It was finally decided that the Bishop notes were to be turned over to an expert analyst, and an effort made to trace both the typewriter and the stationery. A systematic search was to be instituted for witnesses who might have seen some one in Riverside Park between seven and eight that morning. Sprigg’s habits and associations were to be the subject of a careful report; and a man was to be detailed to question the mail collector of the district in the hope that, when taking the letters from the various boxes, he had noticed the envelopes addressed to the papers and could say in which box they had actually been posted.
Various other purely routine activities were outlined; and Moran suggested that for a time three men be stationed day and night in the vicinity of the murders to watch for any possible developments or for suspicious actions on the part of those involved. The Police Department and the District Attorney’s office were to work hand in hand. Markham, of course, in tacit agreement with Heath, assumed command.
“I have already interviewed the members of the Dillard and Drukker homes in connection with the Robin murder,” Markham explained to Moran and O’Brien: “and I’ve talked the Sprigg case over with Professor Dillard and Arnesson. Tomorrow I shall see Pardee and the Drukkers.”
The next morning Markham, accompanied by Heath, called for Vance a little before ten o’clock.
“This thing can’t go on,” he declared, after the meagrest of greetings. “If any one knows anything, we’ve got to find it out. I’m going to put the screws on—and damn the consequences!”
“By all means, chivy ’em.” Vance himself appeared despondent. “I doubt if it’ll help though. No ordin’ry procedure is going to solve this riddle. However, I’ve phoned Barstead. He says we may talk with Mrs. Drukker this morning. But I’ve arranged to see him first. I have a hankerin’ to know more of the Drukker pathology. Hunchbacks, d’ ye see, are not usually produced by falls.”
We drove at once to the doctor’s home and were received without delay. Doctor Barstead was a large comfortable man, whose pleasantness of manner impressed me as being the result of schooled effort.
Vance went straight to the point.
“We have reason to believe, doctor, that Mrs. Drukker and perhaps her son are indirectly concerned in the recent death of Mr. Robin at the Dillard house; and before we question either of them further we should like to have you tell us—as far as professional etiquette will permit—something of the neurological situation we are facing.”
“Please be more explicit, sir.” Doctor Barstead spoke with defensive aloofness.
“I am told,” Vance continued, “that Mrs. Drukker regards herself as responsible for her son’s kyphosis; but it is my understanding that such malformations as his do not ordinarily result from mere physical injuries.”
Doctor Barstead nodded his head slowly.
“That is quite true. Compression paraplegia of the spinal cord may follow a dislocation or injury, but the lesion thus produced is of the focal transverse type. Osteitis or caries of the vertebrae—what we commonly call Pott’s disease—is usually of tubercular origin; and this tuberculosis of the spine occurs most frequently in children. Often it exists at birth. True, an injury may precede the onset by determining the site of infection or exciting a latent focus; and this fact no doubt gives rise to the belief that the injury itself produces the disease. But both Schmaus and Horsley have exposed the true pathological anatomy of spinal caries. Drukker’s deformity is unquestionably of tubercular origin. Even his curvature is of the marked rounded type, denoting an extensive involvement of vertebrae; and there is no scholiosis whatever. Moreover, he has all the local symptoms of osteitis.”
“You have, of course, explained the situation to Mrs. Drukker.”
“On many occasions. But I have had no success. The fact is, a terrific instinct of perverted martyrdom bids her cling to the notion that she is responsible for her son’s condition. This erroneous idea has become an idée fixe with her. It constitutes her entire mental outlook, and gives meaning to the life of service and sacrifice she had lived for forty years.”
“To what extent,” asked Vance, “would you say this psychoneurosis has affected her mind?”
“That would be difficult to say; and it is not a question I would care to discuss. I may say this, however: she is undoubtedly morbid; and her values have become distorted. At times there have been—I tell you this in strictest confidence—signs of marked hallucinosis centring upon her son. His welfare has become an obsession with her. There is practically nothing she would not do for him.”
“We appreciate your confidence, doctor.… And would it not be logical to assume that her upset condition yesterday resulted from some fear or shock connected with his welfare?”
