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

doors. The interior of

that house was like a maze, and I wondered if the occupants ever got

lost in it.

 

The footman opened another door, and we found ourselves in Mrs.

Varick’s boudoir. I had merely the impression of an amber effect,

luxurious and flattering to the complexion. The mistress of it all was

seated in a chaise longue holding a cigarette between fingers that

trembled slightly. She was most beautifully dressed, not all in black;

black and white. I remember it struck me as strange that she should be

wearing a hat. Later I learned that she never appeared in the daytime

without one. It was a lovely French hat partly shadowing her face, and

the whole effect was of some rare and exquisite orchid—a little

withered. Servants were continually coming and going, and she was

issuing instructions with a forced air of calmness very painful to see.

 

While Mme. Storey approached her, I remained standing near the door.

Thus I was out of earshot, but I could follow all that occurred with my

eyes. Mrs. Varick was surprised to see my employer at such a time, and

more than a little inclined to resent my presence. Mme. Storey hated

what she had to do—I could tell it from her stony expression, but went

about it directly and simply. Finally she drew the fateful slip of

paper from its envelope, and showed it to Mrs. Varick.

 

When the widow read the words upon it, she forgot that she was a great

lady. A little strangled cry escaped her, and she clapped the back of

her hand to her mouth, that piteous gesture common to all women.

Several of the women in the room ran to her side, but she waved them

back.

 

“Leave me! Leave me!” she said sharply. “… All except you!” She

clung to a slender blonde girl in black. This, I presently learned was

her personal secretary, Estelle Gilsey. “Look! Estelle, look!” she

whispered, showing the slip.

 

The girl cried out strangely, seemed about to faint. This, I remember,

struck me as rather excessive in one who was merely a paid employee.

 

I drew a little closer to the group. To Mme. Storey, I heard Mrs.

Varick say in a strained voice: “But this is probably the work of some

mischief-maker, some insane person!”

 

“That is what we think,” said my employer.

 

“Then why torment me with such a suggestion?”

 

Mme. Storey patiently explained the situation.

 

“Oh, why isn’t Henry here!” mourned Mrs. Varick. She referred to her

son. It appeared that nobody knew where he was. They were

telegraphing all over the country for him.

 

Mrs. Varick angrily repudiated the suggestion of an autopsy, and my

employer with the greatest gentleness and patience undertook to show

her that she had no choice in the matter, that even the great Mrs.

Varick was amenable to the commands of the law, and that we were all

working to save her feelings, and the feelings of the family so far as

it might be done. Finally, with a flood of tears she gave in. The

tears relieved her, I think. The secretary did not cry; throughout all

that followed, white-faced and stunned, she was a more tragic figure

than the widow.

 

Mrs. Varick clung to my employer’s hand now. “Rosika, you manage

everything,” she said imploringly. “You are so wonderfully capable!

There is nobody else I can trust. Oh, keep it out of the newspapers!

And above all, don’t let my husband’s family know!”

 

“I will do my best,” said Mme. Storey gravely.

 

In two minutes she had Inspector Rumsey on the wire, and within a

quarter of an hour, the three doctors appointed by the police

department had been admitted to the house by a rear door. They were

all men of discretion, and in order to guard against possible leakages,

they had volunteered to conduct the autopsy entirely by themselves

without the usual assistants. The body of Mr. Varick was still lying

in his bedroom, and there they operated. No one else was permitted in

the room. The servants, I think, must have suspected what was going

on, but they were wonderfully loyal. No whisper of it was ever

revealed.

 

During the dreadful period of suspense that followed, Mme. Storey and I

remained in the boudoir with Mrs. Varick and Miss Gilsey. My employer

having explained who I was, Mrs. Varick no longer resented my presence.

She lit one cigarette after another in her trembling hands, and tossed

them away after a puff or two. I do not remember that a single word

was exchanged. I spent the time looking at Miss Gilsey who was very

beautiful, and who seemed to be of a gentle and open nature; but she

was like one who had received a blow on the head, not quite all there.

I wondered at it.

 

At length Dr. Pulford the senior of the three physicians, came in. His

face was like a mask, revealing nothing. He said in measured tones:

 

“I regret to have to inform you that Commodore Varick met his death as

a result of having taken poison through the mouth. It was one of the

alkaloids, probably aconite, which is the most powerful of the

alkaloids, but it will require an analysis to determine that for

certain.”

 

With a sigh like an infant, Mrs. Varick fell over sideways into the

arms of her secretary. The girl’s face was like death.

III

Dr. Pulford brought Mrs. Varick around by simple measures. The poor

woman then went off into a helpless, shaken weeping, very affecting to

see. But notwithstanding her high position, her air of authority, she

was a shallow woman. Her husband’s untimely end did not distress her

so much as the threatened family disgrace. The girl, Estelle Gilsey,

who never made a sound, took it much harder, really; but I couldn’t

tell what was the nature of her feeling, whether grief, horror, fear or

guilt.

