SPRAWLED SUPINELY ACROSS THE bed, protruding eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling Ralph Chapman lay, mouth slightly agape, tongue thrust forward. It needed no second glance to confirm the butler’s diagnosis, and it required only a second glance to confirm his suspicion of murder, for in those bulging eyes and that protruding tongue, no less than in the area of bruise upon the throat, we read the autograph of homicide.
“So!” de Grandin gazed upon the body speculatively, then crossed the room, took the dead boy’s face between his hands and raised the head. It was as if the head and body joined by a cord rather than a column of bone and muscle, for there was no resistance to the little Frenchman’s slender hands as the young man’s chin nodded upward. “Ah—so-o-o!” de Grandin murmured. “He used unnecessary violence, this one; see, my friend”—he turned the body half-way over and pointed to a purpling bruise upon the rear of the neck—“two hands were used. In front we have the murderer’s thumb and finger marks; behind is ecchymosis due to counter-pressure. And so great a force was used that not only was this poor one strangled, but his neck was broken, as well.”
He passed his fingers tentatively along the outline of young Chapman’s jaw; then: “How long has he been dead, my friend?” he asked.
Following his example, I felt the dead boy’s jaw, then his chest and lower throat. “H’m,” I glanced at my watch, “my guess is six or seven hours. There’s still some stiffening of the jaw, but not much in the chest, and the forearms are definitely hard—yes, I’d say six hours at the least, eight at the most, judging by the advance of rigor mortis. That would place the time of death—”
“Somewhere near midnight,” he supplied. Then, irrelevantly: “They were strong hands that did this thing, my friend; the muscles of our necks are tough, our vertebræ are hard; yet this one’s neck is snapped as though it were a reed.”
“You—you’ve a suspicion?” I faltered.
“I think so,” he returned, sweeping the room with a quick, stock-taking glance.
“Ah, what is this?” He strode across the rug, coming to pause before the bureau. On the hanging mirror of the cabinet, outlined plainly as an heraldic device blazoned on a coat of arms, was a handprint, long slender fingers, the mounts of the palm and the delicately sweeping curve of the heel etched on the gleaming surface, as though a hand, dank with perspiration, had been pressed upon it.
“Now,” his slim black brows rose in saracenic arches as he regarded me quizzically, “for why should a midnight visitant especially if bent on murder, take pains to leave an autograph upon the mirror, good Friend Trowbridge?” he demanded.
“B-but that’s a woman’s hand,” I stammered. “Whoever broke Ralph Chapman’s neck was strong as a gorilla, you just said so. A woman—”
“Tell me, my friend,” he interrupted, fixing me with that level, disconcerting stare of his, “do you not wish to see that justice triumphs?”
“Why, yes, of course, but—
“And is it your opinion—I ask you as a man of medicine—that a man’s neck offers more resistance than, by example, a silver table-fork?”
I stared at him dumfounded. Ralph Chapman had publicly denounced Virginia Bushrod as a cheat; we had seen her going toward his room about the time of the murder; within five minutes we had seen her give a demonstration of manual strength scarcely to be equaled by a professional athlete. The evidence was damning, but—
“You’re going to turn her over to the police?” I asked.
For answer he drew the green-silk handkerchief peeping from the pocket of his brown sports coat, wadded it into a mop and erased the handprint from the mirror. “Come, my friend,” he ordered, “we must write out our report before the coroner arrives.”
THE MORTICIAN TO WHOM Coroner Lordon had entrusted Chapman’s body obligingly lent his funeral chapel for the inquest. The jury, picked at random from the villagers, occupied the space customarily assigned to the remains. The coroner himself sat in the clergyman’s enclosure. Witnesses were made comfortable in the family room, being called out one by one to testify. Through the curtained doorway leading to the chapel—ingeniously arranged to permit the mourning family to see and hear the funeral ceremonies without being seen by those assembled in the auditorium—we saw the butler testify to finding the body and heard him say he summoned de Grandin and me immediately.
“You give it as your medical opinion that death had taken place some six or seven hours earlier?” the coroner asked me.
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“And what, in your opinion, was the cause of death?”
