The Almost Perfect Murder Part 24

I was far from seeing it myself at that moment. When the witnesses had been taken away and my employer and I were alone, I said helplessly: "I can't understand it! It seems that Dr. McComb himself handed the gun to Chico with which Chico shot him ten days later!"

Mme. Storey was in a deep study. "Think it over," she said with a provoking smile. "... The problem that confronts me is, what to do with Chico?"

As a result of her deliberations she finally called up the District Attorney, also Inspector Rumsey and Dr. Portal, and arranged for us all to meet at the Inst.i.tute after lunch, and for the Inspector to bring Chico. The District Attorney at this time was Frank Everard, a first-cla.s.s man, and one with whom we maintained excellent relations.

And so the last scene of all took place in the bare little laboratory office with Dr. Portal, all in white, presiding over it like a disembodied face. From time to time I saw him glancing wistfully at Chico, and I suppose he still felt a sneaking fondness for the lad. And I confess I did myself. At this moment my heart was heavy for the little gunman. Chico, of course, had resumed his hard, professional air. His face was like a mask.

Mme. Storey said: "Dr. Portal, I promised I would not trouble you again until I had found the man who shot Edgar McComb.... Well, there he is."

"I'm sorry ... I'm sorry," murmured Dr. Portal commiseratingly. "Why did he do it?"

"Why did you do it, Chico?" asked Mme. Storey.

"I ain't sayin' I done it," replied Chico with a hardy swagger. "I ain't sayin' nottin' a tall."

"Well, I'll tell you why he did it," said Mme. Storey gravely. "McComb had hired him to shoot Dr. Portal."

We all exclaimed in astonishment. "Oh, good G.o.d! ... no!" gasped the horrified Dr. Portal.

"When he saw that the poliomyelitis serum was going to be a success McComb wished to reap the full glory," she went on relentlessly. "He foresaw that it would be one of the great accomplishments of science that would make its discoverer forever famous."

"What saved Dr. Portal?" asked the District Attorney.

"At the moment that Chico had his gun in his hand Dr. Portal saved himself by speaking of what he was about to do for the children. As it happens, Chico has a young brother who is the dearest thing on earth to him."

Chico suddenly lowered his head. The poor lad could not bear to have us see the softness that overcame him at the mention of Tony.

"I suppose Chico brooded upon it afterwards," Mme. Storey went on. "It occurred to him that McComb could easily find another instrument to carry out his will. He shot McComb to save Portal.... I'm not saying that his reasoning was very good, but anyhow, that is what happened."

"Strange are the workings of the human heart!" murmured Dr. Portal. The rest of us were silent in amazement.

"I called you gentlemen together to put it up to you what is to be done with Chico?" Mme. Storey went on. "He killed the man, and ordinarily it would be our duty to let justice take its course with him. But it seems to me that this is a case where justice would not be justice. How can we punish him for acting upon what was a generous impulse, however misguided? And how can we let him bear the brunt when the real instigator of this crime--I refer to Mrs. McComb--cannot be reached by the law? What do you say, Mr. District Attorney?"

Mr. Everard did not answer immediately. He looked very uncomfortable. Dr. Portal broke the silence by saying in his quiet, deliberate way: "I have a solution to propose."

Everybody looked at him. Chico forgot his unnatural self-control, and gazed at him with the wild hope of any lad in the shadow of the electric chair.

"I need a human subject in my experiments," said Dr. Portal. "If Chico is willing ..."

"What does the District Attorney say?" asked Mme. Storey quickly.

Everard's face cleared. "I say that if Chico volunteers this," he replied unhesitatingly, "I will not undertake a prosecution."

"Then, Chico, it is up to you," she said with a curious gentleness.

"I ... I don't get it," he said hoa.r.s.ely.

"Listen, Chico," said Dr. Portal rising. There was something magnificent about the little man at that moment; the disembodied face was pure intelligence. "I propose to make you sick with this disease that you know about, poliomyelitis or infantile paralysis, and then I propose to cure you with my new remedy. I believe that I can cure you, or I would not propose the experiment, but there is a certain risk, of course, because it has not been tried before on a human being."

