The Almost Perfect Murder by Hulbert Footner (reading the story of the TXT) 📕

what has become

of him?” she asked. “I haven’t seen him for ages.”

 

“We quarrelled,” said Fay with an impatient shrug. “He Was always

quarrelling with me. He said that would be the last time, and he went

away somewhere. Peru or China or somewhere. Nobody knows where he’s

gone. Now I have a little peace.”

 

But the look in her eyes belied her words.

 

There was a lot more talk. Like every young girl when she first gets

herself engaged, Fay could hardly speak a sentence without bringing in

the name of her lover. One would have thought Darius was the Oracle.

Considering the manner of man he was, it was absurd and it was piteous.

 

Darius had no objection to her finishing out the run of _Wild

Hyacinth_. But after this season, of course, she would retire. Darius

had bought a town house. No, not a big place on the Avenue; Darius

hated show. A dear little house in the East Seventies; Darius had said

that was the smartest thing now. Very plain outside, and a perfect

bower within. Like a French maisonette. Darius had such original

ideas. And so on.

 

When they got up to go, Fay said to me wistfully: “You haven’t

congratulated me, Bella.”

 

What was I to say? The tears sprang to my eyes. Fortunately she

considered that the emotion was suitable to the circumstances. “Oh, I

want you to be happy! I want you to be happy!” I stammered.

 

The words did not please her. She withdrew herself from my arms

somewhat coldly.

II

When the door closed behind them I broke down. Mme. Storey looked at

me sympathetically. “Ah, Bella, you are very fond of her, aren’t you?”

she murmured. “This is damnable!”

 

In my eagerness I involuntarily clasped my hands. “Ah, but you won’t

… you won’t let it go on!” I implored her.

 

“I?” she said in great surprise. “How on earth could I stop it, my

dear?”

 

“Oh, but you could! you could!” I wailed. “You can do anything!”

 

She shook her head. “As an outsider I have no business to interfere.

And, anyhow, my better sense tells me it would be worse than useless.

If I said a word to her against her Darius, she’d rush off and marry

him the same day. You saw how she looked at you just now…. No! it’s

a tragedy, but it’s beyond our mending. If I have learned anything it

is that we cannot play Providence in the lives of others. We can only

look on and pity her…”

 

“That’s what your head says,” I murmured. “What about your heart?”

 

She rose, and began to pace the long room. “Ah, don’t drag in heart,”

she said, almost crossly one would have thought; “I can’t set out to

save every foolish girl who is determined to make a mess of her life!”

 

“I can’t bear it!” I said.

 

She continued to walk up and down the long room. That room had been

expressly chosen for its length, so that she could pace it while she

was thinking. How well it suited her! the bare and beautiful

apartment, with its rare old Italian furnishings and pictures. She

herself was wearing a Fortuny gown adapted from the same period; and

when you turned your back to the windows which looked out on

matter-of-fact New York, you were transported right back to sixteenth

century Florence.

 

I felt that anything more I might say would only damage my suit, so I

remained silent. But I couldn’t stop the tears from running down.

Mme. Storey looked at me uneasily every time she turned.

 

“We must get to work,” she said crossly. I obediently took up my

notebook. “Oh, well,” she said in a different tone. “For your sake,

Bella…” She returned to her desk, and took the telephone receiver

off its hook. “We’ll see if we cannot dig up something in the

circumstances surrounding Mrs. Whittall’s death that will give this

foolish girl cause to stop and think what she is doing.”

 

She called up Police Headquarters. “Rumsey,” she said, “do you

remember the case of Mrs. Darius Whittall who killed herself about two

months ago? … Well, I suppose there was an inquest or investigation

of some sort, and that the findings are on file somewhere. Come and

see me this afternoon, will you? and bring the papers with you. I want

to go over them with you…. I’ll tell you when I see you… Thanks,

at four then. Good-bye.”

 

Our worthy friend arrived promptly to his hour. Inspector Rumsey was

not a distinguished-looking man, but he was true-blue. He owed part of

his reputation, perhaps, to his friendship for my mistress, who often

helps him with the more subtle points of his cases. He in return, I

need hardly say, is able to render us invaluable assistance.

 

The papers he laid before my mistress told a simple and straightforward

tale. On the night of Sunday, September 11th, Mrs. Whittall had dined

alone at their place in Riverdale. Her husband was dining with friends

in the city. After dinner, that is to say about nine-thirty, she had

complained of the heat, and had asked her maid, Mary Thole, for a light

wrap, saying that she would walk in the grounds for a few minutes.

Almost immediately after she left the house, the sound of a shot was

heard. Everybody in the house heard it, since the windows were all

open.

