The Scarab Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  Heath threw the Egyptian a glance of scathing contempt; but Vance turned in his direction with a considerable show of interest.

  “How do you know, Hani,” he asked, “that your sign-manuals will not appear on the statue? It was you who placed it upon the cabinet yesterday.”

  “Yes, effendi,” the man answered, without taking his eyes from Dubois. “I placed it there—but with reverence. I rubbed and polished it from top to bottom when it was unpacked. And then I took it in my hands and stood it on the top of the cabinet, as Bliss effendi had directed. But when it was in place I could see where my hands had made marks upon its polished surface; and again I rubbed it with a chamois cloth so that it would be pure and untouched while the spirit of Sakhmet looked down sorrowfully over the stolen treasures of this room… There was no mark or print on it when I left it.”

  “Well, my friend, there’s finger-prints on it now,” declared Dubois unemotionally. He had taken out a powerful magnifying glass and was centring his gaze on the thick ankles of the statue. “And they’re damn clear prints, too… Looks to me like they’d been made by some guy who’d lifted up this statue… Both hands show around the ankles… Pass me the camera, Bellamy.”

  Bliss had paid scant heed to the entrance of the fingerprint men, but when Hani had begun to speak, he had roused himself from his despondent lethargy and concentrated his attention on the Egyptian. Then, when Dubois had announced the presence of finger-prints, he had stared, with terrible intentness, at the statue. A startling change had come over him. He was like a man in the grip of some consuming fear; and before Dubois had finished speaking he leapt to his feet and stood in a frozen attitude of stark horror.

  “God help me!” he cried; and the sound of his voice sent a chill over me. “Those are my finger-prints on that statue!”

  The effect of this admission was dumbfounding. Even Vance seemed momentarily shaken out of his habitual calm, and going to a small standard ash-tray he abstractedly crushed out his cigarette, though he had smoked less than half of it.

  Heath was the first to break the electric silence that followed Bliss’s cry of anguish. He took his dead cigar from his lips, and thrust out his chin.

  “Sure, they’re your finger-prints!” he snapped unpleasantly. “Who else’s would they be?”

  “Just a moment, Sergeant!” Vance had wholly recovered himself, and his voice was casual. “Finger-prints can be very misleadin’, don’t y’know. And a few digital signatures on a lethal weapon don’t mean that their author is necessarily a murderer. It’s most important, d’ye see, to ascertain when and under what circumstances the signatures were made.”

  He approached Bliss, who had remained staring at the statue of Sakhmet like a stricken man.

  “I say, doctor;”—he had assumed an easy, off-hand manner—“how do you know those finger-prints are yours?”

  “How do I know?” Bliss repeated the question in a resigned, colorless tone. He appeared to have aged before our very eyes; and his white, sunken cheeks made him resemble a death’s-head. “Because—oh, my God!—because I made them!… I made them last night—or, rather, early this morning, before I turned in. I took hold of the statue—around the ankles—exactly where that gentleman says there are the marks of two hands.”

  “And how did you happen to do that, doctor?” Vance asked quietly.

  “I did it without thought—I’d even forgotten doing it till the finger-prints were mentioned.” Bliss spoke with feverish earnestness: he seemed to feel that his very life depended on his being believed. “When I had finished arranging all the figures of the report early this morning, at about three o’clock, I came down here to the museum. I’d told Kyle about the new shipment, and I wanted to make sure that everything was in order for his inspection… You see, Mr. Vance, a great deal depended on the impression the new treasures made on him… I looked over the items in that end cabinet, and then re-drew the curtain. Just as I was about to depart I noticed that the statue of Sakhmet had not been placed evenly on the top of the cabinet—it was not in the exact centre, and was slightly sidewise. So I reached up and straightened it—taking hold of it by the ankles…”

  “Pardon me for intruding, Vance,”—Scarlett, a troubled look on his face, had stepped forward—“but I can assure you that such an act was quite natural with Doctor Bliss. He’s a stickler for orderliness—it’s a good-natured joke among the rest of us. We never dare leave anything out of place: he’s constantly criticising us and rearranging things after us.”

