The Dragon Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “And in the meantime,” Vance said to Markham, “I think it might be well to have a brief chat with Miss Stamm... Sergeant, will you produce the young lady for us?”

  “Just a moment.” The doctor turned in the doorway. “I would ask you, sir, not to disturb Miss Stamm just now. When I came here I found her in a very high-strung, hysterical condition over what had happened. So I gave her a stiff dose of bromides and told her to go to bed. She’s in no condition to be questioned about the tragedy. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  “It really doesn’t matter,” Vance returned. “Tomorrow will do just as well.”

  The doctor went lumberingly into the hall, and a moment later we could hear him dialing a number on the telephone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  An Interruption (Sunday, August 12; 1.35 a.m.)

  MARKHAM HEAVED A deep, annoyed sigh, and focused his eyes on Vance in exasperation.

  “Aren’t you satisfied yet?” he demanded impatiently. “I suggest we get along home.”

  “Oh, my dear Markham!” Vance protested whimsically, lighting a fresh Régie. “I should never forgive myself if I went without at least making the acquaintance of Mrs. McAdam. My word! Really now, wouldn’t you like to meet her?”

  Markham snorted with angry resignation and settled back in his chair.

  Vance turned to Heath.

  “Shepherd the butler in, Sergeant.”

  Heath went out with alacrity, returning immediately with the butler in tow. He was a short, pudgy man in his late fifties, with a smug, round face. His eyes were small and shrewd; his nose flat and concave, and the corners of his mouth were pinched into a downward arc. He wore a blond toupee which neither fitted him nor disguised the fact that he was bald. His uniform needed pressing, and his linen was far from immaculate; but he had an unmistakable air of pompous superiority.

  “I understand your name is Trainor,” said Vance.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, Trainor, there seems to be considerable doubt as to just what happened here tonight. That’s why the District Attorney and I have come up.” Vance’s eyes were fixed on the man with appraising interest.

  “If I may be permitted to say so, sir,” Trainor submitted in a mincing falsetto, “I think your being here is an excellent idea. One never can tell what is behind these mysterious episodes.”

  Vance lifted his eyebrows.

  “So you think the episode mysterious?... Can you tell us something that might be helpful?”

  “Oh, no, sir.” The man elevated his chin haughtily. “I haven’t the slightest suggestion to make—thanking you, sir, for the honor of asking me.”

  Vance let the matter drop, and said:

  “Doctor Holliday has just told us that Mr. Stamm had a close call tonight, and I understand from Mr. Leland that Mr. Stamm ordered another bottle of whisky at the time the other members of the party went down to the pool.”

  “Yes, sir. I brought him a fresh quart of his favorite Scotch whisky—Buchanan’s Liqueur...although I will say, sir, in extenuation, so to speak, that I took the liberty of protesting with Mr. Stamm, inasmuch as he had already been drinking rather heavily all day. But he became almost abusive, I might say; and I remarked to myself, ‘Every man to his own poison’—or words to that effect. It was not my place, you can understand, to refuse to obey the master’s orders.”

  “Of course—of course, Trainor. We certainly do not hold you responsible for Mr. Stamm’s condition,” Vance assured him pleasantly.

  “Thank you, sir. I might say, however, that Mr. Stamm has been quite unhappy about something these past few weeks. He’s been worrying a great deal. He even forgot to feed the fish last Thursday.”

  “My word! Something really upsettin’ must have been preying on his mind... And did you see to it, Trainor, that the fish did not go hungry Thursday?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I am very fond of the fish, sir. And I’m something of an authority on the subject—if I do say so myself. In fact, I disagree with the master quite frequently on the care of some of his rarer varieties. Without his knowing it I have made chemical tests of the water, for acidity and alkalinity—if you know what I mean, sir. And I took it upon myself to increase the alkalinity of the water in the tanks in which the Scatophagus argus are kept. Since then, sir, the master has had much better luck with them.”

