The Garden Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Yes, of course. It would.” Vance nodded. “But tell me, wouldn’t you rather not have to work for your living?”

  She looked up.

  “Perhaps. But isn’t it natural for every woman to prefer luxury and security to drudgery and uncertainty?”

  “No doubt,” said Vance. “And speakin’ of nursing, just what do you think of Mrs. Garden’s condition?”

  Miss Beeton hesitated before she answered:

  “Really, I don’t know what to say. I can’t understand it. And I rather suspect that Doctor Siefert himself is puzzled by it. Mrs. Garden is obviously a sick woman. She shows many of the symptoms of that nervous, erratic temperament exhibited by people suffering from cancer. Though she’s much better some days than others, I know that she suffers a great deal. Doctor Siefert tells me she is really a neurological case; but I get the feeling, at times, that it goes much deeper—that an obscure physiological condition is producing the neurological symptoms she shows.”

  “That’s most interestin’. Doctor Siefert mentioned something of the kind to me only a few days ago.” Vance moved nearer to the girl. “Would you mind telling me something of your contacts with the members of the household?”

  “There’s very little to tell. Professor Garden practically ignores me—half the time I doubt if he even knows I am here. Mrs. Garden alternates between periods of irritable admonition and intimate confidence. Floyd Garden has always been pleasant and considerate. He has wanted me to be happy here, and has often apologized for his mother’s abominable treatment of me at times. I’ve rather liked him for his attitude.”

  “And what of Swift—did you see much of him?”

  The girl seemed reluctant to answer and looked away; but she finally turned back to Vance.

  “The truth is, Mr. Swift asked me several times to go to dinner and the theatre with him. He was never objectionable in his advances; but he did rather annoy me occasionally. I got the impression, though, that he was one of those unhappy men who feel their inferiority and seek to bolster themselves up with the affections of women. I think that he was really concerned with Miss Graem, and merely turned to me through pique.”

  Vance smoked for a few moments in silence. Then he said:

  “What of the big race today? Had there been much discussion about it?”

  “Oh, yes. For over a week I’ve heard little else here. A curious tension has been growing in the house. I heard Mr. Swift remark to Floyd Garden one evening that the Rivermont Handicap was his one remaining hope, and that he thought Equanimity would win. They immediately went into a furious argument regarding Equanimity’s chances.”

  “Was it generally known to the other members of the afternoon gatherings how Swift felt about this race and Equanimity?”

  “Yes, the matter was freely discussed for days. You see,” the girl added in explanation, “it’s impossible for me not to overhear some of these afternoon discussions; and Mrs. Garden herself often takes part in them and then discusses them with me later.”

  “By the by,” asked Vance, “how did you come to bet on Azure Star?”

  “Frankly,” the girl confessed shyly, “I’ve been mildly interested in the horse-betting parties here, though I’ve never had any desire to make a wager myself. But I overheard you tell Mr. Garden that you had picked Azure Star, and the name was so appealing that I asked Mr. Garden to place that bet for me. It was the first time I ever bet on a horse.”

  “And Azure Star came in.” Vance sighed. “Too bad. Actually you bet against Equanimity, you know—he was the favorite. A big gamble. Most unfortunate that you won. Beginner’s luck, d’ ye see, is always fatal.”

  The girl’s face became suddenly sombre, and she looked steadily at Vance for several moments before she spoke again.

  “Do you really think it will prove fatal?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes. Inevitable. You won’t be able to resist making other wagers. One doesn’t stop with the first bet if one wins. And, invariably, one loses in the end.”

  Again the girl gave Vance a long and troubled look; then her gaze drifted to the darkening sky overhead.

  “But Azure Star is a beautiful name, isn’t it?” She pointed upward. “There’s one now.”

  We all looked up. High above we saw a single bright star shining with blue luminosity in the cloudless sky. After a moment Vance moved toward the parapet and looked out over the waters of the river to the purpling hills and the still glowing sunset colors in the west. The sharp forms of the great gaunt buildings of the city to the south cut the empyrean like the unreal silhouettes on a theatrical drop.

