Crimes of love and hate

Front matter

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Preface

SINCE the war I have ceased to be exclusively engaged in criminal investigation abroad, but my profession has brought me constantly in touch with the great criminal investigation centres of the world, and even when merely acting as interpreter in the various courts, at home and on the Continent, I have many times become almost intimate with some of the more interesting criminals; among whom the best remembered is perhaps that strange Frenchman Pierre Vaquier, the Byfleet poisoner.

It was quite by chance that I became involved in scientific investigation and began to study the psychology of crime. Probably because I come of a mixed ancestry, many languages are as mother tongues to me, and although I am a Londoner I have always been a wanderer from land to land, roaming the earth since my boyhood. My father, Dr. W. Wolfe, of Edinburgh, went to America when a young man and became an officer in the Eighth United States Cavalry, stationed at Fort Union, near Pueblo, New Mexico. It was in the West that he met my mother, the daughter of a Scottish rancher who had chosen a bride from the old Spanish stock, as so many did in the wild pioneer days. Thus, although I was born in London during a visit of my parents to England, I spent my early days on the vast ranges of Colorado and Arizona, and was taught how to ride and shoot by the red-skinned

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Sioux warriors, who, strangely enough, enjoyed showing a white boy their tricks. Until I was fourteen, I went to school in Denver, and later completed my education in France and Germany, taking a degree in Heidelberg. In this way a love of travel and the craving for excitement and danger were stimulated in me from childhood. After my first introduction in Monte Carlo to the forces which wage unceasing warfare against the shadowy underworld of crime, I realised that in their ranks there was a possibility of escaping from the dreaded monotony of a life of routine.

Whilst a pupil and assistant of Dr. Bertillon in Paris, I found the study of criminology so absorbing, so exciting, and so full of opportunities for encountering the weird and fantastic, that I threw myself heart and soul into the work. My knowledge of languages and familiarity with most of Europe’s great cities caused me to be chosen very often when investigations were necessary in other countries. I have in this manner been enabled to collect a sheaf of unusual cases, many of which are certainly well known.

The stories which I have selected for this series can be found in the official records, only one or two details have been rearranged, in order to avoid giving pain and reopening old wounds.

I have myself taken part either in the investigation or the final trials of the criminals. Several of the cases I have specially selected because of the ingenuity displayed both by the law-breakers and the investigators.

PREFACE 1X

Truly the science of crime has developed and has armed itself with modern weapons. But equally so has the knowledge of those who are responsible for the protection of the community expanded; until the laboratory, equipped with camera, microscope, and chemical retorts, has become their greatest ally.

Famous men, such as Dr. Bertillon, Professor Lombroso, Dr. Edmond Locard, and many others, have made the study of crime and criminals and the analysis of both the absorbing pursuit of their lives.

Yet little is known of this science. It has been thought wise not to inform the potential or actual wrongdoer of the dangers with which his career is studded.

That is one point of view! If, however, the possible criminal (or even the habitual offender) knew more of the odds against the probability that any crime can remain unpunished for long, he would think twice before committing one.

The certainty of detection acts as a more powerful deterrent than the vague fear of uncertain punishment. My experiences taught me that very quickly.

When Dr. Bertillon perfected his anthropometrical department, which was at once copied in every country, and it became known that a criminal could be traced by his finger-prints, the belief that henceforth criminals would wear gloves was generally accepted by the public. It is the rarest thing, however, that he does so. The simple explanation is that gloves destroy the indispensable sense of touch. To a burglar, for instance, who is carefully feeling his way in the dark in a house which is unfamiliar x PREFACE and to whom the outstretched fingers are so many antenne, gloves are impossible.

Thus, in most of the weird and dramatic cases which follow, I shall describe how the attempts against property and life were swiftly followed by the arrest of the wrongdoer and his punishment. In giving in detail some of the true mechanism of criminal investigation, I hope to show how small are the chances in favour of impunity.

