The Garden Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  As he came to the vault door on the right, he halted abruptly. He scrutinized the heavy kalamein door for a moment or two. At first glance it seemed to be closed tightly, but as I looked at it more closely, I noticed that it was open a fraction of an inch, as if the spring catch, which locked it automatically, had failed to snap when the door had last been shut. Vance pushed on the door gently with the tips of his fingers, and it swung inward slowly and ponderously.

  “Deuced queer,” he commented. “A vault for preserving valuable documents—and the door unlocked. I wonder…”

  The light from the hall shone into the dark recess of the vault, and as Vance pushed the door further inward a white cord hanging from a ceiling light became visible. To the end of this cord was attached a miniature brass pestle which acted as a weight. Vance stepped immediately inside and jerked the cord, and the vault was flooded with light.

  “Vault” hardly describes this small storeroom, except that the walls were unusually thick, and it had obviously been constructed to serve as a burglar-proof repository. The room was about five by seven feet, and the ceiling was as high as that of the hallway. The walls were lined with deep shelves from floor to ceiling, and these were piled with all manner of papers, documents, pamphlets, filing cases, and racks of test tubes and vials labeled with mysterious symbols. Three of the shelves were devoted to a series of sturdy steel cash and security boxes. The floor was overlaid with small squares of black and white ceramic tile.

  Although there was ample room for us both inside the vault, I remained in the hallway, watching Vance as he looked about him.

  “Egoism, Van,” he remarked, without turning toward me. “There probably isn’t a thing here that any thief would deign to steal. Formulæ, I imagine—the results of experimental researches—and such abstruse items, of no value or interest to anyone but the professor himself. Yet he builds a special storeroom to keep them locked away from the world…”

  Vance leaned over and picked up a batch of scattered typewritten papers which had evidently been brushed down from one of the shelves directly opposite the door. He glanced at them for a moment and carefully replaced them in the empty space on the shelf.

  “Rather interestin’, this disarray,” he observed. “The professor was obviously not the last person in here, or he would certainly not have left his papers on the floor…” He wheeled about. “My word!” he exclaimed in a low tone. “These fallen papers and that unlatched door…it could be, don’t y’ know.” There was a suppressed excitement in his manner. “I say, Van, don’t come in here: and, above all, don’t touch this doorknob.”

  He took out his monocle and adjusted it carefully. Then he knelt down on the tiled floor and began a close inspection of the small squares, as if he were counting them. His action reminded me of the way he had inspected the tiling on the roof near the chair in which we had found young Swift. It occurred to me that he was seeking here what he had failed to find in the garden. His next words confirmed my surmise.

  “It should be here,” he murmured, as if to himself. “It would explain many things—it would form the first vague outline of a workable pattern…”

  After searching about for a minute or two, he stopped abruptly and leaned forward eagerly. Then he took a small piece of paper from his pocket and adroitly flicked something onto it from the floor. Folding the paper carefully, he tucked it away in his waistcoat pocket. Although I was only a few feet from him and was looking directly at him, I could not see what it was that he had found.

  “I think that will be all for the moment,” he said, rising and pulling the cord to extinguish the light. Coming out into the hallway, he closed the vault door by carefully grasping the shank of the knob. Then he moved swiftly down the passageway, stepped through the door to the garden, and went directly to the dead man. Though his back was turned to me as he bent over the figure, I could see that he took the folded paper from his waistcoat pocket and opened it. He glanced repeatedly from the paper in his hand to the limp figure in the chair. At length he nodded his head emphatically, and rejoined me in the hallway. We descended the stairs to the apartment below.

  Just as we reached the lower hall, the front door opened and Cecil Kroon entered. He seemed surprised to find us in the hall, and asked somewhat vaguely, as he threw his hat on a bench:

  “Anything the matter?”

  Vance studied him sharply and made no answer; and Kroon went on:

  “I suppose the big race is over, damn it! Who won it—Equanimity?”

  Vance shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the other.

