Madame Storey E-Book

Hulbert Footner

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

I cannot better put that extraordinary woman, my employer, before you than by describing my first meeting with her. It is easier to show her qualities in action than to describe them.
On a certain morning, no different from thousands of other mornings, I was in a subway train on my way to the office when my eye was caught by this striking advertisement:
WANTED—By a woman of affairs, a woman
 secretary; common sense is the prime requisite.
 
 Printed words have an extraordinary effect on one sometimes. Something in these terse phrases so strongly appealed to me that though I had a very good position at the time, I interrupted my journey to the office and went directly to the address given.

Leseprobe

MADAME STOREY

BY

HULBERT FOOTNER

1926

© 2023 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383839682

CONTENTS

Part I: The Ashcomb Poor Case

Part II: The Scrap of Lace

Part III: The Smoke Bandit

Part IV: In the Round Room

MADAME STOREY

PART ONE

THE ASHCOMB POOR CASE

I cannot better put that extraordinary woman, my employer, before you than by describing my first meeting with her. It is easier to show her qualities in action than to describe them.

On a certain morning, no different from thousands of other mornings, I was in a subway train on my way to the office when my eye was caught by this striking advertisement:

WANTED—By a woman of affairs, a woman secretary; common sense is the prime requisite.

Printed words have an extraordinary effect on one sometimes. Something in these terse phrases so strongly appealed to me that though I had a very good position at the time, I interrupted my journey to the office and went directly to the address given.

It was on Gramercy Square. The house proved to be one of the fine old dwellings down there that have been altered into chic more-or-less-studio apartments. Bridal couples of the old Knickerbocker set are fond of setting up in that neighbourhood, I am told. As I approached, other females were converging at the door from three directions. The hall-boy, a typical New York specimen, looked us over with a grin, and without asking our business said:

"Madame Storey ain't down yet. Youse is all to wait in the little front room."

I asked him privately what was Madame Storey's business.

"Search me!" he said cheekily. "She don't hang out no sign."

Her apartment was the first floor front; part of the parlour floor of the old mansion. It was evidently only an office, but such an office! The walls were hung with priceless tapestries, there was an Italian Renaissance table for the secretary, ditto chairs for the clients, and here and there a bit of Chinese porcelain to make a vivid spot of colour. I confess I looked a little dubiously at all this magnificence; somehow it didn't seem quite respectable. All the time I was wondering what Madame Storey's "affairs" consisted of.

There were about twenty women waiting; not nearly enough chairs, so most of us stood. It was funny to see how every Jill of them was busily cultivating an air of common sense. All looked at me as I entered with an expression which said as plainly as words: "You might as well go; you will never do!" It was somewhat disconcerting until I saw that later arrivals received exactly the same look. No doubt I glared at them that way myself. There were far too many of us there already. What did more have to come for, we thought?

We were a motley throng ranging in age from seventeen to seventy. Women who obviously couldn't do a thing in this living world had rushed there to give Madame Storey the benefit of their common sense. One saw that there were as many definitions of common sense as there were women. Some thought it was sensible to paint their faces like a barber-pole; others, and these the larger number, considered that a sensible woman must don a hideous travesty of masculine attire, and wrinkle up her forehead like an ape. As for myself, the moment I saw that exquisite interior realised the incongruity of freckled, red-haired me amidst such surroundings. I had no hope of getting the position, but the whole affair was so funny to watch that I stayed on.

We waited an hour casting haughty glances at one another. But no one got tired and left. At the end of that time the boy from below threw open the door with a flourish and announced impressively:

"Madame Storey, ladies."

There was a dramatic pause while we breathlessly waited with eyes fixed on the open door. Before we saw her we heard her voice—she was speaking to the boy outside, a slow voice with the arresting quality of the deeper notes of the oboe. Then she entered, and an audible breath escaped from all us women. I don't know what we expected, certainly not what we saw.

She was very tall and supremely graceful. It was impossible to think of legs in connexion with her movements. She floated into the room like a shape wafted on the breeze. She was darkly beautiful in the insolent style that causes plainer women to prim up their lips.

She wore an extraordinary gown, a taupe silk brocaded with a shadowy gold figure, made in long panels that exaggerated her height and slimness, unrelieved by any trimming whatsoever. On her head she wore an odd little hat of the same colour with an exquisite plume curled around the brim. All this was very well, but what made the women gasp was that snuggled in the hollow of her arm she carried a black monkey dressed in a coat of Paddy green, and a foolscap hung with tiny gold bells.

