“Why this unexpected visit, Markham?” he asked, after we had seated ourselves. “Have you something to report on Robin’s death?” He marked a page in Weyl’s “Space, Time and Matter” and, settling back reluctantly, regarded us with impatience. “I’m very busy working on a problem of Mach’s mechanics.…”
“I regret,” said Markham, “I have nothing to report on the Robin case. But there has been another murder in this neighborhood today, and we have reason to believe that it may be connected with Robin’s death. What I wanted particularly to ask you, sir, is whether or not the name of John E. Sprigg is familiar to you.”
Professor Dillard’s expression of annoyance changed quickly.
“Is that the name of the man who was killed?” There was no longer any lack of interest in his attitude.
“Yes. A man named John E. Sprigg was shot in Riverside Park, near 84th Street, this morning shortly after half past seven.”
The professor’s eyes wandered to the mantelpiece, and he was silent for several moments. He seemed to be debating inwardly some point that troubled him.
“Yes,” he said at length, “I—we—do know a young man of that name—though it’s wholly unlikely he’s the same one.”
“Who is he?” Markham’s voice was eagerly insistent.
Again the professor hesitated.
“The lad I have in mind is Arnesson’s prize student in mathematics—what they’d call at Cambridge a senior wrangler.”
“How do you happen to know him, sir?”
“Arnesson has brought him to the house here several times. Wanted me to see him and talk to him. Arnesson was quite proud of the boy; and I must admit he showed unusual talent.”
“Then he was known to all the members of the household?”
“Yes. Belle met him, I think. And if by ‘the household’ you include Pyne and Beedle, I should say the name was probably familiar to them too.”
Vance asked the next question.
“Did the Drukkers know Sprigg, Professor Dillard?”
“It’s quite possible. Arnesson and Drukker see each other a great deal.… Come to think of it, I believe Drukker was here one night when Sprigg called.”
“And Pardee: did he also know Sprigg?”
“As to that I couldn’t say.” The professor tapped impatiently on the arm of his chair, and turned back to Markham. “See here”—his voice held a worried petulance—“what’s the point of these questions? What has our knowing a student named Sprigg to do with this morning’s affair? Surely you don’t mean to tell me that the man who was killed was Arnesson’s pupil.”
“I’m afraid it’s true,” said Markham.
There was a note of anxiety—of fear almost, I thought—in the professor’s voice when he next spoke.
“Even so, what can that fact have to do with us? And how can you possibly connect his death with Robin’s?”
“I admit we have nothing definite to go on,” Markham told him. “But the purposelessness of both crimes—the total lack of any motive in either case—seems to give them a curious unity of aspect.”
“You mean, of course, that you have found no motive. But if all crimes without apparent motive were assumed to be connected—”
“Also there are the elements of time and proximity in these two cases,” Markham amplified.
“Is that the basis of your assumption?” The professor’s manner was benevolently contemptuous. “You never were a good mathematician, Markham, but at least you should know that no hypothesis can be built on such a flimsy premise.”
“Both names,” interposed Vance, “—Cock Robin and Johnny Sprig—are the subjects of well-known nursery rhymes.”
The old man stared at him with undisguised astonishment; and gradually an angry flush mounted to his face.
“Your humor, sir, is out of place.”
“It is not my humor, alas!” replied Vance sadly. “The jest is the Bishop’s.”
“The Bishop?” Professor Dillard strove to curb his irritation. “Look here, Markham; I won’t be played with. That’s the second mention of a mysterious Bishop that’s been made in this room; and I want to know the meaning of it. Even if a crank did write an insane letter to the papers in connection with Robin’s death, what has this Bishop to do with Sprigg?”
“A paper was found beneath Sprigg’s body bearing a mathematical formula typed on the same machine as the Bishop notes.”
“What!” The professor bent forward. “The same machine, you say? And a mathematical formula?… What was the formula?”
Markham opened his pocketbook, and held out the triangular scrap of paper that Pitts had given him.