 

The butler and the second man rushed out to the spot whence it came, a

little pavilion or summer-house placed on a slight knoll overlooking

the river, about two hundred yards from the house. They found the body

of their mistress lying at full length on the gravel outside the

entrance to the pavilion. She had evidently fallen with considerable

force, for her hair was partly down, the hairpins lying about. An

ornamental comb which she wore was found about four feet from her body.

One of her slippers was off. So it was judged that she had shot

herself within the pavilion, and had fallen backwards down the steps.

There were three steps. There was a bullet hole in her right temple,

and so far as the servants could judge she was already dead. The

revolver was still lying in her partly opened hand. Upon a microscopic

examination of the gun later, the prints upon it were found to be those

of Mrs. Whittall’s fingers.

 

The body was immediately carried into the house and laid upon the bed.

The family physician was telephoned for. The powder marks around the

wound could be seen by all. In his confusion and excitement, the

butler felt that he ought to notify his master of what had happened

before sending for the police. Nobody in the house knew where Mr.

Whittall was dining that night, and the butler started telephoning

around to his clubs, and to the houses of his most intimate friends in

the endeavour to find him. He could not get any word of him. He was

still at the telephone when Mr. Whittall returned home. This would be

about eleven. Mr. Whittall’s first act was to telephone to the local

police station. He upbraided the butler for not having done so at

once. A few minutes later the police were in the house.

 

Mrs. Whittall’s own maid had identified the revolver as one belonging

to her mistress. She had testified that she had seen nothing strange

in the behaviour of her mistress before she left the house. So far as

she could tell, there was nothing special on her mind. She was a very

quiet lady, and saw little company. She had left no letter in

explanation of her act. Not more than a minute or so could have

elapsed between the time she left the house and the sound of the shot,

so she must have proceeded direct to the pavilion and done the deed.

Indeed, it happened so quickly it seemed as if she must have run there.

 

The doctor testified that Mrs. Whittall was dead when he saw her.

Death must have been instantaneous. The bullet had passed through her

brain and was lodged against the skull on the other side from the point

of entrance. Questioned as to her possible reasons for the deed, he

said he knew of none. The dead woman was in normal health, and though

he had known her for many years, and was a friend, she did not often

have occasion to send for him in a professional capacity. She seemed

normal in mind. He admitted though, that she might have been seriously

disturbed without his knowing anything of it, since she was a very

reticent woman, who spoke little about her own affairs.

 

Mr. Whittall testified that the revolver found in the dead woman’s hand

was one which he had given her some three months previously. It was a

Matson, 32 calibre, an automatic of the latest pattern. She had not

asked for a gun. He had given it to her of his own motion, believing

that every woman ought to have the means of defending herself at hand.

He did not know for sure if she had ever practised shooting it, but he

believed not. Only one shot had been fired from it. He understood

that she had kept it in the top drawer of the chiffonier in her room,

but he had never seen it there. He had not noticed anything unwonted

in her behaviour on that day, or he would never have left her alone.

It was true, though, that she had suffered from periods of deep

depression. She brooded on the fact that she had no children, and

looked forward with dread to a childless old age.

 

Such, in effect, were the contents of the papers which Inspector Rumsey

spread before us. Tea and cigarettes followed. Mme. Storey looked

disappointed at the outcome.

 

“Merely a perfunctory investigation, of course,” said Inspector Rumsey.

“Nobody suspected there might be something peculiar in the case.

Nobody wished to turn up anything peculiar.”

 

“I had hoped that there would be enough in these papers to accomplish

my purpose,” said Mme. Storey gravely. “By showing them to a certain

person, I mean. But there is not. So we must dig further into this

business. It is not a job that I look forward to!”

 

“What can you expect to do now, after two months?” said the Inspector.

 

“Oh, there are plenty of leads. Firstly: if Mr. Whittall was dining in

New York that night, it is strange that he should have arrived home in

Riverdale as early as eleven.”

 

“Right!”

 

“Secondly: if it was such a hot night, why should Mrs. Whittall have

called for a wrap? When one steps outside to cool off, one doesn’t

wrap up. It is indicated that she meant to stay out awhile.”

 

“Right!”

 

“Thirdly: Whittall’s explanation of his wife’s alleged depression is

mere nonsense. It is a simple matter for a rich woman to adopt a child

if she is lonely.”

 

The Inspector nodded.

 

“Fourthly: when a person shoots himself dead one of two things happens.

Occasionally the grip on the gun is spasmodic, and remains fixed in

death. More often in the act of death all the muscles relax. In that

case when she fell from the steps the gun would have been knocked from

her hand, just as the comb was knocked from her head. As a matter of

fact, they say the gun was found lying in her open hand. I am forced

to the conclusion that it was placed there afterwards.”

 

I looked at her, struck with horror.

 

“In that case she must