DENOUEMENT NO. 1
In which Nemesis babbles cheerfully—In which the Dead Flower adopts
new petals—Postmarks and timetables and a false beard that sneers
mischievously—Also a scrawl of vengeance, enigmatic ashes and a half
signature.
The cab rolled through the dark streets. Dr. Lytton’s hand rested on the
knee of his companion.
“All right now?” he asked.
De Medici nodded.
“Dizziness,” he answered laconically.
“A rather interesting case,” the doctor looked at him speculatively.
“Fear, eh? Morbid and illogical fear. Hm. Nothing simpler. Phobias are
easy to trace. You fainted. Fainting is an escape from overwhelming
impulses that are repugnant to the conscious mind. You had an
impulse....”
De Medici smiled.
“He prowls around like a blind weasel,” he mused as the scientist
talked.
“Yes. Obvious. Why not discuss it?” Dr. Lytton was saying. “Such things
must be considered impersonally. Your impulse was to murder me, Julien.
Darkness, candles, long velvet curtains—these things fascinate you
because they are symbols of desires that hide in you.”
De Medici shrugged his shoulders.
“Here we are,” he spoke as the cab stopped before a lighted building.
They entered the police station arm in arm. De Medici’s legs still felt
weak. A man in police uniform conducted them to Lieutenant Norton’s
office. The lieutenant rose to greet them. De Medici noted the look of
triumph which kindled his eyes.
“Well, come right in,” cried the detective exuberantly. “Glad to see
you, Mr. De Medici.”
He nodded somewhat less enthusiastically at the stocky figure of Dr.
Lytton.
“How d’you do, doctor?” he added.
De Medici sat down beside the lieutenant’s desk.
“So you’ve found the murderer?” he asked quietly. “In which case you
must have changed your mind about Mr. Ballau’s suicide.”
“Sit down, sit down, doctor,” Norton beamed, “and I’ll apologize for a
lot of things. Have a cigar?”
The visitors declined. Dr. Lytton, regarding the red-faced detective,
mused silently.
“He’s stumbled on something. An intelligent man, but clumsy and
superficial,” he was thinking.
Norton seemed to expand in his chair. His face glowed with delight as he
began to talk.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “I owe you my first apology for pretending
to you I thought Victor Ballau had killed himself. I was absolutely
convinced it was a murder on the night we found the body. I had the
impression of suicide for a few minutes. But before ten minutes had
passed investigation showed me that there were a number of things not to
be explained by the suicide theory. Well, gentlemen, realizing that the
murder was an intricate one and that it would take a great deal of care
to unravel the mystery, I adopted the suicide theory as a ruse and
instructed my force to take a similar attitude. We harped on this theory
at the inquest. You see, it was my purpose to throw the criminal off the
track and make the capture a bit easier.”
“Marvelous,” murmured De Medici. The lieutenant’s naïveté had suddenly
amused him. “A bewildering deception. And you got him.”
Norton grinned at the man’s banter.
“Her,” he corrected. “Miss Florence Ballau.”
Dr. Lytton nodded.
“Where is she?” he inquired.
“Under lock and key,” said Norton. “We arrested her yesterday morning.”
“Where?” whispered De Medici.
“In New York,” Norton answered.
De Medici’s eyes closed happily. In New York yesterday morning ... and
the letter from Rollo, Maine, had been mailed yesterday morning.... Two
conflicting incidents. He laughed softly.
“And you think Miss Ballau committed the murder?” he repeated. “The
theory is as bewildering, if not as charming, as your first,
lieutenant.”
Norton nodded in good humor and lighted a cigar. Dr. Lytton sat
regarding De Medici.
“Mailed yesterday from Rollo, Maine,” the scientist mused, “and she was
arrested yesterday in New York. Then she either left the thing with a
friend to mail for her, or....”
His eyes gleamed for an instant and an excited smile curved his heavy
lips.
“The case turned out much simpler than we actually expected,” continued
Norton. “We got our first clew within a few hours after the murder. We
found out Miss Ballau had received a telephone call at the theater at
9:30 on the night of the crime. The stage manager had called her to the
phone. He stood within hearing distance while she talked. He heard her
say something like, ‘Yes ... yes. Oh, God!’ And he noticed she was upset
when she hung up. She told him she felt sick. He tried to argue with her
but she dashed out of the theater without changing her costume or taking
the paint off her face.”
