In the Bishop’s Shadow
(Tuesday, April 12; 11 a. m.)
Vance took the bishop from Mrs. Drukker and slipped it into his coat
pocket.
“It would be dangerous, madam,” he said, with impressive solemnity,
“if what happened here last night became known. Should the person who
played this joke on you find out that you had informed the police,
other attempts to frighten you might be made. Therefore, not one word
of what you have told us must pass your lips.”
“May I not even tell Adolph?” the woman asked distractedly.
“No one! You must maintain a complete silence, even in the presence of
your son.”
I could not understand Vance’s emphasis on this point; but before many
days had passed it was all too clear to me. The reason for his advice
was revealed with tragic force; and I realized that even at the time
of Mrs. Drukker’s disclosure his penetrating mind had worked out an
uncannily accurate ratiocination, and foreseen certain possibilities
unsuspected by the rest of us.
We took our leave a few moments later, and descended the rear stairs.
The staircase made a sharp turn to the right at a landing eight or ten
steps below the second floor, and led into a small dark passageway
with two doors—one on the left, opening into the kitchen, and another,
diagonally opposite, giving on the screen porch.
We stepped out immediately to the porch, now flooded in sunshine, and
stood without a word trying to shake off the atmosphere cast about us
by Mrs. Drukker’s terrifying experience.
Markham was the first to speak.
“Do you believe, Vance, that the person who brought that chessman here
last night is the killer of Robin and Sprigg?”
“There can be no doubt of it. The purpose of his midnight visit is
hideously clear. It fits perfectly with what has already come to
light.”
“It strikes me merely as a ruthless practical joke,” Markham rejoined,
“—the act of a drunken fiend.”
Vance shook his head.
“It’s the only thing in this whole nightmare that doesn’t qualify as a
piece of insane humor. It was a deadly serious excursion. The devil
himself is never so solemn as when covering his tracks. Our particular
devil’s hand had been forced, and he made a bold play. ’Pon my soul, I
almost prefer his jovial mood to the one that prompted him to break in
here last night. However, we now have something definite to go on.”
Heath, impatient of all theorizing, quickly picked up this last
remark.
“And what might that be, sir?”
“_Imprimis_, we may assume that our chess-playing troubadour was
thoroughly familiar with the plan of this house. The night-light in
the upper hall may have cast its gleam down the rear stairs as far as
the landing, but the rest of the way must have been in darkness.
Moreover, the arrangement of the rear of the house is somewhat
complicated. Therefore, unless he knew the layout he couldn’t have
found his way about noiselessly in the dark. Obviously, too, the
visitor knew in which room Mrs. Drukker slept. Also, he must have
known what time Drukker turned in last night, for he wouldn’t have
chanced making his call unless he had felt sure that the coast was
clear.”
“That don’t help us much,” grumbled Heath. “We’ve been going on the
theory right along that the murderer was wise to everything connected
with these two houses.”
“True. But one may be fairly intimate with a family and still not know
at what hour each of its members retires on a certain night, or just
how to effect a surreptitious entry to the house. Furthermore,
Sergeant, our midnight caller was some one who knew that Mrs. Drukker
was in the habit of leaving her door unlocked at night; for he had
every intention of entering her room. His object wasn’t merely to
leave his little memento outside and then depart. The silent stealthy
way he tried the knob proves that.”
“He may simply have wanted to waken Mrs. Drukker so she would find it
at once,” suggested Markham.
“Then why did he turn the knob so carefully—as if trying _not_ to
waken any one? A rattling of the knob, or a soft tapping, or even
throwing the chessman against the door, would have answered that
purpose much better. . . . No, Markham; he had a far more sinister
object in mind; but when he found himself thwarted by the locked door
and heard Mrs. Drukker’s cry of fright, he placed the bishop where she
would find it, and fled.”
“Still and all, sir,” argued Heath, “any one mighta known she left her
door unlocked at night; and any one coulda learned the lay of the
house so’s to find their way around in the dark.”
“But who, Sergeant, had a key to the rear door? And who could have
used it at midnight last night?”
“The door mighta been left unlocked,” countered Heath; “and when we
check up on the alibis of everybody we may get a lead.”
Vance sighed.
“You’ll probably find two or three people without any alibi at all.
And if last night’s visit here was planned, a convincing alibi may
have been prepared. We’re not dealing with a simpleton, Sergeant.
