Garden thought a moment. “I’d say it was shortly before the nurse returned.”
“And who was it,” Vance went, “that first suggested going home?”
Garden pondered the question.
“I believe it was Zalia.”
Vance got up.
“Awfully good of you, Garden, to let us bother you with these queries at such a time,” he said kindly. “We’re deuced grateful… You won’t be leaving the house today?”
Garden shook his head as he stood up.
“Hardly,” he said. “I’ll stay in with father. He’s pretty well broken up. By the way, would you care to see him?”
Vance waved his hand negatively.
“No. That won’t be necess’ry just now.”
Garden went morosely from the room, his head down, like a man weighted with a great mental burden.
When he had gone Vance stood for a moment in front of Markham, eyeing him with cynical good nature.
“Not a nice case, Markham. As I said. Frankly speakin’, do you see any titbit for the law to get its teeth into?”
“No, damn it!” Markham blurted angrily. “No two things hang together. There’s no straight line in any direction. Every thread in the case is tangled with every other thread. Heaven knows, there are enough motives and opportunities. But which are we to choose as a starting point?… And yet,” he added grimly, “a case could be made out—”
“Oh, quite,” Vance interrupted. “A case against any one of various persons. And one case as good—or as bad—as another. Everyone has acted in a perfect manner to bring suspicion upon himself.” He sighed. “A sweet situation.”
“And fiendish,” supplemented Markham. “If it weren’t for that fact, I’d be almost inclined to call it two suicides and let it go at that.”
“Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” countered Vance with an affectionate shake of the head. “Neither would I. Really, y’ know, that’s not the way to be humane.” He moved toward the window and looked out. “But I have things pretty well in hand. The pattern is shaping itself perfectly. I’ve fitted together all the pieces, Markham—all but one. And I hold that piece too, but I don’t know where it goes, or how it fits into the ensemble.”
Markham looked up. “What’s the piece that’s bothering you, Vance?”
“Those disconnected wires on the buzzer. They bother me frightfully. I know they have a bearing on the terrible things that have been going on here…” He turned from the window and walked up and down the room several times, his head down, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. “Why should those wires have been disconnected?” he murmured, as if talking to himself. “How could they have been related to Swift’s death or to the shot we heard? There was no mechanism. No, I’m convinced of that. After all, the wires merely connect two buzzers…a signal…a signal between upstairs and downstairs… a signal—a call—a line of communication…”
Suddenly he stopped his meditative pacing. He was now facing the door into the passageway and he stared at it as if it were something strange—as if he had never seen it before.
“Oh, my aunt!” he exclaimed. “My precious aunt! It was too obvious.” He wheeled about to Markham, a look of self-reproach on his face. “The answer was here all the time,” he said. “It was simple—and I was looking for complexities… The picture is complete now, Markham. Everything fits. Those disconnected wires mean that there’s another murder contemplated—a murder that was intended from the first, but that did not come off.” He took a deep breath. “This business must be cleared up today. Yes…”
He led the way downstairs. Heath was smoking gloomily in the lower hall.
“Sergeant,” Vance said to him, “phone Miss Graem, Miss Weatherby, Kroon—and Hammle. Have them all here late this afternoon—say six o’clock. Floyd Garden can help you in getting in touch with them.”
“They’ll be here, all right, Mr. Vance,” Heath assured him.
“And Sergeant, as soon as you have taken care of this, telephone me. I want to see you this afternoon. I’ll be at home. But wait here for Snitkin and leave him in charge. No one is to come here but those I’ve asked you to get, and no one is to leave the apartment. And, above all, no one is to be permitted to go upstairs either to the study or the garden… I’m staggerin’ along now.”
“I’ll be phoning you by the time you get home, Mr. Vance.”
Vance went to the front door but paused with his hand on the knob.
“I think I’d better speak to Garden about the gathering before I go. Where is he, Sergeant?”
