THE RAID
My telephone rang persistently. I had just waked out of a sleep of
exhaustion and reached for it with sleep-numbed fingers.
“Perutkin speaking!” the voice boomed. “Meet me in the lobby of the
Biltmore in twenty minutes!” The words were a command. My wishes were
not consulted. But I agreed readily enough. Most people did when
Perutkin commanded.
So I dressed hastily and gulped my weak coffee. A cab deposited me at
the Biltmore a few moments before the appointed time. I saw no sign
of the Russian and made myself comfortable with a week-old New York
newspaper and a cigar.
Several moments later the bulk of the Russian loomed over me. “Put away
that paper,” he whispered. “I shall give you something more appetizing
than an editor’s fancies. Rise from your chair and nonchalantly as you
can follow me to the elevator.”
“Why? What?” I demanded.
“Ask nothing. And do not look so surprised. We are going upstairs.”
As he said this, he preceded me into the elevator cage.
“Seventh,” he barked at the boy. And then to me: “Well, are you
enjoying yourself? A most interesting city, is it not? Or do you
confine your wanderings to Sloppy Joe’s, like all Americans?”
I mumbled something. But by this time we had alighted. He strode
forward confidently. Then I realized that we were approaching the suite
of Henry Breese.
“We’re not going to see the old man?” I demanded.
“Quiet!” whispered the Russian, as a bell boy whisked past us. “We
are not going to see anyone.” He stopped in front of Breese’s door.
He reached into his pocket and extracted a miniature jimmy. This he
inserted in the lock and the door opened almost instantly. He dragged
me into the room--I could not move--and then closed the door behind him.
“We are doing a little burglary,” he explained casually. “I needed a
companion in crime and I chose you. Are you not flattered?”
“But what are you going to do--and why?” I insisted.
“It’s simple enough,” he said carelessly. “I’m going to search Mr.
Breese’s room very thoroughly. That is all. If you are afraid we shall
be interrupted, let me inform you that Mr. Breese will be occupied for
several hours. I have ascertained that. The chambermaid has already
made the beds and issued the towels. We are quite safe. You see, I
am a good burglar. I know what I’m at. Any detective worthy of the
name who cannot be a better burglar than the regular members of the
profession really has no reason for existence.”
“But do you think,” I demanded, “that Breese would leave anything in
his room calculated to arouse our suspicions?”
“Why not?” demanded the Russian, proceeding to the secretary, and
opening a drawer. While he was examining papers he said: “You must
understand this about crimes and criminals: At a certain stage every
criminal is exact, methodical and cunning. Then he becomes desperate
and may do something brilliant--such as the killing of Trenholm with
Smith’s own pistol. Our friend Smith has not yet recovered from his
chagrin at that. In fact, it hurts more now than ever. But as the pace
becomes more furious for the criminal he becomes careless. He must
relax. He must overlook something.” He put back carefully letters,
telegrams. “And we may find something. I do not guarantee it. But I am
hoping.”
I called out suddenly, for I heard soft footfalls approaching outside.
The Russian paused, listening. Then the door next to ours opened and I
breathed more easily.
“There is only one thing,” the Russian said. “I have not devised a
means of exit if we are surprised. I do not expect to be surprised. But
if the worst comes to the worst, Mr. Smith can always rescue us from
the law. A trifle! In my own country I have consistently broken all
laws.”
He was now at the wardrobe closet, expertly fumbling into the pockets
of Mr. Breese’s carefully tailored suits.
“But the man is rich!” he exclaimed. “Such textiles! Such cloth! I have
always bought the best when I could afford it, and I flatter myself my
taste in clothes is superior to any man’s. Unfortunately, at the moment
I cannot indulge it. I always had my clothes made in England when I was
in my glory,” he sighed. “However--what have we here?” He held up a
piece of brown wrapping paper. I thought it strange that Breese should
carry such an obviously dirty piece of paper on his person. “Look!”
cried the Russian.
