Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 1

by S. S. Van Dine

  "We got him, Sergeant," announced one of the detectives, with a grin of vicious satisfaction. "He beat it straight home from here, and was packing up when we walked in on him."

  Sperling's eyes swept the room with angry apprehension. Heath had planted himself before the man, and stood looking him up and down triumphantly.

  "Well, young fella, you thought you'd get away, did you?" The Sergeant's cigar bobbed up and down between his lips as he spoke.

  The color mounted to Sperling's cheeks, and he set his mouth stubbornly.

  "So! You've got nothing to say?" Heath went on, squaring his jaw ferociously. "You're one of these silent lads, are you? Well, we'll make you talk." He turned to Markham. "How about it, sir? Shall I take him to Headquarters?"

  "Perhaps Mr. Sperling will not object to answering a few questions here," said Markham quietly.

  Sperling studied the District Attorney a moment; then his gaze moved to Vance, who nodded to him encouragingly.

  "Answer questions about what?" he asked, with an obvious effort at self-control. "I was preparing to go away for the week-end when these ruffians forced their way into my room; and I was brought here without a word of explanation or even an opportunity to communicate with my family. Now you talk of taking me to Police Headquarters." He gave Heath a defiant glare. "All right, take me to Police Headquarters—and be damned to you!"

  "What time did you leave here this morning, Mr. Sperling?" Vance's tone was soft and ingratiating, and his manner reassuring.

  "About a quarter past eleven," the man answered. "In time to catch the 11.40 Scarsdale train from Grand Central."

  "And Mr. Robin?"

  "I don't know what time Robin went. He said he was going to wait for Belle—Miss Dillard. I left him in the archery-room."

  "You saw Mr. Drukker?"

  "For a minute—yes. He was in the archery-room when Robin and I went down-stairs; but he left immediately."

  "Through the wall gate? Or did he walk down the range?"

  "I don't remember—in fact, I didn't notice. . . . Say, look here: what's all this about anyway?"

  "Mr. Robin was killed this morning," said Vance, "—at some time near eleven o'clock."

  Sperling's eyes seemed to start from his head.

  "Robin killed? My God! . . . Who—who killed him?" The man's lips were dry, and he wetted them with his tongue.

  "We don't know yet," Vance answered. "He was shot through the heart with an arrow."

  This news left Sperling stunned. His eyes traveled vaguely from side to side, and he fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette.

  Heath stepped nearer to him, and thrust out his chin.

  "Maybe you can tell us who killed him—with a bow and arrow!"

  "Why—why do you—think I know?" Sperling managed to stammer.

  "Well," returned the Sergeant relentlessly, "you were jealous of Robin, weren't you? You had a hot argument with him about the girl, right in this room, didn't you? And you were alone with him just before he was croaked, weren't you? And you're a pretty good shot with the bow and arrow, aren't you?—That's why I think that maybe you know something." He narrowed his eyes and drew his upper lip over his teeth. "Say! Come clean. Nobody else but you coulda done it. You had a fight with him over the girl, and you were the last person seen with him—only a few minutes before he was killed. And who else woulda shot him with a bow and arrow except a champeen archer—huh? . . . Make it easy for yourself, and spill the story. We've got you."

  A strange light had gathered in Sperling's eyes, and his body became rigid.

  "Tell me,"—he spoke in a strained, unnatural voice—"did you find the bow?"

  "Sure we found it." Heath laughed unpleasantly. "Right where you left it—in the alley."

  "What kind of a bow was it?" Sperling's gaze had not moved from some distant point.

  "What kind of a bow?" repeated Heath. "A regular bow—"

  Vance, who had been watching the youth closely, interrupted.

  "I think I understand the question, Sergeant.—It was a woman's bow, Mr. Sperling. About five-feet-six, and rather light—under thirty pounds, I should say."

  Sperling drew a slow, deep breath, like a man steeling himself for some bitter resolution. Then his lips parted in a faint, grim smile.

  "What's the use?" he asked listlessly. "I thought I'd have time to get away. . . . Yes, I killed him."

  Heath grunted with satisfaction, and his belligerent manner at once disappeared.

