The Almost Perfect Murder - Hulbert Footner (highly illogical behavior .TXT) 📗

bullet. The bullet exactly

fitted the hole in the plaster of Dr. McComb’s office.

 

Steps were immediately taken to trace the sale of the pistol by means

of the manufacturer’s number, and in the meantime I was sent up-town to

secure some photographs of Dr. McComb if that were possible, and also

to run down Amadeo Corioli, the night watchman at the Institute, and

invite him to visit Mme. Storey’s office. A policeman accompanied me

upon the latter errand, but as it happened, Corioli came quite

willingly. His air of innocence was almost too childlike. In taking

these measures Mme. Storey, you will perceive, was following a theory

that she had formulated in advance.

 

By the time I got back to the office it had already been established

that the gun in question had been sold on October 28th, to a

well-dressed, heavy-built man about forty years old; red-faced and

wearing glasses; had the look of a professional man. When photographs

of Dr. McComb were shown the clerk, he positively identified him as the

purchaser. McComb had been shot with his own gun.

 

The final links were forged by the testimony of little Tina, the girl

who had been so rudely ejected from Luigi’s. The police rounded her up

and brought her to our office shortly before noon. Corioli, meanwhile,

was being detained in our back room. Still wearing her bedraggled

party dress, her make-up ruined by tears, and almost paralysed with

terror, Tina was indeed a pitiable little object. Mme. Storey applied

herself to soothing her fears. It was a long time before she could

persuade Tina that she was not accused of anything herself, but was

merely wanted as a witness.

 

“We know,” said Mme. Storey, “that Chico Cardone shot a man called Dr.

McComb on the night of November 9th.”

 

This was news to me, and I strongly doubted if my employer was sure of

it yet either. It is frequently necessary, of course, to take this

attitude in dealing with a witness.

 

“I don’t know nottin’ about it!” cried Tina. “I swear before God I

don’t know nottin’!”

 

“You are not suspected of knowing anything about it,” Mme. Storey

patiently explained. “I just want you to answer a few questions

referring to circumstances that led up to it.”

 

“I don’t know nottin’ about it,” wailed Tina.

 

“You wouldn’t want to see Chico go to the chair, would you?”

 

This was answered by a mute shake of the head amidst a fresh flood of

tears.

 

“Then if you help me to prove that someone was behind him in this

killing, that somebody put him up to it, he will get off easier.”

 

At this point Corioli was introduced into the room.

 

“Have you ever seen this man before?” asked Mme. Storey.

 

Corioli scowled a mute threat at the girl, but she answered truthfully.

“Yes, I see him. He come to Luigi’s sometime. Ev’body at Luigi’s know

him.”

 

“Did he ever bring a stranger to Luigi’s?”

 

“Yes. One time he bring a man from up-town.”

 

“What sort of looking man?” asked Mme. Storey.

 

“Big man,” said Tina; “red face; wear glasses. Look lika politician.”

 

“Look at these,” said Mme. Storey, calling the girl’s attention to the

photographs of Dr. McComb spread upon her desk. “Did you ever see this

man?”

 

“Sure,” said Tina with rising excitement; “that is the up-town guy

Amadeo bring to Luigi’s. You know t’at? How you know t’at?”

 

“When was this?” asked Mme. Storey.

 

Tina shrugged. “How can I tell? It was before election, because I

t’ink he was politician.”

 

“Long before election?”

 

The girl shook her head. “Jus’ two, t’ree days.”

 

“See if you can’t fix the exact night in your mind,” said Mme. Storey

persuasively.

 

Tina shook her head helplessly. However, after thinking it over for a

moment or two, she suddenly said: “It was Wednesday night. I know that

because the next night there was an orchester. Luigi hires an

orchester Thursday nights.”

 

“The Wednesday before election,” said Mme. Storey turning back the

pages of her desk calendar; “that was October 27th. Good! Now we are

making progress…. What happened on this Wednesday night?”

 

“Amadeo Corioli, he call Chico over,” said Tina. “Introduce him to the

up-town guy. They talk quiet. By and by Amadeo go away an’ the

up-town fella and Chico they talk long time so quiet. I know they

fixin’ up some job toget’er. Afterwards I ask Chico what he want but

Chico on’y laugh…. The nex’ night he come again …”

 

“So he came again the next night?” repeated Mme. Storey.

 

“Yes. That was the orchester night. I wouldn’t dance because I scare

for Chico. I watch them two. They not talk so long this night. I see

the up-town guy slip Chico little box under the table and Chico put it

in his pocket. When the uptown feller go home, Chico go in wash-room.

After he come out I find the little box empty on the wash-room floor,

and the paper and string…”

 

“Was there anything written on the box? any label?” asked Mme. Storey

eagerly.

 

“There was a label say: ‘One Rives and Jackson automatic pistol, 38

calibre.’”

 

“This was on the night of October 28th,” said Mme. Storey in high

satisfaction, “and we already know that Dr. McComb had bought the gun

that afternoon. On the following day Chico scraped acquaintance with

Dr. Portal. Our case is complete!”

 

I was far from seeing it myself at that moment. When the witnesses had

been taken away and my employer and I were alone, I said helplessly: “I

can’t understand it! It seems that Dr. McComb himself handed the gun

to Chico with which Chico shot him ten days later!”