“He went into the den when he came downstairs,” Heath told him with a jerk of the head.
Vance walked up the hall and opened the den door. I was just behind him. As the door swung inward and Vance stepped over the threshold, we were confronted by an unexpected tableau. Miss Beeton and Garden were standing just in front of the desk, outlined against the background of the window. The nurse’s hands were pressed to her face, and she was leaning against Garden, sobbing. His arms were about her.
At the sound of Vance’s entry they drew away from each other quickly. The girl turned her head to us with a sudden motion, and I could see that her eyes were red and filled with tears. She caught her breath and, turning with a start, half ran through the connecting door into the adjoining bedroom.
“I’m frightfully sorry,” Vance murmured. “Thought you were alone.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Garden returned, although it was painfully evident the man was embarrassed. “But I do hope, Vance,” he added with a forced smile, “that you won’t misunderstand. Everything, you know, is in an emotional upheaval here. I imagine Miss Beeton had all she could stand yesterday and today, and when I found her in here she seemed to break down, and—put her head on my shoulder. I was merely trying to comfort her. I can’t help feeling sorry for the girl.”
Vance raised his hand in good-natured indifference.
“Oh, quite, Garden. A harassed lady always welcomes a strong masculine shoulder to weep on. Most of them leave powder on one’s lapel, don’t y’ know; but I’m sure Miss Beeton wouldn’t be guilty of that… Dashed sorry to interrupt you, but I wanted to tell you before I went that I have instructed Sergeant Heath to have all your guests of yesterday here by six o’clock this afternoon. Of course, we’ll want you and your father here, too. If you don’t mind, you might help the Sergeant with the phone numbers.”
“I’ll be glad to, Vance,” Garden returned, taking out his pipe and beginning to fill it. “Anything special in mind?”
Vance turned toward the door.
“Yes. Oh, yes. Quite. I’m hopin’ to clear this matter up later on. Meanwhile I’m running along. Cheerio.” And he went out, closing the door.
As we walked down the outer hall to the elevator, Vance said to Markham somewhat sadly: “I hope my plan works out. I don’t particularly like it. But I don’t like injustice, either…”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Through the Garden Door
(Sunday, April 15; afternoon.)
WE HAD BEEN home but a very short time when Sergeant Heath telephoned as he had promised. Vance went into the anteroom to answer the call and closed the door after him. A few minutes later he rejoined us and, ringing for Currie, ordered his hat and stick.
“I’m running away for a while, old dear,” he said to Markham. “In fact, I’m joining the doughty Sergeant at the Homicide Bureau. But I sha’n’t be very long. In the meantime, I’ve ordered lunch for us here.”
“Damn the lunch!” grumbled Markham. “What are you meeting Heath for?”
“I’m in need of a new waistcoat,” Vance told him lightly.
“That explanation’s a great help,” Markham snorted.
“Sorry. It’s the only one I can offer at present,” Vance returned.
Markham stared at him, disgruntled, for several minutes.
“Why all this mystery?” he demanded.
“Really, y’ know, Markham, it’s necess’ry.” Vance
spoke seriously. “I’m hoping to work out this beastly affair tonight.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Vance, what are you planning?” Markham stood up in futile desperation.
Vance took a pony of brandy and lighted a Régie. Then he looked at Markham affectionately.
“I’m plannin’ to entice the murderer into making one more bet—a losing bet… Cheerio.” And he was gone.
Markham fumed and fretted during Vance’s absence. He showed no inclination to talk, and I left him to himself. He tried to interest himself in Vance’s library, but evidently found nothing to hold his attention. Finally he lit a cigar and settled himself in an easy chair before the window, while I busied myself with some notes I was preparing for Vance.
It was a little after half-past two when Vance returned to the apartment.
