"They didn't go out. They stayed on all night. He was a queer bird. He didn't keep regular hours, and twice before his lights were on till nearly morning."
"That's quite understandable," came Vance's lazy voice. "He has been at work on a difficult problem lately.—But tell us, Guilfoyle: what about the light in Mrs. Drukker's room?"
"Same as usual. The old dame always keeps a light burning in her room all night."
"Was there any one on guard in front of the Drukker house last night?" Markham asked Heath.
"Not after six o'clock, sir. We've had a man tailing Drukker during the day, but he goes off duty at six when Guilfoyle takes up his post in the rear."
There was a moment's silence. Then Vance turned to Guilfoyle.
"How far away were you last night from the door of the alleyway between the two apartment houses?"
The man paused to visualize the scene.
"Forty or fifty feet, say."
"And between you and the alleyway were the iron fence and some tree branches."
"Yes, sir. The view was more or less cut off, if that's what you mean."
"Would it have been possible for any one, coming from the direction of the Dillard house, to have gone out and returned by that door without your noticing him?"
"It mighta been done," the detective admitted; "provided, of course, the guy didn't want me to see him. It was foggy and dark last night, and there's always a lot of traffic noises from the Drive that woulda drowned out his movements if he was being extra cautious."
When the Sergeant had sent Guilfoyle back to the Bureau to await orders, Vance gave voice to his perplexity.
"It's a dashed complicated situation. Drukker called on the Dillards at eight o'clock, and at ten o'clock he was shoved over the wall in the park. As you observed, the note that Quinan just showed us was postmarked 11 p.m.—which means that it was probably typed before the crime. The Bishop therefore had planned his comedy in advance and prepared the note for the press. The audacity of it is amazin'. But there's one assumption we can tie to—namely, that the murderer was some one who knew of Drukker's exact whereabouts and proposed movements between eight and ten."
"I take it," said Markham, "your theory is that the murderer went and returned by the apartment-house alley."
"Oh, I say! I have no theory. I asked Guilfoyle about the alley merely in case we should learn that no one but Drukker was seen going to the park. In that event we could assume, as a tentative hypothesis, that the murderer had managed to avoid detection by taking the alleyway and crossing to the park in the middle of the block."
"With that possible route open to the murderer," Markham observed gloomily, "it wouldn't matter much who was seen going out with Drukker."
"That's just it. The person who staged this farce may have walked boldly into the park under the eyes of an alert myrmidon, or he may have hied stealthily through the alley."
Markham nodded an unhappy agreement.
"The thing that bothers me most, however," continued Vance, "is that light in Drukker's room all night. It was turned on at about the time the poor chap was tumbling into eternity. And Guilfoyle says that he could see some one moving about there after the light went on—"
He broke off, and stood for several seconds in an attitude of concentration.
"I say, Sergeant; I don't suppose you know whether or not Drukker's front-door key was in his pocket when he was found."
"No, sir; but I can find out in no time. The contents of his pockets are being held till after the autopsy."
Heath stepped to the telephone, and a moment later he was talking to the desk sergeant of the 68th-Street Precinct Station. Several minutes of waiting passed; then he grunted and banged down the receiver.
"Not a key of any kind on him."
"Ah!" Vance drew a deep puff on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly. "I'm beginnin' to think that the Bishop purloined Drukker's key and paid a visit to his room after the murder. Sounds incredible, I know; but, for that matter, so does everything else that's happened in this fantastic business."
"But what, in God's name, would have been his object?" protested Markham incredulously.
"We don't know yet. But I have an idea that when we learn the motive of these astonishin' crimes, we'll understand why that visit was paid."
Markham, his face set austerely, took his hat from the closet.
"We'd better be getting out there."
But Vance made no move. He remained standing by the desk smoking abstractedly.
"Y' know, Markham," he said, "it occurs to me that we should see Mrs. Drukker first. There was tragedy in that house last night: something strange took place there that needs explaining; and now perhaps she'll tell us the secret that has been locked up in her brain. Moreover, she hasn't been notified of Drukker's death, and with all the rumor and gossip in the neighborhood, word of some kind is sure to leak through to her before long. I fear the result of the shock when she hears the news. In fact, I'd feel better if we got hold of Barstead right away and took him with us. What do you say to my phoning him?"
Markham assented, and Vance briefly explained the situation to the doctor.
We drove up-town immediately, called for Barstead, and proceeded at once to the Drukker house. Our ring was answered by Mrs. Menzel, whose face showed plainly that she knew of Drukker's death. Vance, after one glance at her, led her into the drawing-room away from the stairs, and asked in a low tone:
"Has Mrs. Drukker heard the news?"
"Not yet," she answered, in a frightened, quavering voice. "Miss Dillard came over an hour ago, but I told her the mistress had gone out. I was afraid to let her up-stairs. Something's wrong. . . ." She began to tremble violently.
"What's wrong, Mrs. Menzel?" Vance placed a quieting hand on her arm.
"I don't know. But she hasn't made a sound all morning. She didn't come down for breakfast . . . and I'm afraid to go and call her."
"When did you hear of the accident?"
"Early—right after eight o'clock. The paper boy told me; and I saw all the people down on the Drive."
"Don't be frightened," Vance consoled her. "We have the doctor here, and we'll attend to everything."
He turned back to the hall and led the way upstairs. When we came to Mrs. Drukker's room he knocked softly and, receiving no answer, opened the door. The room was empty. The night-light still burned on the table, and I noticed that the bed had not been slept in.
Without a word Vance retraced his steps down the hall. There were only two other main doors, and one of them, we knew, led to Drukker's study. Unhesitatingly Vance stepped to the other and opened it without knocking. The window shades were drawn, but they were white and semi-transparent, and the gray daylight mingled with the ghastly yellow radiation from the old-fashioned chandelier. The lights which Guilfoyle had seen burning all night had not been extinguished.
Vance halted on the threshold, and I saw Markham, who was just in front of me, give a start.
"Mother o' God!" breathed the Sergeant, and crossed himself.
On the foot of the narrow bed lay Mrs. Drukker, fully clothed. Her face was ashen white; her eyes were set in a hideous stare; and her hands were clutching her breast.
Barstead sprang forward and leaned over. After touching her once or twice he straightened up and shook his head slowly.
"She's gone. Been dead probably most of the night." He bent over the body again and began making an examination. "You know, she's suffered for years from chronic nephritis, arteriosclerosis, and hypertrophy of the heart. . . . Some sudden shock brought on an acute dilatation. . . . Yes, I'd say she died about the same time as Drukker . . . round ten o'clock."
"A natural death?" asked Vance.
"Oh, undoubtedly. A shot of adrenalin in the heart might have saved her if I'd been here at the time. . . ."
"No signs of violence?"
"None. As I told you, she died from dilatation of the heart brought on by shock. A clear case—true to type in every respect."
>
18. THE WALL IN THE PARK
(Saturday, April 16; 11 a.m.)
When the doctor had straightened Mrs. Drukker's body on the bed and covered it with a sheet, we returned down-stairs. Barstead took his departure at once after promising to send the death certificate to the Sergeant within an hour.
"It's scientifically correct to talk of natural death from shock," said Vance, when we were alone; "but our immediate problem, d' ye see, is to ascertain the cause of that sudden shock. Obviously it's connected with Drukker's death. Now, I wonder. . . ."
Turning impulsively, he entered the drawing-room. Mrs. Menzel was sitting where we had left her, in an attitude of horrified expectancy. Vance went to her and said kindly:
"Your mistress died of heart failure during the night. And it's much better that she should not have outlived her son."
"Gott geb' ihr die ewige Ruh'!" the woman murmured piously. "Ja, it is best. . . ."
"The end came at about ten last night.—Were you awake at that time, Mrs. Menzel?"
