The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  Markham continued for some time building up his case against Drukker. He was thorough and detailed, and his summation accounted for practically all of the evidence that had been adduced. The logical and relentless way in which he pieced his various factors together was impressively convincing; and a long silence followed his résumé.

  Vance at length stood up, as if to break the tension of his thoughts, and walked to the window.

  “You may be right, Markham,” he admitted. “But my chief objection to your conclusion is that the case against Drukker is too good. I’ve had him in mind as a possibility from the first; but the more suspiciously he acted and the more the indications pointed toward him, the more I felt inclined to dismiss him from consideration. The brain that schemed these abominable murders is too competent, too devilishly shrewd, to become entangled in any such net of circumstantial evidence as you’ve drawn about Drukker. Drukker has an amazing mentality—his intelligence and intellect are supernormal, in fact; and it’s difficult to conceive of him, if guilty, leaving so many loopholes.”

  “The law,” returned Markham with acerbity, “can hardly be expected to throw out cases because they’re too convincing.”

  “On the other hand,” pursued Vance, ignoring the comment, “it is quite obvious that Drukker, even if not guilty, knows something that has a direct and vital bearing on the case; and my humble suggestion is that we attempt to prise this information out of him. Sperling’s testimony has given us the lever for the purpose.… I say, Mr. Arnesson, what’s your opinion?”

  “Haven’t any,” the man answered. “I’m a disinterested onlooker. I’d hate, however, to see poor Adolph in durance vile.” Though he would not commit himself it was plain that he agreed with Vance.

  Heath thought, characteristically, that immediate action was advisable, and expressed himself to that effect.

  “If he’s got anything to tell he’ll tell it quick enough after he’s locked up.”

  “It’s a difficult situation,” Inspector Moran demurred, in a soft judicial voice. “We can’t afford to make an error. If Drukker’s evidence should convict some one else, we’d be a laughing-stock if we had arrested the wrong man.”

  Vance looked toward Markham and nodded agreement.

  “Why not have him on the tapis first, and see if he can’t be persuaded to unburden his soul. You might dangle a warrant over his head, don’t y’ know, as a kind of moral inducement. Then, if he remains coy and reticent, bring out the gyves and have the doughty Sergeant escort him to the bastille.”

  Markham sat tapping indecisively on the desk, his head enveloped in smoke as he puffed nervously on his cigar. At last he set his chin firmly and turned to Heath.

  “Bring Drukker here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. You’d better take a wagon and a John-Doe warrant in case he offers any objection.” His face was grim and determined. “Then I’ll find out what he knows—and act accordingly.”

  The conference broke up immediately. It was after five o’clock, and Markham and Vance and I rode uptown together to the Stuyvesant Club. We dropped Arnesson at the subway, and he took leave of us with scarcely a word. His garrulous cynicism seemed entirely to have deserted him. After dinner Markham pleaded fatigue, and Vance and I went to the Metropolitan and heard Geraldine Farrar in “Louise.”96

  The next morning broke dark and misty. Currie called us at half past seven, for Vance intended to be present at the interview with Drukker; and at eight o’clock we had breakfast in the library before a light grate fire. We were held up in the traffic on our way downtown, and though it was quarter after nine when we reached the District Attorney’s office, Drukker and Heath had not yet arrived.

  Vance settled himself comfortably in a large leather-upholstered chair and lighted a cigarette.

  “I feel rather bucked this morning,” he remarked. “If Drukker tells his story, and if the tale is what I think it is, we’ll know the combination to the lock.”

  His words had scarcely been uttered when Heath burst into the office and, facing Markham without a word of greeting, lifted both arms and let them fall in a gesture of hopeless resignation.

  “Well, sir, we ain’t going to question Drukkcr this morning—or no other time,” he blurted. “He fell off a that high wall in Riverside Park right near his house last night, and broke his neck. Wasn’t found till seven o’clock this morning. His body’s down at the morgue now.… Fine breaks we get!” He sank disgustedly into a chair.

