CHAPTER XI

THE PSYCHOLOGICAL ALIBI

It was the next morning that Boris Sergeivitch Perutkin actively intervened in the Murder in the Gilded Cage, as I called it. Smith sent for him. I still remember how the giant stamped into Smith’s cubby-hole of an office, his big face radiating geniality, his little eyes twinkling with malicious humor.

“At last!” he greeted Smith. “At last, you have the common sense to summon me!”

“I didn’t call you in as a detective,” said Smith, “I’ve sent for you as a friend of this Count.”

“So!” the Russian grinned. “I am disappointed.”

“Where is he?” barked Smith.

“My good friend,” replied the detective, “I haven’t any idea where he is.”

He seated himself in the hard wicker chair Smith kept for guests, lit a cigar, and puffed lazily.

“I saw him for perhaps five minutes after he left you last night, and since then he has been swallowed by the world.”

Smith went to the window and opened it. A refreshing morning breeze floated in, bearing upon its wings the cries of the Chinese street vendors below.

“Listen, Perutkin,” said Smith. “I’m in no mood for jokes. I’m going to get at the bottom of this and damn soon, too. I want to know what’s the idea. I had a perfect case against this actor before your friend breezed in. He comes through with a confession and he beats it. Why?”

“Well,” said the Russian, “my friend is not a practical joker. He wouldn’t perpetrate anything in such bad taste. He must have his reasons.”

“It was a cheap trick!” Smith fumed. “Telling us to watch behind the door. ‘If you don’t trust me, have a revolver in your hand.’ And then taking the key with him, and locking us in!”

Smith walked about angrily.

The Russian laughed. “He followed my orders to the letter.”

Smith stopped and stared at him. “You mean to say you told him to do that?”

“Certainly, my friend,” said Perutkin. “I am his advisor. He asked me what to do. I told him.”

“Oh! He asked you what to do!” mocked Smith. “Then you’ll kindly come across right now and tell me what it’s all about.”

“Unfortunately,” said the Russian, “I don’t know myself. The Count went to the house without my knowledge. He telephoned me from the house, and if you want me to repeat the conversation, I shall be glad to. He said: ‘Boris Sergeivitch, I want to confess a murder.’ Just like that. And I said: ‘My friend, are you mad?’ And he said: ‘I want to confess a murder. The police are downstairs. But I don’t wish to pay the penalty.’ Well, I am his friend. I cannot ask him on the telephone: ‘What? Where?’ I gave him my advice. He acted accordingly. And that,” the Russian concluded, “is all I know.”

“You haven’t seen him since?” Smith asked.

Perutkin shook his head.

“Well, you know where you can get him, don’t you?”

“I might,” conceded the Russian. His little eyes gleamed suddenly. “I have a bargain to make with you. I have the best possible reasons in the world for being interested in this case. It fits in so completely with a case that absorbed me not so long ago, that is still not solved. Besides, I am aching for work, as I have told you. I shall find my friend, the Count, for you, and you can do with him what you wish. But on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“That you give me a free hand in the investigation.” As Smith began to protest, he added: “Understand, I want no credit. I want no official status. I seek no kudos. I have a definite purpose in mind. If you help me, I shall help you.” Then, pleading, “Believe me, you shall not regret your decision. Then it is agreed!” Before Smith could even answer!

“Wait a minute,” Smith interrupted. “Just exactly what do you want?”

“Access to Mrs. Breese’s house, and all the facts as they are disclosed. Nothing more.”

Smith nodded. “That’s all right,” he said. “I don’t see any harm in that. But you must produce the Count within one week or I shall have you arrested as accessory to the crime.”

“Done!” exclaimed the Russian. “Now, Mr. Smith, you may rest easy. I shall untangle this little problem for you. First, the facts!”

“Facts!” growled Smith. “I wish I knew what they were!”

He outlined what he had gathered thus far, beginning with our interview with the elder Breese where we had first learned of the murder. Boris Sergeivitch Perutkin listened intently, grunting at each significant piece of evidence, gesturing impatiently at routine detail.

