“Just a moment, Mrs. Drukker,” interrupted Vance. “Do you always lock your door at night?”
“I’ve never locked it until recently—after Mr. Robin’s death. I’ve somehow felt insecure since then—I can’t explain why.…”
“I quite understand.—Please go on with the story. You say you saw the door-knob move. And then?”
“Yes—yes. It moved softly—back and forth. I lay there in bed, frozen with terror. But after a while I managed to call out—I don’t know how loud; but suddenly the door-knob ceased to turn, and I heard footsteps moving rapidly away—down the hall.… Then I managed to get up. I went to the door and listened. I was afraid—afraid for Adolph. And I could hear those soft footsteps descending the stairs—”
“Which stairs?”
“At the rear—leading to the kitchen.… Then the door of the screen porch shut, and everything was silent again.… I knelt with my ear to the keyhole a long time, listening, waiting. But nothing happened, and at last I rose.… Something seemed to tell me I must open the door. I was in deadly terror—and yet I knew I had to open the door.…”
A shudder swept her body. “Softly I turned the key, and took hold of the knob. As I pulled the door slowly inward, a tiny object that had been poised on the outside knob fell to the floor with a clatter. There was a light burning in the hall—I always keep one burning at night,—and I tried not to look down. I tried—I tried…but I couldn’t keep my eyes away from the floor. And there at my feet—oh, God in Heaven!—there lay something!…”
She was unable to go on. Horror seemed to paralyze her tongue. Vance’s cool, unemotional voice, however, steadied her.
“What was it that lay on the floor, Mrs. Drukker?”
With difficulty the woman rose and, bracing herself for a moment at the foot of the bed, went to the dressing-table. Pulling out a small drawer she reached inside and fumbled among its contents. Then she extended her open hand to us. On the palm lay a small chessman—ebony black against the whiteness of her skin. It was the bishop!
CHAPTER XIII
IN THE BISHOP’S SHADOW
(Tuesday, April 12; 11 A.M.)
Vance took the bishop from Mrs. Drukker and slipped it into his coat pocket.
“It would be dangerous, madam,” he said, with impressive solemnity, “if what happened here last night became known. Should the person who played this joke on you find out that you had informed the police, other attempts to frighten you might be made. Therefore, not one word of what you have told us must pass your lips.”
“May I not even tell Adolph?” the woman asked distractedly.
“No one! You must maintain a complete silence, even in the presence of your son.”
I could not understand Vance’s emphasis on this point; but before many days had passed it was all too clear to me. The reason for his advice was revealed with tragic force; and I realized that even at the time of Mrs. Drukker’s disclosure his penetrating mind had worked out an uncannily accurate ratiocination, and foreseen certain possibilities unsuspected by the rest of us.
We took our leave a few moments later, and descended the rear stairs. The staircase made a sharp turn to the right at a landing eight or ten steps below the second floor, and led into a small dark passageway with two doors—one on the left, opening into the kitchen, and another, diagonally opposite, giving on the screen porch.
We stepped out immediately to the porch, now flooded in sunshine, and stood without a word trying to shake off the atmosphere cast about us by Mrs. Drukker’s terrifying experience.
Markham was the first to speak.
“Do you believe, Vance, that the person who brought that chessman here last night is the killer of Robin and Sprigg?”
“There can be no doubt of it. The purpose of his midnight visit is hideously clear. It fits perfectly with what has already come to light.”
“It strikes me merely as a ruthless practical joke,” Markham rejoined, “—the act of a drunken fiend.”
Vance shook his head.
“It’s the only thing in this whole nightmare that doesn’t qualify as a piece of insane humor. It was a deadly serious excursion. The devil himself is never so solemn as when covering his tracks. Our particular devil’s hand had been forced, and he made a bold play. ’Pon my soul, I almost prefer his jovial mood to the one that prompted him to break in here last night. However, we now have something definite to go on.”
Heath, impatient of all theorizing, quickly picked up this last remark.
“And what might that be, sir?”
“Imprimis, we may assume that our chess-playing troubadour was thoroughly familiar with the plan of this house. The night-light in the upper hall may have cast its gleam down the rear stairs as far as the landing, but the rest of the way must have been in darkness. Moreover, the arrangement of the rear of the house is somewhat complicated. Therefore, unless he knew the layout he couldn’t have found his way about noiselessly in the dark. Obviously, too, the visitor knew in which room Mrs. Drukker slept. Also, he must have known what time Drukker turned in last night, for he wouldn’t have chanced making his call unless he had felt sure that the coast was clear.”
“That don’t help us much,” grumbled Heath. “We’ve been going on the theory right along that the murderer was wise to everything connected with these two houses.”
“True. But one may be fairly intimate with a family and still not know at what hour each of its members retires on a certain night, or just how to effect a surreptitious entry to the house. Furthermore, Sergeant, our midnight caller was some one who knew that Mrs. Drukker was in the habit of leaving her door unlocked at night; for he had every intention of entering her room. His object wasn’t merely to leave his little memento outside and then depart. The silent stealthy way he tried the knob proves that.”
“He may simply have wanted to waken Mrs. Drukker so she would find it at once,” suggested Markham.
