"Greeff's gardenia, I imagine." Vance's tone was low and held a faint undercurrent of sinister awe. "You remember he wore one yesterday afternoon when we talked with him. And there was no gardenia in his coat lapel when we found him in the pot-hole this morning!"
CHAPTER XVII
THE DUPLICATED DEATH
(Monday, August 13; 11.15 a. m.)
We came out of the chilly dank vault into the hot sunlight, and there was something benign and steadying in the vista of trees and shrubbery and the intimate, familiar objects of the outdoors.
"I think that will be all for the present," Vance said, in a curiously hushed voice, as he locked the ponderous iron door and dropped the key into his pocket. He turned, a deep frown on his forehead, and started back toward the house. "Bloodstains and a gardenia! My word!"
"But, Vance," protested Markham, "those marks on Greeff's body:--surely Greeff wasn't in the pool last night. His clothes were perfectly dry and showed no signs of having been wetted--"
"I know what's in your mind," Vance interrupted. "And you're quite right. Even if Greeff was murdered in the vault, the same cannot be said of Montague. That's the confusin' part of it. . . . But let's wait a bit before we speculate." He made a slight gesture, as if to request silence, and continued his way across the coping of the filter.
When we had reached the south side of the pool and were about to mount the steps leading to the house, I happened to glance up. On the third-floor balcony sat old Mrs. Stamm, her elbows on the railing and her head buried between her hands. Behind her stood the imperturbable Mrs. Schwarz, gazing down at her.
Then suddenly there came drifting out of the library windows the blurred, cacophonic strains of a popular dance tune played fortissimo on the piano; and I assumed that Tatum was endeavoring to throw off the depressing pall that hung over the old house. But as suddenly as the raucous music had begun, it ceased; and at this moment Vance, who was leading the way up the steps, turned and spoke, with the air of one who had made a final decision on some moot and difficult problem.
"It would be best to say nothing to any one about our visit to the vault. The right time has not come yet." His eyes were troubled as they rested on Markham. "I can't fit the pattern together yet. But something horrible is going on here, and there's no telling what might happen if what we have just discovered became known."
He gazed at his cigarette speculatively, as if trying to make another decision. At length he added:
"I think, however, we had better speak to Leland about it. He knows we found the key to the vault. . . . Yes, we had better tell Leland. And there's always the chance that he may have some explanation that will help us."
When we entered the house Leland was standing in the front hall, near the stairs. He turned quickly and looked at us uneasily.
"I had to leave the library," he explained, as if his presence in the hall required an apology. "Tatum started playing the piano. I am afraid I was a bit rough with him."
"He can endure it, I imagine," Vance murmured. "Anyway, I'm glad you're here. I wanted to ask you something about Tatum."
He led the way into the drawing-room.
"Did Tatum, by any chance," he inquired when we were seated, "accompany Stamm on any of his fishing or treasure-hunting expeditions?"
Leland looked up slowly, and there was a flicker of astonishment in his eyes.
"Funny you should ask that." His voice, though drab, was pitched a little higher than usual. "The truth is, Tatum did ship along with us to Cocos Island--an uncle of his, I believe, helped finance the trip. But he could not stick it out. He went all to pieces in the deadly climate there--too much alcohol, I imagine. We tried him on under-sea work for a while, but it was no go. He was just a burden to the expedition. We finally hailed a whaler and sent him to Costa Rica, where he picked up a liner back to the States."
Vance nodded abstractedly and dropped the subject. Slowly he took his cigarette case from his pocket, chose a Régie with intent deliberation, and lighted it.
"We've been to the Stamm vault, Mr. Leland," he remarked, without looking up.
Leland glanced at Vance sideways, took his pipe from his mouth, and said indifferently: "I imagined as much. I have never been inside it myself. The usual thing, I suppose?"
"Quite the usual thing," Vance concurred. He looked up casually and smoked for a moment. "One or two little points of interest, however. There was a bit of blood on the floor--and the gardenia Greeff wore yesterday. Otherwise quite conventional."
