A Woman’s Scream
(Saturday, April 2; 2.30 p. m.)
Vance, after glancing at the strange message with its even stranger
signature, reached for his monocle with that slow deliberation which I
knew indicated a keen suppressed interest. Having adjusted the glass
he studied the paper intently. Then he handed it to Arnesson.
“Here’s a valuable factor for your equation.” His eyes were fixed
banteringly on the man.
Arnesson regarded the note superciliously, and with a wry grimace laid
it on the table.
“I trust the clergy are not involved in this problem. They’re
notoriously unscientific. One can’t attack them with mathematics. ‘The
Bishop’. . . ,” he mused. “I’m unacquainted with any gentlemen of the
cloth.—I think I’ll rule out this abracadabra when making my
calculations.”
“If you do, Mr. Arnesson,” replied Vance seriously, “your equation, I
fear, will fall to pieces. That cryptic epistle strikes me as rather
significant. Indeed—if you will pardon a mere lay opinion—I believe it
is the most mathematical thing that has appeared thus far in the case.
It relieves the situation of all haphazardness or accident. It’s the
_g_, so to speak—the gravitational constant which will govern all our
equations.”
Heath had stood looking down on the typewritten paper with solemn
disgust.
“Some crank wrote this, Mr. Vance,” he declared.
“Undoubtedly a crank, Sergeant,” agreed Vance. “But don’t overlook the
fact that this particular crank must have known many interestin’ and
intimate details—to wit, that Mr. Robin’s middle name was Cochrane;
that the gentleman had been killed with a bow and arrow; and that Mr.
Sperling was in the vicinity at the time of the Robin’s passing.
Moreover, this well-informed crank must have had what amounted to
foreknowledge regarding the murder; for the note was obviously typed
and inserted in the letter-box before you and your men arrived on the
scene.”
“Unless,” countered Heath doggedly, “he’s one of those bimboes out in
the street, who got wise to what had happened and then stuck this
paper in the box when the officer’s back was turned.”
“Having first run home and carefully typewritten his communication—eh,
what?” Vance shook his head with a rueful smile. “No, Sergeant, I’m
afraid your theory won’t do.”
“Then what in hell does it mean?” Heath demanded truculently.
“I haven’t the foggiest idea.” Vance yawned and rose. “Come, Markham,
let’s while away a few brief moments with this Mr. Drukker whom Beedle
abhors.”
“Drukker!” exclaimed Arnesson, with considerable surprise. “Where does
he fit in?”
“Mr. Drukker,” explained Markham, “called here this morning to see
you; and it’s barely possible he met Robin and Sperling before he
returned home.” He hesitated. “Would you care to accompany us?”
“No, thanks.” Arnesson knocked out his pipe and got up. “I’ve a pile
of class papers to look over.—It might be as well, however, to take
Belle along. Lady Mae’s a bit peculiar. . . .”
“Lady Mae?”
“My mistake. Forgot you didn’t know her. We all call her Lady Mae.
Courtesy title. Pleases the poor old soul. I’m referring to Drukker’s
mother. Odd character.” He tapped his forehead significantly. “Bit
touched. Oh, perfectly harmless. Bright as a whistle, but monominded,
as it were. Thinks the sun rises and sets in Drukker. Mothers him as
if he were an infant. Sad situation. . . . Yes, you’d better take
Belle along. Lady Mae likes Belle.”
“A good suggestion, Mr. Arnesson,” said Vance. “Will you ask Miss
Dillard if she’ll be good enough to accompany us?”
“Oh, certainly.” Arnesson gave us an inclusive smile of farewell—a
smile which seemed at once patronizing and satirical—and went
up-stairs. A few moments later Miss Dillard joined us.
“Sigurd tells me you want to see Adolph. He, of course, won’t mind;
but poor Lady Mae gets so upset over even the littlest things. . . .”
“We sha’n’t upset her, I hope.” Vance spoke reassuringly. “But Mr.
Drukker was here this morning, d’ ye see; and the cook says she
thought she heard him speaking to Mr. Robin and Mr. Sperling in the
archery-room. He may be able to help us.”
“I’m sure he will if he can,” the girl answered with emphasis. “But be
very careful with Lady Mae, won’t you?”
There was a pleading, protective note in her voice, and Vance regarded
her curiously.
“Tell us something of Mrs. Drukker—or Lady Mae—before we visit her.
