The Almost Perfect Murder by Hulbert Footner (ereader for comics txt) đź“–
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see that it had two unshuttered windows opening on the blessed outer
air! But first we had to barricade the way we had come. With immense
exertions we managed to shove a heavy wardrobe in front of the window
on the shaft. This offered a formidable obstacle to anybody on the
insecure perch of the window sill, and we did not believe they could
follow that way. There was still the door of the room, of course. We
discovered that it was locked, and no key in it.
When we had time to look about us we saw a man’s personal belongings
scattered about; clothes, shoes, knick-knacks on the dresser. On the
wall was a framed photograph of an Association picnic.
“Ah,” said Mme. Storey dryly. “Mr. Punch’s own room!”
There was a ball of string lying on the bureau that she pounced on with
the light of triumph in her eye. “If we get out alive we’ll hang him
with this!” she cried, and thrust the ball in the pocket of her skirt.
I could make nothing of this at the moment. A sudden thought had
caused my heart to sink like a stone.
“If it’s his room he has the key in his pocket!” I gasped.
Mme. Storey’s eyes flashed around the room, searching. She snatched up
a stick-pin from the bureau, stuck it diagonally in the lock, then
hammered it with a boot so that it crumpled up inside the lock and the
head broke off.
“He won’t get a key in there in a hurry,” she remarked.
By this time the two men had broken into the little room on the shaft.
They must have been astonished when they found it empty. But when they
saw the wardrobe backed up against the other window on the shaft they
knew where we had gone.
“They’re in my room!” yelled Mr. Punch. “Come on!”
A moment later he was trying to insert his key in the lock. Failing in
that, they kicked the panels. Fortunately those were stout doors.
“Wait a minute!” said Punch. “Fetch the fire axe from the head of the
stairs.”
Meanwhile Mme. Storey and I were busy shoving the bureau in front of
the door, and the bed against the bureau to give them plenty to chop
through. Then we ran to an outer window.
It was half day and the city lay in a curious stillness under the cool
sky. Madison Avenue ran under the window, and across the way we could
see the apse of St. Patrick’s between the priests’ residences flanking
it on either side. The street lights were still burning and the early
cats were coming out to sniff in the gutters. The only human in sight
was an honest policeman leaning against a fire box on the corner, idly
swinging his club on its thong. As I was about to yell, Mme. Storey
clapped a hand over my mouth.
“If we raise an alarm they’ll escape us!” she cried.
She picked up a hairbrush, and leaning out the window tapped it against
the wall of the house. It made only a little sound, but in the
stillness of early morning it was sufficient. The policeman looked up
and saw us. What a strange shock he must have received, seeing Anne
Boleyn and Lorenzo hanging out of the top window of an apparently
shut-up house at dawn! One can imagine the eyes fairly starting from
his head. Mme. Storey gave him the most dramatic pantomime of distress
and terror, wringing her hands and alternately pointing inside the
house and towards the fire box. All the time she was murmuring to me:
“That ought to fetch him! That ought to fetch him!”
I don’t know what he thought, but there was obviously only one thing
for him to do. He yanked open the door of the fire alarm box, and
pulled the hook inside. He then ran down the side street to try to get
in the building from the rear.
For a moment or two there was silence in the room. I was desperately
trying to figure how long it took firemen to reach a fire. The beating
of my heart almost suffocated me. The silence must have alarmed Mr.
Punch outside, for he vigorously rattled the door and called out:
“You, in there!”
Mme. Storey winked at me and answered in a trembling voice: “Oh, spare
us! Spare us!” I wondered how she could joke at such a moment.
Mephisto arrived with the axe and they tackled the door. It proved to
be a tough job, because the passage was too narrow to swing the axe
effectively.
Almost immediately I heard the distant clang of the engines, and then I
saw the wisdom of Mme. Storey’s ruse. The men with the axe were making
too much noise themselves to hear the engines. Even if they did hear
they wouldn’t connect it with us. After all, it’s a common enough
sound in the city. Mr. Punch had fairly to hew the door in pieces
before he could get sufficient leverage to push the furniture out of
the way.
Meanwhile Mme. Storey and I were hanging out of the windows. When the
fire trucks swept up below we stretched out our arms to the men just
like all the pictures of distressed females we had seen. They swung
the big hook and ladder truck around with marvellous skill, and started
the machinery going, and the great ladder raised up and extended itself
until it dropped with a light tap against our window sill. They had
judged it to a hair. Then the men came scrambling up like monkeys.
Firemen are such handsome, well-built fellows, and so modest!
Everybody loves the firemen, because they don’t interfere with us as
the police do—they only save our lives!
