“Well, I thought maybe it was the last time,” said Fay.
“I thought they would never let her go!” Mrs. Brunton rhapsodised. “She took fourteen calls!”
“Oh, mamma!” protested Fay, laughing. “Draw it mild!”
“Fourteen!” said Mrs. Brunton firmly. “I said it, and I stick to it! Fourteen!”
She appealed to Whittall and to Kreuger, and they made haste to agree in order to shut her up.
“One doesn’t have to exaggerate the successes of a girl like Fay,” she went on complacently. “I saw Mildred Mortimer and her mother hidden away at the back of the house. I can imagine what their feelings were!”
Such was Mrs. Brunton’s style. She turned it on like a tap. She had been something of a beauty in her day, and she looked quite handsome tonight in her black evening gown, with her hair freshened up with henna, and prettily dressed.
Whittall, I remember, made an effort to break up the party. “Fay, you look tired,” he said. “I think we’d better beat it.”
Fay protested. Kreuger, always eager to take a hint from his master, pushed his chair back. No one else moved. I saw Mme. Storey, for whom this suggestion was really intended, glance at her wrist watch. Then she helped herself to a cigarette, and gave the conversation a fresh start.
The crisis was precipitated by an innocent question of Fay’s. “Why are you so quiet, Rosika?”
“I am thinking of that poor lady who is dead,” said Mme. Storey gravely.
It was like an icy hand laid on each heart there. A deathly silence fell on us. It seemed to last forever. I felt paralysed. Mrs. Brunton was the first to recover herself. She was afraid of Mme. Storey, and dared not be openly rude, but her anger was evident enough in her voice.
“Oh, I say! What a thing to bring up at such a time and place! I’m surprised at you, Mme. Storey!”
“We are all thinking of her,” said Mme. Storey. “It would be better to clear our minds of the subject.”
“I wasn’t thinking of her, I assure you!”
Even the gentle Fay was resentful. “It’s not fair to Darius,” she murmured.
“Darius is a man and must face things!”
I glanced at Whittall. He had the look of one braced to receive a fatal stroke.
“I am so sorry for her!” murmured Fay distressfully. “I often think about her and wonder…But, Rosika, is it my fault that I am happy? that I have everything, while she is dead?”
Mme. Storey made no reply to this.
“She solved her problems in her own way!” cried Mrs. Brunton excitedly. “Who shall blame her? Can’t you leave her in peace?”
“She did not kill herself,” said Mme. Storey slowly. “She was murdered.”
Again that awful silence. Horror crushed us.
Whittall lost his grip on himself. “You promised me…you promised me…!” he cried shakily, “that you would not tell her…”
“We had better not talk about promises,” said Mme. Storey with a steady look at him.
“Darius!…you already knew this!” gasped Fay.
He could make no answer.
Fay turned to Mme. Storey. “Rosika…how do you know?…how do you know?” she faltered.
“She received a letter that evening which drew her out to the pavilion. She was unarmed when she left the house.”
“Then it’s quite clear,” said Fay, laughing hysterically. “The letter must have been from her lover. He pleaded with her for the last time, and when she was obdurate he shot her in a fit of desperation.”
“She was shot within three minutes of leaving the house,” said Mme. Storey relentlessly. “Not much time for pleading. No! Somebody was waiting for her in the pavilion with the gun ready.”
“But it must have been her lover!” wailed Fay.
Mme. Storey sat looking straight ahead of her, pale and immovable as Nemesis. “It was somebody who is amongst us here,” she said.
You could hear the tight breasts around the table labouring for breath. Each of us glanced with furtive dread at our companions. Whittall broke again.
“Well, who?…who?…who?” he cried wildly. “Out with it!”
“Somebody amongst us here?” quavered Mrs. Brunton in a high falsetto. “I never heard of such a thing!”
The ageing woman with her touched-up cheeks and dyed hair looked like a caricature of herself. Everybody around the table looked stricken, clownish, scattered in the wits. I’m sure I was no exception. Only my beautiful mistress was as composed as Death.
