He turned to Zalia Graem.
“Now do you see why you felt so definitely that the shot did not sound as if it came from the garden? It was because, being in the den, you were the person nearest to the shot when it was fired and could more or less accurately gauge the direction from which it came. I’m sorry I could not explain that fact to you when you mentioned it, but Miss Beeton was in the room, and it was not then the time to reveal my knowledge to her.”
“Well, anyway, you were horrid about it,” the girl complained. “You acted as if you believed the reason I heard the shot so distinctly was that I had fired it.”
“Couldn’t you read between the lines of my remarks? I was hoping you would.”
She shook her head. “No, I was too worried at the time; but I’ll confess that when you asked Miss Beeton to go to the roof with you, the truth dawned on me.”
(The moment she made this remark I recalled that she was the only person in the room who was entirely at ease when Vance had gone upstairs.)
There was another brief silence in the room, which was broken by Floyd Garden.
“There’s one point that bothers me, Vance,” he said. “If Miss Beeton counted on our accepting the suicide theory, what if Equanimity had won the race?”
“That would have upset her entire calculations,” answered Vance. “But she was a great gambler. And, remember, she was playing for the highest stakes. She was practically betting her life. I’ll warrant it was the biggest wager ever made on Equanimity.”
“Good God!” Floyd Garden murmured. “And I thought Woody’s bet was a big one?”
“But, Mr. Vance,” put in Doctor Siefert, frowning, “your theory of the case does not account for the attempt made on her own life.”
Vance smiled faintly.
“There was no attempt on her life, doctor. When Miss Beeton left the study, a minute or so after Miss Graem, to take my message to you, she went instead into the vault, shut the door, making sure this time that the lock snapped, and gave herself a superficial blow on the back of the head. She had reason to believe, of course, that it would be but a short time before we looked for her; and she waited till she heard the key in the lock before she broke the vial of bromine. It is possible that when she went out of the study she had begun to fear that I might have some idea of the truth, and she enacted this little melodrama to throw me off the track. Her object undoubtedly was to throw suspicion on Miss Graem.”
Vance looked at the girl sympathetically.
“I think when you were called from the drawing room to the phone, Miss Graem—at just the time Miss Beeton was on her way upstairs to shoot Swift—she decided to use you, should it be necess’ry to save herself. Undoubtedly, she knew of your feud with Swift, and capitalized on it; and she also undoubtedly realized that you would be a suspect in the eyes of the others who were here yesterday. That is why, my dear, I sought to lead her on by seeming to regard you as the culprit. And it had its effect… I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for having made you suffer.”
The girl did not speak—she seemed to be struggling with her emotions.
Siefert had leaned forward and was studying Vance closely.
“As a theory, that may be logical,” he said with skeptical gravity. “But, after all, it is only a theory.”
Vance shook his head slowly.
“Oh, no, doctor. It’s more than a theory. And you should be the last person to put that name on it. Miss Beeton herself—and in your presence—gave the whole thing away. Not only did she lie to us, but she contradicted herself when you and I were on the roof and she was recovering from the effects of the bromine gas—effects, incidentally, which she was able to exaggerate correctly as the result of her knowledge of medicine.”
“But I don’t recall—”
Vance checked him. “Surely, doctor, you remember the story she told us. According to her voluntary account of the episode, she was struck on the head and forced into the vault; and she fainted immediately as the result of the bromine gas; then the next thing she knew was that she was lying on the settee in the garden, and you and I were standing over her.”
Siefert inclined his head.
“That is quite correct,” he said, frowning at Vance.
“And I am sure you also remember, doctor, that she looked up at me and thanked me for having brought her out into the garden and saved her, and also asked me how I came to find her so soon.”
Siefert was still frowning intently at Vance.
“That also is correct,” he admitted. “But I still don’t understand wherein she gave herself away.”
“Doctor,” asked Vance, “if she had been unconscious, as she said, from the time she was forced into the vault to the time she spoke to us in the garden, how could she possibly have known who it was that had found her and rescued her from the vault? And how could she have known that I found her soon after she had entered the vault?… You see, doctor, she was never unconscious at all: she was taking no chances whatever of dying of bromine gas. As I have said, it was not until I had started to unlock the door that she broke the vial of bromine; and she was perfectly aware who entered the vault and carried her out to the garden. Those remarks of hers to me were a fatal error on her part.”
Siefert relaxed and leaned back in his chair with a faint wry smile.
