The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “By all the witches!” he exclaimed. “Pyne just told me the news.” He came to the table and stared at Pardee’s body. “Suicide, eh?… But why didn’t he choose his own home for the performance? Damned inconsiderate of him to muss up some one else’s house this way. Just like a chess player.” He lifted his eyes to Markham. “Hope this won’t involve us in more unpleasantness. We’ve had enough notoriety. Distracts the mind. When’ll you be able to take the beggar’s remains away? Don’t want Belle to see him.”

  “The body will be removed as soon as the Medical Examiner has seen it,” Markham told him in a tone of frosty rebuke. “And there will be no necessity to bring Miss Dillard here.”

  “Good.” Arnesson still stood staring at the dead man. Slowly a look of cynical wistfulness came over his face. “Poor devil! Life was too much for him. Hypersensitive—no psychic stamina. Took things too seriously. Brooded over his fate ever since his gambit went up in smoke. Couldn’t find any other diversion. The black bishop haunted him; probably tipped his mind from its axis. By Gad! Wouldn’t be surprised if the idea drove him to self-destruction. Might have imagined he was a chess bishop—trying to get back at the world in the guise of his nemesis.”

  “Clever idea,” returned Vance. “By the by, there was a house of cards on the table when we first saw the body.”

  “Ha! I wondered what the cards were doing there. Thought he might have sought solace in solitaire during his last moments.… A card house, eh? Sounds foolish. Do you know the answer?”

  “Not all of it. ‘The house that Jack built’ might explain something.”

  “I see.” Arnesson looked owlish. “Playing children’s games to the end—even on himself. Queer notion.” He yawned cavernously. “Guess I’ll get some clothes on.” And he went up-stairs.

  Professor Dillard had stood watching Arnesson with a look at once distressed and paternal. Now he turned to Markham with a gesture of annoyance.

  “Sigurd’s always protecting himself against his emotions. He’s ashamed of his feelings. Don’t take his careless attitude too seriously.”

  Before Markham could make a reply Pyne ushered Detective Burke into the room; and Vance took the opportunity of questioning the butler about his discovery of Pardee.

  “How did it happen you entered the archery-room this morning?” he asked.

  “It was a bit close in the pantry, sir,” the man returned, “and I opened the door at the foot of the stairs to get a little more air. Then I noticed that the shades were down—”

  “It’s not custom’ry to draw the shades at night, then?”

  “No, sir—not in this room.”

  “How about the windows?”

  “I always leave them slightly open from the top at night.”

  “Were they left open last night?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very good.—And after you opened the door this morning?”

  “I started to put out the lights, thinking Miss Dillard had forgotten to turn the switch last night; but just then I saw the poor gentleman there at the table, and went straight up and informed Professor Dillard.”

  “Does Beedle know about the tragedy?”

  “I told her of it right after you gentlemen arrived.”

  “What time did you and Beedle retire last night?”

  “At ten o’clock, sir.”

  When Pyne had left us Markham addressed Professor Dillard.

  “It might be well for you to give us what details you can while we’re waiting for Doctor Doremus.—Shall we go up-stairs?”

  Burke remained in the archery-room, and the rest of us went to the library.

  “I’m afraid there’s little I can tell you,” the professor began, settling himself and taking out his pipe. There was a noticeable reserve in his manner—a kind of detached reluctance. “Pardee came here last night after dinner, ostensibly to chat with Arnesson, but actually, I imagine, to see Belle. Belle, however, excused herself early and went to bed—the child had a bad headache—and Pardee remained until about half past eleven. Then he went out; and that was the last I saw of him until Pyne brought me the terrible news this morning.…”

  “But if,” put in Vance, “Mr. Pardee came to see your niece, how do you account for his staying so late after she had retired?”

  “I don’t account for it.” The old man exhibited perplexity. “He gave the impression, though, that there was something on his mind and that he desired a sense of human contact. The fact is, I had to hint rather broadly about being tired before he finally got up to go.”

