A Refusal of Aid
(Monday, April 11; 2 p. m.)
It was shortly after two o’clock when we reached the Dillard house.
Pyne answered our ring; and if our visit caused him any surprise he
succeeded admirably in hiding it. In the look he gave Heath, however,
I detected a certain uneasiness; but when he spoke his voice had the
flat, unctuous quality of the well-trained servant.
“Mr. Arnesson has not returned from the university,” he informed us.
“Mind-reading, I see,” said Vance, “is not your _forte_, Pyne. We
called to see you and Professor Dillard.”
The man looked ill at ease; but before he could answer Miss Dillard
appeared in the archway of the drawing-room.
“I thought I recognized your voice, Mr. Vance.” She included us all in
a smile of wistful welcome. “Please come in. . . . Lady Mae dropped in
for a few minutes,—we’re going riding together this afternoon,” she
explained, as we entered the room.
Mrs. Drukker stood by the centre-table, one bony hand on the back of
the chair from which she had evidently just risen. There was fear in
her eyes as she stared at us unblinkingly; and her lean features
seemed almost contorted. She made no effort to speak, but stood
rigidly as if waiting for some dread pronouncement, like a convicted
prisoner at the bar about to receive sentence.
Belle Dillard’s pleasant voice relieved the tensity of the situation.
“I’ll run up and tell uncle you’re here.”
She had no sooner quitted the room than Mrs. Drukker leaned over the
table and said to Markham in a sepulchral, awe-stricken whisper: “I
know why you’ve come! It’s about that fine young man who was shot in
the park this morning.”
So amazing and unexpected were her words that Markham could make no
immediate answer; and it was Vance who replied.
“You have heard of the tragedy, then, Mrs. Drukker? How could the news
have come to you so soon?”
A look of canniness came into the woman’s expression, giving her the
appearance of an evil old witch.
“Every one is talking about it in the neighborhood,” she answered
evasively.
“Indeed? That’s most unfortunate. But why do you assume we have come
here to make inquiries about it?”
“Wasn’t the young man’s name Johnny Sprigg?” A faint, terrible smile
accompanied the question.
“So it was. John E. Sprigg. Still, that does not explain his
connection with the Dillards.”
“Ah, but it does!” Her head moved up and down with a sort of horrible
satisfaction. “It’s a game—a child’s game. First Cock Robin . . . then
Johnny Sprig. Children must play—all healthy children must play.” Her
mood suddenly changed. A softness shone on her face, and her eyes grew
sad.
“It’s a rather diabolical game, don’t you think, Mrs. Drukker?”
“And why not? Isn’t life itself diabolical?”
“For some of us—yes.” A curious sympathy informed Vance’s words as he
gazed at this strange tragic creature before us. “Tell me,” he went on
quickly, in an altered tone; “do you know who the Bishop is?”
“The Bishop?” She frowned perplexedly. “No, I don’t know him. Is that
another child’s game?”
“Something of that kind, I imagine. At any rate, the Bishop is
interested in Cock Robin and Johnny Sprig. In fact, he may be the
person who is making up these fantastic games. And we’re looking for
him, Mrs. Drukker. We hope to learn the truth from him.”
The woman shook her head vaguely. “I don’t know him.” Then she glared
vindictively at Markham. “But it’s not going to do you any good to try
to find out who killed Cock Robin and shot Johnny Sprig through the
middle of his wig. You’ll never learn—never—_never_. . . .” Her voice
had risen excitedly, and a fit of trembling seized her.
At this moment Belle Dillard re-entered the room, and going quickly to
Mrs. Drukker put her arm about her.
“Come,” she said soothingly; “we’ll have a long drive in the country,
Lady Mae.” Reproachfully she turned to Markham, and said coldly:
“Uncle wishes you to come to the library.” With that she led Mrs.
Drukker from the room and down the hall.
“Now that’s a queer one, sir,” commented Heath, who had stood looking
on with bewildered amazement. “She had the dope on this Johnny-Sprig
stuff all the time!”
Vance nodded.
“And our appearance here frightened her. Still, her mind is morbid and
sensitive, Sergeant; and dwelling as she does constantly on her son’s
deformity and the early days when he was like other children, it’s
quite possible she merely hit accidentally upon the Mother-Goose
significance of Robin’s and Sprigg’s death. . . . I wonder.” He looked
toward Markham. “There are strange undercurrents in this
case—incredible and terrifying implications. It’s like being lost in
the Dovrë-Troll caverns of Ibsen’s ‘Peer Gynt,’ where only
monstrosities and abnormalities exist.” He shrugged his shoulders,
though I knew he had not wholly escaped the pall of horror cast on us
by Mrs. Drukker’s words. “Perhaps we can find a little solid footing
with Professor Dillard.”
The professor received us without enthusiasm and with but scant
cordiality. His desk was littered with papers, and it was obvious that
we had disturbed him in the midst of his labors.