She looked us over with eyebrows registering delicate mockery, and glanced at the ape as if to call his attention to the spectacle. Nevertheless she was not displeased by the sensation her entrance had created. I suspected that she had lingered outside especially to create that dramatic pause.

It was funny to see the faces of the waiting women, wherein strong disapproval struggled with the desire to please. As for myself, having no pretensions to beauty, I don't have to be jealous of other women. I only knew the moment I laid eyes on Madame Storey that I wanted that job and wanted it badly. In the first place, a really beautiful woman is an unfailing delight to my eyes; in the second, something told me that whoever worked for that woman would see Life with a capital L. I didn't care much then what her business might be.

She had kept us waiting a long time, but once there she expedited matters. Without any preamble she turned to the woman nearest the door—it was one of the near-masculine type that I have mentioned, and said with a smile:

"There is no need of your waiting any longer."

The woman gasped and turned a bricky colour. "Why—why——," she began.

"I merely wished to save you from wasting more of your time," said Madame Storey kindly.

The woman snorted, glared around at us all, grasped her umbrella firmly around the middle and stumped out.

The next one was a sweet young thing of forty-odd who put her head on one side and wriggled her shoulders when Madame Storey looked at her.

"You needn't wait," said that lady.

The third was a middle-aged woman of determined mien. When Madame Storey turned to her she stiffened up—breathed hard and prepared to stand her ground.

Madame Storey shook her head with a deprecating smile.

"But I am a sensible woman," insisted the other. "Everybody says there is no nonsense about me."

Some of us were impolite enough to laugh.

"I don't doubt it," said Madame Storey, "but you are not what I require."

"I insist on an explanation!"

"Certainly. You do not like me, you see. What would be the use?"

The woman went out with a dazed air.

So it went. In five minutes the room was pretty well cleared. As she approached me my heart sank lower and lower, for I did want that job. But she appeared to overlook me altogether, and I was one of the three left when she completed her circuit. The other two were handsome, assured, well-dressed girls, and I told myself I had as good a chance against them as the traditional snowball down below.

Madame Storey said: "I will see you young ladies one at a time in my own office."

The other two pressed forward, each trying to be the first, but I hung back. I argued that she would not engage anybody until she had talked to all three, and as every lawyer knows, there is a considerable advantage in having the last say.

The first girl, a ladylike blonde in a tailored suit, was not inside more than two minutes. She came out looking red and flustered.

"Well?" we asked her simultaneously.

"Never gave me a chance to say a word!" she said crossly. "Offered me a cigarette. Since she offered it, I knew she must be a smoker, so I took it, not to seem goody-goody. Well, I'm not accustomed to them. I choked over it. She just stood up and said good-morning."

The second girl looked wise, and went on in. But her interview didn't last more than thirty seconds. Reappearing, she burst out without even waiting for me to question her:

"The woman is crazy, if you ask me! Offered me a cigarette, too. Well, I wasn't going to make the same mistake as the other girl. I declined. Said I didn't indulge. She just pointed to the inside of my right forefinger and stood up. It's just a little stained. What does she expect! Smokes like a furnace herself!"

I went into the next room with my heart jumping against the root of my tongue. It was a wonderful room: more like a little gallery in a museum than a woman's office; an up-to-date museum where they realise the value of not showing too much at once. With all its richness there was a fine severity of arrangement, and every object was perfect of its kind. I didn't appreciate all this at the moment. It was only as I came to know it that I realised the taste with which every object had been selected and arranged.

Madame Storey was seated at a great table with her back to the windows. On the edge of the table was perched the little green-jacketed monkey, hands on knees and swinging his feet in an absurdly human way. He was gazing solemnly into his mistress's face and she was talking to him.

"Our last chance, Giannino. If this one fails us, we'll have to go through with the whole silly business again tomorrow."

The ape squeaked sympathetically, and gave me the once over.

She waved me to a chair. "What is your name?" she asked.

"Miss Brickley."

"Your first name? It helps one to understand a person."

"Bella."

"Ah!" Giving me a shrewd look, she pushed a great silver box of cigarettes towards me.

I had already made up my mind what to do. "Thanks, I don't smoke," I said.

"Hope you don't object," she said, taking one.

"No, indeed," I answered. "I could acquire the habit as quickly as any one, but it would be an added expense. I have to think of that."

"Ah!" she said, and let the matter drop. Anyhow, the cigarette had not tripped me.

She was regarding me searchingly. It was a kindly look, yet it made me frightfully uncomfortable. I hate people to stare at me, I am so plain. In spite of myself I burst out:

"I suppose you're thinking I wouldn't be much of an ornament to this establishment!"

