“His arm is on the end of the desk,” put in Heath.
“Oh, quite—and in a rather awkward position—eh, what? Considering how low the easy chair is, Coe could not possibly have had his elbow on the desk when he pulled the trigger. If so, the shot would have gone over his head. His arm was necessarily lower than the desk when the gun was fired—if he fired it. Therefore, we must assume that after the bullet had entered his brain, he lifted his right arm to the desk and arranged it neatly in its present position.”
“Maybe yes and maybe no,” muttered Heath, after a pause during which he studied the body and raised his own right hand to his forehead. Then he added aggressively: “But you can’t get away from that bolted door.”
Vance sighed.
“I wish I could get away from it. It bothers me horribly. If it wasn’t for the fact that the door was bolted on the inside, I’d be more inclined to agree that it was suicide.”
“What’s that!” Markham looked at Vance in amazement. “Now you’re talking in paradoxes.”
“Oh, no.” Vance shook his head slightly. “A man of Coe’s intelligence wouldn’t plan suicide and then deliberately make it difficult for any one to reach his body. What could he have gained by securely bolting the door on the inside so that it would have to be broken in? The act of shooting would have been over in a second; and there was no danger of his being disturbed in his own bedroom. Had he killed himself he would have wanted Gamble—or some one else—to find him at the earliest possible moment. He would certainly not have placed deliberate difficulties in their way.”
“But,” argued Markham, “your very theory contradicts itself. Who but Coe could have bolted the door on the inside?”
“No one, apparently,” answered Vance with a dispirited sigh. “And that’s what makes the affair so dashed appealin’. The situation reads thus: A man is murdered; then he rises and bolts the door after the slayer has departed; and later he arranges himself in an easy chair so as to make it appear like suicide.”
“That’s a swell theory!” grunted Heath disgustedly. “Anyway, we’ll know more about it when Doc Doremus gets here. And my bet is he’s going to wash the whole case up by calling it suicide.”
“And my bet is, Sergeant,” Vance replied mildly, “that he’s going to do nothing of the sort. I have an irresistible feelin’ that Doctor Doremus will inform us that it is not suicide.”
Heath screwed his face into a questioning frown and studied Vance. Then he snorted.
“Well, we’ll see,” he mumbled.
Vance paid scant attention. His eyes were moving over the desk. At one side of the blotter lay a quarto volume of “Li Tai Ming Ts’u T’ou P’u,” by Hsiang Yuan-p’ien.* A pair of gold library shears were inserted between the pages, and Vance opened the book at this point, revealing a large colored plate of an amphora-shaped P’in Kuo Hung vase of a slightly neutralized red glaze shading into a liver color, and broken by patches of olive green and spots of russet brown.
“You see, Markham,” he said, “Coe was apparently dreaming of his latest acquisition in peach-bloom shortly before he departed this life. And it is rather safe to assume that a man contemplating suicide does not indulge his acquisitiveness and investigate the history of his ceramic wares just before sending a bullet into his brain.”
Markham waited without answering.
“And here’s something else rather significant.” Vance pointed to a small pile of blank note paper in the middle of the blotter. “This paper is lying a little on the bias, in the position that a right-handed man would place it if he contemplated writing on it. And, also, note that at the head of the first page is yesterday’s date—Wednesday, October 10—”
“Ain’t that natural?” put in Heath. “All these birds who commit suicide write letters first.”
“But, Sergeant,” smiled Vance, “the letter isn’t written. Coe got no farther than the date.”
“Can’t a guy change his mind?” Heath persisted.
Vance nodded.
“Oh, quite. But, in that case, the pen would, in all probability, be in the holder set. And you will observe that the pen container is empty, and that there is no pen visible on the desk.”
“Maybe it’s in his pocket.”
“Maybe.” Vance stepped back and, bending over, ran his gaze over the floor round the desk. Then he knelt down and looked under the desk. Presently he reached out his arm and, from beneath the right-hand tier of drawers, drew forth a fountain-pen. Rising, he held the pen out.
