A CALL AFTER MIDNIGHT
(_Friday, July 13; 5.15 p.m._)
We found Doctor Bliss in the drawing-room, slumped in a deep sprawling
chair, his tweed hat pulled down over his eyes. Beside him stood
Guilfoyle smirking triumphantly.
Vance was annoyed, and took no pains to hide the fact.
“Tell your efficient bloodhound to wait outside, will you, Sergeant?”
“O.K.” Heath looked commiseratingly at Guilfoyle. “Out on the cement,
Guil,” he ordered. “And don’t ask any questions. This ain’t a murder
case--it’s a Hallowe’en party in a bug-house.”
The detective grinned and left us.
Bliss lifted his eyes. He was a dejected-looking figure. His face was
flushed, and apprehension and humiliation were written on his sunken
features.
“Now, I suppose,” he said in a quavering voice, “you’ll arrest me for
this heinous murder. But--oh, my God, gentlemen!--I assure you----”
Vance had stepped toward him.
“Just a moment, doctor,” he broke in. “Don’t upset yourself. We’re not
going to arrest you; but we would like an explanation of your amazin’
action. Why should you, if you are innocent, attempt to leave the
country?”
“Why… why?” The man was nervous and excited. “I was afraid--that’s
why. Everything is against me. All the evidence points toward me.…
There’s some one here who hates me and wants me out of the way. It’s
only too obvious. The planting of my scarab pin beside poor Kyle’s
body, and that financial report found in the murdered man’s hand, and
those terrible footprints leading to my study--don’t you think I know
what it all means? It means that I must pay the price--I, _I_.” He
struck his chest weakly. “And other things will be found; the person
who killed Kyle won’t rest content until I’m behind the bars--or dead.
I know it--I know it!… That’s why I tried to get away. And now you’ve
brought me back to a living death--to a fate more awful than the one
that befell my old benefactor.…”
His head dropped forward and a shudder ran through his body.
“Still, it was foolish to attempt to escape, doctor,” Markham said
gently. “You might have trusted us. I assure you no injustice will be
done you. We have learned many things in the course of our
investigation; and we have reason to believe that you were drugged
with powdered opium during the period of the crime----”
“Powdered opium!” Bliss almost leapt out of his chair. “That’s what I
tasted! There was something the matter with the coffee this
morning--it had a curious flavor. At first I thought Brush hadn’t made
it the way I’d instructed him. Then I got drowsy, and forgot all about
it.… Opium! I know the taste. I once had dysentery in Egypt, and took
opium and capsicum--my Sun Cholera Mixture[*22] had run out.” His
mouth sagged open, and he gave Markham a look of terrified appeal.
“Poisoned in my own house!” Suddenly a grim vindictiveness shone in
his eyes. “You’re right, sir,” he said, with metallic hardness. “I
shouldn’t have attempted to run away. My place is here, and my duty is
to help you----”
“Yes, yes, doctor.” Vance was palpably bored. “Regrets are very
comfortin’, but we’re tryin’ to deal with facts. And thus far you
haven’t been very helpful.… I say, who had charge of the medical
supplies?” He put the question abruptly.
“Why… why… let me see.…” Bliss averted his eyes and began fidgeting
with the crease in his trousers.
“We’ll drop the matter.” Vance made a resigned gesture. “Maybe you’re
willing to tell us how well Mrs. Bliss knows Egyptian hieroglyphs.”
Bliss looked surprised, and it took him several moments to regain his
equanimity.
“She knows them practically as well as I do,” he answered at length.
“Her father, Abercrombie, taught her the old Egyptian language when
she was a child, and she has worked with me for years in the
deciphering of inscriptions.…”
“And Hani?”
“Oh, he has a smattering of hieroglyphic writing--nothing unusual. He
lacks the trained mind----”
“And how well does Mr. Salveter know Egyptian?”
