16. THE FINAL TRAGEDY
(Tuesday, October 18; 2:15 p.m.)
Vance looked at Llewellyn with critical tranquillity for several moments. Finally he spoke.
"Yes, you're quite right. As long as I continue to talk you'll let me live—since you feel I can feed your vanity. . . ."
"Vance!" Markham spoke for the first time since we had entered the Casino. "Why pander to this murderer? He's made up his mind, and there's apparently nothing to be done." His tone was husky and strained, but it held an undercurrent of courage and resignation which increased my admiration for him.
"You may be right, Markham," said Vance, his eyes gazing steadily at Llewellyn. "But there can be no harm in talking to our executioner before he pulls the trigger."
"Come on! Talk." Llewellyn spoke with exaggerated calm. "Or shall I tell the story myself?"
"No, that's not necess'ry—except for a few details here and there. . . . As I see it: you decided to get rid of your wife and to put the onus of the deed on your uncle. Your wife was an encumbrance: both you and your mother disliked her—and you'd feel a little surer of a full inheritance if your wife was out of the way. As for Kinkaid, you never liked him, anyway; and, by eliminating him as a possible inheritor, you would be eliminating him also as another source of irritation. You resent him passionately because of his superiority to you and his open contempt for you. Quite the usual attitude of inferior johnnies of your type. So you set to work, with your vain, egotistic mind, to outline for yourself the perfect crime which would do away with all the factors that stood in the way of your free functioning. And you planned your coup, as you thought, so that, whatever might happen, suspicion would point away from yourself. . . . Clever idea. But you didn't have the intelligence to perfect the plan."
Vance paused, his contemptuous eyes holding the menacing gaze of Llewellyn. Then he went on:
"You conceived the idea of poison as the criminal agent because it was indirect and underhand and therefore obviated the need of courageous enterprise. That is your nature, of course. You knew your wife was using an eye-wash every night. And you'd read in your father's books on toxicology—which you probably consulted expressly for your purpose—that it was possible to effect death through the absorption of belladonna into the mucous membranes of the eyes and nose. It was a simple enough matter for you to dissolve a quantity of belladonna or atropin tablets in the eye-wash. But you weren't sufficiently versed in modern toxicological methods—perhaps the fact that your father's books are not quite up-to-date was responsible for your ignorance—to know that today the stomach is not the only organ given to the analyst for examination. There used to be a mistaken idea that only an analysis of the stomach was necess'ry to prove or disprove a supposed poisoning; but in later books of research that point is gone into more thoroughly. You should have read Webster, or Ross, or Withaus and Becker, or Autenrieth. However, you did give us considerable trouble until my attention was attracted by the bottle of eye-wash in your bathroom medicine chest—"
"What's that?" Llewellyn's eyes opened a little wider, but their relentless vigilance did not relax. "You asked me about that medicine cabinet once."
"Oh, yes. At that time, though, I was merely gropin'. After you had taken the bottle of eye-wash and emptied it, Sunday morning, when you returned from the hospital, you put it back sideways, so that the label was not visible. I noted that something was wrong—though I didn't know just what. That's why we gave every one in your home perfect freedom of action all day Sunday. . . . By the by, you went to the pharmacist's Sunday—didn't you?—and had the eye-wash bottle refilled with its original harmless solution, fearing an empty bottle might attract attention."
"I'll say yes. Go on."
"Thanks awfully for putting that bottle back with the label to the front. That gave me the clue—and the toxicologist's chemical analysis verified my theory. I knew then that your wife had died from the absorption of belladonna through the eyes and that some one in the house had been manipulating the eye-wash bottle to cover his tracks."
"All right, that's one step. And I suppose you think Amelia and I were poisoned with belladonna, too."
"No. Oh, no. Not belladonna. Even I know more about toxicology than to think that. You poisoned yourself with nitroglycerin."
Llewellyn's head jerked back a little.
"How did you know that?" he asked, scarcely moving his lips.