  “I myself am partial to brackish water for the Scatophagus,” Vance commented, with an amused smile. “But we will let that drop for the moment... Suppose you tell Mrs. McAdam that we desire to see her, here in the drawing-room.”

  The butler bowed and went out, and a few minutes later ushered a short, plump woman into the room.

  Teeny McAdam’s age was perhaps forty, but from her clothes and her manner it was obvious that she was making a desperate effort to give the impression of youth. There was, however, a hardness about her which she could not disguise. She seemed perfectly calm as she sat down in the chair which Vance held for her.

  Vance explained briefly who we were and why we were there, and I was interested in the fact that she showed no surprise.

  “It’s always well,” Vance explained further, “to look into tragedies of this kind, where there is a feeling of doubt in the mind of any one present. And there seems to be considerable doubt in the minds of several witnesses of Mr. Montague’s disappearance.”

  For answer the woman merely gave an arctic smile and waited.

  “Are there any doubts in your mind, Mrs. McAdam?” Vance asked quietly.

  “Doubts? What kind of doubts? Really, I don’t know what you mean.” She spoke in a cold, stereotyped voice. “Monty is unquestionably dead. Had it been any one else who disappeared, one might suspect that a practical joke had been played on us. But Monty was never a practical joker. In fact, any sense of humor was painfully lacking in him. He was far too conceited for humor.”

  “You have known him a long time, I take it.”

  “Far too long,” the woman replied, with what I thought was a touch of venom.

  “You screamed, I am told, when he failed to rise to the surface.”

  “A maidenly impulse,” she remarked lightly. “At my age I should, of course, be more reserved.”

  Vance contemplated his cigarette a moment.

  “You weren’t, by any chance, expecting the young gentleman’s demise at the time?”

  The woman shrugged, and a hard light came into her eyes.

  “No, not expecting it,” she returned bitterly, “but always hoping for it—as were many others.”

  “Most interestin’,” Vance murmured. “But what were you looking for so intently across the pool, after Montague’s failure to come up?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and her expression belied the careless gesture she made.

  “I really do not recall my intentness at that time,” she answered. “I was probably scanning the surface of the pool. That was natural, was it not?”

  “Quite—oh, quite. One does instinctively scan the water when a diver has failed to reappear—doesn’t one? But I was given the impression your attitude was not indicative of this natural impulse. In fact, I was led to believe that you were looking across the water, to the rock cliffs opposite.”

  The woman shifted her gaze to Leland, and a slow contemptuous smile spread over her face.

  “I quite understand,” she sneered. “This half-breed has been trying to divert suspicion from himself.” She swung quickly back to Vance and spoke between clenched teeth. “My suggestion to you, sir, is that Mr. Leland can tell you far more of the tragedy than any one else here.”

  Vance nodded carelessly.

  “He has already told me many fascinatin’ things.” Then he leaned forward with a half smile that did not extend to his eyes. “By the by,” he added, “it may interest you to know that a few minutes ago there was a terrific splash in the pool, near the point, I should say, where you were looking.”

  A sudden change came over Teeny McAdam. Her body seemed to go taut, and her hands tightene
d over the arms of her chair. Her face paled perceptibly, and she took a slow deep breath, as if to steady herself.

  “You are sure?” she muttered, in a strained voice, her eyes fixed on Vance. “You are sure?”

  “Quite sure... But why should that fact startle you?”

  “There are strange stories about that pool—” she began, but Vance interrupted.

  “Oh, very strange. But you’re not, I trust, superstitious?” She gave a one-sided smile, and her body relaxed.

  “Oh, no, I am far too old for that.” She was speaking again in her former cold, reserved tone. “But for a moment I got jumpy. This house and its surroundings are not conducive to calm nerves... So there was a splash in the pool? I can’t imagine what it might have been. Maybe it was one of Stamm’s flying fish,” she suggested, with an attempt at humor. Then her face hardened, and she gave Vance a defiant look. “Is there anything else you wish to ask me?”

  It was obvious that she had no intention of telling us anything concerning what she may have feared or suspected, and Vance rose listlessly to his feet.

