"And upstairs?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Poor's own suite is at the back of the house over the living-room and dining-room. My room is over the library. There is a guest room over the reception room. All the servants' rooms are in the kitchen wing. There is no third storey."
Mme. Storey affected to consult the notes on her desk. "Where was this burglar-alarm that there has been so much talk about?"
"Hidden in a cranny between the telephone-booth and the hall fire-place. The telephone-booth was let into the wall just beyond the library door, and the fire-place is adjoining."
"Hidden, you say. Was there anything secret about it?"
"No. Everybody in the house knew of it."
"What kind of switch was it?"
"It was just a little handle that lifted up and pulled down. When it was up it was off; when it was down it was on."
"Describe the servants, will you?"
"How is one to describe servants? The butler, Briggs—well, he was just a butler; smooth, deferential, fairly efficient. The maids were just typical maids. None of them had been there long. Servants don't stick nowadays."
"What about Mrs. Batten?"
In spite of herself the girl's face softened—yet at the same time a guarded tone crept into her voice. "Oh, she's different," she said.
Mme. Storey did not miss the guarded tone. "How different?" she asked.
"I didn't look on Mrs. Batten as a servant, but as a friend."
"Describe her for me."
The girl, looking down, paused before replying. Her softened face was wholly charming. "A simple, kindly, motherly soul," she said with a half-smile. "Rather absurd, because she takes everything so seriously. But while you laugh at her you get more fond of her. She doesn't mind being laughed at."
"You have the knack of hitting off character!" said Mme. Storey. "I see her perfectly!"
I began to appreciate Mme. Storey's wizardry. Cautiously feeling her way with the girl she had discovered that Philippa had a talent for description in which she took pride—perhaps the girl aspired to be a writer. At any rate, when she was asked to describe anything, her eyes became bright and abstracted, and she forgot her situation for the moment.
It seemed to me that we were on the verge of stumbling on something, but to my surprise, Mme. Storey dropped Mrs. Batten. "Describe Mrs. Poor for me," she asked.
"That is more difficult," the girl said unhesitatingly. "She is a complex character. We got along very well together. She was always kind, always most considerate. Indeed, she was an admirable woman, not in the least spoiled by the way people kowtowed to her. But I cannot say that I knew her very well, because she was always reserved—I mean with everybody. One felt sometimes that she would like to unbend, but had never learned how."
"And the master of the house?"
The girl shuddered slightly. But still preoccupied in conveying her impressions, she did not take alarm. "He was a rich man," she answered, "and the son of a rich man. That is to say, from babyhood he had never been denied anything. Yet he was an attractive man—when he got his own way; full of spirits and good nature. Everybody liked him—that is, nearly everybody."
"Didn't you like him?" asked Mme. Storey.
"Yes, I did in a way—but—" She stopped.
"But what?"
She hung her head. "I'm talking too much," she muttered.
Mme. Storey appeared to drop the whole matter with an air of relief. "Let's have tea," she said to me. "I can see from Giannino's sorrowful eyes that he is famishing."
I hastened into the next room for the things. Mme. Storey, in the way that she has, started to rattle on about cakes as if they were the most important things in the world.
"Every afternoon at this hour Miss Brickley and Giannino and I regale ourselves. We have cakes sent in from the pastry cooks'. Don't you love cakes with thick icing all over them? I'm childish on the subject. When I was a little girl I swore to myself that when I grew up I would stuff myself with iced cakes."
When I returned I saw that in spite of herself the girl had relaxed even further. Her eyes sparkled at the sight of the great silver plate of cakes. After all, she was a human girl, and I don't suppose she'd been able to indulge her sweet tooth in jail. Giannino set up an excited chattering. Upon being given his share he retired to his favourite perch on top of a big picture to make away with it.
While we ate and drank we talked of everything that women talk of: cakes, clothes, tenors and what not. One would never have guessed that the thought of murder was present in each of our minds. The girl relaxed completely. It was charming to watch the play of her expressive eyes.
Mme. Storey, who, notwithstanding her boasted indulgence, was very abstemious, finished her cake and lighted the inevitable cigarette. Giannino stroked her cheek, begging piteously for more cake, but the plate had been put out of his way. Mme. Storey, happening to lay down her cigarette, Giannino, ever on the watch for such a contingency, snatched it up and clambered with chatterings of derision up to the top of his picture. There he sat with half-closed eyes blowing clouds of smoke in the most abandoned manner. Philippa Dean laughed outright; it was strange to hear that sound from her. I was obliged to climb on a chair to recover the cigarette. I spend half my time following up that little wretch. If I don't take the cigarette from him it makes him sick, yet he hasn't sense enough to leave them alone—just like a man!
"Well, shall we go on with our talk?" asked Mme. Storey casually.
The girl spread out her hands. "You have me at a disadvantage," she said. "It is so hard to resist you."
