The Cadaver of Gideon Wyck

by Alexander Laing

  “I then paused, but it seemed that I had gone too far to retrace my actions. As soon as the incision for introducing the embalming fluid had been made, I knew that I must go one, willy-nilly. When I had supervised the first rapid flow of fluid into the cadaver, I refilled the gravity reservoir, put Dr. Wyck’s swivel chair back on the lift, and went up again to remove to my own office all actual traces of the tragedy. The instrument with which the wound was inflicted was nowhere to be found, but I believe it to have been the scalpel which Dr. Wyck always kept on his desk to open letters, and which was also missing. I let the cadaver remain in place on the embalming table for perhaps an hour and a half, and then pushed it into the vault. I had covered it with a shroud, and was debating the possibility of getting it into a stall when I saw a pair of legs pass across the high cellar window at street level, which was visible through the vault door. The sight seemed to bring a sense of irrevocable guilt for what I had done. Three things remained to be done, in great haste. One, to get the clothing out of sight; two, to turn out the light in the vault; three, to bolt its door, so that the diener could seal it without having reason for a further inspection.

  “As Dr. Kent knows, the switch which controls the vault is high on the wall, out of my normal reach. I had reached it first by standing on a chair, but afterward had moved the chair to the embalming table, to aid in climbing onto it when I filled the gravity reservoir, near the ceiling. The swivel chair had been too heavy, you see, for me to lift on to the table.

  “It seemed to me that the legs I had seen go past the window must be those of a janitor or of the diner; so, rather than waste my time by carrying a chair across the room to turn out the light, I climbed on the edge of a stall in the vault, and twisted the light bulb. Even now, I do not remember that I had taken off my rubber gloves, but I must have done so, obviously. It was the slip that the man with a sense of guilt seems bound to make.

  “I locked the padlock, gathered up the clothes, and cautiously ascended the stairs. I put the clothes in a case that happened to be in my office. The legs I had seen apparently had not been those of the janitor or of the diener, but, expecting that either or both might come early, I wanted to take no changes. So I left by the back way, carrying the suitcase. I saw nobody on my way to my own house. It was about dawn then, but cloudy. I am not sure of the hour. I slept for some time and then prepared for a conference with Senator Tolland in the latter part of the morning. That afternoon, I washed and cleaned the clothing myself, and ironed the linen next day.”

  Such was the significant part of Dr. Alling’s testimony. His alibi was based upon the fact, attested by the autopsy, that the knife thrust had been the cause of death, and upon the inference that Mike’s reaction, while we were at his bedside, substantiated the kymograph’s testimony of the exact time of death. Biddy’s testimony and mine checked with his, on the matter of his whereabouts at the time when the wound was supposedly inflicted.

  The next significant testimony was Charlie’s reason for not wanting to speak about his whereabouts, that night, to anyone except the grand jurors. Jap Ross, when questioned about the faculty meeting, was asked about his conduct for the next few hours, and reluctantly admitted that he had got drunk on applejack with Charlie and Mickey Rehan. It seemed to Jap the only thing to do, after giving testimony that resulted in the expulsion of a fellow student. Therefore he had wheedled a couple of quarts of applejack from Charlie. They had sat down to it about half past ten, and the two students had put Charlie to bed, very drunk, at three in the morning. His alarm clock had saved him from oversleeping, and he had been on hand, shaky but almost sober, to seal the vault in the presence of Dr. Kent. However, as he had been discharged once before for drinking with students, he had not wanted to give his alibi to anyone connected officially with the school.

  Daisy was called to testify to the phone calls which had apprised Dr. Wyck of Baker’s death, and other minor testimony was given which, at the end of the morning’s session, seemed to have established the facts beyond question that Dr. Wyck actually had intended to commit suicide, that he had set up the apparatus and notified Dr. Alling, and that the latter had embalmed the body in the fashion which he described. Both Prendergast and his uncle substantiated Alling’s story about events just after the faculty meeting. The only seemingly moot points left were the question whether Wyck had actually called on Alling at about midnight, and, of course, the mystery about who had inflicted the knife would. We then recessed for a noon meal.

  Ted Gideon in the early afternoon session refused to say anything at all except that he had been camping in the woods north of town, and that an old doctor had sometimes given him money to drive him out to Alton Center. He would answer no questions about the crucial night, insisting that they might tend to incriminate him. Alling was recalled, and asked whether he had noticed the car mentioned by Biddy, parked in front of the medical school building either when he passed it, walking to the Connells’ just before one o’clock, or afterward, when he returned from the hospital at some time after two. He denied that he had seen a car at either time, but was peculiarly insistent upon repeating, in each of his answers, a phrase descriptive of the radiator ornament—a leaping dog. The third time he did this, Coroner Kent interrupted by again suggesting that he, Dr. Kent, be relieved of his official part in the inquiry and subjected to questioning as to his own alibi. Again the offer was declined.

  And that was about the state of the evidence when the hearing ended, at half past three in the afternoon. The coroner and the prosecutor then consulted together for half an hour, while all the witnesses continued to cool their heels. Finally the charge was agreed upon, and read to the third coroner’s jury empaneled in the Wyck case.

