Amelia Llewellyn had been watching her mother with cynical indifference.
"That's all very noble," she commented, with a shrug. "'We Llewellyns'--the usual abracadabra. 'Firmitas et fortitudo,' the family motto. A gryphon rampant or sejant or couchant--I forget which. In any event, a gryphon is a chimerical creature. Quite characteristic of our family: capable of anything--and nothing."
"Perhaps the Llewellyn gryphon is segreant," Vance suggested, looking straight at the girl.
She caught her breath, stared back at Vance for a few seconds, and then replied cynically: "It might be, at that. The Llewellyns are rather flighty."
Vance continued to regard her closely, and after a moment she walked up to him with a twisted smile.
"So, darling little Lynn--the filial paragon--has also been poisoned?" she said; and the smile faded from her mouth. "Some one is evidently determined to make a nice thorough job of it. I wouldn't be surprised if I were next. . . . There's too much rotten money in this family."
She shot a sneering look at her mother, who glared at her angrily; and then, sitting down on the edge of the table, she lighted a cigarette.
Markham was impatient and annoyed.
"Get on with your work, Sergeant," he ordered brusquely. "Who found this young woman?" He waved his hand distastefully toward the bed.
"I did." Amelia Llewellyn became serious, and her breast rose and fell with emotion.
"Ah!" Vance sat down and studied the girl quizzically. "Suppose you tell us the circumstances, Miss Llewellyn."
"We all went to bed round eleven," she began. "Uncle Dick and Mr. Bloodgood had gone to the Casino right after dinner. Lynn followed about an hour later. And Allan--Doctor Kane here--had some calls to make, and left with Lynn. . . ."
"Just a moment," broke in Vance, holding up his hand. "I understood the dinner tonight was more or less a family affair. Was Doctor Kane present?"
"Yes, he was here." The girl nodded bitterly. "I knew what another of these anniversary affairs would be--bickerings, recriminations, general squabbling. And I was nervous. So, at the last minute, I asked Doctor Kane to come to dinner. I thought his presence might tone down the animosity. Of course, Morgan Bloodgood was here too, but he's really like one of the family: we never hesitate to air our differences in his presence."
"And did Doctor Kane wield a restraining influence on the gathering tonight?" asked Vance.
"I'm afraid not," she returned. "There was too much pent-up passion that had to have an outlet."
Vance hesitated and then went on with his questioning:
"So Lynn and your uncle and the others departed; and you and your sister-in-law and your mother retired about eleven. Then what happened?"
"I was upset and fidgety and couldn't sleep. I got up around midnight and started to sketch. I worked for an hour or so, and had just decided to turn in when I heard Virginia cry out in a hysterical voice. My room is in this wing of the house; and the two apartments are divided only by a short private passageway which I use as a clothes closet." She indicated, with a movement of her head, a door at the rear of the room.
"You could hear your sister-in-law call out with the two doors and the passageway between you?" Vance asked.
"Ordinarily, I couldn't have heard her," the girl explained; "but I had just gone into the clothes closet to hang up my dressing-gown."
"And what did you do then?"
"I stepped to the door there to listen, and Virginia sounded as if she were choking. I tried the door and found it unlocked. . . ."
"Was it unusual for this door to be unlocked?" Vance interrupted.
"No. In fact, it is seldom locked."
"Continue, please."
"Well," the girl went on, "Virginia was lying on the bed, as she is now. Her eyes were staring; her face was terribly red; and she was in a horrible convulsion. I ran out into the hall and called to mother. Mother came in and looked at her. 'Get a doctor, Amelia,' she said; and I immediately phoned to Doctor Kane. He lives only a short distance from here, and he came right over. Before I was through phoning, Virginia seemed to collapse. She became very still--too still. I--I knew that she had died. . . ." The girl shuddered involuntarily, and her voice trailed off.
"And now, Doctor Kane?" Vance turned toward the man standing by the mantel.
Kane came forward nervously: his hand trembled as he took his cigarette holder from his lips.