“Undoubtedly. She has no emotional or mental life outside of him. But whether her temporary collapse was due to a real or imaginary fear, one cannot say. She has lived too long on the borderland between reality and fantasy.”
There was a short silence, and then Vance asked:
“As to Drukker himself: would you regard him as wholly responsible for his acts?”
“Since he is my patient,” returned Doctor Barstead, with frigid reproach, “and since I have taken no steps to sequester him, I consider your question an impertinence.”
Markham leaned over and spoke peremptorily.
“We haven’t time to mince words, doctor. We’re investigating a series of atrocious murders. Mr. Drukker is involved in those murders—to what extent we don’t know. But it is our duty to find out.”
The doctor’s first impulse was to combat Markham; but he evidently thought better of it, for when he answered, it was in an indulgently matter-of-fact voice.
“I have no reason, sir, to withhold any information from you. But to question Mr. Drukker’s responsibility is to impute negligence to me in the matter of public safety. Perhaps, however, I misunderstand this gentleman’s question.” He studied Vance for a brief moment. “There are, of course, degrees of responsibility,” he went on, in a professional tone. “Mr. Drukker’s mind is overdeveloped, as is often the case with kyphotic victims. All mental processes are turned inward, as it were; and the lack of normal physical reactions often tends to produce inhibitions and aberrancies. But I’ve noted no indications of this condition in Mr. Drukker. He is excitable and prone to hysteria; but, then, psychokinesia is a common accompaniment of his disease.”
“What form do his recreations take?” Vance was politely casual.
Doctor Barstead thought a moment.
“Children’s games, I should say. Such recreations are not unusual with cripples. In Mr. Drukker’s case it is what we might term a waking wish-fulfilment. Having had no normal childhood, he grasps at whatever will give him a sense of youthful rehabilitation. His juvenile activities tend to balance the monotony of his purely mental life.”
“What is Mrs. Drukker’s attitude toward his instinct for play?”
“She very correctly encourages it. I’ve often seen her leaning over the wall above the playground in Riverside Park watching him. And she always presides at the children’s parties and dinners which he holds in his home.”
We took our leave a few minutes later. As we turned into 76th Street, Heath, as if arousing himself from a bad dream, drew a deep breath and sat upright in the car.
“Did you get that about the kid games?” he asked, in an awe-stricken voice. “Good God, Mr. Vance! What’s this case going to turn into?”
A curious sadness was in Vance’s eyes as he gazed ahead toward the misty Jersey cliffs across the river.
Our ring at the Drukker house was answered by a portly German woman, who planted herself stolidly before us and informed us suspiciously that Mr. Drukker was too busy to see any one.
“You’d better tell him, however,” said Vance, “that the District Attorney wishes to speak to him immediately.”
His words produced a strange effect on the woman. Her hands went to her face, and her massive bosom rose and fell co
nvulsively. Then, as though panic-stricken, she turned and ascended the stairs. We heard her knock on a door; there was a sound of voices; and a few moments later she came back to inform us that Mr. Drukker would see us in his study.
As we passed the woman Vance suddenly turned and, fixing his eyes on her ominously, asked:
“What time did Mr. Drukker get up yesterday morning?”
“I—don’t know,” she stammered, thoroughly frightened. “Ja, ja, I know. At nine o’clock—like always.”
Vance nodded and moved on.
Drukker received us standing by a large table covered with books and sheets of manuscript. He bowed sombrely, but did not ask us to have chairs.
Vance studied him a moment as if trying to read the secret that lay behind his restless, hollow eyes.
“Mr. Drukker,” he began, “it is not our desire to cause you unnecess’ry trouble; but we have learned that you were acquainted with Mr. John Sprigg, who, as you probably know, was shot near here yesterday morning. Now, could you suggest any reason that any one might have had for killing him?”
Drukker drew himself up. Despite his effort at self-control there was a slight tremor in his voice as he answered.
“I knew Mr. Sprigg but slightly. I can suggest nothing whatever in regard to his death.…”
“There was found on his body a piece of paper bearing the Riemann-Christoffel tensor which you introduce in your book in the chapter on the finiteness of physical space.” As Vance spoke he moved one of the typewritten sheets of papers on the table toward him, and glanced at it casually.
