Heath accepted the bit of glass gingerly, rolled it in his handkerchief and thrust it into his pocket.
"If it does show any finger-prints," he grumbled, "it'll be the first we found around here."
Vance turned to Markham, who had been standing near the rock pool during the entire scene, looking on with aggressive bewilderment.
"Bromin," he explained, "is a common reagent. It's to be found in almost every chemist's laborat'ry. It's one of the halogens, and, though it's never found free in nature, it occurs in various compounds. Incidentally, it got its name from the Greek bromos, which means stench. It hasn't figured very often as a criminal agent, although accidental cases of bromin poisoning are numerous. But it was used extensively during the war in the manufacture of gas bombs, for it volatilizes on coming in contact with the air. And bromin gas is suffocating and deadly. Whoever planned this lethal chamber for Miss Beeton wasn't without cruelty."
"It was a dastardly thing, Vance," Siefert burst out, his eyes flashing.
Vance nodded and his eyes moved to the nurse. "Yes. All of that, doctor. So was Swift's murder...How are you feeling now, Miss Beeton?"
"A little shaky," she answered with a weak smile. "But nothing more." She was leaning against one end of the settee.
"Then we'll carry on, what?"
"Of course," she returned in a low voice.
Floyd Garden stepped out from the hallway at this moment. He coughed and looked at us with blinking, inquisitive eyes.
"What's this beastly odor in the hall?" he asked. "It's gotten downstairs, and Sneed is already crying like a lost baby. Is anything wrong?"
"Not now. No," Vance returned. "A little bromin gas a few minutes ago; but the air will be clear in a little while. No casualties. Every one doing well...Did you want to see me?"
Garden looked round at the group on the roof with a puzzled air.
"Awfully sorry to interrupt you, Vance; but the fact is, I came for the doctor." His eyes rested on Siefert, and he smiled dryly. "It's the usual thing, doc," he said. "The mater seems almost in a state of collapse—she assured me vigorously that she hadn't an ounce of strength left. I got her to go to bed—which she seemed perfectly willing to do. But she insists on seeing you immediately. I never know when she means it and when she doesn't. But that's the message."
A worried look came into Siefert's eyes, and he took a slow deep breath before answering.
"I'll come at once, of course," he said. He looked at the nurse and then lifted his gaze to Vance. "Will you excuse me?"
Vance bowed. "Certainly, doctor. But I think Miss Beeton had better remain here in the air for a while longer."
"Oh, by all means. By all means. If I need her I'll send word. But I trust that won't be necessary." And Siefert left the roof reluctantly, with Garden following him.
Vance watched them until they turned through the door of the passageway; then he spoke to the nurse.
"Please sit here a few minutes, Miss Beeton. I want to have a talk with you. But first I'd like a minute or two with Mr. Hammle."
The nurse nodded her assent and sat down a little wearily on the settee.
Vance beckoned curtly to Hammle. "Suppose we go inside for a moment."
Hammle rose with alacrity. "I was wondering how much longer you gentlemen were going to keep me here."
Vance led the way into the study, and Markham and I followed behind Hammle.
"What were you doing on the roof, Mr. Hammle?" asked Vance. "I told you some time ago, after our brief interview, that you might go."
Hammle fidgeted. He was patently apprehensive and wary.
"There's no crime in going out into the garden for a while—is there?" he asked with unimpressive truculence.
"None whatever," Vance returned casually. "I was wonderin' why you preferred the garden to going home. Devilish things have been happening in the garden this afternoon."
"As I told you, I wish I had gone. How did I know—?"
"That's hardly the point, Mr. Hammle." Vance cut him short. "It doesn't answer my question."
"Well now, look here," Hammle explained fulsomely; "I had just missed a train to Long Island, and it was more than an hour until the next one. When I went out of here and started to go downstairs, I suddenly said to myself, 'It'll be pleasanter waiting in the garden than in the Pennsylvania Station.' So I went out on the roof and hung around. And here I am."
