Collins obeyed. Not voluntarily, but because he was unable to resist the
domination of the detective's will. Also, a terrible fear had gripped
his heart, producing a terror that sobered him and gave him command of
all his faculties.
"Who are these men?" inquired Britz, nodding toward Cooper and Fanwell.
"Friends of mine," growled Collins.
"I wish to speak with you, Collins," said the detective. "Do you want
them to remain?"
"I do."
"You prefer to have witnesses present?"
"I wouldn't talk to you without them," said Collins.
"But I want to give you an opportunity to explain certain things in
connection with Mr. Whitmore's death."
A crafty expression overspread Collins's face.
"Look here, officer!" he exclaimed, a weak smile on his lips. "I'm no
boob!" Obviously, he meant this lapse into the slang of the Tenderloin
to convey his intimate knowledge of police methods. "You can't soft-soap
me! You don't want explanations! You want me to get myself in bad. But
you won't get anything out of me. I know my rights."
This defiant speech produced an effect opposite to what Collins had
intended. The detective banished the note of persuasion from his voice
and adopted an accusing tone, heightened by a manner almost ferocious.
"You don't want to get yourself in bad!" he snarled. "Well, you're in so
bad now that you can't possibly get in worse. You threatened to kill
Whitmore. You knew that he had discovered your double life! You
intercepted the letter which he had sent to your wife."
Collins's pale face had grown paler. So the detective knew of the
intercepted letter! Where did he obtain knowledge of it? Only those
immediately concerned in the case were aware of its existence. Who had
told the police of it?
"What letter are you talking about?" Collins made a bold pretense at
ignorance.
"This letter," Britz produced the note which Whitmore had sent to Mrs.
Collins.
On seeing the familiar handwriting Collins leaped out of his chair.
"Where'd you get it?" he demanded.
"Sit down!" commanded Britz. "I'll tell you when I get ready. You showed
the letter to your wife and she decided to leave you. Then you started
forth to kill Whitmore. But he had disappeared. He did not return for
six weeks. Then, one day he came back. He was found in his office dead,
with a bullet in his body. This is the bullet."
Britz held the leaden pellet between his fingers, then laid it on the
table.
"It was taken from Whitmore's body," he explained. "It was fired from a
32-caliber revolver--in fact from this very weapon."
From his coat pocket Britz produced the weapon, a gleaming steel
revolver of the hammerless variety.
"Do you recognize it?" he inquired, extending it toward Collins.
Collins's hand did not reach for the weapon. All his confidence had
vanished. Fear seemed to paralyze him.
"That isn't all," proceeded the detective with aggravating assurance.
"The chambers in this revolver were filled from a box of fifty
cartridges. There are five chambers. After the shooting the chambers
were emptied and the unused shells returned to the box. Here is the
box."
This time Britz offered Collins a small pasteboard box, but Collins
shrank from it as if afraid it might explode in his hand.
"You will observe," Britz went on, "that there are forty-nine cartridges
left in the box. One is missing--the one that was exploded. Now
Collins"--the detective's jaw snapped viciously--"you've decided to
remain silent! Well, I've shown you some mute witnesses whose testimony
will be understood perfectly by a jury."
All the blood had drained from Collins's face. A violent tremor racked
his frame.
"Where'd you get them?" he asked helplessly.
"In your house," answered the detective. "I searched the premises this
afternoon."
Collins looked appealingly from the detective to his friends. They had
listened to Britz's recital with impassive countenances, and their
expressions did not change as they met Collins's gaze.
"What right had you to search my house?" demanded Collins. "I'm not
accused of any crime."
"Not yet," agreed Britz. "But the circumstances which I have mentioned
may make it necessary for a formal accusation to be lodged against you."
Again Collins displayed remarkable recuperative power. A few moments ago
he had seemed on the verge of utter collapse. Now he stiffened with a
new accession of courage. Britz, studying this weakling, discerned
unmistakable signs that Collins's courage was not drawn from any
internal spring. It was communicated to him from without, probably by
some dominating mind to whose guidance he had agreed to submit. His
strength was continually replenished through reliance on someone in
whose judgment he had an abiding faith; a faith that even Britz's
convincing recital of condemning circumstances was unable to shake. The
detective determined to ascertain who had advised Collins, who had
outlined rules for his safe conduct through the tortuous channels into
which he had plunged when he announced his intention of killing
Whitmore.
