The Almost Perfect Murder, Hulbert Footner [digital e reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Hulbert Footner
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here, and all of them lied.”
“Well, bless their hearts!” he said with a twisted smile. “I seem to
get everybody in wrong. It would have been better if I’d never been
born!”
“What did your father say to you?” she asked.
“He scolded me for having sneaked into the house secretly. Said it was
very infra dig. He was afraid somebody might find me in his study.
He sent me away, and told me if I would come back after things had
cleared up—by that he meant after Cristina had left the country; she
was not named between us—and would come in by the front door, he
would be glad to see me.”
“He did not refer to the new will he had made?”
“Not a word! He wouldn’t, you see, if he was feeling more kindly
towards me. He would just tear it up afterwards. At any rate, I
thought he had climbed down a good deal, and I went away happy…. At
Buffalo in the middle of the night the telegram was put on the train
that brought me back. And now everything is ruined! My father is
dead, and Theodore has his shoes, I suppose!” His head went down
between his hands again.
“Where were you going on the train?” asked Mme. Storey.
“Nowhere in particular. Just keeping out of the way until Cristina
sailed.”
“How unlucky that there was no witness to the final interview with your
father,” remarked Mme. Storey. It had the sound of a question.
He hesitated for the fraction of a second; his eyes bolted painfully;
then he blurted out: “No, there was no witness.”
XIISoon afterwards we left the dining-room, and sauntered down the great
hall. Following upon the little outburst of emotion that I have
described, we had assumed the ordinary appearances of good form. It is
instinctive. Nothing in my employer’s manner suggested that Henry
Varick had rendered himself an object of suspicion by his disclosures.
She talked of ordinary matters in an ordinary manner. He answered in
kind, of course, but I could see from his uneasy glances that he did
not know what to make of her. He was wondering whether he had to deal
with an agent of the police who was trying to entrap him, or with a
woman of the world who took everything as it came. As a matter of
fact, my employer was both.
“The library is at the other end,” he said; “it’s a pleasant room.
Let’s go in there.”
It was a most inviting room, but “library” I judged to be a polite
fiction; there were no books visible. Though the spring was well
advanced there was a wood fire burning on the hearth which gave off a
most agreeable warmth. We ranged ourselves before it in luxurious
easy-chairs, and talked like congenial acquaintances, who had nothing
in particular on their minds. This sort of rambling casual
conversation is one of Mme. Storey’s most insidious lines of attack,
and I could see that Henry Varick was growing more and more visibly
uneasy. He must have been under a terrible strain. The only other
light besides the fire was given by a shaded reading-lamp in a corner.
I say we talked, but the truth is they talked, while I sat perfectly
silent, feeding my infatuation with the sight of that handsome young
face in the firelight, haggard with passionate emotion. It was most of
all tragic when he smiled in a reckless boy fashion, trying to carry
things off lightly. I was in a rapt state, scarcely mistress of
myself. It only needed a spark to set me off. While we sat there a
footman came in with a note for Mme. Storey. This I judged must come
from Inspector Rumsey via the underground channel they had provided.
She read it with a bland face, tore it into small pieces, and tossed
them on the fire.
“From Inspector Rumsey,” she said. “He says he can trace no sales of
aconitina recently.”
I guessed that there was more in it than this, and so, apparently did
Henry Varick. He watched the little pieces catch fire one by one with
an expression of baulked curiosity.
More conversation followed. Mme. Storey discussed her work on the case
with apparent frankness. Some time afterwards, long enough anyhow for
us not to connect what she said with the arrival of the note, she
brought the talk around to the plan of the second floor. “In order to
be able to figure out what happened, I must have that clear in my
mind,” she said. “I visited most of the rooms today, but I didn’t like
to go into your suite without having you along.”
There was but one thing that he could reply to this. “Shall we go up
now?”
“If you don’t mind.”
It was rather touching to find in that grand house a simple boy’s room.
I judged that it had been changed very little since Henry Varick was
fifteen or sixteen years old. The school pennants were still tacked on
the walls, and that type of picture that adolescent boys like,
depicting flamboyant misses in sports clothes. There were fencing
foils and masks hung up; a set of boxing gloves; a shotgun, a rifle,
and various sporting trophies. There was an armoire full of baseball
bats, hockey sticks, tennis rackets and like impedimenta. Evidently
young Henry had been no effete son of luxury.
This was the “study,” which like “library” downstairs was a misnomer.
Two shelves, and those not full, contained all the books. Many of them
I noticed dealt with chemistry and drugs. Mme. Storey pulled out a fat
green volume that was entitled: Pharmacology and Therapeutics and
skimmed through it. “Have you consulted this lately?” she asked.
“Not in years,” he said carelessly.
