The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  Arnesson paused and filled his pipe.

  “Now, Mr. Markham,” he went on; and I tried to decide whether or not the man was in earnest, “I’d like the opportunity of applying to this absurd muddle the purely rational means used by Leverrier in discovering Neptune. But I’ve got to have the data on the perturbations of Uranus’s orbit, so to speak—that is, I must know all the varying factors in the equation. The favor I’ve come here to ask is that you take me into your confidence and tell me all the facts. A sort of intellectual partnership. I’ll figure out this problem for you along scientific lines. It’ll be bully sport; and incidentally I’d like to prove my theory that mathematics is the basis of all truth however far removed from scholastic abstractions.” He at last got his pipe going, and sank back in his chair. “Is it a bargain?”

  “I’ll be glad to tell you whatever we know, Arnesson,” Markham replied after a brief pause. “But I can’t promise to reveal everything that may arise from now on. It might work against the ends of justice and embarrass our investigation.”

  Vance had sat with half-closed eyes, apparently bored by Arnesson’s astonishing request; but now he turned to Markham with a considerable show of animation.

  “I say, y’ know; there’s really no reason why we shouldn’t give Mr. Arnesson a chance to translate this crime into the realm of applied mathematics. I’m sure he’d be discreet and use our information only for scientific purposes. And—one never knows, does one?—we may need his highly trained assistance before we’re through with this fascinatin’ affair.”

  Markham knew Vance well enough to realize that his suggestion had not been made thoughtlessly; and I was in no wise astonished when he faced Arnesson and said:

  “Very well, then. We’ll give you whatever data you need to work out your mathematical formula. Anything special you want to know now?”

  “Oh, no. I know the details thus far as well as you; and I’ll strip Beedle and old Pyne of their contributions when you’re gone. But if I solve this problem and determine the exact position of the criminal, don’t pigeon-hole my findings as Sir George Airy did those of poor Adams when he submitted his Neptunean calculations prior to Leverrier’s.…”

  At this moment the front door opened, and the uniformed officer stationed on the porch came in, followed by a stranger.

  “This gent here says he wants to see the professor,” he announced with radiating suspicion; and turning to the man he indicated Markham with a gesture of the head. “That’s the District Attorney. Tell him your troubles.”

  The newcomer seemed somewhat embarrassed. He was a slender, well-groomed man with an unmistakable air of refinement. His age, I should say, was fifty, though his face held a perennially youthful look. His hair was thin and graying, his nose a trifle sharp, and his chin small but in no way weak. His eyes, surmounted by a high broad forehead, were his most striking characteristic. They were the eyes of a disappointed and disillusioned dreamer—half sad, half resentful, as if life had tricked him and left him unhappy and bitter.

  He was about to address Markham when he caught sight of Arnesson.

  “Oh, good-morning, Arnesson,” he said, in a quiet, well-modulated voice. “I hope there’s nothing seriously wrong.”

  “A mere death, Pardee,” the other replied carelessly. “The proverbial tempest in a teapot.”

  Markham was annoyed at the interruption.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked.

  “I trust I am not intruding,” the man apologized. “I am a friend of the family,—I live just across the street; and I perceived that something unusual had happened here. It occurred to me I might be of some service.”

  Arnesson chuckled. “My dear Pardee! Why clothe your natural curiosity in the habiliments of rhetoric?”

  Pardee blushed.

  “I assure you, Arnesson—” he began; but Vance interrupted him.

  “You say you live opposite, Mr. Pardee. You have perhaps been observing this house during the forenoon?”

  “Hardly that, sir. My study, however, overlooks 75th Street, and it’s true I was sitting at the window most of the morning. But I was busy writing. When I returned to my work from lunch I noticed the crowd and the police cars and also the officer in uniform at the door.”

  Vance had been studying him from the corner of his eye.

  “Did you happen to see any one enter or leave this house this morning, Mr. Pardee?” he asked.

  The man shook his head slowly.

  “No one in particular. I noticed two young men—friends of Miss Dillard—call at about ten o’clock; and I saw Beedle go out with her market basket. But that’s all I recall.”

