THE SUSPECT REFUSES TO TALK
The psychological alibi! As the Russian’s theory dawned on me I was
shocked to find that every detail clicked into place. Breese _had_
summoned us to his hotel exactly three-quarters of an hour after the
murder had been committed. His entire demeanor during the interview now
seemed highly suspicious to me.
I rose from my chair determinedly and reached for the telephone.
“I’m going to call up Ben Smith,” I said, “and tell him about this.”
But the Russian stopped me.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” he said. “You are entirely too
hasty, my friend. I have given you a theory, and you have jumped to a
conclusion.”
I resented the Russian’s assumption of superiority. I resented his
amusement at my haste. Possibly it was because of this that I sought
to destroy his reasoned conclusions. I remember I said: “Perhaps I am
hasty. After all there’s no motive.”
The Russian smiled.
“But what motive would he have?” I protested.
“Motive? His wife has dragged his name into scandal. Despite her
foolishness she emerged triumphant from the divorce trial. He was
hopelessly beaten. His own children turned against him. He comes down
here, swallowing his pride and begging for a reconciliation. His wife
will not see him. His children will not see him. He admits as much,
doesn’t he? He learns his wife wants to marry this actor. Mr. Breese is
an old man. His pride is gone. His home is gone. His children are gone.
“Consider his character. He is not used to defeat. He is a man who
has had his own way. He is a hard man, obstinate. And who is to blame
for his position? Put yourself in his place. Can’t you see a steadily
growing malignant hatred of his wife? I assure you, men have committed
murder for much less!
“And see how it all fits in,” the Russian continued. “Why does Rice
accuse the actor? Because Mr. Breese has talked to him. He has given
Rice the telegrams from the detective agency. He has poisoned Rice’s
mind with suspicion, just as he planned to poison Smith’s mind when
he summoned him for an engagement three-quarters of an hour after the
murder.
“And see how the confession of my friend, the Count, fits into this!
Suppose he had seen Mr. Breese murder his wife. Wouldn’t it be like my
friend to try and save Mary Breese from the double tragedy? Her mother
dead, her father a murderer? Now put yourself in the Count’s place.
Knowing what he knows, what is he to do? Loving Mary Breese as he
loves her, what is he to do?
“It would be a problem for any man. My friend, the Count, hides in
one of the rooms upstairs. He telephones me, and asks for advice. I
tell him. He lets himself be discovered. He is dragged before Smith.
He knows the real murderer. At first his impulse was to take the
blame upon himself together with the consequences. But my friend is
no story-book hero. He has no desire to spend the rest of his life
in a Cuban prison. So, following my suggestion, he arranges for you
to overhear his confession, and then he disappears. Mr. Breese is
protected. Mary Breese is saved from a horrible truth. Now, my friend,
is it not probable? Is it not reasonable?”
“Well,” I hesitated, “it sounds reasonable enough. But there’s one
thing you forget.”
“And that is?”
“No one knows Mr. Breese was here. No one saw him here. The servants
testify there were no visitors. How did Mr. Breese get in?”
“That,” said the Russian, “is not as difficult as it sounds. How did my
friend, the Count, get in? But I’ll concede you have touched, without
knowing it, a very vital problem here, something I hope to solve before
the day is over. At least, if Mr. Breese does what I think he will.”
He strode over to the garden window, and drew the curtains aside, so
that a bright sun streamed through the room. He looked out upon the
brilliant foliage of the garden.
“To think,” he mused, “that a house built for beauty and grandeur
should house meanness and murder! But that is the way of human beings.
It was like this several years ago--when the Baron was murdered.
Outwardly all peace and contentment and inwardly a ghastly tragedy.” He
turned from the window. “Do you remember, I said, when I heard that Mr.
Breese had arrived in this city: ‘The circle is complete’? My friend,
I am firmly convinced that the man who killed the Baron is responsible
for the death of Mrs. Breese!”
“But where? How? I fail to see the connection!”
“It is there, nevertheless. I don’t know. I feel it. The same people
were there in Riga--Mr. Breese, Mr. Rice, Mr. Thomas, my friend the
Count, the Countess, the boy--they were all there. Isn’t it curious to
you? Isn’t it significant?”
He paused abruptly.
“I was right!” He pointed to the street, and I moved to the window to
see. “Mr. Breese is about to pay us a visit. Here, quick, get hold of
the policemen in the reception-room and tell them on no account to open
the door!”
“But why?”
“Don’t question. Do as I say.”
Wonderingly, I obeyed. Before I could return to the drawing-room, a
bell pealed. The policeman made no move. Again the bell, and again.
The Russian strode out into the hall. I followed.
Five minutes passed, the bell resounded now through the house. Still we
made no move.
Finally I heard the click of a key in the lock. The door opened. Mr.
Breese looked up at us.
“That,” said the Russian, his little eyes gleaming, “is how Mr. Breese
came in.”
“Who is this man?” Breese demanded of me.
Before I could reply, the Russian continued: “Absurdly simple, isn’t
it? I forgot, Mr. Breese, that you built this house. Naturally you
would have a key!”
“What in the world are you talking about?” Breese snapped. “Who is this
man?”
I explained the Russian away as an associate of Smith’s.
“Surely, you must remember me,” said the Russian. “Don’t you remember
in Riga--I was then with the Russian police. We had an interesting talk
then. We’ll have another interesting talk now. Won’t you step in here,
Mr. Breese?”
“I don’t know you and I don’t remember you,” Breese barked. “I’ve
come here to see my children. I haven’t come to see you. If you’re a
detective, let me see your credentials.”
“I haven’t any,” the Russian replied, “but Mr. Smith will vouch for me.”
“I don’t care who vouches for you. You might have some consideration
for a man in my position. Please get out of my way. I’m going upstairs.”
“Very well, sir,” the Russian bowed. Without a word, Breese laboriously
began climbing the wide stone steps.
When he was out of sight, the Russian grinned good-naturedly: “The
suspect refuses to talk!”