The Bishop Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  Vance called on Professor Dillard and discussed the case along general lines. He also spent over an hour on Thursday afternoon with Arnesson in the hope that the working out of the proposed formula had brought to light some detail that could be used as a starting point for speculation. But he was dissatisfied with the interview and complained to me that Arnesson had not been wholly frank with him. Twice he dropped in at the Manhattan Chess Club and attempted to lead Pardee into conversation; but each time he was met with the reticence of cold courtesy. I noticed that he made no effort to communicate with either Drukker or Mrs. Drukker; and when I asked him his reason for ignoring them, he answered: “The truth cannot be learned from them now. Each is playing a game; and both are thoroughly frightened. Until we have some definite evidence, more harm than good will result from any attempt to cross-examine them.”

  This definite evidence was to come the very next day from a most unexpected quarter; and it marked the beginning of the last phase of our investigation—a phase fraught with such sinister, soul-stirring tragedy and unspeakable horror, with such wanton cruelty and monstrous humor, that even now, years later, as I set down this reportorial record of it, I find it difficult to believe that the events were not, after all, a mere grotesque dream of fabulous wickedness.

  Friday afternoon Markham, in a mood of desperation, called another conference. Arnesson asked permission to attend; and at four o’clock we all met, including Inspector Moran, in the district attorney’s private room in the old Criminal Courts Building. Arnesson was unwontedly silent during the discussion, and not once did he indulge in his usual flippancy. He listened with close attention to all that was said and seemed purposely to avoid expressing an opinion, even when directly appealed to by Vance.

  We had been in conference perhaps half an hour when Swacker entered quietly and placed a memorandum on the district attorney’s desk. Markham glanced at it and frowned. After a moment he initialed two printed forms and handed them to Swacker.

  “Fill these in right away and give them to Ben,”* he ordered. Then when the man had gone out through the outer hall door, he explained the interruption. “Sperling has just sent a request to speak to me. He says he has information that may be of importance. I thought, in the circumstances, it might be well to see him now.”

  Ten minutes later Sperling was brought in by a deputy sheriff from the Tombs. He greeted Markham with a friendly boyish smile and nodded pleasantly to Vance. He bowed—a bit stiffly, I thought—to Arnesson, whose presence seemed both to surprise and disconcert him. Markham motioned him to a chair, and Vance offered him a cigarette.

  “I wanted to speak to you, Mr. Markham,” he began, a bit diffidently, “about a matter which may be of help to you… You remember, when you were questioning me about my being in the archery room with Robin, you wanted to know which way Mr. Drukker went when he left us. I told you I didn’t notice, except that he went out by the basement door… Well, sir, I’ve had a lot of time to think lately; and I’ve naturally gone over in my mind all that happened that morning. I don’t know just how to explain it, but everything has become a lot clearer now. Certain—what you might call impressions—have come back to me… ”

  He paused and looked down at the carpet. Then lifting his head, he went on:

  “One of these impressions has to do with Mr. Drukker—and that’s why I wanted to see you. Just this afternoon I was—well, sort of pretending I was in the archery room again, talking to Robin; and all of a sudden the picture of the rear window flashed across my mind. And I remembered that when I had glanced out of the window that morning to see how the weather was for my trip, I had seen Mr. Drukker sitting in the arbor behind the house—.”

  “At what time was this?” Markham demanded brusquely.

  “Only a few seconds before I went to catch my train.”

  “Then you imply that Mr. Drukker, instead of leaving the premises, went to the arbor and remained there until you departed.”

  “It looks that way, sir.” Sperling was reluctant to make the admission.

  “You’re quite sure you saw him?”

  “Yes, sir. I remember distinctly now. I even recall the peculiar way he had his legs drawn up under him.”

  “You would swear to it,” asked Markham gravely, “knowing that a man’s life might rest on your testimony?”

  “I’d swear to it, sir,” Sperling returned simply.