“Without the confirmation of an autopsy I can only hazard an opinion,” I returned, “but from superficial examination I should say it was due to respiratory failure caused by a dislocation of the spinal column and rupture of the cord. The dislocation, as nearly as I could judge from feeling of the neck, took place between the second and third cervical vertebræ.”
“And how was the spinal fracture caused?”
“By manual pressure, sir—pressure with the hands. The bruises on the dead man’s neck show the murderer grasped him by the throat at first, probably to stifle any outcry, then placed one hand behind his head and with the other forced the chin violently upward, thereby simulating the quick pressure given the neck in cases of judicial hanging.”
“It would have required a man of more than usual strength to commit this murder in the manner you have described it?”
I drew a deep breath of relief. “Yes, sir, it would have had to be such a man,” I answered, emphasizing the final word, unconsciously, perhaps.
“Thank you, Doctor,” said the coroner, and called de Grandin to corroborate my testimony.
As the inquisition lengthened it became apparent Coroner Lordon had a theory of his own, which he was ingeniously weaving into evidence. Rather subtly he brought out the fact that the household had retired by eleven-thirty, and not till then did he call for testimony of the quarrel which had flared up in the billiard room. The painful scene was reenacted in minute detail; six men were forced to swear they heard young Connor threaten to break Chapman’s neck.
“Mr. Connor,” asked the coroner, “you rowed stroke oar at Norwood, I believe?”
Phil Connor nodded, and in his eyes was growing terror.
“Day before yesterday you won a twenty-dollar bet with Colonel Merridew by tearing a telephone directory in quarters, did you not?”
A murmur ran along the jury as the question stabbed young Connor like a rapier-thrust.
I saw Virginia Bushrod blanch beneath her tan, saw her long, slim hand go out to clutch her lover’s, but my interest in the by-play ceased as the final question hurtled like a crossbow bolt:
“Mr. Connor, where were you between the hours of twelve and two last night?”
The tortured youth’s face flushed, then went white as tallow as the frightened blood drained back. The trap had sprung. He rose, grasping at the chair in front of him till lines of white showed on his hands as the flexor muscles stood out pallidly against his sun-tanned skin.
“I—I must refuse to answer—” he began, and I could see his throat working convulsively as he fought for breath. “What I was doing then is no affair—”
“Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur le Coroner,” de Grandin rose and bowed respectfully, “I do not wonder that the young man is embarrassed. He was with me, and—believe me, I am grieved to mention it, and would not, if it were not necessary—he was drunk!”
“Drunk?” a slow flush stained the coroner’s face as he saw his cherished case evaporating.
“Drunk?” the little Frenchman echoed, casting a grin toward the responsive jury. “But yes, Monsieur. Drunk like a pig; so drunk he could not mount the stairs unaided.”
Before he could be interrupted he proceeded:
“Me, I am fond of liquor. I like it in the morning, I delight in it at noon; at night I utterly adore it. Last night, when I had gone to bed, I felt the need of stimulant. I rose and went downstairs, and as I
reached the bottom flight I turned and saw Messieurs Connor and Chapman on the balcony above. They were in argument, and seemed quite angry. ‘Holà, mes enfants,’ I called to them, ‘cease your dispute and join me in a drink. It will dissolve your troubles as a cup of coffee melts a lump of sugar.’
“Monsieur Chapman would have none of it. Perhaps he was one of those unfortunates who have no love for brandy; it might have been he did not choose to drink with Monsieur Connor. At any rate, he went into his room and closed the door, while Monsieur Connor joined me in the dining-room.
“Messieurs,” he bent another quick smile at the jurymen, “have you ever seen a man unused to liquor making the attempt to seem to like it? It is laughable is it not? So it was last night. This one”—he laid a patronizing hand upon young Connor’s shoulder—“he tipped his glass and poured the brandy down, then made a face as though it had been castor oil. Ah, but he had the gameness, as you say so quaintly over here. When I essayed a second drink he held his glass for more, and when I took a third, he still desired to keep me company; but then he scarce knew what he did. Three glasses of good cognac”—he fairly smacked his lips upon the word—“are not for one who does not give his serious thought to drinking. No, certainly.
