The Eight of Swords dgf-3

by John Dickson Carr

  "Don't apologize," said Dr. Fell, with a similarly guilty expression. "I myself am what Mr. Spinelli would describe as a sucker for such things. I am never able to pass a palmist's without going in to get my hand read, or my future revealed in a crystal. Hurrumph. I can't help it," he declared, rather querulously. "The less I believe in it, I'm still the first to howl for my fortune to be told. That's how I happen to know about the taroc."

  Spinelli's lip lifted in a sardonic quirk. He sniggered. "Say, are you a dick?" he asked. "You're a funny one. Well, we live and learn. Fortune telling—" He sniggered again.

  "The taroc pack, inspector," Dr. Fell continued equably, "is supposed to be of Egyptian invention. But this card has the design of the French taroc, Which dates back to Charles VI and the origin of the playing card. Out of the seventy-eight cards, twenty-two are called major arcana and fifty-six minor arcana. I needn't tell you such a pack, or even the knowledge of it, is very rare. The minor arcana are divided into four series, like the clubs, diamonds, hearts, and spades; but in this case called…?"

  "Rods, cups, pence, and swords," said Spinelli, examining his finger nails. "But what I want to know is this: Where did you get that card? Was it Depping's?"

  Dr. Fell picked it up. He went on: "Each card having a definite meaning. I needn't go into the method of fortune telling, but you'll be interested in the significance… Question for question, Mr. Spinelli. Did Depping ever possess a taroc pack?"

  "He did. Designed it himself, from somebody's manual. And paid about a grand to have it turned out by a playing-card company. But that card didn't come from it… unless he made a deck for himself. I'm asking you, where did you get it?"

  "We have reason to believe that the murderer left it behind, as a sort of symbol. Who knows about high magic in the wilds of Gloucestershire?" mused Dr. Fell.

  Spinelli looked straight in front of him. For an instant Hugh Donovan could have sworn the man saw something. But he only sniggered again.

  "And that card means something?" Murch demanded.

  "You tell him," Dr. Fell said, and held it up. The American relished his position. He assumed a theatrical air; glanced first to one side and then the other. "Sure I can tell you, gentlemen. It means he got what was coming to him. The eight of swords— Condemning justice. It put the finger on old Nick Depping, and God knows he deserved it."

  CHAPTER XIII

  Bullet-Proof

  Again they were all locked up with their own thoughts, because each new development seemed to lead the case in a different direction; and each box opened up like a magician's casket, to show only another box inside the last. It was growing hot and stuffy in the library. Somewhere in the house a clock began to strike. It had finished banging out the hour of nine before Dr. Fell spoke again.

  "So that's established. Very well. Now tell us what you know about Depping himself, and what happened last night."

  "As your legal adviser, Mr. Travers—" began Langdon, suddenly thrusting himself into the conversation as he might have made up his mind to jump out of bed on a cold day; a more incongruous fancy because the man was sweating—"as your legal adviser, I must insist that you confer in private with me before taking any unwise steps…"

  Spinelli looked at him. "Burn, damn you," he said cryptically, leaning forward in fierce vindictiveness. "Burn. Sweat. Go.on; I like it…

  "I can give the whole thing to you," he went on, relaxing again, "in a couple of words. Nick Depping— he didn't call himself Septimus then — was the slickest article that ever came out of England. By God, he had brains! I'll give him that. He came over to the States about eight or nine years ago with the idea of making his fortune, like a lot of Britishers; only he'd thought it all over, and he'd decided that the best way was to teach them new rackets in the home of rackets. I don't know how he got hold of Jet Mayfree. Mayfree didn't amount to a row of beans then; he was one of those two-for-a-nickel ward heelers that hang around speakeasies and maybe can get a few muscle-men to do somebody else's dirty work — but that's all. Well, I'm telling you, Depping made Mayfree a big shot as sure as God made little apples. Depping blew into New York and lived in speaks until he found the man he wanted for his front, and in a year…" Spinelli gestured.