H. ASHTON-WOLFE

Contents

. THE MurbDER oF DON RAMON VALDEZ Y

CAZAL

. ORSINI, THE CROUPIER: A TALE oF MONTE

Chapter I The Discovery Of The Murder

LIKE the dark caverns among the rocks of the ocean bed, seen vaguely through the glass of a deep-sea diver’s helmet, hidden and obscured by waving tentacles of weeds, with loathsome, terrible monsters moving sluggishly in their gloomy depths, so are the strange dark thoughts stirring constantly in the subconscious human mind — urging, warping, shaping the destiny of every man.

Who can guess at the uncouth desires, hidden motives, and secret longings crawling in the cells of the brain? Who can trace the ever-widening circles of heredity, as these cells are transmitted through generations? Thus the study of crime is the study of mankind in its truest form.

And so I believe that the battle of obscure passions and abnormal instincts which culminated in the murder of that elegant young nobleman, Don Ramon Valdez y Cazal, merely proves once more that every human being is an absolute mystery to his fellows; covered with a veneer of convention, but capable of the strangest and most terrible things, if once the self-restraint and hypocrisy imposed upon us by civilisation are torn away.

According to whether our blood runs more or less redly in our veins, we are all to a certain extent potential killers and criminals. Only fear of the consequences has taught us to chain up the red-eyed beast inside.

For some time now Dr. Bertillon, the great criminologist and head of the Paris Anthropometrical Department, had left me almost entirely in charge of the photographic section. The work was arduous and absorbing. Nor did I take the responsibility lightly; for I knew only too well that often the life and liberty of a man or the detection and punishment of a criminal depended entirely upon my microscopes and cameras; and upon the correct and rapid classifying of marks, stains, or imprints of fingers.

Nevertheless I longed for a crime wherein the foreign element or some out-of-the-way factor would call for my chief’s and my own active participation and break the monotony of daily routine.

I loved to watch Dr. Bertillon at work. His rapid deductions, his subtle reasoning, and his profound knowledge of human nature — more particularly warped and criminal human nature — made it a thrilling, fascinating study to be allowed to assist him.

He would have been the greatest detective in the world had he chosen to be on the active staff of the

Sfreté; yet, after all, I am not sure: he disliked intensely the ugly side of the actual hunting of man. It was the mathematical and scientific problem only which attracted him.

To his precise but abstract brain the perpetrator of a crime was only the unknown quantity, to be discovered by logic and analysis: but now and then, when a more than ordinary crime did force him to leave his laboratory for a while and come to the assistance of the puzzled police, I saw that the instinct of the hunter was there, although masked by a feigned indifference.

One morning I was startled to learn that the well-known Spanish aristocrat Don Ramon, whose horse Sancho Panza had but lately carried off the Grand Prix, had been discovered dead — murdered apparently — in his library.

The house of the dead man was in the fashionable Rue la Boétie; and Monsieur Colbert, one of the most efficient of the Sireté officers in charge of the Elysée Division of the Paris Criminal Investigation, was busy upon the case.

It was believed that someone, probably a woman, had gained access to the apartment of Don Ramon and had poisoned a decanter of wine which was standing on the table across which the Spaniard had fallen.

During the day I received two of the special carriers designed by Dr. Bertillon for the transport of objects to be tested for finger-prints. In one was the decanter, a beautiful piece of Bohemian crystal; in the other was the wineglass from which Don Ramon had drunk. I also received two waxed cards, with impressions of the dead man’s hands.

For several hours I was kept tantalisingly busy with the various phases of laboratory work which such a case involves, but it was like hearing someone speak on the telephone, where one half of the conversation is inaudible; I received work to do, but knew little of the trend of the investigation. Great was my joy, therefore, when I received instructions to go at once to the house of the murdered man and place myself entirely at the disposal of the investigating officer.

I knew André Colbert well. He had been a pupil of Dr. Bertillon for several years and had then gone to Lyons and worked some time under Monsieur Fénelon, the chief of the Sfireté there. I knew that he would be tremendously excited by the great opportunity which had come his way. Young, ambitious, and imbued with all the most modern theories, he knew that the older men looked with disfavour upon his rapid promotion. Now was the chance to prove his qualities.

