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

beloved machine that would certainly have destroyed it, had

not Mme. Storey coolly moved it out of the way. A policeman flung an

arm around the old man.

 

“It’s the work of a lifetime!” he raved. “They’ll steal it from me!

They’ll steal it!”

 

As they were about to be taken away Mme. Storey said in that

dangerously pleasant way of hers: “Which one of you sent me, or caused

to be sent me, a message this morning warning me of what was going to

happen?”

 

They stared at her blankly.

 

“Somebody telephoned me that a murder would be committed here this

morning.”

 

I shall never forget the looks of consternation that spread over those

three faces. For the moment they were incapable of replying. Then

each stammeringly denied all knowledge of the telephone call. Again

they glanced at each other in fear and suspicion. One thing was clear,

they were speaking the truth then. Such perfect surprise could not

have been assumed. That, I suppose, was what my employer was after.

IV

I need hardly say that the case created a first-class sensation in the

press. Mrs. Julian’s wealth and prominence; the suggestions of mystery

and chicanery; the weird Oriental flavour; it had everything. The

public excitement seriously hampered the police and Mme. Storey in

their work, but of course we could not blame the newspapers for making

the most of a good story.

 

The reporters were already waiting for us in a body when we returned to

the office. Mme. Storey is popular with these boys because she deals

fairly with them. She will keep back information when it seems

necessary, but she does not lie to them. She now gave them the plain

facts of what had happened in Mrs. Julian’s house, and asked them to

withhold comment until the result of the autopsy became known.

 

“But the man is certainly dead,” said one.

 

“Quite!” said my employer with a dry smile. “But it is possible he

died from natural causes.”

 

They glanced at each other peculiarly, and young Winship of the

Morning Press dropped a bombshell at our feet by asking:

 

“Is it true, Madame Storey, that an unknown person called you on the

telephone this morning, and warned you that a murder would be committed

at Mrs. Julian’s house?”

 

She bit her lip in chagrin. “Where did you hear that?” she asked.

 

“My city editor told me to ask you.”

 

“We all heard the story,” said the others in chorus.

 

Before she answered them Mme. Storey had me call up the city editor of

the Morning Press. He told me he had been given the story by an

anonymous person over the telephone, and that, of course, he would not

run it unless Mme. Storey confirmed it. Presumably the same message

had been sent to all the papers.

 

This put my employer in rather a difficult position. But she settled

it promptly. “Yes, it is true,” she said. “I thought it was a hoax,

but I immediately called up Inspector Rumsey to tell him, and I went

myself to Mrs. Julian’s house.”

 

She was immediately bombarded with questions. “If you knew it, why

didn’t you stop it? Why did you allow the s�ance to go on?” And so

forth. And so forth.

 

“No more now,” she said firmly. “I’m going to ask you boys to say

nothing about the telephone call until we find out where we stand.”

 

“Why? Why?” they asked.

 

“Well, for one thing, I’d like to disappoint the mysterious gentleman

who is so keen about having it published.”

 

They were all willing to keep this piece of information back for

twenty-four hours except a man on one of those irresponsible sheets

that would sacrifice their mothers if there was a sensation in it. I

need not name it. This man slipped out of the room, and we knew he had

run off to his office with the story. That let them all out, of

course. They beat it for their offices.

 

My employer merely shrugged. “We can’t reform the press,” she said.

“We have to work with it as we find it.”

 

An hour or two later the first editions came out with scare heads.

Well, it was a juicy story. We got a shock when we read it, for, in

spite of the care Mme. Storey had taken to prevent such a thing, it

included a preposterous interview with Mrs. Julian.

 

We taxied to her house at once, for there was no telling how she might

react to the story of the telephone warning. Just as we were setting

out, we received some interesting particulars from the police as to the

so-called Ram Lal’s antecedents.

 

Bunbury let us into Mrs. Julian’s house. As befitted the perfect

butler his aspect was calm and grave. You would never have guessed

from him that a tragedy had been enacted upstairs that day. After all,

he was the only person in the house who had kept his head, and Mme.

Storey smiled at him encouragingly.

 

“How is your mistress, Bunbury?”

 

“Calm, madam.”

 

“Bunbury, for her own sake you ought not to let her talk to newspaper

reporters.”

 

He shrugged deprecatingly. “What can I do, madam? I perceived from

the first that it would be unwise, but she ignored my suggestions. I

cannot aspire to influence her actions.”

 

“What time did Ram Lal arrive here this morning?”

 

“Ten o’clock, madam.”

 

“Did you notice anything unusual about him?”

 

“No, madam, I perceived nothing out of the way.”

 

“Did he talk to anybody before he saw Mrs. Julian?”

 

“No, madam, I showed him directly to the boudoir. Dr. Cushack and Mrs.

Bracker were already there. Mr. Liptrott came later.”

 

As we moved towards the stairway Mme. Storey saw by Bunbury’s face that

he wished to say more. She paused.

