Murder in the Gilded Cage
“What is it, my son?” Perutkin halted his prayer and looked gently at
the mechanic.
“Will you--pray for me?” he begged.
“Certainly, my son,” replied the Russian. “I shall pray for you.”
“I’ve--I’ve got something on my mind,” the operator groaned
inarticulately. “I’ve--I’ve got something to tell you.”
Even then, when I was concerned with my own fate, I wondered what
the little man could be keeping from the world in his narrow bosom.
Something trivial, I knew, that would appear ludicrous in the light of
the impending tragedy.
But Breese had come over to us. He looked down upon the two kneeling
figures with contemptuous wrath.
“Praying!” he shouted. “Why don’t you go to work--get that wireless
going? Damn cowards!”
“Yes, you two! Great revival meeting you’re putting on,” Rice chimed
in. “It makes me sick to look at you!”
“Don’t listen to them,” counselled the Russian. “Pray, my son.”
“Get up!” shouted Breese hysterically. “Stop it, I tell you!”
“I won’t,” cried the mechanic. “I won’t. I got something to tell. I
got something on my mind. I’m going to tell. You can’t stop me. I’ve
been listening to all of you. I didn’t know--” he gasped for breath. “I
thought--about Mrs. Breese--I----”
“What about Mrs. Breese?” Smith asked quietly.
“I--I--don’t look at me like that--I--” He moaned as if in pain.
Suddenly the flash-light upon the table was hurled to the floor. We
were plunged in darkness.
“Go on,” cried the Russian. “Quick--what about Mrs. Breese? Who killed
her?”
“Wait, can’t you?” the mechanic cried. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell
you----”
A revolver shot boomed in my ear. I heard the man groan. I heard his
body fall to the floor.
Suddenly, miraculously, the lights flared up in the room and through
the ship!
The Russian was kneeling over the prone figure. He raised his head, and
his sharp little eyes travelled over the room.
“He’s dead,” said the Russian slowly.
CHAPTER XIX
THE MURDER ON THE YACHT
Before any of us could move, before we could realize what had happened,
the stilled engines of the yacht were throbbing once more, and we were
ploughing ahead. The storm still raged, but now our craft cut the
waters with disdain.
But no one moved for a moment. We were all staring in grim fascination
at the absurd figure of the humdrum little operator upon the floor. He
seemed so unreal there.
Breese was the first to cry out to the rest of us the inexplicable fact
that our craft had suddenly taken on life. Then, as I recall the hectic
moments, Rice ran to the window, as if he did not believe his senses.
Others followed him--that is, the elder Breese did, and the actor.
The Countess still stood as if in a dream. The Count maintained his
solitary position in the corner. All our movements, now that I try to
reconstruct them, had the unearthly quality of a dream.
Then I heard the actor call: “We’re saved! Hang it all, we’re saved!”
He slobbered in his relief. Tears streaked his cheeks.
The Countess cried out, as if she were waking. Then I realized the
Count was at her side. She was in his arms, and laughing and crying in
turn in her hysteria.
“Take her to her cabin,” Perutkin ordered. “The rest of you stay here.”
“But what’s happened?” demanded Breese. He seemed utterly bewildered.
“Perhaps you’ve already guessed,” countered the Russian strangely. “A
man has been murdered.”
“Never mind that!” Breese’s contempt for the figure before us chilled
me. “What’s happened with the ship? We’re moving.”
The Russian did not reply. The Countess was now sobbing as her former
husband led her from the room.
“You will be good enough to return immediately,” Perutkin called after
his protégé, who nodded. Then to the rest of us: “None of you will
leave this room.”
“Are we still in danger or not? That’s what I want to know!” Breese
cried, straining to look out of the window.
“One of us is out of danger,” the Russian said slowly, pointing to the
figure.
The Captain emerged from the corridor. He stopped short at the sight of
the body of his operator.
“How did this happen?” he demanded sharply. The Russian shrugged his
shoulders. The Captain’s thin lips set in one hard line. “You’re
responsible for this,” he said sternly.
“But it was not in my plan!” protested the Russian. “How could I know
such a disaster was possible?”
“What plan?” demanded Breese, listening open-mouthed, as we all did, to
the puzzling dialogue.
“You must know, Mr. Breese!” replied the Russian. “Surely you must have
guessed by now.”
“You’re talking in riddles,” snapped Breese. “What is it?”
The Captain addressed his employer. “Sir, you have every right to
discharge me,” he began. “At no time during this trip were we in any
danger. This man--” pointing to Perutkin--“asked me to convince you
that the ship was going down. He said I would help trap the murderer of
Mrs. Breese.”
“Certainly,” added the Russian. “It was a feasible plan. I argued that
the murderer of Mrs. Breese must be on this yacht. I argued that if
we could convince him that he faced death, he might be trapped into
a confession. He would feel he had nothing to lose. Unfortunately--”
the Russian gestured helplessly and it was not necessary for him to
conclude.
“You mean--you deliberately--staged this--this hoax!” Breese sputtered.
“Yes,” replied the Captain, “every bit of it. We did damage the
wireless set, but there was nothing else wrong. And it cost one poor
fellow his life.”
“Because,” explained the Russian, “the murderer was clever enough, Mr.
Breese, to guess our plan. I am amazed that a man like you was fooled.”
Once more his sharp little eyes stared at Breese. Then he continued
smoothly: “It was all in very bad taste, I’ll grant you. I could not
resist the temptation of the storm. It seemed a sign from the heavens.”
