“No.” Vance shook his head. “Scarlett was to have remained in the sarcophagus only for a couple of days. When it was discovered tomorrow that he was missing Bliss would probably have found the body for us, along with the letter.”
He looked questioningly at Markham.
“How are we going to connect Bliss with the crime, since Salveter was in the house at the time of the attack?”
“If Scarlett should get well—”
“If!… Just so. But suppose he shouldn’t—and the chances are against him. Then what? Scarlett at most could only testify that Bliss had made an abortive and unsuccessful attack on him. True, you might convict him for felonious assault, but it would leave Kyle’s murder still unsolved. And if Bliss said that Scarlett attacked him and that he struck Scarlett in self-defense, you’d have a difficult time convicting him even for assault.”
Markham rose and walked up and down the room. Then Heath asked a question.
“How does this Ali Baba fit into the picture, Mr. Vance?”
“Hani knew from the first what had happened; and he was shrewd enough to see the plot that Bliss had built up about Salveter. He loved Salveter and Meryt-Amen, and he wanted them to be happy. What could he do except lend his every energy to protecting them? And he has certainly done this, Sergeant. Egyptians are not like Occidentals. It was against his nature to come out frankly and tell us what he suspected. Hani played a clever game—the only game he could have played. He never believed in the vengeance of Sakhmet. He used his superstitious logomachy to cover up the truth. He fought with words for Salveter’s safety.”
Markham halted in front of Vance.
“The thing is incredible! I have never known a murderer like Bliss.”
“Oh, don’t give him too much credit.” Vance lighted the cigarette he had been holding for the past five minutes. “He frightfully overdid the clews: he made them too glaring. Therein lay his weakness.”
“Still,” said Markham, “if you hadn’t come into the case I’d have brought a murder charge against him.”
“And you would have played into his hands. Because I didn’t want you to, I appeared to argue against his guilt.”
“A palimpsest!” Markham commented after a pause.
Vance took a deep draw on his cigarette.
“Exactly. Palimpsestos—‘again rub smooth.’ First came the true story of the crime, carefully indicated. Then it was erased, and the story of the murder, with Salveter as the villain, was written over it. This too, was erased, and the original story—in grotesque outline and filled with inconsistencies and loopholes—was again written. We were supposed to read the third version, become sceptical about it, and find the evidences of Salveter’s guilt between the lines. My task was to push through to the first and original version—the twice written-over truth.”
“And you did it, Mr. Vance!” Heath had risen and gone toward the door. “The doc is in the study, Chief. I’ll take him to Headquarters myself.”
CHAPTER 22
THE JUDGMENT OF ANÛBIS
(Saturday, July 14, 11 P.M.)
“I say, Sergeant! Don’t be rash.” Despite the drawling quality of Vance’s tone Heath halted abruptly. “If I were you I’d take a bit of legal advice from Mr. Markham before arresting the doctor.”
“Legal advice be damned!”
“Oh, quite. In principle I agree with you. But there’s no need to be temerarious about these little matters. Caution is always good.”
Markham, who was standing beside Vance, lifted his head.
“Sit down, Sergeant,” he ordered. “We can’t arrest a man on theory.” He walked to the fireplace and back. “This thing has to be thought out. There’s no evidence against Bliss. We couldn’t hold him an hour if a clever lawyer got busy on the case.”
“And Bliss knows it,” said Vance.
“But he killed Kyle!” Heath expostulated.
“Granted.” Markham sat down beside the table and rested his chin in his hands. “But I’ve nothing tangible to present to a grand jury. And, as Mr. Vance says, even if Scarlett should recover I’d have only an assault charge against Bliss.”
“What wallops me, sir,” moaned Heath, “is how a guy can commit murder almost before our very eyes, and get away with it. It ain’t reasonable.”
“Ah, but there’s little that’s reasonable in this fantastic and ironical world, Sergeant,” remarked Vance.
“Well, anyhow,” returned Heath, “I’d arrest that bird in a minute and take my chances at making the charge stick.”
