V
Instructed by Steppe to defend him, a solicitor interviewed Ambrose Sault in his airy cell. He expected to find a man broken by his awful position. He found instead, a cheerful client who, when he was ushered into the cell, was engaged in covering a large sheet of paper with minute figures. A glance at the paper showed the wondering officer of the law that Sault was working out a problem in mathematics. It was, in fact, a differential equation of a high and complex character.
"It is very kind of Mr. Steppe, but I don't know what you can do, sir. I killed Moropulos. I killed him deliberately. Poor soul! How glad it must have been to have left that horrible body with all its animal weaknesses! I was thinking about it last night: wondering where it would be. Somewhere in the spaces of the night—between the stars. Don't you often wonder whether a soul has a chemical origin? Some day clever men will discover. Souls have substance, more tenuous than light. And light has substance. You can bend light with a magnet: I have seen it done. The ether has substance: compared with other unknown elements, ether may be as thick as treacle. Supposing some super-supernatural scientist could examine the ether as we examine a shovel full of earth? Is it not possible that the soul germ might be discovered? For a soul has no size and no weight and no likeness to man. Some people think of a soul as having the appearance of the body which it inspires. That is stupid. If death can cling to the point of a needle and life grows from a microscopic organism, how infinitesimal is the cell of the soul! The souls of all the men and the women of the world might be brought together and be lost on one atom of down on a butterfly's wing!"
The lawyer listened hopefully. Here was a case for eminent alienists. He saw the governor of the jail as he went out.
"I should very much like this man to be kept under medical observation," he said. "From my conversation with him, I am satisfied that he isn't normal."
"He seems sane enough," replied the governor, "but I will speak to the doctor: I suppose you will send specialists down?"
"I imagine we shall; he isn't normal. He practically refuses to discuss the crime—occupied the time by talking about souls and the size of 'em! If that isn't lunacy, then I'm mad!"
Steppe, to whom he reported, was very thoughtful.
"He isn't mad. Sault is a queer fellow, but he isn't mad. He thinks about such things. He is struggling to the light—those were the words he used to me. Yes, you can send doctors down if you wish. You have briefed Maxton?" The lawyer nodded.
"He wasn't very keen on the job. It is a little out of his line. Besides, he'll be made a judge in a year or two, and naturally he doesn't want to figure on the losing side. In fact, he turned me down definitely, but I was hardly back in my office—his chambers are less than five minutes walk away—before he called me up and said he'd take the brief. I was surprised. He is going down to Wechester next week."
Steppe grunted.
"You understand that my name doesn't appear in this except to Maxton, of course. I dare say that if I went on to the witness stand and told all I knew about Moropulos and what kind of a brute he was, my evidence might make a difference. But I'm not going and your job is to keep me out of this, Smith."
Steppe's attitude was definite and logical. Sault, in a measure, he admired without liking. He saw in him a difficult, and possibly a dangerous, man. That he had piqued his employer by his independence and courage did not influence Steppe one way or another. It was, in truth, the cause of his admiration. Sault was a man in possession of a dangerous secret. The folly of entrusting two other men with the combination word of the safe had been apparent from the first. He had been uneasy in his mind, more because of the unknown reliability of Moropulos, than because he mistrusted Sault, and he had decided that the scheme for the storage of compromising documents possessed too many disadvantages. Without telling either of his associates, he had arranged to transfer the contents of the safe to his own custody when the disaster occurred. The safe was in the hands of the curious police. And the more he thought about the matter, the more undesirable it seemed that the safe should be opened. It contained, amongst other things, the draft of a prospectus which had since been printed—the shares went to allotment two days before the murder. The draft was in his own hand, a dozen sheets of pencilled writing, and it described in optimistic language certain valuable assets which were in fact non-existent. The financial press had remarked upon the fact, and not content with remarking once, had industriously continued to remark. Steppe had made a mistake, and it was a bad mistake. The cleverest of company promoters occasionally overstep the line that divides the optimistic estimate from misrepresentation. Fortunately, his name did not appear on the prospectus; most unfortunately, he had preserved the draft. He had put it aside after Dr. Merville had copied the document. He had a reason for this. Jan Steppe seldom appeared in such transactions: even his name as vendor was skilfully camouflaged under the title of some stock-holding company. He was a supreme general who issued his orders to his commanders: gave them the rough plan of their operations, and left them to lick it into shape. It sometimes happened that they deviated from his instructions, generally to the advantage of the scheme they were working: occasionally they fell short of his requirements and then his draft proved useful in emphasizing their error. And this was only one of the safe's contents. There were others equally dangerous.
Steppe believed that his servant would die. To say that he hoped he would die would be untrue. Belief makes hope superfluous. It was politic to spend money on the defense of a man who, being grateful, would also be loyal. He could accept Sault's death with equanimity, and without regret. With relief almost. Evidence could be given which would show Moropulos in an unfavorable light. The Greek was a drunkard: his reputation was foul: he was provocative and quarrelsome. The weapon was his own (Sault had once taken it away from him) a plea of self-defense might succeed—always providing that Mr. Jan Steppe would submit himself to cross-examination, and the reflected odium of acquaintance with the dead man and his killer.
And Mr. Jan Steppe was firmly determined to do nothing of the kind. Sault would carry his secret to the grave unless—suppose this infernal photograph which Moropulos had put into the safe—suppose Sault mentioned this to the lawyers: but he would be loyal. Steppe, having faith in his loyalty, decided to let him die.
Sir John Maxton had changed his mind on the question of defending Sault as a result of an urgent request which had reached him immediately after the solicitor had left his chambers.
He called on Beryl Merville on his way home. She was alone. Christina had returned to her mother, and Dr. Merville was at Cannes, mercifully ignorant of the comments which the financial newspapers were passing upon a company of which he was president.
"I will undertake the defense, Beryl, though I confess it seems to me a hopeless proposition. I had just that moment refused the brief when you rang through. If I remember aright, I have met Sault—wasn't he that strong looking man who came to Steppe's house the night we were dining there? I thought so. And Moropulos—who was he? Not the drunken fellow who made such a fool of himself? By jove! I hadn't connected them—I have only glanced at the brief and I am seeing Sault on Friday. Fortunately, I am spending the week-end in the country, and I can call in on my way. Smith is attending to the inquest and the lower Court proceedings. I saw Smith (he is the solicitor) this afternoon: he tells me that Steppe is paying for the defense. That is a professional secret, by the way. He also surprised me by expressing the view that Sault is mad."
Beryl smiled. "He is not mad," she said quietly, "why does he think so?"
Sir John humped his thin shoulders: a movement indicative of his contempt for the lawyer's opinion on any subject.
"Apparently Sault talked about souls as though they were microbes. Smith, being a God-fearing man, was shocked. To him the soul stands in the same relationship to the body as the inner tube of a tire to the cover. He is something of a spiritualist, and spiritualism is the most material of the occult sciences—it insists that spirits shall have noses and ears like other respectable ghosts. From what he said, I couldn't make head or tail of Sault's view."
"Ambrose is not mad," said the girl, "he is the sanest man I have ever met, or will meet. His view is different: he himself is different. You cannot judge him by any ordinary standard."
"You call him 'Ambrose'," said Sir John in surprise, "is he a friend of yours?"
"Yes."
She said no more than that, and he did not press the question. It was impossible to explain Ambrose.