"A charmin' theory," was Vance's somewhat uninterested comment. "But a bit too specious, I fear. I'm comin' to the opinion that Hani is not nearly so stupid and superstitious as he would have us think. He's a kind of modern Theogonius, who has found it the part of wisdom to simulate mental inferiority."*
* Theogonius was a friend of Simon Magus, who, because of his fear of the Emperor Caligula, pretended imbecility in order to hide his wisdom. Suetonius refers to him as Theogonius, but Scaliger, Casaubon and other historians give "Telegenius" as the correct spelling.
Salveter slowly nodded agreement.
"I've felt that same quality in him at times. . . . But who else--?"
"Ah! Who else?" Vance sighed. "I say, Mr. Salveter; what time did you go to bed to-night?"
"At ten-thirty," the man returned aggressively. "And I didn't wake up until Hani called me just now."
"You retired, then, immediately after you had fetched the memorandum-book from the study for Doctor Bliss."
"Oh, he told you about that, did he? . . . Yes, I handed him the book and went on up to my room."
"The book, I understand, was in his desk."
"That's right--But why this cross-examination about a memorandum-book?"
"That dagger," Vance explained, "was also kept in one of the drawers of the doctor's desk."
Salveter leapt to his feet.
"I see!" His face was livid.
"Oh, but you don't," Vance mildly assured him. "And I'd appreciate it immensely if you'd try to be calm. Your vitality positively exhausts me.--Tell me, did you lock your bedroom door to-night?"
"I always lock it at night."
"And during the day?"
"I leave it open--to air the room."
"And you heard nothing to-night after retiring?"
"Nothing at all. I went to sleep quickly--the reaction, I suppose."
Vance rose.
"One other thing: where did the family have dinner to-night?"
"In the breakfast-room. It could hardly be called dinner, though. No one was hungry. It was more like a light supper. So we ate down-stairs. Less bother."
"And what did the various members of the household do after dinner?"
"Hani went up-stairs at once, I believe. The doctor and Mrs. Bliss and I sat here in the drawing-room for an hour or so, when the doctor excused himself and went to his room. A little later Meryt-Amen went up-stairs, and I sat here until about half past ten trying to read."
"Thank you, Mr. Salveter. That will be all." Vance moved toward the hall. "Only, I wish you'd tell Mrs. Bliss and the doctor that we sha'n't disturb them any more to-night. We'll probably communicate with them to-morrow. . . . Let's go, Markham. There's really nothing more we can do here."
"I could do a whole lot more," Heath objected with surly antagonism. "But this case is being handled like a pink tea. Somebody in this house threw that dagger, and if I had my way I'd steam the truth out of him."
Markham endeavored diplomatically to soothe the Sergeant's ruffled feelings, but without any marked success.
We were now standing just inside the front door preparatory to departing, and Vance paused to light a cigarette. He was facing the great steel door leading into the museum, and I saw his frame suddenly go taut.
"Oh, just a moment, Mr. Salveter," he called; and the man, who was now nearly at the head of the first flight of stairs, turned and retraced his steps. "What are the lights doing on in the museum?"
I glanced toward the bottom of the steel door where Vance's gaze was resting, and for the first time saw a tiny illuminated line. Salveter, too, glanced at the floor, and frowned.
"I'm sure I don't know," he said in a puzzled voice. "The last person in the museum is supposed to turn off the switch. But no one to my knowledge has been in there to-night. . . . I'll see." He stepped toward the door, but Vance moved in front of him.
"Don't trouble yourself," he said peremptorily. "I'll attend to it. . . . Good-night."
Salveter took the dismissal uneasily but without another word he went upstairs.
When he had disappeared round the banisters on the second floor, Vance gently turned the knob, and pushed the museum door open. Below us, on the opposite side of the room, seated at the desk-table near the obelisk, and surrounded by filing-boxes, photographs, and cardboard folders, was Scarlett. His coat and waistcoat were hanging over the back of his chair; a green celluloid shade covered his eyes; and a pen was in his hand, poised above a large note-book.
