"Vance!" It was Markham's stern voice that broke the silence. "Come down from there!"
Vance jumped down and turned to us.
"Frightfully sorry," he said. "Height does affect most people. I didn't realize." He looked at the girl. "Will you forgive me?..."
As he spoke Floyd Garden stepped out on the roof through the passageway door.
"Sorry, Vance," he apologized, "but Doc Siefert wants. Miss Beeton downstairs—if she feels equal to it. The mater is putting on one of her acts."
The nurse hurried away immediately, and Garden strolled up to Vance. He was again fussing with his pipe.
"A beastly mess," he mumbled. "And you've certainly put the fear of God and destruction into the hearts of the pious boys and girls here this afternoon. They all got the jitters after you talked with them." He looked up. "The fact is, Vance, if you should want to see Kroon or Zalia Graem or Madge Weatherby for any reason this evening, they'll be here. They've all asked to come. Must return to the scene of the crime, or something of that kind. Need mutual support. And, to tell you the truth, I'm damned glad they're coming. At least we can talk the thing over and drink highballs; and that's better than fussing and worrying about it all alone."
"Perfectly natural. Quite." Vance nodded. "I understand their feelings— and yours—perfectly...Beastly mess, as you say...And now suppose we go down."
Doctor Siefert met us at the foot of the stairs.
"I was just coming up for you, Mr. Vance. Mrs. Garden insists on seeing you gentlemen." Then he added in a low tone: "She's in a tantrum. A bit hysterical. Don't take anything she may say too seriously."
We entered the bedroom. Mrs. Garden, in a salmon-pink silk dressing-gown, was in bed, bolstered up by a collection of pillows. Her face was drawn and, in the slanting rays of the night-light, seemed flabby and unhealthy. Her eyes glared demoniacally as she looked at us, and her fingers clutched nervously at the quilt. Miss Beeton stood at the far side of the bed, looking down at her patient with calm concern; and Professor Garden leaned heavily against the window-sill opposite, his face a mask of troubled solicitude.
"I have something to say, and I want you all to hear it." Mrs. Garden's voice was shrill and strident. "My nephew has been killed today—and I know who did it!" She glared venomously at Floyd Garden who stood near the foot of the bed, his pipe hanging limply from the corner of his mouth. "You did it!" She pointed an accusing finger at her son. "You've always hated Woody. You've been jealous of him. No one else had any reason to do this despicable thing. I suppose I should lie for you and shield you. But to what end? So you could kill somebody else? Perhaps—perhaps even me, or your father. No! The time has come for the truth. You killed Woody, and I know you killed him. And I know why you did it..."
Floyd Garden stood through this tirade without moving and without perceptible emotion. He kept his eyes on his mother with cynical indifference. When she paused he took the pipe from his mouth and with a sad smile said:
"And why did I do it, mater?"
"Because you were jealous of him. Because you knew that I had divided my estate equally between you two—and you want it all for yourself. You always resented the fact that I loved Woody as well as you. And now you think that by having got Woody out of the way, you'll get everything when I die. But you're mistaken. You'll get nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing! Tomorrow I'm going to change my will." Her eyes were full of frantic gloating: she was like a woman who has suddenly gone out of her mind. "I'm going to change my will, do you understand? Woody's share will go to your father, with the stipulation that you will never get or inherit a dollar of it. And your share will go to charity." She laughed hysterically and beat the bed with her clenched fists.
Doctor Siefert had been watching the woman closely. He now moved a little nearer the bed.
"An ice-pack, immediately," he said to the nurse; and she went quickly from the room. Then he busied himself with his medicine case and deftly prepared a hypodermic injection.
"I won't let you give me that," the woman on the bed screamed. "There's nothing the matter with me. I'm tired of taking your drugs."
"Yes, I know. But you'll take this, Mrs. Garden." Doctor Siefert spoke with calm assurance.
The woman relaxed under his patient dictatorial scrutiny and permitted him to give her the injection. She lay back on the pillows, staring blankly at her son. The nurse returned to the room and arranged the ice-bag for her patient.
