The Almost Perfect Murder by Hulbert Footner (ereader for comics txt) 📖

somebody’s,” he said, looking from face to face. “Is it

yours, Harlequin?”

 

“No,” was the careless answer. “I couldn’t hide a gun in this union

suit.”

 

It was obvious that he spoke the truth.

 

“Is it yours, Abdullah?”

 

“No,” was the sullen answer. I doubt if anybody believed him.

 

“Yours, Mephisto?”

 

“No.”

 

“For myself, I say it is not mine,” said Mr. Punch.

 

One by one the women denied ownership, and the gun continued to lie on

the floor. The waiters had retired and I don’t believe they had

noticed its presence in all the confusion.

 

Nobody would touch it for fear of incriminating himself. Finally Anne

Boleyn came forward and coolly picked it up. My employer was the only

one to whom it could not have belonged, because up to that moment she

had never been on that side of the table. She opened the magazine.

 

“Fully loaded,” she said.

 

Emptying the shells into her hand, she showed them to us all, and

dropped them in a pocket of her skirt. She then tossed the gun

carelessly on the table. It fell at the place to Mr. Punch’s right;

that is to say where Anne Boleyn had previously been sitting.

 

“The owner can claim it upon presentation of check,” she said lightly.

 

“You seem to be well accustomed to firearms, Anne,” remarked the plump

Zuleika acidly.

 

“Now come, now come, ladies and gentlemen,” said the suave Mr. Punch,

rubbing his hands together. “We were all having a lovely time. Do not

let this little unpleasantness spoil our evening. Let bygones be

bygones. Take your seats again, I beg. There are still two magnums to

be opened!”

 

Harlequin’s face lighted up at the mention of more wine. As to the

others, I cannot say what was passing in their minds, but nobody made

any move to leave. I was desperately anxious to get away from there.

In the general movement around the table I managed to whisper in Anne’s

ear:

 

“Oh, please, let’s get out of this. There is certain to be more

trouble.”

 

“We must see it through, Bella,” she murmured. “Crider is outside if

we need help.”

 

Harlequin stood behind Anne Boleyn’s place holding her chair ready for

her, but she coolly usurped Jackie’s seat on the other side of the

table at Mephisto’s right.

 

“Jackie, you run around and take my old place,” she said to the girl in

the sailor suit.

 

Jackie obeyed with alacrity, for it placed her next to Harlequin. His

face turned dark. “What’s the matter?” he growled to Anne Boleyn.

 

“Oh, I’ve had enough of you for the present,” she answered

good-naturedly. “I want to commune with the devil awhile.”

 

A laugh travelled around at Harlequin’s expense, and he went as flat as

a punctured tyre. It was a good stroke of policy on Mme. Storey’s

part. For a while it made things easier all around the table.

Unluckily the situation was more serious than either of us suspected.

Nothing we might have done could have averted what happened.

 

There was a very curious thing about that gun. When the waiter entered

to serve more wine, Mr. Punch whispered quickly: “Cover the gun.”

 

When I looked it was lying in front of Abdullah’s place. How it got

there I couldn’t tell you. Nobody saw it moved around the table.

Abdullah nervously dropped a napkin over it. As the champagne

circulated the gun was forgotten again. It seemed of no importance

because it was not loaded.

 

The waiter turned on the main lights of the room in order to see how to

serve the wine. When he retired he turned them out again, and we sat

once more in the agreeable van-coloured glow like that of a Christmas

tree. The door of the room was closed in order to keep out wandering

groups of masqueraders. Like most masked balls, this was a very

bibulous party.

 

Mr. Punch and Mephisto at head and foot of the table both worked hard

to make things go. The latter gave us a rendition of “Casey Jones,”

which I suppose was all the rage when he was young. But Abdullah and

Zuleika would not join in the chorus. Moreover, Harlequin soon tired

of the sailor lassie, and started talking to Anne Boleyn across the

table, whereupon Jackie became enraged again. That party was doomed

from the moment when Harlequin had first raised his mask.

 

However, Mr. Punch was not yet at the end of his resources. He stood

up at the head of the table, and rapped for order. He was a really

impressive figure because his make-up was so good. He had some sort of

a tin piece in his mouth that caused him to squeak and whistle in the

manner one associates with Mr. Punch, and he sawed his arms just like

the little figures operated by a hand from beneath. His false chin

waggled in the most realistic manner. It brought back all the Punch

and Judy shows of one’s childhood, and most of us were immediately

reduced to helpless laughter. Laughter puts you off your guard, and I

foolishly began to think that the trouble was over.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he squeaked, “if you will be kind enough to

give me your attention for a few moments I will recite for you the

early history of the immortal Mr. Punch. Laying aside the tragedy

which overtook him, I am sure you will be glad to learn how Mr. Punch

fell in love. It seems that when he was a young man…”

 

At this moment the table lights went out, and the room was plunged into

total darkness. A loud “Oh!” of astonishment escaped from us all.

