Vance Reaches a Conclusion
(Saturday, April 2; 3.30 p. m.)
When we were again alone in the drawing-room Vance rose and,
stretching himself, went to the window. The scene that had just been
enacted, with its startling climax, had left us all somewhat dazed.
Our minds were busy, I think, with the same idea; and when Vance spoke
it was as if he were voicing our thoughts.
“We’re back in the nursery, it seems. . . .
“‘I,’ said the Sparrow,
‘With my bow and arrow,
I killed Cock Robin.’ . . .
I say, Markham; this is getting a bit thick.”
He came slowly back to the centre-table and crushed out his cigarette.
From the corner of his eye he looked at Heath.
“Why so pensive, Sergeant? You should be singing roundelays and doing
a joyous tarantella. Has not your villain confessed to the dark deed?
Does it not fill you with gladness to know that the culprit will soon
be languishin’ in an oubliette?”
“To tell you the truth, Mr. Vance,” Heath admitted sullenly, “I’m not
satisfied. That confession came too easy, and—well, I’ve seen a lot of
guys come across, but this one somehow didn’t act like he was guilty.
And that’s a fact, sir.”
“At any rate,” submitted Markham hopefully, “his preposterous
confession will damp the newspapers’ curiosity and give us a free
field to push our investigation. This case is going to make an ungodly
noise; but as long as the reporters think the guilty person is jailed,
they won’t be bothering us for news of ‘developments.’”
“I’m not saying he ain’t guilty,” asserted Heath pugnaciously,
obviously arguing against his own convictions. “We certainly had the
goods on him, and he mighta realized it and spilled the works,
thinking it would go easier with him at the trial. Maybe he’s not so
dumb, after all.”
“It won’t do, Sergeant,” said Vance. “The lad’s mental workin’s were
deucedly simple. He knew Robin was waiting to see Miss Dillard, and he
also knew she’d non-suited him, so to speak, last night. Sperling
evidently didn’t have a high opinion of Robin; and when he heard of
the gentleman’s death at the hands of some one who wielded a short,
light bow, he jumped to the conclusion that Robin had overstepped the
bounds of propriety in his wooing, and received a righteous shaft
through the heart. There was then nothing for our noble, mid-Victorian
sparrow to do but slap his own manly bosom and proclaim: ‘_Ecce
homo!_’ . . . It’s most distressin’.”
“Well, anyhow,” grumbled Heath, “I’m not going to turn him loose. If
Mr. Markham don’t want to prosecute, that’s up to him.”
Markham looked at the Sergeant tolerantly. He realized the strain the
man was under, and it was in keeping with his bigness of nature that
he took no offence at the other’s words.
“Perhaps, however, Sergeant,” he said kindly, “you’ll not object to
continuing the investigation with me, even if I don’t decide to
prosecute Sperling.”
Heath was at once contrite. He got up briskly and, going to Markham,
held out his hand.
“You know it, sir!”
Markham took the offered hand, and rose with a gracious smile.
“I’ll leave things with you, then, for the time being. I’ve some work
to do at the office, and I told Swacker to wait for me.”* He moved
dispiritedly toward the hall. “I’ll explain the situation to Miss
Dillard and the professor before I go.—Anything special in mind,
Sergeant?”
* Saturday was a “half day” at the District Attorney’s office.
Swacker was Markham’s secretary.
“Well, sir, I think I’ll take a good look for that rag that was used
to wipe up the floor down-stairs. And while I’m at it I’ll go over the
archery-room with a fine-tooth comb. Also, I’ll put the screws to the
cook and the butler again—especially the cook. She musta been mighty
close at hand when the dirty work was going on. . . . Then the regular
routine stuff—inquiries in the neighborhood and that sorta thing.”
“Let me know the results. I’ll be at the Stuyvesant Club later to-day
and to-morrow afternoon.”
Vance had joined Markham in the archway.
“I say, old man,” he remarked, as we went toward the stairs; “don’t
minimize the importance of that cryptic note left in the mail-box.
I’ve a strong psychic suspicion that it may be the key to the nursery.
You’d better ask Professor Dillard and his niece if ‘Bishop’ has any
provocative significance for them. That diocesan signature has a
meaning.”
“I’m not so sure,” returned Markham dubiously. “It appears utterly
meaningless to me. But I’ll follow your suggestion.”
Neither the professor nor Miss Dillard, however, could recall any
personal association with the word _Bishop_; and the professor was
inclined to agree with Markham that the note was without any
significant bearing on the case.