“Fairly well. He’s weak on grammatical points, but his knowledge of
the signs and the vocabulary is rather extensive. He has studied Greek
and Arabic; and I believe he had a year or two of Assyrian. Coptic,
too. The usual linguistic foundation for an archæologist.--Scarlett,
on the other hand, is something of a wizard, though he’s a loyal
adherent of Budge’s system--like many amateurs.[*23] And Budge, of
course, is antiquated. Don’t misunderstand me. Budge is a great
man--his contributions to Egyptology are invaluable; and his
publication of the Book of the Dead----”
“I know.” Vance nodded with impatience. “His Index makes it possible
to find almost any passage in the Papyrus of Ani.…”
“Just so.” Bliss had begun to reveal a curious animation: his
scientific enthusiasm was manifesting itself. “But Alan Gardiner is
the true modern scholar. His ‘Egyptian Grammar’ is a profound and
accurate work. The most important _opus_ on Egyptology, however, is
the Erman-Grapow ‘Wörterbuch der aegyptischen Sprache.’…”
Vance had become suddenly interested.
“Does Mr. Salveter use the Erman-Grapow ‘Wörterbuch’?” he asked.
“Certainly. I insisted upon it. I ordered three sets from Leipzig--one
for myself, and one each for Salveter and Scarlett.”
“The signs differ considerably, I believe, from the Theinhardt type
used by Budge.”
“Oh, yes.” Bliss removed his hat and threw it on the floor. “The
consonant transliterated _u_ by Budge--the quail chick--appears as _w_
in the ‘Wörterbuch’ and every other modern work. And, of course,
there’s the cursive spiral sign which is also the hieroglyphic
adaptation of the hieratic abbreviated form of the quail.…”
“Thank you, doctor.” Vance took out his cigarette-case, saw he had
only one _Régie_ left, and returned it to his pocket. “I understand
that Mr. Scarlett, before leaving the house this afternoon, went
up-stairs. I rather thought, don’t y’ know, that he dropped in to see
you.”
“Yes.” Bliss sank back in his chair. “A very sympathetic fellow,
Scarlett.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Nothing of any importance. He wished me good luck--said he’d stand
by, in case I wanted him. That sort of thing.”
“How long was he with you?”
“A minute or so. He went away immediately. Said he was going home.”
“One more question, doctor,” Vance said, after several moments’ pause.
“Who in this house would have any reason for wanting to saddle you
with the crime of killing Mr. Kyle?”
A sudden change came over Bliss. His eyes glared straight ahead, and
the lines of his face hardened into almost terrifying contours. He
clutched the arms of his chair and drew in his feet. Both fear and
hatred possessed him; he was like a man about to leap at a mortal
enemy. Then he stood up, every muscle in his body tense.
“I can’t answer that question; I refuse to answer it!… I don’t know--I
don’t know! But there is some one--isn’t there?” He reached out and
grasped Vance’s arm. “You should have let me escape.” A wild look came
into his eyes, and he glanced hurriedly toward the door as if he
feared some imminent danger lurking in the hall. “Have me arrested,
Mr. Vance! Do anything but ask me to stay here.…” His voice had become
pitifully appealing.
Vance drew away from him.
“Pull yourself together, doctor,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Nothing is going to happen to you.… Go to your room and remain there
till to-morrow. We’ll take care of the criminal end of the case.”
“But you have no idea who did this frightful thing,” Bliss protested.
“Oh, but we have, don’t y’ know.” Vance’s calm assurance seemed to
have a quieting effect on him. “It’s only necess’ry for us to wait a
bit. At present we haven’t enough evidence to make an arrest. But
since the murderer’s main object has failed, it’s almost inevitable
that he will make another move. And when he does, we may get the
necess’ry evidence against him.”
“But suppose he takes direct action--against me?” Bliss remonstrated.
“The fact that he has failed to involve me may drive him to more
desperate measures.”
