The Emperor's Snuff-Box

by John Dickson Carr

“No, no, of course it will not be necessary!” soothed M. Goron, giving her a pat on the back. “We would not hurt you, my dear. I, the old bon-homme, assure you of that. At the same time, doctor, I could approach with more confidence if I were certain you had no intention of plugging me in the eye.”

  Dermot shut his own eyes, and opened them again.

  “I suppose it’s my own fault,” he said bitterly. “Though I hardly thought one day, less than one day, could do any damage.”

  Eve smiled at him.

  “It hasn’t done any damage, has it?” she asked. “M. Goron tells me you’ve done as you promised, and that I’m—well, almost out of this.”

  “One must not be too sure of that, madame!” said the examining magistrate, with glowering suspicion.

  “One,” said Dermot, “can be as smacking well sure as one likes.”

  Eve was as composed, once the threat of that light had been removed, as though this were not her affair at all. Taking the armchair which M. Goron pushed out for her, she nodded with formal pleasantness to Helena, Janice, and Uncle Ben. She smiled at Toby. Then she addressed Dermot.

  “I knew you would.” Eve stated a fact. “Even when things seemed to be going wrong, and they pounded on the table and shouted, ‘Assassin, confess,’”—in spite of herself, she started to laugh,—“I knew you had some purpose in what you asked me to do. I didn’t exactly doubt you. But, my God, I was frightened!”

  “Yes,” said Dermot, “that’s the whole trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “That’s what’s landed you in this whole mess. You trust people. They know it. And they take advantage of it. As it happens, you can trust me; but that’s neither here nor there.” Dermot turned round. “There’s a little third-degree of my own now. It won’t be very pleasant hearing for you. Shall I continue?”

  XVIII

  SOMEBODY’S CHAIR SCRAPED ON the linoleum floor.

  “Yes. Continue!” snapped M. Vautour.

  “I was just giving an outline of events on the night of the murder. They’re too important not to be stressed. Over and over, if necessary. I had got to the point where your party,” Dermot looked at Toby, “returned from the theatre at eleven o’clock. You left your fiancée on her door-step, after which you joined the others. And then?”

  Janice Lawes lifted puzzled eyes.

  “Daddy came downstairs,” she replied, “and showed us the snuff-box.”

  “Yes. M. Goron told me yesterday,” said Dermot, “that the police took the fragments away on the day after the murder, and after a week of very painful reconstruction they were able to put it all back together again.”

  Toby sat up, clearing his throat and apparently catching at a gleam of hope.

  “Put it together?” he repeated.

  “It will not be worth much now, M. Lawes,” the prefect of police warned him.

  In response to Dermot’s gesture, the examining magistrate again opened the drawer of his desk. Holding it gingerly, as though it might crumble to pieces in his palm, M. Vautour took out a small object which he handed to Dermot.

  Sir Maurice Lawes would not have been pleased. As the white light swept across the Emperor’s snuffbox, it kindled the deepness of rose agate, it flashed on the tiny diamond watch-numerals and hands, it gleamed on the gold binding and dummy winding-stem. Yet it had a dull and (if the word can be used) sticky appearance, as though everything about it were a little blurred or out of line. Dermot held it out to them, turning it over in his fingers.

  “They’ve put it together with fish-glue,” he explained. “Somebody must have gone nearly blind at the job. And it won’t open now. But you saw it when it was new?”

  “Yes!” returned Toby, smiting his hand on his knee. “We saw it when it was new. What about it?”

  Dermot returned the snuff-box to M. Vautour.

  “At shortly past eleven o’clock, Sir Maurice Lawes retired to his study. He was annoyed at the lack of enthusiasm his family had shown for his new relic. The rest of you (I think?) went to bed.

  “But you, Mr. Lawes, couldn’t sleep. At one o’clock in the morning you got up, went downstairs to the drawing room, and telephoned to Eve Neill.”

  Toby, nodding in acknowledgment, stole a sideways glance at Eve. It was an indecipherable look. It was as though Toby wanted fervently to tell her something, but hesitated in anguish and twisted his mustache, while Eve stared straight ahead.

