"Nevertheless," pursued Markham irritably, "you have something definite in mind when you want the police withdrawn."
"No, no; nothing definite," Vance returned, and smiled. "Just gropin'. Strainin' for illumination. . . . And I do want to see the post-mortem report. That, at least, will be definite. It may even prove revealin'."
Markham gave in reluctantly.
"Very well. I'll give Heath orders to withdraw temporarily and send the boys home."
"And tell him to pick up our croupier at the Astoria and bring him along to your office," said Vance. "I'm eager to grill him, as you public prosecutors would say. And I think the judicial and depressin' surroundings of the Criminal Courts Building might have the right psychological effect."
"What do you expect to find out from him?"
"Nothing--positively nothing," Vance replied, and then added: "But even negation might be of help. I have a psychic feelin' this case will eventually be solved by minus signs."
Markham grunted, and we went out into the hall where the Sergeant was waiting despondently.
Ten minutes later Vance and Markham and I were on our way downtown, Heath having been duly instructed as to the procedure Vance had requested.
As soon as we entered the District Attorney's dingy but spacious old office overlooking the drab gray walls of the Tombs, Markham rang for Swacker and inquired about the statement from Doctor Doremus and also about the report on the specimens of typing which had been sent to the scientific laboratory.
"The lab report has come in," Swacker told him, pointing to a sealed envelop on the desk; "but Doctor Doremus phoned at eleven to say that the autopsy report is delayed. I called back ten minutes ago, and one of the assistants told me the report was on the way. I'll bring it in as soon as it arrives."
Markham jerked his head curtly, and Swacker went out.
"Delayed--eh, what?" drawled Vance. "There shouldn't have been any trouble. Belladonna poisoning indicated. The toxicologist knew just what to look for. I wonder. . . . In the meantime, let's see what the bright boy with the magnifying glass has to offer."
Markham had already opened the envelop to which Swacker had referred. He laid the three specimens of typing to one side and perused the accompanying report. After a few moments he put that down too.
"Just what you suspected," he said to Vance without enthusiasm. "All the typing was done on the same machine, and within a reasonable period of time--that is, the ink on the ribbon was at the same stage of usage in all three, and it can't be stated with certainty which of the three was typed first. Also, the suicide note and the letter you received were probably typed by the same person. Peculiarities of pressure and punctuation, and consistencies in the errors when the wrong letters were struck, are the same in both. There's a lot of technical detail, but that's the gist of it." He picked up the report and held it out to Vance. "Do you care to see it?"
Vance made a negative gesture with his hand.
"No, I merely craved verification."
Markham leant forward.
"See here, Vance, what's the point about these two typewritten documents? Granting the possibility that the girl did not commit suicide, what would have been the object of the person who poisoned her in sending you that letter?"
Vance became serious.
"Really, Markham, I don't know." He walked slowly up and down the room as he spoke. "If only that letter to me and the suicide note had been typed by two different people, the thing would be comparatively simple. It would merely mean that some one had planned to poison the girl in such a way as to make it appear as suicide, and that some one else, with an inkling that murder was afoot, had sent me a dramatic call for help. In such an event two conclusions might have been tenable: first, that the anonymous letter-writer feared that Lynn was to be the victim; and, second, that the writer suspected Lynn himself of having murderous designs on his wife and wanted me to keep an eye on him. . . ."
"And they were both victims," Markham interpolated glumly. "So that hypothesis doesn't get us anywhere. In any event, it's merely a speculation based on the false premise that two different people prepared the two documents. Why not come to the point?"
"Oh, my dear chap!" Vance moaned. "I'm strivin' desperately to come to the point--but, dash it all! I don't know what the point is. As the case stands now, the poisoner deliberately called my attention to the situation and even intimated strongly that Lynn's wife was not going to commit suicide, but would actually be murdered."
"That doesn't make sense."
"And yet, Markham, you have the substantiation of my apparently insane conclusion lying on your desk. There's the suicide note; there's the letter to me, filled with innuendoes and suspicions of foul play; and there's your report that the same hand typed them both."
