It was Inspector Dewhurst who spoke.
“We know,” he continued, “that Sir Anthony went into the cottage and went out, went to London, was recognized by numerous people; we know that he is alive; we know that a man very like him was murdered, a man who, whatever he was, was not Klein. But we know that the only motive for this deed was the blackmailing of Sir Anthony by Klein. Why, then, did Sir Anthony murder this other man?”
“Why,” put in Freyberger, “were those blackmailing letters left behind. We can imagine a novice capable of such a blunder, but the whole of this affair has been conducted with such terrible precision and coolness that we can scarcely consider its author capable of such a slip as that. May I speak, sir?”
“It seems to me you are speaking,” said the chief, with a smile. “Go on, Freyberger; I am always glad to hear your views.”
“Well, sir, it seems to me that there are many points in this case, each giving the lie to the other, each extraordinary. I have never come across such a chain of circumstances before. Accident might have cast all these extraordinary circumstances together. Gyde may have gone to murder his blackmailer, and found in the cottage, as well as his intended victim, a man very like himself. Gyde may have murdered this man for some reason or another and taken away his head; Gyde may have left those letters behind him from some extraordinary blunder. Klein may have given Gyde a written passport to his lodgings. Leloir, the valet, may simply have died of heart-disease. Gyde may have been a skilled anatomist, as well as a financier. All these are unlikely possibilities; each, taken separately would not, in itself, cause us so very much surprise, but taken en masse, the combination is almost impossible, viewed as a combination caused by chance.
“If chance did not place these things in juxtaposition to confound our powers of reasoning, what did?
“There is only one possible answer. The problem before us is the work of some subtle and profound intelligence, that, for reasons of its own, has committed a murder, and, for easily understandable reasons, has fouled the traces, so that we are at fault and in confusion.” Freyberger paused and then went on: “I believe, reviewing the facts, that this intelligence, with which we are trying to grapple, is not that of Sir Anthony Gyde.
“You see, if we admit him to be the murderer, we must admit him to have committed so many self-condemning faults. Going openly to the cottage, in a motor-car of all things; leaving the letters behind him to damn him and expose his motive; removing his victim’s head yet leaving the body behind; going to his house in Piccadilly; going to his bankers to take away his jewels, when he could, if he chose, have removed his jewels, collected his money, and, having made provision for his escape and his future, then murdered Klein.”
“One moment,” said the chief. “Gyde was a passionate man; he may have committed this murder in a fit of passion, and, in the upset of his brain, left those letters behind.”
“Yes,” said Freyberger. “But the hand that did the decapitation did not show any sign of brain-upset. Again, if a man murders another in hot blood does he decapitate him? Not as a rule. Let us suppose this head that of some unknown third party: of course, Gyde, if he were the murderer, may have had some powerful reason for removing the head; but why should he leave it in a cupboard in his own house in Piccadilly as another damning piece of evidence against himself? You will excuse me, sir, for speaking so long, but I wish to say this: