"That's true." The girl assumed a less supercilious air. "Uncle Dick always seemed to have a soft spot in his heart for Virginia. Maybe he felt that, as Lynn's wife, she was to be pitied. Or maybe he considered her an adventurer like himself. In any event, there seemed to be a bond of some kind between them. Sometimes I've thought that Uncle Dick has let Lynn win at the Casino occasionally so that Virginia would have more spending money."
"That's most interestin'." Vance lighted a fresh cigarette and went on. "And that brings me to another question. I do hope you won't mind. It's a bit personal, don't y' know; but the answer may help us no end. . . ."
"Don't apologize," the girl put in. "I'm not in the least secretive. Ask me anything you care to."
"That's very sportin' of you," murmured Vance. "The fact is, we should like to know the exact financial status of the members of your family."
"Is that all?" She looked genuinely surprised, perhaps even disappointed. "The answer is quite simple. When my grandfather, Amos Kinkaid, died, he left the bulk of his fortune to my mother. He had great faith in her business ability; but he didn't think so much of Uncle Dick and willed him only a small portion of the estate. We children—Lynn and I—were too young to receive any individual consideration; and anyway, he probably counted on mother to look out for our welfare. The result is that Uncle Dick has had to look after himself more or less, and that mother is the custodian of Old Amos's money. Lynn and I are both wholly dependent on her generosity; but she gives us a fair enough allowance. . . . And that's about all there is to it."
"But how," asked Vance, "will the estate be distributed in the event of your mother's death?"
"That only mother can tell you," replied the girl. "But I imagine it will be divided between Lynn and myself—with the greater part, of course, going to Lynn."
"What of your uncle?"
"Oh, mother regards him with too much disapproval. I doubt seriously that she has considered him in her will at all."
"But in the event that your mother outlives both you and your brother, where would the money go then?"
"To Uncle Dick, I guess—if he were alive. Mother has a pronounced clannish instinct. She'd much prefer Uncle Dick to inherit the fortune to having it fall into the hands of an outsider."
"But suppose either you or your brother should die before your mother, do you think the remaining child would inherit everything?"
Amelia Llewellyn nodded.
"That is my opinion," she answered, with quiet frankness. "But no one can tell what plans or ideas mother has. And, naturally, it's not a subject that's ever discussed between us."
"Oh, quite—quite." Vance smoked for a moment and then raised himself a little in his chair. "There's one other question I'd like to ask you. You've been very generous, don't y' know. The situation is quite serious at the moment, and there's no tellin' what facts or suggestions may prove of assistance to us. . . ."
"I think I understand." The girl spoke with an apparent softness and appreciation of which I had heretofore thought her incapable. "Please don't hesitate to ask me anything that may be of help to you. I'm terribly upset—really. I didn't care for Virginia, but—after all—a death like hers is—well, something you wouldn't wish for your worst enemy."
Vance took his eyes from the girl and contemplated the tip of his cigarette. I tried to probe his mental reaction at the moment, but his face showed nothing of what was going through his mind.
"My question concerns Mrs. Lynn Llewellyn," he said. "It's simply this: if she had survived both you and your brother, what effect would that have had on your mother's will?"
Amelia Llewellyn pondered the question.
"I really couldn't say," she replied at length. "I've never thought of the situation in that light. But I'm inclined to believe mother would have made Virginia her chief beneficiary. She would probably have clutched at anything to keep Uncle Dick from getting the estate. And furthermore her almost pathological devotion to Lynn would affect her decision. After all, Virginia was Lynn's wife; and Lynn and everything pertaining to him has always come first with mother." She looked up appealingly. "I wish I could help you more than I have."
Vance rose.
"You have helped us no end—really. We're all gropin' about in the dark just now. And we sha'n't keep you up any longer. . . . But we'd like to speak to your mother. Would you mind asking her to come here to the drawing-room?"