"Do you wish to advise with anyone before answering my questions?" asked
Britz.
"I won't talk--I won't do anything without the consent of my lawyer."
"Oh, so you've engaged a lawyer!" sneered Britz, as if he interpreted
the hiring of an attorney as additional proof of guilt. "Who is he?"
"Mr. Thomas Luckstone." Collins could see no harm in revealing that one
of the shrewdest lawyers in the city was looking after his interests.
"And he has advised you to remain silent?"
"I've been around this town long enough to learn the value of silence.
Luckstone didn't have to tell me that."
"Well, what's the use of trying to give you a chance?" Britz fired at
him. "I've got enough evidence now to convict you. I guess I'll just
proceed to lock you up and let Luckstone try to get you out."
Ever since Whitmore's death Collins had been steeling himself for
precisely this situation. He was sufficiently experienced in the ways of
the world to know that the police investigation must eventually lead to
him. This belief was confirmed daily as he read the developments of the
case in the newspapers. Soon or late, the police would demand that he
explain his conduct. And failure to do so would be fraught with sure
consequences.
Britz, silently analyzing Collins's refusal to unbosom himself,
concluded that only some extreme measure could drag the truth from his
unwilling lips. It was to be seen that life in jail held no allurements
for Collins. Ordinarily he would fight desperately against even
temporary detention. That he was ready to submit unprotestingly now,
argued an acquiescence in some agreement into which he and the other
suspects had entered for mutual safety and protection. Under pressure of
third degree methods Collins might falter, but in the end his natural
suspicion and dislike for the police, combined with the advice which his
lawyer had imparted to him, would prevail over the best efforts of his
inquisitors.
At any rate, Britz recognized that the time had not arrived for exerting
the full measure of authority over Collins. So he determined to change
his tactics, but in a way not to inspire Collins with an exultant sense
of victory.
Britz passed a wink to Fanwell, who nodded understandingly. Up to this
time no glint of recognition had passed between them, and they were
careful to hide their silent signal from Collins.
Ostentatiously, and with some display of temper, Britz removed the
revolver and the other exhibits from the table and restored them to his
pockets. After which he produced a pair of handcuffs, opening one of the
steel bracelets with a sharp click.
"Collins, extend your wrist!" he commanded, thrusting forward the open
ring.
Before Collins had time to obey, Fanwell discarded the air of aloofness
with which he had watched the proceedings and stepped between the two
men.
"This is an outrage!" he exclaimed, addressing Britz. "What right have
you to come here and question this man, then arrest him without a
warrant? I protest against these proceedings! I won't permit Mr. Collins
to submit!"
Britz turned fiercely on him.
"Who are you?" he roared, as if aroused to a burning fury.
"I am a friend of Mr. Collins," returned Fanwell. "I won't permit a
friend of mine to be dragged to prison this way."
"Be careful--you are interfering with an officer of the law," cautioned
Britz.
"If you arrest him you might as well arrest me too," said Fanwell. "But
you won't keep us behind the bars long. I'm from the West, but thank
goodness! I have unlimited credit here. I know where to obtain bail--in
any amount."
"The charge against this man is murder in the first degree," Britz
retorted. "The crime is not bailable."
The information seemed to stagger Fanwell. He bestowed a compassionate
glance on the bewildered Collins, then executed a despairing gesture as
if he meant to convey that the situation had passed out of his hands.
"Collins, I believe you're innocent. Why don't you speak and clear
yourself?" urged Fanwell.
Coming, as it seemingly did, from a disinterested friend, the advice
struck Collins with peculiar force. He wavered, and, to encourage his
growing desire to talk, Britz withdrew the handcuffs.
"Let me think it over," he pleaded. "Perhaps I may change my mind--and
tell you everything."
"Better follow your friend's advice," urged Britz. "He has no
self-interest to serve. If you wait to consult with others, they'll only
advise you in a way that will best serve their interests, not yours.
Don't you think I'm right?" Britz asked Fanwell.
"Yes," came the quick reply.
"What do you think of it?" the detective asked Cooper.