 

Mme. Storey was in a deep study. “Think it over,” she said with a

provoking smile. “… The problem that confronts me is, what to do

with Chico?”

 

As a result of her deliberations she finally called up the District

Attorney, also Inspector Rumsey and Dr. Portal, and arranged for us all

to meet at the Institute after lunch, and for the Inspector to bring

Chico. The District Attorney at this time was Frank Everard, a

first-class man, and one with whom we maintained excellent relations.

 

And so the last scene of all took place in the bare little laboratory

office with Dr. Portal, all in white, presiding over it like a

disembodied face. From time to time I saw him glancing wistfully at

Chico, and I suppose he still felt a sneaking fondness for the lad.

And I confess I did myself. At this moment my heart was heavy for the

little gunman. Chico, of course, had resumed his hard, professional

air. His face was like a mask.

 

Mme. Storey said: “Dr. Portal, I promised I would not trouble you again

until I had found the man who shot Edgar McComb…. Well, there he is.”

 

“I’m sorry … I’m sorry,” murmured Dr. Portal commiseratingly. “Why

did he do it?”

 

“Why did you do it, Chico?” asked Mme. Storey.

 

“I ain’t sayin’ I done it,” replied Chico with a hardy swagger. “I

ain’t sayin’ nottin’ a tall.”

 

“Well, I’ll tell you why he did it,” said Mme. Storey gravely. “McComb

had hired him to shoot Dr. Portal.”

 

We all exclaimed in astonishment. “Oh, good God! … no!” gasped the

horrified Dr. Portal.

 

“When he saw that the poliomyelitis serum was going to be a success

McComb wished to reap the full glory,” she went on relentlessly. “He

foresaw that it would be one of the great accomplishments of science

that would make its discoverer forever famous.”

 

“What saved Dr. Portal?” asked the District Attorney.

 

“At the moment that Chico had his gun in his hand Dr. Portal saved

himself by speaking of what he was about to do for the children. As it

happens, Chico has a young brother who is the dearest thing on earth to

him.”

 

Chico suddenly lowered his head. The poor lad could not bear to have

us see the softness that overcame him at the mention of Tony.

 

“I suppose Chico brooded upon it afterwards,” Mme. Storey went on. “It

occurred to him that McComb could easily find another instrument to

carry out his will. He shot McComb to save Portal…. I’m not saying

that his reasoning was very good, but anyhow, that is what happened.”

 

“Strange are the workings of the human heart!” murmured Dr. Portal.

The rest of us were silent in amazement.

 

“I called you gentlemen together to put it up to you what is to be done

with Chico?” Mme. Storey went on. “He killed the man, and ordinarily

it would be our duty to let justice take its course with him. But it

seems to me that this is a case where justice would not be justice.

How can we punish him for acting upon what was a generous impulse,

however misguided? And how can we let him bear the brunt when the real

instigator of this crime—I refer to Mrs. McComb—cannot be reached by

the law? What do you say, Mr. District Attorney?”

 

Mr. Everard did not answer immediately. He looked very uncomfortable.

Dr. Portal broke the silence by saying in his quiet, deliberate way:

 

“I have a solution to propose.”

 

Everybody looked at him. Chico forgot his unnatural self-control, and

gazed at him with the wild hope of any lad in the shadow of the

electric chair.

 

“I need a human subject in my experiments,” said Dr. Portal. “If Chico

is willing …”

 

“What does the District Attorney say?” asked Mme. Storey quickly.

 

Everard’s face cleared. “I say that if Chico volunteers this,” he

replied unhesitatingly, “I will not undertake a prosecution.”

 

“Then, Chico, it is up to you,” she said with a curious gentleness.

 

“I … I don’t get it,” he said hoarsely.

 

“Listen, Chico,” said Dr. Portal rising. There was something

magnificent about the little man at that moment; the disembodied face

was pure intelligence. “I propose to make you sick with this disease

that you know about, poliomyelitis or infantile paralysis, and then I

propose to cure you with my new remedy. I believe that I can cure you,

or I would not propose the experiment, but there is a certain risk, of

course, because it has not been tried before on a human being.”

 

Chico’s lips were parted. He was breathing hoarsely. “And … and if

it works,” he stammered, “then you can give it to all the kids that

gets sick?”

 

“That is the idea.”

 

“But … but my kid!” cried the poor lad; “suppose it don’t work?

Suppose I kick out, or ain’t able to do nottin’ no more? What will

happen to Tony?”

 

“Oh, let me take that on myself,” said Dr. Portal, deeply moved; “let

me bring him up as if he were my own son.”

 

“I’d like to share in that,” said Mme. Storey quickly.

 

“And I,” murmured the District Attorney.

 

Chico stiffened his back, and endeavoured to call back the old swagger.

“All right, Doc, I’m on!” he said flippantly. “But make it snappy,

Doc. Don’t let me be t’inkin’ about it too long.”

 

“Now’s as good a time as any,” said Dr. Portal. “Come on upstairs.”

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It Never Got into the Papers

I

Commodore Varick died very suddenly about half-past five in the

afternoon. The cause of death was given as heart failure induced by a

violent attack of gastritis.