Heath Asks a Question
(Tuesday, April 26; 4 p. m.)
When Markham and Vance and I departed from the Dillard house an hour
later, I thought the Bishop affair was over. And it was over as far as
the public was concerned. But there was another revelation to come;
and it was, in a way, the most astounding of all the facts that had
been brought to light that day.
Heath joined us at the District Attorney’s office after lunch, for
there were several delicate official matters to be discussed; and
later that afternoon Vance reviewed the entire case, explaining many
of its obscure points.
“Arnesson has already suggested the motive for these insane crimes,”
he began. “The professor knew that his position in the world of
science was being usurped by the younger man. His mind had begun to
lose its force and penetration; and he realized that his new book on
atomic structure was being made possible only through Arnesson’s help.
A colossal hate grew up in him for his foster son; Arnesson became in
his eyes a kind of monster whom he himself, like Frankenstein, had
created, and who was now rising to destroy him. And this intellectual
enmity was augmented by a primitive emotional jealousy. For ten years
he had centred in Belle Dillard the accumulated affection of a life of
solit’ry bachelorhood—she represented his one hold on every-day
existence—and when he saw that Arnesson was likely to take her from
him, his hatred and resentment were doubled in intensity.”
“The motive is understandable,” said Markham. “But it does not explain
the crimes.”
“The motive acted as a spark to the dry powder of his pent-up
emotions. In looking about for a means to destroy Arnesson, he hit
upon the diabolical jest of the Bishop murders. These murders gave
relief to his repressions; they met his psychic need for violent
expression; and at the same time they answered the dark question in
his mind how he could dispose of Arnesson and keep Belle Dillard for
himself.”
“But why,” Markham asked, “didn’t he merely murder Arnesson and have
done with it?”
“You overlook the psychological aspects of the situation. The
professor’s mind had disintegrated through long intense repression.
Nature was demanding an outlet. And it was his passionate hatred of
Arnesson that brought the pressure to an explosion point. The two
impulses were thus combined. In committing the murders he was not only
relieving his inhibitions, but he was also venting his wrath against
Arnesson, for Arnesson, d’ ye see, was to pay the penalty. Such a
revenge was more potent, and hence more satisfying, than the mere
killing of the man would have been,—it was the great grim joke behind
the lesser jokes of the murders themselves. . . .
“However, this fiendish scheme had one great disadvantage, though the
professor did not see it. It laid the affair open to psychological
analysis; and at the outset I was able to postulate a mathematician as
the criminal agent. The difficulty of naming the murderer lay in the
fact that nearly every possible suspect was a mathematician. The only
one I knew to be innocent was Arnesson, for he was the only one who
consistently maintained a psychic balance—that is, who constantly
discharged the emotions arising from his protracted abstruse
speculations. A general sadistic and cynical attitude that is volubly
expressed, and a violent homicidal outburst, are psychologically
equivalent. Giving full rein to one’s cynicism as one goes along
produces a normal outlet and maintains an emotional equilibrium.
Cynical, scoffing men are always safe, for they are farthest removed
from sporadic physical outbreaks; whereas the man who represses his
sadism and accumulates his cynicism beneath a grave and stoical
exterior is always liable to dangerous fulminations. This is why I
knew Arnesson was incapable of the Bishop murders and why I suggested
your letting him help us with the investigation. As he admitted, he
suspected the professor; and his request to assist us was, I believe,
actuated by a desire to keep posted so that he could better protect
Belle Dillard and himself in case his suspicions should prove
correct.”
“That sounds reasonable,” acceded Markham. “But where did Dillard get
his fantastic ideas for the murders?”
“The Mother-Goose motif was probably suggested to him when he heard
Arnesson jestingly tell Robin to beware of an arrow from Sperling’s
bow. He saw in that remark a means of venting his hatred against the
man who had made it; and he bided his time. The opportunity to stage
the crime came shortly after. When he saw Sperling pass up the street
that morning, he knew that Robin was alone in the archery-room. So he
went below, engaged Robin in conversation, struck him over the head,
drove a shaft into his heart, and shoved him out on the range. He then
wiped up the blood, destroyed the cloth, posted his notes at the
corner, put one in the house letter-box, returned to the library, and
called up this office. One unforeseen factor cropped up, however:—Pyne
was in Arnesson’s room when the professor said he went out on the
balcony. But no harm came of it, for though Pyne knew something was
amiss when he caught the professor lying, he certainly didn’t suspect
the old gentleman of being a murderer. The crime was a decided
success.”
