Still the man with the beard said nothing.
“I never saw Mr. Carruthers,” said Mr. Ivers. “But surely the two men were not doubles?”
“They look nothing alike. But why should they? In neither case did the observer notice the actual features of the face. A hairless death mask of either man would have been nondescript. With Carruthers you saw the eyebrows, the mustache, the pallid skin, and the look of aggressive intensity. With Jordan you saw the white beard, the bronze sun tan, and the quiet smile of repose. And remember that the new Jordan was careful not to go near the theater after the ‘accident.’ Save for his accomplice Fennworth, he would have seen no one who knew both men until after he had collected the money, if I hadn’t gone probing around. Harker, of course, knew them both so slightly that he was easily taken in, but even he noticed a change—more in manner than in appearance, an imperfect assumption of an alien character.”
“And now—” Jackson started to say.
“One moment, Lieutenant,” Mr. Ivers broke in. “This is the Company’s office, and the Company’s business must be attended to first. Your official concerns can wait. What have you to say to this exceedingly grave charge, Mr. …?” He had started to say “Jordan,” but his voice trailed off inarticulately.
The man’s right hand plucked at his beard. “First I have this to say. I tried to say it before, but you insisted on hearing Mr. O’Breen first. Perhaps it is better so. But I came here to tell you that I want no part of your hundred thousand dollars.”
“Oh no you don’t!” Jackson exclaimed. “That may satisfy the Southwest National. They’ll never press a fraud charge if you waive payment. But murder is something else again, and the murder of such a man as Lewis Jordan—”
“Yes,” said the man. “Lewis Jordan was destroyed forever on Wednesday night. I ask your prayers for him.”
“Do I understand,” Mr. Ivers queried gleefully, “that you make no claim for payment on this policy?”
“Hold on,” said Jackson. “Do I understand that you are making a confession?”
“Yes,” said the man to both.
“By God, Fergus, you said you’d break it before the inquest, and you have. All right. Let’s hear it all.”
“NO!”
It was Fergus’ voice, surprisingly loud in the little room, and alive with a quality that Norman had never heard in it before, a warlike ring as of ancient Gaelic bronze. “Hold everything, Andy. I beg your pardon, Mr. Ivers. And to you, Mr. Jordan, my deepest apologies. Because you see—Dear God, ankle or no ankle, I’ve got to pace.”
He hoisted himself up somehow on his cane, and began an ungainly lurching movement across the room. “No, no. I’m an idiot. I’m so ungoddamned-bearably brilliant that I’ve wrought God knows what irreparable harm. At least this time I’ve caught myself, but too late to—”
“Far too late, Mr. O’Breen,” said the man with the white beard.
“Hey!” said Jackson. “What is this? What goes on? You can get temperamental any other time you like, Fergus, but for God’s sake not in the middle of a confession.”
Fergus paused and leaned on his cane. “All right. Go on. There’s nothing I can do now to stop it. I can see it in his eyes. But let me warn you, Andy, this isn’t the confession you’re expecting. And I’ll tell you why.”
“Come now, O’Breen!” Mr. Ivers snapped. “Are we here for business or for a spectacular demonstration of your extrovert monkeyshines?”
Fergus let himself down into his chair again. “Business,” he said wearily. “Let’s get on with it.” There was a quality almost of dread in his voice. “But remember this, Andy: we’re dead wrong and for one reason: the inquest is next Monday.”
Chapter 17
“I came here,” said the bearded man, “to refuse the insurance money. Mr. Ivers had called me this afternoon and told me that, because of some business complications which I shall not pretend to understand, the matter had to be settled this week end. I was still tempted then, but when I had reached here tonight I was fully resolved to sign any necessary waiver. I am now ready to sign even more: I shall sign a full confession of the deaths which I have caused.
“Yes, gentlemen. I killed Adam Fennworth, and I killed the man whom Mr. O’Breen calls N. But before I make my formal statement, I must explain one thing to you. N is Rupert Carruthers.”
