CHAPTER XXII

THE MAN IN THE TAXI

“Would you mind telling me--” the elder Breese was exasperatingly polite--“if your police department is composed solely of lunatics?”

Smith swallowed helplessly. I could sympathize with his exasperation. The Russian had persistently hammered at him to arrest Breese. When Smith finally in desperation had taken this step the irrepressible Perutkin sent his own house of cards toppling, and was off.

But the detective stuck to his guns. “You needn’t pay any attention to him,” he said. “He’ll have nothing more to do with this case. I’ll see to that. I’m in charge and I’ll take full responsibility, Mr. Breese, for whatever I do.”

“Very well, then,” said Breese. “Am I to understand that I am under arrest for murder?”

“Exactly,” snapped Smith.

“I suppose I’m permitted to consult a lawyer?” the old man asked coolly.

“In due time,” replied Smith. “You needn’t answer any questions I put to you but if you really know nothing of the murder of your wife and of Trenholm, being frank with me will save a lot of unpleasantness.”

Breese nodded. “This is not unexpected,” he confessed. “I’ve caught you people looking strangely at me and it’s gotten on my nerves. Now what evidence will you present in court?”

“First,” said Smith, “you had a key which gave you entrance to your wife’s house.”

“That’s a long way from murder,” said the old man.

“You used that key that night.”

“And if I did?”

“You knew your wife was dead when we came to your room that night. When you got the news over the telephone, you acted as if it were news to you. You did your utmost to implicate Thomas.”

“Because I sincerely believed him to be at the bottom of it, and I’m not sure now that I’ve changed my mind.”

“But a man of your standing,” insisted Smith, “doesn’t usually play hide and seek with the police the way you did unless he has something to hide.”

“I’ve got some imagination,” replied Breese. “My relations with my wife were not of the best. In the eyes of the law I had plenty of motive to kill her. But the law doesn’t realize that a man who loves a woman doesn’t kill her no matter how much she exasperates him. But I knew that if it were known that I was in the house at the time--that I had, in fact, stolen into the house--you people would make short work of me. I had to protect myself.”

“That sounds reasonable, the way you tell it,” conceded Smith.

“It’s the truth,” the old man said simply. “Good God, man, do I look like a murderer? Do I look like a man who would kill the woman who bore me two children?”

“But here’s the problem we’re up against,” Smith pointed out. “We’ve got to proceed on evidence. Slowly but surely the evidence has been accumulating against you. You admit it yourself. If you didn’t kill her, who did?”

“Do you think that if I knew I wouldn’t have told you long ago?” countered the old man. “Don’t you think I loved my wife? Don’t you think her death was a blow to me? Don’t you think I’m suffering the torments of hell right now?”

There was such evident sincerity in the man’s voice that even Smith, I could see, was troubled. He said: “I want you to understand, Mr. Breese, that I’m merely doing my duty.” The old man nodded. “But there are still actions of yours that I can’t explain away. Why were you so anxious to leave the country before your wife’s funeral? I had to go to the trouble of getting you shipped back from Key West.”

“Oh, you were the one?” the old man smiled grimly. “I suspected as much. Well, I did want to get away. You remember you told me that the Count had been arrested on his confession. I know how my daughter feels about him. Coming at that time, I felt I had all the sorrow I could bear. I wanted to get away to think things out. I was afraid of breaking under the strain.” He paused. “As a matter of fact, I consulted Rice and asked his advice. He advised me to go away. He knew I had nothing to do with it and he was perfectly willing to look after my family.”

“You should have consulted me,” Smith said. “If you’d talked as frankly as you do now we’d have been much further ahead in this case.”

“I had no desire to tangle myself up with the police,” the old man pointed out.

“Well, then, finally,” said Smith, “just why did you come to see Mr. Spence?”

“If a man writes me to come and see him, and then telephones me he has information on my wife’s death, I’d naturally come. As a matter of fact, I paid no attention to the letter, because it was so cryptic. It was only after he phoned me that I decided to look into the matter.”

“Why didn’t you refer Spence to me?” demanded Smith.

“I’m in the habit of doing things for myself,” replied Breese. “I wasn’t afraid to come down. I took a revolver along as a precaution. I had no real reason to be afraid. And perhaps you’re willing to believe that I’m just as anxious to clear up my wife’s death as anyone can be. I feel I’m under a shadow until the case is cleared.”

