Murder in the Gilded Cage
“He could have left his hotel unseen,” said the Russian. “Or he could
bribe any employee likely to see him.”
“Then there’s no use even checking up on him?” demanded Smith
sarcastically.
“None at all,” replied the Russian easily. “You do not deny that Mr.
Breese had a motive?”
“Certainly I deny it,” retorted Smith. “What did he have to gain by the
murder?”
“His children!” the Russian answered.
“Ah!” said Smith. “Do you think a man would deliberately kill his wife
to get custody of his children?”
“But why not?” demanded the Russian. “It is natural.”
“It’s ridiculous,” said Smith. “I don’t go with you there at all. And
now take your friend, the Count--why do you assume he confessed to save
anybody? He had plenty of motive to kill Mrs. Breese. He certainly had
the opportunity. Why do you assume the confession isn’t genuine?”
“But he would not kill,” protested the Russian. “I know his character.”
“And I give you the same answer on old man Breese,” retorted Smith.
“I’ve watched him pretty carefully. He’s not the type either.”
“So? You know why you say that? Because he is a wealthy man and
respectable.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” demanded Smith.
“Everything,” replied the Russian. “You Americans have a religious awe
of wealth and respectability. But don’t you know, my friend, that in
a case such as this, where robbery is not a motive, it is precisely
the wealthy and respectable whom we must study for our suspect? If Mr.
Breese were a day laborer, you would readily admit he killed his wife,
with whom he had frequent disagreements, in a moment of passionate
rage. But you will not concede that basically Mr. Breese is as the day
laborer--just as violent, just as primitive. I suppose you will call
this point of view Russian. Believe me, my friend, it is universal. I
speak from experience.”
The Russian rose to his full height, and with the pedantic air of a
lecturer continued:
“I cite you one of the most brutal murders in Petrograd. A ballet
dancer is found in the Neva, her body hacked to pieces. The work of
a thug, an apache, you say? No! I found a worthy lawyer, a model
citizen, an affectionate father, a devoted son, and in two days I had
his confession. This dancer had threatened to tell his wife of their
affair, and in his anger he had killed her.”
“What’s that got to do with old man Breese?” Smith demanded impatiently.
“Only this,” replied the Russian. “Mr. Breese’s wealth and
respectability do not preclude him from being a murderer.”
“All right, you win,” Smith grinned wrily. “Only I’m not paid to be a
debater. I’m paid to get the man who killed Mrs. Breese.”
“And I’ve gotten him for you,” said the Russian. “He’s upstairs. Why
not call him down and confront him? I tried to question him myself but
without success.”
“I’d just as soon send for Machado, the president of this country,”
Smith growled. “Think I’m crazy? What would I have to say to the old
man? ‘I understand you _might_ have killed your wife.’ Do you want me
to say that?”
“No,” said the Russian. “I shall tell you what to ask him. Behold! Mrs.
Breese’s will is to be read today and the funeral held shortly. If Mr.
Breese is, as I am convinced, the man you want, he will be very anxious
to clear out as quickly as possible. Isn’t that natural?”
Smith nodded.
“Suppose you call him down and say to him: ‘Mr. Breese, it is not
necessary for you to remain for further investigation. The Count has
confessed, and we have just arrested him. The case is over.’”
“What then?” demanded Smith.
“If,” continued the Russian, “Mr. Breese confides to you that he will
stay to take charge of the funeral arrangements and look after the
children--that he is in no hurry to leave--we may assume that he is
not overly anxious to get away from the scene of the crime and the
possible danger of arrest. But, on the other hand--let us say, he is
guilty. Then, knowing the Count is innocent, that inquiry may show his
innocence, Mr. Breese will try to get away from here just as quickly as
he can. Therefore, I say to you: Tell him the Count is arrested. He can
leave immediately. And then see his reaction.”
“Well,” said Smith, grudgingly, “I don’t see much point to it but I’m
always perfectly willing to try anything. Where is he?”
But it was unnecessary for the Russian to reply. Mr. Breese himself
opened the door and with an apologetic cough addressed the Russian:
“I’m afraid I was rather rude to you a little while ago. I didn’t mean
to be.”
“That’s quite all right,” murmured the Russian. “I was telling Mr.
Smith just now that you are much distressed by the tragic events and it
is quite understandable that your nerves are not what they should be.”
Mr. Breese nodded. “I can’t believe it’s true yet,” he murmured
stonily. Then with an obvious effort at casualness: “You mentioned
something about a key as I came in here. I suppose you questioned the
fact that I possess a key and the house really belongs to my wife.
Well, the fact is that I found this key in my trunk with some others
this morning. I remember my agent gave me several at the time I first
opened this house. And I brought it around in case it was needed.”
Even to Smith this roundabout explanation must have seemed lame, for I
saw him watching the old man with new interest.
And then Smith said: “By the way, Mr. Breese, there have been some
developments I think you ought to know.”
Breese turned to him quickly. His granite eyes lit up. I’m not sure,
but it seemed to me that his right hand, resting upon a malacca stick,
trembled slightly.
“We’ve made an arrest,” Smith continued smoothly. For a moment Mr.
Breese said nothing. Finally he found his voice. “Who is it?” he
demanded.
