Murder in the Gilded Cage

“This gentleman,” the detective presented me, “has come down with Mrs. Breese and her family on the yacht. He has seen your wife.” The Count, who was prepared to be formally polite, now wrung my hand with embarrassing cordiality. “That is the best news I have heard in many years!” he exclaimed, his rather melancholy blue eyes lighting up. “How is she? Is she well? Is she happy? What did she say? How does she look?” There was an engaging boyish impulsiveness about his manner now that quite won me. I could see now what the detective meant when he said that the Count’s wedding was a story-book romance. If the Princes that walk the earth are paunchy, given to gout and short-temper, this young man defied nature and upheld art at least pictorially. Blond, finely featured, slender and graceful of carriage, he had been designed to blend with the fragile loveliness of Mary Rose Breese. “What did she wear? She dressed so exquisitely always.” For the life of me, I could not tell him. He seemed disappointed, baffled. “But what did she say? Didn’t she say anything?” I explained that I had but little opportunity to talk with her. But I said she seemed well and, as far as I could tell, happy. He sighed, as if relieved. “I have been trying to see her. Boris Sergeivitch has undoubtedly told you my story. I feel she needs me, but what can I do? If you could get a message to her----” But here I was called upon to explain that my relations with the Breese family had been severed. He seemed downcast. “If I felt,” he said, “that she really didn’t want to see me, I would disappear and she would never hear a word from me. But it’s her mother who’s back of this. I know! That woman!” He seemed to sink in a brown study. “She should be punished.” The detective had apparently been paying little attention to his friend. He had picked up the morning paper--the morning edition of the Havana Post, and was reading its spare columns with absorbed interest. Suddenly he whistled, as if in surprise. I turned to him. The Count, too, looked up. “Read this,” the detective commanded, pointing with a stubby forefinger to a paragraph noting the American visitors to the city. It was recorded here that Mr. Henry Breese, Sr., had arrived by airplane from Miami and was stopping at the Sevilla-Biltmore. I re-read the paragraph to make sure my eyes had not deceived me. I wondered, amazed, what motive could prompt the elderly Breese to come to the city to which his divorced wife had fled. “Interesting!” the Russian exclaimed, and then to the Count: “Read this, my friend.” The young man took the newspaper from him and examined it. “It is now complete!” I looked blank. The Count peered down at him, puzzled. “The last of the circle is here!” the detective continued meditatively. “The absent one has arrived!” CHAPTER VI MURDER A week passed, very pleasantly for me, and during this time I paid but scant attention to the Breese ménage. The Russian seemed to have disappeared, and Ben Smith was busy with a case that involved the extradition of an absconded bank teller. Left to my own resources, I explored the town, sampled the native Morro crabs (as delicious as our own lobsters), sipped gentle Spanish wines and watched the shimmying Rumba dancers in the lower music-halls. It was inevitable that I meet various members of the permanent American colony in my wanderings, and I soon discovered that Mrs. Breese had already made her presence felt. Just what her divorced husband was doing in the city no one seemed to know. Certainly he was not seen at the home he had built, and if, as presumed, he had journeyed down for reconciliation his efforts evidently had been in vain. Mrs. Breese entertained discreetly, and it was common gossip that Guy Thomas was with her constantly. If Mrs. Breese had renounced the actor after her son’s toying with suicide, she had apparently restored him to favor now. It was the general impression that Mr. Thomas was the lady’s fiancé. Just about this time I first heard the words: “The Gilded Cage”. Who it was who so dubbed the Breese palace I do not know. Probably it was some malicious wit. Undoubtedly the name rose from Guy Thomas’ peculiar status in the household, for those of the colony that I met were busy laughing at Mr. Thomas as the bird in the gilded cage, and momentarily expecting formal announcement of the engagement of the wealthy woman to the idler many years her junior. Then, one evening, while I was at dinner, Ben Smith wandered into the dining-room of my hotel and joined me in black coffee and liqueurs. He seemed preoccupied, and I knew that he had sought me out for a purpose. Finally he said: “How well do you know old man Breese?” I said I had seen him frequently during the trial, but had not exchanged a dozen words with him. Outwardly, he struck me as the type of short-tempered executive who would be a terror to his employees and so much wax in the modelling hands of Mrs. Breese. I asked Smith the reason for his inquiry. “Well,” he said finally, “very funny thing happened. Last night old Breese called up and said he wanted to see me at his hotel--the Sevilla-Biltmore. Had something tremendously important and confidential. Hinted that it would be worth my while. I couldn’t make head or tail of it, but I promised I’d be over to see him.” “I wonder if anything’s happened,” I speculated. “What reason has he got to go to the police? And what did he mean by ‘worth your while’?” “I don’t know,” Smith confessed. “I couldn’t very well question him over the phone. I’m repeating to you all he said to me. I don’t even know how he got hold of my name. He never met me, and, as far as I know, never even heard of me.” Smith took out his cheap nickel-plated watch which he seemed to treasure above all earthly possessions. “I’ve got a date to