  Dermot followed that look.

  “You spoke to her for some minutes on the phone. What did you talk about?”

  “Eh?”

  “I said, what did you talk about?”

  Toby dragged his eyes back. “How the blazes should I remember? Wait: yes, I do!” He wiped a hand across his mouth. “We talked about the play we’d seen that night.”

  Eve smiled a little.

  “It was a play about prostitution,” she interposed. “Toby was afraid I might have been shocked. The subject was preying on his mind a good deal at the time, I suppose.”

  “Now see here,” Toby flung back in an effort at quiet patience. “When we were first engaged to be married, I told you I wasn’t all I should be. I told you that, didn’t I? Then are you going to hold against me something I said last night when I wasn’t quite myself, and spoke without thinking?”

  Eve did not reply.

  “Let’s return to that telephone conversation,” Dermot suggested. “You spoke about the play you’d seen. Anything else?”

  “Blast it, does that matter?”

  “Very much.”

  “Well—I said something about the picnic. We’d intended to go on a picnic the following day; only we didn’t, naturally. Oh, and I also mentioned that Dad had just got a new trinket for his collection.”

  “But you didn’t say what the trinket was?”

  “No.”

  Dermot eyed him. “For the rest of it, I quote M. Goron’s account to me. After this conversation, you went upstairs to bed. The time was a few minutes past one o’clock. As you went upstairs, you noticed that your father was still up, because you saw a line of light under the door of the study. Therefore you didn’t disturb him. Right?”

  “Right!”

  “It wasn’t Sir Maurice’s habit to stay up quite as late as that, I believe?”

  Helena cleared her throat, and answered for Toby. “No. When we say late, we don’t really mean late as some people do. Maurice was usually in bed by twelve.”

  Dermot nodded.

  “And you, Lady Lawes. At a quarter past one, you yourself got up. You went to your husband’s study, to ask him to come to bed and also to expostulate about the purchase of the snuff-box. You opened the study door without knocking. The chandelier lights were off: only the desk lamp burned. You saw your husband sitting there with his back to you. But, being near-sighted, you did not notice anything wrong with him until you approached and found the blood.”

  Tears had started to Helena’s eyes. “Is this necessary?” she demanded.

  “Only one thing more is very necessary,” Dermot told her. “We can pass over the tragedy. We can’t pass over facts.

  “The police were sent for. Both Miss Lawes and Mr. Lawes tried to go across the street and rout out Mrs. Neill. They were stopped by the policeman, who told them they must wait until the commissaire arrived.

  “In the meantime, what has happened? Let’s turn our attention to the incomparable Yvette Latour. Yvette (she declares) is awakened by the arrival of the police and the general uproar. Yvette goes out of her room. Here is the very crux of the evidence: here’s the edge of the guillotine. Yvette sees Mrs. Neill returning to the house after the murder. Yvette sees her opening the front door with a key, creeping upstairs in her stained negligée, and, subsequently, washing off blood in the bathroom. Time—about half-past one.”

  M. Vautour the examining magistrate held up his hand.

  “One moment!” he snapped, coming round the edge of his desk. “Even with your new evidence, I do not see the dir
ection of this.”

  “No?”

  “No! By her own confession, this is exactly what Madame has done.”

  “Yes. At half past one,” Dermot pointed out.

  “Well! At half past one or another time! Will you explain yourself, Dr. Kinross?”

  “Willingly.” Dermot had been standing by the desk. He picked up the patched snuff-box, and put it down again. Then he walked over to stand in front of Toby, whom he regarded with real curiosity.

  “Isn’t there anything in your testimony,” he asked, “that you want to change? “

  Toby blinked at him. “Me? No.”

  “No?” said Dermot. “Won’t you admit you’ve been telling a pack of lies, even to save the woman you claim you’re in love with?”

  In the background, M. Goron softly chuckled. The examining magistrate glared at him, deprecating this; instead, the examining magistrate hurried round the side of the desk, with soft little threatening steps, and came to peer at Toby from close range.

  “Yes, monsieur?” M. Vautour prompted.