“Fay,” she asked, “what were you doing on the evening of September eleventh?”
I turned absolutely sick at heart. Mrs. Brunton and Whittall loudly and angrily protested. The exquisite girl shrank away from Mme. Storey, and went as pale as paper. Apart from the noisy voices of the others I heard her dismayed whisper.
“Rosika!…I?…I?…Oh, Rosika, surely you can’t think that I…”
“This is too much!” cried Mrs. Brunton, jumping up. “Must we submit to be insulted here in our own rooms? Mr. Whittall, are you going to permit this to go any further?”
“No!” cried Whittall, banging the table. “This woman is taking too much on herself! She has no right to catechise us!”
Mme. Storey looked at me. “Bella,” she said, “admit the gentleman who is waiting outside.”
As well as my legs would serve me I got to the door. Inspector Rumsey was in the corridor. He came in.
With a wave of the hand, Mme. Storey introduced him to the gaping company. “Inspector Rumsey and I are acting in concert in this matter,” she said. “I suppose you will allow that he has a right to ask questions.”
Rumsey quietly sat down in a chair away from the table.
“Now, Fay,” said Mme. Storey.
The girl raised her gentle eyes in an imploring and reproachful glance upon her friend. “Oh, Rosika, how can you?” she murmured.
Mme. Storey’s face was like a mask. “I must do my duty as I see it. Answer my question, please.”
Fay put a hand over her eyes. “That was the night of the first showing of ‘Ashes of Roses’,” she murmured. “I did not go. I was not well. I went to bed when Mamma went out.”
“But you got up again,” said Mme. Storey remorselessly. “I have a report from the garage where you keep your cars, stating that you telephoned for the convertible at 8:10 that night, and that it was handed over to you at the door of your hotel five minutes later. It was returned to the garage at half-past ten.”
“Oh, yes,” murmured Fay feebly. “I forgot.”
Mrs. Brunton and Whittall looked dumfounded. As for me, I simply could not believe my ears.
“Where did you go?” asked Mme. Storey.
“I…I was just driving around for the air. I don’t remember exactly.”
“According to the custom of the garage,” Mme. Storey continued, “a reading of the speedometer was taken when the car went out, and again when it was returned. The elapsed mileage was twenty miles. That is just the distance to Riverdale and back.”
Fay sat up suddenly. “I never went to Riverdale!” she cried sharply.
“Then where did you go?” persisted Mme. Storey.
A deep blush overspread Fay’s face and neck. “Well, if you must know,” she said a little defiantly, “I picked up Frank Esher in front of his house and took him for a drive.”
Again Mrs. Brunton and Whittall looked at her open-mouthed.
The Inspector spoke up cheerfully. Like everybody else, he wished to be on Fay’s side. “That will be easy to verify,” he said, taking out his note-book.
“Unfortunately,” said Mme. Storey coldly, “Mr. Esher has disappeared.”
“Well, anyhow,” cried Whittall, “you can’t convict her of a crime s
imply because she chanced to take a drive that night. It’s ridiculous!”
“Ridiculous!” echoed Mrs. Brunton.
“I have not yet done,” said Mme. Storey. “Inspector, will you please state what you learned respecting the purchase of the guns.”
Rumsey consulted the note-book. “On May 24th Mr. Darius Whittall purchased two Matson 32 calibre automatics from Lorber and Staley’s. He has an account there. Those were the only pistols of that design he ever purchased from them. One was numbered 13417, the other 13418.”
Mme. Storey turned to Whittall. “Are you willing to concede that you gave one of these pistols to your wife, and one to Fay?” she asked.
“I refuse to answer without advice of counsel,” he muttered.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Mme. Storey, undisturbed; “for we already know from other sources that you gave one to your wife and one to Fay, making the same remark to each….Fay, where is yours?”
“In the bottom drawer of my bureau,” came the prompt reply.
“Will you fetch it, please?”
