Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 1

by S. S. Van Dine

  "Aren't you acquainted with the Bishop, Mr. Drukker?"

  The man stopped swaying and, steadying himself, stared at Vance with terrible intensity. His mouth was drawn back at the corners, resembling the transverse laugh of progressive muscular dystrophy.

  "You, too! You've gone mad!" He swept his eyes over us. "You damned, unutterable fools! There's no such person as the Bishop! There wasn't any such person as Cock Robin or Johnny Sprig. And here you are—men grown—trying to frighten me—me, a mathematician—with nursery tales! . . ." He began to laugh hysterically.

  Vance went to him quickly, and taking his arm led him to his chair. Slowly his laughter died away, and he waved his hand wearily.

  "Too bad Robin and Sprigg were killed." His tone was heavy and colorless. "But children are the only persons that matter. . . . You'll probably find the murderer. If you don't, maybe I'll help you. But don't let your imaginations run away with you. Keep to facts . . . facts. . . ."

  The man was exhausted, and we left him.

  "He's scared, Markham—deuced scared," observed Vance, when we were again in the hall. "I could bear to know what is hidden in that shrewd warped mind of his."

  He led the way down the hall to Mrs. Drukker's door.

  "This method of visiting a lady doesn't accord with the best social usage. Really, y' know, Markham, I wasn't born to be a policeman. I abhor snooping."

  Our knock was answered by a feeble voice. Mrs. Drukker, paler than usual, was lying back on her chaise-longue by the window. Her white prehensile hands lay along the arms of the chair, slightly flexed; and more than ever she recalled to my mind the pictures I had seen of the ravening Harpies that tormented Phineus in the story of the Argonauts.

  Before we could speak she said in a strained terrified voice: "I knew you would come—I knew you were not through torturing me. . . ."

  "To torture you, Mrs. Drukker," returned Vance softly, "is the furthest thing from our thoughts. We merely want your help."

  Vance's manner appeared to alleviate her terror somewhat, and she studied him calculatingly.

  "If only I could help you!" she muttered. "But there's nothing to be done—nothing. . . ."

  "You might tell us what you saw from your window on the day of Mr. Robin's death," Vance suggested kindly.

  "No—no!" Her eyes stared horribly. "I saw nothing—I wasn't near the window that morning. You may kill me, but my dying words would be No—no—no!"

  Vance did not press the point.

  "Beedle tells us," he went on, "that you often rise early and walk in the garden."

  "Oh, yes." The words came with a sigh of relief. "I don't sleep well in the mornings. I often wake up with dull boring pains in my spine, and the muscles of my back feel rigid and sore. So I get up and walk in the yard whenever the weather is mild enough."

  "Beedle saw you in the garden yesterday morning."

  The woman nodded absently.

  "And she also saw Professor Dillard with you."

  Again she nodded, but immediately afterward she shot Vance a combative inquisitive glance.

  "He sometimes joins me," she hastened to explain. "He feels sorry for me, and he admires Adolph; he thinks he's a great genius. And he is a genius! He'd be a great man—as great as Professor Dillard—if it hadn't been for his illness. . . . And it was all my fault. I let him fall when he was a baby. . . ." A dry sob shook her emaciated body, and her fingers worked spasmodically.

  After a moment Vance asked: "What did you and Professor Dillard talk about in the garden yesterday?"

  A sudden wiliness crept into the woman's manner.

  "About Adolph mostly," she said, with a too obvious attempt at unconcern.

  "Did you see any one else in the yard or on the archery range?" Vance's indolent eyes were on the woman.

  "No!" Again a sense of fear pervaded her. "But somebody else was there, wasn't there?—somebody who didn't wish to be seen." She nodded her head eagerly. "Yes! Some one else was there—and they thought I saw them. . . . But I didn't! Oh, merciful God, I didn't! . . ." She covered her face with her hands, and her body shook convulsively. "If only I had seen them! If only I knew! But it wasn't Adolph—it wasn't my little boy. He was asleep—thank God, he was asleep!"

  Vance went close to the woman.

  "Why do you thank God that it wasn't your son?" he asked gently.