There was absolute silence in the room save for an outraged squeak from Mr. Ivers. The bearded man exchanged a glance with Fergus and went on softly. “I think that Mr. O’Breen’s reconstruction of the Carruthers plot is flawless. The only error in his structure of reasoning lies in the fact that the plot was never carried out, or at least not as Carruthers had planned. I am convinced now, though for a long time I was sorely puzzled, that Rupert Carruthers intended to murder me, to collect his insurance in my name, and to disappear one hundred thousand dollars the richer.
“At the time I suspected nothing. I knew only that Carruthers had asked me to come to his workshop on Wednesday evening to see the effects which he had contrived for the prologue. Fennworth was there too. We talked a bit while Carruthers moved about preparing his effects. And then he passed behind my chair. I happened, at just that moment, to lean forward to speak to Fennworth. The blow which he dealt me with a small blackjack glanced off onto my shoulder. I rose and turned to face him; and then for a moment I was the victim of what I have always feared—that sudden and terrible temper which can so completely overpower me. I could not imagine why he had struck at me. I knew only that he had done so and that the blow must be returned. I returned it …
“When I was myself again, I saw him stretched out on the floor. There was blood on the corner of the lathe. Fennworth was bending over him. At the time I thought Fennworth most considerate. He told me that Carruthers was only stunned, that there was nothing that I could do, that I should go home and he would see to it that Carruthers had medical attention.
“I myself was stunned, dazed by the unexplained suddenness of the attack and by my own violent physical reaction. I walked home—a long walk, but one that served to clear my head. And the more I thought, the more it seemed to me that that form on the floor had been dead. I was afraid to go to the theater the next day, afraid to learn that …
“Then O’Breen and Harker called on me. When they told me of the fire accident, I was freed of my gnawing cares. That must mean that Carruthers had recovered, resumed his work, and—all but incredible coincidence—been killed in an accident later that same evening. For a few happy minutes, I was at ease.
“But no sooner had they left than Fennworth came. He had thought quickly there in the workshop. He knew at once, of course, that Carruthers was dead. He saw also that if Carruthers was known to have been killed by me, I should have very little chance of collecting the insurance, and Fennworth’s ten-thousand-dollar cut would be irretrievably lost. But he had at his finger tips a complete plot for providing a perfect picture of accidental death. He thrust me out of the way and carried out every detail of Carruthers’ scheme, with the one difference that the corpse was not mine, but that of Carruthers himself.
“You can surmise why he came to see me. He told me all that he had done, and offered me this pair of alternatives: either I could collect the insurance money and pay him half or he would report to the police that I had had an engagement with Carruthers at the workshop that night and tell them that the key, when he looked first, had been hanging by its wards. The elaborate steps that he had taken to produce what he called a framed accident would, of course, preclude any plea of manslaughter or self-defense on my part. I had my choice between carrying out his plan or being convicted of murder. He would expect me at his house the next night to hear my decision.
“Shall I admit that I was tempted? Fifty thousand dollars with which to do what good I liked; and on the other hand death, and worse than death, ignominy and the destruction of all I had ever stood for. It was a long and hard struggle. But when I went to his house it was to tell him that I w
as not collecting the insurance money.
“He could not believe me. He suspected me of some sly trick of my own to cheat him out of his share. Nothing could persuade him that I honestly intended to let the money go. He grew so insulting that I walked out of the room. But he followed me out on the street in his bedroom slippers, at once reviling me, threatening me, and coaxing me to carry out his plan.
“It was a terrible scene there on that quiet street corner. I have never known such humiliation. The taunts he hurled at me were vile and crawling. The interpretations which he put on my motives were beyond repetition. I was trying to do only what seemed to me right and just; yet here was this bloated evil jeering at me, crowing over me, and seeming with every word to bring me closer to himself, to bind me close to him in his web of malice.
“At last he seemed to realize that I was firm in my refusal, and that he was left with no hope beyond revenge. ‘And the meek,’ he leered, ‘shall inherit the little world of the lethal-gas chamber.’ With a mocking sneer of utter contempt, he struck me across the face and turned to go.
“But he had reckoned without my evil daemon, the sting of my flesh that can drive me to such sudden and uncontrollable rage. I launched out at him and struck, and at that moment an automobile turned the corner.”
