The Three Thirty-Twos/Chapter 7

“! Mme. Storey!” Whittall cried very affably. “What a surprise! I had no idea that you were interested in my property. Why didn't you let me know?”

She ignored the question. “It is beautiful!” she said blandly, “but I am afraid it is too expensive for me.”

They shook hands. I could see his face now. He had it under pretty good control, but his eyes were narrow and sharp with curiosity.

He was a handsome man in his way, with dark, bright eyes in which there was something both defiant and shifty. It was the look of a schoolboy who knows he has a bad name, and is determined to brazen it out. Why had not Fay Brunton's instincts taken alarm? I wondered afresh. But perhaps Whittall had a different look when he faced her.

“Oh, it's too expensive for anybody to own as a residence now,” he said with a laugh. “I supposed it would be bought by a real estate operator, and subdivided— Have you seen everything?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Mme. Storey. “We were just waiting for a few minutes. I had the misfortune to lose a piece of jewelry in the grounds, and they are looking for it.”

“Ah, I am so sorry!” While he smiled in polite sympathy, his sharp eyes sought to bore into her, but my mistress's face presented a surface as smooth as tinted china.

“We might as well go and see what they are about,” she said, moving toward the door.

“Don't hurry away!” he begged. “I don't often have the chance of entertaining you.”

However, at this moment the butler appeared, to announce that madame's pin had been found, and we all moved out to the front steps. Crider was there, and the head gardener. Crider passed over the emerald, and with a meaning look gave his mistress to understand that he had been successful in his other quest. A great relief filled me. Whittall had not come home in time to frustrate us. Mme. Storey was loud in her protestations of thankfulness. She opened her purse to reward the gardener and his men.

“Where was it found?” asked Whittall.

The gardener spoke up. “At the bottom of the old well, sir.”

It must have given Whittall a hideous shock. I scarcely had the heart to look at him. He uttered no sound; his eyes were divested of all sense. His florid face went grayish, leaving a network of tiny, purplish veins outlined against the grayness. Several times he essayed to speak before any sound came out.

“Come inside, a minute,” he gabbled. “Come inside—come inside!”

Mme. Storey looked at Crider, and he followed us inside. My mistress had no notion of trusting herself alone with that madman. Whittall led the way across the hall, walking with such quick short steps as to give almost a comic effect. He opened the door of the library for us to pass in. He was for shutting it in Crider's face, but Mme. Storey stopped him with a steady look. So Crider entered and waited with his back against the door. It was a beautiful, quiet room upholstered in maroon, with three tall windows reaching to the floor.

Whittall was in a pitiably unnerved state. Consider the height that he had fallen from. On the eve of his marriage, too. He drew a bottle from a cabinet, and poured himself a drink with shaking hands. Gulped it down at a draught. He went to the windows and jerked at the curtain cords senselessly, though they were already opened to their widest. Again, one was reminded of something comic in his attempt to make out that there was nothing the matter. Finally he asked in a thick voice:

“Am I to have any explanation of this extraordinary visit?”

“I would not insist on it, Whittall,” said my mistress, almost regretfully, one would have said.

“I do insist on it,” he said quickly.

“Very well. It was not an emerald pin, of course, that T was looking for at the bottom of the well.”

“What was it, then?”

She turned to the door. “What did you find there, Crider?”

“A Matson thirty-two automatic, madame, The magazine is full.”

“Hand it over!” said Whittall.

Crider, naturally, made no move to obey.

“This is mere folly,” said my mistress calmly. “It is to be handed over to an authority higher than yours.”

“Of what do you accuse me?” he cried wildly.

“Of nothing yet, except throwing this gun down the well.”

“Its a lie! It's a lie! I never saw it before!”

“Then why all this excitement?”

He turned away, biting his fingers.

“This is worse than useless,” said Mme. Storey. “Open the door, Crider.”

Whittall instantly became abject and cringing. “Wait a minute!” he implored. “Give me a chance to explain. Oh, my God! This frightful unexpected accusation has driven me out of my senses. Give me a chance to recover myself. Don't you see what you are doing? You are ruining me beyond hope. And all for nothing—all for nothing! I am as innocent as a child,”

I am afraid we all smiled grimly at this last cry of his. However, Mme. Storey waited.

“Give me a little time,” he muttered. He took another drink. He then said in a stronger voice: “Send those people out of the room and I'll tell you all.”

“These two are my trusted employees,” said Mme. Storey. “We three are as one. You may explain or not, just as it suits you.”

After a moment's hesitation he said: “I will explain on one condition: that if my explanation is a reasonable one, you promise you will not proceed against me immediately. But if you are determined to proceed against me anyhow, what's the use of my telling you anything? You can go ahead and be damned to you.”

This was too much for Crider. “I'll trouble you to be civil to Mme. Storey,” he said, flushing.

My mistress silenced him with a gesture. To Whittall she said coolly: “I am not prepared to proceed against you yet. As to the future, I make no promises. Are you willing on your part to give me your word of honor that you will not marry until this matter is cleared up?”

“Certainly!” he said quickly. “Word of honor. But don't tell Fay yet. It would break her heart.”