We’re playing a game to the death with a subtle and resourceful
murderer, who can think as quickly as we can, and who has had long
training in the subtleties of logic. . . .”
As if on a sudden impulse he turned and passed indoors, motioning us
to follow. He went straight to the kitchen where the German woman who
had admitted us earlier sat stolidly by a table preparing the midday
meal. She rose as we entered and backed away from us. Vance, puzzled
by her demeanor, studied her for several moments without speaking.
Then his eyes drifted to the table where a large eggplant had been
halved lengthwise and scooped out.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, glancing at the contents of the various dishes
standing about. “_Aubergines à la Turque_, what? An excellent dish.
But I’d mince the mutton a bit finer, if I were you. And not too much
cheese: it detracts from the sauce _espagnole_ which I see you’re
preparing.” He looked up with a pleasant smile. “What’s your name, by
the by?”
His manner astonished the woman greatly, but it also had the effect of
alleviating her fears.
“Menzel,” she answered in a dull voice. “Grete Menzel.”
“And how long have you been with the Drukkers?”
“Going on twenty-five years.”
“A long time,” Vance commented musingly. “Tell me: why were you
frightened when we called here this morning?”
The woman became sullen, and her large hands closed tightly.
“I wasn’t frightened. But Mr. Drukker was busy——”
“You thought perhaps we had come to arrest him,” Vance broke in.
Her eyes dilated, but she made no answer.
“What time did Mr. Drukker rise yesterday morning?” Vance went on.
“I told you . . . nine o’clock—like always.”
“What time did Mr. Drukker rise?” The insistent, detached quality of
his voice was far more ominous than any dramatic intonation could have
been.
“I told you——”
“_Die Wahrheit, Frau Menzel! Um wie viel Uhr ist er aufgestanden?_”
The psychological effect of this repetition of the question in German
was instantaneous. The woman’s hands went to her face, and a stifled
cry, like a trapped animal’s, escaped her.
“I don’t—know,” she groaned. “I called him at half past eight, but he
didn’t answer, and I tried the door. . . . It wasn’t locked and—_Du
lieber Gott!_—he was gone.”
“When did you next see him?” asked Vance quietly.
“At nine. I went up-stairs again to tell him breakfast was ready. He
was in the study—at his desk—working like mad, and all excited. He
told me to go away.”
“Did he come down to breakfast?”
“_Ja—ja._ He came down—half an hour later.”
The woman leaned heavily against the drain-board of the sink, and
Vance drew up a chair for her.
“Sit down, Mrs. Menzel,” he said kindly. When she had obeyed, he
asked: “Why did you tell me this morning that Mr. Drukker rose at
nine?”
“I had to—I was told to.” Her resistance was gone, and she breathed
heavily like a person exhausted. “When Mrs. Drukker came back from
Miss Dillard’s yesterday afternoon she told me that if any one asked
me that question about Mr. Drukker I was to say ‘Nine o’clock.’ She
made me swear I’d say it. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes
took on a glassy stare. “I was afraid to say anything else.”
Vance still seemed puzzled. After several deep inhalations on his
cigarette he remarked:
“There’s nothing in what you’ve told us to affect you this way. It’s
not unnatural that a morbid woman like Mrs. Drukker should have taken
such a fantastic measure to protect her son from possible suspicion,
when a murder had been committed in the neighborhood. You’ve surely
been with her long enough to realize how she might exaggerate every
remote possibility where her son is concerned. In fact, I’m surprised
you take it so seriously. . . . Have you any other reason to connect
Mr. Drukker with this crime?”
“No—no!” The woman shook her head distractedly.
Vance strolled to the rear window, frowning. Suddenly he swung about.
He had become stern and implacable.
“Where were you, Mrs. Menzel, the morning Mr. Robin was killed?”
An astounding change came over the woman. Her face paled; her lips
trembled; and she clinched her hands with a spasmodic gesture. She
tried to take her staring eyes from Vance, but some quality in his
gaze held her.
“Where were you, Mrs. Menzel?” The question was repeated sharply.
“I was—here——” she began; then stopped abruptly and cast an agitated
glance at Heath, who was watching her fixedly.
“You were in the kitchen?”
She nodded. The power of speech seemed to have deserted her.
“And you saw Mr. Drukker return from the Dillards’?”
Again she nodded.