“I hardly think so,” returned Vance. “But if anything happens, you can
reach me at this telephone number.” He wrote his private number on a
card and handed it to Bliss.
The doctor took the card eagerly, glanced at it, and slipped it into
his pocket.
“I’m going up-stairs now,” he said, and walked distractedly out of the
room.
“Are you sure, Vance,” Markham asked in a troubled voice, “that we’re
not subjecting Doctor Bliss to unnecessary risk?”
“Pretty sure.” Vance had become thoughtful. “Anyway, it’s a delicate
game, and there’s no other way to play it.” He went to the window. “I
don’t know…,” he murmured. Then after several moments: “Sergeant, I’d
like to speak to Salveter.--And there’s no need for Hennessey to
remain up-stairs. Let him go.”
Heath, nonplussed and helpless, went into the hall and called to
Hennessey.
When Salveter came into the drawing-room, Vance did not even glance in
his direction.
“Mr. Salveter,” he said, looking out at the dusty trees in Gramercy
Park, “if I were you I’d lock my door to-night.… And don’t write any
more letters,” he added. “Also, keep out of the museum.”
Salveter appeared frightened by these admonitions. He studied Vance’s
back for some time, and then set his jaw.
“If any one starts anything round here----” he began with an almost
ferocious aggressiveness.
“Oh, quite.” Vance sighed. “But don’t project your personality so
intensively. I’m fatigued.”
Salveter, after a moment’s hesitation, swung about and strode from the
room.
Vance came to the centre-table and rested heavily against it.
“And now, a word with Hani, and we can depart.”
Heath shrugged his shoulders resignedly, and went to the door.
“Hey, Snitkin, round up that Ali Baba in the kimono.”
Snitkin leapt to the staircase, and a few minutes later the Egyptian
stood before us, serene and detached.
“Hani,” said Vance, with an impressiveness wholly uncharacteristic,
“you will do well to watch over this household to-night.”
“Yes, _effendi_. I comprehend perfectly. The spirit of Sakhmet may
return and complete the task she has begun----”
“Exactly.” Vance gave a tired smile. “Your feline lady foozled things
this morning, and she’ll probably be back to tie up a few loose ends.…
Watch for her--do you understand?”
Hani inclined his head.
“Yes, _effendi_. We understand each other.”
“That’s positively rippin’. And incidentally, Hani, what is the number
of Mr. Scarlett’s domicile in Irving Place?”
“Ninety-six.” The Egyptian revealed considerable interest in Vance’s
question.
“That will be all.… And give my regards to your lion-headed goddess.”
“It may be Anûbis who will return, _effendi_,” said Hani
sepulchrally, as he left us.
Vance looked whimsically at Markham.
“The stage is set, and the curtain will go up anon.… Let’s move on.
There’s nothing more we can do here. And I’m totterin’ with hunger.”
As we passed out into Twentieth Street Vance led the way toward Irving
Place.
“I rather think we owe it to Scarlett to let him know how things
stand,” he explained negligently. “He brought us the sad tidings and
is probably all agog and aflutter. He lives just round the corner.”
Markham glanced at Vance inquisitively, but made no comment. Heath,
however, grunted impatiently.
“It looks to me like we’re doing ’most everything but clean up this
homicide,” he groused.
“Scarlett’s a shrewd lad; he may have conjured up an idea or two,”
Vance returned.
“I got ideas, too,” the Sergeant declared maliciously. “But what good
are they? If _I_ was handling this case, I’d arrest the whole outfit,
put ’em in separate cells, and let ’em sweat. By the time they got
_habeas-corpus_ proceedings started I’d know a damn sight more than I
do now.”
“I doubt it, Sergeant.” Vance spoke mildly. “I think you’d know even
less.… Ah, here’s number ninety-six.”
He turned into the Colonial entrance of an old brick house a few doors
from Twentieth Street, and rang the bell.
