MRS2 Madame Storey

by Hulbert Footner

  "Mrs. Batten opened the door. This surprised me, because she was usually in bed long before that hour. I had expected my husband to let me in. I had had the chauffeur sound his horn in the drive to give notice of our coming. I said to Mrs. Batten: 'Why aren't you in bed?' She answered that she thought she'd better wait up—or something like that. I asked her where Mr. Poor was, and she said he had fallen asleep in the library.

  "A few steps from the inner door I could see into the library. The door was standing open, as it had been when I left it. I could see my husband sitting at his writing-table in the centre of the room, his back to the door. His head was lying on his arms, and I, too, thought he was asleep. I noticed the fire had gone out."

  "Oh, there had been a fire?"

  "Yes, Mr. Poor liked to have a wood fire in the library except in the very hottest weather. As Mrs. Batten removed my cloak I called to him: 'Wake up, Ashcomb! You'll get stiff, sleeping like that.'

  "He did not move. Mrs. Batten and I were simultaneously struck by the suspicion that something was the matter. We both started toward him. I had not taken two steps before I saw—oh!—a ghastly dark stain on the rug beneath his chair. I saw the pistol. An icy hand seemed to grip my throat. I stopped, unable to move. The room turned black before me."

  "You fainted?"

  "No. It was only for a second. I started forward again. Mrs. Batten turned and blocked my way. 'Don't go! Don't go!' she cried. Then something seemed to break inside me. I screamed. Then Miss Dean was there. I didn't see her come. I clung to her—"

  "One moment. After you screamed how long was it before Miss Dean came?"

  "No time at all. She was right there."

  "You are sure?"

  "Quite sure."

  "Perhaps you had cried out before without knowing it."

  "Impossible. With that icy grip on my throat."

  "Well, go on, please."

  "I—I broke down completely then. It was so awful a shock, and—and that dark, wet stain on the rug! The other servants ran in from the back of the house. The maids set up an insensate screaming. Somebody got them out again. The butler examined my—the—the body. He said he was quite dead—cold. I had sufficient presence of mind to order that nothing in the room be touched. I had the man telephone my brother, who lives near, and our doctor—just to be sure. The servants helped me upstairs; people began to come—the police. My recollection is not very clear after that."

  "Were you present when the police examined the servants and Miss Dean?"

  "No."

  "When did you first begin to suspect her?"

  "In the morning when I asked for her they told me she had been arrested. That was a fresh shock. I had supposed it was suicide. I only learned the facts little by little, because people didn't want to talk to me about it and I hadn't the strength to insist."

  "Did you notice anything peculiar in Miss Dean's manner when she came to you?"

  "Not at the time, of course. I was too distracted. But when I thought about it later, she was strangely agitated."

  "Well, you all were, of course."

  "She was different. Hers was not the impersonal horror and dismay of the servants; hers was a personal feeling. She seemed about to faint with terror; she could hardly speak. She was not surprised."

  "What did she say to you?"

  "She, too, tried to keep me back. She said: 'Don't go to him. It's all over.' At the moment I thought nothing of it. Afterwards it occurred to me that none of us had been near him then. We didn't know he was dead until the butler came."

  "That is very significant," said Mme. Storey.

  This ended Mrs. Poor's examination. After the exchange of some further civilities she came out of the inner room. Her veil was pushed aside and I had my wished-for chance to see her face. Her voice over the wire had been so cool and collected that I was not prepared for what I saw. A truly beautiful woman with proud, chiselled features, the events of the last few days had worked havoc there. There were dark circles under her eyes, and deep lines of suffering from her nose to her mouth. I realised how profoundly humiliating the disclosures, following upon the murder, must have been to her proud soul. Seeing my eyes on her face, she quickly let the veil fall and went out without speaking.

  As a result of the examination of Mrs. Poor I will not deny that I felt a certain satisfaction. Greatly as I admired my employer, I was not sorry to see her proved wrong for once. It is not the easiest thing in the world to get along with a person who is always right. Mme. Storey's insistence on Philippa Dean's innocence had provoked me just a little. Mme. Storey made no reference to what had taken place between her and Mrs. Poor, and of course I did not gloat over her.