“Still and all,” put in Heath, “you guessed that Robin hadn’t been
shot with a bow and arrow.”
“Yes. I saw from the battered condition of the nock of the arrow that
it had been hammered into Robin’s body; and I concluded therefore that
the chap had been killed indoors, after having first been stunned with
a blow on the head. That was why I assumed that the bow had been
thrown to the range from the window,—I didn’t know then that the
professor was guilty. The bow of course was never on the range.—But
the evidence on which I based my deductions cannot be held as an error
or oversight on the professor’s part. As long as his Mother-Goose joke
was accomplished, the rest didn’t matter to him.”
“What instrument do you think he used?” Markham put the question.
“His walking stick, most likely. You may have noticed it has an
enormous gold knob perfectly constructed as a lethal weapon.*
Incidentally, I’m inclined to think he exaggerated his gout to attract
sympathy and to shunt any possible suspicion from himself.”
* It was discovered later that the large weighted gold handle, which
was nearly eight inches long, was loose and could be easily removed
from the stick. The handle weighed nearly two pounds and, as Vance
had observed, constituted a highly efficient “black jack.” Whether
or not it had been loosened for the purpose to which it was put, is
of course wholly a matter of conjecture.
“And the suggestion for the Sprigg murder?”
“After Robin’s death he may have deliberately looked about for
Mother-Goose material for another crime. In any event, Sprigg visited
the house the Thursday night preceding the shooting; and it was at
that time, I imagine, that the idea was born. On the day chosen for
the gruesome business he rose early and dressed, waited for Pyne’s
knock at half past seven, answered it, and then went to the
park—probably through the archery-room and by way of the alley.
Sprigg’s habit of taking daily morning walks may have been casually
mentioned by Arnesson, or even by the lad himself.”
“But how do you explain the tensor formula?”
“The professor had heard Arnesson talking to Sprigg about it a few
nights before; and I think he placed it under the body to call
attention—through association—to Arnesson. Moreover, that particular
formula subtly expressed the psychological impulse beneath the crimes.
The Riemann-Christoffel tensor is a statement of the infinity of
space—the negation of infinitesimal human life on this earth; and
subconsciously it no doubt satisfied the professor’s perverted sense
of humor, giving added homogeneity to his monstrous conception. The
moment I saw it I sensed its sinister significance; and it
substantiated my theory that the Bishop murders were the acts of a
mathematician whose values had become abstract and incommensurable.”
Vance paused to light another cigarette, and after a moment’s
thoughtful silence continued.
“We come now to the midnight visit to the Drukker house. That was a
grim _entr’acte_ forced on the murderer by the report of Mrs.
Drukker’s scream. He feared the woman had seen Robin’s body thrown to
the range; and when, on the morning of Sprigg’s murder, she had been
in the yard and met him returning from the kill, he was more worried
than ever that she would put two and two together. No wonder he tried
to prevent our questioning her! And at the earliest opportunity he
attempted to silence her for all time. He took the key from Belle
Dillard’s hand-bag before the theatre that night, and replaced it the
next morning. He sent Pyne and Beedle to bed early; and at half past
ten Drukker complained of fatigue and went home. At midnight he
figured that the coast was clear for his grisly visit. His taking the
black bishop as a symbolic signature to the contemplated murder was
probably suggested by the chess discussion between Pardee and Drukker.
Then again, it was Arnesson’s chessman, and I even suspect him of
telling us of the chess discussion to call attention to Arnesson’s
chess set in case the black bishop should fall into our hands.”
“Do you think he had any idea of involving Pardee at that time?”
“Oh, no. He was genuinely surprised when Arnesson’s analysis of the
Pardee-Rubinstein game revealed the fact that the bishop had long been
Pardee’s nemesis. . . . And you were undoubtedly right about Pardee’s
reaction to my mention of the black bishop the next day. The poor chap
thought I was deliberately ridiculing him as a result of his defeat at
Rubinstein’s hands. . . .”
Vance leaned over and tapped the ashes from his cigarette.
“Too bad,” he murmured regretfully. “I owe him an apology, don’t y’
know.” He shrugged his shoulders slightly, and, settling back in his
chair, took up his narrative. “The professor got his idea for
Drukker’s murder from Mrs. Drukker herself. She expressed her
imaginative fears to Belle Dillard, who repeated them at dinner that
night; and the plan took shape. There were no complications to its
execution. After dinner he went to the attic and typed the notes.