  When the sheriff had escorted his prisoner from the room, Markham looked at Vance.

  “I think that gives us a foothold.”

  “Yes. The cook’s testimony was of little value, since Drukker merely denied it; and she’s the type of loyal, stubborn German who’d back up his denial if any real danger threatened him. Now we’re armed with an effective weapon.”

  “It seems to me,” Markham said after a few moments of speculative silence, “that we have a good circumstantial case against Drukker. He was in the Dillard yard only a few seconds before Robin was killed. He could easily have seen when Sperling went away; and, as he had recently come from Professor Dillard, he knew that the other members of the family were out. Mrs. Drukker denied she saw anyone from her window that morning, although she screamed at the time of Robin’s death and then went into a panic of fear when we came to question Drukker. She even warned him against us and called us ‘the enemy.’ My belief is she saw Drukker returning home immediately after Robin’s body had been placed on the range.—Drukker was not in his room at the time Sprigg was killed, and both he and his mother have been at pains to cover up the fact. He has become excited whenever we broached the subject of the murders, and has ridiculed the idea that they were connected. In fact, many of his actions have been highly suspicious. Also, we know he is abnormal and unbalanced, and that he is given to playing children’s games. It’s quite possible—in view of what Doctor Barstead told us—that he has confused fantasy and reality, and perpetrated these crimes in a moment of temporary insanity. The tensor formula is not only familiar to him but he may have associated it in some crazy way with Sprigg as a result of Arnesson’s discussion with Sprigg about it.—As for the Bishop notes, they may have been part of the unreality of his insane games—children all want an approving audience when they invent any new form of amusement. His choice of the word bishop was probably the result of his interest in chess—a playful signature intended to confuse. And this supposition is further borne out by the actual appearance of a chess bishop on his mother’s door. He may have feared that she saw him that morning, and thus sought to silence her without openly admitting to her that he was guilty. He could easily have slammed the screen porch door from the inside, without having had a key and thereby given the impression that the bearer of the bishop had entered and departed by the rear door. Furthermore, it would have been a simple matter for him to take the bishop from the library the night Pardee was analyzing his game… ”

  Markham continued for some time building up his case against Drukker. He was thorough and detailed, and his summation accounted for practically all of the evidence that had been adduced. The logical and relentless way in which he pieced his various factors together was impressively convincing; and a long silence followed his resume.

  Vance at length stood up, as if to break the tension of his thoughts, and walked to the window.

  “You may be right, Markham,” he admitted. “But my chief objection to your conclusion is that the case against Drukker is too good. I’ve had him in mind as a possibility from the first; but the more suspiciously he acted and the more the indications pointed toward him, the more I felt inclined to dismiss him from consideration. The brain that schemed these abominable murders is too competent, too devilishly shrewd, to become entangled in any such net of circumstantial evidence as you’ve drawn about Drukker. Drukker has an amazing mentality—his intelligence and intellect are supernormal, in fact; and it’s difficult to conceive of him, if guilty, leaving so many loopholes.”

  “The law,” returned Markham with acerbity, “can hard
ly be expected to throw out cases because they’re too convincing.”

  “On the other hand,” pursued Vance, ignoring the comment, “it is quite obvious that Drukker, even if not guilty, knows something that has a direct and vital bearing on the case; and my humble suggestion is that we attempt to prise this information out of him. Sperling’s testimony has given us the lever for the purpose… I say, Mr. Arnesson, what’s your opinion?”

  “Haven’t any,” the man answered. “I’m a disinterested onlooker. I’d hate, however, to see poor Adolph in durance vile.” Though he would not commit himself, it was plain that he agreed with Vance.

  Heath thought, characteristically, that immediate action was advisable, and expressed himself to that effect.

  “If he’s got anything to tell, he’ll tell it quick enough after he’s locked up.”