“I feel the same way,” Markham said. “But no matter how convinced we are of the truth, we must be able to produce conclusive evidence. And this fiend has covered all the evidence so cleverly that any jury in the country would acquit him, even if we could hold him for trial—which is highly dubious.”
Vance sighed and looked up.
“The law!” He spoke with unusual fervor. “And the rooms in which this law is put on public exhibition are called courts of justice. Justice!—oh, my precious aunt! Summum jus, summa injuria. How can there be justice, or even intelligence, in echolalia?… Here we three are—a District Attorney; a Sergeant of the Homicide Bureau; and a lover of Brahms’ B-flat piano concerto—with a known murderer within fifty feet of us; and we’re helpless! Why? Because this elaborate invention of imbeciles, called the law, has failed to provide for the extermination of a dangerous and despicable criminal, who not only murdered his benefactor in cold blood, but attempted to kill another decent man, and then endeavored to saddle an innocent third man with both crimes so that he could continue digging up ancient and venerated corpses!… No wonder Hani detests him. At heart Bliss is a ghoul; and Hani is an honorable and intelligent man.”
“I admit the law is imperfect,” Markham interrupted tartly. “But your dissertation is hardly helpful. We’re confronted with a terrible problem, and a way must be found to handle it.”
Vance still stood before the table, his eyes fixed on the door.
“But your law will never solve it,” he said. “You can’t convict Bliss; you don’t even dare arrest him. He could make you the laughing-stock of the country if you tried it. And furthermore, he’d become a sort of persecuted hero who had been hounded by an incompetent and befuddled police, who had unjustly pounced on him in a moment of groggy desperation in order to save their more or less classic features.”
Vance took a deep draw on his cigarette.
“Markham old dear, I’m inclined to think the gods of ancient Egypt were more intelligent than Solon, Justinian, and all the other law-givers combined. Hani was spoofing about the vengeance of Sakhmet; but, after all, that solar-disked lady would be just as effective as your silly statutes. Mythological ideas are largely nonsense; but are they more nonsensical than the absurdities of present-day law?…”
“For God’s sake, be still.” Markham was irritable.
Vance looked at him in troubled concern.
“Your hands are tied by the technicalities of a legalistic system; and, as a result, a creature like Bliss is to be turned loose on the world. Moreover, a harmless chap like Salveter is to be put under suspicion and ruined. Also, Meryt-Amen—a courageous lady—”
“I realize all that.” Markham raised himself, an agonized look on his face. “And yet, Vance, there’s not one piece of convincing evidence against Bliss.”
“Most distressin’. Your only hope seems to be that the eminent doctor will meet with a sudden and fatal accident. Such things do happen, don’t y’ know.”
Vance smoked for a moment.
“If only Hani’s gods had the supernatural power attributed to them!” he sighed. “How deuced simple! And really, Anûbis hasn’t shown up at all well in this affair. He’s been excruciatingly lazy. As the god of the underworld—”
“That’s enough!” Markham rose. “Have a little sense of propriety. Being an aesthete without responsibilities is no doubt delightful, but the world’s work must go on.…”
“Oh
, by all means.” Vance seemed wholly indifferent to the other’s outburst. “I say, you might draw up a new law altering the existing rules of evidence, and present it to the legislature. The only difficulty would be that, by the time those intellectual Sandows got through debating and appointing committees, you and I and the Sergeant and Bliss would have passed forever down the dim corridors of time.”
Markham slowly turned toward Vance. His eyes were mere slits.
“What’s behind this childish garrulity?” he demanded. “You’ve got something on your mind.”
Vance seated himself on the edge of the table and, putting out his cigarette, thrust his hands deep into his pockets.
“Markham,” he said, with serious deliberation, “you know, as well as I, that Bliss is outside the law, and that there’s no human way to convict him. The only means by which he can be brought to book is trickery.”
“Trickery?” Markham was momentarily indignant.
“Oh, nothing reprehensible,” Vance answered lightly, taking out another cigarette. “Consider, Markham.…” And he launched out into a detailed recapitulation of the case. I could not understand the object of his wordy repetitions, for they seemed to have little bearing on the crucial point at issue. And Markham, also, was puzzled. Several times he attempted to interrupt, but Vance held up his hand imperatively and continued with his résumé.