“I have no intention of doing so, yet,” said Mme. Storey dryly.

There was a considerable silence.

“We are waiting for the explanation,” said Mme. Storey at length.

Whittall turned around. He had evidently decided on his course.

“It is true that that is my wife's gun,” he said without hesitation, “and that I threw it down the well. But I swear as God is in His heaven that I did not shoot her. The reason I acted as I did was to prevent a scandal. I immediately suspected that she had been murdered. Then I found the gun in her drawer. Well, a dirty scandal would not have given her back to me; it would only have besmirched her reputation still further.”

“I know all about the 'other man,'” said Mme. Storey coolly. “I have talked with him. If you are suggesting that he shot her, I answer that it is impossible he could have done so.”

Whittall's face was a study while she was saying this. Finally he shrugged. “In that case,” he said sullenly, “I know no more than the next man who did it.”

“What gave you reason to suspect that it was murder?” asked Mme. Storey.

“Oh, the general circumstances.”

“Nobody else suspected such a thing.”

He shrugged indifferently.

Nothing more seemed to be forthcoming, and presently Mme. Storey said: “Your explanation so far is no explanation.”

He turned away, visibly in a state of indecision. Then he flung around. “Oh, hell, I suppose it's all got to come out now!” he cried. “I was warned of her murder!”

“Beforehand?” Mme. Storey asked sternly.

“No. What do you think I am? Shortly after it was committed. That is why I came home so early. I was dining with a friend. I was called to the telephone. A voice, unknown to me, said without any preliminary explanation: 'Your wife has just been shot. If you want to avoid a nasty scandal, you had better hurry home and secrete her revolver, so it will look like a suicide.'”

I could not help smiling at this tale. It sounded so preposterous.

Mme. Storey, however, was grave enough.

“A man's voice or a woman's voice?” she asked.

“A man's.”

“Can you offer any corroboration of this?”

“Certainly.”

“Where were you dining, and with whom?”

“What right have you to cross-examine me?” he said, scowling.

“Oh, if you'd rather tell the district attorney—” said Mme. Storey calmly.

“I was with Max Krueger, the manager of Miss Brunton's company,” he said sullenly. “We were at the Norfolk. It is not a hotel that I frequent, but we had some private business to discuss, and I didn't want to be recognized.”

“Yet the person who called you up knew where to find you.”

He flung out his hands violently. “You will have to figure that out as best you can. It beats me!”

Mme. Storey took a thoughtful turn up and down.

Whittall went on: “It has been established by a dozen witnesses that the fatal shot was fired at nine thirty. Krueger will testify that at that hour I was dining with him in the Norfolk—ten miles away from here. So your case against me collapses. Krueger will tell you further that about ten minutes past ten I was called to the phone.

“Naturally, I did not tell him the nature of the message I received; but he'll tell you that I left immediately. Before eleven I was back here. I suppose the taxicab driver who brought me here can be found, too, if he is looked for. Krueger is in his office now. Come with me and question him, and let this ridiculous charge be laid once and for all.”

Mme. Storey agreed to the proposal. Again she pointed out to Whittall that she had not yet made any charge.

There was a brief discussion as to how we should dispose ourselves for the drive to town. Naturally we did not intend to let Whittall out of our sight. I thought we all ought to go in Mme. Storey's car, but she ruled otherwise. She and I and Whittall would ride in his car, she said, and Crider could bring her car along after.

While Whittall waited for us in his car, biting his fingers with impatience, Mme. Storey gave Crider his private instructions:

“Do not follow us, but drive to your own place as quickly as possible, and change. Telephone Younger to come and get the car. You had also better get in touch with Stephens. Get back to the Adelphi Theater as soon as you can. Whittall will be there in Max Krueger's office. You and Stephens between you are to keep Whittall under observation until further notice, reporting to me at my office by phone as often as you are able.”

That was hardly a cheerful drive. Mme. Storey and Whittall sat side by side on the back seat without exchanging a single word the whole way. Whittall crouched in his corner, scowling and biting his fingers. If Fay could have watched him then, that in itself ought to have given her pause. Whittall had a skillful chauffeur, of course. He had a special instinct to warn him of a traffic policeman. When the road was clear he opened his throttle to its widest and we sped like a bullet. Then at certain moments he abruptly slowed down, and sure enough presently the brass buttons would appear. We made Times Square in twenty-five minutes.

The Adelphi was one of the newer theaters in that neighborhood. Its name has been changed now. At this time Whittall was reputed to be the owner, but I do not know if this was so. It was perfectly clear, though, that Max Krueger was Whittall's creature, “Wild Hyacinth,” I should say, was not showing at the Adelphi, but at the Yorktown, farther down Broadway, which was much larger and had a greater seating capacity.

A deceitful air of activity pervaded the offices. Apart from rehearsals, theatrical business seems to consist of lengthy conversations which end exactly where they begin. There were a number of depressed-looking actors of both sexes sitting around the outer office waiting for an interview with the manager. Yet, Krueger, as we presently discovered, was alone in his office, with his heels cocked up on his desk.

