Vance had sat through this unsatisfactory discussion smoking placidly; but he had been listening with unwonted concentration, and now he spoke.
“Tell me, Professor Dillard, if there has been anything—no matter how indefinite—that may have given birth to your uncertainty.”
“No—nothing.” The answer came quickly and with a show of spirit. “I have merely been wondering—testing every possibility. I dared not be too sanguine without some assurance. Pure logic is all very well for principles that do not touch us personally. But where one’s own safety is concerned, the imperfect human mind demands visual evidence.”
“Ah, yes.” Vance looked up, and I thought I detected a flash of understanding between these two disparate men.
Markham rose to make his adieu; but Professor Dillard urged him to remain awhile.
“Sigurd will be here before long. He’d enjoy seeing you again. As I said, he’s at The Pretenders, but I’m sure he will come straight home… By the way, Mr. Vance,” he went on, turning from Markham, “Sigurd tells me you accompanied him to Ghosts last week. Do you share his enthusiasm for Ibsen?”
A slight lift of Vance’s eyebrows told me that he was somewhat puzzled by this question; but when he answered, there was no hint of perplexity in his voice.
“I have read Ibsen a great deal; and there can be little doubt that he was a creative genius of a high order, although I’ve failed to find in him either the aesthetic form or the philosophic depth that characterizes Goethe’s Faust, for instance.”
“I can see that you and Sigurd would have a permanent basis of disagreement.”
Markham declined the invitation to stay longer, and a few minutes later we were walking down West End Avenue in the brisk April air.
“You will please take note, Markham old dear,” observed Vance, with a touch of waggishness, as we turned into 72nd Street and headed for the park, “that there are others than your modest collaborator who are hag-ridden with doubts as to the volition of Pardee’s taking-off. And I might add that the professor is not in the least satisfied with your assurances.”
“His suspicious state of mind is quite understandable,” submitted Markham. “These murders have touched his house pretty closely.”
“That’s not the explanation. The old gentleman has fears. And he knows something which he will not tell us.”
“I can’t say that I got that impression.”
“Oh, Markham—my dear Markham! Weren’t you listening closely to his halting, reluctant tale? It was as if he were trying to convey some suggestion to us without actually putting it into words. We were supposed to guess. Yes! That was why he insisted that you visit him when Arnesson was safely away at an Ibsen revival—”
Vance ceased speaking abruptly and stood stockstill. A startled look came in his eyes.
“Oh, my aunt! Oh, my precious aunt! So that was why he asked me about Ibsen!…My word! How unutterably dull I’ve been!” He stared at Markham, and the muscles of his jaw tightened. “The truth at last!” he said with impressive softness. “And it is neither you nor the police nor I who has solved this case: it is a Norwegian dramatist who has been dead for twenty years. In Ibsen is the key to the mystery.”
Markham regarded him as though he had suddenly gone out of his mind; but before he could speak, Vance hailed a taxicab.
“I’ll show you what I mean when we reach home,” he said as we rode east through Central Park. “It’s unbelievable, but it’s true. And I should have guessed it long ago; but the connotation of the signature on those notes was too clouded with other possible meanings… ”
“If it were midsummer instead of spring,” commented Markham wrathfully, “I’d suggest that the heat had affected you.”
“I knew from the first there were three possible guilty persons,” continued Vance. “Each was psychologically capable of the murders, provided the impact of his emotions had upset his mental equilibrium. So there was nothing to do but to wait for some indication that would focus suspicion. Drukker was one of my three suspects, but he was murdered; and that left two. Then Pardee to all appearances committed suicide, and I’ll admit that his death made reasonable the assumption that he had been the guilty one. But there was an eroding doubt in my mind. His death was not conclusive; and that house of cards troubled me. We were stalemated. So again I waited, and watched my third possibility. Now I know that Pardee was innocent and that he did not shoot himself. He was murdered—just as were Robin and Sprigg and Drukker. His death was another grim joke—he was a victim thrown to the police in the spirit of diabolical jest. And the murderer has been chuckling at our gullibility ever since.”
