“Oh, sure,” he answered. “This key on the amplifier doesn’t interfere with any of the extension phones.”
As the radio tubes warmed up, McElroy’s well-known voice gained in volume over the loud speaker:
“…and Equanimity is now making trouble at the post. Took the cue from Head Start… Now they’re both back in their stalls—it looks as if we might get a—Yes! They’re off! And to a good even start. Hyjinx has dashed into the lead; Azure Star comes next; and Heat Lightning is close behind. The others are bunched. I can’t tell one from the other yet. Wait a second. Here they come past us—we’re up on the roof of the grandstand here, looking right down on them—and it’s Hyjinx on top now, by two lengths; and behind her is Train Time; and—yes, it’s Sublimate, by a head, or a nose, or a neck—it doesn’t matter—it’s Sublimate anyway. And there’s Risky Lad creeping up on Sublimate… And now they’re going round the first turn, with Hyjinx still in the lead. The relative positions of the ones out front haven’t changed yet… They’re in the backstretch, and Hyjinx is still ahead by half a length; Train Time has moved up and holds his second position by a length and a half ahead of Roving Flirt, who’s in third place. Azure Star is a length behind Roving Flirt. Equanimity is pocketed, but he’s coming around on the outside now; he’s far behind but gaining; and just behind him is Grand Score, making a desperate effort to get in the clear…”
At this point in the broadcast Zalia Graem appeared suddenly in the archway and stood with her eyes fixed on the radio, her hands sunk in the pockets of her tailored jacket. She rocked a little back and forth, her head slightly to one side, wholly absorbed in the description of the race.
“… They’re rounding the far turn. Equanimity has improved his position and is getting into his famous stride. Hyjinx has dropped back and Roving Flirt has taken the lead by a head, with Train Time second, by a length, in front of Azure Star, who is running third and making a grand effort… And now they’re in the stretch. Azure Star has come to the front and is a full length in the lead. Train Time is making a great bid for this classic and is still in second place, a length behind Azure Star. Roving Flirt is right behind him. Hyjinx has dropped back and it looks as if she was no longer a serious contender. Equanimity is pressing hard and is now in sixth place. He hasn’t much time, but he’s running a beautiful race and may come up front yet. Grand Score is falling by the wayside. Sublimate is far out in front of both of them but is not gaining. And I guess the rest are out of the running… And here they come to the finish. The leaders are straight out—there won’t be much change. Just a second. Here they come… AND…the winner is AZURE STAR by two lengths. Next is Roving Flirt. And a length behind him is Train Time. Upper Shelf finished fourth… Wait a minute. Here come the numbers on the board—Yes, I was right. It’s 3, 4, and 2. Azure Star wins the great Rivermont Handicap. Second is Roving Flirt. And third is Train Time…”
Hammle swung round in his chair and shut off the radio.
“Well,” he said, releasing a long-held breath, “I was partly right, at that.”
“Not such a hot race,” Miss Graem remarked with a toss of her head. “I’ll just about break even. Anyway, I won’t have to join a nudist colony this spring… Now I’ll go and finish my phone call.” And she turned back down the hall.
Garden seemed ill at ease and, for the second time that afternoon, mixed himself a highball.
“Equanimity wasn’t even in the money,” he commented, as if to himself…” But the results aren’t official yet. Don’t let your hopes rise too high—and don’t despair. The winners won’t be official for a couple of minutes—and there’s no telling what may happen. Remember the final race on the get-away day of the Saratoga meet, when all three placed horses were disqualified?…”227
Just then Mrs. Garden bustled into the room, her hat, fox scarf, and gloves still on, and two small packages tucked under her arm.
“Don’t tell me I’m too late!” she pleaded excitedly. “The traffic was abominable—three-quarters of an hour from 50th Street and Fifth Avenue… Is the big race over?”
“All over but the O.K., mater,” Garden informed her.
“And what did I do?” The woman came forward and dropped wearily into an empty chair.
