The woman was silent, but I thought I detected the suggestion of a faint smile on her old face.
Vance turned back from the window and stood before her.
"Mrs. Stamm," he said, with earnest significance, "we believe that we have discovered the place where the dragon hides his victims."
"If you have, sir," she returned, with a calmness that amazed me, "then you surely must know a great deal more than when you were last here."
"That is true," Vance nodded. Then he asked: "Weren't the glacial pot-holes what you had in mind when you spoke of the dragon's hiding-place?"
She smiled with enigmatic shrewdness.
"But if, as you say, you have discovered the hiding-place, why do you ask me about it now?"
"Because," Vance said quietly, "the pot-holes were discovered only recently—and, I understand, quite by accident."[14]
"But I knew of them when I was a child!" the woman protested. "There was nothing in this whole countryside that I did not know. And I know things about it now that none of you will ever know." She looked up quickly, and a strange apprehensive light came into her eyes. "Have you found the young man's body?" she asked, with new animation.
Vance nodded.
"Yes, we have found it."
"And weren't the marks of the dragon on it?" There was a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.
"There are marks on the body," said Vance. "And it lies in the large pot-hole at the foot of the cliff, near the Clove."
Her eyes flashed and her breath came faster, as if with suppressed excitement; and a hard, wild look spread over her face.
"Just as I told you, isn't it!" she exclaimed in a strained, high-pitched voice. "He was an enemy of our family—and the dragon killed him, and took him away and hid him!"
"But after all," Vance commented, "the dragon didn't do a very good job of hiding him. We found him, don't y' know."
"If you found him," the woman returned, "it was because the dragon intended you to find him."
Despite her words, a troubled look came into her eyes. Vance inclined his head and made a slight gesture with his hand, which was both an acceptance and a dismissal of her words.
"Might I ask, Mrs. Stamm,"—Vance spoke with casual interest—"why it was that the dragon himself was not found in the pool when it was drained?"
"He flew away this morning at dawn," the woman said. "I saw him when he rose into the air, silhouetted against the first faint light in the eastern sky. He always leaves the pool after he has killed an enemy of the Stamms—he knows the pool will be drained."
"Is your dragon in the pool now?"
She shook her head knowingly.
"He comes back only at dusk when there are deep shadows over the land."
"You think he will return tonight?"
She lifted her head and stared past us inscrutably, a tense, fanatical look on her face.
"He will come back tonight," she said slowly, in a hollow, sing-song tone. "His work is not yet completed." (She was like the rapt priestess of some ancient cult pronouncing a prophecy; and a shiver ran over me at her words.)
Vance, unimpressed, studied the strange creature before him for several seconds.
"When will he complete his work?" he asked.
"All in good time," she returned with a cold, cruel smirk; then added oracularly: "Perhaps tonight."
"Indeed! That's very interestin'." Vance did not take his eyes from her. "And, by the by, Mrs. Stamm," he went on, "in what way is the dragon concerned with the family vault across the pool yonder?"
"The dragon," the woman declared, "is the guardian of our dead as well as our living."
"Your son tells me that you have the key to the vault, and that no one else knows where it is."
She smiled cunningly.
"I have hidden it," she said, "so that no one can desecrate the bodies that lie entombed there."
"But," pursued Vance, "I understand that you wish to be placed in the vault when you die. How, if you have hidden the key, can that wish of yours be carried out?"
"Oh, I have arranged for that. When I die the key will be found—but only then."
Vance asked no further questions, but took his leave of this strange woman. I could not imagine why he had wanted to see her. Nothing seemed to have been gained by the interview: it struck me as both pathetic and futile, and I was relieved when we returned down-stairs and went into the drawing-room.
Markham evidently felt as I did, for the first question he put to Vance, when we were alone, was:
"What was the sense of bothering that poor deluded woman again? Her babbling about the dragon is certainly not going to help us."
