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

with the result of your experiment that day?”

 

“Poured it down the wash-basin. It was unsuccessful.”

 

“Then why not tell me what other drugs you used; where you got them and

so on.”

 

“Why should I?” he parried.

 

“Ever hear of distillate of X?” she asked casually.

 

Some of the pink faded out of his cheeks. “Yes,” he said. “Poisons

are my speciality.”

 

“You are familiar with its properties then?”

 

He hesitated briefly before answering. “I have read about it. Never

experimented with it.”

 

Mme. Storey started on another line. “Where did you go when…”

 

He interrupted her excitedly. “No, you don’t! I perceive what you’re

after! You can’t make an insinuation like that before the court

without following it up!”

 

“All right,” she said good-naturedly. “I’ll follow it up. Did you

make distillate of X in your laboratory the day before yesterday?”

 

“No!” he shouted. “It’s false!” He wiped his face.

 

“What time did you leave the office that day?” she asked.

 

“I don’t remember,” he said sullenly.

 

“Now come,” she said cajolingly; “only the day before yesterday.”

 

“About six,” he muttered.

 

“Where did you go?”

 

“Home.”

 

“By the way, where do you live? I don’t think I have been told.”

 

“Hotel Shirley.”

 

“Oh, the Shirley. Did anyone there see you come in?”

 

“I got my key from the desk as usual. It’s not likely the clerk could

remember that night amongst the others.”

 

“Where did you dine?”

 

“At the hotel.”

 

“Alone?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you always occupy the same seat?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“With the same people more or less at the surrounding tables?”

 

He saw where these apparently innocent questions were tending, and

turned scared and stubborn. “I won’t answer!” he cried shrilly. “I

won’t answer any more. If you’re trying to pin this thing on me I

don’t have to answer!”

 

“Why, of course not!” said Mme. Storey with undisturbed good humour.

“You may step down.”

 

She then called the man she had brought with her, a lean young fellow

with a bright eye. His name was given as John Withy; his occupation,

freelance writer.

 

“Where do you live?” she asked.

 

“Number –- West Forty-Seventh Street.”

 

“What sort of building is that?”

 

“An old residence which has been rebuilt into stores, offices and small

apartments. It’s a walk-up building.”

 

“Where are your rooms?”

 

“I have a one-room and bath apartment third floor rear.”

 

“Have you ever before seen the man who last testified here, Dr.

Cushack?”

 

“Yes, ma’am. Saw him in my building day before yesterday. That was

Wednesday. About six-thirty p.m.”

 

“Under what circumstances?”

 

“Well, I was coming home to wash up for dinner and I found him standing

in the hall outside my door. Seemed funny, hanging around like that.

So I left my door open when I went in to sort of keep an eye on him.

My friend who lives in the front is out of town, and I thought maybe he

aimed to get in there. But another fellow came upstairs in a minute or

two, and it seemed this one was just waiting for him. The second

fellow was the man who rents the hall room next to mine. Alfred Somers

is the name in his letter-box downstairs.”

 

“Did you hear what they said to each other?” asked Mme. Storey.

 

“Just a word or two. Somers says: ‘Have you got it?’ and this man”—he

nodded in the direction of Dr. Cushack—“says: ‘Yeah.’ Somers says:

‘Come on in,’ and they went into his room. This sounded kind of

mysterious to me, and I wanted to hear more. There is an old door

between my room and Somers’ which is locked now and the cracks stuffed

with paper. I put my ear to the crack and I hear Somers say: ‘How can

I fix the wafer with this?’ And this man said: ‘Just pour a few drops

on it and let it soak in.’ That was all I could hear, and I thought

nothing of it at the time.”

 

“Mr. Withy,” said Mme. Storey with delicate impressiveness, “I want you

to look around this courtroom and see if you can pick out the man you

know as Alfred Somers.”

 

I jumped, her move was so absolutely unexpected. A breathless silence

fell on the courtroom as young Withy’s eyes passed from face to face.

It was apparent to all that this Somers must be the actual murderer of

Ram Lal.

 

Withy’s eyes travelled slowly along the front bench, came to Bunbury

and stopped there. “Why,” he said in a surprised voice, “why, that’s

the man!”

 

Court and spectators were held in a spell. Bunbury jumped up with a

face as grey as ashes; then dropped back in his seat laughing. From

the end of the bench Jim Shryock laughed loudly to create a diversion.

As for me, I was stony with astonishment.

 

Shryock was quickly on his feet. “Your Honour, I must protest!” he

cried. “This accusation is laughable, but is likely to do serious harm

to a faithful servant and an honest man! Why, Bunbury has been working

for Mrs. Julian for eight years. What possible motive…”

 

“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Mme. Storey with a wicked smile, “are

you representing Bunbury too?”

 

She had him there, but he didn’t care so long as there was no jury

present. “No!” he cried theatrically. “My words are dictated by

motives of humanity.”

 

She enjoyed a little private laugh at the notion that Jim Shryock had

taken a case out of humanity.

 

“Mr. Bunbury, may I have the privilege of representing you here?” asked

Shryock with a bow.

 

“Please do,” mumbled the butler. He was a wretched figure then.

