"Then why didn't you make her tell you?"
"Sometimes young girls have to be saved from themselves, Bella."
And that was all I could get out of her.
IV
The moment Philippa Dean got back to Headquarters Mr. Barron must have started for our office. He arrived within forty minutes. When I showed him into Mme. Storey's room I followed him, for since the violent interview of the morning, she had instructed me to be present whenever he was there.
He was furious at what he regarded as my intrusion. He said nothing, but glared at me and I breathed a silent prayer that I might not fall into the clutches of the district attorney's office, at least as long as he was there. He sat down crossing and uncrossing his legs, slapping his knee with his gloves, and scowling sidewise at Mme. Storey from under beetling brows. Giannino, who detested him, fled to the top of his picture, where he sat hurling down imprecations in the monkey language at the man's head, and looking vainly around for something more effective to throw.
Mme. Storey was in her most impish mood. "Lovely afternoon, Walter," she remarked mellifluously.
He snorted.
"Will you have some tea? We've had ours."
"No, thank you."
"A cigarette, then?" She pushed the box toward him.
"You know I never use them."
"Well, you needn't be so virtuous about it." She took one herself. The graceful movement with which she stuck it in her mouth never failed to fascinate me—him, too.
He was silent. Mme. Storey blew a cloud of smoke. He scowled at her in a sullen, hungry way. I was sorry for the man. Really, she used him dreadfully.
"Rose, how many of those do you use a day?" he abruptly demanded.
"Oh, not more than fifty," she drawled, with a wicked twinkle in my direction.
She may have spoiled half that many a day, but she never took more than a puff of two of each.
"You're ruining your complexion," he said.
"Mercy!" she cried in mock horror, snatching up the little gold-backed mirror that always lay on her table. She studied herself attentively. "It does show signs of wear. What can one expect? It's six hours old already."
From her little bag she produced rouge-stick, powder-puff, pencils, et cetera, and nonchalantly set about using them. I might remark that Mme. Storey had developed the art of making-up to an extraordinary degree of perfection. In the beginning I had refused to believe that she used any artificial aids until the process took place before my eyes.
Absolutely indifferent to what people thought, she was likely to lug out the materials at any time, but particularly when she desired to be delicately insulting.
Mr. Barron became, if possible, angrier than before. For a moment or two he fumed in silence, then said:
"Please put those things away. I want to talk to you."
"You told me my complexion needed repair, Walter. Go ahead. Making-up is purely a subconscious operation. I'm listening."
They were a strong-willed pair. She would not stop making-up, and he would not speak until she gave him her full attention. There was a long silence. It was rather difficult for me. I sat at my little table, making believe to busy myself with my papers. Mme. Storey put aside the cigarette. That little scamp Giannino came sneaking down, but I got it first, and clapped it in the ash-jar with a cover that he cannot open. He retired, sulking, into a corner, and swore at me in his way.
Mme. Storey finally put down the mirror. "Is that better, Walter?" she asked with a wicked smile.
He puffed out his cheeks.
"I'm waiting to hear you," she said, putting away the make-up.
"It's a confidential matter," he rejoined glancing at me.
"Miss Brickley knows all about the Poor case," she said carelessly. "You needn't mind her."
"Well, what happened?" he asked sullenly.
"Nothing much."
"Did you get a confession from the girl?"
"No; I managed to forestall it."
His jaw dropped. "What do you mean?"
"She was just on the point of making a confession when I sent her back to you."
"Will you be so good as to explain yourself?"
"A confession would simply have puffed you up, Walter, and obstructed the ends of justice. Because she didn't kill Ashcomb Poor."
"I suppose you had your secretary take notes of her examination," he said. "Please let her read them to me."
Mme. Storey shook her head. "The girl talked to me in confidence, Walter."
"But surely I have the right—"
"We agreed beforehand, you know."
The assistant district attorney, very angry indeed, muttered something to the effect that he "would know better next time."
"That, of course, is up to you," she said sweetly. "Anyway, it wouldn't do any good to read you the notes, because I brought out no new facts of importance."
"Then how do you know she's innocent?" he demanded.
"By intuition," she said with her sweetest smile.
He flung up his hands. "Good Heaven! Can I go into court with your intuition?"
"I suppose not. But so much the worse for the court. I haven't much of an opinion of courts, as you know, for the very reason that they throw out intuition. They choose to found justice solely on reason, when, as every sensible person knows, reason is the most fallible of human faculties. You can prove anything by reason."
To this Mr. Barren hotly retorted:
"Yet I never saw a lying woman in court but who, when she was caught, did not fall back on her so-called intuition."
"That may be. But because there are liars is not to say there is no truth. Intuition speaks with a still small voice that is not easy to hear."
"Does your intuition inform you who did kill Ashcomb Poor?" he asked sarcastically.
"I shall have to have more time for that," she parried.
"I thought your intuition was an instantaneous process."
"Since you force me to meet you on your own ground, I must have sufficient time to build up a reasonable case."
"Aha! Then you don't despise reason altogether."
