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

I’d given him a shot of

something since I was the nearest to him.”

 

“That’s all,” said Shryock in high satisfaction.

 

“I protest, your Honour,” said Rumsey indignantly. “This man is out of

his wits. He’s not a fit witness. I can prove it if you give me time.”

 

“Just a minute, Inspector,” said the magistrate. “As I understand it,

this man Liptrott is an addict. You found a bottle of cocaine on him,

but no needle. Is that right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did you ever find his needle?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then the chances are he’s speaking the truth.”

 

“I insist he’s not a proper witness,” said Rumsey, snatching at

anything to gain a moment or two.

 

The magistrate shrugged. “Can you offer any evidence that Ram Lal died

of poison?” he asked.

 

“No, your Honour.”

 

“Then it doesn’t matter whether this man’s testimony is proper or not.

You have no case, Inspector. And I have no alternative but to…”

 

He was interrupted by the entrance of Mme. Storey.

 

She entered by the side door smiling and beautifully dressed. She was

carrying a small satchel and a man and a woman followed her; new

witnesses, I assumed. They were unknown to me. Inspector Rumsey’s

glum face cleared as if by magic. A murmur of gratification travelled

around the court—then dead silence. All knew her, of course, from her

oft-published photographs. As a star attraction Mrs. Julian was

nowhere alongside Mme. Storey. The people’s silence seemed to say: Now

we’ll get a run for our money.

 

And they did.

VIII

Before I go on with my account of the magistrate’s hearing I should

explain that amongst the list of rare poisons furnished by Dr.

Chisholm, there was one that could be quite simply prepared by

distilling and redistilling a substance that is in universal use. This

stuff may be purchased in any quantity from druggists or department

stores, yet the poison derived from it is one of the deadliest known;

moreover, it kills without leaving any trace of itself in the body.

 

The process of distilling is now so generally understood, that all the

doctors in the case agreed it would be against the public interest to

advertise this formula. Consequently this poison was never named in

the case, and of course I must not name it here. I will simply call

the stuff X and the poison distillate DX.

 

Magistrate McManigal greeted Mme. Storey gallantly and invited her to a

place on the bench. As she seated herself she said:

 

“I have brought a little additional evidence in this case.”

 

Ah! with what a sharp anxiety Cushack and Mrs. Bracker glanced at her

then! The little doctor lost his nonchalance. Jim Shryock chewed the

ends of his ragged moustache, sneering still.

 

“Do you wish these persons to be called to the stand?” asked the

magistrate.

 

“First of all I would like Mrs. Bracker to answer a few questions if

she is willing,” she said politely.

 

The woman glanced anxiously at Shryock, and he answered for her.

“Certainly! She is not obliged to answer the questions unless it suits

her.”

 

So Mrs. Bracker took the stand again.

 

Mme. Storey began in a voice as mild as milk—it is at such moments

that she is most to be feared: “I suppose you were well acquainted with

Ram Lal through having met him at Mrs. Julian’s so often.”

 

“No, indeed!” said Mrs. Bracker with a toss of her head. “I never

aspired to be his friend. I had nothing whatever to do with him.”

 

“What is your explanation of his death?” asked Mme. Storey innocently.

 

“Oh, I suppose he had a stroke of some sort. Not surprising with the

life he led.”

 

“What about his life?”

 

“Don’t ask me! One couldn’t help hearing stories about what went on at

that elegant seraglio of his on Seventy-Ninth Street.”

 

Mme. Storey made no attempt to follow up this lead. “I suppose you

have witnessed many of Ram Lal’s s�ances at Mrs. Julian’s?” she said.

 

“Sure,” was the indifferent reply.

 

“Weren’t you impressed by them?”

 

“No!”

 

“Then you believe they weren’t genuine?”

 

“He was just a common faker!” said Mrs. Bracker scornfully. “That’s

known now, isn’t it? East Indian! Huh!”

 

“But he seemed to me to be completely possessed,” said Mme. Storey

blandly; “to be lifted right out of himself as you might say.”

 

Mrs. Bracker merely laughed disagreeably.

 

“Did they always end the same as yesterday in a sort of fit?”

 

“Sure! That was part of his game.”

 

“But how could he fake that?” said Mme. Storey. “The frothing at the

mouth and all.”

 

“Used to slip a wafer in his mouth,” said Mrs. Bracker laughing. “Sort

of soapy wafer. That made the froth. It’s an old trick.”

 

“Did you see him do that?” asked Mme. Storey feigning to be greatly

surprised.

 

“Sure. I used to watch for it.”

 

“Did you see him do it yesterday?”

 

“Sure. I saw his hands go up.”

 

“Thanks, that’s all,” said Mme. Storey unexpectedly.

 

Mrs. Bracker stared at her hatefully. She felt that she had been

tricked somehow. “What’s that got to do with me?” she demanded.

 

“Nothing whatever,” said Mme. Storey sweetly.

 

Mrs. Bracker stepped down in somewhat of a fluster.

 

“What do you expect to show by this line of questioning?” the

magistrate asked Mme. Storey. We all pricked up our ears for her

answer. She said: “The first assumption was that Ram Lal had been

poisoned through being jabbed by a hypodermic needle. That theory

won’t hold water. I now aim to show that he was poisoned by the wafer

which he took into his mouth a few seconds before he died.”

