The Case of the Crumpled Knave

by Anthony Boucher

  These details strengthened Rand’s resolve. Artist or not, the young man apparently had a sound mental outlook.

  “Good,” Fergus observed. “Now as to the crime itself—”

  Rand had heard, on all sides, so many references to the crime that he was by now somewhat confused. At last he was to hear a straight and simple account of as much as was known.

  It boiled down to this: Garnett always ate breakfast regularly at seven, in order that he might have a long morning for his, so far, somewhat mysterious laboratory researches. The cook-by-the-day didn’t arrive until eight; so Kay prepared the early breakfast for her father and his assistant, while the others ate later at their pleasure. This morning she had risen at six-thirty and set to work. Harding was in the kitchen at seven, and she served him, wondering what on earth could be keeping her generally punctual father. At about a quarter after, she went up to Garnett’s room. The bed hadn’t been slept in.

  “And that worried you?” Fergus asked.

  “No, it didn’t really. You see, that had happened before. He always stayed up in the study after the rest of us went to bed. Dr. White said he should go to sleep early, but sometimes he’d get so engrossed in a problem that he’d stay up for hours and hours working on it and eventually just fall asleep there.”

  “You mean he did work at night on his own, besides the time he spent during the day with Harding?”

  “I think so. I’m not sure. Sometimes it wasn’t work, just—just being ingenious, you know.” She smiled a little. “I remember once he tried to compose a five-deck solitaire. He used to play the Empress of India with four, but he wanted something even more involved. I came in the next morning and found him sound asleep. I couldn’t even come into the room. There were cards piled every place.”

  “I remember,” Rand nodded. “Garnett wrote me about that. He called it one of the few mental defeats of his life.”

  “So this time,” Fergus picked up the thread, “you decided right off to look in the study?”

  “Yes.” Kay halted a moment. “I looked in the study. …”

  Humphrey Garnett was there. The lights were still burning, and he was lying face down in the middle of the floor. A few inches from his outstretched right hand lay a crumpled playing card. His hands had black gloves on them.

  Fergus interrupted her again. “Why on earth should a man wear gloves to be murdered in? The black’s a fetching notion for anticipated mourning, but still—”

  “Oh, there’s nothing surprising about that. When he stayed up alone like that, he often used to go over his collection of playing cards. Some of them are very rare and have to be handled carefully to keep them in good condition. He planned to leave them to a museum. So he wore gloves whenever he touched them.”

  “Was he wearing those gloves when you said good night to him?”

  Kay thought back. “No. I think I could swear that he wasn’t. Because he played with my hair when he kissed me good night, and I know I should have noticed it.”

  “Then look, Client. This business about fingerprints. Did the Lieutenant say definitely that he’d found only your fiance’s fingerprints on the glass?”

  Again she pondered. “I think so.”

  Rand nodded. “Yes. He stated that quite clearly—it seemed his chief reason for the arrest.”

  Fergus paced more eagerly. “But if your father was ungloved when you left him, then he must have taken the glass in his fingers. Besides, there’d be Miss Sallice’s prints if she brought it to him.”

  Kay looked up with pleased surprise. “Why yes. That’s true. Then you mean—”

  “I knew there was something cockeyed going on as soon as I heard about those fingerprints. Nowadays, when prints are talked about and written about so much, a man would have to be a damned fool to leave them planted so obviously.”

  “You think …?”

  “We’ll just file that away for future reference. Go on.”

  Naturally, Kay had been frightened. She knew that her father had something the matter with his heart (a little questioning from Fergus made clear that it was an aortic aneurysm) and she felt dreadfully and un-reasoningly sure that he was dead. She went over to him and touched him. He was cold. Then she saw that his face was twisted and she smelled the scent of bitter almonds and she knew what had happened.

  She fainted then. She must have cried out first, although she couldn’t remember it, because Will Harding came hurrying to her. He revived her, and reminded her that their first duty was to call the police. While they waited, she roused the rest of the household and gave them black coffee. It was something for her to do and kept her from having time to think.

