The Bishop Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

“Sit down, Mrs. Menzel,” he said kindly. When she had obeyed, he asked: “Why did you tell me this morning that Mr. Drukker rose at nine?”

  “I had to—I was told to.” Her resistance was gone, and she breathed heavily like a person exhausted. “When Mrs. Drukker came back from Miss Dillard’s yesterday afternoon, she told me that if anyone asked me that question about Mr. Drukker, I was to say ‘Nine o’clock.’ She made me swear I’d say it… ” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes took on a glassy stare. “I was afraid to say anything else.”

  Vance still seemed puzzled. After several deep inhalations on his cigarette he remarked, “There’s nothing in what you’ve told us to affect you this way. It’s not unnatural that a morbid woman like Mrs. Drukker should have taken such a fantastic measure to protect her son from possible suspicion when a murder had been committed in the neighborhood. You’ve surely been with her long enough to realize how she might exaggerate every remote possibility where her son is concerned. In fact, I’m surprised you take it so seriously… Have you any other reason to connect Mr. Drukker with this crime?”

  “No—no!” The woman shook her head distractedly.

  Vance strolled to the rear window, frowning. Suddenly he swung about. He had become stern and implacable.

  “Where were you, Mrs. Menzel, the morning Mr. Robin was killed?”

  An astounding change came over the woman. Her face paled; her lips trembled; and she clinched her hands with a spasmodic gesture. She tried to take her staring eyes from Vance, but some quality in his gaze held her.

  “Where were you, Mrs. Menzel?” The question was repeated sharply.

  “I was—here—” she began, then stopped abruptly and cast an agitated glance at Heath, who was watching her fixedly.

  “You were in the kitchen?”

  She nodded. The power of speech seemed to have deserted her.

  “And you saw Mr. Drukker return from the Dillards’?”

  Again she nodded.

  “Exactly,” said Vance. “And he came in the rear way, by the screen porch, and went upstairs… And he didn’t know that you saw him through the kitchen door… And later he inquired regarding your whereabouts at that hour… And when you told him you had been in the kitchen, he warned you to keep silent about it… And then you learned of Mr. Robin’s death a few minutes before you saw him enter here… And yesterday, when Mrs. Drukker told you to say he had not risen until nine, and you heard that someone else had been killed near here, you became suspicious and frightened… That’s correct, is it not, Mrs. Menzel?”

  The woman was sobbing audibly in her apron. There was no need for her to reply, for it was obvious that Vance had guessed the truth.

  Heath took his cigar from his mouth and glared at her ferociously. “So! You were holding out on me,” he bellowed, thrusting forward his jaw. “You lied to me when I questioned you the other day. Obstructing justice, were you?”

  She gave Vance a look of frightened appeal.

  “Mrs. Menzel, Sergeant,” he said, “had no intention of obstructing justice. And now that she has told us the truth, I think we may overlook her perfectly natural deception in the matter.” Then before Heath had time to reply, he turned to the woman and asked in a matter-of-fact tone: “Do you lock the door leading to the screen porch every night?”

  “Ja —every night.” She spoke listlessly; the reaction from her fright had left her apathetic.

  “You are sure you locked it last night?”

  “At half past nine—when I went to bed.”

  Vance stepped across the little passageway and inspected the lock.

  “It’s a snaplock,” he observed, on returning. “Who has a key to the door?”

  “I have a key. And Mrs. Drukker—she has one, too.”

  “You’re sure no one else has a key?”

  “No one except Miss Dillard—”

  “Miss Dillard?” Vance’s voice was suddenly resonant with interest. “Why should she have one?”

  “She’s had it for years. She’s like a member of the family—over here two and three times a day. When I go out, I lock the back door; and her having a key saves Mrs. Drukker the trouble of coming down and letting her in.”

  “Quite natural,” Vance murmured. Then: “We sha’n’t bother you anymore, Mrs. Menzel.” He strolled out on the little rear porch.

  When the door had been closed behind us, he pointed to the screen door that opened into the yard.