“A revelation,” murmured De Medici. His spirits seemed to have risen as
the detective talked. Dr. Lytton sat with his lips pursed, dividing his
attention between the two men.
“I knew you knew about the telephone call,” Norton went on
good-naturedly, “and I don’t blame you for trying to shield the girl.”
“Gallant,” sighed De Medici. “Thanks. Go on.”
“Well,” resumed Norton, “we finally located the cabby who had driven her
home. This took a few hours, but when we got him he remembered her well,
owing to the fact she had her make-up and costume on and acted queer and
excited. She got into his cab outside the theater and drove to the
Ballau apartment, giving him a dollar tip in advance and telling him to
go as fast as he could. Her contention at the inquest was that she
reached the apartment about half-past ten. From the stage manager’s
evidence and the cabby’s statement it is obvious that she got home about
a quarter to ten the latest. If she’d stopped at all between the
telephone call and entering the cab she’d have removed her make-up and
taken her hat or a wrap of some kind. We know she didn’t. Our
investigations in the Ballau home resulted in finding a towel in the
linen basket off Miss Ballau’s room. The towel was smeared with rouge
and lampblack. We found out that the basket had been emptied that
afternoon by the laundryman. Therefore the towel with the rouge and
lampblack on it was placed there during that day.”
“Your deductions are invulnerable,” De Medici smiled.
“We’ll discuss them more fully later,” Norton countered, his good humor
remaining under the derision of his visitor. “You don’t seem convinced
that Miss Ballau is guilty?” He smiled in turn.
De Medici shook his head.
“Despite his good humor,” he thought, “he’s uncertain of something. The
theory has a hole in it.... Or he wouldn’t be telling me. Or perhaps
it’s another one of his brilliant ruses....”
“We’ll discuss them more fully later,” Norton continued. “I’m going to
the trouble of outlining the case to you because I think you can help me
on several points. For instance, this.”
The detective opened a cupboard at the side of his desk and removed a
bundle. Unwrapping it, a woman’s gown was revealed.
“Have you ever seen this before?” Norton asked.
De Medici regarded the gown without moving.... A costume, nineteenth
century ... Italian, flashed through his mind. Her costume in “The Dead
Flower”! No....
“I see you recognize it,” Norton said. “Miss Ballau’s dress in your
show, eh?”
De Medici picked up the thing and spread it out. No, not hers. He smiled
inwardly. The certainty had come to him that the detective had bungled.
“Never mind,” Norton continued. “I don’t want to trap any evidence from
you. We found this dress on the fire escape outside the window of the
Ballau library. This dress and”—he stopped, opened a drawer in his
desk—“and this crucifix. Do you recognize it?”
“Yes,” murmured De Medici involuntarily. It was the gift he had made
Florence to wear with the “Dead Flower” costume—an oddly designed cross
of ebony backed with silver.
“Thanks,” Norton smiled. “The dress and the cross were together. But to
go on. There are a number of vital points. For instance, Miss Ballau
testified that Jane, the housekeeper, let her in that night. We’ve
questioned the housekeeper secretly. She’s a simple-minded woman. After
some grilling we discovered that she did not let Miss Ballau into the
apartment and that the first she knew of that young lady’s presence in
the house was the sound of her screaming. And this screaming, you will
bear in mind, came fully thirty to thirty-five minutes after Miss Ballau
arrived home. On pressing Jane further, we discovered that Miss Ballau
had pleaded with her as a vital personal favor on which her life
depended, to say that she had let her in at the time and in the manner
they both swore to at the coroner’s inquest.”
Dr. Lytton cleared his throat.
“You have police witnesses to the housekeeper’s confession?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, and several witnesses not of the police,” Norton answered.
“Meyerson was present, and a man named Carvello. But let me go on. We
found the key to the apartment in Miss Ballau’s purse the night of the
murder. I looked for it myself and, on finding it, left it there. Miss
Ballau, you will remember, testified she had lost the key some weeks
before. Which explained why she had to ring the bell to get in.”