  VI

  An hour after Mrs. Poor had departed I heard a timid tap on my door, and upon opening it beheld a round little body in a stiff black dress and a funny little hat with ostrich tips. She carried her gloved hands folded primly on the most protuberant part of her person, and from one arm hung a black satin reticule. She had cheeks like withered rosy apples, and short-sighted eyes peering through thick glasses. There was a wistful, childlike quality in her glance that immediately appealed to one. At present the little lady was scared and breathless.

  "Does Mme. Storey live here?" she gasped.

  "This is her office," I said. "Come in."

  "I am Mrs. Batten."

  I looked at her with strong interest. "Mme. Storey will be glad to see you," I said.

  "I told her I'd come," she faltered; "but I'm so upset—so upset, I'm sure if she asks me the simplest questions my wits will fly away completely."

  "You needn't be afraid of her," I said soothingly.

  I knew whereof I spoke. The instant Mme. Storey laid eyes on the trembling little body, she smiled and softened. She put away her worldly airs and was just simple like folks. I remained in the room. Mme. Storey talked of indifferent matters until Mrs. Batten got her breath somewhat, and brought the matter very gradually around to the Poor case. At the first reference to Philippa Dean the tears started out of the old eyes and rolled down the withered cheeks.

  "My poor, poor girl!" she mourned. "My poor girl!"

  "You were very fond of her then?" put in Mme. Storey gently.

  "Like a daughter she was to me, madam."

  "Well, let's put our heads together and see what we can do. You can help me a lot. First of all, where were you all evening while Mrs. Poor was at the entertainment?"

  With a great effort Mrs. Batten collected her forces and called in her tears. Her hands gripped the arms of her chair. "I was in my room," she said; "my sitting-room downstairs."

  "All alone?"

  "Why, of course."

  "Please tell me just where your room is."

  "Well, the way to it from the front hall is through a door between the reception room and the dining-room and along a passage. Half-way down this passage is my door on the right and the pantry door opposite. At the end of the passage another passage runs crosswise. That we call the back hall. It has a door on the drive—"

  "That is the door by which the servants entered when they returned with Mrs. Poor?"

  "Yes, madam. And at the other end of the back hall there's a door to the garden. The back stairs are in this hall. The kitchen and the servants' dining-room are beyond."

  "I get the hang of it. Wasn't it unusual for you to remain up so late?"

  "Yes, it was."

  "How did it happen?"

  "Well—I got interested in a book."

  "What book?"

  Mrs. Batten put a distracted hand to her brow. "Let me see—my poor wits! Oh, yes, it was called 'The Light That Failed.'"

  No muscle of Mme. Storey's face changed. "Ah! An admirable story! I know it well! What I particularly admire is the opening chapter, where the young man steps out of the clock case and confronts the thief in the act of rifling the safe."

  "I thought that a little overdrawn," said Mrs. Batten.

  I gasped inwardly. I could scarcely believe my e
ars. Our dear, gentle little old lady was lying like a trooper, and Mme. Storey had trapped her. For, of course, as everybody knows, there is no such scene in "The Light That Failed."

  Mme. Storey went right on: "Please tell me exactly what happened when Mrs. Poor returned that night."

  Mrs. Batten complied. Up to a certain point her story tallied exactly with that of her mistress, and there is no need for repeating it. Mrs. Batten corroborated Mrs. Poor's statement that Philippa Dean had appeared as soon as Mrs. Poor cried out.

  Then Mme. Storey said: "But Miss Dean testified that she had to run all the way around the upstairs gallery and downstairs."

  Mrs. Batten gave her a frightened look. "Oh, well, I may be mistaken," she said quickly. "It was all so dreadful. Maybe it was a minute before she got there."

  "What did Miss Dean say to Mrs. Poor when she got there?"

  "She didn't say anything—that is, not anything regular. She put her arm around her and said: 'Be calm!'—or 'Don't give way,' or something like that."

