Murder in the Gilded Cage

already been suspected of one murder. Then, he has no love for Mrs. Breese. He has been cast out. Presumably, he took his revenge. And yet I know the man. That is not him! “But he confesses and escapes. Why? He didn’t tell me, and yet I know. While he was in this house, waiting to see Mary Breese, he stumbled upon something which led him to make his confession. Remember--he loves this girl deeply. He knows that she is suffering--a terrible shock. Suppose that he learns something that will hurt her even more terribly?” “I don’t follow,” I protested. “Let me make myself plain. Mary Breese is horrified at the murder of her mother. Naturally. It is sufficient tragedy for anyone. But if someone very close and dear to Mary Breese were the murderer the shock would be double, would it not? It would be an enormous tragedy. She might not survive it. In any case, the Count would try to shield her from the knowledge. He is chivalrous enough, foolish enough, if you will. Now--” the Russian fixed his little eyes on me--“whom is he trying to shield? Someone very dear to Mary Breese. Her brother?” “It hardly seems possible,” I said. “Granted that--for the moment. There is her father.” “Old Man Breese? Not much!” I scoffed. “But why not?” he demanded. “For one thing,” I said “because he was in the hotel with us when we got the news.” The Russian smiled and shook his head admiringly. “It would be diabolically clever--so ingenuous. Don’t you see?” I caught a curious excitement in his voice. “Behold the psychological alibi! Don’t you see it?” “I’m afraid I don’t,” I shook my head. “Ach!” the Russian snorted impatiently. “Behold! Let us say that Mr. Breese wanted to kill his wife. Now, the unfortunate lady was killed at about nine-fifteen. What time was your engagement with Mr. Breese?” “At ten!” “Excellent! He calls Smith up in the morning and makes an engagement with him for ten o’clock that night. Do you see? He comes here at nine-fifteen, kills his wife, takes a taxi and gets back to the hotel at least ten minutes before you arrive. He tells you that he fears something is going to happen to Mrs. Breese. He plants very obviously suspicion against the actor. While you are there, he receives a phone call informing him of his wife’s murder. Psychologically, he impresses you with his alibi. You do not reason that he may have gone out and just returned. Because you are there with him when he receives the news, you believe he is just as innocent and ignorant of the crime as you are. But it is diabolically clever!” CHAPTER XII THE SUSPECT REFUSES TO TALK The psychological alibi! As the Russian’s theory dawned on me I was shocked to find that every detail clicked into place. Breese _had_ summoned us to his hotel exactly three-quarters of an hour after the murder had been committed. His entire demeanor during the interview now seemed highly suspicious to me. I rose from my chair determinedly and reached for the telephone. “I’m going to call up Ben Smith,” I said, “and tell him about this.” But the Russian stopped me. “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” he said. “You are entirely too hasty, my friend. I have given you a theory, and you have jumped to a conclusion.” I resented the Russian’s assumption of superiority. I resented his amusement at my haste. Possibly it was because of this that I sought to destroy his reasoned conclusions. I remember I said: “Perhaps I am hasty. After all there’s no motive.” The Russian smiled. “But what motive would he have?” I protested. “Motive? His wife has dragged his name into scandal. Despite her foolishness she emerged triumphant from the divorce trial. He was hopelessly beaten. His own children turned against him. He comes down here, swallowing his pride and begging for a reconciliation. His wife will not see him. His children will not see him. He admits as much, doesn’t he? He learns his wife wants to marry this actor. Mr. Breese is an old man. His pride is gone. His home is gone. His children are gone. “Consider his character. He is not used to defeat. He is a man who has had his own way. He is a hard man, obstinate. And who is to blame for his position? Put yourself in his place. Can’t you see a steadily growing malignant hatred of his wife? I assure you, men have committed murder for much less! “And see how it all fits in,” the Russian continued. “Why does Rice accuse the actor? Because Mr. Breese has talked to him. He has given Rice the telegrams from the detective agency. He has poisoned Rice’s mind with suspicion, just as he planned to poison Smith’s mind when he summoned him for an engagement three-quarters of an hour after the murder. “And see how the confession of my friend, the Count, fits into this! Suppose he had seen Mr. Breese murder his wife. Wouldn’t it be like my friend to try and save Mary Breese from the double tragedy? Her mother dead, her father a murderer? Now put yourself in the Count’s place. Knowing what he knows, what is he to do? Loving Mary Breese as he loves her, what is he to do? “It would be a problem for any man. My friend, the Count, hides in one of the rooms upstairs. He telephones me, and asks for advice. I tell him. He lets himself be discovered. He is dragged before Smith. He knows the real murderer. At first his impulse was to take the blame upon himself together with the consequences. But my friend is no story-book hero. He has no desire to spend the rest of his life in a Cuban prison. So, following my suggestion, he arranges for you to overhear his confession, and then he disappears. Mr. Breese is protected. Mary Breese is saved from a horrible truth. Now, my friend, is it not probable? Is it not reasonable?” “Well,” I hesitated, “it sounds reasonable enough. But there’s one thing you forget.” “And that is?” “No one knows