André Colbert always gave me the impression of a fox. His pointed face, brown eyes, and tawny hair all combined to create this unmistakable resemblance. Quick, alert, and nervous, he would pace or rather glide up and down a room when talking, like a caged animal. And he constantly, unceasingly smoked a short pipe — which he was always lighting and which as often went out. The more excited André became, the more freely would he gesticulate with this pipe, with the result — since a Frenchman always gesticulates when he talks — that, after a lengthy conversation, the floor and tables would be strewn with burnt matches.

When I arrived at the apartment where the Spaniard had lived, I found my colleague sitting near a window, examining some letters. At my entrance he jumped up and came towards me with outstretched hand.

‘Splendid! Iam glad you are here. This is a wonderful case, but a very difficult one also. You have brought your implements?’

I pointed to my assistant, who was already busy unpacking cameras and microscopes.

‘Trés bien. Well, then, perhaps I had better tell you briefly what I have discovered. We are both pupils of the same great master and I need not pose before you. I am perplexed — but yes — very much perplexed. Figure to yourself —I receive a telephone message from the valet Désiré. Bien — I come and I find the dead man — there in that chair. Will you note it all down? It helps to crystallise one’s thoughts to go over the details aloud. He was sitting with his head lying sideways on an open book, one arm stretched across the table. He had placed the tips of his fingers on the table to support himself and had half-risen — the marks are there — and then collapsed. It killed quickly, this poison. The other arm was hanging down, fingers outstretched, and under them on the carpet where it had dropped was a wineglass. Some of the contents have stained the carpet. His face was horrible — swollen and purple. The doctor says the poison must instantly produce asphyxia. But he does not know it. I have sent some of the wine in the decanter to our little Lebrun. He will know what it is — hein? Bien — I then measured the contents. The decanter was nearly full. Only one wineglass had been filled from it. I reason that Don Ramon was alone, for he was reading, and only one glass in the room. Had anyone been with him there would have been two or more glasses and he would not have been reading.’

‘What was the book?’ I asked.

‘Parfait, mon vieux! I was waiting for you to ask that. But it does not help. A medical treatise — mental diseases; nothing in that.’

‘Isn’t it rather a strange book for a man like the Spaniard to read? Perhaps he was becoming insane or feared something of the kind and committed suicide.’

André turned on me like an angry dog.

‘Nonsense, nonsense! Wait till you have all the facts. Besides, a man like that does not commit suicide. Young, rich, and good-looking: and he was lucky with his horses, one of them was entered for the Longchamps races to-morrow. Furthermore, he was to have married the beautiful American Rachel Holbein, who sings at the Opéra-Comique.’

‘Well — cherchez la femme; perhaps they had quarrelled and he killed himself because of her.’

‘No — although it is true that they had quarrelled. But when you say seek the woman, you are on the right road. Now —TI continue — his big bookcase had been broken open. Strange to say the key was in his pocket. Whoever did it was in a rage, for the beautiful wood has been cut and hacked quite unnecessarily. A knife from the kitchen was used. The person who did it knew where the kitchen was and where the knives were kept. You have received that knife?’

I nodded.

‘Good; then come and look. That big painting of Don Ramon has been slashed and cut to pieces.’

I walked over to where my friend pointed and saw shreds and tatters of canvas hanging from a frame.

‘This stiletto — a beautiful little silver toy — did that. Look, it is still on the carpet — we have not touched it.’

‘But why not the kitchen knife?’ I queried.

‘Obviously the painting was slashed first, then, since the stiletto was too slender to break open the bookcase, the knife was fetched.’

‘Why was the bookcase broken open?’ I asked.

‘Ah, I do not know — the shelves are packed full — nothing seems to be missing. But there must be marks — finger-marks — both on the knife and the bookcase.’