“It strikes me,” he said, “as a piece of juvenile melodrama. It isn’t
likely that the person who killed Robin would adopt a vague pseudonym
and write notes about his crime. I’m not acquainted with criminals,
but such conduct doesn’t impress me as logical.”
“But the crime itself was illogical,” ventured Vance pleasantly.
“One can’t speak of a thing being illogical, sir,” returned the
professor tartly, “when one is ignorant of the very premises of a
syllogism.”
“Exactly.” Vance’s tone was studiously courteous. “Therefore, the note
itself may not be without logic.”
Markham tactfully changed the subject.
“What I came particularly to tell you, professor, is that Mr. Sperling
called a short time ago and, when informed of Mr. Robin’s death,
confessed to having done it himself. . . .”
“Raymond confessed!” gasped Miss Dillard.
Markham looked at the girl sympathetically.
“To be quite frank, I didn’t believe Mr. Sperling. Some mistaken idea
of chivalry undoubtedly led him to admit the crime.”
“‘Chivalry’?” she repeated, leaning forward tensely. “What exactly do
you mean by that, Mr. Markham?”
It was Vance who answered.
“The bow that was found on the range was a woman’s bow.”
“Oh!” The girl covered her face with her hands, and her body shook
with sobs.
Professor Dillard regarded her helplessly; and his impotency took the
form of irritation.
“What flummery is this, Markham?” he demanded. “Any archer can shoot
with a woman’s bow. . . . That unutterable young idiot! Why should he
make Belle miserable by his preposterous confession! . . . Markham, my
friend, do what you can for the boy.”
Markham gave his assurances, and we rose to go.
“By the by, Professor Dillard,” said Vance, pausing at the door; “I
trust you won’t misunderstand me, but there’s a bare possibility that
it was some one with access to this house who indulged in the
practical joke of typing that note. Is there, by any chance, a
typewriter on the premises?”
It was patent that the professor resented Vance’s question, but he
answered civilly enough.
“No,—nor has there ever been one to my knowledge. I threw my own
machine away ten years ago when I left the university. An agency does
whatever typing I need.”
“And Mr. Arnesson?”
“He never uses a typewriter.”
As we descended the stairs we met Arnesson returning from Drukker’s.
“I’ve placated our local Leipnitz,” he announced, with an exaggerated
sigh. “Poor old Adolph! The world is too much with him. When he’s
wallowing in the relativist formulas of Lorentz and Einstein he’s
serene. But when he’s dragged down to actuality he disintegrates.”
“It may interest you to know,” said Vance casually, “that Sperling has
just confessed to the murder.”
“Ha!” Arnesson chuckled. “Quite in keeping. ‘I,’ said the
Sparrow. . . . Very neat. Still, I don’t know how it’ll work out
mathematically.”
“And, since we agreed to keep you posted,” continued Vance, “it may
help your calculations to know that we have reason to believe that
Robin was killed in the archery-room and placed on the range
afterwards.”
“Glad to know it.” Arnesson became momentarily serious. “Yes, that may
affect my problem.” He walked with us to the front door. “If there’s
any way I can be of service to you, call on me.”
Vance had paused to light a cigarette, but I knew, by the languid look
in his eyes, that he was making a decision. Slowly he turned to
Arnesson.
“Do you know if Mr. Drukker or Mr. Pardee has a typewriter?”
Arnesson gave a slight start, and his eyes twinkled shrewdly.
“Aha! That Bishop note. . . . I see. Merely a matter of being
thorough. Quite right.” He nodded with satisfaction. “Yes; both have
typewriters. Drukker types incessantly—thinks to the keyboard, so he
says. And Pardee’s chess correspondence is as voluminous as a movie
hero’s. Types it all himself, too.”
“Would it be any great trouble to you,” asked Vance, “to secure a
specimen of the typing of each machine, and also a sample of the paper
these two gentlemen use?”
“None whatever.” Arnesson appeared delighted with the commission.
“Have them for you this afternoon. Where’ll you be?”
“Mr. Markham will be at the Stuyvesant Club. You might phone him
there, and he can arrange——”
“Why bother to arrange anything? I’ll bring my findings to Mr. Markham
personally. Only too glad. Fascinating game, being a sleuth.”
Vance and I returned home in the District Attorney’s car, and Markham
continued to the office. At seven o’clock that night the three of us
met at the Stuyvesant Club for dinner; and at half past eight we were
sitting in Markham’s favorite corner of the lounge-room smoking and
having our coffee.
