THE PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEM
It was fairly late that evening when Austin Starr arrived at
Cacciola’s, having had a hasty meal at a restaurant when he was through
with his day’s work.
He had been obliged to decline the _maestro’s_ hospitable invitation to
dinner, and had been assured by the old man that it did not matter how
late he turned up: “I am not what the English call an early bird!”
Cacciola himself, arrayed in dressing-gown and slippers and carrying
a big curved meerschaum pipe in his hand, admitted and welcomed him
cordially.
There was no one else in the spacious sitting-room, but Austin’s quick
sense of disappointment was speedily banished by his host.
“Sit down, my friend. You will find that chair comfortable. Now, will
you have wine--it is here ready? Or wait for the coffee which my
Maddelena will bring soon? She is now preparing it.”
“Coffee for me, thank you, sir.”
“And none makes it better than Maddelena,” said the old man, settling
himself in his own great chair, and resuming his pipe. “It is well
indeed for us all that she is at home at this time, for, alas! we are a
sick household, with Boris and my poor old Giulia so much distressed
by this terrible event, which touched us so nearly through our poor
Boris.”
“It’s a great and awful mystery that I’d give my right hand to solve,”
said Austin bluntly.
Cacciola looked at him with grave surprise.
“Say a tragedy, yes. But where is the mystery? There is no doubt of the
guilt of that unhappy young man.”
“Doubt! Man alive, Roger Carling is as innocent as I am; I’d stake
my life on that! He’s been committed for trial, I know--one couldn’t
expect anything else at present--but----”
He checked himself. After all, he had come here in search of a clue,
and must say nothing that might put Cacciola on his guard.
“Now that is strange,” mused Cacciola. “Maddelena has been saying the
same ever since we returned from the court, simply because she has
decided that he does not look like a murderer--a woman’s reason!”
“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your niece yet. Does she live
with you, sir?”
“It is her home, and has been these many years, since my brother died
and left her in my charge. She and my poor Boris are to me as children.
But she has not been at home except for holidays since she went to
school; she has been educated here in England, and since two years has
been studying in Milan. She should be there now, the naughty one, but
the moment she heard the news of this terrible thing she came back,
travelling night and day. I was vexed, yes; with a musician, music
should always come first, and her impulse will retard her career; but
I do not know what we should have done without her. None can manage
Boris and our old Giulia as Maddelena does,” he added with an indulgent
smile.
“Is that so? She’s evidently a very capable as well as a very charming
young lady. Is she a singer, sir?” said Austin, conscious of a curious
sense of relief. What dark suspicions had been in his mind ever since
he saw that fury of hatred in the girl’s face as she stood by Paula
Rawson’s grave he had not dared to formulate, even in thought, but they
had been there, and now Cacciola’s words had dispersed them so far as
Maddelena was concerned. However much she hated the dead woman, she
could have had no hand in her death.
Yet he was still convinced that here, in this quaint Bohemian
household, the heart of the mystery was hidden. How was he to discover
it? At present all he could do was to cultivate his friendship with
the genial, simple-minded old _maestro_, whom he was learning to like
immensely. At the back of his mind he was secretly ashamed of employing
this plan. It was a low-down trick, yet the only course that seemed
possible at present. And Roger Carling’s life was in the balance: that
grim fact overshadowed all other considerations!
Cacciola shook his head and shrugged his shoulders with a whimsical air
of resignation.
“Alas! no. She has a voice indeed which, compared with most English
voices for instance, would pass as good. But a Cacciola who sings must
excel, and my Maddelena will never excel----”
“As a singer! My uncle is on his old grievance,” said Maddelena
herself, as she entered carrying the coffee-tray, and flashed an amused
glance from one to the other.
“Aha! What is the proverb about listeners never hearing any good of
themselves?” chuckled Cacciola. “This is my little girl, Mr. Starr; and
if she had come an instant later she would have heard something nicer,
for one of these days she is going to be a great violinist.”
“So my uncle says; but we shall see,” laughed Maddelena, setting the
tray on a low, carved stand, and giving Austin her hand, and continuing
more seriously: “I am so glad you have come to-night, Mr. Starr, for I
have heard so much of you, and there are, oh, so many things I want to
ask you about. You are a great friend of that poor Mr. Carling and his
bride, are you not? The poor young lovers, how my heart is grieved for
them! But we must have our coffee first and then we will talk.”
There was something so frank and charming in her manner, so like her
uncle’s, in its easy, gracious simplicity, that again Austin marvelled,
remembering her in that unguarded moment the other day. Was she merely
a creature of passionate impulse or a consummate actress?
“I am very much the maid-of-all-work these days,” she explained,
seating herself between them on a big “humpty.” “For Giulia--you know
her?”
“Your old servant, yes, I have seen her.”
“She is still in such a state of nerves that she is no use at all. It
is very foolish of her.”
“Have patience, _carissima_; she will get over it in time. We all
shall,” said Cacciola soothingly.
“I suppose Mrs. Giulia was very fond of Lady Rawson?” hazarded Austin.
Maddelena turned towards him, raising her dark brows.
“Fond of her? No, indeed. Why should she be?”
