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

business and it will still be doing its work as long as you’re in the

same room.”

“How convenient!”

Seating herself, she took another sandwich. Meanwhile Liptrott turned

a switch, and the crackling recommenced. He had set up a little

vertical steel disc on top of the box, and turned it towards Mme.

Storey. For a while nothing was said.

“Do you feel anything?” he asked at last.

“A sort of pleasant warmth stealing through my veins.”

“That’s it!” he cried exultantly. “Increased vitality … I am only

giving you a very little,” he added. “Too much would be dangerous,

very dangerous!”

It was impossible to tell from Mme. Storey’s expression whether she was

really impressed or not. Rumsey was watching her covertly.

Liptrott presently switched off the current. “That’s enough,” he said,

“or you wouldn’t get any sleep tonight.”

“I am tingling all over,” she said.

He carefully deposited the box in its case together with the various

cords and handles, and locked it up. He then stood up with a manner

that he intended to be very dramatic, but it was pathetic in one so

old. His eyes were quite daft then.

“Now that I have convinced you of the worth of my invention,” he said,

“I have a statement to make.”

Mme. Storey was calmly eating. “What is it?”

He folded his arms like an old-time actor. “It was me who killed

Professor Ram Lal.”

“Good God! how?” exclaimed Rumsey.

“With my machine. I gave him the full charge. It killed him. I told

Mme. Storey over the ‘phone I was going to do it.”

“Yours was not the voice I heard over the ‘phone,” I said.

“I changed my voice to sound young.”

“What did you do it for?” demanded the Inspector.

“He was a blackguard and a swindler! I killed him to save Mrs. Julian.”

“Is there anything in this?” said the Inspector turning to Mme. Storey.

She glanced at the old man enigmatically. “I find it hard to believe,”

she said, “because I only experienced good from the machine.” Clearly,

this was to draw him out.

Mildly as the doubt was expressed, it roused Liptrott to a crazy fury.

In order to justify his invention he was willing, it appeared, to send

himself to the chair. “It’s true! It’s true,” he cried stamping on

the floor. “What can build up can also destroy! If I had an animal

here, a dog, a cat, a bird, I could prove it to you. I would kill it

before your eyes.”

My employer pretended to raise objections. “I don’t want anything

killed.”

“Then I won’t kill it,” said Liptrott. “I’ll just drive it crazy for a

while. That will show you…. Send out to an animal store,” he

begged; “get a guinea pig, a young dog, anything that has life!”

The upshot of this strange scene was that I was presently despatched to

the basement to borrow the house cat from the engineer.

He had his machine out of the box again, and was testing it when I

entered. He had calmed down, but his glance was still perfectly

insane. “It will be a little difficult to take her register,” he said.

“You had better hold her since she’s accustomed to you.”

I held the cat on her back in my lap, putting the zinc cylinder against

her breast as Liptrott told me, while he steadied her hindquarters.

She was a gentle cat and made no protest at first, but suddenly with a

loud miaow, she leaped from my lap and running to the door, scratched

at it, and looked at me reproachfully over her shoulder.

“I have her register!” cried Liptrott, glancing at his dial. “It is

seven six eight. A very strong cat. So much the better!”

Switching on the current he turned the steel disc in the direction of

the cat. She, seeing that no further move was made against her, sat

down with admirable composure, and started licking her paw.

It all seemed like crazy nonsense to me, nevertheless my heart was

beating fast. There was something uncanny about it. There was no

sound in the room but the muffled crackling and buzzing from inside the

box.

Suddenly the cat with an uneasy whine arose and stood as if listening,

twitching her tail. She crouched and whimpered, twisting her head from

side to side. Then with a cry she began to run. She ran straight into

the wall. She seemed to have increased to twice her size and her tail

stood up as thick as a fox’s brush. Faster and faster she ran like a

creature possessed, until she seemed to be running straight around the

walls.

Liptrott switched off the current. He laughed and slapped his thigh in

childish delight. “Now will you believe me! Now will you believe me!”

he babbled.

I stared at him in horror. Crazy he certainly was, but it seemed to me

that he possessed the power of life and death in that black box!

“Good God, then it’s true!” muttered the Inspector. “It was he who

killed Ram Lal!”

“He had no more to do with Ram Lal’s death than I had,” said Mme.

Storey coolly from her chair. “I suspected it from the first. Now I

know it. There is nothing the matter with the cat but a shot of

cocaine. I saw him give her the needle while Bella held her.”

Poor Rumsey looked excessively foolish. I know I felt so.

Liptrott, when his trick was exposed, snarled with rage, and started

cursing us all. His guards led him away.

“Nothing in it but a crazy desire to win notoriety for his machine,”

said Mme. Storey. “There’s no use bringing him up in court. Better

take him home to his hotel.”

