The Almost Perfect Murder by Hulbert Footner (ereader for comics txt) 📖
- Author: Hulbert Footner
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“Poured it down the wash-basin. It was unsuccessful.”
“Then why not tell me what other drugs you used; where you got them and
so on.”
“Why should I?” he parried.
“Ever hear of distillate of X?” she asked casually.
Some of the pink faded out of his cheeks. “Yes,” he said. “Poisons
are my speciality.”
“You are familiar with its properties then?”
He hesitated briefly before answering. “I have read about it. Never
experimented with it.”
Mme. Storey started on another line. “Where did you go when…”
He interrupted her excitedly. “No, you don’t! I perceive what you’re
after! You can’t make an insinuation like that before the court
without following it up!”
“All right,” she said good-naturedly. “I’ll follow it up. Did you
make distillate of X in your laboratory the day before yesterday?”
“No!” he shouted. “It’s false!” He wiped his face.
“What time did you leave the office that day?” she asked.
“I don’t remember,” he said sullenly.
“Now come,” she said cajolingly; “only the day before yesterday.”
“About six,” he muttered.
“Where did you go?”
“Home.”
“By the way, where do you live? I don’t think I have been told.”
“Hotel Shirley.”
“Oh, the Shirley. Did anyone there see you come in?”
“I got my key from the desk as usual. It’s not likely the clerk could
remember that night amongst the others.”
“Where did you dine?”
“At the hotel.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Do you always occupy the same seat?”
“Yes.”
“With the same people more or less at the surrounding tables?”
He saw where these apparently innocent questions were tending, and
turned scared and stubborn. “I won’t answer!” he cried shrilly. “I
won’t answer any more. If you’re trying to pin this thing on me I
don’t have to answer!”
“Why, of course not!” said Mme. Storey with undisturbed good humour.
“You may step down.”
She then called the man she had brought with her, a lean young fellow
with a bright eye. His name was given as John Withy; his occupation,
freelance writer.
“Where do you live?” she asked.
“Number –- West Forty-Seventh Street.”
“What sort of building is that?”
“An old residence which has been rebuilt into stores, offices and small
apartments. It’s a walk-up building.”
“Where are your rooms?”
“I have a one-room and bath apartment third floor rear.”
“Have you ever before seen the man who last testified here, Dr.
Cushack?”
“Yes, ma’am. Saw him in my building day before yesterday. That was
Wednesday. About six-thirty p.m.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“Well, I was coming home to wash up for dinner and I found him standing
in the hall outside my door. Seemed funny, hanging around like that.
So I left my door open when I went in to sort of keep an eye on him.
My friend who lives in the front is out of town, and I thought maybe he
aimed to get in there. But another fellow came upstairs in a minute or
two, and it seemed this one was just waiting for him. The second
fellow was the man who rents the hall room next to mine. Alfred Somers
is the name in his letter-box downstairs.”
“Did you hear what they said to each other?” asked Mme. Storey.
“Just a word or two. Somers says: ‘Have you got it?’ and this man”—he
nodded in the direction of Dr. Cushack—“says: ‘Yeah.’ Somers says:
‘Come on in,’ and they went into his room. This sounded kind of
mysterious to me, and I wanted to hear more. There is an old door
between my room and Somers’ which is locked now and the cracks stuffed
with paper. I put my ear to the crack and I hear Somers say: ‘How can
I fix the wafer with this?’ And this man said: ‘Just pour a few drops
on it and let it soak in.’ That was all I could hear, and I thought
nothing of it at the time.”
“Mr. Withy,” said Mme. Storey with delicate impressiveness, “I want you
to look around this courtroom and see if you can pick out the man you
know as Alfred Somers.”
I jumped, her move was so absolutely unexpected. A breathless silence
fell on the courtroom as young Withy’s eyes passed from face to face.
It was apparent to all that this Somers must be the actual murderer of
Ram Lal.
Withy’s eyes travelled slowly along the front bench, came to Bunbury
and stopped there. “Why,” he said in a surprised voice, “why, that’s
the man!”
Court and spectators were held in a spell. Bunbury jumped up with a
face as grey as ashes; then dropped back in his seat laughing. From
the end of the bench Jim Shryock laughed loudly to create a diversion.
As for me, I was stony with astonishment.
Shryock was quickly on his feet. “Your Honour, I must protest!” he
cried. “This accusation is laughable, but is likely to do serious harm
to a faithful servant and an honest man! Why, Bunbury has been working
for Mrs. Julian for eight years. What possible motive…”
“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Mme. Storey with a wicked smile, “are
you representing Bunbury too?”
She had him there, but he didn’t care so long as there was no jury
present. “No!” he cried theatrically. “My words are dictated by
motives of humanity.”
She enjoyed a little private laugh at the notion that Jim Shryock had
taken a case out of humanity.
“Mr. Bunbury, may I have the privilege of representing you here?” asked
Shryock with a bow.
“Please do,” mumbled the butler. He was a wretched figure then.
