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

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’

Association 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 hell, 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 glass. “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 glass; muttering to himself.

Finally he said aloud:

“Oh, we’ve heard that before. Change your line! Change your line!”

Harlequin, feeling that he had the crowd with him, hooted with

laughter. “Better a monkey than a crab,” he retorted.

Abdullah sprang up from the table, trembling. “How about a

blackguard?” he snarled. “A foul, lying blackguard!”

Harlequin gave a leap and quicker than I could follow the blow, struck

him on the side of the head. Abdullah rocked drunkenly and the tall

hat rolled to the floor. He seemed not to know how to defend himself,

but just stood there taking Harlequin’s lightning blows. His one idea

was to keep his adversary from unmasking him; he pressed a hand over

his mask to keep it on.

The wildest confusion followed. To my astonishment the two women who

had seemed to be enraged at the gay Harlequin now turned on Abdullah,

and the unfortunate Janizary was badly knocked about before aid could

reach him. Following a blind instinct we all rushed to get into it,

either to join the m�l�e or to stop it, I can hardly say which. Only

Anne Boleyn stood coldly to one side.

It was an ugly scene; men punching and cursing; women screeching and

clawing. When the two women were pulled away from Abdullah, they

attacked each other. I have a vague impression that some of the

dancers ran in from the hall, and were hustled out again by Mephisto.

I know that a couple of waiters appeared and helped to stop the fight.

Suddenly it was over. Harlequin and Abdullah were separated and

pressed back. Harlequin was laughing. He had lost his mask for good

now. The handsome, masculine face showed with extraordinary vividness

amongst all the masked ones. I had never seen the man before that

night.

I heard little Jackie moaning softly: “George! George!”

Zuleika turned on her, snarling: “Shut up, you fool! What is he to

you?”

One of Abdullah’s cheeks was badly clawed, but he had succeeded in

hanging on to his mask.

And then simultaneously we all became aware of the ugly little

automatic lying in the middle of the clear space where they had just

been struggling. We gazed at it in horror. Nobody could tell how it

had got there.

“Whose is it?” asked Mr. Punch hoarsely.

There was no answer.

“It must be