The Almost Perfect Murder by Hulbert Footner (reading the story of the TXT) 📕

remove their wraps. When Fay left the room something of the inferno of

passion that was consuming Whittall broke through the mask he wore. He

looked at me as much as to say: What the hell are you doing here? I

paid no attention. Mme. Storey entered, and he smiled at her

obsequiously. Mme. Storey lit a cigarette, and lingered in the

sitting-room exchanging some trivial remarks with Whittall until Fay

returned. She then said something about tidying herself, and entered

Fay’s room alone.

When she came back we sat down at the table, and the waiters entered.

Mme. Storey, alone of the women, was not in evening dress, nevertheless

by her mere presence she dominated the scene. Everybody else was

trying to be funny. There was a ghastly hollowness about it. Whittall

was the loudest of all. Fay seemed pleasant towards him, but I

suspected that her pleasant manner concealed a certain reserve. Mrs.

Brunton seemed to be satisfied that everything was going well, as long

as there was plenty of noise.

Fay occupied the place of honour at the head of the table, with Mme.

Storey on one hand, and me on the other. Kreuger sat next to Mme.

Storey, and Mrs. Brunton next to me. Whittall faced Fay across the

table. Fay, I remember, was wearing a pale pink gown embroidered with

self-coloured beads in a quaint design. It lent her beauty an

exquisite fragility. When he thought nobody was looking at him, I

would catch Whittall gazing at her like a lost soul.

The meal, I suppose, left nothing to be desired. I cannot remember

what we ate or drank. Some day I hope I may be invited to such a

perfect little supper when my mind is at peace. This one was wasted on

all of us. It was soon over, and the cigarettes lighted. Mrs. Brunton

chattered on.

“There was twenty-one hundred dollars in the house tonight. That’s a

hundred and fifty more than capacity.”

“How do you do that sum?” asked Whittall facetiously.

“Standees,” said Mrs. Brunton. “… And what a house! So warm and

responsive. I could have hugged them to my breast!”

“Rather an armful,” put in Whittall.

“And when she finished her waltz song, didn’t they rise to her! Oh, it

was wonderful! Never have I heard such applause! And didn’t she look

sweet when she came out to acknowledge it? I declare her pretty eyes

were full of real tears!”

“Well, I thought maybe it was the last time,” said Fay.

“I thought they would never let her go!” Mrs. Brunton rhapsodised.

“She took fourteen calls!”

“Oh, mamma!” protested Fay, laughing. “Draw it mild!”

“Fourteen!” said Mrs. Brunton firmly. “I said it, and I stick to it!

Fourteen!”

She appealed to Whittall and to Kreuger, and they made haste to agree

in order to shut her up.

“One doesn’t have to exaggerate the successes of a girl like Fay,” she

went on complacently. “I saw Mildred Mortimer and her mother hidden

away at the back of the house. I can. imagine what their feelings

were!”

Such was Mrs. Brunton’s style. She turned it on like a tap. She had

been something of a beauty in her day, and she looked quite handsome

tonight in her black evening gown, with her hair freshened up with

henna, and prettily dressed.

Whittall, I remember, made an effort to break up the party. “Fay, you

look tired,” he said. “I think we’d better beat it.”

Fay protested. Kreuger, always eager to take a hint from his master,

pushed his chair back. No one else moved. I saw Mme. Storey, for whom

this suggestion was really intended, glance at her wrist watch. Then

she helped herself to a cigarette, and gave the conversation a fresh

start.

The crisis was precipitated by an innocent question of Fay’s. “Why are

you so quiet, Rosika?”

“I am thinking of that poor lady who is dead,” said Mme. Storey gravely.

It was like an icy hand laid on each heart there. A deathly silence

fell on us. It seemed to last for ever. I felt paralysed. Mrs.

Brunton was the first to recover herself. She was afraid of Mme.

Storey, and dared not be openly rude, but her anger was evident enough

in her voice.

“Oh, I say! What a thing to bring up at such a time and place! I’m

surprised at you, Mme. Storey!”

“We are all thinking of her,” said Mme. Storey. “It would be better to

clear our minds of the subject.”