  Toby jumped to his feet, pushing back the chair with such force on the linoleum that it clattered over on its side.

  “Lies?” he said.

  “After telephoning to Mrs. Neill,” said Dermot, “you claim you went upstairs, passed the door of your father’s study, and saw a light under it.”

  M. Goron intervened.

  “When Dr. Kinross and I went upstairs to examine the study yesterday,” the prefect told his listeners, “the doctor appeared surprised when he saw that door. At the moment, I could not understand why. Such trifles slip the mind. But I understand now. That door—if you recall it?—is a heavy door fitting so closely against the carpet that the nap of the carpet is worn every time the door moves.”

  He paused. His level gesture, back and forth, conjured up in their minds the movement of the door.

  “To see a light under it, at any time, would have been absolutely impossible.” M. Goron paused, and then added: “But it was not the only falsehood M. Lawes told.”

  “No,” agreed the examining magistrate. “Shall we make mention of the two necklaces?”

  Dermot Kinross had not their relish for the springing of a trap. He had not the stomach to enjoy putting anyone in a corner. But, at the expression on Eve’s face, he nodded.

  “Then the man in the brown gloves…” Eve almost screamed.

  “Yes,” said Dermot. “It was your fiancé, Toby Lawes.”

  XIX

  “IT’S NOT A NEW story,” continued Dermot. “He’s got a little friend named Prue Latour, a sister of the helpful Yvette. Mademoiselle Prue insists on expensive presents. She was threatening to make trouble in several directions. And his salary isn’t very great. That was why he decided to steal the diamond-and-turquoise necklace out of his father’s collection.”

  “I don’t believe this,” said Helena, whose thin gasps could be heard like sobs.

  Dermot reflected.

  “Perhaps ‘steal it’ isn’t quite the right term. He meant no real harm, as he will probably tell us when he’s able to speak. He was going to substitute an imitation necklace for it, so that his father shouldn’t know, and ‘borrow’ it as a sop for Prue until he could pay her off.”

  Dermot went back to the examining magistrate’s desk, where he picked up the two necklaces.

  “He got the imitation necklace made….”

  “At Paulier’s in the rue de la Gloire,” supplied the prefect of police. “M. Paulier is willing to identify him as the man who commissioned the necklace.”

  Toby did not say anything. Without looking at any of them, he moved swiftly across the office. M. Vautour, who thought he was making for the door, called out a warning. But this was not Toby’s intention. He merely wanted, in both the figurative and literal sense, to put his face in a corner. He got as far as a line of filing cases, where he stood with his back to them all.

  “Last night,”—Dermot held up one necklace,—“this imitation turned up in Prue’s sewing-basket. It seemed worth while, before I left for London, to write a note suggesting that M. Goron might pick it up from Prue and attempt to trace it. Toby Lawes gave it to her, of course.”

  “To be quite frank,” Eve Neill said unexpectedly, “that doesn’t surprise me.”

  “No, madame?” demanded M. Goron.

  “No! I asked him last night if he hadn’t given it to her. He denied it. But he gave her a very queer look that said, ‘You back up what I say!’ as plainly as though he’d spoken.” Suddenly Eve brushed a hand across her eyes. Her color was rising. “Prue’s a practical girl. When he asked her where she’d got it, she did back him up and kept her mouth shut. But why give the woman an imitation necklace?”

  “Because,” answered Dermot, “it wasn’t necessary to give her the real one.”

  “Not necessary?”

  “No. Once Sir Maurice was dead, that fine young man thought he could always pay Prue out of his father’s estate.”

  Helena Lawes shrieked.

  This satisfied the dramatic sense of M. Goron and M. Vautour, who almost beamed at her. But it satisfied nobody else. Benjamin Phillips got up and stood behind his sister’s chair, putting his hands on Helena’s shoulders to steady her. Dermot now seemed to be using a whip; it was as though you could hear it hiss and crack.

  “He couldn’t be aware that his father was almost as hard up as he was,” Dermot went on.

  “It must have been quite a shock to him. Eh?” said M. Goron.