  “It’s a difficult situation,” Inspector Moran demurred in a soft judicial voice. “We can’t afford to make an error. If Drukker’s evidence should convict someone else, we’d be a laughingstock if we had arrested the wrong man.”

  Vance looked toward Markham and nodded agreement.

  “Why not have him on the tapis first and see if he can’t be persuaded to unburden his soul. You might dangle a warrant over his head, don’t y’ know, as a kind of moral inducement. Then, if he remains coy and reticent, bring out the gyves and have the doughty sergeant escort him to the bastille.”

  Markham sat tapping indecisively on the desk, his head enveloped in smoke as he puffed nervously on his cigar. At last he set his chin firmly and turned to Heath.

  “Bring Drukker here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. You’d better take a wagon and a John-Doe warrant in case he offers any objection.” His face was grim and determined. “Then I’ll find out what he knows—and act accordingly.”

  The conference broke up immediately. It was after five o’clock, and Markham and Vance and I rode uptown together to the Stuyvesant Club. We dropped Arnesson at the subway, and he took leave of us with scarcely a word. His garrulous cynicism seemed entirely to have deserted him. After dinner Markham pleaded fatigue, and Vance and I went to the Metropolitan and heard Geraldine Farrar in Louise.*

  The next morning broke dark and misty. Currie called us at half past seven, for Vance intended to be present at the interview with Drukker; and at eight o’clock we had breakfast in the library before a light grate fire. We were held up in the traffic on our way downtown, and though it was quarter after nine when we reached the district attorney’s office, Drukker and Heath had not yet arrived.

  Vance settled himself comfortably in a large leather-upholstered chair and lighted a cigarette.

  “I feel rather bucked this morning,” he remarked. “If Drukker tells his story, and if the tale is what I think it is, we’ll know the combination to the lock.”

  His words had scarcely been uttered when Heath burst into the office and, facing Markham without a word of greeting, lifted both arms and let them fall in a gesture of hopeless resignation.

  “Well, sir, we ain’t going to question Drukker this morning—or no other time,” he blurted. “He fell offa that high wall in Riverside Park right near his house last night and broke his neck. Wasn’t found till seven o’clock this morning. His body’s down at the morgue now… Fine breaks we get!” He sank disgustedly into a chair.

  Markham stared at him unbelievingly. “You’re sure?” he asked with startled futility.

  “I was up there before they removed the body. One of the local men phoned me about it just as I was leaving the office. I stuck around and got all the dope I could.”

  “What did you learn?” Markham was fighting against an overwhelming sense of discouragement.

  “There wasn’t much to find out. Some kids in the park found the body about seven o’clock this morning—lots of kids around, it being Saturday; and the local men hopped over and called a police surgeon. The doc said Drukker musta fallen off the wall about ten o’clock last night—killed instantly. The wall at that spot—right opposite 76th Street—is all of thirty feet above the playground. The top of it runs along the bridle path; and it’s a wonder more people haven’t broke their necks there. Kids are all the time walking along the stone ledge.”

  “Has Mrs. Drukker been notified?”

  “No. I told ’em I’d attend to it. But I thought I’d come here first and see what you wanted done about it.”

  Markham leaned back dejectedly.

  “It might be well,” suggested Vance, “to inform Arnesson. He’ll probably be the one who’ll have to look after things… My word, Markham! I’m beginning to think that this case is a nightmare, after all. Drukker was our principal hope, and at the very moment when there’s a chance of our forcing him to speak, he tumbles off of a wall—” Abruptly he stopped. “Off of a wall!…” As he repeated these words he leapt to his feet. “A hunchback falls off of a wall!…A hunchback!…”

  We stared at him as if he had gone out of his mind; and I admit that the look on his face sent a chill over me. His eyes were fixed, like those of a man gazing at a malignant ghost. Slowly he turned to Markham and said in a voice that I hardly recognized, “It’s another mad melodrama—another Mother Goose rhyme…‘Humpty Dumpty’ this time!”