"Oh, no." The girl rose wearily and went toward the door. "She'll be delighted, I'm sure. Her one ambition in life is to have a hand in every one's affairs and to be the centre of every disturbance." She went slowly from the room, and we could hear her ascending the stairs.
"A strange creature," Vance commented, as if he were thinking out loud. "A combination of extremes . . . cold as steel, yet highly emotional. Constant cerebral antagonism goin' on . . . can't make up her mind. She's livin' on a psychic borderline—heart and mind at odds. . . . Curiously symbolic of this entire case. No compasses and no way of takin' our bearin's." He looked up wistfully. "Don't you feel that, Markham? There are a dozen roads to take—and they all may lead us astray. But there's a hidden alley somewhere, and that's the route we have to take. . . ."
He walked toward the rear of the drawing-room.
"In the meantime," he said, in a lighter tone, "I'll indulge my zeal for thoroughness."
Behind heavy velour drapes in the middle of the rear wall were massive sliding doors; and Vance drew one of them aside. He felt along the wall in the room beyond, and in a few seconds there was a flood of light revealing a small library. We could see Vance stand for a moment looking about him; and then he went to the low kidney-shaped desk and sat down. On the desk stood a typewriter, and after inserting a piece of paper in it, he began typing. In a few moments he withdrew the paper from the machine, looked at it closely, and, folding it, put it in his inside breast pocket.
On his way back to the drawing-room he paused before a set of book-shelves and let his eye run over the neat array of volumes it held. He was still inspecting the books when Mrs. Llewellyn came in with an air of imperious regality. Vance must have heard her enter, for he turned immediately, and rejoined us in the drawing-room.
He bowed, and, indicating one of the large silk-covered chairs by the centre-table, asked her to sit down.
"What did you gentlemen wish to see me about?" Mrs. Llewellyn asked, without making any move to seat herself.
"I notice, madam," Vance returned, ignoring both her manner and her question, "that you have a most interestin' collection of medical books in the little room beyond." He moved his hand in a designating gesture toward the sliding doors.
Mrs. Llewellyn hesitated and then said:
"I shouldn't be in the least surprised. My late husband, though not a doctor, was greatly interested in medical research. He wrote occasionally for some of the scientific journals."
"There are," continued Vance, without any change of intonation, "several standard works on toxicology among the more general treatises."
The woman thrust out her chin aggressively, and, with the suggestion of a shrug, sat down with rigid dignity on the edge of a straight chair near the door.
"It's quite likely," she replied. "Do you consider them as having any bearing on the tragedy that has happened tonight?" There was an undercurrent of contempt in the question.
Vance did not pursue the subject. Instead, he asked her:
"Do you know of any reason why your daughter-in-law should have taken her own life?"
Not a muscle of the woman's face moved for several moments; but her eyes suddenly darkened, as if in thought. Presently she raised her head.
"Suicide?" There was a repressed animation in her voice. "I hadn't thought of her death in that light, but now that you make the suggestion, I can see that such an explanation would not be illogical." She nodded slowly. "Virginia was most unhappy here. She did not fit into her new environment, and several times she said to me that she wished she were dead. But I attached no
importance to the remark,—it's a much abused figure of speech. However, I did everything I could to make the poor child happy."
"A tryin' situation," murmured Vance sympathetically. "By the by, madam, would you mind telling us—wholly in confidence, I assure you—what the general terms of your will might be?"
The woman glared at Vance in angry consternation.
"I would mind—most emphatically! Indeed, I resent the question. My will is a matter that concerns no one but myself. It could have no bearing whatever on the present hideous predicament."
"I'm not entirely convinced of that," returned Vance mildly. "There is one line of reasoning, for example, that might lead us to speculate on the possibility that one of the potential beneficiaries would gain by the—shall we say, absence?—of certain other heirs."
The woman sprang to her feet and stood in tense rigidity, her eyes glowering at Vance with vindictive animosity.
"Are you intimating, sir,"—her voice was cold and venemous—"that my brother—?"