  Markham stared at him unbelievingly.

  “You’re sure?” he asked, with startled futility.

  “I was up there before they removed the body. One of the local men phoned me about it just as I was leaving the office. I stuck around and got all the dope I could.”

  “What did you learn?” Markham was fighting against an overwhelming sense of discouragement.

  “There wasn’t much to find out. Some kids in the park found the body about seven o’clock this morning—lots of kids around, it being Saturday; and the local men hopped over and called a police surgeon. The doc said Drukker musta fallen off the wall about ten o’clock last night—killed instantly. The wall at that spot—right opposite 76th Street-is all of thirty feet above the playground. The top of it runs along the bridle path; and it’s a wonder more people haven’t broke their necks there. Kids are all the time walking along the stone ledge.”

  “Has Mrs. Drukker been notified?”

  “No. I told ’em I’d attend to it. But I thought I’d come here first and see what you wanted done about it.”

  Markham leaned back dejectedly.

  “I don’t see that there’s much of anything we can do.”

  “It might be well,” suggested Vance, “to inform Arnesson. He’ll probably be the one who’ll have to look after things.… My word, Markham! I’m beginning to think that this case is a nightmare, after all. Drukker was our principal hope, and at the very moment when there’s a chance of our forcing him to speak, he tumbles off of a wall—” Abruptly he stopped. “Off of a wall!…” As he repeated these words he leapt to his feet. “A hunchback falls off of a wall!… A hunchback!…”

  We stared at him as if he had gone out of his mind; and I admit that the look on his face sent a chill over me. His eyes were fixed, like those of a man gazing at a malignant ghost. Slowly he turned to Markham, and said in a voice that I hardly recognized:

  “It’s another mad melodrama—another Mother-Goose rhyme.…‘Humpty Dumpty’ this time!”

  The astonished silence that followed was broken by a strained harsh laugh from the Sergeant.

  “That’s stretching things, ain’t it, Mr. Vance?”

  “It’s preposterous!” declared Markham, studying Vance with genuine concern. “My dear fellow, you’ve let this case prey on your mind too much. Nothing has happened except that a man with a hump has fallen from the coping of a wall in the park. It’s unfortunate, I know; and it’s doubly unfortunate at just this time.” He went to Vance and put his hand on his shoulder. “Let the Sergeant and me run this show—we’re used to these things. Take a trip and get a good rest. Why not go to Europe as you generally do in the spring?”

  “Oh, quite—quite.” Vance sighed and smiled wearily. “The sea air would do me worlds of good, and all that. Bring me back to normal, what?—build up the wreck of this once noble brain.… I give up! The third act in this terrible tragedy is played almost before your eyes, and you serenely ignore it.”

  “Your imagination has got the better of you,” Markham returned, with the patience of a deep affection. “Don’t worry about it any more. Have dinner with me tonight. We’ll talk it over then.”

  At this moment Swacker looked in, and spoke to the Sergeant.

  “Quinan of the World is here. Wants to see you.”

  Markham swung about.

  “Oh, my God!… Bring him in here!”

  Quinan entered, waved us a cheery salutation, and handed the Sergeant a letter.

  “Another billet-doux—recei
ved this morning.—What privileges do I get for being so big-hearted?”

  Heath opened the letter as the rest of us looked on. At once I recognized the paper and the faint blue characters of the élite type. The note read:

  Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

  Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;

  All the king’s horses and all the king’s men

  Cannot put Humpty Dumpty together again.

  Then came that ominous signature, in capitals: THE BISHOP.

  CHAPTER XVII

  AN ALL-NIGHT LIGHT

  (Saturday, April 16; 9.30 A.M.)