  "I don't mean booze, you understand. That's small change. I mean protection, politics, swindles, blackmail — holy Jesus, he could put a new angle on each one of 'em that nobody else would have thought of in a million years! And he wasn't crude: no guns, unless it couldn't be helped, and even then no stuff that looked like a gang killing. 'Why advertise?' he said. 'Let somebody else take the rap.' At one time he was running a real badger-game syndicate: twenty-two women working the hotels for him. An assistant district attorney got nosey. Nick Depping worked it out, planted evidence, and had the man poisoned so that there was clear proof his wife had done it; and the D.A.'s wife went to the chair for it."

  Spinelli leaned back and smoked with a sort of malignant admiration.

  "Do you get it? He organized all the little rackets, that the big shots had never bothered with. He never tried to muscle in on them, and they let him alone. Extortion, for one thing. That was how he ran into me. I wouldn't join his union. And what happened? Why, he got me sent up the river for five years."

  The man coughed on some smoke. He brushed a hand over his eyes, which had become watery. Sideburns, hair-line moustache, broad face with nostrils working, all the offensiveness of the man seemed to gather into one lump; to grow poisonous, and writhe on the brown sofa.

  "All right!" he said hoarsely, and then controlled himself. He remembered his suavity. I’ve forgotten that, now. All I was thinking — it was queer to see that dry old bird… He looked and talked like a college professor, except when he was drunk. I had one interview with him, the first time I ever saw him; and I was curious. He had an apartment in the East Sixties, lined up with books, and when I saw him he was sitting at a table with a bottle of rye and a pack of taroc cards…" Spinelli coughed.

  "Steady on," said Dr. Fell quietly. His dull eyes opened wide for a moment. "There's a lavatory just off here. Would you care to, humph, retire for a minute or two. Eh?"

  The other rose. At Dr. Fell's gesture, a mystified Inspector Murch followed to stand at the door. During the heavy silence of the room, when he had gone, Dr.

  Fell glanced round the group. He picked up a pencil, placed it against his arm, and made a motion of one pressing a plunger.

  "Let him alone," he said gruffly. "Hell be with us shortly."

  All during this recital, the bishop had been sitting with his head in his hands. He straightened up, and said, "This is sickening. I–I never realized…"

  "No," said Dr. Fell. "It isn't pleasant when you really see it at close range, is it? Far different from looking at criminals all preserved and ticketed behind glass cases; and reading the Latin tides on the reptile exhibits with your handkerchief to your nose? I've found that out. I found it out long ago, for my sins. But I ought to have warned you that you will never see clearly to the heart of any crime until you can honestly repeat, 'There but for the grace of God—' "

  Mr. Theseus Langdon again took his jump, but this time with more ease.

  "Come!" he said persuasively. "I am afraid I must insist, in justice to my client, that we must not place too much credence in what he says at this time. If you will allow me to join him and speak to him in private, as my prerogative is…?"

  "Sit still," rumbled Dr. Fell. He made only a slight gesture with his pencil, but Langdon subsided.

  Spinelli was soothed and urbane when he returned, though a muscle seemed to jump in his shoulder. He stared round with a toothy smile; apologized, and lowered himself with a sort of stage grace into another chair. After a time he went on:

  "I was — ha, ha — speaking of poor Nick Depping the first time I saw him. He said, They tell me you're a man of some education. You don't look it. But sit down.' That was how I came to know him, and, take my word for it, I knew him pretty well. So I entered his
organization…"

  "Stop a bit!" said Dr. Fell. "I thought you told us a while ago that you refused—?"

  The other smirked. "Oh, I had outside interests. Listen! I still think I'm as smart as he was; yes, and as well educated too, by God, though you mugs wouldn't believe it…" His wrist jerked viciously as he lit another cigarette. "Never mind. He found it out, and I went to the Big House. But in the meantime I was his sparring partner for what he thought of books, and I read his fortune in that taroc pack until I knew it better than he did. Mind, I expected him to go far. He used to call me the court astrologer, and once he nearly shot me when he was drunk. If it hadn't been for the drinking, and for one outstanding weakness—"

  "What was that?"

