The Black Lizard Big Book of Locked-Room Mysteries

by Otto Penzler

  Madame Storey, without insisting on one, went on: “What were the relations between Mr. and Mrs. Poor?”

  “How can any outsider know that?” parried the girl.

  “You can give me your opinion. You are a sharp observer. It will help me to understand the general situation.”

  “Well, they never quarrelled, if that’s what you mean. They were always friendly and courteous toward each other. Not like people who are in love, of course. Mrs. Poor must have known what her husband’s life was, but she was a religious woman, and any thought of separation or divorce was out of the question for her. My guess was that she had determined to take him as she found him, and make the best of it. Such a cold and self-contained woman naturally would not suffer as much as another.”

  “Have you knowledge of any incident in Mr. Poor’s life that might throw light on his murder?”

  “No. Nobody in that house knew anything of the details of his life. He was not with us much.”

  “Tell me about your movements on the night of the tragedy,” Madame Storey urged coaxingly.

  But the girl’s face instantly hardened. “It is useless to ask me that,” she said. “I do not mean to answer.”

  “But since you did not commit the crime why not help me to get you off?”

  “I do not wish to speak of my private affairs which have nothing to do with this case.”

  My heart beat faster. Here we were plainly on the road to important disclosures. But to my disappointment Madame Storey abandoned the line.

  “That is your right, of course,” she said. “But consider: you are bound to be asked these very questions in court before a gaping crowd. Why not accustom yourself to the questions in advance by letting me ask them? You are not under oath here, you know. You may answer what you please.”

  This was certainly an unusual way of conducting an examination. Even the girl smiled wanly.

  “You are clever,” she said with a shrug. “Ask me what you please.”

  “What were you doing on the night of the tragedy?”

  From this point forward the girl was constrained and wary again. She weighed every word of her replies before speaking. It was impossible to resist the suggestion that she was not always telling the truth.

  “I was in my room.”

  “The whole time?”

  “Yes, from dinner until Mrs. Poor returned.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the pageant?”

  “Those affairs bore me.”

  “Had you not intended to go?”

  “No.”

  “Where was Mrs. Batten during the evening?”

  “I don’t know. In her room, I assume.”

  “In what part of the house was that?”

  “Her sitting-room was downstairs in the kitchen wing.”

  “An old woman. Wasn’t she timid about being all alone in that part of the house?”

  “I don’t know. It did not occur to me.”

  “You didn’t see her at all during the evening?”

  “No.”

  “Where was Mr. Poor?”

  “In the library, I understood.”

  “All the time?”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say.”

  “Did you see him or have speech with him during the evening?”

  “No.”

  “There was nobody in the house but you three?”

  “Nobody.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “The servants testified that when the alarm was raised you appeared fully dressed.”

  “That’s nothing. It was only twelve o’clock. I was reading.”

  “What were you reading?”

  “Kipling’s The Light That Failed.”

  “What became of the book?”

  “I put it down when Mrs. Poor cried out.”

  “Are you sure? It was not found in your room.”

  “Of course I’m not sure. I may have carried it downstairs. I may have dropped it anywhere in my excitement.”

  “Please describe the exact situation of your room.”

  “It was in the north-east corner of the house. It was over the library.”

  “Yet you heard no shot?”

  “No.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “The house is very well built—double floors and all that.”

  “But immediately overhead?”

  “I can’t help that. I heard nothing.”

  “You had no hint that anything was wrong until you heard Mrs. Poor’s cry?”

  “None whatever.”

  “When she cried out what did you do?”

  “I ran around the gallery and downstairs.”

  “The gallery?”

  “In order to reach the head of the stairs I had to encircle the gallery in the hall.”

  “How long did it take you to reach Mrs. Poor’s side?”

  “How can I say? I ran.”

  “How far?”

  “Fifty or sixty feet; then the stairs.”

  “Half a minute?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What did you see when you got downstairs?”

  “The stairs landed me at the library door. Just inside the door I saw Mrs. Batten clinging to Mrs. Poor. She was trying to keep Mrs. Poor from reaching her husband’s side.”

  “Mrs. Poor is a tall, finely formed woman, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Mrs. Batten a big woman?”

  “No.”

  “Strong?”

  “No.”

  “Yet you say she was able to keep her mistress back for half a minute?”

  “You said half a minute.”

  “Well, until you got downstairs.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Didn’t that strike you as odd?”

  “I didn’t think about it.”

  “Did you know what had happened?”

  “Not right away. I soon did.”

  “They told you?”

  “No.”

  “How did you guess, then?”

  “From Mr. Poor’s attitude, sprawling with his arms across the table, his head down—the pistol in his hand.”

  “In his hand?”

  “Well, under his hand, I believe.”

  “Did you recognise it as your pistol?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Eh?”