Why should we be so careful?”
“She’s had such a tragic life,” the girl explained. “She was once a
great singer—oh, not just a second-rate artist, but a prima donna with
a marvelous career before her.* She married a leading critic of
Vienna—Otto Drucker†—and four years later Adolph was born. Then one
day in the Wiener Prater, when the baby was two years old, she let him
fall; and from that moment on her entire life was changed. Adolph’s
spine was injured, and he became a cripple. Lady Mae was heartbroken.
She held herself to blame for his injury, and gave up her career to
devote herself to his care. When her husband died a year later she
brought Adolph to America, where she had spent some of her girlhood,
and bought the house where she now lives. Her whole life has been
centred on Adolph, who grew up a hunchback. She has sacrificed
everything for him, and cares for him as though he were a baby. . . .”
A shadow crossed her face. “Sometimes I think—we all think—that she
still imagines he’s only a child. She has become—well, morbid about
it. But it’s the sweet, terrible morbidity of a tremendous
motherlove—a sort of insanity of tenderness, uncle calls it. During
the past few months she has grown very strange—and peculiar. I’ve
often found her crooning old German lullabies and kindergarten songs,
with her arms crossed on her breast, as if—oh, it seems so sacred and
so terrible!—as if she were holding a baby. . . . And she has become
frightfully jealous of Adolph. She’s resentful of all other men. Only
last week I took Mr. Sperling to see her—we often drop in to call on
her: she seems so lonely and unhappy—and she looked at him almost
fiercely, and said: ‘Why weren’t you a cripple, too?’ . . .”
* Mae Brenner will still be remembered by Continental music lovers.
Her début was made at the unprecedented age of twenty-three as
_Sulamith_ in “Die Königin von Saba” at the Imperial Opera House in
Vienna; although her greatest success was perhaps her _Desdemona_ in
“Otello”—the last rôle she sang before her retirement.
† The name was, of course, originally spelled Drucker. The
change—possibly some vague attempt at Americanization—was made by
Mrs. Drukker when she settled in this country.
The girl paused and searched our faces.
“Now don’t you understand why I asked you to be careful? . . . Lady
Mae may think we have come to harm Adolph.”
“We sha’n’t add unnecessarily to her suffering,” Vance assured her
sympathetically. Then, as we moved toward the hall, he asked her a
question which recalled to my mind his brief intent scrutiny of the
Drukker house earlier that afternoon. “Where is Mrs. Drukker’s room
situated?”
The girl shot him a startled look, but answered promptly:
“On the west side of the house—its bay window overlooks the archery
range.”
“Ah!” Vance took out his cigarette-case, and carefully selected a
_Régie_. “Does she sit much at this window?”
“A great deal. Lady Mae always watches us at archery practice—why I
don’t know. I’m sure it pains her to see us, for Adolph isn’t strong
enough to shoot. He’s tried it several times, but it tired him so he
had to give it up.”
“She may watch you practising for the very reason that it does torture
her—a kind of self-immolation, y’ know. Those situations are very
distressing.” Vance spoke almost with tenderness—which, to one who did
not know his real nature, would have sounded strange. “Perhaps,” he
added, as we emerged into the archery range through the basement door,
“it would be best if we saw Mrs. Drukker first for a moment. It might
tend to allay any apprehensions our visit might cause her. Could we
reach her room without Mr. Drukker’s knowledge?”
“Oh, yes.” The girl was pleased at the idea. “We can go in the rear
way. Adolph’s study, where he does his writing, is at the front of the
house.”
We found Mrs. Drukker sitting in the great bay window on a sprawling
old-fashioned chaise-longue, propped up with pillows. Miss Dillard
greeted her filially and, bending over her with tender concern, kissed
her forehead.
“Something rather awful has happened at our house this morning, Lady
Mae,” she said; “and these gentlemen wanted to see you. I offered to
bring them over. You don’t mind, do you?”
Mrs. Drukker’s pale, tragic face had been turned away from the door as
we entered, but now she stared at us with fixed horror. She was a tall
woman, slender to the point of emaciation; and her hands, which lay
slightly flexed on the arms of the chair, were sinewy and wrinkled
like the talons of fabulous bird-women. Her face, too, was thin and
deeply seamed; but it was not an unattractive face. The eyes were
clear and alive, and the nose was straight and dominant. Though she
must have been well past sixty, her hair was luxuriant and brown.
