MODUS OPERANDI
When we entered the drawing-room of the Gilded Cage, we found assembled
there all our fellow-passengers of the yacht. At first sight, they
might have been guests at some informal reception. The Count and
Countess were seated close together, chatting amiably enough as we
approached. I judged from their expressions that despite the tragedy
hovering over them, or because of it, the Count had gone far in his
effort at reconciliation in the last few days.
Rice and the younger Breese were standing near the window, conversing
in low tones. The actor, as usual, sulked in a corner by himself,
smoking a cigarette with the aid of an extraordinarily long amber
holder.
Smith had warned Breese outside to mention nothing of the fate that had
overtaken Spence. The old man was obviously restrained in greeting his
children and Rice. To Thomas he paid no attention whatsoever.
I wondered how the Russian had assembled them all, and for what
purpose. I noticed, too, that although the sun was bright outside, the
curtains were securely drawn, and the chandelier glowing with light.
The room would have been dark without it.
From the Russian’s first words, it was obvious that they were waiting
for him to proceed with whatever it was he had in mind. He said: “Now
we are complete. Mr. Breese is here. Mr. Smith is here.” He turned to
the detective, took his arm, and led him to the library. I followed
curiously. Standing at the door were the Japanese footman and the
English butler. Seated at the table was a bespectacled young American,
whom the Russian presented as “Mr. Jenkins of the Ministry.” We shook
hands with this stranger, and I wondered what it all meant.
But the Russian was reserving his explanation for those in the
drawing-room. Standing in the center of the room, he rapped twice with
his knuckles upon the table for silence.
“Please pay attention!” he called, as if to a group of school children.
“You undoubtedly wonder why I summoned you here in the name of the law.
I shall tell you. You have come to assist in the administration of
justice. I shall ask you all to cooperate with me to the very best of
your ability. There are vital issues at stake.” He cleared his throat.
“What I am about to ask you to do may be distasteful. It may cause some
of you real pain. But I wish you to believe that whatever sacrifice you
make will not be in vain. Listen to me, please----
“It is the belief of the police that one and the same person killed the
late Mrs. Breese, killed the unfortunate wireless operator, Trenholm,
and only this afternoon killed the wretched Charles Spence. Some of
you may not know it, but a third, and the last of the murders, was
committed less than an hour ago in front of this house!”
I heard a buzz of startled conversation. Once more the Russian rapped
upon the table.
“Listen to me, please. We are not repeating the unfortunate incident
of the yacht. This time we have made more extensive preparations. This
time we do not seek the murderer. We know him. Now here is what I
wish you to do: Listen carefully: In a few moments, in this room, we
are going to reconstruct the murder of Mrs. Breese.” He looked at the
Countess. “I beg a thousand pardons from the members of her family.
I assure them if I could spare them this ordeal, I would. But it is
impossible.” He swung around to the rest. “It is now nine o’clock at
night, a week ago. I have purposely darkened the room, and put on
artificial light, to give verity to our scene. I shall ask all of you
to repeat your movements of that night--but exactly!”
With the air of an imperious director, he pointed to the Count.
“You, my friend, at nine o’clock, were where?”
“Outside in the corridor,” replied the Count.
“Go there,” the Russian commanded. “And do exactly what you did that
night. Observe what you observed that night and report to us from the
corridor what you see.”
Without waiting for the Count to leave, the Russian turned to the
Countess and the younger Breese. “You two were upstairs in your rooms.
Will you please go there now and come down when the butler calls you,
as he called you that night?”
“Look here,” the boy protested, “what’s the sense of it?”
“I assure you,” said the Russian, “I would not dream of subjecting you
to this ordeal if it were not extremely necessary.”
The boy shrugged his shoulders and followed his sister out of the room.
“It is good they are not here to watch everything,” the Russian
commented as they left. “I wish to spare them pain.” He turned to the
father. “You, Mr. Breese, go out into the street, and enter as you did
last night. You have your key?”
“Yes,” said Breese. “But why the devil should I?”
“Because you wish to clear your name,” said the Russian. “I beg of you
to do this for your own sake. I have only half an hour. It goes very
quickly. Come!”
Reluctantly Breese left the room.
“Now,” said the Russian, “I shall take the part of Mrs. Breese. You,
Mr. Thomas, were in this room with her. You remain here.”
He looked at the actor quizzically.
“You should find this work easy. It is your profession.”
Then he raised his voice to its terrific boom: “All of you,
everywhere. It is nine o’clock. We begin!”
Then he stared at Rice. “I had quite forgotten you, Mr. Rice. You were
at the American Minister’s at the time. Very well then. We shall call
the library the Ministry. You shall wait there.”
Rice good-naturedly nodded, and passed into the library.
“Now,” said the Russian to Thomas. “I am Mrs. Breese. We are talking
together. What is it you say to me?”
“Hang it all,” cried the actor. “I can’t remember.”
“Say something--anything,” commanded the Russian sharply. “Tell me
you’re going back to the States to marry another girl. I get quite
angry. I storm at you, don’t I?”
“Yes,” the actor swallowed.
“That is better,” commented the Russian, stepping out of his rôle. “You
actually quarrelled with Mrs. Breese.”
“But--but--” stammered the actor.
