An All-Night Light
(Saturday, April 16; 9.30 a. m.)
When Heath had got rid of Quinan with promises such as would have
gladdened any reporter’s heart,* there were several minutes of tense
silence in the office. “The Bishop” had been at his grisly work again;
and the case had now become a terrible triplicate affair, with the
solution apparently further off than ever. It was not, however, the
insolubility of these incredible crimes that primarily affected us;
rather was it the inherent horror that emanated, like a miasma, from
the acts themselves.
* It may be recalled that the _World’s_ accounts of the Bishop case
were the envy of the other metropolitan newspapers. Sergeant Heath,
though impartial in his statements of facts to the press,
nevertheless managed to save several picturesque _bonnes-bouches_
for Quinan, and permitted himself certain speculations which, while
having no news value, gave the _World’s_ stories an added interest
and color.
Vance, who was pacing sombrely up and down, gave voice to his troubled
emotions.
“It’s damnable, Markham—it’s the essence of unutterable evil. . . .
Those children in the park—up early on their holiday in search of
dreams—busy with their play and make-believe . . . and then the
silencing reality—the awful, overpowering disillusion. . . . Don’t you
see the wickedness of it? Those children found Humpty Dumpty—_their_
Humpty Dumpty, with whom they had played—lying dead at the foot of the
famous wall—a Humpty Dumpty they could touch and weep over, broken and
twisted and never more to be put together. . . .”
He paused by the window and looked out. The mist had lifted, and a
faint diffusion of spring sunlight lay over the gray stones of the
city. The golden eagle on the New York Life Building glistened in the
distance.
“I say; one simply mustn’t get sentimental,” he remarked with a forced
smile, turning back to the room. “It decomposes the intelligence and
stultifies the dialectic processes. Now that we know Drukker was not
the capricious victim of the law of gravity, but was given a helpin’
hand in his departure from this world, the sooner we become energetic,
the better, what?”
Though his change of mood was an obvious _tour de force_, it roused
the rest of us from our gloomy apathy. Markham reached for the
telephone and made arrangements with Inspector Moran for Heath to
handle the Drukker case. Then he called the Medical Examiner’s office
and asked for an immediate _post-mortem_ report. Heath got up
vigorously, and after taking three cups of ice-water, stood with legs
apart, his derby pulled far down on his forehead, waiting for the
District Attorney to indicate a line of action.
Markham moved restlessly.
“Several men from your department, Sergeant, were supposed to be
keeping an eye on the Drukker and Dillard houses. Did you talk to any
of them this morning?”
“I didn’t have time, sir; and, anyway, I figured it was only an
accident. But I told the boys to hang around until I got back.”
“What did the Medical Examiner have to say?”
“Only that it looked like an accident; and that Drukker had been dead
about ten hours. . . .”
Vance interpolated a question.
“Did he mention a fractured skull in addition to the broken neck?”
“Well, sir, he didn’t exactly say the skull was fractured, but he did
state that Drukker had landed on the back of his head.” Heath nodded
understandingly. “I guess it’ll prove to be a fracture all right—same
like Robin and Sprigg.”
“Undoubtedly. The technique of our murderer seems to be simple and
efficacious. He strikes his victims on the vault, either stunning them
or killing them outright, and then proceeds to cast them in the rôles
he has chosen for them in his puppet-plays. Drukker was no doubt
leaning over the wall, perfectly exposed for such an attack. It was
misty, and the setting was somewhat obscured. Then came the blow on
the head, a slight heave, and Drukker fell noiselessly over the
parapet—the third sacrificial offering on the altar of old Mother
Goose.”
“What gets me,” declared Heath with surly anger, “is why Guilfoyle,*
the fellow I set to watch the rear of the Drukker house, didn’t report
the fact that Drukker was out all night. He returned to the Bureau at
eight o’clock, and I missed him.—Don’t you think, sir, it might be a
good idea to find out what he knows before we go up-town?”
* Guilfoyle, it may be remembered, was one of the detectives who
shadowed Tony Skeel in the Canary murder case.
Markham agreed, and Heath bawled an order over the telephone.
Guilfoyle made the distance between Police Headquarters and the
Criminal Courts Building in less than ten minutes. The Sergeant almost
pounced on him as he entered.
“What time did Drukker leave the house last night?” he bellowed.
“About eight o’clock—right after he’d had dinner.” Guilfoyle was ill
at ease, and his tone had the wheedling softness of one who had been
caught in a dereliction of duty.
“Which way did he go?”
“He came out the back door, walked down the range, and went into the
Dillard house through the archery-room.”
“Paying a social visit?”
