THE COUNT CONFESSES
The Count bowed and said quietly: “Yes, gentlemen, I guess I am the man
you want.”
He turned to Smith.
“You are of the police?”
“Yes,” said Smith.
“What is it you wish to know?” asked the Count gently.
“What does he wish to know?” the actor intervened scornfully. “I’ll
tell you. This man was Mrs. Breese’s son-in-law. He murdered a man in
Riga. He’s hated Mrs. Breese ever since she made the Countess divorce
him. He’s been following her all over the world. She’s complained to me
about him a dozen times.” He paused for breath. “And then you have the
audacity to annoy _me_! Dash it all, I’ve got a good mind to sue you
for damages!” He looked accusingly at the Count. “Come ahead, tell them
you did it and be done with it. I’m going back to New York tonight! I
can’t waste any more time in this dashed hole.”
The Count smiled sadly. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, Mr.
Thomas,” he said. “I had no idea I was a source of annoyance to you.
Now, if you will leave me alone with this officer, I think we can
straighten matters out very quickly.”
“I’m going!” cried Thomas. “I’m going. And this time nobody’s going to
stop me!”
“You stay upstairs,” said Smith, “until I tell you to go!”
He turned to the Russian, barking: “Well, where do you come in?”
“I’m afraid,” the Russian smiled, “I came in at the wrong time. I have
something to tell you, officer.”
“Yes? What is it?”
“First, I want you to send for Miss Breese, my former wife.”
“First tell me how you got here,” countered Smith.
“I’m afraid I can’t agree,” the Count shook his head. “Will you be good
enough to send for Miss Breese?”
“Maybe. First, I want to ask you something.”
“Yes?” The man seemed perfectly at ease, strangely enough.
“What were you hiding upstairs for?”
“I’m not ready to tell you that--yet.”
Smith surveyed him coldly. “You know that Mrs. Breese was murdered
tonight?” He pointed to the body.
“Yes, I know.”
“Who told you?”
“No one. I have eyes.” The Count indicated the body pityingly.
“Do you know who killed Mrs. Breese?”
“Yes,” said the Russian. “I do.”
His voice trembled slightly.
“What’s that?” cried Smith, startled.
“I said: ‘Yes, I do know.’”
“Who was it?” snapped Smith.
“I shall be glad to tell you,” replied the Russian calmly, “after I’ve
seen the Countess. But certainly not before. Will you be good enough to
send for her? I ask you again.”
Smith studied this strange phenomenon before he replied. He looked at
me out of the corner of his eye to indicate his bewilderment.
“Please understand,” the Count continued, “whatever I have to say I
shall say to Miss Breese. To no one else.”
“All right,” said Smith, gesturing to the butler. “Get Miss Breese down
here.” The butler hurried off. The Count looked about him. He stared at
the body.
“I don’t want Miss Breese to come into this room. It would not be
advisable,” he said. “And in any case, I wish to talk to her alone. I
want you two gentlemen to wait here, at this door. You will hold it
slightly open, so that you may listen to what I have to say. I don’t
want Miss Breese to know we’re being watched. I want her to feel that
we are quite alone, especially as it may be the last time.” He paused,
and smiled bitterly. Then he waved a white hand apologetically. “You
perhaps do not understand me. _C’est bien._ The only thing to remember
for you gentlemen is: you will stay, please, right here.”
“You’re much too insistent about that,” said Smith suspiciously. “Wait
a minute! You were caught hiding in this house. How do I know you
aren’t trying to get away--shoving us behind this door?”
“How can I get away?” demanded the Count quietly. “You will be right
here. You can have a revolver pointed at me, if you wish.” His
gentleness left him and he was sharp and incisive. He was now giving
commands. “Understand--you will either follow my suggestion or I shall
say nothing.”
Before Smith could reply, we heard footsteps, and the Count opened the
door. He strode out into the reception-room, carefully closing the door
behind him so that we were left barely a crack through which to peep.
Smith just as carefully widened the crack, and we caught a glimpse of
Mary Breese descending the stairs. She was deathly pale, and her eyes
were lost in mourning shadows.
There was not enough room for the two of us, so Smith monopolized the
sight. I strained to listen to the scene I could not see. But I noticed
that Smith was following the Russian’s suggestions to the letter. His
right hand was at his revolver holster.
I heard the Count cry: “Mary!”
A pause.
Then I heard her move toward him, crying incoherently: “Isn’t it awful!
I need you so!”
I heard him trying to comfort her gently. She was sobbing
unrestrainedly now.
“Please, Mary ... please ... you mustn’t.” The Count’s voice broke now.
I heard her say: “It would never have happened if I hadn’t let you
go--I needed you so! But what could I do?”
“No,” he said slowly, “it would never have happened.”
“You mustn’t leave me now!” she cried. “You mustn’t ever leave me!”
Silence. Then, as if the words were wrung from him: “Why didn’t
you--why didn’t you try to see me as I begged you? You got my letters,
didn’t you?”
“No, I didn’t get any letters. What letters? I didn’t even know you
were in town! I don’t know that you’re here now! I--oh, I don’t know
anything any more!”
“Please--don’t cry. Didn’t I tell you I phoned. I wrote. I tried every
way to see you.”
“No!” Then as if in agonized appeal: “Don’t leave me--please don’t
leave me!”
It was not difficult to patch together from their incoherent appeals
to each other the story of the strange relationship. Someone in the
household--Mrs. Breese, undoubtedly--had been determined that the
Russian be kept from his former wife. I remembered how he had told me,
the night Perutkin had brought me to him, that he had exhausted every
possible means of communicating with Mary Breese. It was clear to me
now that Mary Breese had not willingly parted from her husband.
But my reflections were disturbed suddenly. I had paid but desultory
attention to their mutual efforts to comfort each other. Then I heard
the Russian say:
“Mary, I don’t know how to tell you this--you’ve had enough to
bear--but I must tell you. I must! Listen to me!”
Silence.
Smith leaned forward.
“I came here tonight to see you. I knew that if I could talk to you,
hold you--but I mustn’t talk about that. I got in through the garden
window, in the back. I dodged all the servants until I got in here.
Mary, your mother saw me!”
Silence again. Then the girl’s dazed voice: “Mother--saw you?”
“Yes--she--Mary, I must have been crazy. Mary, I don’t know what
happened. I must have been crazy! Mary, I--I killed her!”
I heard the girl’s piercing scream!
Then, as Smith leaped forward, the door slammed in our faces. A key
turned. The lock clicked. Smith hammered on the door, hurling himself
at it.
We heard voices, running feet.
The next moment a stupefied servant opened the door. Smith and I ran
out. We saw the girl crumpled in a heap on the stairs. She had fainted.
Hurriedly, Smith gave orders to carry her upstairs.
We ran out upon the terrace. We heard nothing but the soft rustling of
leaves. We hurried down into the street.
But the Count had disappeared.