  “No, madam,” he responded. “I have quite exhausted my possibilities as an interrogator... But I shall have to ask you to remain in your room for the present.”

  Teeny McAdam rose also, with an exaggerated sigh of relief.

  “Oh, I expected that. It’s so messy and inconvenient when any one dies... But would it be against the rules and regulations if the tubby Trainor brought me a drink?”

  “Certainly not.” Vance bowed gallantly “I will be delighted to send you anything you desire—if the cellar affords it.”

  “You are more than kind,” she returned sarcastically. “I’m sure Trainor can scratch me up a stinger.”

  She thanked Vance facetiously, and left the room.

  Vance sent for the butler again.

  “Trainor,” he said, when the man entered, “Mrs. McAdam wants a stinger—and you’d better use two jiggers each of brandy and crème de menthe.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  As Trainor went from the room, Doctor Holliday appeared at the door.

  “I have Mr. Stamm in bed,” he told Vance, “and the nurse is on her way. If you care to speak to him now it will be all right.”

  The master bedroom was on the second floor, just at the head of the main stairs, and when we entered, ushered in by Doctor Holliday, Stamm stared at us with resentful bewilderment.

  I could see, even as he lay in bed, that he was an unusually tall man. His face was lined and cadaverous. His piercing eyes were ringed with shadows, and his cheeks were hollow. He was slightly bald, but his eyebrows were heavy and almost black. Despite his pallor and his obviously weakened condition, it was evident he was a man of great endurance and physical vitality. He was the type of man that fitted conventionally into the stories of his romantic exploits in the South Seas.

  “These are the gentlemen that wished to see you,” the doctor told him, by way of introduction.

  Stamm looked from one to the other of us, turning his head weakly.

  “Well, who are they, and what do they want?” His voice was low and peevish.

  Vance explained who we were, and added:

  “There has been a tragedy here on your estate tonight, Mr. Stamm; and we are here to investigate it.”

  “A tragedy? What do you mean by a tragedy?” Stamm’s sharp eyes did not leave Vance’s face.

  “One of your guests has, I fear, been drowned.”

  Stamm suddenly became animated. His hands moved nervously over the silk spread, and he raised his head from the pillow, his eyes glaring.

  “Some one drowned!” he exclaimed. “Where? And who?... I hope it was Greeff—he’s been pestering the life out of me for weeks.”

  Vance shook his head.

  “No, it was not Greeff—it was young Montague. He dived into the pool and didn’t come up.”

  “Oh, Montague.” Stamm sank back on his pillow. “That vain ass!... How is Bernice?”

  “She’s sleeping,” the doctor informed him consolingly. “She was naturally upset, but she will be all right in the morning.”

  Stamm seemed relieved, and after a moment he moved his head wearily toward Vance.

  “I suppose you want to ask questions.”

  Vance regarded the man on the bed critically and, I thought, suspiciously. I admit that I myself got a distinct impression that Stamm was playing a part, and that the remarks he had made were fundamentally insincere. But I could not say specifically what had caused this impression. Presently Vance said:

  “We understand that one of the guests you invited to your week-end party did not put in an appearance.”

  “Well, what of it?” complained Stamm. “Is there anything so unusual about that?”

  “No, not unusual,” Vance admitted, “but a bit interestin’. What was the lady’s name?”

  Stamm hesitated and shifted his eyes.

  “Ellen Bruett,” he said finally.

  “Could you tell us something about her?”

  “Very little,” the man answered ungraciously. “I haven’t seen her for a great many years. I met her on a boat going to Europe, and I ran across her again in Paris. I know nothing of her personally, except that she’s a pleasant sort, and extremely attractive. Last week I was surprised to receive a telephone call from her. She said she had just returned from the Orient and intimated that she would like to renew our acquaintance. I needed another woman for the party; so I asked her to join us. Friday morning she phoned me again to say she was leaving unexpectedly for South America... That’s the extent of what I know about her.”

