The Bishop Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  Markham moved restlessly.

  “Several men from your department, Sergeant, were supposed to be keeping an eye on the Drukker and Dillard houses. Did you talk to any of them this morning?”

  “I didn’t have time, sir; and, anyway, I figured it was only an accident. But I told the boys to hang around until I got back.”

  “What did the medical examiner have to say?”

  “Only that it looked like an accident, and that Drukker had been dead about ten hours—”

  Vance interpolated a question. “Did he mention a fractured skull in addition to the broken neck?”

  “Well, sir, he didn’t exactly say the skull was fractured, but he did state that Drukker had landed on the back of his head.” Heath nodded understandingly. “I guess it’ll prove to be a fracture, all right—same like Robin and Sprigg.”

  “Undoubtedly. The technique of our murderer seems to be simple and efficacious. He strikes his victims on the vault, either stunning them or killing them outright, and then proceeds to cast them in the roles he has chosen for them in his puppet plays. Drukker was no doubt leaning over the wall, perfectly exposed for such an attack. It was misty, and the setting was somewhat obscured. Then came the blow on the head, a slight heave, and Drukker fell noiselessly over the parapet—the third sacrificial offering on the altar of old Mother Goose.”

  “What gets me,” declared Heath with surly anger, “is why Guilfoyle,* the fellow I set to watch the rear of the Drukker house, didn’t report the fact that Drukker was out all night. He returned to the bureau at eight o’clock, and I missed him.—Don’t you think, sir, it might be a good idea to find out what he knows before we go uptown?”

  Markham agreed, and Heath bawled an order over the telephone. Guilfoyle made the distance between police headquarters and the Criminal Courts Building in less than ten minutes. The sergeant almost pounced on him as he entered.

  “What time did Drukker leave the house last night?” he bellowed.

  “About eight o’clock—right after he’d had dinner.” Guilfoyle was ill at ease, and his tone had the wheedling softness of one who had been caught in a dereliction of duty.

  “Which way did he go?”

  “He came out the back door, walked down the range, and went into the Dillard house through the archery room.”

  “Paying a social visit?”

  “It looked that way, Sergeant. He spends a lot of time at the Dillards’.”

  “Huh! And what time did he come back home?”

  Guilfoyle moved uneasily. “It don’t look like he came back home, Sergeant.”

  “Oh, it don’t?” Heath’s retort was ponderous with sarcasm. “I thought maybe after he’d broke his neck, he mighta come back and passed the time of day with you.”

  “What I meant was, Sergeant—”

  “You meant that Drukker—the bird you were supposed to keep an eye on—went to call on the Dillards at eight o’clock, and then you set down in the arbor, most likely, and took a little beauty nap… What time did you wake up?”

  “Say, listen!” Guilfoyle bristled. “I didn’t take no nap. I was on the job all right. Just because I didn’t happen to see this guy come back home don’t mean I was lying down on the watch.”

  “Well, if you didn’t see him come back, why didn’t you phone in that he was spending his weekend out of town or something?”

  “I thought he musta come in by the front door.”

  “Thinking again, were you? Ain’t your brain worn out this morning?”

  “Have a heart, Sergeant. My job wasn’t to tail Drukker. You told me to watch the house and see who went in and out, and that if there was any sign of trouble to bust in.—Now, here’s what happened. Drukker went to the Dillards’ at eight o’clock, and I kept my eye on the windows of the Drukker house. Along about nine o’clock the cook goes upstairs and turns on the light in her room. Half an hour later the light goes out, and says I: ‘She’s put to bed.’ Then along about ten o’clock the lights are turned on in Drukker’s room—”

  “What’s this?”

  “Yeh—you heard me. The lights go on in Drukker’s room about ten o’clock, and I can see a shadow of somebody moving about.—Now, I ask you, Sergeant: wouldn’t you yourself have took it for granted that the hunchback had come in by the front door?”

  Heath grunted. “Maybe so,” he admitted. “You’re sure it was ten o’clock?”

  “I didn’t look at my watch; but I’m here to tell you it wasn’t far off of ten.”

  “And what time did the lights go out in Drukker’s room?”

