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

was

wondering why he had been asked to tea with us. He knew, of course,

that we had something more to do than gossip in that place. But he

betrayed no particular anxiety.

 

Finally they lighted their cigarettes. Giannino, who adores

cigarettes, though they invariably make him sick, coolly stole Mr.

Govett’s from between his lips, and fled up to the top of a picture

frame, where he sat and mocked at us. I dislodged him with a stick

which I keep for the purpose, and depriving him of his booty, carried

him to his little house in the middle room. When I came back Mme.

Storey was saying: “Have you heard that Darius Whittall is going to

marry Fay Brunton?”

 

“That was a foregone conclusion, wasn’t it?” said Mr. Govett with a

shrug.

 

“Not to me!”

 

“Ah, yes, of course, the adorable Brunton is a friend of yours.” I

could see by his eyes that he was thinking: Is this what I was

brought here for?

 

“Is Whittall a friend of yours?” asked Mme. Storey.

 

“No!” he said shortly.

 

“Barry, you and I have known each other for a good many years,” said

Mme. Storey, “and I have confidence in your discretion, though you

always make-believe not to have any…”

 

“Thanks, dear lady.”

 

“What do you think of me?”

 

“I think you’re an angel!”

 

“Oh, not that tosh!”

 

“I think you’re the greatest woman in New York!”

 

“That’s not what I want either. In all these affairs that I have been

engaged in, are you satisfied that I have always taken the side of

decency?”

 

“Oh, yes!” he said quite simply. “What a question!”

 

“Good! Then I ask for your confidence in this affair. I am

investigating the circumstances surrounding the death of Mrs. Whittall.”

 

He gave a start, which he instantly controlled. One could not have

said that he showed more than anybody might have shown upon hearing

such an announcement. “Good Heavens!” he murmured, “do you think there

was anything more than…”

 

“She was murdered, Barry.”

 

“Oh, my God!” he whispered. His face turned greyish; his hands shook.

I thought the man was going to faint; but even while I looked at him,

he steadied himself. I never saw such an exhibition of self-control.

He drew a long breath.

 

“How can I help?” he asked quietly.

 

“By being quite frank with me.”

 

He looked at me in a meaning way.

 

“Miss Brickley is familiar with all the circumstances,” said Mme.

Storey, “and she possesses my entire confidence. Nothing that

transpires in this room is ever heard outside of it, unless I choose

that it shall be.”

 

“Of course,” he murmured. “Still, I don’t see how I…”

 

“Mrs. Whittall was lured out to the pavilion by a letter which we have

reason to suppose she thought you had written.”

 

He jumped up involuntarily, staring at her like one insane; then

dropped limply into his chair again. It was some moments before he

could speak. “But I never wrote to her in my life!”

 

“Then how could she have known your handwriting?” asked Mme. Storey.

 

“Well, I mean nothing but social notes; answers to invitations and so

on.” He saw that he had made a slip, and added hastily: “How do you

know that she did recognise my handwriting?”

 

“We mustn’t waste the afternoon fencing with each other,” said Mme.

Storey mildly. “You are aware of something that would help me very

much in this matter.”

 

“What makes you think so?” he asked with an innocent air.

 

“You betrayed it just now. It leaped out of your eyes.”

 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Barry, nothing can be altogether hidden. Your secret is known to a

few people.”

 

“I have so many secrets!” he said with a silly-sounding laugh.

 

“You were in love with her.”

 

“If you imply by that…” he began excitedly.

 

“I imply nothing. From all accounts Mrs. Whittall must have been a

saint.”

 

“She was,” he said. “And of course I loved her. Everybody who knew

her loved her. In our world she moved like a creature apart. She was

really good.”

 

“Of course,” said Mme. Storey. “But that is not what I mean.”

 

He remained obstinately silent.

 

“Why did you call on her unexpectedly one afternoon last summer?” Mme.

Storey asked bluntly.

 

He stared at her in confusion. “Why … why for no special reason,” he

stammered.

 

“On that afternoon,” pursued my mistress relentlessly, “you told her

that you loved her, and she confessed that it was returned.”

 

He suddenly gave up. “Rosika, you are superhuman!” he said simply. “I

am in your hands … we all are!” He relaxed in his chair, and his

chin sank on his breast. The guard had fallen from his eyes, and he

looked old and heartbroken. Mme. Storey gave him his own time to

speak.

 

“You understand,” he said at last, “my only object in trying to put you

off was to protect her memory—not that it needed protection, but only

from misrepresentation.”

 

“I understood that from the beginning,” said my mistress.

 

“It is true that I was in love with her,” he went on. “Since many

years ago. Almost from the time that Whittall first brought her home.

We called her St. Cecilia. I watched her once cutting roses in her

garden, when she didn’t know anybody was near. At first it didn’t hurt

much. I had no aspirations. She was like a beautiful dream in my

life, which redeemed it from triviality. I fed my dream with what

glimpses of her came my way.