“It looked that way, Sergeant. He spends a lot of time at the
Dillards’.”
“Huh! And what time did he come back home?”
Guilfoyle moved uneasily.
“It don’t look like he came back home, Sergeant.”
“Oh, it don’t?” Heath’s retort was ponderous with sarcasm. “I thought
maybe after he’d broke his neck he mighta come back and passed the
time of day with you.”
“What I meant was, Sergeant——”
“You meant that Drukker—the bird you were supposed to keep an eye
on—went to call on the Dillards at eight o’clock, and then you set
down in the arbor, most likely, and took a little beauty nap. . . .
What time did you wake up?”
“Say, listen!” Guilfoyle bristled. “I didn’t take no nap. I was on the
job all night. Just because I didn’t happen to see this guy come back
home don’t mean I was laying down on the watch.”
“Well, if you didn’t see him come back, why didn’t you phone in that
he was spending his week-end out of town or something?”
“I thought he musta come in by the front door.”
“Thinking again, were you? Ain’t your brain worn out this morning?”
“Have a heart, Sergeant. My job wasn’t to tail Drukker. You told me to
watch the house and see who went in and out, and that if there was any
sign of trouble to bust in.—Now, here’s what happened. Drukker went to
the Dillards’ at eight o’clock, and I kept my eye on the windows of
the Drukker house. Along about nine o’clock the cook goes up-stairs
and turns on the light in her room. Half an hour later the light goes
out, and says I: ‘She’s put to bed.’ Then along about ten o’clock the
lights are turned on in Drukker’s room——”
“What’s this?”
“Yeh—you heard me. The lights go on in Drukker’s room about ten
o’clock; and I can see a shadow of somebody moving about.—Now, I ask
you, Sergeant: wouldn’t you yourself have took it for granted that the
hunchback had come in by the front door?”
Heath grunted.
“Maybe so,” he admitted. “You’re sure it was ten o’clock?”
“I didn’t look at my watch; but I’m here to tell you it wasn’t far off
of ten.”
“And what time did the lights go out in Drukker’s room?”
“They didn’t go out. They stayed on all night. He was a queer bird. He
didn’t keep regular hours, and twice before his lights were on till
nearly morning.”
“That’s quite understandable,” came Vance’s lazy voice. “He has been
at work on a difficult problem lately.—But tell us, Guilfoyle: what
about the light in Mrs. Drukker’s room?”
“Same as usual. The old dame always keeps a light burning in her room
all night.”
“Was there any one on guard in front of the Drukker house last night?”
Markham asked Heath.
“Not after six o’clock, sir. We’ve had a man tailing Drukker during
the day, but he goes off duty at six when Guilfoyle takes up his post
in the rear.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Vance turned to Guilfoyle.
“How far away were you last night from the door of the alleyway
between the two apartment houses?”
The man paused to visualize the scene.
“Forty or fifty feet, say.”
“And between you and the alleyway were the iron fence and some tree
branches.”
“Yes, sir. The view was more or less cut off, if that’s what you
mean.”
“Would it have been possible for any one, coming from the direction of
the Dillard house, to have gone out and returned by that door without
your noticing him?”
“It mighta been done,” the detective admitted; “provided, of course,
the guy didn’t want me to see him. It was foggy and dark last night,
and there’s always a lot of traffic noises from the Drive that woulda
drowned out his movements if he was being extra cautious.”
When the Sergeant had sent Guilfoyle back to the Bureau to await
orders, Vance gave voice to his perplexity.
“It’s a dashed complicated situation. Drukker called on the Dillards
at eight o’clock, and at ten o’clock he was shoved over the wall in
the park. As you observed, the note that Quinan just showed us was
postmarked 11 p. m.—which means that it was probably typed _before the
crime_. The Bishop therefore had planned his comedy in advance and
prepared the note for the press. The audacity of it is amazin’. But
there’s one assumption we can tie to—namely, that the murderer was
some one who knew of Drukker’s exact whereabouts and proposed
movements between eight and ten.”
“I take it,” said Markham, “your theory is that the murderer went and
returned by the apartment-house alley.”
“Oh, I say! I have no theory. I asked Guilfoyle about the alley merely
in case we should learn that no one but Drukker was seen going to the
park. In that event we could assume, as a tentative hypothesis, that
the murderer had managed to avoid detection by taking the alleyway and
crossing to the park in the middle of the block.”
“With that possible route open to the murderer,” Markham observed
gloomily, “it wouldn’t matter much who was seen going out with
Drukker.”
“That’s just it. The person who staged this farce may have walked
boldly into the park under the eyes of an alert myrmidon, or he may
have hied stealthily through the alley.”
Markham nodded an unhappy agreement.
