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

Inspector.

“That is for us to find out.”

“The double identification of the gun as hers is an awkward point to

get over,” he suggested.

“Matson 32’s are sold by the hundreds,” said Mme. Storey. “There is no

evidence that this one bore any distinguishing marks. Why not another

of the same design?”

“In that case Mrs. Whittall’s gun would have been found.”

“Maybe it was.”

The Inspector slowly nodded. “A case begins to shape itself,” he said.

“What do you want me to do?”

“It is not yet a matter of public interest,” said Mme. Storey. “As

soon as we have sufficient evidence that it is, we will put it in your

hands. In the meantime I wish you’d trace where and when Whittall

bought the gun that he gave his wife, and the number of it. You have

better facilities for doing that than I have.”

He nodded.

A pleasant-faced young woman, very neatly and plainly dressed, came

into my office somewhat shyly, and mutely offered me a printed slip

which had been filled in. I read at a glance that the bearer was Mary

Thole, who had been sent by Mrs. –-‘s Employment Agency as an

applicant for the position of maid. One of our operatives had brought

about this visit without the girl’s suspecting what we wanted of her.

I looked at her with a strong interest. Through my association with

Mme. Storey I have learned to read character to some degree, and I said

to myself that the lady who secured this girl would be lucky. Good

servants are rare.

I took her in to Madame Storey.

“Do you know who I am?” asked my mistress.

“Yes, Madame, I read in the papers…”

“Good! then you know something of my business. I may as well tell you

at once that I do not need a maid. That was merely a pretext.”

The girl looked at her, greatly startled.

“Oh, you have nothing to fear,” Mme. Storey went on. “I merely wished

to satisfy myself that you were an honest and a faithful girl. I am

satisfied of it. I mean to be frank with you. Mr. Whittall has

engaged himself to marry a friend of mine, a beautiful young girl. I

think that is a great shame.”

“Oh, yes, Madame!” she said earnestly. “He … he is not a good man!”

“So I think myself,” said Mme. Storey dryly. “I want you to tell me

all the circumstances surrounding Mrs. Whittall’s death.”

The girl’s eyes widened in horror, and she pressed one hand to her

cheek. “Oh, Madame, do you think … do you think … that he …!”

“Hush!” said Mme. Storey. “Answer my questions carefully, and we’ll

see.”

The girl went on in a daze, more to herself than to us: “Of course, I

always knew it was due to him … in a way … he made it impossible

for her to live … but I never thought that he might actually …”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” warned Mme. Storey. She reseated herself

at her desk.

“May I ask you something?” said Mary humbly.

“Certainly.”

“Is it … is it the beautiful young actress, Miss Brunton?”

“Yes. What put that into your head?”

“Well, it came to my mistress’s ears that her name was being connected

with Mr. Whittall’s, and she heard she was a nice girl, so it seemed a

great shame to her on the girl’s account. So she asked Miss Brunton

and her mother to come to Oakhurst—that was the name of the house—to

lunch and spend the afternoon. She wanted to stop any scandal that was

going about, that might hurt the girl. That was the sort of woman she

was; thinking of everybody before herself.”

“Hm!” said my mistress, “and did they come?”

“Yes, Madame, and my mistress told me the girl was a dear—that was her

own word, and she hoped she could really make friends with her.”

“Was Mr. Whittall present at this luncheon?”

“No, Madame. My mistress had fixed a day when she knew he would be out

of town.”

“When was this?”

“I cannot say to a day. Late in August some time. Two weeks, maybe

three, before my mistress died.”

“What can you tell me about that visit?”

“Not much, Madame. I was busy about my work, of course. When the car

drove up to carry them away, I peeped out of the window, and I had a

glimpse of the young lady, as she turned around to say good-bye. Such

a beautiful young lady! She was happy and smiling, so I supposed

everything had gone well.”

“You cannot tell me anything they did?”

“Nothing, except I heard they had tea sent out to the pavilion.”

“Who served it?”

“The butler would be at the tea-wagon, Madame, and the second man

serving.”

“What were the relations, generally, between Mr. and Mrs. Whittall?”

asked Mme. Storey.

Mary looked uncomfortable. She said in a low voice: “They were living

apart, Madame—though under the same roof, since before I came. They

never quarrelled before the servants, of course. They were cold to

each other. It was the gossip among the servants that Mr. Whittall was

always trying to persuade her to get a divorce, and she wouldn’t

because it was against the laws of her church.”

“So is self-destruction,” remarked Mme. Storey gravely.

Mary looked up quickly. Evidently this was a new thought to her.

“You considered that Mrs. Whittall was an unhappy woman?” asked Mme.

Storey.

The girl nodded. “But I never heard her complain,” she added quickly.

“Had she ever spoken of adopting a child?”

