The Birth of the Killer

Monsieur Dupont was one of those fortunate individuals who can sleep in a train.

He left Paddington at one o'clock, and slept for an hour, a sleep of childlike ease and innocence. When he woke the train was within five minutes of his destination. He alighted at a small country station, and instituted inquiries for a conveyance.

Twenty minutes later, an unimpressionable horse, attached to a hybrid vehicle, was jogging him along country lanes which would have delighted a man with less serious purposes. But Monsieur Dupont was too much occupied with the uglinesses of humanity to heed the beauties of nature. It was not until they arrived at the outskirts of a small village that he began to look about him with interest.

It was a lovely spot, nestling in primeval innocence under the shelter of protecting hills. Monsieur Dupont uttered a heavy sigh, and spoke, for the first time during the drive, to the stout, sunburnt lad who conducted the equipage.

"My friend," he said sorrowfully, "who could imagine that such a corner of heaven could have been the cradle of one of the most terrible tragedies of the world? I feel like a purveyor of sins, creeping into the preserves of God."

The startled stare that confronted him was not helpful to further conversation. The disconcerted youth vigorously obtained fresh impetus from their source of progress, and drew up at length, with obvious relief, before a low, creeper-covered house, lying in a nest of flowers.

Monsieur Dupont's gentle knock produced a rubicund housekeeper, of about eighty, who blended in perfect harmony with the house, the creeper, and the flowers.

"Doctor Lessing, if you please, madame," said Monsieur Dupont.

He was shown into a small library, opening on to the garden. The room was flooded with sunshine. There were flowers everywhere.

"Mon Dieu," said Monsieur Dupont, aloud, "that I should come to ask such questions here."

He turned as the door opened, and bowed before a sturdy, white-haired old man, bronzed with the health of the country.

"Monsieur Dupont?" said the doctor. "What can I do for you?"

Monsieur Dupont took a letter from his pocket, and unfolded it.

"Monsieur, I beg you to read this letter. It is from the French Embassy, and begs assistance to me in an investigation that I am making."

Doctor Lessing read the letter, and returned it.

"I shall be happy to assist you in any way I can," he said, courteously. "Please sit down."

Monsieur Dupont sat down by the open windows and drank in the fragrance of the garden.

"Doctor Lessing," he began, "I believe it is for a long time that you have lived in this beautiful place?" "For forty-five years," the old doctor smiled contentedly. "But I am by no means one of its oldest inhabitants. Lives are long in the country. To what period do you wish to refer?"

"A period," Monsieur Dupont replied, "nearly forty years ago. I do not know exactly."

"A long stretch," said Doctor Lessing ruefully. "But my memory shall do its best for you. That is all I can promise."

"I am engaged," said Monsieur Dupont, "on an extraordinary quest. I do not think that any human being has ever been engaged on a more extraordinary quest."

"A pleasant one, I trust," said the doctor.

"As much to the contrary as it is possible to imagine."

The doctor murmured a regret and waited for his huge visitor to continue.

"Do you," Monsieur Dupont inquired, "recollect the name of Winslowe?"

Doctor Lessing started slightly.

"Winslowe?"

"Oscar Winslowe." A keen glance flashed from the doctor's eyes.

"Yes," he said quickly, "I recollect the name."

"He lived, I think in this village at the time I have said?"

"Yes." The reply was a trifle curt.

"Perhaps," Monsieur Dupont proceeded evenly, "there were circumstances in connection with that name which helped to fix it in your memory?"

"There were certain circumstances," the doctor admitted, "which made it a name that I am unlikely to forget."

"Unpleasant circumstances?" queried Monsieur Dupont.

"The most unpleasant that have ever occurred to me in the whole length of my practice."

"It is for that story," said Monsieur Dupont, "that I have come to ask. May I beg all the details that you can recall?"

"Perhaps you will first tell me," the doctor returned, "for what purpose you require this information?"

"I require it," Monsieur Dupont replied impressively, "to save the life of an innocent man, who is wrongly accused of the crime of murder. I require it also prove three deaths, and possibly to prevent another three."

Again the doctor started. His hands gripped the arms of his chair.

"Three deaths?" he exclaimed sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Three deaths," repeated Monsieur Dupont. "Of three very beautiful women."

The doctor sprang to his feet.

"My God!" he cried hoarsely.

"Will you tell me the story?" said Monsieur Dupont.