  “Where was Mr. Arnesson during the evening?”

  “Sigurd remained here talking with us for an hour or so after Belle had retired, and then went to bed. He’d been busy with Drukker’s affairs all afternoon, and was played out.”

  “What time would that have been?”

  “About half past ten.”

  “And you say,” continued Vance, “that Mr. Pardee impressed you as being under a mental strain?”

  “Not a strain exactly.” The professor drew on his pipe, frowning. “He appeared depressed, almost melancholy.

  “Did it strike you that he was in fear of something?”

  “No; not in the least. He was more like a man who had suffered a great sorrow and couldn’t shake the effects of it.”

  “When he went out did you go with him into the hall—that is, did you note which direction he took?”

  “No. We always treated Pardee very informally here. He said good-night and left the room. I took it for granted he went to the front door and let himself out.”

  “Did you go to your own room at once?”

  “In about ten minutes. I stayed up only long enough to arrange some papers I’d been working on.”

  Vance lapsed into silence—he was obviously puzzled over some phase of the episode; and Markham took up the interrogation.

  “I suppose,” he said, “that it is useless to ask if you heard any sound last night that might have been a shot.”

  “Everything in the house was quiet,” Professor Dillard replied. “And anyway no sound of a shot would carry from the archery-room to this floor. There are two flights of stairs, the entire length of the lower hall and a passageway, and three heavy doors between. Moreover, the walls of this old house are very thick and solid.”

  “And no one,” supplemented Vance, “could have heard the shot from the street, for the archery-room windows were carefully closed.”

  The professor nodded and gave him a searching look.

  “That is true. I see you, too, noticed that peculiar circumstance. I don’t quite understand why Pardee should have shut the windows.”

  “The idiosyncrasies of suicides have never been satisfactorily explained,” returned Vance casually. Then, after a short pause, he asked: “What were you and Mr. Pardee talking about during the hour preceding his departure?”

  “We talked very little. I was more or less engaged with a new paper of Millikan’s in the Physics Review on alkali doublets, and I tried to interest him in it; but his mind, as I’ve said, was noticeably preoccupied, and he amused himself at the chess-board for the best part of the hour.”

  “Ah! Did he, now? That’s most interestin’.”

  Vance glanced at the board. A number of pieces were still standing on the squares; and he rose quickly and crossed the room to the little table. After a moment he came back and reseated himself.

  “Most curious,” he murmured, and very deliberately lighted a cigarette. “He was evidently pondering over the end of his game with Rubinstein just before he went down-stairs last night. The pieces are set up exactly as they were at the time he resigned the contest—with the inevitable black-bishop-mate only five moves off.”

  Professor Dillard’s gaze moved to the chess table wonderingly.

  “The black bishop,” he repeated in a low tone. “Could that have been what was preying on his mind last night? It seems unbelievable that so trivial a thing could affect him so disastrously.” />
  “Don’t forget, sir,” Vance reminded him, “that the black bishop was the symbol of his failure. It represented the wreckage of his hopes. Less potent factors have driven men to take their own lives.”

  A few minutes later Burke informed us that the Medical Examiner had arrived. Taking leave of the professor we descended again to the archery-room, where Doctor Doremus was busy with his examination of Pardee’s body.

  He looked up as we entered and waved one hand perfunctorily. His usual jovial manner was gone.

  “When’s this business going to stop?” he grumbled. “I don’t like the atmosphere round here. Murders—death from shock—suicides. Enough to give any one the creeps. I’m going to get a nice uneventful job in a slaughter house.”

  “We believe,” said Markham, “that this is the end.”

  Doremus blinked. “So! That’s it, is it?—the Bishop suicides after running the town ragged. Sounds reasonable. Hope you’re right.” He again bent over the body, and, unflexing the fingers, tossed the revolver to the table.

  “For your armory, Sergeant.”

  Heath dropped the weapon in his pocket.

  “How long’s he been dead, doc?”

  “Oh, since midnight, or thereabouts. Maybe earlier, maybe later.—Any other fool questions?”