Scarlett’s quarters--two small rooms with a wide, arched doorway
between--were on the second floor at the front. They were furnished
severely but comfortably in Jacobean style, and typified the
serious-minded bachelor. Scarlett had opened the door at our knock and
invited us in with the stiff cordiality of the English host. He seemed
relieved to see us.
“I’ve been in a frightful stew for hours,” he said. “Been trying to
analyze this affair. I was on the point of running round to the museum
and finding out what progress you gentlemen had made.”
“We’ve made a bit of progress,” Vance told him; “but it’s not of a
tangible nature. We’ve decided to let matters float for a while in the
anticipation that the guilty person will proceed with his plot and
thus supply us with definite evidence.”
“Ah!” Scarlett took his pipe slowly from his mouth and looked sharply
at Vance. “That remark makes me think that maybe you and I have
reached the same conclusion. There was no earthly reason for Kyle’s
having been killed unless his demise was to lead to something
else----”
“To what, for example?”
“By Jove, I wish I knew!” Scarlett packed his pipe with his finger and
held a match to it. “There are several possible explanations.”
“My word! Are there?… Several? Well, well! Could you bear to outline
one of them? We’re dashed interested, don’t y’ know.”
“Oh, I say, Vance! Really, now, I’d hate like the Old Harry to wrong
any one,” Scarlett spluttered. “Hani, however, didn’t care a great
deal for Doctor Bliss----”
“Thanks awfully. Astonishin’ as it may seem, I noted that fact myself
this morning. Have you any other little beam of sunshine you’d care to
launch in our direction?”
“I think Salveter is hopelessly smitten with Meryt-Amen.”
“Fancy that!”
Vance took out his cigarette-case and tapped his one remaining
_Régie_ on the lid. Deliberately he lighted it and, after a deep
inhalation, looked up seriously.
“Yes, Scarlett,” he drawled, “it’s quite possible that you and I have
arrived at the same conclusion. But naturally we can’t make a move
until we have something definite with which to back up our
hypotheses.… By the by, Doctor Bliss attempted to leave the country
this afternoon. If it hadn’t been for one of Sergeant Heath’s minions
he presumably would be on his way to Montreal at this moment.”
I expected to see Scarlett express astonishment at this news, but
instead he merely nodded his head.
“I’m not surprised. He’s certainly in a funk. Can’t say that I blame
him. Things appear rather black for him.” Scarlett puffed on his pipe,
and shot a surreptitious look at Vance. “The more I think about this
affair, the more I’m impressed with the possibility that, after
all----”
“Oh, quite.” Vance cut him short. “But we’re not pantin’ for
possibilities. What we crave is specific data.”
“That’s going to be difficult, I’m afraid.” Scarlett grew thoughtful.
“There’s been too much cleverness----”
“Ah! That’s the point--_too much cleverness_. Exactly! Therein lies
the weakness of the crime. And I’m hopefully countin’ on that
_abundantia cautelæ_.” Vance smiled. “Really, y’ know, Scarlett, I’m
not as dense as I’ve appeared thus far. My object in stultifyin’ my
perceptions has been to wangle the murderer into new efforts. Sooner
or later he’ll overplay his hand.”
Scarlett did not answer for some time. Finally he spoke.
“I appreciate your confidence, Vance. You’re very sporting. But my
opinion is, you’ll never be able to convict the murderer.”
“You may be right,” Vance admitted. “Nevertheless, I’m appealing to
you to keep an eye on the situation.… But I warn you to be careful.
The murderer of Kyle is a ruthless johnnie.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.” Scarlett got up and, walking to the
fireplace, leaned against the marble mantel. “I could tell you volumes
about him.”
“I’m sure you could.” To my astonishment Vance accepted the other’s
startling statement without the slightest manifestation of surprise.
“But there’s no need to go into that now.” He, too, rose, and going to
the door gave a casual wave of farewell to Scarlett. “We’re toddlin’
along. Just thought we’d let you know how things stood and admonish
you to be careful.”