“The big things I want to know,” he would interrupt. “Never mind the measurements of the floor. I am not a scientific detective. I live in reality. Proceed, please.”

“Here’s the thing in a nutshell,” concluded Smith. “Until your friend butted in, I had a reasonably clear case against the actor. He’s a bad egg. He had a girl back in New York. He needed money. There’s that forged check. There’s Rice’s testimony. It all fits in. And yet along comes your friend with a confession and--there we are! Now what do you make of it?”

“At present, nothing,” said the Russian. “First, I must see the house. Will you accompany me?”

“Oh, I’ve been all over the place,” said Smith. “There’s nothing there.”

“Perhaps not,” replied the Russian. “But I must insist upon seeing that room. It is all-important.”

Smith turned to me. “All right, why don’t you go with him? I’ve got a report to fill out now. I’ll telephone ahead for them to let you in. I may meet you there later.”

“Good,” exclaimed the Russian, smiling at me. “I like an audience when I work. So will you come, please?”

Smith stopped us at the door.

“By the way,” he said to the Russian, “I’ve got the medical examiner’s report here, if you care to see it. I’ve just had it translated into English!”

He handed a sheaf of papers to the Russian, who scanned them hastily and thrust them into his pocket.

“I shall examine them later. Probably they contain nothing more than you’ve already told me.”

“Not much more,” said Smith, turning back to his work. “And if you see anything in the house I’ve overlooked, I’ll eat it. If you take my advice, never mind the house, and get hold of your friend, the Count. That’s more important.”

“We shall see,” said the Russian. And to me: “Come, my friend.”

Down in the street we were fortunate enough to find a brand-new taxi and with incredible speed we raced through the choked streets of the business quarter, narrowly dodging other cars and at least four trams. We stopped at a kiosk for the morning papers. The Gilded Cage was the story of the day. Although there were but scanty available facts, these were embellished with considerable gossip, and smeared over the front pages of both Cuban and English papers.

Apparently the murder had aroused considerable interest at home, too, for cables from New York recounted the shock of Mrs. Breese’s friends at the news. Considerable space was given to a rehash of the divorce trial.

When we drew up before the Gilded Cage, we found an assorted crowd of curiosity seekers lined up in front of us. Several of the native newspaper men were sipping bacardi and coca-cola in the corner café across the street. A lone and perspiring photographer was taking pictures from all angles of the house of mystery. A murder sensation was well under way.

Smith had notified the native police on guard of our coming, so we were admitted without much delay. I led the Russian at his request into the drawing-room and roughly mapped out for him the position of the body as I had last seen it. We were alone.

One of the policemen told us that the family was upstairs, and we left orders that we were not to be disturbed in our examination. As I read off my copious notes of the day before, the Russian seemed only casually interested. When I was done, he said: “It is a fallacy to take so many notes. One does not see the forest for the trees, as you say in your country. But thank you!”

Then he brushed me aside and began examining the furniture:

“Fine pieces!” he commented. “I have a love for expensive old furniture. But what is this doing here?” He pointed to the black and silver radio. “It is out of harmony. I do not like it.”

I could not very well point out to him that we were not there to criticize the color scheme of the drawing-room. He walked about, smoking his big cigar, examining the pictures and then pausing at the bust of Mrs. Breese.

“What a woman!” he exclaimed, patting the stone head. “Unhappy woman! Always restless, always scheming, never satisfied.” He shook his head mournfully and then: “She had very poor taste! Very poor! In furniture, in people.” Then he wheeled at me suddenly. “Behold! You think I am wasting time? I am! I am getting my thoughts together. I see something. What is more important, I feel something. I shall talk to you--I shall think aloud, as we say. Behold the problem that confronts me. A woman is murdered.

“There were fifteen servants and three members of the household, the actor and two children. We take the actor first. The evidence is overwhelming against him. He is a bad character. He has another woman. He needs money. He has forged a check. He has been found out. It is perfect! Too perfect! No man would commit murder under such circumstances, at least if he were sane, and Mr. Thomas is stupid but sane.

“Mr. Rice is the one who accuses Mr. Thomas. Now, where was Mr. Rice last evening? That is important to know.”

“Why, you don’t for a moment think,” I said, “that Rice did it? He was Mrs. Breese’s friend. Her adviser.”

“When a man accuses another of a murder, his hands must be clean. Spotless. Where was Mr. Rice last night? That is what I ask.”

“As a matter of fact, I just remember now that Smith checked up on Rice this morning,” I said. “It was so much a matter of routine that I paid no particular attention to it. Rice dined at the American Ministry last night. As I remember it, he got there at nine and never left the presence of the Minister except for five minutes once to telephone. It would take anyone an hour to go from this house to the Ministry. So that leaves Rice out definitely.”

“Yes,” agreed the Russian, “that leaves Mr. Rice out. And yet Mr. Rice is very anxious to accuse Mr. Thomas. Why?”

“Because he doesn’t like him,” I suggested. “Because he sincerely believes Thomas did it.”

“Not good enough,” said the Russian. “But let us proceed. For I have a point to make. The methodical Mr. Smith collects an excellent case against Mr. Thomas. Until my friend, the Count, suddenly appears and confesses.

“Let us consider my friend, the Count. What was he doing in the house? That is no secret. To you, I can talk. You have sentiment in your soul. Your Mr. Smith has none. He has been trying to see his former wife, Mary Breese. He loves her. They have been separated by the calamitous event in Riga, plus Mrs. Breese’s interference. You can build up an excellent case against my friend, the Count. In the first place, he has already been suspected of one murder. Then, he has no love for Mrs. Breese. He has been cast out. Presumably, he took his revenge. And yet I know the man. That is not him!

“But he confesses and escapes. Why? He didn’t tell me, and yet I know. While he was in this house, waiting to see Mary Breese, he stumbled upon something which led him to make his confession. Remember--he loves this girl deeply. He knows that she is suffering--a terrible shock. Suppose that he learns something that will hurt her even more terribly?”

“I don’t follow,” I protested.

“Let me make myself plain. Mary Breese is horrified at the murder of her mother. Naturally. It is sufficient tragedy for anyone. But if someone very close and dear to Mary Breese were the murderer the shock would be double, would it not? It would be an enormous tragedy. She might not survive it. In any case, the Count would try to shield her from the knowledge. He is chivalrous enough, foolish enough, if you will. Now--” the Russian fixed his little eyes on me--“whom is he trying to shield? Someone very dear to Mary Breese. Her brother?”

“It hardly seems possible,” I said.

“Granted that--for the moment. There is her father.”

“Old Man Breese? Not much!” I scoffed.

“But why not?” he demanded.

“For one thing,” I said “because he was in the hotel with us when we got the news.”

The Russian smiled and shook his head admiringly. “It would be diabolically clever--so ingenuous. Don’t you see?” I caught a curious excitement in his voice. “Behold the psychological alibi! Don’t you see it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” I shook my head.

“Ach!” the Russian snorted impatiently. “Behold! Let us say that Mr. Breese wanted to kill his wife. Now, the unfortunate lady was killed at about nine-fifteen. What time was your engagement with Mr. Breese?”

“At ten!”

“Excellent! He calls Smith up in the morning and makes an engagement with him for ten o’clock that night. Do you see? He comes here at nine-fifteen, kills his wife, takes a taxi and gets back to the hotel at least ten minutes before you arrive. He tells you that he fears something is going to happen to Mrs. Breese. He plants very obviously suspicion against the actor. While you are there, he receives a phone call informing him of his wife’s murder. Psychologically, he impresses you with his alibi. You do not reason that he may have gone out and just returned. Because you are there with him when he receives the news, you believe he is just as innocent and ignorant of the crime as you are. But it is diabolically clever!”