“I don’t know. But I thought, as she seemed to be fairly intimate with
you all----”
“Paula Rawson intimate with _us_!”
There was a note of indignant protest in her rich voice, and her eyes
flashed stormily. Austin metaphorically “sat up,” and Cacciola cast a
deprecating glance at the girl.
“I’m sorry if I’ve said anything wrong, Miss Maddelena; but it seems
she did come here very frequently, so I naturally thought----”
“Come here, yes, indeed, and far too often,” said Maddelena with
emphasis. “But not to see _us_. She came to see Boris, her cousin;
not because she loved him--Paula Rawson was not capable of loving
anyone--but because she wanted him as a tool for her ambitions, for her
intrigues. She was ruining him, body and soul!”
Cacciola interposed, almost sternly: “Peace, Maddelena. We must speak
with charity of the dead!”
“That is my uncle all over. Oh, yes, ‘speak with charity, think with
charity!’ For me, I cannot, I will not, when I think of Paula Rawson.
I am glad she is dead. If I made any other pretence I should be a
hypocrite. This is the truth, Mr. Starr--my uncle knows it, though he
will not say so now. We were so happy together, he and I and Boris, a
year ago, when I came home from Milan for the winter vacation. You,
who have only seen Boris as he is now, cannot imagine what he was
then--what he was to us both. And his voice!”
“Ah! she is right,” sighed Cacciola. “It was divine, but the voice is
there still, my child, the saints be praised, and when he recovers he
will sing once more, better than ever perhaps, and be his old self once
again.”
“Perhaps. Because Paula Rawson is dead and can trouble him no more,”
cried Maddelena. “He met her, she whom he had thought dead, as would to
heaven she had been--and, lo, we became as nothing to him: his voice,
his career became as nothing! He lived only for her, to do her bidding,
to see her from time to time; plotting for their country, they said.
Pouff! He had forgotten his country until he met her--Paula--again, and
fluttered round her like a moth round a candle, singeing his wings.
Well, that candle has been put out, just in time to save him being
burnt up!”
Cacciola shifted uneasily in his chair, but did not venture on further
expostulation.
“Do you know any of their Russian friends, Miss Cacciola?” asked Austin.
She shook her head.
“They used to come and go like shadows, seeing only Boris, and whoever
might chance to admit them when he did not--Giulia or my uncle usually.
She--Paula--actually had a key, and could let herself into this, _our_
home, if you please, whenever she liked. I was always furious about it,
as was Giulia, and my uncle did not like it. He should have forbidden
it, as I told him a hundred times.”
“She had a key!” exclaimed Austin. “Did she use it that last time she
was here?”
“I do not know. Why do you ask?”
“Because if she did it ought to have been found either in her purse or
her bag, and certainly it was not there.”
“That is curious,” said Maddelena reflectively. “I will find out from
Giulia to-morrow; she is in bed now. You think that is of importance?”
“Every little thing is of importance. See, here, Miss Cacciola----”
“Well?” she asked, her bright eyes fixed inquiringly upon him, as
he hesitated, wondering if, and how far, he should confide in her.
Cacciola still remained silent but was listening intently.
“It’s this way,” Austin resumed slowly, weighing each word before
he spoke. “Roger Carling is innocent. A good few of us--every one
who really knows him, in fact, except Sir Robert Rawson himself--are
convinced of that, although appearances are so terribly against him.”
“I too, since I watched him in the court to-day,” she murmured.
“I know. The _maestro_ told me so just before you came in. Now we’ve
got to find out the truth, to trace the murderer, before the trial
comes on, and we’ve only a very few weeks to do it in. It’s no use
going to the police, unless and until we’ve got something definite to
put them on. They think the case is clear and their duty done.”
“But you--there is something in your mind?”
“There is, but I don’t quite know how to explain it. I believe this
Russian business may provide the clue, and that you can help to find
it. Just suppose there was one of them who had a personal grudge
against her--or even a spy in their councils, for there always is a
spy, sure, in these intrigues.”
“Or someone who wanted to separate her from Boris,” said Maddelena
dryly, and he was thankful that she was now gazing at the fire and
not at him. “Well, I and my uncle wanted to do that. He is sorry the
separation has been brought about with such tragedy, but I--I care not
how it came about so that it did come. I wonder you did not suspect me,
Mr. Starr!”
She turned and looked at him again, a sort of challenge in her eyes,
which he met squarely.
“Maddelena!” exclaimed Cacciola, glancing from one to the other, but
neither heeded him at the moment.
“Perhaps I did till I met you,” Austin answered. “I don’t now, or I
shouldn’t have asked your help.”
“Good! I like an honest man, and that is very honest, Mr. Starr. I also
will be honest. I did not murder Paula Rawson, though there have been
many times when I would have done so if I could. And I tell you that if
I knew who did I would do all in my power to shield him.”
“But not if an innocent man should suffer in his place,” he urged.
“Miss Cacciola, I implore you if you know anything--even if you
suspect anything or anyone----”
“I neither know nor suspect anything,” she interrupted decisively.
