Chapter VI: Labyrinths of Blood

In which a detective attaches a pair of asses’ ears to his head—In
which Julien De Medici removes for a moment a mask—In which a glimpse,
incredible and disturbing, is caught of the soul of Florence
Ballau—Who blew out the candle of the salamanders?

A climax! Florence Ballau.... There had been innuendoes in the press. She arose—a figure out of the depths of melodrama. Her black attire, the tilted and somber hat that shadowed her face—the night-flower face that had captured Broadway....

“As beautiful and imperious as a somnambulist,” mused De Medici. He felt his heart move after her as she left her seat. “And now they will uncover their little traps.”

His eyes turned fearfully to the silent and reddish Lieutenant Norton.

“An amiable spider,” he shivered, “he waits for her. And she ... dear God ... she will walk slowly and aloofly into his hands.”

The room was stirring with excitement. Murmurs arose around him.

“Later ... later,” De Medici whispered to himself. A warm enervation was sweeping him. “My love makes a stranger out of me,” he went on. “Ah, Francesca mia. Cruel and beautiful Francesca....”

He sat smiling furtively as the figure of Florence Ballau lowered itself gracefully into the witness chair. His eyes, narrowed and inscrutable, followed the vibrant line of her body.

“We will not detain you long,” the coroner began, affecting a heavily cavalierly manner. “But it is necessary for the purposes of this record to learn from you again the story of your finding your father’s body. Do you wish to testify?”

The young woman nodded once, answering in a soft contralto, “Yes.”

The examination proceeded.

Q. “You were engaged, at the time of your father’s death, to marry Mr. Julien De Medici, were you not?”

A. “Yes.”

Q. “And the party your father was giving was in the nature of a formal announcement of the engagement, I take it?”

A. “Yes.”

Q “When did you last see your father alive?”

A. “In the morning.”

Q. “How did he seem?”

A “He was depressed ... and sad.”

Q “What gave you that impression?”

A. “We talked. He told me he was ruined. He said that he had been wiped out on the stock market and that we were penniless and would have to sell all we owned to meet our debts.”

Q. “Your father was devoted to his collections—his antiques and books, was he not?”

A. “Yes. They were his life.”

Q. “Tell us, if you will, what else did your father say to you on the morning of April 10th?”

A. “He said he was sorry to have brought this on just as my career was beginning. He said he had put his last money into the play in which I was acting and that it, too, seemed likely to fail him.”

Q. “Do you recall what you said in reply, Miss Ballau?”

A. “Yes. I told him it didn’t matter. But he refused to be consoled. He said it was not the money but the parting with the beautiful things he had loved all his life.”

Q. “Did he make any threats against his own life at the time?”

A. “Yes.”

Q. “What did he say?”

A. “He spoke of his insurance. He said that there came a time in every man’s life when he was worth more dead than alive.”

Q. “What reply did you make to that?”

A. “I kissed him and begged him not to be absurd. I told him that I loved him. Then I said good-bye and went to keep my appointment with Mr. De Medici.”

Q. “Did you see your father alive after that?”

A. “No.”

Q. “What time did you leave the theater?”

A. “I don’t remember. It was after the second act. I had a frightful headache and the worry over what father had told me, added to the excitement of the morning—I had promised to marry Mr. De Medici—upset me too much to finish the play. I asked the stage manager to call my understudy and left the theater.”