  “No city in the world,” Vance said, “is as beautiful as New York seen from a vantage point like this in the early twilight.” (I wondered at his sudden change of mood.)

  He stepped up on the parapet and looked down into the great abyss of deep shadows and flickering lights far below. A curious chill of fear ran over me—the sort of fear I have always felt when I have seen acrobatic performers perilously balanced high above a circus arena. I knew Vance had no fear of heights and that he possessed an abnormal sense of equilibrium. But I nevertheless drew in an involuntary breath; my feet and lower limbs began to tingle; and for a moment I actually felt faint.

  Miss Beeton was standing close to Markham, and she, too, must have experienced something of the sensation I felt, for I saw her face go suddenly pale. Her eyes were fixed on Vance with a look of apprehensive horror, and she caught at Markham’s arm as if for support.

  “Vance!” It was Markham’s stern voice that broke the silence. “Come down from there!”

  Vance jumped down and turned to us.

  “Frightfully sorry,” he said. “Height does affect most people. I didn’t realize.” He looked at the girl. “Will you forgive me?…”

  As he spoke Floyd Garden stepped out on the roof through the passageway door.

  “Sorry, Vance,” he apologized, “but Doc Siefert wants Miss Beeton downstairs—if she feels equal to it. The mater is putting on one of her acts.”

  The nurse hurried away immediately, and Garden strolled up to Vance. He was again fussing with his pipe.

  “A beastly mess,” he mumbled. “And you’ve certainly put the fear of God and destruction into the hearts of the pious boys and girls here this afternoon. They all got the jitters after you talked with them.” He looked up. “The fact is, Vance, if you should want to see Kroon or Zalia Graem or Madge Weatherby for any reason this evening, they’ll be here. They’ve all asked to come. Must return to the scene of the crime, or something of that kind. Need mutual support. And, to tell you the truth, I’m damned glad they’re coming. At least we can talk the thing over and drink highballs; and that’s better than fussing and worrying about it all alone.”

  “Perfectly natural. Quite.” Vance nodded. “I understand their feelings—and yours—perfectly… Beastly mess, as you say… And now suppose we go down.”

  Doctor Siefert met us at the foot of the stairs.

  “I was just coming up for you, Mr. Vance. Mrs. Garden insists on seeing you gentlemen.” Then he added in a low tone: “She’s in a tantrum. A bit hysterical. Don’t take anything she may say too seriously.”

  We entered the bedroom. Mrs. Garden, in a salmon-pink silk dressing gown, was in bed, bolstered up by a collection of pillows. Her face was drawn and, in the slanting rays of the nightlight, seemed flabby and unhealthy. Her eyes glared demoniacally as she looked at us, and her fingers clutched nervously at the quilt. Miss Beeton stood at the far side of the bed, looking down at her patient with calm concern; and Professor Garden leaned heavily against the windowsill opposite, his face a mask of troubled solicitude.

  “I have something to say, and I want you all to hear it.” Mrs. Garden’s voice was shrill and strident. “My nephew has been killed today—and I know who did it!” She glared venomously at Floyd Garden who stood near the foot of the bed, his pipe hanging limply from the corner of his mouth. “You did it!” She pointed an accusing finger at her son.
“You’ve always hated Woody. You’ve been jealous of him. No one else had any reason to do this despicable thing. I suppose I should lie for you and shield you. But to what end? So you could kill somebody else? Perhaps—perhaps even me, or your father. No! The time has come for the truth. You killed Woody, and I know you killed him. And I know why you did it…”

  Floyd Garden stood through this tirade without moving and without perceptible emotion. He kept his eyes on his mother with cynical indifference. When she paused he took the pipe from his mouth and with a sad smile said:

  “And why did I do it, mater?”