"By no means. But my reasoning is better than yours because it is guided by the voice of intuition."
"Do you expect me to release this girl on the strength of your intuition?"
"By no means. She'd run away. And we may need her later."
"Run away! This paragon of innocence? Impossible!"
"There are a good many things that reasonable men do not understand," drawled Mme. Storey. "Take it from me, though, in the end you will come off better in this affair if you simply hold the girl in the House of Detention as a material witness."
"Thanks," he said; "but I am going before the grand jury tomorrow to ask for an indictment for homicide."
"As you will! Men must be reasonable. According to your theory, she killed him in defending herself from his attentions, didn't she?"
"That's what I intimated."
"Well, as a reasonable man, how do you account for the fact that she was willing to stay in the house with him alone except for the old housekeeper?"
"The point is well taken," he admitted, but with a disagreeable smile that suggested he meant to humble her later.
Mme. Storey continued: "Moreover, she must have put herself in the way of his attentions, for the tragedy occurred in the man's own library."
"I confess that stumped me at first," he said; "likewise the fact that he had apparently been shot unawares. But since this morning some new evidence has come to light."
He waited for her to betray curiosity, but she, who read him like a book, only blew smoke.
"Ashcomb Poor's will was read this morning."
"Yes?"
"He left Philippa Dean ten thousand dollars."
Mme. Storey betrayed not the slightest concern.
"As a testimony to her sterling character, no doubt," she murmured.
"Character nothing!" was the retort. "Well, as far as that goes, Ashco
mb Poor's motives do not concern me. The salient fact to me is that the girl knew she was down in his will."
"When was the will dated?"
"Three days before his death."
"Well, she didn't lose any time! How did she know she was named in it?"
"It appears that Ashcomb Poor in his cups talked about the different bequests to his butler, who witnessed the document. The butler told Mrs. Batten, and Mrs. Batten told the girl."
"Was Mrs. Batten mentioned in the will?"
"Yes, for five thousand."
"Perhaps she killed Ashcomb Poor."
"Ridiculous!"
V
Mme. Storey decided that we must interview all the material witnesses in this case.
My desk in the outer office was beside the window. Next morning while I was awaiting the arrival of my employer I saw an elegantly appointed town car draw up below, and a woman of exquisite grace and distinction got out. She was dressed and veiled in the deepest mourning, and I could not see her face, but, guessing who it was, I experience a little thrill of anticipation. The door was presently thrown open by Eddie—it was only visitors of distinction that he condescended to announce. "Mrs. Poor to see Mme. Storey."
I jumped up in a bit of fluster. What would you expect? The famous Mrs. Ashcomb Poor, of whom so much had been written; her beauty, her dresses, her jewels, her charities, and now her tragic bereavement! How I longed to see her face. She made no move to put aside her veil, though.
"Mme. Storey not in?" she said in a disappointed voice.
"I am expecting her directly," I said. "She will be very much disappointed to miss you."
"I do not at all mind waiting," Mrs. Poor replied.
Her voice was as crisp and clear as glass bells. I brought a chair forward for her. I knew I ought to have shown her directly into the adjoining room, but I did want to get a good look at her. Her simple black dress had been draped by a master artist. I cudgelled my brain to think of some expedient to tempt her to put back her veil. I offered her a magazine, but she waved it aside, thanking me. My ingenuity failed me. It was hardly my place to start a conversation.
Mme. Storey was not long in arriving. She was all in black, too, I remember, but it was black with a difference; there was nothing of the mourner about her. And Giannino, who, poor wretch, had to dress to set off his mistress, was wearing a coat and cap of burnt orange.
My employer expressed her contrition at keeping Mrs. Poor waiting, and led that lady directly into the adjoining room. Alas! I was not bidden to follow. I would have given a good deal to be able to watch and listen to the conversation between those two extraordinary women.
I remained at my desk in the deepest disappointment. Suddenly I heard the dictagraph click. With what joy I snatched up the head-piece and pulled note-book and pencil toward me!
At least I was to hear.
Mme. Storey was saying: "It was awfully good of you to consent to come to a strange woman's office. I should not have asked it had I not thought that my coming to you would only have been an embarrassment."
"I was very glad to come," Mrs. Poor replied in her bell-like voice. "You are not by any means unknown to me. On every side one hears of the wonderful powers of Mme. Storey. I was very much pleased to hear that you had interested yourself in my unhappy affairs. One longs to know the truth and have done with it. One can rest then, perhaps."
"And you are willing to answer my questions?"
"Most willing."
"This is really good of you. For of course it's bound to be painful, though I will spare you as far as I am able. If I trespass too far you must rebuke me."
"There is nothing you may not ask me, Mme. Storey."
"Thanks. I'll be as brief as possible. No need for us to go over the whole story. I am already pretty well informed from the police and from my examination of Miss Dean yesterday."
"Ah, you have seen the girl?" put in Mrs. Poor.
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing but what has been published."
"Poor, poor creature!"
"You do not feel unkindly toward her?"
"My feelings towards her are very mixed. I could not see her, of course. But I feel no bitterness. How do I know what reason she may have had? And to convict her will not restore my husband to life."