“The usual,” grinned Garden. “A Grand Score? Your noble steed didn’t score at all. Condolences. But it’s not official yet. We’ll be getting the O.K. in a minute now.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Mrs. Garden despondently. “The only foul claimed in a race I bet on is against my horse when he wins—and it’s always allowed. Nothing can save me now. And I’ve just spent an outrageous sum on a Brussels lace luncheon set.”
Garden cut in the amplifier. There were several moments of silence, and then:
“It’s official at Rivermont. O.K. at Rivermont. Off at 4:16. The winner is number 3, Azure Star. Number 4, Roving Flirt, second; and number 2, Train Time, third. That’s 3, 4, and 2—Azure Star, Roving Flirt, and Train Time. The running 2:02 and one-fifth—a new track record. And the mats: Azure Star paid $26.80, $9.00 and $6.60. Roving Flirt, $5.20 and $4.60. Train Time, $8.40… Next post at 4:40…”
“Well, there it is,” said Garden glumly, throwing back the switch and making rapid notations in his ledger. “Sneed, our admirable Crichton, makes six and a half dollars. The absent Mr. Kroon loses five hundred, and the present Miss Weatherby loses one hundred and fifty. Our old fox hunter is ahead just two hundred and twenty dollars, with part of which he can buy me a good dinner tomorrow. And you, mater, lose your two hundred dollars—very sad. I myself was robbed of six hundred berries. Zalia—who gets her sizzling tips from the friend of a friend of a distant relative of the morganatic wife of a double-bug rider—is one hundred and twenty dollars to the good—enough to get shoes and a hat and a handbag to match her new spring outfit. And Mr. Vance, the eminent dopester of crimes and ponies, can now take a luxurious vacation. He’s the possessor of thirty-six hundred and forty dollars— of which thirty-six dollars and forty cents goes to our dear nurse. … And Woode, of course…” His voice trailed off.
“What did Woody do?” demanded Mrs. Garden, sitting up stiffly in her chair.
“I’m frightfully sorry, mater,”—her son groped for words—“but Woody didn’t use his head. I tried to dissuade him, but it was no go…”
“Well, what did Woody do?” persisted Mrs. Garden. “Did he lose much?”
Garden hesitated, and before he could formulate an answer, a paralyzing sound, like a pistol shot, broke the tense silence.
Vance was the first on his feet. His face was grim as he moved rapidly toward the archway. I followed him, and just behind came Garden. As I turned into the hallway I saw the others in the drawing-room get up and move forward. Had the report not been preceded by so electric an atmosphere, I doubt if it would have caused any particular perturbation; but, in the circumstances, every one, I think, had the same thought in mind when the detonation of the shot was heard.
As we hurried down the hall Zalia Graem opened the den door.
“What was that?” she asked, her frightened eyes staring at us.
“We don’t know yet,” Vance told her.
In the bedroom door, at the lower end of the hall, stood the nurse, with a look of inquiring concern on her otherwise placid face.
“You’d better come along, Miss Beeton,” Vance said, as he started up the stairs two at a time. “You may be needed.”
Vance swung into the upper corridor and stopped momentarily at the door on the right, which led out upon the roof. This door was still propped open, and after a hasty preliminary survey through it, he stepped quickly out into the garden.
The sight that met our eyes was not wholly unexpected. There, in the low chair which he had pointed out to us earlier that afternoon, sat Woode Swift, slumped down, with his head thrown back at an unnatural angle against the rattan head-rest, and his legs straight out before him. He still wore the earphone. His eyes were open and staring; his lips were slightly
parted; and his thick glasses were tilted forward on his nose.
In his right temple was a small ugly hole beneath which two or three drops of already coagulating blood had formed. His right arm hung limp over the side of the chair, and on the colored tiling just under his hand lay a small pearl-handled revolver.
Vance immediately approached the motionless figure, and the rest of us crowded about him. Zalia Graem, who had forced her way forward and was now standing beside Vance, swayed suddenly and caught at his arm. Her face had gone pale, and her eyes appeared glazed. Vance turned quickly and, putting his arm about her, half led and half carried her to a large wicker divan nearby. He made a beckoning motion of his head to Miss Beeton.
“Look after her for a moment,” he requested. “And keep her head down.” Then he returned to Swift. “Every one please keep back,” he ordered. “No one is to touch him.”