During the meal no mention of the case had been made. The late
editions of the afternoon papers had carried brief accounts of Robin’s
death. Heath had evidently succeeded in curbing the reporters’
curiosity and clipping the wings of their imagination. The District
Attorney’s office being closed, the newspaper men were unable to
bombard Markham with questions, and so the late press was inadequately
supplied with information. The Sergeant had guarded the Dillard house
well, for the reporters had not succeeded in reaching any member of
the household.
Markham had picked up a late _Sun_ on his way from the dining-room,
and glanced through it carefully as he sipped his coffee.
“This is the first faint echo,” he commented ruefully. “I shudder to
think what the morning papers will contain.”
“There’s nothing to do but bear it,” smiled Vance unfeelingly. “The
moment some bright journalistic lad awakes to the robin-sparrow-arrow
combination the city editors will go mad with joy, and every front
page in the country will look like a Mother-Goose hoarding.”
Markham lapsed into despondency. Finally he struck the arm of his
chair angrily with his fist.
“Damn it, Vance! I won’t let you inflame my imagination with this
idiocy about nursery rhymes.” Then he added, with the ferocity of
uncertainty: “It’s a sheer coincidence, I tell you. There simply
couldn’t be anything in it.”
Vance sighed. “Convince yourself against your will; you’re of the same
opinion still—to paraphrase Butler.” He reached into his pocket and
took out a sheet of paper. “Putting all juvenilia to one side _pro
tempore_, here’s an edifyin’ chronology I drew up before dinner. . . .
Edifyin’? Well, it might be if we knew how to interpret it.”
Markham studied the paper for several minutes. What Vance had written
down was this:
9.00 a. m. Arnesson left house to go to university library.
9.15 a. m. Belle Dillard left house for the tennis courts.
9.30 a. m. Drukker called at house to see Arnesson.
9.50 a. m. Drukker went down-stairs to archery-room.
10.00 a. m. Robin and Sperling called at house and remained in
drawing-room for half an hour.
10.30 a. m. Robin and Sperling went down to archery-room.
10.32 a. m. Drukker says he went out for a walk, by the wall gate.
10.35 a. m. Beedle went marketing.
10.55 a. m. Drukker says he returned to his own house.
11.15 a. m. Sperling went away by wall gate.
11.30 a. m. Drukker says he heard a scream in his mother’s room.
11.35 a. m. Professor Dillard went on balcony of Arnesson’s room.
11.40 a. m. Professor Dillard saw Robin’s body on archery range.
11.45 a. m. Professor Dillard telephoned to District Attorney’s
office.
12.25 p. m. Belle Dillard returned from tennis.
12.30 p. m. Police arrived at Dillard house.
12.35 p. m. Beedle returned from market.
2.00 p. m. Arnesson returned from university.
_Ergo_: Robin was killed at some time between 11.15 (when Sperling
departed) and 11.40 (when Professor Dillard discovered body).
The only other persons known to have been in the house during this
time were Pyne and Professor Dillard.
The disposition of all other persons connected in any way with the
murder was as follows (according to statements and evidence now in
hand):
1. Arnesson was at the university library between 9 a. m. and
2 p. m.
2. Belle Dillard was at the tennis courts between 9.15 a. m. and
12.25 p. m.
3. Drukker was walking in the park between 10.32 a. m. and
10.55 a. m.; and was in his study from 10.55 a. m. on.
4. Pardee was in his house the entire morning.
5. Mrs. Drukker was in her room the entire morning.
6. Beedle was marketing between 10.35 a. m. and 12.35 p. m.
7. Sperling was on his way to the Grand Central Station between
11.15 a. m. and 11.40 a. m., at which hour he took a train for
Scarsdale.
_Conclusion_: Unless at least one of these seven alibis is shaken,
the whole weight of suspicion, and indeed the actual culpability,
must rest upon either Pyne or Professor Dillard.
When Markham finished reading the paper, he made a gesture of
exasperation.
“Your entire implication is preposterous,” he said irritably; “and
your conclusion is a _non-sequitur_. The chronology helps set the time
of Robin’s death, but your assumption that one of the persons we’ve
seen to-day is necessarily guilty is arrant nonsense. You completely
ignore the possibility that any outsider could have committed the
crime. There were three ways of reaching the range and the
archery-room without entering the house—the wall gate on 75th Street,
the other wall gate on 76th Street, and the alleyway between the two
apartment houses, leading to Riverside Drive.”