Q. “Did you go straight home?”

A. “Yes.”

Q. “What time did you reach the apartment?”

A. “I don’t know. I went straight up in the elevator, intending to take a nap before the party started.”

Q. “Do you usually carry a key to your apartment?”

A. “I had one until several weeks ago. I lost it.”

Q. “So you rang and the housekeeper let you in?”

A. “Yes.”

Q. “What was her demeanor when she opened the door?”

A. “I noticed nothing about her. She was not disturbed.”

Q. “What did you do after you entered the apartment?”

A. “I removed my wraps and opened the door to the library.”

Q. “Did you go into your room first?”

A. “No.”

Q. “What did you see when you entered the library?”

A. “That my father had been murdered.”

Q. “Were the lights on?”

A. “No.”

Q. “What did you do?”

A. “He was lying on the floor on his back. I saw the dagger-handle. I stood looking at him. Then I screamed.”

Q. “Did you notice anything else unusual?”

A. “An ebony crucifix was on his body.”

A. “Anything else?”

A. “A candle was standing by his head.”

Q. “Was it lighted?”

A. “No.”

Q. “You are positive of that? Or is it possible that in your grief and excitement you may have blown it out?”

A. “It was unlighted. There was only moonlight in the room.”

Q. “You screamed and rushed out to give the alarm?”

A. “Yes.”

Q. “Have you any theory as to how your father met his death?”

A. “I think ... he killed himself.”

“That will be all, Miss Ballau,” the coroner announced.

She arose and steadied herself for a moment with her fingers on the edge of the table. The eyes of De Medici remained on her. She walked slowly back to the chair beside him. The coroner and Lieutenant Norton were conferring.

“Inconceivable imbeciles,” De Medici’s musing began again. “They let her go. They had only to confront her with the telephone call. Cort must have told them, as he told me. And her flight from the theater. Either they have neither eyes nor intelligence ... or they wait. Ah, he looks at me. Next ... yes, they will ask me questions now. There was blood on my hands when the detective came in. I must remember to explain about that. Hm, they keep whispering. They know something. About whom?”

His eyes turned slowly toward Florence. He would speak to her. Had she forgotten that he loved her, that his heart was at her feet? Yes, she was cold. Even in the cab.... She had spoken calmly, almost indifferently, during their ride. But her arms had come around him. A kiss—a long, burning kiss.

A shudder of delight confused the memory. He heard his name called. He stood up and walked to the chair, his brain clear again. He was calm.

“I must be careful,” his thought continued as he approached the table. “They are waiting with something ... I must not corroborate the suicide. They know better. It’s part of a plan ... against her.”

He bowed stiffly to the coroner and sat down. He leaned back in the chair, his hands folded in his lap, and answered the opening questions with precision. Having established his identity and his connection with the Ballau family, the coroner proceeded.

Q. “Now tell us, Mr. De Medici, when you last saw Mr. Ballau alive.”

A. “It was around eight o’clock that evening.”

Q. “What was he doing?”

A. “He was telephoning people to come to the supper.”

Q. “How did he impress you with regard to his state of mind?”

A. “He was in good spirits. He was pleased that I had obtained Miss Ballau’s consent to marry me. He seemed as happy as myself.”

Q. “And you left the apartment around eight?”

A. “Yes.”

Q. “Where did you go?”

A. “I walked in Broadway for an hour, dropped in at the Rienza for a bite of food, and then went to call for Miss Ballau at the theater.”

Q. “What time was that?”

It would be necessary to lie here. But he must be careful and evasive wherever possible.

A. “It was twenty minutes after ten.”

Q. “Did you see Miss Ballau?”

A. “No, she had just left.”

Q. “Did you ask any questions of anyone?”

Ah, they had Cort up their sleeve. They would produce him next and confound him with the man’s testimony. De Medici’s eyes glanced slowly around the room as if in quest of a memory. Cort was not to be seen.

A. “I don’t remember to whom I spoke. I recall asking someone where Miss Ballau was and they told me she had left.”

Q. “Did you think it strange that Miss Ballau should leave the theater in the middle of the show?”

Ah, now they were closing in. His eyes rested intently upon the reddish face of Lieutenant Norton. The man was watching him, as he had watched him that night in the apartment.

A. “Yes, I thought it odd. But I knew Miss Ballau was under mental stress.”

Q. “What sort of mental stress?”

A. “She had been distracted in the morning when we rode in a cab together and I asked her to marry me. She had told me about her father. She was worried over him and she had complained of a headache.”

Simple lies, establishing nothing. De Medici glanced at his hands. Would they ask him about the blood on his fingers?