  “They didn’t go out. They stayed on all night. He was a queer bird. He didn’t keep regular hours, and twice before his lights were on till early morning.”

  “That’s quite understandable,” came Vance’s lazy voice. “He has been at work on a difficult problem lately.—But tell us, Guilfoyle: what about the light in Mrs. Drukker’s room?”

  “Same as usual. The old dame always keeps a light burning in her room all night.”

  “Was there anyone on guard in front of the Drukker house last night?” Markham asked Heath.

  “Not after six o’clock, sir. We’ve had a man tailing Drukker during the day, but he goes off duty at six when Guilfoyle takes up his post in the rear.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Vance turned to Guilfoyle.

  “How far away were you last night from the door of the alleyway between the two apartment houses?”

  The man paused to visualize the scene.

  “Forty or fifty feet, say.”

  “And between you and the alleyway were the iron fence and some tree branches.”

  “Yes, sir. The view was more or less cut off, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Would it have been possible for anyone coming from the direction of the Dillard house to have gone out and returned by that door without your noticing him?”

  “It mighta been done,” the detective admitted; “provided, of course, the guy didn’t want me to see him. It was foggy and dark last night, and there’s always a lot of traffic noises from the Drive that woulda drowned out his movements if he was being extra cautious.”

  When the Sergeant had sent Guilfoyle back to the Bureau to await orders, Vance gave voice to his perplexity.

  “It’s a dashed complicated situation. Drukker called on the Dillards at eight o’clock, and at ten o’clock he was shoved over the wall in the park. As you observed, the note that Quinan just showed us was postmarked eleven p.m.—which means that it was probably typed before the crime. The Bishop, therefore, had planned his comedy in advance and prepared the note for the press. The audacity of it is amazin’. But there’s one assumption we can tie to—namely, that the murderer was someone who knew of Drukker’s exact whereabouts and proposed movements between eight and ten.”

  “I take it,” said Markham, “your theory is that the murderer went and returned by the apartment-house alley.”

  “Oh, I say! I have no theory. I asked Guilfoyle about the alley merely in case we should learn that no one but Drukker was seen going to the park. In that event we could assume, as a tentative hypothesis, that the murderer had managed to avoid detection by taking the alleyway and crossing to the park in the middle of the block.”

  “With that possible route open to the murderer,” Markham observed gloomily, “it wouldn’t matter much who was seen going out with Drukker.”

  “That’s just it. The person who staged this farce may have walked boldly into the park under the eyes of an alert myrmidon, or he may have hied stealthily through the alley.”

  Markham nodded an unhappy agreement.

  “The thing that bothers me most, however,” continued Vance, “is that light in Drukker’s room all night. It was turned on at about the time the poor chap was tumbling into eternity. And Guilfoyle says that he could see someone moving about there after the light went on—”

  He broke off and stood for several seconds in an attitude of concentration.

/>   “I say, Sergeant, I don’t suppose you know whether or not Drukker’s front door key was in his pocket when he was found.”

  “No, sir, but I can find out in no time. The contents of his pockets are being held till after the autopsy.”

  Heath stepped to the telephone, and a moment later he was talking to the desk sergeant of the 68th-Street Precinct Station. Several minutes of waiting passed; then he grunted and banged down the receiver.

  “Not a key of any kind on him.”

  “Ah!” Vance drew a deep puff on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly. “I’m beginnin’ to think that the Bishop purloined Drukker’s key and paid a visit to his room after the murder. Sounds incredible, I know, but, for that matter, so does everything else that’s happened in this fantastic business.”

  “But what, in God’s name, would have been his object?” protested Markham incredulously.

  “We don’t know yet. But I have an idea that when we learn the motive of these astonishin’ crimes, we’ll understand why that visit was paid.”

  Markham, his face set austerely, took his hat from the closet.

  “We’d better be getting out there.”

  But Vance made no move. He remained standing by the desk smoking abstractedly.