  "Women. He blew in plenty of money on them. If it hadn't been for that… yet," said Spinelli, who seemed to be jabbed by an ugly memory, "he honest-to-God had a real fascination for them. They fell for him. I told him once, when I'd had a few drinks myself, 'I'm a better man than you, Nick; by God, I am. But they don't seem to fall for me. It's your money.' But, somehow…" Spinelli fingered his sideburns. "I used to hate that conceited old rat because the women did go after him, and they wouldn't admit it. They'd pretend to laugh at him in public. But he — he hypnotized them, or something. Why can't I have his luck?" he demanded, almost at a whine. "Why won't they go for me? He even had one high class dame with a Park

  Avenue manner, even if she did come from Ninth Avenue — and stuck to her — and she stuck to him; until he threw her over…"

  Spinelli checked himself, as though he had just remembered something. He glanced at Langdon.

  "You were saying—?" prompted Dr. Fell.

  "I was telling you." He drew a deep breath. "I got sent to the Big House. But he was blowing in his money. And if he'd kept his head, and not thrown it around everywhere, he'd have been worth about six million, instead of only fifty thousand pounds in your money."

  Dr. Fell opened one eye. He wheezed thoughtfully, and then said in a gentle voice:

  "That's very interesting, my friend. How do you happen to know he left an estate of fifty thousand pounds?"

  Nobody moved. Spinelli's eyes remained fixed and glazed. At length he said:

  "Trying to trip me up, are you? Suppose I won't answer?"

  They could hear his harsh breathing. Dr. Fell lifted his cane and pointed with it across the table.

  "I wish you would endeavor to get it through your head, my friend, that there is at present quite enough evidence to hang you for the murder of Depping… Didn't I mention that?"

  "No, by God, you didn't! You said-"

  "That I wouldn't press the passport charge; that's all."

  "You can't bluff me. This dick," he nodded at Murch, "told me this morning I was supposed to have visited Nick Depping last night. Well, I didn't. Show me that servant who says I came to visit him, and I'll prove he's a liar. You can't bluff me. And, if you try, I’ll be damned if I tell you what did happen."

  Dr. Fell sighed. "You'll try to avoid telling it anyway, Fm afraid. So I shall have to tell you, and I am afraid you'll hang anyway. You see, there are points of. evidence against you which Inspector Murch neglected to mention. We don't think you were the man who rang Depping's doorbell and went upstairs at all. The evidence against you concerns that visit you paid to his house late on the same night — during the rainstorm— when you followed him back after he'd tried to kill you."

  Spinelli jumped to his feet. He said shrilly: "By Christ, if any squealer—"

  "You'd better listen to me, I think. Personally, I don't care a tuppenny farthing what happens to you. But if you value your own neck… Ah, that's better."

  There was something rather terrifying in the wide-open stare of the doctor's eyes. He got his breath again, and went on:

  "While you were in prison at Sing Sing, Depping left the States. He was tired of his new toy called racketeering, tired of making his fortune — just as later he tired of the publishing business. He cut loose from Mayfree and returned to England." Dr. Fell glanced at the bishop. "You remember remarking this morning, Bishop Donovan, how Mayfree suddenly lost all his power and influence about five years ago? Umph, yes. I think Spinelli has provided us with a reason. You, Spinelli… After you got out of prison, you went in with Mayfree; you discovered his influence was gone; and you very prudently deserted also. Then you came to England…"

  "Listen, you," said Spinelli, jabbing his forefinger into his palm. "If you think I came over here to find Depping — if anybody thinks that — it's a lie: I swear it's a lie. I was only — on a vacation. Why shouldn't I? It was an accident. I—"

  "That's the odd part of it," Dr. Fell observed reflectively; "I think it was. I think it was completely by accident that you ran across your old friend Depping, while you were looking for fresh fields in England. Although, of course, you had prudendy provided yourself with a solicitor in case of trouble. Somebody recommended you the same solicitor who had been recommended to Depping; rather a natural thing in the fraternity… Of course, Mr. Langdon may have told you about Depping…""

  Spinelli's lip twisted. "No fear. Say, no fear of him telling about a good thing! I didn't know he had anything to do with Depping, until—" He checked himself. A sharp glance passed between him and Dr. Fell; it was as though they read each other's thoughts. But the doctor did not press the obvious lead. Besides, Langdon was sputtering.