  It was after five o’clock when the jury finished its deliberations, and we were summoned to hear the result. At this time, of course, I was unaware of the testimony of all except myself. I ha no inkling of what Dr. Alling ha told the coroner or the prosecutor. For seven hours, after my own testimony was given, I had been waiting, waiting, for a session of cross-questioning that ought to give me some hint of the frame-up which I had such good reasons for anticipating. The delay had alternately seemed a cause for greater hope and greater fear.

  We all listened tensely as the foreman read the usual preamble, with a section repeating and reaffirming the acceptance of the original post-mortem examination findings. He then paused and cleared this throat, continuing:

  “We approve and accept the coroner’s recommendation that a bill of indictment be drawn up and presented to a grand jury of Alton County, accusing Manfred Alling of Altonville, Maine, of causing the death of the said Gideon Wyck by piercing the skin of the neck and severing the spinal cord with a sharp instrument. In support of this recommendation we present the accompanying analysis made by Coroner Kent of the testimony of the said Manfred Alling.”

  I had taken it for granted that Dr. Alling would extricate himself by some clever maneuver. There was a kind of relief in the discovery that he had not been able to do so; but I had yet to find out whether there would still be a charge against me as accessory.

  After a bit of fumbling, the foreman read the coroner’s analysis of Dr. Alling’s testimony—a document which seemed to show by impeccable logic that no positive evidence had been adduced to prove that the kymograph and Dr. Alling’s watch had been in synchronism in fact. The kymograph record—a cylinder of smoked paper—had allegedly been signed just before it was started, by Dr. Wyck himself, with a notation agreeing with that in the dead man’s letter. The coroner argued, however, that this signature was a forgery. I have since seen it, and it certainly does not agree with Wyck’s signature appended to the letter that very night; but it should be remembered that signing one’s name on an upright cylinder, with a metal implement rather than a pen, and on a surface which would be smudged by a touch of any part of the signer’s hand, would logically produce a distorted signature anyway.

  Be that as it may, the coroner’s charge to the
jury argued that Alling had impulsively inflicted the neck wound to make sure that Wyck would really be out of the way, and then had hurried to the Connells’ for the specific purpose of establishing an alibi. The letter left by Wyck, admittedly genuine, had suggested to Dr. Alling that all he need do was to induce some kind of violent reaction in Connell, perhaps with the aid of a drug, and then forge a new kymograph record in such a manner that it would seem to have fluctuated violently at the same time as the seizure of supposed madness in Connell.

  As I heard this opinion, several objections arose in my mind. If Alling had wanted a witness, why had he deliberately sent Biddy away? Had he taken the chance that I might be upstairs, or might come in just in time? He might have sent Biddy away in order to administer the alleged drug that had caused the reaction. But a doctor would not have to make excuses for giving a patient medicine. Moreover, there was nothing temporary about Mike’s ultimate madness.

  The foreman was fumbling with another paper. It proved to be a deposition signed by ten doctors on the hospital staff, all unanimously agreeing that “there is no basis whatever, either in the history of medicine or in that of psychological hypotheses, for supposing that the death of one person might produce a maniacal seizure in another, in a remote place, under any circumstances, general or special.”

  The jury’s findings then concluded with the recommendation that I, David Saunders, be held as a material witness, or as an accomplice before or after the fact, or both, at the grand jury’s discretion, or the specific assumption that I had deliberately aided Manfred Alling in the establishment of his alibi. Thus things remained about where they had been for me, midway between extreme danger and freedom.

  The announcement, made before all witnesses in the main lecture hall, was greeted by a painful silence, into which the voice of the county prosecutor broke harshly.

  “This report has been read to all of you,” he said, “for the purpose of discovering whether in the opinion of any witnesses it fails to concur with his own knowledge of the facts from which the findings are adduced.”

  I started, as I heard from the back of the room the voice of Daisy Towers, saying, “I, for one, have reason to believe that the findings are grossly in error. I have vital evidence that has been entirely ignored.”

  “Why did you not give it?” the prosecutor asked.

  “I was questioned only about certain telephone calls, sir, concerned with a part of the hearing that had no connection with what I refer to. Would you like to have my evidence now?”

  The prosecutor looked pointedly at Coroner Kent, who said, “I consider the findings adequate for an indictment. I suggest that any further evidence be taken in a private hearing, or before the grand jury itself.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Daisy said, “but my evidence is visual in part. I insist that I be given the protection afforded by numerous witnesses.”

  With an inquiring look toward Kent, and then at the foreman, who nodded, the prosecutor mad his decision:

  “With all deference to your prerogative, Dr. Kent, I recommend that the hearing be reopened. If you object, I can hold an additional hearing on my own authority, commencing at once.”

  “That is quite unnecessary,” Dr. Kent said coldly. “The hearing is reopened. Miss Towers, you may give your testimony before all these witnesses, if you so desire.”

