The Almost Perfect Murder Part 7

"Oh, yes," murmured Fay feebly. "I forgot."

Mrs. Brunton and Whittall looked dumfounded. As for me, I simply could not believe my ears.

"Where did you go?" asked Mme. Storey.

"I ... I was just driving around for the air. I don't remember exactly."

"According to the custom of the garage," Mme. Storey continued, "a reading of the speedometer was taken when the car went out, and again when it was returned. The elapsed mileage was twenty miles. That is just the distance to Riverdale and back."

Fay sat up suddenly. "I never went to Riverdale!" she cried sharply.

"Then where did you go?" persisted Mme. Storey.

A deep blush overspread Fay's face and neck. "Well, if you must know," she said a little defiantly, "I picked up Frank Esher in front of his house and took him for a drive."

Again Mrs. Brunton and Whittall looked at her open-mouthed.

The Inspector spoke up cheerfully. Like everybody else, he wished to be on Fay's side. "That will be easy to verify," he said, taking out his note-book.

"Unfortunately," said Mme. Storey coldly, "Mr. Esher has disappeared."

"Well, anyhow," cried Whittall, "you can't convict her of a crime simply because she chanced to take a drive that night. It's ridiculous!"

"Ridiculous!" echoed Mrs. Brunton.

"I have not yet done," said Mme. Storey. "Inspector, will you please state what you learned respecting the purchase of the guns."

Rumsey consulted the note-book. "On May 24th Mr. Darius Whittall purchased two Matson 32 calibre automatics from Lorber and Staley's. He has an account there. Those were the only pistols of that design he ever purchased from them. One was numbered 13417, the other 13418."

Mme. Storey turned to Whittall. "Are you willing to concede that you gave one of these pistols to your wife, and one to Fay?" she asked.

"I refuse to answer without advice of counsel," he muttered.

"It doesn't matter," said Mme. Storey, undisturbed; "for we already know from other sources that you gave one to your wife and one to Fay, making the same remark to each.... Fay, where is yours?"

"In the bottom drawer of my bureau," came the prompt reply.

"Will you fetch it, please?"

Fay called for Katy. The girl immediately appeared in the doorway, looking white and scared. Evidently she had overheard at least part of what had occurred.

"Bring me the gun from the bottom drawer of my bureau."

The strangeness of this request completed the demoralisation of the maid. She stood there like one incapable of motion. Fay herself sprang up and ran into the next room. From there we heard her cry: "It's gone!"

Then her excited questioning of the maid. Katy swore that she had neither touched nor even seen the gun. She had not yet reached that drawer when her packing was interrupted, she said. The girl got the idea, somehow, that her own honesty was in question. She had no idea that her words were convicting her mistress. Fay finally came back to her seat with a wandering and vacant air. She kept repeating: "I can't imagine...! I can't imagine...!" The Inspector looked very grave.

Mme. Storey remorselessly resumed: "I recovered Mrs. Whittall's pistol this morning. It is in my possession, properly marked for identification. The number of it is 13417. The pistol found in Mrs. Whittall's hand, that is to say the one from which the fatal shot was fired, was subsequently given by Mr. Whittall to the Captain of the precinct. I obtained it from the Captain this afternoon. The number is 13418. Here it is."

She produced the weapon from a little bag that she carried on her arm. She handed the sinister black object to Rumsey, who read off the number, 13418, and handed it back to her.

At first I couldn't take it in. Neither could Fay. Her wandering eyes, like a child's, searched from one face to another for the explanation. Mrs. Brunton and Whittall were sitting there, literally frozen with horror. Rumsey had got up. It was from his grave and compa.s.sionate gaze at Fay that I realised she stood convicted in his eyes. What a dreadful moment!

Fay burst into tears, and dropped her head between her outstretched arms on the table. "Oh, how can you! ... How can you!" she sobbed.

At that something seemed to break inside of me. I forgot everything; my duty to my mistress; everything. I was only conscious of the weeping girl whom I loved. I got to my feet. "It's a shame! It's a shame!" I heard myself crying. "She didn't do it! She couldn't have done it! Look at her! What does your evidence amount to beside that!"

Fay reached for me like a frightened child, and I took her in my arms.

Mme. Storey never looked at me. No muscle of her face changed. "The rest lies with you, Inspector," she said quietly.

Rumsey's distress comes back to me now. Then I was oblivious to everything. "It will be all right.... It will be all right," he kept saying. "I'm sure that a further investigation will clear everything up. But I'm sorry... I would not be justified ... I must ask the young lady..."

Mrs. Brunton jumped up with a shriek. "Is he going to arrest her!"

