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

tight bodice?”

 

“No, Madame.”

 

“Then I ask you, was it possible that she could have carried her

revolver out of the house with her?”

 

The girl stared at her with wide eyes of horror. “No, Madame! No!

No! … I never thought it out before…. Oh, my poor mistress!”

 

She broke down completely. Mme. Storey lit a cigarette, to give her

time to recover herself.

 

“Well, after that we know pretty well what happened,” my mistress said

soothingly. “Just a few more questions…. Did it occur to you at any

time before your master came home, to look in the chiffonier drawer to

see if Mrs. Whittall’s gun was there?”

 

“No, Madame. I never thought. I scarcely knew what I was doing.”

 

“When did you first see Mr. Whittall?”

 

“He came running up the stairs to the bedroom where the … where the

body was lying. He ordered us all out of the room. ‘I must be alone

with my dead!’ he said. Those were his words. Very dramatic.”

 

“Hm!” said Mme. Storey with a hard smile. “And then?”

 

“In just a minute he called me back into the room by myself, and

started to question me, very excited.”

 

“What sort of questions?”

 

“I can’t remember exactly…. Like the questions you were asking me.

What she was doing all day? What made her go out, and so on.”

 

“Did you tell him about the letter which came?”

 

“Yes, Madame, because he asked if any message had come.”

 

“What did he say when you told him about the letter?”

 

“He didn’t say anything, then. Later, when we were waiting to be

questioned by the police, he sort of said to me and Mr. Frost, the

butler, and Mr. Wilkins, the second man—we were the only ones who knew

about the letter; he said maybe it would be better if nothing was said

about it, and we agreed, of course, not wishing to raise any scandal

about the mistress.”

 

“What can you tell me about his subsequent actions?”

 

“Well, Madame, whenever he got a chance, I saw him looking, looking

about the sitting-room and the bedroom…”

 

“For the letter?”

 

“So I supposed.”

 

“Did you know then that it had been burned?”

 

“Yes, Madame; I had looked before he came home.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell him it had been burned?”

 

“I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction.”

 

“What else?”

 

“Well, as long as the police were in the house, Mr. Whittall was right

there with them. After they had gone he went out. He took a

flashlight with him, because I could see it flashing down the path to

the pavilion. Then I lost him. He was out of the house about ten

minutes. When he came back he wanted me to go to bed. But I asked to

stay up … by her. He went to bed.”

 

“Can you tell me what became of the pistol that was found in Mrs.

Whittall’s hand?”

 

“The police captain took it away with him that night. Later I heard

that Mr. Whittall had given it to him.”

 

“Now to go back,” said Mme. Storey. “When your mistress sent for you

to dress her, you said you found her excited. Do you mean pleasurably

so?”

 

“Yes … no … I can hardly say, Madame. When I thought over it

afterwards, I supposed she had made up her mind then to end it all, and

was just sort of wrought up.”

 

“That was reasonable. But you know now that you were wrong.”

 

Mary nodded. “I don’t know what to think now,” she said unhappily.

 

“That letter,” said Mme. Storey—and Mary instantly began to look

nervous, “what do you think was in it, Mary?”

 

“How should I know?” she said. “A girl like me, just a lady’s maid.”

 

“But you thought it had something to do with the tragedy.”

 

“Not direct.”

 

“Well, indirectly, then.”

 

“Whatever I may have thought is proved wrong now.”

 

“Tell me what you thought.”

 

“I don’t think I ought,” was the stubborn reply. “I told you the truth

when I said I didn’t know the handwriting. It was only a guess.”

 

Mme. Storey tried another tack. “Mary,” she said, “Mr. Whittall has

told his fianc�e that his wife killed herself because she was in love

with another man.”

 

“That’s a lie!” she said excitedly. “At least, the way he means it.

My mistress was a good woman!”

 

“I am sure of it!” said Mme. Storey gravely. “But I can also

understand how a woman, married to a man like Whittall, might conceive

an honourable love for another man, and still remain true to her

marriage vows.”

 

The girl broke into a helpless weeping. Still she stubbornly held her

tongue.

 

At length Mme. Storey said: “Mary, your mistress was foully murdered.

Don’t you want to see justice done?”

 

“Yes! … Yes!” she sobbed. “But I don’t see how he could have done

it. I don’t know what to think! I don’t see any use in raking up a

scandal!”

 

“The whole story must be opened to the light now,” said Mme. Storey

gravely. “If that is done, no possible blame can attach to your

mistress’s name. Wouldn’t you rather tell me here than be forced to

tell in open court?”

 

Mary nodded.

 

“Then, Mary, from whom did you think that letter had come?”

 

“Mr. Barry Govett,” she whispered.

 

I exclaimed inwardly. Barry Govett!