“Coe dropped the pen, and it rolled under the desk.” He placed it beside the note paper. “Men don’t ordinarily drop fountain-pens in the middle of writing something and then fail to pick them up.”
Heath glowered in silence, and Markham asked:
“You think Coe was interrupted in the midst of writing something?”
“Interrupted?… In a way perhaps.” Vance himself seemed puzzled. “Still there are no signs of a struggle, and he is reclining in an easy chair at the end of the desk. Furthermore, his features are quite serene; his eyes are closed peacefully—and the door was bolted on the inside… Very strange, Markham.”
He walked to the shaded window and back, smoking leisurely. Suddenly he stopped and lifted his head, looking Markham straight in the eyes.
“Interrupted—yes! That’s it! But not by any outside agency—not by an intruder. He was interrupted by something more subtle—more deadly. He was interrupted while he was alone. Something happened—something sinister intruded—and he stopped writing, dropped the pen, forgot it, rose, and seated himself in that easy chair. Then came the end, swift and unexpected—before he could change his shoes… Don’t you see? Those shoes are another indication of that terrible interruption.”
“And the gun?” asked Heath contemptuously.
“I doubt if Coe even saw the gun, Sergeant.”
Footnotes
*Ucchushma was “the Killer of Demons,” and many pictures of him are in existence. Perhaps the best is in the British Museum.
*“An Illustrated Description of the Celebrated Wares of Different Dynasties.” (Dr. S. W. Bushell has made translations of this great work in his famous book on Chinese ceramics.)
CHAPTER THREE
A Startling Discovery
(Thursday, October 11; 9.30 a.m.)
AT THIS MOMENT the front door downstairs opened and shut with a bang, and we could hear a rather strident feminine voice address the butler.
“Morning, Gamble. Take my clubs and tell Liang to rustle me up some tea and muffins.”
Then there came a sound of footsteps on the stairs, and Gamble’s appealing voice said:
“But, Miss Lake, I beg of you—just a moment, please.”
“Tea and muffins,” came Miss Lake’s voice curtly; and the footsteps continued up the stairs.
Markham and Heath and I stepped toward the door just as the young woman reached the upper landing.
Miss Hilda Lake was a short, somewhat stockily built woman of about thirty, strong, resilient and athletic-looking. Her blue-gray eyes were steady and, I thought, a trifle hard; her nose was small and too broad for beauty; and her lips were full though unemotional. Her yellow-brown hair was cut short and combed straight back from a broad, low forehead. A soft felt hat was tucked under her arm. She wore a tweed suit and heavy tan oxfords with rubber soles. A white shirtwaist with a green four-in-hand added a final touch of mannishness to her appearance.
As she reached the head of the stairs and saw Markham, she came forward with a swinging stride and held out her hand.
“Greetings,” she said. “What brings you here so early? Business with uncle, I suppose.” She ran her eyes appraisingly over Heath and me as she spoke, and frowned. Then before Markham could answer she added: “Anything wrong?”
“Something seriously wrong, Miss Lake,” Markham replied, trying to bar her way into the room. “If you will be so good as to wait—”
But the young woman, with an aggressive gesture,
brushed past us and entered the room. The moment she caught sight of Archer Coe she went swiftly to him and knelt down, putting her arm about him.
“Hey! Don’t touch that body!” Heath stepped quickly up to her and put his hand on her shoulder none too gently, pulling her to her feet.
She swung toward him angrily, both hands sunk deep into the outer pockets of her tweed jacket, and stood glowering at him, her feet wide apart.
Markham stepped diplomatically into the breach.
“Nothing must be touched, Miss Lake,” he explained, “until the Medical Examiner arrives.”
She regarded Markham calculatingly.
“Is it also against the law to tell me what’s happened?” she asked.
“We know little more than you do,” Markham returned mildly. “We have just arrived, and we found your uncle’s body exactly as you see it.”
She turned, without taking her hands from her pockets, and contemplated the inert figure in the armchair.