"Don't call it an arrest, ma'am; a brief detention...."

"Oh, no! no! no!" Mrs. Brunton flung herself down beside the girl, and wrapped her arms around Fay's knees. "It's all lies!" she cried. "All lies! ... It was I who shot Mrs. Whittall!"

I have scarcely the heart to describe the painful scene that followed. Fay was broken-hearted, of course, but the shock to her proved to be less than Mme. Storey had feared. It turned out that for weeks past, Fay had divined that her companion was carrying a load of guilt on her breast, though, of course, the girl had no idea of its nature. She was already secretly estranged from the woman who pa.s.sed as her mother.

Nevertheless she loyally wished to accompany her to Police Headquarters, but the rest of us dissuaded her from it. Kreuger went with Mrs. Brunton, but Darius Whittall remained with us. He had to learn his fate. Before Mme. Storey and I, he said with a despairing hangdog air: "It was not my fault, Fay."

She looked at him with gravely accusing eyes. There was nothing childish about her then. "No," she said quietly, "but you were not sorry when it happened." Unfastening the pearls from about her neck, and drawing off the ring, she handed them over.

He knew it was final. He went away, a broken man. When we three were alone together, Fay wept again. Mme. Storey looked as uncomfortable as a boy in the presence of emotion. From the little bag she took the gun she had produced at the table.

"Here is your gun, Fay," she said. "I took it out of your drawer when I went into your room to change my hat."

We opened our eyes at that. Nothing so simple had ever occurred to us.

"I hope you can forgive me for those terrible moments I gave you," Mme. Storey went on. "I couldn't help myself. That woman covered her tracks so well, there was nothing for it but to force a confession."

Fay forgave her freely.

"I owe Bella an apology, too," Mme. Storey said with a rueful glance in my direction. "For keeping her in the dark. You see, I needed that outburst from Bella to give the scene verisimilitude."

This made me feel rather foolish, but of course I was not troubling about a little thing like that then.

"I am alone now," sobbed Fay.

Mme. Storey murmured the name of Frank Esher. "I suggest that that woman may have fomented the trouble between you and him because he was poor," she said.

"She was always against him," Fay agreed.

"Why don't you write to him now?"

"I don't know where he is!" mourned Fay.

"In care of the British-American Development Company, Georgetown, British Guiana," said Mme. Storey dryly.

"Oh, Rosika!" This with her face hidden on my shoulder.

"In fact, why not cable?" said Mme. Storey.

"Oh, Rosika. You do it for me."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I have cabled already," said Mme. Storey.

I cannot do better than conclude by appending Mrs. Brunton's subsequent confession to the police--her real name was Elinor Tinsley. All that was so baffling in the case therein becomes clear.

"I am aware that anything I say may be used against me. I want to tell the truth now. I'm glad it's out. It was too great a load to bear. I did it for her; for the one whom I called my daughter. I loved her as much as I could my own child. In spite of all I said, I knew that she had not sufficient talent to maintain her as a star. So many new faces coming to the front each year. I wanted to secure her future. I wanted her to have the best.

"When Mr. Whittall began to pay her attention I saw our chance in him. But his wife was in the way. He was anxious for a divorce, but she wouldn't. I couldn't forget about it. I brooded and brooded on it. I felt I had to act quickly, because Mr. Whittall had a reputation for fickleness. I was afraid he'd take a fancy to somebody else. Once he told me the name of a man he thought his wife was secretly in love with--I won't mention it here; and that gave me my first idea.

"I got a sample of Mrs. Whittall's handwriting by writing her a begging letter under an a.s.sumed name, and I practised and practised until I was able to imitate it. Then I sent a letter as coming from her to this man I told you about, hoping that it would result in throwing them into each other's arms, and that there would have to be a divorce then. But weeks pa.s.sed and nothing happened. I was no further forward than before.

"Then one day Mrs. Whittall asked my daughter and me to have lunch and tea with her at her place. And when we were having tea out in the pavilion, the whole thing seemed to unroll itself before me. I thought of the first showing of 'Ashes of Roses' that was coming soon, and what a good chance that would give me, and I made up my mind I would try again that night. I knew I wouldn't have any trouble with Fay, because she doesn't care for pictures, and I could easily persuade her not to go.