Whittall marched straight into the private office with us at his heels. Snatching the cigar from his lips, Krueger leaped to his feet. He was a rosy, plump little man of the type that I have heard described as a fore-and-aft Jew; a blond. He looked astonished, as well he might, at the combination which faced him.

Without the slightest preamble, Whittall cried out with a wave of his hand: “There he is. Ask him what you want”; and went to the window, where he turned his back to us.

Krueger, greatly flustered, began to pull chairs out and to mumble courtesies.

“Never mind, thanks,” said Mme. Storey. “We won't sit down. Just answer a few questions, please. It is by Mr. Whittall's wish that we have come.”

“Anything, Mme. Storey—anything within my power!” the little man replied.

“What were you doing on the evening of Sunday, September 11?”

Krueger was horridly taken aback. He stared at us in a witless fashion and pulled at his slack lower lip. His distracted eyes sought his master for guidance, but received none, Whittall's back being turned.

“Well, speak up, can't you?” barked Whittall, without turning around.

“Yes—yes, of course,” stammered Krueger, sparring for time. “Let me see—September 11—I can't seem to remember offhand. I shall have to look it up.”

“That was the night of Mrs. Whittall's death,” Mme. Storey reminded him.

“Oh, to be sure—that dreadful night!” said Krueger in suitable tones of horror. “That was the night of the private showing of the super-film 'Ashes of Roses.' I looked in at that.”

This was certainly not the answer that Whittall looked for. He whirled around with a face of terror. I rejoiced that we had caught the villains napping, as it seemed. Something had gone wrong with their concerted story.

“Tell the truth!” gasped Whittall.

“Eh? What?” stammered Krueger, blinking.

“Tell the truth, I said!” cried Whittall in a fury, banging the desk.

“Oh, to be sure—to be sure!” stuttered the demoralized Krueger. “Mr. Whittall and I had dinner together that night. At the Hotel Norfolk.”

I smiled to myself. This came a little late, I thought. It sounded as if it had been learned by heart.

“Why did you not say so at once?” asked Mme. Storey.

“Well, it was a private meeting, madame. We had business to discuss. I didn't think that Mr. Whittall wanted it known.”

“At what time did you meet?”

“Half past seven.”

“Describe what happened.”

“Well, we had our dinner. Afterward we went out to the smoking lounge. Shortly after ten a boy came through paging Mr. Darius Whittall. Mr. Whittall was surprised, because he had not thought that anybody knew where he was. Everybody in the room looked up, hearing that name. At first Mr. Whittall wasn't going to identify himself. Just some trifler, he said, or a newspaper reporter. But he was curious to find out who had got hold of his name. So after the boy had gone on, he went out to the office.

“In a minute or two he came back. He looked very agitated. All he said was: 'Something wrong at home.' He got his hat and coat, and jumped in a taxicab.”

“Now are you satisfied that I did not do it?” cried Whittall.

“Quite!” said Mme. Storey.

I was surprised at this answer.

She asked them both a number of further questions, which they answered readily. Whittall rapidly quieted down. It had the effect of a cross-examination, but knowing my mistress so well, I could see that she was only stalling for time. She did not want Whittall to get away from there until Crider was waiting outside to pick him up. Nothing of moment to the case was brought out by their answers.

Finally we went. The street outside was crowded, and I could not pick out Crider anywhere, but I had no doubt he was safely at his post. Just the same, I felt that we were doing wrong to go away and leave Whittall like that, free to work his nefarious schemes. And as we drove away in a taxicab I voiced something to that effect.

“But we have no reason to order him detained,” said Mme. Storey calmly. “He didn't shoot his wife.”

“What!” I cried, astonished. “You still doubt that?”

“No,” said Mme. Storey, smiling at the heat I betrayed. “I'm sure he didn't.”

“But obviously that man Krueger was ready to swear to anything that would please him!”

“Obviously,” she agreed.

“And the story about the telephone call! Fancy anybody calling him up and saying: “Your wife has been shot!' Just like that. Why, it's preposterous!”

“Quite!” said Mme. Storey. “Whittall is far too clever a man to have offered me so preposterous a story if it were not true. There is nothing so preposterous as the truth sometimes.”

“Well, if he didn't do it himself, he certainly had it done,” I said excitedly. “And that telephone message was from his hireling, telling him that the job was accomplished.”

But Mme. Storey still shook her head. “Think of the risk of blackmail, Bella.”

“What makes you so sure it wasn't Whittall?” I asked helplessly.

“It's so simple,” she said. “If Whittall had plotted to shoot his wife, he would have shot her with her own gun, wouldn't he? And then we never would have known.”

I looked at her in silence. Why, of course! My theory went down like a house of cards.

“No,” she went on gravely; “here's the best part of the day gone, and we're almost where we were yesterday evening. Well, not quite! Because Whittall told one tittle lie, which will appear later.”

“Then are we up against a blank wall?” I asked, discouraged.

“Oh, no,” was her surprising answer. “I know who did it.”

I looked my breathless question.

But she only shook her head.

“No evidence,” she said, frowning. “Not a shred. It's almost the perfect crime my Bella!”