“Oh, it’s highly probable that one of these three entrances was used,”
returned Vance. “But don’t overlook the fact that the most secluded,
and therefore the most likely, of these three means of entry—to wit,
the alleyway—is guarded by a locked door to which no one would be apt
to have a key except some member of the Dillard household. I can’t
picture a murderer walking into the range from either of the street
gates: he would be taking too many chances of being seen.”
Vance leaned forward seriously.
“And, Markham, there are other reasons why we may eliminate strangers
or casual prowlers. The person who sent Robin to his Maker must have
been privy to the exact state of affairs in the Dillard house this
morning between a quarter past eleven and twenty minutes to twelve. He
knew that Pyne and the old professor were alone there. He knew that
Belle Dillard was not roaming about the premises. He knew that Beedle
was away and could neither hear him nor surprise him. He knew that
Robin—his victim—was there, and that Sperling had departed. Moreover,
he knew something of the lie of the land—the situation of the
archery-room, for instance; for it’s only too plain that Robin was
killed in that room. No one who wasn’t familiar with all these details
would have dared enter the grounds and staged a spectacular murder. I
tell you, Markham, it was some one very close to the Dillard
ménage—some one who was able to find out just what conditions obtained
in that household this morning.”
“What about that scream of Mrs. Drukker’s?”
“Ah, what about it, indeed? Mrs. Drukker’s window may have been a
factor that the murderer overlooked. Or perhaps he knew about it and
decided to take that one chance of being seen. On the other hand, we
don’t know whether the lady screamed or not. She says No; Drukker says
Yes. They both have an ulterior motive for what they poured into our
trustin’ ears. Drukker may have told of the scream by way of proving
he was at home between eleven and twelve; and Mrs. Drukker may have
denied it for fear he wasn’t home. It’s very much of an _olla
podrida_. But it doesn’t matter. The main point I’m trying to make is
that only an intimate of the Dillard house could have done this
devilish business.”
“We have too few facts to warrant that conclusion,” asserted Markham.
“Chance may have played a part——”
“Oh, I say, old man! Chance may work out to a few permutations, but
not to twenty.—And there is that note left in the mail-box. The
murderer even knew Robin’s middle name.”
“Assuming, of course, that the murderer wrote the note.”
“Do you prefer to assume that some balmy joker found out about the
crime through telepathy or crystal-gazing, hied to a typewriter,
composed a dithyramb, returned hot-footed to the house, and, for no
good reason, took the terrific risk of being seen putting the paper in
the mail-box?”
Before Markham could answer Heath entered the lounge room and hurried
to our corner. That he was worried and uneasy was obvious. With
scarcely a word of greeting he handed a typewritten envelope to
Markham.
“That was received by the _World_ in the late afternoon mail. Quinan,
the police reporter of the _World_, brought it to me a little while
ago; and he says that the _Times_ and the _Herald_ also got copies of
it. The letters were stamped at one o’clock to-day, so they were
probably posted between eleven and twelve. What’s more, Mr. Markham,
they were mailed in the neighborhood of the Dillard house, for they
went through Post Office Station ‘N’ on West 69th Street.”
Markham withdrew the enclosure from the envelope. Suddenly his eyes
opened wide, and the muscles about his mouth tightened. Without
looking up he handed the letter to Vance. It consisted of a single
sheet of typewriting paper, and the words printed on it were identical
to those on the note left in the Dillard mail-box. Indeed, the
communication was an exact duplicate of the other:—“Joseph Cochrane
Robin is dead. Who Killed Cock Robin? Sperling means sparrow.—THE
BISHOP.”
Vance scarcely glanced at the paper.
“Quite in keeping, don’t y’ know,” he said indifferently. “The Bishop
was afraid the public might miss the point of his joke; so he
explained it to the press.”
“Joke, did you say, Mr. Vance?” asked Heath bitterly. “It ain’t the
kind of joke I’m used to. This case gets crazier——”
“Exactly, Sergeant. A crazy joke.”
A uniformed boy stepped up to the District Attorney and, bending over
his shoulder discreetly, whispered something.
“Bring him here right away,” ordered Markham. Then to us: “It’s
Arnesson. He’ll probably have those specimens of typing.” A shadow had
settled on his face; and he glanced again at the note Heath had
brought him. “Vance,” he said in a low voice, “I’m beginning to
believe that this case may turn out to be as terrible as you think. I
wonder if the typing will correspond. . . .”
But when the note was compared with the specimens Arnesson brought, no
similarity whatever could be discerned. Not only were the typing and
the ink different from those of either Pardee’s or Drukker’s machine,
but the paper did not match any one of the samples that Arnesson had
secured.