A Startling Discovery
(Monday, April 25; 8.30 p. m.)
Eight days went by. The Drukker funeral was held in the little house
on 76th Street, attended only by the Dillards and Arnesson and a few
men from the university who came to pay a last tribute of respect to a
scientist for whose work they had a very genuine admiration.
Vance and I were at the house on the morning of the funeral when a
little girl brought a small cluster of spring flowers she had picked
herself, and asked Arnesson to give them to Drukker. I almost expected
a cynical response from him, and was surprised when he took the
flowers gravely and said in a tone almost tender:
“I’ll give them to him at once, Madeleine. And Humpty Dumpty thanks
you for remembering him.” When the child had been led away by her
governess, he turned to us. “She was Drukker’s favorite. . . . Funny
fellow. Never went to the theatre. Detested travel. His only
recreation was entertaining youngsters.”
I mention this episode because, in spite of its seeming unimportance,
it was to prove one of the most vital links in the chain of evidence
that eventually cleared up, beyond all question of doubt, the problem
of the Bishop murders.
The death of Pardee had created a situation almost unique in the
annals of modern crime. The statement given out by the District
Attorney’s office had only intimated that there was a possibility of
Pardee’s being guilty of the murders. Whatever Markham may have
personally believed, he was far too honorable and just to cast any
direct doubt on another’s character without overwhelming proofs. But
the wave of terror arising from these strange murders had reached such
proportions that he could not, in view of the duty he owed to the
community, refrain from saying that he believed the case to be closed.
Thus, while no open accusation of guilt was made against Pardee, the
Bishop murders were no longer regarded as a source of menace to the
city, and a sigh of relief went up from all quarters.
In the Manhattan Chess Club there was probably less discussion of the
case than anywhere else in New York. The members felt perhaps that the
club’s honor was in some way involved. Or there may have been a sense
of loyalty toward a man who had done as much for chess as Pardee. But
whatever the cause of the club’s avoidance of the subject, the fact
remained that its members attended, almost to a man, Pardee’s funeral.
I could not help admiring this tribute to a fellow chess player; for,
whatever his personal acts, he had been one of the great sustaining
patrons of the royal and ancient game to which they were devoted.*
* Pardee left in his will a large sum for the furtherance of chess;
and in the autumn of that same year, it will be remembered, the
Pardee Memorial Tournament was held at Cambridge Springs.
Markham’s first official act on the day after Pardee’s death was to
secure Sperling’s release. The same afternoon the Police Department
moved all its records of the Bishop murders to the file marked
“shelved cases,” and withdrew the guards from the Dillard house. Vance
protested mildly against this latter step; but, in view of the fact
that the Medical Examiner’s _post-mortem_ report had substantiated in
every particular the theory of suicide, there was little that Markham
could do in the matter. Furthermore, he was thoroughly convinced that
the death of Pardee had terminated the case; and he scoffed at Vance’s
wavering doubts.
During the week following the finding of Pardee’s body Vance was
restive and more distrait than usual. He attempted to interest himself
in various matters, but without any marked success. He showed signs of
irritability; and his almost miraculous equanimity seemed to have
deserted him. I got the impression that he was waiting for something
to happen. His manner was not exactly expectant, but there was a
watchfulness in his attitude amounting at times almost to
apprehension.
On the day following the Drukker funeral Vance called on Arnesson, and
on Friday night accompanied him to a performance of Ibsen’s “Ghosts”—a
play which, I happened to know, he disliked. He learned that Belle
Dillard had gone away for a month’s visit to the home of a relative in
Albany. As Arnesson explained, she had begun to show the effects of
all she had been through, and needed a change of scene. The man was
plainly unhappy over her absence, and confided to Vance that they had
planned to be married in June. Vance also learned from him that Mrs.
Drukker’s will had left everything to Belle Dillard and the professor
in the event of her son’s death—a fact which appeared to interest
Vance unduly.
Had I known, or even suspected, what astounding and terrible things
were hanging over us that week, I doubt if I could have stood the
strain. For the Bishop murder case was not ended. The climactic horror
was still to come; but even that horror, terrific and staggering as it
proved, was only a shadow of what it might have been had not Vance
reasoned the case out to two separate conclusions, only one of which
had been disposed of by Pardee’s death. It was this other possibility,
as I learned later, that had kept him in New York, vigilant and
mentally alert.
Monday, April 25, was the beginning of the end. We were to dine with
Markham at the Bankers Club and go afterwards to a performance of “Die
Meistersinger”*; but we did not witness the triumphs of _Walther_
that night. I noticed that when we met Markham in the rotunda of the
Equitable Building he seemed troubled; and we were no more than seated
in the club grill when he told us of a phone call he had received from
Professor Dillard that afternoon.
* Of the Wagnerian operas this was Vance’s favorite. He always
asserted that it was the only opera that had the structural form of
a symphony; and more than once he expressed the regret that it had
not been written as an orchestral piece instead of as a conveyance
for an absurd drama.
