Murder in the Gilded Cage
bending over still black water and glistening white in the moonlight.
The palace was still as death. Only a faint light seemed to filter
through from the reception-hall. The rest of the house seemed steeled
in darkness.
Smith pressed a tiny button set into a burnished gilt frame. A bell
pealed softly within, and we heard footsteps. The huge door swung open,
and an owlish-looking native policeman stared at us suspiciously, one
hand at his revolver holster. But Smith displayed his credentials, and
we were ushered in without further delay.
In the reception-room, Smith at once reached for the telephone and
notified the Cuban Secret Police he had taken charge of the case and
that he was now at the scene of the murder. While he talked, I looked
about me, and even in the faint light I was impressed with the curious
fact that every bit of furniture in the reception-room was gilt. I
noted particularly a fine Spanish clock of impressive proportions, with
hands and case gaudily inlaid with gold; a full sweep of gold brocade
curtains upon the French windows; and a great hall mirror likewise
decorated.
Smith informed me that his superiors had approved his handling of the
case, and that a medical examiner would be despatched forthwith. The
native policeman had arrived just a few moments before we did. Without
further instruction on Smith’s part, he led us through a curtained door
into the drawing-room.
The room measured about thirty-five feet by forty, and about twenty
feet in height. The floor was of gaily colored tile, the walls and
ceiling panelled in rich mahogany. There were two enormous French
windows leading to the garden, four by ten feet. One door led to the
reception-room. Another door took us to the library.
I am setting forth these facts from my notes. My first impression
was too jumbled to permit such blunt recording. For a figure lay
outstretched in one corner, and I still have in my memory a confused
picture of diamond buckles and silk stockings, blue velvet and green
emeralds, a shock of blond hair and stiff bejewelled fingers. As we
came nearer, I noted, shivering, that the floor tiles near her were a
bright red.
This was Mrs. Breese in her last moment of life. She could not have
chosen a more sensational exit. I could not believe that this vital,
domineering woman had been transformed into the still and gory heap
before me. Her eyes as they were that moment still haunt me. There was
such a ghastly look of surprise in those set eyes of hers. Possibly it
was a physical distortion born of her last moment of suffering.
Smith bent over the prone figure. “Right through the heart,” he said
finally. “Don’t need any of these native medical examiners to tell me
she died immediately.”
Then he addressed the policeman in Spanish and inquired: “Where are the
members of the family?”
“They are upstairs. Shall I call them?”
“No. Not yet. I want to take a look around first.”
He went to the two French windows and noted that both were locked
securely from the inside.
Consulting my notes once more, I find that the body was exactly four
feet from the left wall. I jotted down every item of furniture in this
room. There were the following major pieces: a hand-carved table in
the center, with four chairs; eight huge tapestried chairs against the
wall; a bulky secretary; a Spanish marble mantel; an ornate and new
radio in silver and black; a Jo Davidson bust of Mrs. Breese; two large
canvases, one a Romney, the other, I believe, an Italian primitive; and
several water colors and pastels of modernist persuasion. A veritable
jumble of art.
Although we searched carefully, we found no weapon. There were no signs
of violence in the room or upon the body. The furniture was not upset
and the clothes of the woman were unruffled. Only that horrible look
of surprise in her set eyes, which Smith, too, commented upon. It was
not so much terror that was written there, it seemed to me, as it was
sheer amazement at the tragedy that had overtaken her. I could readily
believe that death was far from the thoughts of this woman.
“If only,” I said, “there was something to that superstition that the
eyes of the victim photograph the murderer in the last moment of life!
We’d have the secret of this in twenty-four hours!”
Smith grunted impatiently, as if annoyed at such idle speculation.
He prowled about the room, methodically noting a host of what seemed
to me uninteresting detail. Finally he said: “There’s one thing I’ve
learned--there’s no such thing as waste motion in a case of this kind.
One must overlook nothing.”
“And what have you found?” I demanded.
“One thing--and that the man who did this job----”
“Assuming it is a man,” I intervened.
“Assuming it is a man,” he repeated. “But whoever did this job left us
a perfect piece of marksmanship. One bullet killed her, and as far as I
can tell, it went straight through the heart. The medical examiner can
check up on that.” (Dr. Miguel de Cassandra later confirmed this fact.)
“May it not have been a stroke of luck--this perfect marksmanship?” I
suggested.
Smith shook his head. “No. This job was done in a hurry. It had to be.
The killer couldn’t trust to luck.” He turned to the policeman. “Where
are the servants?”
For answer the policeman led us through the reception-room down a long
corridor and into the servants’ quarters. In the huge kitchen we found
fully fifteen domestics huddled in whispering groups. There were five
Jamaica blacks, two Japanese, one of them my scowling steward, several
half-caste Cubans, a disdainful English butler who stood in solitary
glory in a corner of his own, and a rotund and rosy-cheeked French chef
who even now was ogling a pretty half-caste maid. At our entrance they
all became silent.
Smith singled out the English butler for his first witness. His name
was Rodney Brandlock. He was perhaps forty, rather thin, with watery
blue eyes inclined to squint. He had been engaged only a few weeks ago
by Mrs. Breese.
It developed that it was he who had discovered Mrs. Breese’s body and
had summoned the policeman from his post.
“Tell us exactly what happened,” Smith commanded.