“Exactly,” said Vance. “And he came in the rear way, by the screen
porch, and went up-stairs. . . . And he didn’t know that you saw him
through the kitchen door. . . . And later he inquired regarding your
whereabouts at that hour. . . . And when you told him you had been in
the kitchen he warned you to keep silent about it. . . . And then you
learned of Mr. Robin’s death a few minutes before you saw him enter
here. . . . And yesterday, when Mrs. Drukker told you to say he had
not risen until nine, and you heard that some one else had been killed
near here, you became suspicious and frightened. . . . That’s correct,
is it not, Mrs. Menzel?”
The woman was sobbing audibly in her apron. There was no need for her
to reply, for it was obvious that Vance had guessed the truth.
Heath took his cigar from his mouth and glared at her ferociously.
“So! You were holding out on me,” he bellowed, thrusting forward his
jaw. “You lied to me when I questioned you the other day. Obstructing
justice, were you?”
She gave Vance a look of frightened appeal.
“Mrs. Menzel, Sergeant,” he said, “had no intention of obstructing
justice. And now that she has told us the truth, I think we may
overlook her perfectly natural deception in the matter.” Then before
Heath had time to reply he turned to the woman and asked in a
matter-of-fact tone: “Do you lock the door leading to the screen porch
every night?”
“_Ja_—every night.” She spoke listlessly: the reaction from her fright
had left her apathetic.
“You are sure you locked it last night?”
“At half past nine—when I went to bed.”
Vance stepped across the little passageway and inspected the lock.
“It’s a snap-lock,” he observed, on returning. “Who has a key to the
door?”
“I have a key. And Mrs. Drukker—she has one, too.”
“You’re sure no one else has a key?”
“No one except Miss Dillard. . . .”
“Miss Dillard?” Vance’s voice was suddenly resonant with interest.
“Why should she have one?”
“She’s had it for years. She’s like a member of the family—over here
two and three times a day. When I go out I lock the back door; and her
having a key saves Mrs. Drukker the trouble of coming down and letting
her in.”
“Quite natural,” Vance murmured. Then: “We sha’n’t bother you any
more, Mrs. Menzel.” He strolled out on the little rear porch.
When the door had been closed behind us he pointed to the screen door
that opened into the yard.
“You’ll note that this wire mesh has been forced away from the frame,
permitting one to reach inside and turn the latch. Either Mrs.
Drukker’s key or Miss Dillard’s—probably the latter—was used to open
the door of the house.”
Heath nodded: this tangible aspect of the case appealed to him. But
Markham was not paying attention. He stood in the background smoking
with angry detachment. Presently he turned resolutely and was about to
re-enter the house when Vance caught his arm.
“No—no, Markham! That would be abominable technique. Curb your ire.
You’re so dashed impulsive, don’t y’ know.”
“But, damn it, Vance!” Markham shook off the other’s hand. “Drukker
lied to us about going out the Dillard gate before Robin’s murder——”
“Of course he did. I’ve suspected all along that the account he gave
us of his movements that morning was a bit fanciful. But it’s useless
to go up-stairs now and hector him about it. He’ll simply say that the
cook is mistaken.”
Markham was unconvinced.
“But what about yesterday morning? I want to know where he was when
the cook called him at half past eight. Why should Mrs. Drukker be so
anxious to have us believe he was asleep?”
“She, too, probably went to his room and saw that he was gone. Then
when she heard of Sprigg’s death her febrile imagination became
overheated, and she proceeded to invest him with an alibi. But you’re
only inviting trouble when you plan to chivy him about the
discrepancies in his tale.”
“I’m not so sure.” Markham spoke with significative gravity. “I may be
inviting a solution to this hideous business.”
Vance did not reply at once. He stood gazing down at the quivering
shadows cast on the lawn by the willow trees. At length he said in a
low voice:
“We can’t afford to take that chance. If what you’re thinking should
prove to be true, and you should reveal the information you’ve just
received, the little man who was here last night might prowl about the
upper hall again. And this time he might not be content to leave his
chessman _outside the door_!”
A look of horror came into Markham’s eyes.
“You think I might be jeopardizing the cook’s safety if I used her
evidence against him at this time?”
“The terrible thing about this affair is that, until we know the
truth, we face danger at every turn.” Vance’s voice was heavy with
discouragement. “We can’t risk exposing any one. . . .”