“Very kind of you, Vance. Fact is, I’m frightfully upset--nervous as a
Persian kitten.… Wish I could work; but all my materials are at the
museum. I know I sha’n’t sleep a wink to-night.”
“Well, cheerio!” Vance turned the door-knob.
“I say, Vance!” Scarlett stepped forward urgently. “Are you, by any
chance, going back to the Bliss house to-day?”
“No. We’re through there for the time being.” Vance’s voice was quiet
and droning, as with ennui. “Why do you ask?”
Scarlett fiddled at his pipe with a sort of sudden agitation.
“No reason.” He looked at Vance with a constricted brow. “No reason at
all. I’m anxious about the situation. There’s no telling what may
happen.”
“Whatever happens, Scarlett,” Vance said, with a certain abruptness,
“Mrs. Bliss will be perfectly safe. I think we can trust Hani to see
to that.”
“Yes--of course,” the man murmured. “Faithful dog, Hani.… And who’d
want to harm Meryt?”
“Who, indeed?” Vance was now standing in the hallway, holding the door
open for Markham and Heath and me to pass through.
Scarlett, animated by some instinct of hospitality, came forward.
“Sorry you’re going,” he said perfunctorily. “If I can be of any
help.… So you’ve ended your investigation at the house?”
“For the moment, at least.” Vance paused. The rest of us had passed
him and were waiting at the head of the stairs. “We’re not
contemplatin’ returning to the Bliss establishment until something new
comes to light.”
“Right-o.” Scarlett nodded with a curious significance. “If I learn
anything I’ll telephone to you.”
We went out into Irving Place, and Vance hailed a taxicab.
“Food--sustenance,” he moaned. “Let us see.… The Brevoort isn’t far
away.…”
We had an elaborate tea at the old Brevoort on lower Fifth Avenue, and
shortly afterward Heath departed for the Homicide Bureau to make out
his report and to pacify the newspaper reporters who would be swarming
in on him the moment the case went on record.
“You had better stand by,” Vance suggested to the Sergeant, as he left
us; “for I’m full of anticipations, and we couldn’t push forward
without you.”
“I’ll be at the office till ten to-night,” Heath told him sulkily.
“And after that Mr. Markham knows where to reach me at home. But, I’m
here to tell you, I’m disgusted.”
“So are we all,” said Vance cheerfully.
Markham telephoned to Swacker[*24] to close the office and go home.
Then the three of us drove to Longue Vue for dinner. Vance refused to
discuss the case and insisted upon talking about Arturo Toscanini, the
new conductor of the Philharmonic-Symphony Orchestra.
“A vastly overrated _Kapellmeister_,” he complained, as he tasted his
_canard Molière_. “It strikes me he is temperamentally incapable of
sensing the classic ideals in the great symphonic works of Brahms and
Beethoven.… I say, the tomato purée in this sauce is excellent, but
the Madeira wine is too vineg’ry. Prohibition, Markham, worked
devastatin’ havoc on the food of this country: it practically
eliminated gastronomic æsthetics.… But to return to Toscanini. I’m
positively amazed at the panegyrics with which the critics have
showered him. His secret ideals, I’m inclined to think, are Puccini
and Giordano and Respighi. And no man with such ideals should attempt
to interpret the classics. I’ve heard him do Brahms and Beethoven and
Mozart, and they all exuded a strong Italian aroma under his baton.
But the Americans worship him. They have no sense of pure intellectual
beauty, of sweeping classic lines and magistral form. They crave
strongly contrasted _pianissimos_ and _fortissimos_, sudden changes in
tempi, leaping _accelerandos_ and crawling _ritardandos_. And
Toscanini gives it all to ’em.… Furtwängler, Walter, Klemperer,
Mengelberg, Van Hoogstraaten--any one of these conductors is, in my
opinion, superior to Toscanini when it comes to the great German
classics.…”
“Would you mind, Vance,” Markham asked irritably, “dropping these
irrelevancies and outlining to me your theory of the Kyle case?”