“Everything is in order,” he announced as he came in. “There are no horses running today, of course, but nevertheless I’m looking forward to a big wager being laid this evening. If the bet isn’t placed, we’re in for it, Markham. Everyone will be present, however. The Sergeant, with Garden’s help, has got in touch with all those who were present yesterday, and they will foregather again in the Garden drawing room at six o’clock. I myself have left a message for Doctor Siefert, and I hope he gets it in time to join us. I think he should be there…” He glanced at his watch and, ringing for Currie, ordered a bottle of 1919 Montrachet chilled for our lunch.
“If we don’t tarry too long at table,” he said, “we’ll be able to hear the second half of the Philharmonic programme. Melinoff is doing Grieg’s piano concerto, and I think it might do us all a bit of spiritual good. A beautiful climax, Markham—one of the most stirring in all music—simple, melodious, magistral. Curious thing about Grieg: it’s taken the world a long time to realize the magnitude of the man’s genius. One of the truly great composers…”
But Markham did not go with us to the concert. He pleaded an urgent political appointment at the Stuyvesant Club, but promised to meet us at the Garden apartment at six o’clock. As if by tacit agreement, no word regarding the case was spoken during lunch. When we had finished Markham excused himself and departed for the club, while Vance and I drove to Carnegie Hall. Melinoff gave a competent, if not an inspired, performance, and Vance seemed in a more relaxed frame of mind as we started for home.
Sergeant Heath was waiting for us when we reached the apartment.
“Everything’s set, sir,” he said to Vance; “I got it here.”
Vance smiled a little sadly. “Excellent, Sergeant. Come into the other room with me while I get out of these Sunday togs.”
Heath picked up a small package wrapped in brown paper, which he had evidently brought with him, and followed Vance into the bedroom. Ten minutes later they both came back into the library. Vance was now wearing a heavy dark tweed sack suit; and on Heath’s face was a look of smug satisfaction.
“So long, Mr. Vance,” he said, shaking hands. “Good luck to you.” And he lumbered out.
We arrived at the Garden apartment a few minutes before six o’clock. Detectives Hennessey and Burke were in the front hall. As soon as we were inside Burke came up and, putting his hand to his mouth, said to Vance sotto voce:
“Sergeant Heath told me to tell you everything’s all right. He and Snitkin are on the job.”
Vance nodded and started up the stairs.
“Wait down here for me, Van,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll be back immediately.”
I wandered into the den, the door of which was ajar, and walked aimlessly about the room, looking at the various pictures and etchings. One behind the door attracted my attention—I think it was a Blampied—and I lingered before it for several moments. Just then Vance entered the room. As he came in he threw the door open wider, half pocketing me in the corner behind it, where I was not immediately noticeable. I was about to speak to him, when Zalia Graem came in.
“Philo Vance.” She called his name in a low, tremulous voice.
He turned and looked at the girl with a quizzical frown. “I’ve been waiting in the dining room,” she said. “I wanted to see you before you spoke to the others.”
I realized immediately, from the tone of her voice, that my presence had not been noticed, and my first impulse was to step out from the corner. But, in the circumstances, I felt there could be nothing in her remarks which would be beyond the province of my privilege of hearing, and I decided not to interrupt them.
Vance continued to look squarely at the girl, but did not speak. She came very close to him now.
“Tell me why you have made me suffer so much,” she said.
“I know I have hurt you,” Vance returned. “But the circumstances made it imperative. Please believe that I understand more of this case than you imagine I do.”
“I am not sure that I understand.” The girl spoke hesitantly. “But I want you to know that I trust you.” She looked up at him, and I could see that her eyes were glistening. Slowly she bowed her head. “I have never been interested in any man,” she went on—and there was a quaver in her voice. “The men I have known have all made me unhappy and seemed always to lead me away from the things I longed for…” She caught her breath. “You are the one man I have ever known whom I could—care for.”
So suddenly had this startling confession come, that I did not have time to make my presence known, and after Miss Graem finished speaking I remained where I was, lest I cause her embarrassment.
