Standing before the cage, Lazarus whistled the opening bars of the Unfinished Symphony. Dickie took up the strain and repeated it. Then he added some frills of his own and wandered off into a maze of musical improvisation.
“That bird!” exclaimed Lazarus fondly. “He is like the man who wanted to finish the Unfinished Symphony! He cannot let well enough alone! Once I had a steam kettle here, and he used to sing with it whenever the water boiled. Once when I was ill he spent a few days in Sam’s office, and when he came back, what do you think he did? Made a little clack-clack-clack sound in his throat like a typewriter!”
“Could a scalpel be sharpened on your grindstone?”
“Ah! I begin to understand you, Dr. Willing!” No man could have been as wise as Lazarus looked when he smiled. “You think my burglary and what happened at the theater last night are all one crime?”
“We know the scalpel was sharpened somewhere. It belonged to Rodney Tait, and he admits that it was blunt a few days ago.”
“But why?” Lazarus’ face grew sober. “The murderer could have bought a knife already sharp.”
“And left a record of the sale.”
“He could have taken this scalpel to a knife-grinder far away—in some suburb or neighboring city.”
“And left a record of the transaction, just as he would if he had bought a grindstone. An ordinary whetstone would not have done. The knife was large.
“Could the police trace the purchase of a grindstone so easily?”
“That’s the sort of thing they’re particularly good at. There are many of them, and they are all dogged, patient, and trained. They would question every shopkeeper who sells grindstones for miles around, if they thought they could trace a murderer that way. But this way there is no clue to the person who wanted to sharpen the scalpel except the fact that he or she set your canary free. If it hadn’t been for Dickie, the burglary would never have got in the papers. It would have attracted so little attention, it might never have been connected with the murder at all.”
“If it hadn’t been for Dickie, I might never have known there was a burglary, and I might never have reported it to the police!” cried Lazarus. “It was only when I saw the door of the cage open and Dickie flying around the room that I noticed the broken window latch and realized someone must have been in here.”
“That makes it more curious than ever.” Basil frowned. “Could the wind have blown open the window and then the cage door?”
“It might blow the window open but not the cage door. Try it for yourself.”
Dickie fluttered his wings and retreated to the farthest corner of the cage as a strange face approached him. Basil tugged at the door of the cage and opened it with some difficulty. The latch was stiff. “No, it wasn’t the wind,” he said as he closed it again. “You’re sure you latched it when you left for the night?”
“Oh, yes, I remember that clearly. Dickie had moulted a feather, and it got caught in the hinge. I pulled it out and latched the door very carefully.”
Basil surveyed the rest of the shack. “You’re sure there were no clues of any kind when you first came in yesterday morning?”
“None whatever,” answered Lazarus. “But there is one thing: it must have been someone who knew this neighborhood. Only the people around here know my shop.”
“Unfortunately all our suspects are familiar with this neighborhood, so that doesn’t help at all.” Basil sighed. “So far, there is just one clue to your burglar’s identity.”
“What?”
“The canary was let out of his cage. Why? There must have been a reason, and that reason is a clue.”
“But, heavens, what could it be?”
“I don’t know. The cage is large, clean, and comfortable. There seems no reason for it at all. And yet it was done, and everything that a human being does has the motive power of some reason or emotion back of it, consciously or unconsciously. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be done.”
“But sometimes people do things for no reason at all,” ventured Lazarus. “A whim . . . a caprice . . .”
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.”