“The murderer of Mr. Kyle is a despicable and unworthy creature,” she answered in a hard, strained voice; “and I will gladly do anything I can to help you.” She did not look at Vance, but concentrated her gaze on an enormous honey-colored camelian ring of intaglio design which she wore on the forefinger of her right hand.
Vance’s eyebrows went up slightly.
“You think, then, we did right in releasing your husband?”
I could not understand the purport of Vance’s question; and the woman’s answer confused me still further. She raised her head slowly and regarded each one of us in turn. Finally she said:
“Doctor Bliss is a very patient man. Many people have wronged him. I am not even sure that Hani is altogether loyal to him. But my husband is not a fool—he is even too clever at times. I do not put murder beyond him—or beyond any one, for that matter. Murder may sometimes be the highest form of courage. However, if my husband had killed Mr. Kyle he would not have been stupid about it—certainly he would have not left evidence pointing to himself.…” She glanced again at her folded hands. “But if he had been contemplating murder, Mr. Kyle would not have been the object of his crime. There are others whom he had more reason for wanting out of the way.”
“Hani, for instance?”
“Perhaps.”
“Or Mr. Salveter?”
“Almost any one but Mr. Kyle,” the woman answered, without a perceptible modulation of voice.
“Anger could have dictated the murder.” Vance spoke like a man discussing a purely academic topic. “If Mr. Kyle had refused to continue financing the excavations—”
“You do not know my husband. He has the most equable temper I have ever seen. Passion is alien to his nature. He makes no move without long deliberation.”
“The scholar’s mind,” Vance murmured. “Yes, I have always had that impression of him.” He took out his cigarette-case. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Do you mind if I do?”
Vance leapt to his feet and extended his case.
“Ah—Régies!” She selected a cigarette. “You are very fortunate, Mr. Vance. There were none left in Turkey when I applied for a shipment.”
“I am doubly fortunate that I am able to offer you one.” Vance lighted her cigarette and resumed his seat. “Who, do you think, Mrs. Bliss, was most benefited by Mr. Kyle’s death?” he put the question carelessly, but I could see he was watching her closely.
“I couldn’t say.” The woman was clearly on her guard.
“But surely,” pursued Vance, “some one benefited by his death. Otherwise he would not have been murdered.”
“That point is one the police should ascertain. I can give you no assistance along that line.”
“It may be that the police have satisfied themselves, and that I merely asked you for corroboration.” Vance, while courteous, spoke with somewhat pointed significance. “Lookin’ at the matter coldly, the police might argue that the sudden demise of Mr. Kyle would remove a thorn from Hani’s side and end the so-called desecration of his ancestors’ tombs. Then again, the police might hold that Mr. Kyle’s death would enrich both you and Mr. Salveter.”
I expected the woman to resent this remark of Vance’s, but she only glanced up with a frigid smile and said in a dispassionate tone:
“Yes, I do believe there was a will naming Mr. Salveter and myself as the principal beneficiaries.”
“Mr. Scarlett informed us to that effect,” Vance returned. “Quite understandable, don’t y’ know.… And by the by, would you be willing to use your inheritance to perpetuate Doctor Bliss’s work in Egypt?”
“Certainly,” she replied with unmistakable emphasis. “If he asked me to help him, the money would be his to do with as he desired.… Especially now,” she added.
Vance’s face had grown cold and stern, and after a quick upward glance he dropped his eyes and contemplated his cigarette.
Markham rose at this moment.
“Who, Mrs. Bliss,” he asked, with what I regarded as unnecessary aggression, “would have had an object in attempting to saddle your husband with this crime?”
The woman’s gaze faltered, but only momentarily.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she returned. “Did some one really try to do that?”
“You suggested as much yourself, madam, when the scarab pin was called to your attention. You said quite positively that some one had placed it beside Mr. Kyle’s body.”
“What if I did?” She became suddenly defiant. “My initial instinct was naturally to defend my husband.”
“Against whom?”
“Against you and the police.”
“Do you regret that ‘initial instinct’?” Markham put the question brusquely.
“Certainly not!” the woman stiffened in her chair and glanced surreptitiously toward the door.