“He asked me particularly to come to see him to-night,” Markham
explained; “and when I tried to get out of it he became urgent. He
made a point of the fact that Arnesson would be away the entire
evening, and said that a similar opportunity might not present itself
until it was too late. I asked him what he meant by that; but he
refused to explain, and insisted that I come to his house after
dinner. I told him I’d let him know if I could make it.”
Vance had listened with the intensest interest.
“We must go there, Markham. I’ve been rather expecting a call of this
kind. It’s possible we may at last find the key to the truth.”
“The truth about what?”
“Pardee’s guilt.”
Markham said no more, and we ate our dinner in silence.
At half past eight we rang the bell of the Dillard house, and were
taken by Pyne direct to the library.
The old professor greeted us with nervous reserve.
“It’s good of you to come, Markham,” he said, without rising. “Take a
chair and light a cigar. I want to talk to you—and I want to take my
time about it. It’s very difficult. . . .” His voice trailed off as he
began filling his pipe.
We settled ourselves and waited. A sense of expectancy invaded me for
no apparent reason, except perhaps that I caught some of the
radiations of the professor’s obviously distraught mood.
“I don’t know just how to broach the subject,” he began; “for it has
to do, not with physical facts, but with the invisible human
consciousness. I’ve struggled all week with certain vague ideas that
have been forcing themselves upon me; and I see no way to rid myself
of them but by talking with you. . . .”
He looked up hesitantly.
“I preferred to discuss these ideas with you when Sigurd was not
present, and as he has gone to-night to see Ibsen’s ‘Pretenders’—his
favorite play, by the way—I took the opportunity to ask you here.”
“What do these ideas concern?” asked Markham.
“Nothing specifically. As I have said, they’re very vague; but they
have nevertheless grown fairly insistent. . . . So insistent, in
fact,” he added, “that I thought it best to send Belle away for a
while. It’s true that she was in a tortured state of mind as a result
of all these tragedies; but my real reason for shipping her north was
that I was beset by intangible doubts.”
“Doubts?” Markham leaned forward. “What sort of doubts?”
Professor Dillard did not reply at once.
“Let me answer that question by asking another,” he countered
presently. “Are you wholly satisfied in your mind that the situation
in regard to Pardee is exactly as it appears?”
“You mean the authenticity of his suicide?”
“That and his presumptive culpability.”
Markham settled back contemplatively.
“Are _you_ not wholly satisfied?” he asked.
“I can’t answer that question.” Professor Dillard spoke almost curtly.
“You have no right to ask me. I merely wanted to be sure that the
authorities, having all the data in their hands, were convinced that
this terrible affair was a closed book.” A look of deep concern came
over his face. “If I knew that to be a fact, it would help me to
repulse the vague misgivings that have haunted me day and night for
the past week.”
“And if I were to say that I am not satisfied?”
The old professor’s eyes took on a distant, distressed look. His head
fell slightly forward, as if some burden of sorrow had suddenly
weighed him down. After several moments he lifted his shoulders and
drew a deep breath.
“The most difficult thing in this world,” he said, “is to know where
one’s duty lies; for duty is a mechanism of the mind, and the heart is
forever stepping in and playing havoc with one’s resolutions. Perhaps
I did wrong to ask you here; for, after all, I have only misty
suspicions and nebulous ideas to go on. But there was the possibility
that my mental uneasiness was based on some deep hidden foundation of
whose existence I was unaware. . . . Do you see what I mean?” Evasive
as were his words, there was no doubt as to the disturbing mien of the
shadowy image that lurked at the back of his mind.
Markham nodded sympathetically.
“There is no reason whatever to question the findings of the Medical
Examiner.” He made the statement in a forced matter-of-fact voice. “I
can understand how the proximity of these tragedies might have created
an atmosphere conducive to doubts. But I think you need have no
further misgivings.”
“I sincerely hope you’re right,” the professor murmured; but it was
clear he was not satisfied. “Suppose, Markham——” he began, and then
stopped. “Yes, I hope you’re right,” he repeated.
Vance had sat through this unsatisfactory discussion smoking placidly;
but he had been listening with unwonted concentration, and now he
spoke.
“Tell me, Professor Dillard, if there has been anything—no matter how
indefinite—that may have given birth to your uncertainty.”
“No—nothing.” The answer came quickly and with a show of spirit. “I
have merely been wondering—testing every possibility. I dared not be
too sanguine without some assurance. Pure logic is all very well for
principles that do not touch us personally. But where one’s own safety
is concerned the imperfect human mind demands visual evidence.”
“Ah, yes.” Vance looked up, and I thought I detected a flash of
understanding between these two disparate men.
Markham rose to make his adieu; but Professor Dillard urged him to
remain a while.
“Sigurd will be here before long. He’d enjoy seeing you again. As I
said, he’s at ‘The Pretenders,’ but I’m sure he will come straight
home. . . . By the way, Mr. Vance,” he went on, turning from Markham;
“Sigurd tells me you accompanied him to ‘Ghosts’ last week. Do you
share his enthusiasm for Ibsen?”
A slight lift of Vance’s eyebrows told me that he was somewhat puzzled
by this question; but when he answered there was no hint of perplexity
in his voice.
