MRS3 The Velvet Hand

by Hulbert Footner

  THE VELVET HAND

  NEW MADAME STOREY MYSTERIES

  BY

  HULBERT FOOTNER

  PUBLISHED FOR

  THE CRIME CLUB, INC.

  BY DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.

  GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK, 1928

  COPYRIGHT, 1928

  BY DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT

  THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS

  GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

  FIRST EDITION

  BY HULBERT FOOTNER

  THE VELVET HAND

  CAP'N SUE

  QUEEN OF CLUBS

  A BACKWOODS PRINCESS

  MADAME STOREY

  ANTENNAE

  THE SHANTY SLED

  THE UNDER DOGS

  THE WILD BIRD

  OFFICER!

  RAMSHACKLE HOUSE

  THE DEAVES AFFAIR

  THE OWL TAXI

  THE SUBSTITUTE MILLIONAIRE

  THIEVES' WIT

  NEW RIVERS OF THE NORTH

  THE SEALED VALLEY

  JACK CHANTY

  CONTENTS

  1. THE VIPER

  Madame Rosika Storey is called in to pursue a thieving secretary who has murdered her boss — a women, in turns out, with a decidedly strange character. The action takes Rosika, and faithful companion Bella Brickley to Paris but as clues mount, Bella returns to New York to investigate American developments.

  The Viper was originally published in The Argosy All-Story Weekly, 12 Apr 1924

  2. THE STEERERS

  On a cruise ship to England, Madame Rosika Storey and her faithful companion Bella Brickley encounter a merry pair of guests who spend their days traveling the liners — making friends of the gullible and fleecing them for their valuables. It's bad luck for them when they seize on the clever New York detective as their next victim.

  The Steerers was originally published in The Argosy All-Story Weekly, 2 Aug 1924

  3. THE POT OF PANSIES

  In England, a colourless, odorless, fast-acting gas has been developed by a scientist who wishes to end war — but instead gets murdered for the secret. Madame Rosika is soon on the case, leaving the frustrated killer to bemoan: "Aren't there enough murders in America?"

  The Pot of Pansies was originally published in The Argosy All-Story Weekly, 30 Apr 1927

  4. THE LEGACY HOUNDS

  When Hyman Brager, wealthy manufacturer of enamelled ware, dies, his widow begins spending willy-nilly — it's become a public scandal! And now the legacy hounds are braying, hoping to secure some quick cash from the befuddled widow. Can Madame Rosika Storey prevent a crime before it's committed?

  The Legacy Hounds was originally published in The Argosy All-Story Weekly, 18 Sep 1926

  THE VIPER

  I

  It was on the very morning of Mme Storey's sailing for Paris for her annual vacation that Mrs. Daniel Greenfield came to our office. When I heard the name she gave I looked at her with an extraordinary interest. One of our most famous philanthropists, her name is on everybody's lips, but as she has always refused to allow a photograph of herself to be published, scarcely anybody knows what she looks like.

  Well, I beheld an exquisite little old lady who looked more like a French marquise than the wife of an American millionaire. Decidedly a personality. She was so fragile she was obliged to support herself with an ebony stick, nevertheless, not an old lady who was asking for the consideration due to age. She met you on your own ground. Her dark eyes were still full of spirit, yes, and of beauty too, though she must have been close upon seventy. Her lovely clothes drew a nice line between the dignity of an older fashion and the modishness of the new. All in black, of course, for her husband was lately dead, but she eschewed the ostentatious widow's veil. She was accompanied by a nurse, or companion, a pleasant-faced woman, who had nothing of the usual dehumanized look of those who wait upon the rich. She was unaffectedly devoted to her mistress, which is something money can't usually buy.

  At the moment Mme Storey was as busy as a nailer, trying to clear her desk preparatory to taking a taxicab to the pier, but one doesn't send a Mrs. Daniel Greenfield away. I carried her name in, and my mistress came out to greet her. Apparently they had not met before.