  "This," he said, with a sort of gulp, "all this is outrageous? Insufferable. Dr. Fell, I must ask to be excused from this conference. I cannot any longer sit and listen to insults which—"

  "Park yourself," said Spinelli coolly, as the other got up, "or you'll wish you had… Got any other remarks, Dr. What's your name?"

  "Hmf, yes. You found Depping posing as a respectable country gentleman. It struck you as a heaven-sent opportunity to exercise those peculiar talents of yours — eh?"

  "I deny that."

  "You would, naturally. Let us say that you wanted to present your compliments to Depping and arrange a meeting to chat about old times. But the terms of the meeting, as suggested by Depping, roused suspicions in your none-too-trusting nature. He didn't ask you to his house, for this chat. A meeting in a lonely neighborhood, beside the river half a mile from the inn where you were stopping; and so far away from where Depping lived that, if your body were found floating in the river some miles still further down, he would scarcely be connected—"

  Dr. Fell paused. He flipped up his hand as though he were tossing something away.

  "You know a hell of a lot, don't you?" the other asked quietly. "Suppose I admitted it? You couldn't prove any blackmail charge. We arranged a friendly litde conversation; that was all."

  "Agreed… Well, how did you manage it?"

  The other seemed to come to a decision. He shrugged his thin shoulders. "O.K. I'll risk it. — Bulletproof vest. I trusted old Nick Depping about as far as I can throw that desk. Even so, he nearly got me. I was standing on the river bank — that litde creek they call a river — at the foot of a meadow where there's a clump of trees. We'd arranged to meet there. It was moonlight, but clouding up already. I didn't know he was going to start anything. I thought maybe he'd come to terms, like any sensible man who was caught with the goods…" He thrust out his neck and wriggled his head from side to side; his collar seemed to be too tight. They could see his teeth now.

  "And then I heard a noise behind a tree. I whirled around, and there was somebody steadying a rod against the side of a tree, and taking a flat bead on me so close he couldn't miss. It didn't look like Nick — this guy with the rod, I mean. He looked young, and had a moustache, from what I could see in the moonlight. But I heard Nick's voice, all right. He said, 'You'll never do it again.' And then he let me have it, and I saw one of Nick's gold teeth.

  "I didn't think of falling in the river. The slug knocked me in; square in the chest — through the heart if I hadn't been wearing that vest. But once I was in the water I got my senses back. It's deep, and ther
e's hell's own current. I went downstream underwater as far as I could, and came up round a bend. He thought he'd got me."

  "What then?"

  "I went back to that little hotel where I'm staying. I changed my clothes, and I went to bed. Now get this! — get it straight. You're not going to pin any rap on me. This talk about my following Nick Depping home is bluff, and you know it." He was fiercely trying to hold Dr. Fell's eyes, as though to drive belief in like a nail. "Bluff. Every word of it. I didn't stir out of that room. You think I wanted more heat? I wasn't going to face Nick Depping. I never handled a rod in my life, and I never will. Why should I?"

  His voice was cracking with intensity. "Look up my record and see if I ever handled a rod. I'm as good a man as Nick Depping ever was, but I wasn't going back there; I wasn't mad at him for trying to iron me. Fortunes of war, see? Kill him? Not me. And if I did want him to — ah, advance me a little loan, do you think I'd be crazy enough to try anything like that?" He hammered the arm of his chair. "Do you?"

  Throughout all this, Inspector Murch had been trying to take rapid notes; he seemed to be struggling with the idiom, and several times on the point of protest. But now there was a tight smile on his sandy moustache. Hugh Donovan could see what was going on in his mind; he had still against Spinelli that evidence of his having changed clothes and crawled out the window of the Chequers Inn a second time… Then Hugh saw that Dr. Fell was also looking at the inspector. Murch, who had just opened his mouth to speak, stopped. His boiled eye was puzzled.

  And Dr. Fell chuckled.

  "Bluff?" he said musingly. "I know it."

  "You — you know…?"

  "Hm, yes. But I had to persuade you to talk, you see," the doctor said. "As a matter of fact, we are fairly well satisfied that you had nothing to do with the murder. I neglected to tell you," he beamed, "that you were seen by the landlord's wife at the Chequers, climbing back into the window of your room, soaking wet, at about ten o'clock"