“But I can see—I can see,” the woman protested shrilly, turning on Vance and shaking her finger at him. “I can see many things that other people can’t see. And I tell you I saw the dragon return—”
“Return?” repeated Vance, studying the woman calmly. “Return from where?”
She gave a shrewd smile.
“I won’t tell you that—I won’t give away the dragon’s secret... But I will tell you this,” she went on: “he had taken the body away to hide it.”
“Mr. Montague’s body?”
“Of course. He never leaves the bodies of his victims in the pool.”
“Then there have been other victims?” Vance inquired.
“Many victims.” The woman spoke in a strained sepulchral voice. “And he always hides their bodies.”
“It might upset your theory a bit, Mrs. Stamm,” Vance pointed out to her, “if we should find Mr. Montague’s body in the pool.”
She chuckled in a way that sent a shiver through me.
“Find his body? Find his body in the pool? You can’t find it. It’s not there!”
Vance regarded her a moment in silence. Then he bowed.
“Thank you, Mrs. Stamm, for your information and help. I trust the episode has not disturbed you too much and that you will rest tonight.”
He turned and walked toward the door, and the rest of us followed him. In the hall Doctor Holliday stopped.
“I’m staying up here for a while,” he told Vance. “I think I can get her to sleep now... But, for Heaven’s sake, don’t take anything she said tonight seriously. She often has these little periods of hallucinosis. It’s really nothing to worry about.”
“I quite understand,” Vance returned, shaking hands with him.
Footnotes
* I made a note of these unusual words, and years later, when Vance and I were in California, to see the Munthe Collection of Chinese art, I brought up the subject with Doctor M. R. Harrington, the author of “Religion and Ceremonies of the Lenapes,” and now Curator of the Southwest Museum in Los Angeles. He explained that Amangemokdoming meant “Dragon-place”; Amangemokdom Wikit, “Dragon his-house”; and Amangemokdomipek, “Dragon-pond.” He also explained that the word amangam, though sometimes translated “big fish,” seems to have meant “water-monster” as well; and that it would yield the shorter compound Amangaming. This evidently was the word preferred by the Lenapes in Inwood.
* In the Walum Olum the word amangam is translated as “monster” and Brinton in his notes derives it from amangi, “great or terrifying,” and names, “fish with reference to some mythical water-monster.” In the Brinton and Anthony dictionary, however, amangamek, the plural form, is translated simply as “large fishes.” The Indians regarded such a creature, not as a mere animal, but as a manitto, or being endowed with supernatural as well as physical power.
CHAPTER SIX
A Contretemps (Sunday, August 12; 2.20 a.m.)
WE DESCENDED TO the main hallway, and Vance led the way back to the drawing-room.
“Well, are you through now?” Markham asked him irritably.
“Not quite.”
I had rarely seen Vance so serious or so reluctant to postpone an investigation. I knew that he had been deeply interested in Mrs. Stamm’s hysterical recital; but I could not understand, at the time, his reason for prolonging an interview that seemed to me both futile and tragic. As he stood before the fireplace his mind seemed far away, and there was a puzzled corrugation on his forehead. He watched the curling smoke from his cigarette for several moments. Suddenly, with a slight toss of the head, he brought himself back to his surroundings and turned to Leland who was leaning against the centre-table.
“What did Mrs. Stamm mean,” he asked, “when she referred to other victims whose bodies the dragon had hidden?”
Leland moved uneasily and looked down at his pipe.
“There was a modicum of truth in that remark,” he returned. “There have been two authentic deaths in the pool that I know of. But Mrs. Stamm was probably referring also to the wild stories which the old crones tell of mysterious disappearances in the pool in the old days.”
“Sounds something like the old-timers’ tales of Kehoe’s Hole in Newark*... What were the two authentic cases you speak of?”
