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

accommodated in Mme. Storey’s maisonnette for the present. Mme.

Storey’s servants were to feed them and make them as comfortable as

possible, and a plain-clothes man would be on guard in the entrance

corridor at all hours of the day and night. The Princess was given the

privilege of consulting counsel, but she made no move to do so. I need

hardly say that she very willingly joined with us in our little

conspiracy to keep this case out of the newspapers for the moment. We

expected it to break sooner or later.

All these arrangements having been effected, Mme. Storey telephoned to

the Varick house for the same car that had carried us away from there

three hours earlier. It was a closed car, having shades that pulled

down inside the windows, and by this means we returned to the house,

through the courtyard, without having been recognised by any of the

loungers or watchers in the street. We made our headquarters in

Commodore Varick’s office on the second floor. It was now nearly six,

and Miss Priestley, the “literary secretary,” had gone home. We had

learned that Mr. Henry Varick was still with his mother, but Mme.

Storey made no effort to see him as yet. She wished to avoid giving

him any reason to suspect that he was being investigated. We

interviewed several members of the household whom I need not mention,

since they contributed nothing of moment to the case. My job was to

take notes of all interviews.

It was not until Mme. Storey had her second talk with Gabbitt, the

Commodore’s valet, that we began to strike pay ore. The quaint little

fuzzy-headed man made an excellent witness, but how far he was telling

the truth, I could never have undertaken to say. He was a philosopher

in his way. There was a curious reasonableness about him—I mean, that

while he was devoted to his master, he nevertheless felt free to

criticise him. At this time we were making a more intensive

examination of the Commodore’s suite.

“Gabbitt,” said my mistress, “what were the relations between Mr. Henry

and his father?”

“Bad, ma’am,” said Gabbitt. “All the world knows that.”

“But how do you mean bad?”

“Well, ma’am, it was the usual thing between a rich father and his son.

Particularly when it’s an only child. When he was little, Mr. Henry

was spoiled, and when he grew up his father blamed him because he

turned out wilful.”

“When did the trouble between them start?”

“Four, five years ago when Mr. Henry was in college. He was very wild.

It was one scrape after another.”

“With women?”

“Yes, ma’am, gen’ally speakin’. Mr. Henry complained to me once that

it wasn’t his fault, that they fair flung themselves at his head.

Quite apart from being William Henry Varick, and all that, Mr. Henry is

a very attractive young man, so gay and full of life.”

“So we have perceived,” said Mme. Storey.

“He wasn’t to blame for all the trouble, though it is only fair to

state that he wasn’t no Sir Galahad neither.”

“It is scarcely to be expected,” said my employer dryly.

“His name made him a fair mark for scoundrels, and there was always

somebody, either man or woman, trying to blackmail him. It cost the

Commodore a pretty penny to settle with such people. The Commodore was

very sensitive about any scandal attaching to the family name. Mrs.

Varick would take her son’s part, naturally, and there were bitter

family scenes. My memory is hazy about the details of these scrapes…”

“Never mind that,” said Mme. Storey. “Proceed.”

“The Commodore was always reproaching his son for doing nothing but

spend money,” Gabbitt continued, “and some time after he had left

college—he did not graduate—Mr. Henry undertook to go into business

on his own account. In college the only thing he had been any good at

was chemistry….”

“Oh, chemistry,” said Mme. Storey.

“Yes, ‘m, and so his thoughts naturally turned towards the chemical

business. His idea was to form a combination of all the drug

manufacturers in the country, and to found a great research laboratory

that would advance the whole business. It looked like a good scheme,

and his father backed him heavily, stipulating only that the family

name be kept out of it. The Commodore didn’t want to be connected with

trade in any way.”

“Quite!” said my employer.

“It started off all right, but something happened. I don’t understand

the details. Mr. Henry always claimed that he had been rooked. Very

likely he lacked the skill and experience to conduct so vast an

enterprise. At any rate, there was a tremendous crash, and whereas it

had cost the Commodore a few thousands to get his son out of his

college scrapes, his liabilities in the chemical affair ran into the

millions. The family finances were seriously affected. It led to a

bitter quarrel between father and son, and since that time, Mr. Henry

has not been seen much about the house. It is said that he visited his

mother secretly. Last summer Mrs. Varick patched up a truce between

father and son, and in the fall Mr. Henry accompanied us to Europe.”

“Gabbitt,” said Mme. Storey, “from your observation, would you say that

the affair between Mr. Henry and the Princess Cristina was a serious

one?”

“She thought it was,” said the little man promptly, “and Mr. Henry was

undeniably smitten. But we who had watched him grow up were not taken

in by it. He was easily smitten. As soon as we sailed home she passed

out of his mind. Why, there was a girl on board ship…”

“Never mind her,” said my employer good-naturedly, “but tell me what

was the last occasion that Mr. Henry saw his father.”

