“The ambulance, Sergeant! Hurry! Scarlett’s still alive.…”
Heath dashed up the stairs and disappeared into the front hall.
Markham regarded Vance intently.
“I don’t understand this,” he said huskily.
“Nor do I—entirely.” Vance’s eyes were on Scarlett. “I advised him to keep away from here. He, too, knew the danger, and yet.… You remember Rider Haggard’s dedication of Allan Quartermain to his son, wherein he spoke of the highest rank to which one can attain—the state and dignity of an English gentleman?145…Scarlett was an English gentleman. Knowing the peril, he came here tonight. He thought he might end the tragedy.”
Markham was stunned and puzzled.
“We’ve got to take some sort of action—now.”
“Yes.…” Vance was deeply concerned. “But the difficulties! There’s no evidence. We’re helpless.… Unless—” He stopped short. “That hieroglyphic letter! Maybe it’s here somewhere. Tonight was the time; but Scarlett came unexpectedly. I wonder if he knew about that, too.…” Vance’s eyes drifted thoughtfully into space, and for several moments he stood rigid. Then he suddenly went to the sarcophagus and, striking a match, looked inside.
“Nothing.” There was dire disappointment in his tone. “And yet, it should be here.…” He straightened up. “Perhaps…yes! That, too, would be logical.”
He knelt down beside the unconscious man and began going through his pockets. Scarlett’s coat was buttoned, and it was not until Vance had reached into the inner breast pocket that his search was rewarded. He drew out a crumpled sheet of yellow scratch paper of the kind on which Salveter’s Egyptian exercise had been written, and after one glance at it thrust it into his own pocket.
Heath appeared at the door.
“O.K.,” he called down, “I told ’em to rush it.”
“How long will it take?” Vance asked.
“Not more’n ten minutes. I called Headquarters; and they’ll relay it to the local station. They generally pick up the cop on the beat—but that don’t delay things. I’ll wait here at the door for ’em.”
“Just a moment.” Vance wrote something on the back of an envelope and handed it up to Heath. “Call Western Union and get this telegram off.”
Heath took the message, read it, whistled softly, and went out into the hall.
“I’m wiring Salveter at New Haven to leave the train at New London and return to New York,” Vance explained to Markham. “He’ll be able to catch the Night Express at New London, and will get here early tomorrow morning.”
Markham looked at him shrewdly.
“You think he’ll come?”
“Oh, yes.”
When the ambulance arrived, Heath escorted the interne, the blue-uniformed driver and the police officer into the museum. The interne, a pink-faced youth with a serious brow, bowed to Markham and knelt beside Scarlett. After a superficial examination, he beckoned to the driver.
“Go easy with his head.”
The man, assisted by the officer, lifted Scarlett to the stretcher.
“How bad is he, doctor?” Markham asked anxiously.
“Pretty bad, sir.” The interne shook his head pompously. “A messy fracture at the base of the skull. Cheyne-Stokes breathing. If he lives, he’s luckier than I’ll ever be.” And with a shrug he followed the stretcher out of the house.
“I’ll phone the hospital later,” Markham said to Vance. “If Scarlett recovers, he can supply us with evidence.”
“Don’t count on it,” Vance discouraged him. “Tonight’s episode was isolated.” He went to the sarcophagus and reversed the jack. Slowly the lid descended to its original position. “A bit dangerous, don’t y’ know, to leave it up.”
Markham stood by frowning.
“Vance, what paper was that you found in Scarlett’s pocket?”
“I imagine it was an incriminatin’ document written in Egyptian hieroglyphs. We’ll see.”
He spread the paper out smoothly on the top of the sarcophagus. It was almost exactly like the letter Vance had pieced together in Bliss’s study. The color of the paper was the same, and it contained four rows of hieroglyphs in green ink.
Vance studied it while Markham and Heath, who had returned to the museum, and I looked on.
“Let me see how well I remember my Egyptian,” he murmured. “It’s been years since I did any transliterating.…”
He placed his monocle in his eye and bent forward.
