The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  The heavy silence that followed was broken by Heath.

  “If you’re right, Mr. Vance, then that lets Sperling out.” The Sergeant made even this qualified admission reluctantly; but it showed that Vance’s argument had not been without its effect on him. He turned desperately to the District Attorney. “What do you think we’d better do, sir?”

  Markham was still battling against the acceptance of Vance’s theory, and he did not answer. Presently, however, he reseated himself at his desk and drummed with his fingers upon the blotter. Then, without looking up, he asked:

  “Who’s in charge of the Sprigg case, Sergeant?”

  “Captain Pitts. The local men at the 68th-Street Station grabbed it first; but when the news was relayed to the Bureau, Pitts and a couple of our boys went up to look into it. Pitts got back just before I came over here. Says it’s a washout. But Inspector Moran88 told him to stay with it.”

  Markham pressed the buzzer beneath the edge of his desk, and Swacker, his youthful secretary, appeared at the swinging door that led to the clerical room between the District Attorney’s private office and the main waiting-room.

  “Get Inspector Moran on the wire,” he ordered.

  When the connection had been made he drew the telephone toward him and spoke for several minutes.

  When he had replaced the receiver, he gave Heath a weary smile.

  “You’re now officially handling the Sprigg case, Sergeant. Captain Pitts will be here presently, and then we’ll know where we stand.” He began looking through a pile of papers before him. “I’ve got to be convinced,” he added half-heartedly, “that Sprigg and Robin are tied up in the same sack.”

  Pitts, a short, stocky man, with a lean, hard face and a black tooth-brush moustache, arrived ten minutes later. He was, I learned afterwards, one of the most competent men in the Detective Division. His specialty was “white-collar” gangsters. He shook hands with Markham and gave Heath a companionable leer. When introduced to Vance and me he focussed suspicious eyes on us and bowed grudgingly. But as he was about to turn away his expression suddenly changed.

  “Mr. Philo Vance, is it?” he asked.

  “Alas! So it seems, Captain,” Vance sighed.

  Pitts grinned and, stepping forward, held out his hand.

  “Glad to meet you, sir. Heard the Sergeant speak of you often.”

  “Mr. Vance is helping us unofficially with the Robin case, Captain,” explained Markham; “and since this man Sprigg was killed in the same neighborhood we thought we’d like to hear your preliminary report on the affair.” He took out a box of Corona Perfectos, and pushed it across the desk.

  “You needn’t put the request that way, sir.” The Captain smiled, and selecting a cigar held it to his nose with a kind of voluptuous satisfaction. “The Inspector told me you had some ideas about this new case, and wanted to take it on. To tell you the truth, I’m glad to get rid of it.” He sat down leisurely, and lighted his cigar. “What would you like to know, sir?”

  “Let us have the whole story,” said Markham.

  Pitts settled himself comfortably.

  “Well, I happened to be on hand when the case came through—a little after eight this morning—and I took a couple of the boys and beat it uptown. The local men were on the job, and an assistant Medical Examiner arrived the same time I did.…”

  “Did you hear his report, Captain?” asked Vance.

  “Sure. Sprigg was shot through the top of the head with a .32. No signs of a struggle—no bruises or anything. Nothing fancy. Just a straight shooting.”

  “Was he lying on his back when found?”

  “That’s right. Stretched out nice and pretty, right in the middle of the walk.”

  “And wasn’t his skull fractured where he’d fallen on the asphalt?” The question was put negligently.

  Pitts took his cigar from his mouth and gave Vance a sly look.

  “I guess maybe you fellows over here do know something about this case.” He nodded his head sagaciously. “Yes, the back of the guy’s skull was all bashed in. He sure had a tough fall. But I guess he didn’t feel it—not with that bullet in his brain.…”

  “Speaking of the shot, Captain, didn’t anything about it strike you as peculiar?”

  “Well…yes,” Pitts admitted, rolling his cigar meditatively between his thumb and forefinger. “The top of a guy’s head isn’t where I’d ordinarily look for a bullet-hole. And his hat wasn’t touched,—it must have fallen off before he was potted. You might call those facts peculiar, Mr. Vance.”