“I wasn’t thinking of her, I assure you!”

Even the gentle Fay was resentful. “It’s not fair to Darius,” she

murmured.

“Darius is a man and must face things!”

I glanced at Whittall. He had the look of one braced to receive a

fatal stroke.

“I am so sorry for her!” murmured Fay distressfully. “I often think

about her and wonder… But, Rosika, is it my fault that I am happy?

that I have everything, while she is dead?”

Mme. Storey made no reply to this.

“She solved her problems in her own way!” cried Mrs. Brunton excitedly.

“Who shall blame her? Can’t you leave her in peace?”

“She did not kill herself,” said Mme. Storey slowly. “She was

murdered.”

Again that awful silence. Horror crushed us.

Whittall lost his grip on himself. “You promised me … you promised

me…!” he cried shakily, “that you would not tell her…”

“We had better not talk about promises,” said Mme. Storey with a steady

look at him.

“Darius! … you already knew this!” gasped Fay.

He could make no answer.

Fay turned to Mme. Storey. “Rosika … how do you know? … how do you

know?” she faltered.

“She received a letter that evening which drew her out to the pavilion.

She was unarmed when she left the house.”

“Then it’s quite clear,” said Fay, laughing hysterically. “The letter

must have been from her lover. He pleaded with her for the last time,

and when she was obdurate he shot her in a fit of desperation.”

“She was shot within three minutes of leaving the house,” said Mme.

Storey relentlessly. “Not much time for pleading. No! Somebody was

waiting for her in the pavilion with the gun ready.”

“But it must have been her lover!” wailed Fay.

Mme. Storey sat looking straight ahead of her, pale and immovable as

Nemesis. “It was somebody who is amongst us here,” she said.

You could hear the tight breasts around the table labouring for breath.

Each of us glanced with furtive dread at our companions. Whittall

broke again.

“Well, who? … who? … who?” he cried wildly, “Out with it!”

“Somebody amongst us here?” quavered Mrs. Brunton in a high falsetto.

“I never heard of such a thing!”

The ageing woman with her touched-up cheeks and dyed hair looked like a

caricature of herself. Everybody around the table looked stricken,

clownish, scattered in the wits. I’m sure I was no exception. Only my

beautiful mistress was as composed as Death.

“Fay,” she asked, “what were you doing on the evening of September

eleventh?”

I turned absolutely sick at heart. Mrs. Brunton and Whittall loudly

and angrily protested. The exquisite girl shrank away from Mme.

Storey, and went as pale as paper. Apart from the noisy voices of the

others I heard her dismayed whisper.

“Rosika! … I? … I? … Oh, Rosika, surely you can’t think that

I…”

“This is too much!” cried Mrs. Brunton, jumping up. “Must we submit to

be insulted here in our own rooms? Mr. Whittall, are you going to

permit this to go any further?”

“No!” cried Whittall, banging the table. “This woman is taking too

much on herself! She has no right to catechise us!”

Mme. Storey looked at me. “Bella,” she said, “admit the gentleman who

is waiting outside.”

As well as my legs would serve me I got to the door. Inspector Rumsey

was in the corridor. He came in.

With a wave of the hand, Mme. Storey introduced him to the gaping

company. “Inspector Rumsey and I are acting in concert in this

matter,” she said. “I suppose you will allow that he has a right to

ask questions.”

Rumsey quietly sat down in a chair away from the table.

“Now, Fay,” said Mme. Storey.

The girl raised her gentle eyes in an imploring and reproachful glance

upon her friend. “Oh, Rosika, how can you?” she murmured.

Mme. Storey’s face was like a mask. “I must do my duty as I see it.

Answer my question, please.”

Fay put a hand over her eyes. “That was the night of the first showing

of ‘Ashes of Roses’,” she murmured. “I did not go. I was not well. I

went to bed when Mamma went out.”

“But you got up again,” said Mme. Storey remorselessly. “I have a

report from the garage where you keep your cars, stating that you

telephoned for the convertible at 8.10 that night, and that it was

handed over to you at the door of your hotel five minutes later. It

was returned to the garage at half-past ten.”

“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 notebook.

“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 notebook. “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