  “Azure Star won the race. I believe Equanimity came in fifth or sixth.”

  “And did Woody go in on him up to the hilt, as he threatened?”

  Vance nodded. “I’m afraid he did.”

  “Good Gad!” Kroon caught his breath. “That’s a blow for the chap. How’s he taking it?” He looked away from Vance as if he would rather not hear the answer.

  “He’s not taking it,” Vance returned quietly. “He’s dead.”

  “No!” Kroon sucked in his breath with a whistling sound, and his eyes slowly contracted. When he had apparently recovered from the shock he spoke in a hushed voice: “So he shot himself, did he?”

  Vance’s eyebrows went up slightly.

  “That’s the general impression,” he returned blandly. “You’re not psychic—are you? I didn’t mention how Swift died, but the fact is he did die by a revolver shot. Superficially, I admit, it looks like suicide.” Vance smiled coldly. “Your reaction is most interestin’. Why, for instance, did you assume that he shot himself, instead of—let us say—jumping off the roof?”

  Kroon set his mouth in a straight line, and a look of anger came into his narrowed eyes. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, and finally stammered:

  “I don’t know—exactly…except that—most people shoot themselves nowadays.”

  “Oh, quite.” Vance’s lips were still set in a stern smile. “Not an uncommon way of assisting oneself out of this troublous world. But, really y’ know, I didn’t mention suicide at all. Why do you take it for granted that his death was self-inflicted?”

  Kroon became aggressive. “He was healthy enough when I left here. No one’s going to blow a man’s brains out in public like this.”

  “Blow his brains out?” Vance repeated. “How do you know he wasn’t shot through the heart?”

  Kroon was now obviously flustered.

  “I—I merely assumed—”

  Vance interrupted the man’s embarrassment.

  “However,” he said, without relaxing his calculating scrutiny, “your academic conclusions regarding a more or less public murder are not without some logic. But the fact remains, someone did actually shoot Swift through the head and practically in public. Things like that do happen, don’t y’ know. Logic has very little bearing on life and death—and horse-racing. Logic is the most perfect artificial means of arriving at a false conclusion.” He held a light to Kroon’s cigarette. “However, I could bear to know just where you’ve been and just when you returned to the apartment house here.”

  Kroon’s gaze wandered, and he took two deep puffs on his cigarette before he answered.

  “I believe I remarked before I went out,” he said, with an attempt at serenity, “that I was going to a relative’s to sign some silly legal documents—”

  “And may I have the name and address of your relative—an aunt, I believe you said?” Vance requested pleasantly. “I’m in charge of the situation here until the officials arrive.”

  Kroon took the cigarette from his mouth with a forced air of nonchalance and drew himself up haughtily.

  “I cannot see,” he replied stiffly, “that that information concerns anyone but myself.”

  “Neither can I,” admitted Vance cheerfully. “I was merely hopin’ for frankness. But I can assure you, in view of what has happened here this afternoon, that the police will want to know exactly when you returned from your mysterious sign
ing of documents.”

  Kroon smirked. “You surely don’t think that I’ve been lingering outside in the hall, do you? I arrived a few minutes ago and came directly up here.”

  “Thanks awfully,” Vance murmured. “And now I must ask you to join the others in the drawing room, and to wait there until the police arrive. I trust you have no objections.”

  “None whatever, I assure you,” Kroon returned with a display of cynical amusement. “The regular police will be a relief, after this amateur hocus-pocus.” He swaggered up the hall toward the archway, with his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets.

  When Kroon had disappeared into the drawing room, Vance went immediately to the front door, opened it quietly and, walking down the narrow public corridor, pressed the elevator button. A few moments later the sliding door opened and a dark, thin, intelligent-looking boy of perhaps twenty-two, in a light-blue uniform, looked out enquiringly.

  “Going down?” he said respectfully.

  “I’m not going down,” Vance replied. “I merely wanted to ask you a question or two. I’m more or less connected with the District Attorney’s office.”