“These things are hardly sufficient for the arrest of Miss Ballau,” De
Medici said quietly as the detective paused.
“I quite agree,” said Norton. “All this was evidence we had within two
days of the murder. We didn’t act on it but continued our hunt for more.
More was necessary and we waited till we got it.”
De Medici nodded.
“The motive, for instance,” smiled Norton. “Well, three days after the
inquest, or two days, I think, Miss Ballau disappeared. We had been
watching her closely but she managed to elude us. I put two of my best
men in pursuit of her and I devoted my own time to finding out her
history. I was able to discover through documents and inquiry that
Florence Ballau was not Victor Ballau’s daughter but his stepdaughter.
She was a year old when Ballau married her mother in London. As you see,
this supplies the beginnings of a motive.”
Through De Medici’s mind passed a suddenly illuminated memory of Victor
Ballau—the Ballau whose fingers had trembled as he poured the liqueur
that night, whose eyes had turned away as he toasted the happiness of
his prospective son-in-law. His heart grew heavy as the innuendo of the
lieutenant unfolded its logical terminations before him.
“We would like to have your theory of the motive,” Dr. Lytton prompted
the smiling detective. “Motives, of course, are always more interesting
and more important than clews.”
“You were to be married,” Norton resumed, turning to De Medici. “And
Ballau was jealous.”
“I see,” murmured De Medici. He sat staring at the man. Words suddenly
danced excitedly in his head. “The thing is mad,” he cried. “You’ve let
a preposterous notion run away with you....”
Dr. Lytton’s arm reached toward his friend.
“We’ve come here to listen, not to argue,” he cautioned.
“Pardon me,” De Medici sighed. His face resumed its mask of calm and
interest.
“Certainly,” Norton answered. “I’m sorry to go into this. But there’s
nothing to be gained now by not facing the facts.”
“Quite right,” Dr. Lytton smiled. “The facts are what we want.”
“The facts are that Mr. Ballau more than anyone else desired the match,”
De Medici spoke.
“Or seemed to,” Norton interrupted. “But on the night that the
engagement was to have been announced he quite changed his mind about
the desirability of the match. And he played his trump card with the
girl. It was Ballau who telephoned her at the theater at half-past nine.
This was a very easy fact to establish. The telephone girl of the Hudson
Apartments remembered distinctly, and we have no reason to doubt her
word, that Mr. Ballau asked her to get his daughter on the phone at the
Galt Theater. Her memorandum pad of outgoing calls contains the
notation, ‘Ballau—Columbus 2600. 9:28.’”
“Are you certain,” Dr. Lytton interrupted, “that the notation refers to
an outgoing call? It may have been Miss Ballau who telephoned her
father.”
“No,” Norton shook his head. “There are three items of evidence bearing
on the point. One is the testimony of the telephone girl. Another is the
fact that Cort, the stage manager, summoned Miss Ballau to the phone,
and the third is the memorandum pad itself. The call appears listed in
the column marked ‘Outgoing.’”
Norton leaned back in his chair, his face grown serious and aloof.
“We come now to the hour of the murder,” he resumed. “Ballau telephoned
his stepdaughter. It was his last known act before his death. And the
answer to our mystery lies in the answer to the question, ‘What did
Victor Ballau say to his stepdaughter at half-past nine on the night of
April 10th?’”
The detective’s dramatic utterance irritated De Medici. He sat frowning
and following in silence the man’s theory.
“Well,” Norton was saying, “you’ll remember that a week or so before his
death Ballau had made a new will leaving all his money to the girl. Why?
Because he loved her. He had loved her for a long time. The will was
made in her presence. It was a plea for her. But it failed. There’s no
question but that he fought with her continually on this subject—his
love for her. Yes, and her past love for him. He pleaded and threatened
in turn. He was an old man and old men are sometimes given to strange
passions.