"Yes," she said quite coolly. "But I was also thinking, that you were not as bad as you thought yourself. Your hair is charming."

My snaky red locks charming! I looked at the woman in astonishment.

"It would make an effective spot of colour against my green tapestries," she went on. "You know you don't have to drag it back from the roots like that."

Her unexpectedness unnerved me a little. Unfortunately when I am nervous I get cross.

"Are you a sensible woman?" she asked with a bland air.

"I don't know," I snapped. "I never gave the matter any thought."

"That's encouraging. Tell me of what you were thinking when you came in just now."

"Well," I replied, "it was clear to me from the experiences of the two who preceded me that they had got themselves turned down by making pretences; the first pretending that she smoked when she didn't, and the second pretending she didn't when she did. So I made up my mind not to bother about what you thought, but to be as nearly honest as I could."

She laughed. "You hear that, my Giannino?"

The ape made a face at me. He and I never took to each other.

"Then you want this job?" Madame Storey asked.

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because I think it's going to be exciting."

She shrugged. "I'll give you a trial," she said casually.

I could scarcely believe my ears. Once I got there I had no doubt but that I could make myself indispensable.

"You have not only the rudiments of sense, but a pretty spirit," she added with that terribly searching kindly gaze.

I was dumb.

"You are surprised that I praise you to your face? It is not my habit. But you, one can see, are suffering from malappreciation. Those two ugly lines between your brows were born of the belief that you were too plain and uninteresting ever to hope to win a niche of your own in the world. And so you are if you think you are. But you don't have to think so. Think that cross look away and your face will show what is rarer than beauty—character, individuality. Old Time himself cannot rob you of that." She turned to the ape. "I believe this is what we were looking for, Giannino."

I felt as if this strange woman had probed my soul.

"Are you employed now?" she asked abruptly.

"Yes."

"What is your salary?"

I named it.

"I shall double it, Miss Brickley. That is only fair, because I shall make great demands on you."

I tried to stammer my thanks.

"Haven't you got some questions to ask me?" she said.

"What is the nature of your business?" I diffidently inquired.

"You will soon see," she said smiling. "I assure you it is quite honest. You may call me a practical psychologist—specialising in the feminine."

II

Most of you will remember how the murder of Ashcomb Poor set the whole town agog. The victim's wealth and social position and the scandalous details of his private life that began to ooze out, whetted the public appetite for sensation to the highest degree. For years Ashcomb Poor had been one of the most beparagraphed men in town, and now the manner of his taking off seemed like a tremendous climax to a thrilling tale.

The day it first came out in the papers Mme. Storey did not arrive at the office until noon. She was very plainly dressed and wore a thick veil that partly obscured her features. By this time I was accustomed to these metamorphoses of costume. From a little bag that she carried she took several articles and handed them over to me. These were (a) a hank of thin green string in a snarl, (b) a piece of iridescent chiffon, partly burned, (c) an envelope containing seven cigarette butts.

"Some scraps of evidence in the Ashcomb Poor case," she explained. "Put them in a safe place."

I had just been reading the newspaper report.

"What! Have we been engaged in that case already?" I exclaimed. Mme. Storey encouraged me to speak of our business in the first person plural, and of course it flattered me to do so.

"No," she said, smiling, "but we may be. At any rate, I have forearmed myself by taking a look over the ground."

In the rear of her room there was a smaller one that she used as a retiring and dressing-room. She changed there now to a more suitable costume.

Two days later she remarked: "The signs tell me that we shall receive a call from the district attorney's office today."

Sure enough, Assistant District Attorney Barron turned up before the morning was over. Though he was a young man for the job, he was a capable one, and held over through several succeeding administrations. This was the first time I had seen him, though it turned out he was an old friend of Mme. Storey's. A handsome, full-blooded fellow, his weakness was that he thought just a little too well of himself.

I showed him into the private office and returned to my desk. There is a dictagraph installed between Mme. Storey's desk and mine, and when it is turned on I am supposed to listen in and make a transcript of whatever conversation may be taking place. Sometimes, to my chagrin, she turns it off at the most exciting moment, but more often she leaves it on, I am sure, out of pure good nature, because she knows I am so keenly interested. Mme. Storey is good enough to say that she likes me to be in possession of full information, so that she can talk things over with me.

The circuit was open now, and I heard him say: "My God, Rose, you're more beautiful than ever!"

"Thanks, Walter," she dryly retorted. "The dictagraph is on, and my secretary can hear everything you say."

"For Heaven's sake, turn it off!"

"I can't now, or she'd imagine the worst. You'll have to stick to business. I suppose you've come to see me about the Ashcomb Poor case."

