The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  For several minutes she neither moved nor spoke. Then her hands closed slowly, and her lips parted.

  “What do you want?” she asked in a low resonant voice.

  “Mrs. Drukker,”—it was Vance who answered—“as Miss Dillard has told you, a tragedy occurred next door this morning, and since your window is the only one directly overlooking the archery range, we thought that you might have seen something that would aid us in our investigation.”

  The woman’s vigilance relaxed perceptibly, but it was a moment or two before she spoke.

  “And what did take place?”

  “A Mr. Robin was killed.—You knew him perhaps?”

  “The archer—Belle’s Champion Archer?… Yes, I knew him. A strong healthy child who could pull a heavy bow and not get tired.—Who killed him?”

  “We don’t know.” Vance, despite his negligent air, was watching her astutely. “But inasmuch as he was killed on the range, within sight of your window, we hoped you might be able to help us.”

  Mrs. Drukker’s eyelids drooped craftily, and she clasped her hands with a kind of deliberate satisfaction.

  “You are sure he was killed on the range?”

  “We found him on the range,” Vance returned non-committally.

  “I see.… But what can I do to help you?” She lay back relaxed.

  “Did you notice any one on the range this morning?” asked Vance.

  “No!” The denial was swift and emphatic. “I saw no one. I haven’t looked out on the range all day.”

  Vance met the woman’s gaze steadily, and sighed.

  “It’s most unfortunate,” he murmured. “Had you been looking out of the window this morning, it’s wholly possible you might have seen the tragedy.… Mr. Robin was killed with a bow and arrow, and there seems to have been no motive whatever for the act.”

  “You know he was killed with a bow and arrow?” she asked, a tinge of color coming into her ashen cheeks.

  “That was the Medical Examiner’s report. There was an arrow through his heart when we found him.”

  “Of course. That seems perfectly natural, doesn’t it?… An arrow through the Robin’s heart!” She spoke with vague aloofness, a distant, fascinated look in her eyes.

  There was a strained silence, and Vance moved toward the window.

  “Do you mind if I look out?”

  With difficulty the woman brought herself back from some far train of thought.

  “Oh, no. It isn’t much of a view, though. I can see the trees of 76th Street toward the north, and a part of the Dillard yard to the south. But that brick wall opposite is very depressing. Before the apartment house was built I had a beautiful view of the river.”

  Vance looked for a while down into the archery range.

  “Yes,” he observed; “if only you had been at the window this morning you might have seen what happened. Your view of the range and the basement door of the Dillards’ is very clear.… Too bad.” He glanced at his watch. “Is your son in, Mrs. Drukker?”

  “My son! My baby! What do you want with him?” Her voice rose pitifully, and her eyes fastened on Vance with venomous hatred.

  “Nothing important,” he said pacifying. “Only, he may have seen some one on the range—”

  “He saw no one! He couldn’t have seen any one, for he wasn’t here. He went out early this morning, and hasn’t returned.”

  Vance looked with pity at the woman.

  “He was away all morning?—Do you know where he was?”

  “I always know where he is,” Mrs. Drukker answered proudly. “He tells me everything.”

  “And he told you where he was going this morning?” persisted Vance gently.

  “Certainly. But I forget for the moment. Let me think.…” Her long fingers tapped on the arm of the chair, and her eyes shifted uneasily. “I can’t recall. But I’ll ask him the moment he returns.”

  Miss Dillard had stood watching the woman with growing perplexity.

  “But, Lady Mae, Adolph was at our house this morning. He came to see Sigurd—”

  Mrs. Drukker drew herself up.

  “Nothing of the kind!” she snapped, eyeing the girl almost viciously. “Adolph had to go—downtown somewhere. He wasn’t near your house—I know he wasn’t.” Her eyes flashed, and she turned a defiant glare on Vance.

  It was an embarrassing moment; but what followed was even more painful.

  The door opened softly, and suddenly Mrs. Drukker’s arms went out.