After ten minutes Markham refused to be silenced.
“Come to the point, Vance,” he said somewhat angrily. “You’ve gone over all this before. Have you—or haven’t you—any suggestion?”
“Yes, I have a suggestion.” Vance spoke earnestly. “It’s a psychological experiment; and there is a chance that it’ll prove effective. I believe that if Bliss were confronted suddenly with what we know, and if a little forceful chicanery were used on him, he might be surprised into an admission that would give you a hold on him. He doesn’t know we found Scarlett in the sarcophagus, and we might pretend that we have got an incriminatin’ statement from the poor chap. We might go so far as to tell him that Mrs. Bliss is thoroughly convinced of the truth; for if he believes that his plot has failed and that there is no hope of his continuing his excavations, he may even confess everything. Bliss is a colossal egoist, and, if cornered, might blurt out the truth and boast of his cleverness. And you must admit that your one chance of shipping the old codger to the executioner lies in a confession.”
“Chief, couldn’t we arrest the guy on the evidence he planted against himself?” Heath asked irritably. “There was that scarab pin, and the bloody foot-marks and the finger-prints—”
“No, no, Sergeant.” Markham was impatient. “He has covered himself at every point. And the moment we arrested him he’d turn on Salveter. All we’d achieve would be the ruination of an innocent man and the unhappiness of Mrs. Bliss.”
Heath capitulated.
“Yeah, I can see that,” he said sourly, after a moment. “But this situation slays me. I’ve known some clever crooks in my day; but this bird Bliss has ’em all beat .… Why not take Mr. Vance’s suggestion?”
Markham halted in his nervous pacing, and set his jaw.
“I guess we’ll have to.” He fixed his gaze on Vance. “But don’t handle him with silk gloves.”
“Really, now, I never wear ’em. Chamois, yes—on certain occasions. And in winter I’m partial to pigskin and reindeer. But silk! Oh, my word!…”
He went to the folding door and threw it open. Hani stood just outside in the hall, with folded arms, a silent, watchful sentinel.
“Has the doctor left the study?” Vance asked.
“No, effendi.” Hani’s eyes looked straight ahead.
“Good!” Vance started down the hall. “Come, Markham. Let’s see what a bit of extra-legal persuasion will do.”
Markham and Heath and I followed him. He did not knock on the study door, but threw it open unceremoniously.
“Oh, I say! Something’s amiss.” Vance’s comment came simultaneously with our realization that the study was empty. “Dashed queer.” He went to the steel door leading to the spiral stairs, and opened it. “No doubt the doctor is communin’ with his treasures.” He passed through the door and descended the steps, the rest of us trailing along.
Vance drew up at the foot of the stairs and put his hand to his forehead.
“We’ll never interview Bliss again in this world,” he said in a low voice.
There was no need for him to explain. In the corner opposite, in almost the exact place where we had found Kyle’s body the preceding day, Bliss lay sprawled face downward in a pool of blood. Across the back of his crushed skull stretched the life-sized statue of Anûbis. The heavy figure of the underworld god had apparently fallen on him as he leaned over his precious items in the cabinet before which he had murdered Kyle. The coincidence was so staggering that none of us was able to speak for several moments. We stood, in a kind of paralyzed awe, looking down on the body of the great Egyptologist.
Markham was the first to break the silence.
“It’s incredible!” His voice was strained and unnatural. “There’s a divine retribution in this.”
“Oh, doubtless.” Vance moved to the feet of the statue and bent over. “However, I don’t go in for mysticism myself. I’m an empiricist—same like Weininger said the English are.”148 He adjusted his monocle. “Ah!… Sorry to disappoint you, and all that. But there’s nothing supernatural about the demise of the doctor. Behold, Markham, the broken ankles of Anûbis.… The situation is quite obvious. While the doctor was leaning over his treasure, he jarred the statue in some way, and it toppled over on him.”