Vance regarded the man shrewdly and nodded his head. "Yes, as you say. Here you are. More or less in evidence. By the by, Mr. Hammle, what did you see while you were waiting in the garden for the next train?"
"Not a thing—absolutely!" Hammle's tone was aggressive. "I walked along the boxwood hedges, smoking, and was leaning over the parapet by the gate, looking out at the city, when I heard you come out carrying the nurse."
Vance narrowed his eyes: it was obvious he was not satisfied with Hammle's explanation.
"And you saw no one else either in the garden or on the terrace?"
"Not a soul," the man assured him.
"And you heard nothing?"
"Not until you gentlemen came out."
Vance stood regarding Hammle for several moments. Then he turned and walked toward the garden window.
"That will be all for the moment," he said brusquely. "But we shall probably want to see you tomorrow."
"I'll be at home all day. Glad to be of any service." Hammle shot a covert look at Vance, made his adieux quickly, and went out down the passageway.
13. THE AZURE STAR
(Saturday, April 14; 7 p.m.)
Vance returned at once to the garden. Miss Beeton drew herself up a little as he approached her.
"Do you feel equal to a few questions?" he asked her.
"Oh, yes." She smiled with more assurance now, and rose.
Dusk was settling rapidly over the city. A dull slate color was replacing the blue mist over the river. The skies beyond the Jersey hills were luminous with the vivid colors of the sunset, and in the distance tiny specks of yellow light were beginning to appear in the windows of the serried buildings. A light breeze was blowing from the north, and the air was cool.
As we crossed the garden to the balustrade, Miss Beeton took a deep breath and shuddered slightly.
"You'd better have your coat," Vance suggested. He returned to the study and brought it out to her. When he had helped her into it she turned suddenly and looked at him inquiringly.
"Why was my coat brought to the study?" she asked. "It's been worrying me frightfully...with all the terrible things that have been going on today."
"Why should it worry you?" Vance smiled at the girl. "A misplaced coat is surely not a serious matter." His tone was reassuring. "But we really owe you an explanation. You see, two revolvers figured in Swift's death. One of them we all saw on the roof here—that was the one with which the chap was killed. But no one downstairs heard the shot because the poor fellow met his end in Professor Garden's storeroom vault—"
"Ah! That was why you wanted to know if the key was in its place." The girl nodded.
"The shot we all heard," Vance went on, "was fired from another revolver after Swift's body had been carried from the vault and placed in the chair out here. We were naturally anxious to find that other weapon, and Sergeant Heath made a search for it..."
"But—but—my coat?" Her hand went out and she clutched at Vance's sleeve as a look of understanding came into her frightened eyes.
"Yes," Vance said, "the Sergeant found the revolver in the pocket of your top-coat. Some one had put it there as a tempor'ry hiding-place."
She recoiled with a sudden intake of breath. "How dreadful!" Her words were barely audible.
Vance put his hand on her shoulder.
"If you had not come to the study when you did and seen the coat, we would have returned it to the closet downstairs and saved you all this worry."
"But it's too terrible!...And then this—this attempt on my life. I can't understand. I'm frightened."
"Come, come," Vance exhorted the girl. "It's over now, and we need your help."
She gazed directly into his eyes for several minutes. Then she gave him a faint smile of confidence.
"I'm very sorry," she said simply. "But this house—this family— they've been doing queer things to my nerves for the past month. I can't explain it, but there's something frightfully wrong here...I was in charge of an operating room in a Montreal hospital for six months, attending as many as six and eight operations a day; but that never affected me the way this household does. There, at least, I could see what was going on—I could help and know that I was helping. But here everything goes on in dark corners, and nothing I do seems to be of any use. Can you imagine a surgeon suddenly going blind in the middle of a laparotomy and trying to continue without his sight? That's how I feel in this strange place...But please don't think I am not ready to help—to do anything I can for you. You, too, always have to work in the dark, don't you?"