"All night I was awake." She spoke in a low, awed voice.
Vance contemplated her with eyes half shut.
"Tell us what you heard?"
"Somebody came here last night!"
"Yes, some one came at about ten o'clock—by the front door. Did you hear him enter?"
"No; but after I had gone to bed I heard voices in Mr. Drukker's room."
"Was it unusual to hear voices in his room at ten o'clock at night?"
"But it wasn't him! He had a high voice, and this one was low and gruff." The woman looked up in bewildered fright. "And the other voice was Mrs. Drukker's . . . and she never went in Mr. Drukker's room at night!"
"How could you hear so plainly with your door shut?"
"My room is right over Mr. Drukker's," she explained. "And I was worried—what with all these awful things going on; so I got up and listened at the top of the steps."
"I can't blame you," said Vance. "What did you hear?"
"At first it was like as though the mistress was moaning, but right away she began to laugh, and then the man spoke angry-like. But pretty soon I heard him laugh, too. After that it sounded like the poor lady was praying—I could hear her saying 'Oh, God—oh, God!' Then the man talked some more—very quiet and low. . . . And in a little while it seemed like the mistress was—reciting—a poem. . . ."
"Would you recognize the poem if you heard it again? . . . Was it
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall;
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. . . ."
"Bei Gott, das ist's! It sounded just like that!" A new horror came into the woman's expression. "And Mr. Drukker fell from the wall last night. . . ."
"Did you hear anything else, Mrs. Menzel?" Vance's matter-of-fact voice interrupted her confused correlation of Drukker's death to the verse she had heard.
Slowly she shook her head.
"No. Everything was quiet after that."
"Did you hear any one leave Mr. Drukker's room?"
She gave Vance a panic-stricken nod.
"A few minutes later some one opened and shut the door, very soft; and I heard steps moving down the hall in the dark. Then the stairs creaked, and pretty soon the front door shut."
"What did you do after that?"
"I listened a little while, and then I went back to bed. But I couldn't sleep. . . ."
"It's all over now, Mrs. Menzel," Vance told her comfortingly. "There's nothing for you to fear.—You'd best go to your room and wait till we need you."
Reluctantly the woman went up-stairs.
"I think now," said Vance, "we can make a pretty close guess as to what happened here last night. The murderer took Drukker's key and let himself in by the front door. He knew Mrs. Drukker's quarters were at the rear, and he no doubt counted on accomplishing his business in Drukker's room and departing as he had come. But Mrs. Drukker heard him. It may be she associated him with 'the little man' who had left the black bishop at her door, and feared that her son was in danger. At any rate, she went at once to Drukker's room. The door may have been slightly open, and I think she saw the intruder and recognized him. Startled and apprehensive, she stepped inside and asked him why he was there. He may have answered that he had come to inform her of Drukker's death—which would account for her moans and her hysterical laughter. But that was only a prelimin'ry on his part—a play for time. He was devising some means of meeting the situation—he was planning how he would kill her! Oh, there can be no doubt of that. He couldn't afford to let her leave that room alive. Maybe he told her so in as many words—he spoke 'angry-like,' you recall. And then he laughed. He was torturing her now—perhaps telling her the whole truth in a burst of insane egoism; and she could say only 'Oh God—oh God!' He explained how he had pushed Drukker over the wall. And did he mention Humpty Dumpty? I think he did; for what more appreciative audience could he have had for his monstrous jest than the victim's own mother? That last revelation proved too much for her hypersensitive brain. She repeated the nursery rhyme in a spell of horror; and then the accumulated shock dilated her heart. She fell across the bed, and the murderer was saved the necessity of sealing her lips with his own hands. He saw what had happened, and went quietly away."
Markham took a turn up and down the room.
"The least comprehensible part of last night's tragedy," he said, "is why this man should have come here after Drukker's death."
Vance was smoking thoughtfully.