Chico's lips were parted. He was breathing hoa.r.s.ely. "And ... and if it works," he stammered, "then you can give it to all the kids that gets sick?"

"That is the idea."

"But ... but my kid!" cried the poor lad; "suppose it don't work? Suppose I kick out, or ain't able to do nottin' no more? What will happen to Tony?"

"Oh, let me take that on myself," said Dr. Portal, deeply moved; "let me bring him up as if he were my own son."

"I'd like to share in that," said Mme. Storey quickly.

"And I," murmured the District Attorney.

Chico stiffened his back, and endeavoured to call back the old swagger. "All right, Doc, I'm on!" he said flippantly. "But make it snappy, Doc. Don't let me be t'inkin' about it too long."

"Now's as good a time as any," said Dr. Portal. "Come on upstairs."

It Never Got into the Papers.

I.

Commodore Varick died very suddenly about half-past five in the afternoon. The cause of death was given as heart failure induced by a violent attack of gastritis. The news caused a great shock because the Commodore was looked upon as a man in the very prime of life. As a matter of fact, he was fifty-five, but so brisk, well-preserved and straight-backed a little man as to seem years younger. He used to drive on the Avenue in his open automobile, sitting up on the back seat with a haughty stare just like royalty, with his bodyguard sitting in front.

I received my first news of the affair from Mme. Storey when she came into the office the following morning. The Varicks were friends of hers. Tossing a newspaper on my desk, she said: "Poor Bill Varick is gone. Shockingly sudden. I dined there two nights ago."

She went on into her room and I read the paper. It had spread itself on the event, of course, for Commodore Varick was more than a mere individual, he was an inst.i.tution. There was a three column head on the first page, and a half page obituary inside, reciting the Commodore's life story, and the history of his family. He was the fourth William Henry Varick of his line, and his name was woven into the very texture of the annals of New York if not of all America. In fact, all over the world, Varick has become a synonym for the American millionaire.

The third William Henry left a number of sons and daughters, consequently the fourth William Henry, he whose obituary I was reading, did not inherit his entire fortune. But he was the head of the clan, and still an enormously rich man. This one's accomplishments had been mostly in the social line. He married an ambitious woman, and New York soon became too small for them.

The t.i.tle of Commodore had been bestowed on him by our most important yacht club. His yacht Manahatta, a dream of luxury, was a familiar sight in the harbours of the old world. Before the war he had entertained the King of England on board; besides King Leopold of Belgium and a host of lesser potentates. And, of course, he was always in the forefront when royalty visited our sh.o.r.es. The Princess Cristina von Habsburg was staying at his house at the moment of his death. The mere recital of his clubs filled a long paragraph, and all in all the newspaper did not exaggerate in terming him "our first private citizen."

And now he was dead after half an hour's illness, and his mantle had fallen on the muscular shoulders of that delightful scapegrace, William Henry Varick fifth, better known as Hank Varick. In the newspapers of late, the fame of the Commodore himself had been overshadowed by the escapades of his son. I did not suppose that he was any worse than other young men, nor did I believe more than half I read about him. He was a sort of crown prince, and his slightest actions were, therefore, front page stuff.

Apparently the reporters followed him all around the country on the chance of picking up copy. The stories were of the usual sort where youth, irresponsibility and wealth are in conjunction. He was handicapped by being an only child. At this time I had never seen him, but his oft published photographs depicted a handsome, stalwart, laughing young fellow. All the gifts of the G.o.ds were his.

I was still reading the newspaper when Inspector Rumsey entered my office. Rumsey had an admirable command of his features, but at this moment he was plainly disconcerted. It startled me. "What's the matter?" I asked.

"A bad business," he said curtly. He nodded towards the next room. "Is she down yet?"

"Yes," I said. "Go right in."

"You'd better come in, too," he said. "She'll want you to hear this."

I locked the outer door to guard against interruptions, and followed him full of trepidation. I had never seen the matter-of-fact Inspector so upset, and it had the effect of a convulsion of nature.

In the long room Mme. Storey, clad in one of the clinging Fortuny robes that become her so well, was lounging with her elbows on the big Italian table, a negligent cigarette in one hand, and in the other a lump of sugar that she was holding up for Giannino the ape to nibble at. At sight of our good friend's face, she straightened up and let Giannino have the lump of sugar. "What is wrong?" she asked.