He looked up as the door opened.
"Oh, hallo!" he called cheerily. "Thought you were through with the Bliss ménage for to-day."
"It's to-morrow now," returned Vance, going down the stairs and crossing the museum.
"What!" Scarlett reached behind him and took out his watch. "Great Scott! So it is. Had no idea of the hour. Been working here since eight o'clock--"
"Amazin'." Vance glanced over a few of the upturned photographs. "Very interestin'. . . . Who let you in, by the by?"
"Brush, of course." Scarlett seemed rather astonished at the question. "Said the family were having dinner in the breakfast-room. I told him not to disturb 'em--that I had a bit of work to finish. . . ."
"He didn't mention your arrival to us." Vance was apparently engrossed in a photograph of four amuletic bracelets.
"But why should he, Vance?" Scarlett had risen and was getting into his coat. "It's a commonplace thing for me to come here and work in the evenings. I'm drifting in and out of the house constantly. When I work at night I always shut off the light on going and see that the front door is fastened. Nothing unusual about my coming here after dinner."
"That probably accounts for Brush's not telling us, don't y' know." Vance tossed the photographs back on the table. "But something out of the ordin'ry did happen here to-night." He laid the sheathed dagger before Scarlett. "What do you know about that bizarre parazonium?"
"Oh, much." The other grinned, and shot Vance an interrogatory look. "How did you happen on it? It's one of the doctor's dark secrets."
"Really?" Vance lifted his eyebrows in simulated surprise. "Then you're familiar with it?"
"Rather. I saw the old scalawag slip in into his khaki shirt when he found it. I kept mum--none of my business. Later, when we were here in New York, he told me he'd smuggled it out of Egypt, and confided to me that he was keeping it sequestered in his study. He was in constant fear that Hani would unearth it, and swore me to secrecy. I agreed. What's one dagger, more or less? The Cairo Museum has the cream of all the excavated items anyway."
"He kept it ensconced under some papers in one of his desk drawers."
"Yes, I know. Safe hiding-place. Hani rarely goes in the study. . . . But I'm curious--"
"We're all curious. Distressin' state, what?" Vance gave him no time to speculate. "Who else knew of the dagger's existence?"
"No one, as far as I know. The doctor certainly didn't disclose the fact to Hani; and I doubt seriously if he informed Mrs. Bliss. She has peculiar loyalties in regard to her native country, and the doctor respects them. No telling how she'd react to the theft of such a valuable treasure."
"What about Salveter?"
"I'd say no." Scarlett made an unpleasant grimace. "He'd be sure to confide in Meryt-Amen. Impulsive young cub."
"Well, some one knew of its whereabouts," Vance remarked. "Doctor Bliss phoned me shortly after midnight that he had escaped assassination by the proverbial hair's-breadth; so we sped hither and found the point of that poniard infixed in the head of his bed."
"By Jove! You don't say!" Scarlett seemed shocked and perplexed. "Some one must have discovered the dagger . . . and yet--" He stopped suddenly and shot Vance a quick look. "How do you account for it?"
"I'm not accountin' for it. Most mysterious. . . . Hani, by the by, found the sheath in the hall near the doctor's door."
"That's odd. . . ." Scarlett paused as if considering. Then he began arranging his papers and photographs in neat piles and stacking his filing-box
es under the table. "Couldn't you get any suggestions out of the rest of the household?" he asked.
"Any number of suggestions. All of 'em conflictin', and most of 'em silly. So we're toddlin' along home. Happened to see the light under the door and was overcome with curiosity. . . . Quitting now?"
"Yes." Scarlett took up his hat. "I'd have knocked off long ago but didn't realize how late it was."
We all left the house together. A heavy silence had fallen over us, and it was not until Scarlett paused in front of his quarters that any one of us spoke. Then Vance said:
"Good-night. Don't let the dagger disturb your slumbers."
Scarlett waved an abstracted adieu.