“Meryt-Amûn, aha-y o er yu son maut-y en merya-y men seshem pen dya-y em yeb-y era-y en marwet mar-en yu rekha-t khet nibet hir-sa hetpa-t na-y kheft shewa-n em debat nefra-n entot hena-y.… This is done very accurately, Markham. The nouns and adjectives agree as to gender, and the verb endings—”
“Never mind those matters,” Markham interrupted impatiently. “What does that paper say?”
“I beg of you, Markham old dear!” Vance protested. “Middle-Kingdom Egyptian is a most difficult language. Coptic and Assyrian and Greek and Sanskrit are abecedarian beside it. However, I can give you a literal translation.” He began reading slowly: “‘Beloved of Amûn, I stop here until comes the brother of my mother. Not do I wish that should-endure this situation. I have-placed in my heart that I should-act for the sake of our well-being. Thou shalt-know every-thing later. Thou shalt-be-satisfied toward me when we are-free from what-blocks-the-way, happy-are we, thou together-with me.…’ Not what you’d call Harvardian. But such were the verbal idiosyncrasies of the ancient Egyptians.”
“Well, it don’t make sense to me,” Heath commented sourly.
“But properly paraphrased it makes fiendish sense, Sergeant. Put into everyday English, it says: ‘Meryt-Amen: I am waiting here for my uncle. I cannot endure this situation any longer; and I have decided to take drastic action for the sake of our happiness. You will understand everything later, and you will forgive me when we are free from all obstacles and can be happy together.’… I say, Sergeant; does that make sense?”
“I’ll tell the world!” Heath looked at Vance with an air of contemptuous criticism. “And you sent that bird Salveter to Boston!”
“He’ll be back tomorrow,” Vance assured him.
“But see here”;—Markham’s eyes were fixed on the incriminating paper—“what about that other letter you pieced together? And how did this letter get in Scarlett’s pocket?”
Vance folded the paper carefully and placed it in his wallet.
“The time has come,” he said slowly, “to tell you everything. It may be, when you have the facts in hand, you can figure out some course of procedure. I can see legal difficulties ahead; but I now have all the evidence we can ever hope for.” He was uneasy and troubled. “Scarlett’s intrusion in tonight’s happenings changed the murderer’s plans. Anyway, I can now convince you of the incredible and abominable truth.”
Markham studied him for several moments, and a startled light came in his eyes.
“God Almighty!” he breathed. “I see what you mean.” He clicked his teeth together. “But first I must phone the hospital. There’s a chance that Scarlett can help us—if he lives.”
He went to the rear of the museum and mounted the spiral stairs to the study. A few minutes later he reappeared, his face dark and hopeless.
“I spoke to the doctor,” he said. “There’s not one chance in a thousand for Scarlett. Concussion of the brain—and suffocation. They’ve got the pulmotor on him now. Even if he does pull through he’ll be unconscious for a week or two.”
“I was afraid of that.” I had rarely seen Vance so distressed. “We were too late. But—dash it all!—I couldn’t have foreseen his quixotism. And I warned him.…”
“Come, old man.” Markham spoke with paternal kindliness. “It’s not your fault. There was nothing you could have done. And you were right in keeping the truth to yourself—”
“Excuse me!” Heath was exasperated. “I myself ain’t exactly an enemy of truth. Why can’t I get in on this?”
He moved toward the stairs; and we followed him.
CHAPTER 21
THE MURDERER
(Saturday, July 14, 10:40 P.M.)
As we entered the drawing-room Brush rose. He was pale and palpably frightened.
“Why are you worried?” Vance asked.
“Suppose, sir, I should be blamed!” the man blurted. “It was I who left the front door open yesterday morning—I wanted to get some fresh air. And then you came and said something had happened to Mr. Kyle. I know I shouldn’t have unlatched the door.” (I realized then why he had acted in so terrified a manner.)
“You may cheer up,” Vance told him. “We know who killed Mr. Kyle, and I can assure you, Brush, that the murderer didn’t come in the front door.”
“Thank you, sir.” The words were like a sigh of relief.
“And now tell Hani to come here. Then you may go to your room.”
Brush had scarcely left us when there was the sound of a key being inserted in the front door. A moment later Doctor Bliss appeared at the entrance to the drawing-room.
