The Almost Perfect Murder by Hulbert Footner (ereader for comics txt) 📖
- Author: Hulbert Footner
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“It is obvious that master minds do not work for nothing, and when I
checked up what Mrs. Julian had paid out with what Bunbury had
received, the motive for the crime became obvious. Ram Lal was too
successful. He felt that he had become independent of his master. He
had defied the master, and so he had to be made to feel his power.”
“But,” I objected, “if it was Bunbury who warned us, when we got to the
house he tried to keep us out of the boudoir!”
“Think back, Bella,” she said with a smile. “The objections he raised
were of a sort to make us determined to enter! … It is one thing to
know who committed a crime and another to produce sufficient evidence
to obtain a conviction,” she went on. “The men I assigned to watch
Mrs. Julian’s house followed Bunbury to his room on Forty-Seventh
Street, and so we discovered where he was accustomed to meet and
instruct his accomplices. His Academy of Faking you might call it.
But by the time they could get inside he had made a clean sweep of
everything in the nature of evidence, of course. Bunbury made no such
clumsy mistake as Cushack who threw the bottles in his waste basket.
“I questioned a dozen people in the house before I turned up ore in the
person of Withy. However, the word ‘wafer’ which Withy overheard had
no significance until after I had tricked Mrs. Bracker into testifying
that Ram Lal had taken a wafer. Then it took on a deadly effect. When
one of these watertight crimes once springs a leak, it is all over.”
“It’s lucky for the sake of justice that Bunbury telephoned you that
day,” remarked Rumsey.
“Yes, that was his weakness,” said Mme. Storey. “Like all criminals of
his type, Bunbury is devoured by a secret vanity. The result of too
many years’ suppression as a butler perhaps. When his plot was all
ready to shoot he was so crazy about it, it looked so absolutely
detection proof, that he couldn’t bear to let it work unseen. So he
gave me a ring. It was obviously an afterthought because his
associates were not informed of it. And he might have got away with
it, too, had it not been for his fatal style!”
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Taken for a Ride
IThe seats sent to Madame Storey and I were in row S about half-way back
in the immense auditorium; the opera was Siegfried. The Terwilliger
box was still unoccupied when the curtain went up, and I had to possess
my soul in patience during the long first act, which was played to a
completely darkened house. I was so excited I could give less than
half my attention to the music. Owing to the prominence of the persons
concerned, our new case bade fair to be one of the biggest things Mme.
Storey had ever undertaken. Terwilliger is a name to conjure with all
over the world. The Terwilligers are our Rothschilds.
The moment the lights went up I turned my head over my shoulder. The
Terwilliger box is in the centre of the golden horseshoe; that is to
say, where the royal box would be if this did not happen to be a
republic. The party had come. In the right-hand corner I recognised
the effulgent Mrs. Terwilliger in green velvet and diamonds, but the
other two ladies were strangers to me. Neither could I identify the
three gentlemen in the obscurity of the back of the box. I speculated
vainly upon which might be Dr. Felix Portal, head of the Terwilliger
Institute, and an even more famous man, if that is possible, than his
wealthy patron. It was Dr. Portal who was responsible for our presence
in the opera house that night.
We did not immediately leave our seats for the intermission, since we
had no wish to advertise our presence generally in the foyer. We
waited until people were beginning to drift back down the aisles before
we got up and mixed with the gossiping, cigarette-smoking throng
outside. When the bell rang to give warning of the second act we
scurried along like everybody else, and so contrived it that the rising
of the curtain found us in the secluded corridor back of the parterre
boxes. It was quickly emptied of all save ourselves. When we were
satisfied nobody was observing us, we opened the door leading into the
Terwilliger box.
The door does not lead directly into the box but into a charming little
ante-room furnished like the rest of the magnificent old building in
red and gold. There were dainty little sofas and chairs with curved
legs as in a boudoir. We were separated from the box proper by heavy
velvet curtains which are kept closely drawn during the performance.
As we entered, the curtains parted and a man whom I knew must be Dr.
Portal joined us with a polite smile.
As in the case of most great men one’s first impression was
disappointing. He was a small man, and instead of the noble and
venerable head I expected, I beheld a somewhat sharp physiognomy with a
long nose and a retreating forehead. But I had not been a moment in
his company before the real distinction of the man became apparent. I
observed that the back part of his head was fine and full, and that,
they say, holds the really important part of the brain. He had a noble
eye, too, blue and gleaming with an inward fire. It had the curiously
remote glance of one who dwells mostly in the realm of thought. It
expressed an attractive compound of wisdom and innocence. His voice
too, had the measured quality of one who thinks before he speaks. Oh,
there was no doubt that he was one of the exceptional men of our time.