Fay called for Katy. The girl immediately appeared in the doorway, looking white and scared. Evidently she had overheard at least part of what had occurred.
“Bring me the gun from the bottom drawer of my bureau.”
The strangeness of this request completed the demoralisation of the maid. She stood there like one incapable of motion. Fay herself sprang up and ran into the next room. From there we heard her cry:
“It’s gone!”
Then her excited questioning of the maid. Katy swore that she had neither touched nor even seen the gun. She had not yet reached that drawer when her packing was interrupted, she said. The girl got the idea, somehow, that her own honesty was in question. She had no idea that her words were convicting her mistress. Fay finally came back to her seat with a wandering and vacant air. She kept repeating: “I can’t imagine…! I can’t imagine…!” The Inspector looked very grave.
Mme. Storey remorselessly resumed: “I recovered Mrs. Whittall’s pistol this morning. It is in my possession, properly marked for identification. The number of it is 13417. The pistol found in Mrs. Whittall’s hand, that is to say the one from which the fatal shot was fired, was subsequently given by Mr. Whittall to the Captain of the precinct. I obtained it from the Captain this afternoon. The number is 13418. Here it is.”
She produced the weapon from a little bag that she carried on her arm. She handed the sinister black object to Rumsey, who read off the number, 13418, and handed it back to her.
At first I couldn’t take it in. Neither could Fay. Her wandering eyes, like a child’s, searched from one face to another for the explanation. Mrs. Brunton and Whittall were sitting there, literally frozen with horror. Rumsey had got up. It was from his grave and compassionate gaze at Fay that I realised she stood convicted in his eyes. What a dreadful moment!
Fay burst into tears, and dropped her head between her outstretched arms on the table. “Oh, how can you!…How can you!” she sobbed.
At that something seemed to break inside of me. I forgot everything; my duty to my mistress; everything. I was only conscious of the weeping girl whom I loved. I got to my feet. “It’s a shame! It’s a shame!” I heard myself crying. “She didn’t do it! She couldn’t have done it! Look at her! What does your evidence amount to beside that!”
Fay reached for me like a frightened child, and I took her in my arms.
Mme. Storey never looked at me. No muscle of her face changed. “The rest lies with you, Inspector,” she said quietly.
Rumsey’s distress comes back to me now. Then I was oblivious to everything. “It will be all right….It will be all right,” he kept saying. “I’m sure that a further investigation will clear everything up. But I’m sorry…I would not be justified…I must ask the young lady…”
Mrs. Brunton jumped up with a shriek. “Is he going to arrest her!”
“Don’t call it an arrest, ma’am; a brief detention….”
“Oh, no! no! no!” Mrs. Brunton flung herself down beside the girl, and wrapped her arms around Fay’s knees. “It’s all lies!” she cried. “All lies!…It was I who shot Mrs. Whittall!”
I have scarcely the heart to describe the painful scene that followed. Fay was broken-hearted, of course, but the shock to her proved to be less than Mme. Storey had feared. It turned out that for weeks past, Fay had divined that her companion was carrying a load of guilt on her breast, though, of course, the girl had no idea of its nature. She was already secretly estranged from the woman who passed as her mother.
Nevertheless she loyally wished to accompany her to Police Headquarters, but the rest of us dissuaded her from it. Kreuger went with Mrs. Brunton, but Darius Whittall remained with us. He had to learn his fate. Before Mme. Storey and I, he said with a despairing hangdog air:
“It was not my fault, Fay.”
She looked at him with gravely accusing eyes. There was nothing childish about her then. “No,” she said quietly, “but you were not sorry when it happened.” Unfastening the pearls from about her neck, and drawing off the ring, she handed them over.
He knew it was final. He went away, a broken man.
When we three were alone together, Fay wept again. Mme. Storey looked as uncomfortable as a boy in the presence of emotion. From the little bag she took the gun she had produced at the table.
“Here is your gun, Fay,” she said. “I took it out of your drawer when I went into your room to change my hat.”
We opened our eyes at that. Nothing so simple had ever occurred to us.