 

“But the poison, Madame?”

 

“I’m coming to that,” she said pleasantly. “… I should now like to

put this woman on the stand that I have brought with me. Mrs. Euphemia

Larkin. She is really Inspector Rumsey’s witness, but he hasn’t had an

opportunity to talk to her. So if you will permit me I will question

her.”

 

“Certainly,” said the magistrate. “We are not sticklers for formality

here. All we want is to bring out the truth.”

 

Shryock arose with his disagreeable smile. Just the same the man was a

little worried. “Excuse me, your Honour, but it is five o’clock. I’m

sorry to have to mention it, but I have an important engagement…”

 

You could hear the whole room take a breath. They were afraid that the

curtain was going to be rung down just at the most exciting moment.

Well, his Honour was only human and he didn’t want to miss the

d�nouement either.

 

“Will it take long?” he asked Mme. Storey.

 

“Less than ten minutes, your Honour.”

 

“We will proceed.”

 

Mrs. Larkin was a typical New York Irish char woman, a racy specimen.

Still youngish and not at all bad-looking, she proudly displayed her

Sunday clothes on the witness stand. A little intimidated by finding

all eyes upon her, she was nevertheless enjoying her conspicuousness.

 

“What is your employment, Mrs. Larkin?” asked Mme. Storey.

 

“Cleaning woman in the Stilson Building on Forty-Second Street, ma’am.”

 

Mme. Storey opened the satchel she had brought and took from it two

square-sided quart bottles such as druggists use, a piece of wrapping

paper, a length of string and a pink ticket. “Do you recognise these

things?”

 

“Sure!” said Mrs. Larkin. “Them’s the things I give you in my rooms a

half-hour ago.”

 

“Where did you get them?”

 

“Picked ‘em out of the waste basket in room 1014 of my building.”

 

“You can swear that it was room 1014?”

 

“Sure! Them’s druggists’ bottles, and 1014 is a doctor’s office sort

of, with a laboratory and all.”

 

“When did you find them there?”

 

“Night before last at cleaning time.”

 

“You are sure of the time?”

 

“Absolutely. I mind taking them home with me.”

 

“What did you take them home for?”

 

“Well, bottles come in handy,” said Mrs. Larkin with a grin that set

the whole court roaring. “As for the paper I took that to wrap the

bottles in. They had come in that paper because the creases just

fitted. And the string.”

 

“How about this pink ticket?”

 

“That’s a sales ticket from the cut-price drug-store in the Stilson

Building. I pick up a lot of them in the waste baskets. If you save

them till you get a hundred dollars’ worth they give you a dollar

credit in the store.”

 

“Who is the tenant in room 1014?”

 

“Dr. A. Cushack.”

 

“Do you know him?”

 

“No’m. He’s always gone home before I do my work.”

 

“That’s all, thank you,” said Mme. Storey.

 

Mrs. Larkin stepped down, a little disappointed that her turn had been

so brief.

 

“If Dr. Cushack is willing to testify as to these bottles…” Mme.

Storey began politely.

 

He was already on his feet. “Sure!” he cried. “I want the court to

know what was in them!” He took the stand with a truculent air. The

word natty might have been coined to describe that little man. A day

in jail had rubbed none of the bloom off him. He pretended to be

swelling with indignation like a little turkey cock.

 

“You admit, then, that these were your bottles,” said Mme. Storey.

 

“I can’t identify them,” he said with a conceited laugh, “but if she

says she got them out of my waste basket it’s all right with me….

Tell the judge what was in them.”

 

“Each bottle contained X,” said Mme. Storey carelessly.

 

“Yeah, X!” he cried, thrusting out his chin at her. “I use it in my

lab. work. I couldn’t do anything without it. Everybody uses X for

one thing or another. Thousands of bottles are sold every day. Is

there any harm in X?”

 

“Why, no,” said Mme. Storey. “… But a little goes a long way. I was

just surprised that you used so much.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know how long I’ve had those bottles on hand.”

 

That was his first slip. “I know,” said Mme. Storey quietly. “You

bought them the same day.”

 

He stared at her speechlessly. She merely exhibited the sales slip.

 

“You can’t prove anything by that!” he cried. “They don’t enter the

items on the sales slips. Only the amounts.”

 

“Quite,” said Mme. Storey. “The bottles are each marked thirty-nine

cents. The slip is for seventy-eight.”

 

“That doesn’t prove anything. It’s only a coincidence. Half the

articles they sell are priced at thirty-nine cents.”

 

“Well, what else did you buy that day?” She glanced at the slip.

“February ninth.”

 

He was dumb.

 

Mme. Storey gave him a brief respite. It was her way with a witness.

“What’s your idea of this case?” she asked confidentially. “Was Ram

Lal poisoned?”

 

He rose to it immediately. “It’s an open question,” he said

importantly. “As a toxicologist I aspire to do a little investigating

myself when I get out. It’s an interesting case!”

 

She returned to the charge. “What did you do with two quarts of X the

day before yesterday?”

 

“I was conducting an experiment,” he answered warily.

 

“Of what nature?”

 

“I refuse to answer. I make my living out of my experiments.”

 

“No other drugs were found in your laboratory.”

 

“Well, I used everything up.”

 

“What did you do