Leland stiffened in his chair and then leaned forward. Presently he rose to his feet--it was obvious that he was deeply perturbed. He stood for several moments, gazing down at the floor.
"You found nothing else of an unusual nature?" he asked at last in a strained tone, without lifting his head.
"No," Vance replied, "nothing else. Do you feel that we overlooked something? There are no hidden nooks, y' know."
Leland glanced up quickly and shook his head with unwonted vigor.
"No, no, of course not. My query had no significance. I was merely shocked by what you told me. I cannot imagine what your discoveries portend."
"Could you not offer some explanation?" Vance asked quietly. "We would be most grateful for a suggestion."
Leland appeared bewildered.
"I have nothing to suggest," he said, in a low colorless tone. "I would be only too glad. . . ." His voice trailed off and he stared again at the floor, as if weighing the possibilities of the situation.
"By the by," Vance went on, "that creaking noise you heard last night--as of one piece of metal against another I believe you expressed it:--might that have been the creaking of the iron hinges of the vault door?"
"It is quite possible," Leland returned, without taking his troubled gaze from the carpet. Then he added: "The sound certainly seemed to come from just that point."
Vance studied the man for some time without speaking. Then he said:
"Thanks awfully. . . . I'd like to have a bit of a chat with Tatum. Would you mind asking him to come here? . . . Oh, and please don't make any mention to him--or to any of the others--for the present, of what you have just learned."
Leland moved uneasily, drew himself together, and studied Vance inquisitively.
"As you wish," he answered, and hesitated. "You found the key to the vault in Tatum's room:--do you think, perhaps, it was he who went to the vault last night?"
"I really couldn't say," Vance replied coldly.
Leland turned and started from the room; but he halted at the portières and looked round.
"May I inquire," he asked, "whether you left the vault door unlocked?"
"I took the precaution of relocking it," Vance informed him, in an offhand manner. After a slight pause he added: "I have the key in my pocket. I intend to keep it until this investigation is brought to a satisfact'ry close."
Leland regarded him for a moment in silence. Then he nodded slowly.
"I am glad of that. I think that is wise." He turned and walked across the hall toward the library.
When Tatum entered the drawing-room it was obvious that he was in a sullen, defiant mood. He did not greet any of us, but stood inside the door, looking us over with smouldering, cynical eyes.
Vance rose as he entered the room and, moving to the centre-table, beckoned to him peremptorily. When the man had swaggered to the table Vance took the vault key from his pocket and laid it down before the other's gaze.
"Did you ever see that key?" he asked.
Tatum looked at the key with a smirk, studied it for a few moments, and shrugged.
"No, I never saw it before," he replied flatly. "Any mystery attached to it?"
"A bit of a mystery," Vance told him, picking up the key and resuming his seat. "We found it in your room this morning."
"Maybe it's the key to the situation," Tatum sneered, with cold, half-closed eyes.
"Yes, yes, of course. . . . Quite." Vance smiled faintly. "But, as I've said, it was found in yo
ur room."
The man smoked a minute, without moving. Then he raised his hand and took his cigarette from his lips. (I particularly noted that his fingers were as steady as steel.)
"What of it?" he asked, with exaggerated indifference. "You will probably find plenty of junk in the rooms of this rotting old house." He turned to Vance with a hard mirthless smile which barely contorted the corners of his mouth. "You know, I don't live here--I'm only a guest. Am I supposed to be frightened, or have the jitters, or go into hysterics, because you found an old rusty key in my room upstairs?"
"Oh, no, nothing like that," Vance assured him lightly. "You're acting in the most highly approved manner."
"Well, where do we go from here?" Tatum's tone was contemptuous.
"Figuratively speaking, we go to the vault." Vance spoke with unusual mildness.
Tatum appeared puzzled. "What vault?"
"The ancestral vault of the Stamms."
"And where might that be?"
"Just the other side of the pool, hidden in the spruce trees, beyond the little cement walk."
Again Tatum's eyes narrowed, and the contours of his face formed into a rigid defensive mask.
