The Almost Perfect Murder, Hulbert Footner [digital e reader .TXT] 📗

deal of

noisy talk. Beside the door sat three girls with a depressed-looking

man who was paying very little attention to them. The girls were

evidently employees of the place, but business was poor, and they had

fastened to the man merely to keep themselves in countenance.

 

I could not help looking at them curiously. They started to talk

brightly among themselves when we entered, but it was a hollow

pretence. What a life! One of them, I was surprised to see, was as

fresh and pretty as a schoolgirl, a tiny little thing formed like a

fairy, with the pure oval face that painters love to depict. I noticed

that she was continually glancing in a sullen fashion at the group of

noisy young men. I supposed that she had a sweetheart amongst them,

and resented the fact that he preferred to gamble rather than talk to

her.

 

We seated ourselves around the table in the other far corner, that is,

next to the gamblers. Presumably our man was amongst them, but we were

careful, of course, not to betray any curiosity concerning them. We

ordered grappa, the fiery liqueur that is so popular south of

Washington Square, and busied ourselves in our own talk. Benny was

supposed to be my boy-friend, while the tall Stephens devoted himself

to “Madge,” as we called her. Joe appeared to be what he in fact was,

merely our conductor.

 

The waiter came and went noiselessly between us and the bar. He was an

unnaturally pale and haggard little fellow who looked as if he had

never seen the sun. Occasionally a fat Italian entered the room, very

flashily dressed and having a big watch chain with a bunch of charms

and a diamond flashing on his fat finger. He jingled his charms,

exchanged loud witticisms with the players while he gave us all the

once-over with his hard glittering eye, and went out again. This, we

learned, was the genial proprietor.

 

As opportunity offered I sized up the card players. Some of them had

their backs to us, but as the game progressed they shifted their places

from time to time, and in the end I was able to get a look at each one

of them. Nearly every man at the table answered in a general way to

the description furnished by Dr. Portal. Nineteen or twenty years old;

well-dressed in a somewhat flashy style, good-looking in the Italian

manner. Handsome, black eyes, and well-oiled black hair.

 

After eliminating the ill-favoured ones and those who were clearly more

than twenty years old, my choice finally narrowed down to a

warm-coloured young man who sat with his back against the end wall,

while his hard eyes travelled from face to face of the other players.

He was certainly the best-looking one at the table; his features had a

grace and harmony that would have earned him a good living as an

artists’ model; moreover, there was that hint of boyish roundness in

his cheeks that Dr. Portal had spoken of.

 

Presently I noticed that it was towards this face that the sullen eyes

of the little girl at the next table were so often directed. Was she

another victim to his infernal good looks? He paid no attention

whatever to her. Finally one of the other players addressed him as

“Chico” and he answered. Mme. Storey and I exchanged a fleeting glance.

 

As soon as we had spotted our man, Mme. Storey began to make play to

attract his attention. She did not immediately look at him, but

addressed herself rather to Stephens in a drawling, provocative voice

that was bound to arouse Chico’s notice. Not more than five feet

separated their chairs. Chico, hearing that siren voice, looked—and

having looked once, looked again. The tousled curls netted his fancy.

However successful he may have been with women it was not often that

one so beautiful as Mme. Storey could have come his way. He stared.

Finally she allowed their glances to cross; she sneered at him lazily.

At the implied challenge his eyes began to burn. It was a fascinating

game to watch, but so dangerous it fairly made me sick with

apprehension.

 

It was not long before the little girl at the other table perceived

what was going on. Her friends addressed her as Tina. She rose

quickly, and edging herself close to Chico’s chair, stood between him

and the charmer at our table. It was a childish and rather piteous

manoeuvre; the little thing’s face was tormented with jealousy. She

put her hand on Chico’s shoulder. This proprietary gesture caused the

other players at the table to grin, and their grins enraged the

conceited Chico.

 

“Get out of here!” he snarled; and added a coarse oath.

 

Tina, with a flippant parade of indifference, returned to her former

place, and began to talk animatedly to the other girls. But her eyes

were tragic. It wrenched one’s heart to see it, but of course a poor

little may-fly like that could not be allowed to interfere with Mme.

Storey’s plans. If she got hurt that was her lookout.

 

Mme. Storey and Chico continued to fence with their insolent glances,

each making out to scorn the other. The old, old game. Chico was

evidently an adept at it. Finally, according to pre-arrangement,

Stephens began to quarrel.

 

“Turn around!” he said harshly. “You can look at me, see? I didn’t

bring you here to hand out smiles to another fellow!”

 

“Aah, what’s the matter wit’ ya?” retorted the supposed Madge

stridently. “You don’t own me. My eyes are my own, I guess, and I can

do what I want wit’ ‘em. You ain’t so much to look at as I can see.”

 

Stephens subsided into a sullen muttering, and Madge (it is easier

under these circumstances for me to refer to her as Madge) smiled at

Chico in open defiance. Presently Stephens broke out again, and Benny

and I made believe to be trying to soothe him. More drinks were

ordered at our table. The card players grinned at Chico. Apparently

they were quite accustomed to seeing him as the storm centre when there

were women around. Chico went on playing his cards with an air of

absolute indifference.

