Murder in the Gilded Cage
“Are you in the habit of permitting women to engage themselves to you?”
demanded Smith.
“Oh----” The actor squirmed. “You don’t understand. Dora was full of
whims. She didn’t mean anything by it. She wasn’t seriously engaged.”
“I see,” said Smith. “It was just a joke.”
“Well, dash it all,” cried the actor, “what could I do? I couldn’t very
well tell her I was engaged already. I was her guest. I didn’t want to
offend her.”
Smith smiled drily. “Yeah, that’d be bad manners. Now, Mr. Thomas, I’m
not up on social etiquette, but here’s something that needs explaining.
On the boat coming down Mrs. Breese announced her engagement to you;
when did she break it?”
“Why--she never broke it exactly. After all that fuss on the boat, why,
Dora said we’d have to wait. I was glad of it! Then today I told her
about my girl. She wished me luck. And everything was fine!”
“I’m trying my best to understand,” said Smith. “You and Mrs. Breese
were engaged, but when you told her you had a previous engagement, she
just said: ‘Great!’ Is that it?”
“Well, Dora wouldn’t stand in the way of my happiness.”
“So much so,” continued Smith, “that she was going to give you a very
substantial wedding present. A lot of money.” He paused significantly.
“What for?”
“What for?” the actor repeated. “She knew I didn’t have any money, and
I stuck to her, didn’t I? I went through hell for her in the trial,
didn’t I? Dash it all, she had some gratitude left. You don’t seem to
understand. Dora and I have been friends for years. I’ve spent a lot
of my time in Dora’s interests--taking her out, looking after things,
seeing that she was comfortable. Dash it all, a woman appreciates that.”
“And she wasn’t sore about this other girl?” demanded Smith. “Not the
least bit jealous?”
The actor smiled. “Oh, well, you can’t help that.” He swaggered a bit.
“You couldn’t very well expect anything else, could you?”
“Well, in my own roughneck way,” said Smith, “I’d expect her to blow up
and throw you out of the house.”
“She couldn’t do that!” said the actor. “She wrote me a lot of letters
she wouldn’t want in the wrong hands. Not that I’d do anything like
that! That’s blackmail. That’s despicable! Dora was too nice--had too
much pride--to make a fuss about things.... You mustn’t believe that
man Rice,” he pleaded. “Dora and I never quarrelled for a minute. We
were real friends. This is a terrible blow to me!”
“Yes,” said Smith, “I see that.”
The actor glared at him. “Is that meant for sarcasm?”
Smith nodded obligingly.
“Then it’s in very poor taste.”
“That may be,” said Smith, “but of all the thin alibis I’ve ever heard,
yours takes the prize.”
“Alibis?” shouted the actor. “I didn’t kill her! I don’t need an alibi.”
“I’m not saying you killed her,” said Smith.
“Well, you’re intimating!” the actor bit his lips in his anger. “What
are you asking all those questions for? I’ve told you all I know. I
guess I’ve got some rights. And I’ve got some friends, too.” He was
incoherent in his sudden fury. “You’d better be careful how you treat
me.”
He moved to the door.
“I’m going!” he shouted.
“I’m not stopping you,” said Smith. “But you’d better not go too far.”
He smiled grimly. “I mean that both ways. I don’t want you to leave the
house, Mr. Thomas. I’m not through with you yet--not by a long shot!”
“I’m leaving for New York right now!” the actor shrieked defiantly.
“Come here!” growled Smith.
The actor glared at him hesitantly. Smith advanced on him. “I don’t
like your attitude,” said Smith. “I wasn’t ready to arrest you--yet.
But you’re forcing my hand. Also you’re being very dumb about it.”
“Am I?” the actor cried. “I’ll have no more of your insults! I won’t
stand it, I tell you!”
Smith laughed suddenly. I turned in surprise at him.
“That’s all I wanted to know,” he said, still chuckling. “I wanted to
see if you could get good and mad, Mr. Thomas. You can!”
The actor was breathing heavily. “Let me go!” he cried. “What are you
doing to me? I don’t know anything about it. I’m going back to New
York.”
Smith suddenly reached for the actor’s arm and held it securely. Thomas
cried out in pain.
“You’re not going to New York,” said Smith. “You’re going to stay right
here with me. If you didn’t kill Mrs. Breese, you know who did.”
“I don’t!” the actor protested. “Let me go, won’t you? Let me go!”
I was so intent in watching this third-degree that for a moment
I did not hear the sounds of scuffling and angry voices in the
reception-room. Before we were quite aware of it, a young man was
being dragged before us by the butler, now very red-faced, and the
Japanese steward. Both captors were out of breath and talking at once.
Only their prisoner seemed calm and perfectly self-possessed.
“Caught him--hiding--in the blue room--just now,” the butler panted.
Then as they propelled their captive toward us, where the full light of
the chandelier enveloped him, I could not but gasp. For the young man
so unceremoniously brought before us was Perutkin’s melancholy protégé,
the Count Giering-Trelovitch.
Thomas seemed to recognize him, too, for the actor’s expression changed
as if magically. His fear left him and I saw him grin in relief.
“There’s the man you want!” he cried.
CHAPTER X
THE COUNT CONFESSES
The Count bowed and said quietly: “Yes, gentlemen, I guess I am the man
you want.”
He turned to Smith.
“You are of the police?”
“Yes,” said Smith.
“What is it you wish to know?” asked the Count gently.