  “Because you were jealous of him. Because you knew that I had divided my estate equally between you two—and you want it all for yourself. You always resented the fact that I loved Woody as well as you. And now you think that by having got Woody out of the way, you’ll get everything when I die. But you’re mistaken. You’ll get nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing! Tomorrow I’m going to change my will.” Her eyes were full of frantic gloating: she was like a woman who has suddenly gone out of her mind. “I’m going to change my will, do you understand? Woody’s share will go to your father, with the stipulation that you will never get or inherit a dollar of it. And your share will go to charity.” She laughed hysterically and beat the bed with her clenched fists.

  Doctor Siefert had been watching the woman closely. He now moved a little nearer the bed.

  “An ice-pack, immediately,” he said to the nurse; and she went quickly from the room. Then he busied himself with his medicine case and deftly prepared a hypodermic injection.

  “I won’t let you give me that,” the woman on the bed screamed. “There’s nothing the matter with me. I’m tired of taking your drugs.”

  “Yes, I know. But you’ll take this, Mrs. Garden.” Doctor Siefert spoke with calm assurance.

  The woman relaxed under his patient dictatorial scrutiny and permitted him to give her the injection. She lay back on the pillows, staring blankly at her son. The nurse returned to the room and arranged the ice-bag for her patient.

  Doctor Siefert then quickly made out a prescription and turned to Miss Beeton.

  “Have this filled at once. A teaspoonful every two hours until Mrs. Garden falls asleep.”

  Floyd Garden stepped forward and took the prescription.

  “I’ll phone the pharmacy,” he said. “It’ll take them only a few minutes to send it over.” And he went out of the room.

  After a few final instructions to Miss Beeton, the doctor led the way to the drawing room and the rest of us followed, leaving the nurse rearranging Mrs. Garden’s pillows. Professor Garden, who during the painful scene had stood with his back to us, gazing out of the window into the night, still remained there, looking like a hunched gargoyle framed by the open casement.

  As we passed the den door, we could hear Floyd Garden telephoning.

  “I think Mrs. Garden will quiet down now,” Doctor Siefert remarked to Vance when we reached the drawing room. “As I told you, you mustn’t take her remarks seriously when she’s in this condition. She will probably have forgotten about it by tomorrow.”

  “Her bitterness, however, did not seem entirely devoid of rationality,” Vance returned.

  Siefert frowned but made no comment on Vance’s statement. Instead he said in his quiet, well-modulated voice, as he sat down leisurely in the nearest chair: “This whole affair is very shocking. Floyd Garden gave me but few details when I arrived. Would you care to enlighten me further?”

  Vance readily complied. He briefly went over the entire case, beginning with the anonymous telephone message he had received the night before. (Not by the slightest sign did the doctor indicate any previous knowledge of that telephone call. He sat looking at Vance with serene attentiveness, like a specialist listening to the case history of a patient.) Vance withheld no important detail from him. He explained about the races and the wagers, Swift’s withdrawal to the roof, the actions of the other members of the party, the shot, the finding of Swift’s body, the discoveries in the vault, the matter of the disconnected buzzer wires, the substance of his various interviews with the members of the Garden family and their guests, and, finally, the finding of the second revolver in the nurse’s coat.

  “And the rest,” Vance concluded, “you yourself have witnessed.”

  Siefert nodded very slowly two or three times, as if to infer that he had received a clear and satisfactory picture of the events of the afternoon.

  “A very serious situation,” he commented gravely, as if making a diagnosis. “Some of the things you have told me seem highly significant. A shrewdly conceived murder—and a vicious one. Especially the hiding of the revolver in Miss Beeton’s coat and the attempt on her life with the bromine gas in the vault. I don’t understand that phase of the situation.”

  Vance looked up quickly.

  “Do you understand any other phase of the situation?”

  “No, no. I did not mean to imply that,” Siefert hastened to answer. “I was merely thinking that while Swift’s death could conceivably be explained on rational grounds, I fail to see any possible reason for this dastardly attempt to involve Miss Beeton and then to end her life.”

  “But I seriously doubt,” said Vance, “that the revolver was put in Miss Beeton’s coat pocket with any intention of incriminating her. I imagine it was to have been taken out of the house at the first opportunity. But I agree with you that the bromine episode is highly mystifyin’.” Vance, without appearing to do so, was watching the doctor closely. “When you asked to see me on your arrival here this afternoon,” he went on, “I was hoping that you might have some suggestion which, coming from one who is familiar with the domestic situation here, might put us on the track to a solution.”