“Before you could pronounce the name of that Monsieur Jacques Robinson our young friend here was drunk. Mordieu, it was superb! Not in more than twenty years have I been able to achieve such drunkenness, Messieurs. He staggered, his head hung low between his shoulders, and rolled from side to side; he smiled like a pussy-cat who has lately dined on cream; he toppled from his chair and lay upon the floor!
“I raised him up. ‘Come, Monsieur,’ I told him, ‘this is no way to do. You are like a little, naughty boy who creeps into his father’s cellar and gets drunk on stolen wine. Be a man, Monsieur. Come to bed!’
“Ah, but he could not. He could not walk, he could not talk, except to beg me that I would not tell his fiancée about his indiscretion. And so I dragged him up the stairs. Yes, I, who am not half his size, must carry him upstairs, strip off his clothes, and leave him snoring in a drunken stupor. He—”
“Then you think he couldn’t ‘a’ broke th’ other feller’s neck?” a juryman demanded with a grin.
De Grandin left his place, walked across the chapel till he faced his questioner and leant above him, speaking in a confidential whisper which he nevertheless managed to make audible throughout the room. “My friend,” he answered solemnly, “he could not break the bow of his cravat. I saw him try it several times; at last I had to do it for him.”
The verdict of the jury was that Ralph Chapman came to his death at the hands of some person or persons to them unknown.
DE GRANDIN POURED A thimbleful of old Courvoiser into his brandy sniffer, rotated the glass a moment, then held it to his nose, sighing ecstatically. “You know, my friend,” he told me as he sipped the cognac slowly, “I often wonder what became of them. It was a case with possibilities, that one. I can not rid my mind of the suspicion—”
“Whatever are you vaporing about?” I cut in testily. “What case, and what suspicion—”
“Why, that of Mademoiselle Bushrod and her fiancé, the young Monsieur Connor. I—”
“You certainly lied Phil Connor out of the electric chair,” I told him with a smile. “If ever I saw a death-trap closing in on anyone, it was the snare the coroner had laid for him. Whatever made you do it, man? Didn’t you want to see justice triumph?”
“I did,” he answered calmly, “but justice and law are not always cousins German, my friend. Justly, neither of those young folks was responsible for—”
“Beg pardon, sor, there’s a lady an’ gentleman askin’ fer Doctor de Grandin,” interrupted Nora McGinnis from the doorway. “A Misther Connor an’ Miss Bushrod. Will I be showin’ ’em in, I dunno?”
“By all means!” cried de Grandin, swallowing his brandy at a gulp. “Come, Friend Trowbridge, the angels whom we spoke of have appeared!”
PHIL CONNOR LOOKED EMBARRASSED; a darkling, haunted fear was in Virginia Bushrod’s eyes as we joined them in the drawing-room.
The young man drew a deep, long breath, like a swimmer about to dive into icy water, then blurted: “You saved my life, sir, when they had me on the spot last month. Now we’ve come to you again for help. Something’s been troubling us ever since Ralph Chapman died, and we believe that you’re the only one to clear it up.”
“But I am honored!” said de Grandin with a bow. “What is the nature of your worriment, my friends? Whatever I can do you may be sure I’ll do if you will take me in your confidence.
Young Connor rose, a faint flush on his face, and shifted from one foot to the other, like a schoolboy ill at ease before his teacher. “It’s more a matter of your taking us into your confidence, sir,” he said at length. “What really happened on the night Ralph Chapman’s neck was broken? Of course, that story which you told was pure invention—even though it saved me from a trial for murder—but both Virginia and I have been haunted by the fear that something which we do not know about happened, and—”
“How do you say, you fear that something which you do not know about,” he began, but Virginia Bushrod cut in with a question:
“Is there anything to the Freudian theory that dreams are really wish-fulfilments, Doctor? I’ve tried to tell myself there is, for that way lies escape, but—”
“Yes, Mademoiselle?” de Grandin prompted as she paused.
“Well, in a misty, hazy sort of way I recollect I dreamt that Ralph was dead that night and that—oh, I might as well tell everything! I dreamt I killed him!