  “And how,” Fergus asked, “did they react when you told them the news?”

  “Let me see … I was too numb myself to notice very much. Camilla seemed more hurt than any of the others. Uncle Arthur was frightened rather than anything else—I don’t know why. Richard was so good; he seemed to give me strength.”

  “Go on, Client.”

  There wasn’t much more to tell. The police came and the men from the coroner’s office and cameramen and fingerprint experts and reporters and everything. It was all a confused nightmare to Kay. She told them what she’d just told Fergus and they asked questions and they had interviews with everybody and then Uncle Teddy came and then all of a sudden Richard was arrested. And that was all.

  Fergus had sprawled over a chair while she talked. Now he began to pace again. “I can see that they’ve got a good case against your Richard. I imagine they make out the motive something like this: He knew that Colonel Rand was coming out here soon and that his past would be disclosed as soon as the Colonel saw him. If your father knew what he had been, he’d forbid the marriage and disinherit you. Do you think he would have, Colonel?”

  “Emphatically yes. Garnett had no tolerance for cheating or dishonesty of any sort. He prized mental strength and dexterity so highly that he loathed all shifts to get by without it. And yet, young man, according to you, Garnett already did know.”

  “It was only yesterday I gave him my report. He probably hadn’t had a good chance to speak to Vinton yet. But even so, there was all the more need for action before Garnett could do anything rash. Either way you take it, he had to be disposed of promptly.”

  “Please!” Kay gasped sharply.

  “There, Client. Don’t look at me like that. I’m just saying what Jackson must be thinking. Abstractly, it makes a pretty good case, but just not good enough.

  “It leaves too much unexplained. How did your father know Vinton’s supposed murderous intentions four days in advance—before he was even sure that the man was an impostor? Why didn’t he do anything to forestall them? Why aren’t there more fingerprints on that glass? And who is Hector? When we’ve answered those four questions, we’ll be well on our way to bringing your Richard back to your loving arms.”

  “Oh, if only you could!”

  “He will, Kay.” Rand had slowly taken a fancy to this brash young man. He inspired the Colonel with a certain reluctant respect.

  “Thank you, sir. And now one more question before I sally forth and investigate. What do you know about your father’s will? Aside from the museum that gets the card collection. I doubt if that would help us much on motive, unless you’ve seen any sinister curators slinking around here clutching rare and deadly weapons.”

  Kay almost laughed. “But I have!”

  “Have what?”

  “Seen a sinister curator. Only he wasn’t sinister; he was just funny. He’s named Warriner, and he was here for dinner last night. Oh!” She stopped, slightly aghast.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Father liked him so much he asked him back here again tonight. I don’t know how to get in touch with him. …”

  “You needn’t worry,” Rand said helpfully. “He’ll have seen the papers—he wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “I almost wish he would,” Fergus meditated. “I could use an expert on
playing cards who’d tell me about jacks of diamonds and such. But maybe I can get something out of Garnett’s library. Now to get back to the will, Client—”

  “I’m sorry. But I can’t help you at all. Father never talked about his business affairs with me. He had ideas about the place of women—you know.” The Colonel went “harrumph.”

  “I’m afraid Uncle Teddy has, too. You’ll have to ask Uncle Arthur about it—he might know. Or more probably Will.”

  “Right. Now keep your chin up, Client, and your eyes as bright as your hair. The O’Breen is about to solve his first murder case.”

  VII

  Will Harding Talks of Peace

  If you don’t mind, Colonel,” Fergus said, “I’d like you to come along with me. I don’t want to wear Kay out, and you sort of lend authority. Besides, I might want a witness later on to what people say.”

  Colonel Rand accompanied him gladly. He was beginning to decide that this confident young fellow had some talent, and he was curious to watch him at work.