  “I know you, Mr. Vance.” The boy nodded alertly.

  “A little matter has come up this afternoon,” Vance said, “and I think you may be able to help me…”

  “I’ll tell you anything I know,” agreed the boy.

  “Excellent! Do you know a Mr. Kroon who visits the Garden apartment?—The gentleman is blond and has a waxed mustache.”

  “Sure, I know him,” the boy returned promptly. “He comes up here nearly every afternoon. I brought him up today.”

  “About what time was that?”

  “Two or three o’clock, I guess.” The boy frowned. “Isn’t he in there?”

  Vance answered the question by asking another.

  “Have you been on the car all afternoon?”

  “Sure I have—since noon. I don’t get relieved till seven o’clock.”

  “And you haven’t seen Mr. Kroon since you brought him up here early this afternoon?”

  The boy shook his head. “No, sir; I haven’t.”

  “I was under the impression,” said Vance, “that Mr. Kroon went out about an hour ago and just returned.”

  Again the boy shook his head, and gave Vance a puzzled look.

  “No. I only brought him up once today; and that was at least two hours ago. I haven’t seen him since, going up or down.”

  The annunciator buzzed, and Vance quickly handed the boy a folded bill.

  “Many thanks,” he said. “That’s all I wanted to know.” The boy pocketed the money and released the door as we turned back to the apartment.

  When we reentered the front hall, the nurse was standing in the doorway of the bedroom at the right of the entrance. There was a worried, inquisitive look in her eyes.

  Vance closed the door softly and was about to start up the hall, but he hesitated and turned toward the girl.

  “You look troubled, Miss Beeton,” he said kindly. “But, after all, you should be accustomed to death.”

  “I am accustomed to it,” she answered in a low voice. “But this is so different. It came so suddenly—without any warning… Although,” she added, “Mr. Swift always impressed me as more or less the suicidal type.”

  Vance looked at the nurse appraisingly. “Your impression may have been correct,” he said. “But it happens that Swift did not commit suicide.”

  The girl’s eyes opened wide: she caught her breath and leaned against the casing of the door. Her face paled perceptibly.

  “You mean someone shot him” Her words were barely audible. “But who—who—?”

  “We don’t know.” Vance’s voice was matter-of-fact. “But we must find that out… Would you like to help me, Miss Beeton?”

  She drew herself up; her features relaxed; and she was once more the unperturbed and efficient nurse.

  “I’d be very glad to.” There was more than a suggestion of eagerness in her words.

  “Then I would like you to stand guard, as it were,” he said, with a faint friendly smile. “I want to talk to Mr. Garden, and I don’t want anyone to go upstairs. Would you mind taking your post in this chair and notifying me immediately if anyone should attempt to go up?”

  “That’s so little to ask,” the girl replied, as she seated herself in a chair at the foot of the stairs.

  Vance thanked her and proceeded to the den. Inside Garden and Zalia Graem were sitting close together on a tapestry davenport and talking in low, confidential tones. An indistinct murmur of voices from beyond the archway indicated that the other members of the group were in the drawing room.

  Garden and Miss Graem drew apart quickly as we stepped into the den. Vance ignored their apparent embarrassment and addressed Garden as if he were unaware that he had interrupted a tête-à-tête.

  “I’ve called the District Attorney, and he has notified the police. They should be here any minute now. In the meantime, I’d like to see you alone.” He turned his head to Miss Graem and added: “I hope you won’t mind.”

  The girl stood up and arched her eyebrows.

  “Pray, don’t consider me,” she replied. “You may be as mysterious as you wish.”

  Garden rebuked her peevishly.

  “Never mind the hauteur, Zalia.” Then he turned to Vance. “Why didn’t you ring the buzzer for me? I would have come up. I purposely stayed here in the den because I thought you might be wanting me.”

  “I did ring, don’t y’ know,” Vance told him. “Twice, in fact. But as you didn’t come up, I came down.”