  "You got more sense than I thought you had," he said, in an almost paternal tone, nodding in a businesslike manner to the two detectives. "Take him along, boys. Use my buggy—it's outside. And lock him up without booking him. I'll prefer the charge when I get to the office."

  "Come along, bo," ordered one of the detectives, turning toward the hall.

  But Sperling did not at once obey. Instead he looked appealingly at Vance.

  "Could I—might I—" he began.

  Vance shook his head.

  "No, Mr. Sperling. It would be best if you didn't see Miss Dillard. No use of harrowin' her feelings just now. . . . Cheerio."

  The man turned without another word and went out between his captors.

  7. VANCE REACHES A CONCLUSION

  (Saturday, April 2; 3.30 p.m.)

  When we were again alone in the drawing-room Vance rose and, stretching himself, went to the window. The scene that had just been enacted, with its startling climax, had left us all somewhat dazed. Our minds were busy, I think, with the same idea; and when Vance spoke it was as if he were voicing our thoughts.

  "We're back in the nursery, it seems. . . .

  "'I,' said the Sparrow,

  'With my bow and arrow,

  I killed Cock Robin.' . . .

  I say, Markham; this is getting a bit thick."

  He came slowly back to the centre-table and crushed out his cigarette. From the corner of his eye he looked at Heath.

  "Why so pensive, Sergeant? You should be singing roundelays and doing a joyous tarantella. Has not your villain confessed to the dark deed? Does it not fill you with gladness to know that the culprit will soon be languishin' in an oubliette?"

  "To tell you the truth, Mr. Vance," Heath admitted sullenly, "I'm not satisfied. That confession came too easy, and—well, I've seen a lot of guys come across, but this one somehow didn't act like he was guilty. And that's a fact, sir."

  "At any rate," submitted Markham hopefully, "his preposterous confession will damp the newspapers' curiosity and give us a free field to push our investigation. This case is going to make an ungodly noise; but as long as the reporters think the guilty person is jailed, they won't be bothering us for news of 'developments.'"

  "I'm not saying he ain't guilty," asserted Heath pugnaciously, obviously arguing against his own convictions. "We certainly had the goods on him, and he mighta realized it and spilled the works, thinking it would go easier with him at the trial. Maybe he's not so dumb, after all."

  "It won't do, Sergeant," said Vance. "The lad's mental workin's were deucedly simple. He knew Robin was waiting to see Miss Dillard, and he also knew she'd non-suited him, so to speak, last night. Sperling evidently didn't have a high opinion of Robin; and when he heard of the gentleman's death at the hands of some one who wielded a short, light bow, he jumped to the conclusion that Robin had overstepped the bounds of propriety in his wooing, and received a righteous shaft through the heart. There was then nothing for our noble, mid-Victorian sparrow to do but slap his own manly bosom and proclaim: 'Ecce homo!' . . . It's most distressin'."

  "Well, anyhow," grumbled Heath, "I'm not going to turn him loose. If Mr. Markham don't want to prosecute, that's up to him."

  Markham looked at the Sergeant tolerantly. He realized the strain the man was under, and it was in keeping with his bigness of nature that he took no offence at the other's words.

  "Perhaps, however, Sergeant," he said kindly, "you'll not object to continuing the investigation with me, even if I don't decide to
prosecute Sperling."

  Heath was at once contrite. He got up briskly and, going to Markham, held out his hand.

  "You know it, sir!"

  Markham took the offered hand, and rose with a gracious smile.

  "I'll leave things with you, then, for the time being. I've some work to do at the office, and I told Swacker to wait for me."[13] He moved dispiritedly toward the hall. "I'll explain the situation to Miss Dillard and the professor before I go.—Anything special in mind, Sergeant?"

  "Well, sir, I think I'll take a good look for that rag that was used to wipe up the floor down-stairs. And while I'm at it I'll go over the archery-room with a fine-tooth comb. Also, I'll put the screws to the cook and the butler again—especially the cook. She musta been mighty close at hand when the dirty work was going on. . . . Then the regular routine stuff—inquiries in the neighborhood and that sorta thing."

  "Let me know the results. I'll be at the Stuyvesant Club later to-day and to-morrow afternoon."