He paused.
"And what of the next inevitable step in our ratiocination? As I have whispered into your reluctant ear, I think the murderer wishes us to look in the wrong direction for our culprit. He is, as it were, attempting the impossible feat of taking two tricks of the same suit with a singleton. And that's what makes the thing so subtle and fiendish."
"But it wasn't a singleton," Markham objected. "You overlook the fact that three people were poisoned. If your theory is correct, why couldn't the murderer merely have poisoned the girl and then poisoned the victim we were supposed to fix on? Why make us a party to his plan when he's apparently in the wholesale poisoning business?"
"A reasonable question," Vance nodded; "and one that has tortured me since last night. Such a procedure would have been the rational one. But, Markham, there's nothing rational about this crime. There isn't merely one straw-man confronting us, but a series of straw-men. And I have a horrible suspicion that they are arranged in a circle, with the actual murderer beyond the circumference. Our only hope lies in the fact that something has gone wrong. In any delicate and intricate mechanism, one little failure--one trifling slip in functioning--undermines the entire structure and renders the machine incapable of operating. This is not a plastic crime. Despite all its hyper-subtleties and divagations and convolutions, it's static and fixed in its conception. And therein lies both its strength and its weakness. . . ."
At this point Swacker tapped on the leather swinging door and pushed it open. In his hand was a thick envelop.
"The autopsy report," he said, placing it on Markham's desk and going out again.
Markham opened the envelop at once and glanced over the typewritten pages which were bound together in a blue folder. As he read, his face clouded and a puzzled look came into his eyes; and when he had reached the end of the last page there was a deep scowl on his forehead.
He raised his head slowly and fixed on Vance, who had seated himself before the desk, a look of baffled calculation.
"My dear Markham," Vance complained; "what dark secret are you hoarding?"
"There was no belladonna whatever found in the girl's stomach! And no quinin or camphor--which entirely eliminates the rhinitis tablets."
Vance lighted a cigarette with slow deliberation.
"Any details?"
Markham referred to the report.
"The exact findings are: Congestion of the lungs; considerable serum in the pleural cavities; blood mostly in the veinous side of the circulation; right heart engorged, left heart comparatively empty; brain tissues and meninges congested; and the throat, trachea and œsophagus hyperemic. . . ."
"All symptoms of death from asphyxia." Vance looked out unhappily through the high windows to the south. "And no poison! . . . Does Doremus offer any opinion?"
"Nothing specific," Markham informed him. "He's professionally non-committal here. He merely states that the cause of asphyxia is as yet unknown."
"Yes, yes. Pending analysis of the liver, kidneys, intestines, and blood. That will take a couple of days. But some of the poison should be in the stomach, if it was taken orally."
"But Doremus states here that the history he received of the case and his findings on t
he immediate examination of the body, indicated an overdose of belladonna or atropin."
"We knew that last night." Vance reached over and, taking the report, went through it carefully. "Yes. As you say."
He settled down in his chair, brought his eyes slowly back to Markham's troubled gaze, and took a deep inhalation on his cigarette. Then he tossed the report back on Markham's desk with a despondent gesture.
"That tears it, old dear. A lady is given poison, presumably orally; but no traces of it are found. Two other persons are poisoned and recover. We are supposed to tag some innocent bystander for the heinous crime. . . . Oh, my aunt! What an astonishin' situation! . . ."
CHAPTER XI
FEAR OF WATER
(Sunday, October 16; 12:30 p. m.)
Swacker looked in.
"Sergeant Heath's here with a gentleman named Bloodgood."
Markham glanced at Vance, who nodded, and told Swacker to show them in.
Bloodgood was in an unpleasant and sullen mood. A brown cigarette hung limply from his thick lips, and his hands were thrust deep in his trousers pockets. He nodded stolidly to Vance, without speaking, and barely acknowledged his introduction to Markham and myself. Slouching to the nearest chair, he sank into it heavily.
"Go ahead," he said indifferently. "Kinkaid phoned me you were going to put me on the carpet."