Later he suggested a walk to Drukker, knowing Pardee wouldn’t remain
long with Arnesson; and when he saw Pardee on the bridle path he of
course knew Arnesson was alone. As soon as Pardee had walked away, he
struck Drukker and tipped him over the wall. Immediately he took the
little path to the Drive, crossed to 76th Street, and went to
Drukker’s room, returning by the same route. The whole episode
couldn’t have occupied more than ten minutes. Then he calmly walked
past Emery and went home with Drukker’s note-book under his
coat. . . .”
“But why,” interposed Markham, “if you were sure that Arnesson was
innocent, did you make such a point of locating the key to the alley
door? Only Arnesson could have used the alley on the night of
Drukker’s death. Dillard and Pardee both went out by the front door.”
“I wasn’t interested in the key from the standpoint of Arnesson’s
guilt. But if the key was gone, d’ ye see, it would have meant that
some one had taken it in order to throw suspicion on Arnesson. How
simple it would have been for Arnesson to slip down the alley after
Pardee had gone, cross the Drive to the little path and attack Drukker
after the professor had left him. . . . And, Markham, that is what we
were supposed to think. It was, in fact, the obvious explanation of
Drukker’s murder.”
“What I can’t get through my head, though,” complained Heath, “is why
the old gent should have killed Pardee. That didn’t throw any
suspicion on Arnesson, and it made it look like Pardee was guilty and
had got disgusted and croaked himself.”
“That spurious suicide, Sergeant, was the professor’s most fantastic
joke. It was at once ironical and contemptuous; for all during that
comic interlude plans were being made for Arnesson’s destruction. And,
of course, the fact that we possessed a plausible culprit had the
great advantage of relaxing our watchfulness and causing the guards to
be removed from the house. The murder, I imagine, was conceived rather
spontaneously. The professor invented some excuse to accompany Pardee
to the archery-room, where he had already closed the windows and drawn
the shades. Then, perhaps pointing out an article in a magazine, he
shot his unsuspecting guest through the temple, placed the gun in his
hand, and, as a bit of sardonic humor, built the house of cards. On
returning to the library he set up the chessmen to give the impression
that Pardee had been brooding over the black bishop. . . .
“But, as I say, this piece of grim grotesquerie was only a side-issue.
The Little-Miss-Muffet episode was to be the _dénouement_; and it was
carefully planned so as to bring the heavens crashing down on
Arnesson. The professor was at the Drukker house the morning of the
funeral when Madeleine Moffat brought the flowers for Humpty Dumpty;
and he undoubtedly knew the child by name—she was Drukker’s favorite
and had been to the house on numerous occasions. The Mother-Goose idea
being now firmly implanted in his mind, like a homicidal obsession, he
very naturally associated the name Moffat with Muffet. Indeed, it’s
not unlikely that Drukker or Mrs. Drukker had called the child ‘Little
Miss Muffat’ in his presence. It was easy for him to attract her
attention and summon her to the mound by the wall yesterday afternoon.
He probably told her that Humpty Dumpty wanted to see her; and she
came with him eagerly, following him under the trees by the bridle
path, thence across the Drive, and through the alley between the
apartment houses. No one would have noticed them, for the Drive is
teeming with children at that hour. Then last night he planted in us
the seed of suspicion against Arnesson, believing that when the
Little-Miss-Muffet notes reached the press we would look for the child
and find her, dead from lack of air, in the Drukker house. . . . A
clever, devilish plan!”
“But did he expect us to search the attic of his own home?”
“Oh, yes; but not until to-morrow. By then he would have cleaned out
the closet and put the typewriter in a more conspicuous place. And he
would have removed the note-book, for there’s little doubt that he
intended to appropriate Drukker’s quantum researches. But we came a
day too soon, and upset his calculations.”
Markham smoked moodily for a time.
“You say you were convinced of Dillard’s guilt last night when you
remembered the character of _Bishop Arnesson_. . . .”
“Yes—oh, yes. That gave me the motive. At that moment I realized that
the professor’s object was to shoulder Arnesson with the guilt, and
that the signature to the notes had been chosen for that purpose.”
“He waited a long time before he called our attention to ‘The
Pretenders,’” commented Markham.
“The fact is, he didn’t expect to have to do it at all. He thought
we’d discover the name for ourselves. But we were duller than he
anticipated; and at last, in desperation, he sent for you and beat
cleverly round the bush, accentuating ‘The Pretenders.’”
Markham did not speak for several moments. He sat frowning
reproachfully, his fingers tapping a tattoo on the blotter.