Doctor Lessing sat down again in his chair. He was considerably shaken. He leant back and closed his eyes, remaining silent for a few moments.

"I think," he began at last, "that I can, at all events, remember the chief facts of the case. It was such a remarkable and distressing one that it stands out in the annals of such a peaceful spot as this, and it has therefore remained in my memory, though so much else has faded. But you must make allowances for the flight of time. Look out of the window to the left, and you will see a large red house, on the slope of the hill."

"I see it," said Monsieur Dupont, following the direction.

"That was Oscar Winslowe's house, forty years ago. Winslowe was an unprincipled and dissolute man. He was only about twenty-five or six at that time, but already he was sodden with drink, drugs, and vice of every description. He was the worst kind of blackguard. But his wife was the exact opposite to him, a gentle, delicate girl. She was not beautiful, but her nature more than compensated for lack of beauty. He had married her for her money, and treated her abominably. I became friendly with her, partly because of the pity I felt for her on account of his treatment, and partly because I sincerely admired the beauty of her character. In consequence of that friendship, I undertook to watch over her entry into motherhood."

"That is what I want," said Monsieur Dupont. "Her entry into motherhood."

"The more I saw of her," continued the doctor, "the greater grew my pity. There have been wonderful women in the world who have made history by their patience and endurance—but this woman was one of those, equally brave and equally patient, of whom history knows nothing. She worshipped her husband, blindly, dumbly—as an animal will still love the man or woman who ill-treats it. She never uttered a word of complaint or blame. Her greatest hope was that the advent of the child would induce from him something of the consideration and tenderness that he had never given her. She believed it was some fault, some shortcoming, of hers that had kept it from her. It didn't occur to her that it might be the beauty of another woman."

"Ah!" said Monsieur Dupont eagerly.

"She discovered that about three months before the child was born. I can't remember how the discovery came about. She followed him to London—and found him, even that short time before the birth of his child, lavishing on a beautiful society woman all that should have been hers."

In spite of the years that had passed the doctor's voice still rose in anger. He paused, checking himself.

"Before that supreme insult, that shattering of her hopes, the poor girl lost her reason. In the state of her health, it was not surprising. She, who would never have harmed a fly, who had never wished ill to any one in her life, became possessed with an awful fury to stamp out the beauty that had robbed her—to destroy the face and body that were more to the man she loved than her own. The other woman, undeserving of consideration as she was, narrowly escaped a horrible punishment. The unfortunate girl was brought back here, and I was sent for to attend her. She grew worse hour after hour. Her mind was completely unhinged. From a furious hatred of the beauty of the woman who had wronged her, the mania increased into a furious hatred of beauty in any shape or form, and a savage lust to destroy it. In the house there were many portraits of the beautiful women of the Winslowe family. She tore the pictures to shreds. There were statues and valuable works of art. She smashed them all to pulp. Her madness was the most terrible thing I have ever seen. She had to be forcibly restrained."

Monsieur Dupont listened intently. There was an expression of triumph on his face.

"A pitiful story," he said softly.

"She partially recovered in a few weeks," the doctor went on, "and before the three months were up her reason, if not actually sound again, was at least restored. But she was a wreck of a woman. There was darkness all round her. She heard nothing more of Winslowe. He never came back to the house. The madness returned when she gave birth to her child, and she died in an asylum a fortnight afterwards."

A longer pause followed. The recitation of his memories moved the good old doctor as the actual experience must have moved the young man of forty years before. He rose, and walked to the window, sniffing the scent of the flowers with relief.

"She left the care of the child to the nurse who was devoted to her, with ample funds for its future. When the affairs were settled up, the nurse took the child away with her, and I have not seen her since."

He made a relieved gesture.

"That is the whole story," he said.

"The nurse," inquired Monsieur Dupont, "what was her name?"

"Masters. Miss Elizabeth Masters."

"Is she still alive?"

"So far as I know she is," the doctor replied. "But I should not have been likely to have heard of her death, if it had taken place."

"Can you assist me to discover her address?"

"She wrote to me periodically," Doctor Lessing returned. "She was an excellent nurse, and I got her some cases in town. But it is a long time since I last heard from her. There may be one or two old letters of hers in my desk. If you will excuse me for a moment, I will see if I can find them for you."

He left the room. Monsieur Dupont turned to the window, and gazed dreamily out into the sunshine.

"And so," he muttered—"in this corner of paradise the Destroyer was born."