"Did he, now?" Vance was again gazing out of the high windows. "That's most interestin'. Did he warn you to be careful, or advise you what to say?"
Bloodgood bristled.
"No. Why should he? But he did say you had linked me up with Lynn Llewellyn's mishap last night."
"You linked yourself up, Mr. Bloodgood," Vance returned mildly, without turning his eyes from the gray skies beyond the dull window-panes. "We merely thought you might have some explanation or suggestion that would help us to get to the bottom of this devilish business."
Vance's tone, though assured and stern, was not unfriendly; and Bloodgood was evidently impressed by it, for he straightened up a little in his chair and dropped his ill-natured manner. Indeed, when he spoke I was again conscious of the man's poise and urbanity.
"There's really nothing I can explain, Mr. Vance. You're referring, I assume, to my instructions to the Japanese boy to bring Llewellyn plain water. . . . That was an unfortunate coincidence. I was merely being polite to a guest of the Casino--all in the line of duty. Kinkaid's a stickler for that sort of thing. I knew Llewellyn never drinks charged water, and I'd heard him order plain water earlier in the evening. Most of the boys know his tastes, but Mori hasn't been with us very long. And I'll say this for Llewellyn: he doesn't drink much when he's at the Casino. He's probably read somewhere that you must keep your brain clear when gambling. As if it mattered!" Bloodgood gave a snort of contempt. "Luck doesn't inquire into a man's mental state before striking."
"Quite so," murmured Vance. "And the law of probabilities operates on the sober and the inebriated alike. Yes. Wholly amoral. Consolin' thought. But I say, was there no motive behind your politesse to Llewellyn other than the desire to live up to your employer's standard of punctilio?"
"A sinister motive?" Bloodgood asked resentfully, becoming suddenly rigid.
"Really, y' know, I didn't specify." Vance was smoking placidly. "Why put the least charitable construction on my query? I trust the worm of conscience doth not begnaw thy soul."
Bloodgood relaxed, and the suggestion of a weary smile moved the corners of his mouth.
"I'll probably hang myself yet. I do a kindly act, and the recipient all but dies. You hand me a knife, and I pick it up by the blade." He shrugged. "The fact is, I wouldn't ordinarily have interfered with Llewellyn's beverages at the Casino--I'm not over-fond of the man--but I felt a little sorry for him last night. Kinkaid doesn't like him, and he's had the worst possible luck playing roulette. He rarely wins, and Kinkaid is inclined to gloat over the fact. Last night he had a run of good luck; he'd already won back a considerable amount of what he'd previously lost. Then he went to pieces--psychological reaction, I imagine--got nervous and unbalanced, and began doing the most preposterous things--covering his bets and even betting against himself, taking the short end of every percentage. He couldn't have lasted much longer. He needed a drink, if ever a man did; and when I saw the charged water, which he wouldn't have touched, I felt a sort of human inclination to help him out. So I ordered the plain water. In one way it was a good turn: he passed out some thirty thousand ahead. But my kindness evidently got me in wrong."
"Yes, things are like that. One never knows, does one? A whimsical world. No accountin' for it." Vance spoke impersonally. "By the by, do you know where the water, which you so charitably ordered, came from?"
"From the bar, I suppose."
"Oh, no. No. Not the bar. Mori was shunted on his errand of mercy. The water came from Kinkaid's private carafe."
Bloodgood sat up straight, and his eyes opened wide.
Vance nodded.
"Yes. Kinkaid told Mori to fetch the water from his office. Too many people at the bar, he explained to me. Unnecess'ry delay. Thinkin' only of Llewellyn. Every one so considerate of his welfare last night. Guardian angels. All very sympathetic. And then the ungrateful johnnie collapses with poison."
Bloodgood started to speak but quickly closed his lips, and, sinking back in his chair, looked straight ahead in gloomy silence.
After a short pause Vance crushed out his cigarette and turned his chair round so that he was facing Bloodgood.
"You know, of course," he asked, "of the death of Llewellyn's wife last night?"