"What makes you jump to that conclusion?"

"Oh, you were about due."

"Humph! I suppose that's intended to be humorous. If you weren't quite so sure of yourself you'd be a great woman, Rose. But it's a weakness in you. You think you know everything!"

"Well, what did you come to see me about?"

"As a matter of fact, it was the Ashcomb Poor case. But that was just a lucky shot on your part. I suppose you read that I had been assigned to the case."

"Walter, you're a good prosecutor, but you lack a sense of humour."

"Well, you're all right in your own line, feminine psychology and all that. I gladly hand it to you. But the trouble with you is, you want to tell me how to run my job too."

"No one could do that, Walter."

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. How does the Poor case stand?"

"I suppose you've read the papers."

"Yes; they're no nearer the truth than usual. Give me an outline of the situation as you see it."

"Well, you know the Ashcomb Poors. Top-notchers; fine old family, money, and all that; leaders in the ultra-smart Prince's Valley set on Long Island. They have what they call a small house at Grimstead, where they make believe to live in quiet style; it's the thing nowadays."

"In other words, the extravagantly simple life."

"Exactly. They have no children. The household consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Poor, Miss Philippa Dean, Mrs. Poor's secretary; Mrs. Batten, the housekeeper; a butler and three maids; there were outside servants, too—chauffeur, gardener, and so on—but they don't come into the case. Ashcomb Poor was a handsome man and a free liver. Things about him have been coming out—well, you know. On the other hand, his wife was above scandal, a great beauty——"

"Vintage of 1910."

"Well, perhaps; but still in the running. These women know how to keep their looks. Very charitable woman and all that. Greatly looked up to. On Monday night Mrs. Poor took part in a big affair at the Pudding Stone Country Club near their home. A pageant of all nations or something. Her husband, who did not care for such functions, stayed at home. So did Miss Dean and Mrs. Batten. Mrs. Poor took the other servants to see the show."

"There were only three left in the house, then?"

"Yes—Mr. Poor, Miss Dean, and Mrs. Batten."

"Go on."

"Mrs. Poor returned from the entertainment about midnight. Mrs. Batten let her in the front door. Standing there, the two women could see into the library, where Poor sat with his back to them. They were struck by something strange in his attitude, and started to investigate, Mrs. Batten in advance.

"She was the first to realise that something had happened, and tried to keep Mrs. Poor from approaching the body. They struggled. Mrs. Poor screamed. The girl, Philippa Dean, suddenly appeared, nobody can tell from where. A moment later the other servants, who had gone around to the back door, ran in.

"Well, there was the situation. He had been shot in the back. The pistol was there. The butler telephoned to friends of the family and to the police. Grimstead, as you know, is within the city limits, so it comes within our jurisdiction. I was notified of the affair within an hour and ordered to take personal charge of the case. Nothing had been disturbed. I ordered the arrest of the Dean girl, and she is still in custody."

"What do you want of me?" Mme. Storey inquired.

"I want you to see the girl. Frankly, she baffles me. Under our questioning she broke down before morning and confessed to killing the man. But the next day she repudiated her confession, and has obstinately stuck to her repudiation in spite of all we could do. I want you to see her and get a regular confession."

"What about the girl's lawyers?"

"She has none as yet. Refused to see one."

"You're sure she did it?"

"Absolutely. It was immediately apparent that the murder had been committed by one of the inmates of the house."

"Why?"

"Because when Mrs. Poor and the servants departed for the entertainment Mrs. Batten, who let them out, turned on the burglar-alarm, and it remained turned on until she let her mistress in again. One of the first things I did on arriving at the house was to make sure that the alarm was working properly. I also examined all the doors and windows. Everything was intact."

"Why couldn't the housekeeper have done it?"

"A simple, timid old soul! Impossible! No motive. Besides, if she had she would hardly have given me the principal piece of evidence against those in the house; I mean her testimony about the burglar-alarm."

"What motive could the girl have had?"

"The servants state that their master had been pestering her—forcing his attentions on her."

"Ah! But this is all presumptive evidence, of course. What else have you?"

"Ashcomb Poor was shot with an automatic pistol belonging to Miss Dean. The butler identified it. At first she denied that it was hers. She could not deny, though, that she had one like it, and when asked to produce it she could not. It was not among her effects."

"Where did you find the gun exactly?"

"In the dead man's hand."

"In his hand?"

"Under his hand, I should say. It had been shoved under in a clumsy attempt to make it appear like a suicide. But the hand was clenched on top of the weapon. Moreover, the man was shot between the shoulders. He could not possibly have done it himself. The bullet passed completely through his body, and I found it lodged in the wall across the room."