He took out his monocle and adjusted it carefully. Then he leaned over the crumpled figure in the chair. He cautiously scrutinized the wound, the top of the head, and the tilted glasses. When this examination was over he knelt down on the tiling and seemed to be searching for something. Apparently he did not find what he sought, for he stood up with a discouraged frown and faced the others.
“Dead,” he announced, in an unwontedly sombre tone. “I’m taking charge of things temporarily.”
Zalia Graem had risen from the divan, and the nurse was supporting her with a show of tenderness. The dazed girl was apparently oblivious to this attention and stood with her eyes fixed on the dead man. Vance stepped toward her so that he shut out the sight that seemed to hold her in fascinated horror.
“Please, Miss Beeton,” he said, “take the young lady downstairs immediately.” Then he added, “I’m sure she’ll be all right in a few minutes.”
The nurse nodded, put her arm firmly about Miss Graem, and led her into the passageway.
Vance waited until the two young women were gone: then he turned to the others.
“You will all be so good as to go downstairs and remain there until further orders.”
“But what are you going to do, Mr. Vance?” asked Mrs. Garden in a frightened tone. She stood rigidly against the wall, with half-closed eyes fixed in morbid fascination on the still body of her nephew. “We must keep this thing as quiet as possible… My poor Woody!”
“I’m afraid, madam, we shall not be able to keep it quiet at all.” Vance spoke with earnest significance. “My first duty will be to telephone the District Attorney and the Homicide Bureau.”
Mrs. Garden gasped, and her eyes opened wide in apprehension.
“The District Attorney? The Homicide Bureau?” she repeated distractedly. “Oh, no!… Why must you do that? Surely, any one can see that the poor boy took his own life.”
Vance shook his head slowly and looked squarely at the distressed woman.
“I regret, madam,” he said, “that this is not a case of suicide. … It’s murder!”
CHAPTER V
A SEARCH IN THE VAULT
(Saturday, April 14; 4:30 P.M.)
Following Vance’s unexpected announcement there was a sudden silence. Every one moved reluctantly toward the door to the passageway. Only Garden remained behind.
“I say, Vance,”—he spoke in a shocked, confidential tone—“this is really frightful. Are you sure you’re not letting your imagination run away with you? Who could possibly have wanted to shoot poor Woody? He must have done it himself. He was always a weakling, and he’s talked about suicide more than once.”
Vance looked at the man coldly for a moment.
“Thanks awfully for the information, Garden.” His voice was as cold as his glance. “But it won’t get us anywhere now, don’t y’ know. Swift was murdered; and I want your help, not your skepticism.”
“Anything I can do, of course,” Garden mumbled hastily, apparently abashed by Vance’s manner.
“Is there a telephone up here?” Vance asked.
“Yes, certainly. There’s one in the study.”
Garden brushed past us with nervous energy, as if glad of the opportunity for action. He threw open the door at the end of the passageway and stood aside for us to enter the study.
“Over there,” he said, pointing to the desk at the far end of the room, on which stood a hand telephone. “That’s an open line. No connection with the one we use for the ponies, though it’s an extension of the phone in the den.” He stepped swiftly behind the desk and threw a black key on the switch box that was attached to the side of the desk. “By leaving the key in this position, you are disconnected from the extension downstairs, so that you have complete privacy.”
“Oh, quite,” Vance nodded with a faint smile. “I use the same system in my own apartment. Thanks awfully for your thoughtfulness… And now please join the others downstairs and try to keep things balanced for a little while—there’s a good fellow.”
Garden took his dismissal with good grace and went toward the door.
“Oh, by the way, Garden,” Vance called after him, “I’ll want a little chat with you in private, before long.”
Garden turned, a troubled look on his face.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting me to rattle all the family skeletons for you? But that’s all right. I want to be as useful as I possibly can— you believe that, I hope. I’ll come back the minute you want me. I’ll be down there pouring oil on the troubled waters, and when you’re ready for me you’ve only to press that buzzer on the book-shelves there, just behind the desk.” He indicated a white push-button set flush in the centre of a small square japanned box on the upright between two sections of the book-shelves. “That’s part of the inter-communicating system between this room and the den. I’ll see that the den door is left open, so that I can hear the buzz wherever I am.”
