Act Three
(Tuesday, April 12—Saturday, April 16.)
After lunch at the Élysée Markham and Heath continued down-town. A
hard afternoon lay before them. Markham’s routine work had
accumulated; and the Sergeant, having taken on the Sprigg case in
addition to the Robin investigation, had to keep two separate machines
working, co-ordinate all his reports, answer innumerable questions
from his superiors, and attempt to satisfy the voraciousness of an
army of reporters. Vance and I went to an exhibition of modern French
art at Knoedler’s, had tea at the St. Regis, and met Markham at the
Stuyvesant Club for dinner. Heath and Inspector Moran joined us at
half past eight for an informal conference; but though it lasted until
nearly midnight nothing of a tangible nature came out of it.
Nor did the following day bring anything but discouragement. The
report from Captain Dubois stated that the revolver given him by Heath
contained no sign of a finger-print. Captain Hagedorn identified the
weapon as the one used in the shooting of Sprigg; but this merely
substantiated our already positive belief. The man set to guard the
rear of the Drukker residence spent an uneventful night. No one had
entered or departed from the house; and by eleven o’clock every window
had been dark. Nor had a sound of any kind come from the house until
the next morning when the cook set about her chores for the day. Mrs.
Drukker had appeared in the garden a little after eight; and at half
past nine Drukker went out the front door and sat for two hours in the
park reading.
Two days went by. A watch was kept on the Dillard house; Pardee was
put under strict surveillance; and a man was stationed each night
under the willow trees behind the Drukker house. But nothing unusual
happened; and, despite the Sergeant’s tireless activities, all
promising lines of investigation seemed to be automatically closed.
Both Heath and Markham were deeply worried. The newspapers were
outdoing themselves in gaudy rhetoric; and the inability of the Police
Department and the District Attorney’s office to make the slightest
headway against the mystery of the two spectacular murders was rapidly
growing into a political scandal.
Vance called on Professor Dillard and discussed the case along general
lines. He also spent over an hour on Thursday afternoon with Arnesson
in the hope that the working out of the proposed formula had brought
to light some detail that could be used as a starting-point for
speculation. But he was dissatisfied with the interview, and
complained to me that Arnesson had not been wholly frank with him.
Twice he dropped in at the Manhattan Chess Club and attempted to lead
Pardee into conversation; but each time he was met with the reticence
of cold courtesy. I noticed that he made no effort to communicate with
either Drukker or Mrs. Drukker; and when I asked him his reason for
ignoring them, he answered:
“The truth cannot be learned from them now. Each is playing a game;
and both are thoroughly frightened. Until we have some definite
evidence, more harm than good will result from any attempt to
cross-examine them.”
This definite evidence was to come the very next day from a most
unexpected quarter; and it marked the beginning of the last phase of
our investigation—a phase fraught with such sinister, soul-stirring
tragedy and unspeakable horror, with such wanton cruelty and monstrous
humor, that even now, years later, as I set down this reportorial
record of it, I find it difficult to believe that the events were not,
after all, a mere grotesque dream of fabulous wickedness.
Friday afternoon Markham, in a mood of desperation, called another
conference. Arnesson asked permission to attend; and at four o’clock
we all met, including Inspector Moran, in the District Attorney’s
private room in the old Criminal Courts Building. Arnesson was
unwontedly silent during the discussion, and not once did he indulge
in his usual flippancy. He listened with close attention to all that
was said, and seemed purposely to avoid expressing an opinion, even
when directly appealed to by Vance.
We had been in conference perhaps half an hour when Swacker entered
quietly and placed a memorandum on the District Attorney’s desk.
Markham glanced at it and frowned. After a moment he initialed two
printed forms and handed them to Swacker.
“Fill these in right away and give them to Ben,”* he ordered. Then
when the man had gone out through the outer-hall door, he explained
the interruption. “Sperling has just sent a request to speak to me. He
says he has information that may be of importance. I thought, in the
circumstances, it might be well to see him now.”