“Good-evening, doctor,” Vance greeted him. “I hope we’re not intrudin’. But there are several questions we wish to ask Hani during Mr. Salveter’s absence.”
“I understand,” Bliss returned, with a sad nod. “You know, then, of Salveter’s excursion to Boston.”
“He phoned me and asked if he might go.”
Bliss looked at Vance with heavy, inquisitive eyes.
“His wanting to go north at this time was most unusual,” he said; “but I did not raise any objection. The atmosphere here is very depressing, and I sympathized with his desire to escape from it.”
“What time did he leave the house?” Vance put the question carelessly.
“About nine. I offered to drive him to the station.…”
“At nine, what? And where was he between eight and nine?”
Bliss looked unhappy.
“He was with me in the study. We were going over details regarding the reproductions of Hotepheres’ tomb furniture.”
“Was he with you when Mr. Scarlett arrived?”
“Yes.” Bliss frowned. “Very peculiar, Scarlett’s visit. He evidently wanted to talk to Salveter alone. He acted most mysteriously—treated Salveter with a sort of resentful coldness. But I continued to discuss the object of Salveter’s trip north—”
“Mr. Scarlett waited?”
“Yes. He watched Salveter like a hawk. Then, when Salveter went out, Scarlett went with him.”
“Ah! And you, doctor?” Vance was apparently absorbed in selecting a cigarette from his case.
“I stayed in the study.”
“And that’s the last you saw of either Scarlett or Salveter?”
“Yes I went for a walk about half past nine. I looked in the museum on my way out, thinking possibly Scarlett had remained and would join me; but the room was dark. So I strolled down the avenue to Washington Square.…”
“Thank you, doctor.” Vance had lighted his cigarette and was smoking moodily. “We sha’n’t trouble you any more tonight.”
Hani entered the room.
“You wish to see me?” His manner was detached and, I thought, a trifle bored.
“Yes.” Vance indicated a chair facing the table. Then he turned quickly to Bliss who was on the point of going out.
“On second thought, doctor, it may be advisable for us to question you again regarding Mr. Salveter.—Would you mind waiting in the study?”
“Not at all.” Bliss shot him a comprehending glance, and went down the hall. A few moments later we heard the study door close.
Vance gave Hani a curious look, which I did not understand.
“I have something I wish to tell Mr. Markham,” he said. “Will you be good enough to stand in the hall and see that no one disturbs us?”
Hani rose.
“With pleasure, effendi.” And he took his post outside.
Vance closed the folding doors, and coming back to the centre-table, settled himself comfortably.
“You, Markham—and you, Sergeant—were both right yesterday morning when you concluded that Doctor Bliss was guilty of murdering Kyle—”
“Say, listen!” Heath leapt to his feet. “What the hell—!”
“Oh, quite, Sergeant. Please sit down and control yourself.”
“I said he killed him! And you said—”
“My word! Can’t you be tranquil? You’re so upsettin’, Sergeant.” Vance made an exasperated gesture. “I’m aware you remarked inelegantly that Bliss had ‘croaked’ Mr. Kyle. And I trust you have not forgotten that I said to you last night that we often arrive at the same destination at the same time—but from opposite directions.”
“That was what you meant, was it?” Heath resumed his seat surlily. “Then why didn’t you let me arrest him?”
“Because that’s what he wanted you to do.”
“I’m floundering,” Heath wailed. “The world has gone nuts.”
“Just a moment, Sergeant.” Markham spoke peremptorily. “I’m beginning to understand this affair. It’s not insane in the least.—Let Mr. Vance continue.”
Heath started to expostulate, but instead made a grimace of resignation, and began chewing on his cigar.
Vance regarded him sympathetically.
