Murder in the Gilded Cage
Apparently even Mr. Thomas had deserted me. So, after dinner, I
strolled out on deck. There was but a faint moon, and the sky was
starless, but the night was warm and the southern waters placid. I
breathed deeply, and having caught the first harbinger of the gentle
climate, bitterly regretted the necessity of returning to riveting
machines and dust-laden pavements.
As I passed the windows of the row of cabins on the starboard deck,
I gathered that dinner was still in progress in Mrs. Breese’s
sitting-room. I could hear her voice, and that of her son. And
occasionally Rice’s hearty voice boomed forth. I moved on. Just as I
reached the last window, I was attracted by a movement within the dark
cabin. Sometimes, the faint stirring of the shadow of a leaf will rivet
your attention. It was so in this case. I could not for the life of me
tell you what made me stop at that moment and peer within the cabin.
And then I descried a vague figure, and as I strained to see I could
recognize Guy Thomas. He was bent over a suitcase and rummaging
through its contents with feverish haste.
“Now what in the world,” I thought to myself, “is Guy Thomas doing in
that boy’s cabin?” To all outward appearances, the actor seemed to
be engaged in some amateur burgling. But this I dismissed rightly as
absurd. I moved cautiously and attempted to get a better view.
But Thomas had risen. Hastily he shut the suitcase, stopped to listen
intently and then darted out of the room. I heard his footsteps in the
corridor. He was headed for the deck. Instinctively I moved into the
shadow of the bridge, and I saw Thomas advance in my direction. Then he
stopped, directly in the glow of light that came from the corridor.
From his pocket he took a bulky object. I could not see it at first,
and I was afraid to move closer. Then, as he held it in the light, I
started. It was a pearl-handled revolver that he clutched in his hand,
and with expert fingers I saw him click the cartridges from the barrel.
These he hurled into the sea, and it seemed to me he heaved a sigh of
relief. Then he put the revolver in his pocket, looked about once more
to make sure he had not been discovered, and moved into the corridor
again.
CHAPTER IV
ENTER THE RUSSIAN
The _Mary Rose_ steamed past Morro Castle into Havana harbor.
Just before we landed, Mrs. Breese took me aside and mournfully
complained that Mr. Rice and Henry had both decided that the
press-agent must go.
“What can I do?” she moaned. “Henry will do the most desperate things
if I cross him.”
I assured her that my resignation was sincere and that she needn’t
trouble herself on my account. And, of course, she swore me to secrecy
on all events transpiring on the yacht.
After the necessary customs and immigration formalities had been
observed, we were permitted to go ashore. I was the first of the
passengers off, and I felt a curious relief in being on my own again.
I clambered into a decrepit taxi and was whirled to my hotel. Mrs.
Breese, her children and Rice were going to the winter palace her
former husband had built several years ago in the Vedado. I presumed
Guy Thomas would be shipped to some hotel, and then, like myself, cast
off into the cold world.
To the noisiest and most cosmopolitan of hotels my driver brought me,
and as soon as I was settled, I plunged forth to see the town. Before
I knew it, I found myself on the marble-studded Prado where the lamps
shine as green satin through the trees. I walked leisurely down this
most delightful of promenades, watching the fascinating mixtures of
browns, blacks and olive-whites who shuffled past me.
I repulsed a dozen miserable Chinese vendors of peanuts, successfully
negotiated two optimistic guides who leered promises of night life,
paused to listen to the army band struggling with “La Bohème,” and then
found myself at the Prado Bar.
Now, the Prado Bar is the meeting place of the adventurers of the
South, so it is not strange that it was here I was destined to see this
evening the two men who were to be added to my cast of principals in
the tragedy. It may have been a coincidence that Ben Smith was there.
But I am inclined to believe that the Russian deliberately chose the
scene. I refuse to take his assurance that our meeting was entirely
accidental. But I am anticipating my story.
After my experience of the yacht, I took the Prado Bar to my bosom as
one would a long-lost friend. Do not misunderstand me. The friendship
was not at all alcoholic. There were no thirsty Americans clamoring
for hard liquors. The Prado Bar is too far from the center of town,
just around the corner from the battered Malecon where at night angry
waters swirl over the sea wall and splash the proud boulevard.
I found the tumult of the waters pleasant music; the bartenders
were polite and capable; the bacardi genuine and cheap. And Pancho,
the proprietor, with his swarthy face framed in the radiance of his
thousand bottles gleaming from the highly polished shelves, hospitably
bade me welcome. There were few in the bar at the moment, but they
looked my own kind--genteel wanderers, known commonly as tropical
tramps. I was about to open conversational negotiations with two
likely-looking prospects when someone called my name, and I whirled
about to find myself face to face with Ben Smith.
“Of all people!” I welcomed him.
“The same to you!” And we shook hands warmly. I had not seen Ben Smith
in three years.
He had been attached to Police Headquarters in Richmond when I covered
that institution for the Star. He was responsible for the solution of
the Stephenson murder--that strange crime where after many months of
inquiry Smith finally discovered that the wealthy bachelor had been
done to death by his own brother, one of Richmond’s wealthiest and
most respectable citizens. You undoubtedly recall the case, for its
ramifications were spread upon the newspapers of the world. Smith
gained considerable recognition as a result of this coup, and when the
Cuban police created an American department for the benefit of our
crooks who wandered down there, Smith was loaned to head the department.
