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

>which I shall rejuvenate mankind.”

 

He plugged one of the cords into an outlet and a hissing, crackling

sound issued from the box. My employer stepped back, a little

disconcerted.

 

“Oh, for goodness’ sake turn that thing off, Liptrott,” said Mrs.

Julian pettishly. “I’ve had enough of it!”

 

He obeyed for the moment, but presently I saw him slyly turn it on

again. He played with it like a child, perfectly oblivious to the rest

of us.

 

Professor Ram Lal’s good humour having been restored, Mrs. Julian

suggested that he resume the s�ance. Immediately there were objections

from the other three.

 

“My dear Aline, the excitement is so bad for you!” said Mrs. Bracker.

 

“You promised to let me give a demonstration today,” grumbled the old

man.

 

Dr. Cushack produced an elegant Russian leather case from his breast

pocket. Upon being opened two rows of little vials containing drugs

were revealed. “At least you should take your medicine first,” he said.

 

The sight of the drugs made me jumpy. Was this the potential murderer?

I wondered. Was he going to poison her before our very eyes?

 

However, Mrs. Julian waved the dose away. “I don’t need it,” she said.

“Ram Lal does me more good than medicine.”

 

The East Indian stood up, pushed his chair back against the wall, and

smoothed down his frock-coat. He glanced with insulting complacency at

his beaten rivals. He made caressing passes with his hands over the

crystal sphere. He was excessively vain of his hands, which were soft

and plump with tapering fingers manicured to the limit. They looked

vicious to me.

 

“Lights, please,” he drawled affectedly.

 

Nobody moved, and Mrs. Julian said sharply: “Turn off the lights, Dr.

Cushack.”

 

Nothing in the room was visible except the lambent crystal, the pale

hands waving over it, and the smooth inhuman face in the reflected

light, staring at it with an awful intentness. He began to mutter

something in an uncouth tongue that was supposed to be Hindoo, but was

more likely mere gibberish. Pure trickery, but horribly effective. In

spite of myself I felt the unreasoning terror of a child. Goose-flesh

rose slowly all over my body.

 

The man was clearly working himself into a hysterical state. As he

went on his voice became convulsed; a vertical vein stood out on his

forehead, and his lips turned back over his ugly, misshapen teeth. My

own teeth were chattering. Trickery … trickery … I kept saying to

myself, but I could not break the spell.

 

Finally he began to speak English in jerky phrases with long pauses

between. “I perceive … I perceive a hill-top garden…. It is

winter, and the ground is covered with snow…. The garden is ringed

with evergreen trees weighted under snow…. But at either end there

is an opening amidst the trees which looks out over snowy hills and

valleys….”

 

“It is my place at Newtown to the life!” gasped Mrs. Julian. “Yet he

has never been there!”

 

I would have been willing to bet that he had been there.

 

“… An elegant woman comes through a gate from a lower level…. She

bears herself like a queen…. Though it is winter she is clad in the

rosy veils of Springtide….”

 

This was evidently intended for a portrait of Mrs. Julian.

 

“… As she advances the snow disappears…. The garden breaks into

leaf and flower; the distant hills turn green…. Now I perceive a

great throng of people silently gathered under the trees…. Their

faces aspire with gladness; they raise their arms above their heads….

For the queenly woman has brought light into their lives … the light

of universal knowledge…!”

 

The man now appeared to be completely possessed. His head rolled from

side to side, only the eyes preserving their level stare at the crystal

like water in a swaying vessel. He seemed to be speaking under an

immense compulsion; his voice was hoarse and broken; a line of white

foam edged his lips. It was too horrible, yet I could not drag my eyes

away.

 

“There is a little pavilion in the centre of the garden…. It is

completely embowered in vines…. I cannot perceive what is inside….

The woman advances towards it with firm proud steps…. Ardent …

aspiring with an inward fire…. She goes inside…. She finds…”

He stopped. His eyes rolled up in his head until only the whites

showed.

 

“Oh, tell me! tell me!” gasped Mrs. Julian.

 

“Joy supreme!” he yelled—and his body crashed to the floor in a heap.

 

We all cried out. Mme. Storey sprang up, and ran to the light switch.

Nobody else stirred. The room was flooded with light again, and I

covered my face with my hands. I heard my employer say in a crisp,

resolute voice:

 

“What is this?”

 

Mrs. Julian had put her handkerchief to her eyes. “It always ends this

way,” she whimpered. “He gives so much! The strain is more than

mortality can bear. He will come to directly.”

 

Mme. Storey relaxed. “Oh,” she said, “probably epilepsy. I have heard

that a fit can be induced in this manner.”

 

“Oh, Rosika, how can you!” said Mrs. Julian tearfully. “… Please

ring for the servants,” she added in a more matter-of-fact tone.

 

The bell was alongside the mantel behind us. Bunbury and a second man

entered almost immediately. It seemed as if they must have been

expecting a summons.

 

“Assist Professor Ram Lal to the retiring room,” said Mrs. Julian.

 

Bunbury took him by the shoulders, the other by the heels. His head

lolled from side to side in a horrible manner, and his eyes were open.