  “My little boy—my baby!” she cried. “Come here, dear.”

  But the man at the door did not come forward. He stood blinking his beady little eyes at us, like a person waking in strange surroundings. Adolph Drukker was scarcely five feet tall. He had the typical congested appearance of the hunchback. His legs were spindling, and the size of his bulging, distorted torso seemed exaggerated by his huge, dome-like head. But there was intellectuality in the man’s face—a terrific passionate power which held one’s attention. Professor Dillard had called him a mathematical genius; and one could have no doubts as to his erudition.85

  “What does all this mean?” he demanded in a high-pitched, tremulous voice, looking toward Miss Dillard. “Are these friends of yours, Belle?”

  The girl started to speak, but Vance halted her with a gesture.

  “The truth is, Mr. Drukker,” he explained sombrely, “there has been a tragedy next door. This is Mr. Markham, the District Attorney, and Sergeant Heath of the Police Department; and at our request Miss Dillard brought us here that we might ask your mother whether or not she had noticed anything unusual on the archery range this morning. The tragedy occurred just outside the basement door of the Dillard house.”

  Drukker thrust his chin forward and squinted.

  “A tragedy, eh? What kind of tragedy?”

  “A Mr. Robin was killed—with a bow and arrow.”

  The man’s face began to twitch spasmodically.

  “Robin killed? Killed?… What time?”

  “Some time between eleven and twelve probably.”

  “Between eleven and twelve?” Quickly Drukker’s gaze shifted to his mother. He seemed to grow excited, and his huge splay fingers worried the hem of his smoking-jacket. “What did you see?” His eyes glinted as he focussed them on the woman.

  “What do you mean, son?” The retort was a panic-stricken whisper.

  Drukker’s face became hard, and the suggestion of a sneer twisted his lips.

  “I mean that it was about that time when I heard a scream in this room.”

  “You didn’t! No—no!” She caught her breath, and wagged her head jerkily. “You’re mistaken, son. I didn’t scream this morning.”

  “Well, some one did.” There was a cold relentlessness in the man’s tone. Then, after a pause, he added: “The fact is, I came up-stairs after I heard the scream, and listened at the door here. But you were walking about humming ‘Eia Popeia,’ so I went back to my work.”

  Mrs. Drukker pressed a handkerchief to her face, and her eyes closed momentarily.

  “You were at your work between eleven and twelve?” Her voice now rang with subdued eagerness. “But I called you several times—”

  “I heard you. But I didn’t answer. I was too busy.”

  “So that was it.” She turned slowly toward the window. “I thought you were out. Didn’t you tell me?”

  “I told you I was going to the Dillards’. But Sigurd wasn’t there, and I came back a little before eleven.”

  “I didn’t see you come in.” The woman’s energy was spent, and she lay back listlessly, her eyes on the brick wall opposite. “And when I called and you didn’t answer I naturally thought you were still out.”

  “I left the Dillards’ by the street gate, and took a walk in the park.” Drukker’s voice was irritable. “Then I let myself in by the front door.”

  “And you say you heard me scream.… But why should I scream, son? I’ve had no pains in my back this morning.”

&nbs
p; Drukker frowned, and his little eyes moved swiftly from Vance to Markham.

  “I heard some one scream—a woman—in this room,” he iterated stubbornly. “About half past eleven.” Then he sank into a chair and gazed moodily at the floor.

  This perplexing verbal intercourse between mother and son had held us all spellbound. Though Vance had stood before an old eighteenth-century print near the door, regarding it with apparent absorption, I knew that no word or inflection had escaped him. Now he swung about and, giving Markham a signal not to interfere, approached Mrs. Drukker.

  “We’re very sorry, madam, that we’ve had to trouble you. Forgive us, if you can.”

  He bowed and turned to Miss Dillard.

  “Do you care to pilot us back? Or shall we find our own way down?”

  “I’ll come with you,” the girl said; and going to Mrs. Drukker she put her arm about her. “I’m so sorry, Lady Mae.”

