The Almost Perfect Murder - Hulbert Footner (highly illogical behavior .TXT) 📗
- Author: Hulbert Footner
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He plugged one of the cords into an outlet and a hissing, crackling
sound issued from the box. My employer stepped back, a little
disconcerted.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake turn that thing off, Liptrott,” said Mrs.
Julian pettishly. “I’ve had enough of it!”
He obeyed for the moment, but presently I saw him slyly turn it on
again. He played with it like a child, perfectly oblivious to the rest
of us.
Professor Ram Lal’s good humour having been restored, Mrs. Julian
suggested that he resume the s�ance. Immediately there were objections
from the other three.
“My dear Aline, the excitement is so bad for you!” said Mrs. Bracker.
“You promised to let me give a demonstration today,” grumbled the old
man.
Dr. Cushack produced an elegant Russian leather case from his breast
pocket. Upon being opened two rows of little vials containing drugs
were revealed. “At least you should take your medicine first,” he said.
The sight of the drugs made me jumpy. Was this the potential murderer?
I wondered. Was he going to poison her before our very eyes?
However, Mrs. Julian waved the dose away. “I don’t need it,” she said.
“Ram Lal does me more good than medicine.”
The East Indian stood up, pushed his chair back against the wall, and
smoothed down his frock-coat. He glanced with insulting complacency at
his beaten rivals. He made caressing passes with his hands over the
crystal sphere. He was excessively vain of his hands, which were soft
and plump with tapering fingers manicured to the limit. They looked
vicious to me.
“Lights, please,” he drawled affectedly.
Nobody moved, and Mrs. Julian said sharply: “Turn off the lights, Dr.
Cushack.”
Nothing in the room was visible except the lambent crystal, the pale
hands waving over it, and the smooth inhuman face in the reflected
light, staring at it with an awful intentness. He began to mutter
something in an uncouth tongue that was supposed to be Hindoo, but was
more likely mere gibberish. Pure trickery, but horribly effective. In
spite of myself I felt the unreasoning terror of a child. Goose-flesh
rose slowly all over my body.
The man was clearly working himself into a hysterical state. As he
went on his voice became convulsed; a vertical vein stood out on his
forehead, and his lips turned back over his ugly, misshapen teeth. My
own teeth were chattering. Trickery … trickery … I kept saying to
myself, but I could not break the spell.
Finally he began to speak English in jerky phrases with long pauses
between. “I perceive … I perceive a hill-top garden…. It is
winter, and the ground is covered with snow…. The garden is ringed
with evergreen trees weighted under snow…. But at either end there
is an opening amidst the trees which looks out over snowy hills and
valleys….”
“It is my place at Newtown to the life!” gasped Mrs. Julian. “Yet he
has never been there!”
I would have been willing to bet that he had been there.
“… An elegant woman comes through a gate from a lower level…. She
bears herself like a queen…. Though it is winter she is clad in the
rosy veils of Springtide….”
This was evidently intended for a portrait of Mrs. Julian.
“… As she advances the snow disappears…. The garden breaks into
leaf and flower; the distant hills turn green…. Now I perceive a
great throng of people silently gathered under the trees…. Their
faces aspire with gladness; they raise their arms above their heads….
For the queenly woman has brought light into their lives … the light
of universal knowledge…!”
The man now appeared to be completely possessed. His head rolled from
side to side, only the eyes preserving their level stare at the crystal
like water in a swaying vessel. He seemed to be speaking under an
immense compulsion; his voice was hoarse and broken; a line of white
foam edged his lips. It was too horrible, yet I could not drag my eyes
away.
“There is a little pavilion in the centre of the garden…. It is
completely embowered in vines…. I cannot perceive what is inside….
The woman advances towards it with firm proud steps…. Ardent …
aspiring with an inward fire…. She goes inside…. She finds…”
He stopped. His eyes rolled up in his head until only the whites
showed.
“Oh, tell me! tell me!” gasped Mrs. Julian.
“Joy supreme!” he yelled—and his body crashed to the floor in a heap.
We all cried out. Mme. Storey sprang up, and ran to the light switch.
Nobody else stirred. The room was flooded with light again, and I
covered my face with my hands. I heard my employer say in a crisp,
resolute voice:
“What is this?”
Mrs. Julian had put her handkerchief to her eyes. “It always ends this
way,” she whimpered. “He gives so much! The strain is more than
mortality can bear. He will come to directly.”
Mme. Storey relaxed. “Oh,” she said, “probably epilepsy. I have heard
that a fit can be induced in this manner.”
“Oh, Rosika, how can you!” said Mrs. Julian tearfully. “… Please
ring for the servants,” she added in a more matter-of-fact tone.
The bell was alongside the mantel behind us. Bunbury and a second man
entered almost immediately. It seemed as if they must have been
expecting a summons.
“Assist Professor Ram Lal to the retiring room,” said Mrs. Julian.
Bunbury took him by the shoulders, the other by the heels. His head
lolled from side to side in a horrible manner, and his eyes were open.