Q. “Do you think that Mr. Ballau committed suicide, from what you saw that night?”

A. “No.”

Q. “Then it is your opinion that Mr. Ballau was murdered?”

A. “Yes.”

De Medici waited while the coroner made notes with a pencil. Curious that he should make notes at that moment. And why had they asked him for his opinion? They had asked none of the others. Norton again. Yes, it was Norton. The coroner with his pompous words and heavy manner was a blind. It was the reddish-faced man beside him who was operating the web ... spinning it out carefully and invisibly. Well, he would cross weapons with the man.

“I must find out what the fellow is,” mused De Medici behind the attentive poise of his face.

Q. “Have you any idea from your observations, Mr. De Medici, by whom the dead man was murdered?”

A. “Not yet.”

Q. “You were present with Lieutenant Norton in the library when the first examination was made?”

A. “I was.”

Q. “What time did you arrive at the Ballau apartment?”

A. “I don’t recall the exact time.”

Q. “Did Miss Ballau have her hat on when she came out of the elevator as you entered the lobby?”

A. “No.”

Q. “How was she dressed?”

Then they knew about the costume!

A. “I don’t remember. I failed to notice.”

Q. “What gave you the impression that murder had been committed?”

A. “It was obvious. The room was in disorder.”

Q. “You discussed the case at the time with Lieutenant Norton?”

A. “Yes. I am aware of his theory.”

De Medici surprised a look of amusement in the detective’s face. An irritation came into his nerves. Yes, they were playing, peering out amusedly from behind concealed evidence.

“May I speak openly?” De Medici inquired. He had leaned forward in his chair. He caught a nod from the lieutenant. The coroner answered:

“Yes. Go on and tell us in your own way what you believe happened. We want to get at the bottom of this mystery and if you have any ideas as a result of what you know we will be glad to hear them.”

“From the questions that were asked Miss Ballau,” De Medici began, his eyes fixed on the lieutenant, “it struck me that one of the police theories might be that Miss Ballau killed her father in order to profit by his insurance money, knowing at the time that they were financially ruined. This is obviously a ridiculous notion. For Miss Ballau has testified from the first that she is convinced her father committed suicide. Inasmuch as she knows that if this is proved the insurance company will not have to pay her the money that is collectable if Mr. Ballau was murdered, the theory becomes untenable.”

“I see,” said the coroner. “But we have not as yet made any remarks or comments which might be construed as supporting such a theory.”

Lieutenant Norton leaned forward and spoke for the first time.

“Have you any particular interest in proving that a murder has been committed instead of suicide?” he asked.

“I see what you mean,” De Medici smiled slowly. “I am engaged to marry Miss Ballau and you think I have a personal interest in securing the collection of the insurance money left by her father. I have no such interest. I knew Mr. Ballau as well as I know anybody in the world. Had he decided to kill himself and conceal the fact, he would have done so in an intelligent manner.”

“We discussed that once,” smiled the detective. De Medici nodded. The coroner, after a pause, continued his questioning.

Q. “You heard Mr. Meyerson testify concerning the purchase of the dagger found in Mr. Ballau’s body.”

A. “Yes.”

Q. “Did you have any discussion with Mr. Ballau concerning the weapon after he had taken it home?”

A charming theory and worthy of a more romantic-looking person than the reddish-faced Norton. De Medici smiled appreciatively at the detective.

A. “I think we did talk about it.”

Q. “On that night in the library you asked Lieutenant Norton whether he had observed any finger-prints on the hilt, did you not?”

A. “Yes.”

Q. “What did you say to Mr. Ballau concerning the dagger?”

A. “I told him I didn’t like it. It had belonged to an ancestor of mine whose deeds I have never admired.”

Q. “You have a revulsion toward such things—daggers of that kind, I take it?”

A. “I fancy I have.”

Q. “Yet you touched it when you leaned over the body of Mr. Ballau?”

De Medici stared again at the detective. A memory focused vividly in his mind. The dead body, the dagger hilt, the moment he had reached forward to embrace the protruding thing in his fingers—the moment of fascination that had left him shuddering. Ah, this reddish-faced man was not stupid. He had surmised that.

A. “I thought of withdrawing the blade from the body but stopped as my fingers encountered it.”

“That will be all,” the coroner announced.

