Murder in the Gilded Cage
“No one stopped me,” replied the Count. “I’m sorry I have disturbed
you.”
“What’s this about a confession?” asked Rice. “Do you mean to tell me
that you murdered Mrs. Breese?”
“Yes,” replied the Count. “I did.”
“But in the name of Heaven, why?” demanded Rice. “I’d like to know. I’d
like to know why anyone would kill Dora Breese--one of the finest women
that ever lived. I’d like to know how an apparently decent young chap
like you could do a fiendish thing like that.”
“Is it so unlikely?” demanded the Count. “Didn’t you believe I was
guilty of murder in Riga?”
“I did not!” snapped Rice. “I told Dora she had you all wrong. But, of
course, she was right. You couldn’t fool her.” He stopped, overwhelmed.
“God, I can’t believe it!” he muttered. “It doesn’t seem real.”
“If you don’t mind,” said the Count wearily, “I’d rather not discuss
it.”
But here Perutkin intervened. “Do you know, Mr. Rice, I agree with you.
It doesn’t seem real. I don’t think my friend’s confession is worth
this----” he snapped his fingers. “He’s being a fool, that’s all.”
“But why?” demanded Rice. “Why does he confess? That’s what gets me!”
“I shall tell you,” said Perutkin. “He thinks he is being chivalrous.
He thinks he is doing something noble. He does not realize he is merely
obstructing justice.” He swung suddenly on the Countess who was looking
at him intently. “You, Madame, you do not believe him? You were his
wife. You know him.”
“I don’t know what to believe,” the girl said desperately.
“And you, young man----” He turned to the younger Breese--“what do you
think?”
The boy squirmed in the chair, but said nothing.
“And you?” He advanced slowly upon the elder Breese. “Have you any
opinions on the matter, sir?”
“I don’t know anything about it!” snapped Breese. “Let me alone.”
But his son sprang up. “What’s the use of this? Of course he didn’t do
it. You know who did it, and I do, too. It’s that cad over there--yes,
you----” he blazed at Thomas. “You can’t fool me!”
“Hang it all, stop it!” shrieked the actor. “This is getting on my
nerves. I can’t stand it any more. I really can’t.”
“You must have proof for such grave charges,” Perutkin intervened
solemnly. “What proof have you?”
“I don’t need any proof,” shouted the boy. “Look at him. Isn’t that
enough? If it weren’t for him, Mother would be alive today. He ruined
her life. He killed her. And he’s not going to get away with it either!”
Rice reached for the boy to calm him. Young Breese, on the verge of
tears, tried to draw away.
“Go ahead! Say anything you want!” challenged the actor. “I was your
mother’s friend. Why don’t you look at her will? She says there what
she thinks of me! I did everything in the world for her. And all the
thanks I get is--this!” He swallowed piteously. “Hang it all, it isn’t
fair!”
“What in life is fair?” reflected the Russian gravely. “We are none of
us appreciated, Mr. Thomas. But you believe that the Count is guilty?”
“You’ve got his own word for it, haven’t you?” countered the actor.
“What do you want from me? A man comes to you and says he’s a murderer,
and you don’t want to believe him. Of course! You’d rather believe _I_
did it. I know you’re all against me. But you’d better be careful--some
of you! There’s such a thing as libel. I’ve got lawyers to protect me!”
The door opened, and a harassed-looking wireless operator stumbled
forward. His earnest, long face was white with fear and his steel
spectacles quivered on his long, thin nose.
“Mr. Breese!” he called.
“Yes? Have you a message for me?”
“Yes, sir.” But the operator made no move. He shifted uncomfortably
from one foot to the other.
“Well, where is it?” demanded Breese finally.
“I haven’t got it, exactly, sir--I----”
“What the devil do you mean?” growled the financier.
“Sir, I was about to take it--it was for you--but something went wrong
with the set. I don’t know yet what happened. I worked as fast as I
could. Then I went out to see if the aerial had been damaged. And--it
had. Cut through. And then, when I came back, I found the set smashed
to pieces, as if someone with a hammer had just banged up everything. I
reported to the Captain, sir, and he just sent word for me to report to
you.”
“Someone deliberately smashed your set?” Breese looked at him
incredulously. “But who would do a thing like that?”
“I can’t understand it, sir. It’s never happened to me before.”
The radio man blinked uncomfortably. Tiny beads of perspiration stood
out upon his narrow forehead.
“No use going into that now,” Rice said. “He’d better get to work and
start repairs. Dangerous business being without radio in this storm.”
“Yes, sir, it is,” agreed the operator. “I’ll get right to work, sir.
I’ve got some extra equipment. I’ll see what I can do.”
“That is very strange,” said Perutkin as he left. “First someone
tampers with the lights. And now the wireless is smashed.”
“Well, anything can happen in a storm,” put in Smith.
“How can storm get into the wireless room?” Rice snorted impatiently.
“But who in the world would deliberately smash our wireless?” Smith
persisted. “It doesn’t seem possible.”
“It doesn’t seem possible,” retorted Rice, “that this man”--pointing
to the Count--“should deliberately walk on board this yacht to give
himself up. Yet there he is. How and why I don’t know--yet! Perhaps
he’s responsible. He’s been skulking around this boat!”
“I assure you, sir,” the Count replied, “I know nothing of wireless.”
“It’s damn funny,” muttered Rice. “I’d have this investigated the
moment we get in!”
“How much longer have we got to go?” asked Breese. “We seem to be
taking hours!”
“In such a storm,” said the Russian, “we must proceed cautiously.”
But here the harassed-looking operator returned. He seemed shaken with
puzzled fear.