She then did something that I had seen her do before; a simple trick
that has an uncanny effectiveness. Holding the book loosely between
her two hands, she let it fall open of itself. She repeated this two
or three times. “Yet I should say that it has been consulted
recently,” she said quietly, “and more than once. See! It opens of
itself on page 425.”
We looked over her shoulder, he on one side, I on the other, and there
we saw staring at us from the page a chapter heading: XXI—ACONITINE.
It gave me a horrid shock; Henry Varick, too. He stepped back, his
face working spasmodically.
“Well,” he said harshly, “does that prove anything?”
“No,” said Mme. Storey, closing the book and putting it back.
“Anyhow,” he went on, in a loud, strained voice, “I am perfectly
familiar with the action of aconite. I wouldn’t have to consult that
book.” This was an answer that cut both ways. The next object of
interest in the room was a glass fronted curio cabinet that contained
the schoolboy’s collections. One saw the usual things neatly set out
on the shelves; the minerals, the fossils, the arrowheads and pipe
bowls. And on the lower shelves; butterflies, beetles, birds’ eggs and
miscellaneous souvenirs. It was more comprehensive than the usual
youngsters’ gatherings, because this boy had been well supplied with
money. I could picture the handsome, intent stripling arranging his
treasures.
“Where is your collection of drugs?” asked Mme. Storey quietly.
It came like a blow. He caught his breath, and started to answer, but
she checked him with a sudden, involuntary gesture. “Ah, don’t lie to
me!” she said with real feeling. “It shames you and me both. I am to
blame. I will deceive you no longer. The letter that I got from
Inspector Rumsey said: ‘I have learned that Henry Varick while he was
engaged in the drug business caused a collection to be made of samples
of every drug. The samples were contained in a walnut case which was
sent to his home. Presumably the drug aconitina was included amongst
the rest, but I cannot verify this at the moment. See if you can trace
the case.’”
“I wasn’t going to lie to you,” Henry Varick said in his rapid,
strained voice. “I had such a collection, but I destroyed it two years
ago. When the trust busted I was sick of the business. Besides, such
a thing was too dangerous to have lying around.”
It was only too clear that he was lying then. It made me feel sick at
heart.
“How did you destroy it?” asked Madame Storey.
“Burned it up entire in the furnace downstairs.”
She said no more, but led the way into the bedroom adjoining, a bare
and sparsely furnished chamber almost like a hospital room. Amidst the
almost oppressive luxury of that house it was like a breath of fresh
air. In one corner stood a narrow white bed.
Mme. Storey stood in the doorway looking around her without speaking.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see that the face of the young man
beside me was livid and sweating. I suffered with him. Finally, my
employer said in a deadly quiet voice: “Turn down the mattress, Bella.”
A groan was forced from the young man that seemed to come from his very
entrails. “Oh, God! I’m lost!”
With trembling arms I obeyed my mistress. Between mattress and springs
there was revealed a flat square walnut box of the sort that artists
use to carry their paints in. Evidently, it had been hastily thrust
there while a better hiding place was sought, or a chance to destroy it.
“Have you anything to say?” asked Mme. Storey.
He broke into a bitter fleering laughter. “Say? What do you want me
to say? You’ve got a case against me, haven’t you? Better proceed
with it. I guess I’ve reached the point where I’d better keep my mouth
shut without advice of counsel.” This was merely the bravado of one
who was half-crazed.
Meanwhile, I had laid the box on the bed, and let the mattress fall
back into place. The box was locked.
“Have you the key?” asked Mme. Storey.
“What the use?” he cried. “I admit the stuff was there, and it’s gone
now.” Nevertheless, he produced his keys, and sought for the right one.
“Have those keys ever been out of your possession?” she asked.
“No.”
“Was there ever another key?”
“No.”
I could no longer keep still. I was in a state approaching collapse
myself. “You are convicting yourself!” I cried to him.
“Oh, what does it matter?” he said.
My mistress gave me a curious glance of pity. I didn’t want pity from
her. In the condition of mind that I was in, she represented the
enemy. “When did you put it under the mattress?” she asked.
“This afternoon. I intended to burn it tonight when the house was
quiet.”
“Oh, keep still! keep still!” I cried, clasping my hands. Neither paid
any attention to me.
“Where was it before that?”
“In the curio cabinet.”
“Has anybody a key to that cabinet but yourself?”
“No.”
By this time the box was open. It was lined with red velvet, and was
divided into scores of little grooves holding glass phials full of
drugs, stopped with wax or some such substance. Each phial had its
label neatly pasted around it; and as a further precaution, there was a
number under each groove, and an index pasted into the top of the box.
One groove was empty! Under it was the number 63, and our eyes flew
to the index
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