“One happened about seven years ago, shortly after Stamm and I returned from our expedition to Cocos Island. Two suspicious characters were scouting the neighborhood—probably with a view to burglary—and one of them fell off the cliff on the far side of the pool, and was evidently drowned. Two schoolgirls from this vicinity saw him fall, and later the police picked up his companion who eventually, under questioning, verified the other’s disappearance.”
“Disappearance?”
Leland nodded grimly.
“His body was never found.”
There was the suggestion of a skeptical smile on Vance’s mouth as he asked: “How do you account for that?”
“There is only one sensible way of accounting for it,” answered Leland, with a slightly aggressive accent, as if endeavoring to convince himself with his own words. “The stream gets swollen at times, and there is quite a flow of water over the dam—sufficient to carry a floating body over, if it happened to be caught by the current at a certain angle. This fellow’s body was probably washed over the dam and carried down to the Hudson River.”
“A bit far-fetched, but none the less tenable... And the other case?”
“Some boys trespassed here one afternoon and went swimming. One of them, as I recall, dived from a ledge of the cliff into the shallow water, and did not come up. As soon as the authorities were notified—by an unidentified telephone call, incidentally—the pool was drained, but there was no trace of the body. Later, however, after the newspapers had made a two-days’ sensation of the affair, the boy’s body was found in the Indian Cave on the other side of the Clove. He had fractured his skull.”
“And do you, by any chance, have an explanation for that episode also?” Vance asked, with a tinge of curtness.
Leland shot him a quick glance.
“I should say the boy struck his head in diving, and the other boys in the party became frightened and, not wanting to leave the body in the pool, lest they become involved, carried it down to the cave and hid it. It was probably one of them that telephoned to the police.”
“Oh, quite. Very simple, don’t y’ know.” Vance looked into space meditatively. “Yet both cases have ample esoteric implications to have taken root in Mrs. Stamm’s weakened mind.”
“Undoubtedly,” Leland agreed.
A short silence ensued. Vance walked slowly across the room and back, his hands in his outer coat pockets, his head forward on his chest, his cigarette drooping from his lips. I knew what this attitude signified:—some stimulus had suddenly roused a train of thought in his mind. He again took up his position before the mantel and crushed out his cigarette on the hearth. He slowly turned his head toward Leland.
“You mentioned your expedition to Cocos Island,” he said lazily. “Was it the lure of the Mary Dear treasure?”
“Oh, yes. The other famous caches are all too vague. Captain Thompson’s treasure, however, is undeniably real and unquestionably the largest.”
“Did you use the Keating map?”*
“Not altogether.” Leland seemed as puzzled as the rest of us by Vance’s line of questioning. “It is hardly authentic now, and I imagine several purely romantic directions entered into it—such as the stone turnstile to the cave. Stamm ran across an old map in his travels, which antedated, by many years, the original British survey of Cocos Island of 1838. So similar was it to this chart that he believed it to be genuine. We followed the directions on this map, checking them with the navigators’ chart in the Hydrographic Office of the United States Navy Department.”
“Did this map of Stamm’s,” pursued Vance, “indicate the treasure as hidden in one of the island caves?”
“The details were a bit hazy on th
at point. And that was what so impressed Stamm and, I must confess, myself also. You see, this old map differed in one vital respect from the United States Navy navigators’ chart, in that it indicated land where the United States chart shows Wafer Bay; and it was on this section of land that the hiding-place of the treasure was indicated.”
A flicker came into Vance’s eyes, but when he spoke his tone was casual and but mildly animated.
“By Jove! I see the point. Most interestin’. There’s no doubt that landslides and tropical rains have altered the topography of Cocos Island, and many of the old landmarks have doubtless disappeared. I presume Mr. Stamm assumed that the land where the treasure was originally hidden now lies under the waters of the bay which is indicated on the more recent charts.”
“Exactly. Even the French survey of 1889 did not show as large a bay as the American survey made in 1891; and it was Stamm’s theory that the treasure lay beneath the waters of Wafer Bay, which is rather shallow at that spot.”