I gave the necessary instructions to my assistant who at once set to work. When all the polished parts of the door and the glass had been carefully sprayed with a certain colouring matter, we saw that there were indeed marks. Colbert sighed with satisfaction. Then, while these were being photographed, he continued his exposé:

‘The slashing of the portrait at once made me think of a woman; for who else would do such a petty thing? On the table I found this’ — and he showed me a glove which he had carefully placed in a tin box — ‘and a dainty lace handkerchief, perfumed — but no monogram. The perfume Lebrun has identified as ‘“‘Le Chevalier d’Orsay.” Some papers — letters or documents — have been burned in the anthracite stove within the last few days.

‘I then questioned the servants. Strange to say, none of them sleep in the apartment. They have a number of rooms in a different part of the house. They tell me they had strict orders never to disturb their master after eight o’clock. But there are bells by which they can be summoned. Only the valet saw his master come in between seven and eight. He met him at the door of the lift and Don Ramon told him not to serve dinner because he did not feel well, but about ten he would take a little cold supper. It was when this was taken in that his death was discovered. The decanter of wine and a glass had been placed in readiness for his master’s return by the valet, shortly after lunch. Désiré had then gone out — it was his free afternoon. The wine was Amontillado, a species of sherry, which his master always drank. The concierge says that the fiancée, Miss Holbein, called three times during the afternoon, whilst the Spaniard was out. The first time the concierge did not notice her come in, and saw with surprise how pale and agitated she was when she went out. The second time Miss Holbein only entered the main hall; but the third time she again took the lift and came down about ten minutes later.

THE MURDER OF DON RAMON II

A maid from a flat on the opposite side of the street swears that she saw a woman’s shadow pass several times across the blind of the window of this room — it was then dark and the light had been switched on. Now I have also found the taxi-driver who drove Miss Holbein to the door of this house early in the afternoon. He says it was about four o'clock. Last of all, there are these letters, which define the case in my opinion.

‘She was angry with her fiancé because of an entanglement with another woman. She threatened several times to break off the engagement, and in these last two letters she swears that she will kill Don Ramon if she finds that he has been untrue to her. I am only waiting to know the result of your work and what the poison is, before applying for a warrant against her.’

I felt intensely disappointed. If what my colleague said was true, then the case would prove to be very tame from my point of view; although the names of the people involved would supply the newspapers with scare headlines for many days.

It was almost unbelievable that this beautiful woman, whom I had heard only the week before in the réle of Carmen, and whose magnificent contralto voice had charmed all Paris, could have committed a cowardly murder.

It is so hard to remember that these dazzling favourites of the fickle public are just human beings — nothing more.

Whilst I was finishing my work and carefully packing the little silver stiletto, I saw that an officer from headquarters had arrived, whom I knew. His name was Rousseau, but we always called him ‘the Brigadier’ because of his resemblance to the gendarme as he is caricatured.

Rousseau was one of the old guard. He would have looked well in the uniform of one of Napoleon’s veterans. A red face, with a more deeply tinted nose, due, I am sorry to say, to a taste in old wines and Calvados brandy, a great bristling moustache that covered a good-natured, humorous mouth, and a twinkling pair of light blue eyes, were the most noticeable features. Rousseau looked what he was, a true child of the Paris slums. He had worked his way up to his present position by a kind of dogged perseverance and more than a leavening of good luck. Somehow, although he disdained all modern science and openly laughed at photographs and finger-prints, he nearly always found his man. Bertillon said to me once: ‘Rousseau knows every thief and apache in Paris. He drinks with all of them, and so succeeds where we should fail. People will talk to Rousseau and tell him things. When we come along, they are dumb.’

I could see that Colbert was very annoyed.

‘He has been here all day, that old fool, and up to his usual tricks. Drinking with the servants and coachmen, nosing around in the dustbins, and interviewing the riff-raff. Hurry up, mon cher ami, and let me have a report at once. I'll show the Brigadier what modern science can do. I'll be waiting to hear from you in my office at six.’

I agreed to this and then crossed over and shook hands with Rousseau, who winked pleasantly when he saw all my instruments.