Drukker seemed not to notice the action. The information contained in Vance’s words had rivetted his attention.
“I can’t understand it,” he said vaguely. “May I see the notation?”
Markham complied at once with his request. After studying the paper a moment Drukker handed it back; and his little eyes narrowed malevolently.
“Have you asked Arnesson about this? He was discussing this very subject with Sprigg last week.”
“Oh, yes,” Vance told him carelessly. Mr. Arnesson recalled the incident, but couldn’t throw any light on it. We thought perhaps you could succeed where he had failed.”
“I regret I can’t accommodate you.” There was the suggestion of a sneer in Drukker’s reply. “Any one might use the tensor. Weyl’s and Einstein’s works are full of it. It isn’t copyrighted.…” He leaned over a revolving book case and drew out a thin octavo pamphlet. Here it is in Minkowski’s Relativitätsprinzip, only with different symbols—a T for the B, for instance; and Greek letters for the indices.” He reached for another volume. “Poincaré also uses it in his Hypothèses Cosmogoniques, with still other symbolic equivalents.” He tossed the books on the table contemptuously. “Why come to me about it?”
“It wasn’t the tensor formula alone that led our roving footsteps to your door,” said Vance lightly. “For instance, we have reason to believe that Sprigg’s death is connected with Robin’s murder.…”
Drukker’s long hands caught the edge of the table, and he leaned forward, his eyes glittering excitedly.
“Connected—Sprigg and Robin? You don’t believe that newspaper talk, do you?… It’s a damned lie!” His face had begun to twitch, and his voice rose shrilly. “It’s insane nonsense.… There’s no proof, I tell you—not a shred of proof!”
“Cock Robin and Johnny Sprig, don’t y’ know,” came Vance’s soft insistent voice.
“That rot! That crazy rot!—Oh, good God! Has the world gone mad!…” He swayed back and forth as he beat on the table with one hand, sending the papers flying in all directions.
Vance looked at him with mild surprise.
“Aren’t you acquainted with the Bishop, Mr. Drukker?”
The man stopped swaying and, steadying himself, stared at Vance with terrible intensity. His mouth was drawn back at the corners, resembling the transverse laugh of progressive muscular dystrophy.
“You, too! You’ve gone mad!” He swept his eyes over us. “You damned, unutterable fools! There’s no such person as the Bishop! There wasn’t any such person as Cock Robin or Johnny Sprig. And here you are—men grown—trying to frighten me—me, a mathematician—with nursery tales!…” He began to laugh hysterically.
Vance went to him quickly, and taking his arm led him to his chair. Slowly his laughter died away, and he waved his hand wearily.
“Too bad Robin and Sprigg were killed.” His tone was heavy and colorless. “But children are the only persons that matter.… You’ll probably find the murderer. If you don’t, maybe I’ll help you. But don’t let your imaginations run away with you. Keep to facts…facts.…”
The man was exhausted, and we left him.
“He’s scared, Markham—deuced scared,” observed Vance, when we were again in the hall. “I could bear to know what is hidden in that shrewd warped mind of his.”
He led the way down the hall to Mrs. Drukker’s door.
“This method of visiting a lady doesn’t accord with the best social usage. Really, y’ know, Markham, I wasn’t born to be a policeman. I abhor snooping.”
Our knock was answered by a feeble voice. Mrs. Drukker, paler than usual, was lying back on her chaise-longue by the window. Her white prehensile hands lay along the arms of the chair, slightly flexed; and more than ever she recalled to my mind the pictures I had seen of the ravening Harpies that tormented Phineus in the story of the Argonauts.
Before we could speak she said in a strained terrified voice: “I knew you would come—I knew you were not through torturing me.…”
“To torture you, Mrs. Drukker,” returned Vance softly, “is the furthest thing from our thoughts. We merely want your help.”
Vance’s manner appeared to alleviate her terror somewhat, and she studied him calculatingly.