  "I read in my newspaper this morning that you were sailing on the Majestic at noon," little Mrs. Greenfield said, with a great lady's disarming air of apology, "and I yielded to a sudden impulse to come to see you. I know I have no business to be troubling you at such a moment. I can only throw myself on your mercy. I assure you it is a matter of the most urgent importance—at least to me. Can you give me a few minutes?"

  Her wistfulness, the wistfulness of a child, or of the very old, melted Mme Storey entirely. "An hour if necessary," she said at once.

  Mme Storey led the way into her own room, and I went along after them. Mrs. Greenfield's companion remained sitting in my room.

  "I assume that you wish to consult me professionally," Mme Storey said. "If that is so, you will not object to my secretary Miss Brickley being present. She will make the necessary notes."

  Mrs. Greenfield accepted me with a courteous bow. So different from many of the men who come to consult us! We seated ourselves, I with my notebook. The sight of the great room made my heart heavy, thinking of the empty days ahead. I do not enjoy vacations. All the room's beauties were packed away or shrouded in cottons. Giannino had gone to board at the veterinary's. I would even have been glad to hear Giannino's chatter, the provoking little ape!

  When the beautiful old lady applied herself to the telling of her business, one perceived that she was greatly harassed and worn. Her charm of address upon entering had hidden that. One received the impression of a great trouble proudly kept to herself. I remembered having read that she had no children. Poor lonely soul, that was why she had tried to adopt all the unfortunates.

  "I must school myself to be very direct and brief," she began. "They say it is hard for the old. It is in relation to the death of my husband that I came to see you. You may have read of it—eight months ago?"

  Mme Storey inclined her head.

  "He had an apoplectic seizure in his office. He died instantly." The delicate wrinkled hands were trembling, but the voice was steady. "It is only fair to tell you at the start that there were no suspicious circumstances. There was an—an—I must speak of these things—an autopsy. The cause of his death was certainly a cerebral hemorrhage. Moreover, his affairs, as you may know, were found to be in perfect order, yet—yet—ah! do not smile at me even in kindness! Do not in your own mind dismiss my story yet awhile! I am haunted by the conviction that he did not die a natural death!"

  Mme Storey's beautiful face was soft and grave with sympathy. It expressed no surprise. As for me, I was one great Oh! inside. A mystery in the death of Daniel Greenfield! Here was a case indeed!

  "I never make up my mind in advance about things," said Mme Storey quietly. "What reason have you——"

  "Ah, that's the rub!" the old lady interrupted her despairingly. "I have no reason. I have only a feeling!"

  "Well, I do not overrate reason," said my mistress. "I should not have used that word."

  "I have no evidence," Mrs. Greenfield went on. "I have nothing but a dumb conviction in here"—she struck her breast—"that my husband was murdered—somehow. A conviction that will not be downed. Oh, I assure you I have struggled against it, argued with myself. It makes no difference. There it remains in my breast. I feel that he was murdered. I have spoken of my feelings to one or two men that I trusted—his best friend, a lawyer, a doctor—only to be listened to with a pitying smile. They tried to soothe me! What a humiliating experience! But men must hav
e evidence! ... Ah, don't you pretend to sympathize and send me away. Hear me out—question me. You are my last hope. I wish I had come to you before. This thing is killing me—no, that is nothing; what is life to me now?—Worse, it's driving me out of my senses. I cannot go mad. I must remain cool and sane. If he was murdered, it is for me to live to see that his murderess is brought to justice. Then I could go in peace!"

  "I am not a man," said Mme Storey softly. "You will not find me deafening my ears to the inward voices."

  "Ah, thank you for that!" cried the old lady in a tone of heartfelt relief. "It is the first crumb of comfort I have had!"

  "You said murderess," said Mme Storey. "Your suspicions have, then, a definite object?"

  "Yes," said Mrs. Greenfield. "His secretary. Her name is Margaret Gowan."

  "Tell me all about her," said Mme Storey.

  As my mistress applied her mind to the case, her eyes sought the cigarette box desirously, but she refrained from helping herself. But the sharp-eyed old lady marked her glance and its direction, and she said quickly:

  "Pray smoke, Madame Storey. Your cigarettes are famous. I am not narrow-minded."

