Murder in the Gilded Cage
to let them all go until we get evidence. And the only evidence we have
is this revolver. I’ll get our finger-print man to see what he can
find.”
“I’ll grant you all that,” replied the Russian. “Our problem is not
easy. I shall go further. The man who did this murder wouldn’t be fool
enough to leave finger-prints. I attach no importance to that. It was a
simple matter for him to wipe the revolver clean before he put it back.
It takes but an instant to pass a handkerchief over a revolver.”
“Then what am I going to do?” demanded Smith. “I’m going to look fine
when I make my report. Right under my nose another murder is pulled
off! Won’t that look marvellous--for me!”
“Well,” said the Russian, pacing up and down, “there are several things
we can do. Let me see--I was kneeling here, the operator beside me.”
He went about the room indicating the position of each occupant. “Now
the bullet entered this man’s heart. It came from this direction. Who
was sitting here? Well--we have first, Mr. Breese, his son, and his
daughter. Rice was not far away. The Count was in back of them. Any one
of them could have killed this man.”
“That’s not much help,” said Smith. “The man who did it did
considerable moving in the dark. He must have, to have gotten my gun
and put it back again.”
“But let us forget the physical aspects of the case,” continued the
Russian. “Let us inquire further into motive. We know that Trenholm
knew who killed Mrs. Breese. Now the question is--how did he know?
Apparently he had never met Mrs. Breese. Apparently he had never been
to her home. Had he perhaps overheard some vital information while he
was on this boat? But his manner was not that. His manner was such that
in some way he was vitally implicated in the murder of Mrs. Breese.
How, I cannot tell you.”
“But that doesn’t get us anywhere,” Smith snorted. “You can stand here
and theorize from morning to night. The fact is we’ve got no evidence.
The first thing I want to do is to search his effects.”
“Very well,” said the Russian. “Begin with his clothes.”
With professional briskness, the two began the ghastly job of dragging
forth the contents of the man’s pockets. A cheap watch with the
picture of an adenoidal girl in its case--a pocket knife, two Yale
keys, a tattered New York automobile license, a clipping of a poem by
Eddie Guest, a wallet. Smith expertly turned it inside out. It was a
cheap wallet, the kind usually accompanied by the yellow printed card:
“My name--height--weight-- In case of accident, notify-- The size of my
collar is--” He had laboriously filled out the card. The Y. M. C. A.
of Olean was to be notified of accident. From the folds of the wallet
Smith dragged forward a letter. He looked at it hastily, and then held
it in his hand. He turned to the Russian. “Look at this!” he invited.
“Dear Louis,” the handwriting was stiff and angular, obviously written
by an illiterate man. “I been thinking it over, and I think you’re a
darn fool. We can clean up if you let me handle it. Why don’t you come
and see me like you use to. Yours, Charlie.”
“No return address,” Smith said, examining the envelope. “Mailed in
Havana. We might trace it.”
“But who is Charlie?” demanded the Russian. “It may or may not be
relevant--this letter. Perhaps our friend had an invention. You
remember the man was a mechanic. Charlie is advising him to capitalize
it in characteristic American fashion.”
“No,” said Smith, “this letter smells blackmail to me. I’ve handled
enough of those cases to know.”
“Yes,” conceded the Russian. “I see. Trenholm knew who killed Mrs.
Breese and told Charlie. Charlie said ‘Get money.’ Quite likely. That
is a feasible interpretation. I admit I did not think of it, Mr. Smith.
It’s decidedly worth looking into.”
They pawed over a few trinkets and odds and ends and then decided that
their task was done.
“We’ll go down to his berth and look into that,” said Smith. “Can’t
tell what we may stumble on. He may have other letters from Charlie.”
We rang for the steward, who guided us to the narrow cabin that the
operator shared with the third mate. The latter was sound asleep when
we entered. He rubbed his eyes as Smith explained our purpose.
“Damn shame,” he said, indicating the battered trunk under the berth
that had been occupied by Trenholm. “Nice quiet chap, he was. How did
it happen?”
Smith was uncommunicative. He bent down to open the trunk. It was
locked.
“Give me a knife!” begged the Russian. “I have a knack with these
objects.” Smith gave him a pen-knife and in a few moments the Russian
threw the lid back. The trunk was empty.
“That’s funny,” muttered the young officer. “He always had his trunk
crammed with stuff--plans, tools, all kinds of junk. I remember kidding
him about it. He had a lot of blue prints.”
“When did you last see this trunk open?” asked Smith. The young
man stopped to think. “Wait a minute,” he said suddenly. “Just this
evening! I almost forgot. Trenholm came in here as I was turning in. He
was putting something away.”
“And the trunk was full?”
“Oh yes.” Then he volunteered: “He was a peculiar chap, you know.”
“In what way?” demanded Smith.
“Well, in a general way,” the young officer replied vaguely. “Of
course, I didn’t know much about him. He’s only been with us a week,
and you don’t generally get to know much about a chap in a week. He
kept to himself more or less, if you know what I mean. He wasn’t very
talkative.”
“Was he working upon any inventions that you know of?” asked the
Russian.
“I think he was,” said the officer. “Most radio men do. But I don’t
know definitely that he was.”
“Perhaps you could tell us if he ever talked of any friends in Havana.”
“No, but he must have had some friends. He signed on here.”
“One more question,” said the Russian. “To your knowledge, did Trenholm
know any of the passengers on this yacht?”