Vance noted her action and drawled:
“It is only one of the detectives in the hall. Mr. Salveter is sojourning in his boudoir—quite out of hearing.”
Quickly she covered her face with her hands, and a shudder ran over her body.
“You are torturing me,” she moaned.
“And you are watching me through your fingers,” said Vance with a mild grin.
She rose swiftly and glared ferociously at him.
“Please don’t say ‘How dare you?’” Vance spoke banteringly. “The phrase is so trite. And do sit down again.… Hani informed you, I believe—in your native language—that Doctor Bliss was supposed to have been given opium in his coffee this morning. What else did he tell you?”
“That was all he said.” The woman resumed her seat: she appeared exhausted.
“Did you know that opium was kept in the cabinet up-stairs?”
“I wasn’t aware of it,” she replied listlessly; “though I’m not surprised.”
“Did Mr. Salveter know of it?”
“Oh, undoubtedly—if it was actually there. He and Mr. Scarlett had charge of the medical supplies.”
Vance shot her a quick look.
“Although Hani would not admit it,” he said, “I am pretty sure that the tin of opium was found in Mr. Salveter’s room.”
“Yes?” (I could not help feeling that she rather expected this news. Certainly, it was no surprise to her.)
“On the other hand,” pursued Vance, “it might have been found by Hani in your room.”
“Impossible! It couldn’t have been in my room!” She flared up, but on meeting Vance’s steady gaze, subsided. “That is, I don’t see how it could be possible,” she ended weakly.
“I’m probably wrong,” Vance murmured. “But tell me, Mrs. Bliss: did you return to the breakfast-room this morning for another cup of coffee, after you and Mr. Salveter had gone up-stairs?”
“I—I.…” She took a deep breath. “Yes!… Was there any crime in that?”
“Did you meet Hani there?”
After a brief hesitation she answered:
“No. He was in his room—ill.… I sent him his coffee.”
Heath grunted disgustedly.
“A lot we’re finding out,” he growled.
“Quite right, Sergeant,” Vance agreed pleasantly. “An amazin’ amount. Mrs. Bliss is helpin’ us no end.” He turned to the woman again. “You know, of course, who killed Mr. Kyle?” he asked blandly.
“Yes.… I know!” The words were spoken with impulsive venom.
“And you also know why he was killed?”
“I know that, too.” A sudden change had come over her. A strange combination of fear and animus possessed her; and the tragic bitterness of her attitude stunned me.
Heath let forth a queer, inarticulate ejaculation.
“You tell us who it was,” he blurted vindictively, shaking his cigar in her face, “or I’ll arrest you as an accessory, or as a material witness.…”
“Tut, tut, Sergeant!” Vance rose and placed his hand pacifyingly on the other’s shoulder. “Why be so precipitate? It wouldn’t do yo
u the slightest good to incarcerate Mrs. Bliss at this time.… And, d’ ye see, she may be wholly wrong in her diagnosis of the case.”
Markham projected himself into the scene.
“Have you any definite reasons for your opinion, Mrs. Bliss?” he asked. “Have you any specific evidence against the murderer?”
“Not legal evidence,” she answered quietly. “But—but.…” Her voice faltered, and her head fell forward.
“You left the house about nine o’clock this morning, I believe.” Vance’s calm voice seemed to steady her.
“Yes—shortly after breakfast.”
“Shopping?”
“I took a taxi at Fourth Avenue to Altman’s. I didn’t see what I wanted there, and walked to the subway. I went to Wanamaker’s, and later returned to Lord and Taylor’s. Then I went to Saks’s, and finally dropped in at a little shop on Madison Avenue.…”
“The usual routine,” sighed Vance. “You of course bought nothing?”
“I ordered a hat on Madison Avenue.…”
“Remarkable!” Vance caught Markham’s eye and nodded significantly. “I think that will be all for the present, Mrs. Bliss,” he said. “You will kindly go to your room and wait there.”
The woman pressed a small handkerchief to her eyes, and left us without a word.