“Then why did he turn the knob so carefully—as if trying not to waken any one? A rattling of the knob, or a soft tapping, or even throwing the chessman against the door, would have answered that purpose much better.… No, Markham; he had a far more sinister object in mind; but when he found himself thwarted by the locked door and heard Mrs. Drukker’s cry of fright, he placed the bishop where she would find it, and fled.”
“Still and all, sir,” argued Heath, “any one mighta known she left her door unlocked at night; and any one coulda learned the lay of the house so’s to find their way around in the dark.”
“But who, Sergeant, had a key to the rear door? And who could have used it at midnight last night?”
“The door mighta been left unlocked,” countered Heath; “and when we check up on the alibis of everybody we may get a lead.”
Vance sighed.
“You’ll probably find two or three people without any alibi at all. And if last night’s visit here was planned, a convincing alibi may have been prepared. We’re not dealing with a simpleton, Sergeant. We’re playing a game to the death with a subtle and resourceful murderer, who can think as quickly as we can, and who has had long training in the subtleties of logic.…”
As if on a sudden impulse he turned and passed indoors, motioning us to follow. He went straight to the kitchen where the German woman who had admitted us earlier sat stolidly by a table preparing the midday meal. She rose as we entered and backed away from us. Vance, puzzled by her demeanor, studied her for several moments without speaking. Then his eyes drifted to the table where a large eggplant had been halved lengthwise and scooped out.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, glancing at the contents of the various dishes standing about. “Aubergines à la Turque, what? An excellent dish. But I’d mince the mutton a bit finer, if I were you. And not too much cheese: it detracts from the sauce espagnole which I see you’re preparing.” He looked up with a pleasant smile. “What’s your name, by the by?”
His manner astonished the woman greatly, but it also had the effect of alleviat
ing her fears.
“Menzel,” she answered in a dull voice. “Grete Menzel.”
“And how long have you been with the Drukkers?”
“Going on twenty-five years.”
“A long time,” Vance commented musingly. “Tell me: why were you frightened when we called here this morning?”
The woman became sullen, and her large hands closed tightly.
“I wasn’t frightened. But Mr. Drukker was busy—”
“You thought perhaps we had come to arrest him,” Vance broke in.
Her eyes dilated, but she made no answer.
“What time did Mr. Drukker rise yesterday morning?” Vance went on.
“I told you…nine o’clock—like always.”
“What time did Mr. Drukker rise?” The insistent, detached quality of his voice was far more ominous than any dramatic intonation could have been.
“I told you—”
“Die Wahrheit, Frau Menzel! Um wie viel Uhr ist er aufgestanden?”
The psychological effect of this repetition of the question in German was instantaneous. The woman’s hands went to her face, and a stifled cry, like a trapped animal’s, escaped her.
“I don’t—know,” she groaned. “I called him at half past eight, but he didn’t answer, and I tried the door.… It wasn’t locked and—Du lieber Gott!—he was gone.”
“When did you next see him?” asked Vance quietly.
“At nine. I went up-stairs again to tell him breakfast was ready. He was in the study—at his desk—working like mad, and all excited. He told me to go away.”
“Did he come down to breakfast?”
“Ja—ja. He came down—half an hour later.”
The woman leaned heavily against the drain-board of the sink, and Vance drew up a chair for her.
“Sit down, Mrs. Menzel,” he said kindly. When she had obeyed, he asked: “Why did you tell me this morning that Mr. Drukker rose at nine?”
“I had to—I was told to.” Her resistance was gone, and she breathed heavily like a person exhausted. “When Mrs. Drukker came back from Miss Dillard’s yesterday afternoon she told me that if any one asked me that question about Mr. Drukker I was to say ‘Nine o’clock.’ She made me swear I’d say it.…” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes took on a glassy stare. “I was afraid to say anything else.”
Vance still seemed puzzled. After several deep inhalations on his cigarette he remarked:
“There’s nothing in what you’ve told us to affect you this way. It’s not unnatural that a morbid woman like Mrs. Drukker should have taken such a fantastic measure to protect her son from possible suspicion, when a murder had been committed in the neighborhood. You’ve surely been with her long enough to realize how she might exaggerate every remote possibility where her son is concerned. In fact, I’m surprised you take it so seriously.… Have you any other reason to connect Mr. Drukker with this crime?”
“No—no!” The woman shook her head distractedly.
Vance strolled to the rear window, frowning. Suddenly he swung about. He had become stern and implacable.
“Where were you, Mrs. Menzel, the morning Mr. Robin was killed?”
An astounding change came over the woman. Her face paled; her lips trembled; and she clinched her hands with a spasmodic gesture. She tried to take her staring eyes from Vance, but some quality in his gaze held her.
“Where were you, Mrs. Menzel?” The question was repeated sharply.
“I was—here—” she began; then stopped abruptly and cast an agitated glance at Heath, who was watching her fixedly.
“You were in the kitchen?”
She nodded. The power of speech seemed to have deserted her.
“And you saw Mr. Drukker return from the Dillards’?”
Again she nodded.