  Vance nodded.

  “Then, as I understand you, Scarlett, if a statue was left a bit askew, it would be practically inevitable that Doctor Bliss, on seeing it, would set it right.”

  “Yes—I think that’s a reasonable conclusion.”

  “Many thanks.” Vance turned again to Bliss. “Your explanation is that you adjusted the statue of Sakhmet, by taking hold of its ankles, and forthwith went to bed?”

  “That’s the truth—so help me God!” The man searched Vance’s eyes eagerly. “I turned out the lights and went up-stairs. And I’ve not set foot in the museum till you knocked on my study door.”

  Heath was obviously not satisfied with this story. It was plain that he had no intention of relinquishing his belief in Bliss’s guilt.

  “The trouble with that alibi,” he retorted doggedly, “is that you haven’t got any witnesses. And it’s the sort of alibi any one would pull when they’d got caught with the goods.”

  Markham diplomatically intervened. He himself was patently not convinced one way or the other.

  “I think, Sergeant,” he said, “that it might be advisable to have Captain Dubois verify the identity of those finger-prints. We’ll at least know definitely then if the prints are the ones Doctor Bliss made… Can you do that now, Captain?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Dubois reached in the hand-bag and drew forth a tiny inked roller, a narrow glass slab, and a small paper pad.

  “I guess the thumbs’ll be enough,” he said. “There’s only one set of hands showing on the statue.”

  He ran the inked roller over the glass slab, and going to Bliss, asked him to hold out his hands.

  “Press your thumbs on the ink and then put ’em down on this paper,” he ordered.

  Bliss complied without a word; and when the impressions had been made Dubois again placed the jeweller’s-glass in his eye and inspected the marks.

  “Looks like ’em,” he commented. “Ulnar loops—same like those on the statue… Anyhow, I’ll check ’em.”

  He knelt down beside the statue and held the pad close to its ankles. For a minute or so he studied the two sets of finger-prints.

  “They match,” he announced at length. “No doubt about it… And there ain’t another visible mark on the statue. This gentleman”—he gestured contemptuously toward Bliss—“is the only person who’s laid hands on the statue, so far as I can see.”

  “That’s bully with me,” grinned Heath. “Let me have the enlargements as soon as you can—I got a feeling I’m going to need ’em.” He took out a fresh cigar and bit the end off with gloating satisfaction. “I guess that’ll be all, Captain. Many thanks… Now you can go and victual up.”

  “And let me tell you I need it.” Dubois passed his camera and paraphernalia to Bellamy, who packed them with stodgy precision; and the two of them walked noisily out of the museum.

  Heath finally got his cigar going, and for several moments stood puffing on it voluptuously, one eye cocked at Vance.

  “That sorta sews things up—don’t it, sir?” he asked. “Or maybe you’ve swallowed the doctor’s alibi.” He addressed himself to Markham. “I put it up to you, sir. There’s only one set of finger-prints on that statue; and if those prints were made last night, I’d like to have somebody drive up in a hearse and tell me what became of the finger-prints of the bird who cracked Kyle over the head. Kyle was hit with the top of the statue, and whoever did it musta had hold of it by the legs… Now, Mr. Markham,
I ask you: is any one going to rub off his own finger-prints and leave those of the doctor? He couldn’t have done it if he’d wanted to.”

  Before Markham could reply, Vance spoke. “How do you know, Sergeant, that the person who killed Mr. Kyle actually wielded the statue?”

  Heath gave Vance a look of amazement.

  “Say! You don’t seriously think, do you, that this lion-headed dame did the job by herself—like this Yogi says?” He jerked his thumb at Hani without turning his eyes.

  “No, Sergeant.” Vance shook his head. “I haven’t yet gone in for the supernatural. And I don’t think the murderer erased his finger-prints and left those of Doctor Bliss. But I do think, d’ye see, that there’s some explanation which will account for all the contradict’ry phases of this astonishin’ case.”