“By what reasoning do you arrive at so fantastic a conclusion?”
“It’s no longer a question of reasoning. At last I have the explanation for the crimes; and I know the meaning of the ‘Bishop’ signature to the notes. I’ll show you a piece of amazing and incontrovertible evidence very soon.”
A few minutes later we reached his apartment, and he led us straight to the library.
“The evidence has been here within arm’s reach all the time.”
He went to the shelves where he kept his dramas and took down Volume II of the collected works of Henrik Ibsen.* The book contained The Vikings at Helgeland and The Pretenders; but with the first of these plays Vance was not concerned. Turning to The Pretenders, he found the page where the dramatis personae were given and laid the book on the table before Markham.
“Read the cast of characters of Arnesson’s favorite play,” he directed.
Markham, silent and puzzled, drew the volume toward him; and I looked over his shoulder. This is what we saw:
HAKON HAKONSSON, the King elected by the Birchlegs.
INGA OF VARTEIG, his mother.
EARL SKULE.
LADY RAGNHILD, his wife.
SIGRID, his sister.
MARGRETE, his daughter.
GUTHORM lNGESSON.
SIGURD RIBBUNG.
NICHOLAS ARNESSON, Bishop of Oslo.
DAGFINN THE PEASANT, Hakon’s marshal.
IVAR BODDE, his chaplain.
VEGARD VÆRADAL, one of his guard.
GREGORIUS JONSSON, a nobleman.
PAUL FLIDA, a nobleman.
INGEBORG, Andres Skialdarband’s wife.
PETER, her son, a young priest.
SIRA VILIAM, Bishop Nicholas’s chaplain.
MASTER SIGARD OF BRABANT, a physician.
JATGEIR SKALD, an Icelander.
BARD BRATTE, a chieftain from the Trondhiem district.
But I doubt if either of us read beyond the line:
NICHOLAS ARNESSON, Bishop of Oslo.
My eyes became riveted on that name with a set and horrified fascination. And then I remembered… Bishop Arnesson was one of the most diabolical villains in all literature—a cynical, sneering monster who twisted all the sane values of life into hideous buffooneries.
Footnotes
*Pardee left in his will a large sum for the furtherance of chess; and in the autumn of that same year, it will be remembered, the Pardee Memorial Tournament was held at Cambridge Springs.
*Of the Wagnerian operas this was Vance’s favorite. He always asserted that it was the only opera that had the structural form of a symphony; and more than once he expressed the regret that it had not been written as an orchestral piece instead of as a conveyance for an absurd drama.
*Vance’s set was the William Archer copyright edition, published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Last Act
(Tuesday, April 26; 9 a.m.)
WITH THIS ASTOUNDING revelation the Bishop murder case entered its final and most terrible phase. Heath had been informed of Vance’s discovery; and it was arranged that we should meet in the district attorney’s office early the following day for a counsel of war.
Markham, when he took leave of us that night, was more troubled and despondent than I had ever seen him.
“
I don’t know what can be done,” he said hopelessly. “There’s no legal evidence against the man. But we may be able to devise some course of action that will give us the upper hand… I never believed in torture, but I almost wish we had access today to the thumbscrew and the rack.”
Vance and I arrived at his office a few minutes after nine the next morning. Swacker intercepted us and asked us to wait in the reception room for a little while. Markham, he explained, was engaged for the moment. We had no more than seated ourselves when Heath appeared, grim, pugnacious, and sullen.
“I gotta hand it to you, Mr. Vance,” he proclaimed. “You sure got a line on the situation. But what good it’s going to do us I don’t see. We can’t arrest a guy because his name’s in a book.”
“We may be able to force the issue some way,” Vance rejoined. “In any event, we now know where we stand.”