“A difficult undertaking,” Vance commented. “How long were you at the island?”
“The better part of three months.” Leland smiled ruefully. “It took Stamm that length of time to realize that he did not possess the proper equipment. The shoals in the bay are treacherous, and there are curious holes at the bottom of the water, owing, no doubt, to geological conditions; and our diving equipment would have been scorned by any good pearl-fisher. What we needed, of course, was a specially constructed diving-bell, something like Mr. Beebe’s bathysphere. Even that would have been just a beginning, for we were helpless without powerful submarine dredges. The one we took along was wholly inadequate...”
Markham, who had been noticeably chafing under Vance’s discussion of hidden treasure, now rose and strode forward, his cigar held tightly between his teeth.
“Where is all this getting us, Vance? If you are contemplating a trip to Cocos Island, I’m sure Mr. Leland would be willing to make a future appointment with you to discuss the details. And as for all the other investigations you have made here tonight: I can’t see that anything has been brought to light that hasn’t an entirely normal and logical explanation.”
Heath, who had been following all the proceedings closely, now projected himself into the conversation.
“I’m not so sure about things around here being normal, sir.” Though deferential, his tone was vigorous. “I’m for going ahead with this case. Some mighty queer things have happened tonight, and I don’t like ’em.”
Vance smiled appreciatively at the Sergeant.
“Stout fella!” He glanced toward Markham. “Another half-hour and we’ll stagger home.”
Markham gave in ungraciously.
“What more do you want to do here tonight?”
Vance lighted another cigarette.
“I could bear to commune with Greeff... Suppose you tell the butler to fetch him, Sergeant.”
A few minutes later Alex Greeff was ushered into the drawing-room by Trainor. He was a large, powerfully built man, with a ruddy bulldog type of face—wide-spaced eyes, a short, thick nose, heavy lips, and a strong, square chin. He was slightly bald, and there were cushions of gray hair over his small, close-set ears. He was wearing a conventional dinner suit, but there were certain touches of vulgar elegance in his attire. The satin lapels of his coat were highly peaked. There were two diamond studs in his shirt-bosom. Across his satin waistcoat was draped a platinum chain set with large pearls. His tie, instead of being solid black, had white pin-stripes running through it; and his wing collar seemed too high for his stocky neck.
He took a few steps toward us with his hands in his pockets, planted himself firmly, and glowered at us angrily.
“I understand one of you gentlemen is the District Attorney—” he began aggressively.
“Oh, quite.” Vance indicated Markham with a careless movement of the hand.
Greeff now centred his bellicose attention on Markham.
“Well, perhaps you can tell me, sir,” he growled, “why I am being held a virtual prisoner in this house. This man”—indicating Heath—“ordered me to remain in my room until further notice, and refused to let me go home. What is the meaning of such high-handed tactics?”
“A tragedy has taken place here tonight, Mr. Greeff—” Markham began, but he was interrupted by the other.
“Suppose an accident has happened, is that any reason why I should be held a prisoner without due process of law?”
“There are certain phases of the case,” Markham told him, “that we are looking into, and it was to facilitate the investigation that Sergeant Heath requested all the witnesses to remain here until we could question them.”
“Well, go ahead and question me.” Greeff seemed a little mollified, and his tone had lost some of its belligerency.
Vance moved forward.
“Sit down and have a smoke, Mr. Greeff,” he suggested pleasantly. “We sha’n’t keep you long.”
Greeff hesitated, looked at Vance suspiciously; then shrugged, and drew up a chair. Vance waited until the man had fitted a cigarette into a long jewelled holder, and then asked:
“Did you notice—or sense—anything peculiar about Montague’s disappearance in the pool tonight?”
“Peculiar?” Greeff looked up slowly, and his eyes narrowed to shrewd slits. “So that’s the angle, is it? Well, I’m not saying there wasn’t something peculiar about it, now that you mention it; but I’m damned if I can tell you what it was.”