Vance walked to the window and gazed out into the street. He was, I could see, deeply troubled as a result of the interview. He opened the window, and the droning summer noises of the street drifted in to us. He stood for several minutes in silence, and neither Markham nor Heath interrupted his meditations. At length he turned and, without looking at us, said in a quiet, introspective tone:
“There are too many cross-currents in this house—too many motives, too many objects to be gained, too many emotional complications. A plausible case could be made out of almost any one.…”
“But who could have benefited by Bliss’s entanglement in the crime?” Markham asked.
“Oh, my word!” Vance leaned against the centre-table and gazed at a large oil portrait of the doctor which hung on the east wall. “Every one apparently. Hani doesn’t like his employer and writhes in psychic agony at each basketful of sand that is excavated from Intef’s tomb. Salveter is infatuated with Mrs. Bliss, and naturally her husband is an obstacle to his suit. As for the lady herself: I do not wish to wrong her, but I’m inclined to believe she returns the young gentleman’s affection. If so, the elimination of Bliss would not drive her to suicidal grief.”
Markham’s face clouded.
“I got the impression, too, that Scarlett was not entirely impervious to her charms and that there was a chilliness between him and Salveter.”
“Quite. Ça crève les yeux.” Vance nodded abstractedly. “Mrs. Bliss is undeniably fascinatin’.… I say; if only I could find the clew I’m looking for! Y’ know, Markham, I’ve an idea that something new is going to happen anon. The plot thus far has gone awry. We’ve been led into a Moorish maze by the murderer, but the key hasn’t yet been placed in our hands. When it is, I’ll know which door it’ll unlock—and it won’t be the door the murderer intends us to use it on. Our difficulty now is that we have too many clews; and not one of ’em is the real clew. That’s why we can’t make an arrest. We must wait for the plot to unfold.”
“It’s unfolding, as you call it, too swift for me,” Heath retorted impatiently. “And I don’t mind admitting that I think we’re getting sidetracked. After all’s said and done, weren’t Bliss’s finger-prints found on the statue, and no one else’s? Wasn’t his stick-pin found beside the body? And didn’t he have every opportunity to bump Kyle off?…”
“Sergeant,”—Vance spoke patiently—“would a man of intelligence and profound scientific training commit a murder and not only overlook his finger-prints on the weapon, but also be so careless as to drop his scarf-pin at the scene of the murder, and then calmly wait in the next room for the police to arrest him, after having made bloody footprints to guide them?”
“And there’s the opium, too, Sergeant,” added Markham. “It seems pretty clear to me that the doctor was drugged.”
“Have it your own way, sir.” Heath’s tone bordered on impoliteness. “But I don’t see that we’re getting anywheres.”
As he spoke Emery came to the door.
“Telephone call for you, Sergeant,” he announced. “Down-stairs.”
Heath hurried eagerly from the room and disappeared down the hall. Three or four minutes later he returned. His face was wreathed in smiles, and he swaggered as he walked toward Vance.
“Huh!” He inserted his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. “Your good friend Bliss has just tried to make a getaway. My man, Guilfoyle,132 who I’d phoned to tail the doctor, picked him up as he came out of this house for his walk in the park. But he didn’t go to the park, Mr. Vance. He beat it over to Fourth Avenue and went to the Corn Exchange Bank at Twenty-ninth Street. It was after hours, but he knew the manager and didn’t have no trouble getting his money.…”
“Money?”
“Sure! He drew out everything he had in the bank—got it in twenties, fifties and hundreds—and then took a taxi. Guilfoyle hopped another taxi and followed him uptown. He got off at Grand Central Station and hurried to the ticket office. ‘When’s the next train for Montreal?’ he asked. ‘Four forty-five,’ the guy told him. ‘Gimme a through ticket,’ he said.… It was then four o’clock; and the doc walked to the gate and stood there, waiting. Guilfoyle came up to him and said: ‘Going for a jaunt to Canada?’ The doc got haughty and refused to answer. ‘Anyway,’ said Guilfoyle, ‘I don’t think you’ll leave the country today.’ And taking the doc by the arm, he led him to a telephone booth.… Guilfoyle’s on his way here with your innocent friend.” The Sergeant rocked back and forth on his feet. “What do you think of that, sir?”
