Murder in the Gilded Cage
his plans. But Smith shook his head.
“Only thing for you to do is to wait and watch. No matter what happens,
don’t worry.”
I heard footsteps behind us, and I swung around quickly. I gaped at
Perutkin--in the half light--a new Perutkin, resplendent in morning
coat and top-hat and white gloves that almost gleamed silver in the
night. In one hand he held a gold-tipped stick, which he swung with a
swagger.
“All is ready,” he announced.
As if the yacht were awaiting his command, I heard the heavy rattle of
chains as the anchor was drawn up. Then the engines throbbed and the
dock receded.
We heard the deafening peal of thunder that makes a tropical storm so
frightful. Lightning raced across the black sky. The yacht rose upon
the waves, and we felt a sudden drenching rain upon our faces. We beat
a hasty retreat to the cabin corridor for protection.
I heard the Russian chuckling, and as he came into the corridor, he
pointed to the pouring sky.
“My partner!” he cried. I could only stare at him, puzzled. A member
of the crew darted past us. We heard him slamming the deck doors and
battering them shut.
“Time to see the Captain,” Smith said. He was as puzzling to me as was
the Russian.
“Yes,” chuckled the Russian. “You’ll find him an excellent fellow. I’ve
been dining very well with him. He’ll coöperate, I assure you.”
Smith nodded and left us. The Russian paced up and down, rubbing his
hands delightedly, looking at me with a playful grin and chuckling in
high good humor. His smile did not leave him when he saw Rice emerge
from the music-room, a frown upon his ordinarily placid face.
“We’ll have to turn back,” Rice said to me. “It’s a bad enough business
for the family without this storm.”
“But, surely,” said the Russian, “you will not disobey the strict
injunctions of Mrs. Breese. It was, so to speak, her dying wish. Three
days after her death she specified.”
“Mrs. Breese,” retorted Rice, “wouldn’t want to make her family and
friends miserable. She didn’t know about this storm.”
“It would look very bad in the newspapers,” the Russian shook his head
doubtfully. He turned to me, “Don’t you think so?” And before I could
reply, “But why do I ask? We have just been discussing that,” he lied
glibly, “and you yourself made that point.”
“I can’t help it,” snapped Rice. “We’re turning back.”
He strode past us. When he had gone, the Russian laughed.
“And I would be willing to wager that we are not,” he said.
But whatever the private joke of the Russian (which Smith evidently
shared) I could not quite appreciate its humor. The yacht rolled
unmercifully, and although I am a fairly good sailor, I do not enjoy
being pitched about. Outside, the wind assumed the proportions, it
seemed to me, of a cyclone, although the Russian laughed at the
comparison.
“Why, this is excellent weather!” he exclaimed cheerfully, sitting down
upon the leather bench beside me, and holding his top-hat carefully
against his breast. “A little blow like this means nothing--nothing at
all.”
The ship’s lights blinked in my eyes as the fury of the storm
increased. I saw Smith carefully making his way down the stairs toward
us.
“Well?” said the Russian.
Smith nodded, with an air of self-satisfaction.
“Mr. Rice wants to turn back,” said the Russian.
“I know,” said Smith. “He’s still with the Captain. But it seems there
are reasons why the Captain can’t follow orders. Rice thinks the
skipper’s crazy.” Smith grinned exasperatingly.
Another peal of thunder rolled in the sky, and through the windows I
was startled by the accompanying flash of lighting.
“This may be a joke on us, at that,” said Smith, blinking.
“Nonsense!” retorted the Russian. “Rest easy, my friend. Everything is
working famously.”
Rice stumbled down the stairs, clutching the banister. When he reached
our landing, I could see his face was purple.
“Go up there and argue with that madman!” he shouted at Smith. “He
won’t turn back!”
“I’ve already done that,” Smith shrugged his shoulders. “But I wouldn’t
worry, Mr. Rice. This boat can stand a heavier storm than this.” He
drew out his cheap watch. “It’s ten minutes to twelve. Don’t you think
you’d better summon the family to the deck for the ceremony?”
Rice didn’t reply, but staggered to the first door, opened it, and then
banged it behind him.
“Excellent!” exclaimed the Russian. “We need very little now.”
He stopped short, as the dapper figure of the Captain came down
the stairs toward us. He was in his forties, with the sharp eye of
the adventurer not uncommon in yacht skippers, and with none of
the ponderous dignity that goes with commanders burdened with the
responsibility of larger craft. His blue eyes twinkled merrily as he
greeted Smith.
“All’s well,” he chuckled. Apparently he was part of the conspiracy,
too. I felt somewhat chagrined that a mere stranger had intervened in a
case in which I felt a proprietary interest.
“You won’t regret it, Captain,” Smith replied.
The door opened, and Rice emerged. In his arms he clutched a blue urn.
Here were the ashes of Mrs. Breese. The strange funeral party stumbled
after him--the elder Breese, his daughter, very white and seemingly
dazed, young Breese and the actor.
The Captain bared his head. Smith tugged at the door to the deck. The
wind howled in our ears. The mourners stumbled forward. Rice clutched
his burden spasmodically.
A driving rain beat our faces. The night was pitch black now. I heard
the door slam behind us. I heard Perutkin’s voice boom out:
“He, who has the ashes of Dora Breese, murdered by a fiend, unknown,
will now cast them into the sea, as she desired!”