“I have read Ibsen a great deal; and there can be little doubt that he
was a creative genius of a high order, although I’ve failed to find in
him either the æsthetic form or the philosophic depth that
characterizes Goethe’s ‘Faust,’ for instance.”
“I can see that you and Sigurd would have a permanent basis of
disagreement.”
Markham declined the invitation to stay longer, and a few minutes
later we were walking down West End Avenue in the brisk April air.
“You will please take note, Markham old dear,” observed Vance, with a
touch of waggishness, as we turned into 72nd Street and headed for the
park, “that there are others than your modest collaborator who are
hag-ridden with doubts as to the volition of Pardee’s taking-off. And
I might add that the professor is not in the least satisfied with your
assurances.”
“His suspicious state of mind is quite understandable,” submitted
Markham. “These murders have touched his house pretty closely.”
“That’s not the explanation. The old gentleman has fears. And he knows
something which he will not tell us.”
“I can’t say that I got that impression.”
“Oh, Markham—my dear Markham! Weren’t you listening closely to his
halting, reluctant tale? It was as if he were trying to convey some
suggestion to us without actually putting it into words. We were
supposed to guess. Yes! That was why he insisted that you visit him
when Arnesson was safely away at an Ibsen revival——”
Vance ceased speaking abruptly and stood stock-still. A startled look
came in his eyes.
“Oh, my aunt! Oh, my precious aunt! So that was why he asked me about
Ibsen! . . . My word! How unutterably dull I’ve been!” He stared at
Markham, and the muscles of his jaw tightened. “The truth at last!” he
said with impressive softness. “And it is neither you nor the police
nor I who has solved this case: it is a Norwegian dramatist who has
been dead for twenty years. In Ibsen is the key to the mystery.”
Markham regarded him as though he had suddenly gone out of his mind;
but before he could speak Vance hailed a taxicab.
“I’ll show you what I mean when we reach home,” he said, as we rode
east through Central Park. “It’s unbelievable, but it’s true. And I
should have guessed it long ago; but the connotation of the signature
on those notes was too clouded with other possible meanings. . . .”
“If it were midsummer instead of spring,” commented Markham
wrathfully, “I’d suggest that the heat had affected you.”
“I knew from the first there were three possible guilty persons,”
continued Vance. “Each was psychologically capable of the murders,
provided the impact of his emotions had upset his mental equilibrium.
So there was nothing to do but to wait for some indication that would
focus suspicion. Drukker was one of my three suspects, but he was
murdered; and that left two. Then Pardee to all appearances committed
suicide, and I’ll admit that his death made reasonable the assumption
that he had been the guilty one. But there was an eroding doubt in my
mind. His death was not conclusive; and that house of cards troubled
me. We were stalemated. So again I waited, and watched my third
possibility. Now I know that Pardee was innocent, and that he did not
shoot himself. He was murdered—just as were Robin and Sprigg and
Drukker. His death was another grim joke—he was a victim thrown to the
police in the spirit of diabolical jest. And the murderer has been
chuckling at our gullibility ever since.”
“By what reasoning do you arrive at so fantastic a conclusion?”
“It’s no longer a question of reasoning. At last I have the
explanation for the crimes; and I know the meaning of the ‘Bishop’
signature to the notes. I’ll show you a piece of amazing and
incontrovertible evidence very soon.”
A few minutes later we reached his apartment, and he led us straight
to the library.
“The evidence has been here within arm’s reach all the time.”
He went to the shelves where he kept his dramas, and took down Volume
II of the collected works of Henrik Ibsen.* The book contained “The
Vikings at Helgeland” and “The Pretenders”; but with the first of
these plays Vance was not concerned. Turning to “The Pretenders” he
found the page where the _dramatis personæ_ were given, and laid the
book on the table before Markham.
* Vance’s set was the William Archer copyright edition, published by
Charles Scribner’s Sons.
“Read the cast of characters of Arnesson’s favorite play,” he
directed.
Markham, silent and puzzled, drew the volume toward him; and I looked
over his shoulder. This is what we saw:
Håkon Håkonsson, the King elected by the Birchlegs.
Inga of Varteig, his mother.
Earl Skule.
Lady Ragnhild, his wife.
Sigrid, his sister.
Margrete, his daughter.
Guthorm Ingesson.
Sigurd Ribbung.
Nicholas Arnesson, Bishop of Oslo.
Dagfinn the Peasant, Hakon’s marshal.
Ivar Bodde, his chaplain.
Vegard Væradal, one of his guard.
Gregorius Jonsson, a nobleman.
Paul Flida, a nobleman.
Ingeborg, Andres Skialdarband’s wife.
Peter, her son, a young priest.
Sira Viliam, Bishop Nicholas’s chaplain.
Master Sigard of Brabant, a physician.
Jatgeir Skald, an Icelander.
Bård Bratte, a chieftain from the Trondhiem district.
But I doubt if either of us read beyond the line:
Nicholas Arnesson, Bishop of Oslo.
My eyes became riveted on that name with a set and horrified
fascination. And then I remembered. . . . _Bishop Arnesson_ was one of
the most diabolical villains in all literature—a cynical, sneering
monster who twisted all the sane values of life into hideous
buffooneries.