  "A detestable habit," said Mme Storey apologetically. "I am thoroughly ashamed of it." Nevertheless, she took a cigarette and, lighting it, luxuriously inhaled.

  "Miss Gowan worked for my husband for twelve years," said Mrs. Greenfield. "She was an admirable secretary in every respect. Daniel relied on her completely. He was never tired of singing her praises."

  "But you did not like her?" suggested Mme Storey.

  "Ah, don't say that!" cried Mrs. Greenfield with quick reproachfulness. "That shows you are thinking the same that those men thought when I spoke to them of her, that it was just another case of an old woman's jealousy of her husband's young secretary. I assure you, Madame Storey, it is nothing of that sort. You must believe me. She was not at all the kind of young woman to make a wife anxious: a quiet, capable, businesslike person, nothing of the 'charmer' about her. She lacked that—well, you know what I mean—that appeal." Old as she was, and broken with trouble, Mrs. Greenfield's fine eyes still flashed with remembered power. "No, indeed! My mind was never troubled on that score. But she was deep!—deep! Ah, much deeper than Daniel ever guessed! Sometimes that thought used to cross my mind uncomfortably, but I liked the girl. I was grateful to her for easing my husband's burden. It allowed him more time to spend with me. No shadow of a suspicion that anything was wrong ever crossed my mind until after his death."

  "And then?"

  "It was the day of the funeral," said Mrs. Greenfield, her eyes darkening at the recollection. "I did not go downstairs. Miss Gowan sent up word to ask if I cared to see her. My heart was full of kindness toward her, they told me she had acted so splendidly, and I said by all means. And she came up. When she entered my room—how can I describe it to you?—something seemed to enter with her. When she came near me a strange rage seized and shook me. I was taken by surprise. A dreadful unthinking feeling. I could have attacked her had I been stronger. I wept at my own powerlessness. Yet her attitude was admirable. Everybody spoke of it: so quiet and capable and self-effacing; so sympathetic, so helpful, so unaffectedly saddened by her own loss. That is what everybody said. Well, everybody does not see very far. I saw in her demure and downcast eyes that she had killed my husband and was glad of her work. And I wished to kill her!"

  The old lady paused, breathless and exhausted with emotion. How strange it was to see so much raw emotion in one so old and so elegant. It upset one's sense of values.

  "Describe her appearance to me," said Mme Storey.

  "That is difficult," said Mrs. Greenfield with contemptuous lips. "Nothing much to describe. A little woman; light brown hair, watchful gray eyes, repressed mouth. Not pretty; not ill-favoured, either. She must be about thirty-two now, but she scarcely looks it. There is nothing in her face to betray the passage of time. Looking back, one feels that she willed herself to be neutral, inconspicuous. I apprehend an iron will in the insignificant little creature. In what she revealed she was nothing but a reflection of my husband's tastes and wishes and ideas.

  "Sometimes I used to wonder what sort of a life she led apart from my husband. Not much, apparently. Anyway, not on the surface. When this happened I had her investigated without telling anybody. The result was negligible. Apparently she has led an exemplary life—taking care of an invalid mother for years. Since the death of her mother has lived in the same boarding house for seven years. Apparently satisfied with the casual contacts she obtained there. A quiet, studious little person; no expensive tastes; no love affairs. In short, a life as open as the day. If you are interested, I will send you a copy of the report I received upon her."

  "Please do," said Mme Storey.

  "Have I conveyed anything to you?" Mrs. Greenfield went on. "But wait! She had one characteristic she could not modify: a peculiar walk; stiff-kneed and rising on her toes. One might call it a strut. Like this." The brisk old lady arose from her chair, and, as far as the infirmities of age would permit, proceeded to illustrate.

  "I suppose Miss Gowan was of great assistance in settling up your husband's affairs," suggested Mme Storey.

