CHAPTER VII

INQUIRY

Smith and I literally threw ourselves into a taxi, and raced to the Gilded Cage. Breese had said he had not the strength to accompany us, and after looking at his ashen face I could readily believe him.

Our cab whirled past the grilled windows and stone fronts of the dark houses. The air was heavy with the perfume of a tropical night. The streets were practically deserted. Only an occasional hotel flared brilliantly as we raced by.

Before I was quite aware of it, our driver had turned into Calle L and then stopped with a screeching of brakes, in the manner of Latin chauffeurs. The Gilded Cage was an imposing sight, beautifully white, with enormous marble pillars, huge mahogany doors, massive grilles to delight the heart of any lover of cunning ironwork, and a magnificent garden studded with royal palms that kept the vulgar street far from the inmates of the palace.

As I came up the stairs to the terrace, Smith always slightly ahead of me, I noted an exquisite sculptured fountain piece of six nudes bending over still black water and glistening white in the moonlight. The palace was still as death. Only a faint light seemed to filter through from the reception-hall. The rest of the house seemed steeled in darkness.

Smith pressed a tiny button set into a burnished gilt frame. A bell pealed softly within, and we heard footsteps. The huge door swung open, and an owlish-looking native policeman stared at us suspiciously, one hand at his revolver holster. But Smith displayed his credentials, and we were ushered in without further delay.

In the reception-room, Smith at once reached for the telephone and notified the Cuban Secret Police he had taken charge of the case and that he was now at the scene of the murder. While he talked, I looked about me, and even in the faint light I was impressed with the curious fact that every bit of furniture in the reception-room was gilt. I noted particularly a fine Spanish clock of impressive proportions, with hands and case gaudily inlaid with gold; a full sweep of gold brocade curtains upon the French windows; and a great hall mirror likewise decorated.

Smith informed me that his superiors had approved his handling of the case, and that a medical examiner would be despatched forthwith. The native policeman had arrived just a few moments before we did. Without further instruction on Smith’s part, he led us through a curtained door into the drawing-room.

The room measured about thirty-five feet by forty, and about twenty feet in height. The floor was of gaily colored tile, the walls and ceiling panelled in rich mahogany. There were two enormous French windows leading to the garden, four by ten feet. One door led to the reception-room. Another door took us to the library.

I am setting forth these facts from my notes. My first impression was too jumbled to permit such blunt recording. For a figure lay outstretched in one corner, and I still have in my memory a confused picture of diamond buckles and silk stockings, blue velvet and green emeralds, a shock of blond hair and stiff bejewelled fingers. As we came nearer, I noted, shivering, that the floor tiles near her were a bright red.

This was Mrs. Breese in her last moment of life. She could not have chosen a more sensational exit. I could not believe that this vital, domineering woman had been transformed into the still and gory heap before me. Her eyes as they were that moment still haunt me. There was such a ghastly look of surprise in those set eyes of hers. Possibly it was a physical distortion born of her last moment of suffering.

Smith bent over the prone figure. “Right through the heart,” he said finally. “Don’t need any of these native medical examiners to tell me she died immediately.”

Then he addressed the policeman in Spanish and inquired: “Where are the members of the family?”

“They are upstairs. Shall I call them?”

“No. Not yet. I want to take a look around first.”

He went to the two French windows and noted that both were locked securely from the inside.

Consulting my notes once more, I find that the body was exactly four feet from the left wall. I jotted down every item of furniture in this room. There were the following major pieces: a hand-carved table in the center, with four chairs; eight huge tapestried chairs against the wall; a bulky secretary; a Spanish marble mantel; an ornate and new radio in silver and black; a Jo Davidson bust of Mrs. Breese; two large canvases, one a Romney, the other, I believe, an Italian primitive; and several water colors and pastels of modernist persuasion. A veritable jumble of art.

Although we searched carefully, we found no weapon. There were no signs of violence in the room or upon the body. The furniture was not upset and the clothes of the woman were unruffled. Only that horrible look of surprise in her set eyes, which Smith, too, commented upon. It was not so much terror that was written there, it seemed to me, as it was sheer amazement at the tragedy that had overtaken her. I could readily believe that death was far from the thoughts of this woman.

“If only,” I said, “there was something to that superstition that the eyes of the victim photograph the murderer in the last moment of life! We’d have the secret of this in twenty-four hours!”

