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

class="calibre1">“Never mind, thanks,” she said.

 

“On the third floor,” said Jarboe, like the guide on a sightseers’

‘bus, “there are twenty-five rooms, including several suites for

guests, the housekeeper’s suite, rooms for the maids, and so on. The

footmen sleep in the building across the court, which was once the

stables. Would you wish to go upstairs, Madame?”

 

“No, thanks,” said my employer dryly. “Jarboe,” she said, in a voice

that arrested his spiel, “there’s a door there in the back corner,

adjoining Mr. Henry’s suite, that you have passed over every time we

have been around? Where does that go?”

 

“Another stairway,” he said, with an air of great carelessness.

 

“And where do the stairs go?”

 

“Just to a passage below.”

 

“And where does that passage go?”

 

“Nowhere in particular, Madame, just around the court.”

 

“Who uses that stair?”

 

“Nobody uses it now, Madame. What it may have been designated for

originally, I cannot say.”

 

“Well, let us explore it,” said Mme. Storey.

 

The butler followed very unwillingly. The straight, narrow stairway

led us into a bare passage with windows looking out on the court. At

the right, this passage ended with a door opening on the main service

hall and stairway; at the left, it turned a corner and continued around

the north side of the court. On this side there was a small door

opening from the passage. My employer, trying it, found it locked.

The dignified butler had a very unhappy air. He said: “That door leads

into the ballroom, Madame. It is used only when there is an

entertainment, to facilitate the service. Shall I send for the key?”

 

“No matter,” said Mme. Storey, continuing.

 

The passage ended on this side at a heavy door locked by a spring lock

on our side. That is to say we could open the door, but could not come

back that way without putting it on the latch. The wall we passed

through here was over a foot thick; evidently a party wall. On the

other side of the door the passage turned sharp to the left again.

This part ran on endlessly, and was perfectly dark except for a glimmer

of light through a glass door over a hundred feet away. There were no

doors in it. It was a weird feature to find in a modern house. The

door at the end, we found, gave on the street, but it was ingeniously

masked by a stoop built over it. There was a heavy iron grille

outside, such as they use to protect basement doors. The street we

looked on was one strange to us. However, it was not difficult to

deduce that it was the next cross street to the north of that on which

the public entrances of the Varick house opened. My employer looked at

the disconcerted Jarboe with a smile.

 

“Jarboe,” she said, “you are the chief servant of this household. How

ridiculous to pretend that you did not know of the existence of this

passage. Why, who sweeps it?”

 

He spread out his hands in gesture of surrender. “Madame, you must

pardon me. A good servant never betrays the private affairs of his

master. The habit of years was too strong to be broken.”

 

I thought it rather a neat apology.

 

“You’re forgiven,” said Mme. Storey, cheerfully. “Now tell me the

history of this passage.”

 

“It was constructed during the last rebuilding of the house,” said

Jarboe. “The Commodore owns the houses at the back of his property,

and had this passage made under one of them so that he could enter and

leave his house privately. So many people hang about the front door,

newspaper reporters, photographers….”

 

“Process servers,” put in Mme. Storey slyly.

 

“My master was a man of blameless life,” said Jarboe with dignity.

 

“Oh, quite! I don’t blame him. What’s the use of being a millionaire,

if you can’t have a little privacy?”

 

Jarboe looked relieved. We strolled back.

 

“Jarboe,” said Mme. Storey, “think before you answer my next question.

The truth is bound to come out and you can best help the family by

assisting me to get at it as quickly as possible…. Did young Mr.

Henry also use this passage?”

 

Jarboe stumbled in his speech, gulped hard, and finally blurted out.

“Yes, Madame. Mr. Henry was also provided with the two keys necessary

to come in this way.”

 

“Did his father know about it?”

 

“I fancy not, Madame. I fancy Mrs. Varick must have procured the keys

for Mr. Henry.”

 

“Ah! Now, Jarboe, the truth! Did not Mr. Henry come in this way

yesterday for the purpose of seeing his father?”

 

“No, Madame, no!” he replied agitatedly.

 

“But couldn’t he have come this way, and gone out again without ever

your seeing him?”

 

“If he had been in the house I should certainly have heard of it,

Madame. There are servants everywhere, and everything is talked about

among them.”

 

“That is not quite an answer to my question. Is it not possible that

Mr. Henry came this way yesterday and went out again without your

seeing him?”

 

“Of course, it is possible, Madame,” said Jarboe, with an unhappy air.

X

By-and-by Jarboe came to the office to say: “Mr. Henry Varick’s

compliments to Madame Storey. He is dining downstairs at half-past

seven, and wishes to know if Madame Storey will do him the honour of

joining him.”

 

It amused my employer to treat the magnificent Jarboe in an offhand

and facetious manner. “But, Jarboe, I have nothing to wear!” she said.