 

“You mustn’t lay too much on that!” Mary went on, as well as she could

for sobbing. “I am ready to swear there was nothing wrong between

them. I don’t believe they ever saw each other alone but once. That

was at our house in the summer. Mr. Govett called unexpected. He

didn’t stay but an hour. I happened to go into my mistress’s

sitting-room where they were, and I saw them. I saw by the way they

looked at each other how … how it was with them both. How it would

always be. I had never seen anything like that….” She was unable to

go on.

IV

Barry Govett was the most prominent bachelor in New York society. I

had been reading about him in the papers for years. His name regularly

headed the list of men present at every fashionable entertainment, and

one was continually being informed of his visiting this great person or

that in Newport, Saratoga, Lenox, Tuxedo and Palm Beach. Prominent as

he was at this time, he must have been still more prominent a few years

ago when the cotillon was still a feature of every ball. I have always

wondered what a cotillon was. Barry Govett was the cotillon leader

par excellence. They said then that one had to engage him months

ahead.

 

All this I had gathered from the gossip weeklies, which, like every

other stenographer whose social life was limited to a boarding-house, I

used to read with avidity. Barry Govett was their _pi�ce de

resistance_. Before all this happened, he was once pointed out to me

in court costume at a great fancy dress ball; and I thought then that

he had the most beautifully turned leg I had ever seen on a man. He

must have been over forty then, but still conveyed the effect of a

young man; very handsome in his style. But too much the cotillon

leader for me. When I thought over this I wondered what a woman like

Mrs. Whittall could have seen in him. One never knows!

 

The moment he entered the outer office I was aware of a personality.

Of course, no man could occupy so lofty a position for years, even if

it was only at the head of a frivolous society, without acquiring great

aplomb. Close at hand in the daylight, I saw that there was little of

the youth remaining about him, though his figure was still slim, but I

liked him better than I had expected. He had a long, oval face, almost

ascetic looking, with nice blue eyes, though they were always

pleasantly watchful, and betrayed little. He was wonderfully turned

out, of course, but nothing spectacular. It was the perfection of art

that conceals art. I was immediately sensible of his charm too, though

I had discounted it in advance. The smile and the bow conveyed no

intimation that he saw in me merely the humble secretary.

 

I took him in to Mme. Storey. She was playing the great lady that

afternoon, and the black ape Giannino in green cap and jacket with

golden bells was seated in the crook of her left arm. Mr. Govett

hastened forward, and gracefully kissed her hand. I wondered if

Giannino would snatch at his none-too-well-covered poll. We were

always amused to see how the ape would receive a new person. He is an

individual of very strong likes and dislikes. However, he only made a

face at Mr. Govett, and hissed amicably. Indeed, Mr. Govett held out

his elbow, and Giannino hopped upon it, and stroked his face. This was

a great victory.

 

“Dear lady!” said Mr. Govett, “this is an undeserved privilege. To be

invited to tea with you, and” (looking around the room) “alone!”

 

“Just me and Giannino and my friend Miss Brickley,” said Mme. Storey.

 

He whirled around and bowed to me again, murmuring: “Charmed!” My hand

was horribly self-conscious in the expectation that he might offer to

kiss it. I wondered if it was quite clean. Which way would I look! I

could see too that Mme. Storey was wickedly hoping that he might.

Fortunately he did not.

 

“Miss Brickley has been dying to meet you,” she said slyly.

 

“Ah! you do me too much honour!” he said.

 

I was rather fussed, and therefore I was bound not to show It. “Well,

you’re such a famous man,” I said.

 

“Now you’re spoofing me,” he said. “It’s not much to be a hero of the

society notes, is it?”

 

Tea was waiting, and we attacked it forthwith. Mr. Govett, stroking

Giannino’s pompadour, and feeding him sugar, supplied most of the

conversation. His gossip was extremely amusing, without being

malicious—well not very malicious. No doubt he suited his talk to

his company.

 

Had we heard that Bessie Van Brocklin was going to give a zoological

dinner? It was in honour of her new cheetah. He didn’t know quite

what a cheetah was; the name sounded ominous. The Princess Yevrienev

had promised to bring her lion cubs, and the Goldsby-Snows would be on

hand with their falcons. Somebody else had a wolf, and he had heard a

rumour that there was an anaconda being kept in the dark. Oh, and of

course, there were plenty of monkeys in society, zoological and

otherwise. It ought to be a brilliant affair.

 

Had we heard the latest about Freddy Vesey? Freddy had been dining

with the Stickneys, who were the last householders on Madison Square.

Carried away by his boyhood recollections of old New York, Freddy had

leaped into the fountain, causing great excitement among the

park-benchers. An Irish policeman was convinced that it was an

attempted suicide. Freddy had argued with him at length from the

middle of the fountain. Freddy had refused to come out until the

policeman promised to let him off. No, Freddy had not undressed before

jumping in, he was happy to say, and thereby the world was saved a

shocking disclosure of the means by which he preserved his ever

youthful figure.

 

All the while this was going on, I could see that Mr. Govett