  Heath grinned. “Is there any doubt about it being suicide?”

  Doremus glared passionately at the Sergeant.

  “What does it look like? A black-hand bombing?” Then he became professional. “The weapon was in his hand. Powder marks on the temple. Hole the right size for the gun, and in the right place. Position of the body natural. Can’t see anything suspicious.—Why? Got any doubts?”

  It was Markham who answered.

  “To the contrary, doctor. Everything from our angle of the case points to suicide.”

  “It’s suicide all right, then. I’ll check up a little further, though.—Here, Sergeant, give me a hand.”

  When Heath had helped to lift Pardee’s body to the divan for a more detailed examination, we went to the drawing-room where we were joined shortly by Arnesson.

  “What’s the verdict?” he asked, dropping into the nearest chair. “I suppose there’s no question that the chap committed the act himself.”

  “Why should you raise the point, Mr. Arnesson?” Vance parried.

  “No reason. An idle comment. Lots of queer things going on hereabouts.”

  “Oh, obviously.” Vance blew a wreath of smoke upward. “No; the Medical Examiner seems to think there’s no doubt in the matter. Did Pardee, by the by, impress you as bent on self-destruction last night?”

  Arnesson considered. “Hard to say,” he concluded. “He was never a gay soul. But suicide?… I don’t know. However, you say there’s no question about it; so there you are.”

  “Quite, quite. And how does this new situation fit into your formula?”

  “Dissipates the whole equation, of course. No more need for speculation.” Despite his words, he appeared uncertain. “What I can’t understand,” he added, “is why he should choose the archery-room. Lot of space in his own house for a felo-de-se.”

  “There was a convenient gun in the archery-room,” suggested Vance. “And that reminds me: Sergeant Heath would like to have Miss Dillard identify the weapon, as a matter of form.”

  “That’s easy. Where is it?”

  Heath handed it to him, and he started from the room.

  “Also”—Vance halted him—“you might ask Miss Dillard if she kept playing cards in the archery-room.”

  Arnesson returned in a few minutes and informed us that the gun was the one which had been in the tool-chest drawer, and that not only were playing cards kept in the table drawer of the archery-room but that Pardee knew of their presence there.

  Doctor Doremus appeared soon afterwards and iterated his conclusion that Pardee had shot himself.

  “That’ll be my report,” he said. “Can’t see any way out of it. To be sure, lots of suicides are fakes—but that’s your province. Nothing in the least suspicious here.”

  Markham nodded with undisguised satisfaction.

  “We’ve no reason to question your findings, doctor. In fact, suicide fits perfectly with what we already know. It brings this whole Bishop orgy to a logical conclusion.” He got up like a man from whose shoulders a great burden had been lifted. “Sergeant, I’ll leave you to arrange for the removal of the body for the autopsy; but you’d better drop in at the Stuyvesant Club later. Thank Heaven today is Sunday! It gives us time to turn round.”

  That night at the club Vance and Markham and I sat alone in the lounge-room. Heath had come and gone, and a careful statement had been drawn up for the press announcing Pardee’s suicide and intimating that the Bishop case was thereby closed. Vance had said little all day. He had refused to offer any suggestion as to the wording of the official statement, and had appeared reluctant even to discuss the new phase of the case. But now he gave voice to the doubts that had evidently been occupying his mind.

  “It’s too easy, Markham—much too easy. There’s an aroma of speciousness about it. It’s perfectly logical, d’ ye see, but it’s not satisfyin’. I can’t exactly picture our Bishop terminating his debauch of humor in any such banal fashion. There’s nothing witty in blowin’ one’s brain out—it’s rather commonplace, don’t y’ know. Shows a woeful lack of originality. It’s not worthy of the artificer of the Mother-Goose murders.”

  Markham was disgruntled.

  “You yourself explained how the crimes accorded with the psychological possibilities of Pardee’s mentality; and to me it appears highly reasonable that, having perpetrated his gruesome jokes and come to the end of his rope, he should have done away with himself.”