The door leading to the porch opened, and Drukker appeared on the
threshold, his little eyes blinking in the sunlight. His gaze came to
rest on Markham, and a crafty, repulsive smile contorted his mouth.
“I trust I am not disturbing you,” he apologized, with a menacing
squint; “but the cook has just informed me that she told you she saw
me enter here by the rear door on the morning of Mr. Robin’s
unfortunate death.”
“Oh, my aunt!” murmured Vance, turning away and busying himself with
the selection of a fresh cigarette. “That tears it.”
Drukker shot him an inquisitive look, and drew himself up with a kind
of cynical fortitude.
“And what about it, Mr. Drukker?” demanded Markham.
“I merely desired to assure you,” the man replied, “that the cook is
in error. She has obviously confused the date,—you see, I come and go
so often by this rear door. On the morning of Mr. Robin’s death, as I
explained to you, I left the range by the 75th-Street gate and, after
a brief walk in the park, returned home by the front way. I have
convinced Grete that she is mistaken.”
Vance had been listening to him closely. Now he turned and met the
other’s smile with a look of bland ingenuousness.
“Did you convince her with a chessman, by any chance?”
Drukker jerked his head forward and sucked in a rasping breath. His
twisted frame became taut; the muscles about his eyes and mouth began
to twitch; and the ligaments of his neck stood out like whipcord. For
a moment I thought he was going to lose his self-control; but with a
great effort he steadied himself.
“I don’t understand you, sir.” There was the vibrancy of an intense
anger in his words. “What has a chessman to do with it?”
“Chessmen have various names,” suggested Vance softly.
“Are _you_ telling _me_ about chess?” A venomous contempt marked
Drukker’s manner, but he managed to grin. “Various names, certainly.
There’s the king and queen, the rook, the knight——” He broke off.
“_The bishop!_ . . .” He lay his head against the casement of the door
and began to cackle mirthlessly. “So! That’s what you mean? _The
bishop!_ . . . You’re a lot of imbecile children playing a nonsense
game.”
“We have excellent reason to believe,” said Vance, with impressive
calmness, “that the game is being played by some one else—with the
chess bishop as the principal symbol.”
Drukker sobered.
“Don’t take my mother’s vagaries too seriously,” he admonished. “Her
imagination often plays tricks on her.”
“Ah! And why do you mention your mother in this connection?”
“You’ve just been talking to her, haven’t you? And your comments, I
must say, sound very much like some of her harmless hallucinations.”
“On the other hand,” Vance rejoined mildly, “your mother may have
perfectly good grounds for her beliefs.”
Drukker’s eyes narrowed, and he looked swiftly at Markham.
“Rot!”
“Ah, well,” sighed Vance; “we sha’n’t debate the point.” Then in an
altered tone he added: “It might help us though, Mr. Drukker, if we
knew where you were between eight and nine yesterday morning.”
The man opened his mouth slightly as if to speak, but quickly his lips
closed again, and he stood staring calculatingly at Vance. At length
he answered in a high-pitched insistent voice.
“I was working—in my study—from six o’clock until half past nine.” He
paused, but evidently felt that further explanation was desirable.
“For several months I’ve been working on a modification of the
ether-string theory to account for the interference of light, which
the quantum theory is unable to explain. Dillard told me I couldn’t do
it”;—a fanatical light came into his eyes—“but I awoke early yesterday
morning with certain factors of the problem clarified; and I got up
and went to my study. . . .”
“So that’s where you were.” Vance spoke carelessly. “It’s of no great
importance. Sorry we discommoded you to-day.” He beckoned with his
head to Markham, and moved toward the screen door. As we stepped upon
the range he turned back and, smiling, said almost dulcetly: “Mrs.
Menzel is under our protection. It would pain us deeply if anything
should happen to her.”
Drukker looked after us with a sort of hypnotized fascination.
The moment we were out of hearing Vance moved to Heath’s side.
“Sergeant,” he said in a troubled voice, “that forthright German
_Hausfrau_ may have put her head unwittingly in a noose. And—my
word!—I’m afraid. You’d better have a good man watch the Drukker house
to-night—from the rear, under those willow trees. And tell him to
break in at the first scream or call. . . . I’ll sleep better if I
know there’s a plain-clothes angel guarding Frau Menzel’s slumbers.”
“I get you, sir.” Heath’s face was grim. “There won’t be no chess
players worrying her to-night.”