“Exactly,” said Vance. “And he came in the rear way, by the screen porch, and went up-stairs.… And he didn’t know that you saw him through the kitchen door.… And later he inquired regarding your whereabouts at that hour.… And when you told him you had been in the kitchen he warned you to keep silent about it.… And then you learned of Mr. Robin’s death a few minutes before you saw him enter here.… And yesterday, when Mrs. Drukker told you to say he had not risen until nine, and you heard that some one else had been killed near here, you became suspicious and frightened.… That’s correct, is it not, Mrs. Menzel?”
The woman was sobbing audibly in her apron. There was no need for her to reply, for it was obvious that Vance had guessed the truth.
Heath took his cigar from his mouth and glared at her ferociously.
“So! You were holding out on me,” he bellowed, thrusting forward his jaw. “You lied to me when I questioned you the other day. Obstructing justice, were you?”
She gave Vance a look of frightened appeal.
“Mrs. Menzel, Sergeant,” he said, “had no intention of obstructing justice. And now that she has told us the truth, I think we may overlook her perfectly natural deception in the matter.” Then before Heath had time to reply he turned to the woman and asked in a matter-of-fact tone: “Do you lock the door leading to the screen porch every night?”
“Ja—every night.” She spoke listlessly: the reaction from her fright had left her apathetic.
“You are sure you locked it last night?”
“At half past nine—when I went to bed.”
Vance stepped across the little passageway and inspected the lock.
“It’s a snap-lock,” he observed, on returning. “Who has a key to the door?”
“I have a key. And Mrs. Drukker—she has one, too.”
“You’re sure no one else has a key?”
“No one except Miss Dillard.…”
“Miss Dillard?” Vance’s voice was suddenly resonant with interest. “Why should she have one?”
“She’s had it for years. She’s like a member of the family—over here two and three times a day. When I go out I lock the back door; and her having a key saves Mrs. Drukker the trouble of coming down and letting her in.”
“Quite natural,” Vance murmured. Then: “We sha’n’t bother you any more, Mrs. Menzel.” He strolled out on the little rear porch.
When the door had been closed behind us he pointed to the screen door that opened into the yard.
“You’ll note that this wire mesh has been forced away from the frame, permitting one to reach inside and turn the latch. Either Mrs. Drukker’s key or Miss Dillard’s—probably the latter—was used to open the door of the house.”
Heath nodded: this tangible aspect of the case appealed to him. But Markham was not paying attention. He stood in the background smoking with angry detachment. Presently he turned resolutely and was about to re-enter the house when Vance caught his arm.
“No—no, Markham! That would be abominable technique. Curb your ire. You’re so dashed impulsive, don’t y’ know.”
“But, damn it, Vance!” Markham shook off the other’s hand. “Drukker lied to us about going out the Dillard gate before Robin’s murder—”
“Of course he did. I’ve suspected all along that the account he gave us of his movements that morning was a bit fanciful. But it’s useless to go upstairs now and hector him about it. He’ll simply say that the cook is mistaken.”
Markham was unconvinced.
“But what about yesterday morning? I want to know where he was when the cook called him at half past eight. Why should Mrs. Drukker be so anxious to have us believe he was asleep?”
“She, too, probably went to his room and saw that he was gone. Then when she heard of Sprigg’s death her febrile imagination became overheated, and she proceeded to invest him with an alibi. But you’re only inviting trouble when you plan to chivy him about the discrepancies in his tale.”
“I’m not so sure.” Markham spoke with significative gravity. “I may be inviting a solution to this hideous business.”
Vance did not reply at once. He stood gazing down at the quivering shadows cast on th
e lawn by the willow trees. At length he said in a low voice:
“We can’t afford to take that chance. If what you’re thinking should prove to be true, and you should reveal the information you’ve just received, the little man who was here last night might prowl about the upper hall again. And this time he might not be content to leave his chessman outside the door!”
A look of horror came into Markham’s eyes.
“You think I might be jeopardizing the cook’s safety if I used her evidence against him at this time?”
“The terrible thing about this affair is that, until we know the truth, we face danger at every turn.” Vance’s voice was heavy with discouragement. “We can’t risk exposing any one.…”
The door leading to the porch opened, and Drukker appeared on the threshold, his little eyes blinking in the sunlight. His gaze came to rest on Markham, and a crafty, repulsive smile contorted his mouth.
“I trust I am not disturbing you,” he apologized, with a menacing squint; “but the cook has just informed me that she told you she saw me enter here by the rear door on the morning of Mr. Robin’s unfortunate death.”
“Oh, my aunt!” murmured Vance, turning away and busying himself with the selection of a fresh cigarette. “That tears it.”
Drukker shot him an inquisitive look, and drew himself up with a kind of cynical fortitude.
“And what about it, Mr. Drukker?” demanded Markham.
“I merely desired to assure you,” the man replied, “that the cook is in error. She has obviously confused the date,—you see, I come and go so often by this rear door. On the morning of Mr. Robin’s death, as I explained to you, I left the range by the 75th-Street gate and, after a brief walk in the park, returned home by the front way. I have convinced Grete that she is mistaken.”
The Philo Vance Megapack Page 98