“Then I ask again,” shouted Shryock, “what possible motive could this
man have had for committing such a crime?”
“This is only a preliminary hearing,” said Mme. Storey, “and it’s not
necessary to try the whole case. However, I am perfectly willing to
give you the information. It is true that Bunbury has been working for
Mrs. Julian for eight years. During that time a whole procession of
fakers and charlatans has succeeded in wheedling great sums of money
out of his mistress. Naturally, it made him sore to see all that going
out of the house. He began to wonder if he couldn’t divert the golden
stream in his own direction. The knowledge of Mrs. Julian’s character
that he had gained, and his familiarity with every detail of her life
and affairs gave him a special advantage. Naturally, he couldn’t
swindle her in his own person, so he engaged catspaws as they came
along, Mrs. Bracker, Dr. Cushack, Ram Lal, and taught them how to do
it.”
“We have only your word for this, Madame,” said Shryock sarcastically.
“And you still haven’t answered my question. If Ram Lal was Bunbury’s
own man, why in heaven’s name should he murder him?”
“Because Ram Lal held out on him,” said Mme. Storey sweetly. “It was
partly out of revenge, and partly as an object lesson to the other
faithful workers. Mrs. Julian has furnished me with a list of all the
sums she has given these three people with the dates. On the other
hand my operatives have secured lists of Bunbury’s deposits in his
several bank accounts.
“These lists will be offered in evidence, of course, and we will show
that for every payment made by Mrs. Julian, Bunbury deposited half the
amount next day. With one exception. Mrs. Julian gave Ram Lal one
hundred thousand dollars two weeks ago. Bunbury got none of that.”
Shryock shrugged elaborately. It was all he could do. “Well, when I
see your evidence,” he said with a sneer, “I’ll meet it.”
“It is sufficient,” said Magistrate McManigal. “I will hold these two
persons as accessories before the fact. Inspector, I presume you will
take care of Bunbury.”
“I will, your Honour,” said Rumsey grimly.
Bunbury had already recovered himself by the time they came to lead him
out. He was a very remarkable man. His vanity was hurt by the
recollection of that moment of weakness, and he was bound to make a
good exit. He walked to where Mrs. Julian sat, and made a low bow.
“My keys, Madam,” he said, handing them over: “I trust you will find
everything in order at home.”
Mrs. Julian was too much overcome to say a word.
Bunbury then faced the policeman who was ready to attend him. “Keep
your hands off me,” he said with dignity. “I shall make no
resistance.” He then walked out with the air of a martyr going proudly
to the stake. If it had been in the theatre he would certainly have
got a big hand.
IXMme. Storey, Inspector Rumsey and I had dinner in a little Italian
restaurant on Fifty-Second Street where the spaghetti with anchovies is
something to dream about. We all felt the blessed sense of relaxation
that follows on the completion of a tough bit of work. It was fun to
hold a sort of post-mortem on the case.
Mme. Storey said: “The first thing that struck me was that Ram Lal was
a stupid fellow playing a clever part. Particularly after I got his
history from the police. Before the Ram Lal episode he was nothing but
a sneak thief, the lowest order of crooks. This suggested that he must
have been drilled in the art of crystal-gazing. His whole spiel
sounded like something learned by rote.
“When I watched Mrs. Bracker and Cushack and read the transcript of
their examination by the police I saw that they also were much too
stupid to have thought up the parts they were playing—both parts, by
the way, devilishly well calculated to deceive a woman of Mrs. Julian’s
character. There was a certain affinity too, in all these games. This
put the idea into my head that there was a superior intelligence
directing all three of them.”
“When did you begin to suspect Bunbury?” I asked.
“Just as soon as I decided there was a master mind behind the three
puppets, my intuition suggested that it was Bunbury. Many little
straws pointed in that direction. Bunbury was the only person who
possessed the requisite knowledge of Mrs. Julian’s character. Believe
me, nothing can be hidden from our servants! Then I learned from Mrs.
Julian that Bunbury had been instrumental in getting the previous lot
of fakers fired. All except Liptrott, whom he probably regarded as
harmless. And for one brief moment in the boudoir I had a glimpse of
the power that underlay the butler’s smooth mask. He quelled Cushack
and Mrs. Bracker with a word…. But on the whole it was chiefly a
question of style.”
“Style?” we echoed.
“Style is a mysterious thing,” she went on. “You can’t describe it,
but you can feel it. You have noticed I suppose, that Bunbury talks in
a style of false elegance. Upper servants are much given to it.
‘Elegant,’ by the way, is one of the words that are frequently on his
lips. Few use it nowadays.
“Well, in Ram Lal, in Mrs. Bracker and in Dr. Cushack I kept hearing
echoes of Bunbury’s style. It is largely in the use to which words are
put. Besides ‘elegant’ notice how every one of them says ‘perceive,’ a
book word, when he means ‘see.’ And the word ‘aspire,’ generally used
in an incorrect sense, is continually on their lips. Besides others.
When pupils are taught by rote the master’s voice may be
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