Vance regarded him lugubriously.
“And that is taken as another sign of the doctor’s guilt?” He shook his head hopelessly. “Is it possible that you regard such a childish attempt of escape as incriminating?… I say, Sergeant; mightn’t that come under the head of panic on the part of an impractical scientist?”
“Sure it might.” Heath laughed unpleasantly. “All crooks and killers get scared and try to make a getaway. But it don’t prove their lily-white innocence.”
“Still, Sergeant,”—Vance’s voice was discouraged—“a murderer who accidentally left clews on every hand pointing directly to himself and then indulged in this final stupid folly of trying to escape would not be exactly bright. And, I assure you, Doctor Bliss is neither an imbecile nor a lunatic.”
“Them’s mere words, Mr. Vance,” declared the Sergeant doggedly. “This bird made a coupla mistakes and, seeing he was caught, tried to get outa the country. And, I’m here to tell you, that’s running true to form.”
“Oh, my aunt—my precious, dodderin’ aunt!” Vance sank into a large chair and let his head fall back wearily against the lace antimacassar.
CHAPTER 14
A HIEROGLYPHIC LETTER
(Friday, July 13, 4:15 P.M.)
Markham got up irritably and walked the length of the room and back. As always in moments of perplexity his hands were clasped behind him, and his head was projected forward.
“Damn your various aunts!” he growled, as he came abreast of Vance. “You’re always calling on an aunt. Haven’t you any uncles?”
Vance opened his eyes and smiled blandly.
“I know how you feel.” Despite the lightness of his tone there was unmistakable sympathy in his words. “No one is acting as he should in this case. It’s as if every one were in a conspiracy to confuse and complicate matters for us.”
“That’s just it!” Markham fumed. “On the other hand, there’s something in what the Sergeant says. Why should Bliss—?”
“Too much theory, Markham old dear,” Vance interrupted. “Oh, much too much theory…too much speculation…too many futile questions. There’s a key coming, and it’
ll explain everything. Our immediate task, it seems to me, is to find that key.”
“Sure!” Heath spoke with heavy sarcasm. “Suppose I begin punching the furniture with hat-pins and ripping up the carpets.…”
Markham snapped his fingers impatiently, and Heath subsided.
“Let’s get down to earth.” He regarded Vance with vindictive shrewdness. “You’ve got some pretty definite idea; and all your maunderings couldn’t convince me to the contrary.—What do you suggest we do next?—interview Salveter?”
“Precisely.” Vance nodded with unwonted seriousness. “That bigoted lad fits conspicuously into the picture; and his presence on the tapis now is, as the medicos say, indicated.”
Markham made a sign to Heath, who immediately rose and went to the drawing-room door and bellowed up the staircase.
“Hennessey!… Bring that guy down here. We got business with him.”
A few moments later Salveter was piloted into the room. His eyes were flashing, and he planted himself aggressively before Vance, cramming his hands violently into his trousers’ pockets.
“Well, here I am,” he announced with belligerence. “Got the handcuffs ready?”
Vance yawned elaborately and inspected the newcomer with a bored expression.
“Don’t be so virile, Mr. Salveter,” he drawled. “We’re all worn out with this depressin’ case, and simply can’t endure any more vim and vigor. Sit down and let the joints go free.… As for the manacles, Sergeant Heath has ’em beautifully polished. Would you like to try ’em on?”
“Maybe,” Salveter returned, watching Vance calculatingly. “What did you say to Meryt—to Mrs. Bliss?”
“I gave her one of my Régies,” Vance told him carelessly. “Most appreciative young woman.… Would you care for one yourself? I’ve two left.”
“Thanks—I smoke Deities.”
“Ever dip ’em in opium?” Vance asked dulcetly.
“Opium?”
“The concrete juice of the poppy, so to speak—obtained from slits in the cortex of the capsule of Papaver somniferum. Greek word: opion—to wit: omicron, pi, iota, omicron, nu.”
“No!” Salveter sat down suddenly and shifted his gaze. “What’s the idea?”
The Philo Vance Megapack Page 126
