The Almost Perfect Murder Part 19

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.

IX.

Mme. 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 clearly heard.

"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 a.s.signed 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 a.s.sociates were not informed of it. And he might have got away with it, too, had it not been for his fatal style!"

Taken for a Ride.

I.

The 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 Inst.i.tute, 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 n.o.body 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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 note-book on my knee. Once the courteous greetings had been exchanged, deep hara.s.sed 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 Inst.i.tute a month ago," he began. "My princ.i.p.al a.s.sistant, 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 circ.u.mstances to whet the public appet.i.te. Now that a month has pa.s.sed 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. n.o.body saw the a.s.sailant enter or leave the building; no finger-prints 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 a.s.sailant 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 pa.s.sed the closed door. An hour later, when he pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sed, 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 att.i.tude of those who surround me at the Inst.i.tute 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 that there was no chance of stopping it now!"

"They circulate it, but I doubt if they believe it," said Mme. Storey gravely. "It is a common human failing."

"But how terrible ... how terrible to be the victim of such a slander!" cried Dr. Portal brokenly. "It has completely unnerved me! It comes between me and my work. I can do nothing! And my work has reached a fatally critical point where every ounce of ability that I possess is required of me. The polio serum..."

"What is polio?" asked Mme. Storey quickly.

"Ah, pardon!" he said, with a distracted gesture. "A bit of laboratory slang. Polio is short for poliomyelitis or infantile paralysis. I have been working on it for many years. I have not yet succeeded in isolating the bacillus, but I have prepared a serum from the blood of immune monkeys which, in the case of monkeys anyhow, arrests the paralysis. I am not quite ready for human experiments, but I soon will be--if I am only left in peace! ... Meanwhile the number of cases is daily increasing. Everything points to a coming epidemic. There is not a day to lose!"

Mme. Storey, too, had risen. She had instantly made up her mind as to the rights of this case. "How proud I will be if I can contribute to your work by ever so little!" she said, impulsively taking his hand. "I beg of you to put this preposterous slander out of your mind, and return to your work. Leave this to me. I promise you if I live I will lay it in its grave for ever!"

The doctor, as a man will, immediately began to make light of his own emotion. "There ... there," he said, shaking her hand, "my mind is relieved already. I feel safe in your hands. As for the expenses connected with this affair..."

"Not a word as to that," she said, holding up her hand. "That's my part.... All you have to do is to answer a few questions.... Where were you on the night Dr. McComb was shot?"

"Fortunately I can produce an alibi," he answered with a wry smile. "I attended a reception at the National History Museum to visiting British scientists. Hundreds of people must have seen me there.... However," he went on bitterly, "I understand that I am not accused of firing the shot myself. They believe that I had it done."

"What exactly did Mrs. McComb say to you on the morning after?"

"She said: 'This is your work! This is your work! Now I hope you're satisfied! For years you have been trying to keep him down, and when you found you could no longer do so you turned to this!' And much more to the same effect. No precise charge."

"Hm! jealousy," remarked Mme. Storey.

"Oh, yes, that had often peeped out," said Dr. Portal. "Such a pity! So unnecessary!"

"What sort of woman is Mrs. McComb?"

"A good enough sort as women go," answered Dr. Portal carelessly. "Highly conventional. Ambitious. On that account I considered her influence over her husband unfortunate. A scientist cannot afford to consider ambition; he cannot consider anything in the world but science!"

"You have not much use for women, I take it, doctor," suggested Mme. Storey with a dry smile.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," he protested. "Have I not put myself in your hands? ... The only thing I have against women is that they demand too much time. For me life is not long enough to include both science and women."

"It is a pity," murmured Mme. Storey. "Where is Mrs. McComb now?"

"She has gone abroad. I believe Mrs. Terwilliger sent her."

"Ah! a mistake in tactics. Perhaps we will have to bring her back.... Now tell me what you can about the crime, doctor."

"That is next to nothing," he said, spreading out his hands.