The firemen were in the act of scrambling over the sill at the precise
moment when our two enemies, having succeeded in shoving the bureau a
foot or two from the door, appeared from behind it. The surprise was
mutual. Seeing the grotesque figure of Mr. Punch, axe in hand, and
Mephisto, horns and tail, the firemen may well have thought they were
in a madhouse.
“What’s the matter here?” stammered the leader.
Mme. Storey, with a twinkle in her eye, said courteously: “I’m sorry,
chief, there’s no fire. But these gentlemen were bent on murdering us.”
Mr. Punch and Mephisto turned to run, but the firemen leaped on their
backs and quickly secured them. Such grand fellows! I disgraced
myself by going into hysterics when it was over.
VIIThe next scene took place at Police Headquarters. Of course a general
alarm had been sent out for our party and the police had been combing
the town for us all night. So we were rushed direct to Headquarters.
I doubt if the building had ever witnessed a more bizarre scene than
the seven of us in fancy dress lined up before the lieutenant at the
desk. Ebbitt, the fat treasurer of the Butlers’ Association, now
carried Mephisto’s grinning headpiece under one arm, while his spiked
tail dragged forlornly on the ground. Ebbitt had just such a smooth
and flabby face as you might expect in the butler who deferentially
fills your glass.
At first we were all treated as malefactors alike. When Mme. Storey
explained who she was the lieutenant received it with an air of
incredulity that was far from polite. In fact he jeered. Whereupon
she insisted on having our friend Inspector Rumsey sent for. After he
got there all was clear sailing.
I cannot end my story better than by giving you my employer’s statement
to the police.
“In the course of my investigation of the Creighton Woodley jewel
robbery,” she said, “certain facts turned up which suggested to me that
there was a very profitable racket being worked by an inner ring of the
Butlers’ Association in connection with expert jewel thieves. But it
was difficult to secure evidence.
“The annual masked ball of the Butlers’ Association tonight gave me an
opportunity of mixing with these people in disguise, so I attended the
ball and took with me my secretary, Miss Brickley. I also had an
operative mixing with the dancers, but we became separated from him.
“As it drew on towards midnight my secretary and I were invited to join
a supper party in a private room given by Mr. Punch here. I accepted
because I suspected from his air of authority that he was an important
man in the Association. Later I discovered that he was none other than
Alfred Denby, the president, and the man I was most anxious to watch.
The gentleman in red, yonder, is Ebbitt, the treasurer of the
Association.
“Unfortunately I had no knowledge beforehand that there was trouble
within the Association itself, or I could have taken steps to prevent
the murder at the supper table. The murdered man, as you may know, is
George Danforth, who was butler to the Creighton Woodleys at the time
of the robbery, and, of course, a member of the Association. I am
prepared to offer proof of every statement I am going to make to you.
All this evidence turned up after the murder.
“Danforth was a handsome, pleasure-loving man, very popular among the
ladies. Technically he was an honest man, and they tricked him into
giving the layout of his master’s house, and the information that
enabled a successful robbery to be carried out. Danforth, you
remember, was called away on the night of the robbery, and had
therefore a perfect alibi.
“But he knew then, of course, that he had been tricked. Honesty is all
a matter of degree. If he had been absolutely honest he would have
taken his story to the police. But he saw a way of supporting himself
in luxurious idleness and he fell for it. They offered to admit
Danforth to the inner ring, but he refused, and he proceeded to
blackmail the Butlers’ Association out of large sums of money.
“The Creighton Woodley robbery was actually committed by Antonio
Pagliariello, more commonly known as Tony Yellow. He is no stranger to
you. Alfred Denby gave Tony a receipt for the money turned over to the
Butlers’ Association as their share of the loot, and in some manner
this receipt came into Danforth’s hands. Probably Tony double-crossed
the Association and gave the paper to Danforth. It would be like him.
This paper constituted Danforth’s hold over the Association. It will
undoubtedly be found among the dead man’s effects.” Mme. Storey
paused, with a slight smile at the police officials’ surprise.
“The inner ring,” she went on, “resolved to put Danforth out of the
way. They planned to use this man here, Frank Harris by name, as their
instrument, but when they were unable to fan Harris’s hatred of
Danforth up to the killing point, Denby, the president, made up his
mind to kill Danforth himself and fasten the murder on Harris. The
inner ring had nothing against Harris, who was a loyal member of the
organisation, though not a party to the crookedness of the inner ring.
Harris was a stupid sort of fellow, they figured, who would never see
through the plot.
“The supper party tonight was staged for the murder. Mr. Punch there,
or Denby, made sure of his men, Danforth, Harris, and Ebbitt—he had
previous knowledge of the costumes they were going to wear; but
apparently he picked up some of the women at random. So cunningly
thought out was his plan that he wished to have strangers present to
give disinterested
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