The day fixed for the trial of the alleged murderess was approaching, when one afternoon Geoffrey, revisiting unexpectedly the scene of the tragedy as he had done several times, chanced to pass on the stairs a short, lean, white-haired little man who was ascending to the flat above. Their eyes met, and the old man, turning his head, quickened his pace.
Geoffrey recollected having met him before in those days when Venice was seriously threatened by the Austrian advance. His name was Nocera, and he was a banker in Venice—a man of considerable repute. Why, Geoffrey wondered, was he living at Longton Mansions?
Of the hall-porter he later on learnt that Mr. Nocera and his wife had occupied the flat above Mrs. Priestley’s for about three months. They came from Italy and took it furnished. After a month they had as guest a Mr. Zuccari, described by the hall-porter as a tall, thin, athletic man, with a black moustache and very bald head.
“He was something of a mystery, and I was very glad when he left,” the man declared. “One day, indeed, I found him trying the door of Mrs. Priestley’s flat with the latchkey of the flat above. I caught him unexpectedly, and he certainly did not like it, for three days later he left, and I haven’t seen him since.”
“That’s curious,” Falconer remarked. “Very curious! Was he really trying to get into her flat?”
“It seemed to me that he was. But, of course, my presence prevented him.”
Later that evening Geoffrey related to Superintendent Ransley what he had learnt, but strangely enough the Venice banker and his wife left early next morning, taking with them two good-sized trunks. To the porter they remarked that they were going to Edinburgh, but the man was pretty wide awake, and giving the taxi-driver a quiet hint, heard from him an hour later that he had driven them to Victoria, to the Continental train.
Quickly observation was kept upon the pair, and at Folkestone the passport which they presented as Italian subjects was declared by the passport officer to be out of order, a fact which necessitated them both returning to London, though quite unconscious that they were under suspicion.
At the same time, after closely questioning the hall-porter, Superintendent Ransley gave instructions that active search should be made for the bald-headed guest who had been tampering with the lock of Mrs. Priestley’s flat. Then there was a further surprise, and Mrs. Priestley herself, questioned in prison, admitted she knew the people in the flat above, and being Italians, they had once or twice visited her. At once the police, aided by Geoffrey, redoubled their efforts, Falconer being at last successful in obtaining a further piece of curious evidence. He had taken the key of Mrs. Priestley’s flat to a number of locksmiths in order to ascertain if they had been asked to make a similar key, but in vain. Of a sudden, however, he recollected having seen a barrow full of old keys and rusty locks in Lower Marsh, Lambeth, and upon it a notice bearing the words: “Keys cut at shortest notice.”
To the owner of the barrow he showed the key. The man—an artist in his profession—examined it long and carefully, until he found scratched upon it in tiny figures a number. He referred to a book, and then replied: