CHAPTER XII

THE SUSPECT REFUSES TO TALK

The psychological alibi! As the Russian’s theory dawned on me I was shocked to find that every detail clicked into place. Breese _had_ summoned us to his hotel exactly three-quarters of an hour after the murder had been committed. His entire demeanor during the interview now seemed highly suspicious to me.

I rose from my chair determinedly and reached for the telephone.

“I’m going to call up Ben Smith,” I said, “and tell him about this.”

But the Russian stopped me.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” he said. “You are entirely too hasty, my friend. I have given you a theory, and you have jumped to a conclusion.”

I resented the Russian’s assumption of superiority. I resented his amusement at my haste. Possibly it was because of this that I sought to destroy his reasoned conclusions. I remember I said: “Perhaps I am hasty. After all there’s no motive.”

The Russian smiled.

“But what motive would he have?” I protested.

“Motive? His wife has dragged his name into scandal. Despite her foolishness she emerged triumphant from the divorce trial. He was hopelessly beaten. His own children turned against him. He comes down here, swallowing his pride and begging for a reconciliation. His wife will not see him. His children will not see him. He admits as much, doesn’t he? He learns his wife wants to marry this actor. Mr. Breese is an old man. His pride is gone. His home is gone. His children are gone.

“Consider his character. He is not used to defeat. He is a man who has had his own way. He is a hard man, obstinate. And who is to blame for his position? Put yourself in his place. Can’t you see a steadily growing malignant hatred of his wife? I assure you, men have committed murder for much less!

“And see how it all fits in,” the Russian continued. “Why does Rice accuse the actor? Because Mr. Breese has talked to him. He has given Rice the telegrams from the detective agency. He has poisoned Rice’s mind with suspicion, just as he planned to poison Smith’s mind when he summoned him for an engagement three-quarters of an hour after the murder.

“And see how the confession of my friend, the Count, fits into this! Suppose he had seen Mr. Breese murder his wife. Wouldn’t it be like my friend to try and save Mary Breese from the double tragedy? Her mother dead, her father a murderer? Now put yourself in the Count’s place. Knowing what he knows, what is he to do? Loving Mary Breese as he loves her, what is he to do?

“It would be a problem for any man. My friend, the Count, hides in one of the rooms upstairs. He telephones me, and asks for advice. I tell him. He lets himself be discovered. He is dragged before Smith. He knows the real murderer. At first his impulse was to take the blame upon himself together with the consequences. But my friend is no story-book hero. He has no desire to spend the rest of his life in a Cuban prison. So, following my suggestion, he arranges for you to overhear his confession, and then he disappears. Mr. Breese is protected. Mary Breese is saved from a horrible truth. Now, my friend, is it not probable? Is it not reasonable?”

“Well,” I hesitated, “it sounds reasonable enough. But there’s one thing you forget.”

“And that is?”

“No one knows Mr. Breese was here. No one saw him here. The servants testify there were no visitors. How did Mr. Breese get in?”

“That,” said the Russian, “is not as difficult as it sounds. How did my friend, the Count, get in? But I’ll concede you have touched, without knowing it, a very vital problem here, something I hope to solve before the day is over. At least, if Mr. Breese does what I think he will.”

He strode over to the garden window, and drew the curtains aside, so that a bright sun streamed through the room. He looked out upon the brilliant foliage of the garden.

“To think,” he mused, “that a house built for beauty and grandeur should house meanness and murder! But that is the way of human beings. It was like this several years ago--when the Baron was murdered. Outwardly all peace and contentment and inwardly a ghastly tragedy.” He turned from the window. “Do you remember, I said, when I heard that Mr. Breese had arrived in this city: ‘The circle is complete’? My friend, I am firmly convinced that the man who killed the Baron is responsible for the death of Mrs. Breese!”

“But where? How? I fail to see the connection!”

“It is there, nevertheless. I don’t know. I feel it. The same people were there in Riga--Mr. Breese, Mr. Rice, Mr. Thomas, my friend the Count, the Countess, the boy--they were all there. Isn’t it curious to you? Isn’t it significant?”

He paused abruptly.

“I was right!” He pointed to the street, and I moved to the window to see. “Mr. Breese is about to pay us a visit. Here, quick, get hold of the policemen in the reception-room and tell them on no account to open the door!”

“But why?”

“Don’t question. Do as I say.”

Wonderingly, I obeyed. Before I could return to the drawing-room, a bell pealed. The policeman made no move. Again the bell, and again. The Russian strode out into the hall. I followed.

Five minutes passed, the bell resounded now through the house. Still we made no move.

Finally I heard the click of a key in the lock. The door opened. Mr. Breese looked up at us.

“That,” said the Russian, his little eyes gleaming, “is how Mr. Breese came in.”

“Who is this man?” Breese demanded of me.

Before I could reply, the Russian continued: “Absurdly simple, isn’t it? I forgot, Mr. Breese, that you built this house. Naturally you would have a key!”

“What in the world are you talking about?” Breese snapped. “Who is this man?”

I explained the Russian away as an associate of Smith’s.

“Surely, you must remember me,” said the Russian. “Don’t you remember in Riga--I was then with the Russian police. We had an interesting talk then. We’ll have another interesting talk now. Won’t you step in here, Mr. Breese?”

“I don’t know you and I don’t remember you,” Breese barked. “I’ve come here to see my children. I haven’t come to see you. If you’re a detective, let me see your credentials.”

“I haven’t any,” the Russian replied, “but Mr. Smith will vouch for me.”

“I don’t care who vouches for you. You might have some consideration for a man in my position. Please get out of my way. I’m going upstairs.”

“Very well, sir,” the Russian bowed. Without a word, Breese laboriously began climbing the wide stone steps.

When he was out of sight, the Russian grinned good-naturedly: “The suspect refuses to talk!”