THE MAN IN THE TAXI
“Would you mind telling me--” the elder Breese was exasperatingly
polite--“if your police department is composed solely of lunatics?”
Smith swallowed helplessly. I could sympathize with his exasperation.
The Russian had persistently hammered at him to arrest Breese. When
Smith finally in desperation had taken this step the irrepressible
Perutkin sent his own house of cards toppling, and was off.
But the detective stuck to his guns. “You needn’t pay any attention to
him,” he said. “He’ll have nothing more to do with this case. I’ll see
to that. I’m in charge and I’ll take full responsibility, Mr. Breese,
for whatever I do.”
“Very well, then,” said Breese. “Am I to understand that I am under
arrest for murder?”
“Exactly,” snapped Smith.
“I suppose I’m permitted to consult a lawyer?” the old man asked coolly.
“In due time,” replied Smith. “You needn’t answer any questions I put
to you but if you really know nothing of the murder of your wife and of
Trenholm, being frank with me will save a lot of unpleasantness.”
Breese nodded. “This is not unexpected,” he confessed. “I’ve caught you
people looking strangely at me and it’s gotten on my nerves. Now what
evidence will you present in court?”
“First,” said Smith, “you had a key which gave you entrance to your
wife’s house.”
“That’s a long way from murder,” said the old man.
“You used that key that night.”
“And if I did?”
“You knew your wife was dead when we came to your room that night. When
you got the news over the telephone, you acted as if it were news to
you. You did your utmost to implicate Thomas.”
“Because I sincerely believed him to be at the bottom of it, and I’m
not sure now that I’ve changed my mind.”
“But a man of your standing,” insisted Smith, “doesn’t usually play
hide and seek with the police the way you did unless he has something
to hide.”
“I’ve got some imagination,” replied Breese. “My relations with my wife
were not of the best. In the eyes of the law I had plenty of motive
to kill her. But the law doesn’t realize that a man who loves a woman
doesn’t kill her no matter how much she exasperates him. But I knew
that if it were known that I was in the house at the time--that I had,
in fact, stolen into the house--you people would make short work of me.
I had to protect myself.”
“That sounds reasonable, the way you tell it,” conceded Smith.
“It’s the truth,” the old man said simply. “Good God, man, do I look
like a murderer? Do I look like a man who would kill the woman who bore
me two children?”
“But here’s the problem we’re up against,” Smith pointed out. “We’ve
got to proceed on evidence. Slowly but surely the evidence has been
accumulating against you. You admit it yourself. If you didn’t kill
her, who did?”
“Do you think that if I knew I wouldn’t have told you long ago?”
countered the old man. “Don’t you think I loved my wife? Don’t you
think her death was a blow to me? Don’t you think I’m suffering the
torments of hell right now?”
There was such evident sincerity in the man’s voice that even Smith,
I could see, was troubled. He said: “I want you to understand, Mr.
Breese, that I’m merely doing my duty.” The old man nodded. “But there
are still actions of yours that I can’t explain away. Why were you so
anxious to leave the country before your wife’s funeral? I had to go to
the trouble of getting you shipped back from Key West.”
“Oh, you were the one?” the old man smiled grimly. “I suspected as
much. Well, I did want to get away. You remember you told me that the
Count had been arrested on his confession. I know how my daughter
feels about him. Coming at that time, I felt I had all the sorrow I
could bear. I wanted to get away to think things out. I was afraid
of breaking under the strain.” He paused. “As a matter of fact, I
consulted Rice and asked his advice. He advised me to go away. He knew
I had nothing to do with it and he was perfectly willing to look after
my family.”
“You should have consulted me,” Smith said. “If you’d talked as frankly
as you do now we’d have been much further ahead in this case.”
“I had no desire to tangle myself up with the police,” the old man
pointed out.
“Well, then, finally,” said Smith, “just why did you come to see Mr.
Spence?”
“If a man writes me to come and see him, and then telephones me he has
information on my wife’s death, I’d naturally come. As a matter of
fact, I paid no attention to the letter, because it was so cryptic. It
was only after he phoned me that I decided to look into the matter.”
“Why didn’t you refer Spence to me?” demanded Smith.
“I’m in the habit of doing things for myself,” replied Breese. “I
wasn’t afraid to come down. I took a revolver along as a precaution. I
had no real reason to be afraid. And perhaps you’re willing to believe
that I’m just as anxious to clear up my wife’s death as anyone can be.
