Ethics of Killing

They swung out from Scotland Yard into Whitehall.

"What has happened?" the inspector asked.

Monsieur Dupont leant forward, controlling his excitement with an effort.

"Mon Dieu," he said, "I wish I knew!"

He took the telegram from his pocket.

"It is an hour only that I have returned from Richmond. I found the house of George Copplestone in course of transformation. I found all the windows open. I found men and women cleaning—painting—making new. I found a hundred men ... making the crooked garden straight."

"Well?" said the inspector—"why not?"

Monsieur Dupont brought his hands together impatiently. "Why not? There are a thousand reasons why not. But the reason why...."

"Is it an extraordinary thing for a man to open his windows, paint his house, and straighten his garden?"

"It is!" exclaimed Monsieur Dupont. "It is more than an extraordinary thing—it is a gigantic, a brain-splitting thing—if he has kept his windows closed, his house unpainted, and his garden crooked for twenty years. The house of a man is the reflection of his soul. It was the reflection of George Copplestone's soul yesterday. But ... something happened in it last night. And to-day...."

He broke off, and began to smooth out the telegram on his knee.

"The moment I entered that house," he continued, "I knew it was a wicked house. And when that dreadful thing happened, I felt positively that the wickedness of the house had some direct connection with the crime in the garden. I felt that it would be impossible to solve one without solving the other. I knew, also, that you would certainly be satisfied with the evidence against James Layton, and would consider no other possibility. That evidence, I admit, was unanswerable—but I, with some previous knowledge to help me, knew that Layton was innocent. The difficulty in front of me was to prove the guilt of the real criminal in time. My friend Tranter, and that remarkable young protÉgÉe of Layton, Jenny West, agreed to help me. Together we began to draw the nets, and the criminal was aware of our movements. In the country yesterday I discovered the identity of the most important witness in the case—but when I went to find her in the evening, she had been snatched away. I instructed Tranter to discover and bring to me the secret of the Crooked House, whatever it might be. He set out to do so at nine o'clock last night. And he has disappeared."

"Disappeared?" the inspector exclaimed.

"Without a trace. I, only, knew where he was going. And not only has he disappeared—but Copplestone and Mrs. Astley-Rolfe have disappeared with him."

Inspector Fay began to show more interest.

"They will be wanted for the inquest," he said sharply. "If we do not find them in time for the inquest," Monsieur Dupont returned, "there will be two inquests to hold."

"Two inquests?" the inspector echoed.

"I could not understand it," continued Monsieur Dupont. "It was contrary to all my calculations. I was bewildered—and you may recollect that I am not often bewildered. But when I returned to my hotel, I found this." He held out the telegram. "It is the answer to a certain inquiry I have made."

"What does it mean?" the inspector asked, handing it back.

"It means," said Monsieur Dupont slowly, "that we shall be lucky if we find Tranter alive."

"Where can they have gone?"

"I do not know. I can only guess—and if I have not guessed rightly, we shall not see him again."

"Are you telling me," the inspector demanded, "that Copplestone killed the woman he had just become engaged to?"

"I shall tell you who killed her within twelve hours," Monsieur Dupont replied. "I will tell you why she was killed now."

He paused.

"Why," he asked, "did the murderer, whoever it was, kill her so horribly? Why was it not enough to deprive her of life? Could one have desired more? Why was she stamped on, and torn, and crushed?"

"It was obviously done in the madness of jealousy and revenge," replied the inspector.

"It was done in madness," said Monsieur Dupont—"but it was not the madness of jealousy or revenge. It was the madness of a strange and terrible hatred. It was done—because the killer hated her beauty and not her."

The inspector stared at him blankly.

"Hated her beauty, and not her...?"

"Twenty years ago," said Monsieur Dupont, "there was in France a very beautiful woman. She was named Colette d'Orsel. It was said that she was the most beautiful woman in the country. She was also very rich, very generous, and very kind. She was always doing good actions. She had not an enemy in the world. There was no one who could have wished her a moment's pain. She was only twenty-five. With several of her friends she went to stay at Nice. One night she was found in the gardens of her hotel—almost torn to pieces."

"I remember the case," said the inspector. "It was a ghastly affair."