  “There was no signal here,” Garden assured him. “And I’ve been right here ever since I came downstairs.”

  “I can vouch for that,” put in Miss Graem.

  Vance’s eyes rested on her for a moment, and there was the trace of a sardonic smile at the corners of his mouth.

  “I’m dashed grateful for the corroboration,” he murmured.

  “Are you sure you pressed the button?” Garden asked Vance. “It’s damned funny. That system hasn’t failed in six years. Wait a minute…”

  Going to the door he called loudly for Sneed, and the butler came into the room almost immediately.

  “Go upstairs to the study, Sneed,” Garden ordered, “and push the buzzer button.”

  “The buzzer is out of order, sir,” the butler told him imperturbably. “I’ve already notified the telephone company and asked them to send a man to fix it.”

  “When did you know about it?” Garden demanded angrily.

  The nurse, who had heard the conversation, left her chair and came to the doorway.

  “I discovered this afternoon that the buzzer wasn’t working,” she explained; “so I told Sneed about it and suggested that he notify the telephone company.”

  “Oh, I see. Thank you, Miss Beeton.” Garden turned back to Vance. “Shall we go upstairs now?”

  Miss Graem, who had been looking on with a cynical and somewhat amused expression, started from the room.

  “Why go upstairs?” she asked. “I’ll fade into the drawing room, and you can talk to your heart’s content right here.”

  Vance studied the girl for a few seconds, and then bowed slightly.

  “Thank you,” he said. “That will be much better.” He stood aside as she strolled leisurely into the hall and closed the door after her.

  Vance dropped his cigarette into a small ashtray on the tabouret before the davenport and, moving swiftly to the door, reopened it. From where I stood in the den, I could see that Miss Graem, instead of going toward the drawing room, was walking rapidly in the opposite direction.

  “Just a moment, Miss Graem!” Vance’s voice was peremptory. “Please wait in the drawing room. No one is to go upstairs just now.”

  She swung about. “And why not?” Her face was flushed with anger, and her jaw protruded with defiance. “I have a right to go up,” she proclaimed spiritedly.

  Vance said nothing but shook
his head in negation, his eyes holding hers.

  She returned his look, but could not resist the power of his scrutiny. Slowly she came back toward him. A sudden change seemed to have come over her. Her eyes dimmed, and tears sprang into them.

  “But you don’t understand,” she protested, in a broken voice. “I’m to blame for this tragedy—it wasn’t the race. If it hadn’t been for me Woody would be alive now. I—I feel terrible about it. And I wanted to go upstairs—to see him.”

  Vance put his hand on the girl’s shoulder.

  “Really,” he said softly, “there’s nothing to indicate that you’re to blame.”

  Zalia Graem looked up at Vance searchingly.

  “Then what Floyd has been trying to tell me is true—that Woody didn’t shoot himself?”

  “Quite true,” said Vance.

  The girl drew a deep breath, and her lips trembled. She took a quick impulsive step toward Vance, and resting her head against his arm, burst into tears.

  Vance placed his hands on her arms and held her away from him.

  “I say, stop this nonsense,” he admonished her sternly. “And don’t try to be so deuced clever. Run along to the drawing room and have a highball. It’ll buck you up no end.”

  The girl’s face suddenly became cynical, and she drew up her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug.

  “Bien, Monsieur Lecoq,” she retorted with a toss of the head. And brushing past him, she swaggered up the hall toward the drawing room.

  Notes

  * Sergeant Edward Heath of the Homicide Bureau, who had had charge of the various criminal investigations with which Vance had been associated.

  * This collection was later sold at auction, and many of the items are now in the various museums of the country.

  CHAPTER SIX

  An Interrupted Interview

  (Saturday, April 14; 4:50 p. m.)

  VANCE WATCHED HER disappear. Then he turned and met the half wistful, half indignant gaze of Miss Beeton. He smiled at her a bit grimly and started back into the den. At this moment Mrs. Garden came through the archway with a look of resentful determination, and strode aggressively down the hall.