Vance placed his hands on the girl’s shoulders and held her away from him.
“My dear,” he said, with a curiously suppressed quality in his voice, “I am the one man for whom you should not care.” There was no mistaking the finality of his words.
Behind Vance the door to the adjoining bedroom opened suddenly, and Miss Beeton halted abruptly on the threshold. She was no longer wearing the nurse’s uniform, but a plain tailored tweed suit, severe in cut.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I thought Floyd—Mr. Garden—was in here.”
Vance looked at her sharply.
“You were obviously mistaken, Miss Beeton.”
Zalia Graem was staring at the nurse with angry resentment.
“How much did you hear,” she asked, “before you decided to open the door?”
Miss Beeton’s eyes narrowed and there was a look of scorn in her steady gaze.
“You perhaps have something to hide,” she answered coldly, as she walked across the room to the hall door and went toward the drawing room.
Zalia Graem’s eyes followed her as if fascinated, and then she turned back to Vance.
“That woman frightens me,” she said. “I don’t trust her. There’s something dark—and cruel—back of that calm self-sufficiency of hers… And you’ve been so kind to her—but you have made me suffer.”
Vance smiled wistfully at the girl.
“Would you mind waiting in the drawing room a little while?…”
She gave him a searching look and, without speaking, turned and went from the den.
Vance stood for some time gazing at the door with a frown of indecision, as if loath to proceed with whatever plans he had formulated. Then he turned to the window.
I took this opportunity to come out from my corner, and just as I did so Floyd Garden appeared at the hall door.
“Oh, hello, Vance,” he said. “I didn’t know you had returned until Zalia just told me you were in here. Anything I can do for you?”
Vance swung around quickly.
“I was just going to send for you. Everyone here?”
Garden nodded gravely. “Yes, and they’re all frightened to death—all except Hammle. He takes the whole thing as a lark. I wish somebody had shot him instead of Woody.”
“Will you send him in here,” Vance asked. “I want to talk to him. I’ll see the others presently.”
Garden walked up the hall, and at that moment I heard Burke speaking to Markham at the front door. Markham immediately joined us in the den.
“Hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” he greeted Vance.
“No. Oh, no.” Vance leaned against the desk. “Just in time. Everyone’s here except Siefert, and I’m about to have Hammle in here for a chat. I think he’ll be able to corroborate a few points I have in mind. He hasn’t told us anything yet. And I may need your moral support.”
Markham had barely seated himself when Hammle strutted into the den with a jovial air. Vance nodded to him brusquely and omitted all conventional preliminaries.
“Mr. Hammle,” he said, “we’re wholly familiar with your philosophy of minding your own business and keeping silent in order to avoid all involvements. A defensible attitude—but not in the present circumstances. This is a criminal case, and in the interest of justice to everyone concerned, we must have the whole truth. Yesterday afternoon you were the only one in the drawing room who had even a partial view down the hallway. And we must know everything you saw, no matter how trivial it may seem to you.”
Hammle, assuming his poker expression, remained silent; and Markham leaned forward glowering at him.
“Mr. Hammle”—he spoke with cold, deadly calm—“if you don’t wish to give us here what information you can, you will be taken before the Grand Jury and put under oath.”
Hammle gave in. He spluttered and waved his arms.
“I’m perfectly willing to tell you everything I know. You don’t have to threaten me. But to tell you the truth,” he added suavely, “I didn’t realize how serious the matter was.” He sat down with pompous dignity and assumed an air which was obviously meant to indicate that for the time being he was the personification of law, order, and truth.
“First of all, then,” said Vance, without relaxing his stern gaze, “when Miss Graem left the room, ostensibly to answer a telephone call, did you notice exactly where she went?”
“Not exactly,” Hammle returned; “but she turned to the left, toward the den. You understand, of course, that it was impossible for me to see very far down the hall, even from where I sat.”
“Quite.” Vance nodded. “And when she came back to the drawing room?”
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