  “Did you,” asked Vance, “by any chance, mention to her the names of the other guests you had invited?”

  “I told her that Ruby Steele and Montague were coming. They had both been on the stage, and I thought she might know the names.”

  “And did she?” Vance raised his cigarette deliberately to his lips.

  “As I recall, she said she had met Montague once in Berlin.”

  Vance walked to the window and back.

  “Curious coincidence,” he murmured.

  Stamm’s eyes followed him.

  “What’s curious about it?” he demanded sourly.

  Vance shrugged and halted at the foot of the bed. “I haven’t the groggiest notion—have you?”

  Stamm raised himself from the pillow and glared.

  “What do you mean by that question?”

  “I mean simply this, Mr. Stamm:”—Vance’s tone was mild—“every one we have talked to so far seems to have a peculiar arrière-pensée with regard to Montague’s death, and there have been intimations of foul play—”

  “What about Montague’s body?” Stamm broke in. “Haven’t you found it yet? That ought to tell the story. He probably bashed his skull while doing a fancy dive to impress the ladies.”

  “No, his body has not yet been found. It was too late to get a boat and grappling hooks to the pool tonight...”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Stamm informed him truculently. “There are two big gates in the stream just above the filter, and they can be closed. And there’s a turnstile lock in the dam. That lets the water drain from the pool. I drain it every year or so, to clean it out.”

  “Ah! That’s worth knowing—eh, Sergeant?” Then to Stamm: “Are the gates and lock difficult to manipulate?”

  “Four or five men can do the job in an hour.”

  “We’ll attend to all that in the morning then.” Vance looked at the other thoughtfully. “And, by the by, one of Sergeant Heath’s men just reported that there was quite a noisy splash in the pool a little while ago—somewhere near the opposite side.”

  “A part of that damned rock has fallen,” Stamm remarked. “It’s been loose for a long time.” Then he moved uneasily, and asked: “What difference does it make?”

  “Mrs. McAdam seemed rather upset about it.”

  “Hysteria,” snorted Stamm. “Leland has probably been telli
ng her stories about the pool... But what are you driving at, anyway?”

  Vance smiled faintly.

  “I’m sure I don’t know. But the fact that a man disappeared in the Dragon Pool tonight seems to have impressed several people in a most peculiar fashion. None of them seem wholly convinced that it was an accidental death.”

  “Tommy-rot!”

  Stamm drew himself up until he rested on his elbows, and thrust his head forward. A wild light came into his glaring eyes, and his face twitched spasmodically.

  “Can’t a man get drowned without having a lot of policemen all over the place?” His voice was loud and shrill. “Montague—bah! The world’s better off without him. I wouldn’t give him tank space with my Guppies—and I feed them to the Scalares.”

  Stamm became more and more excited, and his voice grew shriller. “Montague jumped into the pool, did he? And he didn’t come up? Is that any reason to annoy me when I’m ill?...”

  At this moment there came a startling and blood-chilling interruption. The door into the hall had been left open, and there suddenly came to us, from the floor above, a woman’s maniacal and terrifying scream.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Water-Monster (Sunday, August 12; 2 a.m.)

  T HERE WAS A second of tense startled silence. Then Heath swung round and rushed toward the door, his hand slipping into his outer coat pocket where he carried his gun. As he reached the threshold Leland stepped quickly up to him and placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  “Do not bother,” he said quietly. “It is all right.”

  “The hell it is!” Heath shot back, throwing off the other’s hand and stepping into the hallway.

  Doors had begun to open along the hallway, and there were several smothered exclamations.

  “Get back in your rooms!” bawled Heath. “And stay in ’em.” He planted himself aggressively outside the door, glowering down the corridor.

  Evidently some of the guests, frightened by the scream, had come out to see what the trouble was. But confronted with the menacing attitude of the Sergeant and cowed by his angry command, they returned to their quarters, and we could hear the doors close again. The Sergeant, confused and indecisive, turned threateningly to Leland who was standing near the door with a calm but troubled look on his face.