  “Yes, Captain, they’re dashed peculiar.… And I take it the pistol was held at close range.”

  “Not more’n a couple of inches away. The hair was singed round the hole.” He made a broad gesture of inconsequence. “Still and all, the guy might have seen the other fellow draw the gun, and ducked forward, spilling his hat. That would account for his getting the shot at close range in the top of the head.”

  “Quite, quite. Except that, in that case, he wouldn’t have fallen over back, but would have pitched forward on his face.… But go on with the story, Captain.”

  Pitts gave Vance a look of crafty agreement, and continued.

  “The first thing I did was to go through the fellow’s pockets. He had a good gold watch on him and about fifteen dollars in bills and silver. So it didn’t look like a robbery—unless the guy that shot him got panicky and beat it. But that didn’t seem likely, for there’s never any one round that part of the park early in the morning; and the walk there dips under a stone bluff, so that the view is cut off. The bird that did the job certainly picked a swell place for it.… Anyhow, I left a couple of men to guard the body till the wagon came for it, and went up to Sprigg’s house in 93rd Street,—I’d got his name and address from a couple of letters in his pocket. I found out he was a student at Columbia, living with his parents, and that it was his habit to take a walk in the park after breakfast. He left home this morning about half past seven.…”

  “Ah! It was his habit to promenade in the park each morning,” murmured Vance. “Most interestin’.”

  “Even so, that don’t get us anywheres,” returned Pitts. “Plenty of fellows take an early constitutional. And there was nothing unusual about Sprigg this morning. He wasn’t worried about anything, his folks told me; and was cheerful enough when he said good-bye to ’em.—After that I hopped up to the university and made inquiries; talked to a couple of the students that knew him, and also to one of the instructors. Sprigg was a quiet sort of chap. Didn’t make friends and kept pretty much to himself. Serious bird—always working at his studies. Stood high in his classes, and was never seen going around with Janes. Didn’t like women, in fact. Wasn’t what you’d call sociable. From all reports he was the last man to get in a mess of any kind. That’s why I can’t see anything special in his getting shot. It must have been an accident of some kind. Might have been taken for somebody else.”

  “And he was found at what time?”

  “About quarter of eight. A bricklayer on the new 79th-Street dock was cutting across the embankment toward the railway tracks, and saw him. He notified one of the post officers on the Drive, who phoned in to the local station.”

  “And Sprigg left his home in 93rd Street at half past seven.” Vance gazed at the ceiling meditatively. “Therefore he would have had just enough time to reach this point in the park before being killed. It looks as if some one who knew his habits was waiting for him. Neatness and dispatch, what?… It doesn’t appear exactly fortuitous, does it, Markham?”

  Ignoring the jibe Markham addressed Pitts.

  “Was there nothing found that could possibly be used as a lead?”

  “No, sir. My men combed the spot pretty thoroughly, but nothing showed up.”

  “And in Sprigg’s pockets—among his papers…?”

  “Not a thing. I’ve got all the stuff at the Bureau—a couple of ordinary letters, a few odds and ends of the usual kind.…” He paused as if suddenly remem
bering something, and pulled out a dog-eared note-book. “There was this,” he said unenthusiastically, handing a torn, triangular scrap of paper to Markham. “It was found under the fellow’s body. It don’t mean anything, but I stuck it in my pocket—force of habit.”

  The paper was not more than four inches long, and appeared to have been torn from the corner of an ordinary sheet of unruled stationery. It contained part of a typewritten mathematical formula, with the lambda, the equals and the infinity sign marked in with pencil. I reproduce the paper here, for, despite its seeming irrelevancy, it was to play a sinister and amazing part in the investigation of Sprigg’s death.

  Vance glanced only casually at the exhibit, but Markham held it in his hand frowning at it for several moments. He was about to make some comment when he caught Vance’s eye; and, instead, he tossed the paper to the desk carelessly with a slight shrug.

  “Is this everything you found?”

  “That’s all, sir.”