Outside, the auditorium had been darkened again and the violins were
making the whole house throb with feeling. It provided a strange
accompaniment to the interview which followed. There was a deprecating
quality in Dr. Portal’s smile that was very winning, considering what a
great man he was. In other words, he was a little in awe of the
beautiful Madame Storey.
“So good of you to respond to my appeal for aid!” he murmured.
“Not at all,” she answered quickly. “I feel flattered in receiving an
appeal from you.” And she meant it. She brought me up. “My
secretary, Miss Brickley. I want her to take notes of what you tell
me, so that I won’t have to waste your time by asking you to repeat any
of it later.”
We sat down, Mme. Storey and Dr. Portal side by side on a little sofa,
and me facing them with my notebook on my knee. Once the courteous
greetings had been exchanged, deep harassed lines appeared in the
famous scientist’s face. Whatever this business might be, clearly it
was no joke to him. He showed a curious petulance also, as if the
scientist in him resented being dragged down from the calm realms of
thought.
“You will think the manner of this appointment very strange,” he said.
“The truth is, I find myself followed and watched wherever I go, and I
wished to keep it a secret, at least for the present, that I was
consulting you.”
“You did right,” said Mme. Storey. “Please go on.”
The voice of the young Siegfried was now ringing through the house,
supported by the murmuring violins. It lent an almost unbearably
emotional effect to the doctor’s tale of murder.
“It concerns the shocking accident which happened at the Institute a
month ago,” he began. “My principal assistant, Dr. Edgar McComb, was
found shot dead in his office. I suppose you read of it at the time.
It has attracted very little notice simply because there were no
sensational circumstances to whet the public appetite. Now that a
month has passed it remains just as much of a mystery as it was on the
morning the body was discovered. The police pretend to be working upon
the case still, but they have nothing to go on. No clues of any sort.
Nobody saw the assailant enter or leave the building; no fingerprints
were found in the room save those of the doctor himself. And what is
even more baffling, no possible motive for the crime has been
unearthed. Dr. McComb had no enemies; no difficulties either financial
or amatory. He was happily married, and his private life was a model
of regularity. Some have thought it must have been the chance act of a
madman, but that theory won’t hold water either; because the doctor
must have made an appointment to meet his assailant in the laboratory
that night, and must have admitted him to the building. What is more,
they were heard talking quietly together shortly before the shot must
have been fired.”
“Who heard them talking?” asked Mme. Storey.
“The night watchman, Amadeo Corioli. In making his rounds through the
bacteriological laboratory at ten o’clock he saw a light in Dr.
McComb’s office, and heard the sound of quiet voices as he passed the
closed door. An hour later, when he passed, the light was out, and he
supposed the doctor had gone home. Either Dr. McComb or I or both of
us often worked in the laboratory until late. The body was discovered
by the cleaning women in the morning.”
“But a month has passed, doctor,” said Mme. Storey reproachfully.
“What can I hope to do with so cold a trail?… Why didn’t you consult
me sooner?”
“Ah, I wish I had! I wish I had!” he said with a painful gesture.
“But to tell you the truth, it never came close to me until a few days
ago. I was content to leave it to the police.”
“Never came close to you?” said my employer. “What do you mean by
that?”
He answered her indirectly. His agitation was visibly increasing.
“True, the morning after the tragedy,” he said, “Mrs. McComb, who was
in a highly hysterical state, accused me in veiled terms of being
responsible for her husband’s death. I was inexpressibly shocked by
the scene, but naturally I ascribed it to her condition. I never gave
it a moment’s thought until two or three days ago when I noticed that I
was being watched and followed. It was a strange experience for me to
have! … Then I began to perceive that the attitude of those who
surround me at the Institute had changed subtly. Something ugly had
come into their regard.” The speaker shuddered. “Ugh! it was
horrible! Finally I demanded an explanation from one of the young
doctors in whom I have confidence. He told me…” For the moment Mr.
Portal seemed to be unable to continue. “He told me,” he said
brokenly, “that a story was going around that I, actuated by a mean
jealousy of a brilliant rising man, had procured the death of Edgar
McComb!”
Mme. Storey and I gazed at him incredulously. It seemed impossible to
believe that one whom the whole world looked upon as the high priest of
science should be mixed up in anything like this!
In his agitation Dr. Portal sprang up and struck his clenched hands
against his breast. Fortunately the swelling music drowned the sound
of his voice. “Me! Me!” he cried; “accused of murder! Me, whose life
has been as open as the day! Whose every thought has been given to my
work! Is it not unjust? Is it not incredible that such a story should
be circulated and believed? My informant said that he didn’t believe
it, but
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