* Colonel Benjamin Hanlon, commanding officer of the Detective
Division attached to the District Attorney’s office.
Ten minutes later Sperling was brought in by a deputy sheriff from the
Tombs. He greeted Markham with a friendly boyish smile, and nodded
pleasantly to Vance. He bowed—a bit stiffly, I thought—to Arnesson,
whose presence seemed both to surprise and disconcert him. Markham
motioned him to a chair, and Vance offered him a cigarette.
“I wanted to speak to you, Mr. Markham,” he began, a bit diffidently,
“about a matter which may be of help to you. . . . You remember, when
you were questioning me about my being in the archery-room with Robin,
you wanted to know which way Mr. Drukker went when he left us. I
told you I didn’t notice, except that he went out by the basement
door. . . . Well, sir, I’ve had a lot of time to think lately; and
I’ve naturally gone over in my mind all that happened that morning. I
don’t know just how to explain it, but everything has become a lot
clearer now. Certain—what you might call impressions—have come back to
me. . . .”
He paused and looked down at the carpet. Then lifting his head, he
went on:
“One of these impressions has to do with Mr. Drukker—and that’s why I
wanted to see you. Just this afternoon I was—well, sort of pretending
I was in the archery-room again, talking to Robin; and all of a sudden
the picture of the rear window flashed across my mind. And I
remembered that when I had glanced out of the window that morning to
see how the weather was for my trip, I had seen Mr. Drukker sitting in
the arbor behind the house. . . .”
“At what time was this?” Markham demanded brusquely.
“Only a few seconds before I went to catch my train.”
“Then you imply that Mr. Drukker, instead of leaving the premises,
went to the arbor and remained there until you departed.”
“It looks that way, sir.” Sperling was reluctant to make the
admission.
“You’re quite sure you saw him?”
“Yes, sir. I remember distinctly now. I even recall the peculiar way
he had his legs drawn up under him.”
“You would swear to it,” asked Markham gravely, “knowing that a man’s
life might rest on your testimony?”
“I’d swear to it, sir,” Sperling returned simply.
When the sheriff had escorted his prisoner from the room, Markham
looked at Vance.
“I think that gives us a foothold.”
“Yes. The cook’s testimony was of little value, since Drukker merely
denied it; and she’s the type of loyal stubborn German who’d back up
his denial if any real danger threatened him. Now we’re armed with an
effective weapon.”
“It seems to me,” Markham said, after a few moments of speculative
silence, “that we have a good circumstantial case against Drukker. He
was in the Dillard yard only a few seconds before Robin was killed. He
could easily have seen when Sperling went away; and, as he had
recently come from Professor Dillard, he knew that the other members
of the family were out. Mrs. Drukker denied she saw any one from her
window that morning, although she screamed at the time of Robin’s
death and then went into a panic of fear when we came to question
Drukker. She even warned him against us and called us ‘the enemy.’ My
belief is she saw Drukker returning home immediately after Robin’s
body had been placed on the range.—Drukker was not in his room at the
time Sprigg was killed, and both he and his mother have been at pains
to cover up the fact. He has become excited whenever we broached the
subject of the murders, and has ridiculed the idea that they were
connected. In fact, many of his actions have been highly suspicious.
Also, we know he is abnormal and unbalanced, and that he is given to
playing children’s games. It’s quite possible—in view of what Doctor
Barstead told us—that he has confused fantasy and reality, and
perpetrated these crimes in a moment of temporary insanity. The tensor
formula is not only familiar to him, but he may have associated it in
some crazy way with Sprigg as a result of Arnesson’s discussion with
Sprigg about it.—As for the Bishop notes, they may have been part of
the unreality of his insane games,—children all want an approving
audience when they invent any new form of amusement. His choice of the
word ‘bishop’ was probably the result of his interest in chess—a
playful signature intended to confuse. And this supposition is further
borne out by the actual appearance of a chess bishop on his mother’s
door. He may have feared that she saw him that morning, and thus
sought to silence her without openly admitting to her that he was
guilty. He could easily have slammed the screen-porch door from the
inside, without having had a key, and thereby given the impression
that the bearer of the bishop had entered and departed by the rear
door. Furthermore, it would have been a simple matter for him to take
the bishop from the library the night Pardee was analyzing his
game. . . .”