“After dinner,” he began, “Mrs. Breese and Mr. Thomas adjourned to the
drawing-room for coffee. The two children went immediately upstairs.”
“What time was dinner?” Smith interrupted.
“Dinner tonight was at nine. We had no set hour. In any case, I brought
coffee and liqueurs into the drawing-room. I returned about fifteen
minutes later to remove the cups and glasses. Mrs. Breese and Mr.
Thomas were chatting.”
“About what?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I didn’t stop to listen.” There was
reproof in the servant’s eyes. “In any case, I removed the tray and
just as I did so, the telephone rang. I answered it.--It was for Mrs.
Breese from Mr. Rice.”
“Where was Mr. Rice?”
“I believe he was dining at the American Ministry. He wished to speak
to Mrs. Breese. I gave the receiver to Mrs. Breese and went on my way
down to the pantry. I happened to look at the clock at that time, and
I noted it was exactly half-past ten. I thought of taking a walk for a
bit of fresh air, and I returned to the drawing-room to ask Mrs. Breese
if there would be anything further she wanted for the night. When I got
in----”
“Go ahead!” Smith commanded.
“I--I found the room dark.” The butler’s voice was husky. “I--I
couldn’t understand that, but I put up the lights, and then I saw----”
he swallowed. “So I ran upstairs and----”
“Yes----”
“I found Mr. Thomas in the corridor, and I told him. Then I ran out for
a policeman. I guess that’s all.”
Smith nodded.
“You sent for a doctor?”
“--I didn’t. I leaned over and saw that Mrs. Breese was dead, and Mr.
Thomas didn’t say anything. He seemed terribly shocked.”
“But didn’t it occur to you that you ought to send for a doctor?”
“Yes, I did think of it, but Mr. Thomas instructed me to fetch a
policeman, and I did. And as I say, there was no question Mrs. Breese
was dead. Then when I got back, the children were down, and it was out
of my hands.”
“So Mr. Thomas sent you for the policeman?” Smith asked.
“Yes.”
“Did he run down to examine the body himself?”
“No, sir.”
“What did he say exactly?”
“He said: ‘Fetch the police!’ Or: ‘Get the police!’ I think he said.
That’s all I know, sir. None of the servants know anything about it.
I’m the only one.”
“You heard no shot?”
“No, sir.”
Smith turned to the motley group. “Did any of you hear a shot here
tonight?” he demanded. They all shook their heads. He turned once more
to the butler.
“When you returned with the policeman, where did you find Mr. Thomas?”
“He was still upstairs, sir.”
“He hadn’t come down?”
“No, sir. But the children were down.”
“That’ll be all,” said Smith. “Will you go upstairs now and tell Mr.
Thomas to come down to the drawing-room immediately?”
CHAPTER VIII
A CLEAR CASE
When we had done examining the servants, these were the undisputed
facts that emerged: Mrs. Breese was last seen alive at about ten
minutes after ten, and discovered dead at half-past ten. No shot was
heard. There were fifteen servants in the house at the time, Mr.
Thomas, the Countess and young Henry Breese. No visitors had called
during the evening. This fact was confirmed by the butler and by the
Japanese footman who answered the bell. There had, in fact, been no
visitors at all during the day.
We returned to the drawing-room to find Mr. Thomas awaiting us. I
could not at first recognize him. His hair was dishevelled, his eyes
bloodshot.
“My name’s Smith, I’m with the police here. I just want to ask you a
few questions, Mr. Thomas.”
Thomas did not seem to hear him. His eyes were fixed upon the
outstretched figure of Mrs. Breese.
“What do you want to know?” he managed to say finally. His hands were
trembling visibly.
“Now take it easy,” Smith placated him. “I know this must be a terrible
shock to you, and I don’t want to make it any harder. This is just a
matter of routine.”
Thomas looked up quickly, with relief, I thought. He breathed easier.
“I don’t know a thing--not a thing,” he assured us.
“As I understand it,” began Smith, “you and Mrs. Breese were alone in
this room after dinner. Mrs. Breese received a telephone call from Mr.
Rice. What happened then, Mr. Thomas?”
“Why--nothing happened. I went upstairs while she was talking to
Rice--I went upstairs to write a letter. Just when I’d gotten through,
the butler ran up to tell me what had happened. It was an awful blow to
me. I can’t realize yet it’s true.” He stared as if fascinated at the
outstretched body.
“You heard no sound upstairs?”
“No--nothing.”
“When the butler ran up to tell you the news, what did you do?”
“Why--I sent him to fetch a policeman at once!”
“You didn’t think a doctor was necessary?”
“No. He said she was--dead.”
“He may have been excited. Surely you went down to investigate.”
Thomas squirmed.
“No--I didn’t. I couldn’t--I couldn’t go in that room alone. My nerves
wouldn’t stand it.”
Smith made careful notes of his answers. He was about to proceed when
the door bell pealed. The native policeman returned with Gordon Rice.
The promoter stamped into the room and then stopped short at the sight
of the body. His eyes were red with rage as he swung at Thomas.
“Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” he barked.
“What have I----?”
“Yes!” Rice shouted. “Don’t stand there pretending innocence! You’re
not that good an actor!”
“Just a minute,” intervened Smith. “I’m conducting this inquiry.”
“Then it’s high time you knew the facts,” snapped Rice. He turned to
us. “I always knew this man was a weakling and a rotter, but I didn’t
think he was a murderer.”