 

He never smiled. “Under the circumstances, Madame, I am sure Mr. Henry

will understand.”

 

“Very well. Tell him that Madame Storey and Miss Brickley will be

happy to join him.”

 

Jarboe looked a little dubious at the inclusion of my name. However,

he marched off.

 

“Mr. Henry has decided to take the bull by the horns,” remarked Mme.

Storey to me.

 

When the hour arrived, my mistress and I went slowly down the sweeping

stairway arm in arm. How I wish I could convey in a phrase the

stateliness of that great house. I think proportion had a lot to do

with it. The height and width of those noble halls upstairs and down

were in exactly the right relation to their length. There were several

footmen in the lower hall in plain evening dress. The astute face of

our man Crider was amongst them. Certainly no time had been lost in

installing and outfitting him. One of the footmen (not Crider)

approached us, saying: “Mr. Henry is in the gold room,” and led the way

across the hall into the middle one of the three great drawing-rooms

that filled the Fifth Avenue side of the house. Our young host came

forward to greet us.

 

“I have already seen you today,” he said to Mme. Storey, “but I did not

know you. My mother has told me about you now, and what you are doing

for us. It is wonderful of you!”

 

My employer brought me forward: “My secretary, Miss Brickley.”

 

I turned hot and cold when he looked at me. He had the bluest eyes I

have ever beheld, blue as the tropical sea. It was perfectly

ridiculous, but the same feeling of helplessness came over me every

time he looked at me. After a courteous greeting, he paid no further

attention to me. Giving an arm to Mme. Storey, he led her through the

state suite.

 

“It was very good of you to have us downstairs,” she said.

 

“Oh,” he said, with a painful gesture, “nothing is to be gained by

crying and carrying on about our loss. I’m done with crying now.

Things have got to go on. I ordered dinner downstairs hoping that I

could persuade you to join me. We must become acquainted; we must work

together.”

 

“Surely,” said Mme. Storey.

 

I resented her coolness. I was enraged by the thought that she was, as

I thought, trying to bring the murder home to him. God forgive me! I

was jealous of my mistress. Issuing out of the farther drawing-room,

we crossed the great central hall again. The dining-room was opposite.

It was another long and lofty room with a row of windows at the end

that must have looked out on the court. It was dark except for a

cluster of shaded candles on the small table, and another cluster on

the sideboard. The density of the shadows made the lofty ceiling

recede even farther. I felt like an insect under it. Yet, as I

presently learned, this was only the family dining-room. There was a

state dining-room somewhere else.

 

Mr. Varick put Mme. Storey at his right and me at his left. “I ordered

a small table,” he said, “because the family mahogany is depressing for

so intimate a party. Would you like more light?”

 

“This is perfect,” said Mme. Storey.

 

The meal commenced; hors d’oeuvres, soup, fish, and so on. In the

beginning the conversation was merely polite; it seemed to be tacitly

agreed that all painful subjects must be deferred until we had at least

got our food down. Nobody cared about eating, and many things were

sent away untasted. It threatened to go on for ever, until Mme. Storey

said in her brusque and humorous way: “Look here, must we eat any

more?”

 

“No, no!” he said, rousing himself. He spoke to the footman behind his

chair. “Never mind the game, or dessert. Just fruit, coffee, cognac,

and cigarettes.”

 

When this was put on the table the servants left the room for good.

Mr. Varick leaned towards my mistress. “Well … what’s the real

situation?” he asked in a strained voice.

 

She spread out her hands. “I have collected a lot of information, but

I seem to be no nearer a solution. All I have done is to detain the

Princess Cristina.”

 

“She could hardly have done it!” he said with a half smile. In spite

of grief and fatigue that incorrigible smile was always near the

surface. “She had nothing against the old man. If it had been me,

now.”

 

“My idea, too,” said Mme. Storey. “But I had to prevent her sailing.”

 

Quite simply, and with a glint of mirth in his weary eyes, he told us

of his affair with the Princess. To his father his casual frankness

must have seemed scandalous, but it is only the way of the younger

generation. “It was never put up to me in so many words, but of course

I knew they wanted me to marry her. And I was willing; she was easy to

look at. Besides, I wanted to please the old boy; I’ve been a thorn in

his side ever since I grew up. I had made such a mess of my own

affairs always, I thought they might as well have a try at settling

them.

 

“And so it started. But I soon forgot it was a made-up affair. I had

never known anybody like Cristina. In fact, I got perfectly crazy

about her, though I suppose it didn’t go very deep. But I never let on

to her she had me going; I didn’t dare. For she was a terrible girl,

you know, imperious. Wanted to get her little foot firmly planted on

your neck, and keep you down. Well, not for Joseph! So I just joshed

her. What a delicious little spitfire! We spent the time quarrelling

like devils—and making up. It was a heap of fun. Be cause, you see,

in public she was always