Murder in the Gilded Cage
how he had warned the elder Breese that it would wreck his marriage. He
told of certain episodes that the law demands, and nothing could shake
his testimony in the cross-examination.
Then the trial was over, and the verdict was read with great solemnity.
After which it was appealed, and appealed again. And then the
elder Breese, who refused to take the stand, denied himself to all
interviewers, sulked in his hotel suite and instructed the lawyers to
settle. They did. And the newspapers, even the tabloids, dropped Mrs.
Breese as quickly as they had picked her up.
I had been keeping in touch with her after the trial, for news agencies
must continue reporting even the most trivial items long after the
newspapers have sent their reporters to greener fields. It was because
of this that I was able to observe how unhappy Mrs. Breese had become
as interest in her problems waned. Where once the color of a new
gown was well-nigh sufficient to warrant a re-make of an edition,
her spiciest pronunciamentos now found the waste-basket. Her lawyers
advised her to go to Europe and rest. But Mrs. Breese did not want
to rest. The dramatic excitement of the trial had only whetted her
appetite for the public eye.
It was pathetic to watch her. One morning she telephoned me to come
in post-haste. She had been struck with a brilliant idea; she would
finance another of the trans-Atlantic flights. It mattered little to
her that the movie queen who was to pilot the plane had just about two
hours’ flying time to her credit. Mrs. Breese did get a paragraph or
two on the event before its obvious impracticability was discovered,
and she had the satisfaction of viewing her picture and that of the
movie actress adorning a lurid half-page in one of the tabloids.
During the following few weeks she made the most startling observations
on short skirts, necking, companionate marriage and life beyond the
grave--the four staples of sob-sister interviews. But the editors were
tired of Mrs. Breese. A certain staleness clung to the name. Even the
crowds in the night clubs no longer turned to stare when she descended
upon them for a few moments. So one morning she surrendered. I saw that
surrender. Several days before, her social secretary had resigned.
He--Mrs. Breese always employed male secretaries--said rather brusquely
that his position had become ignominious. He was a rather effeminate
young man, and had served several distinguished families.
Mrs. Breese, who was not without humor despite her weaknesses, said
she really had no further use for a social secretary since society had
dropped her. But she did need someone, to quote her words, “who can
keep me in touch with public opinion. I’m so interested in what people
are really thinking. I mean, the plain people.”
It was the most roundabout way of describing a press-agent that I
had heard in some time. I said that there were young ladies who
would undoubtedly suit her. But she shook her head vigorously. No.
She had already made her choice. And that choice, I discovered to my
amazement, was none other than myself. I was not flattered. There was
something distinctly unpalatable in being Mrs. Breese’s amanuensis. I
did not mind glorifying a milk company or a portrait painter or even
an oil promoter, but press-agent to a divorcée was not yet officially
recognized as altogether legitimate. So I declined with thanks.
But Mrs. Breese persisted. She named a salary which was double that
I had been receiving. She sketched a tempting itinerary on the yacht
_Mary Rose_ and, perhaps, knowing my weakness, she outlined a routine
of labor that even for me would be child’s play. Still I refused.
But a week later circumstances altered my decision. A new city
editor who had assigned me to travel as far as the subway penetrates
discovered through some mischance that I had used the telephone
instead and consumed the allotted time and some excellent Chianti in
a neighborhood speakeasy. I received two weeks’ salary and a cold
dismissal. I went searching for work on the papers without success and
soon I could see that the manager of the minor hotel at which I was
stopping was beginning to regard me as a problem.
One morning I did not leave my hotel room for breakfast. I had not the
courage to face the thin-lipped manager. I sat facing the uninviting
court yard, pondering my next move, when the telephone rang suddenly.
“Where in the world have you been?” the harsh, trilling voice of Mrs.
Breese demanded, without any preliminary explanation. “I had the most
awful time trying to get hold of you. They wouldn’t give me your
address at your office. Are you in hiding?”
I muttered some lie or other about having been ill. But she obviously
was not interested in that.
“Don’t you know we’re sailing tomorrow? I’m sending Pierre down for
your luggage.”
I tried to say something, but she continued relentlessly: “Now, it’s
no use your saying you can’t come. You’ve simply got to! I need you.
Now will you come up here at once? There are a million things I’ve got
to talk to you about. And do have your luggage ready. Pierre has just
started out.”
This woman who took things for granted hung up without waiting for
further word from me.
I was in no situation to protest in any case. So I descended at once
to the manager and informed him with an off-hand gesture that I had
consented to accept a fabulous salary as publicity engineer to a
wealthy lady, and consumed on credit a hearty breakfast. I must have
been convincing for I left the hotel with five dollars borrowed from
the manager and rode up to the Park Avenue ménage in one of those new
and immaculate black and white taxis. After weeks of uncertainty the
sense of well-being was rather pleasant.
And when I appeared before Mrs. Breese she smiled at me and said: “I
knew I could rely on you. I haven’t much time, and neither have you.
I want you to tell the newspapers that we’re sailing tomorrow on the
_Mary Rose_.
“I’ll give you a list of the guests: Mrs. Henry Breese, Sr. and her
two children, Henry Breese, Jr., and the Countess Giering-Trelovitch.