At six o'clock I sent a special messenger to Colbert’s office with the result of my work. I knew that he would be very disappointed; for the enlargements showed that every imprint — on the knife, on the stiletto, and on the bookcase — had been made by the dead man. This confirmed my idea that it was a case of suicide and that the man had suddenly become insane. The key of the bookcase was in his pocket, and yet for no apparent reason he had broken it open without concern for the damage to his beautiful furniture. He also must have cut his own portrait to ribands—the marks on the knife proved that clearly.

I was more than surprised, therefore, when a little later Colbert called me to the telephone and informed me that he had arrested Miss Holbein.

‘She is guilty — without a doubt,’ he said. ‘We caught her just as she was leaving for Cherbourg. She had a ticket to Southampton in her bag and a cabin reserved on the Prince Wilhelm, a North- German Lloyd boat leaving Southampton to-morrow for New York. In her rooms, hidden in the drawer of a bureau, was a little packet containing a grey powder, which Lebrun says is some of the poison used to kill Don Ramon. Furthermore, she always used the perfume ‘‘Le Chevalier d’Orsay.’”’ Con-

gratulate me!’

I did so — but I was glad that he could not see my face. Somehow — I don’t know why —I felt dissatisfied. Circumstantial evidence is no evidence.

Yet in France, where the arrested person is considered guilty until he proves his innocence, circumstantial evidence has ruined many lives.

Although familiarity blunts the feelings, I still thrill with pride when I hear a judge at the Old Bailey say to the jury, in his summing up: ‘If the prosecution has failed to prove to your entire satisfaction and without the shadow of a doubt, that the prisoner is guilty — then that prisoner must be acquitted.’

All the difference is there. Not that I wish to suggest for a moment that French judges are unfair — no, they are fair and humane; it is the system that is bad.

The next morning every paper printed a frontpage article commenting on the arrest of Miss Rachel Holbein and praising the rapid, masterly investigation carried out by my friend André Colbert.

The Spaniard Don Ramon, who was soon to have married the singer, had been seen constantly with her for the last six months, at Deauville, at Ostend, and at the Longchamps races. Everywhere his famous thoroughbreds had gained victories and Miss Holbein had been by his side to applaud them, as he had applauded every one of her triumphs at the Opéra-Comique. A love match, so all Paris thought. But apparently there had been another woman. The papers hinted at an unsavoury entanglement, of which the American had learned.

I was reading the various more or less imaginary details in the ‘Matin’ when the door opened and Rousseau came in with a sheepish grin. After some commonplace remark he laid a parcel on my desk with an air of great mystery; this, looking cautiously around him the while, he unwrapped. In it was a thin steel blade, something like a palette knife, but without a handle. It had been carefully placed between two small pieces of wood at each end and two sheets of cardboard, so that the wrapping-paper could not touch it.

I smiled when I saw these precautions.

‘I thought you did not believe in our methods, Brigadier?’ I could not help saying.

‘I don’t as a rule,’ he replied soberly, ‘but here it is a case for speed. That young upstart Colbert has arrested an innocent woman. Every day she spends in the cells is a day she will never forget. And she is an American, a countrywoman of those for whom Lafayette of glorious memory fought. Therefore I have come to you to gain time. Besides, monsieur, you are a man who does not rely on mechanical helps alone, you use common-sense. I want to collect evidence in her favour to place before Monsieur de Kersac the next time he questions the poor little demoiselle of the Opéra.’

‘You do not believe then that Mademoiselle Holbein had anything to do with the murder?’

‘Jamais de la vie! This blade was lying on the floor just inside the door leading to the apartment from the servant’s staircase at the back. It has been used to prise open a small window which shuts only with a bolt. The marks on the edge and on the bolt prove that. There are also several scratches on the door, and a bent wire has been tried on the lock.