Doctor Siefert then quickly made out a prescription and turned to Miss Beeton.
"Have this filled at once. A teaspoonful every two hours until Mrs. Garden falls asleep."
Floyd Garden stepped forward and took the prescription.
"I'll phone the pharmacy," he said. "It'll take them only a few minutes to send it over." And he went out of the room.
After a few final instructions to Miss Beeton, the doctor led the way to the drawing-room, and the rest of us followed, leaving the nurse rearranging Mrs. Garden's pillows. Professor Garden, who during the painful scene had stood with his back to us, gazing out of the window into the night, still remained there, looking like a hunched gargoyle framed by the open casement.
As we passed the den door, we could hear Floyd Garden telephoning.
"I think Mrs. Garden will quiet down now," Doctor Siefert remarked to Vance when we reached the drawing-room. "As I told you, you mustn't take her remarks seriously when she's in this condition. She will probably have forgotten about it by tomorrow."
"Her bitterness, however, did not seem entirely devoid of rationality," Vance returned.
Siefert frowned but made no comment on Vance's statement. Instead he said in his quiet, well-modulated voice, as he sat down leisurely in the nearest chair: "This whole affair is very shocking. Floyd Garden gave me but few details when I arrived. Would you care to enlighten me further?"
Vance readily complied. He briefly went over the entire case, beginning with the anonymous telephone message he had received the night before. (Not by the slightest sign did the doctor indicate any previous knowledge of that telephone call. He sat looking at Vance with serene attentiveness, like a specialist listening to the case history of a patient.) Vance withheld no important detail from him. He explained about the races and the wagers, Swift's withdrawal to the roof, the actions of the other members of the party, the shot, the finding of Swift's body, the discoveries in the vault, the matter of the disconnected buzzer wires, the substance of his various interviews with the members of the Garden family and their guests, and, finally, the finding of the second revolver in the nurse's coat.
"And the rest," Vance concluded, "you yourself have witnessed."
Siefert nodded very slowly two or three times, as if to infer that he had received a clear and satisfactory picture of the events of the afternoon.
"A very serious situation," he commented gravely, as if making a diagnosis. "Some of the things you have told me seem highly significant. A shrewdly conceived murder—and a vicious one. Especially the hiding of the revolver in Miss Beeton's coat and the attempt on her life with the bromin gas in the vault. I don't understand that phase of the situation."
Vance looked up quickly.
"Do you understand any other phase of the situation?"
"No, no. I did not mean to imply that," Siefert hastened to answer. "I was merely thinking that while Swift's death could conceivably be explained on rational grounds, I fail to see any possible reason for this dastardly attempt to involve Miss Beeton and then to end her life."
"But I seriously doubt," said Vance, "that the revolver was put in Miss Beeton's coat pocket with any intention of incriminating her. I imagine it was to have been taken out of the house at the first opportunity. But I agree with you that the bromin episode is highly mystifyin'." Vance, without appearing to do so, was watching the doctor closely. "When you asked to see me on your arrival here this afternoon," he went on, "I was hoping that you might have some suggestion which, coming from one who is familiar with the domestic situati
on here, might put us on the track to a solution."
Siefert solemnly shook his head several times. "No, no. I am sorry, but I am completely at a loss myself. When I asked to speak to you and Mr. Markham it was because I was naturally deeply interested in the situation here and anxious to hear what you might have to say about it." He paused, shifted slightly in his chair, and then asked: "Have you formed any opinion from what you have been able to learn?"
"Yes. Oh, yes." Vance's gaze drifted from the doctor to the beautiful T'ang horse which stood on a nearby cabinet. "Frankly, however, I detest my opinion. I'd hate to be right about it. A sinister, unnatural conclusion is forcing itself upon me. It's sheer horror." He spoke with unwonted intensity.
Siefert was silent, and Vance turned to him again.
"I say, doctor, are you particularly worried about Mrs. Garden's condition?"
A cloud overspread Siefert's countenance, and he did not answer at once.