"When I arrived, sir, a few minutes later," he began, with a studied air of professional dignity, "Mrs. Llewellyn--Mrs. Lynn Llewellyn, I mean, of course--was quite dead. Her eyes were staring; her pupils were so widely dilated that I could hardly see the retina; and she was covered with a scarlatiniform rash. She seemed to have a post-mortem rise of temperature, and the position of her arms and the distortion of her facial and neck muscles indicated that she had had a convulsion and died of asphyxia. It looked like some poison in the belladonna group--hyoscin, atropin, or scopolamin. I did not move the body, and I warned both Mrs. Llewellyn and her daughter not to touch her. I immediately telephoned to the police."
"Quite correct," murmured Vance. "And then you waited for our arrival?"
"Naturally." Kane had regained much of his self-control, though his face was still flushed and he breathed heavily.
"And nothing in the room has been touched?"
"Nothing. I have been here all the time, and Miss Llewellyn and her mother waited here with me."
Vance nodded slowly.
"By the by, doctor," he asked, "do you use a typewriter?"
Kane gave a slight start of surprise.
"Why--yes," he stammered. "I used to type my papers at medical school. I'm not very good at it, though. I--I don't understand. . . . But if my typing can be of any help in the matter--"
"Merely an idle question," Vance returned casually, and then turned to Heath. "The Medical Examiner been notified?"
"Sure." The Sergeant was sullen and chewed viciously on his black cigar. "The call went through to the office in the usual way, but I phoned Doremus* at his home,--I didn't like the set-up tonight. . . ."
* Doctor Emanuel Doremus, the Chief Medical Examiner of New York.
"And he was probably much annoyed," suggested Vance.
The Sergeant grunted.
"I'll say he was. But I told him Mr. Markham might be here, and he said he'd come himself. He oughta be here pretty soon."
Vance rose and faced Kane.
"I think that will be all for the present, doctor. But I must ask you to remain until the Medical Examiner comes. You may be able to assist him. . . . Would you mind waiting in the drawing-room downstairs?"
"Certainly not." He bowed stiffly and went toward the door. "I'll be glad to help in any way I can."
When he had gone Vance turned to the two women.
"I'm sorry to have to ask you to remain up," he said, "but I'm afraid it's necess'ry. Will you be so good as to wait in your rooms." His voice, though mild and gracious, held an undertone of command.
Mrs. Llewellyn stood up and her eyes blazed.
"Why can't I go to my son?" she demanded. "There's nothing more I can do here. I know nothing at all about this affair."
"You cannot help your son," Vance replied firmly; "and you may be able to help us. I'll be glad, however, to get the hospital's report for you."
He went to the telephone on the night-stand; and a minute later he was talking with Doctor Rogers. When he had replaced the receiver he turned to Mrs. Llewellyn encouragingly.
"Your son has come out of his coma, madam," he reported. "And he is breathing more normally; his pulse is stronger; and he seems to be out of danger. You will be notified immediately if there should be any change for the worse."
Mrs. Llewellyn, holding her handkerchief close to her face, went out sobbing.
Amelia Llewellyn did not go at once. She waited till the door had closed behind her mother, and then looked at Vance questioningly.
"Why," she asked in a dead, metallic voice, "did you ask D
octor Kane if he used a typewriter?"
Vance took out the letter that had brought him into the affair, and handed it to her without a word. He watched her closely with half-closed eyes as she read it. A troubled frown settled over her face, but she showed no surprise. When she had come to the end she slowly and deliberately refolded the letter and handed it back to Vance.
"Thanks," she said, and turning, started toward the door to the passageway leading to her quarters.
"One moment, Miss Llewellyn." Vance's summoning voice halted her just as she placed her hand on the knob; and she faced the room again. "Do you, too, use a typewriter?"
The girl nodded lethargically.
"Oh, yes. I do all of my correspondence on a small typewriter I have. . . . However," she added, with a faint, weary smile, "I'm much more adept than the person who typed that letter."
"And are the other members of the household given to using the typewriter, too?" asked Vance.