"Don't try," suggested my employer, smiling. "You may take your notes now, Miss Brickley. You needn't be afraid," she added to the girl. "This is entirely between ourselves. No one else shall see them. You were saying that you liked Mr. Poor—with reservations."
"I meant that one could have enjoyed his company very much if he had been content to be natural. But he was one of those men who pride themselves on their—their—what shall I say—"
"Their masculinity?"
"Exactly. And of course with a man of that kind a girl is obliged constantly to be on her guard."
"The servants have stated that he pestered you with his attentions," Mme. Storey remarked.
The girl lowered her eyes. "They misunderstood," she said. "Mr. Poor affected a very flowery, gallant style with all women alike; it didn't mean anything."
Mme. Storey glanced at a paper on her desk. "The butler deposes that one evening he saw Mr. Poor seize you on the stairs and attempt to kiss you, and that you boxed his ears and fled to your room."
Miss Dean blushed painfully and made no reply.
Mme. Storey, without insisting on one, went on: "What were the relations between Mr. and Mrs. Poor?"
"How can any outsider know that?" parried the girl.
"You can give me your opinion. You are a sharp observer. It will help me to understand the general situation."
"Well, they never quarrelled, if that's what you mean. They were always friendly and courteous toward each other. Not like people who are in love, of course. Mrs. Poor must have known what her husband's life was, but she was a religious woman, and any thought of separation or divorce was out of the question for her. My guess was that she had determined to take him as she found him, and make the best of it. Such a cold and self-contained woman naturally would not suffer as much as another."
"Have you knowledge of any incident in Mr. Poor's life that might throw light on his murder?"
"No. Nobody in that house knew anything of the details of his life. He was not with us much."
"Tell me about your movements on the night of the tragedy," Mme. Storey urged coaxingly.
But the girl's face instantly hardened. "It is useless to ask me that," she said. "I do not mean to answer."
"But since you did not commit the crime why not help me to get you off?"
"I do not wish to speak of my private affairs which have nothing to do with this case."
My heart beat faster. Here we were plainly on the road to important disclosures. But to my disappointment Mme. Storey abandoned the line.
"That is your right, of course," she said. "But consider: you are bound to be asked these very questions in court before a gaping crowd. Why not accustom yourself to the questions in advance by letting me ask them? You are not under oath here, you know. You may answer what you please."
This was certainly an unusual way of conducting an examination. Even the girl smiled wanly.
"You are clever," she said with a shrug. "Ask me what you please."
"What were you doing on the night of the tragedy?"
From this point forward the girl was constrained and wary again. She weighed every word of her replies before speaking. It was impossible to resist the suggestion that she was not always telling the truth.
"I was in my room."
"The whole time?"
"Yes, from dinner until Mrs. Poor returned."
"Why didn't you go to the pageant?"
"Those affairs bore me."
"Had you not intended to go?"
"No."
"Where was Mrs. Batten during the evening?"
"I don't know. In her room, I assume."
"In what part of the house was that?"
"Her sitting-room was downstairs in the kitchen wing."
"An old woman. Wasn't she timid about being all alone in that part of the house?"
"I don't know. It did not occur to me."
"You didn't see her at all during the evening?"
"No."
"Where was Mr. Poor?"
"In the library, I understood."
"All the time?"
"I'm sure I couldn't say."
"Did you see him or have speech with him during the evening?"
"No."
"There was nobody in the house but you three?"
"Nobody."
"You're sure of that?"
"Quite sure."
"The servants testified that when the alarm was raised you appeared fully dressed."
"That's nothing. It was only twelve o'clock. I was reading."
"What were you reading?"
"Kipling's 'The Light that Failed.'"
"What became of the book?"
"I put it down when Mrs. Poor cried out."
"Are you sure? It was not found in your room."
"Of course I'm not sure. I may have carried it downstairs. I may have dropped it anywhere in my excitement."
"Please describe the exact situation of your room."
"It was in the northeast corner of the house. It was over the library."
"Yet you heard no shot?"
"No."
"That's strange."
"The house is very well built; double doors and all that."
"But immediately overhead?"
"I can't help that. I heard nothing."
"You had no hint that anything was wrong until you heard Mrs. Poor's cry?"
"None whatever."
"When she cried out what did you do?"
"I ran around the gallery and downstairs."
"The gallery?"
"In order to reach the head of the stairs I had to encircle the gallery in the hall."
"How long did it take you to reach Mrs. Poor's side?"
"How can I say? I ran."
"How far?"
"Fifty or sixty feet; then the stairs."
"Half a minute?"
"Perhaps."
"What did you see when you got downstairs?"
"The stairs landed me at the library door. Just inside the door I saw Mrs. Batten clinging to Mrs. Poor. She was trying to keep Mrs. Poor from reaching her husband's side."
"Mrs. Poor is a tall, finely formed woman, isn't she?"
"Yes."
"Is Mrs. Batten a big woman?"
"No."
"Strong?"
"No."
"Yet you say she was able to keep her mistress back for half a minute?"
"You said half a minute."
"Well, until you got downstairs."
