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

“It is obvious that master minds do not work for nothing, and when I

checked up what Mrs. Julian had paid out with what Bunbury had

received, the motive for the crime became obvious. Ram Lal was too

successful. He felt that he had become independent of his master. He

had defied the master, and so he had to be made to feel his power.”

“But,” I objected, “if it was Bunbury who warned us, when we got to the

house he tried to keep us out of the boudoir!”

“Think back, Bella,” she said with a smile. “The objections he raised

were of a sort to make us determined to enter! … It is one thing to

know who committed a crime and another to produce sufficient evidence

to obtain a conviction,” she went on. “The men I assigned to watch

Mrs. Julian’s house followed Bunbury to his room on Forty-Seventh

Street, and so we discovered where he was accustomed to meet and

instruct his accomplices. His Academy of Faking you might call it.

But by the time they could get inside he had made a clean sweep of

everything in the nature of evidence, of course. Bunbury made no such

clumsy mistake as Cushack who threw the bottles in his waste basket.

“I questioned a dozen people in the house before I turned up ore in the

person of Withy. However, the word ‘wafer’ which Withy overheard had

no significance until after I had tricked Mrs. Bracker into testifying

that Ram Lal had taken a wafer. Then it took on a deadly effect. When

one of these watertight crimes once springs a leak, it is all over.”

“It’s lucky for the sake of justice that Bunbury telephoned you that

day,” remarked Rumsey.

“Yes, that was his weakness,” said Mme. Storey. “Like all criminals of

his type, Bunbury is devoured by a secret vanity. The result of too

many years’ suppression as a butler perhaps. When his plot was all

ready to shoot he was so crazy about it, it looked so absolutely

detection proof, that he couldn’t bear to let it work unseen. So he

gave me a ring. It was obviously an afterthought because his

associates were not informed of it. And he might have got away with

it, too, had it not been for his fatal style!”

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Taken for a Ride

The seats sent to Madame Storey and I were in row S about half-way back

in the immense auditorium; the opera was Siegfried. The Terwilliger

box was still unoccupied when the curtain went up, and I had to possess

my soul in patience during the long first act, which was played to a

completely darkened house. I was so excited I could give less than

half my attention to the music. Owing to the prominence of the persons

concerned, our new case bade fair to be one of the biggest things Mme.

Storey had ever undertaken. Terwilliger is a name to conjure with all

over the world. The Terwilligers are our Rothschilds.

The moment the lights went up I turned my head over my shoulder. The

Terwilliger box is in the centre of the golden horseshoe; that is to

say, where the royal box would be if this did not happen to be a

republic. The party had come. In the right-hand corner I recognised

the effulgent Mrs. Terwilliger in green velvet and diamonds, but the

other two ladies were strangers to me. Neither could I identify the

three gentlemen in the obscurity of the back of the box. I speculated

vainly upon which might be Dr. Felix Portal, head of the Terwilliger

Institute, and an even more famous man, if that is possible, than his

wealthy patron. It was Dr. Portal who was responsible for our presence

in the opera house that night.

We did not immediately leave our seats for the intermission, since we

had no wish to advertise our presence generally in the foyer. We

waited until people were beginning to drift back down the aisles before

we got up and mixed with the gossiping, cigarette-smoking throng

outside. When the bell rang to give warning of the second act we

scurried along like everybody else, and so contrived it that the rising

of the curtain found us in the secluded corridor back of the parterre

boxes. It was quickly emptied of all save ourselves. When we were

satisfied nobody was observing us, we opened the door leading into the

Terwilliger box.

The door does not lead directly into the box but into a charming little

ante-room furnished like the rest of the magnificent old building in

red and gold. There were dainty little sofas and chairs with curved

legs as in a boudoir. We were separated from the box proper by heavy

velvet curtains which are kept closely drawn during the performance.

As we entered, the curtains parted and a man whom I knew must be Dr.

Portal joined us with a polite smile.

As in the case of most great men one’s first impression was

disappointing. He was a small man, and instead of the noble and

venerable head I expected, I beheld a somewhat sharp physiognomy with a

long nose and a retreating forehead. But I had not been a moment in

his company before the real distinction of the man became apparent. I

observed that the back part of his head was fine and full, and that,

they say, holds the really important part of the brain. He had a noble

eye, too, blue and gleaming with an inward fire. It had the curiously

remote glance of one who dwells mostly in the realm of thought. It

expressed an attractive compound of wisdom and innocence. His voice

too, had the measured quality of one who thinks before he speaks. Oh,

there was no doubt that he was one of the exceptional men of our time.