“Well, I can’t even pronounce his name,” Smith confessed. “It’s
this Count Giering-Trelovitch--I think that’s the name. Your former
son-in-law.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the old man. “He had nothing to do with it.” He
stammered in his sudden excitement. “Look here--you’ve got the wrong
man. Why, I understood you were proceeding against the actor. At least
so Rice told me. Did he tell you about the forged check? And those
telegrams?”
“I know,” said Smith, “but the Count has made a confession.”
The old man stared at Smith in amazement. “A confession?” he repeated
blankly.
“Yes,” said Smith. “Hasn’t your daughter told you? He made the
confession to her yesterday and disappeared. We got him a little while
ago.”
The old man shook his head. He said nothing.
“At first,” continued Smith, “we thought the Count was acting out of
pure chivalry. Trying to protect someone else. But we’ve finally swung
around and we’re taking the confession at face value.” As the old man
remained silent, Smith concluded. “So, Mr. Breese, I don’t think we’ll
need you further. Unless the Count recants, we’ve got clear sailing.”
“Yes, yes,” murmured the old man, as if he did not hear what Smith
was saying. The Russian’s little eyes gleamed as he watched Breese
nervously moving to go. “Yes, I suppose you won’t need me. As a matter
of fact, I was thinking of taking the six o’clock boat to Key West
tonight. I suppose I’d better get back to the hotel and pack. Yes, I’d
better pack. I haven’t much time.” He fumbled with his watch.
“But surely you’re not going before the funeral?” the Russian inquired
blandly.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to,” he coughed nervously. “I wasn’t sure of
staying anyway. I’m afraid I’m not up to it.” Then he caught himself
up: “Besides, there won’t be a funeral here. Take the body to New
York for the family vault. Rice will look after that.” He paused, and
licked his lips. “My son-in-law, you say?” He shook his head. “I can’t
understand it. I don’t know what Mary’ll say. She’s all in. Can’t
talk. I’d better go to the hotel.”
He moved for the door. But Smith stopped him.
“There’s just one formality you’ll have to go through with,” the
detective informed him. “Your wife’s will is going to be read this
afternoon at Mr. Brennon’s office. I believe he was her attorney here.
And he especially asked me to have all of you there.”
Breese fumbled with his stick.
“Her will? Oh, yes. But I’ve got to get back to New York.”
“It won’t take long,” Smith assured him. “You can still make that boat
tonight.”
“Very well--very well,” Breese repeated, his hand at the door. “I’ll do
that.”
Smith watched the old man stumble nervously out of the room. Then he
turned to the Russian who now smiled triumphantly at him.
“Damned if there isn’t something in it,” Smith muttered.
CHAPTER XIV
THE WILL OF MRS. BREESE
Mr. Charles Brennon, Havana representative of several important New
York law firms, maintained his offices in the older quarters of the
city. Here the streets were so exceedingly narrow that walking became
an adventure and riding a miracle. Decrepit buildings rose in medieval
gloom from the congested street and the crumbling rock pile that housed
Mr. Brennon was distinguished by being the most decrepit of them all.
We found it with some difficulty, for both name and number had been
erased by time. But a kindly café proprietor several doors away pointed
out the building after we had refreshed ourselves at his bar with
cocoanut milk properly iced and sweetened, a soft drink delicacy that
was a favorite with Perutkin.
As we came through the ancient arch of Mr. Brennon’s building, we
were accosted by a whining old man who waved a pad of blue tickets in
our faces. He was one of the numerous lottery peddlers who infest the
gullible city. Smith waved him aside but the Russian called him back
and demanded a sheaf of tickets.
“I have a feeling,” exclaimed Perutkin, “that a great vein of luck has
seized me. There is light upon this case, and light in my soul.” He
pocketed the blue lottery paper. “I shall be both famous and rich. Then
I shall be truly miserable!” he sighed mournfully.
Even Smith could not help laughing at the vagaries of the man. The
three of us stepped gingerly into a musty elevator cage and hoped
for the best. Slowly the old man in charge tugged us up the narrow
shaft. On the third floor we were deposited directly in front of Mr.
Brennon’s dim suite of offices. As we entered the ante-room the smell
of antiquity overpowered us. From the rug that had long since lost all
semblance of its rightful color and the mottled melancholy walls to the
white-whiskered office boy at his dust-laden desk, the room seemed to
have been transported out of a bygone age. To judge from the dimly seen
pictures on the wall, the world had stopped with the Spanish-American
war. Mr. Brennon, as I discovered later, was one of those Americans
who had come to Cuba to fight and had been conquered by the dolorous
quality of the country. So there were photographs and woodcuts of the
patriots of independence, scenes of the sinking of the Maine, a wash
drawing of Roosevelt at San Juan and a brown faded memento of Mr.
Brennon’s own company, grouped fiercely around their commander.
Smith had insisted that we come earlier than the rest because he wanted
the opportunity of an uninterrupted interview with the lawyer.
While the white-whiskered office boy went forth to announce us to Mr.
Brennon, I reminded the detective that the elder Breese had been the
first to mention the subject of a will when he summoned us to his suite
to warn us against the actor.
“I haven’t forgotten,” said Smith.
“What would you think,” intervened the Russian, “if, when we hear the
will read, we discover that Mr. Thomas inherits the entire estate?”
“I’d say it would look bad for Thomas,” Smith replied.
“And if Mr. Breese proves a false prophet? If Mr. Thomas receives
nothing?”
“Then,” said Smith, “we’ll be more at sea than ever.”
“No,” said the Russian. “You will have convincing proof that Mr.