"There appeared no motive. She was wearing some splendid jewels. They had been crushed with her, but nothing was missing—not a stone. She had just returned from the tables, and had not troubled to deposit her winnings of the evening with the cashier of the hotel. Forty thousand francs were found on the body. Not a note had been touched. The greatest detectives of France were called in to solve the mystery—but they solved nothing. They made the mistake of trying to find a motive. They looked for a person who could have had a reason to kill her. But it was time lost. They should have looked among the people who had no reason to kill her. The weeks became months, and still they discovered nothing. That crime is a mystery to-day." The inspector's attention was rivetted. He remained silent.

"Ten years ago," Monsieur Dupont proceeded, "there was in Boston a young girl named Margaret McCall. She was wonderfully beautiful. Her parents were poor people, and she worked for her living. She was quiet and reserved by nature. She made few friends, and cared little for the society of men. Naturally there were hundreds who regretted, and attempted to overcome, that characteristic; but she went her own way quietly and firmly. One evening her body was found in a lonely part of one of the public parks torn and crushed in the most terrible manner. The police were helpless. The thing that baffled them completely was the absence of any motive for the crime. They tried to find one—but all that they found was what I have said, that she had been a good, honest girl—that she had had no enemies—that she had not jilted a man, or wronged a woman—that she had never flirted, or encouraged men to pay attentions to her. Yet there she had been found—broken and mutilated. The small sum of money she carried had remained untouched. The crime was never solved."

His voice had sunk lower. He had dwelt on each detail with impassive deliberation.

"This week, Christine Manderson—without doubt the most beautiful woman of the three—was found in that crooked garden at Richmond, if possible in a more horrible condition than either of the others."

"You mean," exploded the inspector, "that the murderer of Colette d'Orsel at Nice twenty years ago also killed Margaret McCall in Boston ten years after?"

"I do," replied the low voice.

"And Christine Manderson here three days ago?"

"And Christine Manderson here three days ago. But this time there was a difference. An unfortunate chain of circumstances provided clear evidence against an innocent man—James Layton. I admit that as the case stood you had no option but to arrest him. But in doing so you committed the same mistake that your French and American brothers had committed before you. They had looked for a motive, and could not find one. You found a motive, and devoted yourself to the man with the motive. You should have looked for the Destroyer."

There was something of awe in the silence that followed, like the hush that succeeds the passing of a storm.

"My friend," said the inspector slowly, "what utterly monstrous thing are you telling me?"

Monsieur Dupont turned to him a face of massive innocence.

"Is it monstrous?" he said mildly. "If a man is born with a longing to kill elephants, he is a daring sportsman. If the longing is to kill beetles, he is a scientist. But if the inclination is to kill men—or women—he is a criminal lunatic. Why? If the desire to kill is not in itself monstrous, the desire to kill a particular thing, whatever it may be, cannot be monstrous. It can only be illegal. If it is dreadful to kill a young child, it must be dreadful to kill anything young. If it is cowardly for a man to kill a woman, it is cowardly for a man to kill the female sex in any shape or form. Yet, what scientist allows the matter of sex to interfere with the impalement of his beetle? Nor would he do so if his hobby were to impale human beings. If he searches for a beautiful beetle to kill, it only requires a broadening of his particular outlook for him to search for a beautiful woman to kill. There may be a perfectly sane and moral country in the world (although I have never heard of it) in which it would be criminal to kill the beetle, and scientific to kill the woman. I confess that a well-mounted collection of beautiful women would be very much more interesting to me than the finest collection of beautiful beetles. But if I have the one, I am made a member of a Royal Society—and if I have the other, I am executed. And the only reason for that is that the human beings make the laws, and not the beetles."

The car swung round a sharp corner, and the inspector's amazement was interrupted by the sudden necessity of keeping his position. Monsieur Dupont continued slowly.

"But the monstrousness of this case is not that three people have been killed—but that three people have been more than killed. It is monstrous because we have none of the simple dignity of the primitive slayer, and all the morbid excesses of the modern despoiler. While it might be an entirely respectable thing to kill a woman to preserve her beauty, it is an entirely monstrous thing to kill her to destroy it. That is the only reason why the collector of beetles and butterflies is not the most cold-blooded of murderers. That is the only——"

"What in the name of all that's unholy," gasped the inspector, "are you going to say next?"

Monsieur Dupont leant forward as the car stopped, and opened the door.

"Next," he replied gravely, "I am going to inform you that we have arrived at Paddington, and request you to get out."