"I'm not so sure, old dear." Vance sank into a chair, stretched his legs, and looked up to the ceiling. "I have a feelin' that she may hold the key to the mystery. She is a shrewd woman, despite her hallucinations about a dragon inhabiting the pool. She knows much more than she will tell. And, don't forget, her window overlooks the pool and the East Road. She wasn't in the least upset when I told her we had found Montague in one of the pot-holes. And I received a distinct impression from her that, although she has built up a romantic illusion about the dragon, which has unquestionably unbalanced her mind, she is carrying the illusion much further than her own convictions—as if she wishes to emphasize the superstition of the dragon. It may be she is endeavorin', with some ulterior motive, to throw us off the track and, through a peculiar protective mechanism, to cover up a wholly rational fact upon which she thinks we may have stumbled."
Markham nodded thoughtfully.
"I see what you mean. I got that same impression from her myself during her fantastic recital of the dragon's habits. But the fact remains that she seems to harbor a definite belief in the dragon."
"Oh, quite. And she firmly believes that the dragon lives in the pool and protects the Stamms from all enemies. But another element has entered into her projection of the dragon myth—something quite human and intimate. I wonder. . . ." Vance's voice trailed off and, settling deeper in his chair, he smoked meditatively for several minutes.
Markham moved uneasily.
"Why," he asked, frowning, "did you bring up the subject of the key to the vault?"
"I haven't the faintest notion," Vance admitted frankly, but there was a far-away, pensive look on his face. "Maybe it was because of the proximity of the vault to the low ground, on the other side of the pool, to which the imprints led." He lifted himself up and regarded the ash on his cigarette for a moment. "That mausoleum fascinates me. It's situated at a most strategic point. It's like the apex of a salient, so to speak."
"What salient?" Markham was annoyed. "From all the evidence, no one emerged from the pool along that low stretch of ground; and the body was found far away—chucked into a pot-hole."
Vance sighed.
"I can't combat your logic, Markham. It's unassailable. The vault doesn't fit in at all. . . . Only," he added wistfully, "I do wish it had been built on some other part of the estate. It bothers me no end. It's situated, d' ye see, almost on a direct line between the house here and the gate down the East Road. And along that line is the plot of low ground which is the only means of egress from the pool."
"You're talking nonsense," Markham said hotly. "You'll be babbling next of relativity and the bending of light rays."
"My dear Markham—my very dear Markham!" Vance threw away his cigarette and stood up. "I emerged from the interstellar spaces long ago. I'm toddling about in a realm of mythology, where the laws of physics are abrogated and where unearthly monsters hold sway. I've become quite childlike, don't y' know."
Markham gave Vance a quizzical perturbed look. Whenever Vance took this frivolous attitude in the midst of a serious discussion, it meant only one thing: that his mind was operating along a very definite line of ratiocination—that he had, in fact, found some ray of light in the darkness of the situation and was avoiding the subject until he had penetrated its beams to their source. Markham realized this, and dropped the
matter forthwith.
"Do you," he asked, "wish to pursue the investigation now, or wait until the Medical Examiner has made his examination of Montague's body?"
"There are various things I should like to do now," Vance returned, "I want to ask Leland a question or two. I crave verbal intercourse with young Tatum. And I'm positively longin' to inspect Stamm's collection of tropical fish—oh, principally the fish. Silly—eh, what?"
Markham made a wry face and beat a nervous tattoo on the arm of his chair.
"Which shall it be first?" he asked with ungracious resignation.
Vance rose and stretched his legs.
"Leland. The man is full of information and pertinent suggestions."
Heath rose with alacrity and went to fetch him.
Leland looked troubled when he came into the drawing-room.
"Greeff and Tatum almost came to blows a moment ago," he told us. "They accused each other of having something to do with Montague's disappearance. And Tatum intimated strongly that Greeff had not been sincere in his search for Montague in the pool last night. I do not know what he was driving at, but Greeff became livid with anger, and only the combined efforts of Doctor Holliday and myself prevented him from attacking Tatum."