 

Stephens alternately quarrelled with Madge and ordered up fresh drinks.

It was a very pretty bit of character acting that he was giving. It

was a common sort of scene in that place and nobody paid much

attention. Once Luigi with his hard eyes and his unctuous voice gave

us a jocose warning to cut it out. Finally Stephens, making believe to

be thoroughly drunk, jumped up.

 

“Aah, come on home,” he snarled. “I’m not gonna stand for this.”

 

My heart beat like a trip-hammer as the critical moment approached. I

could scarcely fetch my breath.

 

“Go home yourself if you don’t like it,” retorted Madge. “I’m well

enough pleased. I’ll stay here with Benny and Belle.”

 

Benny and I got up. “No! No!” we said. (All this had been rehearsed

beforehand.) “Come on, Madge, let’s all go. George is gettin’ ugly

now. You know what he is. We’ll quiet him down outside.”

 

“No!” cried Madge obstinately. “Just because he’s turned ugly he’s not

gonna spoil my fun! You can all go home and be damned to you! I’m

stayin’!” And she sent a sidelong smile in Chico’s direction.

 

Stephens appeared to be infuriated by this smile. Seizing Madge by the

wrist, he jerked her roughly to her feet. “You come on!” he cried.

 

She tore herself free. “Lea’ me alone!” she yelled. “You ain’t got

any rights over me!”

 

In the background Benny and I made soothing noises. “Aw, let her

alone, George, and she’ll come…. Aw, come on, Madge, you see how he

is!” And so on.

 

But Stephens seized her bodily and started dragging her towards the

door. Madge fought like a wildcat. Stephens kept her in front of him

so that she could not reach his face with her nails. Benny and I made

futile attempts to separate them. Behind us play had stopped, and the

twelve players watched the struggling couple with cold, mask-like

faces. They were not the sort to interfere in what did not concern

them.

 

“Lemme go! Lemme go! or I’ll kill ya!” yelled Madge.

 

He had shoved her almost to the door when suddenly she reached down,

snatched a gun out of the top of her stocking, and wrenching herself

around, pressed the muzzle to his side. Everybody in the room saw the

act. They did not know that gun was loaded only with blanks. There

was a deafening report. Stephens released the girl and went staggering

back against a table, pressing his hand against his side.

 

“I’m shot!” he groaned.

 

Madge stood there in a daze with the smoking gun in her hand. Benny

disarmed her without resistance, and dropped the gun in his pocket. He

then turned to support the wounded man. He ordered Joe, the Italian

who had come with us, to take his other side. Stephens sagged between

them in a most realistic way, his hand still pressed over his wound,

his head hanging on his breast. I felt the same horror as if it had

all been real. The absolute stillness of everybody else in the room

was uncanny. Most of the faces bore cynical sneers. It was no

business of theirs.

 

The door banged open and Luigi and his waiters ran in. The fat man was

livid and moist with excitement. “Who done it?” he yelled.

 

“She did! She did!” cried Benny, pointing a shaking forefinger at

Madge. “She shot my pal!” And he put his arm lovingly around

Stephens’ shoulder.

 

“Get him out of here! Get him out of here before he drops!” yelled

Luigi. “My God! I can’t have him dyin’ on me! This will ruin me if

it gets to the police!”

 

“We’ll get him out if you’ll call a taxi,” growled Benny.

 

Luigi scampered away to do his bidding, and Benny and Joe slowly

followed him out of the room, supporting the fainting man between them.

All this happened so quickly that the bystanders had no time to wonder

why no blood appeared around the hand that Stephens was pressing to his

side. Madge made a move to accompany them, but Benny turned on her

violently.

 

“Get back!” he snarled. “Ain’t you done harm enough?”

 

Presumably they got their cab, for they did not return. Madge and I

were left behind. She dropped in a chair and, spreading her arms on

the table in front of her, hid her face upon them. I sat down beside

her, and put an arm around her shoulders.

 

“Oh, why did you do it? Why did you do it?” I moaned.

 

Play started again at the next table as if nothing had happened. At

the other table the three girls, with painful sneers in Madge’s

direction, resumed their low-voiced talk.

 

In a few moments Luigi came bustling back into the room. “Now, then,

girl,” he said harshly, “out with ya! Ye’re lucky to git off so easy.

Never let me catch you in my place again. I don’t care who brings ya.”

 

Madge raised a dry-eyed, terror-stricken face. “I dassent … I

dassent go out in the street,” she said hoarsely. “Benny’ll be layin’

for me. He took me gun off me. He’ll git me for this.”

 

“That’s nothin’ to me,” said Luigi. “Out wit’ ya!”

 

“Oh, I dassent! I dassent!” whispered Madge, glancing around

desperately for help.

 

Chico gave over his hand to the man who was standing next him, and

arose with a swagger. “That’s all right, Luigi,” he