“The thing that bothers me most, however,” continued Vance, “is that
light in Drukker’s room all night. It was turned on at about the time
the poor chap was tumbling into eternity. And Guilfoyle says that he
could see some one moving about there after the light went on——”
He broke off, and stood for several seconds in an attitude of
concentration.
“I say, Sergeant; I don’t suppose you know whether or not Drukker’s
front-door key was in his pocket when he was found.”
“No, sir; but I can find out in no time. The contents of his pockets
are being held till after the autopsy.”
Heath stepped to the telephone, and a moment later he was talking to
the desk sergeant of the 68th-Street Precinct Station. Several minutes
of waiting passed; then he grunted and banged down the receiver.
“Not a key of any kind on him.”
“Ah!” Vance drew a deep puff on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke
slowly. “I’m beginnin’ to think that the Bishop purloined Drukker’s
key and paid a visit to his room after the murder. Sounds incredible,
I know; but, for that matter, so does everything else that’s happened
in this fantastic business.”
“But what, in God’s name, would have been his object?” protested
Markham incredulously.
“We don’t know yet. But I have an idea that when we learn the motive
of these astonishin’ crimes, we’ll understand why that visit was
paid.”
Markham, his face set austerely, took his hat from the closet.
“We’d better be getting out there.”
But Vance made no move. He remained standing by the desk smoking
abstractedly.
“Y’ know, Markham,” he said, “it occurs to me that we should see Mrs.
Drukker first. There was tragedy in that house last night: something
strange took place there that needs explaining; and now perhaps she’ll
tell us the secret that has been locked up in her brain. Moreover, she
hasn’t been notified of Drukker’s death, and with all the rumor and
gossip in the neighborhood, word of some kind is sure to leak through
to her before long. I fear the result of the shock when she hears the
news. In fact, I’d feel better if we got hold of Barstead right away
and took him with us. What do you say to my phoning him?”
Markham assented, and Vance briefly explained the situation to the
doctor.
We drove up-town immediately, called for Barstead, and proceeded at
once to the Drukker house. Our ring was answered by Mrs. Menzel, whose
face showed plainly that she knew of Drukker’s death. Vance, after one
glance at her, led her into the drawing-room away from the stairs, and
asked in a low tone:
“Has Mrs. Drukker heard the news?”
“Not yet,” she answered, in a frightened, quavering voice. “Miss
Dillard came over an hour ago, but I told her the mistress had gone
out. I was afraid to let her up-stairs. Something’s wrong. . . .” She
began to tremble violently.
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Menzel?” Vance placed a quieting hand on her arm.
“I don’t know. But she hasn’t made a sound all morning. She didn’t
come down for breakfast . . . and I’m afraid to go and call her.”
“When did you hear of the accident?”
“Early—right after eight o’clock. The paper boy told me; and I saw all
the people down on the Drive.”
“Don’t be frightened,” Vance consoled her. “We have the doctor here,
and we’ll attend to everything.”
He turned back to the hall and led the way up-stairs. When we came to
Mrs. Drukker’s room he knocked softly and, receiving no answer, opened
the door. The room was empty. The night-light still burned on the
table, and I noticed that the bed had not been slept in.
Without a word Vance retraced his steps down the hall. There were only
two other main doors, and one of them, we knew, led to Drukker’s
study. Unhesitatingly Vance stepped to the other and opened it without
knocking. The window shades were drawn, but they were white and
semi-transparent, and the gray daylight mingled with the ghastly
yellow radiation from the old-fashioned chandelier. The lights which
Guilfoyle had seen burning all night had not been extinguished.
Vance halted on the threshold, and I saw Markham, who was just in
front of me, give a start.
“Mother o’ God!” breathed the Sergeant, and crossed himself.
On the foot of the narrow bed lay Mrs. Drukker, fully clothed. Her
face was ashen white; her eyes were set in a hideous stare; and her
hands were clutching her breast.
Barstead sprang forward and leaned over. After touching her once or
twice he straightened up and shook his head slowly.
“She’s gone. Been dead probably most of the night.” He bent over the
body again and began making an examination. “You know, she’s suffered
for years from chronic nephritis, arteriosclerosis, and hypertrophy
of the heart. . . . Some sudden shock brought on an acute
dilatation. . . . Yes, I’d say she died about the same time as
Drukker . . . round ten o’clock.”
“A natural death?” asked Vance.
“Oh, undoubtedly. A shot of adrenalin in the heart might have saved
her if I’d been here at the time. . . .”
“No signs of violence?”
“None. As I told you, she died from dilatation of the heart brought on
by shock. A clear case—true to type in every respect.”