hoped. Naturally dull and unintelligent, his reflexes were slow and uncertain, and it soon became evident that Phyllis was the better subject for my experiment.
“By patient delving into her mental processes I soon discovered an ill-defined but positive bent toward Lesbianism plus even less developed symptoms of an Electra complex. The foundation was slight, but the subject was so perfectly normal and so sensitively attuned mentally that the desired progress was rapid.
“By careful mental suggestions, in strict accord with Freudian principles, I fast instilled in the reservoir of her subconscious the unrealized desire to do bodily harm to her mother in order to frustrate that unfortunate lady’s love for her husband. At the same time, under pretext of treating an imaginary ailment, I was able to produce periods of hypnotic influence, hypnagogic states during which the subjective mind held full sway over her actions, and from which she emerged to normal with only hazy memories of what had occurred during those drug-induced periods. These could be regulated as to duration and severity by changing the dosage.
“It was at this crucial point in my experimentation that Mrs. Brighton announced her intention of joining her family. I could not draw back. I was possessed of a frenzy to conclude my final experiment by determining whether I could wholly control the girl’s reaction to her mother’s presence.
“It was on the very eve of Mrs. Brighton’s arrival when I began to doubt myself. My treatments had been so successful that I found the girl responding strongly to the slightest stimulus of either drug or mental suggestion. She wavered, in fact, upon the very shadow-line of mania.
“Fearing that I might have miscalculated the effect which would be produced by her mother’s arrival, I went to a Mr. Shayne in Miami. He had been recommended to me as a discreet and able private detective. I cautiously explained as much of the situation to him as seemed wise, and he agreed to protect the mother from any possible tragic consequences.
“I returned much relieved after the interview. Mr. Shayne had been not unduly curious and he impressed me as being an exceedingly capable man. Mrs. Brighton arrived, and the girl greeted her with a queer admixture of loathing and love, while I observed her, closely, taking notes for making out a behavior pattern.
“The situation became intensified during the course of dinner. Phyllis was cross and unruly. I experienced a strangely creative joy as I looked on. I felt impersonal, Godlike. I felt as a master musician must feel as he draws forth beautiful harmonies or crashing discords from a delicately attuned instrument. Phyllis Brighton was my instrument. My will was her master. Yet, everything might have gone well had I not yielded to the temptation to make the supreme test.
“I had to know whether I could force the girl to murder her mother, and whether I could then bring her mind back to rational functioning.
“I do not expect to be understood or forgiven. It was madness. Deliberate, coldly conceived murder. I had to know. What mattered the life of one foolish woman against the exquisite joy of knowing complete success? I drew Phyllis aside after dinner and whispered in her ear. I prepared a carefully calculated dosage of the drug and instructed her to take it half an hour later. She walked from me somnolently, climbing the stairs to her room. I went into the library to await Mr. Shayne and to know the outcome of my dread experiment.
“The world knows the outcome. The girl escaped from me before I had an opportunity to determine whether I could restore her sanity after the dreadful deed. Tonight she is roaming the streets with a small automatic pistol in her hand-hopelessly deranged-responding to the murderous impulses for which I alone am responsible-so help me God.
“The thing that was once Phyllis Brighton has struck again tonight. She will kill again and again until she is destroyed. Like Frankenstein, I have created a monster beyond my power to control. When the lifeless body of Charlotte Hunt was carried into the house tonight I realized to the fullest extent what a horrible menace I have loosed upon this community.
“I repeat that I do not seek to exculpate myself. I shall atone in the only manner left to me. Before my own conscience and before God I am guilty of what may well go upon the records as the most heinous crime of this century.
“Phyllis Brighton must be hunted down and destroyed ruthlessly, and for that I must pass sentence upon myself. I go now to answer to God for what I have done.
“JOEL PEDIQUE”
Michael Shayne drew in a great breath of the fresh air flowing in through the open window as he read the concluding words and laid the sheets of paper aside. It seemed to him that he had not breathed since reading the first words. He was surprised to look up and see the bright sunlight outside. With the words of Pedique’s confession still ringing in his mind it had seemed to him that the room was full of darkness.
The quiet of the death chamber was abruptly shattered by the wail of a rapidly approaching police siren. Shayne lit a cigarette and leaned toward the window where he could look down on the curving driveway in front of the house. A police car ground to a stop as he watched. Peter Painter was the first figure to get out. Shayne drew back from the window as the detective chief hurried up the front steps. He lit a match and applied the flame to Dr. Joel Pedique’s confession. The notepaper crackled, and the flames spread rapidly as Shayne crumpled up the sheets and fed them to the fire.
The last bit of the document was reduced to ashes as Painter burst into the room.
CHAPTER 12
Painter’s eyes narrowed when he saw Shayne sitting by the window. He slowed his stride and approached the bed silently, stood by and looked down at Pedique’s lifeless body without a change of expression. Finally he turned his head and looked at Shayne.
“Dead, eh?”
“Or else he’s a good hand at playing possum,” Shayne replied.
Painter snorted. He turned back and studied the doctor’s relaxed features and the articles beside him. “Suicide, eh?”
“I was not a witness,” Shayne disclaimed.
Mr. Montrose came and stood in the doorway. He looked shrunken, terrified, helpless. Shayne grinned at him and said, “You ought to be getting used to it by now.”
Painter swung about and said to Montrose, “I’ve sent for the coroner. Nothing must be touched until he comes.”
“Why don’t you and the coroner move your offices up here? Then you could keep a hearse backed up to the door and give these people real service.”
“Why don’t you,” Painter snarled in thin-lipped rage, “go to hell?”
Shayne shrugged his shoulders patiently. “It was just a helpful suggestion.”
“I’ll get dressed,” Mr. Montrose quavered, “if you don’t need me for a minute.”
Painter didn’t pay any attention to him. He advanced toward Shayne. “I’ve been looking for you all morning.”
“I haven’t been hiding.” Shayne slouched back in his chair and drew deeply on his cigarette. Painter stood before him, spread-legged and flatfooted.
“I’ve found out where Charlotte Hunt was last night before she was murdered.”
“Not jealous, are you?”
“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Shayne.”
“I don’t intend to do any.”
Painter’s eyes blazed murderously. His fingers curled into claws by his side. He said, breathing hard, “I’ll read Pedique’s confession if you don’t mind.”
“His confession?” Shayne lifted bushy eyebrows.
“Don’t try to hold out on me. Montrose saw it.”
“Mr. Montrose must have been seeing things,” Shayne told him softly. “Doctor Pedique left no confession.”
“Now, by God-” Painter began to tremble.
“Don’t go off the deep end,” Shayne soothed. “Doctor Pedique did leave quite a lengthy private document but