"Are you trying to spoof me?" he asked, in a metallic voice.
"No, no," Vance assured him. "I'm merely answering your question. . . . I say, don't you know about the vault?"
Tatum shifted his eyes and grinned.
"Never saw it and never heard of it." Suddenly he wheeled round, crushed out his cigarette, and glared truculently at Vance. "What's the idea?" he demanded. (His nerves seemed to have snapped.) "Are you trying to pin something on me?"
Vance studied the man indifferently for a while and then shook his head.
"Not even a gardenia," he replied sweetly.
Tatum started, and his eyes closed to mere slits.
"I know what you mean by that!" His face paled, and his long flat fingers began to twitch. "Greeff was wearing a gardenia last night, wasn't he? Maybe you're going to tell me that you also found a gardenia in my room."
Vance seemed puzzled for a moment at the man's words, but in an instant his face cleared.
"No," he said, "the gardenia was not in your room. But really, y' know, the possible presence of Greeff's posy in your boudoir shouldn't be so upsetting--unless, of course, Greeff has met with foul play."
Another grim, ironic smile moved the muscles of Tatum's mouth.
"He met with foul play all right--the same as Montague. Greeff didn't run away; and there are too many people round here that would be glad to see him smeared out."
"And you're one of those people, aren't you?" Vance returned dulcetly.
"Sure I am." Tatum thrust out his jaw, and his eyes became venomous. "But that doesn't mean that I did it."
"No, that doesn't mean that you did it." Vance rose and waved his hand in dismissal. "That will be all for the present. But, if I were you, I would control my musical impulses. Leland might decide that you too were due for a bit of killin'."
Tatum grinned viciously.
"That half-breed!" And, with an awkward gesture of contempt, he went from the room.
"A hard-bitten character," Markham commented when the man was out of hearing.
"True," Vance nodded. "But shrewd."
"It seems to me," said Markham, rising, and pacing nervously up and down, "that if we could learn who managed to get the vault key from old Mrs. Stamm's trunk, we'd know a lot more about the deviltry that went on here last night."
Vance shook his head.
"I doubt if the key has been in the trunk for years. It may never have been there, Markham. The hiding of the key, and all the secrecy, may be just another hallucination on Mrs. Stamm's part--an hallucination closely connected with the dragon. . . ."
"But why, in Heaven's name, was the key in Tatum's room? Tatum struck me as telling the truth when he said he'd never seen it before."
Vance gave Markham a quick, curious look.
"The chap was certainly convincing. . . ."
Markham halted and looked down at Vance.
"I can't see any way of tackling this case," he remarked despondently. "Every factor in it that we try to touch turns out to be a sort of Fata Morgana. There's nothing tangible to take hold of. The situation even precludes plausible theorizing."
"Don't give way to discouragement, old dear," Vance consoled him. "It's not as Cimmerian as it appears. The whole difficulty is that we've been attacking the problem from a too rational and ordin'ry point of view. We've been trying to make a conventional peg fit into a sinister and bizarre hole. There are extr'ordin'ry elements in this case. . . ."
"Damn it, Vance!" Markham uttered the expletive with unwonted passion. "You're not reverting to that incredible dragon theory, I hope."
Before Vance could reply there was the sound of a car swinging into the parking-space before the house; and a minute later Snitkin threw open the front door and led Doctor Doremus into the drawing-room.
"Another body, eh?" the Medical Examiner grumbled, with a casual wave of the hand in greeting.
"Can't you get all of your corpses together at one time, Sergeant? . . . Well, where is it? And what's all the excitement?" He grinned at Heath with sardonic good-humor. "Your dragon again?"
Vance rose.
"It looks that way," he said soberly.
"What!" Doremus was puzzled. "Well, where's the new victim?"
"In the same pot-hole." Vance took his hat and went into the hall.
Doremus squinted, and followed without a word.