  She looked up with some amazement.

  "Why, don't you remember? A little man shot Johnny Sprig with a little gun yesterday morning—the same little man that killed Cock Robin with a bow and arrow. It's all a horrible game—and I'm afraid. . . . But I mustn't tell—I can't tell. The little man might do something awful. Maybe"—her voice became dull with horror—"maybe he has some insane idea that I'm the old woman who lived in a shoe! . . ."

  "Come, come, Mrs. Drukker." Vance forced a consoling smile. "Such talk is nonsense. You've let these matters prey on your mind. There's a perfectly rational explanation for everything. And I have a feeling that you yourself can help us find that explanation."

  "No—no! I can't—I mustn't! I don't understand it myself." She took a deep, resolute inspiration, and compressed her lips.

  "Why can't you tell us?" persisted Vance.

  "Because I don't know," she cried. "I wish to God I did! I only know that something horrible is going on here—that some awful curse is hanging over this house. . . ."

  "How do you know that?"

  The woman began to tremble violently, and her eyes roamed distractedly about the room.

  "Because"—her voice was barely audible—"because the little man came here last night!"

  A chill passed up my spine at this statement, and I heard even the imperturbable Sergeant's sharp intake of breath. Then Vance's calm voice sounded.

  "How do you know he was here, Mrs. Drukker? Did you see him?"

  "No, I didn't see him; but he tried to get into this room—by that door." She pointed unsteadily toward the entrance to the hallway through which we had just come.

  "You must tell us about it," said Vance; "or we will be driven to conclude that you manufactured the story."

  "Oh, but I didn't manufacture it—may God be my witness!" There could be no doubt whatever of the woman's sincerity. Something had occurred which filled her with mortal fear. "I was lying in bed, awake. The little clock on the mantel had just struck midnight; and I heard a soft rustling sound in the hall outside. I turned my head toward the door—there was a dim night-light burning on the table here . . . and then I saw the door-knob turn slowly—silently—as if some one were trying to get in without waking me—"

  "Just a moment, Mrs. Drukker," interrupted Vance. "Do you always lock your door at night?"

  "I've never locked it until recently—after Mr. Robin's death. I've somehow felt insecure since then—I can't explain why. . . ."

  "I quite understand.—Please go on with the story. You say you saw the door-knob move. And then?"

  "Yes—yes. It moved softly—back and forth. I lay there in bed, frozen with terror. But after a while I managed to call out—I don't know how loud; but suddenly the door-knob ceased to turn, and I heard footsteps moving rapidly away—down the hall. . . . Then I managed to get up. I went to the door and listened. I was afraid—afraid for Adolph. And I could hear those soft footsteps descending the stairs—"

  "Which stairs?"

  "At the rear—leading to the kitchen. . . . Then the door of the screen porch shut, and everything was silent again. . . . I knelt with my ear to the keyhole a long time, listening, waiting. But nothing happened, and at last I rose. . . . Something seemed to tell me I must open the door. I was in deadly terror—and yet I knew I had to open the door. . . ."

  A shudder swept her body. "Softly I turned the key, and took hold of the knob. As I pulled the door slowly inward, a tiny object that had been poised on the outside knob fell to the floor with a clatter. There was a light burning in the hall—I always keep one burning at night,—and I tried not to look down. I tried—I trie
d . . . but I couldn't keep my eyes away from the floor. And there at my feet—oh, God in Heaven!—there lay something! . . ."

  She was unable to go on. Horror seemed to paralyze her tongue. Vance's cool, unemotional voice, however, steadied her.

  "What was it that lay on the floor, Mrs. Drukker?"

  With difficulty the woman rose and, bracing herself for a moment at the foot of the bed, went to the dressing-table. Pulling out a small drawer she reached inside and fumbled among its contents. Then she extended her open hand to us. On the palm lay a small chessman—ebony black against the whiteness of her skin. It was the bishop!

  13. IN THE BISHOP'S SHADOW

  (Tuesday, April 12; 11 a.m.)

  Vance took the bishop from Mrs. Drukker and slipped it into his coat pocket.