"Did the housekeeper hear the shot?"

"She did not. She was in another wing of the house."

"Anything else against the girl?"

"Yes. When she appeared, attracted by Mrs. Poor's cry, though she was supposed to have retired some time before, she was fully dressed. Moreover, she knew what had happened before any one told her."

"Ah! How does she explain these suspicious circumstances?"

"She will explain nothing. Refuses to talk."

"What story did she tell when she confessed?"

"None. Merely cried out: 'I did it! I did it! Don't ask me any more!'"

There was a silence here, during which Mme. Storey presumably ruminated on what she had been told. Finally she said: "I'll see the girl, but it must be upon my own conditions."

"What are those?"

"As an independent investigator, I hold no brief for the district attorney's office."

"Well, there's no harm in that."

"But you must understand what that implies. Neither you nor any of your men may be present while I am talking to her. And I do not bind myself to tell you everything she tells me."

"That's out of the question. What would the old man say if he knew that I turned her over to an outsider?"

"Well, that's up to you, of course." Mme. Storey spoke indifferently. "You came to me, you know."

"Well—all right." This very sullenly. "I suppose if she confesses you'll let me know."

"Certainly. But I'm not at all sure this is going to turn out the way you expect."

"After all I've told you?"

"Your case against her is a little too good, Walter."

"Who else could have done it?"

"I don't know—yet. If she did it, why should she have stuck around the house until you arrested her?"

"She supposed it would be considered a suicide."

"But, according to you, a year-old child wouldn't have been deceived into thinking so."

"Well, you never can tell. They always do something foolish. Will you come down to the Tombs? I'll arrange for a room there."

"No, I must see the girl here."

"That's impossible!"

"Sorry; it's my invariable rule, you know."

"But have a heart, Rose. I daren't let her out of my custody."

"You and your men can wait outside the door, then."

"It's most irregular."

"I am an irregular person," was the bland reply. "You should not have come to me."

"Well—I suppose you must have your own way."

"Always do, my dear. With the girl send a transcript of whatever statements have been taken down in the case."

"All right. Rose, turn off that confounded dictagraph, will you? I want to speak to you privately."

"It's off."

It wasn't, though, for I continued to hear every word.

"Good God, Rose, why do you persist in trying to madden me?"

"Mercy, Walter! How?"

"You know! With your cold and scornful airs, your indifference. It's—it's only vanity. Your vanity is ridiculous!"

"Oh, if you're only going to call names, I'll turn on the dictagraph!"

"No, don't, don't! I scarcely know what I'm saying you provoke me so! Why won't you be decent to me, Rose? Why won't you take me? We were made for each other!"

"So you say."

"Do you never feel anything, anything behind that scornful smile? Are you a breathing woman or a cold and heartless monster?"

"Bless me, I don't know."

"You need a master!"

"Of course I do. Why don't you master me, Walter?"

"Don't taunt me. A man has his limits! You make me want to seize and hurt you!"

"Don't do that. You'd spoil my pretty frock. Besides, Giannino would bite the back of your neck."

"Don't taunt me. You'd be helpless in my arms. You're always asking for a master."

"I meant a master of my soul, Walter."

"I don't understand you."

"Yes, you do. Look at me! You can't. My soul is stronger than yours, Walter, and in your heart you know it."

"You're talking nonsense!"

"Don't mumble your words. That's my tragedy, if you only knew it. I have yet to meet a man bold enough to face me down. How could I surrender myself to one whose soul was secretly afraid of mine? So here I sit. You know that the Madame I have hitched to my name is just to save my face. No one would believe that a woman as beautiful as I could be still unmarried—and respectable. But I am both, worse luck!"

"It's your own fault that you're alone. You think too well of yourself. You make believe to scorn all men."

"Well, if it's a bluff, why doesn't some man call it?"

"I will right now! I'm tired of this fooling. You've got to marry me."

"Look at me when you say that, Walter."

A silence.

"Ah—you can't you see."

"Ah, Rose, don't torture me this way! Can't you see I'm mad about you? You spoil my rest at night; you come between me and my work by day. I hunger and thirst for you like a man in a desert. Think what a team you and I would make, Rose. There'd be no stopping us short of the White House."

Here, to my chagrin, the dictagraph was abruptly turned off, but when, a minute or two later, Mr. Barron burst out of the inner room purple with rage I guessed that no change had occurred in the situation. He flung across the floor and out of the door without a glance in my direction.

Mme. Storey called to me to bring in my note-book. As I entered she was talking to the monkey.