  "Oh, invaluable!" said Mrs. Greenfield. "The lawyers and the accountants could not praise her enough. All the details of my husband's affairs were at her finger tips. My husband was a peculiar man in some respects. In business he had no close associates, no advisers, no confidants. He kept no regular books. It was a saying downtown that Daniel Greenfield carried all his business under his hat. Yet the girl guided the lawyers unerringly in their investigation. And everything was always found to be just as she said it would be. Nothing was obscure, nothing unaccounted for, they said.... To me there was one suspicious circumstance, but I have not mentioned it to anybody. It is susceptible of many explanations, of course."

  "Tell me," said Mme Storey.

  The old lady lowered her head as if overcome by a painful recollection. "A few days before I lost my husband," she murmured, "he said one night, jestingly—he said that if he died that night he would cut up—such were his words, about ten million clear. Yet when everything was settled up there was only about nine million. It seems strange he should have made so great an error."

  "I agree with you," said Mme Storey.

  "Then you think—you really think my story is worth investigating?" Mrs. Greenfield asked with a rather piteous eagerness.

  "I do," said Mme Storey simply.

  The old lady partly broke down. She put a hand over her eyes. "Ah, it is sweet to find honest sympathy, understanding," she murmured. "Until now I often wondered if I was indeed mad."

  "Tell me," said Mme Storey, "what did the lawyers have to start from in order to prove and trace and check up his property?"

  "Nothing but a little red notebook," said Mrs. Greenfield. "What they call a loose-leaf notebook. It was kept in his own handwriting. It was a sort of statement of his assets on one side and his liabilities on the other. Whenever the statement got too much marked up to be legible, he would start fresh pages and destroy the old ones. Although he was so well off, he always owed a great deal of money here and there. Why, I never quite understood. Making other people's money work for him, he would say with his laugh."

  "Was there any other writing in the little book?" asked Mme Storey.

  "He used to make random notes in the back and destroy them when the occasion had passed."

  "Where was the little red book found?"

  "In the breast pocket of the coat he was wearing."

  "Was it always kept there?"

  "I think so. He would often pull it out and read to me what securities he had bought or sold. It pleased us both to talk over such matters, though I am afraid I had but a very imperfect understanding of the transactions."

  "That little red book is still in existence?"

  "Oh, yes. Furthermore, I insisted that all his business papers, the contents of his letter files, everything must be saved."r />
  "Excellent!" said Mme Storey. "One obvious question. Was Miss Gowan remembered in your husband's will?"

  "No. Several years ago he proposed to make her a legacy, but upon speaking of it to her she evinced such distress—even anger, he said—that he changed his mind. He was much pleased by the spirit in which she received the proposal. He raised her salary instead."

  "Ah!" said Mme Storey drily. "Her unwillingness to receive a legacy might have had another motive."

  "I understand you," said Mrs. Greenfield, very low. "Do you think for years past she had been plotting...?"

  "Oh, I think nothing yet," said Mme Storey. "I am merely suggesting possibilities.... You say you read that I was sailing to-day. What was there in that announcement to bring you to see me?"

  All during the old lady's story my mind had been running ahead, speculating on what effect it would have on Mme Storey's plans. It seemed too much to hope that she would cancel her vacation. I listened now with avid ears.

  "I have been hesitating for a long while about consulting you," said Mrs. Greenfield. "The reference to your vacation in Paris decided me in a hurry. There seemed to be something providential in it. Miss Gowan is in Paris. At least, that was her ostensible destination when she sailed away two months ago."

  My hopes went down. Nothing in this for me.

  "Ah, gone abroad," said Mme Storey.

  "She took care that it had nothing of the look of a flight," said the old lady. "All during the months while the estate was being settled, she remained here in New York holding herself at the disposal of the lawyers and accountants.... She came to bid me good-bye before she left." Mrs. Greenfield's lip curled in bitter scorn. "I managed to conceal my feelings. She said that she felt she owed it to herself to take a long vacation before she looked for another position. That made me very angry, but I said nothing. Because it was not my husband's fault that she had had no vacation. He was always urging her to take one, and she refused."