“It seemed to me I got up out of bed and walked a long, long way along a dark and winding road. I came to a high mountain, but oddly, I was on its summit, without having climbed it. I descended to the valley, and everything was dark; then I sat down to rest, and far away I heard a strain of music It was soft, and sweet and restful, and I thought, ‘How good it is to be here listening—’
“Pardon, Mademoiselle, can you recall the tune you heard?” de Grandin asked, his small mustache aquiver like the whiskers of an alert tom-cat, his little, round blue eyes intent on her in an unwinking stare.
“Why, yes, I think I can. I’m totally tone-deaf, you know, utterly unable to reproduce a single note of music accurately, but there are certain tunes I recognize. This was one of them, the Londonderry Air.”
“Ah?” the little Frenchman flashed a warning look at me; then: “And what else did you dream?” he asked.
“The tune I listened to so gladly seemed to change. I couldn’t tell you what the new air was, but it was something dreadful—terrible. It was like the shrieking and laughing of a thousand fiends together—and they were laughing at me! They seemed to point derisive fingers at me, making fun of me because I’d been insulted by Ralph Chapman and didn’t dare resent it.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of the Canadian poet Service, Doctor, but somewhere in one of his poems he tells of the effect of music on a crowd of miners gathered in a saloon:
“The thought came back of an ancient wrong,
And it stung like a frozen lash,
And the lust arose to kill—to kill …
“That’s how that dream-tune seemed to me. The darkness round me seemed to change to dusky red, as though I looked out through a film of blood, and a single thought possessed me: ‘Kill Ralph Chapman; kill Ralph Chapman! He called you a low cheat before your friends tonight; kill him for it-wring his neck!’
“Then I was climbing up the mountainside again, clambering over rocks and boulders, and always round me was that angry, bloody glow, like the red reflection of a fire at night against the sky. At last I reached the summit, weak and out of breath, and there before me, sleeping on the rocks, was Ralph Chapman. I looked at him, and as I looked the hot resentment which I felt came flooding up until it nearly strangled me. I bent over him, took his throat between my hands and squeezed, pressed till his face grew bluish-gray and his eyes and
tongue were starting forward. Oh, he knew who it was, all right! Before I gave his neck the final vicious twist and felt it break beneath my fingers like a brittle stick that’s bent too far, I saw the recognition in his eyes and the deadly fear in them.
“I wasn’t sorry for the thing I’d done. I was deliriously happy. I’d killed my enemy, avenged the slight he’d put on me, and was nearly wild with fierce, exultant joy. I wanted to call everybody and show them what I’d done; how those who called Virginia Bushrod thief and cheat were dealt with.”
Her breath was coming fast, and in her eyes there shone a bright and gleaming light, as though the mere recital of the dream brought her savage exaltation. “The woman’s mad,” I told myself, “a homicidal maniac, if ever I saw one.”
“And then, Mademoiselle?” I heard de Grandin ask soothingly.
“Then I awoke. My hands and brow and cheeks were bathed in perspiration, and I trembled with a sort of chilled revulsion. ‘Girl, you’ve certainly been on a wish-fulfillment spree in Shut-eye Town,’ I told myself as I got out of bed.
‘It was early, not quite five o’clock, but I knew there was no chance of further sleep, so I took a cold shower, got into my riding-clothes, and went for a long gallop. I argued with myself while riding, and had almost convinced myself that it was all a ghastly dream when I met you and Doctor Trowbridge having breakfast.
“When you mentioned hearing the Londonderry Air the night before, I went almost sick. The thought crashed through my brain: ‘Music at midnight—music at midnight—music luring me to murder!’
“Then, when the butler ran out on the terrace and told you Ralph was dead—”
“Precisely, Mademoiselle, one understands,” de Grandin supplied softly.
“I don’t believe you do,” she contradicted with a wan and rather frightened smile. “For a long time—almost ever since my accident—I’ve had an odd, oppressive feeling every now and then that I was not myself.”
“Eh, that you were someone else?” he asked her sharply.
“Yes, that’s it, that I was someone different from myself—”
The Best of Jules de Grandin Page 63