THE TRINITY OF DEATH
In Tranter's car, its owner and Monsieur Dupont started, at half-past
one, on their return from the crooked house.
The storm had passed, and the air was fresh and cool. It was possibly
the atmospheric clearance which accounted for the fact, that, however,
fatigued he had been, or appeared to be, at the end of his conversation
with the inspector, Monsieur Dupont was now particularly wide-awake and
alert.
"_Dieu!_" he cried, "what a terrible crime! Almost to tear that woman to
pieces--to crush her--to rend her! And what a woman! _Ma foi_, what a
woman!"
There was a pause. Monsieur Dupont accepted and lit a cigar from
Tranter's case.
"My friend," he said quietly, "I wish to be quite fair to you."
"Fair to me?" Tranter echoed, surprised.
"Something happened to-night which you doubtless believe to be unknown
to every one except yourself."
Tranter turned to him quickly.
"I have not the habit," Monsieur Dupont continued, "of listening to
private conversations between other people. It is only on very rare
occasions that I have done so. I did so to-night."
"What do you mean?" Tranter exclaimed.
"In that horrible garden, before the crime was committed," pursued
Monsieur Dupont evenly, "I lost my way. Such a garden must have been
especially designed to cause innocent people to lose their way. I
wandered about. How I wandered!"
"What did you overhear?" asked Tranter, in a strained voice.
"A conversation--between that unfortunate Mademoiselle Manderson, and
yourself."
"You heard it?" Tranter cried sharply.
"I heard it," admitted Monsieur Dupont. "I heard a great part of it. I
believe nearly all. I should not have done so. Understand, I make you
all my apologies. It was improper to listen. But the storm, the
surroundings, the scene itself, excited me. I listened."
Tranter remained silent.
"I continued to listen, until Mr. Bolsover found me. He was following
that young man, Layton. I went with him to the river."
Tranter was still silent--staring straight in front of him with fixed
eyes.
"You saw a picture of weakness," he said, at last. "I am not proud of
it. I should much prefer to be able to think that no one had seen it. I
gave Inspector Fay an account of the whole scene, and of my previous
acquaintance with Christine Manderson. He promised to keep it to
himself. I hope you will do the same."
"I shall indeed," the other assured him.
"I am only human," Tranter went on, with an effort--"more human than I
thought. I resisted her once by taking flight. I couldn't resist her
to-night."
He mastered his emotion.
"From the moment she first came into the room I was helpless. I knew
what would come of it--but I couldn't tear myself away. It was the
whole spell--with all the new strength of memories. I knew she intended
to find me alone in the garden." He paused. "I had to let her."
"Human nature," said Monsieur Dupont consolingly, "is human nature."
Silence followed. Monsieur Dupont thoughtfully puffed at his cigar.
"A crooked house in a crooked garden," he said, at length, "is a
combination from which all honest people should shrink. Those who
frequent it must be, for the most part, crooked people. They were, for
the most part, crooked people to-night."
"It was a crooked evening from beginning to end," Tranter said wearily.
"It was a wicked evening," Monsieur Dupont declared--"full of wicked
thoughts. A crime was the natural and logical end to such an evening. It
would have been surprising if there had not been one."
He smoked vigorously for some moments--then made an expansive gesture.
"Are there not," he demanded, "houses and gardens and thunder-storms
that awaken cruel and shameful impulses that would never be aroused in
other houses and other gardens and other storms? Does not the influence
of good and noble decorations uplift us to joy and patriotism? Why
should not the influence of mean and sinful decorations degrade us to
murder and destruction? The flags that fly over the innocent revels of
children are innocent flags, and inspire kind feelings and happiness.
But remove the same flags to a Bull-ring, and they become evil flags,
inspiring lust for the blood and slaughter of helpless creatures--the
basest of human instincts."
"You are fantastic," said Tranter, with a gloomy smile.
"In fantasy," returned Monsieur Dupont, "are the world's greatest
truths."
He carefully deposed the ash from his cigar.
"Will you please tell me," he went on, "something more about our strange
host to-night--the man who chooses so much crookedness to live in, when
there is straightness to be had for the same price?"
"I know very little more about him than I told you last night," Tranter
replied. "He is wealthy, and very eccentric. He seems to pass his life
in a perpetual effort to be different from other people."
"He is more than eccentric," Monsieur Dupont stated. "He is mad. In a
few years he will be a dangerous lunatic. And the Good God only knows
what he may make of himself in the meantime."
"There are plenty of strange stories about him," Tranter said. "But I
have always looked on them as greatly exaggerated."
"Probably," Monsieur Dupont remarked, "they were true."
"Whatever his reputation may be, women seem very ready to put up with
his eccentricities, or pander to them, in return, no doubt, for big
inroads into his banking account. He is very free with his money where
the opposite sex is concerned."
"It is always so," said Monsieur Dupont, "with such men."
"He mixes chiefly in theatrical and bohemian circles--and often by no
means the most desirable of those. The better people look askance on
him--but he is supremely indifferent to the opinions of others, and to
all the conventions. Whatever he takes it into his head to do he does,
quite regardless of the approval or disapproval of other people. He is
certainly not a man I would introduce to any woman who possessed even
the smallest degree of physical attraction. He is supposed to be quite
unscrupulous in the attainment of his objects."
"Most of us are," said Monsieur Dupont. "But we dislike to admit it."
He looked steadily out of the window for a moment.