  When Heath had got rid of Quinan with promises such as would have gladdened any reporter’s heart,97 there were several minutes of tense silence in the office. “The Bishop” had been at his grisly work again; and the case had now become a terrible triplicate affair, with the solution apparently further off than ever. It was not, however, the insolubility of these incredible crimes that primarily affected us; rather was it the inherent horror that emanated, like a miasma, from the acts themselves.

  Vance, who was pacing sombrely up and down, gave voice to his troubled emotions.

  “It’s damnable, Markham—it’s the essence of unutterable evil.… Those children in the park—up early on their holiday in search of dreams—busy with their play and make-believe…and then the silencing reality—the awful, overpowering disillusion.… Don’t you see the wickedness of it? Those children found Humpty Dumpty—their Humpty Dumpty, with whom they had played—lying dead at the foot of the famous wall—a Humpty Dumpty they could touch and weep over, broken and twisted and never more to be put together.…”

  He paused by the window and looked out. The mist had lifted, and a faint diffusion of spring sunlight lay over the gray stones of the city. The golden eagle on the New York Life Building glistened in the distance.

  “I say; one simply mustn’t get sentimental,” he remarked with a forced smile, turning back to the room. “It decomposes the intelligence and stultifies the dialectic processes. Now that we know Drukker was not the capricious victim of the law of gravity, but was given a helpin’ hand in his departure from this world, the sooner we become energetic, the better, what?”

  Though his change of mood was an obvious tour de force, it roused the rest of us from our gloomy apathy. Markham reached for the telephone and made arrangements with Inspector Moran for Heath to handle the Drukker case. Then he called the Medical Examiner’s office and asked for an immediate post-mortem report. Heath got up vigorously, and after taking three cups of ice-water, stood with legs apart, his derby pulled far down on his forehead, waiting for the District Attorney to indicate a line of action.

  Markham moved restlessly.

  “Several men from your department, Sergeant, were supposed to be keeping an eye on the Drukker and Dillard houses. Did you talk to any of them this morning?”

  “I didn’t have time, sir; and, anyway, I figured it was only an accident. But I told the boys to hang around until I got back.”

  “What did the Medical Examiner have to say?”

  “Only that it looked like an accident; and that Drukker had been dead about ten hours.…”

  Vance interpolated a question.

  “Did he mention a fractured skull in addition to the broken neck?”

  “Well, sir, he didn’t exactly say the skull was fractured, but he did state that Drukker had landed on the back of his head.” Heath nodded understandingly. “I guess it’ll prove to be a fracture all right—same like Robin and Sprigg.”

  “Undoubtedly. The technique of our murderer seems to be simple and efficacious. He strikes his victims on the vault, either stunning them or killing them outright, and then proceeds to cast them in the rôles he has chosen for them in his puppet-plays. Drukker was no doubt leaning over the wall, perfectly exposed for such an attack. It was misty, and the setting was somewhat obscured. Then came the blow on the head, a slight heave, and Drukker fell noiselessly over the parapet—the third sacrificial offering on the altar of old Mother Goose.”

  “What gets me,” declared Heath with surly anger, “is why Guilfoyle,98 the fellow I set to watch the rear of the Drukker house, didn’t report the fact that Drukker was out all night. He returned to the Bureau at eight o’clock, and I missed him.—Don’t you think, sir, it might be a good idea to find out what he knows before we go uptown?”

  Markham agreed, and Heath bawled an order over the telephone. Guilfoyle made the distance between Police Headquarters and the Criminal Courts Building in less than ten minutes. The Sergeant almost pounced on him as he entered.

  “What time did Drukker leave the house last night?” he bellowed.

  “About eight o’clock—right after he’d had dinner.” Guilfoyle was ill at ease, and his tone had the wheedling softness of one who had been caught in a dereliction of duty.

  “Which way did he go?”

  “He came out the back door, walked down the range, and went into the Dillard house through the archery-room.”

  “Paying a social visit?”

  “It looked that way, Sergeant. He spends a lot of time at the Dillards’.”

  “Huh! And what time did he come back home?”