"Yes--we're all quite modern." The girl spoke indifferently. "Even mother types her own lectures. And Uncle Dick, having been an author at one time, developed a rapid, but sloppy, two-fingered system."
"And your sister-in-law: did she use one?"
The girl's eyes turned toward the bed, and she winced.
"Yes. Virginia played around with the machine when Lynn was out gambling. . . . Lynn himself is quite proficient as a typist. He once attended a commercial school--probably thought he might be called on some time to handle the Llewellyn estate. But mother wasn't thinking along those lines; so he turned to night-clubs instead." (There was a curious detachment in her manner which I could not fathom at the time.)
"That leaves only Mr. Bloodgood--" Vance began; but the girl quickly interrupted him.
"He types, also." Her eyes darkened somewhat, and I felt that her attitude toward Bloodgood was not altogether a friendly one. "He typed most of his reports of that slot-machine affair he was connected with on our typewriter downstairs."
Vance raised his eyebrows slightly in mild interest.
"There is a typewriter downstairs?"
Again the girl nodded, and shrugged as if the matter was of no interest to her.
"There always has been one there--in the little library off the drawing-room."
"Do you think," asked Vance, "that the letter I showed you was typed on that machine?"
"It might have been." The girl sighed. "It's the same kind of type and the same color ribbon. . . . But there are so many like it."
"And perhaps," Vance pursued, "you could suggest who is the author of the communication."
Amelia Llewellyn's face clouded, and the hard look returned to her eyes.
"I could make several suggestions," she said in a dull angry tone. "But I have no intention of doing anything of the kind." And opening the door with decisive swiftness, she went from the room.
"You learned a hell of a lot!" snorted Heath with ponderous sarcasm. "This house is just a bunch of stenographers."
Vance regarded the Sergeant indulgently.
"I learned a good deal, don't y' know."
Heath shifted the cigar between his teeth and made a grimace.
"Maybe yes and maybe no," he rumbled. "The case is cock-eyed anyway, if you ask me.--Llewellyn getting poisoned at the Casino, and his wife having it handed to her here at the same time. Looks to me as if there was a gang at work."
"The same person could have accomplished both acts, Sergeant," Vance returned mildly. "In fact, I feel sure it was the same person. Furthermore, I think it was that person who sent me the letter. . . . Just a minute."
He walked to the night-stand, and, moving the telephone aside, picked up a small folded piece of paper.
"I saw this when I called the hospital," he explained. "But I purposely didn't look at it till the ladies should have left us."
He unfolded the paper and held it under the night-light on the table. From where I stood I could see that it was a single sheet of pale-blue note-paper, and that there was typing on it.
"Oh, my aunt!" Vance murmured, as he read it. "Amazin'! . . ."
At length he handed the paper to Markham, who held it so that Heath and I, who were standing at his side, could see it. It was an inexpertly typed note, and ran:
Dear Lynn--I cannot make you happy, and God knows, no one in this house has ever tried to make me happy. Uncle Dick is the only person here who has ever been civil or considerate toward me. I am not wanted here and am utterly miserable. I am going to poison myself.
Good-by--and may your new roulette system bring you the fortune that you seem to want more than you want anything else.
The signature, "Virginia," was also typewritten.
Markham folded the note and pursed his lips. He looked at Vance for a long time; then he remarked:
"That seems to simplify matters."
"Oh, my dear fellow!" Vance protested. "That note merely complicates the situation abominably."
CHAPTER V
POISON!
(Sunday, October 16; 2:15 a. m.)
At that moment Sullivan opened the door and admitted Doctor Doremus, a slight jaunty person with a businesslike, peppery air. He wore a tweed top-coat, and the brim of his pearl-gray felt hat was turned down rakishly on one side.
He greeted us with dramatic consternation, and then cocked an eye flippantly at Sergeant Heath.
"When you don't call me to see your corpses at meal time," he complained with falsetto ill-nature, "you wait till I'm sound asleep and then rout me out. No system . . . no system. It's a conspiracy to rob me of food and rest. I've aged twenty years since I took this job three years ago."