"Thanks, old man," he rejoined. "I'll try to follow your advice."
Vance had taken several steps when he turned suddenly.
"And I say, Scarlett; if I were you I'd keep away from the Bliss house for the time being."
19
A BROKEN APPOINTMENT
(Saturday, July 14; 2 A.M.-10 P.M.)
Heath left us at Nineteenth Street and Fourth Avenue; and Vance, Markham and I took a taxicab back to Vance's apartment. It was nearly two o'clock, but Markham showed no indication of going home. He followed Vance up-stairs to the library, and throwing open the French windows gazed out into the heavy, mist-laden night. The events of the day had not gone to his liking; and yet I realized that his quandary was so deep that he felt disinclined to make any decisive move until the conflicting factors of the situation became more clarified.
The case at the outset had appeared simple, and the number of possible suspects was certainly limited. But, despite these two facts, there was a subtle and mysterious intangibility about the affair that rendered a drastic step impossible. The elements were too fluid, the cross-currents of motives too contradictory. Vance had been the first to sense the elusory complications, the first to indicate the invisible paradoxes; and so surely had he put his finger upon the vital points of the plot--so accurately had he foretold certain phases of the plot's development--that Markham had, both figuratively and literally, stepped into the background and permitted him to deal with the case in his own way.
Withal, Markham was dissatisfied and impatient. Nothing definitely leading to the actual culprit had, so far as could be seen, been brought to light by Vance's unprofessional and almost casual process of investigation.
"We're not making headway, Vance," Markham complained with gloomy concern, turning from the window. "I've stood aside all day and permitted you to deal with these people as you saw fit, because I felt your knowledge of them and your familiarity with things Egyptological gave you an advantage over impersonal official cross-questioning. And I also felt that you had a plausible theory about the whole matter, which you were striving to verify. But Kyle's murder is as far from a solution as it was when we first entered the museum."
"You're an incorrigible pessimist, Markham," Vance returned, getting into a printed foulard dressing-gown. "It has been just fifteen hours since we found Sakhmet athwart Kyle's skull; and you must admit, painful as it may be to a District Attorney, that the average murder investigation has scarcely begun in so brief a time. . . ."
"In the average murder case, however," Markham retorted acidly, "we'd at least have found a lead or two and outlined a workable routine. If Heath had been handling the matter he'd have made an arrest by now--the field of possibilities is not an extensive one."
"I dare say he would. He'd no doubt have had every one in jail, including Brush and Dingle and the Curators of the Metropolitan Museum. Typical tactics: butcher innocent persons to make a journalistic holiday. I'm not entranced with that technic, though. I'm far too humane--I've retained too many of my early illusions. Sentimentality, alas! will probably be my downfall."
Markham snorted, and seated himself at the end of the table. For several moments he beat the devil's tattoo on a large, vellum-bound copy of "Malleus Maleficarum."
"You told me quite emphatically," he said, "that when this second episode happened--the attempt on Bliss's life--you'd understand all the phases of the plot and perhaps be able to adduce some tangible evidence against Kyle's murderer. It appears to me, however, that to-night's affair has simply plunged us more deeply into uncertainty."
Vance shook his head seriously in disagreement.
"The throwing of that dagger and the hiding and finding of the sheath have illuminated the one moot point in the plot."
Markham looked up sharply.
"You think you know now what the plot is?"
Vance carefully fitted a Régie into a long jet holder and gazed at a small Picasso still-life beside the mantel.
"Yes, Markham," he returned slowly; "I think I know what the plot is. And if the thing that I expect to happen to-night occurs, I can, I believe, convince you that I am right in my diagnosis. Unfortunately the throwing of the dagger was only part of the pre-arranged episode. As I said to you a while ago, the tableau was not completed. Something intervened. And the final touch--the rounding-out of the episode--is yet to come."
He spoke with impressive solemnity, and Markham, I could see, was strongly influenced by his manner.
"Have you any definite notion," he inquired, "what that final touch will prove to be?"