  “I haven’t any doubt it was. Just before the time of the murder, as Prue herself admitted last night, she was cutting up a very great row. She had been making trouble ever since the announcement of his engagement to Eve Neill. Undoubtedly, also—in her less independent moments—she had used threats like breach of promise. If she hadn’t, rest assured her sister Yvette had: terrifying this gentleman with all the blanched faces at Hookson’s Bank. Remember, as M. Goron will tell you, that Prue is a respectable girl.

  “The necklace, he thought, should satisfy her. The real necklace, that is. After all, it must be worth a hundred thousand francs. He got his duplicate made. But still he hesitated to make the substitution.”

  “Why?” Eve asked calmly.

  Dermot grinned at her.

  “After all, you know,” Dermot answered, “he has got a conscience.”

  Still Toby did not speak or turn round.

  “Then he made up his mind. Whether it was because he’d just seen a particular play acted that night, or some other reason, we can ask him to tell us. But something pushed him over the edge.

  “At one o’clock in the morning he spoke to his fiancée on the phone. In talking to her, he utterly convinced himself (do I read him rightly?) that his whole future happiness lay in stealing that necklace to get rid of Prue Latour. He was sincere. He was almost holy. He meant it all for the best. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is not said as sarcasm.”

  Dermot paused, still standing by the examining magistrate’s desk.

  “It would be easy. His father, at least to his knowledge, never sat up as late as this. The study should be dark and empty. All he had to do was slip in, open the curio cabinet just to the left of the door, exchange the false necklace for the real, and go on his way rejoicing.

  “At a few minutes past one, then, he decided to act. In the best detective story tradition, he put on a pair of brown work-gloves which are used by half the people in that house. The imitation necklace was already in his pocket. He slipped up the stairs. Since he was unable to see anything under the sill of the door, he naturally supposed the room would be dark and empty. But it was not dark, and it was not empty. Sir Maurice Lawes, we have heard several times, had no use for dishonesty.”

  “Easy, Helena!” muttered Uncle Ben.

  Helena struggled out of his grip. “Are you accusing my son of murdering his father?”

  And at last Toby spoke.

  Over there in his self-imposed corner, the searchlight beam bri
nging out the tiny bald spot on the back of his head as it swung past, Toby seemed struck by a new realization. He peered round furtively. Then abruptly he appeared to think they had gone far enough with this latest nonsense, and he jumped out at them in consternation.

  “Murder?” he repeated incredulously.

  “That was the word, young man,” M. Goron said.

  “Now, draw it mild!” urged Toby, a hollow note of accusation in his voice. He pushed out his hands, as though he would push them away. “You didn’t think I’d killed Dad, did you?”

  “Why not?” asked Dermot.

  “Why not? Why not? Kill my own father?” The dumbfounded Toby had no time even to bother with this. He took up a new grievance. “I never heard anything about these blasted ‘brown gloves’ until last night. Eve never mentioned them to me, until she suddenly up and sprang them on me at Prue’s. Just like that!

  “You could have knocked me over with a feather. I as good as told her last night, I’ve as good as told all of you today, that the ‘brown gloves’ had nothing at all to do with his death or anybody’s death. Great Scott, don’t you understand? Dad was already dead when I got there!”

  “Got him!” said Dermot, and brought down his hand with a flat whack on the table.

  That noise made nerves stir and tingle. Toby shied back.

  “What do you mean, got him?”

  “Never mind. You did wear the gloves, then?”

  “Well… yes.”

  “And you found your father dead in his chair when you went in to rob him?”

  Toby took another step backwards.

  “I don’t call it robbing him, exactly. You said so yourself. I didn’t like doing it. But how else could I have got what I wanted without doing something really dishonest?”

  “You know, Toby,” observed Eve, in something like awe, “you’re a beauty. You really are a beauty!”

  “Suppose,” suggested Dermot, perching himself on the edge of the desk, “we omit the ethical considerations. Just tell us what happened to you.”

  A genuine shudder went through Toby. If he had felt like keeping up a pretense of bravado, he could not manage it any longer. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead.