir, I will go about the business of finding the cabman who drove him this morning, or last night. He is pretty certain—” He stopped, for at that moment a knock came to the door and a sergeant appeared.
“Telephone from Vine Street, sir, relative to 110B Piccadilly. A dismembered human head has been discovered.”
“Ha!” said the chief. “Any details?”
“No, sir, only the statement.”
The Chief went to his private telephone and spoke through, “Messenger come with word, no details, go at once Freyberger and report.”
CHAPTER XIV
FREYBERGER once told me that he often admired the fictional detective, because of the ingenuity of his maker; but that the method of Lecocq, Sherlock Holmes and Co., had a great defect if used in the pursuit of a master criminal.
“You see,” said he, “that in a case like this you are not following the traces of feet, but the working of a brain. Now the common criminal may be taken by the methods of a Sherlock Holmes. The good Sherlock sees mud of a certain character on a man’s boots, and concludes that the man has been to Dulwich—or is it Leatherhead?—because mud of that description is found there. Our Sherlock is all eyes, nothing escapes him. He is just the sort of person I would choose to follow me if I were a criminal, for I would leave traces behind me that he would be sure to follow and that would eternally confound him. His methods would capture a bricklayer who had murdered his wife, perhaps, but they would not capture me. I doubt if I could capture myself,” said Freyberger, chuckling.