“Why,” he asked at length, “did you not tell us last night that the
professor and not Arnesson was the Bishop? You let us think——”
“My dear Markham! What else could I do? In the first place, you
wouldn’t have believed me, and would most likely have suggested
another ocean trip, what? Furthermore, it was essential to let the
professor think we suspected Arnesson. Otherwise, we’d have had no
chance to force the issue as we did. Subterfuge was our only hope; and
I knew that if you and the Sergeant suspected him you’d be sure to
give the game away. As it was, you didn’t have to dissemble; and lo!
it all worked out beautifully.”
The Sergeant, I noticed, had, for the past half hour, been regarding
Vance from time to time with a look of perplexed uncertainty; but for
some reason he had seemed reluctant to give voice to his troubled
thoughts. Now, however, he shifted his position uneasily and, taking
his cigar slowly from his mouth, asked a startling question.
“I ain’t complaining about your not putting us wise last night, Mr.
Vance, but what I would like to know is: why, when you hopped up and
pointed at that plate on the mantel, did you switch Arnesson’s and the
old gent’s glasses?”
Vance sighed deeply and gave a hopeless wag of the head.
“I might have known that nothing could escape your eagle eye,
Sergeant.”
Markham thrust himself forward over the desk, and glared at Vance with
angry bewilderment.
“What’s this!” he spluttered, his usual self-restraint deserting him.
“You changed the glasses? You deliberately——”
“Oh, I say!” pleaded Vance. “Let not your wrathful passions rise.” He
turned to Heath with mock reproach. “Behold what you’ve got me in for,
Sergeant.”
“This is no time for evasion.” Markham’s voice was cold and
inexorable. “I want an explanation.”
Vance made a resigned gesture.
“Oh, well. Attend. My idea, as I’ve explained to you, was to fall in
with the professor’s plan and appear to suspect Arnesson. This morning
I purposely let him see that we had no evidence, and that, even if we
arrested Arnesson, it was doubtful if we could hold him. I knew that,
in the circumstances, he would take some action—that he would try to
meet the situation in some heroic way—for the sole object of the
murders was to destroy Arnesson utterly. That he would commit some
overt act and give his hand away, I was confident. What it would be I
didn’t know. But we’d be watching him closely. . . . Then the wine
gave me an inspiration. Knowing he had cyanide in his possession, I
brought up the subject of suicide, and thus planted the idea in his
mind. He fell into the trap, and attempted to poison Arnesson and make
it appear like suicide. I saw him surreptitiously empty a small phial
of colorless fluid into Arnesson’s glass at the sideboard when he
poured the wine. My first intention was to halt the murder and have
the wine analyzed. We could have searched him and found the phial, and
I could have testified to the fact that I saw him poison the wine.
This evidence, in addition to the identification by the child, might
have answered our purpose. But at the last moment, after he had
refilled all our glasses, I decided on a simpler course——”
“And so you diverted our attention and switched the glasses!”
“Yes, yes. Of course. I figured that a man should be willing to drink
the wine he pours for another.”
“You took the law in your own hands!”
“I took it in my arms—it was helpless. . . . But don’t be so
righteous. Do you bring a rattlesnake to the bar of justice? Do you
give a mad dog his day in court? I felt no more compunction in aiding
a monster like Dillard into the Beyond than I would have in crushing
out a poisonous reptile in the act of striking.”
“But it was murder!” exclaimed Markham in horrified indignation.
“Oh, doubtless,” said Vance cheerfully. “Yes—of course. Most
reprehensible. . . . I say, am I by any chance under arrest?”
The “suicide” of Professor Dillard terminated the famous Bishop murder
case, and automatically cleared Pardee’s reputation of all suspicion.
The following year Arnesson and Belle Dillard were married quietly and
sailed for Norway, where they made their home. Arnesson had accepted
the chair of applied mathematics at the University of Oslo; and it
will be remembered that two years later he was awarded the Nobel prize
for his work in physics. The old Dillard house in 75th Street was torn
down, and on the site now stands a modern apartment house on whose
façade are two huge terra-cotta medallions strongly suggestive of
archery targets. I have often wondered if the architect was deliberate
in his choice of decoration.
Transcriber Notes
This transcription follows the text of the first edition published by
Charles Scribner’s Sons in 1929. However, the following alterations
have been made to correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors
in the text:
* “eighty yerds” has been corrected to “eighty yards” (Chapter II);
* a duplicated period has been removed (Chapter III);
* “roundalays” has been corrected to “roundelays” (Chapter VII);
* “He ’ll” has been corrected to “He’ll” (Chapter XVIII);
* “asquiesced” has been corrected to “acquiesced” (Chapter XXIV).