De Medici arose and returned to his seat beside Florence. The coroner and Lieutenant Norton were conferring in whispers again.

“The inquest is a farce,” De Medici mused. “They have determined on this clumsy ruse of throwing someone off guard as I thought that night.”

Lieutenant Norton, summoned to the witness chair, was reciting again the details of the case. De Medici listened. With logic and a remarkably convincing mass of detail, the detective was going over the circumstances surrounding the death of Victor Ballau, and bit by bit reconstructing for the jury his theory of the grotesque suicide which the dead man had committed. He added to his theory the motive that had been brought out by the witnesses, the dead man’s financial difficulties, the changing of his will, his purchase of the dagger.

“The inquest stands adjourned until tomorrow,” Coroner Holbein announced as the lieutenant concluded.

De Medici remained, without moving, beside the girl. A respite. Nothing had happened. There would be no damning headlines in the press. His eyes studied the face of the girl. She was in danger. The clumsy evasions of the officials were ominous.

“Come,” he whispered, “I would like to talk to you.”

They made their way through the crowd of friends. De Medici nodded politely in return to the greetings that followed his passage through the room. Norton was watching them, watching them go out together. There would be someone listening when they talked. De Medici leaned close to her ear.

“We must get away. Alone.”

She nodded.

“The theater,” he whispered.

It would be empty. Seated on the empty stage facing the vacant seats, they could be certain of not being overheard.

“You have avoided me,” he said as they walked in the street.

“Yes.”

They continued in silence. The morning was brisk. Inside the theater, he led the way to the stage. The curtain was up. The scenery for the first act of his play was in place—dungeon walls and a single door at the rear.

“We’ve probably been followed,” he said softly as they sat down in two chairs near the dark footlights. “But we can talk easily here.”

“What do you want?”

“I love you,” he whispered. “You have forgotten that.”

“No.”

“Yet you hide from me.”

“What do you want?” she repeated.

“To warn you,” he whispered. “They know about the telephone call. And about the time you spent in the apartment.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me....”

His voice was soft. His hand sought hers.

“Ah, Francesca mia, do you think I care? Does it matter to me? Look at me. Do my eyes hide from you? I adore you. Tell me ... and I will fall at your feet. I will kiss your hands....”

“That I killed him?” Her voice was low in a question.

“Whatever you wish. Only tell me so I can love you.”

“You are strange.”

“I am mad with desire for you. Nothing matters to me but that my heart bows before you.”

“You believe I killed him?”

“I want to save you. They know all I know. We must circumvent them.”

“What else do you know?”

“I found a purse in the chair that night,” he whispered. “With your initials on it.”

“Give it to me.” She held out her hand. He shook his head.

“First you must tell me what you know. Then I will obey you blindly.”

“There is nothing to tell.”

De Medici smiled at her.

“Someone called you on the telephone,” he said softly. “And you answered, ‘Oh, God!’ and fled. You were in the apartment for a half hour or more before you gave the alarm. And you removed your costume—the ‘Dead Flower’ costume—which you had worn out of the theater. You ... you washed your hands and face—for there was no make-up on you when I saw you in the vestibule....”

His arm had circled her as he talked, his voice had grown warm.

“Francesca mia!” he cried suddenly. He had raised her to her feet, and drawn her passionately against him. He spoke with his lips close to her.

“It is I who am evil. Since that night you have been an enigma luring me. I loved you before. But now something else in me worships before you. Oh, my adored one, my beautiful, cruel one. Tell me ... I will love you more ... I will share it with you....”

He felt her body stiffen as his arms tightened. Under his burning eyes her face had grown white. She stared at him with sudden horror.

“Look at you!” she cried. “God in heaven! You are mad!”

“Francesca mia!” he was shouting.

“Let me go!”

Her arms wrenched themselves free. For a moment he held her writhing body. Then her hand stung against his face. His head recoiled under the blow. She stood apart from him, despair and anguish on her face.

“Oh, dear God, there is no one ... no one,” she cried.

De Medici’s eyes watched her aloofly as she sank to the floor and lay sobbing and whimpering at his feet.

“She acts,” he whispered, “she acts....”