  As we were passing out into the hall Vance, as if on second thought, paused and looked back at Drukker.

  “You’d better come with us, sir,” he said, in a casual yet urgent tone. “You knew Mr. Robin, and you may be able to suggest something—”

  “Don’t go with them, son!” cried Mrs. Drukker. She was sitting upright now, her face contorted with anguish and fear. “Don’t go! They’re the enemy. They want to hurt you.…”

  Drukker had risen.

  “Why shouldn’t I go with them?” he retorted petulantly. “I want to find out about this affair. Maybe—as they say—I can help them.” And with a gesture of impatience he joined us.

  CHAPTER VI

  “‘I,’ SAID THE SPARROW”

  (Saturday, April 2; 3 P.M.)

  When we were again in the Dillard drawing-room and Miss Dillard had left us to rejoin her uncle in the library, Vance, without preliminaries, proceeded to the business in hand.

  “I didn’t care to worry your mother, Mr. Drukker, by questioning you in front of her, but inasmuch as you called here this morning shortly before Mr. Robin’s death, it is necessary—as a mere routine procedure—that we seek whatever information you can give us.”

  Drukker had seated himself near the fireplace. He now drew in his head cautiously, but made no answer.

  “You came here,” continued Vance, “about half past nine, I believe, to call on Mr. Arnesson.”

  “Yes.”

  “By way of the archery range and the basement door?”

  “I always come that way. Why walk around the block?”

  “But Mr. Arnesson was out this morning.”

  Drukker nodded. “At the university.”

  “And, finding Mr. Arnesson away, you sat for a while in the library with Professor Dillard, I understand, discussing an astronomical expedition to South America.”

  “The expedition of the Royal Astronomical Society to Sobral to test the Einsteinian deflection,” amplified Drukker.

  “How long were you in the library?”

  “Less than half an hour.”

  “And then?”

  “I went down to the archery-room, and glanced at one of the magazines. There was a chess problem in it—a Zugszwang end-game that came up recently between Shapiro and Marshall—and I sat down and worked it out.…”

  “Just a moment, Mr. Drukker.” A note of suppressed interest came into Vance’s voice. “You’re interested in chess?”

  “To a certain extent. I don’t spend much time at it, however. The game is not purely mathematical; and it’s insufficiently speculative to appeal to a wholly scientific mind.”

  “Did you find the Shapiro-Marshall position difficult?”

  “Not so difficult as tricky.” Drukker was watching Vance shrewdly. “As soon as I discovered that an apparently useless pawn move was the key to the impasse, the solution was simple.”

  “How long did it take you?”

  “Half an hour or so.”

  “Until about half past ten, shall we say?”

  “That would be about right.” Drukker settled deeper into his chair, but his covert alertness did not relax.

  “Then you must have been in the archery-room when Mr. Robin and Mr. Sperling came there.”

  The man did not answer at once, and Vance, pretending not to notice his hesitancy, added: “Professor Dillard said they called at the house about ten and, and after waiting a while in the drawing-room here, went down to the basement.”

  “Where’s Sperling now, by the way?” Drukker’s eyes darted suspiciously from one to the other of us.

  “We expect him here any minute,” Vance replied. “Sergeant Heath has sent two of his men to fetch him.”

  The hunchback’s eyebrows lifted. “Ah! So Sperling is being forcibly brought back.” He pyramided his spatulate fingers and inspected them musingly. Then he slowly lifted his eyes to Vance. “You asked me if I saw Robin and Sperling in the archery-room.—Yes; they came down-stairs just as I was going.”

  Vance leaned back and stretched his legs before him.

  “Did you get the impression, Mr. Drukker, that they had—as we euphemistically say—been having words?”

  The man considered this question for several moments.

  “Now that you mention it,” he said at length, “I do recall that there seemed to be a coolness between them. I wouldn’t, however, care to be too categorical on that point. You see, I left the room almost immediately after they entered.”

  “You went out the basement door, I think you said, and thence through the wall gate into 75th Street. Is that correct?”