“Day before yesterday, ‘m. This is Wednesday, yes, it was Monday

afternoon.”

“What were the circumstances of his visit?”

“The Commodore had been telegraphing and telephoning all over the

country to find him, the Princess Cristina being here. The general

feeling amongst us servants was that Mr. Henry was purposely keeping

out of the way. Be that as it may, when he was sent for he had to

come. He came on Monday afternoon, and there was a terrible quarrel

between him and his father in the study. I supposed that it was over

the Princess, being as the Commodore’s heart was set on that match. I

was in and out of the dressing-room and the pantry, and just at the

end, Mr. Henry opened the door into the foyer, and I heard his father

call after him: ‘I never want to see you again!’ And Mr. Henry’s

answer, hard and bitter: ‘You shan’t!’ Then the slam of the door, and

Mr. Henry was gone!” Gabbitt made a dramatic pause.

“Go on,” said Mme. Storey.

“It had happened before,” he resumed, “and I didn’t take it so serious.

Not until yesterday morning, that is, when the Commodore’s lawyer

turned up and a new will was made.”

“Oh, a new will.”

“Yes, ma’am. That had happened before, too. But on former occasions

the lawyer had been called in and instructions given him, and after a

few days he would come back with the will to be signed. This time the

will was made on the spot, so I knew the Commodore was bitter angry.

The lawyer wrote it out himself on Miss Priestley’s typewriter, and

afterwards Miss Priestley and me was called into the study to witness

it. It was a short will; scarcely filled one sheet of paper. The top

part of the sheet was turned under when we signed, and I don’t know

what was in it.”

We were in the pantry at this moment, and while Mme. Storey listened

her eyes were passing along the rows of cups and glasses on the little

buffet. “One moment,” she said. “Have you got a magnifying glass of

any sort? A reading glass will do.”

It was fetched her from the study. She examined the shelves.

“Gabbitt, how many of these cups did you set out on the tea-table

yesterday?” she asked.

“Two, ma’am. No guests were expected.”

“Any of these glasses?” pointing to a row of tall, iridescent tumblers.

“No, ma’am. Those are for whisky and soda. The Commodore don’t

indulge at tea-time.”

My employer passed on into the study without offering any comment.

“Well, go on,” she said, and then, very unexpectedly: “Mr. Henry came

back yesterday afternoon?”

“Why no, ma’am,” said Gabbitt in great surprise. “Not after such a

quarrel!” It seemed to me that he was a little too open-eyed, too

innocent then.

“No?” said Mme. Storey carelessly. “Well, that’s all now. Thank you

very much, Gabbitt.”

He lingered in the doorway, eyeing her anxiously. He was longing to

ask her a question, but did not dare. Mme. Storey affected to ignore

him. He went out.

Mme. Storey questioned several of the servants with a view to learning

if young Henry Varick had been in the house on the day before. All

blandly denied it, nor could she entrap them into any admission.

“Lying,” she said coolly, when the last had gone. “Notice that they

did not say, ‘I did not see him,’ but all said, ‘He was not here.’”

“Why not ask Mrs. Varick’s pretty secretary, Miss Gilsey?” I suggested.

“She could tell you.”

“Quite,” said Mme. Storey, “and would immediately tell Henry that I had

asked. I don’t want to put him on his guard. I want to meet him as if

by accident, and fall into casual talk. If I am able to bring that

about, don’t you dare to let a notebook appear. Remember all that

passes as well as you can, and put it down afterwards.”

With Jarboe, my employer pursued a slightly different method. She told

the butler it was necessary for her to have a complete lay-out of the

house in her mind, especially the second floor, and the three of us

strolled around, while he pointed out the different rooms. Mme. Storey

said: “The Commodore’s suite, and Mrs. Varick’s, which adjoins it,

occupy the whole of the Avenue frontage on this floor. I’ve got that

straight. What else is there?”

“On the south side is the guest suite lately occupied by the Princess

Cristina,” said Jarboe, indicating. “And there’s an extra bedroom at

the back that was given to her lady-in-waiting. Would you like to see

the rooms?”

“Oh, no,” said Mme. Storey. “I don’t suppose they left anything

behind.”

“Next to the back bedroom comes the grand stairway,” Jarboe continued,

“and this passage on the left of the stairway leads to the elevator,

and on back to the main service corridor and service stairs.”

We looked into the service corridor.

“Next to the passage comes another guest-room,” Jarboe said,

proceeding; “not occupied at present; and on the north side of the

house is Mr. Henry’s suite, which consists of study and bedroom. The

rooms have been his since his schooldays, and are still kept for him

with all his things, though he has had a private apartment outside for

the past two years.”

It was strange to hear how the perfect butler’s carefully modulated

voice coloured with emotion when he mentioned the darling of the house.

“Mr. Henry is in the house at present,” he went on, “and would, I am

sure, be glad to have you see the rooms if I mentioned it to him.”