"It's a queer case," he said at length, with an obvious attempt at evasion. "As I recently told you, it has me deeply puzzled. I'm bringing Kattelbaum up tomorrow."[25]
"Yes. As you say. Kattelbaum." Vance looked at the doctor dreamily. "My anonymous telephone message last night mentioned radioactive sodium. But equanimity is essential. Yes. By all means. Not a nice case, doctor—not at all a nice case...And now I think we'll be toddlin'." Vance rose and bowed with formal brusqueness. Siefert also got up.
"If there is anything whatever that I can do for you...," he began.
"We may call on you later," Vance returned, and walked toward the archway.
Siefert did not follow us, but turned and moved slowly toward one of the front windows, where he stood looking out, with his hands clasped behind him. We re-entered the hallway and found Sneed waiting to help us with our coats.
We had just reached the door leading out of the apartment when the strident tones of Mrs. Garden's voice assailed us again. Floyd Garden was standing just inside the bedroom door, looking over at his mother.
"Your solicitude won't do you any good, Floyd," Mrs. Garden cried. "Being kind to me now, are you? Telephoning for the prescription—all attention and loving kindness. But don't think you're pulling the wool over my eyes. It won't make any difference. Tomorrow I change my will! Tomorrow..."
We continued on our way out, and heard no more.
But Mrs. Garden did not change her will. The following morning she was found dead in bed.
14. RADIOACTIVE SODIUM
(Sunday, April 15; 9 a.m.)
Shortly after nine o'clock the next morning there was a telephone call from Doctor Siefert. Vance was still abed when the telephone rang, and I answered it. (I had been up for several hours: the events of the preceding day had stirred me deeply, and I had been unable to sleep.) The doctor's voice was urgent and troubled when he asked that I summon Vance immediately. I had a premonition of further disaster as I roused Vance. He seemed loath to get up and complained cynically about people who rise early in the morning. But he finally slipped into his Chinese robe and sandals and, lighting a Régie, went protestingly into the anteroom.
It was nearly ten minutes before he came out again. His resentment had given way, and as he stepped across to the table and rang for Currie, there was a look of keen interest in his eyes.
"Breakfast at once," he ordered when his old butler appeared. "And put out a sombre suit and my black Homburg. And, by the by, Currie, a little extra coffee. Mr. Markham will be here soon and may want a cup."
Currie went out, and Vance turned back to his bedroom. At the door he stopped and turned to me with a curious look.
"Mrs. Garden was found dead in her bed this morning," he drawled. "Poison of some kind. I've phoned Markham, and we'll be going to the Garden apartment as soon as he comes. A bad business, Van,—very bad. There's too much betting going on in that house." And he went on into the bedroom.
Markham arrived within half an hour. In the meantime Vance had dressed and was finishing his second cup of coffee.
"What's the trouble now?" Markham demanded irritably, as he came into the library. "Perhaps now that I'm here, you'll be good enough to forgo your cryptic air."
"My dear Markham—oh, my dear Markham!" Vance looked up and sighed. "Do sit down and have a cup of coffee while I enjoy this cigarette. Really, y' know, it's deuced hard to be lucid on the telephone." He poured a cup of coffee, and Markham reluctantly sat down. "And please don't sweeten the coffee," Vance went on. "It has a delightfully subtle bouquet, and it would be a pity to spoil it with saccharine."
Markham, frowning defiantly, put three lumps of sugar in the cup.
"Why am I here?" he growled.
"A profoundly philosophical question," smiled Vance. "Unanswerable, however. Why are any of us here? Why anything? But, since we are all here without knowing the reason therefor, I'll pander to your pragmatism." He drew deeply on his cigarette and settled back lazily in his chair. "Siefert phoned me this morning, just before I called you. Explained he didn't know your private number at home and asked me to apologize to you for not notifying you direct."
"Notifying me?" Markham set down his cup.
"About Mrs. Garden. She's dead. Found so this morning in bed. Probably murdered."
"Good God!"
"Yes, quite. Not a nice situation. No. The lady died some time during the night—exact hour unknown as yet. Siefert says it might have been caused by an overdose of the sleeping medicine he prescribed for her. It's all gone. And he says there was enough of it to do the trick. On the other hand, he admits it might have been something else. He's very noncommittal. No external signs he can diagnose. Craves our advice and succor. Hence his summons."