The two servants had impassive faces, yet it was clear they didn’t like

their task. They started for the door. Suddenly the butler dropped

the body with a horrid thud on the floor. Somebody screamed.

 

Bunbury turned a livid face towards his mistress. “My God, madam!

He’s stopped breathing! He’s dead!” he gasped.

III

How shall I describe the scene of confusion that followed? I was

dazed. To see death strike in such an unexpected direction; to see a

man die without any visible reason for it; it was too horrible. I

could not collect my faculties.

 

The second man, when he discovered he was carrying a corpse, crumpled

up in a dead faint. Bunbury dragged him out into the hall. Mme.

Storey started to telephone for the police. At the first sound of the

word police, Cushack, Mrs. Bracker and Liptrott made a dash to get out

of the room.

 

“Don’t let them out of the house!” cried Mme. Storey, ‘phone in hand.

But what could I do?

 

We found an unexpected aide in Bunbury. He ran in with outstretched

arms blocking the way. His eyes flashed compellingly, and he had

forgotten the smooth ways of the butler. “Stay where you are!” he

cried. “Nobody leaves this room until the police come!” He kicked the

door shut behind him.

 

The two men yelled to get out, the woman screamed in insensate terror.

“Be quiet, you fools!” cried Bunbury. “You are only convicting

yourselves!”

 

His strong voice quieted them. They returned across the room

trembling, and turned their backs on the body. Mme. Storey pulled down

a porti�re and covered it.

 

The police were in the house within a few minutes, bringing their own

doctor. Inspector Rumsey followed close behind them. Our old friend’s

face was grave.

 

“This will look bad for me,” he said to Mme. Storey; “after having

disregarded your warning.”

 

“My fault,” she said. “You put it up to me and I failed you.”

 

“Who could have foreseen this?” he said gloomily.

 

An examination of the body failed to reveal the cause of death. There

was no wound upon it. The supposed East Indian’s skin was really as

white as yours or mine. He was discovered to be a drug addict. A

hypodermic needle was found on him together with a half-filled bottle

of cocaine. There were marks of the needle on his arms and legs, but

apparently the needle in his pocket had not been used within the last

half-hour or so.

 

“I should say heart failure at a venture,” said the police doctor.

 

“I have reason to believe he was murdered,” said Mme. Storey.

 

“Then it must be poison. Somebody else may have jabbed a needle in

him. Could that have happened while the s�ance was going on?”

 

“Quite easily,” she answered. “It was dark in the room and our eyes

were fastened on Ram Lal’s face. Somebody might have crept along the

floor.”

 

I was looking at that sweating trio when she said it, and I saw strange

glances of terror pass between them. If they were all in this together

they must have foreseen what would follow, and why should they look at

each other? It was completely baffling.

 

The body was removed from the house for an autopsy.

 

Inspector Rumsey then set about searching the suspected persons. Dr.

Cushack came first. When the pocket medicine case came to light, the

Inspector handed it over to the doctor for examination. The latter

whistled upon reading the labels on the vials.

 

“A choice collection of poisons!” he remarked. “Some of them so rare I

am not familiar with their properties…. Do you use nothing but

poisons in your practice?” he queried sarcastically.

 

“I don’t practice,” muttered the young man. “I am engaged in research.

Poisons happen to be my speciality.”

 

“Which poison were you intending to give Mrs. Julian?” asked Mme.

Storey dryly.

 

Cushack paled. I suppose he had forgotten that incident. “No poison!

No poison!” he stammered. “This bottle,” he pointed to one of the

vials, “is marked antimony, but it only contains bicarbonate of soda.

I … I … These labels … are just a bluff.”

 

Everybody smiled.

 

“If you don’t believe me, analyse them! analyse them!” he cried.

 

One of the little vials was empty, which was suggestive if not exactly

incriminating. It bore no label. Nothing else of interest was found

upon him.

 

Next came the woman. From the side pocket of her smart jacket the

Inspector lifted a little leather case which, upon being opened,

revealed a hypodermic needle. She screamed at the sight of it.

 

“That’s not mine! I never saw it before! I don’t own such a thing! I

don’t know how it got into my pocket! You put it there yourself!”

 

“That’s what they all say,” remarked the Inspector wearily.

 

“I swear it! I swear it!” she screamed.

 

“Don’t swear to me,” he said. “You’ll have plenty of it to do later.”

 

She raved and beat her breast, but whether it was innocent or guilty

terror I declare I could not tell. After all, they look much the same.

You have to go by the evidence.

 

The old man Liptrott was fairly gibbering with fright when the

Inspector reached him. It was impossible to get a sensible word out of

him. Only crazy talk about his machine. Nothing incriminating was

found on him. But Mme. Storey pointed out that the mysterious

apparatus was plugged into the wall at the moment of Ram Lal’s death,

therefore the old man could not be freed of suspicion until the nature

of his machine had been investigated.

 

“It couldn’t hurt a fly!” cried Liptrott. “It’s to save life, not to

destroy it!”

 

“I’ll put it in the hands of an expert for examination,” said Inspector

Rumsey.

 

The old man looked at him aghast. Then suddenly frantic, he aimed a

kick at his