Ben Hecht

“ Florence creeping into my room to murder me! Two weeks ago she kissed me. It’s insane ... a bewildering circle ... Ballau’s body with a dagger in its heart, a dance of lunatic clews and macabre evasions which seem to be ending as insanely as they began. Now we come to another arc in this circle. She tried to murder me last night. Why?... Ah!”
He drew the telegram from his pocket. Lytton was a man with a powerful mind, a man not to be fooled. What if he had captured the real Floria? She was someone whom Florence was trying to shield.... Again the chill dropped into De Medici’s heart. ”

“ Ballau announced as the footsteps of the woman died away.
Alone, De Medici smiled. Phantoms no longer disturbed him. He sat thinking of Victor Ballau. A curious man. Almost as curious as himself, perhaps. Debonair, prosperous, cultured. Yet something odd about him. He had made an actress of his daughter—not a difficult task. The luxurious figure of the young woman intruded on his thoughts. Vivid as a macaw, with a feline slowness in her gesture.... “Ah,” he sighed, “she is a color I need. I grow brittle and antique. She will enable me to live.” ”

“ This phenomenon, which is technically called somnambulism, will end as suddenly as it begins, and Jenny will return to her former occupation, absolutely unaware of the fact that it has been interrupted. You see how different your alleged and artificial case of fancied obsession is, Julien. You remember too much. The vision of Francesca is in your mind now—the thing you fancied you saw. Therefore you are not a victim of disassociation. If you’re a man of evil at all, it is you who sit here and not a hidden, unknown you that walks in the dark places of your subconscious. ”

“ Last night I sat there staring at the curtains and waiting. But there was no fear. And finally the hallucination came. As it did once before on the night of the murder. I was in the apartment and she appeared for an instant in the doorway. The Francesca one ... her hair down and a band circling her forehead. I knew last night she would come again. And she did. I sat looking at Florence—a Florence you don’t know.... Cold, cruel with a wild gleam to her.... A long robe and a dagger in her hand. She smiles at me and I feel my heart dissolve with rapture. The dream is horrible and beautiful. ”

“ In which an apoplectic scientist explodes—In which invisible footsteps sound in a dark corridor—In which Julien De Medici opens a letter—The woman of the hidden eyes—Floria, the lady of the dagger, appears—In which underworlds collide—The staircase to Hell and a strange passion—A voice that spoke over the telephone. ”

“ In the apartment the doctor became somewhat officious. He appeared to be treasuring dénouements, his manner toward De Medici growing condescending. De Medici, inwardly confused and victim again of the elaborate fears which had darkened his days since the murder of his friend, stood quietly against the wine-colored curtains and waited.
“Whatever he has found out,” he thought, “is valueless or at least of no value as a finale. For there is still the dagger lady who visited me last night to explain away.” ”

“ For the sake of an emotional conviction you choose to ignore utterly the logic of the thing. The confession. The dovetailing of every bit of evidence. It doesn’t require much imagination to see Florence Ballau, alias Floria, preparing the camouflaged room after the killing. The cunning instincts of a half-maniac—to divert suspicion from herself. In fact, she remembers finding the beard in an old trunk—in the trunk which contained her mother’s effects. A beautifully conceived impulse, her first one, that of glueing the Vandyke to his chin. ”

“ Well, the murder suddenly committed—committed during a moment of despair and passion—the young woman stood beside the body of the man she had killed and some sort of a notion of planting evidence to throw the police off the track came into her head. A notion typical of the woman who has spent her life in the theater. You’ll remember she was beside herself at this moment, that whatever she did in the half hour following the slaying of Ballau would naturally be the things an innocent and imaginative woman, and not a hardened criminal, would do in an effort to cover up the crime. ”

“ I routed the exulting De Medici phantoms. And now what? Trouble. A telephone call. She’ll tell lies. Her face is already a lie. Stern, poised, ready to fight for something.... What a woman! Yes, I’m more in love than before. Her eyes are like a shrine for something in me. They overpower me. My mind evaporates.”
De Medici reached suddenly for her hand.
“Florence,” he whispered, “remember ... regardless of anything—I adore you.”
Fifteen minutes had passed and Lieutenant Norton appeared.
“I’d like to see you,” he said, nodding at De Medici. He followed the detective into the room. ”

“ While you were sleeping peacefully in your bed, my dear Julien, I was parading the dark, chill streets of Rollo, Maine, in quest of comfort, clews and companionship.”
“While I slept comfortably in my bed,” smiled De Medici.
“What’s wrong?” Dr. Lytton asked abruptly.
“Nothing. Go on. You are in Rollo. The streets are dark and chill. And you search for clews.”
“I see. You are prepared to flout my story.”
“I’m listening, Hugo.”
“Before I go on, Julien, I must impress one thing on you. Prejudice is a poor guide for deduction. ”

“ In which the world wags its callous tongue—In which dénouements thumb their noses at each other—In which Julien De Medici succumbs to a delicious madness—A Jesuitical policeman and an ambitious coroner flirt coyly with an Enigma. ”

“ Beautiful—yes, your eyes are like gardens, night gardens. Come, we’ll go somewhere. We’ll take a cab. I want to talk to you in a gentle and persuasive voice.”
The young woman, Florence Ballau, nodded. De Medici stared excitedly at her. Her presence delighted and warmed him. An amazing woman. She wore her youth like a banner. Her gypsy face under a blue toque stamped itself like an exotic flower on the gray and yellow background of the crowd. ”

“ As each of the objects passed under the hammer De Medici found himself coming closer to the memory of his dead friend.
“Yes,” he said to himself, “it would seem that these things that are being sold were Victor Ballau. At least the Ballau I knew. Curious, how friendship may be like that—an admiration for the things surrounding a man and for the varied images of him which these things reflect. I’m glad Meyerson has been decent about it. Otherwise the thing would have degenerated into a grab bag bargain rush ... everybody snatching at the remains of poor Ballau.” ”