Markham pushed his cup aside with a clatter and lighted a cigar.
"Where's Siefert now?" he asked.
"At the Gardens'. Very correct. Standing by, and all that. The nurse phoned him shortly after eight this morning—it was she who made the discovery when she took Mrs. Garden's breakfast in. Siefert hastened over and after viewing the remains and probing round a bit called me. Said that, in view of yesterday's events, he didn't wish to go ahead until we got there."
"Well, why don't we get along?" snapped Markham, standing up.
Vance sighed and rose slowly from his chair.
"There's really no rush. The lady can't elude us. And Siefert won't desert the ship. Moreover, it's a beastly hour to drag one out of bed. Y' know, Markham, an entertainin' monograph could be written about the total lack of consideration on the part of murderers. They think only of themselves. No fellow feelin'. Always upsettin' the normal routine. And they never declare a holiday—not even on a Sunday morning...However, as you say. Let's toddle."
"Hadn't we better notify Heath?" suggested Markham.
"Yes—quite," returned Vance, as we went out. "I called the Sergeant just after I phoned you. He's been up half the night working on the usual police routine. Stout fella, Heath. Amazin' industry. But quite futile. If only such energy led anywhere beyond steel filing cabinets. I always think tenderly of Heath as a perpetuator of archives..."
Miss Beeton admitted us to the Garden apartment. She looked drawn and worried, but she gave Vance a faint smile of greeting which he returned.
"I'm beginning to think this nightmare will never end, Mr. Vance," she said.
Vance nodded sombrely, and we went on into the drawing-room where Doctor Siefert, Professor Garden, and his son were awaiting us.
"I'm glad you've come, gentlemen," Siefert greeted us, coming forward.
Professor Garden sat at one end of the long davenport, his elbows resting on his knees, his face in his hands. He barely acknowledged our presence. Floyd Garden got to his feet and nodded abstractedly in our direction. A terrible change seemed to have come over him. He looked years older than when we had left him the night before, and his face, despite its tan, showed a greenish pallor. His eyes moved vaguely about the room; he was visibly shaken.
"What a hell of a situation!" he mumbled, focusing
watery eyes on Vance. "The mater accuses me last night of putting Woody out of the way, and then threatens to cut me off in her will. And now she's dead! And it was I who took charge of the prescription. The doc says it could have been the medicine that killed her."
Vance looked at the man sharply.
"Yes, yes," he said in a low, sympathetic tone. "I thought of all that, too, don't y' know. But it certainly won't help you to be morbid about it. How about a Tom Collins?"
"I've had four already," Garden returned dispiritedly, sinking back into his chair. But almost immediately he sprang to his feet again. He pointed a finger at Vance, and his eyes filled with apprehension and entreaty.
"For God's sake," he burst out, "it's up to you to find out the truth. I'm on the spot—what with my going out of the room with Woody yesterday, my failure to place his bet, then the mater's accusation, and that damned will of hers, and the medicine. You've got to find out who's guilty..."
As he was talking the door bell had rung, and Heath came up the hallway.
"Sure, we're gonna find out," came the pugnacious voice of the Sergeant from the archway. "And it ain't gonna be so well with you when we do."
Vance turned quickly round. "Oh, I say, Sergeant. Less animation, please. This is hardly the time. Too early in the morning." He went to Garden and, putting a hand on the man's shoulder, urged him back into his chair. "Come, buck up," he said; "we'll need your help, and if you work up a case of jitters you'll be useless."
"But don't you see how deeply involved I am?" Garden protested weakly.
"You're not the only one involved," Vance returned calmly. He turned to Siefert. "I think, doctor, we should have a little chat. Possibly we can get the matter of your patient's death straightened out a bit. Suppose we go upstairs to the study, what?"
As we stepped through the archway into the hall, I glanced back. Young Garden was staring after us with a hard, determined look. The professor had not moved, and took no more notice of our going than he had of our coming.
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