ETHICS OF KILLING
They swung out from Scotland Yard into Whitehall.
"What has happened?" the inspector asked.
Monsieur Dupont leant forward, controlling his excitement with an
effort.
"_Mon Dieu_," he said, "I wish I knew!"
He took the telegram from his pocket.
"It is an hour only that I have returned from Richmond. I found the
house of George Copplestone in course of transformation. I found all the
windows open. I found men and women cleaning--painting--making new. I
found a hundred men ... making the crooked garden straight."
"Well?" said the inspector--"why not?"
Monsieur Dupont brought his hands together impatiently.
"Why not? There are a thousand reasons why not. But the reason why...."
"Is it an extraordinary thing for a man to open his windows, paint his
house, and straighten his garden?"
"It is!" exclaimed Monsieur Dupont. "It is more than an extraordinary
thing--it is a gigantic, a brain-splitting thing--if he has kept his
windows closed, his house unpainted, and his garden crooked for twenty
years. The house of a man is the reflection of his soul. It was the
reflection of George Copplestone's soul yesterday. But ... something
happened in it last night. And to-day...."
He broke off, and began to smooth out the telegram on his knee.
"The moment I entered that house," he continued, "I knew it was a wicked
house. And when that dreadful thing happened, I felt positively that the
wickedness of the house had some direct connection with the crime in the
garden. I felt that it would be impossible to solve one without solving
the other. I knew, also, that you would certainly be satisfied with the
evidence against James Layton, and would consider no other possibility.
That evidence, I admit, was unanswerable--but I, with some previous
knowledge to help me, knew that Layton was innocent. The difficulty in
front of me was to prove the guilt of the real criminal in time. My
friend Tranter, and that remarkable young protegee of Layton, Jenny
West, agreed to help me. Together we began to draw the nets, and the
criminal was aware of our movements. In the country yesterday I
discovered the identity of the most important witness in the case--but
when I went to find her in the evening, she had been snatched away. I
instructed Tranter to discover and bring to me the secret of the Crooked
House, whatever it might be. He set out to do so at nine o'clock last
night. And he has disappeared."
"Disappeared?" the inspector exclaimed.
"Without a trace. I, only, knew where he was going. And not only has he
disappeared--but Copplestone and Mrs. Astley-Rolfe have disappeared with
him."
Inspector Fay began to show more interest.
"They will be wanted for the inquest," he said sharply.
"If we do not find them in time for the inquest," Monsieur Dupont
returned, "there will be two inquests to hold."
"Two inquests?" the inspector echoed.
"I could not understand it," continued Monsieur Dupont. "It was contrary
to all my calculations. I was bewildered--and you may recollect that I
am not often bewildered. But when I returned to my hotel, I found this."
He held out the telegram. "It is the answer to a certain inquiry I have
made."
"What does it mean?" the inspector asked, handing it back.
"It means," said Monsieur Dupont slowly, "that we shall be lucky if we
find Tranter alive."
"Where can they have gone?"
"I do not know. I can only guess--and if I have not guessed rightly, we
shall not see him again."
"Are you telling me," the inspector demanded, "that Copplestone killed
the woman he had just become engaged to?"
"I shall tell you who killed her within twelve hours," Monsieur Dupont
replied. "I will tell you why she was killed now."
He paused.
"Why," he asked, "did the murderer, whoever it was, kill her so
horribly? Why was it not enough to deprive her of life? Could one have
desired more? Why was she stamped on, and torn, and crushed?"
"It was obviously done in the madness of jealousy and revenge," replied
the inspector.
"It was done in madness," said Monsieur Dupont--"but it was not the
madness of jealousy or revenge. It was the madness of a strange and
terrible hatred. It was done--because the killer hated her beauty and
not her."
The inspector stared at him blankly.
"Hated her beauty, and not her...?"
"Twenty years ago," said Monsieur Dupont, "there was in France a very
beautiful woman. She was named Colette d'Orsel. It was said that she was
the most beautiful woman in the country. She was also very rich, very
generous, and very kind. She was always doing good actions. She had not
an enemy in the world. There was no one who could have wished her a
moment's pain. She was only twenty-five. With several of her friends she
went to stay at Nice. One night she was found in the gardens of her
hotel--almost torn to pieces."
"I remember the case," said the inspector. "It was a ghastly affair."