For several minutes she neither moved nor spoke. Then her hands closed
slowly, and her lips parted.
“What do you want?” she asked in a low resonant voice.
“Mrs. Drukker,”—it was Vance who answered—“as Miss Dillard has told
you, a tragedy occurred next door this morning, and since your window
is the only one directly overlooking the archery range, we thought
that you might have seen something that would aid us in our
investigation.”
The woman’s vigilance relaxed perceptibly, but it was a moment or two
before she spoke.
“And what did take place?”
“A Mr. Robin was killed.—You knew him perhaps?”
“The archer—Belle’s Champion Archer? . . . Yes, I knew him. A strong
healthy child who could pull a heavy bow and not get tired.—Who killed
him?”
“We don’t know.” Vance, despite his negligent air, was watching her
astutely. “But inasmuch as he was killed on the range, within sight of
your window, we hoped you might be able to help us.”
Mrs. Drukker’s eyelids drooped craftily, and she clasped her hands
with a kind of deliberate satisfaction.
“You are sure he was killed on the range?”
“We found him on the range,” Vance returned non-committally.
“I see. . . . But what can I do to help you?” She lay back relaxed.
“Did you notice any one on the range this morning?” asked Vance.
“No!” The denial was swift and emphatic. “I saw no one. I haven’t
looked out on the range all day.”
Vance met the woman’s gaze steadily, and sighed.
“It’s most unfortunate,” he murmured. “Had you been looking out of the
window this morning, it’s wholly possible you might have seen the
tragedy. . . . Mr. Robin was killed with a bow and arrow, and there
seems to have been no motive whatever for the act.”
“You know he was killed with a bow and arrow?” she asked, a tinge of
color coming into her ashen cheeks.
“That was the Medical Examiner’s report. There was an arrow through
his heart when we found him.”
“Of course. That seems perfectly natural, doesn’t it? . . . An arrow
through the Robin’s heart!” She spoke with vague aloofness, a distant,
fascinated look in her eyes.
There was a strained silence, and Vance moved toward the window.
“Do you mind if I look out?”
With difficulty the woman brought herself back from some far train of
thought.
“Oh, no. It isn’t much of a view, though. I can see the trees of 76th
Street toward the north, and a part of the Dillard yard to the south.
But that brick wall opposite is very depressing. Before the apartment
house was built I had a beautiful view of the river.”
Vance looked for a while down into the archery range.
“Yes,” he observed; “if only you had been at the window this morning
you might have seen what happened. Your view of the range and the
basement door of the Dillards’ is very clear. . . . Too bad.” He
glanced at his watch. “Is your son in, Mrs. Drukker?”
“My son! My baby! What do you want with him?” Her voice rose
pitifully, and her eyes fastened on Vance with venomous hatred.
“Nothing important,” he said pacifying. “Only, he may have seen some
one on the range——”
“He saw no one! He couldn’t have seen any one, for he wasn’t here. He
went out early this morning, and hasn’t returned.”
Vance looked with pity at the woman.
“He was away all morning?—Do you know where he was?”
“I always know where he is,” Mrs. Drukker answered proudly. “He tells
me everything.”
“And he told you where he was going this morning?” persisted Vance
gently.
“Certainly. But I forget for the moment. Let me think. . . .” Her long
fingers tapped on the arm of the chair, and her eyes shifted uneasily.
“I can’t recall. But I’ll ask him the moment he returns.”
Miss Dillard had stood watching the woman with growing perplexity.
“But, Lady Mae, Adolph was at our house this morning. He came to see
Sigurd——”
Mrs. Drukker drew herself up.
“Nothing of the kind!” she snapped, eyeing the girl almost viciously.
“Adolph had to go—down-town somewhere. He wasn’t near your house—I
_know_ he wasn’t.” Her eyes flashed, and she turned a defiant glare on
Vance.
It was an embarrassing moment; but what followed was even more
painful.
The door opened softly, and suddenly Mrs. Drukker’s arms went out.
“My little boy—my baby!” she cried. “Come here, dear.”
But the man at the door did not come forward. He stood blinking his
beady little eyes at us, like a person waking in strange surroundings.