“I can’t understand it, sir,” he cried at Breese. “When I got back,
someone had stolen all my spare equipment. I’ve searched high and low
for it.”
“But this is strange!” exclaimed Perutkin. “Are you sure?”
“Sure?” muttered the operator. “I’m not sure of anything any more.”
“Then,” said the Russian, “there is a maniac aboard. I am reminded of
the famous Sebastopol tragedy, where someone with a homicidal humor
played just such tricks upon a small passenger boat. Utterly destroyed
it. It is curious. Very curious.”
“What are you talking about?” exploded Rice. “What maniac? We know
who’s on board.”
“But--do we?” countered the Russian. “My friend, the Count, came here
unseen. How do we know who else has come?”
“Hang it all, find him then!” shrieked the actor, who had been
listening open-mouthed. “If there’s a madman on board he’ll kill us
all!”
“It is very strange,” persisted the Russian quietly. “But in the
Sebastopol case, twenty-one men, women and children were drowned thus.
He crippled the radio, knocked a tremendous hole in her side, and
completely ruined the engines.”
“But why?” asked Smith.
“For the maniacal delight of destruction,” the Russian replied calmly.
“Here----” barked Rice. “What are you trying to do? Scare everybody? If
there’s anybody on board, the crew’ll handle him fast enough.”
“If they find him,” said the Russian. “Maniacs are cunning.”
“But you don’t know there _is_ a maniac!” shouted Rice. He stopped
short. Outside we heard the smash of wood upon wood. Resounding blows.
Then the wash of waves. Suddenly a growl of many voices, and one purple
oath.
Perutkin hurried out. He was gone but a moment. When he returned he
said gravely: “A curious accident! Our lifeboats have been washed
overboard.”
“But that’s impossible!” exclaimed Rice.
“So I would think,” agreed the Russian. “I observed today that both
boats were lashed fast. What are we to conclude?”
“Conclude nothing!” cried Rice. “Get hold of the Captain. Let him
search this boat from top to bottom. We’ll find out soon enough who’s
been doing this!”
Even as he spoke I was conscious that the lulling hum of the engines
had died out. There was an empty silence, while the boat still tossed.
“The engines have stopped!” announced the Russian. “Listen!”
“We--we must be coming in!” quavered Breese hopefully.
“We can’t be coming in!” the Russian contradicted, looking out of the
window. “I see no sight of land, no harbor. Nothing but water and
darkness.”
“Then what’s he stopping for?” demanded Rice. “We’re not moving. Those
engines are dead.”
“I’ll find out!” volunteered the operator nervously. But Perutkin
halted him.
“No, you shall wait here. I shall myself investigate. It is high time.”
Reluctantly the operator watched him go. He shuffled into a chair and
sat down, nervously twisting his stubby fingers. He seemed decidedly
ill at ease as he looked about him.
A peal of thunder rolled over our heads. I shuddered, as if it were an
ominous warning of disaster.
The yacht seemed to list and chairs slid. I clutched at the wall. I can
only record my physical actions in that room. My mind, it seemed to me,
was in a daze from the moment I had boarded the yacht.
Finally the Russian came back. He walked slowly, with head bowed. He
shut the door carefully behind him.
“Gentlemen,” he announced gravely, “it is my duty to tell you that we
are in great peril!” He paused. “Our engines have stopped. Our wireless
is hopelessly smashed. Our lifeboats have been washed overboard.
The ship lists dangerously, and is leaking. We are in the grip of a
terrific storm--gentlemen,” he sank suddenly to his knees, “gentlemen,
pray for your lives!”
CHAPTER XVIII
ONE OF YOU
Perutkin made the sign of the cross, and lifted his voice in the chant
of the Russian church. The melancholy litany seemed endless. I watched
him in fascinated horror. The rest could not believe their eyes. Breese
stumbled out through the door, calling incoherently for aid. But no
answer came through the darkness. Someone shouted: “Lifebelts!” To
me then the word meant nothing, nor to the rest of us, for we stood
helplessly watching the top-hatted figure upon bended knee in the
prayer we could not understand.
Then the Russian stopped, and he drew himself up to his full height.
“In my own tongue, and in the prayer of my mother, I have confessed my
sins,” he said. “Now my heart is light. I can meet the Unknown without
fear.” Once more he made the sign of the cross.
“Stop it!” shrieked the actor. “Can’t you do something--somebody? I
don’t want to die!” His voice died out in a wail.
“You are white, Mr. Thomas,” said the Russian. “You shiver. You are
afraid.”
“Where’s the Captain?” Breese demanded. “Bring him here at once!”
The yacht rolled maliciously and the old man seized a chair to steady
himself.
“There is only one Captain now,” responded the Russian gravely, “and
Him I cannot bring. But He will come!”
Rice stepped forward. “Things cannot be as bad as you say. I know this
boat. She’s weathered worse storms than this!”
“Perhaps,” said the Russian. “But this is her last storm. The sea is
pouring into her. While we stand here, she is sinking. It is only a
matter of minutes.”
“I won’t believe it until the Captain says so!” snapped Rice.
“Ask him!” challenged the Russian. “If you can find him in the dark.”
Then he raised his voice. “It is the wrath of God. One of you killed
cunningly and now all of us must die. So it is written, my friends.”
“You’ve gone mad!” cried Breese. “I’ll get the Captain myself.”
“I’ll go with you,” his son volunteered.
“There is no need!” The Russian raised his hand. “Look!”
He pointed to the window. The red and white glare of rockets flashed
before our eyes.
“I shall read for you!” said the Russian. “S.O.S. S.O.S. We have no
wireless. We have no lifeboats. We are summoning aid.”
Breese stood still, staring at the window. He tottered to a chair.