  “You’ll note that this wire mesh has been forced away from the frame, permitting one to reach inside and turn the latch. Either Mrs. Drukker’s key or Miss Dillard’s—probably the latter—was used to open the door of the house.”

  Heath nodded: this tangible aspect of the case appealed to him. But Markham was not paying attention. He stood in the background smoking with angry detachment. Presently he turned resolutely and was about to reenter the house when Vance caught his arm.

  “No—no, Markham! That would be abominable technique. Curb your ire. You’re so dashed impulsive, don’t y’ know.”

  “But, damn it, Vance!” Markham shook off the other’s hand. “Drukker lied to us about going out the Dillard gate before Robin’s murder—”

  “Of course he did. I’ve suspected all along that the account he gave us of his movements that morning was a bit fanciful. But it’s useless to go upstairs now and hector him about it. He’ll simply say that the cook is mistaken.”

  Markham was unconvinced.

  “But what about yesterday morning? I want to know where he was when the cook called him at half past eight. Why should Mrs. Drukker be so anxious to have us believe he was asleep?”

  “She, too, probably went to his room and saw that he was gone. Then when she heard of Sprigg’s death, her febrile imagination became overheated, and she proceeded to invest him with an alibi. But you’re only inviting trouble when you plan to chivy him about the discrepancies in his tale.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Markham spoke with significative gravity. “I may be inviting a solution to this hideous business.”

  Vance did not reply at once. He stood gazing down at the quivering shadows cast on the lawn by the willow trees. At length he said in a low voice, “We can’t afford to take that chance. If what you’re thinking should prove to be true, and you should reveal the information you’ve just received, the little man who was here last night might prowl about the upper hall again. And this time he might not be content to leave his chessman outside the door !”

  A look of horror came into Markham’s eyes.

  “You think I might be jeopardizing the cook’s safety if I used her evidence against him at this time?”

  “The terrible thing about this affair is that, until we know the truth, we face danger at every turn.” Vance’s voice was heavy with discouragement. “We can’t risk exposing anyone… ”

  The door leading to the porch opened, and Drukker appeared on the threshold, his little eyes blinking in the sunlight. His gaze came to rest on Markham, and a crafty, repulsive smile contorted his mouth.

  “I trust I am not disturbing you,” he apologized with a menacing squint, “but the cook has just informed me that she told you she saw me enter here by the rear door on the morning of Mr. Robin’s unfortunate death.”

  “Oh, my aunt!” murmured Vance, turning away and busying himself with the selection of a fresh cigarette. “That tears it.”

  Drukker shot him an inquisitive look, and drew himself up with a kind of cynical fortitude.

  “And what about it, Mr. Drukker?” demanded Markham.

  “I merely desired to assure you,” the man replied, “that the cook is in error. She has obviously confused the date—you see, I come and go so often by this rear door. On the morning of Mr. Robin’s death, as I explained to you, I left the range by the 75th Street gate and, after a brief walk in the park, returned home by the front way. I have convinced Grete that she is mistaken.”

  Vance had been listening to him closely. Now he turned and met the
other’s smile with a look of bland ingenuousness.

  “Did you convince her with a chessman, by any chance?”

  Drukker jerked his head forward and sucked in a rasping breath. His twisted frame became taut; the muscles about his eyes and mouth began to twitch; and the ligaments of his neck stood out like whipcord. For a moment I thought he was going to lose his self-control; but with a great effort he steadied himself.

  “I don’t understand you, sir.” There was the vibrancy of an intense anger in his words. “What has a chessman to do with it?”

  “Chessmen have various names,” suggested Vance softly.

  “Are you telling me about chess?” A venomous contempt marked Drukker’s manner, but he managed to grin. “Various names, certainly. There’s the king and queen, the rook, the knight—” He broke off. “The bishop! … ” He lay his head against the casement of the door and began to cackle mirthlessly. “So! That’s what you mean? The bishop!… You’re a lot of imbecile children playing a nonsense game.”