 

Mrs. Varick’s whole cry was to keep it out of the newspapers. “Rosika,

I depend on you for that,” she wept, fondling my employer’s hand.

 

“My own idea would be to keep it secret as long as possible,” said Mme.

Storey dryly, “simply in order that the guilty person might not escape.

However, the police must decide.”

 

“The police!” cried Mrs. Varick. “Oh, keep them out of the house!

That would kill me! Rosika, you take charge of everything. I engage

you for that purpose. Money, you know, is no object.”

 

“But I could not accept an engagement on such terms,” said Mme. Storey.

“My object would be the same as that of the police, to discover the

truth.”

 

“Of course! Of course!” cried the weeping woman. “But you do it.

They ought to let you do it. You are far cleverer. Keep the police

out of the house!”

 

“Inspector Rumsey must decide that,” said my employer. “… There is

one thing that I would recommend,” she added. “Under the circumstances

a public funeral would scarcely be permitted. Let all the arrangements

be cancelled, and let it be given out that Commodore Varick is to be

buried privately at the convenience of the family.”

 

“Even that would create a scandal!” cried Mrs. Varick.

 

“But not so great a scandal as the other,” remarked Mme. Storey dryly.

 

“Have the orders given!” cried the distraught widow.

 

When Dr. Pulford took his leave, Mme. Storey signed to me to detain him

outside the room. There she presently joined us.

 

“Can you add anything to what you have told us?” she asked.

 

He shook his head. “Not much at this time. Commodore Varick died as

the result of having taken a powerful dose of a poison, probably

aconite.”

 

“A very large dose?”

 

“Yes, Madam, it must have killed him almost instantly. Well, in half

an hour perhaps; in an hour at the outside.”

 

“Putting aside the possibility of suicide for the moment, how could he

have been induced to take it?”

 

Dr. Pulford shrugged and spread out his hands. “How can one say? It

is true that aconite, like all the alkaloids, has an intensely bitter

taste, but on the other hand, an infinitesimal quantity would be

sufficient. As small a quantity as one three-hundredth of a grain is

enough to set up symptoms. How much Commodore Varick got I cannot say;

half a grain, maybe.”

 

“Could it have been administered in tea or coffee?”

 

“It is possible.”

 

“Could the symptoms have been mistaken for those of gastritis?”

 

“Evidently they were,” returned Dr. Pulford dryly. “Was there only one

physician present when he died?”

 

“Only Dr. Slingluff, the family physician.”

 

“A very distinguished man,” said Dr. Pulford prudently. “It seems a

little strange, but I should not like to commit myself.”

 

“Is there any antidote for aconite poisoning?” asked Mme. Storey.

 

“Atropine,” he answered promptly.

 

“Could aconite in so highly concentrated a form be readily procured?”

was her next question.

 

“It is in the pharmacopoeia,” he said. “Aconitina is the terra applied

to the alkaloid. Therapeutically it is little used nowadays; it would

be difficult to obtain, but possible.”

 

“One last question, doctor. In poisoning cases of this sort, does the

victim retain consciousness until the end, or near the end?”

 

“It is usual,” he said gravely.

 

“Thank you very much.”

 

He went away. We had no sooner returned to the boudoir than a footman

entered to announce that Dr. Slingluff was in the house and wished to

know if Mrs. Varick desired to see him. Mme. Storey and I exchanged a

glance. Coming at this moment, it seemed almost as if the family

doctor had received some intimation through the air of what was going

on. At Mme. Storey’s suggestion Mrs. Varick retired to her bedroom,

and we waited in the boudoir for Dr. Slingluff. It was curious to see

how completely my employer had assumed command in the great house.

From Mrs. Varick down, all yielded her implicit obedience. At such

moments Mme. Storey is very impressive. Her beautiful face becomes as

cold and grave as a sybil’s. Only the glowing dark eyes reveal the

forces within.

 

Dr. Slingluff was in the forefront of his profession. Having started

many years before as a general practitioner, he had gradually won to a

commanding position as a heart specialist. It was only for the Varicks

and a few other old family friends that he still acted as a general

consultant. He was a handsome, dignified man about sixty, with an open

face, a man you would like ordinarily; but I noticed that he changed

colour at the mention of my employer’s name; in fact, I saw a fine

sweat spring out on his forehead, and that hardened my heart against

him.

 

Mme. Storey went to the point as directly as an arrow.

 

“I am Rosika Storey,” she said. “Mrs. Varick has asked me to see you.

It has been discovered that Commodore Varick met his death by poison.

For the moment, I am acting for the police.”

 

At the word “poison” the doctor went staggering back, and his face

became ghastly. But he was not surprised. “Oh, my God!” he gasped.

“Who told them?”

 

This answer clearly revealed guilty knowledge, but for the moment Mme.

Storey affected not to notice it.

 

“I am not at liberty to divulge that,” she said.

 

He made a desperate effort to recover himself. “Poison!” he said,

straightening up; “this is preposterous!”

 

“It was revealed by an autopsy.”

 

He was freshly shaken. “An autopsy!” he stammered.