 

“If I might add a word,” he went on apologetically, “—I hope it is not

unbecoming from one in my position—I have worked for Mrs. Julian for

eight years and I am sincerely attached to her. I hope you will give

her a good talking to, madam. She will listen to you. From the first

I perceived that something like this was bound to happen—indeed I

feared it might be worse.”

 

“I’ll do my best, Bunbury,” said Mme. Storey gravely.

 

We went on up to the boudoir. That woman’s folly was simply

incredible. We found her swathed in black chiffon, her face made up

dead white. She was seated in front of the lacquer table, on which she

had placed a photograph of the smug and unpleasant Ram Lal flanked with

lighted candles. Turning on my employer like a tragedy queen, she shot

out an accusing forefinger.

 

“You knew what was going to happen! And you didn’t prevent it! I

could almost call you his murderer!”

 

“Be yourself, Aline,” said Mme. Storey calmly. “I thought it was a

hoax. We are continually being hoaxed over the telephone.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“Well, you are not a person that one tells things to. You carry on so!”

 

I doubt if this reached Mrs. Julian’s understanding.

 

“I thought the threat—if there was a threat—was directed against

you,” Mme. Storey went on. “Who could ever have foreseen that it was

worth anybody’s while to murder Ram Lal?”

 

It was useless to try to reason with Mrs. Julian. She raved on,

calling on Heaven to witness what a pure and holy man had been struck

down. There was a sort of complacency in her that suggested she was

thoroughly enjoying her own dramatics. Exasperating. However, Mme.

Storey merely smoked on and let her rave. When she could get a word in

edgewise, she said:

 

“When you quiet down we will discuss how to set about finding the

murderer. That’s all we can do for Ram Lal now.”

 

This started Mrs. Julian off at a new tangent. “She did it!” she

cried. “That woman! She was jealous of my favour. Oh, what black

ingratitude! After the thousands I have spent on her!”

 

“How could she have done it?” asked Mme. Storey mildly.

 

“Stole up to him when it was dark, and stuck the poisoned needle in his

leg! … I saw her! I saw her!” she cried wildly.

 

Mme. Storey was not impressed. “Why didn’t you say so at once?” she

asked.

 

“I was too much shocked. I didn’t realise…. But I saw her, I tell

you!”

 

“Now come, Aline,” said my employer. “Are you prepared to go on the

stand and swear that you saw Mrs. Bracker do it?”

 

Mrs. Julian began to falter. “Well … no…. But she did it just the

same. They found the needle on her, didn’t they?”

 

“She claimed that it was planted in her pocket.”

 

“That’s a lie, anyhow! She bought that needle a week ago. I know

that.”

 

Mme. Storey took more interest. “That’s important if true. How do you

know it?”

 

“One day after she had been here I found a little package on the table

wrapped in druggists’ paper. Not knowing whose it was, I opened it,

and the hypodermic needle was inside. She was quite embarrassed when I

asked her about it. Said she had bought it for a friend.”

 

“Was the name of the druggist on the paper?”

 

“Yes. It was Almon and Emory.”

 

“Can you fix the date?”

 

“Let me see … I was wearing my new pink dress when I handed it to

her. That was Saturday. It must have been Friday when she bought it.”

 

“Friday, February fourth,” said my employer. “Make a note of it,

Bella…. How long have you known the woman?”

 

“About a year. She brought a letter from Mrs. Applewhite recommending

her as a reducer.”

 

“Who’s Mrs. Applewhite?”

 

“Oh, she was my most intimate friend at that time, but we’ve quarrelled

since. She’s just a woman that you meet in hotels.”

 

“Mrs. Bracker was a reducer?” prompted Mme. Storey.

 

“Yes, she had a new idea. No fasting, no drugs. She just demonstrated

slimness.”

 

“Eh?” said Mme. Storey, running up her eyebrows.

 

“Will-power,” said Mrs. Julian.

 

“Hers or yours?”

 

“Oh, hers entirely. That’s what I paid her for. I had nothing to do

but sit and relax.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Seemed so modest and sensible,” Mrs. Julian went on. “And you gotta

admit her methods had been successful in her own case. She used to

weigh 176 pounds. That little woman. Showed me photographs of herself

step by step. She took off 68 pounds without denying herself a thing!”

 

“Did you see her eating everything?”

 

“No. She never took her meals here.”

 

“I thought not. Go on.”

 

“It was lovely to be able to eat as much as I wanted,” said Mrs. Julian

innocently. “I do enjoy my meals so. And I lost weight all the time!”

She sprang up, gave her skirts a flirt in front of the mirror, and

looked at herself coyly over her shoulder. “You gotta admit, Rosika,

that I’m ever so much slenderer than I was last year.”

 

“Optimist!” murmured Mme. Storey under her breath. “How much money

have you given her?” she asked aloud.

 

“Latterly it’s been five hundred a week. She claimed to be giving me

her entire time. She didn’t have to be with me, she said. She could

sit in her own room and concentrate on my slenderness. She showed me

the scales every week.”