Since I had inside information that the suspects in the Ram Lal case

were not to be arraigned until near the close of the session, I did not

go to court until after four. The place was the West Side Court on

Fifty-Third Street. I was provided with a witness’ card which would

admit me to a seat on the front benches.

The gross figure of Jim Shryock was lolling in the corner seat of the

front row. With a sneer fixed in his face, he was idly trimming his

nails. An entirely unscrupulous lawyer with mysterious political

affiliations, he was one of the most sinister figures in New York.

Everybody knew he was a crook, but it seemed impossible to reach him.

In the end I’m glad to say, Mme. Storey caught him with the goods. But

that’s another story.

I was astonished to see that he had old Liptrott sitting beside him.

At the moment I was unable to figure out the significance of this move.

Liptrott was quiet enough then.

The magistrate was McManigal, one of the newer appointees who take

themselves very seriously.

As the moments passed, the frown on Inspector Rumsey’s face deepened.

He knew that he was doomed to cut a ridiculous figure in court unless

Mme. Storey came to his aid before our suspects were arraigned.

Finally their names were called, and they were brought in. Cushack was

trying to look nonchalant, while Mrs. Bracker was tight-lipped and

defiant. Both wished to have it understood that though they happened

to be arraigned together, there was no connection between them. Jim

Shryock arose lazily, and entered the enclosure to whisper with them.

Rumsey started a speech to the bench relating all the circumstances of

Ram Lal’s death. He was obviously sparring for time, and his Honour

soon became impatient.

“Inspector, it’s scarcely necessary to go into detail concerning a

matter that has been so thoroughly written up in the newspapers. Just

present your evidence against these persons and I’ll hold them.”

Rumsey bowed, and called to the stand a clerk from the store of Almon

and Emory who testified to the sale of a hypodermic needle to Mrs.

Bracker, and identified the order she had presented for it signed by

Dr. Cushack. The clerk was followed by a policeman who testified to

the finding of a needle on Mrs. Bracker after the death of Ram Lal.

Inspector Rumsey then called me to the stand to testify as to the

obvious jealousy and hatred that Cushack and Mrs. Bracker had exhibited

towards Ram Lal.

“Is that all?” asked the magistrate, running up his eyebrows.

“That is all, your Honour.”

Shryock spoke up. “If you please, your Honour, Mrs. Bracker would like

to testify in her own behalf concerning that needle.”

She was put on the stand and sworn. In her neat, close-fitting grey

suit and shaped hat she was as smart as paint. Just the same she was a

horrible-looking woman with those ghastly starved cheeks, and mouth

like a red gash in her powdered face. She sat down, crossed her legs

and spread her gloves on her knee with a great pretence of

self-possession.

“Do you admit buying the needle at Almon and Emory’s?” asked Shryock

smoothly.

“Certainly. But that was not the one they found in my pocket.”

“One moment! Just confine yourself to answering my questions,

please…. For what purpose did you buy that needle?”

“Well, I told Mrs. Julian I bought it for a friend,” she said volubly,

“but that was only a stall. I’m not an addict but I take cocaine

occasionally for my neuralgia. And Dr. Cushack told me it was nicer to

take it in liquid form. So I bought the needle. But I didn’t like

taking it that way, so I threw it away.”

“Oh, you threw it away. Where?”

“One night when I was crossing Brooklyn Bridge in a taxi I threw it out

of the window.”

“What about the needle that was found in your pocket?”

“I know nothing about that!” she cried stridently. “It wasn’t mine!

It was planted on me!”

“All right,” said Shryock. “That’s all.” He turned to Rumsey. “Will

you question her, Inspector?”

“No,” said Rumsey glumly.

Shryock’s next move was to put Liptrott on the stand. “When Ram Lal

fell down dead in Mrs. Julian’s boudoir,” the lawyer sad, “I understand

that you and these two people were seated behind him and to one side

against the wall.”

“Yes, sir.” The old man was perfectly composed. “I was nearest to the

Hindoo, then Mrs. Bracker, then the Doctor.”

“Did either of those persons move from their places while the s�ance

was going on?”

“No, sir. They never moved.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. They couldn’t have reached the Hindoo without passing

in front of me.”

“All right. Now I’ve got just one more question to ask you.” Shryock

glanced around the court as much as to say there was something good

coming. “Can you tell me anything about the hypodermic needle that was

found in Mrs. Bracker’s pocket?”

A foolish grin spread over the old man’s face. He scratched his neck

with a forefinger. “Sure,” he said, “that was my needle. I planted it

in her pocket.”

His words created a mild sensation in the room. All realised that what

little was left of the Inspector’s case had gone glimmering.

“Why did you do that?” asked Shryock.

“Well, when I seen Ram Lal was dead I thought maybe they’d try to hang

it on me,” the old man said with his witless grin. “I had the needle

in my pocket, and I thought they’d make out