The Russian held up his hand. “Play your part!” he commanded. “You are
an execrable actor. I say to you: ‘You have deceived me. I love you.’
And you say to me----”
The actor shifted uncomfortably.
“What is it you say to me?”
“Hang it all,” he began.
“You say nothing. You storm out of the room. You run upstairs. Go!”
Thomas fled from the room. It was really very funny, but none of us
laughed. The Russian had us in his grip.
“You see,” said the Russian, “this is what actually happened. Thomas
told us fairy tales.”
He snorted.
“As if Mrs. Breese would calmly consent to his jilting her.”
He turned to the door.
“Count!” he cried. “You are in the corridor. What do you see?”
“I see Mr. Breese coming toward the drawing-room.”
“Good,” approved the Russian. “Where is the Japanese? Here, you----”
The footman appeared from the library. Evidently the Russian had
already given him minute instructions. He entered and picked up a tray
from the table.
“Mrs. Breese want nothing more?”
“No,” replied the Russian. The footman bowed and obediently returned to
the library with his tray.
“Now I am left alone,” the Russian said to Smith. “I walk about. I am
quite upset by the words of Mr. Thomas. I do not know what to do. My
vanity is hurt. The telephone rings. Mr. Rice!”
The promoter appeared from the library. He watched the Russian
tolerantly.
“Mr. Rice,” commanded the Russian briskly, “you are at the ministry.
You are talking over the telephone with Mrs. Breese. Stand where you
are, and I shall stand here. I say ‘Hello.’”
“Well, it’s sort of hard to repeat the exact words,” Rice complained.
“But I’ll do my best. Something like this: ‘Hello, Dora, how are you?’”
“Excellent, Mr. Rice. You are our best actor. ‘Hello, Gordon.’”
“‘Dora, I’ve some bad news for you.’
“‘What is it?’
“‘Are you alone?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘I’ve just gotten a check from the bank. It’s made out to Thomas and
your signature is forged to it.’
“‘I can’t believe it.’
“As a matter of fact,” Rice interrupted, “she said much more than that.
She railed at me considerably for libelling Mr. Thomas. Finally I said:
‘Well, you can see for yourself. I left the check and the letter from
the bank teller on the table in the drawing-room!’
“‘Very well. Hold the wire. I’ll see.’
“Then I waited,” said Rice.
“‘I can’t find it,’” the Russian suggested.
“‘That’s funny. I put the check and a letter on the table, addressed to
you. Thomas must have found it.’
“‘I don’t believe a word of it!’”
“What’s that?” said Rice, looking up startled.
“I was playing my part,” the Russian smiled. “Then, I presume, Mrs.
Breese hung up suddenly, as startled people will. Good!” He swung
around to us. “Now I am left alone once more. I am further distressed.
I don’t know what to do. Mr. Breese! Where are you?”
“Right outside the door,” the financier replied.
“Come in.”
The Russian suddenly fell to the floor. The door opened. Breese looked
down and started.
“Come closer,” the Russian called without shifting. “This is how you
found me.”
“Yes,” said Breese huskily.
“And then you ran out.”
“Yes.”
“Follow out your movements then, Mr. Breese. Go into the street. Just
as you did that night.”
Breese hurried out of the room.
“Brandlock,” the Russian called to the butler, who hurried forward
now. He looked slightly askance at the prone figure of Perutkin.
“Come--come--don’t be a fool!” the Russian snapped at him. “You saw
Mrs. Breese in this position. Run upstairs now as you did then and
summon the children.”
The butler shrugged his shoulders disdainfully but did as he was told.
The Russian called out into the corridor: “Count, what do you see?”
“I see Mr. Breese running out into the street. I hear the butler
telling them upstairs that Mrs. Breese was murdered.”
“Good!” exclaimed the Russian. “Which tells us why our friend, the
Count, made his foolish confession.” He picked himself up from the
floor, just as the Breese children ran in.
“Come in, all of you!” he cried. “We need go no further with this.
The children run down. They summon a policeman. Someone telephones
Rice at the Ministry. So far, we have traced the movements of each
known individual. Mr. Thomas leaves in a huff. The telephone rings.
Mrs. Breese answers. Mr. Breese comes in and finds his wife dead. The
essential moment that still remains to be explained away is the time
between Rice’s call and the entrance of Mr. Breese. What happened in
that moment? What did Mrs. Breese do? How did she meet her death? Look
around this room and tell me, Mr. Smith.”
“I don’t know,” said Smith curtly. “And I don’t see that this is
getting us anywhere.”
“You do not see it?” persisted the Russian. “Miraculous! But then, for
a long time I did not see it myself.” He turned abruptly. “The reason
I am reconstructing this crime is to check back upon the known facts.
For example, we know now that Mr. Thomas had been quarrelling with Mrs.
Breese. We know now that Mr. Breese discovered the body. Now, Mr. Rice?”
“Yes, sir,” said the promoter. “Anything further I can do?”
“I want you to refresh your memory and tell us if there’s anything you
have omitted in your telephone conversation with Mrs. Breese.”
The promoter reflected a moment and then shook his head vigorously.
“No, I guess not. I guess I covered the ground pretty thoroughly.”
“You have forgotten nothing?”
“Not a thing,” said Rice emphatically.
“Very well,” said the Russian quietly, moving to the library. “Come
here, Mr. Jenkins.”