Ten minutes later Swacker beckoned to us and indicated that Markham was free.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Markham apologized. “I had an unexpected visitor.” His voice had a despairing ring. “More trouble. And, curiously enough, it’s connected with the very section of Riverside Park where Drukker was killed. However, there’s nothing I can do about it… ” He drew some papers before him. “Now to business.”
“What’s the new trouble in Riverside Park?” asked Vance casually.
Markham frowned. “Nothing that need bother us now. A kidnapping, in all likelihood. There’s a brief account of it in the morning papers, in case you’re interested—”
“I detest reading the papers.” Vance spoke blandly but with an insistence that puzzled me. “What happened?”
Markham drew a deep breath of impatience. “A child disappeared from the playground yesterday after talking with an unknown man. Her father came here to solicit my help. But it’s a job for the Bureau of Missing Persons; and I told him so.—Now, if your curiosity is appeased—”
“Oh, but it isn’t,” persisted Vance. “I simply must hear the details. That section of the park fascinates me strangely.”
Markham shot him a questioning glance through lowered lids. “Very well,” he acquiesced. “A five-year-old girl, named Madeleine Moffat, was playing with a group of children at about half past five last evening. She crawled up on a high mound near the retaining wall, and a little later, when her governess went to get her, thinking she had descended the other side, the child was nowhere to be found. The only suggestive fact is that two of the other children say they saw a man talking to her shortly before she disappeared; but, of course, they can give no description of him. The police were notified and are investigating. And that’s all there is to the case so far.”
“ ‘Madeleine.’ ” Vance repeated the name musingly. “I say, Markham, do you know if this child knew Drukker?”
“Yes!” Markham sat up a little straighter. “Her father mentioned that she often went to parties at his house—.”
“I’ve seen the child.” Vance rose and stood, hands in pockets, gazing down at the floor. “An adorable little creature… golden curls. She brought a handful of flowers for Drukker the morning of his funeral… And now she has disappeared after having been seen talking with a strange man—.”
“What’s going on in your mind?” demanded Markham sharply.
Vance appeared not to have heard the question.
“Why should her father appeal to you?”
“I’ve known Moffat slightly for years—he was at one time connected with the city administration. He’s frantic—grasping at every straw. The proximity of the affair to the Bishop murders has made him morbidly apprehensive… But see here, Vance, we didn’t come here to discuss the Moffat child’s disappearance… ”
Vance lifted his head; there was a look of startled horror on his face. “Don’t speak—oh, don’t speak… ” He began pacing up and down, while Markham and Heath watched him in mute amazement. “Yes—yes, that would be it,” he murmured to himself. “The time is right…it all fits… ”
He swung about and, going to Markham, seized his arm.
“Come—quickly! It’s our only chance—we can’t wait another minute.” He fairly dragged Markham to his feet and led him toward the door. “I’ve been fearing something like this all week—”
Markham wrenched his arm free from the other’s grip. “I won’t move from this office, Vance, until you explain.”
“It’s another act in the play—the last act! Oh, take my word for it.” There was a look in Vance’s eyes I had never seen before. “It’s ‘Little Miss Muffet’ now. The name isn’t identical, but that doesn’t matter. It’s near enough for the Bishop’s jest; he’ll explain it all to the press. He probably beckoned the child to the tuffet and sat down beside her. And now she’s gone—frightened away… ”
Markham moved forward in a sort of daze; and Heath, his eyes bulging, leapt to the door. I have often wondered what went on in their minds during those few seconds of Vance’s importunate urgings. Did they believe in his interpretation of the episode? Or were they merely afraid not to investigate, in view of the remote possibility that another hideous joke had been perpetrated by the Bishop? Whatever their convictions or doubts, they accepted the situation as Vance saw it; and a moment later we were in the hall, hastening toward the elevator. At Vance’s suggestion we picked up Detective Tracy from the branch office of the detective bureau in the Criminal Courts Building.
“This affair is serious,” he explained. “Anything may happen.”