  They found Will Harding in the laboratory built on at the rear of the house and communicating with the rest of the building by a door at the end of the long central hall. Apparently the assistant felt it his duty to continue his dead employer’s researches; or else the pure labor involved was a form of release from the nervous tension of the household.

  “Mr. Harding,” Rand began, “we are sorry to interrupt you at your work. But this is Mr. O’Breen, who is investigating Garnett’s death at Kay’s request. I’m sure you will help us, if only for her sake, to clear Mr. Vinton’s name.”

  That was a polite way of putting it, the Colonel thought. He realized that the circumstances were such that the clearing of Vinton would almost inevitably involve the accusation of Harding, Willowe, or Miss Sallice; but he hoped that they might be too concerned to recognize the fact. All of them, of course, save the murderer.

  Will Harding smiled wryly. “I’m sure I am only too willing to clear Vinton’s good name, if that’s what Kay wants. I’d ask you to sit down; but this laboratory wasn’t constructed for social chats.”

  Rand looked around the large airy room. The mass of chemical apparatus meant nothing to him; an alchemist’s paraphernalia could have conveyed no less. His attention came back to the young detective’s questions.

  They first covered the ground of the body’s discovery. There was nothing new here; Harding’s story fitted in neatly with Kay’s. Then Fergus went on, “Look. These researches here—this laboratory—could you tell us just what it’s all about?”

  “Gladly. That is, as far as I can. Ever since I came here to live with Mr. Garnett, about three years ago, we have been working on an alexipharmical gas.”

  Fergus gestured a halt. “Hold on there a minute. Remember, we aren’t scientists. You’ve been working on what kind of a gas?”

  “Alexipharmical. Antidotal, to put it more simply. Mr. Garnett’s idea was to double the protection of the civilian population against gas raids. Not only would everyone be equipped with gas masks; but at central strategic points there would be installed concentrated bombs of our gas. They might even be employed in private homes. When an attack took place, these bombs could be exploded, and our gas in the air would counteract the effects of the poison gas.”

  There was eagerness in Harding’s face now. His words were precise, but his voice was rich in fervor. He took on a personality, a character that was ordinarily lacking in him. “It’s a truly fine idea,” he went on. “It is so rare to see a great scientific mind—and Mr. Garnett’s was that—devoting itself to the cause of peace. But it was a difficult task. We still haven’t solved it completely. There are so many possibilities in the attack; you have to take them all into account.”

  “If a practical military man may speak,” Rand snorted, “it’s a sheer waste of time.”

  Harding was aghast for a moment. “A waste of time to save the lives of defenseless citizens! To protect women and children against wanton marauders! Colonel Rand!”

  “Harding’s right,” Fergus put in. “What do you mean, Colonel?”

  “War against civilians,” Rand explained calmly, “is absurd.”

  “Absurd?” The young assistant was scornful. “Is that the strongest word you can find for such atrocities?”

  “No, no, no, young man. Leave your humanitarian angle out; there’s still no practical value to this Schrecklichkeit, as the German high command called it during the war. They learned then what every decent military strategist has always known. Campaigns of terrorism are futile. No real advantage gained over the enemy, and serious disaffection springing up within your own ranks. It’s no go.”

  “I know all that, sir,” Will broke in with an eager ardor, partly tempered by regard for the older man’s experience. “That’s perfectly true on paper, and I dare say it may even work out that way. But still it is done, wicked though it may be.”

  “Look at the Basque provinces,” Fergus added. “Look at Barcelona.”

  “Wickedness, my left foot!” Rand exploded. “It’s sheer damned foolishness. Franco is nothing but a rotten bad tactician. This whole long-drawn-out Spanish war is proof that terrorism has no military value. You might call this entire affair a working laboratory experiment; if the terrorist theory were correct, the Rightists should have established a conclusive victory in six months. They didn’t, and the theory is disproved once and for all.”