“You are perfectly right, Mr. Vance. That point escaped me entirely.”
“But,” Vance continued, “even had Miss Beeton not made the mistake of lying to us so obviously, there was other proof that she alone was concerned in that episode. Mr. Hammle here conclusively bore out my opinion. When she told us her story of being struck on the head and forced into the vault, she did not know that Mr. Hammle had been in the garden observing everyone who came and went in the passageway. And she was alone in the corridor at the time of the supposed attack. Miss Graem, to be sure, had just passed her and gone downstairs; and the nurse counted on that fact to make her story sound plausible, hoping, of course, that it would produce the effect she was striving for—that is, to make it appear that Miss Graem had attacked her.”
Vance smoked in silence for a moment.
“As for the radioactive sodium, doctor, Miss Beeton had been administering it to Mrs. Garden, content with having her die slowly of its cumulative effects. But Mrs. Garden’s threat to erase her son’s name from her will necessitated immediate action, and the resourceful girl decided on an overdose of the barbital last night. She foresaw, of course, that this death could easily be construed as an accident or as another suicide. As it happened, however, things were even more propitious for her, for the events of last night merely cast further suspicion on Miss Graem.
“From the first I realized how difficult, if not impossible, it would be to prove the case against Miss Beeton; and during the entire investigation I was seeking some means of trapping her. With that end in view, I mounted the parapet last night in her presence, hoping that it might suggest to her shrewd and cruel mind a possible means of removing me from her path, if she became convinced that I had guessed too much. My plan to trap her was, after all, a simple one. I asked you all to come here this evening, not as suspects, but to fill the necess’ry rôles in my grim drama.”
Vance sighed deeply before continuing.
“I arranged with Sergeant Heath to equip the post at the far end of the garden with a strong steel wire such as is used in theatres for flying and levitation acts. This wire was to be just long enough to reach as far as the height of the balcony on this floor. And to it was attached the usual spring catch which fastens to the leather equipment worn by the performer. This equipment consists of a heavy cowhide vest resembling in shape and cut the old Ferris waist worn by young girls in post-Victorian days, and even later. This afternoon Sergeant Heath brought such a leather vest—or what is technically known in theatrical circles as a ‘flying corset’—to my apartment, and I put it on before I came here… You might be interested in seeing it. I took it off a little while ago, fo
r it’s frightfully uncomfortable…”
He rose and went through the door into the adjoining bedroom. A few moments later he returned with the leather “corset.” It was made of very heavy brown leather, with a soft velour finish, and was lined with canvas. The sides, instead of being seamed, were held together by strong leather thongs laced through brass eyelets. The closing down the middle was effected by a row of inch-wide leather straps and steel buckles by which the vest was tightened to conform to the contour of the person who wore it. There were adjustable shoulder straps of leather, and thigh straps strongly made and cushioned with thick rolls of rubber.
Vance held up this strange garment.
“Here it is,” he said. “Ordinarily, the buckles and straps are in front and the attachment for the spring catch is in back. But for my purpose this had to be reversed. I needed the rings in front because the wire had to be attached at this point when my back was turned to Miss Beeton.” He pointed to two heavy overlapping iron rings, about two inches in diameter, held in place by nuts and bolts in a strip of canvas, several layers in thickness, in the front of the corset.
Vance threw the garment on the desk.
“This waistcoat, or corset,” he said, “is worn under the actor’s costume; and in my case I put on a loose tweed suit today so that the slightly protruding rings in front would not be noticeable.
“When I took Miss Beeton upstairs with me, I led her out into the garden and confronted her with her guilt. While she was protesting, I mounted the parapet, standing there with my back to her, ostensibly looking out over the city, as I had done last evening. In the semi-darkness I snapped the wire to the rings on the front of my leather vest without her seeing me do so. She came very close to me as she talked, but for a minute or so I was afraid she would not take advantage of the situation. Then, in the middle of one of her sentences, she lurched toward me with both hands outstretched, and the impact sent me over the parapet. It was a simple matter to swing myself over the balcony railing. I had arranged for the drawing room door to be unlatched, and I merely disconnected the suspension wire, walked in, and appeared in the hallway. When Miss Beeton learned that I had witnesses to her act, as well as a photograph of it, she realized that the game was up.