Markham continued for some time building up his case against Drukker.
He was thorough and detailed, and his summation accounted for
practically all of the evidence that had been adduced. The logical and
relentless way in which he pieced his various factors together was
impressively convincing; and a long silence followed his résumé.
Vance at length stood up, as if to break the tension of his thoughts,
and walked to the window.
“You may be right, Markham,” he admitted. “But my chief objection to
your conclusion is that the case against Drukker is too good. I’ve had
him in mind as a possibility from the first; but the more suspiciously
he acted and the more the indications pointed toward him, the more I
felt inclined to dismiss him from consideration. The brain that
schemed these abominable murders is too competent, too devilishly
shrewd, to become entangled in any such net of circumstantial evidence
as you’ve drawn about Drukker. Drukker has an amazing mentality—his
intelligence and intellect are supernormal, in fact; and it’s
difficult to conceive of him, if guilty, leaving so many loopholes.”
“The law,” returned Markham with acerbity, “can hardly be expected to
throw out cases because they’re too convincing.”
“On the other hand,” pursued Vance, ignoring the comment, “it is quite
obvious that Drukker, even if not guilty, knows something that has a
direct and vital bearing on the case; and my humble suggestion is that
we attempt to prise this information out of him. Sperling’s testimony
has given us the lever for the purpose. . . . I say, Mr. Arnesson,
what’s your opinion?”
“Haven’t any,” the man answered. “I’m a disinterested onlooker. I’d
hate, however, to see poor Adolph in durance vile.” Though he would
not commit himself it was plain that he agreed with Vance.
Heath thought, characteristically, that immediate action was
advisable, and expressed himself to that effect.
“If he’s got anything to tell he’ll tell it quick enough after he’s
locked up.”
“It’s a difficult situation,” Inspector Moran demurred, in a soft
judicial voice. “We can’t afford to make an error. If Drukker’s
evidence should convict some one else, we’d be a laughing-stock if we
had arrested the wrong man.”
Vance looked toward Markham and nodded agreement.
“Why not have him on the tapis first, and see if he can’t be persuaded
to unburden his soul. You might dangle a warrant over his head, don’t
y’ know, as a kind of moral inducement. Then, if he remains coy and
reticent, bring out the gyves and have the doughty Sergeant escort him
to the bastille.”
Markham sat tapping indecisively on the desk, his head enveloped in
smoke as he puffed nervously on his cigar. At last he set his chin
firmly and turned to Heath.
“Bring Drukker here at nine o’clock to-morrow morning. You’d better
take a wagon and a John-Doe warrant in case he offers any objection.”
His face was grim and determined. “Then I’ll find out what he
knows—and act accordingly.”
The conference broke up immediately. It was after five o’clock, and
Markham and Vance and I rode up-town together to the Stuyvesant Club.
We dropped Arnesson at the subway, and he took leave of us with
scarcely a word. His garrulous cynicism seemed entirely to have
deserted him. After dinner Markham pleaded fatigue, and Vance and I
went to the Metropolitan and heard Geraldine Farrar in “Louise.”*
* “Louise” was Vance’s favorite modern opera, but he greatly
preferred Mary Garden to Farrar in the title rôle.
The next morning broke dark and misty. Currie called us at half past
seven, for Vance intended to be present at the interview with Drukker;
and at eight o’clock we had breakfast in the library before a light
grate fire. We were held up in the traffic on our way down-town, and
though it was quarter after nine when we reached the District
Attorney’s office, Drukker and Heath had not yet arrived.
Vance settled himself comfortably in a large leather-upholstered chair
and lighted a cigarette.
“I feel rather bucked this morning,” he remarked. “If Drukker tells
his story, and if the tale is what I think it is, we’ll know the
combination to the lock.”