  “Maybe there is.” Heath felt that he could be tolerant and magnanimous. “But I’m pinning my opinion on finger-prints and tangible evidence.”

  “A very dangerous procedure, Sergeant,” Vance told him, with unwonted seriousness. “I doubt if you could ever get a conviction against Doctor Bliss on the evidence you possess. It’s far too obvious—too imbecile. You’re bogged with an embarras de richesse—meanin’ that no sane man would commit a crime and leave so many silly bits of damnin’ evidence around… And I believe Mr. Markham will agree with me.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Markham dubiously. “There’s something in what you say, Vance; but on the other hand—”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen!” Heath had suddenly become animated. “I gotta see Hennessey—I’ll be back in a minute.” And he stalked with vigorous determination to the front door and disappeared.

  Bliss, to all appearances, had taken no interest in this discussion of his possible guilt. He had sunk back in his chair, where he sat staring resignedly at the floor—a tragic, broken figure. When the Sergeant had left us he moved his head slowly toward Vance.

  “Your detective is fully justified in his opinion,” he said. “I can see his point of view. Everything is against me—everything!” His tone, though flat and colorless, was bitter. “If only I hadn’t fallen asleep this morning, I’d know the meaning of all this… My scarab-pin, that financial report, those finger-prints…” He shook his head like a man in a daze. “It’s damnable—damnable!” His trembling hands went to his face, and he placed his elbows on his knees, bending forward in an attitude of utter despair.

  “It’s too damnable, doctor,” Vance replied soothingly. “Therein lies our hope of a solution.”

  Again he walked to the cabinet and remained for some time in distrait contemplation. Hani had returned to his ascetic adoration of Teti-shiret; and Scarlett, frowning and unhappy, was pacing nervously up and down between the delicate state chair and the shelves holding the shawabtis. Markham stood in a brown study, his hands clasped behind him, gazing at the shaft of sunshine which had fallen diagonally through the high rear windows.

  I noted that Hennessey had silently entered the main door and taken his post on the stair landing, one hand resting ominously in his right coat pocket.

  Then the little metal door at the head of the iron spiral stairs swung open, and Heath appeared at the entrance to Doctor Bliss’s study. One hand was behind him, out of sight, as he descended to the floor of the museum. He walked directly to Bliss and stood for a moment glowering grimly at the man whose guilt he believed in. Suddenly his hand shot forward—it was holding a white canvas tennis shoe.

  “That yours, doctor?” he barked.

  Bliss gazed at the shoe with perplexed astonishment.

  “Why…yes. Certainly it’s mine…”

  “You bet your sweet life it’s yours!” The Sergeant strode to Markham and held up the sole of the shoe for inspection. I was standing at the District Attorney’s side, and I saw that the rubber sole was criss-crossed with ridges and that there was a pattern of small hollow circles on the heel. But that which sent an icy breath of horror through me was the fact that the entire sole was red with dried blood.

  “I found that shoe in the study, Mr. Markham,” Heath was saying. “It was wrapped in a newspaper at the bottom of the waste-basket, covered up with all kinds of trash… hidden!”

  It was several moments before Markham spoke. His eyes moved from the shoe to Bliss and back again; finally they rested on Vance.

  “I think that clinches it.” His voice was resolute. “I have no alternative in the matter now—”

  Bliss sprang to his feet and hurried toward the Sergeant, his hypnotized gaze fastened on the shoe.

  “What is it?” he cried. “What has that shoe to do with Kyle’s death…?” He caught sight of the blood. “Oh, God in Heaven!” he moaned.

  Vance placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Sergeant Heath found foot-prints here, doctor. They were made by one of your canvas shoes…”

  “How can that be?” Bliss’s fascinated eyes were riveted on the bloody sole. “I left those shoes up-stairs in my bedroom last night, and I came down this morning in my slippers… There’s something diabolical going on in this house.”

  “Something diabolical, yes!—something unspeakably devilish… And rest assured, Doctor Bliss, I am going to find out what it is…”

  “I’m sorry, Vance,” Markham’s stern voice rang forth ominously. “I know you don’t believe Doctor Bliss is guilty. But I have a duty to perform. I’d be betraying the people who elected me if, in view of the evidence, I didn’t take action.—And, after all, you may be wrong.” (He said this with the kindliness of an old friend.) “In any event, my duty is clear.”