“The Riemaun-Christoffel tensor.…” Professor Dillard sat for a long time gazing at the paper; then he handed it back to Markham. He seemed suddenly to have grown older; and there was a weary look in his eyes as he lifted them to us. “I don’t see any light in this matter.” His tone was one of hopeless resignation. “But perhaps you are right in following your present course.—What do you want of me?”
Markham was plainly puzzled by the other’s altered attitude.
“I came to you primarily to ascertain if there was any link between Sprigg and this house; but, to be quite candid, I don’t see how that link, now that I have it, fits into the chain.—I would, however, like your permission to question Pyne and Beedle in whatever way I think advisable.”
“Ask them anything you like, Markham. You shall never be able to accuse me of having stood in your way.” He glanced up appealingly. “But you will, I hope, advise me before you take any drastic steps.”
“That I can promise you, sir.” Markham rose. “But I fear we are a long way from any drastic measures at present.” He held out his hand, and from his manner it was evident he had sensed some hidden anxiety in the old man and wanted to express his sympathy without voicing his feelings.
The professor walked with us to the door.
“I can’t understand that typed tensor,” he murmured, shaking his head. “But if there’s anything I can do.…”
“There is something you can do for us, Professor Dillard,” said Vance, pausing at the door. “On the morning Robin was killed we interviewed Mrs. Drukker—”
“Ah!”
“And though she denied having sat at her window during the forenoon there is a possibility she saw something happen on the archery range between eleven and twelve.”
“She gave you that impression?” There was an undertone of suppressed interest in the professor’s question.
“Only in a remote way. It was Drukker’s statement that he had heard his mother scream, and her denial of having screamed, that led me to believe that she might have seen something she preferred to keep from us. And it occurred to me that you would probably have more influence with her than any one else, and that, if she did indeed witness anything, you might prevail upon her to speak.”
“No!” Professor Dillard spoke almost harshly; but he immediately placed his hand on Markham’s arm, and his tone changed. “There are some things you must not ask me to do for you. If that poor harassed woman saw anything from her window that morning, you must find it out for yourself. I’ll have no hand in torturing her; and I sincerely hope you’ll not worry her either. There are other ways of finding out what you want to know.” He looked straight into Markham’s eyes. “She must not be the one to tell you. You yourself would be sorry afterwards.”
“We must find out what we can,” Markham answered resolutely but with kindliness. “There’s a fiend loose in this city, and I cannot stay my hand to save any one from suffering—however tragic that suffering may be. But I assure you I shall not unnecessarily torture any one.”
“Have you thought,” asked Professor Dillard quietly, “that the truth you seek may be more frightful even than the crimes themselves?”
“That I shall have to risk. But even if I knew it to be a fact, it would not deter me in any degree.”
“Certainly not. But, Markham, I’m much old
er than you. I had gray hair when you were a lad struggling with your logs and antilogs; and when one gets old one learns the true proportions in the universe. The ratios all change. The estimates we once placed on things lose their meaning. That’s why the old are more forgiving: they know that no man-made values are of any importance.”
“But as long as we must live by human values,” argued Markham, “it is my duty to uphold them. And I cannot, through any personal sense of sympathy, refuse to take any avenue that may lead to the truth.”
“You are perhaps right,” the professor sighed. “But you must not ask me to help you in this instance. If you learn the truth, be charitable. Be sure your culprit is accountable before you demand that he be sent to the electric chair. There are diseased minds as well as diseased bodies; and often the two go together.”
When we had returned to the drawing-room Vance lighted a cigarette with more than his usual care.
“The professor,” he said, “is not at all happy about Sprigg’s death; and, though he won’t admit it, that tensor formula convinced him that Sprigg and Robin belong to the same equation. But he was convinced dashed easily. Now, why?—Moreover, he didn’t care to admit that Sprigg was known hereabouts. I don’t say he has suspicions, but he has fears.… Deuced funny, his attitude. He apparently doesn’t want to obstruct the legal justice which you uphold with such touchin’ zeal, Markham; but he most decidedly doesn’t care to abet your crusade where the Drukkers are concerned. I wonder what’s back of his consideration for Mrs. Drukker. I shouldn’t say, offhand, that the professor was of a sentimental nature.—And what was that platitude about a diseased mind and a diseased body? Sounded like a prospectus for a physical culture class, what?… Lackaday! Let’s put a few questions to Pyne and kin.”