It was almost a minute before Jordan spoke again, but no one stirred. “It was then,” he said at last, “that I became a murderer. The pitch that was Carruthers and Fennworth had defiled me at last. I was one with them. For I turned my back on that corner and walked rapidly away.
“It was partly fear that moved me. If Fennworth were living and I were there, he might speak, accuse me of the murder of Carruthers, spew forth all his accusations in a dying breath that compelled belief. But it was more than that. It was a hope that he was dead, a hope that if I did nothing to help him he must die. And this was not in the heat of my temper. It was in the cold aftermath. My sudden blow may have caused his death; but it was my hope of death later that made me a murderer.”
The room was still silent. Jordan’s head sank wearily forward. After a pause he raised it slowly and asked, “What is the next step, Lieutenant? Do I go with you to headquarters and make out a formal statement?”
“Let’s not rush it,” said Jackson. “I’ve got to think … Tell me, Fergus, what did you mean a minute back? Why that sudden outburst about the inquest?”
Fergus was unwontedly serious and subdued. “It hit me all of a heap. When you mentioned the inquest, I realized where I’d gone wrong. Obviously Carruthers’ plan must have included Fennworth’s death. His accomplice in Cincinati had met with an accident too, and it was clear that Fennworth alive would be a constant danger. But if Carruthers was guilty, he could not possibly have killed Fennworth until after the inquest. If the identification was faked, only Fennworth’s evidence could make it stand up; he had to be kept alive that long. And once I’d realized that, it all fell into place, even little things like Nansen, who would never have climbed so confidently into the lap of an impostor. If we’d only let Jordan speak when he wanted to and waive the benefits before we’d accused him, I might have guessed it then.”
“And if you had?” asked Norman.
“I think I’d have kept my damned mouth shut.”
“I wish you had,” Jackson muttered.
“All those changes I noticed in Jordan … I thought they meant he must be another man. Well, in a way that’s true; he had become another man because he had been forced into the position of an involuntary murderer. Naturally he was bitter, naturally his hopes for his play turned to ashes, naturally his neatness vanished in his preoccupation. The whisky bottle—did Fennworth leave that when he came to see you?”
“Yes. He finished what was in the bottle and threw it away. I no longer cared enough for the appearance of my plot of ground to dispose of it. Besides”—a weary old smile played for a moment on his face—“Nansen found it a bright toy.”
“But your hands …?” Norman wondered.
“My left hand was the hand of Cain. It seemed to me to symbolize all that I was becoming. I shrank from it. To use that hand for the simple acts of a good life, the clasp of friendship, the stroking of Nansen … I could not do it. I tried to force myself to use my unstained hand.”
“Mr. Ivers,” said Fergus abruptly, “you’ve been saying at regular intervals that your sole interest in this mess was as a representative of the Southwest National.”
“Of course, O’Breen. If it is true that Mr. Jordan waives payment on the policy, I have no further concern with the matter. None whatsoever.”
“In fact,” Fergus went on insistently, “I doubt if you’ve even heard anything that’s been said in this room since he made that waiver.”
Mr. Ivers peered shrewdly at the detective. “Not a word,” he said at last. “Not a word.”
“It’s funny,” Fergus went on, “but I didn’t hear anything said after that waiver either, and I’m sure Norm didn’t. How about you, Andy?”
“No,” said Lewis Jordan firmly, before Jackson could speak. “No. Listen to me. You offer me kindness, Mr. O’Breen, and for that I thank you. But it is a wrong sort of kindness. It is a private kindness, and the acts which I have done cannot meet private judgment alone. I have made up my mind while I have been talking.
“My life was a good life. But evil can smirch good all too easily. I became a part of the plots of Carruthers. Unwillingness is no defense. I hesitated. I loitered, and goodness cannot loiter. Because I have tried to conceal the perhaps harmless truth, it has become harmful.
