by Otto Penzler
“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 Madame 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 to-morrow 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.
Madame 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.”
Madame 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, Ashcomb 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!”
IV
Madame 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 experienced 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 Madame 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.
“Madame 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.
Madame 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 headpiece and pulled note-book and pencil toward me!
At least I was to hear.
Madame 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 Madame 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 are you 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, Madame 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 toward 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 Madame 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 wrong-doing; 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 Madame 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 there until the door was opened, because they didn’t want to leave me standing there alone in the dark.
“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. 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 M
iss 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. Afterward 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 Madame 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. Madame Storey’s insistence on Philippa Dean’s innocence had provoked me just a little. Madame Storey made no reference to what had taken place between her and Mrs. Poor, and of course I did not gloat over her.