  Markham rose.

  “We’re very grateful to you, Captain. I don’t know what we’ll be able to make out of this Sprigg case, but we’ll look into it.” He pointed to the box of Perfectos. “Put a couple in your pocket before you go.”

  “Much obliged, sir.” Pitts selected the cigars, and placing them tenderly in his waistcoat pocket, shook hands with all of us.

  When he had gone Vance got up with alacrity, and bent over the scrap of paper on Markham’s desk.

  “My word!” He took out his monocle and studied the symbols for several moments. “Most allurin’. Now where have I seen that formula recently?… Ah! The Riemann-Christoffel tensor—of course! Drukker uses it in his book for determining the Gaussian curvature of spherical and homaloidal space.… But what was Sprigg doing with it? The formula is considerably beyond the college curricula.…” He held the paper up to the light. “It’s the same stock as that on which the Bishop notes are written. And you probably observed that the typing is also similar.”

  Heath had stepped forward, and now scrutinized the paper.

  “It’s the same, all right.” The fact seemed to nonplus him. “That’s a link anyway between the two crimes.”

  Vance’s eyes took on a puzzled look.

  “A link—yes. But the presence of the formula under Sprigg’s body appears as irrational as the murder itself.…”

  Markham moved uneasily.

  “You say it is a formula that Drukker uses in his book?”

  “Yes. But the fact doesn’t necessarily involve him. The tensor is known to all advanced mathematicians. It is one of the technical expressions used in non-Euclidean geometry; and though it was discovered by Riemann in connection with a concrete problem in physics,89 it has now become of widespread importance in the mathematics of relativity. It’s highly scientific in the abstract sense, and can have no direct bearing on Sprigg’s murder.” He sat down again. “Arnesson will be delighted with the find. He may be able to work out some astonishing conclusion from it.”

  “I see no reason,” protested Markham, “to inform Arnesson of this new case. My idea would be to keep it under cover as much as possible.”

  “The Bishop won’t let you, I fear,” returned Vance.

  Markham set his jaw.

  “Good God!” he burst out. “What damnable sort of thing are we facing? I expect every minute to wake up and discover I’ve been living a nightmare.”

  “No such luck, sir,” growled Heath. He took a resolute breath like a man preparing for combat. “What’s on the cards? Where do we go from here? I need action.”

  Markham appealed to Vance.

  “You seem to have some idea about this affair. What’s your suggestion? I frankly admit I’m floundering about in a black chaos.”

  Vance inhaled deeply on his cigarette. Then he leaned forward as if to give emphasis to his words.

  “Markham old man, there’s only one conclusion to be drawn. These two murders were engineered by the same brain: both sprang from the same grotesque impulse; and since the first of them was committed by some one intimately familiar with conditions inside the Dillard house, it follows that we must now look for a person who, in addition to that knowledge, had definite information that a man named John Sprigg was in the habit of taking a walk each morning in a certain part of Riverside Park. Having found such a person, we must check up on the points of time, place, opportunity, and possible motive. There’s some interrelation between Sprigg and the Dillards. What it is I don’t know. But our first move should be to find out. What better starting-point than the Dillard house itself?”

  “We’ll get some lunch first,” said Markham wearily. “Then we’ll run out there.”

  CHAPTER X

  A REFUSAL OF AID

  (Monday, April 11; 2 P.M.)

  It was shortly after two o’clock when we reached the Dillard house. Pyne answered our ring; and if our visit caused him any surprise he succeeded admirably in hiding it. In the look he gave Heath, however, I detected a certain uneasiness; but when he spoke his voice had the flat, unctuous quality of the well-trained servant.

  “Mr. Arnesson has not returned from the university,” he informed us.

  “Mind-reading, I see,” said Vance, “is not your forte, Pyne. We called to see you and Professor Dillard.”

  The man looked ill at ease; but before he could answer Miss Dillard appeared in the archway of the drawing-room.

  “I thought I recognized your voice, Mr. Vance.” She included us all in a smile of wistful welcome. “Please come in.… Lady Mae dropped in for a few minutes,—we’re going riding together this afternoon,” she explained, as we entered the room.