 

“Then I ask again,” shouted Shryock, “what possible motive could this

man have had for committing such a crime?”

 

“This is only a preliminary hearing,” said Mme. Storey, “and it’s not

necessary to try the whole case. However, I am perfectly willing to

give you the information. It is true that Bunbury has been working for

Mrs. Julian for eight years. During that time a whole procession of

fakers and charlatans has succeeded in wheedling great sums of money

out of his mistress. Naturally, it made him sore to see all that going

out of the house. He began to wonder if he couldn’t divert the golden

stream in his own direction. The knowledge of Mrs. Julian’s character

that he had gained, and his familiarity with every detail of her life

and affairs gave him a special advantage. Naturally, he couldn’t

swindle her in his own person, so he engaged catspaws as they came

along, Mrs. Bracker, Dr. Cushack, Ram Lal, and taught them how to do

it.”

 

“We have only your word for this, Madame,” said Shryock sarcastically.

“And you still haven’t answered my question. If Ram Lal was Bunbury’s

own man, why in heaven’s name should he murder him?”

 

“Because Ram Lal held out on him,” said Mme. Storey sweetly. “It was

partly out of revenge, and partly as an object lesson to the other

faithful workers. Mrs. Julian has furnished me with a list of all the

sums she has given these three people with the dates. On the other

hand my operatives have secured lists of Bunbury’s deposits in his

several bank accounts.

 

“These lists will be offered in evidence, of course, and we will show

that for every payment made by Mrs. Julian, Bunbury deposited half the

amount next day. With one exception. Mrs. Julian gave Ram Lal one

hundred thousand dollars two weeks ago. Bunbury got none of that.”

 

Shryock shrugged elaborately. It was all he could do. “Well, when I

see your evidence,” he said with a sneer, “I’ll meet it.”

 

“It is sufficient,” said Magistrate McManigal. “I will hold these two

persons as accessories before the fact. Inspector, I presume you will

take care of Bunbury.”

 

“I will, your Honour,” said Rumsey grimly.

 

Bunbury had already recovered himself by the time they came to lead him

out. He was a very remarkable man. His vanity was hurt by the

recollection of that moment of weakness, and he was bound to make a

good exit. He walked to where Mrs. Julian sat, and made a low bow.

 

“My keys, Madam,” he said, handing them over: “I trust you will find

everything in order at home.”

 

Mrs. Julian was too much overcome to say a word.

 

Bunbury then faced the policeman who was ready to attend him. “Keep

your hands off me,” he said with dignity. “I shall make no

resistance.” He then walked out with the air of a martyr going proudly

to the stake. If it had been in the theatre he would certainly have

got a big hand.

IX

Mme. Storey, Inspector Rumsey and I had dinner in a little Italian

restaurant on Fifty-Second Street where the spaghetti with anchovies is

something to dream about. We all felt the blessed sense of relaxation

that follows on the completion of a tough bit of work. It was fun to

hold a sort of post-mortem on the case.

 

Mme. Storey said: “The first thing that struck me was that Ram Lal was

a stupid fellow playing a clever part. Particularly after I got his

history from the police. Before the Ram Lal episode he was nothing but

a sneak thief, the lowest order of crooks. This suggested that he must

have been drilled in the art of crystal-gazing. His whole spiel

sounded like something learned by rote.

 

“When I watched Mrs. Bracker and Cushack and read the transcript of

their examination by the police I saw that they also were much too

stupid to have thought up the parts they were playing—both parts, by

the way, devilishly well calculated to deceive a woman of Mrs. Julian’s

character. There was a certain affinity too, in all these games. This

put the idea into my head that there was a superior intelligence

directing all three of them.”

 

“When did you begin to suspect Bunbury?” I asked.

 

“Just as soon as I decided there was a master mind behind the three

puppets, my intuition suggested that it was Bunbury. Many little

straws pointed in that direction. Bunbury was the only person who

possessed the requisite knowledge of Mrs. Julian’s character. Believe

me, nothing can be hidden from our servants! Then I learned from Mrs.

Julian that Bunbury had been instrumental in getting the previous lot

of fakers fired. All except Liptrott, whom he probably regarded as

harmless. And for one brief moment in the boudoir I had a glimpse of

the power that underlay the butler’s smooth mask. He quelled Cushack

and Mrs. Bracker with a word…. But on the whole it was chiefly a

question of style.”

 

“Style?” we echoed.

 

“Style is a mysterious thing,” she went on. “You can’t describe it,

but you can feel it. You have noticed I suppose, that Bunbury talks in

a style of false elegance. Upper servants are much given to it.

‘Elegant,’ by the way, is one of the words that are frequently on his

lips. Few use it nowadays.

 

“Well, in Ram Lal, in Mrs. Bracker and in Dr. Cushack I kept hearing

echoes of Bunbury’s style. It is largely in the use to which words are

put. Besides ‘elegant’ notice how every one of them says ‘perceive,’ a

book word, when he means ‘see.’ And the word ‘aspire,’ generally used

in an incorrect sense, is continually on their lips. Besides others.

When pupils are taught by rote the master’s voice may be