“ The figure of Florence Ballau underwent a curious change. The tension of her body slowly relaxed. Her eyes that had veiled the wildness of her thought grew large, calm and centered.
“Asleep,” murmured Dr. Lytton. The three men sat looking at her with amazement.
“She’s in a hypnotic state,” continued the doctor. “It was easy to put her to sleep. Her consciousness was already almost spent and exhausted with the struggle in her. And now,” he continued, facing the detective, “we can put the dual personality theory to a test. Not an infallible one. But a convincing one. ”

“ I believe her guilty ... a murderess, a Messalina. And the fact lures me. De Medicis hail her. De Medici ghosts inside me prostrate themselves devoutly before a kinswoman—a woman whose hands are red with murder.... An impulse toward obeisance stirs in me. ”

“ There was never another woman in his life than the memory of the beautiful actress that was buried in the simple-minded housekeeper.”
She paused and looked sadly at De Medici.
“So much for the past,” she sighed. “Perhaps you can’t understand how a man could be faithful and as kind as poor father.”
“I can,” De Medici answered. “It is sometimes easier to love a memory than a woman ... and easier to be faithful to one.” ”

“ But nobody ever heard about poor Madam Bandoux except there was a rumor he had married her, Victor Ballau had. And I kept my mouth shut because I was sorry for him and he was a fine man before it happened.”
“And what else do you know?” De Medici murmured.
The old woman laughed bitterly.
“He shouldn’t have killed her. He was such a nice man. But that’s the way life is. The nice people do all the bad things. And he got his reward, poor Victor did. Somebody killed him.”
De Medici arose.
“If I want to talk to you can I find you here, Fanny?” he asked. ”

“ Yet the theater with its rigmarole of intrigue, gamble, women and craftsmanship was another part of Ballau’s background.
26
But an exterior Ballau, he mused. There was something else about the man, and this thing whispered itself always to De Medici’s sensitive imagination. This man of the theater whose apartment was the haunt of a Sybarite, whose cavalierly manner was the envy of a hundred bon vivants, was, paradoxically, a puritan. A charming and unmalicious puritan.
“A man of taste,” thought De Medici, “wealthy and with an infatuation for beautiful things.... ”

“ De Medici ate his breakfast with a rising appetite. He smiled almost childishly as he thought of his friend the pathologist stumbling excitedly around the wastes of Maine in quest of this Floria.
“It’s his own fault,” he grinned. “He suggested going there.”
Dressed, with his arm bandaged, De Medici returned to his bedroom. It was nine o’clock. He would wait an hour, recuperating his strength, and then storm the Bastille and confound Norton.
“It’ll be easy now,” he thought. “Her desire to save her mother will be futile. And what harm would it do if her mother were sent to an asylum? None. ”

“ It is almost impossible to obtain admissions from a hypnotized subject concerning crimes or sins openly committed. Because the mind which conceived and enjoyed these crimes and sins is usually the conscious mind. And it is this conscious mind which now sleeps in Miss Ballau.
“But,” he went on, still staring at her, “if the crime is committed by a usurper, if murder is done by the masked stranger, the subconscious mind, then it is sometimes simple. ”

“ De Medici sighed. This was to have been the gala night—raised wineglasses, toasts and laughter. He looked at the figure on the floor with the dagger protruding from its heart. Suicide!
Yes, the detective whose keen blue eyes had covered the situation said that Victor Ballau, charming, easy-mannered connoisseur of wines, pictures and people, had suddenly ended his life. Preposterous! De Medici glanced at the lieutenant. A clumsy ruse, perhaps, to throw someone off guard. Yet the man seemed simple. His voice contained an unmistakable ring of sincerity. Lieutenant Norton was talking again. ”

“ Guilty ... yes, phantoms that cringe before familiar accusations. Murder.... But this policeman is absurd. If Ballau wanted to do something for Florence—the insurance—why should he crush her with his death? And the false beard ... good God, he would have taken it off before killing himself and hidden it.... But Norton will say he wanted to make it look as if he’d snatched it from someone else’s face. ”

“ His attitude toward the scientist had become wary and amused. He had intended blurting out to the man the mystery of the night. Instead, he treasured the fact in silence.
“If I announce that,” he thought, “he’ll at once suspect me. The phantom theory will occur to him. A ruse, an alibi.... Yes, he’s been suspicious of me from the first.”
De Medici shuddered. Another idea had opened in his mind. He recalled his theorizings during the auction, his wrestling with the psychology of a criminal. Would a criminal return to the scene of his crime? ”

“ De Medici shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll listen to what is pertinent and ignore the rest.”
“You can listen or not as you please, my dear Julien. But I advise you first to relax. You look as white as a ghost, and have been standing there for almost fifteen minutes talking to yourself like a lunatic. There’s nothing to be gained by experimenting with your nerves. I’ve told you that before.”
“You went to Rollo,” De Medici murmured.
“Excellent,” the doctor laughed. “I went to Rollo, Maine. And I’ll pass over the various details that led me to the conclusion that Floria was to be found in Rollo.” ”

“ 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....” ”

“ For the thing now suddenly comes into the domain of logic. Yes, we’ve done everything but think. Simplicity is always the soul of mystery. For instance, it was obvious to me five minutes after Miss Ballau entered the room that she was as normal and straightforward a nature as any I have ever seen. There is not a hint of the neurotic about her. Healthy, keen, vivacious and an actress. Good Lord, what an actress! The mock trance she went into was superb.”
“You’re convinced it was pretense?” De Medici asked.
“Absolutely,” Dr. Lytton answered. ”