“Well, what do you think has happened?” She put the question in a hard, even tone.
“There is every appearance of suicide…”
“Suicide?” She turned back to Markham coldly. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
Vance, who had been standing at the rear of the room near the bed, came forward.
“Neither would I, Miss Lake,” he said.
She moved her head slightly and lifted her eyebrows.
“Ah! Good morning, Mr. Vance. In the excitement of the moment I didn’t see you… You are quite right—it’s not suicide.” Her eyes narrowed. “It’s been a long time since you called. Ceramics and corpses would seem to be the only attractions this house holds for you.” (I thought I detected a note of resentment in her voice.)
Vance ignored the unfriendly criticism.
“Why do you repudiate the suicide theory?” he asked with pronounced courtesy.
“Very simple,” she replied. “Uncle was too great an egotist to deprive the world of his presence.”
“But egotism,” Vance submitted, “is often the cause of suicide. Boredom, don’t y’ know—the inability to find a responsive appreciation. Suicide gives the egotist his one supreme moment of triumph.” Vance spoke with academic aloofness.
“Uncle Archer needed no supreme moments,” Hilda Lake returned contemptuously. “He had such moments every time he acquired a Chinese knickknack. An utterly worthless piece of soft Chün porcelain in a silk nest, which was of no use to any human being, gave him a greater thrill than I would get out of beating Bobby Jones.”
“And of just what use would that achievement be to any human being?” smiled Vance.
“Oh, I know how you feel about ancient pottery,” she returned good-naturedly. “And, anyway, I wasn’t trying to be erudite—I was merely indulging in analogies by way of explaining why I don’t think uncle killed himself.”
“Forgive me.” Vance bowed. “You are unquestionably right. But neither Mr. Markham nor Sergeant Heath agrees with us. They are quite ready to dismiss the case as suicide.”
She looked from Markham to Heath with a hard, cold smile.
“And why not?” she asked. “It would be so easy—and would save a lot of bally scandal.”
Markham was piqued by the woman’s attitude.
“Who, Miss Lake,” he asked in his typical courtroom manner, “would have any reason for desiring your uncle’s death?”
“I, for one,” she answered unhesitatingly, looking Markham straight in the eye. “He irritated me beyond words. There was no sympathy between us. He stood in the way of everything I wanted to do; and he was able to make life pretty miserable for me because he held the purse-strings. A nice cold arctic day it was for me when he was appointed my guardian and I was made dependent on him.” (Her voice became bitter. There was a clouded angry look in her eyes, and her square jaw was set slightly forward.) “His death at any time these past ten years would have been a godsend to me. Now that he’s out of the way I’ll get my patrimony and be able to do what I want to do without interference.”
Markham and Heath regarded her in amazed indignation. There was something icily venomous in her manner—a calculating hatred more potent and devastating even than her words. It was Vance’s languid and indifferent voice that broke the momentary silence that followed her tirade.
“My word! Really, y’ know, Miss Lake, you’re dashed refreshin’ in your frankness… Are we to accept your comments as a confession of murder?”
“Not at present,” was the even reply. “But if the authorities are set on calling it suicide, I may come forward later and claim the credit for his demise—by way of upholding the honor of the family. You see, I regard a good healthy justifiable murder in higher esteem than a paltry suicide.”
The blood was mounting to Markham’s cheeks: he was becoming angry at Hilda Lake’s apparent flippancy.
“This is scarcely the time for jesting,” he reproved her.
“Oh, of course.” She looked at him with chilly eyes. “It’s the perfect occasion for solemnity… Well, I was never partial to emulating the owl. However, I’ll do my best in the circumstances.”
Markham regarded her sternly, but her fixed gaze did not waver.
“Who besides yourself,” he asked, trying to control his feelings, “would have had reason to murder your uncle?”
The woman looked up at the ceiling with meditative shrewdness and sat down on the edge of the desk.
“Any number of persons.” She spoke indifferently. “De mortuis—and all that kind of rot—but, after all, the fact that Uncle Archer is dead doesn’t make him any more admirable. And there are several people who would prefer him dead to alive.”