"My dear Mrs. Llewellyn!" Vance remonstrated sharply. "I had no one in mind. But you do not seem to appreciate the significance of the fact that two members of your household have been poisoned tonight, and that it is our duty to ascertain every possible factor that may, even remotely, have some bearing on the case."
"But you yourself," protested the woman in a mollified voice, reseating herself, "advanced the possibility of Virginia's having committed suicide."
"Hardly that, madam," Vance corrected her. "I merely asked you whether you considered such a theory plausible. . . . On the other hand, do you think it likely that your son attempted to take his own life?"
"No—certainly not!" she replied dogmatically. Then a distracted look came into her eyes. "And yet . . . I don't know—I can't tell. He has always been very emotional—very temperamental. The least little thing would upset him. He brooded, and exaggerated. . . ."
"Personally," said Vance, "I cannot believe that your son attempted to end his life. I was watching him at the time he was stricken. He was winning heavily, and was intent on every turn of the wheel."
The woman seemed to have lost interest in everything but her son's welfare.
"Do you think he's all right?" she asked pleadingly. "You should have let me go to him. Couldn't you inquire again how he is?"
Vance rose immediately and went toward the door.
"I'll be glad to, madam."
A few moments later we heard him talking over the telephone in the hall. Then he returned to the drawing-room.
"Mr. Llewellyn," he reported, "is apparently out of danger. Doctor Rogers has left the hospital; but the house physician on night duty tells me your son is resting quietly, and that his pulse is practically normal now. He believes Mr. Llewellyn will be able to return home tomorrow morning."
"Thank God!" The woman breathed a sigh of relief. "I shall be able to sleep now. . . . Was there anything more you wished to ask me?"
Vance inclined his head.
"The question will doubtless seem irrelevant to you; but the answer may clarify a certain phase of this unfortunate situation." He looked directly at Mrs. Llewellyn. "Just what is Mr. Bloodgood's status in this household?"
The woman raised her eyebrows, and gazed back at Vance for a full half-minute before answering. Then she spoke in a conventional and curiously detached tone.
"Mr. Bloodgood is a very close friend of my son's. They were at college together. And I believe he knew Virginia quite well for several years before her marriage into our family. My brother—Mr. Kinkaid—has, for a long time, been an ardent admirer of Mr. Bloodgood's. He saw possibilities in the young man, and trained him for his present position. Mr. Bloodgood comes here to my home a great deal, both socially and on business. . . . You see," she added in explanation, "my brother lives here. The house is really half his."
"Just where are Mr. Kinkaid's quarters?" Vance asked.
"He occupies the entire third floor."
"And may I," continued Vance, "ask what the relationship is between Mr. Bloodgood and your daughter?"
The woman shot Vance a quick look, but did not hesitate to answer the question with apparent frankness.
"Mr. Bloodgood is deeply interested in Amelia. He has asked her to marry him, I believe; but she has given him no definite answer, as far as I know. Sometimes I think she likes him, but there are other times when she treats him abominably. I have a feeling she does not altogether trust him. But then again, she is constantly thinking of her art; and she may merely have the idea that marriage would interfere with her career."
"Would you approve of the union?" Vance asked casually.
"I'd neither approve nor disapprove," she said, and closed her lips tightly.
Vance regarded her with a slightly puzzled frown. "Is Doctor Kane also interested in your daughter?"
"Oh, yes, I imagine he's interested enough—in a calf-like way. But I can assure you Amelia has no sentimental leanings in his direction. She uses him constantly though,—she has no scruples in that respect. Allan Kane is a great convenience to her at times; and he comes of a very good family."
Vance got up lazily from his chair and bowed.
"We sha'n't detain you any longer," he said with an air of stern courtesy. "We appreciate your help, and we wish you to know that everything will be taken care of with the least possible inconvenience to yourself."
Mrs. Llewellyn drew herself up haughtily, rose, and went from the room without a word.
When she was out of hearing Markham got to his feet aggressively and confronted Vance.