"I wonder," he said, turning back, "what he does with the rest of that
house."
"The rest of the house?" Tranter repeated.
"It is very large," said Monsieur Dupont. "It is large enough for twenty
men."
"In this country," Tranter smiled, "there is no law against one man
living in a house large enough for twenty, if he chooses."
"When only a small part of a house is used for ordinary purposes,"
remarked Monsieur Dupont, "the remainder is often used for extraordinary
ones."
"You know as much of the house as I do," Tranter returned.
"As a practical man," Monsieur Dupont continued, "you may smile when I
speak of such a thing as 'psychic intuition.' But you may smile, and
again you may smile. I possess that intuition strongly. It has been of
great use to me. The moment I entered that house to-night, I knew it was
a house of sin. I knew there were hidden things in it--things that were
not for honest eyes to see. I do not say--at present--that they have any
connection with the crime. But they are there."
"I do not smile at such instincts," Tranter said. "I quite admit that
there is a strange, uncanny atmosphere about the place. And if there are
secrets in it, I am equally ready to admit that they are probably bad
ones."
"They are bad ones," declared Monsieur Dupont. "They could not be
anything but bad ones. When that excellent Inspector Fay has solved the
mystery of the garden, he would be wise to turn his attention to the
secrets of the house."
There was a pause.
"Did Layton kill her?" Tranter asked suddenly.
Monsieur Dupont shrugged his shoulders.
"The evidence is against him," he replied judicially. "Your Coroner's
jury will find him guilty, and the police will not look further. They
will build up a strong case. They will doubtless find that he was
cruelly treated by that poor girl, and was furious to know that she was
engaged to another man. He threatened, in the presence of many
witnesses, to kill her in a horrible way. He was seen later in the
garden, and afterwards she was found--killed in exactly that horrible
way. Who would not say that in his rage and jealousy he had fulfilled
his threat? Every one will be perfectly satisfied. It is enough for
justice if the most likely person is hanged. And, so far, he is not only
the most likely, but the only, person."
"Perhaps so," Tranter acknowledged. "But--he didn't look like a
murderer. He looked a good fellow. Is there no other alternative?"
"There _is_ an alternative," said Monsieur Dupont steadily.
"There is?"
"Yes."
Monsieur Dupont smoked composedly for a minute.
"My friend," he said--"are you inclined for an adventure?"
"I am rather busy," Tranter replied. "What is it?"
"Suppose ... I were to declare to you positively that James Layton is
innocent--that he did not commit that crime in the crooked garden
to-night--and that I do not intend to allow him to be hanged for a crime
that he did not commit--would you give a certain amount of your time to
help me to save him?"
"Certainly. I will do anything I can."
"Then," said Monsieur Dupont, "I answer the question you asked a moment
ago. He did _not_ kill her."
"Who did?" Tranter demanded, looking at him in astonishment.
"That is another matter. It is one thing to say who did not--but quite
another to say who did. That is for us to discover. There will be very
little time. I think I can promise you excitement. Possibly there will
be danger. You do not object to that?"
"I have faced a certain amount of danger in my time," Tranter replied.
"Good," said Monsieur Dupont. "Then we will set ourselves--quite apart
from the efforts of our friend, Inspector Fay--to solve the mystery of
the crooked garden. And we will not speak a word to any one of our
intention."
"You seem to have some very definite ideas on the subject already,"
Tranter observed.
"Ah, no," demurred Monsieur Dupont--"do not credit me with the
superhuman. We have a very difficult task before us."
"But what of your other object," Tranter inquired--"the 'riddle' that
you came over to solve?"
"It may be," Monsieur Dupont replied carefully, "that there is some
connection between my riddle and this dreadful affair to-night. At
present I cannot say. Only events themselves can prove that.
But that very possibility compels me to take up a peculiar
attitude--unfortunately a most necessary one. If you will assist me--as
I beg you to do--you must be content to follow my guidance and
instructions without question, and remain, as you call it, in the dark,
until the time comes for all to be told."
"You are certainly the most mysterious person I have ever met!" Tranter
exclaimed.
"It is not that I have the smallest doubt of yourself or your
discretion," Monsieur Dupont hastened to explain. "On the contrary. It
is simply that my position at this moment is an extraordinary one, and I
cannot do what would seem to be the natural and ordinary thing. Will you
help me on that understanding?"
"I will help you in any case," Tranter agreed, smiling slightly at his
companion's intense seriousness. "What is to be my first task?"
"Your first task," said Monsieur Dupont gravely, "is to deposit me at
the Hotel Savoy, and call for me later on your way back to Richmond."
Tranter spoke some instructions through the speaking-tube to the
chauffeur. When he turned again, Monsieur Dupont was asleep. He did not
open his eyes again until the car stopped at the Savoy.
Entering the hotel, he ascended to his room. In it, he mixed himself a
whisky-and-soda, sat down at the writing-table, and unlocked a
despatch-box.
He took out two photographs--each of a remarkably beautiful woman.
Under one was neatly written--
_Colette d'Orsel. Nice. August 1900._
And under the other--
_Margaret McCall. Boston. Dec. 1910._
From his pocket he took the photograph which the inspector had allowed
him to appropriate, and laid it beside the others. The face that smiled
up at him was the most beautiful of the three.
He dipped a pen in the ink, and wrote under it, in the same neat
handwriting--
_Christine Manderson. London. July 1919._