Peering over his shoulder, I saw that these words had been scrawled
upon the paper:
“Dear Mr. Breese,” I read. “Please come and see me right away as I have
important info. and it will pay you. Don’t fail to come as this is
_important_. I will be waiting for you tonight at 7 in my shop 32 Calle
C and 3rd Street. Charles Spence.”
“Charles Spence!” exclaimed the Russian. “I wonder if it can be the
Charlie who advised Trenholm on just such paper and in just such
writing to get money!”
“It must be,” I exclaimed.
“Smith has that letter,” the Russian continued. “If we could compare,
we could make sure. But obviously it must be the same man. And we
have his address--Calle C and 3rd Street.” He put the paper carefully
back into the pocket he had just rifled. “We shall proceed there
immediately. Come!”
When the Russian moved, he moved quickly. I found myself panting after
him as he strode down the corridor. We waited for the elevator. Just as
we were about to get in, the elder Breese emerged.
He frowned on us, and did not even nod. For his part, the Russian
ignored him and stepped into the elevator cage.
Down in the lobby, he said: “Unless I miss my guess, Mr. Breese
has forgotten that note. He is wearing a suit not unlike the one I
examined. He probably was on his way to see our Charlie and then
discovered he had forgotten the address. We shall wait.”
We waited in easy chairs screened by pillars so the elder Breese did
not see us when he emerged once more and hurried out. The Russian
beckoned to me and we followed slowly. When we reached the street,
Breese was already in a cab. The Russian permitted him to disappear
around a corner before he summoned a cab for us and directed our driver
to take us to Calle C and 3rd.
“A highly interesting man, Breese,” the Russian lectured on our
way down. “If my theories are right--and I have no reason to doubt
them--he will probably go down in history as one of the world’s most
interesting criminals. And why not? When a respectable and cultivated
man goes in for crime he makes the efforts of the professionals look
childish in comparison. Most criminals are merely mental deficients.
“What I admire in him is his attitude toward us. Most criminals would
be bland, friendly. They would be very careful not to antagonize the
police. With what result? The clever detective sees through them. Not
so with Breese. He takes pains to antagonize us. Why? Because, he
reasons, we will assume he has nothing to fear. He is merely standing
on his rights.”
“But is his attitude so unnatural?” I asked. “After all, he’s an
arrogant man.”
“He was not arrogant when he warned Smith of his wife’s danger an hour
after she was murdered. He was polite enough when he tried to explain
away his possession of a key to the Gilded Cage. There are moments when
he shows fear. But he is a man of considerable strength of mind. After
all, he reasons he can leave for the States at any moment now. Then he
is safe. The case will be forgotten. He is not in a bad position, Mr.
Breese. In fact, he is in a very good position. I do not boast, but his
sole misfortune is that I happen to be interested in the case. Other
criminals have discovered that before him!”
He leaned back contentedly and let the sun warm his ruddy face. We were
passing through Havana’s slum section. Colored urchins as naked as
the day they were born rolled in the sand. Black women were grouped
in front of flimsy shacks in the community kitchen, for the primitive
cooking on charcoal fires was done in the open. Every so often a
butcher’s cart full of live chickens, guinea hens and peacocks rolled
by under the guidance of a somnolent coolie.
About a block from our destination, we dismissed the cab and walked
past a series of open stores and shabby brick homes. We spied a small
sign: “Charles Spence--Bicycles--Repairs.”
In front of the shop, a taxi waited. I recognized it as the one Breese
had engaged. The Russian stopped a few feet away from the store.
“We shall wait here,” he said.
“Well, I’ll wait for you!” The Russian swung around. I started. Smith
was at my elbow.
“Where did you come from?” the Russian chuckled. “But you are bright
this morning, Mr. Smith!”
“I was just about going to ask you the same question,” Smith smiled
jovially. He seemed unusually buoyant. There was an air of triumph
about him.
The Russian explained how we found the note. Smith grinned.
“You went to a lot of unnecessary trouble,” he said somewhat
patronizingly to the Russian. “It so happens that this morning I got a
letter from Mr. Spence asking me to call.”