I feel I’m under a shadow until the case is cleared.”
From Smith’s bland expression I knew that he was studying the
financier with great interest. I knew that Smith had not yet made up
his mind.
“You must understand,” Smith continued, “that your visit here, coupled
with other circumstances, is highly suspicious. Let me show you why--I
talked with Spence. He’s a blackmailer. He wants money. Any jury would
assume that he wrote you for only one purpose--to get hush money. And
that you came down to give it to him.”
“But I never heard of the man before!” cried Breese.
“But you heard of Trenholm.”
“No,” said Breese. “I didn’t. First I saw of him was the night of the
funeral, although I was paying him his salary. That Trenholm business
is absolutely beyond me. That whole night is like a nightmare to
me even now. I woke up last night shivering and sweating. I’d been
dreaming all sorts of crazy things, with Trenholm in them. It’s taken
all my will power, I tell you, to keep my hold on things.”
Smith looked at him. For my part, I was willing to accept the
financier’s story. I had realized before that a chain of circumstantial
evidence may strangle the innocent, and Breese seemed to have a tenable
explanation for every step he took in the case, once you granted him
a lack of motive. On the other hand, I realized (and Smith, I could
see, was of the same mind) that Breese might be wriggling out of
the evidence against him with a disarming frankness foreign to his
character.
Finally Smith said: “I’m willing to go a long way, Mr. Breese, to give
you the benefit of the doubt--provided you promise me that you won’t
leave the country until I say you can go.”
Something of the financier’s arrogance returned to him. He flushed
angrily. “And what if I refuse?”
Smith shrugged his shoulders. “Then I’m afraid I must take the
necessary steps to detain you.”
He spoke quietly, but there was a challenge in his voice. The old man
stared at him defiantly.
But the tension was broken by the door swinging open suddenly. A
young native in the livery of a taxi chauffeur stood panting before
us. I recognized him as Breese’s driver. His eyes were wide open with
excitement, and his forehead was wet.
“Mr. Breese!” he called. “Mr. Breese!”
“What is it?” growled the financier.
“Come with me, please. Right away!” the driver pleaded. “There’s a man
in the cab.”
“What man?” demanded Breese.
“The man you sent away with me.”
“I didn’t send any man away with you,” Breese denied angrily. “What are
you talking about?”
But the chauffeur was now wringing his hands. “Come please!” he
pleaded. “It is terrible.”
“What’s come over you?” demanded Breese.
“Come--please--see” urged the chauffeur, wringing his hands more
violently. “It is terrible!” Then he stopped, realizing our utter
bewilderment. He began patiently. “I am sitting outside, waiting for
you, Mr. Breese, when a man runs out from back of the store and he
says: ‘Mr. Breese want you to drive me quick to Calle L.’ So I says:
‘Get in.’ So we drive.”
“I didn’t send anyone to you,” Breese shook his head. “I haven’t met
anyone here except Spence.”
“Well, the man was Spence,” Smith intervened. “I saw him jump in the
cab myself. I came in here and told you.”
He turned to the driver.
“Go on. What happened?”
The chauffeur took a deep breath. “I drive to Calle L. When I stop he
says: ‘Go in café and get drink and be back in fifteen minutes.’ I
am thirsty, I say: ‘All right.’ I go into café and have drink. After
fifteen minutes I come back. I get into seat. I start car. Man sitting
there. I drive back. I come here.” He wiped his forehead. “Ten years I
work for Biltmore. Never anything happens to me. Never.”
“Go on!” urged Smith.
“I get here,” the chauffeur swallowed. “I get out. I open the door. The
man do not move. I say something. He say nothing. Then I look. It is
terrible! Ten years I work for Biltmore and never anything happen.”
But Smith was already out of the door. Breese and I followed him
hurriedly.
Seated in the back of the open cab, his hands folded upon his stomach,
his long elbows grotesquely akimbo, was a sallow-faced individual,
apparently asleep.
“Good God!” cried Breese. “That’s Spence--the chap I saw.”
Smith looked at him. “Your chauffeur says he told him you sent him away
in this cab.”
“But I did nothing of the kind,” cried Breese. “Why, he left by the
back door. He said he’d be gone only a few minutes. I was waiting for
him!”
Suddenly the body swayed and then toppled headlong to the floor. The
fixed eyes looked directly at us. Then we saw there was a pool of blood
upon the seat of the cab.
Breese cried out in horror.