  "Didn't Miss Dean say: 'Don't go to him. It's all over.'"

  Mrs. Batten sat bolt upright in her chair, and the near-sighted eyes positively shot sparks. "She did not say that!"

  "Can you be sure?"

  "I'll swear it!"

  "She might have said it without your hearing."

  "I was there all the time. I had hold of Mrs. Poor, too."

  "But Mrs. Poor has testified that Miss Dean said that."

  The old woman obstinately primmed her lips. "I don't care!"

  "Wouldn't you believe your mistress?"

  "Not if she said that. She was mistaken. She was half wild, anyway. She didn't know what anybody said to her. Why, nobody knew that Mr. Poor was dead then. Not till the butler came."

  Mrs. Batten's anxiety on the girl's behalf was so obvious that her testimony in the girl's favour did not carry much weight.

  Mme. Storey continued: "Did you notice anything strange about Miss Dean's manner when she came?"

  Mrs. Batten sparred for time. "What do you mean?" she asked.

  "Was she unduly agitated?"

  "Why, of course, we all were."

  "I said unduly. Did she behave any differently from the others?"

  The little old lady began to tremble.

  "What are you trying to get me to say?" she stammered. "She didn't do it! She couldn't have done it! That sweet young girl, so gentle, so fastidious!" The old voice scaled up hysterically. "Nothing could ever make me believe she did it! Like a daughter to me, a daughter! She didn't do it! I will say it to my dying day!"

  Mme. Storey smiled kindly. "Your feelings do you credit, Mrs. Batten; still I hope you won't show them so plainly before the jury."

  "The jury!" whispered Mrs. Batten, scared and sobered.

  "Because if you let them see how fond you are of Miss Dean they won't believe a word you say in her favour!"

  "The jury!" Mrs. Batten reiterated, staring before her as if she visualised the dreadful ordeal that awaited her. "I will have to sit up there in the witness chair and take my oath before them all—and everybody looking at me—thousands—and lawyers asking me this and that a purpose to mix me up—" She suddenly cried out: "Oh, I couldn't! I couldn't! I know I couldn't! I'm too nervous! I'd kill myself sooner than face that!"

  The little woman's terror was so disproportionate to the thing she feared, that the strange thought went through my mind, perhaps it was she who killed Ashcomb Poor, or maybe she and the girl had done it together. I attended to what followed with a breathless interest.

  Meanwhile Mme. Storey was trying to quiet her. "There now! There now! Mrs. Batten: don't distress yourself so. This is just an imaginary terror. It may never be necessary for you to go on the stand. Let's take a breathing spell to allow our nerves to quiet down. Have a cigarette?"

  I stared at my employer, for at the moment this seemed like a very poor attempt at a joke. I ought to have known that Mme. Storey never did anything at such a moment without purpose.

  Mrs. Batten drew the remains of her dignity around her. "Thank you, I don't indulge," she said stiffly. She was pure mid-Victorian then.

  Mme. Storey said teasingly: "Come, now, Mrs. Batten! Not even in the privacy of your room?"

  "Never! I'm not saying that I blame them that do, if they like it; but in my day it wasn't considered nice."

  "Does Miss Dean smoke?" asked Mme. Storey with an idle air.

  "I'm sure she does not!" answered Mrs. Batten earnestly. "I've been with her at all times and seasons, and I never saw her take one between her lips. There was no reason she should hide it from me. Besides, the maids never picked up any cigarette ends in her room. They're keen on such things."

  "You have the reputation of being a very tidy person, haven't you, Mrs. Batten?" asked Mme. Storey. "They tell me you are a regular New England house-keeper."

  By this time I had guessed from Mme. Storey's elaborately careless air that this apparently meaningless questioning was tending to a well-defined point. The old lady glanced at her in a bewildered way, but she could see nothing behind this harmless remark.

  "Why, yes," she said, "I suppose I do like to see things clean—real clean. And everything in its proper place."

  "Who does up your room?" went on Mme. Storey in the purring voice that always means danger—for somebody. My heart began to beat.