Heath had stood solemnly by during this astonishing conversation, puffing at a long black cigar and studying the woman with puzzled belligerence. At this point he spoke sourly.
“If you think your uncle was such a wash-out and you were so glad to find he’d been croaked, why did you run over to him and kneel down, and pretend to be worried?”
Hilda Lake gave the Sergeant a withering, yet whimsical, look. “My dear Mr. Policeman, I simply wanted to make sure he was dead.”
Markham stepped forward.
“You’re a brutally unfeeling woman, Miss Lake,” he said through set jaws.
Vance proffered her his cigarette-case.
“Won’t you have a Régie?” he asked.
“No, thanks.” She was now looking down at Archer Coe’s body. “I rarely smoke. Bad for the wind—upsets the nerves… Yes,” she mused, as if reverting to her conversation with Markham, “there won’t be any great mourning at dear uncle’s passing.”
Markham returned to the point.
“Would you care to name any one in particular who might be pleased with Mr. Coe’s death?”
“That wouldn’t be cricket,” she returned. “But I’ll say this much: there are several Chinese gentlemen whom uncle has swindled and tricked out of rare treasures, who will be delighted to learn that his collecting days are over. And you probably know yourself, Mr. Markham, that there were many unpleasant rumors after uncle’s return from China last year—gossip about his desecrating graveyards and removing funerary urns and figures. He received several threatening letters.”
Markham nodded.
“Yes, I remember. He showed me one or two of them… Do you seriously believe an outraged Oriental killed him?”
“Certainly not. The Chinese have more sense than to kill any one for a piece of bric-à-brac.”
Vance yawned and strolled between Hilda Lake and Markham. Again he held out his cigarette-case.
“Oh, do have a cigarette,” he pleaded. “Sometimes they quiet the nerves, don’t y’ know.”
The woman looked up at him and gave a hard, questioning smile. Then, after a moment’s hesitation she took one of his Régies, and he lighted it for her.
“What do you think of this affair, Mr. Vance?” she asked casually.
“Dashed if I know.” He spoke lightly
. “Your suggestion of a Chinaman is most fascinatin’. I wonder if there are any objets d’art missing from the house.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” She blew a long ribbon of smoke toward the ceiling. “Personally, I hope they’re all gone. I’d infinitely prefer Wedgwood and Willow ware.”
Markham again took the floor.
“I’m afraid we’re all talking a bit dramatically… If your uncle’s death was not suicide, Miss Lake, how do you account for the fact that the door of this room was bolted on the inside?”
Hilda Lake rose to her feet, a puzzled look on her face.
“Bolted on the inside?” she repeated, turning toward the door. “Ah! So you had to break in!” She stood still for several moments looking at the hanging bolt. “That’s different.”
“In just what way?” asked Vance.
“Maybe, after all, it was suicide!”
A bell sounded downstairs, and we could hear Gamble opening the front door. Markham stepped quickly to Hilda Lake’s side, and put his hand on her arm.
“The Medical Examiner is probably coming. Will you be so good as to go to your room and wait there?”
“Right-o.” She strode to the door, her hands still in her pockets. Before she went out she turned. “But please send Gamble up with my tea and muffins. I’m positively starving.”
A minute later Doctor Emanuel Doremus was ushered into the room. He was a wiry, nervous man, cynical, hard-bitten, and with a jaunty manner. He wore a brown top-coat, and a derby set far back on his head. He resembled a stock salesman far more than he did a doctor.
He greeted us with a wave of the hand, and glanced about the room. Then he teetered back and forth on his toes, and pinned a baleful eye on Heath.
“More shenanigan,” he complained. “I was in the midst of hot-cakes and sausages when I got your message. You always pick on me at meal-time, Sergeant… Well, what have you got for me now?”
Heath grinned and jerked his thumb toward Coe’s body. He was used to the Medical Examiner’s grousing.
The Kennel Murder Case Page 3