  Mrs. Drukker stood by the centre-table, one bony hand on the back of the chair from which she had evidently just risen. There was fear in her eyes as she stared at us unblinkingly; and her lean features seemed almost contorted. She made no effort to speak, but stood rigidly as if waiting for some dread pronouncement, like a convicted prisoner at the bar about to receive sentence.

  Belle Dillard’s pleasant voice relieved the tensity of the situation.

  “I’ll run up and tell uncle you’re here.”

  She had no sooner quitted the room than Mrs. Drukker leaned over the table and said to Markham in a sepulchral, awe-stricken whisper: “I know why you’ve come! It’s about that fine young man who was shot in the park this morning.”

  So amazing and unexpected were her words that Markham could make no immediate answer; and it was Vance who replied.

  “You have heard of the tragedy, then, Mrs. Drukker? How could the news have come to you so soon?”

  A look of canniness came into the woman’s expression, giving her the appearance of an evil old witch.

  “Every one is talking about it in the neighborhood,” she answered evasively.

  “Indeed? That’s most unfortunate. But why do you assume we have come here to make inquiries about it?”

  “Wasn’t the young man’s name Johnny Sprigg?” A faint, terrible smile accompanied the question.

  “So it was. John E. Sprigg. Still, that does not explain his connection with the Dillards.”

  “Ah, but it does!” Her head moved up and down with a sort of horrible satisfaction. “It’s a game—a child’s game. First Cock Robin…then Johnny Sprig. Children must play—all healthy children must play.” Her mood suddenly changed. A softness shone on her face, and her eyes grew sad.

  “It’s a rather diabolical game, don’t you think, Mrs. Drukker?”

  “And why not? Isn’t life itself diabolical?”

  “For some of us—yes.” A curious sympathy informed Vance’s words as he gazed at this strange tragic creature before us. “Tell me,” he went on quickly, in an altered tone; “do you know who the Bishop is?”

  “The Bishop?” She frowned perplexedly. “No, I don’t know him. Is that another child’s game?”

  “Something of that kind, I imagine. At any rate, the Bishop is interested in Cock Robin and Johnny Sprig. In fact, he may be the pe
rson who is making up these fantastic games. And we’re looking for him, Mrs. Drukker. We hope to learn the truth from him.”

  The woman shook her head vaguely. “I don’t know him.” Then she glared vindictively at Markham. “But it’s not going to do you any good to try to find out who killed Cock Robin and shot Johnny Sprig through the middle of his wig. You’ll never learn—never—never…” Her voice had risen excitedly, and a fit of trembling seized her.

  At this moment Belle Dillard re-entered the room, and going quickly to Mrs. Drukker put her arm about her.

  “Come,” she said soothingly; “we’ll have a long drive in the country, Lady Mae.” Reproachfully she turned to Markham, and said coldly: “Uncle wishes you to come to the library.” With that she led Mrs. Drukker from the room and down the hall.

  “Now that’s a queer one, sir,” commented Heath, who had stood looking on with bewildered amazement. “She had the dope on this Johnny-Sprig stuff all the time!”

  Vance nodded.

  “And our appearance here frightened her. Still, her mind is morbid and sensitive, Sergeant; and dwelling as she does constantly on her son’s deformity and the early days when he was like other children, it’s quite possible she merely hit accidentally upon the Mother-Goose significance of Robin’s and Sprigg’s death.… I wonder.” He looked toward Markham. “There are strange undercurrents in this case—incredible and terrifying implications. It’s like being lost in the Dovrë-Troll caverns of Ibsen’s Peer Gynt, where only monstrosities and abnormalities exist.” He shrugged his shoulders, though I knew he had not wholly escaped the pall of horror cast on us by Mrs. Drukker’s words. “Perhaps we can find a little solid footing with Professor Dillard.”

  The professor received us without enthusiasm and with but scant cordiality. His desk was littered with papers, and it was obvious that we had disturbed him in the midst of his labors.