Murder in the Gilded Cage
the ornamental police headquarters. We accompanied Smith to his office.
While we waited patiently, he sat down at his desk and began typing
strenuously. When he was done, he said:
“I’ve often found it useful, when a case gets to this stage of the
game, to write down the known facts and see how they jibe. Now you two
know this case as well as I do. I want you to look this over and see
what I’ve missed.”
The Russian and I glanced over his shoulder, and we read:
“_Thomas_--bad egg--was in the house when Mrs. Breese was
killed--engaged to her, forged check which was discovered--had another
girl--is mentioned in will as next husband--yet Thomas insists Mrs.
Breese didn’t mind his marrying other girl and was paying him for his
‘loyalty’ during divorce trial. Thomas possessed revolver and knew how
to use it.
“_Breese, Sr._--had access to house. May have been there on night of
murder. Hated his wife and was hated by her. Evidently lied when he
said wife was making will in favor of Thomas. Evidently wanted Thomas
accused of murder. Now anxious to get away.
“_The Count_--in Mrs. Breese’s bad books, who had been keeping her
daughter away from him, and wanted him to stay away even after her
death. Is suspected of one murder. He has confessed and disappeared.
Was in the house at the time.
“_Mary Rose Breese_--judging from mother’s will, wanted to return to
her divorced husband. Was in the house at the time.
“_Henry Breese, Jr._--Violently hated the actor. Violently opposed his
marrying his mother. Once owned revolver. Was in the house at the time.
Inherits bulk of the estate.”
“You omit Gordon Rice, I see,” exclaimed the Russian.
“I omitted him purposely,” said Smith. “He’s got a perfectly good
alibi, and no motive.”
“And yet,” said the Russian meditatively, “Rice knows something.”
“How do you get that?” inquired Smith.
“The feeling is intangible,” explained the Russian. “But to one who
is sensitive to human beings--I am very sensitive--that is why I am a
great detective--but to one like myself there is something about Rice
that needs clarifying. I have that curious feeling that he is holding
something back.” He paused. “Are you sure about his alibi?”
“Sure?” exclaimed Smith. “I’ve got the word of the American Minister
himself that Rice spent the entire evening at his house! They were
together all the time, except for five minutes. I talked to the clerk
who saw and heard him telephone. You wouldn’t want a better alibi than
that?”
“No,” said the Russian. “Did you, by any chance, ask the clerk what Mr.
Rice said over the telephone?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Smith. “What difference would it make?”
“None at all,” replied the Russian. “I was just curious. However,
granted that Rice could not have committed the murder--he was not at
the scene of the crime--but isn’t it strange to you that both Rice and
Breese should hammer at you to arrest the actor? Isn’t it strange that
Rice should bring you the telegram from the detective agency, hired
by Breese, to find out what they could about the actor? What must we
conclude? Especially in view of the case against Breese? Only this:
Rice is anxious to protect Breese.”
“Well, maybe,” conceded Smith.
“Undoubtedly!” insisted the Russian. “I shall go one step further. Let
us consider the history of this case: After Mrs. Breese’s divorce, Mr.
Rice scorned her husband, whom he had known for many years, and sided
with the lady. Is that natural? No. Men do not break friendship under
such circumstances. And behold: When Mrs. Breese is dead, the two men
are friends openly once more. What does that suggest to you? Remember,
Breese was anxious for a reconciliation. To me it suggests that the two
men only pretended to quarrel during the divorce trial. Rice sided
with Mrs. Breese so as to be in a position to influence her. That’s why
he so violently opposed her marriage to the actor. Remember, he did not
intend marrying her himself. There was no question of love between this
man and the woman. What then was his motive in coming down here with
her and campaigning so strenuously against the actor? Obviously, he
wanted her to remarry his friend Breese.
“Now, mark this--Breese calls you to his hotel before the murder
and warns you against the actor. Rice comes to the house, after the
murder, and the first thing he does is to accuse the actor. He produces
telegrams from the detective agency (hired by Breese) and tells you
about the forged check. I hold no brief for the actor, but I don’t
think he forged that check. I think Breese did himself. But observe how
in every development of the case Breese and Rice work together, and yet
apart--what does that suggest?”
“Do you mean to say that Rice took part in the murder, or knew about it
beforehand?” Smith asked skeptically.
“No,” said the Russian. “I believe Breese unburdened himself to his
friend after the murder, threw himself upon Rice’s mercy, and Rice has
been doing everything he can to save his friend. And if in the process
the actor gets hurt why, I should think that Rice would be the type to
accept such a miscarriage of justice with the comforting reflection
that Mr. Thomas would get only what he deserved.”
“For that matter,” replied Smith, “I can build up the same case against
you!”
“Against me?” exclaimed the Russian.
“Certainly,” said Smith. “You are protecting your friend, the Count. He
was not only in the house at the time of the murder, but he actually
confessed to it, after consulting you. You have been hammering away on
old man Breese. Why? If I use the same logic you do, I could say--to
protect your friend.”
The Russian laughed. “You have me there, Mr. Smith,” he admitted
admiringly. “It had never occurred to me. But you’re not serious?”
“No,” said Smith. “I’m not serious about any theories. And this case
seems to me to consist of nothing else. I’m looking for something
definite, something tangible.”
