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

half an hour.”

 

“Then they were all out of the house before the alarm of the

Commodore’s illness was raised?”

 

“Yes, Madame. I sent the trunks to the hotel later.”

 

“Have you any idea of the reason for the Princess’s abrupt departure?”

 

“None whatever, Madame.”

 

Who could say if he was telling the truth?

 

My employer turned to me. “Well, let us go ask her, Bella.”

 

It turned out that there was quite a crowd hanging about the front

door, which included both reporters and photographers. It was of the

highest importance that our comings and goings should not be remarked,

so Jarboe put us into a car in the rear courtyard of the house. We

pulled down the curtains and got out unseen.

 

“Big game, Bella!” said my employer to me with a curious dry smile.

“The Princess is a member of one of the greatest houses of the old

world. Her ancestors have ruled for centuries. The ex-King of Saxony

is her brother-in-law, I believe, and she calls the King of England

cousin. It is the first time we have stalked Royalty!”

 

“How strange that Priestley girl’s manner was,” I said.

 

“That in itself signifies nothing,” she answered. “Everybody in the

house was acting strangely. Except Gabbitt. Perhaps Gabbitt did it.

He was the only one who had his wits about him.”

 

But I did not think she was speaking seriously.

 

In three minutes we were at the Madagascar. Mme. Storey asked for the

manager. We did not suppose, of course, that the Princess had

registered under her own name. “A young foreign lady of high

position,” said my employer. “She came yesterday alone, and was

followed later by her companion, and several maids.”

 

“Oh, you mean the Countess von Hilgenreiner,” said the manager. “She

left an hour ago to go on board the Baratoria.”

 

An exclamation was forced from my employer. “Good heavens! And the

Baratoria sails at three!”

 

Our eyes flew to the clock on the wall. The hands pointed to ten

minutes to three. And the pier was three miles away, the streets

crowded with traffic! We ran out of the office leaving the manager

staring.

 

“Quick, Bella,” cried Mme. Storey. “Jump in that car at the door and

drive as fast as you can to the ship. Go down Tenth Avenue.”

 

“I can’t possibly make it!” I stammered.

 

“Go!” she cried. “The ship is connected by telephone. I will get the

Commander on the wire and ask him to wait for you. Tell him that there

are police reasons for detaining the Countess von Hilgenreiner, or

whatever she calls herself. I will follow you as soon as I can pick up

Inspector Rumsey. We will need official support in this.”

VI

The Baratoria was queen of the Brevard line fleet, and her commander

was a knight, Sir Everard Bertram, R.N.R., K.C.M.G., and goodness knows

what else beside. I was greatly relieved to see the liner’s huge bulk

and her four mighty red funnels towering over the pier when I arrived.

Evidently the telephone message had got through. On the pier

everything was at a standstill; the passengers lining the ship’s rails

and a great crowd of friends filling the pier openings, everybody

wondering no doubt why she did not sail. The gangplanks were still in

place and I hastened aboard. At the head of the gangplank a cabin boy

was waiting to conduct me to the Captain.

 

I found him pacing his cabin, watch in hand, a magnificent personage,

resplendent in gold braid. Mme. Storey has crossed with him many

times, and he knew me by sight. His face cleared when I entered.

 

“Here you are!” he said. “I thought I recognised Mme. Storey’s voice

over the telephone, but I feared it might be a hoax. What is the

trouble?”

 

“There is a lady aboard who is wanted by the police,” I said.

 

“What is her name?” he asked, picking up a passenger list.

 

“When we last met her she was calling herself the Countess von

Hilgenreiner. She won’t be on your list because her decision to sail

was a sudden one.”

 

“What’s her right name?”

 

“Please wait until Mme. Storey comes,” I begged him. “She has stopped

only to pick up a police official.”

 

In a minute or two my employer came sauntering in, perfectly cool and

smiling. She and the Captain greeted each other as old friends. She

said immediately:

 

“I won’t waste your time, Sir Everard. I can rely on your discretion.

The person we want is the Princess Cristina von Habsburg.”

 

“Good God!” he cried in dismay. “A royal princess! What a frightful

scandal this will let loose!”

 

“I have it in mind,” said my employer dryly. “Is she aboard?”

 

“Yes. I have spoken to her. I had them put her into the Tudor suite

on B deck. What is she wanted for?”

 

“At the moment, as a material witness only. No charge has been laid.”

 

“Have you the police back of you?” he asked anxiously.

 

Mme. Storey opened her handbag. “Here is a warrant for her arrest.

Furthermore, if you will look over the side you will see Inspector

Rumsey there in a police launch. I didn’t want him to show himself to

the reporters on the pier. They hailed me, but I told them I was just

coming aboard to bid good-bye to a friend.”

 

“But when you take her ashore the jig will be up. The reporters have

interviewed her.”

 

“I don’t want to take her ashore,” said Mme. Storey coolly. “I want

the reporters to think that she has sailed for Europe. It is of the

utmost importance that the frightful scandal you speak of should not be

released prematurely.”