  "It would be dangerous, madam," he said, with impressive solemnity, "if what happened here last night became known. Should the person who played this joke on you find out that you had informed the police, other attempts to frighten you might be made. Therefore, not one word of what you have told us must pass your lips."

  "May I not even tell Adolph?" the woman asked distractedly.

  "No one! You must maintain a complete silence, even in the presence of your son."

  I could not understand Vance's emphasis on this point; but before many days had passed it was all too clear to me. The reason for his advice was revealed with tragic force; and I realized that even at the time of Mrs. Drukker's disclosure his penetrating mind had worked out an uncannily accurate ratiocination, and foreseen certain possibilities unsuspected by the rest of us.

  We took our leave a few moments later, and descended the rear stairs. The staircase made a sharp turn to the right at a landing eight or ten steps below the second floor, and led into a small dark passageway with two doors—one on the left, opening into the kitchen, and another, diagonally opposite, giving on the screen porch.

  We stepped out immediately to the porch, now flooded in sunshine, and stood without a word trying to shake off the atmosphere cast about us by Mrs. Drukker's terrifying experience.

  Markham was the first to speak.

  "Do you believe, Vance, that the person who brought that chessman here last night is the killer of Robin and Sprigg?"

  "There can be no doubt of it. The purpose of his midnight visit is hideously clear. It fits perfectly with what has already come to light."

  "It strikes me merely as a ruthless practical joke," Markham rejoined, "—the act of a drunken fiend."

  Vance shook his head.

  "It's the only thing in this whole nightmare that doesn't qualify as a piece of insane humor. It was a deadly serious excursion. The devil himself is never so solemn as when covering his tracks. Our particular devil's hand had been forced, and he made a bold play. 'Pon my soul, I almost prefer his jovial mood to the one that prompted him to break in here last night. However, we now have something definite to go on."

  Heath, impatient of all theorizing, quickly picked up this last remark.

  "And what might that be, sir?"

  "Imprimis, we may assume that our chess-playing troubadour was thoroughly familiar with the plan of this house. The night-light in the upper hall may have cast its gleam down the rear stairs as far as the landing, but the rest of the way must have been in darkness. Moreover, the arrangement of the rear of the house is somewhat complicated. Therefore, unless he knew the layout he couldn't have found his way about noiselessly in the dark. Obviously, too, the visitor knew in which room Mrs. Drukker slept. Also, he must have known what time Drukker turned in last night, for he wouldn't have chanced making his call unless he had felt sure that the coast was clear."

  "That don't help us much," grumbled Heath. "We've been going on the theory right along that the murderer was wise to everything connected with these two houses."

  "True. But one may be fairly intimate with a family and still not know at what hour each of its members retires on a certain night, or just how to effect a surreptitious entry to the house. Furthermore, Sergeant, our midnight caller was some one who knew that Mrs. Drukker was in the habit of leaving her door unlocked at night; for he had every intention of entering her room. His object wasn't merely to leave his little memento outside and then depart. The silent stealthy way he tried the knob proves that."

  "He may simply have wanted to waken Mrs. Drukker so she would find it at once," suggested Markham.

  "Then why did he turn the knob so carefully—as if trying not to waken any one? A rattling of the knob, or a soft tapping, or even throwing the chessman against the door, would have answered that purpose much better. . . . No, Markham; he had a far more sinister object in mind; but when he found himself thwarted by the locked door and heard Mrs. Drukker's cry of fright, he placed the bishop where she would find it, and fled."

  "Still and all, sir," argued Heath, "any one mighta known she left her door unlocked at night; and any one coulda learned the lay of the house so's to find their way around in the dark."

  "But who, Sergeant, had a key to the rear door? And who could have used it at midnight last night?"

  "The door mighta been left unlocked," countered Heath; "and when we check up on the alibis of everybody we may get a lead."

  Vance sighed.

  "You'll probably find two or three people without any alibi at all. And if last night's visit here was planned, a convincing alibi may have been prepared. We're not dealing with a simpleton, Sergeant. We're playing a game to the death with a subtle and resourceful murderer, who can think as quickly as we can, and who has had long training in the subtleties of logic. . . ."