Immediately afterward there was a flash and a shot across the table

from me, followed by a heavy crash immediately on my left where

Harlequin sat.

 

I instinctively slid under the table, and most of the others did the

same. I brushed against Anne Boleyn under there, and smelled her

perfume. In my terror I flung my arms around her, but she roughly

thrust me away, and scrambled out of my reach. I was paralysed with

terror.

 

Then I heard the click of a switch and the electrolier went on,

flooding the room with light. Mr. Punch’s terrified voice gasped:

 

“For God’s sake, come out, all of you.”

 

The others crept out and I followed. What a frightful moment that was!

Harlequin was stretched out on the floor beside his overturned chair

with a bullet-hole in his forehead. One glance at him was enough. He

was stone dead.

 

Abdullah was sitting directly across the table staring, as if frozen,

at the place where Harlequin had been. He was the only one who had not

moved from his chair. He could not see the body where it had fallen.

Before him lay the gun. Mephisto snatched it up out of his reach. Mr.

Punch was by the door. It was he who had switched on the lights.

 

There was a significant silence in the hall outside. Evidently they

had heard the shot out there, and had stopped dead in their tracks.

Presently we heard running feet approaching. Mephisto darted to the

door and turned the key. People rattled the lock and pounded on the

panels.

 

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” they cried.

 

“‘S all right,” said Mephisto in a carefully schooled voice. “Just a

little friendly tussle. No harm done!”

 

“Open the door!” they commanded.

 

“You go to hell,” said Mephisto, pretending to be a little drunk.

“This is a private party. We don’t want no intruders. ‘S all right, I

tell you.”

 

The running feet retreated from the door again. We were too much

concerned with the horror inside the room to consider what they might

do out there.

 

Jackie cast herself down beside the body. “Oh, my darling! My

darling!” she moaned. “Speak to me!”

 

Her mask had fallen off, revealing a pale, pretty face convulsed with

grief. The girl was a stranger to me, but it was terribly affecting.

 

Zuleika ran around the table, and attempted to drag her away. “Who are

you?” she cried. “Let me get a look at you. Why, I never saw you

before! What right have you here?”

 

“Well, who are you?” retorted Jackie.

 

The older woman snatched her mask off and thrust her distorted face

close into the girl’s. “Look at me! Look at me!” she screeched. “I’m

his wife, that’s who I am!”

 

Jackie collapsed in helpless weeping.

 

The raging Zuleika turned on Abdullah then. “He did it!” she cried.

“He was right beside me. There’s the murderer! Unmask him!”

 

Abdullah, with a terrified gesture, clapped a hand over his mask.

Mephisto held the woman back from attacking him.

 

“I didn’t do it!” Abdullah kept crying hysterically. “I swear to God I

am innocent. I never fired a gun in my life!”

 

No one paid any attention to that. We had all seen the flash of the

pistol from the spot where he sat. Moreover, it was soon proved that

the table lights had not gone out by accident. The connection which

was plugged into the floor under the centre of the table, between

Abdullah and Harlequin, had been kicked out. Abdullah’s feet had been

the nearest to the plug, though any one of the four women might have

reached it with a foot. Mr. Punch at the head of the table and

Mephisto at the other end were too far away to have reached the plug.

 

All this happened in much less time than it takes me to write it. Anne

Boleyn was standing a little apart from the others, watching and

listening. I remembered that she had been the last to creep out from

under the table.

 

“How did the gun get loaded again?” she asked quietly. We looked at

one another blankly.

 

“Well, it was lying under the napkin all that time,” suggested Mr.

Punch slowly. “Abdullah might have slipped it out and reloaded while

we were singing.”

 

“It’s a lie!” cried Abdullah. “I never touched it! I have no shells

on me. Search me! Search me!”

 

“You wouldn’t need any more now,” Mr. Punch dryly remarked.

 

It is difficult for me to write about these moments calmly. Most of us

were in a state bordering on hysteria. Every second produced a new

sensation. As long as Jackie lay on the floor Abdullah could not see

her. When she arose he had his first glimpse of her unmasked.

 

“Oh, my God! Is it you?” he cried. “I might have known it.”

 

She paid no attention to him. She suddenly began to screech loudly:

“Let me out of here! Let me out of here!” Running to one of the

windows, she pulled back the porti�res and raised the sash. “There’s

the fire escape,” she screamed. “We can get out this way!”

 

Panic is catching. There was a general rush to follow her, but Mr.

Punch dragged her back from the window and stood blocking the way.

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” he cried, waving his hands, struggling

for calmness. “If we beat it we’d only incriminate ourselves. Get

back, you fools. You didn’t all do it. You’ve got nothing to fear.

Get back, I say. I’ve got a character to lose, if you haven’t. I’m

going to see this thing through. Get the police.”

 

We moved back from the window. His logic was unanswerable.

 

He seemed to have an impulse of mercy then. “Give the guilty man a

chance if you want,” he said with a glance at Abdullah. “If you’re

willing to