Adolph Drukker was scarcely five feet tall. He had the typical
congested appearance of the hunchback. His legs were spindling, and
the size of his bulging, distorted torso seemed exaggerated by his
huge, dome-like head. But there was intellectuality in the man’s
face—a terrific passionate power which held one’s attention. Professor
Dillard had called him a mathematical genius; and one could have no
doubts as to his erudition.*
* He gave me very much the same impression as did General Homer Lee
when I visited him at Santa Monica shortly before his death.
“What does all this mean?” he demanded in a high-pitched, tremulous
voice, looking toward Miss Dillard. “Are these friends of yours,
Belle?”
The girl started to speak, but Vance halted her with a gesture.
“The truth is, Mr. Drukker,” he explained sombrely, “there has been a
tragedy next door. This is Mr. Markham, the District Attorney, and
Sergeant Heath of the Police Department; and at our request Miss
Dillard brought us here that we might ask your mother whether or not
she had noticed anything unusual on the archery range this morning.
The tragedy occurred just outside the basement door of the Dillard
house.”
Drukker thrust his chin forward and squinted.
“A tragedy, eh? What kind of tragedy?”
“A Mr. Robin was killed—with a bow and arrow.”
The man’s face began to twitch spasmodically.
“Robin killed? _Killed?_ . . . What time?”
“Some time between eleven and twelve probably.”
“Between eleven and twelve?” Quickly Drukker’s gaze shifted to his
mother. He seemed to grow excited, and his huge splay fingers worried
the hem of his smoking-jacket. “What did you see?” His eyes glinted as
he focussed them on the woman.
“What do you mean, son?” The retort was a panic-stricken whisper.
Drukker’s face became hard, and the suggestion of a sneer twisted his
lips.
“I mean that it was about that time when I heard a scream in this
room.”
“You didn’t! No—no!” She caught her breath, and wagged her head
jerkily. “You’re mistaken, son. I didn’t scream this morning.”
“Well, some one did.” There was a cold relentlessness in the man’s
tone. Then, after a pause, he added: “The fact is, I came up-stairs
after I heard the scream, and listened at the door here. But you were
walking about humming ‘Eia Popeia,’ so I went back to my work.”
Mrs. Drukker pressed a handkerchief to her face, and her eyes closed
momentarily.
“You were at your work between eleven and twelve?” Her voice now rang
with subdued eagerness. “But I called you several times——”
“I heard you. But I didn’t answer. I was too busy.”
“So that was it.” She turned slowly toward the window. “I thought you
were out. Didn’t you tell me——?”
“I told you I was going to the Dillards’. But Sigurd wasn’t there, and
I came back a little before eleven.”
“I didn’t see you come in.” The woman’s energy was spent, and she lay
back listlessly, her eyes on the brick wall opposite. “And when I
called and you didn’t answer I naturally thought you were still out.”
“I left the Dillards’ by the street gate, and took a walk in the
park.” Drukker’s voice was irritable. “Then I let myself in by the
front door.”
“And you say you heard me scream. . . . But why should I scream, son?
I’ve had no pains in my back this morning.”
Drukker frowned, and his little eyes moved swiftly from Vance to
Markham.
“I heard some one scream—a woman—in this room,” he iterated
stubbornly. “About half past eleven.” Then he sank into a chair and
gazed moodily at the floor.
This perplexing verbal intercourse between mother and son had
held us all spellbound. Though Vance had stood before an old
eighteenth-century print near the door, regarding it with apparent
absorption, I knew that no word or inflection had escaped him. Now he
swung about and, giving Markham a signal not to interfere, approached
Mrs. Drukker.
“We’re very sorry, madam, that we’ve had to trouble you. Forgive us,
if you can.”
He bowed and turned to Miss Dillard.
“Do you care to pilot us back? Or shall we find our own way down?”
“I’ll come with you,” the girl said; and going to Mrs. Drukker she put
her arm about her. “I’m so sorry, Lady Mae.”
As we were passing out into the hall Vance, as if on second thought,
paused and looked back at Drukker.
“You’d better come with us, sir,” he said, in a casual yet urgent
tone. “You knew Mr. Robin, and you may be able to suggest something——”
“Don’t go with them, son!” cried Mrs. Drukker. She was sitting upright
now, her face contorted with anguish and fear. “Don’t go! They’re the
enemy. They want to hurt you. . . .”
Drukker had risen.
“Why shouldn’t I go with them?” he retorted petulantly. “I want to
find out about this affair. Maybe—as they say—I can help them.” And
with a gesture of impatience he joined us.