  As if on a sudden impulse he turned and passed indoors, motioning us to follow. He went straight to the kitchen where the German woman who had admitted us earlier sat stolidly by a table preparing the midday meal. She rose as we entered and backed away from us. Vance, puzzled by her demeanor, studied her for several moments without speaking. Then his eyes drifted to the table where a large eggplant had been halved lengthwise and scooped out.

  "Ah!" he exclaimed, glancing at the contents of the various dishes standing about. "Aubergines à la Turque, what? An excellent dish. But I'd mince the mutton a bit finer, if I were you. And not too much cheese: it detracts from the sauce espagnole which I see you're preparing." He looked up with a pleasant smile. "What's your name, by the by?"

  His manner astonished the woman greatly, but it also had the effect of alleviating her fears.

  "Menzel," she answered in a dull voice. "Grete Menzel."

  "And how long have you been with the Drukkers?"

  "Going on twenty-five years."

  "A long time," Vance commented musingly. "Tell me: why were you frightened when we called here this morning?"

  The woman became sullen, and her large hands closed tightly.

  "I wasn't frightened. But Mr. Drukker was busy—"

  "You thought perhaps we had come to arrest him," Vance broke in.

  Her eyes dilated, but she made no answer.

  "What time did Mr. Drukker rise yesterday morning?" Vance went on.

  "I told you . . . nine o'clock—like always."

  "What time did Mr. Drukker rise?" The insistent, detached quality of his voice was far more ominous than any dramatic intonation could have been.

  "I told you—"

  "Die Wahrheit, Frau Menzel! Um wie viel Uhr ist er aufgestanden?"

  The psychological effect of this repetition of the question in German was instantaneous. The woman's hands went to her face, and a stifled cry, like a trapped animal's, escaped her.

  "I don't—know," she groaned. "I called him at half past eight, but he didn't answer, and I tried the door. . . . It wasn't locked and—Du lieber Gott!—he was gone."

  "When did you next see him?" asked Vance quietly.

  "At nine. I went up-stairs again to tell him breakfast was ready. He was in the study—at his desk—working like mad, and all excited. He told me to go away."

  "Did he come down to breakfast?"

>   "Ja—ja. He came down—half an hour later."

  The woman leaned heavily against the drain-board of the sink, and Vance drew up a chair for her.

  "Sit down, Mrs. Menzel," he said kindly. When she had obeyed, he asked: "Why did you tell me this morning that Mr. Drukker rose at nine?"

  "I had to—I was told to." Her resistance was gone, and she breathed heavily like a person exhausted. "When Mrs. Drukker came back from Miss Dillard's yesterday afternoon she told me that if any one asked me that question about Mr. Drukker I was to say 'Nine o'clock.' She made me swear I'd say it. . . ." Her voice trailed off, and her eyes took on a glassy stare. "I was afraid to say anything else."

  Vance still seemed puzzled. After several deep inhalations on his cigarette he remarked:

  "There's nothing in what you've told us to affect you this way. It's not unnatural that a morbid woman like Mrs. Drukker should have taken such a fantastic measure to protect her son from possible suspicion, when a murder had been committed in the neighborhood. You've surely been with her long enough to realize how she might exaggerate every remote possibility where her son is concerned. In fact, I'm surprised you take it so seriously. . . . Have you any other reason to connect Mr. Drukker with this crime?"

  "No—no!" The woman shook her head distractedly.

  Vance strolled to the rear window, frowning. Suddenly he swung about. He had become stern and implacable.

  "Where were you, Mrs. Menzel, the morning Mr. Robin was killed?"

  An astounding change came over the woman. Her face paled; her lips trembled; and she clinched her hands with a spasmodic gesture. She tried to take her staring eyes from Vance, but some quality in his gaze held her.

  "Where were you, Mrs. Menzel?" The question was repeated sharply.

  "I was—here—" she began; then stopped abruptly and cast an agitated glance at Heath, who was watching her fixedly.

  "You were in the kitchen?"

  She nodded. The power of speech seemed to have deserted her.

  "And you saw Mr. Drukker return from the Dillards'?"

  Again she nodded.