"Giannino, you are better off than you know. Better be a dumb beast than a half-thinking animal."

The little thing wrinkled up his forehead and chirruped as he always did when she addressed him.

"You disagree with me? I tell you, men would rather go to jail than put themselves to the trouble of thinking clearly."

III

Eddie, the hall boy, and I had become at least outwardly friendly. In his heart I think Eddie always despised me as "a jane out of the storehouse," one of his own expressions, but as he had the keenest curiosity about all that went on in our shop, he was obliged to be affable in order to tap such sources of information as I possessed. He adored Mme. Storey, of course; all youths did as well as older males. As for me, I couldn't help liking the amusing little wretch, he was so new.

Like most boys of his age his ruling passion was for airplanes and aviators. At this time his particular idol was the famous Lieutenant George Grantland who had broken so many records. Grantland had just started on a three days' point-to-point flight from Camp Tasker, encircling the whole country east of the Mississippi, and Eddie, in order to follow him, was obliged to buy an extra every hour. Bursting with the subject, and having no one else to talk to, he brought these up to my room. This was his style—of course I am only guessing at the figures.

"Here's the latest. Landed at New Orleans four thirty this A.M., two hours ahead of time. Gee! If I could only get out to a bulletin-board! Slept four hours and went on. Four hundred and forty-two miles in under four hours. Wouldn't that expand your lungs? Say, that guy is a king of the air all right. Flies by night as well as day. They have lights to guide him where to land. Hasn't had to come down once for trouble. Here's a picture of his plane. It's the Bentley-Critchard type. They're just out. Good for a hundred and forty an hour. Six hundred horse. Do you get that? Think of driving six hundred plugs through the clouds. Some team!"

After two days of this I was almost as well acquainted with the exploits of Lieutenant Grantland as his admirer. Every hour or two Eddie would have a new picture of the dashing aviator to show me. Even after being snapshotted in the blazing sun and reproduced in a newspaper half-tone, he remained a handsome young fellow.

Eddie was in the thick of this when they brought Philippa Dean up from the Tombs, but as she was indubitably a "class one jane," his attention was momentarily won from his newspapers. The assistant district attorney did not accompany her. To be obliged to wait outside was, I suppose, too great a trial to his dignity. Miss Dean was under escort of two gigantic plain-clothes men, the slender little thing. I was glad, at any rate, that they had not handcuffed her.

My first impression was a favourable one; her eyes struck you at once. They were full, limpid, blue, very wide open under fine brows, giving her an expression of proud candour in which there was something really affecting—however, I had learned ere this from Mme. Storey that you cannot read a woman's soul in her eyes, so I reserved judgment. Her hair was light-brown. She was dressed with that fine simplicity which is the despair of newly arrived women. At present she looked hard and wary, and her lips were compressed into a scarlet line—but that was small wonder in her situation.

Mme. Storey came out when she heard them. What was her first impression of the girl I cannot say, for she never gave anything away in her face at such moments. She invited the two detectives to make themselves comfortable in the outer office, and we three women passed into the big room. She waved the girl to a seat.

"You may relax," she said, smiling; "nobody is going to put you through the third degree here."

But the girl sat down bolt upright, with her hands clenched in her lap. It was painful to see that tightness. Mme. Storey applied herself to the task of charming it away. She said to the ape:

"Giannino, take off your hat to Miss Dean, and tell her that we wish her well."

The little animal stood up on the table, jerked off his cap and gibbered in his own tongue. It was a performance that never failed to win a smile, but this girl's lips looked as if they had forgotten how.

"The assistant district attorney has asked me to examine you," Mme. Storey began in friendly style. "Being a public prosecutor, he's bent on your conviction, having nobody else to accuse. But I may as well tell you that I don't share his feelings. Indeed, he's so cock-sure that it would give me pleasure to prove him wrong."

I knew that my employer was sincere in saying this, but I suppose the poor girl had learned to her cost that the devil himself can be sympathetic. At any rate, the speech had no effect on her.

"I hope you will believe that I have no object except to discover the truth," Mme. Storey went on.

"That's what they all say," muttered the girl.

"Satisfy yourself in your own way as to whether you can trust me. Come, we have all afternoon."

"Am I obliged to answer your questions?" demanded the girl.

"By no means," was the prompt reply. "Why don't you question me first?"

The girl took her at her word. "Who are you?" she asked. "I have been told nothing."

"Mme. Rosika Storey. They call me a practical psychologist. The district attorney's office sometimes does me the honour to consult me, particularly in the cases of women."

"You'll get no confession out of me!"