"Oh, quite. But just what shape it will take I can't say. The plotter himself probably doesn't know, for he must wait for a propitious opportunity. But it will centre about one specific object, or, rather, clew--a planted clew, Markham. That clew has been carefully prepared, and the placing of it is the only indefinite factor left. . . . Yes, I am waiting for a specific item to appear; and when it does, I can convince you of the whole devilish truth."
"When do you figure this final clew will turn up?" Markham asked uneasily.
"At almost any moment." Vance spoke in low, level and quiet tones. "Something prevented its taking shape to-night, for it is an intimate corollary of the dagger-throwing. And by refusing to take that episode too seriously, and by letting Hani find the sheath, I made the immediate planting of the final clew necess'ry. Once again we refused to fall into the murderer's trap--though, as I say, the trap was not fully baited."
"I'm glad to have some kind of explanation for your casual attitude tonight." Despite the note of sarcasm in Markham's voice, it was obvious that at bottom he was not indulging in strictures upon Vance's conduct. He was at sea and inclined, therefore, to be irritable. "You apparently had no interest in determining who hurled the dagger at Bliss's pillow."
"But, Markham old dear, I knew who hurled the bejewelled bodkin." Vance made a slight gesture of impatience. "My only concern was with what the reporters call the events leading up to the crime."
Markham realized it was of no use to ask, at this time, who had thrown the dagger; so he pursued his comments on Vance's recent activities at the Bliss house.
"You might have got some helpful suggestions from Scarlett--he evidently was in the museum during the entire time. . . ."
"Even so, Markham," Vance countered, "don't forget there is a thick double wall between the museum and the Bliss domicile, and that those steel doors are practically sound-proof. Bombs might have been exploded in the doctor's room without any one in the museum hearing them."
"Perhaps you're right." Markham rose and stood contemplating Vance appraisingly. "I'm putting a lot of trust in you--you confounded aesthete. And I'm going against all my principles and stultifying the whole official procedure of my office because I believe in you. But God help you if you fail me. . . . What's the programme for to-morrow?"
Vance shot him a grateful, affectionate look. Then, at once, a cynical smile overspread his face.
"I'm the unofficial straw, so to speak, at which the drowning District Attorney clutches--eh, what? Not an overwhelmin' compliment."
It was always the case with these two old friends that when one uttered a generous remark the other immediately scotched it, lest there be some outward show of sentiment.
"The programme for to-morrow?" Van
ce took up Markham's question. "Really, y' know, I hadn't given it any Cartesian consideration. . . . There's an exhibition of Gauguins at Wildenstein's. I might stagger in and bask in the color harmonics of the great Pont-Avenois. Then there's a performance of the Beethoven Septet at Carnegie Hall; and a preview of Egyptian wall paintings from the tombs of Nakhte and Menena and Rekh-mi-Rê--"
"And there's an orchid show at the Grand Central Palace," Markham suggested with vicious irony. "But see here, Vance: if we let this thing run on another day without taking some kind of action, there may be danger ahead for someone else, just as there was danger for Bliss to-night. If the murderer of Kyle is as ruthless as you say and his job hasn't been completed--"
"No, I don't think so." Vance's face clouded again. "The plot doesn't include another act of violence. I believe it has now entered upon a quiescent and subtle--and more deadly--stage." He smoked a moment speculatively. "And yet . . . there may be a remote chance. Things haven't gone according to the murderer's calculations. We've blocked his two most ambitious moves. But he has one more combination left, and I'm countin' on his trying it. . . ."
His voice faltered, and rising he walked slowly to the French window and back.
"Anyway, I'll take care of the situation in the morning," he said. "I'll guard against any dangerous possibility. And at the same time I'll hasten the planting of that last clew."
"How long is this rigmarole going to take?" Markham was troubled and nervous. "I can't go on indefinitely waiting for apocalyptic events to happen."
"Give me twenty-four hours. Then, if we haven't received further guidance from the gentleman who is pullin' the strings you may turn Heath loose on the family."
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