by Otto Penzler
Teal let out a shout and started across the room. Simon’s hand dived into the drawer, came out with a nickel-plated revolver—it was exactly the same as the one with which Lewis Enstone had shot himself, but Teal wasn’t noticing things like that. His impression was that the Saint really had gone raving mad after all, and the sight of the gun pulled him up for a moment as the sight of a gun in the hands of any other raving maniac would have pulled him up.
“Put that down, you fool!” he yelled, and then he let out another shout as he saw the Saint turn the muzzle of the gun close up to his right eye, with his thumb on the trigger, exactly as Enstone must have held it. Teal lurched forward and knocked the weapon aside with a sweep of his arm; then he grabbed Simon by the wrist. “That’s enough of that,” he said, without realising what a futile thing it was to say.
Simon looked at him and smiled.
“Thanks for saving my life, old beetroot,” he murmured kindly. “But it really wasn’t necessary. You see, Claud, that’s the gun Enstone thought he was playing with!”
The maid was under the table letting out the opening note of a magnificent fit of hysterics. Teal let go the Saint, hauled her out, and shook her till she was quiet. There were more events cascading on him in those few seconds than he knew how to cope with, and he was not gentle.
“It’s all right, miss,” he growled. “I am from Scotland Yard. Just sit down somewhere, will you?” He turned back to Simon. “Now, what’s all this about?”
“The gun, Claud. Enstone’s toy.”
The Saint raised it again—his smile was quite sane, and with the feeling that he himself was the madman, Teal let him do what he wanted. Simon put the gun to his eye and pulled the trigger—pulled it, released it, pulled it again, keeping up the rhythmic movement. Something inside the gun whirred smoothly, as if wheels were whizzing round under the working of the lever. Then he pointed the gun straight into Teal’s face and did the same thing.
Teal stared frozenly down the barrel and saw the black hole leap into a circle of light. He was looking at a flickering cinematograph film of a boy shooting a masked burglar. It was tiny, puerile in subject, but perfect. It lasted about ten seconds, and then the barrel went dark again.
“Costello’s present for Enstone’s little boy,” explained the Saint quietly. “He invented it and made it himself, of course—he always had a talent that way. Haven’t you ever seen those electric flashlights that work without a battery? You keep on squeezing a lever, and it turns a miniature dynamo. Costello made a very small one, and fitted it into the hollow casting of a gun. Then he geared a tiny strip of film to it. It was a jolly good new toy, Claud Eustace, and he must have been proud of it. They took it along to Enstone’s; and when he’d turned down their merger and there was nothing else for them to do, they let him play with it just enough to tickle his palate, at just the right hour of the evening. Then they took it away from him and put it back in its box and gave it to him. They had a real gun in another box ready to make the switch.”
Chief Inspector Teal stood like a rock, his jaws clamping a wad of spearmint that he had at last forgotten to chew. Then he said: “How did they know he wouldn’t shoot his own son?”
“That was Hammel. He knew that Enstone wasn’t capable of keeping his hands off a toy like that; and just to make certain he reminded Enstone of it the last thing before they left. He was a practical psychologist—I suppose we can begin to speak of him in the past tense now.” Simon Templar smiled again, and fished a cigarette out of his pocket. “But why I should bother to tell you all this when you could have got it out of a stool pigeon,” he murmured, “is more than I can understand. I must be getting soft-hearted in my old age, Claud. After all, when you’re so far ahead of Sherlock Holmes——”
Mr. Teal gulped pinkly, and picked up the telephone.
THE ASHCOMB POOR CASE
WILLIAM HULBERT FOOTNER (1879–1944) was born in Hamilton, Ontario. He went to school in New York City and began his journalism career there, then moved back to Canada to take a newspaper job in Alberta. He had brief careers as an actor, playwright, and screenwriter. His early fiction reflects his locale as he set his mystery-adventure novels in northwest Canada. He returned to the United States and wrote mainly detective stories, primarily about two utterly disparate characters. Amos Lee Mappin, a wealthy author and criminologist who functions as an amateur detective, resembles the Mr. Pickwick of Charles Dickens. He is the protagonist in ten novels, though he seldom actually solves the mysteries, leaving “the dirty work” to his friends. Footner used his friend Christopher Morley as a major character in the first Mappin book, The Mystery of the Folded Paper (1930). Morley reciprocated by writing a warm tribute to Footner’s posthumously published Orchids to Murder (1945).
Quite different from Mappin is the breathtakingly gorgeous Madame Rosika Storey, who describes herself as “a practical psychologist—specializing in the feminine.” She made her debut in The Under Dogs (1925) and appears in eight additional books, mostly short collections such as Madame Story (1926), The Velvet Hand: New Madame Storey Mysteries (1928), and The Almost Perfect Murder: More Madame Storey Mysteries (1933).
“The Ashcomb Poor Case” was first published in Madame Storey (New York, Doran, 1926).
HULBERT FOOTNER
I
MOST OF YOU will remember how the murder of Ashcomb Poor set the whole town agog. The victim’s wealth and social position and the scandalous details of his private life that began to ooze out whetted the public appetite for sensation to the highest degree. For years Ashcomb Poor had been one of the most beparagraphed men in town, and now the manner of his taking off seemed like a tremendous climax to a thrilling tale.
