Hulbert Footner

Madame Storey Intervenes

Warsaw 2017

Contents

IN order to recuperate from the strain of the tremendous publicity that followed upon her success in the famous case of the Smoke Bandit, Mme. Storey retired for a few days to the house of her close friends, the Andrew Lipscombs, who lived in the Connecticut hills remote from any neighbor. I accompanied my employer, since she insisted that I needed a holiday as well as herself.

We simply locked up, our offices and went away, leaving the telephone to ring, the mail to accumulate, and the hordes of curiosity-seekers to mill around the door as they would. We supposed that we had kept the place of our retreat a secret from all, but that fond hope was soon dissipated. Late on the night of our arrival, as we were playing bridge with our friends in the blessed quietude of their house, my employer was called to the telephone.

She returned to the card table with the grave remote look that I knew so well, her working look, and my heart sank.

“Well, Bella, we have another case,” she said.

I laid down my cards. It was useless to protest, of course.

“There’s been a terrible affair down at Fremont-on-the-Sound,” she went on. “A gentleman has been found shot dead in his study, and a young girl has been arrested. The man who called me up, evidently the girl’s lover, begged me to come and try to get her off. His voice coming through the receiver had an extraordinary quality; young an manly; shaken with grief and agitation; yet proud and confident of his girl; it won me completely. I said I would drive right down.”

“Murder?” said Mr. Lipscomb, startled, “and so close to, us? Who’s been murdered?”

“Cornelius Suydam.”

“Good God!” cried our host, springing up. “Why, he’s the great man of the neighborhood. His house, Fernhurst, is one of the show places! Who is said to have killed him?”

“The girl’s name is Laila Darnall.”

Both Mr. and Mrs. Lipscomb stared at my employer in a stupefied fashion. The former was the first to find his voice.

“Merciful Heaven!” he gasped. “She’s his ward! Said to be richer than he is. An exquisite young creature; a sort of golden princess; we see her being whisked about in automobiles from one great country house to another. Oh, this will create a terrible sensation! Who called you up?”

“He called himself Alvan Wayger.”

“I never heard of him.”

“A sort of princess!” Mrs. Lipscomb echoed, aghast. “With everything in the world a girl could wish for! Why on earth should she want to kill her guardian?”

“I don’t know,” said Mme. Storey. We must go and find out. Will you lend me a car and a chauffeur?”

“Certainly. I’ll go with you for a bit of extra protection. I suppose you’ll be out the rest of the night. It’s near midnight now.”

The distance was about twenty miles and we made it in better than thirty minutes.

Fernhurst proved to be an immense country house built of stone in the elaborate style of twenty-five years ago, and standing in its own private park. The house was all lighted but we found it perfectly deserted except for a solitary constable on guard, and the young man who had telephoned to Mme. Storey.

He was a striking looking fellow with a shock of shining black hair, and fiery dark eyes. Somewhat rough in dress and abrupt in manner, but with a glance full of resolution and capacity. It was that kind of terribly direct glance which is disconcerting to ordinary persons, but it is always a sure passport to Mme. Storey’s favor.

In spite of his grinding anxiety, his whole face softened at the sight of my employer’s beauty. It was a fine tribute.

“I never thought you would be like this,” he murmured.

They wasted no time in exchanging amenities.

The young man explained that everybody in the house had just gone down to the magistrate’s in the village, where a preliminary hearing was about to be held.

“We mustn’t miss anything that takes place at that hearing,” Mme. Storey said crisply. “Drive on down, Bella, and take notes of the proceedings. I will follow as soon as I have looked over the ground here.”

I was directed to a large old-fashioned double house standing at the head of one of the village streets. This was the residence of Judge Waynham, the magistrate.

Already there were half a dozen cars standing in the road, and a knot of people whispering at the gate. A strange sight at midnight in the quiet village! Mr. Lipscomb, who did not wish to intrude himself in any way, waited in the car. Inside, there were people all over the house. No one questioned my presence.

The magistrate had not yet come downstairs and everybody was standing about with frozen, horrified faces. A maidservant was threading her way back and forth among them. The judge’s office was in the back parlor on the left hand side, and everybody tried to push in there, a quaint room which suggested the era of 1885.

I saw the accused girl sitting on a little sofa with her face hidden on the shoulder of a youngish woman in black. Picture a slender, silken girl wearing a flower-like evening dress of printed chiffon and a white fur cloak which had slipped back. I could not see her face, but the short fair curls that showed against her slender neck were somehow most piteous. She was making no sound, but her delicate girlish shoulders were shaken with sobs.

It was too dreadful to think of anything so fresh and young and fair in connection with murder. As more and more people crowded in, they opened the folding doors into the front parlor.

The distracted maidservant was bringing in chairs. I maneuvered myself alongside a comfortable village matron who looked promising as a source of information. She whispered to me that the lady in black was Mr. Suydam’s housekeeper, Miss Beckington.

A good-looking woman of thirty-five I should have said, who appeared younger; very modish, very efficient, one guessed, though at present the tears were rolling down her checks as she held the girl close.

Miss Beckington was something more than a mere housekeeper, my informant added, since she was a person of good family herself, and perfectly capable of acting as hostess to Mr. Suydam’s guests.

She was wearing a plain black morning dress, a close-fitting hat and a raccoon coat. Near these two sat a portly, nervous-looking elderly gentleman, fingering his watch chain. This I learned was Judge Gray, the girl’s lawyer.

The magistrate entered the room. He had forgotten to brush his hair and it stood straight up all over his head in a very odd fashion. A rosy, kindly old gentleman, he was so nervous and distressed he scarcely knew what he was saying.

“Who are all these people?” he demanded. “After all, this is my private house!”

Nobody answered him, and he was obliged to accept the crowd. He had the constable shepherd everybody but the principals into the front room.

I got myself a chair in the second row where I could use my notebook without being conspicuous.

Judge Waynham sat at his desk facing the rest of us, and a scared village stenographer took a place beside him with her notebook.

“Laveel,” said the magistrate sharply, “you made the arrest, I assume. It is your place to lay a charge.”

This was the chief constable, a tall, lanky man with a good humored, heavily-seamed face. Like everybody else connected with the case he seemed completely overcome. He stood beside the magistrate’s desk hanging his head as if he were the guilty one, and mumbled in a scarcely audible voice:

“I charge Miss Laila Darnall with the murder of her guardian, Cornelius Suydam.”

One could feel a shiver go through the room. Suddenly the girl sprang to her feet, showing us all a white and agonized face, the face of a terrified and uncomprehending child.

Her slender frame was racked with sobs, but her eyes were dry.

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