We all bent forward. The heavy base of the statue of Anûbis stood where it had been when we first saw it; but the figure, from the ankles up, had broken off.
“You see,” Vance was saying, pointing to the base, “the ankles are very slender, and the statue is made of limestone—a rather fragile substance. The ankles no doubt were cracked in shipping, and the tremendous weight of the body weakened the flaw.”
Heath inspected the statue closely.
“That’s what happened, all right,” he remarked, straightening up.…” I ain’t had many breaks in my life, Chief,” he added to Markham with feigned jauntiness; “but I never want a better one than this. Mr. Vance mighta lured the doc into a confession—and he mighta failed. Now we got nothing to worry about.”
“Quite true.” Markham nodded vaguely. He was still under the influence of the astounding change in the situation. “I’m leaving you in charge, Sergeant. You’d better call the local ambulance and get the Medical Examiner. Phone me at home as soon as the routine work is finished. I’ll take care of the reporters in the morning.… The case is on the shelf, thank God!”
He stood for some time, his eyes fixed on the body. He looked almost haggard, but I knew a great weight had been taken off of his mind by Bliss’s unexpected death.
“I’ll attend to everything, sir,” Heath assured him. “But what about breaking the news to Mrs. Bliss?”
“Hani will do that,” said Vance. He put his hand on Markham’s arm. “Come along, old friend. You need sleep.… Let’s stagger round to my humble abode, and I’ll give you a brandy-and-soda. I still have some Napoléon-’48 left.”
“Thanks.” Markham drew a deep sigh.
As we emerged into the front hall Vance beckoned to Hani.
“Very touchin’, but your beloved employer has gone to Amentet to join the shades of the Pharaohs.”
“He is dead?” the Egyptian lifted his eyebrows slightly.
“Oh, quite, Hani. Anûbis fell on him as he leaned over the end cabinet. A most effective death. But there was a certain justice in it. Doctor Bliss was guilty of Mr. Kyle’s murder.”
“You and I knew that all along, effendi.” The man smiled wistfuly at Vance. “But I fear that the doctor’s death may have been my fault. When I unpacked the statue of Anûbis and set it in the corner, I noticed that the ankles were cracked. I did not tell
the doctor, for I was afraid he might accuse me of having been careless, or of having deliberately injured his treasure.”
“No one is going to blame you for Doctor Bliss’s death,” Vance said casually. “We’re leaving you to inform Mrs. Bliss of the tragedy. And Mr. Salveter will be returning early tomorrow morning.… Es-salâmu alei-kum.”
“Ma es salâm, effendi.”
Vance and Markham and I passed out into the heavy night air.
“Let’s walk,” Vance said. “It’s only a little over a mile to my apartment, and I feel the need of exercise.”
Markham fell in with the suggestion, and we strolled toward Fifth Avenue in silence. When we had crossed Madison Square and passed the Stuyvesant Club, Markham spoke.
“It’s almost unbelievable, Vance. It’s the sort of thing that makes one superstitious. Here we were, confronted by an insoluble problem. We knew Bliss was guilty, and yet there was no way to reach him. And while we were debating the case he stepped into the museum and was accidentally killed by a falling statue on practically the same spot where he murdered Kyle.… Damn it! Such things don’t happen in the orderly course of the world’s events. And what makes it even more fantastic is that you suggested that he might meet with an accident.”
“Yes, yes. Interestin’ coincidence.” Vance seemed disinclined to discuss the matter.
“And that Egyptian,” Markham rumbled on. “He wasn’t in the least astonished when you informed him of Bliss’s death. He acted almost as if he expected some such news—”
He suddenly drew up short. Vance and I stopped, too, and looked at him. His eyes were blazing.
“Hani killed Bliss!”
Vance sighed and shrugged.
“Of course he did, Markham. My word! I thought you understood the situation.”
“Understood?” Markham was spluttering. “What do you mean?”
“It was all so obvious, don’t y’ know,” Vance said mildly. “I realized, just as you did, that there was no chance of convicting Bliss; so I suggested to Hani how he could terminate the whole silly affair—”
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