The two servants had impassive faces, yet it was clear they didn’t like
their task. They started for the door. Suddenly the butler dropped
the body with a horrid thud on the floor. Somebody screamed.
Bunbury turned a livid face towards his mistress. “My God, madam!
He’s stopped breathing! He’s dead!” he gasped.
IIIHow shall I describe the scene of confusion that followed? I was
dazed. To see death strike in such an unexpected direction; to see a
man die without any visible reason for it; it was too horrible. I
could not collect my faculties.
The second man, when he discovered he was carrying a corpse, crumpled
up in a dead faint. Bunbury dragged him out into the hall. Mme.
Storey started to telephone for the police. At the first sound of the
word police, Cushack, Mrs. Bracker and Liptrott made a dash to get out
of the room.
“Don’t let them out of the house!” cried Mme. Storey, ‘phone in hand.
But what could I do?
We found an unexpected aide in Bunbury. He ran in with outstretched
arms blocking the way. His eyes flashed compellingly, and he had
forgotten the smooth ways of the butler. “Stay where you are!” he
cried. “Nobody leaves this room until the police come!” He kicked the
door shut behind him.
The two men yelled to get out, the woman screamed in insensate terror.
“Be quiet, you fools!” cried Bunbury. “You are only convicting
yourselves!”
His strong voice quieted them. They returned across the room
trembling, and turned their backs on the body. Mme. Storey pulled down
a porti�re and covered it.
The police were in the house within a few minutes, bringing their own
doctor. Inspector Rumsey followed close behind them. Our old friend’s
face was grave.
“This will look bad for me,” he said to Mme. Storey; “after having
disregarded your warning.”
“My fault,” she said. “You put it up to me and I failed you.”
“Who could have foreseen this?” he said gloomily.
An examination of the body failed to reveal the cause of death. There
was no wound upon it. The supposed East Indian’s skin was really as
white as yours or mine. He was discovered to be a drug addict. A
hypodermic needle was found on him together with a half-filled bottle
of cocaine. There were marks of the needle on his arms and legs, but
apparently the needle in his pocket had not been used within the last
half-hour or so.
“I should say heart failure at a venture,” said the police doctor.
“I have reason to believe he was murdered,” said Mme. Storey.
“Then it must be poison. Somebody else may have jabbed a needle in
him. Could that have happened while the s�ance was going on?”
“Quite easily,” she answered. “It was dark in the room and our eyes
were fastened on Ram Lal’s face. Somebody might have crept along the
floor.”
I was looking at that sweating trio when she said it, and I saw strange
glances of terror pass between them. If they were all in this together
they must have foreseen what would follow, and why should they look at
each other? It was completely baffling.
The body was removed from the house for an autopsy.
Inspector Rumsey then set about searching the suspected persons. Dr.
Cushack came first. When the pocket medicine case came to light, the
Inspector handed it over to the doctor for examination. The latter
whistled upon reading the labels on the vials.
“A choice collection of poisons!” he remarked. “Some of them so rare I
am not familiar with their properties…. Do you use nothing but
poisons in your practice?” he queried sarcastically.
“I don’t practice,” muttered the young man. “I am engaged in research.
Poisons happen to be my speciality.”
“Which poison were you intending to give Mrs. Julian?” asked Mme.
Storey dryly.
Cushack paled. I suppose he had forgotten that incident. “No poison!
No poison!” he stammered. “This bottle,” he pointed to one of the
vials, “is marked antimony, but it only contains bicarbonate of soda.
I … I … These labels … are just a bluff.”
Everybody smiled.
“If you don’t believe me, analyse them! analyse them!” he cried.
One of the little vials was empty, which was suggestive if not exactly
incriminating. It bore no label. Nothing else of interest was found
upon him.
Next came the woman. From the side pocket of her smart jacket the
Inspector lifted a little leather case which, upon being opened,
revealed a hypodermic needle. She screamed at the sight of it.
“That’s not mine! I never saw it before! I don’t own such a thing! I
don’t know how it got into my pocket! You put it there yourself!”
“That’s what they all say,” remarked the Inspector wearily.
“I swear it! I swear it!” she screamed.
“Don’t swear to me,” he said. “You’ll have plenty of it to do later.”
She raved and beat her breast, but whether it was innocent or guilty
terror I declare I could not tell. After all, they look much the same.
You have to go by the evidence.
The old man Liptrott was fairly gibbering with fright when the
Inspector reached him. It was impossible to get a sensible word out of
him. Only crazy talk about his machine. Nothing incriminating was
found on him. But Mme. Storey pointed out that the mysterious
apparatus was plugged into the wall at the moment of Ram Lal’s death,
therefore the old man could not be freed of suspicion until the nature
of his machine had been investigated.
“It couldn’t hurt a fly!” cried Liptrott. “It’s to save life, not to
destroy it!”
“I’ll put it in the hands of an expert for examination,” said Inspector
Rumsey.
The old man looked at him aghast. Then suddenly frantic, he aimed a
kick at his
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