"That's most revealin'," murmured Vance. "By the by, have Stamm and Greeff reconciled their differences?"
Leland shook his head slowly.
"I am afraid not. There has been bad blood between them all day. Stamm meant all the things he said to Greeff last night—he was just in the frame of mind to let down the barriers of his emotions and blurt the truth—or rather, what he believed to be the truth. I do not pretend to understand the relationship. Sometimes I feel that Greeff has a hold of some kind on Stamm, and that Stamm has reason to fear him. However, that is mere speculation."
Vance walked to the window and looked out into the brilliant sunlight.
"Do you happen to know," he asked, without turning, "what Mrs. Stamm's sentiments toward Greeff are?"
Leland started slightly and stared speculatively at Vance's back.
"Mrs. Stamm does not like Greeff," he returned. "I heard her warn Stamm against him less than a month ago."
"You think she regards Greeff as an enemy of the Stamms?"
"Undoubtedly—though the reason for her prejudice is something I do not understand. She knows a great deal, however, that the other members of the household little suspect."
Vance slowly turned from the window and walked back to the fireplace.
"Speaking of Greeff," he said, "how long was he actually in the pool during the search for Montague?"
Leland seemed taken aback by the question.
"Really, I could not say. I dived in first and Greeff and Tatum followed suit. . . . It might have been ten minutes—perhaps longer."
"Did Greeff keep within sight of every one during the entire time?"
A startled look came into Leland's face.
"No, he did not," he returned with great seriousness. "He dived once or twice, as I recall, and then swam across to the shallow water below the cliffs. I remember his calling to me from the darkness there, and telling me he had found nothing. Tatum remembered the episode a while ago—it was doubtless the basis for his accusing Greeff of having a hand in Montague's disappearance." The man paused and then slowly shook his head, as if throwing off an unpleasant conclusion that had forced itself upon him. "But I think Tatum is wrong. Greeff is not a good swimmer, and I imagine he felt safer with his feet on the ground. It was natural for him to go to the shallow water."
"How long after Greeff called to you did he return to this side of the pool?"
Leland hesitated.
"I really do not remember. I was frightfully upset, and the actual chronology of events during that time was confused. I recall only that when I eventually gave up the search and climbed back on the retaining wall, Greeff followed shortly afterwards. Tatum, by the way, was the first out of the water. He had been drinking a lot, and was not in the best condition. He seemed pretty well exhausted."
"But Tatum did not swim across the pool?"
"Oh, no. He and I kept in touch the whole time. I will say this for him—little as I like him: he showed considerable courage and stamina during our search for Montague; and he kept his head."
"I'm looking forward to talking with Tatum. Y' know, I haven't seen him yet. Your description of him rather prejudiced me against him, and I was hopin' to avoid him entirely. But now he has added new zest to the affair. . . . Battling with Greeff, what? Fancy that. Greeff is certainly no persona grata in this domicile. No one loves him. Sad . . . sad. . . ."
Vance sat down again and lighted another cigarette. Leland watched him curiously but said nothing. Vance looked up after a while and asked abruptly:
"What do you know of the key to the vault?"
I expected Leland to show some astonishment at this question, but his stoical expression did not change: he seemed to regard Vance's query as both commonplace and natural.
"I know nothing of it," he said, "except what Stamm told me. It was lost years ago, but Mrs. Stamm claims that she has hidden it. I have not seen it since I was quite a young man."
"Ah! You have seen it, then. And you would know it if you saw it again?"
"Yes, the key is quite unmistakable," Leland returned. "The bow was of curious scroll-work, somewhat Japanese in design. The stem was very long—perhaps six inches—and the bit was shaped like a large 'S.' In the old days the key was always kept hanging on a hook over Joshua Stamm's desk in the den. . . . Mrs. Stamm may or may not know where it is now. But does it really matter?"
"I suppose not," Vance murmured. "And I'm most grateful to you for your help. The Medical Examiner, as you know, is on his way here, and I'd jolly well like to have a few words with Tatum in the interim. Would you mind asking him to come here?"