"I don't expect to. I don't believe you did it. No sane woman would shoot a man between the shoulder-blades and expect to make out that it was a suicide. At any rate, Ashcomb Poor seems to have richly deserved his fate. Come now, frankly, did you do it?"

The girl's blue eyes flashed. "I did not."

"Good! Then tell me what happened that night."

The girl sullenly shook her head. "What's the use?"

"Why, to clear yourself, naturally."

"They haven't enough evidence to convict me. They couldn't convict me, because I didn't do it."

"That's a perilous line to take, my dear. I suspect you haven't had much experience with juries. The gentleman of the jury would consider silence in a woman not only unnatural, but incriminating. Of course, they might let you off, anyway, if you condescended to ogle them, but as I say, it's perilous. Why did you confess in the first place?"

"To get rid of them. They were driving me out of my mind with their questions."

"I can well understand that. Well then, what did happen, really?"

The girl set her lips. "I have made up my mind to say nothing, and I shall stick to it," she replied.

Mme. Storey spread out her hands. "Very well, let's talk about something else. Dean is a good old name here in New York. Are you of the New York family?"

"My people have lived here for four generations."

"I have read of a great beau in the sixties and seventies—Philip Dean. Are you related to him?"

"He was my grandfather."

"I might have guessed it from your first name. How interesting! All the chronicles of those days are full of references to his wit and savoir faire. But he must have been a rich man. How does it come that you have to work for your living?"

"The usual story; the first two generations won the family fortune, and the next two lost it. I am of the fifth generation."

"Well, I suppose one cannot have a famous bon vivant in the family for nothing."

"Oh, no one could speak ill of my grandfather. He was a gallant gentleman. I knew him as a child. He spent his money in scientific experiments which only benefited others. My poor father was not to blame either. He lost the rest of the money trying to recoup his father's losses in Wall Street."

"And you were thrown on your own resources."

"Oh, I was never a pathetic figure. I could get work. There were always women, not very sure of themselves socially, who were glad to engage Philip Dean's granddaughter."

"That's how you came to go to Mrs. Poor."

"No, that was different. Mrs. Poor didn't need anybody to tell her things. Her family was as good as my own. Her husband was travelling abroad and she was lonely. She engaged me as a sort of companion."

"When did her husband return?"

The girl frowned. "Now you think you're leading me up to it, don't you?"

Mme. Storey laughed. "I suspect you're the kind of young lady that nobody can lead any farther than she is willing to go."

Miss Dean glanced suspiciously at me. "Is she taking down all I say?" she demanded.

"Not until I tell her to," Mme. Storey replied.

"He returned two months ago."

"Do you mind describing their house at Grimstead for me?" asked Mme. Storey. "There's no harm in that, is there?"

The girl shrugged. "No. It's a small house, considering their means, and it looks even smaller because of being built in the style of an English cottage, with low, over-hanging eaves and dormer windows. You enter through a vestibule under the stairs and issue into a square hall. This hall is two storeys and has a gallery running around three sides. On your left is the library; on your right the small reception room; the living-room, a large room, is at the back of the hall, with the dining-room adjoining it. These two rooms look out over the garden and the brook below. Between reception and dining-room there is a passage leading away to the kitchen wing. Besides pantry, kitchen, and laundry, this wing has a housekeeper's room and a servants' dining-room."

"And upstairs?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Poor's own suite is at the back of the house over the living-room and dining-room. My room is over the library. There is a guest room over the reception room. All the servants' rooms are in the kitchen wing. There is no third storey."

Mme. Storey affected to consult the notes on her desk. "Where was this burglar-alarm that there has been so much talk about?"

"Hidden in a cranny between the telephone-booth and the hall fire-place. The telephone-booth was let into the wall just beyond the library door, and the fire-place is adjoining."

"Hidden, you say. Was there anything secret about it?"

"No. Everybody in the house knew of it."

"What kind of switch was it?"

"It was just a little handle that lifted up and pulled down. When it was up it was off; when it was down it was on."

"Describe the servants, will you?"

"How is one to describe servants? The butler, Briggs—well, he was just a butler; smooth, deferential, fairly efficient. The maids were just typical maids. None of them had been there long. Servants don't stick nowadays."

"What about Mrs. Batten?"

In spite of herself the girl's face softened—yet at the same time a guarded tone crept into her voice. "Oh, she's different," she said.

Mme. Storey did not miss the guarded tone. "How different?" she asked.

"I didn't look on Mrs. Batten as a servant, but as a friend."

"Describe her for me."