see him in five minutes. Want to come over?” “I’ll be glad to,” I said, “but I may be in the way.” “That’s all right,” Smith assured me. “I kind of feel that I may need a witness, and I certainly need someone who knows the inside of that Breese family. Leave it to me.” It was only a short walk from my unpretentious hotel to the palatial Sevilla-Biltmore. Smith announced himself, and the elevator swept us up to the seventh story and the most splendid of suites. Mr. Breese greeted Smith cordially, but looked askance at me. Although I had seen him scores of times during the trial, he apparently had not recognized me, and Smith airily presented me as his assistant. Breese hesitated for a moment, then apparently decided to accept my presence. He asked us to make ourselves comfortable, and submitted a box of Partagas, a decanter of whiskey, a siphon and a bowl of ice. He seemed laboring hard to create an atmosphere of friendly good-will before he plunged into the business at hand. We chatted for a while of nothing in particular. Finally, lighting a cigar slowly, and glancing at Smith from under bristling grey eyebrows, he said: “I suppose you wonder why I called you.” “Yes,” Smith acknowledged, “you sounded kind of queer over the phone.” “I suppose I must have,” he smiled wrily. “I’ve been under a tremendous strain, let me tell you!” He gulped his whiskey and soda, and cleared his throat. “I don’t know exactly how to begin. I suppose the best thing I can do is to come right down to the heart of the problem. Let me ask you, Mr. Smith: Isn’t it a fact that it is a duty of the police to prevent crimes as well as punish the criminals?” Smith looked blank. “Why, sure,” he said finally. “Whenever we can we do try to prevent them.” “Very well, then. I know of a crime that is being contemplated at this very moment. What ought I to do?” “What kind of a crime?” Breese fixed the detective with his rather sharp eyes. “You know my position, Mr. Smith. You know my standing. You know I wouldn’t give false information. You know I’m a man of means.” Smith nodded. “Suppose I were to tell you that at this minute a murder is being planned--what could you do?” “That’s a hard one,” said Smith, but he was sitting erect and tense. “Don’t you think you’d better be more explicit?” Breese nodded. “I’ll put all my cards on the table, Mr. Smith. I’ve got to, although there are certain things I’d rather not talk about. I suppose you know that my wife divorced me recently. I came down here--well, I thought I was hasty, inconsiderate. I was willing to make amends, do anything to save my family. Even if I weren’t fond of my wife, I’m crazy enough about my children to do anything. I came down here for a reconciliation. When I got here, my wife wouldn’t see me. My children wouldn’t see me.” He paused, swallowing, as if this bitter pill were more than he could bear. Smith made no comment. “I discovered my wife contemplated marrying this actor, Guy Thomas. Since my wife wouldn’t permit me to talk to her, I did my best to get word to her. But no use. She can be very headstrong, as anyone who knows her will tell you. Well, I was just about ready to go back, licked, when through certain sources I needn’t disclose to you, I learned that my wife was making a will. Now remember this--for it’s very important. She is making--probably has made it by now--a will leaving her entire fortune to Guy Thomas. “Shortly after I learned this, I put certain detectives to work in New York to discover facts about this young man. I felt if I could expose him to Dora she would see the light. Well, I did get some facts about the young man, in a cable today. Mr. Thomas has a certain young lady in New York waiting for him. She got word from him two days ago to be prepared to sail for Europe.” Ben Smith listened attentively as the old man continued: “That isn’t all. I went to see Mrs. Breese, and waited in the reception-room for her. While I waited, I heard Mr. Thomas on the telephone, talking to New York. I heard him say: ‘For God’s sake, wait, can’t you. I’m going to make a lot of money soon.’ That’s all I heard because Mrs. Breese sent out word that she would not receive me and I had to go. “Now, gentlemen, as sure as I’m sitting here I know that Guy Thomas is preparing to do away with Mrs. Breese!” He had risen in his excitement. “I know that he influenced her to make out this will. I’m not easily frightened. I’m sane. I’m a practical man of business. I know it sounds wild, but----” The telephone buzzed softly. Annoyed, impatient, Mr. Breese picked it up. “Yes, who is it?” Then---- “Good God, man!” I saw him grow deathly white. The telephone fell from his limp hands. He tottered for a moment, and then steadied himself against a chair. “_Mrs. Breese has--has--just been found dead!_” CHAPTER VII INQUIRY Smith and I literally threw ourselves into a taxi, and raced to the Gilded Cage. Breese had said he had not the strength to accompany us, and after looking at his ashen face I could readily believe him. Our cab whirled past the grilled windows and stone fronts of the dark houses. The air was heavy with the perfume of a tropical night. The streets were practically deserted. Only an occasional hotel flared brilliantly as we raced by. Before I was quite aware of it, our driver had turned into Calle L and then stopped with a screeching of brakes, in the manner of Latin chauffeurs. The Gilded Cage was an imposing sight, beautifully white, with enormous marble pillars, huge mahogany doors, massive grilles to delight the heart of any lover of cunning ironwork, and a magnificent garden studded with royal palms that kept the vulgar street far from the inmates of the palace. As I came up the stairs to the terrace, Smith always slightly ahead of me, I noted an exquisite sculptured fountain piece of six nudes