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

what time did you meet?”

 

“Half-past seven.”

 

“Describe what happened.”

 

“Well, we had our dinner. Afterwards we went out to the smoking

lounge. Shortly after ten, a boy came through paging Mr. Darius

Whittall. Mr. Whittall was surprised, because he had not thought that

anybody knew where he was. Everybody in the room looked up, hearing

that name. At first Mr. Whittall wasn’t going to identify himself.

Just some trifler, he said, or a newspaper reporter. But he was

curious to find out who had got hold of his name. So after the boy had

gone on, he went out to the office. In a minute or two he came back.

He looked very agitated. All he said was: ‘Something wrong at home.’

He got his hat and coat, and jumped in a taxicab.”

 

“Now are you satisfied that I didn’t do it?” cried Whittall.

 

“Quite!” said Mme. Storey.

 

I was surprised at this answer. Still I supposed she had her own

reasons for making it.

 

She asked them both a number of further questions, which they answered

readily. Whittall rapidly quieted down. It had the effect of a

genuine cross-examination, but knowing my mistress so well, I could see

that she was only stalling for time. She did not want Whittall to get

away from there until Crider was waiting outside to pick him up.

Nothing of moment to the case was brought out by their answers.

 

Finally we went. The street outside was crowded, and I could not pick

out Crider anywhere, but I had no doubt he was safely at his post.

Just the same I felt that we were doing wrong to go away and leave

Whittall like that, free to work his own nefarious schemes. And as we

drove away in a taxicab I voiced something to that effect.

 

“But we have no reason to order him detained,” said Mme. Storey calmly.

“He didn’t shoot his wife.”

 

“What!” I cried, astonished. “You still doubt that!”

 

“No,” said Mme. Storey, smiling at the heat I betrayed. “I’m sure he

didn’t.”

 

“But obviously that man Kreuger was ready to swear to anything that

would please him!”

 

“Obviously!” she agreed.

 

“And the story about the telephone call—fancy anybody calling him up

and saying: ‘Your wife has been shot.’ Just like that. Why, it’s

preposterous!”

 

“Quite!” said Mme. Storey. “Whittall is far too clever a man to have

offered me so preposterous a story if it were not true. There is

nothing so preposterous as the truth sometimes.”

 

“Well, if he didn’t do it himself he certainly had it done,” I said

excitedly. “And that telephone message was from his hireling telling

him that the job was accomplished.”

 

But Mme. Storey still shook her head.

 

“What makes you so sure Whittall wasn’t responsible?” I asked

helplessly.

 

“It’s so simple,” she said. “If Whittall had plotted to shoot his

wife, he would have shot her with her own gun, wouldn’t he? And then

we never would have known.”

 

I looked at her in silence. Why, of course! My theory went down like

a house of cards.

 

“No,” she went on gravely, “here’s the best part of the day gone, and

we’re almost where we were yesterday evening…. Well, not quite.

Because Whittall told one little lie, which will appear later.”

 

“Then are we up against a blank wall?” I asked, discouraged.

 

“Oh, no,” was her surprising answer. “I know who did it.”

 

I looked my breathless question.

 

But she only shook her head. “No evidence,” she said, frowning. “Not

a shred! It’s almost the perfect crime, my Bella!”

VIII

Mme. Storey and I returned to the office. We found her car waiting out

in front for orders. The chauffeur, Younger, handed over the gun

fished from the well at Oakhurst, which Crider had given him for safe

keeping. Mme. Storey, in my presence, marked the gun for subsequent

identification. We found a number of matters awaiting our attention,

which we got out of the way as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, we

ordered in a light lunch of sandwiches and milk.

 

While she munched her sandwiches, Mme. Storey paced slowly up and down

the long room, considering deeply. With the last bite she evidently

finished mapping out her course of action. Her first move was to call

up Fay Brunton in her dressing-room at the theatre. They had an

aimless friendly talk, which was, however, not so aimless on my

mistress’s part as might have been supposed, for she found out: (a)

that Fay had not seen nor heard from Darius Whittall since we had left

him: (b) that she was still looking forward to the supper party in her

rooms that night. I also marked this bit:

 

“I saw the new film ‘Ashes of Roses’ last night,” said Mme. Storey. (I

knew this was not true.) “Have you seen it?” Fay’s answer ran to some

length. It was evidently in the negative, for Mme. Storey said: “Well,

you ought to. It’s really quite tremendous.” The talk then passed to

other matters.

 

Mme. Storey then called up Inspector Rumsey at Headquarters. She asked

him if he had succeeded in tracing Whittall’s purchase of the guns. He

replied that he had full information. She then got him to tell her

what his movements would be that afternoon and night, so that we could

get in touch with him any time we might need him.

 

Crider called us up to report that Darius Whittall had called upon the

President of the –- Railroad. Crider was not able to say, of course,

what was the occasion of the visit. Upon hearing this Mme. Storey

instructed Crider to send Stephens to the –- Terminal to find out as

best he could what order had been received respecting the President’s

private car.