"Don't we all have to work in the dark?" Vance murmured, without taking his eyes from her. "Tell me who you think could have been guilty of the terrible things that have happened here."
All fear and doubt seemed to have left the girl. She moved toward the balustrade and stood looking over the river with an impressive calm and self-control.
"Really, I don't know," she answered with quiet restraint. "There are several possibilities, humanly speaking. But I haven't had time to think about it clearly. It all happened so suddenly..."
"Yes, quite," put in Vance. "Things like that usually do come suddenly and without previous warning."
"Woode Swift's death wasn't at all the sort of thing I would expect to happen here," the girl went on. "I wouldn't have been surprised at some act of impulsive violence, but this premeditated murder, so subtle and so carefully planned, seems alien to the atmosphere here. Besides, it isn't a loving family, except on the surface. Psychologically, every one seems at cross purposes—full of hidden hatreds. No contacts anywhere—I mean, no understanding contacts. Floyd Garden is saner than the others. His interests are narrow, to be sure, but, on his own mental level, he has always impressed me as being straightforward and eminently human. He's dependable, too, I think. He's intolerant of subtleties and profundities, and has always taken the course of ignoring the existence of those qualities which have caused friction between the other members of the household. Maybe I'm wrong about it, but that has been my impression."
She paused and frowned.
"As for Mrs. Garden, I feel that by nature she is shallow and is deliberately creating for herself a deeper and more complex mode of life, which she doesn't in the least understand. That, of course, makes her unreasonable and dangerous. I have never had a more unreasonable patient. She has no consideration whatever for others. Her affection for her nephew has never seemed genuine to me. He was like a little clay model that she had made and prized highly. If she had an idea for another figurine, I feel that she would have wet the clay and remodeled it into a new object of adoration."
"And Professor Garden?"
"He's a researcher and scientist, of course, and, therefore, not altogether human, in the conventional sense. I have thought sometimes that he isn't wholly rational. To him people and things are merely elements to be converted into some new chemical combination. Do you understand what I am trying to say?"
"Yes, quite well," Vance assured her. "Every scientist imagines himself an Übermensch. Power is his god. Many of the world's greatest scientists have been regarded as madmen. Perhaps they were. Yes. A queer problem. The possession of power induces weakness. Silly notion, what? The most dangerous agency in the world is science. Especially dangerous to the scientist himself. Every great scientific discoverer is a Frankenstein. However...What is your impression of the guests who were present today?"
"I don't feel competent to pass judgment on them," the girl replied seriously. "I can't entirely understand them. But each one strikes me as dangerous in his own way. They are all playing a game—and it seems to be a game without rules. To them the outcome justifies the methods they use. They seem to be mere seekers after sensation, trying to draw the veil of illusion over life's realities because they are not strong enough to face the facts."
"Yes, quite. You have clear vision." Vance scrutinized the girl beside him. "And you took up nursing because you are able to face the realities. You are not afraid of life—or of death."
The girl looked embarrassed.
"You're making too much of my profession. After all, I had to earn my living, and nursing appealed to me."
"Yes, of course. It would." Vance nodded. "But tell me, wouldn't you rather not have to work for your living?"
She looked up.
"Perhaps. But isn't it natural for every woman to prefer luxury and security to drudgery and uncertainty?"
"No doubt," said Vance. "And speakin' of nursing, just what do you think of Mrs. Garden's condition?"
Miss Beeton hesitated before she answered:
"Really, I don't know what to say. I can't understand it. And I rather suspect that Doctor Siefert himself is puzzled by it. Mrs. Garden is obviously a sick woman. She shows many of the symptoms of that nervous, erratic temperament exhibited by people suffering from cancer. Though she's much better some days than others, I know that she suffers a great deal. Doctor Siefert tells me she is really a neurological case; but I get the feeling, at times, that it goes much deeper—that an obscure physiological condition is producing the neurological symptoms she shows."