"I got a sample of that man's handwriting on another pretext, and I practised until I was able to write a letter that looked like his. I bought the gun at ---- (a big department store) for cash, so the sale couldn't be traced. I knew the kind of gun Mr. Whittall had bought for his wife, and I got the same. I wanted to make it look like suicide. Then I wrote a letter to Mrs. Whittall in this man's name, asking her to come to me, for G.o.d's sake, in the little pavilion at nine-thirty that night. Of course, she ought to have known, after the other letter, but I figured if she was in love she wouldn't stop to think. If she hadn't come, I'd just have tried something else. I sent the letter the same afternoon with a special delivery stamp on it. Through a messenger it could have been traced.

"My daughter and I had special invitations to see the private showing of 'Ashes of Roses' that night. Without seeming to, I persuaded Fay to stay at home. I took a taxicab to the theatre, arriving there about eight-fifteen. I had the gun in my reticule. I greeted many friends in the lobby, so I could prove an alibi if anything went wrong. I took a seat on the side aisle, beside one of the exits, and when the lights were put out, it was easy for me to slip out through that exit without anybody seeing.

"I took the West Side subway to the end of the line, and walked up the hill to Riverdale, and on down the other side towards the river. I had fixed in my mind the road that ran alongside the wall of the Whittall property. I climbed the wall, and went up the hill to the pavilion. I was in plenty of time. I took the gun in my hand and waited, hidden behind a pillar. I kept my gloves on so I wouldn't leave any fingerprint on the gun. When Mrs. Whittall came running in, I pressed the gun to her temple and pulled the trigger. She fell back outside. She never made a sound. I closed her hand over the gun as well as I could, and went back the way I came.

"I had found out from Mr. Kreuger that he and Mr. Whittall would be dining at the Hotel Norfolk that night. I wanted to warn Mr. Whittall to secure his wife's gun. I knew he'd be glad enough to hush up any scandal. But I was afraid to stop at Van Cortlandt for fear somebody might remember seeing me in a telephone booth. So I rode on the subway down to 145th Street, and telephoned from a pay station there. Then I rode on the subway down to Times Square, and took a taxi to the hotel. That is all I have to say."

Murder in Masquerade.

I.

There were eight of us seated around the table, all in costume and masked. Of the eight the only one I knew was my employer, Mme. Storey. She had come as Queen Anne Boleyn in a superb black velvet costume with hoops and stays.

The dancers in the hall outside had unmasked long ago, but when midnight was approaching Mme. Storey had suggested to our little party that we would have more fun if we kept our masks on. Where all were unknown to each other there could be no inhibitions, she said; and the proposal was enthusiastically carried. The champagne and the fun flowed fast and furiously, but I couldn't help feeling from a certain tenseness in the atmosphere that there was more going on than appeared on the surface.

In the midst of it all Mme. Storey's partner, a stalwart, attractive young man in the gay costume of Harlequin, suddenly leaned back in his chair and lifted his mask--"to get air," he said.

I had a glimpse of a handsome, reckless, slightly drunken face, and then the mask snapped back. But the damage was done. It was immediately apparent to me that several people around the table had recognised our Harlequin--particularly the two women who faced us. I knew it by the rigid, snake-like poise of their heads. They stopped laughing and I could imagine the cold glare of jealous rage behind their masks.

The woman to the left who was of mature figure was dressed as a harem favourite, and somebody had christened her Zuleika. In addition to the mask her face was further hidden by a veil covering the lower part of her face. The one on the other side was a slender girl whose trim figure was cunningly set off by a sailor suit. She had earned the name of Jackie, of course.

The man between them was all rigged out in the fantastic costume of a Turkish Janizary or something, enormously tall hat, voluminous breeches and a curved sword called a yataghan. We had christened him Abdullah.

It soon became evident from Abdullah's sneering remarks that he also knew Harlequin, and hated him. Harlequin himself appeared to be too much uplifted by wine to realise the damage he had done in lifting his mask. Or else he didn't care. It was the annual ball of the Butlers' a.s.sociation in Webster Hall over on the East Side. Mme. Storey had heard of the affair through Crider, one of her operatives who was at that time serving as butler to the Creighton Woodleys, in an effort to clear up the robbery of Mrs. Woodley's jewels. The Woodleys' former butler, a man called George Danforth, had been given a clean bill of health by the police. Nevertheless, it was believed to have been an inside job, and our man Crider had been put in in Danforth's place to see what he could learn. Danforth presumably had got another job.

I knew nothing of the details of this Woodley jewel robbery, being all tied up at the time in the tangle of the Lear Caybourn case. In our office we were so swamped with criminal investigations that my employer had to delegate part of her work to me. Mme. Storey always says she would like to get out of the criminal part of our business; pure psychology is her line. However, she admits there is money in crime; also publicity. And publicity leads to more money.