 

“Later, all that was changed. It hurt then! Because I knew that she

must be unhappy, and I longed to make her happy. I wanted her so! Up

to the afternoon that you spoke of we had scarcely ever been alone

together, and we had never exchanged any intimate speech. But before

that, even in a crowd, I had been aware that she had a sympathy for me.

In short, she loved me. You may well wonder at that—a man like me!

But you see … she saw beneath the grinning mask I wear. She brought

out the best in me, that I have hidden for so many years. Even then I

had no thought of … I knew her too well!

 

“And then on the day you speak of, a note was brought to me by special

delivery from her. I had stored away scraps of her handwriting;

invitations and so on, and I never doubted but that it was from her.

Just four words: ‘Come to me quickly!’ I flew. When I entered her

sitting-room, she seemed surprised, but I thought that was just a

woman’s defence. I took her in my arms. She surrendered for a moment,

just a little moment; then she thrust me away.

 

“She denied having written to me. For a moment I did not believe

her—I had already burned the note, so I could not show it to her;

however, she made it abundantly clear she had not written it. Then we

realised somebody must be trying to entrap us, and we were alarmed.

But she said nobody could hurt us if we kept our heads up and walked

straight. She sent me away. Yes, it was for good! for good! There

was never any doubt about that. We were never to attempt to see each

other alone; we were not to write—except in case of desperate need.

It was I who exacted that. If the need was desperate, either of us

might write to the other.

 

“When I heard of her death—by her own hand as I thought … I felt

betrayed; I felt if things had come to that pass she might have sent

for me first…. Oh, well, you are not interested in my state of mind!

How gladly I would have put a pistol to my own head! I did not do so

because I could not bear to sully her name by having it connected with

mine. And so I kept on with the same old round, showing the same old

grin! I dared not stop for fear of people saying: ‘Oh, old Barry

Govett is broken-hearted because of, well, you know!’ … A pretty

world, isn’t it?” He finished with a harsh laugh.

 

Nobody said anything for a while.

 

Finally he raised his head. “But you have given me a renewed interest

in life,” he said grimly. “The same hand that forged that letter to me

afterwards forged the letter that lured her out to the pavilion.”

 

“There can be no doubt of that,” said Mme. Storey.

 

“By God!” said Govett quietly. “If the law doesn’t get him, I will!”

 

“Slowly!” said Mme. Storey. “There is no proof yet.”

V

I see upon referring to my notes that this took place upon a Friday

afternoon. Mr. Govett had not much more than left our place when Fay

Brunton dropped in. She looked sweet enough to eat. To our relief she

had left the inevitable mother behind on this occasion. Fay did not

take tea, but dined at six in order to have a short rest before going

to the theatre. She had just fifteen minutes before dinner, she said,

and had rushed around to tell us—her news, after what we had just

heard, was like a bombshell. I could scarcely repress a cry of dismay.

 

“Darius and I have decided to get married on Sunday morning.”

 

My mistress never changed a muscle of her smile.

 

“What!” she said with mock reproach, “must you abandon us so soon?”

 

“I am not abandoning you!” said Fay, giving her a kiss. “It’s the most

wonderful plan!” she went on happily. “You know little Larrimore, my

understudy, who is dying to have a chance at the part? Well, she is to

have it. For a whole week! It’s all been fixed up. It will be given

out that I am indisposed. The fact of our marriage will be allowed to

leak out later. And if Larrimore makes good she can keep the part.

It’s only that I don’t want anybody to lose any money through me.

 

“We are to be married on Sunday morning in the hotel. Strictly

private, of course. And immediately afterwards we’ll hop on a train

for Pinehurst. Think of Pinehurst after weather like this! And what

do you think? Darius has secured the loan of a private car from the

president of the railway! I’ve never been in a private car; have you?

And then a whole wonderful week in the woods!”

 

“Wonderful!” cried Mme. Storey, and there was not a tinge of anything

but sympathy in her voice. “But am I not to see you again? Tomorrow

is Saturday, and you have two performances.”

 

“How about tonight after the show?” suggested Fay.

 

Mme. Storey shook her head. “I have an engagement.” (This was not

true.) “How about tomorrow night after the show?” she went on. “I

must have a chance to give you a little party before you step off into

the gulf. Come here. My flat is too far up-town.”

 

Fay looked dubious. “I should love it,” she said, “but Darius, you

know. He hates parties.”

 

The expression in my mistress’s eyes said: Damn Darius! But she

laughed good-humouredly. “Oh, I don’t mean a party, my dear. Just

you and Darius and Mrs. Brunton; Bella and I.”

 

“I should love it,” said Fay. “If Darius doesn’t mind.”

 

“Why