The Sergeant ordered Snitkin to join us, and once again we drove round the house and down the East Road. At the pot-holes we stood back while Doremus looked over the wall into the shallow chasm beyond. After a cursory glance he slid back to the ground, and turned to us. There was a strange, startled look on his face: he had completely lost his cynicism and jauntiness.
"Good Gad! Good Gad!" he repeated. "What kind of a case is this?" He compressed his lips and made a jerky motion in Heath's direction. "Get him out," he ordered in a strained tone.
Snitkin and the Sergeant lifted Greeff's body from the pot-hole and laid it on the ground.
After a brief examination Doremus stood up and looked toward Markham.
"The same as that fellow yesterday," he said. "Same wounds exactly. Same fracture of the skull; same three scratches down his chest; same discoloration on his throat. Ripped wide open, bashed over the left side of the head, and strangled. . . . Only," he added, "he hasn't been dead as long as the other one." He made a grimace at Heath. "That's what you want to know, isn't it?"
"How would twelve o'clock last night fit?" asked Vance.
"Midnight, eh?" Doremus bent down over Greeff's body and again tested the rigor mortis. "That'd make it about twelve hours. . . . Right." He stood up and wrote out a removal blank. As he handed it to the Sergeant he said: "There was nothing found at the autopsy of the other fellow that changed what I told you yesterday, but you'd better get this one down to the morgue right away--I'll have time this afternoon to autopsy him." (I had never seen Doremus so serious.) "And I'm driving back again by Payson Avenue. I'm getting to believe in that dragon of yours, Sergeant. . . . Damn queer," he muttered, as he walked to the road and got into his car. "That's no way to kill a man. And two of 'em! . . . I saw that stuff in the morning papers about Dragonfish.* Good Gad, what a story!" He released the brakes, letting his car roll down the road, and drove off toward Spuyten Duyvil.
* The papers that day had carried spectacular accounts of Montague's murder; and the reporters had let their imaginations run riot over the possibilities of an actual aquatic monster having caused his death. A zoologist from one of the local universities had been interviewed and had expressed the opinion that such an explanation could not be scientifically refuted because of our scant knowledge of submarine life.
Leaving Snitkin to watch Greeff's body, we returned to the house.
"And now what's to be done?" Markham asked hopelessly, as we
entered the front door.
"Oh, that's clearly indicated, don't y' know," Vance replied. "I'm going to take a peep at Stamm's fish collection. Really, you'd better come along. Tropicals are fascinatin', Markham." He turned to Trainor, who had taken Snitkin's place at the door. "Ask Mr. Stamm if we may see him."
Trainor glared at Vance fearfully; then drew himself up rigidly and went down the hall.
"See here, Vance," Markham protested irritably, "what's the point of this? We have serious work to do, and you talk of inspecting a fish collection! Two men have been murdered--"
"I'm sure," Vance interrupted, "that you'll find the fish highly educational. . . ."
At this moment Stamm came out from the library and strode toward us.
"Would you be so good as to act as our cicerone, among your aquaria?" Vance asked him.
Stamm evinced considerable surprise.
"Why, yes," he said, with an intonation of forced politeness. "Of course--of course. I'd be delighted. Come this way." And he turned and walked back toward the library.
CHAPTER XVIII
PISCATORIAL LORE
(Monday, August 13; 12.15 p. m.)
The library was an unusually large room, severely but comfortably furnished in the Jacobean style, with great tiers of books reaching from the floor to the ceiling. There were windows to the east and west, and, in the north wall, facing us, was a large archway which led to the aquaria and terrarium beyond.
Leland was sitting on the davenport with one of the volumes of the Eumorphopoulos collection of ceramics on his knees. In one corner, at a small card-table, sat Mrs. McAdam and Tatum, a cribbage board between them. There was no one else in the room. All three looked up curiously as we entered, but made no comment.
Stamm led the way across the library and into the first aquarium. This room was even larger than the library, and had an enormous skylight as well as a row of high windows along both walls to the east and west. Beyond, through a second archway was still another aquarium, similar to the first; and beyond that was the terrarium with windows on three sides.
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