“Why this unexpected visit, Markham?” he asked, after we had seated
ourselves. “Have you something to report on Robin’s death?” He marked
a page in Weyl’s “Space, Time and Matter” and, settling back
reluctantly, regarded us with impatience. “I’m very busy working on a
problem of Mach’s mechanics. . . .”
“I regret,” said Markham, “I have nothing to report on the Robin case.
But there has been another murder in this neighborhood to-day, and we
have reason to believe that it may be connected with Robin’s death.
What I wanted particularly to ask you, sir, is whether or not the name
of John E. Sprigg is familiar to you.”
Professor Dillard’s expression of annoyance changed quickly.
“Is that the name of the man who was killed?” There was no longer any
lack of interest in his attitude.
“Yes. A man named John E. Sprigg was shot in Riverside Park, near 84th
Street, this morning shortly after half past seven.”
The professor’s eyes wandered to the mantelpiece, and he was silent
for several moments. He seemed to be debating inwardly some point that
troubled him.
“Yes,” he said at length, “I—we—do know a young man of that
name—though it’s wholly unlikely he’s the same one.”
“Who is he?” Markham’s voice was eagerly insistent.
Again the professor hesitated.
“The lad I have in mind is Arnesson’s prize student in
mathematics—what they’d call at Cambridge a senior wrangler.”
“How do you happen to know him, sir?”
“Arnesson has brought him to the house here several times. Wanted me
to see him and talk to him. Arnesson was quite proud of the boy; and I
must admit he showed unusual talent.”
“Then he was known to all the members of the household?”
“Yes. Belle met him, I think. And if by ‘the household’ you include
Pyne and Beedle, I should say the name was probably familiar to them
too.”
Vance asked the next question.
“Did the Drukkers know Sprigg, Professor Dillard?”
“It’s quite possible. Arnesson and Drukker see each other a great
deal. . . . Come to think of it, I believe Drukker was here one night
when Sprigg called.”
“And Pardee: did he also know Sprigg?”
“As to that I couldn’t say.” The professor tapped impatiently on the
arm of his chair, and turned back to Markham. “See here”—his voice
held a worried petulance—“what’s the point of these questions? What
has our knowing a student named Sprigg to do with this morning’s
affair? Surely you don’t mean to tell me that the man who was killed
was Arnesson’s pupil.”
“I’m afraid it’s true,” said Markham.
There was a note of anxiety—of fear almost, I thought—in the
professor’s voice when he next spoke.
“Even so, what can that fact have to do with us? And how can you
possibly connect his death with Robin’s?”
“I admit we have nothing definite to go on,” Markham told him. “But
the purposelessness of both crimes—the total lack of any motive in
either case—seems to give them a curious unity of aspect.”
“You mean, of course, that you have found no motive. But if all crimes
without apparent motive were assumed to be connected——”
“Also there are the elements of time and proximity in these two
cases,” Markham amplified.
“Is that the basis of your assumption?” The professor’s manner was
benevolently contemptuous. “You never were a good mathematician,
Markham, but at least you should know that no hypothesis can be built
on such a flimsy premise.”
“Both names,” interposed Vance, “—Cock Robin and Johnny Sprig—are the
subjects of well-known nursery rhymes.”
The old man stared at him with undisguised astonishment; and gradually
an angry flush mounted to his face.
“Your humor, sir, is out of place.”
“It is not _my_ humor, alas!” replied Vance sadly. “The jest is the
Bishop’s.”
“The Bishop?” Professor Dillard strove to curb his irritation. “Look
here, Markham; I won’t be played with. That’s the second mention of a
mysterious Bishop that’s been made in this room; and I want to know
the meaning of it. Even if a crank did write an insane letter to the
papers in connection with Robin’s death, what has this Bishop to do
with Sprigg?”
“A paper was found beneath Sprigg’s body bearing a mathematical
formula typed on the same machine as the Bishop notes.”
“What!” The professor bent forward. “The same machine, you say? And a
mathematical formula? . . . What was the formula?”
Markham opened his pocketbook, and held out the triangular scrap of
paper that Pitts had given him.
“The Riemann-Christoffel tensor. . . .” Professor Dillard sat for a
long time gazing at the paper; then he handed it back to Markham. He
seemed suddenly to have grown older; and there was a weary look in his
eyes as he lifted them to us. “I don’t see any light in this matter.”
His tone was one of hopeless resignation. “But perhaps you are right
in following your present course.—What do you want of me?”
Markham was plainly puzzled by the other’s altered attitude.
“I came to you primarily to ascertain if there was any link between
Sprigg and this house; but, to be quite candid, I don’t see how that
link, now that I have it, fits into the chain.—I would, however, like
your permission to question Pyne and Beedle in whatever way I think
advisable.”