"That's most interestin'. Doctor Siefert mentioned something of the kind to me only a few days ago." Vance moved nearer to the girl. "Would you mind telling me something of your contacts with the members of the household?"
"There's very little to tell. Professor Garden practically ignores me— half the time I doubt if he even knows I am here. Mrs. Garden alternates between periods of irritable admonition and intimate confidence. Floyd Garden has always been pleasant and considerate. He has wanted me to be happy here, and has often apologized for his mother's abominable treatment of me at times. I've rather liked him for his attitude."
"And what of Swift—did you see much of him?" The girl seemed reluctant to answer and looked away; but she finally turned back to Vance.
"The truth is, Mr. Swift asked me several times to go to dinner and the theatre with him. He was never objectionable in his advances; but he did rather annoy me occasionally. I got the impression, though, that he was one of those unhappy men who feel their inferiority and seek to bolster themselves up with the affections of women. I think that he was really concerned with Miss Graem, and merely turned to me through pique."
Vance smoked for a few moments in silence. Then he said:
"What of the big race today? Had there been much discussion about it?"
"Oh, yes. For over a week I've heard little else here. A curious tension has been growing in the house. I heard Mr. Swift remark to Floyd Garden one evening that the Rivermont Handicap was his one remaining hope, and that he thought Equanimity would win. They immediately went into a furious argument regarding Equanimity's chances."
"Was it generally known to the other members of the afternoon gatherings how Swift felt about this race and Equanimity?"
"Yes, the matter was freely discussed for days.—You see," the girl added in explanation, "it's impossible for me not to overhear some of these afternoon discussions; and Mrs. Garden herself often takes part in them and then discusses them with me later."
"By the by," asked Vance, "how did you come to bet on Azure Star?"
"Frankly," the girl confessed shyly, "I've been mildly interested in the horse-betting parties here, though I've never had any desire to make a wager myself. But I overheard you tell Mr. Garden that you had picked Azure Star, and the name was so appealing that I asked Mr. Garden to place that bet for me. It was the first time I ever bet on a horse."
"And Azure Star came in." Vance sighed. "Too bad. Actually you bet against Equanimity, you know—he wa
s the favorite. A big gamble. Most unfortunate that you won. Beginner's luck, d' ye see, is always fatal."
The girl's face became suddenly sombre, and she looked steadily at Vance for several moments before she spoke again.
"Do you really think it will prove fatal?"
"Yes. Oh, yes. Inevitable. You won't be able to resist making other wagers. One doesn't stop with the first bet if one wins. And, invariably, one loses in the end."
Again the girl gave Vance a long and troubled look; then her gaze drifted to the darkening sky overhead.
"But Azure Star is a beautiful name, isn't it?" She pointed upward. "There's one now."
We all looked up. High above we saw a single bright star shining with blue luminosity in the cloudless sky. After a moment Vance moved toward the parapet and looked out over the waters of the river to the purpling hills and the still glowing sunset colors in the west. The sharp forms of the great gaunt buildings of the city to the south cut the empyrean like the unreal silhouettes on a theatrical drop.
"No city in the world," Vance said, "is as beautiful as New York seen from a vantage point like this in the early twilight." (I wondered at his sudden change of mood.)
He stepped up on the parapet and looked down into the great abyss of deep shadows and flickering lights far below. A curious chill of fear ran over me—the sort of fear I have always felt when I have seen acrobatic performers perilously balanced high above a circus arena. I knew Vance had no fear of heights and that he possessed an abnormal sense of equilibrium. But I nevertheless drew in an involuntary breath; my feet and lower limbs began to tingle; and for a moment I actually felt faint.
Miss Beeton was standing close to Markham, and she, too, must have experienced something of the sensation I felt, for I saw her face go suddenly pale. Her eyes were fixed on Vance with a look of apprehensive horror, and she caught at Markham's arm as if for support.
Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 2 Page 56