"Simple deduction," Vance told him. "Doctor Kane told me you had a bad heart and that he had prescribed nitroglycerin tablets for you. You probably took one too many at some time, and it made you a little groggy. So you looked up the action of nitroglycerin and found that an overdose would knock you out without doing you any lasting harm. So, after setting the stage at home, you fed yourself a good dose of the tablets and passed temporarily out of the picture, in full view of an audience. No way of ascertaining what the poison was, of course. Merely symptoms of collapse. I figured that was what you'd done the moment Kane told me of the nitroglycerin tablets."
"And Amelia?"
"The same thing. Only she was another unlooked-for development. You didn't intend the poison for her, don't y' know. You had planned that your mother should take the water from the carafe in which you had dissolved the nitroglycerin. But your sister upset your plans."
"You think I wanted to poison my mother?"
"Oh, no," said Vance. "Quite the contr'ry. You wanted her to appear as one of the victims of the plot—like yourself—so that she would be eliminated as a possible suspect."
"Yes!" A curious light shone in Llewellyn's eyes. "My mother had to be protected. I had to think of her as well as of myself. Too many people knew she didn't like my wife; and she is a hard, aggressive woman in many ways. She might have been suspected."
"That seems rather obvious," Vance returned. "And when you learned that your sister had taken the nitroglycerin, you tried another way to eliminate your mother from being suspected. When you heard us on the stairs Sunday morning, you enacted a touchin' Œdipus scene for our benefit, pretending you thought your mother might be guilty. A double subtlety. It tended further to eliminate you, and gave your mother the opportunity to convince us she was innocent. A bit cowardly, since it might actually have involved her. But effective—in a dramatic sense, of course. . . . Is there anything else you care to know regarding my conclusions?"
Llewellyn glowered maliciously for a moment; then he gave a barely perceptible nod.
"What did you think about the rhinitis tablets and the suicide note?"
"Just what you wanted me to think about them," Vance said. "They constituted one of the basic outlines of your plot. I'll admit it was well done. But I went a little farther than you intended me to go. You wanted me to accept Kinkaid as the reality; but I recognized him as your dummy victim."
Llewellyn frowned and his eyes narrowed dangerously. There was a colossal hatred in his expression. Then he grinned cunningly.
"So you saw through the suicide theory at once, did you?" he said. "Yes, that was what I intended. And was Kinkaid suggested to you immediately?"
"More or less," Vance admitted. "A bit too obvious, though."
"And the heavy water?"
"Oh, yes. That naturally followed, once I'd done a bit of figuring. As you intended. Your whole scheme was rather transparent as soon as one or two of the main factors had resolved themselves. The structure was well thought out, but some of the details were unconvincing. Lack of knowledge and research on your part, don't y' know. Quite childish, when added up. From the first I had you in mind as a possibility. . . ."
"You're lying," Llewellyn snarled. "Let's hear your reasoning."
Vance took a deep breath and shrugged his shoulders slightly.
"As you say, while I continue talking I remain this side of eternity. Ah, well, a few more moments. . . . In the circumstances I'm deuced grateful for the smallest favors. And I couldn't bear to depart this life leavin' you in a state of mental suspense."
His voi
ce had become as cold and steady as Llewellyn's.