“Ask them anything you like, Markham. You shall never be able to
accuse me of having stood in your way.” He glanced up appealingly.
“But you will, I hope, advise me before you take any drastic steps.”
“That I can promise you, sir.” Markham rose. “But I fear we are a long
way from any drastic measures at present.” He held out his hand, and
from his manner it was evident he had sensed some hidden anxiety in
the old man and wanted to express his sympathy without voicing his
feelings.
The professor walked with us to the door.
“I can’t understand that typed tensor,” he murmured, shaking his head.
“But if there’s anything I can do. . . .”
“There _is_ something you can do for us, Professor Dillard,” said
Vance, pausing at the door. “On the morning Robin was killed we
interviewed Mrs. Drukker——”
“Ah!”
“And though she denied having sat at her window during the forenoon
there is a possibility she saw something happen on the archery range
between eleven and twelve.”
“She gave you that impression?” There was an undertone of suppressed
interest in the professor’s question.
“Only in a remote way. It was Drukker’s statement that he had heard
his mother scream, and her denial of having screamed, that led me to
believe that she might have seen something she preferred to keep from
us. And it occurred to me that you would probably have more influence
with her than any one else, and that, if she did indeed witness
anything, you might prevail upon her to speak.”
“No!” Professor Dillard spoke almost harshly; but he immediately
placed his hand on Markham’s arm, and his tone changed. “There are
some things you must not ask me to do for you. If that poor harassed
woman saw anything from her window that morning, you must find it out
for yourself. I’ll have no hand in torturing her; and I sincerely hope
you’ll not worry her either. There are other ways of finding out what
you want to know.” He looked straight into Markham’s eyes. “_She_ must
not be the one to tell you. You yourself would be sorry afterwards.”
“We must find out what we can,” Markham answered resolutely but with
kindliness. “There’s a fiend loose in this city, and I cannot stay my
hand to save any one from suffering—however tragic that suffering may
be. But I assure you I shall not unnecessarily torture any one.”
“Have you thought,” asked Professor Dillard quietly, “that the truth
you seek may be more frightful even than the crimes themselves?”
“That I shall have to risk. But even if I knew it to be a fact, it
would not deter me in any degree.”
“Certainly not. But, Markham, I’m much older than you. I had gray hair
when you were a lad struggling with your logs and antilogs; and when
one gets old one learns the true proportions in the universe. The
ratios all change. The estimates we once placed on things lose their
meaning. That’s why the old are more forgiving: they know that no
man-made values are of any importance.”
“But as long as we must live by human values,” argued Markham, “it is
my duty to uphold them. And I cannot, through any personal sense of
sympathy, refuse to take any avenue that may lead to the truth.”
“You are perhaps right,” the professor sighed. “But you must not ask
me to help you in this instance. If you learn the truth, be
charitable. Be sure your culprit is accountable before you demand that
he be sent to the electric chair. There are diseased minds as well as
diseased bodies; and often the two go together.”
When we had returned to the drawing-room Vance lighted a cigarette
with more than his usual care.
“The professor,” he said, “is not at all happy about Sprigg’s death;
and, though he won’t admit it, that tensor formula convinced him that
Sprigg and Robin belong to the same equation. But he was convinced
dashed easily. Now, why?—Moreover, he didn’t care to admit that Sprigg
was known hereabouts. I don’t say he has suspicions, but he has
fears. . . . Deuced funny, his attitude. He apparently doesn’t want to
obstruct the legal justice which you uphold with such touchin’ zeal,
Markham; but he most decidedly doesn’t care to abet your crusade where
the Drukkers are concerned. I wonder what’s back of his consideration
for Mrs. Drukker. I shouldn’t say, offhand, that the professor was of
a sentimental nature.—And what was that platitude about a diseased
mind and a diseased body? Sounded like a prospectus for a physical
culture class, what? . . . Lackaday! Let’s put a few questions to Pyne
and kin.”
Markham sat smoking moodily. I had rarely seen him so despondent.
“I don’t see what we can hope for from them,” he commented. “However,
Sergeant, get Pyne in here.”
When Heath had stepped out Vance gave Markham a waggish look.
“Really, y’ know, you shouldn’t repine. Let Terence console you:—_Nil
tam difficile est, quin quærendo investigari possit._ And, ’pon my
soul, this is a difficult problem. . . .” He became suddenly sober.
“We’re dealing with unknown quantities here. We’re pitted against some
strange, abnormal force that doesn’t operate according to the accepted
laws of conduct. It’s at once subtle—oh, no end subtle—and unfamiliar.
But at least we know that it emanates from somewhere in the environs
of this old house; and we must search in every psychological nook and
cranny. Somewhere about us lies the invisible dragon. So don’t be
shocked at the questions I shall put to Pyne. We must look in the most
unlikely places. . . .”
Footsteps were heard approaching the archway, and a moment later Heath
entered with the old butler in tow.