“I admit, however, that I had not foreseen that she would resort to suicide. But perhaps it is just as well. She was one of those women who through some twist of nature—some deep-rooted wickedness—personify evil. It was probably this perverted tendency which drew her into the profession of nursing, where she could see, and even take part in, human suffering.”
Vance leaned back in his chair and smoked abstractedly. He seemed to be deeply affected, as were all of us. Little more was said—each of us, I think, was too much occupied with his own thoughts for any further discussion of the case. There were a few desultory questions, a few comments, and then a long silence.
Doctor Siefert was the first to take his departure. Shortly afterward the others rose restlessly.
I felt shaken from the sudden let-down of the tension through which I had been going, and walked into the drawing room for a drink of brandy. The only light in the room came through the archway from the chandelier in the hall and from the afterglow of the sky which faintly illumined the windows, but it was sufficient to enable me to make my way to the little cabinet bar in the corner. I poured myself a pony of brandy and, drinking it quickly, stood for a moment looking out of the window over the slaty waters of the Hudson.
I heard someone enter the room and cross toward the balcony, but I did not look round immediately. When I did turn back to the room I saw the dim form of Vance standing before the open door to the balcony, a solitary, meditative figure. I was about to speak to him when Zalia Graem came softly through the archway and approached him.
“Good-by, Philo Vance,” she said.
“I’m frightfully sorry,” Vance murmured, taking her extended hand. “I was hoping you would forgive me when you understood everything.”
“I do forgive you,” she said. “That’s what I came to tell you.”
Vance bowed his head and raised her fingers to his lips.
The girl then withdrew her hand slowly and, turning, went from the room.
Vance watched her till she had passed through the archway. Then he moved to the open door and stepped out on the balcony.
When Zalia Graem had gone, I went into the den where Markham sat talking with Professor Garden and his son. He looked up at me as I entered, and glanced at his watch.
“I think we’d better be going, Van,” he said. “Where’s Vance?”
I went reluctantly back into the drawing room to fetch him. He was still standing on the balcony, gazing out over the city with its gaunt spectral structures and its glittering lights.
To this day Vance has not lost his deep affection for Zalia Graem. He has rarely mentioned her name, but I have noted a subtle change in his nature, which I attribute to the influence of that sentiment. Within a fortnight after the Garden murder case, Vance went to Egypt for several months; and I have a feeling that this solitary trip was motivated by his interest in Miss Graem. One evening after his return from Cairo he remarked to me: “A man’s affections involve a great responsibility. The things a man wants most must often be sacrificed because of this exacting responsibility.” I think I understood what was in his mind. With the multiplicity of intellectual interests that occupied him, he doubted (and I think rightly so) his capacity to make any woman happy in the conventional sense.
As for Zalia Graem, she married Floyd Garden the following year, and they are now living on Long Island, only a few miles distant from Hammle’s estate. Miss Weatherby and Kroon are still seen together; and there have been rumors from time to time that she is about to sign a contract with a Hollywood motion-picture producer. Professor Garden is still living in his penthouse apartment, a lonely and somewhat pathetic figure, completely absorbed in his researches.
A year or so after the tragedies at the Garden apartment, Vance met Hannix, the book-maker, at Bowie. It was a casual meeting, and I doubt if Vance remembered it afterward. But Hannix remembered. One day, several months later, when Vance and I were sitting in the downstairs dining hall of the clubhouse at Empire, Hannix came over and drew up a chair.
“What’s happened to Floyd Garden, Mr. Vance?” he asked. “I haven’t heard from him for over a year. Given up the horses?”
“It’s possible, don’t y’ know,” Vance returned with a faint smile.
“But why?” demanded Hannix. “He was a good sport, and I miss him.”
“I dare say.” Vance nodded indifferently. “Perhaps he grew a bit weary of contributing to your support.”
“Now, now, Mr. Vance.” Hannix assumed an injured air and extended his hands appealingly. “That was a cruel remark. I never held out with Mr. Garden for the usual bookie maximum. Believe me, I paid him mutuel prices on any bet up to half a hundred… By the way, Mr. Vance,”—Hannix leaned forward confidentially—“the Butler Handicap is coming up in a few minutes, and the slates are all quoting Only One at eight. If you like the colt, I’ll give you ten on him. He’s got a swell chance to win.”
Vance looked at the man coldly and shook his head. “No, thanks, Hannix. I’m already on Discovery.”
Discovery won that race by a length and a half. Only One, incidentally, finished a well-beaten second.
The Garden Murder Case Page 22