"There appeared no motive. She was wearing some splendid jewels. They
had been crushed with her, but nothing was missing--not a stone. She had
just returned from the tables, and had not troubled to deposit her
winnings of the evening with the cashier of the hotel. Forty thousand
francs were found on the body. Not a note had been touched. The greatest
detectives of France were called in to solve the mystery--but they
solved nothing. They made the mistake of trying to find a motive. They
looked for a person who could have had a reason to kill her. But it was
time lost. They should have looked among the people who had no reason to
kill her. The weeks became months, and still they discovered nothing.
That crime is a mystery to-day."
The inspector's attention was rivetted. He remained silent.
"Ten years ago," Monsieur Dupont proceeded, "there was in Boston a young
girl named Margaret McCall. She was wonderfully beautiful. Her parents
were poor people, and she worked for her living. She was quiet and
reserved by nature. She made few friends, and cared little for the
society of men. Naturally there were hundreds who regretted, and
attempted to overcome, that characteristic; but she went her own way
quietly and firmly. One evening her body was found in a lonely part of
one of the public parks torn and crushed in the most terrible manner.
The police were helpless. The thing that baffled them completely was the
absence of any motive for the crime. They tried to find one--but all
that they found was what I have said, that she had been a good, honest
girl--that she had had no enemies--that she had not jilted a man, or
wronged a woman--that she had never flirted, or encouraged men to pay
attentions to her. Yet there she had been found--broken and mutilated.
The small sum of money she carried had remained untouched. The crime
was never solved."
His voice had sunk lower. He had dwelt on each detail with impassive
deliberation.
"This week, Christine Manderson--without doubt the most beautiful woman
of the three--was found in that crooked garden at Richmond, if possible
in a more horrible condition than either of the others."
"You mean," exploded the inspector, "that the murderer of Colette
d'Orsel at Nice twenty years ago also killed Margaret McCall in Boston
ten years after?"
"I do," replied the low voice.
"And Christine Manderson here three days ago?"
"And Christine Manderson here three days ago. But this time there was a
difference. An unfortunate chain of circumstances provided clear
evidence against an innocent man--James Layton. I admit that as the case
stood you had no option but to arrest him. But in doing so you committed
the same mistake that your French and American brothers had committed
before you. They had looked for a motive, and could not find one. You
found a motive, and devoted yourself to the man with the motive. You
should have looked for the Destroyer."
There was something of awe in the silence that followed, like the hush
that succeeds the passing of a storm.
"My friend," said the inspector slowly, "what utterly monstrous thing
are you telling me?"
Monsieur Dupont turned to him a face of massive innocence.
"Is it monstrous?" he said mildly. "If a man is born with a longing to
kill elephants, he is a daring sportsman. If the longing is to kill
beetles, he is a scientist. But if the inclination is to kill men--or
women--he is a criminal lunatic. Why? If the desire to kill is not in
itself monstrous, the desire to kill a particular thing, whatever it may
be, cannot be monstrous. It can only be illegal. If it is dreadful to
kill a young child, it must be dreadful to kill anything young. If it is
cowardly for a man to kill a woman, it is cowardly for a man to kill the
female sex in any shape or form. Yet, what scientist allows the matter
of sex to interfere with the impalement of his beetle? Nor would he do
so if his hobby were to impale human beings. If he searches for a
beautiful beetle to kill, it only requires a broadening of his
particular outlook for him to search for a beautiful woman to kill.
There may be a perfectly sane and moral country in the world (although I
have never heard of it) in which it would be criminal to kill the
beetle, and scientific to kill the woman. I confess that a well-mounted
collection of beautiful women would be very much more interesting to me
than the finest collection of beautiful beetles. But if I have the one,
I am made a member of a Royal Society--and if I have the other, I am
executed. And the only reason for that is that the human beings make the
laws, and not the beetles."
The car swung round a sharp corner, and the inspector's amazement was
interrupted by the sudden necessity of keeping his position. Monsieur
Dupont continued slowly.
"But the monstrousness of this case is not that three people have been
killed--but that three people have been more than killed. It is
monstrous because we have none of the simple dignity of the primitive
slayer, and all the morbid excesses of the modern despoiler. While it
might be an entirely respectable thing to kill a woman to preserve her
beauty, it is an entirely monstrous thing to kill her to destroy it.
That is the only reason why the collector of beetles and butterflies is
not the most cold-blooded of murderers. That is the only----"
"What in the name of all that's unholy," gasped the inspector, "are you
going to say next?"
Monsieur Dupont leant forward as the car stopped, and opened the door.
"Next," he replied gravely, "I am going to inform you that we have
arrived at Paddington, and request you to get out."