"I'm an old friend of George," he answered. "I should advise him to
clear himself at once."
It did not occur to Collins that these three men were playing the same
game; that they were ranked in coalition against him. But before his
mind there hovered perpetually a vague presentiment of danger, that made
him mistrust his own impulse to yield to their urging.
"I can't do it!" he exclaimed despondently. "You wouldn't
understand--and you wouldn't believe me."
"If your story is true it ought to be easy enough to furnish proof of
it," retorted Britz.
The pitiless baiting to which Collins was being subjected was beginning
to tell on him. He turned his poor, befuddled head to one side, then to
the other. His eyes shot mute appeals for help, but no answering gleam
of compassion came from the others. They regarded him with cold, stolid
faces, expressionless as death masks.
"Why can't you leave me alone?" pleaded Collins. "I didn't kill
Whitmore."
The denial was uttered in the tone of a fervent plea, but it made no
visible impression on the detective.
"If you didn't do it, why don't you establish your innocence?" Britz
pursued relentlessly.
"You haven't proved me guilty!" Collins fired back. Evidently something
which Luckstone had told him flashed across his mind, for he seemed to
come out of his bewildered state, and again he adopted an air of
resolute opposition. "I won't say another word."
Britz met this altered attitude of Collins with a swift transformation
of his own. His face contracted until every line seemed to harden into
an expression of stern determination.
"Do you know why Julia Strong killed herself?" he snapped.
"Yes," said Collins weakly.
"Why?"
"She threatened to do it a dozen times. She wanted me to permit my wife
to obtain a divorce so I could marry her."
Collins had been taken off his guard and Britz found it easy to follow
up his advantage.
"You promised to marry her?" he inquired.
"I never told her so."
"But you led her to believe you would?"
"I wasn't responsible for what she believed."
"Now I'll tell you something," pursued the detective in a firm, subdued
voice. "An hour before Julia Strong committed suicide she was in my
office at Police Headquarters."
Collins started as if jarred by a hateful sound.
"I--I--don't believe it," he faltered.
"She was there," said Britz, ignoring the other's remark. "Moreover, she
accused you of having killed Whitmore. She did it in the presence of a
witness, and, although she was unaware of it, her statement was taken
down by a hidden stenographer."
"Then why did she commit suicide?" blurted Collins, as if her death
contradicted the detective's statement.
"She betrayed you because you had betrayed her. She thought you and your
wife had become reconciled. Then, when she received your note--the one
that Beard brought her--she believed you meant, after all, to marry her.
In a fit of remorse at having betrayed you, she killed herself."
"Why do you tell me this?" asked Collins suspiciously.
"To show you what an overwhelming mass of evidence we have against you.
And to give you a last opportunity to explain."
Collins's eyes traveled about the room, lingering on the various objects
that were so intimately associated with the woman whom he had thought so
loyal.
"So she too was ready to turn against me!" He shook his head in a
self-pitying way. "The one person who, I thought, would never desert
me!" His eyes took on a fixidity, as if gazing at a distant object.
"Money gone!" he murmured, as if talking to himself. "Girl dead--a
traitor! Home broken! What's the use?"
The others watched him silently, breathlessly, their eyes lighted with
eager expectancy. Collins had sunk into that state of complete
despondency wherein even the primal instinct of self-preservation is
weakened to the point of extinction. Britz had applied the much-abused
and publicly misunderstood third degree in a manner shrewdly calculated
to shatter the resisting qualities of the victim's will. By alternately
tyrannizing over and cajoling the prisoner--for Collins virtually was a
prisoner--he had finally produced in him a condition of mind that
invariably leads to confession.
"Well, Collins!" Britz smiled encouragingly. "Only one man can save
you--that's yourself. You know as well as I how quickly the others would
sacrifice you to save themselves. If you permit them to destroy you, you
have only yourself to blame."
Collins lifted his head and met the steady gaze of the detective. The
last ounce of resistance had departed from his weak nature. He was ready
to yield. But a sudden interruption occurred to divert the attention of
those in the room. Someone was banging violently on the door. Britz
motioned the others not to leave their chairs, hoping that whoever was
seeking admittance would conclude that the apartment was unoccupied and
leave. But the banging continued until finally the detective was moved
to open the door.