  “Did you see either of these young men depart?”

  “I don’t remember.” Pardee knit his brows. “And yet it seems to me one of them left by the range gate. But it’s only an impression.”

  “What time would that have been?”

  “Really, I couldn’t say. Perhaps an hour or so after his arrival. I wouldn’t care to be more specific.”

  “You recall no other person whatever either coming or going from the house this morning?”

  “I saw Miss Dillard return from the tennis courts about half past twelve, just as I was called to lunch. In fact, she waved her racket to me.”

  “And no one else?”

  “I’m afraid not.” There was unmistakable regret in his quiet response.

  “One of the young men you saw enter here has been killed,” Vance told him.

  “Mr. Robin—alias Cock Robin,” supplemented Arnesson, with a comic grimace which affected me unpleasantly.

  “Good Heavens! How unfortunate!” Pardee appeared genuinely shocked. “Robin? Wasn’t he the Champion Archer of Belle’s club?”

  “His one claim to immortality.—That’s the chap.”

  “Poor Belle!” Something in the man’s manner caused Vance to regard him sharply. “I hope she’s not too greatly upset by the tragedy.”

  “She’s dramatizing it, naturally,” Arnesson returned. “So are the police, for that matter. Awful pother about nothing in particular. The earth is covered with ‘small crawling masses of impure carbohydrates’ like Robin—referred to in the aggregate as humanity.”

  Pardee smiled with tolerant sadness,—he was obviously familiar with Arnesson’s cynicisms. Then he appealed to Markham.

  “May I be permitted to see Miss Dillard and her uncle?”

  “Oh, by all means.” It was Vance who answered before Markham could reach a decision. “You’ll find them in the library, Mr. Pardee.”

  The man left the room with a polite murmur of thanks.

  “Queer fellow,” commented Arnesson, when Pardee was out of hearing. “Cursed with money. Leads an indolent life. His one passion is solving chess problems.…”

  “Chess?” Vance looked up with interest. “Is he, by any chance, John Pardee, the inventor of the famous Pardee gambit?”

  “The same.” Arnesson’s face crinkled humorously. “Spent twenty years developing a cast-iron offensive that was to add new decimal points to the game. Wrote a book about it. Then went forth proselytizing like a crusader before the gates of Damascus. He’s always been a great patron of chess, contributing to tournaments, and scurrying round the world to attend the various chess jousting-bouts. Consequently was able to get his gambit tested. It made a great stir among the infra-champions of the Manhattan Chess Club. Then poor Pardee organized a series of Masters Tournaments. Paid all the expenses himself. Cost him a fortune, by the way. And of course he stipulated that the Pardee gambit be played exclusively. Well, well, it was very sad. When men like Doctor Lasker and Capablanca and Rubinstein and Finn got to combating it, it went to pieces. Almost every player who used it lost. It was disqualified—even worse than the ill-fated Rice gambit. Terrible blow for Pardee. It put snow in his hair, and took all the rubber out of his muscles. Aged him, in short. He’s a broken man.”

  “I know the history of the gambit,” murmured Vance, his eyes rest
ing pensively on the ceiling. “I’ve used it myself. Edward Lasker82 taught it to me.…”

  The uniformed officer again appeared in the archway and beckoned to Heath. The Sergeant rose with alacrity—the ramifications of chess obviously bored him—and went into the hall. A moment later he returned bearing a small sheet of paper.

  “Here’s a funny one, sir,” he said, handing it to Markham. “The officer outside happened to see it sticking outa the mail-box just now, and thought he’d take a peep at it.—What do you make of it, sir?”

  Markham studied it with puzzled amazement, and then without a word handed it to Vance. I rose and looked over his shoulder. The paper was of the conventional typewriter size, and had been folded to fit into the mail-box. It contained several lines of typing done on a machine with élite characters and a faded blue ribbon.

  The first line read:

  Joseph Cochrane Robin is dead.

  The second line asked:

  Who Killed Cock Robin?

  Underneath was typed:

  Sperling means sparrow.