Then, just inside the room where the dead man was found, I discovered a muddy footprint. I have measured and made a drawing of it. I have also covered it with a piece of glass and given strict orders that this is not to be touched. Thirdly, a little thing which Monsieur Colbert also overlooked, is that a secret drawer in an escritoire has been opened. There is a small square patch inside where there is no dust, although it is thick everywhere else on the bottom of the drawer. Evidently it had remained undisturbed for a long time. The dust had also collected on the thing, whatever it was, that was taken out, for some has fallen on the edge of the drawer. Here is some of the dust in this piece of paper. Please go at once and see with your microscope if there is any trace of the same dust on the packet of poison found in Miss Holbein’s room. Dust is dust, I know, but in this case wood-worms have been at work and some of the powdered wood has fallen into the drawer.’ |

‘I think, Brigadier,’ I said, rising and saluting him, ‘that when you pretend to despise our methods it is just a pose—even Dr. Bertillon could have done no finer work.’

The old fellow flushed with pleasure.

‘Well, monsieur, I love music and often this poor little girl, now in prison, has charmed me with her beautiful voice; so I want to obtain her release quickly. This blade here was never used by her dainty hands. That is the work of a man, not a woman. Now please see if you can find any signs on the surface.’

‘Had I not better come with you and examine that door and window; there may be something there too.’

‘Not necessary, monsieur — the man who used this blade is an amateur; his fingers are certainly not in our records. Only a novice would use such a clumsy tool. Besides, I know already what he looks like. He was seen — has been seen many times. Au revoir—TI will come back later. Please remember this is a private call. Don’t tell Colbert about it.’

‘Wait a moment, Brigadier,’ I said. ‘When I complimented you just now, it was for the technical perfection of your investigation. The finding of this blade and of the footprint seems to indicate that a man — the man who you say watched and followed Don Ramon — entered the apartment. But the secret drawer from which something — which we will suppose was the packet of poison — was taken, only draws the net more tightly around Miss Holbein.’

‘Why so, monsieur?’

‘Think a moment, Brigadier. Is it likely that a man, a stranger, since he followed Don Ramon in the daytime, would have any knowledge of the secret drawer and its contents? Whereas Miss Holbein — afhanced to Don Ramon — may have known of it. Don Ramon probably told her about it.’

‘But you misunderstand me, monsieur,’ the Brigadier said, coming close to me. ‘I am not stubborn. If the paper with the poison, found in Miss Holbein’s rooms, came from the secret drawer, then

I shall begin to believe that she is guilty. I am hoping, however, that your tests will prove that at did not. In that case, perhaps a document or some very important thing was taken from the drawer, and it was because of it that Don Ramon was murdered. Au revoir, monsieur, and, once more, not a word to Monsieur Colbert.’

I nodded, and the Brigadier withdrew.

I at once telephoned to Monsieur Colbert and requested him to send me the packet of poison found by him. Unfortunately it had already been sent to the investigating judge Monsieur de Kersac. To him I dispatched a messenger with a note insisting on the care with which the package must be handled.

I was about to commence my tests on the blade when the telephone bell rang.

Going to the instrument, I heard to my surprise the well-known, cheery voice of my old friend Bannister.

‘I’m coming to see you — now — at once,’ he said. ‘We are on this Don Ramon business together. I have a letter from Monsieur Dufresne asking your chief to let you work with me. In “a little half-hour”’ [’ll be there.’

This was good news, indeed. It was a delightful thing to work together with Bannister, whose good nature and absolute fearlessness made him the ideal companion in any adventure. .

I wondered what marvellous disguises he would ‘invent during this case. For that he could investigate a murder without using the most elaborate make-up was, I knew, a sheer impossibility. Those who have read the series of crimes described in ‘The Underworld’ will remember that it was Bannister who taught me the art of disguise, although I always was and always shall be sceptical of such carnival masquerade. I felt sure that the arrest of Miss Holbein had unleashed the American man-hunter. That this meant my codperation was inevitable; for many were the services he and his unique organisation had rendered the French Sfireté; therefore all their resources were at Bannister’s disposal. Ever since we together had captured the spiked monster Lacombe, Bannister insisted on my help, for we were not only firm friends, but akin in tastes and thoughts.