  “I mean I don’t know just when I realised that it was mine. Pistols are so much alike. I hadn’t handled mine much.”

  “Well, how was it that it could be so positively identified as yours?”

  “There were two little scratches on the barrel that somebody had put there before I got it. I had shown it to Mrs. Batten, and we had discussed what those two little marks might mean. Mrs. Batten must have spoken of it in the hearing of the servants. At any rate they knew about the marks.”

  “How do you explain the fact that your pistol was in the dead man’s hand?”

  “I cannot explain it.”

  “Where did you keep it?”

  “In the bottom drawer of my bureau.”

  “Was the drawer locked?”

  “No.”

  “When had you last seen it there?”

  “Two days before, when I——” She stopped here.

  “When you what?”

  “When I put it away.”

  “You had it out then?”

  “Yes.”

  “What for?”

  “To have it fixed.”

  “What was wrong with it?”

  “I couldn’t describe it, because I don’t understand the mechanism.”

  “Had you ever fired it?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you know it was out of order?”

  “I—I——” She hesitated. “I won’t answer that.”

  “Surely that’s a harmless question.”

  “I don’t care. I won’t answer.”

  “Who fixed it?”

  �
��The man it was bought from.”

  “Who was that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You mean you won’t tell me?”

  “No, it is the truth. I don’t know. I never asked.”

  “Ah, it was a gift, then?”

  The girl did not answer. She was becoming painfully agitated, twisting and untwisting her handkerchief in her lap. I was growing excited myself. I felt sure we were on the verge of an important disclosure.

  Madame Storey feigned not to notice her perturbation. “How long had you had the pistol?” she asked.

  “A few weeks—three or four.”

  “Was it in good order when you got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if you had never shot it off how did it get out of order?”

  No answer.

  “Who had been firing it?”

  Silence from Miss Dean.

  “What kind of pistol was it?”

  “They called it automatic.”

  “What calibre?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The next question came very softly. “Who gave it to you, Miss Dean?”

  I couldn’t help pitying the poor girl, her agitation was so extreme, and she was fighting so hard to control it.

  “I won’t answer that question.”

  “It will surely be asked in court.”

  “I won’t answer it there.”

  “Your refusal will incriminate you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Tell them you found it,” Madame Storey suggested with an enigmatic, kindly look. To my astonishment she arose, saying: “That’s all, Miss Dean.”

  I couldn’t understand it. The girl, who was deathly pale and breathing with difficulty, seemed on the point of breaking down and confessing the truth—yet she let her go. I confess I was annoyed with Madame Storey. In my mind I accused her of neglecting her duty. The girl was no less astonished than I. Out of her white face she stared at my employer as if she could not credit her ears.

  Madame Storey took a cigarette. “Many thanks for answering my questions,” she said. “I see quite clearly that you couldn’t have done this thing. I shall tell the assistant district attorney so.”

  The girl showed no gratitude at this assurance, but continued to stare at Madame Storey with hard anxiety and suspicion. I stared too. It was perfectly clear to me that Philippa Dean had guilty knowledge of the murder.

  “We’ll have to hand you back to your watchdogs now,” said Madame Storey. “Keep up a good heart.”

  The girl went out like one in a dream. When the plain-clothes men took her Madame Storey and I sat down again and looked at each other.

  She laughed. “Bella, you look as if you were about to burst. Out with it!”

  “I don’t understand you,” I cried.

  “Didn’t you think she was a charming girl?”

  “Yes, I did. I was terribly sorry for the poor young thing, but——”

  “But what?”

  I took my courage in my hands and continued: “You mustn’t let your compassion for her influence you. You have your professional reputation to think of.”

  “You are more jealous of my professional reputation than I am,” she said teasingly.

  “Why did you stop just when you did?”

  “Because I had found out what I wanted to know.”

  “What had you found out that Mr. Barron had not already told you? She was just at the point of——”

  “Of repeating her confession?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “That is just what I wanted to forestall, Bella. Another confession would simply have complicated matters.”

  I simply stared at her.

  “Because she didn’t do it, you see, Bella.”

  “Then why should she confess?”

  My employer merely shrugged.

  “How can you be so sure she didn’t do it? Anybody could see she was lying.”

  “Certainly she was lying.”

  “Well, then?”

  “It was by her lies that I knew she was innocent.”

  “You are just teasing me,” I said.

  “Not at all. Read over your notes of her answers. It’s all there, plain as a pikestaff.”

  I read over my notes, but saw no light. “That unmistakably guilty air,” I said. “How do you explain that?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a guilty air.”

  “Well, anxious, terrified.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  “Even if she didn’t do it she knows who did.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Then why didn’t you make her tell you?”

  “Sometimes young girls have to be saved from themselves, Bella.”

  And that was all I could get out of her.

