THERE was silence for a moment. Adrian’s face was hidden in his hands, Paul and Adelaide sat in paralyzed stillness, while Benvenuto and Major Kent faced each other. Then the old man, as if in answer to some unspoken word of Benvenuto’s, sank back in his chair and went on, his voice suddenly quiet and expressionless.
“I saw in the morning paper that she had arrived in London, and I knew from my son’s letter that he was going to see her. I decided I would make one more attempt to find him, for although I had little hope of appealing to her humanity or decency—I had learnt too much about her before we parted fifteen years ago to expect that—still, I thought, I might be able to find out from her his whereabouts. I rang up her suite at the hotel and someone answered for her, and gave me an appointment at once. Apparently, as it turned out later, she thought I was my son, and was waiting for him when I arrived.
“I tried to talk to her quietly, without bitterness; my son’s letter had told me that he had ceased to love her, and I begged her to leave him in peace. I offered her money, suggested I should settle an income on her for life, and finally asked her to give me my son’s address. She heard to the end, smiling, and then prompted by heaven knows what malicious instinct to hurt me, and through me, Adrian, she told me he had come back to her, sworn that he loved her passionately, and that they were going away together. She laughed at me when in my horror I offered her everything I own to give him up, told me that I had grown old and had forgotten what love meant, boasted that the years had not touched her, and in a final burst of arrogance and defiance she threw off her wrapper and flaunted herself in front of me. She was vile—vile—”
For the first time the old man’s voice was shaken, then pulling himself together he lifted his head and faced Benvenuto.
“I have only been waiting to see my son again before giving myself up.”
Benvenuto was about to speak when Adrian jumped to his feet. “Don’t listen to him, any of you. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, you’re not to believe him. It was all my fault, and I shall—”
“Sit down!” Benvenuto’s voice was stern, and Adelaide put out her hand and pulled Adrian down beside her.
“But Ben—what are you going to do?” she asked, her voice very low.
He was looking over her head at the wall, and Paul, following the direction of his glance, saw that a clock was hanging there. Then he looked down at the four faces round him.
“I am in a sense going to put myself on trial before you all,” he said abruptly, and each one of them was startled into attention.
“In the eyes of the law I have no possible justification for the part I have played in investigating the murder of Luela da Costa, so I want you four people to sit in judgment on me.”
“This investigation is one of a good many with which I have identified myself since the war ended; in some of them I have given over to the police the results of my inquiries, in others I have remained silent. I suppose I shall go on to the end of my life mixing myself up in affairs that don’t concern me, simply because four years of war left me with a very lively respect for human life.
“You will tell me that the obvious and proper course to have taken would have been to enter the police force, which exists for the purpose of protecting human life. It is the machinery for enforcing a very wise and very sound judicial system which we have built up in our own interests, and for which I have as great a respect as any of you. It succeeds in making us the most law-abiding people in the world, and under its rule the majority of us live in peace and security, able to sleep at night with a reasonable conviction that we shall not be murdered in our beds. I very much doubt if this state of affairs could exist unless the punishment of willful murder were death, or at least life imprisonment, which instils into most people a deep-rooted conviction that murder, as a means of satisfying greed or lust, is a game that simply isn’t worth the candle. The result is that the majority of murders are committed by people who are mentally, physically, or morally diseased, and so are better out of the way. There remains the minority—the rare murders which are committed by the sane, the essentially gentle and law-abiding specimens of humanity who are under the influence of obscure, even ethical motives. In some cases a wisdom above law and a merciful ruler may extend pardon, but not before the agony of a prolonged trial and the resultant suspense and suffering have done their work.
“Surely, to all of us who are not servants of the law it is the spirit, and not the letter of the law, that matters. If that is so, surely it is possible to conceive of a situation in which an ordinary thinking man might arrive at a better understanding of what is justice than a judge and jury, who are bound to apply general principles in individual cases?”
Now he was directly addressing Major Kent.
“Everything that you have told us to-night I knew, before I sent you that telegram which brought you out here. How I came by that knowledge I will explain to you later; it is sufficient for the moment to say that it would have been extremely difficult for me to offer proofs of what I knew, and further, that no one beyond the five people in this room share this knowledge. You told us just now that you have been waiting to see your son before going to the police with your confession. I want you to realize that at this moment the police hold no shred of evidence against you, and it is extremely improbable, indeed practically impossible, that they can ever find any. Such evidence as exists points to one man, and he—”
“Do not go on.”
It was Major Kent speaking. “Believe me I am grateful for what you have done for me, and grateful to all of you for what you have done for Adrian. But my mind is made up, and nothing that you can say can make any difference. Suspicions exist—and the only thing that I can do is to give myself up to-morrow—” The quiet voice stopped as a loud knock sounded on the door. Each one of them turned with a start, and after a hardly perceptible pause Benvenuto called, “Entrez.”
The door opened, and Leech stood there, behind him two uniformed gendarmes. They came in and stood in a group round the door. Leech looked straight at Benvenuto.
“Sorry to intrude, Mr. Brown, I didn’t know you had company. I just came in, knowing you was interested in the matter, to tell you we know who committed the murder in that Bishop’s ’Otel case.” He paused for dramatic effect, and there was a breathless silence in the room.
Paul jumped to his feet.
“Who d’you mean?” he demanded hoarsely.
But Leech was not to be hurried.
“Of course, nothing’s proved yet, but there’s evidence that makes it as plain as a pikestaff. I had my suspicions all along. Herbert Dawkins, alias the Slosher, it was, him as you saw dead on the road this evening. When I came to search the body, bless me if I didn’t find the missing diamond brooch with initials L. da C. on it, and alongside of it the actual key of her room. It beats me, the way they’ll carry incriminating evidence about on them, even the most experienced ones.”
“Extraordinary,” interjected Benvenuto.
“You may well say so, Mr. Brown. Well, he’s no great loss to the world. He’s been suspected of murder before, but we could never fix anything on ’im. I must be getting along now.”
Major Kent rose from his chair and took a step towards the little detective, and then Paul placed himself between them.
“Congratulations, Leech,” he said, shaking him warmly by the hand. “Pretty good evening’s work, that. He looked a thorough-going scoundrel, that fellow, and I can’t say I’m surprised. Well, he saved you some trouble at the end, didn’t he? C’est la Justice, eh?” he added, addressing himself to the two men in uniform.
“C’est la Justice Divine,” said the fatter of the two gendarmes, taking off his hat.
“That’s true enough,” agreed Leech. “And now I must be O. P. H., so good-night all.”
“Good-night,” said Major Kent.