“What does he wish to know?” the actor intervened scornfully. “I’ll
tell you. This man was Mrs. Breese’s son-in-law. He murdered a man in
Riga. He’s hated Mrs. Breese ever since she made the Countess divorce
him. He’s been following her all over the world. She’s complained to me
about him a dozen times.” He paused for breath. “And then you have the
audacity to annoy _me_! Dash it all, I’ve got a good mind to sue you
for damages!” He looked accusingly at the Count. “Come ahead, tell them
you did it and be done with it. I’m going back to New York tonight! I
can’t waste any more time in this dashed hole.”
The Count smiled sadly. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, Mr.
Thomas,” he said. “I had no idea I was a source of annoyance to you.
Now, if you will leave me alone with this officer, I think we can
straighten matters out very quickly.”
“I’m going!” cried Thomas. “I’m going. And this time nobody’s going to
stop me!”
“You stay upstairs,” said Smith, “until I tell you to go!”
He turned to the Russian, barking: “Well, where do you come in?”
“I’m afraid,” the Russian smiled, “I came in at the wrong time. I have
something to tell you, officer.”
“Yes? What is it?”
“First, I want you to send for Miss Breese, my former wife.”
“First tell me how you got here,” countered Smith.
“I’m afraid I can’t agree,” the Count shook his head. “Will you be good
enough to send for Miss Breese?”
“Maybe. First, I want to ask you something.”
“Yes?” The man seemed perfectly at ease, strangely enough.
“What were you hiding upstairs for?”
“I’m not ready to tell you that--yet.”
Smith surveyed him coldly. “You know that Mrs. Breese was murdered
tonight?” He pointed to the body.
“Yes, I know.”
“Who told you?”
“No one. I have eyes.” The Count indicated the body pityingly.
“Do you know who killed Mrs. Breese?”
“Yes,” said the Russian. “I do.”
His voice trembled slightly.
“What’s that?” cried Smith, startled.
“I said: ‘Yes, I do know.’”
“Who was it?” snapped Smith.
“I shall be glad to tell you,” replied the Russian calmly, “after I’ve
seen the Countess. But certainly not before. Will you be good enough to
send for her? I ask you again.”
Smith studied this strange phenomenon before he replied. He looked at
me out of the corner of his eye to indicate his bewilderment.
“Please understand,” the Count continued, “whatever I have to say I
shall say to Miss Breese. To no one else.”
“All right,” said Smith, gesturing to the butler. “Get Miss Breese down
here.” The butler hurried off. The Count looked about him. He stared at
the body.
“I don’t want Miss Breese to come into this room. It would not be
advisable,” he said. “And in any case, I wish to talk to her alone. I
want you two gentlemen to wait here, at this door. You will hold it
slightly open, so that you may listen to what I have to say. I don’t
want Miss Breese to know we’re being watched. I want her to feel that
we are quite alone, especially as it may be the last time.” He paused,
and smiled bitterly. Then he waved a white hand apologetically. “You
perhaps do not understand me. _C’est bien._ The only thing to remember
for you gentlemen is: you will stay, please, right here.”
“You’re much too insistent about that,” said Smith suspiciously. “Wait
a minute! You were caught hiding in this house. How do I know you
aren’t trying to get away--shoving us behind this door?”
“How can I get away?” demanded the Count quietly. “You will be right
here. You can have a revolver pointed at me, if you wish.” His
gentleness left him and he was sharp and incisive. He was now giving
commands. “Understand--you will either follow my suggestion or I shall
say nothing.”
Before Smith could reply, we heard footsteps, and the Count opened the
door. He strode out into the reception-room, carefully closing the door
behind him so that we were left barely a crack through which to peep.
Smith just as carefully widened the crack, and we caught a glimpse of
Mary Breese descending the stairs. She was deathly pale, and her eyes
were lost in mourning shadows.
There was not enough room for the two of us, so Smith monopolized the
sight. I strained to listen to the scene I could not see. But I noticed
that Smith was following the Russian’s suggestions to the letter. His
right hand was at his revolver holster.
I heard the Count cry: “Mary!”
A pause.
Then I heard her move toward him, crying incoherently: “Isn’t it awful!
I need you so!”
I heard him trying to comfort her gently. She was sobbing
unrestrainedly now.
“Please, Mary ... please ... you mustn’t.” The Count’s voice broke now.
I heard her say: “It would never have happened if I hadn’t let you
go--I needed you so! But what could I do?”
“No,” he said slowly, “it would never have happened.”
“You mustn’t leave me now!” she cried. “You mustn’t ever leave me!”
Silence. Then, as if the words were wrung from him: “Why didn’t
you--why didn’t you try to see me as I begged you? You got my letters,
didn’t you?”
“No, I didn’t get any letters. What letters? I didn’t even know you
were in town! I don’t know that you’re here now! I--oh, I don’t know
anything any more!”
“Please--don’t cry. Didn’t I tell you I phoned. I wrote. I tried every
way to see you.”
“No!” Then as if in agonized appeal: “Don’t leave me--please don’t
leave me!”
It was not difficult to patch together from their incoherent appeals
to each other the story of the strange relationship. Someone in the
household--Mrs. Breese, undoubtedly--had been determined that the
Russian be kept from his former wife. I remembered how he had told me,
the night Perutkin had brought me to him, that he had exhausted every
possible means of communicating with Mary Breese. It was clear to me
now that Mary Breese had not willingly parted from her husband.
But my reflections were disturbed suddenly. I had paid but desultory
attention to their mutual efforts to comfort each other. Then I heard
the Russian say:
“Mary, I don’t know how to tell you this--you’ve had enough to
bear--but I must tell you. I must! Listen to me!”
Silence.
Smith leaned forward.
“I came here tonight to see you. I knew that if I could talk to you,
hold you--but I mustn’t talk about that. I got in through the garden