Please don’t forget the hyphen. Newspapers are so careless. The
children have been upset by all this trial and a rest will do them
good. Then Mr. Rice--Mr. Gordon Rice--has consented to come along. Mr.
Rice, you know, is managing my affairs. You’ve met him, but you don’t
really know him. He’s a friend--a true friend. I don’t know what I
should have done without him. You know he was Henry’s friend when I
first met him. But he didn’t let that stand in the way of telling the
truth. And now that I’ve got my affairs to manage he is taking them off
my hands. Just think of it! A man whose time is so valuable giving up
weeks and weeks just for me! That sort of friendship gives me strength
to go on!”
She spoke as if the world had done her a great wrong, and Rice was her
only bulwark. “Then I’ve asked Guy Thomas.” She paused for effect and I
looked up at her.
“I can see by your face you don’t approve. But, my dear boy, I simply
must. If anything can prove that ours is nothing but an ordinary
friendship, this will. I want you to be particularly careful how you
phrase it. Let me see--oh yes, put it this way: ‘Mrs. Henry Breese,
Sr., announced that Mr. Guy Thomas had been invited to accompany her
and her children to Havana. Mrs. Breese said that she refused to take
seriously the gossip which had been proven false in court.’ Is that all
right?”
I indicated that it wasn’t. I pointed out that the most dignified thing
she could do would be to sail away in her yacht with no one but her two
children as guests, and the less said about anyone else the better.
“But I’ve already invited Guy!” she wailed. “And I couldn’t leave him
behind now. Anyway, I don’t want to. I like Guy. I’m very fond of Guy.
Let them talk if they want to.”
It seemed to me then that Mrs. Breese wanted them to talk. If any
explanation is necessary for her, it lies, I think, in the fact that
by temperament if not by ability she belonged to the stage. Whatever
public exhibition her social position afforded her had not satisfied
her through the years. Her trial had given her the attention she
hungered for, and now she would never be content unless she could
remain the center of discussion.
So, despite my objections, Mr. Thomas was duly announced as one of
the guests and the next morning the newspapers carried non-committal
and carefully-worded stories of the fact. Before we sailed, at
Mrs. Breese’s request, I summoned the photographers. Mrs. Breese
posed alone. Then with her son, Henry Jr., then with the Countess
von Giering-Trelovitch (Mrs. Breese said gaily: “Don’t forget the
hyphen!”). Then another pose with both children. There was one with
Gordon Rice, with my amazing employer looking up at him with an
expression that was meant to convey faith and friendly affection.
Over-riding my guarded protests, she laughingly put her arm on Guy
Thomas’ shoulder and posed with that vindicated co-respondent. There
followed a picture with the Captain of her yacht, and for comic relief
one with a picturesque sailor, displaying huge tattooed arms. I was the
only one that escaped.
When the photographers had left, Mrs. Breese went immediately to her
cabin. She was tired.
We sailed one hour later.
CHAPTER II
MAN OVERBOARD
I find upon refreshing my memory that the tragedy really had its
beginning on the yacht _Mary Rose_, although no one was aware of it at
the time. But the diabolical forces that created it were present and
at work then, and to give you a proper understanding of its elements,
I must proceed chronologically, from the time the _Mary Rose_ made its
graceful exit out of the New York harbor.
After settling down in my snug cabin, I discovered the need of some
masculine conversation. That session with the photographers and
Mrs. Breese had provided all the feminine chatter I could stand. My
steward proved a forbidding Jap with a perpetual scowl who gave me no
encouragement. I discovered later he understood practically no English.
Somewhere in her wanderings, Mrs. Breese had collected him, as she told
me, for his scowl. So, somewhat disconsolate, I made my way to the
music-room, and there I saw stretched out at his ease upon a silken
couch the young man who had fought so valiantly for Mrs. Breese’s good
name.
I have already indicated that industry is not my forte, but Guy Thomas
at ease was a picture that made even me squirm. Every line of his
body bespoke self-pampering that would be unseemly in a spoiled child.
His hands hung listlessly. His eyes were somnolent. He was smoking
a cigarette, but even this effort seemed too much for him, for he
dropped it weakly in the tray and shifted slightly for additional
comfort. Finally he felt me looking at him and rose slowly. There was a
challenge in the vacuous eyes now. He had not yet quite ascertained my
status in the ménage. And for that matter I was but vaguely acquainted
with his.
“Don’t let me disturb you,” I pleaded. “I was just wondering if I could
rustle up a drink.”
“Ring the bell,” he drawled, indicating a tiny button set near the
couch. I obeyed. He slumped back into his old position on the couch,
and the Japanese steward with whom I had held preliminary negotiations
appeared.
“Cocktails!” Mr. Thomas commanded, and the scowling servitor nodded and
disappeared.
Mr. Thomas suppressed a yawn. Somehow the idea occurred to him that it
would be discourteous to sit there in slothful silence. So with obvious
reluctance he sat up, and lit another cigarette. I consulted my pipe.
“Where are the others?” I asked after a while.
“Oh, here and there,” he drawled. “Dora--Mrs. Breese--generally rests
before luncheon. The Countess is up on deck, reading. I don’t know