“Finally, when there was nothing else left, when the time had come to
surrender her publicly to you, he lost his head. He called her up. Get
this man Ballau, now, gentlemen, upset by his infatuation for the girl,
preparing for the hour when he must surrender all hope of her, mixed up,
crazy. And he telephones her. He can’t stand it any longer. He tells her
over the phone that he must see her. She answers evasively, ‘Yes ...
yes.’ And he goes on pleading. And finally he plays his trump card. He
tells her unless she renounces De Medici he’ll expose the relations that
have existed between them—between Ballau and his supposed daughter.
Relations, let us say, before you entered her life, Mr. De Medici.
“Well, he was going to do this thing publicly. It was a cowardly act.
But, mind you, the sort of threat a man of his age driven to despair by
his infatuation would make. And she rushed home. There were yet two
hours to ward off the thing he threatened. She rushed home, beside
herself, to appeal to his better side, to plead with him and weep and
entreat him. The disgrace he had threatened her with on the eve of her
engagement party was enough to make any young woman go wild. You can
imagine what followed as easily as I can,” he concluded, “her pleading,
his excitement, her tears, his offers, and, disgrace staring her in the
face, her hysteria and the murder.”
Dr. Lytton regarded De Medici.
“What do you think of it?” he asked.
De Medici’s head was lowered. His narrow eyes, half closed, were
contemplating the floor.
“Nothing,” he answered softly. “A persuasive cock and bull story.”
Norton grew irritable.
“I called you here to see if you would assist me,” he said. “I want to
know how she acted the morning you proposed to her. Did she say anything
about Ballau?”
“Nothing,” answered De Medici, “except that she knew he would be
overjoyed.”
Norton nodded and looked grim. De Medici, studying the floor, was
thinking. “She was nervous. Yes, I remember something ... about Ballau.
Her manner changed. She asked what he had said ... two or three times.
And she wept when I left her.... White-faced and weeping in front of the
theater.... Preposterous! Not Florence. There’s something else. This
creature paws clumsily with surfaces....”
The voice of Dr. Lytton interrupted his musings.
“You haven’t finished, I hope,” the doctor smiled.
“No. A few more things,” Norton answered testily. “They may interest
you. The scene of the crime, eh? The disorder and the mysterious props?
Well, the murder suddenly committed—committed during a moment of despair
and passion—the young woman stood beside the body of the man she had
killed and some sort of a notion of planting evidence to throw the
police off the track came into her head. A notion typical of the woman
who has spent her life in the theater. You’ll remember she was beside
herself at this moment, that whatever she did in the half hour following
the slaying of Ballau would naturally be the things an innocent and
imaginative woman, and not a hardened criminal, would do in an effort to
cover up the crime. She began to tear things and overthrow things. She
went about it bewilderedly. Her idea was to make it seem as if a
terrific struggle had taken place so that suspicion would not fall on a
woman but on some powerful assailant. But you saw yourself how she
bungled it in her distraction. The books, curtains, pictures: the
crucifix and the candle—all unconvincing. The table idiotically set as
for a supper for two. All things that a distracted, imaginative and
hysterical young woman with a theatrical training would do.”
“Excellent,” breathed Dr. Lytton. “Your psychology stands on firm
ground. We might even go a step further. We might even say that a very
clever murderer or murderess would have arranged that scene not to give
the police false clews for a crime, but to make it seem as if Ballau had
killed himself—and arranged the entire scene to convince the police a
crime had not been committed. She might have figured out something of
that nature, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I thought of that,” Norton said slowly, “but I doubt it. She
hadn’t time.”
“Unless,” Dr. Lytton objected, “unless the murder was committed as soon
as she entered the room. Or, let us say, before....”
Norton looked indignantly at the scientist.
“The theory doesn’t impress you despite the evidence?” he asked.
“I would be more impressed and certainly more interested,” Dr. Lytton
answered, “if your theories included the presence of the false beard
that was found in Ballau’s hand.”
Lieutenant Norton nodded and opened the drawer of his desk again. He
removed a large manila envelope. The humorous-looking false Vandyke,
reminiscent of the slapstick methods of stage comedians, lay exposed on
his desk. Dr. Lytton stepped forward.
“May I look at this?” he asked. The lieutenant nodded.
“Hm, I thought so,” the doctor murmured. Taking a note-book from his
pocket, he wrote down a few words. Norton raised his brows.