"We'd better ask Arnesson to help us explain that point. Maybe he can throw some light on it."
"Yeh, maybe he can," chimed in Heath. Then after rolling his cigar between his lips for a moment, he added sulkily: "There's several people around here, I'm thinking, that could do some high-class explaining."
Markham halted before the Sergeant.
"The first thing we'd better do is to find out what your men know about the movements of the various persons hereabouts last night. Suppose you bring them here and let me question them.—How many were there, by the way?—and what were their posts?"
The Sergeant had risen, alert and energetic.
"There were three, sir, besides Guilfoyle. Emery was set to tail Pardee; Snitkin was stationed at the Drive and 75th Street to watch the Dillard house; and Hennessey was posted on 75th Street up near West End Avenue.—They're all waiting down at the place where Drukker was found. I'll get 'em up here pronto."
He disappeared through the front door, and in less than five minutes returned with the three detectives. I recognized them all, for each had worked on one or more of the cases in which Vance had figured.[26] Markham questioned Snitkin first as the one most likely to have information bearing directly on the previous night's affair. The following points were brought out by his testimony:
Pardee had emerged from his house at 6.30 and gone straight to the Dillards'.
At 8.30 Belle Dillard, in an evening gown, had got into a taxi and been driven up West End Avenue. (Arnesson had come out of the house with her and helped her into the taxicab, but had immediately returned indoors.)
At 9.15 Professor Dillard and Drukker had left the Dillard house and walked slowly toward Riverside Drive. They had crossed the Drive at 74th Street, and turned up the bridle path.
At 9.30 Pardee had come out of the Dillard house, walked down to the Drive, and turned up-town.
At a little after 10.00 Professor Dillard had returned to his house alone, recrossing the Drive at 74th Street.
At 10.20 Pardee had returned home, coming from the same direction he had taken when going out.
Belle Dillard had been brought home at 12.30 in a limousine filled with young people.
Hennessey was interrogated next; but his evidence merely substantiated Snitkin's. No one had approached the Dillard house from the direction of West End Avenue; and nothing of a suspicious nature had happened.
Markham then turned his attention to Emery, who reported that, according to Santos whom he had relieved at six, Pardee had spent the early part o
f the afternoon at the Manhattan Chess Club and had returned home at about four o'clock.
"Then, like Snitkin and Hennessey said," Emery continued, "he went to the Dillards' at half past six, and stayed till half past nine. When he came out I followed, keeping half a block or so behind him. He walked up the Drive to 79th Street, crossed to the upper park, and walked round the big grass bowl, past the rocks, and on up toward the Yacht Club. . . ."
"Did he take the path where Sprigg was shot?" Vance asked.
"He had to. There ain't any other path up that way unless you walk along the Drive."
"How far did he go?"
"The fact is, he stopped right about where Sprigg was bumped off. Then he came back the same way he'd gone and turned into the little park with the playground on the south side of 79th Street. He went slowly down the walk under the trees along the bridle path; and as he passed along the top of the wall under the drinking fountain, who should he run into but the old man and the hunchback, resting up against the ledge and talking. . . ."
"You say he met Professor Dillard and Drukker at the very spot where Drukker fell over the wall?" Markham leaned forward hopefully.
"Yes, sir. Pardee stopped to visit with them; and I naturally kept on going. As I passed 'em I heard the hunchback say: 'Why ain't you practising chess this evening?' And it sounded to me like he was sore at Pardee for stopping, and was hinting that he wasn't wanted. Anyhow, I ambled along the wall till I got to 74th Street where there was a couple of trees to hide under. . . ."
"How well could you see Pardee and Drukker after you'd reached 74th Street?" interrupted Markham.
"Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I couldn't see 'em at all. It was getting pretty misty about that time, and there isn't any lamp-post at that part of the walk where they were confabulating. But I figured Pardee would be along pretty soon, so I waited for him."
"This must have been well on toward ten o'clock."
"About a quarter of, I should say, sir."
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