 

“Then what do you propose to do?”

 

“I have sailed on vessels when belated passengers were put on board

through a door in the hull,” said Mme. Storey. “When you get

straightened out in midstream can’t you open a door on the side hidden

from the pier, and put her aboard one of the tugs? The tug can steam

off up the river, and by-and-by the police launch will overhaul her,

and receive the Princess.”

 

By this time Sir Everard had read the warrant. “Very well,” he said.

“It shall be done.”

 

“Then come on, Bella,” said my employer briskly. “We mustn’t hold up

the Baratoria a moment longer than necessary.”

 

The bravest of men is subject to terror in some form or another. The

magnificent Sir Everard turned pale. “Good God, Madame Storey,” he

cried, “don’t leave me to face that woman alone! Picture me putting a

royal princess aboard the tug kicking!”

 

My employer laughed. It was the first time I had heard that silvery

sound all day.

 

The Captain saw nothing funny in the situation. “Come with me and

prepare her for what is to follow,” he urged. “The Baratoria can

wait for that.”

 

“All right,” she said. “Lead the way.”

 

A moment later we were knocking at a door opening from a corridor on B

deck. It was opened to us by a worried little lady, very elegant in a

German fashion, evidently Madame von Hofstetter. Over her shoulder I

glimpsed a delightful little sitting-room with doors opening to the

right and left.

 

“Compliments,” said the Captain with stiff courtesy; “I should like to

speak to the Princess for a moment.”

 

“I am very sorry,” said the lady-in-waiting in excellent English, “but

her Highness is seeing nobody.”

 

“I am more than sorry,” said Sir Everard dryly, “but I am the Commander

of this vessel, and it shall not sail until I have spoken with the

Princess.”

 

She had no recourse then but to give way. We entered the room. She

tried to make a stand against Mme. Storey and me,

 

“Who are these persons?” she demanded.

 

“Representatives of the police,” said Sir Everard dryly.

 

“Oh, Mein Gott!” cried the little lady, and made haste to shut the

door behind us. “I will prepare the Princess,” she said tremulously,

and started to move towards one of the doors.

 

But Sir Everard was before her at the door. “Pardon me,” he said;

“there is no time for that. The ship waits. These ladies must be

admitted to the Princess immediately. I will wait here.”

 

So Mme. Storey and I entered the adjoining room, a bedroom. It was the

first time I had ever been so close to a royal Princess, and I was all

eyes. In a word she was an exquisite little person, a blonde with dark

eyes. It was not at all one’s idea of a German princess, but I

recollected that she was of Vienna, the most elegant of European

capitals. She was little more than a girl, but so perfect was her

finish, her air of distinction, she might have been almost any age. A

Dresden china princess, but with nothing insipid about her. She was

seated in an armchair with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes, but

the instant she perceived that we were strangers she sprang up,

electrified with indignation.

 

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” she cried with a stamp of her

foot. “Leave the room! … Madame von Hofstetter, who are these

persons?”

 

But the lady-in-waiting had dissolved in tears, and was unable to

explain.

 

I will pass quickly over the scene that followed. It was a lively one!

The little Princess endeavoured to crush us with her royal anger, but

she met her match in Mme. Storey, who smiled down at her in an amused

and tolerant fashion, and patiently explained that she must prepare to

leave the ship.

 

“This is outrageous!” cried the Princess. “I am the Princess Cristina

von Habsburg! Do you not know what that means? I am not subject to

your laws! I will communicate with our ambassador!”

 

“I believe that Austria is now a republic,” said my employer mildly.

 

She never got it. “The City of New York shall suffer for this insult!”

she cried. “Why should the police seek to detain me?”

 

“Commodore Varick died yesterday afternoon,” said Mme. Storey.

 

“Did he?” she said coolly.

 

“Didn’t you know it?”

 

“No.”

 

Mme. Storey’s face turned grimly humorous. “The newspapers…” she

began.

 

The Princess tossed her head. “I don’t read your horrible newspapers.”

 

Alas! for royal truthfulness. There was a newspaper lying on the sofa

at that very moment, with the name Varick uppermost in the headlines.

Mme. Storey pointed to it mutely.

 

The Princess was not in the least abashed. “I haven’t looked at it,”

she said. “And anyway, what of it? I was merely their guest. I am

sorry for them, but it has got nothing to do with me.”

 

“Commodore Varick was poisoned,” said Mme. Storey in a low tone, “and

you were the last person to see him before he was taken ill.”

 

The Princess stared at her in what appeared to be the purest amazement.

One could not be sure, of course. “That was not in the newspaper,” she

said na�vely.

 

“No,” said my employer dryly.

 

The little lady was breathing hard with emotion. She seemed to be

scarcely capable of speaking. “And do you mean,” she gasped, “do you

dare to charge that I poisoned him? In heaven’s name why should I

poison an American millionaire.”

 

“I don’t know,” said Mme. Storey. She patiently explained the measures

she had taken to protect the Princess from newspaper publicity.