  “Y’ know, Markham,” he said, “it occurs to me that we should see Mrs. Drukker first. There was tragedy in that house last night: something strange took place there that needs explaining; and now perhaps she’ll tell us the secret that has been locked up in her brain. Moreover, she hasn’t been notified of Drukker’s death, and with all the rumor and gossip in the neighborhood, word of some kind is sure to leak through to her before long. I fear the result of the shock when she hears the news. In fact, I’d feel better if we got hold of Barstead right away and took him with us. What do you say to my phoning him?”

  Markham assented, and Vance briefly explained the situation to the doctor.

  We drove uptown immediately, called for Barstead, and proceeded at once to the Drukker house. Our ring was answered by Mrs. Menzel, whose face showed plainly that she knew of Drukker’s death. Vance, after one glance at her, led her into the drawing room away from the stairs and asked in a low tone:

  “Has Mrs. Drukker heard the news?”

  “Not yet,” she answered in a frightened, quavering voice. “Miss Dillard came over an hour ago, but I told her the mistress had gone out. I was afraid to let her upstairs. Something’s wrong… ” She began to tremble violently.

  “What’s wrong, Mrs. Menzel?” Vance placed a quieting hand on her arm.

  “I don’t know. But she hasn’t made a sound all morning. She didn’t come down for breakfast…and I’m afraid to go and call her.”

  “When did you hear of the accident?”

  “Early—right after eight o’clock. The paperboy told me, and I saw all the people down on the Drive.”

  “Don’t be frightened,” Vance consoled her. “We have the doctor here, and we’ll attend to everything.”

  He turned back to the hall and led the way upstairs. When he came to Mrs. Drukker’s room, he knocked softly and, receiving no answer, opened the door. The room was empty. The night-light still burned on the table, and I noticed that the bed had not been slept in.

  Without a word Vance retraced his steps down the hall. There were only two other main doors, and one of them, we knew, led to Drukker’s study. Unhesitatingly Vance stepped to the other and opened it without knocking. The window shades were drawn, but they were white and semitransparent, and the gray daylight mingled with the ghastly yellow radiation from the old-fashioned chandelier. The lights which Guilfoyle had seen burning all night had not been extinguished.

  Vance halted on the threshold, and I saw Markham, who was just in front of me, give a start.

  “Mother o’ God!” breathed the sergeant, and crossed himself.

  On the foot of the narrow bed lay Mrs. Drukker, fully clothed. Her face was ashen white; her eyes were set in a hideous stare; and her hands were clutching her breast.

  Barstead sprang forward and leaned over. After touching her once or twice, he straightened up and shook his head slowly.

  “She’s gone. Been dead probably most of the night.” He bent over the body again and began making an examination. “You know, she’s suffered for years from chronic nephritis, arteriosclerosis, and hypertrophy of the heart… Some sudden shock brought on an acute dilatation.… Yes, I’d say she died about the same time as Drukker…round ten o’clock.”

  “A natural death?” asked Vance.

  “Oh, undoubtedly. A shot of adrenalin in the heart might have saved her if I’d been here at the time… ”

  “No signs of violence?”

  “None. As I told you, she died from dilatation of the heart brought on by shock. A clear case—true to type in every respect.”

  Footnotes

  *It may be recalled that the World’s accounts of the Bishop case were the envy of the other metropolitan newspapers. Sergeant Heath, though impartial in his statements of facts to the press, nevertheless managed to save several picturesque bonnes-bouches for Quinan, and permitted himself certain speculations which, while having no news value, gave the World’s stories an added interest and color.

  *Guilfoyle, it may be remembered, was one of the detectives who shadowed Tony Skeel in the Canary murder case.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Wall in the Park

  (Saturday, April 16; 11 a.m.)

  WHEN THE DOCTOR had straightened Mrs. Drukker’s body on the bed and covered it with a sheet, we returned downstairs. Barstead took his departure at once after promising to send the death certificate to the sergeant within an hour.

  “It’s scientifically correct to talk of natural death from shock,” said Vance, when we were alone; “but our immediate problem, d’ ye see, is to ascertain the cause of that sudden shock. Obviously it’s connected with Drukker’s death. Now, I wonder… ”

  Turning impulsively, he entered the drawing room. Mrs. Menzel was sitting where we had left her, in an attitude of horrified expectancy. Vance went to her and said kindly, “Your mistress died of heart failure during the night. And it’s much better that she should not have outlived her son.”