"You have known Miss Dean a long time?"
"Since she was a child. Her family and mine have been acquainted for several generations."
"Has Miss Dean a love affair?"
"No, nothing serious."
"You are sure?"
"Quite sure. I must have known it if she had. Several of the young men who frequented our house paid her attention—a pretty girl, you know—but not seriously."
"I should have thought—"
"I'm afraid young men are worldly minded nowadays," said Mrs. Poor. "She had no money, you see."
"Now I come to a painful subject," said Mme. Storey compassionately. "I am sorry to have to ask you, but I am anxious to establish the exact nature of the relations between your husband and Miss Dean."
"You need not consider me," murmured Mrs. Poor. "I have to face the thing."
"Some of the servants have given evidence tending to show that your husband was infatuated with her."
"I'm afraid it's true."
"What makes you think so?"
"One learns to read the man one lives with—his looks, the tones of his voice, his little unconscious actions."
"You have no positive evidence of his wrongdoing; you never surprised him, or intercepted notes?"
"That would not be my way," said Mrs. Poor proudly.
"Of course not. I beg your pardon."
Mrs. Poor went on bitterly: "If I had wanted evidence against him plenty of it was forced on me—I mean in other cases."
"Nothing that could be applied to this case?"
"No."
"Then we needn't go into that. How did the girl receive his overtures?"
"As an honest girl should. She repulsed him."
"How do you know?"
"I knew in the same way that I knew about him—from her actions day by day; her attitude toward him."
"What was that?"
"On guard."
"That might have been interpreted either way, might it not?"
"Oh, yes. But there was her attitude toward me—open, affectionate, unreserved."
"That might have been good acting," suggested Mme. Storey.
"It might, but I prefer not to think so."
"You have a good heart, Mrs. Poor. How long had this been going on?"
"About a month."
"But if the girl was sincere, how do you account for the fact that she was willing to put up with this intolerable situation?"
"Very simply; she needed the money."
"But if she'd always been well employed why should she be so hard up?"
"She has responsibilities. She supports two old servants of her mother's, who are no longer able to work."
"Ah! But how could you tolerate the situation, Mrs. Poor?"
"You mean why didn't I send her away? How could I turn her off? Ever since I realised what was going on I have been trying to find her a situation with one of my friends, but they thought if I was willing to let her go, there must be something undesirable about her."
"Naturally. Was that the only reason you kept her?"
Mrs. Poor's answer was so low it scarcely carried over the wire. "No; I wish to be perfectly frank with you; I confess, as long as she was there I knew in a way what was going on, but if she had gone away—you see—"
"Then you did have some doubt of her?"
"My husband was a man very attractive to women. He was accustomed to getting his way. I was thinking of her more than of myself. His fancies never lasted long."
"Did you know that he had put her in his will?"
"Not until the will was read yesterday."
"What do you suppose was his motive in doing that?"
/> "How can one say?"
"May it not have been merely for the purpose of annoying you?"
"Possibly. He was not above it."
"Now, Mrs. Poor, with the situation as it was, how could you bring yourself to leave the girl alone with him except for the housekeeper?"
"That was not my fault. It was sprung on me. I had no time to plan anything."
"What do you mean?"
"It had been understood up to the last moment that Mr. Poor was to accompany me to the entertainment. But at dinner he begged off. What could I do? I had to go myself because I was taking a prominent part."
"Then why didn't you ask her to go with you?"
"I did."
"And she wouldn't?"
"She wouldn't."
"Why?"
"She said she had no dress in order."
"Did you believe that?"
"No."
"You suspected that this staying home might have been prearranged?"
"Oh, I wouldn't go as far as that."
"But if it were not prearranged, why should she have gone to the library?"
"Who can tell what happened? He might have sent for her on the pretext of dictating letters. He had done that before."
"You seek to excuse her. That doesn't explain why she chose to stay at home after she knew he was going to be there."
"Perhaps she was excited—thrilled by his infatuation; girls are like that. Perhaps she was curious to see how he would act—confident in her power to restrain him. And found out too late that she was up against elemental things, and was obliged to defend herself."
"But she must have had some inkling of what was likely to happen, since she took her pistol with her when she went to the library. Did you know that she possessed a pistol?"
"No."
"Now, Mrs. Poor, let us jump to your return home that night. Describe your homecoming as explicitly as possible."
"It was five minutes past midnight. I am sure of the time because I glanced at the clock as I was leaving the club. It was five minutes before the hour then. It took us about ten minutes to cover the three miles, for the road was thronged with returning motors."
"One minute; the entertainment was held in the open air, wasn't it?"
"Yes, and we dressed in the club house. We had the limousine. I rode with my own maid, Katy Birkett, beside me, and the cook and the housemaid opposite. The butler was outside with the chauffeur. When we reached home I got out alone at the front door. I told the others to drive along to the service door, because I thought it might annoy Mr. Poor to have them trooping through the house. The car waited until the door was opened, because they didn't want to leave me standing there alone in the dark.
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