  And in the lower right-hand corner—the place of the signature—were the two words, in capitals:

  THE BISHOP.

  CHAPTER V

  A WOMAN’S SCREAM

  (Saturday, April 2; 2.30 P.M.)

  Vance, after glancing at the strange message with its even stranger signature, reached for his monocle with that slow deliberation which I knew indicated a keen suppressed interest. Having adjusted the glass he studied the paper intently. Then he handed it to Arnesson.

  “Here’s a valuable factor for your equation.” His eyes were fixed banteringly on the man.

  Arnesson regarded the note superciliously, and with a wry grimace laid it on the table.

  “I trust the clergy are not involved in this problem. They’re notoriously unscientific. One can’t attack them with mathematics. ‘The Bishop’…,” he mused. “I’m unacquainted with any gentlemen of the cloth.—-I think I’ll rule out this abracadabra when making my calculations.”

  “If you do, Mr. Arnesson,” replied Vance seriously, “your equation, I fear, will fall to pieces. That cryptic epistle strikes me as rather significant. Indeed—if you will pardon a mere lay opinion—I believe it is the most mathematical thing that has appeared thus far in the case. It relieves the situation of all haphazardness or accident. It’s the g, so to speak—the gravitational constant which will govern all our equations.”

  Heath had stood looking down on the typewritten paper with solemn disgust.

  “Some crank wrote this, Mr. Vance,” he declared.

  “Undoubtedly a crank, Sergeant,” agreed Vance. “But don’t overlook the fact that this particular crank must have known many interestin’ and intimate details—to wit, that Mr. Robin’s middle name was Cochrane; that the gentleman had been killed with a bow and arrow; and that Mr. Sperling was in the vicinity at the time of the Robin’s passing. Moreover, this well-informed crank must have had what amounted to foreknowledge regarding the murder; for the note was obviously typed and inserted in the letter-box before you and your men arrived on the scene.”

  “Unless,” countered Heath doggedly, “he’s one of those bimboes out in the street, who got wise to what had happened and then stuck this paper in the box when the officer’s back was turned.”

  “Having first run home and carefully typewritten his communication—eh, what?” Vance shook his head with a rueful smile. “No, Sergeant, I’m afraid your theory won’t do.”

  “Then what in hell does it mean?” Heath demanded truculently.

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea.” Vance yawned and rose. “Come, Markham, let’s while away a few brief moments with this Mr. Drukker whom Beedle abhors.”

  “Drukker!” exclaimed Arnesson, with considerable surprise. “Where does he fit in?”

  “Mr. Drukker,” explained Markham, “called here this morning to see you; and it’s barely possible he met Robin and Sperling before he returned home.” He hesitated. “Would you care to accompany us?”

  “No, thanks.” Arnesson knocked out his pipe and got up. “I’ve a pile of class papers to look over.—It might be as well, however, to take Belle along. Lady Mae’s a bit peculiar.…”

  “Lady Mae?”

  “My mistake. Forgot you didn’t know her. We all call her Lady Mae. Courtesy title. Pleases the poor old soul. I’m referring to Drukker’s mother. Odd character.” He tapped his forehead significantly. “Bit touched. Oh, perfectly harmless. Bright as a whistle, but monominded, as it were. Thinks the sun rises and sets in Drukker. Mothers him as if he were an infant. Sad situation.… Yes, you’d better take Belle along. Lady Mae likes Belle.”

  “A good suggestion, Mr. Arnesson,” said Vance. “Will you ask Miss Dillard if she’ll be good enough to accompany us?”

  “Oh, certainly.” Arnesson gave us an inclusive smile of farewell—a smile which seemed at once patronizing and satirical—and went up-stairs. A few moments later Miss Dillard joined us.

  “Sigurd tells me you want to see Adolph. He, of course, won’t mind; but poor Lady Mae gets so upset over even the littlest things.…”

  “We sha’n’t upset her, I hope.” Vance spoke reassuringly. “But Mr. Drukker was here this morning, d’ ye see; and the cook says she thought she heard him speaking to Mr. Robin and Mr. Sperling in the archery-room. He may be able to help us.”

