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

“I would not insist on it, Whittall,” said my mistress, almost

regretfully, one would have said.

“I do insist on it,” he said quickly.

“Very well. It was not an emerald pin, of course, that I was looking

for at the bottom of the well.”

“What was it then?”

She turned to the door. “What did you find there, Crider?”

“A Matson 32 automatic, Madame. The magazine is full.”

“Hand it over!” said Whittall.

Crider, naturally, made no move to obey.

“This is mere folly,” said my mistress calmly; “it is to be handed over

to an authority higher than yours.”

“Of what do you accuse me?” he cried wildly.

“Of nothing yet, except throwing this gun down the well.”

“It’s a lie! It’s a lie! I never saw it before!”

“Then why all this excitement?”

He turned away biting his fingers.

“This is worse than useless,” said Mme. Storey. “Open the door,

Crider.”

Whittall instantly became abject and cringing. “Wait a minute!” he

implored. “Give me a chance to explain. Oh, my God! this frightful

unexpected accusation has driven me out of my senses. Give me a chance

to recover myself. Don’t you see what you are doing? You are ruining

me beyond hope. And all for nothing! All for nothing! I am as

innocent as a child!”

I am afraid we all smiled grimly at this last cry of his. However,

Mme. Storey waited.

“Give me a little time!” he muttered. He took another drink. He then

said in a stronger voice: “Send those people out of the room, and I’ll

tell you all.”

“These two are my trusted employees,” said Mme. Storey. “We three are

as one. You may explain or not, just as it suits you.”

After a moment’s hesitation he said: “I will explain on one condition,

that, if my explanation is a reasonable one, you promise you will not

proceed against me immediately. But if you are determined to proceed

against me anyhow, what’s the use of my telling you anything. You can

go ahead and be damned to you.”

This was too much for Crider. “I’ll trouble you to be civil to Madame

Storey,” he said, flushing.

My mistress silenced him with a gesture. To Whittall she said coolly:

“I am not prepared to proceed against you yet. As to the future I make

no promises. Are you willing on your part to give me your word of

honour that you will not marry until this matter is cleared up?”

“Certainly!” he said quickly. “Word of honour…. But, don’t tell Fay

yet. It would break her heart.”

“I have no intention of doing so, yet,” said Mme. Storey dryly.

There was a considerable silence.

“We are waiting for the explanation,” said Mme. Storey at length.

Whittall turned around. He had evidently decided on his course. “It

is true that that is my wife’s gun,” he said without hesitation, “and

that I threw it down the well. But I swear as God is in His Heaven

that I did not shoot her. The reason I acted as I did was to prevent a

scandal. I immediately suspected that she had been murdered. Well, a

dirty scandal would not have given her back to me; it would only have

besmirched her reputation still further.”

“I know all about the ‘other man,’” said Mme. Storey coolly. “I have

talked with him. If you are suggesting that he shot her, I answer that

it is impossible that he could have done so.”

Whittall’s face was a study while she was saying this. Finally he

shrugged. “In that case,” he said sullenly, “I know no more than the

next man who did it.”

“What gave you reason to suspect that it was murder?” asked Mme. Storey.

“Oh, the general circumstances.”

“Nobody else suspected such a thing.”

He shrugged indifferently.

Nothing more seemed to be forthcoming, and presently Mme. Storey said:

“Your explanation so far is no explanation.”

He turned away, visibly in a state of indecision. Then he flung around

again. “Oh, hell! I suppose it’s all got to come out now!” he cried.

“I was warned of her murder!”

“Beforehand?” Mme. Storey asked sternly.

“No. What do you think I am? … Shortly after it was committed. That

is why I came home so early … I was dining with a friend. I was

called to the telephone. A voice, unknown to me, said without any

preliminary explanation: ‘Your wife has just been shot. If you want to

avoid a nasty scandal, you had better hurry home and dispose of her

revolver, so that it will look like a suicide.’”

I could not help smiling at this tale. It sounded so preposterous.

Mme. Storey, however, was grave enough.

“A man’s voice or a woman’s voice?” she asked.

“A man’s.”

“Can you offer corroboration of this?”

“Certainly.”

“Where were you dining, and with whom?”

“What right have you to cross-examine me?” he said, scowling.

“Oh, if you’d rather tell the district attorney…” said Mme. Storey

calmly.

“I was with Max Kreuger, the manager of Miss Brunton’s company,” he

said sullenly. “We were at the Norfolk. It is not a hotel that I

frequent, but we had some private business to discuss, and I didn’t

want to be recognised.”

“Yet the person who called you up knew where to find you?”

He flung out his hands violently. “You’ll have to figure that out as

best you can! It beats me!”

Mme. Storey took a thoughtful turn up and down.