“I’d mind terribly,” was Vance’s amiable reply. “After the
_Bar-le-duc_ and _Gervaise_, however.…”
As a matter of fact it was nearly midnight before the subject of the
tragedy was again broached. We had returned to Vance’s apartment after
a long drive through Van Cortlandt Park; and Markham and he and I had
gone up to the little roof garden to seek whatever air was stirring
along East Thirty-eighth Street. Currie had made a delicious champagne
cup--what the Viennese call a _Bowle_--with fresh fruit in it; and we
sat under the summer stars smoking and waiting. I say, “waiting,” for
there is no doubt that each of us expected something untoward to
happen.
Vance, for all his detachment, was inwardly tense--I could tell this
by his slow, restrained movements. And Markham was loath to go home:
he was far from satisfied with the way the investigation had
progressed, and was hoping--as a result of Vance’s
prognostication--that something would develop to take the case out of
the hazy realm of conjecture and place it upon a sound basis where
definite action could be taken.
Shortly before twelve o’clock Markham held a long conversation with
Heath on the telephone. When he hung up the receiver he heaved a
hopeless sigh.
“I don’t like to think of what the opposition papers are going to say
to-morrow,” he remarked gloomily, as he cut the tip off of a fresh
cigar. “We’ve got absolutely nowhere in this investigation.…”
“Oh, yes, we have.” Vance was staring up into the sultry night. “We’ve
made amazin’ progress. The case, d’ ye see, is closed as far as the
solution is concerned. We’re merely waitin’ for the murderer to get
panic-stricken. The moment he does, we’ll be able to take action.”
“Why must you be so confounded mysterious?” Markham was in a vile
humor. “You’re always indulging in cabalistic rituals. The Delphic
Pythia herself was no vaguer or more obscure than you. If you think
you know who killed Kyle, why not come out with it?”
“I can’t do it.” Vance, too, was distressed. “Really, y’ know,
Markham, I’m not trying to be illusory. I’m strivin’ to find some
tangible evidence to corroborate my theory. And if we bide our time
we’ll secure that evidence.” He looked at Markham seriously. “There’s
danger, of course. Something unforeseen may happen. But there’s no
human way to stop it. Whatever step we might take now would lead to
tragedy. We have given the murderer an abundance of rope; let us hope
he will hang himself.…”
It was exactly twenty minutes past twelve that night when the thing
that Vance had been waiting for happened. We had been sitting in
silence for perhaps ten minutes when Currie stepped out into the
garden carrying a portable telephone.
“I beg your pardon, sir----” he began; but before he could continue
Vance had risen and walked toward him.
“Plug it in, Currie,” he ordered. “I’ll answer the call.”
Vance took the instrument and leaned against the French door.
“Yes… yes. What has happened?” His voice was low and resonant. He
listened for perhaps thirty seconds, his eyes half closed. Then he
said merely: “We’ll be there at once,” and handed the telephone to
Currie.
He was unquestionably puzzled, and stood for several moments, his head
down, deep in thought.
“It’s not what I expected,” he said, as if to himself. “It doesn’t
fit.”
Presently he lifted his head, like one struck sharply.
“But it _does_ fit! Of course it fits! It’s what I should have
expected.” Despite the careless pose of his body his eyes were
animated. “Logic! How damnably logical!… Come, Markham. Phone
Heath--have him meet us at the museum as soon as he can get there.…”
Markham had risen and was glaring at Vance in ferocious alarm.
“Who was on the phone?” he demanded. “And what has happened?”
“Please be tranquil, Markham.” Vance spoke quietly. “It was Doctor
Bliss who spoke to me. And, accordin’ to his hysterical tale, there
has been an attempted murder in his house. I promised him we’d look
in.…”
Markham had already snatched the telephone from Currie’s hands and was
frantically asking for Heath’s number.