“We’re wasting time,” intervened Smith. “I want to ask you, Captain,
what you know of this poor chap?”
“His name is Louis Trenholm,” replied the Captain methodically.
“I think he was thirty-one. If I remember rightly I signed him on
myself--he came from Olean, New York. I don’t remember that he had any
living relatives.”
Smith noted these sparse details in his note-book.
“How long had he been with you?” asked Smith.
“Just about a week,” replied the Captain. “Our regular
man--Wilkins--resigned when we got to Havana to go with the Dollar
Line. Wilkins recommended this man and I signed him on. That’s all I
know about him.”
“Very good, Captain,” approved Perutkin. “You tell us much. For if this
man was signed on after the yacht arrived in Havana he never met Mrs.
Breese to your knowledge, did he?”
“I don’t follow,” said the Captain, puzzled.
“Why, it’s simple enough,” said the Russian. “You told us that you
signed him on _after_ Mrs. Breese left the yacht. So that as far as you
know they had never met.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said the Captain.
“And yet,” continued the Russian, “this man knew who killed Mrs.
Breese!”
“I won’t hear any more of it,” the elder Breese suddenly shouted.
“You can’t stand around here and talk of things that mean so much to
my family and me!” He trembled violently. He seemed on the verge of
collapse. “Get this ship into port just as fast as you can. Don’t stand
there!” This at the Captain, who turned on his heel abruptly and left
without a word.
“But one moment!” interposed the Russian. “I am astounded, Mr. Breese.
I sympathize with your feelings, but you still don’t seem to realize
that a murderer may be standing not more than four feet away from you
at this very moment. Don’t you want that murderer punished?”
“Certainly! But you’re punishing my family, not the murderer, with all
this--this--tomfoolery!” cried Breese. “I’m going down to my cabin, and
I don’t want to hear anything about it. It’s up to you to arrest the
man who is responsible, and when you’ve done that I’ll be very glad to
hear it.” Leaning on the arm of his son, he made for the door.
“Let him go,” advised Rice. “The strain has been too much for him. He
doesn’t realize what’s happened.”
“Exactly,” said the Russian. “I trust he may later. Now to you
gentlemen who remain I must explain that our situation here is rather
unique. Let me put it as clearly as I can. Mr. Smith and I believed
that we could fool all of you into a state where you would fancy
yourselves facing death. We had reason to suppose that the murderer of
Mrs. Breese was on this yacht.
“We expected the murderer to crack, to confess. But the only man who
broke down was this poor fellow here. Obviously he was not the murderer
of Mrs. Breese. As far as we can learn, he did not even know her.
Therefore, we are led to assume the conclusion that the real murderer
was not convinced by our hoax.
“And--he was so sufficiently sure of himself that he took this
opportunity of getting rid of the one man who knew something of the
murder. What that something is no one can even guess.” He paused for
breath. Then he smiled quizzically, as he looked about him. “One of
us here, on this yacht, killed this man. Either you, my friend,” to
the Count who had returned just then and was standing in the doorway,
“either you, Mr. Thomas, either you, Mr. Rice, or the three members of
the Breese family who have left us.”
“Well, I had nothing to do with it,” cried the actor. “Hang it all,
you’re not going to begin all over again with me.”
“No,” said the Russian. “You see, we are in a much better position than
we were before. In a crime committed in a house, people may go and
come unseen. But we know all those who are on this boat. Our search
narrows down considerably. For example, our first step is to locate
the revolver with which this murder was committed. Have any of you
gentlemen a revolver?”
“Not me!” cried the actor. “Why should I have a revolver?”
“I did not address you alone,” said the Russian. “I assume that none
of you gentlemen will produce a revolver for me. It is too much to
expect.” He smiled. “Shall we search them, Mr. Smith?”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” said Smith. He put his hand in
his pocket and produced a pearl-handled weapon. He clicked open the
barrel. “There’s been one shot fired--this is undoubtedly the gun that
was used.”
“Where did you find it?” demanded the Russian.
“In my pocket,” said Smith. “It also happens to be my gun.”
CHAPTER XX
THE LETTER
“Yours?” exclaimed Rice, staring at the detective.
“Yes,” said Smith. “The man who murdered Trenholm took this gun out of
my pocket, fired one shot, and put it back into my pocket immediately
afterwards.”
“But how clever!” admired the Russian. Smith flushed.
“I don’t know how clever he is,” he muttered. “It was dark and the boat
was pitching.”
“But you felt nothing?” demanded the Russian.
“Nothing at all,” replied Smith.
“According to your own formula,” the Russian’s eyes twinkled, “you are
the guilty person, Mr. Smith. All the evidence is on your person.”
“I don’t think this is a joke,” Smith looked at him cuttingly.
“But it is not without its humor,” insisted the Russian. “Don’t you
think so, Mr. Thomas?” He swung at the actor.
“Damned funny!” giggled the actor.
“Beyond me,” commented Rice. “Can’t think--I’m dizzy!”
Smith finally dismissed the three men. When the door closed upon them,
he blazed at the Russian: “Fine idea you sold me! We’re in deeper than
ever now.”
“No!” protested the Russian. “We are one step ahead.”
“Theoretically, yes,” said Smith. “Theoretically we know that someone
in this room with us killed Trenholm because he was going to spill.
Theoretically we can hammer away at everyone until we get the right
man. Actually, we can do nothing of the kind. We can’t hold the Breese
family. I’d lose my job. Breese is a pretty important man. We’ll have