Basil smiled. “Do you dislike modern psychology as much as modern music? In modern psychology even a whim is supposed to have a motive. Even an involuntary act, like stammering or stumbling, and a neurotic act, like sleep-walking, is supposed to have some motive, even though the neurotic or the stammerer himself does not know what makes him do such things. Your burglar moved his arm and hand and fingers to unlatch the door of the cage and pull it open. The latch is stiff, and it takes quite a lot of muscular effort to get it open. Muscles just can’t be set in motion unless there is some emotional spark plug in brain and nerves to start them off. Whether that action was rational or whimsical, there must have been some emotional impulse behind it. In some way, for some reason, it gave him or her satisfaction to get that bird out of its cage. If only we could discover why, we would have a clue to the identity of the murderer.”
Basil’s earnestness seemed to impress Lazarus. “Could it have been cruelty?” he suggested. “A bird that is used to being caged is often bewildered when it is set free suddenly. Such a bird may injure its wings or legs attempting to fly around an unfamiliar room with unused wings.”
Basil pondered a moment, then shook his head. “If it were cruelty, wouldn’t the bird have been injured? Or at least let out the window into the night where the cold or a dog or cat or another bird might have killed it?”
“That sounds reasonable. But—” Lazarus smiled his wise smile. “If this burglar is a murderer you are surely not suggesting that he or she was moved by compassion? A sentimentalist might take pity on a caged bird and imagine it would be happier if it were free. But a man or woman who kills with a knife in cold blood is not likely to take pity on a bird!”
“You’ve raised a tricky point,” answered Basil. “It doesn’t seem likely and yet—the most curious thing about human nature is the way people keep their kindness and cruelty in separate, airtight compartments. The Nazi leader, Julius Streicher, who is notoriously sadistic toward his fellow human beings, is said to have wept like a child when his pet canary died. On the other hand, a Spaniard may be kindness itself to his family and friends and yet wallow in the bloody brutalities of the bullfight. In some people cruelty is so impersonal that they will pay a victim good money to submit to a flogging. Perhaps they are more honest than the political, moral, and religious fanatics who only torture others for the most refined ideological reasons. The kind have their cruelties; the cruel, their kindnesses. And both emotions seem to be rigidly canalized by social custom. Though it may not be likely that this murderer took pity on Dickie because he was a caged bird, it is possible.
“Some feeling, conscious or unconscious, guided his hand when it opened the door of that bird cage, but what? We can’t even tell if it was the act of someone who loves canaries . . . or the act of someone who hates canaries . . .”
Lazarus sighed. “In that case, the murderer’s action in freeing Dickie tells you nothing about the murderer at all?”
“I wonder . . .” Basil’s eyes were on the canary. It was trilling happily now as it hopped from perch to trapeze and back again. “I wonder . . .” he repeated softly. “I’m going to give you my address. If you discover anything more about the burglary, I’d be grateful if you’d let me know.”
CAPRI’S RESTAURANT was below street level. From the entrance, a flight of steps led down to a dim, cavernous dining room decorated in red and black. The dark paneled walls were enlivened with mirrors and framed caricatures of theatrical personalities. A plush carpet made every footfall stealthy. Tables were ranged around the walls in front of upholstered benches. In the center a
Their glasses were empty. The ash tray in front of Rodney was piled with cigarette stubs. Pauline had her sketch pad on her knee, and her restless pencil was tracing profiles—always a sign of anxiety in her.
“Hello,” she greeted Basil. “Margot Ingelow hasn’t put in an appearance yet.”
“I don’t believe she’ll come,” he answered. “Shall we find a table?”
They got one facing the entrance. Pauline and Rodney sat on the bench; Basil took a chair opposite. A mirror above Pauline’s head gave him a clear view of the entrance and most of the room. They ordered the beer and club sandwiches for which the place was famous.
“Why isn’t Mrs. Ingelow coming?” asked Rodney.
Basil’s eyes were on the mirror as he told them about his visit to Wanda’s house. “And,” he concluded, “she identified
