The Almost Perfect Murder by Hulbert Footner (ereader for comics txt) 📖
- Author: Hulbert Footner
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accommodated in Mme. Storey’s maisonnette for the present. Mme.
Storey’s servants were to feed them and make them as comfortable as
possible, and a plain-clothes man would be on guard in the entrance
corridor at all hours of the day and night. The Princess was given the
privilege of consulting counsel, but she made no move to do so. I need
hardly say that she very willingly joined with us in our little
conspiracy to keep this case out of the newspapers for the moment. We
expected it to break sooner or later.
All these arrangements having been effected, Mme. Storey telephoned to
the Varick house for the same car that had carried us away from there
three hours earlier. It was a closed car, having shades that pulled
down inside the windows, and by this means we returned to the house,
through the courtyard, without having been recognised by any of the
loungers or watchers in the street. We made our headquarters in
Commodore Varick’s office on the second floor. It was now nearly six,
and Miss Priestley, the “literary secretary,” had gone home. We had
learned that Mr. Henry Varick was still with his mother, but Mme.
Storey made no effort to see him as yet. She wished to avoid giving
him any reason to suspect that he was being investigated. We
interviewed several members of the household whom I need not mention,
since they contributed nothing of moment to the case. My job was to
take notes of all interviews.
It was not until Mme. Storey had her second talk with Gabbitt, the
Commodore’s valet, that we began to strike pay ore. The quaint little
fuzzy-headed man made an excellent witness, but how far he was telling
the truth, I could never have undertaken to say. He was a philosopher
in his way. There was a curious reasonableness about him—I mean, that
while he was devoted to his master, he nevertheless felt free to
criticise him. At this time we were making a more intensive
examination of the Commodore’s suite.
“Gabbitt,” said my mistress, “what were the relations between Mr. Henry
and his father?”
“Bad, ma’am,” said Gabbitt. “All the world knows that.”
“But how do you mean bad?”
“Well, ma’am, it was the usual thing between a rich father and his son.
Particularly when it’s an only child. When he was little, Mr. Henry
was spoiled, and when he grew up his father blamed him because he
turned out wilful.”
“When did the trouble between them start?”
“Four, five years ago when Mr. Henry was in college. He was very wild.
It was one scrape after another.”
“With women?”
“Yes, ma’am, gen’ally speakin’. Mr. Henry complained to me once that
it wasn’t his fault, that they fair flung themselves at his head.
Quite apart from being William Henry Varick, and all that, Mr. Henry is
a very attractive young man, so gay and full of life.”
“So we have perceived,” said Mme. Storey.
“He wasn’t to blame for all the trouble, though it is only fair to
state that he wasn’t no Sir Galahad neither.”
“It is scarcely to be expected,” said my employer dryly.
“His name made him a fair mark for scoundrels, and there was always
somebody, either man or woman, trying to blackmail him. It cost the
Commodore a pretty penny to settle with such people. The Commodore was
very sensitive about any scandal attaching to the family name. Mrs.
Varick would take her son’s part, naturally, and there were bitter
family scenes. My memory is hazy about the details of these scrapes…”
“Never mind that,” said Mme. Storey. “Proceed.”
“The Commodore was always reproaching his son for doing nothing but
spend money,” Gabbitt continued, “and some time after he had left
college—he did not graduate—Mr. Henry undertook to go into business
on his own account. In college the only thing he had been any good at
was chemistry….”
“Oh, chemistry,” said Mme. Storey.
“Yes, ‘m, and so his thoughts naturally turned towards the chemical
business. His idea was to form a combination of all the drug
manufacturers in the country, and to found a great research laboratory
that would advance the whole business. It looked like a good scheme,
and his father backed him heavily, stipulating only that the family
name be kept out of it. The Commodore didn’t want to be connected with
trade in any way.”
“Quite!” said my employer.
“It started off all right, but something happened. I don’t understand
the details. Mr. Henry always claimed that he had been rooked. Very
likely he lacked the skill and experience to conduct so vast an
enterprise. At any rate, there was a tremendous crash, and whereas it
had cost the Commodore a few thousands to get his son out of his
college scrapes, his liabilities in the chemical affair ran into the
millions. The family finances were seriously affected. It led to a
bitter quarrel between father and son, and since that time, Mr. Henry
has not been seen much about the house. It is said that he visited his
mother secretly. Last summer Mrs. Varick patched up a truce between
father and son, and in the fall Mr. Henry accompanied us to Europe.”
“Gabbitt,” said Mme. Storey, “from your observation, would you say that
the affair between Mr. Henry and the Princess Cristina was a serious
one?”
“She thought it was,” said the little man promptly, “and Mr. Henry was
undeniably smitten. But we who had watched him grow up were not taken
in by it. He was easily smitten. As soon as we sailed home she passed
out of his mind. Why, there was a girl on board ship…”
“Never mind her,” said my employer good-naturedly, “but tell me what
was the last occasion that Mr. Henry saw his father.”