  “I must give it in another part of the building, and in a rather cramped setting,” she explained. “I would rather choose six or eight whom I think I can trust to be intelligent and to have accurate memories.”

  The prosecutor nodded. She pointed quickly to several of the witnesses. As an apparent afterthought, she said, “I think it would be well to have the accused also present, in case any questions need to be answered on the spot.”

  The group filed up the stairs behind her, and stopped opposite the door of Dr. Wyck’s office. Dramatically she threw it open. A scream escaped from the throat of Marjorie Wyck, standing next to me, as we saw, slouched down limply on the desk, the figure of a man who seemed to be her father. I realized that it must be a dummy. The fact that the head was cushioned on one arm, with the face averted, made it, however, an excellent illusion.

  Before anyone had a chance to recover from the first shock of astonishment, Daisy jumped into the room, picked up a scalpel from the desk, and walked toward us, holding it arm’s length. “All right, Prendergast,” she said, in a tone of complete assurance, “show us how you did it.”

  I glanced quickly at Dick, who wore an expression of what might have been honest amazement.

  “Don’t bluff,” she said, rapping her words out smartly now, “I know why you got your uncle drunk in such a hurry, down at Shoulder Lake, and left him gassing with the manager while you slipped out on the terrace of room 109. I know that you ran over to the garage and got your uncle’s car. It was a duplicate of Dr. Kent’s which made it unlikely that anyone would recognize you in it, back here in Altonville. And it was a clever yarn you gave the garage man, with a ten-dollar tip. You told him to keep your secret, because you had a rather intimate kind of date with a nurse, going off duty at midnight. That was clever. A good guy wouldn’t tell on you, in a case like that—or so you thought, didn’t you. That was about quarter to one in the morning. You made the run to Altonville in forty minutes. Fast going, Prendergast. Now, what was it that you really wanted? Do you mind telling us?”

  The color had left Dick’s face, during this rapid monologue. For several tense seconds Daisy waited, and then continued, “You’d rather not say? Well, I rather think it was because your uncle had promised you that there would be a legitimate investigation and you wanted to get those blue books into your hands. A transcript wouldn’t satisfy the legislators. They’d want the original documents. So you were going to blackmail them out of Wyck, by offering to hold up the investigation. You were headed for his house. But, coming up from the south, you could see the light in his office window. So you stopped in here, and found Wyck just like that, didn’t you?”

  She turned and pointed to the dummy.

  “And the scalpel was here, where he kept it as a letter opener. And something went pop in your head, Prendergast, and the next thing you knew, you’d cut his spinal cord. You’d murdered Gideon Wyck.”

  The word “murdered” seemed to shock Dick out of his uncertainty.

  “I didn’t,” he cried. “It’s a lie! He’d taken poison. The letter said so. He was dead already.”

  “The letter you read after you’d knifed him? The letter that told you what a fool you’d been?” Daisy asked, almost too cruelly, I thought, until I remembered that Prendergast had so far been willing to let someone else pay for his crime.

  He had gone hysterical, standing in the center of the accusing circle of witnesses. “He did leave a letter on his desk,” he screamed. “Where is it? Who’s got it? It proves I’m innocent. He was dead already.”

  But the kymograph record and the original post-mortem examination both showed that Gideon Wyck had died of a knife wound, inflicted before sufficient poison had been absorbed to cause death.

  Postscript

  Later, when I asked Daisy why she had never told me about her special job of sleuthing for Dr. Alling, down at Shoulder Lake, she kissed me and said, “Because you’re much too diligent. You’d probably have trailed Prendergast around, or searched his rooms the way you searched Alling’s house, and you’d have ended up scaring him to Europe again.”

  Remembering the way I had bungled the trip to New York, I could hardly blame her; so I asked, “What made you still suspect Dick, after we knew his alibi, and had his fingerprints?”

  “It was a sheer hunch of Alling’s,” she said, “from the way Prendergast had behaved the next morning, when he drove his uncle back for another short conference. Alling lost faith in his own hunch, after he’d checked up the alibi last fall. But he told me about it reminiscently, and I had another try, and succeeded in vamping the garage man.”

  I don’t believe th
at an Alton County grand jury will find any indictment against Dr. Alling, if they are as chary as usual with true bills on which to waste the state’s funds in a probably useless prosecution. Kent, it has turned out, had an ironclad alibi all the while. He had been called down to Augusta immediately after the faculty meeting to attend an important post-mortem on a body so badly decomposed that no further delay was permissible.

  Ted Gideon has been sent to join Mike at the asylum; and, as for poor Dick Prendergast, he will plead temporary insanity. His improved record during this school year and his obvious belief that the impulsive act had not been the true cause of Wyck’s death ought to aid in procuring for him a lenient verdict.

  I have now to decide whether I should send this ending to my narrative, to join the main part—and it seems best to do so. I was a fool ever to mail the first part at all. But its contents by now are known to some readers. Any effort to stop it probably would bring only added publicity. For better of for worse, the first part of the story is out, and it is best for the exact nature of the conclusion also to be known. If it passes for fiction, I shall be pleased indeed.

  David Saunders