  III

  The moment Philippa Dean got back to headquarters Mr. Barron must have started for our office. He arrived within forty minutes. When I showed him into Madame Storey’s room I followed, for since the violent interview of the morning she had instructed me to be present whenever he was there.

  He was furious at what he regarded as my intrusion. He said nothing, but glared at me and I breathed a silent prayer that I might not fall into the clutches of the district attorney’s office, at least as long as he was there. He sat down crossing and uncrossing his legs, slapping his knee with his gloves, and scowling sidewise at Madame Storey from under beetling brows. Giannino, who detested him, fled to the top of his picture, where he sat hurling down imprecations in the monkey language at the man’s head, and looking vainly around for something more effective to throw.

  Madame Storey was in her most impish mood. “Lovely afternoon, Walter,” she remarked mellifluously.

  He snorted.

  “Will you have some tea? We’ve had ours.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “A cigarette, then?” She pushed the box toward him.

  “You know I never use them.”

  “Well, you needn’t be so virtuous about it.” She took one herself. The graceful movement with which she stuck it in her mouth never failed to fascinate me—him, too.

  He was silent. Madame Storey blew a cloud of smoke. He scowled at her in a sullen, hungry way. I was sorry for the man. Really, she used him dreadfully.

  “Rose, how many of those do you use a day?” he abruptly demanded.

  “Oh, not more than fifty,” she drawled, with a wicked twinkle in my direction.

  She may have spoiled half that many a day, but she never took more than a puff or two of each.

  “You’re ruining your complexion,” he said.

  “Mercy!” she cried in mock horror, snatching up the little gold-backed mirror that always lay on her table. She studied herself attentively. “It does show signs of wear. What can one expect? It’s six hours old already.”

  From her little bag she produced rouge-stick, powder-puff, pencils, et cetera, and nonchalantly set about using them. I might remark that Madame Storey had developed the art of making-up to an extraordinary degree of perfection. In the beginning I had refused to believe that she used any artificial aids until the process took place before my eyes.

  Absolutely indifferent to what people thought, she was likely to lug out the materials at any time, but particularly when she desired to be delicately insulting.

  Mr. Barron became, if possible, angrier than before. For a moment or two he fumed in silence, then said:

  “Please put those things away. I want to talk to you.”

  “You told me my complexion needed repair, Walter. Go ahead. Making-up is purely a subconscious operation. I’m listening.”

  They were a strong-willed pair. She would not stop making up, and he would not speak until she gave him her full attention. There was a long silence. It was rather difficult for me. I sat at my little table, making believe to busy myself with my papers. Madame Storey put aside the cigarette. That little scamp Giannino came sneaking down, but I got it first, and clapped it in
the ash-jar with a cover that he cannot open. He retired, sulking, into a corner, and swore at me in his way.

  Madame Storey finally put down the mirror. “Is that better, Walter?” she asked, with a wicked smile.

  He puffed out his cheeks.

  “I’m waiting to hear you,” she said, putting away the make-up.

  “It’s a confidential matter,” he rejoined, glancing at me.

  “Miss Brickley knows all about the Poor case,” she said carelessly. “You needn’t mind her.”

  “Well, what happened?” he asked sullenly.

  “Nothing much.”

  “Did you get a confession from the girl?”

  “No; I managed to forestall it.”

  His jaw dropped. “What do you mean?”

  “She was just on the point of making a confession when I sent her back to you.”

  “Will you be so good as to explain yourself?”

  “A confession would simply have puffed you up, Walter, and obstructed the ends of justice. Because she didn’t kill Ashcomb Poor.”

  “I suppose you had your secretary take notes of her examination,” he said. “Please let her read them to me.”

  Madame Storey shook her head. “The girl talked to me in confidence, Walter.”

  “But surely I have the right——”

  “We agreed beforehand, you know.”

  The assistant district attorney, very angry indeed, muttered something to the effect that he “would know better next time.”

  “That, of course, is up to you,” she said sweetly. “Anyway, it wouldn’t do any good to read you the notes, because I brought out no new facts of importance.”

  “Then how do you know she’s innocent?” he demanded.

  “By intuition,” she said with her sweetest smile.

  He flung up his hands. “Good Heaven! Can I go into court with your intuition?”

  “I suppose not. But so much the worse for the court. I haven’t much of an opinion of courts, as you know, for the very reason that they throw out intuition. They choose to found justice solely on reason, when, as every sensible person knows, reason is the most fallible of human faculties. You can prove anything by reason.”

  To this Mr. Barron hotly retorted:

  “Yet I never saw a lying woman in court who, when she was caught, did not fall back on her so-called intuition.”

  “That may be. But because there are liars is not to say there is no truth. Intuition speaks with a still small voice that is not easy to hear.”

  “Does your intuition inform you who did kill Ashcomb Poor?” he asked sarcastically.