“If only I could help you!” she muttered. “But there’s nothing to be done—nothing.…”
“You might tell us what you saw from your window on the day of Mr. Robin’s death,” Vance suggested kindly.
“No—no!” Her eyes stared horribly. “I saw nothing—I wasn’t near the window that morning. You may kill me, but my dying words would be No—no—no!”
Vance did not press the point.
“Beedle tells us,” he went on, “that you often rise early and walk in the garden.”
“Oh, yes.” The words came with a sigh of relief. “I don’t sleep well in the mornings. I often wake up with dull boring pains in my spine, and the muscles of my back feel rigid and sore. So I get up and walk in the yard whenever the weather is mild enough.”
“Beedle saw you in the garden yesterday morning.”
The woman nodded absently.
“And she also saw Professor Dillard with you.”
Again she nodded, but immediately afterward she shot Vance a combative inquisitive glance.
“He sometimes joins me,” she hastened to explain. “He feels sorry for me, and he admires Adolph; he thinks he’s a great genius. And he is a genius! He’d be a great man—as great as Professor Dillard—if it hadn’t been for his illness.… And it was all my fault. I let him fall when he was a baby.…” A dry sob shook her emaciated body, and her fingers worked spasmodically.
After a moment Vance asked: “What did you and Professor Dillard talk about in the garden yesterday?”
A sudden wiliness crept into the woman’s manner.
“About Adolph mostly,” she said, with a too obvious attempt at unconcern.
“Did you see any one else in the yard or on the archery range?” Vance’s indolent eyes were on the woman.
“No!” Again a sense of fear pervaded her. “But somebody else was there, wasn’t there?—somebody who didn’t wish to be seen.” She nodded her head eagerly. “Yes! Some one else was there—and they thought I saw them.… But I didn’t! Oh, merciful God, I didn’t!…” She covered her face with her hands, and her body shook convulsively. “If only I had seen them! If only I knew! But it wasn’t Adolph—it w
asn’t my little boy. He was asleep—thank God, he was asleep!”
Vance went close to the woman.
“Why do you thank God that it wasn’t your son?” he asked gently.
She looked up with some amazement.
“Why, don’t you remember? A little man shot Johnny Sprig with a little gun yesterday morning—the same little man that killed Cock Robin with a bow and arrow. It’s all a horrible game—and I’m afraid.… But I mustn’t tell—I can’t tell. The little man might do something awful. Maybe”—her voice became dull with horror—“maybe he has some insane idea that I’m the old woman who lived in a shoe!…”
“Come, come, Mrs. Drukker.” Vance forced a consoling smile. “Such talk is nonsense. You’ve let these matters prey on your mind. There’s a perfectly rational explanation for everything. And I have a feeling that you yourself can help us find that explanation.”
“No—no! I can’t—I mustn’t! I don’t understand it myself.” She took a deep, resolute inspiration, and compressed her lips.
“Why can’t you tell us?” persisted Vance.
“Because I don’t know,” she cried. “I wish to God I did! I only know that something horrible is going on here—that some awful curse is hanging over this house.…”
“How do you know that?”
The woman began to tremble violently, and her eyes roamed distractedly about the room.
“Because”—her voice was barely audible—“because the little man came here last night!”
A chill passed up my spine at this statement, and I heard even the imperturbable Sergeant’s sharp intake of breath. Then Vance’s calm voice sounded.
“How do you know he was here, Mrs. Drukker? Did you see him?”
“No, I didn’t see him; but he tried to get into this room—by that door.” She pointed unsteadily toward the entrance to the hallway through which we had just come.
“You must tell us about it,” said Vance; “or we will be driven to conclude that you manufactured the story.”
“Oh, but I didn’t manufacture it—may God be my witness!” There could be no doubt whatever of the woman’s sincerity. Something had occurred which filled her with mortal fear. “I was lying in bed, awake. The little clock on the mantel had just struck midnight; and I heard a soft rustling sound in the hall outside. I turned my head toward the door—there was a dim night-light burning on the table here…and then I saw the door-knob turn slowly—silently—as if some one were trying to get in without waking me—”
The Philo Vance Megapack Page 97