"I am glad to do anything I can to help." Leland bowed and left the room.
12. INTERROGATIONS
(Sunday, August 12; 3 p.m.)
Kirwin Tatum was a man in his early thirties, slender, wiry and loose-jointed. His face was thin and skeleton-like, and, as he stood at the drawing-room door that Sunday afternoon, staring at us, there was a bloodless, haggard look in his expression, which may have been the result of fright or of the ravages of his recent dissipation. But there was a sullen craftiness in his eyes which was almost vulpine. His blond hair, heavily pomaded, was brushed straight back from a peaked forehead with sloping parietals. From one corner of his feral thin-lipped mouth a cigarette drooped. He was dressed in sport clothes of gay and elaborate design; and a heavy gold chain bracelet hung loosely on his left wrist. He stood in the doorway for several minutes, gazing at us shiftily, his long spatulate fingers moving nervously at his sides. That he was uneasy and afraid was apparent.
Vance regarded him with critical coldness, as he might have inspected some specimen in a laboratory. Then he waved his hand toward a chair beside the table.
"Come in and sit down, Tatum." His tone was at once condescending and peremptory.
The man moved forward with a shambling gait, and threw himself into the chair with affected nonchalance.
"Well, what do you want?" he asked, with a show of spirit, glancing about the room.
"I understand you play the piano," remarked Vance.
Tatum ceased fidgeting and looked up with smouldering anger.
"Say, what is this—a game of some kind?"
Vance nodded gravely.
"Yes—and a dashed serious game. You were a bit unsettled, we have been told, by the disappearance of your rival, Mr. Montague."
"Unsettled?" Tatum nervously relighted his cigarette which had gone out. Vance had thrown him off his guard, and his deliberate and prolonged pause patently indicated that he was endeavoring to readjust his equilibrium. "Well, why not? But I haven't been shedding crocodile tears over Monty, if that's what you mean. He was a rotter, and it's just as well, for everybody, that he is out of the way."
"Do you think he will ever return?" asked Vance casually.
Tatum made an unpleasant noise in his throat, which was probably intended to be a scornful laugh.
"No, he won't show up again—because he can't. You don't think he planned the disappearance himself, do you? He didn't have enough sense—or courage. It meant going out of the limelight; and Monty couldn't live or breathe unless he was in the limelight. . . . Somebody got him!"
"Who do you think it was?"
"How should I know?"
"Do you think it was Greeff?"
Tatum's eyes half closed, and a cold, hard look spread over his drawn face.
"It might have been Greeff," the man said between his teeth. "He had ample reason."
"And didn't you yourself have 'ample reason'?" Vance returned quietly.
"Plenty." A ferocious smile came to Tatum's lips, then faded immediately away. "But I'm in the clear. You can't pin anything on me." He leaned forward and fixed Vance with his eyes. "I'd hardly got into my bathing suit when the fellow jumped from the spring-board, and I even went into the pool myself and tried to find him when he failed to come up. I was with the rest of the party all the time. You can ask them."
"We shall, no doubt," Vance murmured. "But if you are so immaculately free from suspicion, how can you suggest that Greeff may have had a hand in Montague's mysterious fading from the scene? He seems to have followed very much the same course you did."
"Oh, yes?" Tatum retorted, with cynical scorn. "The hell he did! . . ."
"You refer, I take it," said Vance mildly, "to the fact that Greeff swam to the opposite side of the pool into the shallow water."
"Oh, you know that, do you?" Tatum looked up shrewdly. "But do you know what he was doing during the fifteen minutes when no one could see him?"
Vance shook his head.
"I haven't the groggiest notion. . . . Have you?"
"He might have been doing almost anything," Tatum returned, with a sly nod.
"Such as draggin' Montague's body out of the pool?"
"And why not?"
"But the only place where he could have emerged from the water was devoid of any footprints. That fact was checked both last night and this morning."
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