The Philo Vance Megapack
Page 218
“Yes, quite,” put in Vance. “Things like that usually do come suddenly and without previous warning.”
“Woode Swift’s death wasn’t at all the sort of thing I would expect to happen here,” the girl went on. “I wouldn’t have been surprised at some act of impulsive violence, but this premeditated murder, so subtle and so carefully planned, seems alien to the atmosphere here. Besides, it isn’t a loving family, except on the surface. Psychologically, every one seems at cross purposes—full of hidden hatreds. No contacts anywhere—I mean, no understanding contacts. Floyd Garden is saner than the others. His interests are narrow, to be sure, but, on his own mental level, he has always impressed me as being straightforward and eminently human. He’s dependable, too, I think. He’s intolerant of subtleties and profundities, and has always taken the course of ignoring the existence of those qualities which have caused friction between the other members of the household. Maybe I’m wrong about it, but that has been my impression.”
She paused and frowned.
“As for Mrs. Garden, I feel that by nature she is shallow and is deliberately creating for herself a deeper and more complex mode of life, which she doesn’t in the least understand. That, of course, makes her unreasonable and dangerous. I have never had a more unreasonable patient. She has no consideration whatever for others. Her affection for her nephew has never seemed genuine to me. He was like a little clay model that she had made and prized highly. If she had an idea for another figurine, I feel that she would have wet the clay and remodeled it into a new object of adoration.”
“And Professor Garden?”
“He’s a researcher and scientist, of course, and, therefore, not altogether human, in the conventional sense. I have thought sometimes that he isn’t wholly rational. To him people and things are merely elements to be converted into some new chemical combination. Do you understand what I am trying to say?”
“Yes, quite well,” Vance assured her. “Every scientist imagines himself an Übermensch. Power is his god. Many of the world’s greatest scientists have been regarded as madmen. Perhaps they were. Yes. A queer problem. The possession of power induces weakness. Silly notion, what? The most dangerous agency in the world is science. Especially dangerous to the scientist himself. Every great scientific discoverer is a Frankenstein. However… What is your impression of the guests who were present today?”
“I don’t feel competent to pass judgment on them,” the girl replied seriously. “I can’t entirely understand them. But each one strikes me as dangerous in his own way. They are all playing a game—and it seems to be a game without rules. To them the outcome justifies the methods they use. They seem to be mere seekers after sensation, trying to draw the veil of illusion over life’s realities because they are not strong enough to face the facts.”
“Yes, quite. You have clear vision.” Vance scrutinized the girl beside him. “And you took up nursing because you are able to face the realities. You are not afraid of life—or of death.”
The girl looked embarrassed.
“You’re making too much of my profession. After all, I had to earn my living, and nursing appealed to me.”
“Yes, of course. It would.” Vance nodded. “But tell me, wouldn’t you rather not have to work for your living?”
She looked up.
“Perhaps. But isn’t it natural for every woman to prefer luxury and security to drudgery and uncertainty?”
“No doubt,” said Vance. “And speakin’ of nursing, just what do you think of Mrs. Garden’s condition?”
Miss Beeton hesitated before she answered:
“Really, I don’t know what to say. I can’t understand it. And I rather suspect that Doctor Siefert himself is puzzled by it. Mrs. Garden is obviously a sick woman. She shows many of the symptoms of that nervous, erratic temperament exhibited by people suffering from cancer. Though she’s much better some days than others, I know that she suffers a great deal. Doctor Siefert tells me she is really a neurological case; but I get the feeling, at times, that it goes much deeper—that an obscure physiological condition is producing the neurological symptoms she shows.”
“That’s most interestin’. Doctor Siefert mentioned something of the kind to me only a few days ago.” Vance moved nearer to the girl. “Would you mind telling me something of your contacts with the members of the household?”
“There’s very little to tell. Professor Garden practically ignores me— half the time I doubt if he even knows I am here. Mrs. Garden alternates between periods of irritable admonition and intimate confidence. Floyd Garden has always been pleasant and considerate. He has wanted me to be happy here, and has often apologized for his mother’s abominable treatment of me at times. I’ve rather liked him for his attitude.”