The Russian picked up Smith’s summary and studied it once more.
“There are many definite, tangible things here,” he replied, “but
they are of little value--at present. I notice you have marked down
the Breese children. I admit they should be watched, as a matter of
routine. But I would safely pass them for the moment. Our main target
right now is the father. Concentrate upon him, my friend!”
“You’re at it again!” said Smith.
“Besides,” I put in, “old man Breese is leaving for the States on the
six o’clock boat, isn’t he?”
Smith shook his head. “No, Mr. Breese’s landing card is going to be
questioned when he gets to Key West and he’ll have to return to Havana
to straighten it out. I’ve got that arranged. I’m not taking any
chances of losing anybody in this case.”
“Good!” approved the Russian heartily. He planted his panama firmly
upon his huge head. “If I recall rightly, the funeral is to take place
three days after the lady’s death--tomorrow at midnight, to be exact.”
Smith nodded. “What is the weather prediction for tomorrow?”
“The weather prediction?” Smith repeated puzzled.
“Yes,” said the Russian. “Examine that copy of the Havana Post which
you keep so neatly folded upon the desk. What does it say?”
Smith glanced obediently at the paper, evidently humoring the Russian.
“Let me see----” he found the weather column. “Storms,” he read.
“But that is magnificent!” shouted the Russian. He snatched the paper
rudely from the detective. “Let me see. I cannot believe it. Yes, it is
true! Storms!”
Smith stared at him, open-mouthed.
The Russian swept his hat from his head in one violent gesture and
flung it upon the desk.
“To work!” he cried. “To work, my friends.”
Then he chuckled. “Of course, you do not understand? You do not see
the connection. I am, perhaps, premature. What if there should be no
storms? No, I shall wait.” He regained the panama and once more it was
squeezed down upon his head. “Tomorrow we go to the funeral, invited
or not. And, my friends”--he was already moving to the door--“pray for
storms, my friends, pray for storms!”
CHAPTER XVI
THE FUNERAL AT MIDNIGHT
The funeral party assembled upon the ill-lit dock at eleven o’clock
that night. Although the moon was shrouded, there were no signs of
the prophesied storm. The black and green waters of the Bay rippled
gently, and only the mildest of tropical breezes swept past us. Far off
we could see the _Mary Rose_ riding gracefully at anchor, her lights
twinkling invitingly to the desolate dock. Occasionally a tug shrieked
its warning and plowed off to its berth.
Funerals are never pleasant affairs for me, and this one, with all its
attendant circumstances, brought an involuntary shiver as I waited
impatiently for the yacht’s launches. Faces of the mourners were
hardly distinguishable. Vaguely I knew that the group of four nearby,
whispering softly among themselves, were the Breese family and Gordon
Rice. At some considerable distance the shadow of the actor paced up
and down.
Neither Smith nor the Russian had arrived yet. I could expect anything
of Perutkin, but I knew that Smith was a model of punctuality and I
wondered what had detained him. His instructions to me that evening
were somewhat enigmatical. I could not help feeling that for the first
time since the case started he was withholding something of import.
Black figures glided past us--sailors and watchmen and all the dark
crew of the dock, leaving or arriving at their posts. From far off we
heard the melancholy crooning of a native love-song, punctuated by the
harsh monotonous twanging of a guitar.
I heard Rice say aloud: “What’s the matter with that launch? It’s
late.” These were the first words above a whisper that I had heard from
any of the four since my arrival.
But Rice fell silent once more. I lit a match and consulted my watch.
Then I looked toward the yacht once more and it seemed to me that the
wind had risen. The waters below us began to swirl. I saw the _Mary
Rose_ rock spasmodically. Rice looked up at the dark sky. He muttered
something under his breath.
Then we heard a taxi, and I could descry the figure of Smith rushing
toward us. He apologized hurriedly for his tardiness, and was relieved
to find that the launch had not yet started out.
“Where’s the Russian?” I asked.
“He’ll be around,” Smith said vaguely. Then he took a police whistle
from his pocket and gave three shrill blasts. An answering siren from
the yacht responded, as if the signal had been prearranged. Then we
heard the faint chugging of the launch, growing steadily louder in our
ears, and we could make out its shadowy outline as it chopped the
angry waters.
Without a word, the funeral party permitted itself to be helped aboard
the launch by the crew of two. Smith and I were the last ones to leave
the dock. The motor roared anew. I saw Rice looking up at the sky.
“We’d better hurry,” he said. “This looks like a real storm coming.”
“Oh, no,” said Smith reassuringly. “Just a bit of rain. I’ve lived
around here for five years and I know a real storm when I see one.”
I saw one of the sailors at his motor wink sardonically to the other at
this.
“Well, if there is a storm,” said Rice, “we’re going to turn back. Have
to postpone it.”
“No,” said Breese. “Don’t want to do that. I’ve got to go home
tomorrow.”
Rice looked doubtfully at him. But by this time the launch had drawn
up alongside the _Mary Rose_, and we clambered out as best we could.
The group of four proceeded immediately to the music-room, followed, at
some distance, by the actor. Smith and I paced the deck.
After a moment’s silence, Smith said, looking about carefully to
make sure that he was not overheard: “I’m expecting things to happen
tonight.”
I felt a curious tingling of excitement. I begged for some inkling of