Markham sat smoking moodily. I had rarely seen him so despondent.
“I don’t see what we can hope for from them,” he commented. “However, Sergeant, get Pyne in here.”
When Heath had stepped out Vance gave Markham a waggish look.
“Really, y’ know, you shouldn’t repine. Let Terence console you: —Nil tam difficile est, quin quaerendo investigari possit. And, ’pon my soul, this is a difficult problem.…” He became suddenly sober. “We’re dealing with unknown quantities here. We’re pitted against some strange, abnormal force that doesn’t operate according to the accepted laws of conduct. It’s at once subtle—oh, no end subtle—and unfamiliar. But at least we know that it emanates from somewhere in the environs of this old house; and we must search in every psychological nook and cranny. Somewhere about us lies the invisible dragon. So don’t be shocked at the questions I shall put to Pyne. We must look in the most unlikely places.…”
Footsteps were heard approaching the archway, and a moment later Heath entered with the old butler in tow.
CHAPTER XI
THE STOLEN REVOLVER
(Monday, April 11; 3 P.M.)
“Sit down, Pyne,” said Vance, with peremptory kindness. “We have permission from Professor Dillard to question you; and we shall expect answers to all our questions.”
“Certainly, sir,” the man answered. “I’m sure there’s nothing that Professor Dillard has any reason to hide.”
“Excellent.” Vance lay back lazily. “To begin with, then; what hour was breakfast served here this morning?”
“At half past eight, sir—the same as always.”
“Were all the members of the family present?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Who calls the family in the morning? And at what time?”
“I do myself—at half past seven. I knock on the doors—”
“And wait for an answer?”
“Yes, sir—always.”
“Now think, Pyne: did every one answer you this morning?”
The man inclined his head emphatically. “Yes, sir.”
“And no one was late to breakfast?”
“Every one was on time promptly—as usual, sir.”
Vance leaned over and deposited his cigarette ash in the grate.
“Did you happen to see any one leaving the house or returning to it this morning before breakfast?”
The question was put casually, but I noted a slight quiver of surprise in the butler’s thin drooping eyelids.
“No, sir.”
“Even though you saw no one,” pursued Vance, “would it not have been possible for some member of the household to have gone out and returned without your knowing it?”
Pyne for the first time during the interview appeared reluctant to answer.
“Well, sir, the fact is,” he said uneasily, “any one might have used the front door this morning without my knowing it, as I was in the dining-room setting table. And, for the matter of that, any one might have used the archery-room door, for my daughter generally keeps the kitchen door closed while preparing breakfast.”
Vance smoked thoughtfully a moment. Then in an even, matter-of-fact tone he asked: “Does any one in the house own a revolver?”
The man’s eyes opened wide.
“Not that I—know of, sir,” he answered haltingly.
“Ever hear of the Bishop, Pyne?”
“Oh, no, sir!” His face blanched. “You mean the man who wrote those letters to the papers?”
“I merely meant the Bishop,” said Vance carelessly. “But tell me: have you heard anything about a man being killed in Riverside Park this morning?”
“Yes, sir. The janitor next door was telling me about it.”
“You knew young Mr. Sprigg, didn’t you?”
“I’d seen him at the house here once or twice, sir.”
“Was he here recently?”
“Last week, sir. Thursday I think it was.”
“Who else was here at the time?”
Pyne frowned as if trying to remember.
“Mr. Drukker, sir,” he said after a moment. “And, as I recall, Mr. Pardee came too. They were together in Mr. Arnesson’s room talking until late.”