We emerged through the Franklin Street entrance and in a few minutes were on our way uptown in the district attorney’s car, breaking speed regulations and ignoring traffic signals. Scarcely a word was spoken on that momentous ride; but as we swung through the tortuous roads of Central Park, Vance said, “I may be wrong, but we will have to risk it. If we wait to see whether the papers get a note, it’ll be too late. We’re not supposed to know yet, and that’s our one chance—”
“What do you expect to find?” Markham’s tone was husky and a little uncertain.
Vance shook his head despondently.
“Oh, I don’t know. But it’ll be something devilish.”
When the car drew up with a lurch in front of the Dillard house, Vance leapt out and ran up the steps ahead of us. Pyne answered his insistent ring.
“Where’s Mr. Arnesson?” he demanded.
“At the university, sir,” the old butler replied; and I imagined there was fright in his eyes. “But he’ll be home for an early lunch.”
“Then, take us at once to Professor Dillard.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Pyne told him, “but the professor is also out. He went to the public library—”
“Are you alone here?”
“Yes, sir. Beedle’s gone to market.”
“So much the better.” Vance took hold of the butler and turned him toward the rear stairs. “We’re going to search the house, Pyne. You lead the way.”
Markham came forward. “But, Vance, we can’t do that!”
Vance wheeled round.
“I’m not interested in what you can do or can’t do. I’m going to search this house… Sergeant, are you with me?” There was a strange look on his face.
“You bet your sweet life!” (I never liked Heath as much as at that moment.)
The search was begun in the basement. Every hallway, every closet, every cupboard and waste space was inspected. Pyne, completely cowed by Heath’s vindictiveness, acted as guide. He brought keys and opened doors for us, and even suggested places we might otherwise have overlooked. The sergeant had thrown himself into the hunt with energy, though I am sure he had only a vague idea as to its object. Markham followed us disapprovingly; but he, too, had been caught in the sweep of Vance’s dynamic purposefulness, and he must have realized that Vance had some tremendous justification for his rash conduct.
Gradually we worked our way upward through the house. The library and Arnesson’s room were gone over carefully. Belle Dillard’s apartment was scr
utinized, and close attention was given to the unused rooms on the third floor. Even the servants’ quarters on the fourth floor were overhauled. But nothing suspicious was discovered. Though Vance suppressed his eagerness, I could tell what a nervous strain he was under by the tireless haste with which he pushed the search.
Eventually we came to a locked door at the rear of the upper hall.
“Where does that lead?” Vance asked Pyne.
“To a little attic room, sir. But it’s never used—”
“Unlock it.”
The man fumbled for several moments with his bunch of keys. “I don’t seem to find the key, sir. It’s supposed to be here—.”
“When did you have it last?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. To my knowledge no one’s been in the attic for years.”
Vance stepped back and crouched. “Stand aside, Pyne.”
When the butler had moved out of the way, Vance hurled himself against the door with terrific force. There was a creaking and straining of wood; but the lock held.
Markham rushed forward and caught him round the shoulders. “Are you mad!” he exclaimed. “You’re breaking the law.”
“The law!” There was scathing irony in Vance’s retort. “We’re dealing with a monster who sneers at all law. You may coddle him if you care to, but I’m going to search that attic if it means spending the rest of my life in jail.—Sergeant, open that door!”
Again I experienced a thrill of liking for Heath. Without a moment’s hesitation he poised himself on his toes and sent his shoulders crashing against the door’s panel just above the knob. There was a splintering of wood as the lock’s bolt tore through the molding. The door swung inward.
Vance, freeing himself from Markham’s hold, ran stumbling up the steps with the rest of us at his heels.
There was no light in the attic, and we paused for a moment at the head of the stairs to accustom our eyes to the darkness. Then Vance struck a match and, groping forward, sent up the window shade with a clatter. The sunlight poured in, revealing a small room, scarcely ten feet square, cluttered with all manner of discarded odds and ends. The atmosphere was heavy and stifling, and a thick coating of dust lay over everything.
The Bishop Murder Case Page 25