Outside, the auditorium had been darkened again and the violins were

making the whole house throb with feeling. It provided a strange

accompaniment to the interview which followed. There was a deprecating

quality in Dr. Portal’s smile that was very winning, considering what a

great man he was. In other words, he was a little in awe of the

beautiful Madame Storey.

“So good of you to respond to my appeal for aid!” he murmured.

“Not at all,” she answered quickly. “I feel flattered in receiving an

appeal from you.” And she meant it. She brought me up. “My

secretary, Miss Brickley. I want her to take notes of what you tell

me, so that I won’t have to waste your time by asking you to repeat any

of it later.”

We sat down, Mme. Storey and Dr. Portal side by side on a little sofa,

and me facing them with my notebook on my knee. Once the courteous

greetings had been exchanged, deep harassed lines appeared in the

famous scientist’s face. Whatever this business might be, clearly it

was no joke to him. He showed a curious petulance also, as if the

scientist in him resented being dragged down from the calm realms of

thought.

“You will think the manner of this appointment very strange,” he said.

“The truth is, I find myself followed and watched wherever I go, and I

wished to keep it a secret, at least for the present, that I was

consulting you.”

“You did right,” said Mme. Storey. “Please go on.”

The voice of the young Siegfried was now ringing through the house,

supported by the murmuring violins. It lent an almost unbearably

emotional effect to the doctor’s tale of murder.

“It concerns the shocking accident which happened at the Institute a

month ago,” he began. “My principal assistant, Dr. Edgar McComb, was

found shot dead in his office. I suppose you read of it at the time.

It has attracted very little notice simply because there were no

sensational circumstances to whet the public appetite. Now that a

month has passed it remains just as much of a mystery as it was on the

morning the body was discovered. The police pretend to be working upon

the case still, but they have nothing to go on. No clues of any sort.

Nobody saw the assailant enter or leave the building; no fingerprints

were found in the room save those of the doctor himself. And what is

even more baffling, no possible motive for the crime has been

unearthed. Dr. McComb had no enemies; no difficulties either financial

or amatory. He was happily married, and his private life was a model

of regularity. Some have thought it must have been the chance act of a

madman, but that theory won’t hold water either; because the doctor

must have made an appointment to meet his assailant in the laboratory

that night, and must have admitted him to the building. What is more,

they were heard talking quietly together shortly before the shot must

have been fired.”

“Who heard them talking?” asked Mme. Storey.

“The night watchman, Amadeo Corioli. In making his rounds through the

bacteriological laboratory at ten o’clock he saw a light in Dr.

McComb’s office, and heard the sound of quiet voices as he passed the

closed door. An hour later, when he passed, the light was out, and he

supposed the doctor had gone home. Either Dr. McComb or I or both of

us often worked in the laboratory until late. The body was discovered

by the cleaning women in the morning.”

“But a month has passed, doctor,” said Mme. Storey reproachfully.

“What can I hope to do with so cold a trail?… Why didn’t you consult

me sooner?”

“Ah, I wish I had! I wish I had!” he said with a painful gesture.

“But to tell you the truth, it never came close to me until a few days

ago. I was content to leave it to the police.”

“Never came close to you?” said my employer. “What do you mean by

that?”

He answered her indirectly. His agitation was visibly increasing.

“True, the morning after the tragedy,” he said, “Mrs. McComb, who was

in a highly hysterical state, accused me in veiled terms of being

responsible for her husband’s death. I was inexpressibly shocked by

the scene, but naturally I ascribed it to her condition. I never gave

it a moment’s thought until two or three days ago when I noticed that I

was being watched and followed. It was a strange experience for me to

have! … Then I began to perceive that the attitude of those who

surround me at the Institute had changed subtly. Something ugly had

come into their regard.” The speaker shuddered. “Ugh! it was

horrible! Finally I demanded an explanation from one of the young

doctors in whom I have confidence. He told me…” For the moment Mr.

Portal seemed to be unable to continue. “He told me,” he said

brokenly, “that a story was going around that I, actuated by a mean

jealousy of a brilliant rising man, had procured the death of Edgar

McComb!”

Mme. Storey and I gazed at him incredulously. It seemed impossible to

believe that one whom the whole world looked upon as the high priest of

science should be mixed up in anything like this!

In his agitation Dr. Portal sprang up and struck his clenched hands

against his breast. Fortunately the swelling music drowned the sound

of his voice. “Me! Me!” he cried; “accused of murder! Me, whose life

has been as open as the day! Whose every thought has been given to my

work! Is it not unjust? Is it not incredible that such a story should

be circulated and believed? My informant said that he didn’t believe

it, but