“Not seriously, Madame. Once I heard her say that a child was entitled

to a father as well as a mother.”

“Now let us come to the day of the tragedy,” said Mme. Storey. “I want

you to tell me everything that happened that day, beginning with the

morning.”

“I can’t tell you much,” said Mary. “What happened at night seems to

have driven it all out of my head…. It was Sunday. I suppose Madame

went to early mass as usual. She would not let me get up on Sunday

mornings to dress her, nor would she have the car. She walked to

church. Then came breakfast. I tidied up her room then. I don’t

remember anything about the morning; I suppose she was writing letters.

After lunch she slept; I dressed her when she got up. I scarcely saw

her during the day. She wanted us to rest on Sundays. Dinner was

always earlier; half-past six. I had heard downstairs that the master

was dining out. Mrs. Whittall didn’t dress for dinner on Sundays. She

came up from the table in less than half an hour. I was in her room

then….”

“How did she look?”

“Quite as usual, Madame. Calm and pale.”

“What happened then?”

“A few minutes later a special delivery letter was brought to the door.”

“Ha!” said Mme. Storey. “Why was this never mentioned before?”

“Nobody asked me about it, Madame.” For the first time an evasive note

sounded in the girl’s honest voice.

“Was not such a thing very unusual?”

“No, Madame. Mrs. Whittall’s mail was very large, she was interested

in so many charities and committees. So many people wrote to her

asking for one thing or another. There were often special delivery

letters; telegrams too.”

“Did you have this letter in your hands?”

“Yes, Madame. I carried it from the door to my mistress.”

“Describe it.”

“Just an ordinary white envelope with the address written on it. No

printing.”

“Did you recognise the handwriting?”

“No, Madame.”

“Was it a man’s handwriting?”

“I don’t know. I just gave it a careless glance.”

Again the evasive note. However, Mme. Storey chose to ignore it.

“Then what happened?”

“Mrs. Whittall said she wouldn’t want me any more, and I went away.”

“Then?”

“After a while, an hour maybe, she sent for me back again.”

“You found her changed then?”

Mary looked at Mme. Storey in a startled way. “Y-yes, Madame,” she

faltered. “Her cheeks were red. She was nervous. She tried to hide

it.”

“Where was the letter then?”

“It wasn’t anywhere about. It was never seen again.”

“Was there a fireplace in the room?”

Mary looked frightened again. “Y-yes, Madame.”

“Did you not look there afterwards—next day perhaps?”

The girl hung her head. “Y-yes, Madame.”

“And found some scraps of burned paper?”

“Yes, Madame.” This very low. “I swept them up.”

Once more, to my surprise, Mme. Storey dropped this line of questioning

for the moment. “What did Mrs. Whittall say to you?” she asked.

“She said her afternoon dress was too hot, Madame, and she wanted to

change. So I started to get a n�glig�e from the wardrobes, but she

said no, she had a fancy to put on her blue net evening dress that she

had never worn. She wanted her hair done in a different way, too. I

was a long time dressing her. It was the first time I had ever found

her hard to suit. At the end she asked for her blue velvet evening

cloak, as she wanted to walk in the grounds for the cool.”

“Had she ever done that before?”

“Not as far as I know, Madame.”

“Describe the blue dress.”

“A simple little frock, Madame. Just a plain, tight bodice of

charmeuse, and a full skirt of net in points over underskirts of

malines. A scarf of blue malines went with it. She had never worn it

because she said it was too young for her.”

“How old was Mrs. Whittall?”

“Thirty-seven, Madame…. She wasn’t old at all!” the girl went on

warmly. “She was beautiful! She was beautiful all over!”

“Where did she keep her revolver?” asked Mme. Storey.

“In the top drawer of the chiffonier in the bedroom. I could feel it

lying at the bottom of the drawer when I put things away.”

“Were you in the bedroom when you were dressing her that Sunday night?”

“No, Madame; in the dressing-room, which adjoined.”

“Did she leave the room at any time while you were dressing her?”

“No, Madame.”

“Did you leave the room?”

“No, Madame. The wardrobes were right there along the wall.”

“When she was dressed, who left the room first?”

“She did, Madame. I remained to tidy things up. I was still in the

dressing-room when I heard … when I heard…”

“I know,” said Mme. Storey gently. “Please attend well to what I am

going to ask you. When Mrs. Whittall left the room where did she go?”

“Out through the door into the hall, Madame, and down the stairs. I

heard her heels on the stairs. She was in a hurry.”

“She did not go into the bedroom first?”

“No, Madame.”

“Did she have anything in her hands when she went out of the

dressing-room?”

“No, Madame.”

“Did the blue cloak have a pocket in it?”

“Only a tiny pocket inside for a handkerchief.” Mary held up thumb and

finger, indicating a space of an inch and a half.

“Would it have been possible for her to conceal the revolver inside

that