Mr. Breese was here. No one saw him here. The servants testify there were no visitors. How did Mr. Breese get in?” “That,” said the Russian, “is not as difficult as it sounds. How did my friend, the Count, get in? But I’ll concede you have touched, without knowing it, a very vital problem here, something I hope to solve before the day is over. At least, if Mr. Breese does what I think he will.” He strode over to the garden window, and drew the curtains aside, so that a bright sun streamed through the room. He looked out upon the brilliant foliage of the garden. “To think,” he mused, “that a house built for beauty and grandeur should house meanness and murder! But that is the way of human beings. It was like this several years ago--when the Baron was murdered. Outwardly all peace and contentment and inwardly a ghastly tragedy.” He turned from the window. “Do you remember, I said, when I heard that Mr. Breese had arrived in this city: ‘The circle is complete’? My friend, I am firmly convinced that the man who killed the Baron is responsible for the death of Mrs. Breese!” “But where? How? I fail to see the connection!” “It is there, nevertheless. I don’t know. I feel it. The same people were there in Riga--Mr. Breese, Mr. Rice, Mr. Thomas, my friend the Count, the Countess, the boy--they were all there. Isn’t it curious to you? Isn’t it significant?” He paused abruptly. “I was right!” He pointed to the street, and I moved to the window to see. “Mr. Breese is about to pay us a visit. Here, quick, get hold of the policemen in the reception-room and tell them on no account to open the door!” “But why?” “Don’t question. Do as I say.” Wonderingly, I obeyed. Before I could return to the drawing-room, a bell pealed. The policeman made no move. Again the bell, and again. The Russian strode out into the hall. I followed. Five minutes passed, the bell resounded now through the house. Still we made no move. Finally I heard the click of a key in the lock. The door opened. Mr. Breese looked up at us. “That,” said the Russian, his little eyes gleaming, “is how Mr. Breese came in.” “Who is this man?” Breese demanded of me. Before I could reply, the Russian continued: “Absurdly simple, isn’t it? I forgot, Mr. Breese, that you built this house. Naturally you would have a key!” “What in the world are you talking about?” Breese snapped. “Who is this man?” I explained the Russian away as an associate of Smith’s. “Surely, you must remember me,” said the Russian. “Don’t you remember in Riga--I was then with the Russian police. We had an interesting talk then. We’ll have another interesting talk now. Won’t you step in here, Mr. Breese?” “I don’t know you and I don’t remember you,” Breese barked. “I’ve come here to see my children. I haven’t come to see you. If you’re a detective, let me see your credentials.” “I haven’t any,” the Russian replied, “but Mr. Smith will vouch for me.” “I don’t care who vouches for you. You might have some consideration for a man in my position. Please get out of my way. I’m going upstairs.” “Very well, sir,” the Russian bowed. Without a word, Breese laboriously began climbing the wide stone steps. When he was out of sight, the Russian grinned good-naturedly: “The suspect refuses to talk!” CHAPTER XIII MR. BREESE IS ANXIOUS When Ben Smith arrived an hour later he found us smoking placidly in the drawing-room. The Russian was at ease in one of the huge chairs, his big head bowed to his barrel chest, his sharp little eyes now half closed. The afternoon sun was blazing hot, and even the heavy brocaded curtains could not smother its discomfort. There had been a half-somnolent silence between us for some time now. “Working hard?” Smith greeted us grinning, very cool and dapper in his immaculate linen suit. Smith was obviously amused at the slothful ease of the Russian at the scene of the crime. “Eh?” The Russian lifted his head and blinked. I could see now that if it were not for Smith’s interruption he would have fallen asleep. He smiled confidingly. “I was just preparing myself for a little siesta.” He shook his head vigorously as if to wake himself. “It is so confoundedly hot in this country,” he sighed. “And, besides, I think my work is done.” “What’s that?” inquired Smith sharply. I looked up, too, for the Russian had given me no evidence that he had stumbled upon any vital factor in the tangled case. “Certainly,” said the Russian. “My work is done. I have just been expounding to our friend here my theory of the case. I shall tell it to you. It concerns Mr. Breese.” I sat back once more while the Russian repeated his speculations on the status and activities of the elder Breese, but Smith was evidently unimpressed and sought to interrupt the tale several times. He felt and said that the Russian jumped at conclusions entirely too glibly. “I don’t know how you do things in Russia, but we work differently where I come from,” Smith pointed out. “Your main case against old man Breese rests on the fact that he _might_ have come here, that he _might_ have hated his wife sufficiently to kill her, that he _might_ have planned an alibi by calling me to his hotel after the murder. You can’t prove any of these three points. “On the other hand, I’ve got a definite confession from the Count and a clear circumstantial case against the actor. It’s all very well in detective stories to reach way out for your suspect, but take it from me, in my experience the man who looks guilty generally is. I can answer every point you make against Breese.” “Do so!” challenged the Russian. “You concede that Mr. Breese had the key to this house and might have entered unseen?” “Certainly,” said Smith. “But let’s call up the hotel and find out if he left his rooms last night. That’s more to the point, isn’t it? Merely possessing the key means nothing.”