“I hope you can forgive me for those terrible moments I gave you,” Mme. Storey went on. “I couldn’t help myself. That woman covered her tracks so well, there was nothing for it but to force a confession.”
Fay forgave her freely.
“I owe Bella an apology, too,” Mme. Storey said with a rueful glance in my direction. “For keeping her in the dark. You see, I needed that outburst from Bella to give the scene verisimilitude.”
This made me feel rather foolish, but of course I was not troubling about a little thing like that then.
“I am alone now,” sobbed Fay.
Mme. Storey murmured the name of Frank Esher. “I suggest that that woman may have fomented the trouble between you and him because he was poor,” she said.
“She was always against him,” Fay agreed.
“Why don’t you write to him now?”
“I don’t know where he is!” mourned Fay.
“In care of the British-American Development Company, Georgetown, British Guiana,” said Mme. Storey dryly.
“Oh, Rosika!” This with her face hidden on my shoulder.
“In fact, why not cable?” said Mme. Storey.
“Oh, Rosika. You do it for me.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I have cabled already,” said Mme. Storey.
* * *
—
I cannot do better than conclude by appending Mrs. Brunton’s subsequent confession to the police—her real name was Elinor Tinsley. All that was so baffling in the case therein becomes clear.
“I am aware that anything I say may be used against me. I want to tell the truth now. I’m glad it’s out. It was too great a load to bear. I did it for her; for the one whom I called my daughter. I loved her as much as I could my own child. In spite of all I said, I knew that she had not sufficient talent to maintain her as a star. So many new faces coming to the front each year. I wanted to secure her future. I wanted her to have the best.
“When Mr. Whittall began to pay her attention I saw our chance in him. But his wife was in the way. He was anxious for a divorce, but she wouldn’t. I couldn’t forget about it. I brooded and brooded on it. I felt I had to act quickly, because Mr. Whittall had a reputation for fickleness. I was a
fraid he’d take a fancy to somebody else. Once he told me the name of a man he thought his wife was secretly in love with—I won’t mention it here; and that gave me my first idea.
“I got a sample of Mrs. Whittall’s handwriting by writing her a begging letter under an assumed name, and I practised and practised until I was able to imitate it. Then I sent a letter as coming from her to this man I told you about, hoping that it would result in throwing them into each other’s arms, and that there would have to be a divorce then. But weeks passed and nothing happened. I was no further forward than before.
“Then one day Mrs. Whittall asked my daughter and me to have lunch and tea with her at her place. And when we were having tea out in the pavilion, the whole thing seemed to unroll itself before me. I thought of the first showing of ‘Ashes of Roses’ that was coming soon, and what a good chance that would give me, and I made up my mind I would try again that night. I knew I wouldn’t have any trouble with Fay, because she doesn’t care for pictures, and I could easily persuade her not to go.
“I got a sample of that man’s handwriting on another pretext, and I practised until I was able to write a letter that looked like his. I bought the gun at —— (a big department store) for cash, so the sale couldn’t be traced. I knew the kind of gun Mr. Whittall had bought for his wife, and I got the same. I wanted to make it look like suicide. Then I wrote a letter to Mrs. Whittall in this man’s name, asking her to come to me, for God’s sake, in the little pavilion at nine-thirty that night. Of course, she ought to have known, after the other letter, but I figured if she was in love she wouldn’t stop to think. If she hadn’t come, I’d just have tried something else. I sent the letter the same afternoon with a special delivery stamp on it. Through a messenger it could have been traced.
“My daughter and I had special invitations to see the private showing of ‘Ashes of Roses’ that night. Without seeming to, I persuaded Fay to stay at home. I took a taxicab to the theatre, arriving there about eight-fifteen. I had the gun in my reticule. I greeted many friends in the lobby, so I could prove an alibi if anything went wrong. I took a seat on the side aisle, beside one of the exits, and when the lights were put out, it was easy for me to slip out through that exit without anybody seeing.
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 100