I remember when our dresses for the ball were sent home I protested at their richness and elegance. "They will make us too conspicuous at a servants' ball," I said.

"We wish to be conspicuous," she answered, and even then I did not catch on. "This ball is going to surprise you, Bella," she added with a twinkle in her eye.

It did. But incidentally I may say that it surprised her too.

I was dressed as an Italian page of the Renaissance period; brown silk tights, velvet doublet and a cunning little cap over one ear. I blushed when I put on the tights, but I felt all right as soon as I got behind a mask. I really have very nice legs. Mme. Storey says I don't know how to ballyhoo my own charms. She christened me Lorenzo, and I answered to it all evening.

Mme. Storey as Queen Anne Boleyn in her gleaming black dress without any note of colour was easily the finest woman present. Harlequin told her so instantly, and thereafter he never left her side. I did not lack for partners myself, but I confess I was a little scared amongst all those strangers, and I took care to keep my chief within sight.

It is curious to see how, even at a masked ball, the different cliques will form. Gradually, as the best-dressed and most elegant persons present, our little company of eight came together.

It was Mr. Punch who asked us to supper in a private room upstairs. He was the best turned-out of any of the men. A small man with a considerable paunch, the part suited him. Everybody knows the costume, doublet and knee breeches of alternate stripes of green and red velvet; white silk stockings and shoes with big silver buckles; grotesque hump and tall cap with the point turned down in front. A tiny gold bell hung from the point of his cap and tinkled every time he turned his head.

I got my second great surprise when I saw the supper room to which we were led, the banks of roses on the table, the magnums of champagne cooling in buckets of ice. At a butlers' supper! Of course Mr. Punch might have lifted the champagne from his master's cellar, but he must have paid for the roses. One would think it had taken a whole month's wages.

The eighth member of the party was a big man dressed in the flaming costume of Mephistopheles complete with horns and forked tail. He had a mask with headpiece that covered him entirely. All you could see of the man himself were his rolling eyes.

The mask was fixed in a devilish leer, though the voice that came out of it was mild enough. Such are the inconsistencies of a masquerade party. This man spoke with an English accent, and he was the only one who resembled one's idea of a butler.

"They are not butlers tonight," Mme. Storey whispered to me; "they are only men."

Upon taking our places we discovered that the bank of roses which filled the whole centre of the table was interspersed with dozens of tiny coloured electric lights. As soon as we had finished eating somebody suggested turning out the main lights of the room in order to show up the table decorations. This was done, and the effect was weird in the extreme. Imagine those little lights, red, green, purple, amongst the roses, throwing up changing shadows on the grotesque, masked faces around the table. Mr. Punch at the head and Mephisto at the foot looked like figures out of a nightmare. But it was all good fun.

Mephisto made a flowery speech to the effect that he had Henry the Eighth safe in h.e.l.l, where he was making him pay with interest for his cruel treatment of the beautiful Anne Boleyn four hundred years ago. He described his torments with comic effect. Mr. Punch, not to be outdone, cut the little golden bell from his cap and begged the fair Anne to accept it as a keepsake.

"Back up! Back up, Punch!" cried Harlequin. "What do you mean making up to the ladies with that hump on your back?"

Mr. Punch wiggled his hump comically. "You don't know the half of it, my boy," he retorted good-naturedly; "that ornament gives me personality."

A laugh went around the table. It was at this moment that Harlequin, in a moment of forgetfulness, raised his mask, and I saw that we were in for trouble.

There was a silence while the two women across the table slowly stiffened. There was a great contrast in their appearance--the big woman in the flowing draperies of a Turkish houri, and the slender girl in the trim sailor suit; but Zuleika and Jackie were alike in their feelings. They had just had wine enough to make them forget concealment. A woman's naked jealousy is not pretty. Their masks gave nothing away, but I could fairly feel their ugly feelings coming across the table in waves.

The handsome Harlequin was oblivious of it. He jumped up and raised his gla.s.s. "Bottoms up! Bottoms up," he cried recklessly. "The party's getting slow!"

Abdullah in his grotesque high-crowned hat leaned across the table with a sneer--he was seated between the two women. "As usual, you're liberal with the wine when another man is buying," he said.

It was evident that all three people across the table knew Harlequin too well for their own peace of mind, though they seemed to be unknown to each other.

Harlequin paid no attention, having already launched forth in a speech. The men were always making speeches. What this one was about I couldn't tell you; a lot of windy, humorous nonsense. Abdullah sat opposite, glowering and fingering his gla.s.s; muttering to himself. Finally he said aloud: "Oh, we've heard that before. Change your line! Change your line!"