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

knowledge.”

“By order of the police,” said Mme. Storey.

Some moments passed before he could give a coherent account of the

death-bed scene. “At a few minutes before five yesterday,” he finally

began, “I was called to the telephone by William Gabbitt, the

Commodore’s valet. Gabbitt told me that his master was very sick; that

he had found him lying helpless on the floor of his bedroom; that it

seemed to be a gastric attack such as he had had before, only worse.

So I hastily gathered a few things together, digitalis…”

“Digitalis?” she interrupted, “what was that for?”

“Heart,” he said, “that was the danger. I instructed my secretary to

telephone for Orrin, the stomach specialist, and I ran here—I live

just around the corner. I was here within five minutes of receiving

the call, but I instantly saw that my old friend was done for; he was

already at the point of collapse.”

“Who was with him?”

“Gabbitt, and Jarboe, the butler. I sent for Mrs. Varick, but she was

out of the house. I wouldn’t allow anybody else in the room. I did

all the things that one does, but it was too late. I sent Gabbitt

running to my office for atropine, and Jarboe to the pantry for an

ice-pack. Before either of them got back the Commodore was dead.”

“Atropine?” said Mme. Storey, softly, “is that a gastric remedy?”

“I wanted it to accelerate the beating of his heart.”

“Why didn’t you bring it with you?”

“One can’t foresee everything.”

“Then you were alone with him when he died?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you send Jarboe out of the room? There were plenty of

footmen.”

“To tell you the truth, I couldn’t bear to have a servant see my friend

in such an extremity.”

“Was he conscious?”

“I cannot say for certain. He was incapable of speaking.”

“Then he said nothing to you before he died?”

“Not a word, Madame.”

“H’m!” said Mme. Storey. I knew the same thought was in her mind as in

my own; that it was very painful to see a naturally decent and upright

man struggling to tell a convincing lie. I wondered what had taken

place in that death chamber.

“Was it not rather unwise to have no other witness to his death?” asked

Mme. Storey.

Dr. Slingluff drew himself up. “Well, I did not expect anybody to

accuse me of having poisoned my friend,” he said with dignity.

“Nobody has,” said Mme. Storey mildly. “Had you no doubts as to the

cause of death when you signed the certificate?”

“I would not have signed it if I had had. Doctor Orrin joined with me

in signing it when he came.”

“Did he suggest an autopsy?”

“No, he was quite satisfied with my explanation. Every one of us makes

mistakes.”

“This one is likely to have important results for you, doctor,” said my

employer mildly.

“Ruinous!” he cried in despair.

While she was still questioning him, we heard the sounds of a commotion

out in the middle of the house, a new voice, young and ringing. At the

sound of it, Dr. Slingluff turned paler still.

“Henry!” he gasped. “Oh, God! I can’t face him now!”

With that he turned and fled through a door. It gave on some sort of

service passage. Presumably he knew his way about the house. Mme

Storey and I looked at each other.

“Shouldn’t he be stopped?” I said.

“He is not the sort of man who can escape,” she said. “We can always

find him.”

“Was it he?” I stammered.

She slowly shook her head. “He wouldn’t have sent for the antidote,”

she said.

“But he knows who did it!”

“So it would seem,” she said with her most cryptic air.

A young man burst into the room, followed by several persons. I don’t

know who they were, servants of some sort, I assume. All these people

moved surrounded by a mob of dependants of one sort and another. The

young man turned around and waving his arms, cried: “Get out! Get

out!” They melted silently through the door, and closed it.

I recognised the heir to the Varick millions, a handsome young giant

with a mop of tawny hair, and eyes as blue as the sea. At the first

sight of him something went out of me to him that I could not get back

again. I soon learned that it was the same with everybody, man, woman

or child, but especially women, of course. I could even see by the

softened expression in Mme. Storey’s eyes that she felt it, too. I

cannot explain it; he was handsome and vigorous, but so is many another

young man who leaves you cold. I do not care for young men, as a rule.

This one had the combined attraction of a boy and a man, but that was

not the whole of it. There was something you could not resist. If he

had been a longshoreman’s son it would have been the same.

At the moment the tears were coursing down his cheeks. He was quite

unashamed of his emotion. In fact, he was so distraught by emotion

that he accepted the finding of two strangers in his mother’s boudoir

as a matter of course. He started speaking as if he had always known

us.

“My father!” he cried, searching our faces for some hope. “Is it true?

Is it true? Is he dead?”

“He is dead,” said Mme. Storey.

“Oh, nobody will ever know what this means to me!” he cried, clapping

his hands to his head. “Fathers always die, of course, but this is

different!” He turned to us again with streaming eyes. “Because I was

a bad son to him! a bad son! And now I can never make it up to him!”