"So it seems."
"Didn't that strike you as odd?"
"I didn't think about it."
"Did you know what had happened?"
"Not right away. I soon did."
"They told you?"
"No."
"How did you guess, then?"
"From Mr. Poor's attitude, sprawling with his arms across the table, his head down—the pistol in his hand."
"In his hand?"
"Well, under his hand, I believe."
"Did you recognise it as your pistol?"
"I—I don't know."
"Eh?"
"I mean I don't know just when I realised that it was mine. Pistols are so much alike. I hadn't handled mine much."
"Well, how was it that it could be so positively identified as yours?"
"There were two little scratches on the barrel that somebody had put there before I got it. I had shown it to Mrs. Batten, and we had discussed what those two little marks might mean. Mrs. Batten must have spoken of it in the hearing of the servants. At any rate they knew about the marks."
"How do you explain the fact that your pistol was in the dead man's hand?"
"I cannot explain it."
"Where did you keep it?"
"In the bottom drawer of my bureau."
"Was the drawer locked?"
"No."
"When had you last seen it there?"
"Two days before when I—" She stopped here.
"When you what?"
"When I put it away."
"You'd had it out then?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
"To have it fixed."
"What was wrong with it?"
"I couldn't describe it, because I don't understand the mechanism."
"Have you ever fired it?"
"No."
"Then how did you know it was out of order?"
"I—I—" She hesitated. "I won't answer that."
"Surely that's a harmless question."
"I don't care. I won't answer."
"Who fixed it?"
"The man it was bought from."
"Who was that?"
"I don't know."
"You mean you won't tell me?"
"No, it is the truth. I don't know. I never asked."
"Ah, it was a gift then?"
The girl did not answer. She was becoming painfully agitated, twisting and untwisting her handkerchief in her lap. I was growing excited myself. I felt sure we were on the verge of an important disclosure.
Mme. Storey feigned not to notice her perturbation. "How long had you had the pistol?" she asked.
"A few weeks—three or four."
"Was it in good order when you got it?"
"Yes."
"Well, if you had never shot it off how did it get out of order?"
No answer.
"Who had been firing it?"
Silence from Miss Dean.
"What kind of pistol was it?"
"They called it automatic."
"What calibre?"
"I don't know."
The next question came very softly. "Who gave it to you, Miss Dean?"
I couldn't help but pity the poor girl, her agitation was so extreme, and she was fighting so hard to control it.
"I won't answer that question."
"It will surely be asked in court."
"I won't answer it there."
"Your refusal will incriminate you."
"I don't care."
"Tell them you found it," Madame Storey suggested with an enigmatic, kindly look. To my astonishment she arose, saying: "That's all, Miss Dean."
I couldn't understand it. The girl who was deathly pale and breathing with difficulty seemed on the point of breaking down and confessing the truth—yet she let her go. I confess I was annoyed with Mme. Storey. In my mind I accused her of neglecting her duty. The girl was no less astonished than I. Out of her white face
she stared at my employer as if she could not credit her ears.
Mme. Storey took a cigarette. "Many thanks for answering my questions," she said. "I see quite clearly that you couldn't have done this thing. I shall tell the assistant district attorney so."
The girl showed no gratitude at this assurance, but continued to stare at Mme. Storey with hard anxiety and suspicion. I stared too. It was perfectly clear to me that Philippa Dean had guilty knowledge of the murder.
"We'll have to hand you back to your watch-dogs now," said Mme. Storey. "Keep up a good heart."
The girl went out like one in a dream. When the plain-clothes men took her, Mme. Storey and I sat down again and looked at each other.
She laughed. "Bella, you look as if you were about to burst. Out with it!"
"I don't understand you!" I cried.
"Didn't you think she was a charming girl?"
"Yes, I did. I was terribly sorry for the poor young thing, but—"
"But what?"
I took my courage in my hands and continued: "You mustn't let your compassion for her, influence you. You have your professional reputation to think of!"
"You are more jealous of my professional reputation than I am," she said teasingly.
"Why did you stop just when you did?"
"Because I had found out what I wanted to know."
"What had you found out that Mr. Barron had not already told you? She was just at the point of—"
"Of repeating her confession?"
"I'm sure of it!"
"That is just what I wanted to forestall, Bella. Another confession would simply have complicated matters."
I simply stared at her.
"Because she didn't do it, you see, Bella."
"Then why should she confess?"
My employer merely shrugged.
"How can you be so sure she didn't do it. Anybody could see she was lying."
"Certainly she was lying."
"Well, then?"
"It was by her lies that I knew she was innocent."
"You are just teasing me," I said.
"Not at all. Read over your notes of her answers. It's all there, plain as a pike-staff."
I read over my notes, but saw no light. "That unmistakably guilty air," I said. "How do you explain that?"
"I wouldn't call it a guilty air."
"Well, anxious, terrified."
"That's more like it."
"Even if she didn't do it she knows who did."
"Possibly."
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