"You look young and snappy enough," grinned Heath. (He had long since become accustomed to the Medical Examiner's grousing.)
"Well, it's through no kindly consideration on the part of you babies in the Homicide Bureau, by Gad!" Doremus snapped. "Where's the body?" His eyes shot round the room and came to rest on the still figure of Virginia Llewellyn. "A lady, eh? What did she die of?"
"You tell us." Heath had suddenly become aggressive.
Doremus grunted; then, removing his hat and coat, he put them on a chair and approached the bed. For ten minutes he was examining the dead girl, and, once again, I was impressed by his competency and thoroughness. For all his nonchalant mannerisms and cynical attitude, he was a shrewd and efficient physician--one of the best and most conscientious medical examiners New York has ever had.
While Doremus was busy with his gruesome task Vance made a brief inspection of the room. He went first to the night-table on which stood a small silver water-service similar to the one in Kinkaid's office at the Casino. He picked up the two glasses and looked at them: they both seemed to be dry. He then took the stopper from the carafe, and inverted the bottle over one of the glasses. It was empty. Vance frowned as he set it back on the tray. After inspecting the interior of the little drawer in the table, he walked toward the bathroom door, which was half open, at the rear of the room.
As he passed Markham he commented in a low voice:
"The general service tonight has been abominable. Kinkaid's water carafe was empty; and so is the Lynn Llewellyns'. Queer, don't y' know. . . . Incidentally, the drawer in that table by the bed contains only a handkerchief, a pack of cards--for solitaire, no doubt,--a pencil and pad, a stick of lip pomade, and a pair of reading glasses. . . . Nothing lethal, as it were."
I followed Vance into the bathroom, for I knew that he had something definite in mind when he began his tour of inspection:--this fact was clearly indicated by his casual and lazy manner, which he invariably assumed in moments of highest tension.
The bathroom was quite a large one, thoroughly modernized, and had two small windows facing on the south court. The room was neatly arranged and everything was in order. Vance, after switching on the light, glanced about him searchingly. There was a small atomizer and a tube of bath tablets on one of the window sills.
Vance pressed the bulb of the atomizer and sniffed at the sp
ray.
"Derline's Fleur-de-lis, Van," he remarked. "Ideal for blondes." He read the label on the tube of bath tablets. "Also Derline's Fleur-de-lis. Quite consistent and correct. Alas, too many women make the fatal error of contrasting their bath perfume with their personal scent. . . ."
He opened the door of the medicine cabinet and looked inside. It contained only the usual items: cleansing creams and skin food, a bottle of hand lotion, toilet water, talcum and bath powders, a deodorant, a tube of tooth paste, dental floss, a thermometer, and the conventional array of medicinal preparations--iodin, aspirin, sodium bicarbonate, camphor, Dobell's solution, yellow throat mixture, glycerin, argyrol, aromatic spirits of ammonia, benzoin, milk of magnesia, bromide tablets, a standard eye-wash with its cup-shaped stopper, medicated alcohol, and so forth.
Vance spent considerable time scrutinizing each item. At length he took down a small brown bottle with a printed label, and, carefully adjusting his monocle, read the fine type of the formula. Then he slipped the bottle into his pocket, closed the cabinet door, and turned back into the bedroom.
Doctor Doremus was just putting the sheet back over the still form on the bed. He turned toward Heath with simulated truculence.
"Well, what about it?" he demanded irritably, spreading his hands in a gesture of inquiry. "She's dead--if that's what you want to know. And I have to be dragged out of the blankets at two in the morning to tell you that!"
Heath took his cigar slowly from between his teeth and glowered at the Medical Examiner.
"All right, doc," he said. "She's dead, says you. But how long has she been that way, and what killed her?"
"I knew that was coming," sighed Doremus, and then became professionally serious. "Well, Sergeant, she's been dead about two hours; and she was poisoned. . . . Now, I suppose you'll want me to tell you where she got the poison." And he leered at Heath.
Vance stepped between the two men.
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