"You have spoken of the bacteriological laboratory. What sort of a place is it?"

"It is a small separate building connected with a main group by a covered pa.s.sage. Dr. McComb and I have been working there exclusively during the past year. The monkeys that we use in our experiments are kept on the top floor. Some of them are sick, you see, and there is a male nurse on duty throughout the night just as if they were human. Dr. McComb's private office and my office were on the floor below."

"The nurse heard no sound?"

"No, Madame. The walls are thick."

"Describe the finding of the body."

"It was found by a cleaning woman at eight o'clock on the morning of November 9th. When she opened the door she saw the doctor slumped down in his chair with a bullet-hole in his forehead. His body was already stiff. He had evidently been shot from in front as he sat upright in his chair. The bullet had gone completely through his head and had lodged in the hard plaster of the wall behind him. A curious thing was, that the murderer had gone to the trouble to dig it out of the plaster and carry it away with him."

"Nothing strange in that," remarked Mme. Storey. "He had evidently heard of the new science of ballistics which enables us sometimes to trace the bullet back to the gun from which it was fired."

"Another strange feature," Dr. Portal went on, "is that the body was stripped of every trifling article of value; a seal ring, a cheap watch and a dollar or two in money, which was the most the doctor ever carried. It seems incredible that a man should be murdered for that."

Mme. Storey made no comment.

"Moreover," said the doctor, "the unfortunate man must have made an appointment to meet the murderer in the laboratory, for there was no work to call him back that night. We had discussed it in the afternoon. And he must have let the man in himself. Why should he have made an appointment with a robber?"

"Obviously robbery was not the murderer's main object," said Mme. Storey. "But having killed his man, he saw no reason why he should overlook any little objects of value. From that I infer the shot was fired by a professional criminal."

"Now I call that clever!" said Dr. Portal admiringly. "Already we are making progress."

"But we have a long, long way to go," said Mme. Storey, smiling. "How about the Italian watchman?"

"He has been repeatedly questioned by the police. No suspicion attaches to him, I understand. He can account for every minute of his time that night by the time clocks he is obliged to punch as he makes his rounds through the buildings."

"But it only takes a fraction of a second to shoot a man," Mme. Storey pointed out.

"What object would he have? He knew Dr. McComb carried nothing of value upon him?"

"I don't know," said Mme. Storey frankly. "Have you any theory as to what happened?"

"None whatever," said Dr. Portal, spreading out his hands. "All I can tell you is, that McComb appeared to me to be in a highly nervous state during the last days of his life. But I have no idea what was troubling him."

Mme. Storey and I left the opera house in a curious state of exaltation induced by the insinuating violins and the poignant tenor voice. I felt (and Mme. Storey confessed the same) that we were like two crusaders sallying forth to do battle for the benefactor of mankind against the powers of evil.

II.

We proceeded directly to my employer's little house on East Sixty ---- Street. It was still something short of ten o'clock, and Mme. Storey telephoned immediately to Inspector Rumsey. Upon being a.s.sured that the matter was of first-rate importance, the Inspector said he would motor right down to join us.

Inspector Rumsey glanced at Mme. Storey with pleasure when he came in. He is a little man of quite undistinguished appearance whose whole study it is to render himself still more inconspicuous. Ordinarily his face is as inscrutable as one of the little crooks whom it is his business to track down, but in my employer's presence he relaxes and becomes quite human. He is a first-cla.s.s police official and absolutely incorruptible.

Mme. Storey went directly to the point. "Are you keeping Dr. Felix Portal under surveillance?"

"I am," he answered unhesitatingly.

"Why?"

"Well," he said deprecatingly, "I received an anonymous letter suggesting that he was responsible for the death of Edgar McComb."

"An anonymous letter!" said Mme. Storey disgustedly.

"Sure," he said calmly; "I despise them as much as you do. But in a case of this sort where I was absolutely up against it I could not afford to ignore it. The letter was typewritten on a sheet of cheap paper, and it had been mailed in the corridor of the general post office. I have been unable to trace it."