His words had scarcely been uttered when Heath burst into the office
and, facing Markham without a word of greeting, lifted both arms and
let them fall in a gesture of hopeless resignation.
“Well, sir, we ain’t going to question Drukker this morning—or no
other time,” he blurted. “He fell offa that high wall in Riverside
Park right near his house last night, and broke his neck. Wasn’t found
till seven o’clock this morning. His body’s down at the morgue
now. . . . Fine breaks we get!” He sank disgustedly into a chair.
Markham stared at him unbelievingly.
“You’re sure?” he asked, with startled futility.
“I was up there before they removed the body. One of the local men
phoned me about it just as I was leaving the office. I stuck around
and got all the dope I could.”
“What did you learn?” Markham was fighting against an overwhelming
sense of discouragement.
“There wasn’t much to find out. Some kids in the park found the body
about seven o’clock this morning—lots of kids around, it being
Saturday; and the local men hopped over and called a police surgeon.
The doc said Drukker musta fallen off the wall about ten o’clock last
night—killed instantly. The wall at that spot—right opposite 76th
Street—is all of thirty feet above the playground. The top of it runs
along the bridle path; and it’s a wonder more people haven’t broke
their necks there. Kids are all the time walking along the stone
ledge.”
“Has Mrs. Drukker been notified?”
“No. I told ’em I’d attend to it. But I thought I’d come here first
and see what you wanted done about it.”
Markham leaned back dejectedly.
“I don’t see that there’s much of anything we can do.”
“It might be well,” suggested Vance, “to inform Arnesson. He’ll
probably be the one who’ll have to look after things. . . . My word,
Markham! I’m beginning to think that this case is a nightmare, after
all. Drukker was our principal hope, and at the very moment when
there’s a chance of our forcing him to speak, he tumbles off of a
wall——” Abruptly he stopped. “Off of a wall! . . .” As he repeated
these words he leapt to his feet. “_A hunchback falls off of a
wall!_ . . . _A hunchback!_ . . .”
We stared at him as if he had gone out of his mind; and I admit that
the look on his face sent a chill over me. His eyes were fixed, like
those of a man gazing at a malignant ghost. Slowly he turned to
Markham, and said in a voice that I hardly recognized:
“It’s another mad melodrama—another Mother-Goose rhyme. . . . ‘Humpty
Dumpty’ this time!”
The astonished silence that followed was broken by a strained harsh
laugh from the Sergeant.
“That’s stretching things, ain’t it, Mr. Vance?”
“It’s preposterous!” declared Markham, studying Vance with genuine
concern. “My dear fellow, you’ve let this case prey on your mind too
much. Nothing has happened except that a man with a hump has fallen
from the coping of a wall in the park. It’s unfortunate, I know; and
it’s doubly unfortunate at just this time.” He went to Vance and put
his hand on his shoulder. “Let the Sergeant and me run this show—we’re
used to these things. Take a trip and get a good rest. Why not go to
Europe as you generally do in the spring——?”
“Oh, quite—quite.” Vance sighed and smiled wearily. “The sea air would
do me worlds of good, and all that. Bring me back to normal,
what?—build up the wreck of this once noble brain. . . . I give up!
The third act in this terrible tragedy is played almost before your
eyes, and you serenely ignore it.”
“Your imagination has got the better of you,” Markham returned, with
the patience of a deep affection. “Don’t worry about it any more. Have
dinner with me to-night. We’ll talk it over then.”
At this moment Swacker looked in, and spoke to the Sergeant.
“Quinan of the _World_ is here. Wants to see you.”
Markham swung about.
“_Oh, my God!_ . . . Bring him in here!”
Quinan entered, waved us a cheery salutation, and handed the Sergeant
a letter.
“Another _billet-doux_—received this morning.—What privileges do I get
for being so big-hearted?”
Heath opened the letter as the rest of us looked on. At once I
recognized the paper and the faint blue characters of the élite type.
The note read:
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Cannot put Humpty Dumpty together again.
Then came that ominous signature, in capitals: THE BISHOP.