  For a moment Drukker seemed loath to answer; but he replied with an effort at unconcern.

  “Quite. I thought I’d take a stroll along the river before going back to work. I went to the Drive, then up the bridle path, and turned into the park at 79th Street.”

  Heath, with his habitual suspicion of all statements made to the police, put the next question.

  “Did you meet any one you knew?”

  Drukker turned angrily, but Vance quickly stepped into the breach.

  “It really doesn’t matter, Sergeant. If it’s necess’ry later on to ascertain that point, we can take the matter up again.” Then to Drukker: “You returned from your walk a little before eleven, I think you said, and entered your house by the front door.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You saw nothing, by the by, that was in the least extr’ordin’ry when you were here this morning?”

  “I saw nothing except what I’ve told you.”

  “And you’re quite sure you heard your mother scream at about half past eleven?”

  Vance did not move as he asked this question; but a slightly different note had crept into his voice, and it acted on Drukker in a startling manner. He heaved his squat body out of his chair, and stood glaring down on Vance with menacing fury. His tiny round eyes flashed, and his lips worked convulsively. His hands, dangling before him, flexed and unflexed like those of a man in a paroxysm.

  “What are you driving at?” he demanded, his voice a shrill falsetto. “I tell you I heard her scream. I don’t care a damn whether she admits it or not. Moreover, I heard her walking in her room. She was in her room, understand, and I was in my room, between eleven and twelve. And you can’t prove anything different. Furthermore, I’m not going to be cross-examined by you or any one else as to what I was doing or where I was. It’s none of your damned business—do you hear me?…”

  So insensate was his wrath that I expected any minute to see him hurl himself on Vance. Heath had risen and stepped forward, sensing the potential danger of the man. Vance, however, did not move. He continued to smoke languidly, and when the other’s fury had been spent, he said quietly and without a trace of emotion:

  “There’s nothing more we have to ask you, Mr. Drukker. And really, y’ know, there’s no need to work yourself up. It merely occurred to me that your mother’s scream might help to establish the exact time of the murder.”

  “What could her scream have to do with the time of Robin
’s death? Didn’t she tell you she saw nothing?” Drukker appeared exhausted, and leaned heavily against the table.

  At this moment Professor Dillard appeared in the archway. Behind him stood Arnesson.

  “What seems to be the matter?” the professor asked. “I heard the noise here, and came down.” He regarded Drukker coldly. “Hasn’t Belle been through enough today without your frightening her this way?”

  Vance had risen, but before he could speak Arnesson came forward and shook his finger in mock reprimand at Drukker.

  “You really should learn control, Adolph. You take life with such abominable seriousness. You’ve worked in interstellar spatial magnitudes long enough to have some sense of proportion. Why attach so much importance to this pin-point of life on earth?”

  Drukker was breathing stertorously.

  “These swine—” he began.

  “Oh, my dear Adolph!” Arnesson cut him short. “The entire human race are swine. Why particularize?… Come along. I’ll see you home.” And he took Drukker’s arm firmly and led him downstairs.

  “We’re very sorry we disturbed you, sir,” Markham apologized to Professor Dillard. “The man flew off the handle for some unknown reason. These investigations are not the pleasantest things in the world; but we hope to be through before long.”

  “Well, make it as brief as you can, Markham. And do try to spare Belle as much as possible.—Let me see you before you go.”

  When Professor Dillard had returned up-stairs, Markham took a turn up and down the room, his brows knit, his hands clasped behind him.

  “What do you make of Drukker?” he asked, halting before Vance.

  “Decidedly not a pleasant character. Diseased physically and mentally. A congenital liar. But canny—oh, deuced canny. An abnormal brain—you often find it in cripples of his type. Sometimes it runs to real constructive genius, as with Steinmetz; but too often it takes to abstruse speculation along impractical lines, as with Drukker. Still, our little verbal give-and-take has not been without fruit. He’s hiding something that he’d like to tell but doesn’t dare.”