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

I shook my head. “Only the reflection. The flash was hidden behind

the bank of flowers. The pistol was fired from the edge of the table,

right there at Abdullah’s place.”

Mr. Punch rubbed his hands in satisfaction. “That seems to be

conclusive then. That lets Zuleika out. Either Abdullah fired the

shot, or it was somebody who came between him and Zuleika. That could

only have been you, Anne Boleyn.”

“Mercy! I didn’t shoot Mr. Danforth,” she said with pretended

nervousness. “Why, I scarcely knew him!”

He pounced on this admission. “Then you did know him?”

“I only met him once before tonight,” she said. “It was at a cabaret

in Harlem. It was then that he gave me a ticket to the ball tonight,

and asked me to meet him there.”

“Will you unmask, miss, so we can all see your face?” he asked suddenly.

My heart skipped a beat, for of course Mme. Storey’s photograph has

been published repeatedly. Everybody knows her face. But she was

equal to the situation.

“I won’t be the only one to show my face,” she said, drawing back.

“I’ll take off my mask if you will.”

He dropped the subject. “Can you prove to us,” he said, “that you

could not have fired the shot?”

“What do you expect me to say?” she answered with an innocent air. “If

those were my two guns I would not have produced the second one, would

I? I would not have shown you that they were of the same make.”

“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Punch suavely. “It stands to reason

you didn’t do it.”

He next turned his attention to me. “Who brought you to the ball?” he

asked.

Instantly I had to find a plausible answer. It came without thinking.

“Mr. Smith,” I said.

“What Mr. Smith? Where does he work?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I only met him on his evenings off. He

brought me to the ball.”

“How was he dressed?”

“As Pierrot. There were so many of them I lost him. I didn’t care.”

“Will you unmask for us?”

Now my face is unknown to fame, and it occurred to me that I would

inspire these people with confidence if I obeyed. So I lifted my mask

for a moment and let it snap back. I saw the corners of my employer’s

mouth twitch. She approved of what I had done. And Mr. Punch was

satisfied.

“What can you tell us about this business?” he asked.

It was clear to me by this time that he was only interested in getting

evidence against Abdullah, and I tried to play up to him.

“Well, I could see that Abdullah was sore against Harlequin,” I said.

“He was watching him all the time.”

“We know that already,” said Mr. Punch. “What else?”

“Well, just before the lights went out I saw him lift the cloth and

look under the table.”

“Good!” cried Mr. Punch. “He wanted to see how to disconnect the

lights. Will you tell this to the police?”

I nodded.

“Aw, you’re all against me!” cried Abdullah despairingly, and my

conscience reproached me. But I was only following instructions.

Mr. Punch turned to Mephisto. “Can you add anything?” he asked. He

never asked Mephisto to unmask, and so I judged he already knew him.

“Well,” said Mephisto with an air of seeming reluctance, “when the two

of them were fighting I saw Abdullah pull the gun. He dropped it on

the floor when they were separated.”

“You lie!” cried Abdullah. “You’re swearing my life away! If you saw

this why didn’t you say so before?”

“I didn’t want to make trouble,” said Mephisto deprecatingly. “I

always want to avoid trouble. In the heat of passion any man is likely

to do something he regrets afterward. As long as the gun was unloaded

I thought it was all right. Never occurred to me you would be carrying

two guns.”

“I didn’t even have one gun!” cried Abdullah.

Nobody paid any attention to what he said.

“Now we’re beginning to clear this thing up,” said Mr. Punch in great

satisfaction. “We’d all be better off if you had taken my advice and

seen it through on the spot. Will you swear to what you have said

before the police, Mephisto?”

“If I must, I must,” said the big man, spreading out his hands.

“Though I don’t wish the poor fellow any harm.”

By this time Zuleika had returned to the room and seated herself as far

as possible away from Jackie.

“Mrs. Danforth,” said Mr. Punch, “will you swear that you knocked

against the gun in this man’s pocket when you seated yourself at the

table?”

“Sure!” she said with a poisonous glance at Abdullah.

By this time the concerted plan to railroad the unfortunate fellow,

whether innocent or guilty, was becoming almost more than I could stand

in silence. I glanced anxiously at my employer, wondering when she was

going to take action.

Mr. Punch was not yet through with him. “Jackie,” he said to the girl,

“you were directly across the table when the shot was fired. You ought

to be able to tell us more about it.”

Abdullah sprang up and approached the girl. “Kitty, for God’s sake,

don’t join in this!” he cried brokenly. “You know me, Kitty. You used

to be fond of me. Have you forgotten all that?”

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, shrinking from him. “You are not worthy

to tie his laces!”

“Sit down!” shouted Mr. Punch, pounding the table. The broken Abdullah

dropped in his seat. “Then you know who he is,” he continued to Jackie.

“Sure,” she said sullenly. “I knew him as soon as he knew me. It’s

Frank Harris!”