"I'm in the deuce of a hole!" he said in a voice of extreme bitterness. "I'm a poor man, but I would give a thousand dollars to be away on my vacation this minute!"

"Can I help?" she asked.

"If you won't, n.o.body can," he said laconically.

From his inside breast pocket he took an envelope and handed it to her. I was looking over her shoulder. It was a cheap commercial envelope of the sort that is sold by the million. It had come through the mail. It was addressed in block letters very painstakingly formed: INSPECTOR RUMSEY POLICE HEADQUARTERS CITY.

Inside there was a little slip of white paper on which was lettered in the same manner: COMMODORE VARICK WAS POISONED.

None of us spoke. For the s.p.a.ce of thirty seconds or so the room was so still you could hear Giannino's little teeth nibbling at the sugar. The possibilities that loomed ahead of us were truly dreadful.

Then the Inspector broke out: "There may be nothing in it. Very likely it's the work of the sort of crank that such an occasion always brings to light."

"Yet, you've got to take notice of it," Mme. Storey put in quietly.

"Sure," he cried, "that's the d.a.m.nable part of it! There may be something in it. And if it should come out later that I had been warned, and had taken no action, I'd be ruined."

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"What am I going to do?" he echoed. "Push in amongst the cardinals and bishops and governors and senators who are leaving their cards at the house this morning, and demand that an autopsy be performed?"

"It is a bad business," murmured Mme. Storey.

"The reporters are there," he went on, "and even my appearance at the house at such time would be enough to start an ugly scandal. Or anybody connected with the department that I might send. And suppose I get my autopsy, and everything proves to be all right, the scandal will go on just the same. The public will never believe but that Commodore Varick was poisoned, and that we were all engaged in a conspiracy to hush it up. A nice figure I would cut!"

"I see what you're getting at, Inspector," said my employer with a very dry smile.

"You're a friend of Mrs. Varick's," he said cajolingly. "You could go to the house to leave your condolences without exciting any remark. I suppose you would be going there anyway this morning."

She nodded.

"Show her this communication privately," he went on, "and tell her from me that I am very reluctantly forced to insist on an autopsy. I'll send doctors not known to be connected with the department to the house at any hour she sets. It can be performed in perfect secrecy, and if everything proves to be all right, as I am sure it will, no whisper of it need ever reach the press."

Mme. Storey arose and took a turn down the room. Her brows were knitted. "Really, Inspector, this is a bit thick!" she said. "You find yourself in a hole, and you're attempting to climb out on my shoulders! I think a lot of you, my friend, but..."

"Oh, leave me out of it," he said earnestly. "I'm not thinking of myself so much as of the Varick family. I hate the idea of starting an unnecessary scandal at their expense. And with death in the house at that. Why, the reputation of a grand old family like that is like a work of art that cannot be replaced. I don't want to have a hand in defacing it. It's the property of the public, so to speak, and you and I are servants of the public, aren't we?"

Mme. Storey smiled at his ingenious sophistry. While he was speaking she had made up her mind for quite different reasons. "Since you put it that way I can't very well refuse," she said ironically. "I will go. It is necessary to act quickly. I will change my dress. You will come with me, Bella."

II.

The Varick house was a great palace of Vermont marble occupying a frontage of half a block on the Avenue, facing the Park. It was one of the older houses of that neighbourhood, and was already at this time becoming hemmed in by hotels and apartment houses; but it had been rebuilt and modernised on several occasions, and was still among the two or three most imposing dwellings in town. There was a grand effect in its severity and plainness that the French chateaux and Italian palazzi strive for in vain.

We drove up in a taxicab which looked rather undignified amidst the long line of elegant private cars crawling up to the front door through the side street. But Mme. Storey cared nothing about that. The arrangements at the house were perfect, of course. There was a footman on the sidewalk to open the door of our car, another to open the great steel grille lined with plate gla.s.s, a third to receive our cards and to separate the sheep from the goats, and still others to usher us the way we should go. Back of them all stood the majestic figure of Jarboe, the Varick butler, overseeing all. All the men servants were dressed in black morning coats.