  Siefert solemnly shook his head several times.

  “No, no. I am sorry, but I am completely at a loss myself. When I asked to speak to you and Mr. Markham it was because I was naturally deeply interested in the situation here and anxious to hear what you might have to say about it.” He paused, shifted slightly in his chair, and then asked: “Have you formed any opinion from what you have been able to learn?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.” Vance’s gaze drifted from the doctor to the beautiful T’ang horse which stood on a nearby cabinet. “Frankly, however, I detest my opinion. I’d hate to be right about it. A sinister, unnatural conclusion is forcing itself upon me. It’s sheer horror.” He spoke with unwonted intensity.

  Siefert was silent, and Vance turned to him again.

  “I say, doctor, are you particularly worried about Mrs. Garden’s condition?”

  A cloud overspread Siefert’s countenance, and he did not answer at once.

  “It’s a queer case,” he said at length, with an obvious attempt at evasion. “As I recently told you, it has me deeply puzzled. I’m bringing Kattelbaum* up tomorrow.”

  “Yes. As you say. Kattelbaum.” Vance looked at the doctor dreamily. “My anonymous telephone message last night mentioned radioactive sodium. But equanimity is essential. Yes. By all means. Not a nice case, doctor—not at all a nice case… And now I think we’ll be toddlin’.” Vance rose and bowed with formal brusqueness. Siefert also got up.

  “If there is anything whatever that I can do for you…” he began.

  “We may call on you later,” Vance returned, and walked toward the archway.

  Siefert did not follow us, but turned and moved slowly toward one of the front windows, where he stood looking out, with his hands clasped behind him. We reentered the hallway and found Sneed waiting to help us with our coats.

  We had just reached the door leading out of the apartment when the strident tones of Mrs. Garden’s voice assailed us again. Floyd Garden was standing just inside the bedroom door, looking over at his mother.

  “Your solicitude won’t do you any good, Floyd,” Mrs. Garden cried. “Being kind to me now, are you? Telephoning for the prescription—all attention and loving kindness. But don’t think you’re pulling the wool ov
er my eyes. It won’t make any difference. Tomorrow I change my will! Tomorrow…”

  We continued on our way out, and heard no more.

  But Mrs. Garden did not change her will. The following morning she was found dead in bed.

  Note

  * Hugo Kattelbaum, though a comparatively young man, was one of the country’s leading authorities on cancer, and his researches on the effect of radium on the human viscera had, for the past year, been receiving considerable attention in the leading medical journals.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Radioactive Sodium

  (Sunday, April 15; 9 a. m.)

  SHORTLY AFTER NINE o’clock the next morning there was a telephone call from Doctor Siefert. Vance was still abed when the telephone rang, and I answered it. (I had been up for several hours: the events of the preceding day had stirred me deeply, and I had been unable to sleep.) The doctor’s voice was urgent and troubled when he asked that I summon Vance immediately. I had a premonition of further disaster as I roused Vance. He seemed loath to get up and complained cynically about people who rise early in the morning. But he finally slipped into his Chinese robe and sandals and, lighting a Régie, went protestingly into the anteroom.

  It was nearly ten minutes before he came out again. His resentment had given way, and as he stepped across to the table and rang for Currie, there was a look of keen interest in his eyes.

  “Breakfast at once,” he ordered when his old butler appeared. “And put out a sombre suit and my black Homburg. And, by the by, Currie, a little extra coffee. Mr. Markham will be here soon and may want a cup.”

  Currie went out, and Vance turned back to his bedroom. At the door he stopped and turned to me with a curious look.

  “Mrs. Garden was found dead in her bed this morning,” he drawled. “Poison of some kind. I’ve phoned Markham, and we’ll be going to the Garden apartment as soon as he comes. A bad business, Van—very bad. There’s too much betting going on in that house.” And he went on into the bedroom.