  Vance had joined Markham in the archway.

  "I say, old man," he remarked, as we went toward the stairs; "don't minimize the importance of that cryptic note left in the mail-box. I've a strong psychic suspicion that it may be the key to the nursery. You'd better ask Professor Dillard and his niece if 'Bishop' has any provocative significance for them. That diocesan signature has a meaning."

  "I'm not so sure," returned Markham dubiously. "It appears utterly meaningless to me. But I'll follow your suggestion."

  Neither the professor nor Miss Dillard, however, could recall any personal association with the word Bishop; and the professor was inclined to agree with Markham that the note was without any significant bearing on the case.

  "It strikes me," he said, "as a piece of juvenile melodrama. It isn't likely that the person who killed Robin would adopt a vague pseudonym and write notes about his crime. I'm not acquainted with criminals, but such conduct doesn't impress me as logical."

  "But the crime itself was illogical," ventured Vance pleasantly.

  "One can't speak of a thing being illogical, sir," returned the professor tartly, "when one is ignorant of the very premises of a syllogism."

  "Exactly." Vance's tone was studiously courteous. "Therefore, the note itself may not be without logic."

  Markham tactfully changed the subject.

  "What I came particularly to tell you, professor, is that Mr. Sperling called a short time ago and, when informed of Mr. Robin's death, confessed to having done it himself. . . ."

  "Raymond confessed!" gasped Miss Dillard.

  Markham looked at the girl sympathetically.

  "To be quite frank, I didn't believe Mr. Sperling. Some mistaken idea of chivalry undoubtedly led him to admit the crime."

  "'Chivalry'?" she repeated, leaning forward tensely. "What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Markham?"

  It was Vance who answered.

  "The bow that was found on the range was a woman's bow."

  "Oh!" The girl covered her face with her hands, and her body shook with sobs.

  Professor Dillard regarded her helplessly; and his impotency took the form of irritation.

  "What flummery is this, Markham?" he demanded. "Any archer can shoot with a woman's bow. . . . That unutterable young idiot! Why should he make Belle miserable by his preposterous confession! . . . Markham, my friend, do what you can for the boy."

  Markham gave his assurances, and we rose to go.

  "By the by, Professor Dillard," said Vance, pausing at the door; "I trust you won't misunderstand me, but there's a bare possibility that it was some one with access to this house who indulged in the practical joke of typing that note. Is there, by any chance, a typewriter on the premises?"

  It was patent that the professor resented Vance's question, but he answered civilly enough.

  "No,—nor has there ever been one to my knowledge. I threw my own machine away ten years ago when I left the university. An agency does whatever typing I need."

  "And Mr. Arnesson?"

  "He never uses a typewriter."

  As we descended the stairs we met Arnesson returning from Drukker's.

  "I've placated our local Leipnitz," he announced, with an exaggerated sigh. "Poor old Adolph! The world is too much with him. When he's wallowing in the relativist formulas of Lorentz and Einstein he's serene. But when he's dragged down to actuality he disintegrates."

  "It may interest you to know," said Vance casually, "that Sperling has just confessed to the murder."

  "Ha!" Arnesson chuckled. "Quite in keeping. 'I,' said the Sparrow. . . . Very neat. Still, I don't know how it'll work out mathematically."

  "And, since we agreed to keep you posted," continued Vance, "it may help your calculations to know that we have reason to believe that Robin was killed in the archery-room and placed on the range afterwards."

  "Glad to know it." Arnesson became momentarily serious. "Yes, that may affect my problem." He walked with us to the front door. "If there's any way I can be of service to you, call on me."

  Vance had paused to light a cigarette, but I knew, by the languid look in his eyes, that he was making a decision. Slowly he turned to Arnesson.

  "Do you know if Mr. Drukker or Mr. Pardee has a typewriter?"

  Arnesson gave a slight start, and his eyes twinkled shrewdly.

  "Aha! That Bishop note. . . . I see. Merely a matter of being thorough. Quite right." He nodded with satisfaction. "Yes; both have typewriters. Drukker types incessantly—thinks to the keyboard, so he says. And Pardee's chess correspondence is as voluminous as a movie hero's. Types it all himself, too."