I shivered involuntarily. I thought I heard a moan in the wind. Then
there was a splash. The Countess cried out. She was near me. Smith
opened the door hurriedly and as hurriedly the mourners stumbled to
shelter. The strange funeral was over.
Wringing wet, we chattered, as if in relief. Rice conducted the elder
Breese and the children back to the warmth of the music-room, where an
open fire blazed. The actor, impervious to the chill in Rice’s eyes,
stumbled after them.
“Now,” said the Russian, “come with me, gentlemen.” He included me in
his gesture of invitation.
We followed him down the long corridor to the cabins. I fell against
the wall intermittently, for the rocking of the boat grew more violent,
and the wind howled so that the very timbers rattled.
We paused before the first cabin. The Russian knocked loudly at the
door. A voice bade us enter. The Russian flung the door open.
A very pale young man greeted us.
“Now,” said the Russian, “we are complete.”
The Count Giering-Trelovitch advanced toward us.
“Into the music-room with you, my friend,” the Russian said harshly to
the man who had confessed. “Join the others! Come!”
Without a word, the young man followed. I could see by Smith’s
expression that the advent of the Count was as much of a surprise to
him as it was to me.
“You see,” said Perutkin to the detective, “I have kept my word. I have
produced him for you. It is only fair.”
Whatever else he said was lost in a convulsive shiver of the boat. The
lights dimmed and flashed crazily. Then suddenly we were plunged in
darkness. I heard a woman’s scream.
CHAPTER XVII
STORM
In my memory I have a terribly vivid picture of the first few stifling
moments in that black room. There was a scurrying of feet about me,
confused shouts. Someone prodded me in the back so that I gasped for
breath. Then the voice of Perutkin booming forth: “Quiet, everybody,
quiet!” It was as if a schoolmaster were reproving a group of noisy
children. For the next moment hushed silence reigned.
There was the barely audible click of metal, and the Russian played
the weak rays of a flash-light upon the wall. But it served only to
illuminate his own stern visage, curiously ominous under the black
top-hat. He seemed an unearthly figure out of a dream. That he was
conscious of the effect he produced I cannot doubt. He had a Russian
sense of personal drama.
“There is nothing to fear!” he said slowly, but his voice belied his
words. “You are all safe. Something’s wrong with the electric plant,
and it will undoubtedly be repaired in a moment.”
“There’s been something wrong with this boat ever since we got on,” I
heard the elder Breese’s voice tremble. I could not see his face. He
was one of many shadows among us. “Where’s the Captain?”
“Yes----” this now with Rice’s voice. “Bring him down here. You with
the flash-light, I told him to turn back. Why didn’t he?”
“I shall bring the Captain,” the Russian promised. “But again I tell
you, there is nothing to fear.”
He moved to the door, the light traveling uncannily with him. Then the
door closed, and once more we were plunged in darkness.
“I’ve never had such an experience in all my life,” I heard the actor
complaining fatuously. “Hang it all, this is a funny way of running a
boat.”
“Shut up, can’t you?” barked Rice. “Does somebody know where we are?”
“All I can tell you,” Smith responded placidly, “is that we’re out of
sight of land. But we can’t be far from the coast.” The yacht heaved
and shadows toppled. I heard Rice swear. Smith muttered to me: “This is
a real storm all right. It had me fooled. I thought it’d pass over.”
The boat creaked and rattled, and the engines throbbed as if in
struggle.
Then the door opened, and Perutkin appeared with his flash-light. It
was good to be rid of the dark again.
“I’m sorry,” he announced, “but the Captain can tell me nothing.” He
paused. “Nothing!”
“What the devil do you mean by that?” demanded the elder Breese.
“Where is he? Bring him down here. I’ll have him fired the minute we
land.”
“That is your affair, Mr. Breese,” replied the Russian, playing the
light full upon the face of the financier. “I know nothing of that. All
I can tell you is that the Captain cannot come down here. He is not
leaving the bridge.”
“What’s wrong with the lights?” asked Rice.
“They are investigating now,” replied the Russian. “They do not know
themselves.” He set his flash-light upon the table, so that it shed its
faint rays upon us all. “Meanwhile we must content ourselves with this.
It will do in an emergency.”
“It’s outrageous!” cried the actor. “It’s never happened before.”
“Where are we?” demanded Rice, straining to see out of the window.
“That I cannot tell you,” responded the Russian. “They were not very
communicative--your officers. The Captain growled at me as if he would
bite me, and the first officer was not very polite either.” He stopped
short, as the Countess rose from the sofa and stared at a shadowy
figure in one corner. It was with some effort that she stifled a scream.
The Count came forward. For the first time his presence was revealed to
the mourners.
“Where on earth did you come from?” Rice gasped at the intruder.
The actor seemed to have gone mad. “Somebody arrest him! Somebody
arrest him!” he shouted. “Here, you detectives--here he is!”
“Quiet!” roared Perutkin.
“I must apologize to you, Mary,” the Count began quietly. “And to you,
gentlemen. I did not come here to startle you. The fact is, I came on
board to give myself up.”
“Then sit down!” commanded Perutkin. “Consider yourself under arrest,
and when we land we shall know what to do with you.”
The Count nodded, and quietly seated himself in a corner, almost out of
sight of the others in the pale light. The Countess averted her eyes. I
saw her deliberately turn to gaze, expressionless, at Smith, standing
in the opposite corner, although I am sure she did not see him.
“Well,” said Rice, still staring at the Count, “this is quite a shock
to me. How did you get on the boat?”