  “Gott geb’ ihr die ewige Ruh’!” the woman murmured piously. “Ja, it is best… ”

  “The end came at about ten last night.—Were you awake at that time, Mrs, Menzel?”

  “All night I was awake.” She spoke in a low, awed voice.

  Vance contemplated her with eyes half shut.

  “Tell us what you heard?”

  “Somebody came here last night!”

  “Yes, someone came at about ten o’clock—by the front door. Did you hear him enter?”

  “No, but after I had gone to bed, I heard voices in Mr. Drukker’s room.”

  “Was it unusual to hear voices in his room at ten o’clock at night?”

  “But it wasn’t him! He had a high voice, and this one was low and gruff.” The woman looked up in bewildered fright. “And the other voice was Mrs. Drukker’s…and she never went in Mr. Drukker’s room at night!”

  “How could you hear so plainly with your door shut?”

  “My room is right over Mr. Drukker’s,” she explained. “And I was worried—what with all these awful things going on—so I got up and listened at the top of the steps.”

  “I can’t blame you,” said Vance. “What did you hear?”

  “At first it was like as though the mistress was moaning, but right away she began to laugh, and then the man spoke angry-like. But pretty soon I heard him laugh, too. After that it sounded like the poor lady was praying—I could hear her saying ‘Oh, God—oh, God!’ Then the man talked some more—very quiet and low… And in a little while it seemed like the mistress was—reciting—a poem… ”

  “Would you recognize the poem if you heard it again?… Was it:

  Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall;

  Humpty Dumpty had a great fall… ?”
/>   “Bei Gott, das ist’s! It sounded just like that!” A new horror came into the woman’s expression. “And Mr. Drukker fell from the wall last night… !”

  “Did you hear anything else, Mrs. Menzel?” Vance’s matter-of-fact voice interrupted her confused correlation of Drukker’s death to the verse she had heard.

  Slowly she shook her head. “No. Everything was quiet after that.”

  “Did you hear anyone leave Mr. Drukker’s room?”

  She gave Vance a panic-stricken nod.

  “A few minutes later someone opened and shut the door, very soft; and I heard steps moving down the hall in the dark. Then the stairs creaked, and pretty soon the front door shut.”

  “What did you do after that?”

  “I listened a little while, and then I went back to bed. But I couldn’t sleep… ”

  “It’s all over now, Mrs. Menzel,” Vance told her comfortingly. “There’s nothing for you to fear.—You’d best go to your room and wait till we need you.”

  Reluctantly the woman went upstairs.

  “I think now,” said Vance, “we can make a pretty close guess as to what happened here last night. The murderer took Drukker’s key and let himself in by the front door. He knew Mrs. Drukker’s quarters were at the rear, and he no doubt counted on accomplishing his business in Drukker’s room and departing as he had come. But Mrs. Drukker heard him. It may be she associated him with ‘the little man’ who had left the black bishop at her door, and feared that her son was in danger. At any rate, she went at once to Drukker’s room. The door may have been slightly open, and I think she saw the intruder and recognized him. Startled and apprehensive, she stepped inside and asked him why he was there. He may have answered that he had come to inform her of Drukker’s death—which would account for her moans and her hysterical laughter. But that was only a prelimin’ry on his part—a play for time. He was devising some means of meeting the situation—he was planning how he would kill her! Oh, there can be no doubt of that. He couldn’t afford to let her leave that room alive. Maybe he told her so in as many words—he spoke ‘angry-like,’ you recall. And then he laughed. He was torturing her now—perhaps telling her the whole truth in a burst of insane egoism; and she could say only ‘Oh God—oh God!’ He explained how he had pushed Drukker over the wall. And did he mention Humpty Dumpty? I think he did; for what more appreciative audience could he have had for his monstrous jest than the victim’s own mother? That last revelation proved too much for her hypersensitive brain. She repeated the nursery rhyme in a spell of horror; and then the accumulated shock dilated her heart. She fell across the bed, and the murderer was saved the necessity of sealing her lips with his own hands. He saw what had happened and went quietly away.”