“Day before yesterday, ‘m. This is Wednesday, yes, it was Monday
afternoon.”
“What were the circumstances of his visit?”
“The Commodore had been telegraphing and telephoning all over the
country to find him, the Princess Cristina being here. The general
feeling amongst us servants was that Mr. Henry was purposely keeping
out of the way. Be that as it may, when he was sent for he had to
come. He came on Monday afternoon, and there was a terrible quarrel
between him and his father in the study. I supposed that it was over
the Princess, being as the Commodore’s heart was set on that match. I
was in and out of the dressing-room and the pantry, and just at the
end, Mr. Henry opened the door into the foyer, and I heard his father
call after him: ‘I never want to see you again!’ And Mr. Henry’s
answer, hard and bitter: ‘You shan’t!’ Then the slam of the door, and
Mr. Henry was gone!” Gabbitt made a dramatic pause.
“Go on,” said Mme. Storey.
“It had happened before,” he resumed, “and I didn’t take it so serious.
Not until yesterday morning, that is, when the Commodore’s lawyer
turned up and a new will was made.”
“Oh, a new will.”
“Yes, ma’am. That had happened before, too. But on former occasions
the lawyer had been called in and instructions given him, and after a
few days he would come back with the will to be signed. This time the
will was made on the spot, so I knew the Commodore was bitter angry.
The lawyer wrote it out himself on Miss Priestley’s typewriter, and
afterwards Miss Priestley and me was called into the study to witness
it. It was a short will; scarcely filled one sheet of paper. The top
part of the sheet was turned under when we signed, and I don’t know
what was in it.”
We were in the pantry at this moment, and while Mme. Storey listened
her eyes were passing along the rows of cups and glasses on the little
buffet. “One moment,” she said. “Have you got a magnifying glass of
any sort? A reading glass will do.”
It was fetched her from the study. She examined the shelves.
“Gabbitt, how many of these cups did you set out on the tea-table
yesterday?” she asked.
“Two, ma’am. No guests were expected.”
“Any of these glasses?” pointing to a row of tall, iridescent tumblers.
“No, ma’am. Those are for whisky and soda. The Commodore don’t
indulge at tea-time.”
My employer passed on into the study without offering any comment.
“Well, go on,” she said, and then, very unexpectedly: “Mr. Henry came
back yesterday afternoon?”
“Why no, ma’am,” said Gabbitt in great surprise. “Not after such a
quarrel!” It seemed to me that he was a little too open-eyed, too
innocent then.
“No?” said Mme. Storey carelessly. “Well, that’s all now. Thank you
very much, Gabbitt.”
He lingered in the doorway, eyeing her anxiously. He was longing to
ask her a question, but did not dare. Mme. Storey affected to ignore
him. He went out.
IXMme. Storey questioned several of the servants with a view to learning
if young Henry Varick had been in the house on the day before. All
blandly denied it, nor could she entrap them into any admission.
“Lying,” she said coolly, when the last had gone. “Notice that they
did not say, ‘I did not see him,’ but all said, ‘He was not here.’”
“Why not ask Mrs. Varick’s pretty secretary, Miss Gilsey?” I suggested.
“She could tell you.”
“Quite,” said Mme. Storey, “and would immediately tell Henry that I had
asked. I don’t want to put him on his guard. I want to meet him as if
by accident, and fall into casual talk. If I am able to bring that
about, don’t you dare to let a notebook appear. Remember all that
passes as well as you can, and put it down afterwards.”
With Jarboe, my employer pursued a slightly different method. She told
the butler it was necessary for her to have a complete lay-out of the
house in her mind, especially the second floor, and the three of us
strolled around, while he pointed out the different rooms. Mme. Storey
said: “The Commodore’s suite, and Mrs. Varick’s, which adjoins it,
occupy the whole of the Avenue frontage on this floor. I’ve got that
straight. What else is there?”
“On the south side is the guest suite lately occupied by the Princess
Cristina,” said Jarboe, indicating. “And there’s an extra bedroom at
the back that was given to her lady-in-waiting. Would you like to see
the rooms?”
“Oh, no,” said Mme. Storey. “I don’t suppose they left anything
behind.”
“Next to the back bedroom comes the grand stairway,” Jarboe continued,
“and this passage on the left of the stairway leads to the elevator,
and on back to the main service corridor and service stairs.”
We looked into the service corridor.
“Next to the passage comes another guest-room,” Jarboe said,
proceeding; “not occupied at present; and on the north side of the
house is Mr. Henry’s suite, which consists of study and bedroom. The
rooms have been his since his schooldays, and are still kept for him
with all his things, though he has had a private apartment outside for
the past two years.”
It was strange to hear how the perfect butler’s carefully modulated
voice coloured with emotion when he mentioned the darling of the house.
“Mr. Henry is in the house at present,” he went on, “and would, I am
sure, be glad to have you see the rooms if I mentioned it to him.”
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