We had become good friends in Richmond, despite the detective’s
suspicion of everything that tended to make life and his profession
romantic. This tendency of his spoiled many a good story. Nevertheless,
I was very glad to see him now.
He had not changed much. Smith never did look the usual police
detective so easily ridiculed upon the stage. He was given to
shell-rimmed glasses, an impassive though kindly face, and he always
impressed you at first sight as a humdrum mediocrity. In any crowd he
was just the average man. In Havana, with flannels, panama and a deep
coat of tan, he seemed the typical tourist.
He wanted to know my immediate purpose in life, and I told him of my
experience with Mrs. Breese. He listened carefully. When I was done,
he said: “That’s very funny, because I was just talking about the
lady this morning with--well, I never will remember his name. He’s a
Russian.” Smith chuckled. “Strange duck! But I kind of like him. He’s
going to meet me here later and I’ll introduce him to you.”
“Who is he?” I demanded.
“Well,” drawled Smith, “aside from the fact that I can’t remember his
name, he showed me papers which prove that before the revolution he was
a big gun with the Czarist police. He’ll tell you all about himself
the first five minutes. He’s not exactly modest. How much there is to
him, I don’t know. He came into my office one day and said he had a
mission. It seems he’d been working on some murder in Riga just before
the revolution broke, and he was right on the track of it when the
Bolsheviks threw him out. He seems to have enough money and time, and
he’s still working on the case long distance. For some reason or other,
he’s particularly interested in Mrs. Breese.”
“But why?”
Smith shrugged his shoulders. “He won’t tell me. He asked me to see
if I couldn’t place him on our staff. He wasn’t interested in salary.
Just wanted the job. Of course, I couldn’t. I promised I’d talk it over
with the chief. But I knew it was no use. We didn’t know the man and we
haven’t got room for him if we did.” Smith suddenly whispered out of
the corner of his mouth: “Here he is now.”
I observed a tall and well-made individual striding up to us. A giant
in stature, he was an imposing sight and a remarkable contrast to
Smith. This man would be distinguishable in any crowd, with his barrel
chest, enormous shoulders, his massive face, ornamented by a proud and
well-combed mustache of the Russian school, from which peered small
blue eyes. He was impeccably dressed in flashing white linen, and as
he walked he swung a heavy silver-headed cane as if it were a swagger
stick.
“Hello, there,” Smith said. “I’ve talked it over with them but they
can’t see it. Sorry!”
The big man bowed.
“Thank you. I did not expect otherwise.” His words were clipped,
military. “I deeply appreciate your efforts.”
Smith introduced us.
“This is a newspaper friend of mine, Mr. Abbott,” he turned to the
Russian apologetically. “I forget your name. I’m sorry. I was never
much good on Russian names.”
“Boris Sergeivitch Perutkin, formerly of the Russian Secret Police,”
the big man prompted, and bowed. “So you are a newspaper man. I am
indeed pleased to meet you.”
Smith looked at his watch.
“I’ve got a date downtown,” he said. “But I’ll be back in an hour. By
the way,”--he turned to the Russian. “Mr. Abbott here has just come
down from New York with the Breese family. Maybe he can tell you what
you want to know.”
The Russian’s little blue eyes were trained on me.
“So! That is very interesting. You must join me in a glass.”
“And,” Smith continued, “you’ll find that Mr. Abbott can be trusted.
I’ve known him a long time.”
“I am sure of Mr. Abbott,” the Russian bowed politely, as Smith left
us. Then he turned to the bartender: “_Cordon rouge_--the same as I
had last night.” He turned back to me. “Do you mind champagne? I drink
nothing else.”
We seated ourselves in a corner far from the other patrons of the bar,
and soon the glasses with yellow magic were before us. The Russian
sipped his drink slowly, with the air of a connoisseur. He did not
at once ask anything of Mrs. Breese, but instead discussed far-flung
topics from American politics to horses. I had an uneasy feeling
that he was testing me. He seemed anxious to know everything that
had happened to me since I was a child in swaddling clothes. Then,
suddenly, his adroit questioning ceased, and he told me about himself.
“I am that anomaly,” he smiled, “a detective without a country. But
I have a case--a very peculiar case. I have devoted six years to
its solution, and I am still far from it. Mr. Smith says you can be
trusted. I am going to tell you about that case, because you may be of
great help to me. You know Mrs. Breese well?”
I said I knew her fairly well, but that I was no longer connected with
her household.
“That does not matter,” he responded. “The difficulty hitherto has
been that I could not legitimately gain access to the most important
circle in my case. I conceive of my case as a series of circles,
criss-crossing each other. In one of these circles my case is as plain
as a photograph. I have not yet reached that circle. Perhaps you can
help me.”
My face showed I was puzzled. He laughed. “Of course, you do not
understand me. Let me put it this way. Who were your fellow-passengers
on the yacht?”
I enumerated them: Mrs. Breese, her two children, Gordon Rice and Guy
Thomas.
“Excellent!” murmured the Russian. “There is only one absent. Six years
ago, Mr. Abbott, Mrs. Breese, her two children, Gordon Rice and Guy