“With your permission, lieutenant,” Dr. Lytton looked at him. “I’m
merely recording the fact, which I don’t think has been recorded, for it
doesn’t quite fit in with your ingenious theorizings, that this beard is
the product of a man named Lenvier—a well-known London wig-maker. You
can read his name on the label here.”
The detective scowled. His amiability seemed to have finally abandoned
him.
“And now,” went on Dr. Lytton, “I am, for reasons entirely apart from
the crime or its possible perpetrator, interested to know how you
explain the presence of this beard in the dead man’s hand. Also the gum
mucilage which you yourself so ably discovered on his face.”
“Nothing difficult about that,” Norton answered. “It’s a minor point.
Ballau put the thing on himself before his stepdaughter arrived. He was
seen wearing it by the housekeeper. But he didn’t show himself for
purposes of disguise. He was evidently caught with it on by her
unawares. She testified, you remember, that she got only a glimpse of
him. You’ll recall that Ballau summoned the girl to tell her that unless
of her own accord she renounced her intention of marrying De Medici,
he’d expose her that night ... to disgrace. You can easily imagine that
his purpose in calling her to come to him was not merely a desire to
tell her what he was going to do. He also had the hope of being able to
induce her to return to him ... of winning her back, in other words.
This man’s brain is not at its clearest and his sense of the fitness of
things isn’t at its best at that moment. And he does something which may
appeal to you gentleman as ridiculous.”
“As long as it explains the beard,” murmured the doctor.
“Yes,” snapped Norton, “as long as it explains the beard.”
He stared with indignation at the offensive-looking bit of false hair on
his desk.
“Ballau put it on that night,” he announced savagely, “because he
imagined it made him look handsomer and younger. He’d been an actor in
his youth.”
De Medici stared with incredulous eyes at the man.
“What the devil!” he exclaimed. “Are you mad, lieutenant?”
As Norton’s reddish face glittered wrathfully at him, De Medici suddenly
laughed.... So this was the police theory! Quite a respectable theory of
its sort, but bristling incongruously with false Vandykes. Yes, a
Vandyke, a humorously homeless Vandyke knocked in vain for admittance.
“As I said,” Norton added sourly, “the point is of minor importance. If
you don’t like that theory there’s another. The false beard was placed
in the dead man’s hand by Miss Ballau and the mucilage added. A part of
her camouflage to put us on a wrong scent.”
“Very nice,” Dr. Lytton smiled, “except that, if I recall, the dead man
was clutching the thing. His fingers had to be unfastened. However, we
may pass over this point, as you say.” The doctor chuckled.
“Just one moment, if you please,” Norton cried, “before you laugh too
heartily. I expect Miss Ballau’s confession by morning. In the meantime
you may be interested in the circumstances of her arrest.”
He had grown heavily sarcastic.
“I told you that Miss Ballau eluded us,” he said, “a few days after the
inquest. But my men picked up her trail again two days ago. She had
hidden herself in a cheap rooming-house district. We watched her
closely. She remained secluded for a day without emerging once. But
yesterday morning she left her rooming house. She went straight to the
Ballau apartment. She was heavily veiled and escaped the doorman’s
attention. She went up in the elevator and let herself in with the key.
Michaelson of my staff was on guard in the apartment. He’d been there
since the night of the murder—waiting. He heard Miss Ballau enter and,
unseen by her, watched her. He followed her down the hall and saw her
enter her bedroom. But she was almost too quick for him. Before he was
able to get to her, she had lighted a candle and set fire to a letter
taken from her bureau drawer.”
The detective paused and, with a return of his former composure,
extracted a small envelope from the manila wrapper on his desk. From the
envelope he carefully removed the fragments of a piece of charred letter
paper.
“Michaelson managed to save this,” he added.
De Medici and the doctor arose and stared at the burned fragment. All
that was visible was the last line of what evidently had been a short
letter. The line read:
“So I warn you I am desperate....”
Beneath the line was part of the signature. The flame had burned away
all but the letters F-l-o-r....
“Floria,” murmured De Medici.
“Florence,” announced the detective, “Florence Ballau.”
Raising his voice, he added to an aide in the doorway:
“Bring Miss Ballau in here....”