“In Mr. Arnesson’s room, eh? Is it custom’ry for Mr. Arnesson to receive callers in his room?”
“No, sir,” Pyne explained; “but the professor was working in the library, and Miss Dillard was with Mrs. Drukker in the drawing-room here.”
Vance was silent a while.
“That will be all, Pyne,” he said at length. “But please send Beedle to us at once.”
Beedle came and stood before us with sullen aggressiveness. Vance questioned her along the same lines as he had taken with Pyne. Her answers, for the most part monosyllabic, added nothing to what had already been learned. But at the end of the brief interview Vance asked her if she had happened to look out of the kitchen window that morning before breakfast.
“I looked out once or twice,” she answered defiantly. “Why shouldn’t I look out?”
“Did you see any one on the archery range or in the rear yard?”
“No one but the professor and Mrs. Drukker.”
“No strangers?” Vance strove to give the impression that the fact of Professor Dillard’s and Mrs. Drukker’s presence in the rear yard that morning was of no importance; but, by the slow, deliberate way in which he reached into his pocket for his cigarette-case, I knew the information had interested him keenly.
“No,” the woman replied curtly.
“What time did you notice the professor and Mrs. Drukker?”
“Eight o’clock maybe.”
“Were they talking together?”
“Yes.—Anyway,” she emended, “they were walking up and down near the arbor.”
“Is it custom’ry for them to stroll in the yard before breakfast?”
“Mrs. Drukker often comes out early and walks about the flower beds. And I guess the professor has a right to walk in his own yard any time he wants to.”
“I’m not questioning his rights in the matter, Beedle,” said Vance mildly. “I was merely wondering if he was in the habit of exercising those rights at such an early hour.”
&nb
sp; “Well, he was exercising ’em this morning.”
Vance dismissed the woman and, rising, went to the front window. He was patently puzzled, and he stood several minutes looking down the street toward the river.
“Well, well,” he murmured. “It’s a nice day for communin’ with nature. At eight this morning the lark was on the wing no doubt, and—who knows?—maybe there was a snail on the thorn. But—my word!—all wasn’t right with the world.”
Markham recognized the signs of Vance’s perplexity.
“What do you make of it?” he asked. “I’m inclined to ignore Beedle’s information.”
“The trouble is, Markham, we can’t afford to ignore anything in this case.” Vance spoke softly, without turning. “I’ll admit, though, that at present Beedle’s revelation is meaningless. We’ve merely learned that two of the actors in our melodrama were up and about this morning shortly after Sprigg was snuffed out. The al-fresco rendezvous between the professor and Mrs. Drukker may, of course, be just one of your beloved coincidences. On the other hand, it may have some bearing on the old gentleman’s sentimental attitude toward the lady.… I think we’ll have to make a few discreet inquiries of him about his ante-prandial tryst, what?…”
He leaned suddenly toward the window.
“Ah! Here comes Arnesson. Looks a bit excited.”
A few moments later there was the sound of a key in the front door, and Arnesson strode down the hall. When he saw us he came quickly into the drawing-room and, without a word of greeting, burst forth:
“What’s this I hear about Sprigg being shot?” His eager eyes darted from one to the other of us. “I suppose you’re here to ask me about him. Well, fire away.” He threw a bulky brief-case on the centre-table and sat down abruptly on the edge of a straight chair. “There was a detective up at college this morning asking fool questions and acting like a burlesque sleuth in a comic opera. Very mysterious.… Murder—horrible murder! What did we know about a certain John E. Sprigg? And so on.… Scared a couple of juniors out of an entire semester’s mental growth, and sent a harmless young English instructor into incipient nervous collapse. I didn’t see the Dogberry myself—was in class at the time. But he had the cheek to ask what women Sprigg went around with. Sprigg and women! That boy didn’t have a thought in his head but his work. Brightest man in senior math. Never missed a class. When he didn’t answer roll-call this morning I knew something serious was the matter. At the lunch hour every one was buzzing about murder.… What’s the answer?”
The Philo Vance Megapack Page 95