Vance nodded curtly, and Garden, after a momentary hesitation, turned and went from the room.
As soon as Garden could be heard making his way down the stairs, Vance closed the door and went immediately to the telephone. A moment later he was speaking to Markham.
“The galloping horses, old dear,” he said. “The Trojans are riding roughshod. Equanimity was needed, but came in too far behind. Result, a murder. Young Swift is dead. And it was as clever a performance as I’ve yet seen… No, Markham,”—his voice suddenly became grave—“I’m not spoofing. I think you’d better come immediately. And notify Heath,228 if you can reach him, and the Medical Examiner. I’ll carry on till you get here…”
He replaced the receiver slowly. Taking out his cigarette case, he lighted a Régie with that studied deliberation which, from long observation, I had come to recognize as the indication of a distressed and groping frame of mind.
“This is a subtle crime, Van,” he meditated. “Too subtle for my peace of mind. I don’t like it—I don’t at all like it. And I don’t like this intrusion of horse-racing. Sheer expediency…”
He looked about the study appraisingly. It was a room nearly twenty-five feet square, lined with books and pamphlets and filing cabinets. On some of the shelves and in cabinets and atop every available piece of furniture were specimens of a unique collection of ancient pharmacists’ paraphernalia—mortars and pestles of rare earthenware, brass, and bronze, chiseled and ornamented with baluster motives, mascarons, lion herms, leafage, cherub heads, Renaissance scrollings, bird figures, and fleurs de lis—Gothic, Spanish, French, Flemish, many of them dating back to the sixteenth century; ancient apothecary’s scales of brass and ivory, with round columns on plinths, with urn finials, supporting embossed scale pans on straight and bow-shaped steel arms—many of them of late eighteenth-century French design; numerous early pharmacy jars of various shapes, cylindrical, ovoglobular, ring-molded barrel, incurvate octagonal, ovoid, and one inverted pear, in faience, majolica, and priceless porcelains, exquisitely decorated and lettered; and various other rare and artistic pharmaceutical items—a collection bespeaking years of travel and laborious searching.229
Vance wa
lked round the room, pausing here and there before some unique vase or jar.
“An amazin’ collection,” he murmured. “And not without significance, Van. It gives one an insight into the nature of the man who assembled it—an artist as well as a scientist—a lover of beauty and also a seeker for truth. Really, y’ know, the two should be synonymous. However…”
He went thoughtfully to the north window and looked out on the garden. The rattan chair with its gruesome occupant could not be seen from the study, as it was far to the left of the window, near the west balustrade.
“The crocuses are dying,” he murmured, “giving place to the hyacinths and daffodils; and the tulips are well on their way. Color succeeds color. A beautiful garden. But there’s death every hour in a garden, Van—or else the garden itself would not live… I wonder…”
He turned from the window abruptly and came back to the desk.
“A few words with the colorless Garden are indicated, before the minions of the law arrive.”
He placed his finger on the white button in the buzzer box and depressed it for a second. Then he went to the door and opened it. Several moments went by, but Garden did not appear, and Vance again pressed the button. After a full minute or two had passed without any response to his summons, Vance started down the passageway to the stairs, beckoning me to follow.
As he came to the vault door on the right, he halted abruptly. He scrutinized the heavy calamine door for a moment or two. At first glance it seemed to be closed tightly, but as I looked at it more closely, I noticed that it was open a fraction of an inch, as if the spring catch, which locked it automatically, had failed to snap when the door had last been shut. Vance pushed on the door gently with the tips of his fingers, and it swung inward slowly and ponderously.
“Deuced queer,” he commented. “A vault for preserving valuable documents—and the door unlocked. I wonder…”
The light from the hall shone into the dark recess of the vault, and as Vance pushed the door further inward a white cord hanging from a ceiling light became visible. To the end of this cord was attached a miniature brass pestle which acted as a weight. Vance stepped immediately inside and jerked the cord, and the vault was flooded with light.
The Philo Vance Megapack Page 208