"Your letter to me, begging for my presence at the Casino Saturday night, was your first miscalculation. It was clever, however; but it was not quite clever enough. Obviously insincere—as was intended; but it said too much, revealin' more or less the character of the writer. A shrewd, tricky and effeminate brain conceived it, thereby indicatin' the type of person to look for. And really, y' know, it wasn't necess'ry to have me witness your collapse at the Casino: any one could have given me the details. But we'll let that pass. . . . You typed that letter, as well as the suicide note, rather badly, so as to indicate some one unfamiliar with the machine—to wit: Kinkaid. You then posted the letter in Closter, to focus attention on your uncle's hunting lodge near-by. But that, too, was overdoing it; for if Kinkaid had actually sent the letter, he would have posted it anywhere but in Closter. It's a minor point, however, and one that I don't hold against you, for other things were to transpire which would more than have counteracted so trivial an error. . . . The contents of the rhinitis bottle were emptied to lend a sort of left-handed substantiation of Kinkaid's guilt. You knew, of course, no belladonna would be found in the stomach, and the fact would naturally point to a spurious suicide. Your manipulation of the water carafes was intended to give the impression that it was through the medium of water that the poisons had been administered. That, of course, was the second sign-post—the Closter postmark being the first—that led to the heavy-water motif. Once the suicide theory had been exploded and the fact that Kinkaid was manufacturing heavy water was discovered, suspicion against him would have been pretty strong. And you and your mother would have been automatically eliminated—provided she had taken the nitroglycerin you prepared for her. . . . Am I correct in my reasoning thus far?"
"Yes," Llewellyn admitted grudgingly. "Go ahead."
"No one, of course," continued Vance, "knows what effect heavy water would have on human beings, if taken internally in large quantities, for there hasn't been enough of it available to make experiments along those lines, even if it were feasible to do so. But there has been considerable speculation as to the possible toxic effects of heavy water; and, while it could not have been proved scientifically that heavy water had been given you and your wife and your mother—had she drunk the water instead of your sister—there would have been a very powerful presumption of Kinkaid's guilt. And this presumption, taken with the other evidence you had fabricated, would have placed him in a predicament from which extrication would have been practically impossible. You knew, of course, that the nature of the poison supposed to have been given to you and your mother could not be determined because you would both have escaped its fatal effects. So your dear Uncle Richard was in for it. . . . By the by, how did you find out about Kinkaid's private enterprise at the hunting lodge?"
Llewellyn's eyes gleamed shrewdly.
"There's a fireplace running up from my room to his, and I have often been able to hear him and Bloodgood talking up there."
"Ah!" Vance smiled disgustedly. "So you've added eavesdropping to your other accomplishments! You're not an admirable character, Llewellyn."
"At least I achieve my ends," the man retorted, without the slightest show of shame.
"It appears that way. Perhaps I'm too critical. But there's one thing I'll admit I don't understand. Maybe you'll be so good as to enlighten me. Why didn't you simply poison both your wife and Kinkaid and save yourself the trouble of all these elaborate subtleties?"
Llewellyn made a condescending grimace.
"That would not have been so easy to work out,—Kinkaid's always on his guard. Moreover, his death in addition to my wife's would have tended to cast suspicion on me. Why take the chance? Anyway, I'd rather sit around and watch him sweat. Ruin him first—and then send him to the chair." A malicious fanaticism shone in his eyes.
"Yes," nodded Vance. "I see your point. Playin' safe and gettin' more satisfact'ry results. Very cleverly and subtly conceived. But we might not have run upon the heavy-water idea, y' know."
"If you hadn't, I'd have helped you out. But I counted on you. That's why I sent you the letter. I knew the police would miss the heavy water; but I've always admired the way your mind works in your investigations. You and I really have many qualities in common."
"I'm abominably flattered," murmured Vance. "And you did point up the water motif rather well, don't y' know. But Kinkaid and Bloodgood certainly played into your hands in the first act of your thrillin' drama here at the Casino."
Llewellyn chuckled.
"Didn't they? That was a stroke of luck. But it wouldn't have mattered. I'd already ordered plain water so you could hear me. And I was going to raise hell about the charged water if Bloodgood hadn't suddenly gone Chesterfieldian. You remember, too, that I waited until Kinkaid was standing near the table before ordering my second drink."
"Yes, I noticed that. Very clever. You played your cards well. Too bad you didn't read up on toxicology a little more."
"That doesn't matter now." Llewellyn snorted deprecatingly. "It's worked out better this way. Kinkaid will have three corpses right here in his office to explain away. He won't have a chance in the world, for even if he can prove an alibi he can't prove he didn't hire one of his henchmen to shoot you. And that's better than having him arrested on suspicion and tried on the circumstantial evidence of one poisoning on Park Avenue."