“And what of Swift—did you see much of him?” The girl seemed reluctant to answer and looked away; but she finally turned back to Vance.
“The truth is, Mr. Swift asked me several times to go to dinner and the theatre with him. He was never objectionable in his advances; but he did rather annoy me occasionally. I got the impression, though, that he was one of those unhappy men who feel their inferiority and seek to bolster themselves up with the affections of women. I think that he was really concerned with Miss Graem, and merely turned to me through pique.”
Vance smoked for a few moments in silence. Then he said:
“What of the big race today? Had there been much discussion about it?”
“Oh, yes. For over a week I’ve heard little else here. A curious tension has been growing in the house. I heard Mr. Swift remark to Floyd Garden one evening that the Rivermont Handicap was his one remaining hope, and that he thought Equanimity would win. They immediately went into a furious argument regarding Equanimity’s chances.”
“Was it generally known to the other members of the afternoon gatherings how Swift felt about this race and Equanimity?”
“Yes, the matter was freely discussed for days.—You see,” the girl added in explanation, “it’s impossible for me not to overhear some of these afternoon discussions; and Mrs. Garden herself often takes part in them and then discusses them with me later.”
“By the by,” asked Vance, “how did you come to bet on Azure Star?”
“Frankly,” the girl confessed shyly, “I’ve been mildly interested in the horse-betting parties here, though I’ve never had any desire to make a wager myself. But I overheard you tell Mr. Garden that you had picked Azure Star, and the name was so appealing that I asked Mr. Garden to place that bet for me. It was the first time I ever bet on a horse.”
“And Azure Star came in.” Vance sighed. “Too bad. Actually you bet against Equanimity, you know—he was the favorite. A big gamble. Most unfortunate that you won. Beginner’s luck, d’ ye see, is always fatal.”
The girl’s face became suddenly sombre, and she looked steadily at Vance for several moments before she spoke again.
“Do you really think it will prove fatal?”
“Yes. Oh, yes. Inevitable. You won’t be able to resist making other wagers. One doesn’t stop with the first bet if one wins. And, invariably, one loses in the end.”
Again the girl gave Vance a long and troubled look; then her gaze drifted to the darkening sky overhead.
“But Azure Star is a beautiful name, isn’t it?” She pointed upward. “There’s one now.”
We all looked up. High above we saw a single bright star shining with blue luminosity in the cloudless sky. After a moment Vance moved toward the parapet and looked out over the waters of the river to the purpling hills and the still glowing sunset colors in the west. The sharp forms of the great gaunt buildings of the city to the south cut the empyrean like the unreal silhouettes on a theatrical drop.
“No city in the world,” Vance said, “is as beautiful as New York seen from a vantage point like this in the early twilight.” (I wondered at his sudden change of mood.)
He stepped up on the parapet and looked down into the great abyss of deep sh
adows and flickering lights far below. A curious chill of fear ran over me—the sort of fear I have always felt when I have seen acrobatic performers perilously balanced high above a circus arena. I knew Vance had no fear of heights and that he possessed an abnormal sense of equilibrium. But I nevertheless drew in an involuntary breath; my feet and lower limbs began to tingle; and for a moment I actually felt faint.
Miss Beeton was standing close to Markham, and she, too, must have experienced something of the sensation I felt, for I saw her face go suddenly pale. Her eyes were fixed on Vance with a look of apprehensive horror, and she caught at Markham’s arm as if for support.
“Vance!” It was Markham’s stern voice that broke the silence. “Come down from there!”
Vance jumped down and turned to us.
“Frightfully sorry,” he said. “Height does affect most people. I didn’t realize.” He looked at the girl. “Will you forgive me?…”
As he spoke Floyd Garden stepped out on the roof through the passageway door.