The day it first came out in the papers Madame Storey did not arrive at the office until noon. She was very plainly dressed and wore a thick veil that partly obscured her features. By this time I was accustomed to these metamorphoses of costume. From a little bag she carried she took several articles and handed them over to me. These were (a) a hank of thin green string in a snarl, (b) a piece of iridescent chiffon, partly burned, (c) an envelope containing seven cigarette butts.
“Some scraps of evidence in the Ashcomb Poor case,” she explained. “Put them in a safe place.”
I had just been reading the newspaper report.
“What! Have we been engaged in that case already?” I exclaimed. Madame Storey encouraged me to speak of our business in the first person plural, and of course it flattered me to do so.
“No,” she said, smiling, “but we may be. At any rate, I have forearmed myself by taking a look over the ground.”
In the rear of her room there was a smaller one that she used as a retiring- and dressing-room. She changed there now to a more suitable costume.
Two days later she remarked: “The signs tell me that we shall receive a call from the district attorney’s office to-day.”
Sure enough, Assistant District Attorney Barron turned up before the morning was over. Though he was a young man for the job, he was a capable one, and held over through several succeeding administrations. This was the first time I had seen him, though it turned out he was an old friend of Madame Storey’s. A handsome, full-blooded fellow, his weakness was that he thought just a little too well of himself.
I showed him into the private office and returned to my desk. There is a dictagraph installed between Madame Storey’s desk and mine, and when it is turned on I am supposed to listen and make a transcript of whatever conversation may be taking place. Sometimes, to my chagrin, she turns it off at the most exciting moment, but more often she leaves it on, I am sure, out of pure good nature, because she knows I am so keenly interested. Madame Storey is good enough to say that she likes me to be in possession of full information, so that she can talk things over with me.
The circuit was open now, and I heard him say: “My God, Rose, you’re more beautiful than ever!”
“Thanks, Walter,” she dryly retorted. “The dictagraph is on, and
my secretary can hear everything you say.”
“For Heaven’s sake, turn it off!”
“I can’t now, or she’d imagine the worst. You’ll have to stick to business. I suppose you’ve come to see me about the Ashcomb Poor case.”
“What makes you jump to that conclusion?”
“Oh, you were about due.”
“Humph! I suppose that’s intended to be humorous. If you weren’t quite so sure of yourself you’d be a great woman, Rose. But it’s a weakness in you. You think you know everything.”
“Well, what did you come to see me about?”
“As a matter of fact, it was the Ashcomb Poor case. But that was just a lucky shot on your part. I suppose you read that I had been assigned to the case.”
“Walter, you’re a good prosecutor, but you lack a sense of humour.”
“Well, you’re all right in your own line, feminine psychology and all that. I gladly hand it to you. But the trouble with you is, you want to tell me how to run my job too.”
“No one could do that, Walter.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind. How does the Poor case stand?”
“I suppose you’ve read the papers.”
“Yes; they’re no nearer the truth than usual. Give me an outline of the situation as you see it.”
“Well, you know the Ashcomb Poors. Top-notchers; fine old family, money, and all that; leaders in the ultra-smart Prince’s Valley set on Long Island. They have what they call a small house out at Grimstead, where they make believe to live in quiet style; it’s the thing nowadays.”
“In other words, the extravagantly simple life.”
“Exactly. They have no children. The household consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Poor, Miss Philippa Dean, Mrs. Poor’s secretary, Mrs. Batten, the housekeeper, a butler, and three maids; there were outside servants, too—chauffeur, gardener, and so on—but they don’t come into the case. Ashcomb Poor was a handsome man and a free liver. Things about him have been coming out—well, you know. On the other hand, his wife was above scandal, a great beauty——”
“Vintage of 1904.”
“Well, perhaps; but still in the running. These women know how to keep their looks. Very charitable woman and all that. Greatly looked up to. On Monday night Mrs. Poor took part in a big affair at the Pudding-Stone Country Club near their home. A pageant of all nations or something. Her husband, who did not care for such functions, stayed at home. So did Miss Dean and Mrs. Batten. Mrs. Poor took the other servants to see the show.”
“There were only three left in the house, then?”
“Yes—Mr. Poor, Miss Dean, and Mrs. Batten.”
“Go on.”
“Mrs. Poor returned from the entertainment about midnight. Mrs. Batten let her in the front door. Standing there, the two women could see into the library, where Poor sat with his back to them. They were struck by something strange in his attitude, and started to investigate, Mrs. Batten in advance.
“She was the first to realise that something had happened, and tried to keep Mrs. Poor from approaching the body. They struggled. Mrs. Poor screamed. The girl, Philippa Dean, suddenly appeared, nobody can tell from where. A moment later the other servants, who had gone around to the back door, ran in.
“Well, there was the situation. He had been shot in the back. The pistol was there. The butler telephoned to friends of the family and to the police. Grimstead, as you know, is within the city limits, so it comes within our jurisdiction. I was notified of the affair within an hour and ordered to take personal charge of the case. Nothing had been disturbed. I ordered the arrest of the Dean girl, and she is still in custody.”