“It is not enough for me to refuse the profit of my sins. I must expiate those sins, and that I can do only by standing my trial. Only by my disgrace can I rise again. If I accept such an offer of kindness, I am destroyed within myself, destroyed by Rupert Carruthers far more surely and cruelly than if he had succeeded in killing me. I am going with the Lieutenant.”
Jackson rose and laid his hand lightly on Jordan’s arm. “Let’s get it over with, then. And thanks, sir. Thanks for sparing me a struggle that would have turned out God knows how.”
Jordan rose and accompanied the Lieutenant to the door. He had regained his dignity now, even his serenity. “There is no choice. There never was. I see that now. And I thank you, Mr. O’Breen, for forcing me to see it. Your deductions went deeper than you knew. I was becoming Rupert Carruthers; that is what I must save myself from now.”
“One thing,” Jackson said. “I’ll lay any odds you like that the verdict is self-defense on the Carruthers charge and a light sentence of manslaughter on Fennworth.”
“I’ll drive out tonight and pick up Nansen,” said Fergus. “My sister likes cats. He’ll have a good home, while you’re …” He turned to Mr. Ivers. “The chief upshot for you is that you don’t pay off. Do I get the bonus?”
“That is not officially in my hands,” said Mr. Ivers precisely. “But I assure you that I shall turn in a recommendation to the treasurer to that effect.”
“O.K. Then if that goes through, Mr. Jordan, you’ve got a five-thousand-dollar defense fund.”
“I owe you too much already, Mr. O’Breen,” said Lewis Jordan gently. “Come, Lieutenant.”
“You know, Norm,” said Fergus tautly, as Mr. Ivers switched off the lights and straightened the furniture, “I’ve never before felt so let down at the end of a case. Not even when I’ve been a million light-years off the scent. This time I was right, and too late to save a fine man from damning himself.”
“Or saving himself,” said Norman.
“By all the saints I swear I still don’t know whether I’ve done harm or good. At least,” he smiled wryly, “it’s probably the first case on record where a killer thanked the detective who spotted him.”
“We must be going,” Mr. Ivers put in. “I don’t know what the Company will have to say about this extra light bill.”
“But there are still loose ends,” Norman objected as he helped Fergus back to the waiting room. “This doesn’t e
xplain everything. It doesn’t explain Herr Erich Moser, and the first time I saw Carruthers, and …” He paused.
“And your Sarah?”
“Well, yes. And my Sarah. I see now that there’s no way she could have been a part of this, and still—”
“If that’s all that’s worrying you,” said Fergus, “look there.”
There in the waiting room, cheerfully chatting with Maureen, sat Sarah Plunk.
Chapter 18
“What with the general state of affairs, plus my ankle, plus your insidious influence, Norm, I’ve never drunk so much beer on a case in my life.” Fergus contemplated the brimming liter stein before him. “Damned if I know whether it’s a good thing or not. My one resemblance to Nero Wolfe.”
“Don’t forget your infallibility, darling,” said Maureen. “And wouldn’t Norm make a beautiful Archie?”
“Afraid I couldn’t ever attain that crisp prose,” said Norman humbly.
They were seated in an artificial arbor in the Rathskeller Beer Garden, and the four-piece orchestra was playing Strauss, Lehar, and Stolz. Apparently the party had been planned in advance; for when Norman, Sarah, and the O’Breens had arrived, they had found a table being held for them by Betsy Weaver, more abubble than ever, and Maureen’s fiancé, Drew Furness.
“I’m not sure we oughtn’t to boycott this place,” Maureen had objected. “I swear that arbor is supported exclusively by Fifth Columns.”
“I know,” said Fergus. “But beer is beer. And such beer as you get here—”
“And besides,” Maureen argued with herself, “it was really here that Drew and I …”
But despite beer and waltzes, despite even the presence of Sarah, the party was not a success. It had been planned to celebrate Fergus’ brilliant triumph over the evil Rupert Carruthers; but the case had not ended on a triumphant note. Always Norman saw before him the strong old figure of Lewis Jordan, going off with the Lieutenant to expiate according to his own lights a crime which was not of his making. And he knew that Fergus saw the same image and felt his own responsibility for it.
The Case of the Solid Key Page 20