  "I do it myself, always," answered the little woman unsuspectingly. "I don't like the maids messing among my things. I like my room just so. I always sweep and dust and put things in order myself, and I mean to do so until I take to my bed for the last time."

  "Every day?" asked Mme. Storey, flicking the ash off her cigarette.

  "Every day, most certainly."

  Mme. Storey drawled in a voice as sweet as honey: "Well, then, Mrs. Batten, who was it that was smoking cigarettes in your room the night that Ashcomb Poor was killed?"

  The little old woman's jaw dropped, the rosy cheeks greyed, her eyes were like a sick woman's. Presently the hanging lip began to tremble piteously. I could not bear to look at her.

  "I—I don't know what you're talking about," she stuttered.

  "You have not answered my question," Mme. Storey said mildly.

  "Nobody—nobody was smoking in my room."

  Mme. Storey turned to me. "Miss Brickley, please get me the exhibits in the Poor case that I asked you to put away."

  Hastening into the next room, I procured the things from the safe. When I returned neither of the two had changed position. From the envelope that I handed her, Mme. Storey shook the cigarette butts.

  "These were found in your room early the next morning," she said to Mrs. Batten. "In the little brass bowl on the window-sill."

  "All kinds of people were in the house that morning," stammered the little woman with a desperate air; "police, detectives, goodness knows who! How do I know who passed through my room?"

  "It was scarcely one who passed through," said Mme. Storey. "He or she must have lingered some time—long enough, that is, to smoke seven cigarettes. See!" She counted them before the old woman's fascinated eyes.

  "I don't know how they came there. I don't know how they came there!" wailed the latter.

  Mme. Storey spread the cigarette ends in a row. "They are plain tip cigarettes," she said, "so I assume they are a man's. Women prefer cork tips or straw tips, because lip rouge sticks and comes off on the paper. What gentleman visited you, Mrs. Batten?"

  "There was nobody, nobody!" was the faint answer. "Why do you torment me?"

  "There's no harm in having a visitor, surely. Your son, perhaps, a nephew, a brother—even a husband. Women do have them, Mrs. Batten."

  "Everybody knows I have no family."

  "A friend, then. Where's the harm?"

  "There was nobody there."

  Mme. Storey examined the cigarette ends anew. "One of them is long enough to show the name of the brand," she said. "Army and Navy. One might guess that they were smoked by a man in the service."
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br />   The harried little woman gave her a glance of fresh terror.

  Delicately picking up one of the butts, Mme. Storey smelled of the unburned end. "The tobacco is of a superior and expensive grade," she remarked. "Evidently an officer's cigarette. But of what branch of the service? That is the question." She fixed the trembling little soul with her compelling gaze and asked abruptly: "Was he an aviator, Mrs. Batten?"

  A terrified cry escaped Mrs. Batten.

  "I see he was," said Mme. Storey.

  Mrs. Batten was gazing at Mme. Storey as if the evil one himself confronted her.

  Answering that look of awed terror, my employer said quietly: "No, there is no magic in it, Mrs. Batten. As a matter of fact, later that morning I found in the field across the brook at the foot of the garden marks in the earth showing where an airplane had alighted, and had later arisen again. I was only putting two and two together, you see."

  The little woman, seeming incapable of speech, sat there with her hands clasped as if imploring for mercy. It was very affecting.

  Mme. Storey went on: "Upon consulting an expert in aviation I learned that such tracks could have been made by none other than one of the new Bentley-Critchard machines, of which there are as yet only half a dozen in service, and those all at Camp Tasker, which is only fifteen miles from Grimstead—a few minutes' flight. All I lack is the name of the aviator who visited you. Who was he, Mrs. Batten?"

  The little woman moistened her lips and whispered in a kind of dry cackle: "I don't know. No one came."

  "You might as well tell me," Mme. Storey said patiently. "It would not be difficult to find out at Camp Tasker, you know. There cannot be many officers accustomed to driving that new type."

  A groan broke from the little old woman. She covered her face with her hands. "You are too much for me," she murmured. "It was Lieutenant George Grantland."