“What do you want of me?” Madame Storey inquired.
“I want you to see the girl. Frankly, she baffles me. Under our questioning she broke down before morning and confessed to killing the man. But the next day she repudiated her confession, and has obstinately stuck to her repudiation in spite of all we could do. I want you to see her and get a regular confession.”
“What about the girl’s lawyer?”
“She has none as yet. Refused to see one.”
“You’re sure she did it?”
“Absolutely. It was immediately apparent that the murder had been committed by one of the inmates of the house.”
“Why?”
“Because when Mr. Poor and the servants departed for the entertainment Mrs. Batten, who let them out, turned on the burglar-alarm, and it remained turned on until she let her mistress in again. One of the first things I did on arriving at the house was to make sure that the alarm was working properly. I also examined all the doors and windows. Everything was intact.”
“Why couldn’t the housekeeper have done it?”
“A simple, timid old soul! Impossible! No motive. Besides, if she had she would hardly have given me the principal piece of evidence against those in the house; I mean her testimony about the burglar-alarm.”
“What motive could the girl have had?”
“The servants state that their master had been pestering her—forcing his attentions on her.”
“Ah! But this is all presumptive evidence, of course. What else have you?”
“Ashcomb Poor was shot with an automatic pistol belonging to Miss Dean. The butler identified it. At first she denied that it was hers. She could not deny, though, that she had one like it, and when asked to produce it she could not. It was not among her effects.”
“Where did you find the gun exactly?”
“In the dead man’s hand.”
“In his hand?”
“Under his hand, I should say. It had been shoved under in a clumsy attempt to make it appear like a suicide. But the hand was clenched on top of the weapon. Moreover, the man was shot between the shoulders. He could not possibly have done it himself. The bullet passed completely through his body, and I found it lodged in the wall across the room.”
“Did the housekeeper hear the shot?”
“She did not. She was in another wing of the house.”
“Anything else against the girl?”
“Yes. When she appeared, attracted by Mrs. Poor’s cry, though she was supposed to have retired some time before, she was fully dressed. Moreover, she knew what had happened before any one told her.”
“Ah! How does she explain these suspicious circumstances?”
“She will explain nothing. Refuses to talk.”
“What story did she tell when she confessed?”
“None. Merely cried out: ‘I did it—I did it. Don’t ask me any more!’ ”
There was a silence here, during which Madame Storey presumably ruminated on what she had been told. Finally she said: “I’ll see the girl, but it must be upon my own conditions.”
“What are those?”
“As an independent investigator. I hold no brief for the district attorney’s office.”
“Well, there’s no harm in that.”
“But you must understand what that implies. Neither you nor any of your men may be present while I am talking to her. And I do not bind myself to tell you everything she tells me.”
“That’s out of the question. What would the old man say if he knew that I turned her over to an outsider?”
“Well, that’s up to you, of course.” Madame Storey spoke indifferently. “You came to me, you know.”
“Well—all right.” This very sullenly. “I suppose if she confesses you’ll let me know.”
“Certainly. But I’m not at all sure this is going to turn out the way you expect.”
“After all I’ve told you?”
“Your case against her is a little too good, Walter.”
“Who else could have done it?”
“I don’t know—yet. If she did it, why should she have stuck around the house until you arrested her?”
“She supposed it would be considered a suicide.”
“But, according to you, a year-old child wouldn’t have been deceived into thinking so.”
“Well, you never can tell. They always do something foolish. Will you come down to the Tombs? I’ll arrange for a room there.”
“No, I must see the girl here.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Sorry; it’s my invariable rule, you know.”
“But have a heart, Rose. I daren’t let her out of my custody.”
“You and your men can wait outside the door, then.”
“It’s most irregular.”
“I am an irregular person,” was the bland reply. “You should not have come to me.”
“Well—I suppose you must have your own way.”
“Always do, my dear. With the girl send a transcript of whatever statements have been taken down in the case.”
“All right. Rose, turn off that confounded dictagraph, will you? I want to speak to you privately.”
“It’s off.”
It wasn’t though, for I continued to hear every word.
“Good God, Rose, why do you persist in trying to madden me?”
“Mercy, Walter! How?”
“You know—with your cold and scornful airs, your indifference. It’s—it’s only vanity. Your vanity is ridiculous!”
“Oh, if you’re only going to call names, I’ll turn on the dictagraph.”
“No, don’t, don’t! I scarcely know what I’m saying, you provoke me so. Why won’t you be decent to me, Rose? Why won’t you take me? We were made for each other.”
“So you say.”
“Do you never feel anything, anything behind that scornful smile? Are you a breathing woman or a cold and heartless monster?”
“Bless me, I don’t know.”
“You need a master.”
“Of course I do. Why don’t you master me, Walter?”
“Don’t taunt me. A man has his limits. You make me want to seize and hurt you.”
“Don’t do that. You’d spoil my pretty frock. Besides, Giannino would bite the back of your neck.”
“Don’t taunt me. You’d be helpless in my arms. You’re always asking for a master.”