“And then you saw Mr. Breese walk in?” concluded the Russian.
“No, I called first and after I had gone out I saw Mr. Breese walk in.”
He shook his head reflectively. “Very funny chap, Spence. I had a long
talk with him.”
“Well, I am listening!” the Russian boomed. “Tell me!”
“Well,” drawled Smith, “I’ll tell you exactly what happened. I got
a letter saying this: ‘Call at Calle C and 3rd--Charles Spence.’ I
discovered that Mr. Spence was a rather gangly chap, with very sharp
eyes. If I’m not mistaken, it’s T. B. with him, and he came down
originally for the climate. Well, he hemmed and hawed a lot before he
got started, and then hemmed and hawed a lot more when he did. What it
all came down to was this: he wanted to know how much there was in it
for him if he told all he knew about the Breese murder. I had to tell
him there was no reward, but that I’d see to it that he was well paid.
In fact, I said I’d be willing to give a year’s salary myself just to
clear the case. He hemmed and hawed some more.”
“But didn’t he give you any inkling of what he knew?” interrupted the
Russian.
“He made it pretty plain,” replied Smith, “that he got his information
from Trenholm.”
“Who had never met Mrs. Breese,” said the Russian.
“Yes, I put that up to him,” replied Smith. “But he only smiled a
kind of wet smile and let it go at that. He said he knew and he had
the evidence and it was just a question of whether I would pay. Well,
naturally, I got excited. I tried to pin him down. When he wouldn’t
come across, I threatened to arrest him as a material witness. He got
frightened at that. I guess he had forgotten to figure on that. But
he was pretty obstinate. Well, finally I said I’d give him an hour to
think it over. I left, and just as I got down here I saw Breese’s cab
draw up.”
“Hmm,” the Russian reflected. “You have handled matters very badly, Mr.
Smith.”
“How do you get that?” Smith demanded resentfully.
“It is quite obvious,” replied the Russian. “The man is greedy. He has
a piece of information implicating Breese. He knows that Breese is
obstinate. He is obviously blackmailing him. He thinks that perhaps,
if Breese fails to pay, then the police will give him something
substantial. You should have promised him at least fifty thousand
dollars. It costs nothing to promise.”
“I don’t have to promise him anything,” countered Smith. “I can lock
him up any time and he’ll come through all right. I’m not worried about
him. This case is over. What with Breese coming down and Charlie Spence
handy where I can get him I expect to have something in a very short
time.”
“Which leads me to the conclusion,” said the Russian, “that all my
bright hopes have been shattered. I’m going to see Mr. Spence myself.”
“Not while Breese is in there!” exclaimed Smith.
“But why not? I want Breese to know that I am here. It will help
matters considerably. Come!”
I knew the Russian well enough by this time to know that he would be in
Charles Spence’s bicycle store within a moment and I plunged after him.
Mr. Spence’s window contained one highly polished wire-wheeled bicycle,
a collection of patched tires and an incongruous monkey wrench. The
window had not been washed in many years. It is something of an
eccentricity to have a shop window in Havana. The natives use shutters.
As we entered the dark store I was surprised to find no one in sight.
The Russian knocked loudly upon a small work-table. Still no one
answered.
“As I feared,” he muttered. “Mr. Smith should be spanked.”
“There must be someone here,” I ventured. “Breese’s cab is still
outside.”
“We shall try the door,” the Russian decided, pointing to the little
door leading obviously to another work shop. He thrust this open. The
elder Breese, who had been sitting at a table, sprang up.
“Greetings, Mr. Breese,” boomed the Russian. The old man said nothing.
“We should like to see your friend, Charlie Spence.” Still the old man
did not answer. “Surely you will be good enough to tell us where we can
find him, no?”
“I’m waiting for him myself,” the old man said finally, glaring at the
Russian.
“Then we shall wait, too,” said the Russian. He seated himself directly
opposite the financier, and leaned over toward him. “That is what I
admire in you Americans--your great democracy. Who would think that so
important a man as you would have so humble a friend as Spence? It is
remarkable!”
