I didn’t argue.
I shot him.
III
Barnes finished his story as the train was crashing over the switches of the Grand Central. When they reached the station, the banker reached out his wrists for the handcuffs, but Thorne apparently didn’t see the movement, as he led the way out.
After Thorne had deposited his prisoner at the Tombs, his one thought was the piece of carbon paper in Brentwood’s safe deposit box. A brief sketch of Barne’s story procured an order for his entry to the box.
Buried under a mass of bonds, securities and letters Thorne found an unmarked envelope. In it was a piece of carbon paper, carefully folded once.
The detective had brought a mirror with him, and he held it before the carbon to read the damning evidence. With staring eyes he read:
Mr. Blair Townley,
Chairman Charity Ball Committee.
Dear Sir:
On instructions from Mr. Barnes I am enclosing herewith a check for $10 for tickets No. 313 and No. 314 to the Charity Ball.
The Woman Who Cursed a Man
by Harold Ward
I
Madame Blavsky, the world’s greatest tragedienne, was dead.
They found her in the cold gray of the morning lying upon the floor of her drawing-room, her beautiful face twisted into a look of horror; her great brown eyes wide open, glazed, protruding; her red lips purpled, blackened, swollen — set in a sickening grin.
Her dress had been torn away from the rounded shoulders — the shoulders that had been toasted and raved over by a thousand critics. Between the breasts was a red gash where the angry knife had entered. There were dark marks of fingers on the skin of the milky neck.
The long, slender hands were torn and bruised, twisted out of shape, the flesh scratched as the rings had been brutally pulled from the fingers by the assassin in his eagerness to escape.
An open downstairs window showed how entrance had been gained. Yet there were no marks of feet in the ground beneath. It had rained during the day and the earth would have retained the footprints had any been made.
The drawing-room showed no signs of a struggle. Not a piece of furniture was disturbed, not a rug out of place. But several drawers pulled out, their contents scattered carelessly about the floor, showed that a hurried search had been made for valuables.
But aside from the rings torn from the Madame’s fingers and possibly several less valuable trinkets, nothing of value had been taken except—
The life-size painting of Madame in the role of Lady Macbeth — the painting by Rumley, which had created such a furore at the Paris exhibition five years before — had disappeared, frame and all, from its accustomed place on the wall!
The servants were questioned. None could throw any light on the affair — none save Felice, the maid. During the night she had heard the voice of her mistress raised in an agonized shriek of horror. The sound of a fall. Then her mistress had exclaimed in tones so tense, so vibrant, that they caused the chills to creep up and down her back and every nerve to tingle with fear:
“Oh, Mother of God! Help me! Help me! Can no one hear me? May my spirit never rest until it has driven you to confess!”
The voice had stopped suddenly with a choking sort of gurgle. She, Felice, had pulled the covers over her head to drown it out. Why had she not summoned help? She shrugged her pretty shoulders. Did the officers not know that Madame suffered from insomnia as a result of the nervous attack which had driven her from the stage? On such occasions she was wont to assume the roles she had played in years gone by. And — there was another shrug of the shoulders which spoke plainer than words — Madame was, like all great artists, temperamental. When buried in one of her characters she sometimes reached a high pitch of excitement. For safety’s sake it was not always best to interrupt.
The other servants, although they had not heard Madame’s cry as described by Felice, corroborated the maid’s story of the nocturnal roles. They had learned by experience to keep their distance. In the servants’ quarters it was hinted that at such times Madame’s unstrung nerves drove her almost mad.
Add to this that on the night of the murder there had been no moon and that the street lights in the vicinity had been put out of commission as a result of the storm of the day previous and you have the story in a nutshell.
II
The career of Madame Blavsky had been a spectacular one. Whence she came no one knew. Reams of speculation had been written — speculation pure and simple — for Madame was decidedly reticent in regard to her past. All the press and public knew was that she had suddenly appeared in the offices of Richard Raine, Broadway’s most successful producer — a rarely beautiful woman of almost middle age with the face and figure of a queen — and demanded a try-out in the Shakespearian revival he was planning. Something about her caused the busy man to accede to her demands. Two hours later he, the best judge of things theatrical in America, had proclaimed her the most wonderful tragedienne of modern times and had signed a contract with her at her own terms. A month later her fame had spread to the ends of the earth.
Then came ten years of stardom. A nervous breakdown was followed by permanent retirement. For two years she had lived a sequestered life, refusing to see even the friends of her former life, denying herself to all.
Possessing more than the usual artistic temperament, the house which she had purchased in which to spend her declining years was one which reflected the strange, odd character of its mistress. Erected prior to the Revolution, it was set in the midst of spacious grounds surrounded by an ancient iron picket fence and almost hidden by trees. It had once been pretentious, but decay had claimed it for many years. Two stories in height, its deep, narrow windows heavily shuttered, over its sides a tenacious ivy plant climbing almost to the tottering tower, it seemed to be slowly mouldering into nothingness.
Yet withal it possessed an air of mystery and silence which appealed to the world-weary heart of Madame Blavsky and she had bought it on sight. The exterior remained unchanged. The interior, save for the installation of modern furniture and conveniences, was as it had always been — dark and gloomy — charged with mystery and the flavor of hidden panels, of romance and tragedy.
III
The day after the funeral of Madame Blavsky, Richard Raine went into voluntary bankruptcy. On the day following, Amos Spaulding, the well-known attorney, notified the officials that the last will and testament of the murdered woman was in his possession. Important litigation in another state had taken him from the city. He had been too busy to read the papers. Upon his return he had learned of his client’s tragic death and was ready to assist in bringing the assassin to justice in any way possible.
In the presence of a dozen police officials and reporters the will was opened and read. Drawn up a scant three months before and witnessed by three attaches of Spaulding’s office, it was a brief document. Its preamble stated that the Madame was possessed of no kin of any kind. The servants were remembered with small bequests amounting to perhaps ten thousand dollars.
The remainder of the estate, which the testatrix estimated at nearly half a million dollars in money and jewels, was left to Richard Raine, her former manager.
The signature was genuine. Of that there was no doubt. And the reputation of Amos Spaulding was above reproach; he was not the sort of man to be involved in any crooked deal.