  “You’re probably right,” sighed Vance. “I haven’t any coruscatin’ arguments to combat you with. Only, I’m disappointed. I don’t like anticlimaxes, especially when they don’t jibe with my idea of the dramatist’s talent. Pardee’s death at this moment is too deuced neat—it clears things up too tidily. There’s too much utility in it, and too little imagination.”

  Markham felt that he could afford to be tolerant.

  “Perhaps his imagination was exhausted on the murders. His suicide might be regarded merely as a lowering of the curtain when the play was over. In any event, it was by no means an incredible act. Defeat and disappointment and discouragement—a thwarting of all one’s ambitions—have constituted cause for suicide since time immemorial.”

  “Exactly. We have a reasonable motive, or explanation, for his suicide, but no motive for the murders.”

  “Pardee was in love with Belle Dillard,” argued Markham; “and he probably knew that Robin was a suitor for her hand. Also, he was intensely jealous of Drukker.”

  “And Sprigg’s murder?”

  “We have no data on that point.”

  Vance shook his head.

  “We can’t separate the crimes as to motive. They all sprang from one underlying impulse: they were actuated by a single urgent passion.”

  Markham sighed impatiently.

  “Even if Pardee’s suicide is unrelated to the murders, we’re at a dead end, figuratively and literally.”

  “Yes, yes. A dead end. Very distressin’. Consolin’ for the police, though. It lets them out—for a while, anyway. But don’t misinterpret my vagaries. Pardee’s death is unquestionably related to the murders. Rather intimate relationship, too, I’d say.”

  Markham took his cigar slowly from his mouth and scrutinized Vance for several moments.

  “Is there any doubt in your mind,” he asked, “that Pardee committed suicide?”

  Vance hesitated before answering.

  “I could bear to know,” he drawled, “why that house of cards collapsed so readily when I deliberately leaned against the table—”

  “Yes?”

  “—and why it didn’t topple over when Pardee’s head and shoulders fell forward on the table after he’d shot himself.”


  “Nothing to that,” said Markham. “The first jar may have loosened the cards—” Suddenly his eyes narrowed. “Are you implying that the card-house was built after Pardee was dead?”

  “Oh, my dear fellow! I’m not indulgin’ in implications. I’m merely givin’ tongue to my youthful curiosity, don’t y’ know.”

  CHAPTER XXIII

  A STARTLING DISCOVERY

  (Monday, April 25; 8.30 P.M.)

  Eight days went by. The Drukker funeral was held in the little house on 76th Street, attended only by the Dillards and Arnesson and a few men from the university who came to pay a last tribute of respect to a scientist for whose work they had a very genuine admiration.

  Vance and I were at the house on the morning of the funeral when a little girl brought a small cluster of spring flowers she had picked herself, and asked Arnesson to give them to Drukker. I almost expected a cynical response from him, and was surprised when he took the flowers gravely and said in a tone almost tender:

  “I’ll give them to him at once, Madeleine. And Humpty Dumpty thanks you for remembering him.” When the child had been led away by her governess, he turned to us. “She was Drukker’s favorite.… Funny fellow. Never went to the theatre. Detested travel. His only recreation was entertaining youngsters.”

  I mention this episode because, in spite of its seeming unimportance, it was to prove one of the most vital links in the chain of evidence that eventually cleared up, beyond all question of doubt, the problem of the Bishop murders.

  The death of Pardee had created a situation almost unique in the annals of modern crime. The statement given out by the District Attorney’s office had only intimated that there was a possibility of Pardee’s being guilty of the murders. Whatever Markham may have personally believed, he was far too honorable and just to cast any direct doubt on another’s character without overwhelming proofs. But the wave of terror arising from these strange murders had reached such proportions that he could not, in view of the duty he owed to the community, refrain from saying that he believed the case to be closed. Thus, while no open accusation of guilt was made against Pardee, the Bishop murders were no longer regarded as a source of menace to the city, and a sigh of relief went up from all quarters.