  “I’m sure he will if he can,” the girl answered with emphasis. “But be very careful with Lady Mae, won’t you?”

  There was a pleading, protective note in her voice, and Vance regarded her curiously.

  “Tell us something of Mrs. Drukker—or Lady Mae—before we visit her. Why should we be so careful?”

  “She’s had such a tragic life,” the girl explained. “She was once a great singer—oh, not just a second-rate artist, but a prima donna with a marvelous career before her.83 She married a leading critic of Vienna—Otto Drucker84—and four years later Adolph was born. Then one day in the Wiener Prater, when the baby was two years old, she let him fall; and from that moment on her entire life was changed. Adolph’s spine was injured, and he became a cripple. Lady Mae was heartbroken. She held herself to blame for his injury, and gave up her career to devote herself to his care. When her husband died a year later she brought Adolph to America, where she had spent some of her girlhood, and bought the house where she now lives. Her whole life has been centred on Adolph, who grew up a hunchback. She has sacrificed everything for him, and cares for him as though he were a baby.…”

  A shadow crossed her face. “Sometimes I think—we all think—that she still imagines he’s only a child. She has become—well, morbid about it. But it’s the sweet, terrible morbidity of a tremendous motherlove—a sort of insanity of tenderness, uncle calls it. During the past few months she has grown very strange—and peculiar. I’ve often found her crooning old German lullabies and kindergarten songs, with her arms crossed on her breast, as if—oh, it seems so sacred and so terrible!—as if she were holding a baby.… And she has become frightfully jealous of Adolph. She’s resentful of all other men. Only last week I took Mr. Sperling to see her—we often drop in to call on her: she seems so lonely and unhappy—and she looked at him almost fiercely, and said: ‘Why weren’t you a cripple, too?’…”

  The girl paused and searched our faces.

  “Now don’t you understand why I asked you to be careful?… Lady Mae may think we have come to harm Adolph.”

  “We sha’n’t add unnecessarily to her suffering,” Vance assured her sympathetically. Then, as we moved toward the hall, he asked her a question which recalled to my mind his brief intent scrutiny of the Drukker house earlier that afternoon. “Where is Mrs. Drukker’s room situated?”

  The girl shot him a startled look, but answered promptly:

  “On the west side of the house—its bay window overlooks the archery range.”

  “Ah!” Vance took out his cigarette case, and carefully selected a Régie. “Does she sit m
uch at this window?”

  “A great deal. Lady Mae always watches us at archery practice—why I don’t know. I’m sure it pains her to see us, for Adolph isn’t strong enough to shoot. He’s tried it several times, but it tired him so he had to give it up.”

  “She may watch you practising for the very reason that it does torture her—a kind of self-immolation, y’ know. Those situations are very distressing.” Vance spoke almost with tenderness—which, to one who did not know his real nature, would have sounded strange. “Perhaps,” he added, as we emerged into the archery range through the basement door, “it would be best if we saw Mrs. Drukker first for a moment. It might tend to allay any apprehensions our visit might cause her. Could we reach her room without Mr. Drukker’s knowledge?”

  “Oh, yes.” The girl was pleased at the idea. “We can go in the rear way. Adolph’s study, where he does his writing, is at the front of the house.”

  We found Mrs. Drukker sitting in the great bay window on a sprawling old-fashioned chaise-longue, propped up with pillows. Miss Dillard greeted her filially and, bending over her with tender concern, kissed her forehead.

  “Something rather awful has happened at our house this morning, Lady Mae,” she said; “and these gentlemen wanted to see you. I offered to bring them over. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Mrs. Drukker’s pale, tragic face had been turned away from the door as we entered, but now she stared at us with fixed horror. She was a tall woman, slender to the point of emaciation; and her hands, which lay slightly flexed on the arms of the chair, were sinewy and wrinkled like the talons of fabulous bird-women. Her face, too, was thin and deeply seamed; but it was not an unattractive face. The eyes were clear and alive, and the nose was straight and dominant. Though she must have been well past sixty, her hair was luxuriant and brown.