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

testimony later. That is how my secretary and I

happened to be included in the dinner party.

 

“A quarrel between Harris and Danforth lent the whole thing realism.

At the proper moment, when Mr. Punch was on his feet making a speech,

the lights went out and the shot was fired. When the lights were

turned on again the smoking revolver lay in front of Harris.

 

“But Harris had not fired the shot, gentlemen. Mr. Punch had prepared

a simple and ingenious scheme for disconnecting the lights under the

table. He tied a string to the plug in such a manner, leaving two

ends, that when he pulled one end it disconnected the lights, and when

he pulled the other it loosened the string and he could gather it all

in his hand, thus removing the evidence. When the lights went out he

knelt on the floor between Mrs. Danforth and Harris, and fired. He

dropped the gun on the table in front of Harris, and a second later he

was turning on the switch by the door.

 

“In the confusion following upon the murder there was a general desire

to escape. Mr. Punch, confident in the cleverness of his plot, was

dead against it. He insisted on facing the thing out. But a few

minutes later, when I had shown up the trick of substituting the guns,

he became suspicious of me and encouraged a general flight from the

scene. I was afraid he would escape—at that moment I hadn’t yet

discovered his identity, or that he would destroy valuable evidence; I

had to act on the instant and so I made believe to run with them.

 

“He carried us to the house of his employers which has been shut up for

months, an ideal base of operations for Mr. Punch. When he discovered

who I was, he determined to put me out of the way. That’s the whole

story, gentlemen.

 

“Now, as to my evidence: When the shot was fired, like nearly everybody

else present, I slid under the table. I took the opportunity of doing

a little searching under there. By that time Mr. Punch had pulled away

the string, of course, but I found, driven into the bottom of the

table, the little staples by which he had led the two ends of the

string to his right hand and to his left. They are still there, mute

evidence of Mr. Punch’s crime.

 

“I knew then what had happened, but it would not have been sufficient

evidence to take into court, and I was obliged to search farther. When

he went to the window of the supper room to try to prevent the others

from leaving, I saw him drop something out, and later when we all left,

I found the length of string entangled in the fire escape. Here it is,

gentlemen.

 

“Still, a piece of string is only a piece of string, and I felt that I

had not enough yet. My third find clinched the whole matter. On the

bureau of Mr. Punch’s own room, I picked up this ball of string. The

same kind of string as the piece I just handed you. A brand new ball,

you see, shows no dust nor marks of handling. Only one piece has been

cut from it. String of this kind is made up into balls of one hundred

and fifty yards. You can verify that from the makers. If you unwind

this ball you will discover that it makes exactly one hundred and fifty

yards, when joined with the piece I first handed you. That’s all.”

======================================================================

The Death Notice

I

I disliked the man’s voice even before I took in the sense of what he

was saying; a slow voice that seemed to dwell with pleasure on its own

malice. He said over the wire:

 

“Is Madame Storey there?”

 

“Who is this speaking?”

 

He laughed sarcastically. “Oh, I haven’t the pleasure of her

acquaintance.”

 

“What do you want to speak to her about?”

 

“That I can only tell her.”

 

“Well, I’m sorry,” I said, “but I am instructed not to disturb her

unless I know it is for a good reason.”

 

“To whom am I speaking?” he asked.

 

“Miss Brickley, Madame Storey’s secretary.”

 

“I have heard of the admirable Miss Brickley,” he said with his

insulting laugh. “I feel quite safe in sending her my message by you.”

 

Then he paused, and I said: “Well?”

 

I could hear his breathing over the wire. He must have had his lips

almost directly against the transmitter. “I have a communication to

make in which Madame Storey is sure to take a keen professional

interest,” he drawled. “There is going to be a murder committed at

number — East 75th Street this morning.”

 

“What!” I gasped.

 

He laughed, well pleased with the effect of his words.

 

“Wait a minute,” I stammered. “I’ll connect you with Madame Storey.”

 

“Oh, you can tell her,” he said, and hung up, still laughing.

 

It gave me a nasty shock. My hand was trembling violently when I put

up the receiver. Common sense suggested that it was only a hoax, but

the ugly voice out of the unknown acted powerfully on my nerves.

 

Going into her office, I found her sitting at the big table writing a

personal letter. She had a cigarette between her lips and was holding

her head on one side in the familiar way to keep the smoke out of her

eyes. At sight of my face she removed the cigarette and smiled

provokingly. She is always amused by my agitations.

 

“Well, what is it now?” she asked.

 

I told her.

 

“Damn the telephone!” she said pleasantly. “It puts us at the mercy of

every lunatic in the five boroughs.”

 

“It’s certainly a hoax,” I said.

 

“Undoubtedly. Just the same, we dare not ignore it.”

 

“After all, it’s a matter for the police to attend to.”