This ceremony was taking place in a superb marble hall that ran right through the centre of the building flanked by a double row of antique marble pillars, and ending in a great bay filled with gigantic tropical ferns. In the centre of the hall was a little fountain of porphyry, and a great shallow stairway with a wrought steel bal.u.s.trade swept up at the right. Among the visitors the merely great left their cards and went out again, but the very great were ushered into the state drawing-room at the left to be received by Mr. Varick's brother, while members of the family connection were ushered into a more intimate room on the right.

We hardly belonged to any of these categories but Mme. Storey caught the eye of Mr. Jarboe who came directly to us, a signal honour. To him she whispered her request to be allowed to see Mrs. Varick.

"Mrs. Varick is seeing n.o.body," he answered with a slightly shocked air.

"May I send her a message?"

"Certainly, Madame."

She scribbled a few words on her card, and handed it to him. She asked if we might wait in a place where we would see n.o.body, and we were therefore shown into a soberly furnished office behind a masked door.

Presently a footman came to say that Mrs. Varick would see Madame Storey, and led us, not up the great stairway, but into a little elevator hidden in the wall, where no one saw us enter. We alighted in another n.o.ble hall panelled in oak, and lighted by a great dome of Tiffany gla.s.s. There were a dozen doors all around, and I wondered mightily what was behind them all. Our conductor opened one of them, and we found ourselves in a foyer with more doors. The interior of that house was like a maze, and I wondered if the occupants ever got lost in it.

The footman opened another door, and we found ourselves in Mrs. Varick's boudoir. I had merely the impression of an amber effect, luxurious and flattering to the complexion. The mistress of it all was seated in a chaise longue holding a cigarette between fingers that trembled slightly. She was most beautifully dressed, not all in black; black and white. I remember it struck me as strange that she should be wearing a hat. Later I learned that she never appeared in the daytime without one. It was a lovely French hat partly shadowing her face, and the whole effect was of some rare and exquisite orchid--a little withered. Servants were continually coming and going, and she was issuing instructions with a forced air of calmness very painful to see.

While Mme. Storey approached her, I remained standing near the door. Thus I was out of earshot, but I could follow all that occurred with my eyes. Mrs. Varick was surprised to see my employer at such a time, and more than a little inclined to resent my presence. Mme. Storey hated what she had to do--I could tell it from her stony expression, but went about it directly and simply. Finally she drew the fateful slip of paper from its envelope, and showed it to Mrs. Varick.

When the widow read the words upon it, she forgot that she was a great lady. A little strangled cry escaped her, and she clapped the back of her hand to her mouth, that piteous gesture common to all women. Several of the women in the room ran to her side, but she waved them back.

"Leave me! Leave me!" she said sharply. "... All except you!" She clung to a slender blonde girl in black. This, I presently learned was her personal secretary, Estelle Gilsey. "Look! Estelle, look!" she whispered, showing the slip.

The girl cried out strangely, seemed about to faint. This, I remember, struck me as rather excessive in one who was merely a paid employee.

I drew a little closer to the group. To Mme. Storey, I heard Mrs. Varick say in a strained voice: "But this is probably the work of some mischief-maker, some insane person!"

"That is what we think," said my employer.

"Then why torment me with such a suggestion?"

Mme. Storey patiently explained the situation.

"Oh, why isn't Henry here!" mourned Mrs. Varick. She referred to her son. It appeared that n.o.body knew where he was. They were telegraphing all over the country for him.

Mrs. Varick angrily repudiated the suggestion of an autopsy, and my employer with the greatest gentleness and patience undertook to show her that she had no choice in the matter, that even the great Mrs. Varick was amenable to the commands of the law, and that we were all working to save her feelings, and the feelings of the family so far as it might be done. Finally, with a flood of tears she gave in. The tears relieved her, I think. The secretary did not cry; throughout all that followed, white-faced and stunned, she was a more tragic figure than the widow.

Mrs. Varick clung to my employer's hand now. "Rosika, you manage everything," she said imploringly. "You are so wonderfully capable! There is n.o.body else I can trust. Oh, keep it out of the newspapers! And above all, don't let my husband's family know!"

"I will do my best," said Mme. Storey gravely.