“Sorry, Vance,” he apologized, “but Doc Siefert wants. Miss Beeton downstairs—if she feels equal to it. The mater is putting on one of her acts.”
The nurse hurried away immediately, and Garden strolled up to Vance. He was again fussing with his pipe.
“A beastly mess,” he mumbled. “And you’ve certainly put the fear of God and destruction into the hearts of the pious boys and girls here this afternoon. They all got the jitters after you talked with them.” He looked up. “The fact is, Vance, if you should want to see Kroon or Zalia Graem or Madge Weatherby for any reason this evening, they’ll be here. They’ve all asked to come. Must return to the scene of the crime, or something of that kind. Need mutual support. And, to tell you the truth, I’m damned glad they’re coming. At least we can talk the thing over and drink highballs; and that’s better than fussing and worrying about it all alone.”
“Perfectly natural. Quite.” Vance nodded. “I understand their feelings— and yours—perfectly… Beastly mess, as you say… And now suppose we go down.”
Doctor Siefert met us at the foot of the stairs.
“I was just coming up for you, Mr. Vance. Mrs. Garden insists on seeing you gentlemen.” Then he added in a low tone: “She’s in a tantrum. A bit hysterical. Don’t take anything she may say too seriously.”
We entered the bedroom. Mrs. Garden, in a salmon-pink silk dressing-gown, was in bed, bolstered up by a collection of pillows. Her face was drawn and, in the slanting rays of the night-light, seemed flabby and unhealthy. Her eyes glared demoniacally as she looked at us, and her fingers clutched nervously at the quilt. Miss Beeton stood at the far side of the bed, looking down at her patient with calm concern; and Professor Garden leaned heavily against the window-sill opposite, his face a mask of troubled solicitude.
“I have something to say, and I want you all to hear it.” Mrs. Garden’s voice was shrill and strident. “My nephew has been killed today—and I know who did it!” She glared venomously at Floyd Garden who stood near the foot of the bed, his pipe hanging limply from the corner of his mouth. “You did it!” She pointed an accusing finger at her son. “You’ve always hated Woody. You’ve been jealous of him. No one else had any reason to do this despicable thing. I suppose I should lie for you and shield you. But to what end? So you could kill somebody else? Perhaps—perhaps even me, or your father. No! The time has come for the truth. You killed Woody, and I know you killed him. And I know why you did it…”
Floyd Garden stood through this tirade without moving and without perceptible emotion. He kept his eyes on his mother with cynical indifference. When she paused he took the pipe from his mouth and with a sad smile said:
“And why did I do it, mater?”
“Because you were jealous of him. Because you knew that I had divided my estate equally between you two—and you want it all for yourself. You always resented the fact that I loved Woody as well as you. And now you think that by having got Woody out of the way, you’ll get everything when I die. But you’re mistaken. You’ll get nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing! Tomorrow I’m going to change my will.” Her eyes were full of frantic gloating: she was like a woman who has suddenly gone out of her mind. “I’m going to change my will, do you understand? Woody’s share will go to your father, with the stipulation that you will never get or inherit a dollar of it. And your share will go to charity.” She laughed hysterically and beat the bed with her clenched fists.
Doctor Siefert had been watching the woman closely. He now moved a little nearer the bed.
“An ice-pack, immediately,” he said to the nurse; and she went quickly from the room. Then he busied himself with his medicine case and deftly prepared a hypodermic injection.
“I won’t let you give me that,” the woman on the bed screamed. “There’s nothing the matter with me. I’m tired of taking your drugs.”
“Yes, I know. But you’ll take this, Mrs. Garden.” Doctor Siefert spoke with calm assurance.
The woman relaxed under his patient dictatorial scrutiny and permitted him to give her the injection. She lay back on the pillows, staring blankly at her son. The nurse returned to the room and arranged the ice-bag for her patient.
Doctor Siefert then quickly made out a prescription and turned to Miss Beeton.
“Have this filled at once. A teaspoonful every two hours until Mrs. Garden falls asleep.”