Whittall went on: “It has been established by a dozen witnesses that

the fatal shot was fired at nine-thirty. Kreuger will testify that at

that hour I was dining with him in the Norfolk—ten miles away from

here. So your case against me collapses. Kreuger will tell you

further that about ten minutes past ten I was called to the ‘phone.

Naturally I did not tell him the nature of the message I received. But

he’ll tell you that I left immediately. Before eleven I was back here.

I suppose the taxicab driver who brought me here can be found too, if

he is looked for… Kreuger is in his office now. Come with me and

question him, and let this ridiculous charge be laid once and for all.”

Mme. Storey agreed to the proposal. Again she pointed out to Whittall

that she had not yet made any charge.

There was a brief discussion as to how we should dispose ourselves for

the drive to town. Naturally we did not intend to let Whittall out of

our sight. I thought we all ought to go in Mme. Storey’s car, but she

ruled otherwise. She and I and Whittall would ride in his car, she

said, and Crider could bring her car along after.

While Whittall waited for us in his car, biting his fingers with

impatience, Mme. Storey gave Crider his private instructions: “Do not

follow us, but drive to your own place as quickly as possible, and

change. Telephone Younger to come and get the car. You had also

better get in touch with Stephens. Get back to the Adelphi theatre as

soon as you can. Whittall will be there in Max Kreuger’s office. You

and Stephens between you are to keep Whittall under observation until

further notice, reporting to me at my office by ‘phone as often as you

are able.”

That was hardly a cheerful drive. Mme. Storey and Whittall sat side by

side on the back seat without exchanging a single word the whole way.

Whittall crouched in his corner, scowling and biting his fingers. If

Fay could have watched him then, that in itself ought to have given her

pause. Whittall had a skilful chauffeur, of course. He had a special

instinct to warn him of a traffic policeman. When the road was clear

he opened his throttle to its widest, and we sped like a bullet. Then

at certain moments he abruptly slowed down, and sure enough, presently

the brass buttons would appear. We made Times Square in twenty-five

minutes.

The Adelphi was one of the newer theatres in that neighbourhood. Its

name has been changed now. At this time Whittall was reputed to be the

owner, but I do not know if this was so. It was perfectly clear though

that Max Kreuger was Whittall’s creature. Wild Hyacinth, I should

say, was not showing at the Adelphi, but at the Yorktown, farther down

Broadway, which had a greater seating capacity.

A deceitful air of activity pervaded the offices. Apart from

rehearsals, theatrical business seems to consist of lengthy

conversations which end exactly where they begin. There were a number

of depressed-looking actors of both sexes sitting around the outer

office waiting for an interview with the manager. Yet Kreuger as we

presently discovered was alone in his office, with his heels cocked up

on his desk. Whittall marched straight into the private office with us

at his heels. Snatching the cigar from his lips, Kreuger leaped to his

feet. He was a rosy, plump little man of the type that I have heard

described as a fore-and-aft Jew; a blond. He looked astonished, as

well he might, at the combination which faced him.

Without the slightest preamble, Whittall cried out with a wave of his

hand: “There he is. Ask him what you want.” And went to the window

where he turned his back to us.

Kreuger, greatly flustered, began to pull chairs out, and to mumble

courtesies.

“Never mind, thanks,” said Mme. Storey. “We won’t sit down. Just

answer a few questions, please. It is by Mr. Whittall’s wish that we

have come.”

“Anything, Madame Storey, anything within my power!” the little man

murmured fulsomely.

“What were you doing on the evening of Sunday, September 11th?”

Kreuger was horridly taken aback. He stared at us in a witless fashion

and pulled at his slack lower lip. His distracted eyes sought his

master for guidance, but received none, Whittall’s back being turned.

“Well, speak up, can’t you?” barked Whittall, without turning around.

“Yes … yes … of course,” stammered Kreuger, sparring for time.

“Let me see … September 11th … I can’t seem to remember offhand.

I shall have to look it up.”

“That was the night of Mrs. Whittall’s death,” Mme. Storey reminded him.

“Oh, to be sure! that dreadful night!” said Kreuger in suitable tones

of horror. “That was the night of the private showing of the

super-film ‘Ashes of Roses.’ I looked in at that.”

This was certainly not the answer that Whittall looked for. He whirled

around with a face of terror. I rejoiced that we had caught the

villains napping, as it seemed. Something had gone wrong with their

concerted story.

“Tell the truth!” gasped Whittall.

“Eh? … What?” stammered Kreuger, blinking.

“Tell the truth, I said!” cried Whittall in a fury, banging the desk.

“Oh, to be sure! To be sure!” stuttered the demoralised Kreuger. “Mr.

Whittall and I had dinner together that night. At the Hotel Norfolk.”

I smiled to myself. This came a little late, I thought. It sounded as

if it had been got by heart.

“Why did you not say so at once?” asked Mme. Storey.

“Well, it was a private meeting, Madame. We had business to discuss.

I didn’t think that Mr. Whittall wanted it known.”

“At