  Guilfoyle moved uneasily.

  “It don’t look like he came back home, Sergeant.”

  “Oh, it don’t?” Heath’s retort was ponderous with sarcasm. “I thought maybe after he’d broke his neck he mighta come back and passed the time of day with you.”

  “What I meant was, Sergeant—”

  “You meant that Drukker—the bird you were supposed to keep an eye on—went to call on the Dillards at eight o’clock, and then you set down in the arbor, most likely, and took a little beauty nap.…” What time did you wake up?”

  “Say, listen!” Guilfoyle bristled. “I didn’t take no nap. I was on the job all night. Just because I didn’t happen to see this guy come back home don’t mean I was laying down on the watch.”

  “Well, if you didn’t see him come back, why didn’t you phone in that he was spending his week-end out of town or something?”

  “I thought he musta come in by the front door.”

  “Thinking again, were you? Ain’t your brain worn out this morning?”

  “Have a heart, Sergeant. My job wasn’t to tail Drukker. You told me to watch the house and see who went in and out, and that if there was any sign of trouble to bust in.—Now, here’s what happened. Drukker went to the Dillards’ at eight o’clock, and I kept my eye on the windows of the Drukker house. Along about nine o’clock the cook goes up-stairs and turns on the light in her room. Half an hour later the light goes out, and says I: ‘She’s put to bed.’ Then along about ten o’clock the lights are turned on in Drukker’s room—”

  “What’s this?”

  “Yeh—you heard me. The lights go on in Drukker’s room about ten o’clock; and I can see a shadow of somebody moving about.—Now, I ask you, Sergeant: wouldn’t you yourself have took it for granted that the hunchback had come in by the front door?”

  Heath grunted.

  “Maybe so,” he admitted. “You’re sure it was ten o’clock?”

  “I didn’t look at my watch; but I’m here to tell you it wasn’t far off of ten.”

  “And what time did the lights go out in Drukker’s room?”

  “They didn’t go out. They stayed on all night. He was a queer bird. He didn’t keep regular hours, and twice before his lights were on till nearly morning.”

  “That’s quite understandable,” came Vance’s lazy voice. “He has been at work on a difficult problem lately.—But tell us, Guilfoyle: what about the light in Mrs. Drukker’s room?”

  “Same as usual. The old dame always keeps a light burning in her room all night.”

  “Was there any one on guard in front of the Drukker house last night?” Markham asked Heath.

  “Not after six o’clock, sir. We’ve had a man tailing Drukker during the day, but he goes off duty at six when Guilfoyle takes up h
is post in the rear.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Vance turned to Guilfoyle.

  “How far away were you last night from the door of the alleyway between the two apartment houses?”

  The man paused to visualize the scene.

  “Forty or fifty feet, say.”

  “And between you and the alleyway were the iron fence and some tree branches.”

  “Yes, sir. The view was more or less cut off, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Would it have been possible for any one, coming from the direction of the Dillard house, to have gone out and returned by that door without your noticing him?”

  “It mighta been done,” the detective admitted; “provided, of course, the guy didn’t want me to see him. It was foggy and dark last night, and there’s always a lot of traffic noises from the Drive that woulda drowned out his movements if he was being extra cautious.”

  When the Sergeant had sent Guilfoyle back to the Bureau to await orders, Vance gave voice to his perplexity.

  “It’s a dashed complicated situation. Drukker called on the Dillards at eight o’clock, and at ten o’clock he was shoved over the wall in the park. As you observed, the note that Quinan just showed us was postmarked 11 p. m.—which means that it was probably typed before the crime. The Bishop therefore had planned his comedy in advance and prepared the note for the press. The audacity of it is amazin’. But there’s one assumption we can tie to—namely, that the murderer was some one who knew of Drukker’s exact whereabouts and proposed movements between eight and ten.”

  “I take it,” said Markham, “your theory is that the murderer went and returned by the apartment-house alley.”