“That seems to be the general impression,” Vance returned; “but I was hoping you might be more lucid on the point than the others have been.”
“What’s there to be lucid about?” Greeff seemed to be avoiding the issue. “I suppose it’s reasonable enough when a chap like Montague—who’s always been riding for a fall—gets what’s coming to him. But somehow, when it happens so neatly and at the right time, we’re apt to think it’s peculiar.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But it wasn’t the logical eventualities I was referring to.” Vance’s voice held a tinge of annoyance. “I was referring to the fact that the conditions in the house here during the last two days constituted a perfect atmosphere for a type of tragedy quite removed from the merely accidental.”
“You’re right about the atmosphere.” Greeff spoke harshly. “There was murder in the air—if that’s what you mean. And if Montague had passed out by any other means except drowning, I’d say his death warranted a pretty thorough investigation. But he wasn’t poisoned; he wasn’t accidentally shot; he didn’t get vertigo and fall out of a window; and he didn’t tumble down-stairs and break his neck. He simply dived off a spring-board, with every one looking on.”
“That’s what makes it so difficult, don’t y’ know... I understand that you and Mr. Leland and young Tatum dived in after the johnny.”
“It was the least we could do,” Greeff came back pugnaciously; “though I’m frank to admit it was more or less a gesture on my part, as I can’t swim much, and if I had run into him he’d probably have dragged me down with him. Still, you hate to see any fellow, however rotten, pass out of this world in front of your eyes without making some attempt to save him.”
“Quite noble of you, I’m sure,” Vance murmured indifferently. “By the by, I understand Montague was engaged to Miss Stamm.”
Greeff nodded and drew on his cigarette.
“I never knew why it was, except that good women always fall for that type of man,” he commented, with a philosophic air. “But I think she would have broken the engagement sooner or later.”
“Would you mind my asking what your own feelings toward Miss Stamm are?”
Greeff opened his eyes in surprise, then laughed noisily.
“I see what you’re getting at. But you can’t make me out the villain of the piece. I like Bernice—everybody who knows her likes her. But as for my being sentimental about her: I’m too old and wise for that. My feeling for her has always been a fatherly one. She often comes to me for advi
ce when Stamm’s too deep in his cups. And I give her good advice—yes, by Gad! I told her only yesterday that she was making a fool of herself to think of marrying Montague.”
“How did she take this advice, Mr. Greeff?”
“The way all women take advice—haughtily and contemptuously. No woman ever wants advice. Even when they ask for it, they’re merely looking for agreement with what they’ve already decided to do.”
Vance changed the subject.
“Just what do you think happened to Montague tonight?”
Greeff spread his hands vaguely.
“Bumped his head on the bottom—or got a cramp. What else could have happened to him?”
“I haven’t the vaguest notion,” Vance admitted blandly. “But the episode is teeming with possibilities. I was hopin’, don’t y’ know, that you might help to lead us out of our darkness.” He spoke lightly, but his eyes were fixed with cold steadiness on the man opposite.
Greeff returned the gaze for several moments in silence, and his ruddy face tightened into a mask.
“I understand perfectly,” he enunciated at length, in a chill, even tone. “But my advice to you, my friend, is to forget it. Montague had it coming to him, and he got it. It was an accident that fitted in with everybody’s wishes. You can play with the idea till doomsday, but you’ll end up with the fact I’m telling you now: Montague was accidentally drowned.”
Vance smiled cynically.
“My word! Are you intimatin’ that Montague’s death is that liter’ry pet of the armchair criminologists—the perfect crime?”
Greeff moved forward in his chair and set his jaw.
“I’m not intimating anything, my friend. I’m merely telling you.”
“Really, y’ know, we’re dashed grateful.” Vance crushed out his cigarette. “Anyway, I think we’ll do a bit of pryin’ around...”
At this moment there came an interruption. We heard what sounded like a scuffle on the stairs, and there came to us the angry, shrill tones of Stamm’s voice:
The Dragon Murder Case Page 7