Bloodgood nodded without shifting his eyes from their far-away focus.
"I saw the papers this morning."
"Do you believe it was suicide?"
Bloodgood jerked his head around and stared at Vance.
"Wasn't it? The papers said a suicide note was found. . . ."
"That's correct. Not entirely convincing, however."
"But she was quite capable of suicide," Bloodgood offered.
Vance did not pursue the point.
"I suppose," he said, "that Kinkaid told you over the phone that Miss Amelia Llewellyn also had a close call last night?"
Bloodgood leaped to his feet.
"What's that!" he exclaimed. "He said nothing about Amelia. What happened?" The man seemed highly perturbed.
"She took a glass of water--in her mother's room--and passed out very much as her brother did. No serious damage, though. She's quite all right this morning--we've just come from there. No cause for worry. . . . Please sit down. There are one or two other matters I wish to ask you about."
Bloodgood resumed his seat with seeming reluctance.
"You're sure she's all right?"
"Yes--quite. You might drop around to see her when you leave here. I'm sure she'll welcome a visit from you. Kinkaid's there too. . . . And by the by, just what are your relations with Kinkaid, Mr. Bloodgood?"
The man hesitated and then said noncommittally:
"Purely business." When Vance did not speak Bloodgood went on. "There's a certain feeling of friendship involved, of course. I feel very grateful toward Kinkaid. If it weren't for him I'd probably be teaching chemistry or mathematics at a third of the salary I'm getting at the Casino, and being bored to death doing it. He's exacting, but he's generous enough. I can't say that I wholly admire him, but he has many likeable qualities, and he has always played the game aboveboard with me." Bloodgood stopped a moment and then added with a faint smile: "I think he likes me--and that fact, of course, tends to prejudice me in his favor."
"Do you attach any significance to his having ordered the water for Llewellyn from his own carafe?"
The question seemed to disturb Bloodgood considerably. He shifted in his chair and took a deep breath before answering.
"I don't know. Damn it, man, you have me wondering. It might be sheer coincidence--it's like Kinkaid to do things spontaneously like that: he has a very decent streak in him. He takes his loss
es like a gentleman and never complains when he gets set back. I know he runs his games straight; and, to tell the truth, I can't picture the man feeding a customer knock-out drops because the game's going against the house. Especially his own nephew."
"There could possibly have been reasons other than Llewellyn's winning last night," suggested Vance.
Bloodgood considered this for some time.
"I see what you mean," he replied at length. "With Amelia and Lynn and Lynn's wife out of the way . . ." He broke off and shook his head. "No! That doesn't check with Kinkaid's character. A gun, perhaps, in an emergency--I happen to know he shot himself out of some bad scrapes in Africa. But not poison. That's a woman's weapon. For all his inbreeding and subtleties of nature, Kinkaid's not a sneak."
"Forthright--eh, what?"
"Yes, just that. Either forthright or inactive. He does a thing or he doesn't. No finesse, in the psychological sense. That's why he's a great poker player and is only indifferent at bridge. He once said to me: 'Any woman can master bridge, but only a man can play good poker.' He's cold and ruthless and utterly without fear; and he's as shrewd as Lucifer himself. He'd stop at nothing to gain his ends. But he'd always be in the open. You could trust him even if he was out to get you. . . . Poison? No. That doesn't fit."
Vance smoked a while dreamily.
"You're a chemist, Mr. Bloodgood," he said finally, "and you've been rather close to Kinkaid. Tell me: is he, too, by any chance, interested in chemistry?"
For the first time during the interview Bloodgood appeared ill at ease. He shot a searching glance at Vance and cleared his throat nervously.
"I can't say that he is." His tone was not wholly convincing. "That's a subject that lies entirely outside his activities and interests." He stopped, and then added: "If there was any money in chemistry, of course, Kinkaid might be interested in the matter from the angle of pure speculation."
"Well, well," murmured Vance. "Always on the lookout. Cravin' a lucrative opening, so to speak. Yes. That always goes with the gambling instinct."
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