Floyd Garden stepped forward and took the prescription.
“I’ll phone the pharmacy,” he said. “It’ll take them only a few minutes to send it over.” And he went out of the room.
After a few final instructions to Miss Beeton, the doctor led the way to the drawing-room, and the rest of us followed, leaving the nurse rearranging Mrs. Garden’s pillows. Professor Garden, who during the painful scene had stood with his back to us, gazing out of the window into the night, still remained there, looking like a hunched gargoyle framed by the open casement.
As we passed the den door, we could hear Floyd Garden telephoning.
“I think Mrs. Garden will quiet down now,” Doctor Siefert remarked to Vance when we reached the drawing-room. “As I told you, you mustn’t take her remarks seriously when she’s in this condition. She will probably have forgotten about it by tomorrow.”
“Her bitterness, however, did not seem entirely devoid of rationality,” Vance returned.
Siefert frowned but made no comment on Vance’s statement. Instead he said in his quiet, well-modulated voice, as he sat down leisurely in the nearest chair: “This whole affair is very shocking. Floyd Garden gave me but few details when I arrived. Would you care to enlighten me further?”
Vance readily complied. He briefly went over the entire case, beginning with the anonymous telephone message he had received the night before. (Not by the slightest sign did the doctor indicate any previous knowledge of that telephone call. He sat looking at Vance with serene attentiveness, like a specialist listening to the case history of a patient.) Vance withheld no important detail from him. He explained about the races and the wagers, Swift’s withdrawal to the roof, the actions of the other members of the party, the shot, the finding of Swift’s body, the discoveries in the vault, the matter of the disconnected buzzer wires, the substance of his various interviews with the members of the Garden family and their guests, and, finally, the finding of the second revolver in the nurse’s coat.
“And the rest,” Vance concluded, “you yourself have witnessed.”
Siefert nodded very slowly two or three times, as if to infer that he had received a clear and satisfactory picture of the events of the afternoon.
“A very serious situation,” he commented gravely, as if making a diagnosis. “Some of the things you have told me seem highly significant. A shrewdly conceived murder—and a vicious one. Especially the hiding of the revolver in Miss Beeton’s coat and the attempt on her life with the bromin gas in the vault. I don’t understand that phase of the situation.”
Vance looked up quickly.
“No, no. I did not mean to imply that,” Siefert hastened to answer. “I was merely thinking that while Swift’s death could conceivably be explained on rational grounds, I fail to see any possible reason for this dastardly attempt to involve Miss Beeton and then to end her life.”
“But I seriously doubt,” said Vance, “that the revolver was put in Miss Beeton’s coat pocket with any intention of incriminating her. I imagine it was to have been taken out of the house at the first opportunity. But I agree with you that the bromin episode is highly mystifyin’.” Vance, without appearing to do so, was watching the doctor closely. “When you asked to see me on your arrival here this afternoon,” he went on, “I was hoping that you might have some suggestion which, coming from one who is familiar with the domestic situation here, might put us on the track to a solution.”
Siefert solemnly shook his head several times. “No, no. I am sorry, but I am completely at a loss myself. When I asked to speak to you and Mr. Markham it was because I was naturally deeply interested in the situation here and anxious to hear what you might have to say about it.” He paused, shifted slightly in his chair, and then asked: “Have you formed any opinion from what you have been able to learn?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.” Vance’s gaze drifted from the doctor to the beautiful T’ang horse which stood on a nearby cabinet. “Frankly, however, I detest my opinion. I’d hate to be right about it. A sinister, unnatural conclusion is forcing itself upon me. It’s sheer horror.” He spoke with unwonted intensity.
Siefert was silent, and Vance turned to him again.
“I say, doctor, are you particularly worried about Mrs. Garden’s condition?”
A cloud overspread Siefert’s countenance, and he did not answer at once.
“It’s a queer case,” he said at length, with an obvious attempt at evasion. “As I recently told you, it has me deeply puzzled. I’m bringing Kattelbaum up tomorrow.”233