Breese grunted.
“Did you say something, Mr. Breese?” demanded the Russian.
“No, I didn’t,” snapped Breese.
The Russian bowed with mock courtesy. “I don’t expect you to talk
to me. But it’s really no use, Mr. Breese. No use at all. This man
Spence wants your money--and yet what good will it do you? We have the
evidence. Believe me, Mr. Breese, he is merely making a fool of you.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” sputtered the financier.
“Surely my meaning is quite plain,” retorted the Russian. “You received
a letter from Mr. Spence this morning. Mr. Spence is--or rather, was--a
friend of our wireless operator who was killed so mysteriously. Mr.
Spence has the same information that caused that poor fellow’s death.
Only Mr. Spence does not intend to suffer the same fate. He intends to
enrich himself and at your expense. Well, Mr. Breese, are you ready to
talk now?”
“About what?” snapped Breese. “I got a letter the other day from this
man and a very strange telephone call. He said he had some information
on my wife’s death. I came here this morning. I met him. He asked me to
wait. He said he had business a few doors away. I’ve been waiting for
him ever since.”
“Almost plausible!” said the Russian.
“Damn it, do you think I’m lying to you?” shouted Breese.
“I know you are,” replied the Russian coolly. “Be good enough to tell
us where Mr. Spence is. What have you done with him?”
“What have I done with him? Man, are you mad?” Breese sputtered feebly.
“I’ve got a good mind to report you to your superiors.”
“Here is my superior now,” the Russian called, as Smith swung the door
open. Smith’s face was grave. The Russian sensed that something had
happened.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Have you found Spence?”
“No,” said Smith. “But Mr. Spence just drove away post-haste in your
cab, Mr. Breese. And when I called to him he seemed very anxious not to
hear.”
“I can’t understand it,” muttered Breese.
“I can,” said the Russian. “Mr. Spence’s plans went slightly wrong. Mr.
Smith threatened him with arrest. And you, Mr. Breese, threatened him
with his life. Caught between the devil and the deep sea, he ran away.”
“You think that I--I threatened him?”
“Certainly.”
“You must be mad! You must be!”
“There’s an easy way of testing that,” challenged the Russian. “For
example, if it should so happen that you carry a weapon at this moment,
no jury would declare me mad for believing that you threatened your
humble friend. Do you carry a revolver?”
“I do carry a revolver,” Breese conceded hesitantly, after an
uncomfortable pause.
“Ah!” exclaimed the Russian.
“I didn’t know where I was going. I took it along for protection.”
“May I have that revolver?” Smith asked, extending his hand.
Reluctantly the old man surrendered the weapon.
“Thank you,” said Smith. “Now, Mr. Breese, I think you should know
that I’ve gotten Spence’s full story,” Smith lied easily. “I was here
before you came--and--there’s no use holding it back from you--he told
me enough to warrant your arrest. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to go
down to Headquarters with me.”
“Arrest me--for what?” shouted the old man.
“For the murder of your wife and the murder of Louis Trenholm.”
The old man looked from Smith to the Russian, and then at me.
“I suppose you’re all quite sane,” he said finally. “I may be mad
myself. I shouldn’t wonder, with all I’ve been through. But just what
is the reason for my arrest?” He was quite calm now, as if striving
hard to maintain his composure in a bewildering situation.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” the Russian shook his head. “As far as I
know there is not a single piece of evidence against you.” I could not
believe my ears. Smith could only stare.
“Look here----” bellowed Smith.
The Russian held up his hand.
“Not a word, Mr. Smith. I’ve led you astray. This is not our man.
We’ve been fools--utter fools!” Then he muttered, “Bicycles! Wireless
operator! Don’t you see?” He paced up and down excitedly. “It is
incredible that I missed it. Utterly incredible. I am ashamed! I am
senile!” Then suddenly he shouted: “Come--come before it is too late!
Follow me!”
He bounded out of the room.