“I had not thought till to-day that there was any doubt. But you
are right, the innocent must not suffer. I--we”--she glanced at her
uncle--“will do all we can to help you.”
“What can we do?” asked Cacciola perplexedly. “I have heard you with
much surprise, with much distress. I am grieved that Maddelena here is
so hard; she knows it. It is not like her, signor, for she is truly a
loving child.”
He looked so thoroughly upset and miserable that with one of her swift
impulses Maddelena sprang up, and bent over the back of his chair,
putting her arms caressingly round him.
“Never mind me, dear uncle. I love when I love and I hate when I hate;
I am made like that, and it cannot be helped. But Mr. Starr is right:
we must do what we can to bring the truth to light.”
“That’s so, Miss Cacciola. Now do either of you know the names of any
of these Russians or where they live?”
“I do not, nor you, uncle? As I said, they came and went as they
liked, and my uncle should have forbidden it; but he is so weak where
Boris is concerned. And he is so sorry for them, as for all who
are unfortunate.” She gave him another hug, and resumed her seat,
continuing: “Do you know he used to give them food if he was at home
and knew they were there with Boris, slinking in by one and two
after dark? Well, he would bid Giulia make a good meal; and she did,
grumbling. But she was never permitted to take in the dishes--no, nor
even to peep into the room. Boris always came and took them from her!”
“What is a little food?” protested Cacciola. “I do not believe there is
any harm in these poor souls; they are not Communists, but aristocrats
who have escaped with their bare lives--whose lives are still perhaps
in danger; and of one thing I am certain: not one of them would have
lifted his hand against Paula--she was their best friend.”
“There may have been a spy among them for all that, as Mr. Starr
suggested,” said Maddelena. “And I promise you that I will find out all
I can about them. Boris will tell me, if I go to work in the right way.”
“I’m infinitely obliged to you, Miss Maddelena,” said Austin earnestly.
“And now let us talk of something pleasanter. Will you have some more
coffee? Ah, it is cold! Some wine, then. That will make my uncle more
cheerful. Will you move the coffee-tray, Mr. Starr? Set it on the
piano--anywhere.”
He jumped up to do her bidding, while she crossed to the corner
cupboard. Taking the tray from the little carved stand, he glanced
round the room, and noting a small table near the door moved towards it.
As he did so he saw the door, on which hung a heavy embroidered
_portière_, gently closing. Next instant he remembered that Maddelena
had certainly shut the door after her when she entered; he had noticed
the clever little backward kick with which she did so, and had heard
the click of the latch. None of them had been anywhere near the door
since. Who then was outside?
Striding swiftly across the room he dropped rather than set the tray on
the table, sprang to the door and threw it wide open. The outer hall
was dark and silent.
“Who is there?” he demanded, and at the same moment Maddelena called
from the other side the room:
“What is the matter, Mr. Starr?”
“The door has been opened--someone has been listening,” he said,
stepping warily into the darkness and feeling for the electric switch.
“Where is that switch?”
“By the hall door, on the right,” said Maddelena, hurrying to him,
while Cacciola followed more slowly, shuffling in his big slippers.
He switched the light on. The small, square hall was empty but for
themselves. Maddelena passed swiftly along and switched on another
light that illuminated the two passages at the end that ran right and
left. No one there either.
“I shut the door when I came in,” she whispered.
“I know. I saw you,” he answered as softly.
“And I left the light on in the hall--I had both my hands full. It must
have been either Boris or Giulia. Uncle, go and see if Boris is up. I
will go to Giulia,” she said, motioning Austin to stay where he was.
He watched her go softly along the right-hand passage, open a door at
the end, and switch on a light. From within the room, even at that
distance, he could hear a sonorous snore.
Maddelena put out the light, closed Giulia’s door, and beckoned to
Austin to join her.
“She is fast asleep; it could not have been she. I--I am frightened.
Let us look in the other rooms.”
They did so; dining-room, kitchen, her own room--a charming one, next
to Giulia’s. No one lurking there.
They went back and found Cacciola doing the same in the other wing,
which once was a separate flat. He too looked very disturbed.
“Boris sleeps soundly, as he should do; he is under the doctor and
had a sleeping draught to-night, and there is none other here but
ourselves. Who can have been here?”
“I guess whoever it was has just walked out,” said Austin, striding
back to the front door. “Why didn’t I think of that first?”
“Wait, the lights will be out there. Take my torch,” counselled
Cacciola, fumbling for it in his overcoat pocket.
Softly all three of them went down all those flights of stone stairs.
Still no sign of anyone, no sound. They themselves were evidently, and
as usual, the only occupants of the block who were up so late; but the
street door was open.
“That is proof,” whispered Maddelena. “It is always closed at eleven;
after that we have to admit ourselves with our pass-key.”
“How many keys to this door have you?” asked Austin, after looking out
into the night and closing the door, latching it this time.
“Only one--my uncle has it; and if others are late they must rouse the
porter.”
“I wonder who has that missing key--the key you told me just now that
Lady Rawson had, and lost,” said Austin, when they had returned to the
drawing-room. “Take my advice, Mr. Cacciola, and have a new lock to
your front door to-morrow. And don’t leave any spare keys around!”