Leaping up again, Abdullah tore off his mask and cast it on the floor.

“Look your fill at me!” he cried recklessly. “Yes, I’m Frank Harris!

What have I done to any of you that you’re all trying to send me to the

chair?”

Again we had that dramatic shock when another of the masked faces was

suddenly revealed. Under stress of his feelings the man’s face was

scarcely human. But he looked like an ordinary, honest sort of fellow.

You couldn’t help but pity him.

“A member of the Executive Committee!” exclaimed Mr. Punch in a

scandalised voice. The air was full of hypocrisy.

Jackie had no mercy on the poor wretch. These delicate girls can be as

cruel as Satan when their feelings are aroused. “I’ll tell you

something more about him!” she cried stridently. “When he says he

never handled a gun he lies! For six months past every hour he could

get he’s been practising with a pistol in a gallery on Fourteenth

Street. He’s a dead shot!”

Mr. Punch smiled cruelly between the false nose and chin. “I guess

we’ve heard enough,” he said. “Let’s take him to the police.”

At last Mme. Storey spoke up—but she seemed to have no more mercy for

the snivelling Abdullah-Harris than the rest of them. “You’d better

make him come clean first,” she suggested. “If he’s going to deny

everything the police will hold us all.”

A general murmur of assent went around.

“I won’t confess!” shouted Harris. “You can all be damned! Take me to

the police! I’d sooner face them than a set of vultures like you!”

Mr. Punch tried in vain to browbeat the man into making a confession,

but Harris only cried and cursed and turned stubborn. Finally Anne

Boleyn said smoothly:

“Let me see what I can get out of him.”

With a shrug, Mr. Punch moved over on the little sofa, and she sat on

the other end, making two judges instead of one. She lit a cigarette

and deliberated between every question she asked, blowing the smoke in

the air.

“Harris, you’re taking the wrong line altogether,” she began smoothly.

“If Danforth was a blackguard, as you say, let that be your defence.

If you can prove it, no jury would convict you.”

Harris calmed down, and scowled at her suspiciously. He didn’t know

how to take this. On the other hand Mrs. Danforth was angered by it.

However, Anne Boleyn smiled at her as much as to say, “I’m only trying

to entrap the man,” and the other woman subsided.

“Harris,” said Anne Boleyn, “you knew George Danforth tonight even

before he raised his mask. I was watching you.”

“Well, what of it?” he grumbled.

“How did you know him?”

Harris twisted in his chair. “If you must know, Mr. Denby, our

president, told me Danforth was going to wear a Harlequin outfit. With

that lead I recognised him from his figure.”

Mr. Punch’s make-up hid his face well, but I could imagine that this

disclosure made him uneasy. His whole poise towards my employer

betrayed it.

“Was Mr. Denby aware that you were sore at Danforth?” asked Anne Boleyn.

“Sure,” said Harris. “I told him how he had taken my girl, and he said

he was a blackguard. Mr. Denby’s a good friend of mine. He wouldn’t

let you hound me like this if he was here.”

“If Danforth was a blackguard why wasn’t he fired from the Association?”

“President Denby didn’t want to do it,” said Harris. “He thought it

would make too much talk.”

“And what did Danforth say?”

“Danforth went around bragging that they couldn’t fire him out because

he had too much on Denby.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t pay no attention. Danforth was a crook.”

“Where has Danforth been working since he left the Creighton Woodleys?”

“Hasn’t been working anywhere. Just swelling around. He said the

Association would have to support him as long as he lived.”

“But Mr. Danforth took me home in a high-powered car that time,” said

Anne Boleyn. “He wore diamonds. He gave suppers to the ladies. Was

the Association paying for all that?”

“I didn’t believe they were,” said Harris. “Danforth was a crook.”

“But don’t you know?”

“No,” said Harris sullenly. “That’s up to the treasurer, Mr. Ebbitt.”

“But you’re a member of the Executive Committee.”

“We left everything to Denby and Ebbitt. Those two are the strong men

of the Association. They have a powerful hold on the members.”

“What gave them such a powerful hold?” asked Anne Boleyn softly.

“Well, during their term of office they have added a hundred thousand

dollars to our benefit fund. And fifty thousand to the Women’s

Auxiliary. They are fine men.”

“Where did they get it all?”

“From investments. Mr. Ebbitt, the treasurer, takes the dues and

invests the money in Wall Street and cleans up. He then hands the

money to me for the benefit fund. I run that,” Harris said, with a

pitiful sort of pride.

“Has the treasurer ever made a report to the Association?”

“Nobody wants a report as long as the money’s coming in.”

“When did he last pay in something to the fund?”

“Six weeks ago. Ten thousand. But he took that back again.”

“Why?”

“Said he saw a chance to double it on the Street.”

“Six weeks ago? Wasn’t that just the time when Danforth came out with

his big car and his diamonds?”

“Well—yes,” muttered Harris dubiously.

I could well believe that this line of