  "Would it be any great trouble to you," asked Vance, "to secure a specimen of the typing of each machine, and also a sample of the paper these two gentlemen use?"

  "None whatever." Arnesson appeared delighted with the commission. "Have them for you this afternoon. Where'll you be?"

  "Mr. Markham will be at the Stuyvesant Club. You might phone him there, and he can arrange—"

  "Why bother to arrange anything? I'll bring my findings to Mr. Markham personally. Only too glad. Fascinating game, being a sleuth."

  Vance and I returned home in the District Attorney's car, and Markham continued to the office. At seven o'clock that night the three of us met at the Stuyvesant Club for dinner; and at half past eight we were sitting in Markham's favorite corner of the lounge-room smoking and having our coffee.

  During the meal no mention of the case had been made. The late editions of the afternoon papers had carried brief accounts of Robin's death. Heath had evidently succeeded in curbing the reporters' curiosity and clipping the wings of their imagination. The District Attorney's office being closed, the newspaper men were unable to bombard Markham with questions, and so the late press was inadequately supplied with information. The Sergeant had guarded the Dillard house well, for the reporters had not succeeded in reaching any member of the household.

  Markham had picked up a late Sun on his way from the dining-room, and glanced through it carefully as he sipped his coffee.

  "This is the first faint echo," he commented ruefully. "I shudder to think what the morning papers will contain."

  "There's nothing to do but bear it," smiled Vance unfeelingly. "The moment some bright journalistic lad awakes to the robin-sparrow-arrow combination the city editors will go mad with joy, and every front page in the country will look like a Mother-Goose hoarding."

  Markham lapsed into despondency. Finally he struck the arm of his chair angrily with his fist.

  "Damn it, Vance! I won't let you inflame my imagination with this idiocy about nursery rhymes." Then he added, with the ferocity of uncertainty: "It's a sheer coincidence, I tell you. There simply couldn't be anything in it."

  Vance sighed. "Convince yourself against your will; you're of the same opinion still—to paraphrase Butler." He reached into his pocket and took out a sheet of paper. "Putting all juvenilia to one side pro tempore, here's an edifyin' chronology I drew up before dinner. . . . Edifyi
n'? Well, it might be if we knew how to interpret it."

  Markham studied the paper for several minutes. What Vance had written down was this:

  9.00 a.m. Arnesson left house to go to university library.

  9.15 a.m. Belle Dillard left house for the tennis courts.

  9.30 a.m. Drukker called at house to see Arnesson.

  9.50 a.m. Drukker went down-stairs to archery-room.

  10.00 a.m. Robin and Sperling called at house and remained in drawing-room for half an hour.

  10.30 a.m. Robin and Sperling went down to archery-room.

  10.32 a.m. Drukker says he went out for a walk, by the wall gate.

  10.35 a.m. Beedle went marketing.

  10.55 a.m. Drukker says he returned to his own house.

  11.15 a.m. Sperling went away by wall gate.

  11.30 a.m. Drukker says he heard a scream in his mother's room.

  11.35 a.m. Professor Dillard went on balcony of Arnesson's room.

  11.40 a.m. Professor Dillard saw Robin's body on archery range.

  11.45 a.m. Professor Dillard telephoned to District Attorney's office.

  12.25 p.m. Belle Dillard returned from tennis.

  12.30 p.m. Police arrived at Dillard house.

  12.35 p.m. Beedle returned from market.

  2.00 p.m. Arnesson returned from university.

  Ergo: Robin was killed at some time between 11.15 (when Sperling departed) and 11.40 (when Professor Dillard discovered body).

  The only other persons known to have been in the house during this time were Pyne and Professor Dillard.

  The disposition of all other persons connected in any way with the murder was as follows (according to statements and evidence now in hand):

  1. Arnesson was at the university library between 9 a.m. and 2 p.m.

  2. Belle Dillard was at the tennis courts between 9.15 a.m. and 12.25 p.m.

  3. Drukker was walking in the park between 10.32 a.m. and 10.55 a.m.; and was in his study from 10.55 a.m. on.