The officer shook his head. “I hardly think so. We’ve had no passengers
since he signed on--until tonight.”
In the corridor, the Russian said: “Behold! The man we want not only
takes your revolver and shoots Trenholm, but after the murder comes
down here and removes the dead man’s effects.”
“I got that,” said Smith.
“Now!” said the Russian. “Think back. We have six suspects--Mr. Breese,
his son, his daughter, Mr. Thomas and Mr. Rice and the Count. Put
yourself in the murderer’s place. Having committed his crime, he will
be very anxious to steal down below and get at Trenholm’s effects.
Follow the course of action----”
“The Countess goes into hysterics,” began Smith.
“And the Count takes her out,” I added.
“At my suggestion,” corrected the Russian, “and he returns almost
immediately. Behold! I deliberately order everyone else to remain. I
cleverly foresaw that the murderer would have further work to do, and
would be anxious to leave the room. Now, who made a move to go? Thomas?
No. Rice? No.”
“That leaves Breese,” said Smith.
“That leaves Breese,” repeated the Russian. “He, and he alone, insisted
upon leaving the room. Why?”
No one answered him. I realized that the engines had stopped once more.
Through the windows I could make out the shadowy outlines of the port
and, far-off, twinkling lights.
“We’re coming in,” I cried in relief.
“It is a symbol, my friends,” the Russian said, rubbing his hands. “Our
experiment has not been such a failure. We have reached the end of our
journey. At last we know our man. Tomorrow we shall have him!”
CHAPTER XXI
THE RAID
My telephone rang persistently. I had just waked out of a sleep of
exhaustion and reached for it with sleep-numbed fingers.
“Perutkin speaking!” the voice boomed. “Meet me in the lobby of the
Biltmore in twenty minutes!” The words were a command. My wishes were
not consulted. But I agreed readily enough. Most people did when
Perutkin commanded.
So I dressed hastily and gulped my weak coffee. A cab deposited me at
the Biltmore a few moments before the appointed time. I saw no sign
of the Russian and made myself comfortable with a week-old New York
newspaper and a cigar.
Several moments later the bulk of the Russian loomed over me. “Put away
that paper,” he whispered. “I shall give you something more appetizing
than an editor’s fancies. Rise from your chair and nonchalantly as you
can follow me to the elevator.”
“Why? What?” I demanded.
“Ask nothing. And do not look so surprised. We are going upstairs.”
As he said this, he preceded me into the elevator cage.
“Seventh,” he barked at the boy. And then to me: “Well, are you
enjoying yourself? A most interesting city, is it not? Or do you
confine your wanderings to Sloppy Joe’s, like all Americans?”
I mumbled something. But by this time we had alighted. He strode
forward confidently. Then I realized that we were approaching the suite
of Henry Breese.
“We’re not going to see the old man?” I demanded.
“Quiet!” whispered the Russian, as a bell boy whisked past us. “We
are not going to see anyone.” He stopped in front of Breese’s door.
He reached into his pocket and extracted a miniature jimmy. This he
inserted in the lock and the door opened almost instantly. He dragged
me into the room--I could not move--and then closed the door behind him.
“We are doing a little burglary,” he explained casually. “I needed a
companion in crime and I chose you. Are you not flattered?”
“But what are you going to do--and why?” I insisted.
“It’s simple enough,” he said carelessly. “I’m going to search Mr.
Breese’s room very thoroughly. That is all. If you are afraid we shall
be interrupted, let me inform you that Mr. Breese will be occupied for
several hours. I have ascertained that. The chambermaid has already
made the beds and issued the towels. We are quite safe. You see, I
am a good burglar. I know what I’m at. Any detective worthy of the
name who cannot be a better burglar than the regular members of the
profession really has no reason for existence.”
“But do you think,” I demanded, “that Breese would leave anything in
his room calculated to arouse our suspicions?”
“Why not?” demanded the Russian, proceeding to the secretary, and
opening a drawer. While he was examining papers he said: “You must
understand this about crimes and criminals: At a certain stage every
criminal is exact, methodical and cunning. Then he becomes desperate
and may do something brilliant--such as the killing of Trenholm with
Smith’s own pistol. Our friend Smith has not yet recovered from his
chagrin at that. In fact, it hurts more now than ever. But as the pace
becomes more furious for the criminal he becomes careless. He must
relax. He must overlook something.” He put back carefully letters,
telegrams. “And we may find something. I do not guarantee it. But I am
hoping.”
I called out suddenly, for I heard soft footfalls approaching outside.
The Russian paused, listening. Then the door next to ours opened and I
breathed more easily.
“There is only one thing,” the Russian said. “I have not devised a
means of exit if we are surprised. I do not expect to be surprised. But
if the worst comes to the worst, Mr. Smith can always rescue us from
the law. A trifle! In my own country I have consistently broken all
laws.”
He was now at the wardrobe closet, expertly fumbling into the pockets
of Mr. Breese’s carefully tailored suits.
“But the man is rich!” he exclaimed. “Such textiles! Such cloth! I have
always bought the best when I could afford it, and I flatter myself my
taste in clothes is superior to any man’s. Unfortunately, at the moment
I cannot indulge it. I always had my clothes made in England when I was
in my glory,” he sighed. “However--what have we here?” He held up a
piece of brown wrapping paper. I thought it strange that Breese should