"So we, too, played into your hands," remarked Vance despondently.
"You did—beautifully." Llewellyn leered at Vance in triumph. "The cards are running for me these days. But luck and intelligence always go together."
"Oh, quite. . . . And when you have shot us you will join mother in the country to establish an unassailable alibi. Mr. Markham's secret'ry will testify that Kinkaid made an appointment with us here at two. You'll be able to give testimony about my talk with Bloodgood last night, and Kane will substantiate it. You'll also tell all you know of the heavy water, and Arnheim will have to admit I was at the hunting lodge. Our bodies will be found here; and since everything will point directly to Kinkaid, he'll be arrested and sent up." Vance nodded admiringly. "Yes. As you say. He hasn't a chance—whether it's eventually proved he did it himself or hired some one to do it for him. In any case, he's ruined. . . . Very pretty. I can't see a flaw in the reasoning."
"No." Llewellyn smiled. "I rather fancy it myself."
Markham was glaring at the man.
"You unspeakable fiend!" he blurted.
"Words, Mr. District Attorney—only words," the other returned in a tone of terrifying softness.
"Yes, Markham," said Vance. "Such epithets merely flatter the gentleman."
Llewellyn's lip curled hideously.
"Was there anything else you were in the dark about, Vance? I'd be glad to explain it."
"No." Vance shook his head. "I think the ground is pretty well ploughed up."
Llewellyn grinned with triumphant self-satisfaction.
"Well, I did it; and I got away with it. I planned everything from the start to the finish. I carried murder a little farther than it's ever been carried before. I supplied you with four suspects and kept well in the background myself. It didn't matter to me where you stopped. The farther you went, the farther you got from the truth. . . ."
"You forget we found you at last," Vance put in casually.
"But that's my greatest triumph," Llewellyn boasted. "I failed in a minor detail or two on my knowledge of poisons, and gave you a clue. But I met your suspicions with even a cleverer coup. I turned what you considered my defeat into one great culminating triumph." There was a maniacal gleam of egoism in his steady eyes. "And now we'll close the book!"
The muscles of his face relaxed into a cold, deadly mask. There was an almost hypnotic glint in his pale blue eyes. He took a short step nearer to us, and with marked deliberation aimed with his revolver. The muzzle pointed directly at the pit of Vance's stomach. . . .
In any great final moment of this kind, in which all th
e life one has known is on the point of being wiped out, and when the thing called consciousness—to which we all cling with our innermost instincts—is about to be obliterated, it is curious how our minds receive and register the homely common sounds of the world about us—sounds that go unheeded in the ordinary course of events. As I sat there, in that terrible moment, I was aware that somewhere in the distance a woman's shrill voice was calling: I could hear the sound of a steam whistle on some boat in the Hudson: I was aware that, outside in the street, the brakes of an automobile had been violently thrown on: I was conscious of the low rumble of the traffic on the near-by avenue. . . .
Vance drew himself up a little in his chair and leaned forward. His eyes were narrowed and grim, but there was a contemptuous sneer on his lips. For a moment I thought he was preparing to leap up and grapple with Llewellyn. But if such had been his intention, he was too late. At that moment Llewellyn, his revolver still pointed steadily at Vance's stomach, pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession. There were two deafening detonations in the small office; and, accompanying them, two tongues of fire flashed from the muzzle of Llewellyn's revolver. A wave of horror passed over me and paralyzed every muscle in my body. . . .
Vance's eyes closed slowly. One hand went to his mouth. He coughed chokingly. His hand fell to his lap. He seemed to go limp, and his head drooped. Then he pitched slowly forward on his face and lay in a distorted heap at Llewellyn's feet. My eyes, which felt as if they were bulging from their sockets, were focused on Vance in wild helpless horror.
Llewellyn glanced down at him quickly, without change of expression. He stepped a little to one side, at the same time taking precise aim at Markham, who sat as if petrified.
Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 2 Page 41