  “We have excellent reason to believe,” said Vance, with impressive calmness, “that the game is being played by someone else—with the chess bishop as the principal symbol.”

  Drukker sobered.

  “Don’t take my mother’s vagaries too seriously,” he admonished. “Her imagination often plays tricks on her.”

  “Ah! And why do you mention your mother in this connection?”

  “You’ve just been talking to her, haven’t you? And your comments, I must say, sound very much like some of her harmless hallucinations.”

  “On the other hand,” Vance rejoined mildly, “your mother may have perfectly good grounds for her beliefs.”

  Drukker’s eyes narrowed, and he looked swiftly at Markham.

  “Rot!”

  “Ah, well,” sighed Vance, “we sha’n’t debate the point.” Then in an altered tone he added: “It might help us, though, Mr. Drukker, if we knew where you were between eight and nine yesterday morning.”

  The man opened his mouth slightly as if to speak, but quickly his lips closed again, and he stood staring calculatingly at Vance. At length he answered in a high-pitched insistent voice.

  “I was working—in my study—from six o’clock until half past nine.” He paused, but evidently felt that further explanation was desirable. “For several months I’ve been working on a modification of the ether-string theory to account for the interference of light, which the quantum theory is unable to explain. Dillard told me I couldn’t do it”;—a fanatical light came into his eyes—“but I awoke early yesterday morning with certain factors of the problem clarified; and I got up and went to my study… ”

  “So that’s where you were.” Vance spoke carelessly. “It’s of no great importance. Sorry we discommoded you today.” He beckoned with his head to Markham and moved toward the screen door. As we stepped upon the range he turned back and, smiling, said almost dulcetly, “Mrs. Menzel is under our protection. It would pain us deeply if anything should happen to her.”

  Drukker looked after us with a sort of hypnotized fascination.

  The moment we were out of hearing, Vance moved to Heath’s side.

  “Sergeant,” he said in a troubled voice, “that forthright German hausfrau may have put her head unwittingly in a noose. And—my word!—I’m afraid. You’d better have a good man watch the Drukker house tonight—from the rear, under those willow trees. And tell him to break in at the first scream or call… I’ll sleep better if I know there’s a plainclothes angel guarding Frau Menzel’s slumbers.”

  “I get you, sir.” Heath’s face was grim. “There won’t be no chess players worrying her tonight.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A Game of Chess

  (Tuesday, April 12, 11.30 a.m.)

  AS WE WALKED slowly toward the Dillard house it was decided that immediate inquiries should be made regarding the whereabouts the night before of every person connected in any way with this gruesome drama.

  “We must be careful, however, to drop no hint of what befell Mrs. Drukker,” warned Vance. “Our midnight bishop-bearer did not intend that we should learn of his call. He believed that the poor lady would be too frightened to tell us.”

  “I’m inclined to think,” objected Markham, “that you’re attaching too much importance to the episode.”

  “Oh, my dear fellow!” Vance stopped short and put both hands on the other’s shoulders. “You’re much too effete—that’s your great shortcomin’. You don’t feel—you are no child of nature. The poetry of your soul has run to prose. Now I, on the other hand, give my imagination full sway; and I tell you that the leaving of that bishop at Mrs. Drukker’s door was no Hallowe’en prank, but the desperate act of a desperate man. It was meant as a warning.”

  “You think she knows something?”

  “I think she saw Robin’s body placed on the range. And I think she saw something else—something she would give her life not to have seen.”

  In silence we moved on. It was our intention to pass through the wall gate into 75th Street and present ourselves at the Dillards’ front door; but as we passed the archery room the basement door opened, and Belle Dillard confronted us anxiously.

  “I saw you coming down the range,” she said with troubled eagerness, addressing her words to Markham. “For over an hour I’ve been waiting to get in touch with you—phoning your office… ” Her manner became agitated. “Something strange has happened. Oh, it may not mean anything…but when I came through the archery room here this morning, intending to call on Lady Mae, some impulse made me go to the toolchest again and look in the drawer—it seemed so—so queer that the little revolver should have been stolen… And there it lay—in plain sight—beside the other pistol!” She caught her breath. “Mr. Markham, someone returned it to the drawer last night!”