His mother heard his voice and came running in from her bedroom,

followed by her secretary. She precipitated herself into her son’s

arms. From his protective attitude one might have supposed him to be

the parent.

“Poor little mother!” he crooned. “Poor little mother! This is hard

on you!”

But a strange thing happened. Over his mother’s head he exchanged a

look of the most poignant meaning with the girl behind her. Their very

souls were in that glance, then both quickly lowered their eyes. Mme.

Storey did not miss that swift look, of course. I knew it by her great

carelessness of manner.

I could not bear to be present at so intimate a family scene, and I

turned my back on it. But I could not avoid hearing what went on; the

widow’s self-pitying complaints, and her son’s clumsy attempts to

comfort her. There was something shocking in seeing the great Mrs.

Varick go all to pieces. The exquisite and flower-like woman was sadly

wilted now. So incoherent and disconnected was her speech that it gave

no hint of the real situation beyond the fact that her husband had died

with frightful suddenness. In the end the girl spoke, electrifying us

all by saying, in a curiously breathless voice: “Henry, your father was

poisoned. There has been an autopsy.”

He dropped his mother, and stepped back. “Poisoned!” he said hoarsely.

“Poisoned! … Then God help us all!”

Mme. Storey caught my arm and led me from the room. The others never

noticed whether we were there or not. In the little foyer I resisted,

thinking of my employer’s duty in the case.

“It is terrible!” I said, “but should you not stay? Will not the truth

come out?”

“Enough has come out for my present purpose,” she said dryly.

We made a tour of Commodore Varick’s private suite under guidance of

Gabbitt, the English valet. This Gabbitt was a quaint-looking person,

like the figure of a barber out of an old-fashioned print; a neat,

brisk, spare little man with a great bush of hair that looked as if it

had been artificially curled. One expected to see a comb sticking in

it ready for use. It would have been impossible to guess the man’s

age. It transpired that he had served the Commodore for over twenty

years. He was devoted to his master, but took the present situation

very philosophically. He had the air of a man who has seen so much

that nothing can astonish him any more. He answered Mme. Storey’s

questions promptly and with seeming candour. It did not appear to

occur to him that, as one of the last persons who had seen Commodore

Varick alive, he might be under suspicion too.

First we entered a plainly-furnished room at the north end of the

second floor, that Gabbitt called the office. There was a young woman

operating a typewriter here, who neither paused in her work nor so much

as looked around when we passed through. This struck me as strange. I

wondered what on earth she could be writing at such a time. Adjoining

the office was the Commodore’s study, a handsome corner room

corresponding to Mrs. Varick’s boudoir at the other end of the house.

It was luxuriously furnished in masculine style with immense

leather-covered easy-chairs grouped round the fireplace, and many rare

sporting prints hanging from the panelled walls.

Mme. Storey’s first examination of this room was hasty, but she did not

miss much. A sheet of paper lying with others on an open escritoire

attracted her attention. There was a drawer below with a key in it.

She put the paper in the drawer, locked it and took the key.

“Something I will study later,” she said.

Outside the study there was a little foyer, and from that a short

passage leading to the other rooms of the suite. Opening off the

passage were, in order, a serving pantry, a little bedroom for Gabbitt,

and the Commodore’s bathroom. Here Mme. Storey opened a wall cabinet.

Her eyes skated rapidly over the miscellaneous articles on the shelves,

and fastened on two kinds of medicine; a liquid, and some capsules in a

little pasteboard box. She asked what they were.

“Digitalis in the bottle, ‘m,” said Gabbitt. “For the heart. Fifteen

drops in water three times a day. The capsules were for the digestion;

one after every meal.”

“The Commodore was taking these at present?”

“Yes, ma’am. The prescriptions were refilled regular.”

We took these medicines, and afterwards sent them to a chemist to be

analysed.

Next came the dressing-room, another comfortable lounging place, with a

dressing-table, chiffoniers, and with clothes presses built into the

walls. Beyond it was the Commodore’s bedroom, where his body still

lay. A man was on guard there. I averted my eyes from the bed. Mme.

Storey did not examine the body at this time, but merely inquired what

lay beyond the farther door. It was Mrs. Varick’s bedroom, Gabbitt

said, and beyond that were the other rooms of her suite. Both suites

extended along the Fifth Avenue front of the house. Between the two of

them, these little people, neither of whom exceeded five feet six in

height, spread themselves over eight or more immense private chambers.

Such is earthly glory!

We returned to the study, where Mme. Storey questioned Gabbitt at some

length. The valet told how he had been having tea in the servants’

hall when a call over the house ‘phone summoned him to his master. He

found the Commodore lying in agony upon the floor of the dressing-room.

I omit the harrowing details. Assisting his master to his bed, Gabbitt