  He nodded to Heath.

  “Sergeant, place Doctor Bliss under arrest, and charge him with the murder of Benjamin H. Kyle.”

  Footnote

  *I am not quite sure why Vance added this parenthetical phrase, unless it was because the word simoon comes from the Arabic samma (meaning to be poisoned), and he thought that Hani would better recognize the word in its correct etymological form.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In the Study

  (Friday, July 18; 2 p.m.)

  I HAD OFTEN SEEN Vance in crucial moments of violent disagreement with Markham’s judgment, but, whatever his feelings had been, he had always assumed a cynical and nonchalant attitude. Now, however, no lightness or playfulness marked his manner. He was grim and serious: a deep frown had settled on his forehead, and a look of baffled exasperation had come into his cold gray eyes. He compressed his lips tightly and crammed his hands deep into his coat pockets. I expected him to protest vigorously against Markham’s action, but he remained silent, and I realized that he was confronted by one of the most difficult and unusual problems in his career.

  His eyes drifted from Bliss to the immobile back of Hani and rested there. But they were unseeing eyes—eyes that were turned inward as if seeking for some means of counteracting the drastic step about to be taken against the great Egyptologist.

  Heath, on the contrary, was elated. A grin of satisfaction had overspread his dour face at Markham’s order, and without moving from in front of Bliss, he called stridently to the ominous figure of the detective on the stair landing.

  “Hey, Hennessey! Tell Snitkin to phone Precinct Station 8 for a wagon… Then go out back and get Emery, and bring him in here.”

  Hennessey disappeared, and Heath stood watching Bliss like a cat, as though he expected the doctor to make a dash for liberty. Had the situation not been so tragic the Sergeant’s attitude would have appeared humorous.

  “You needn’t book and finger-print the doctor at the local station,” Markham told him. “Send him direct to Headquarters. I’ll assume all responsibility.”

  “That’s fine with me, sir.” The Sergeant seemed greatly pleased. “I’ll want to talk confidentially with this baby myself later on.”

  Bliss, once the blow had fallen, had drawn himself together. He sat upright, his head thrown slightly back, his eyes gazing defiantly out of the rear windows. There was no cowering, no longer any
fear, in his manner. Faced with the inevitable, he had apparently decided to accept it with stoical intrepidity. I could not help admiring the man’s fortitude in extremity.

  Scarlett stood like a man paralyzed, his mouth hanging partly open, his eyes fixed on his employer with a kind of unbelieving horror. Hani, of all the persons in the room, was the least perturbed: he had not even turned round from his rapt contemplation of Teti-shiret.

  Vance, after several moments, dropped his chin on his chest, and his perplexed frown deepened. Then, as if on sudden impulse, he swung about and walked to the end cabinet. He stood absorbed, leaning against the statue of Anûbis; but soon his head moved slowly up and down and from side to side as he inspected various parts of the cabinet and its partly-drawn curtain.

  Presently he came back to Heath.

  “Sergeant, let me have another look at that tennis slipper.” His voice was low and strained.

  Heath, without relaxing his vigilance, reached in his pocket and held out the shoe. Vance took it and, again adjusting his monocle, scrutinized the sole. Then he returned the shoe to the Sergeant.

  “By the by,” he said; “the doctor has more than one foot… What about the other slipper?”

  “I didn’t look for it,” snapped Heath. “This one was enough for me. It’s the right shoe—the one that made the foot-prints.”

  “So it is.” Vance’s drawl informed me that his mind was more at ease. “Still, I could bear to know where the other shoe is.”

  “I’ll find it—don’t worry, sir.” Heath spoke with contemptuous cocksureness. “I’ve got a little investigating to do as soon as I get the doctor safely booked at Headquarters.”

  “Typical police procedure,” murmured Vance. “Book your man and then investigate. A sweet practice.”