  This information acted electrically on Heath.

  “Did you touch it?” he asked excitedly.

  “Why—no… ”

  He brushed past her unceremoniously and, going to the toolchest, yanked open the drawer. There, beside the larger automatic that we had seen the day before, lay a small pearl-handled .32. The sergeant’s eyes glistened as he ran his pencil through the trigger guard and lifted it gingerly. He held it to the light and sniffed at the end of the barrel.

  “One empty chamber,” he announced with satisfaction. “And it’s been shot off recently… This oughta get us somewheres.” He wrapped the revolver tenderly in a handkerchief and placed it in his coat pocket. “I’ll get Dubois busy on this for fingerprints; and I’ll have Cap Hagedorn* check up on the bullets.”

  “Really now, Sergeant,” said Vance banteringly; “do you imagine that the gentleman we’re looking for would wipe a bow and arrow clean and then leave his digital monogram on a revolver?”

  “I haven’t got your imagination, Mr. Vance,” returned Heath surlily. “So I’m going ahead doing the things that oughta be done.”

  “You’re quite right.” Vance smiled with good-natured admiration at the other’s dogged thoroughness. “Forgive me for trying to damp your zeal.”

  He turned to Belle Dillard.

  “We came here primarily to see the professor and Mr. Arnesson. But there’s also a matter we’d like to speak about to you.—We understand you have a key to the rear door of the Drukker house.”

  She gave him a puzzled nod. “Yes, I’ve had one for years. I run back and forth so much; and it saves Lady Mae a lot of bother—”

  “Our only interest in the key is that it might have been used by someone who had no right to it.”

  “But that’s impossible. I’ve never lent it to anyone. And I always keep it in my handbag.”

  “Is it generally known you have a key to the Drukkers’?”

  “Why—I suppose so.” She was obviously perplexed. “I’ve never made a secret of it. The family certainly know about it.”

  “And you may perhaps have mentioned or revealed the fact when there were outsiders present?”
<
br />   “Yes—though I can’t recall any specific instance.”

  “Are you sure you have the key now?”

  She gave Vance a startled look, and without a word picked up a small lizard-skin handbag which lay on the wicker table. Opening it, she felt swiftly in one of its inner compartments.

  “Yes!” she announced with relief. “It’s where I always keep it… Why do you ask me about it?”

  “It’s important that we know who had access to the Drukker house,” Vance told her. Then, before she could question him further, he asked: “Could the key possibly have left your possession last night?—that is, could it have been extracted from your bag without your knowledge?”

  A look of fright came into her face. “Oh, what has happened—?” she began; but Vance interrupted her.

  “Please, Miss Dillard! There’s nothing for you to worry about. We’re merely striving to eliminate certain remote possibilities in connection with our investigation.—Tell me: could anyone have taken your key last night?”

  “No one,” she answered uneasily. “I went to the theater at eight o’clock and had my bag with me the entire time.”

  “When did you last make use of the key?”

  “After dinner last night. I ran over to see how Lady Mae was and to say good night.”

  Vance frowned slightly. I could see that this information did not square with some theory he had formed.

  “You made use of the key after dinner,” he recapitulated, “and kept it with you in your handbag the rest of the evening, without letting it once go out of your sight.—Is that right, Miss Dillard?”

  The girl nodded. “I even held the bag in my lap during the play,” she amplified.

  Vance regarded the handbag thoughtfully.

  “Well,” he said lightly, “so ends the romance of the key.—And now we’re going to bother your uncle again. Do you think you’d better act as our avant-courier; or shall we storm the citadel unannounced?”

  “Uncle is out,” she informed us. “He went for a walk along the Drive.”

  “And Mr. Arnesson, I suppose, has not yet returned from the university.”