 

“Quite,” she said, taking up her pen again. “Call up Rumsey and pass

the buck to him.”

 

While I was waiting for my call a sudden exclamation escaped from my

employer. “What number did you say?”

 

“— East 75th Street.”

 

“Good Lord! that’s Mrs. George P. Julian’s new house. I suppose I’ll

have to go there anyway.”

 

I groaned in sympathy, for I had had ample experience of that lady’s

foolishness in the past.

 

When I got Inspector Rumsey on the wire, I handed over the instrument,

and Mme. Storey told him what had happened. He evidently asked for

further particulars about Mrs. Julian, for she went on to say:

 

“She’s a widow with twenty million dollars, and she’s almost the

perfect fool. Need I say more? A sugar-bowl for every new fakir who

sets up shop. I’ve already got her out of several scrapes, and that’s

why, God help me! I am elected to be her friend. Her principal is tied

up in a trust fund, but she has over a million a year income, and

that’s the honey that attracts the bees.”

 

He asked her about her previous relations with Mrs. Julian.

 

“Well, she was one of Jacmer Touchon’s patients. She got me some

evidence against him without knowing that she was doing it, and I’m

really in her debt on that score. Before that I saved her from handing

over half a million to the notorious Walter Hanley. My first meeting

with her was at the time of the Miller Moore case. Moore had been

bleeding her for a couple of years. I succeeded in sending him to Sing

Sing, you may remember.”

 

When she had hung up, Mme. Storey said: “Rumsey is satisfied it’s a

hoax. He says as long as I feel obliged to go to Mrs. Julian’s house

he won’t bother to send anybody…. He says I can attend to it better

than any man,” she added, with a sidelong smile in my direction.

 

“Humph!” I said, “he can afford to be flattering when he’s getting your

services for nothing.”

 

We ‘phoned for a taxi and locked up the office. Though my employer

affected to treat the matter lightly, I noticed a certain gravity in

her expression, and on the way up I asked her if she thought it

possible that Mrs. Julian’s life was in danger.

 

She shrugged impatiently. “Sooner or later that woman is certain to

get into trouble. So prominent, so wealthy, so foolish! It’s a fatal

combination.”

 

“But if her money’s all tied up in a trust fund, wouldn’t it be like

killing the goose that laid the golden eggs?”

 

“So it would seem. But there is this to consider. She has a habit of

giving out largesse with a good size string attached to it. She gives

these crooks great sums of money in the guise of loans. There is no

record that any of it was ever paid back. But when she sours on her

dear friends, she is apt to demand her money, and there have been some

very ugly scenes. That might supply a motive.”

 

We drew up in front of one of the newer mansions that line the blocks

east of the Park. It was one of those houses that embody every known

luxury and extravagance—except the trifling matter of sunshine. The

few rooms which faced the narrow street got a certain amount of light,

but as the house (as well as all its neighbours) covered about ninety

per cent, of its lot, all the other rooms had to be content with

electric light bulbs. Why be rich, one might ask, if you can’t have

sunshine? There is no answer. The rooms were filled with art

treasures from every quarter of the globe, but you got no definite

impression except that of mere expensiveness.

 

To match everything else, Mrs. Julian had the most expensive of

butlers. His name was Bunbury, and he had been with her for years. He

was a very handsome man. He seemed to have raised butlering to heights

before undreamed of. He was like a celebrated actor playing the part

of butler on the stage.

 

When my employer asked for Mrs. Julian, Bunbury looked deeply

distressed. He knew that Mme. Storey was no ordinary caller to be

turned away. “Mrs. Julian was not expecting you,” he suggested.

 

“No,” said Mme. Storey blandly. “But that will be all right.” She

walked in.

 

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, following us, “but Mrs. Julian is very much

engaged. I have positive instructions not to disturb her.”

 

“I’m sorry too,” said Mme. Storey, “but I have to see her. It is a

matter of the greatest importance.”

 

“Madam, I cannot … I cannot…” he protested.

 

“What’s she doing?” asked my employer bluntly.

 

“She’s … er … she’s having a s�ance,” he replied, embarrassed.

 

Mme. Storey started up the sweeping staircase with me following her,

and the butler bringing up the rear, all but wringing his hands.

“Madam, I beg of you … I beg of you…”

 

“I will take the responsibility of disturbing her,” said Mme. Storey

serenely. “… If I insist on going in, you can’t very well stop me,

can you?” she added.

 

“It’s as much as my place is worth,” he whimpered.

 

“Very well, if you get fired I’ll find you another place. You’re an

excellent servant.”

 

He gave up.

 

The plan of the house was simple. On the first floor above the street

there was a superb central hall with a peristyle of tall marble

columns. The staircase swept on up behind the columns. In the front

was an immense salon; in the