From Smith’s bland expression I knew that he was studying the financier with great interest. I knew that Smith had not yet made up his mind.

“You must understand,” Smith continued, “that your visit here, coupled with other circumstances, is highly suspicious. Let me show you why--I talked with Spence. He’s a blackmailer. He wants money. Any jury would assume that he wrote you for only one purpose--to get hush money. And that you came down to give it to him.”

“But I never heard of the man before!” cried Breese.

“But you heard of Trenholm.”

“No,” said Breese. “I didn’t. First I saw of him was the night of the funeral, although I was paying him his salary. That Trenholm business is absolutely beyond me. That whole night is like a nightmare to me even now. I woke up last night shivering and sweating. I’d been dreaming all sorts of crazy things, with Trenholm in them. It’s taken all my will power, I tell you, to keep my hold on things.”

Smith looked at him. For my part, I was willing to accept the financier’s story. I had realized before that a chain of circumstantial evidence may strangle the innocent, and Breese seemed to have a tenable explanation for every step he took in the case, once you granted him a lack of motive. On the other hand, I realized (and Smith, I could see, was of the same mind) that Breese might be wriggling out of the evidence against him with a disarming frankness foreign to his character.

Finally Smith said: “I’m willing to go a long way, Mr. Breese, to give you the benefit of the doubt--provided you promise me that you won’t leave the country until I say you can go.”

Something of the financier’s arrogance returned to him. He flushed angrily. “And what if I refuse?”

Smith shrugged his shoulders. “Then I’m afraid I must take the necessary steps to detain you.”

He spoke quietly, but there was a challenge in his voice. The old man stared at him defiantly.

But the tension was broken by the door swinging open suddenly. A young native in the livery of a taxi chauffeur stood panting before us. I recognized him as Breese’s driver. His eyes were wide open with excitement, and his forehead was wet.

“Mr. Breese!” he called. “Mr. Breese!”

“What is it?” growled the financier.

“Come with me, please. Right away!” the driver pleaded. “There’s a man in the cab.”

“What man?” demanded Breese.

“The man you sent away with me.”

“I didn’t send any man away with you,” Breese denied angrily. “What are you talking about?”

But the chauffeur was now wringing his hands. “Come please!” he pleaded. “It is terrible.”

“What’s come over you?” demanded Breese.

“Come--please--see” urged the chauffeur, wringing his hands more violently. “It is terrible!” Then he stopped, realizing our utter bewilderment. He began patiently. “I am sitting outside, waiting for you, Mr. Breese, when a man runs out from back of the store and he says: ‘Mr. Breese want you to drive me quick to Calle L.’ So I says: ‘Get in.’ So we drive.”

“I didn’t send anyone to you,” Breese shook his head. “I haven’t met anyone here except Spence.”

“Well, the man was Spence,” Smith intervened. “I saw him jump in the cab myself. I came in here and told you.”

He turned to the driver.

“Go on. What happened?”

The chauffeur took a deep breath. “I drive to Calle L. When I stop he says: ‘Go in café and get drink and be back in fifteen minutes.’ I am thirsty, I say: ‘All right.’ I go into café and have drink. After fifteen minutes I come back. I get into seat. I start car. Man sitting there. I drive back. I come here.” He wiped his forehead. “Ten years I work for Biltmore. Never anything happens to me. Never.”

“Go on!” urged Smith.

“I get here,” the chauffeur swallowed. “I get out. I open the door. The man do not move. I say something. He say nothing. Then I look. It is terrible! Ten years I work for Biltmore and never anything happen.”

But Smith was already out of the door. Breese and I followed him hurriedly.

Seated in the back of the open cab, his hands folded upon his stomach, his long elbows grotesquely akimbo, was a sallow-faced individual, apparently asleep.

“Good God!” cried Breese. “That’s Spence--the chap I saw.”

Smith looked at him. “Your chauffeur says he told him you sent him away in this cab.”

“But I did nothing of the kind,” cried Breese. “Why, he left by the back door. He said he’d be gone only a few minutes. I was waiting for him!”

Suddenly the body swayed and then toppled headlong to the floor. The fixed eyes looked directly at us. Then we saw there was a pool of blood upon the seat of the cab.

Breese cried out in horror.