 

I must try to set down in order all that we did that afternoon. The

significance of much of it did not become clear to me until night.

First; an operative was despatched to the garage run in connection with

the Hotel Madagascar (where Fay lived) with instructions to learn what

he could about the movements of Miss Brunton’s cars on the night of

September 11th. Fay kept two cars; a brougham which was driven by a

chauffeur and a smart little convertible that she drove herself. It

appeared that in this very up-to-date garage a complete record was kept

of the movements of all the cars stored there. Every time they went

out their mileage was taken, and again when they came in. This was to

prevent their use for unauthorised purposes.

 

Second; an operative (this one a woman) was sent to interview Miss

Beatrice Dufaye, the well-known cinema star, in the guise of a

representative of some mythical magazine. Miss Dufaye was the star of

“Ashes of Roses,” a picture which was the sensation of the moment, and

at present she was resting at her country place at Glen Cove before

starting work on her next picture. Among other things, this operative

was instructed to ask certain questions relative to the private showing

of “Ashes of Roses” on September 11th. This had been made a great

social occasion in theatrical circles.

 

A third operative was instructed to learn the present whereabouts of

Mr. Frank Esher. Esher, you will remember, was the young man who was

deeply in love with Fay Brunton, and for whom we suspected she had a

tenderness in return. After a quarrel or a series of quarrels, he had

flown off to parts unknown. This operative was furnished with the

address of his last employers, his club, and his last home address.

 

Finally I received my assignment. “Bella,” said my mistress, “I want

you to go to Tiffany’s with me, to help choose Fay’s wedding present.”

 

It struck me as very strange that we should spend our time this way

when matters were at such a critical juncture; and especially as we

were determined to prevent this wedding if we could. However, I said

nothing. We used up a good hour choosing the most beautiful amongst

all the tiny platinum and jewelled watches they showed us.

 

“Take it to the hotel,” said Mme. Storey, “and give it to her maid to

keep until Fay returns from the theatre. You may let the maid have a

peep at it as a great favour. This ought to put you on an intimate

footing at once. You will no doubt find her packing her mistress’s

things for the journey tomorrow. It will seem quite natural for you to

show curiosity in Fay’s pretty things. Take plenty of time. Fay

cannot get home until nearly six if she comes at all. Ordinarily, on

matin�e days, she has dinner in her dressing-room. I want you to find

out what Fay was doing on the night of September 11th.”

 

“What Fay was doing?” I echoed, greatly disquieted.

 

Mme. Storey looked at me in a way which did not allay my uneasiness.

“Have patience, Bella. I cannot yet foresee how all this is going to

turn out.”

 

She drove off up to Riverdale again with the object of recovering the

gun which Whittall had presented to the Captain of the precinct. It

was from this gun that the fatal shot had been fired.

 

I proceeded to the Madagascar, that towering palace of luxury. Fay,

like most women in her position, had two maids, one of whom waited upon

her in the hotel, and one at the theatre. I was already slightly

acquainted with Katy Meadows, her hotel maid, and of course the nature

of my errand immediately broke the ice between us. Katy was a pretty,

vivacious Irish girl with naturally rosy cheeks. Fay spoiled her.

Katy looked on me as a sort of superior servant like herself, and was

quite free with me. She went into raptures over the watch.

 

Just as Mme. Storey had said, I found her packing. Fay’s things were

spread over the whole suite. I did not have to express any curiosity,

for Katy insisted on showing me everything; hats, wraps, dresses,

lingerie, shoes in endless profusion. It was immoral that one woman

should possess so much, but oh! what a fascinating display!

Unfortunately, I had something else on my mind, and was unable to give

myself up to the contemplation of it. The suite consisted of three

rooms; a corner sitting-room with Fay’s bedroom on one side and Mrs.

Brunton’s on the other.

 

After we had finished rhapsodising over the watch I lingered on. Katy

was bustling from room to room bearing armfuls of Fay’s things that had

to be packed. She was in a great state of fluster.

 

“Four o’clock!” she cried. “Mercy! I must get a move on me! They’re

going to have a supper party here after the show, and everything must

be out of here before that, and the place tidied up…. But don’t you

go, Miss Brickley. Sit down and talk to me. It keeps me going….”

 

In the end it was not at all difficult to get what I wanted. I led up

to the matter as I had heard Mme. Storey do over the ‘phone.

 

“I went to see ‘Ashes of Roses’ last night. It’s a dandy picture.

Have you seen it?”

 

“No,” said Katy. “I must wait until it shows in the cheaper houses.”

 

“That was a great party they had the night of the private showing last

September,” I went on. “I suppose your folks went. They say all the

famous people on Broadway were there.”

 

“Mrs. Brunton went,” said Katy unsuspiciously, “but at the last