Smith grunted impatiently, as if annoyed at such idle speculation. He prowled about the room, methodically noting a host of what seemed to me uninteresting detail. Finally he said: “There’s one thing I’ve learned--there’s no such thing as waste motion in a case of this kind. One must overlook nothing.”

“And what have you found?” I demanded.

“One thing--and that the man who did this job----”

“Assuming it is a man,” I intervened.

“Assuming it is a man,” he repeated. “But whoever did this job left us a perfect piece of marksmanship. One bullet killed her, and as far as I can tell, it went straight through the heart. The medical examiner can check up on that.” (Dr. Miguel de Cassandra later confirmed this fact.)

“May it not have been a stroke of luck--this perfect marksmanship?” I suggested.

Smith shook his head. “No. This job was done in a hurry. It had to be. The killer couldn’t trust to luck.” He turned to the policeman. “Where are the servants?”

For answer the policeman led us through the reception-room down a long corridor and into the servants’ quarters. In the huge kitchen we found fully fifteen domestics huddled in whispering groups. There were five Jamaica blacks, two Japanese, one of them my scowling steward, several half-caste Cubans, a disdainful English butler who stood in solitary glory in a corner of his own, and a rotund and rosy-cheeked French chef who even now was ogling a pretty half-caste maid. At our entrance they all became silent.

Smith singled out the English butler for his first witness. His name was Rodney Brandlock. He was perhaps forty, rather thin, with watery blue eyes inclined to squint. He had been engaged only a few weeks ago by Mrs. Breese.

It developed that it was he who had discovered Mrs. Breese’s body and had summoned the policeman from his post.

“Tell us exactly what happened,” Smith commanded.

“After dinner,” he began, “Mrs. Breese and Mr. Thomas adjourned to the drawing-room for coffee. The two children went immediately upstairs.”

“What time was dinner?” Smith interrupted.

“Dinner tonight was at nine. We had no set hour. In any case, I brought coffee and liqueurs into the drawing-room. I returned about fifteen minutes later to remove the cups and glasses. Mrs. Breese and Mr. Thomas were chatting.”

“About what?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I didn’t stop to listen.” There was reproof in the servant’s eyes. “In any case, I removed the tray and just as I did so, the telephone rang. I answered it.--It was for Mrs. Breese from Mr. Rice.”

“Where was Mr. Rice?”

“I believe he was dining at the American Ministry. He wished to speak to Mrs. Breese. I gave the receiver to Mrs. Breese and went on my way down to the pantry. I happened to look at the clock at that time, and I noted it was exactly half-past ten. I thought of taking a walk for a bit of fresh air, and I returned to the drawing-room to ask Mrs. Breese if there would be anything further she wanted for the night. When I got in----”

“Go ahead!” Smith commanded.

“I--I found the room dark.” The butler’s voice was husky. “I--I couldn’t understand that, but I put up the lights, and then I saw----” he swallowed. “So I ran upstairs and----”

“Yes----”

“I found Mr. Thomas in the corridor, and I told him. Then I ran out for a policeman. I guess that’s all.”

Smith nodded.

“You sent for a doctor?”

“--I didn’t. I leaned over and saw that Mrs. Breese was dead, and Mr. Thomas didn’t say anything. He seemed terribly shocked.”

“But didn’t it occur to you that you ought to send for a doctor?”

“Yes, I did think of it, but Mr. Thomas instructed me to fetch a policeman, and I did. And as I say, there was no question Mrs. Breese was dead. Then when I got back, the children were down, and it was out of my hands.”

“So Mr. Thomas sent you for the policeman?” Smith asked.

“Yes.”

“Did he run down to examine the body himself?”

“No, sir.”

“What did he say exactly?”

“He said: ‘Fetch the police!’ Or: ‘Get the police!’ I think he said. That’s all I know, sir. None of the servants know anything about it. I’m the only one.”

“You heard no shot?”

“No, sir.”

Smith turned to the motley group. “Did any of you hear a shot here tonight?” he demanded. They all shook their heads. He turned once more to the butler.

“When you returned with the policeman, where did you find Mr. Thomas?”

“He was still upstairs, sir.”

“He hadn’t come down?”

“No, sir. But the children were down.”

“That’ll be all,” said Smith. “Will you go upstairs now and tell Mr. Thomas to come down to the drawing-room immediately?”