A man burst into the room, brushing past Britz and precipitating his
figure into the sitting room.
"Luckstone!" exclaimed Collins, bounding out of his chair.
The lawyer gazed angrily from his client to Britz.
"What does this mean?" he demanded.
"It means that Mr. Collins has dispensed with your services and is ready
to confide in me," answered the detective with calm assurance.
Luckstone's eyes narrowed on Collins. The latter nodded a weak assent to
the detective's words.
"I've been searching for you all evening," the lawyer burst forth
excitedly. "Called up your house, went to the club and finally took a
chance on finding you here. I was afraid something like this might
happen. I hope you haven't communicated anything to these men."
"Oh, what's the good of remaining silent any longer?" asked Collins
surlily.
"What's the good!" repeated the lawyer with a rising inflection. "Do you
wish to spoil everything? Do you want to condemn yourself?"
"What!" shouted Collins, now beside himself with rage. "Condemn myself!
What do you mean?"
"I mean that if you say a single word, I shall withdraw as your counsel
and permit the law to take its course."
"Then you're trying to intimate that I killed Whitmore!" Collins took a
step forward, a look of horrified amazement on his face. "So there's a
conspiracy now to shift it on to me--eh! Now that I've been robbed and
left penniless--"
"You're not penniless," interjected the lawyer. "Your money is intact."
Collins's eyes expanded into an expression of incredulous wonder.
"What are you talking about?" he demanded savagely. "Are you trying to
fool me? My money's in Ward's bank--"
"And every creditor will be paid in full," interrupted the lawyer.
"Who's going to pay them?" sneered Collins.
"Your wife."
A loud peal of ironic laughter burst from Collins's lips. But Luckstone
silenced the sarcastic merriment with the remark,--
"She has inherited Mr. Whitmore's estate and announced her determination
to repay every dollar of her brother's obligations. This police
officer,"--he pointed a contemptuous finger toward Britz--"will confirm
what I say."
It required no confirmation to convince Collins of something which he
was only too eager to believe. And the knowledge instantly repaired his
shattered nerves. Before the intrusion of the lawyer, Collins, made
dizzy by the multiplicity of incriminating circumstances so adroitly
unfolded by the detective, overcome by the rapidity of Britz's blows,
was an abject creature ready to surrender his soul. All the enchantment
had suddenly passed out of his life, for, to one of his disposition, a
liberal income is as necessary as water to a parched plant. Deprived of
his fortune, existence wasn't worth while. But with the certainty that
his money would be restored to him, life regained all its roseate tints.
As the future outlook cleared and he saw that he could return to his
indolent mode of living, a sudden reaction took place within him,
filling him with a sullen aversion for the detective who had so nearly
beguiled him into committing an irreparable breach of faith--if nothing
worse. And he turned fiercely on Britz.
"So you tried to entrap me!" he exclaimed with bitter emphasis. "But you
didn't succeed, did you? And from now on I shall remain in the hands of
Mr. Luckstone, my attorney."
"That is the sensible thing to do," commended the lawyer.
"Why, he threatened to handcuff me and take me to jail if I didn't tell
him all about Mr. Whitmore's death," complained Collins.
Luckstone turned to face Britz. He found the detective as imperturbable
as though he were but a disinterested spectator in this exciting drama.
"So you had it in mind to make another prisoner?" the lawyer said
sneeringly. "You've got Mr. Beard in the Tombs and you have Mrs. Collins
at Headquarters--"
"What--he arrested my wife?" Collins asked excitedly. "Is she accused of
murder?"
"Calm yourself," the lawyer cautioned him. "This detective is so
befuddled he doesn't know whether he's walking on his head or his feet.
He's just running around helter-skelter arresting everybody he comes in
contact with, regardless of whether he has sufficient evidence or not.
In fact, he hasn't any evidence--not a particle against anyone. But he
hopes to browbeat somebody into incriminating himself or somebody
else--it doesn't matter whom so long as the victim will help the police
to make out a case that will justify an indictment by the Grand Jury.
Mr. Detective-Lieutenant Britz is on a grand fishing expedition,
throwing out bait--"
"You are mistaken," Britz now interrupted the lawyer. "I am not throwing
out bait. I am about to draw in my lines, with the fish securely
hooked."