  Will Harding bit his lip. “I’m afraid, sir, I can’t share your abstractly studious view of the matter. Human lives aren’t pins on a chart to me. However, you called Franco a rotten bad tactician; I shan’t say what else I think he is. But there’ll always be rotten bad tacticians, despite all the military theory in the world; and we’ve got to be protected against them. That’s where I come in,” he added simply.

  “Mr. Harding, I like any man who has strength in his convictions. Those convictions I may think to be misguided and misbegotten; but I respect the man. I respect you, sir; and I add to that respect a painful fear” (his voice sounded suddenly old) “that you may be right.”

  “Colonel!” Harding was taken aback by this sudden about-face.

  “I and my generation of officers are outworn,” Rand went on, speaking more to himself than to the young men. “It may be that we are the last of our race to know war for the glorious science which it was. The lower savages merely fight. The tribe with the most or the strongest men must win; there is no question of skill. But one of the first signs of rising civilization is the development of military strategy. Consider, for example, the Zulus of the past century, with their efficient impis and carefully planned campaigns. Numbers and strength become relatively unimportant to a civilized state. The enemy can not only be beaten down; he can also be outwitted. Remember Alexander’s campaigns. Remember Belisarius at Daras, or Charles XII’s invasion of the flinterend.

  “And now? Now we are back with the Bushmen and the Igorots. Force and numbers are supreme—not the numbers of men now, but of planes, bombs, gases. And where one branch of civilization has withered, can the tree—” He broke off, almost ashamed of himself. This thought had been harrowing him for months, but he had never intended to speak it out. To cover his confusion, he produced an unusually fruity “harrumph.”

  This theoretical bypath had apparently led too far for Fergus. “How well along were you in your researches?” he asked.

  Harding tore his thoughts away from Rand’s reflections. “You never quite know about things like that. We might have gone on for years; we might have had a lucky break today which would have solved everything. Personally, I think we could have licked the problem in about another six months.”

  “And do you think now you can lick it by yourself?”

  “I don’t know,” Harding admitted ruefully. “I hope so. It means a lot to me—oh, not just the fame and glory, but the whole idea. I’ll try like the devil to lick it. And maybe I will. Though it’s going to be hard without Mr. Garnett.”

  “You
see what I mean, don’t you? That if—I know this sounds Oppenheimish, but it has to be considered—if anybody—picturesquely wicked Foreign Powers or whatnot—wanted to put a stop to your researches, they wouldn’t have stopped at killing only Mr. Garnett. You can still carry on?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Good. Now what did you mean by saying a while back that you’d tell us about the researches as far as you could? Was Mr. Garnett doing other work without you?”

  “Yes. But I haven’t any idea what it was. I know he used to work on in here after I’d leave him. Sometimes he’d even tell me to take the day off while he worked alone. But I can’t tell you anything definite about it now. Later, if you want, I could go through his papers with you; I could tell, where you couldn’t, if there were any notes that had nothing to do with this work of ours.”

  “Thanks. I’ll have you do that. Now can you tell me anything about the terms of Mr. Garnett’s will?”

  “Not exactly. I do know that he made one three years ago, just after I came here, because I was one of the witnesses; but I never saw it. I do remember, however, that he used to keep a carbon copy of it in his desk. I came across it one day while I was looking for some notes. I saw what it was and managed to restrain my curiosity; but I think I remember where he kept it.”

  This will, Rand thought, should clarify the question of motive considerably; and the presence of this carbon should save time in the investigation. Chance was being considerate.

  Harding led them down the hall into the study. While he began to rummage about in the desk, Rand surveyed with melancholy eyes this room so full of his dead friend’s personality. Fergus paced the floor restlessly.

  Abruptly the young detective paused before a shelf on which several decks of cards stood neatly stacked. They were apparently not a part of the collection, which was kept in the large steel case, but simply cards for use. They were well worn and looked modern in design.

  He turned to Harding. “Just a minute before you find that. You remember that jack of diamonds—and why do serious students of cards always say knave?—that was beside Mr. Garnett?”