“I knew, Sergeant—or at least I strongly suspected—within five minutes after entering the museum yesterday morning, that Bliss was guilty. Scarlett’s story about the appointment gave me the first clew. Bliss’s telephone call in the presence of every one and his remarks about the new shipment struck me as fitting in perfectly with a preconceived plan. Then, when I saw the various clews, I felt positive they had been planted by Bliss himself. With him it was not only a matter of pointing suspicion to himself, but—on second view—of throwing suspicion on another. Fortunately he overstepped the grounds of plausibility; for had some one else committed the crime, the planted clews would have been less numerous and less obvious. Consequently, I leapt to the conclusion that Bliss had murdered Kyle and had, at the same time, striven to lead us to think that he was the victim of a plot—”
“But, Mr. Vance,” interrupted Heath, “you said—”
“I did not say one word to give you the definite impression that I exonerated Bliss. Not once did I say he was innocent.… Think back. You’ll remember I said only that the clews did not ring true—that things were not what they seemed. I knew the clews were traps, set by Bliss to deceive us. And I also knew—-as Mr. Markham knew—that if we arrested Bliss on the outward evidence, it would be impossible to convict him.”
Markham nodded thoughtfully.
“Yes, Sergeant. Mr. Vance is quite correct. I can’t recall a single remark of his inconsistent with his belief in Bliss’s guilt.”
“Although I knew Bliss was guilty,” Vance continued, “I didn’t know what his ultimate object was or whom he was trying to involve. I suspected it was Salveter—though it might have been either Scarlett or Hani or Mrs. Bliss. I at once saw the necessity of determining the real victim of his plot. So I pretended to fall in with the obvious situation. I couldn’t let Bliss think that I suspected him,—my only hope lay in pretending that I believed some one else was guilty. But I did avoid the traps set for us. I wanted Bliss to plant other clews against his victim and perhaps give us some workable evidence. That was why I begged you to play a waiting game with me.”
“But what was Bliss’s idea in having himself arrested?” Markham asked. “There was danger in that.”
“Very little. He probably believed that even before an indictment he or his lawyer could persuade you of his innocence and of Salveter’s guilt. Or, if he had been held for trial, he was almost sure of an acquittal, and would then be entirely safe on the caressin’
principle of double jeopardy, or autrefois acquit.… No, he was running no great risk. And remember, too, he was playing a big game. Once he had been arrested, he would have felt justified in pointing openly to Salveter as the murderer and plotter. Hence I fought against your arresting him, for it was the very thing he wanted. As long as he thought he was free from suspicion, there was no point in his defending himself at Salveter’s expense. And, in order to involve Salveter, he was forced to plant more evidence, to concoct other schemes. And it was on these schemes that I counted for evidence.”
“I’m sunk!” The ashes of Heath’s cigar toppled off and fell over his waistcoat, but he didn’t notice them.
“But, Sergeant, I gave you many warnings. And there was the motive. I’m convinced that Bliss knew there was no more financial help coming from Kyle; and there’s nothing he wouldn’t have done to insure a continuation of his researches. Furthermore, he was intensely jealous of Salveter: he knew Mrs. Bliss loved the young cub.”
“But why,” put in Markham, “did he not merely kill Salveter?”
“Oh, I say! The money was a cardinal factor,—he wanted Meryt-Amen to inherit Kyle’s wealth. His second’ry object was to eliminate Salveter from Meryt-Amen’s heart: he had no reason for killing him. Therefore he planned subtly to disqualify him by making it appear that Salveter not only had murdered his uncle but had tried to send another to the chair for it.”
Vance slowly lighted a fresh cigarette.
“Bliss was killing three birds with one stone. He was making himself a martyr in Meryt-Amen’s eyes; he was eliminating Salveter; he was insuring his wife a fortune with which he could continue his excavations. Few murders have had so powerful a triple motive.… And one of the tragic things is that Mrs. Bliss more than half believed in Salveter’s guilt. She suffered abominably. You recall how she took the attitude that she wanted the murderer brought to justice. And she feared all the time that it was Salveter.…”
“Still and all,” said Heath, “Bliss didn’t seem very anxious to get Salveter mixed up in the affair.”
“Ah, but he was, Sergeant. He was constantly involving Salveter while pretending not to. A feigned reluctance, as it were. He couldn’t be too obvious about it—that would have given his game away.… You remember my question of who had charge of the medical supplies. Bliss stuttered, as if trying to shield some one. Very clever, don’t y’ know.”
The Philo Vance Megapack Page 135