  The astonished silence that followed was broken by a strained, harsh laugh from the sergeant.

  “That’s stretching things, ain’t it, Mr. Vance?”

  “It’s preposterous!” declared Markham, studying Vance with genuine concern. “My dear fellow, you’ve let this case prey on your mind too much. Nothing has happened except that a man with a hump has fallen from the coping of a wall in the park. It’s unfortunate, I know; and it’s doubly unfortunate at just this time.” He went to Vance and put his hand on his shoulder. “Let the sergeant and me run this show—we’re used to these things. Take a trip and get a good rest. Why not go to Europe as you generally do in the spring—?”

  “Oh, quite—quite.” Vance sighed and smiled wearily. “The sea air would do me worlds of good and all that. Bring me back to normal, what?—build up the wreck of this once noble brain… I give up! The third act in this terrible tragedy is played almost before your eyes, and you serenely ignore it.”

  “Your imagination has got the better of you,” Markham returned, with the patience of a deep affection. “Don’t worry about it anymore. Have dinner with me tonight. We’ll talk it over then.”

  At this moment Swacker looked in, and spoke to the sergeant.

  “Quinan of the World is here. Wants to see you.”

  Markham swung about. “ Oh, my God!… Bring him in here!”

  Quinan entered, waved us a cheery salutation, and handed the sergeant a letter.

  “Another billet-doux—received this morning.—What privileges do I get for being so bighearted?”

  Heath opened the letter as the rest of us looked on. At once I recognized the paper and the faint blue characters of the elite type. The note read:

  Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

  Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;

  All the king’s horses and all the king’s men

  Cannot put Humpty Dumpty together again.

  Then came that ominous signature, in capitals:

  THE BISHOP.

  Footnotes

  *Colonel Benjamin Hanlon, commanding officer of the Detective Division attached to the district attorney’s office.

  *Louise was Vance’s favorite modern opera, but he greatly preferred Mary Garden to Farrar in the title role.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  An All-Night Light

  (Saturday, April 16; 9.30 a.m.)

  WHEN HEATH HAD got rid of Quinan with promises such as would have gladdened any reporter’s heart,* there were several minutes of tense silence in the office. “The Bishop” had been at his grisly work again; and the case had now become a terrible triplicate affair, with the solution apparently further off than ever. It was not, however, the insolubility of these incredible crimes that primarily affected us
; rather was it the inherent horror that emanated, like a miasma, from the acts themselves.

  Vance, who was pacing somberly up and down, gave voice to his troubled emotions.

  “It’s damnable, Markham—it’s the essence of unutterable evil… Those children in the park—up early on their holiday in search of dreams—busy with their play and make-believe… and then the silencing reality—the awful, overpowering disillusion… Don’t you see the wickedness of it? Those children found Humpty Dumpty—their Humpty Dumpty, with whom they had played—lying dead at the foot of the famous wall—a Humpty Dumpty they could touch and weep over, broken and twisted and never more to be put together… ”

  He paused by the window and looked out. The mist had lifted, and a faint diffusion of spring sunlight lay over the gray stones of the city. The golden eagle on the New York Life Building glistened in the distance.

  “I say, one simply mustn’t get sentimental,” he remarked with a forced smile, turning back to the room. “It decomposes the intelligence and stultifies the dialectic processes. Now that we know Drukker was not the capricious victim of the law of gravity, but was given a helpin’ hand in his departure from this world, the sooner we become energetic, the better, what?”

  Though his change of mood was an obvious tour de force, it roused the rest of us from our gloomy apathy. Markham reached for the telephone and made arrangements with Inspector Moran for Heath to handle the Drukker case. Then he called the medical examiner’s office and asked for an immediate postmortem report. Heath got up vigorously, and after taking three cups of ice water, stood with legs apart, his derby pulled far down on his forehead, waiting for the district attorney to indicate a line of action.