"I've had enough of this." His tone was one of irritable reproach. "All this domestic gossip is getting us nowhere. You're simply manufacturing bugaboos."
Vance sighed resignedly.
"Ah, well! Let's toddle along. The witchin' hour has long since passed."
As we went out into the hall, Detective Sullivan came down the stairs.
"The Sergeant's going to wait for the buggy and put everybody to bed," he told Markham. "I'm going home and hit the hay. Good night, Chief. . . . So long, Mr. Vance." And he lumbered out into the night.
The cadaverous butler, looking tired and drowsy, helped us with our coats.
"You'll take orders from Sergeant Heath," Markham instructed him.
The man bowed and went toward the door to open it for us. But before he reached it there came the sound of a key being inserted in the lock; and in another moment Kinkaid blustered into the hall. He drew up shortly as he caught sight of us.
"What's the meaning of this?" he demanded truculently. "And what are those officers doing outside?"
"We're here on a matter of duty," Markham told him. "There's been a tragedy here tonight."
The muscles of Kinkaid's face suddenly relaxed into a calm, cold, blank expression: he had become, in the fraction of a second, the inscrutable gambler.
"Your nephew's wife is dead," Vance said. "She was poisoned. And, as you know, Lynn Llewellyn also was poisoned tonight. . . ."
"To hell with Lynn!" Kinkaid spoke through his teeth. "What's the rest of the story?"
"That's all we know at the moment—except that Mrs. Llewellyn died at approximately the same time her husband collapsed in your Casino. The Medical Examiner says belladonna. Sergeant Heath of the Homicide Bureau is waiting upstairs for the car to take her body to the mortuary. We hope to know more after the post mortem tomorrow. Your nephew, by the by,—according to the latest report—is out of danger. . . ."
At this moment there came a startling interruption. A woman's voice cried out from somewhere upstairs. A door opened and slammed, and a faint sound of moaning came to us. Then there was the sound of heavy footsteps running along the hallway above us. The blood seemed to freeze in my veins—I cannot say why—and we all moved toward the stairs.
Suddenly Heath appeared on the upper landing. Under the strong glare of the hall light I could see that his eyes were round with excitement. He beckoned to us with an agitated sweep of the arm.
"Come up here, Mr. Markham," he called in a husky voice. "Something—something's happened!"
7. MORE POISON
(Sunday, October 16; 3:30 a.m.)
When we reached the upper landing Heath was already far down the hall, lumbering toward the open door of a room at the north end. We followed rapidly, but the Sergeant's broad back obstructed our view, and it was not until we had actually entered the room that we saw the cause of the sudden and startling summons that had come to us. This room, like the hallway, was brilliantly lighted: it was obviously Mrs. Anthony Llewellyn's bedroom. Though larger than Virginia Llewellyn's room, it contained far less furniture,—there was a rigorous, almost bleak, severity about it, which reflected the character and personality of its occupant.
Mrs. Llewellyn stood leaning against the wall just inside the door, her lace handkerchief pressed tight against her drawn face, her eyes staring down at the floor in frightened horror. She was moaning and trembling, and did not lift her eyes when we came in. What she was looking at seemed to hold her fascinated and speechless.
There, within a few feet of her, limp and crumpled on the deep blue carpet, lay the still form of Amelia Llewellyn.
At first Mrs. Llewellyn merely pointed. Then with a great effort she said in an awed, husky voice:
"She was just going to her room, and she suddenly staggered, put her hands to her head, and collapsed there." Again she pointed stiffly to her daughter, almost as if she imagined we could not see the prostrate figure.
Vance was already on his knees beside the girl. He felt her pulse, listened to her breathing, looked at her eyes. Then he beckoned to Heath and motioned to the bed opposite. They lifted the girl and placed her across the bed, letting her head hang down over the side.
"Smelling salts," ordered Vance. "And, Sergeant, call the butler."
Mrs. Llewellyn jerked herself into activity, went to her dressing-table and produced a green bottle like the one that Kinkaid had given Vance at the Casino earlier that night.
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