The girl, looking down, paused before replying. Her softened face was wholly charming. "A simple, kindly, motherly soul," she said with a half-smile. "Rather absurd, because she takes everything so seriously. But while you laugh at her you get more fond of her. She doesn't mind being laughed at."

"You have the knack of hitting off character!" said Mme. Storey. "I see her perfectly!"

I began to appreciate Mme. Storey's wizardry. Cautiously feeling her way with the girl she had discovered that Philippa had a talent for description in which she took pride—perhaps the girl aspired to be a writer. At any rate, when she was asked to describe anything, her eyes became bright and abstracted, and she forgot her situation for the moment.

It seemed to me that we were on the verge of stumbling on something, but to my surprise, Mme. Storey dropped Mrs. Batten. "Describe Mrs. Poor for me," she asked.

"That is more difficult," the girl said unhesitatingly. "She is a complex character. We got along very well together. She was always kind, always most considerate. Indeed, she was an admirable woman, not in the least spoiled by the way people kowtowed to her. But I cannot say that I knew her very well, because she was always reserved—I mean with everybody. One felt sometimes that she would like to unbend, but had never learned how."

"And the master of the house?"

The girl shuddered slightly. But still preoccupied in conveying her impressions, she did not take alarm. "He was a rich man," she answered, "and the son of a rich man. That is to say, from babyhood he had never been denied anything. Yet he was an attractive man—when he got his own way; full of spirits and good nature. Everybody liked him—that is, nearly everybody."

"Didn't you like him?" asked Mme. Storey.

"Yes, I did in a way—but——" She stopped.

"But what?"

She hung her head. "I'm talking too much," she muttered.

Mme. Storey appeared to drop the whole matter with an air of relief. "Let's have tea," she said to me. "I can see from Giannino's sorrowful eyes that he is famishing."

I hastened into the next room for the things. Mme. Storey, in the way that she has, started to rattle on about cakes as if they were the most important things in the world.

"Every afternoon at this hour Miss Brickley and Giannino and I regale ourselves. We have cakes sent in from the pastry cooks'. Don't you love cakes with thick icing all over them? I'm childish on the subject. When I was a little girl I swore to myself that when I grew up I would stuff myself with iced cakes."

When I returned I saw that in spite of herself the girl had relaxed even further. Her eyes sparkled at the sight of the great silver plate of cakes. After all, she was a human girl, and I don't suppose she'd been able to indulge her sweet tooth in jail. Giannino set up an excited chattering. Upon being given his share he retired to his favourite perch on top of a big picture to make away with it.

While we ate and drank we talked of everything that women talk of: cakes, clothes, tenors and what not. One would never have guessed that the thought of murder was present in each of our minds. The girl relaxed completely. It was charming to watch the play of her expressive eyes.

Mme. Storey, who, notwithstanding her boasted indulgence, was very abstemious, finished her cake and lighted the inevitable cigarette. Giannino stroked her cheek, begging piteously for more cake, but the plate had been put out of his way. Mme. Storey, happening to lay down her cigarette, Giannino, ever on the watch for such a contingency, snatched it up and clambered with chatterings of derision up to the top of his picture. There he sat with half-closed eyes blowing clouds of smoke in the most abandoned manner. Philippa Dean laughed outright; it was strange to hear that sound from her. I was obliged to climb on a chair to recover the cigarette. I spend half my time following up that little wretch. If I don't take the cigarette from him it makes him sick, yet he hasn't sense enough to leave them alone—just like a man!

"Well, shall we go on with our talk?" asked Mme. Storey casually.

The girl spread out her hands. "You have me at a disadvantage," she said. "It is so hard to resist you."

"Don't try," suggested my employer, smiling. "You may take your notes now, Miss Brickley. You needn't be afraid," she added to the girl. "This is entirely between ourselves. No one else shall see them. You were saying that you liked Mr. Poor—with reservations."

"I meant that one could have enjoyed his company very much if he had been content to be natural. But he was one of those men who pride themselves on their—their—what shall I say——"

"Their masculinity?"

"Exactly. And of course with a man of that kind a girl is obliged constantly to be on her guard."

"The servants have stated that he pestered you with his attentions," Mme. Storey remarked.

The girl lowered her eyes. "They misunderstood," she said. "Mr. Poor affected a very flowery, gallant style with all women alike; it didn't mean anything."

Mme. Storey glanced at a paper on her desk. "The butler deposes that one evening he saw Mr. Poor seize you on the stairs and attempt to kiss you, and that you boxed his ears and fled to your room."

Miss Dean blushed painfully and made no reply.

Mme. 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," Mme. 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 Mme. 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."