A BROKEN APPOINTMENT
(_Saturday, July 14; 2 a.m.-10 p.m._)
Heath left us at Nineteenth Street and Fourth Avenue; and Vance,
Markham and I took a taxicab back to Vance’s apartment. It was nearly
two o’clock, but Markham showed no indication of going home. He
followed Vance up-stairs to the library, and throwing open the French
windows gazed out into the heavy, mist-laden night. The events of the
day had not gone to his liking; and yet I realized that his quandary
was so deep that he felt disinclined to make any decisive move until
the conflicting factors of the situation became more clarified.
The case at the outset had appeared simple, and the number of possible
suspects was certainly limited. But, despite these two facts, there
was a subtle and mysterious intangibility about the affair that
rendered a drastic step impossible. The elements were too fluid, the
cross-currents of motives too contradictory. Vance had been the first
to sense the elusory complications, the first to indicate the
invisible paradoxes; and so surely had he put his finger upon the
vital points of the plot--so accurately had he foretold certain phases
of the plot’s development--that Markham had, both figuratively and
literally, stepped into the background and permitted him to deal with
the case in his own way.
Withal, Markham was dissatisfied and impatient. Nothing definitely
leading to the actual culprit had, so far as could be seen, been
brought to light by Vance’s unprofessional and almost casual process
of investigation.
“We’re not making headway, Vance,” Markham complained with gloomy
concern, turning from the window. “I’ve stood aside all day and
permitted you to deal with these people as you saw fit, because I felt
your knowledge of them and your familiarity with things Egyptological
gave you an advantage over impersonal official cross-questioning. And
I also felt that you had a plausible theory about the whole matter,
which you were striving to verify. But Kyle’s murder is as far from a
solution as it was when we first entered the museum.”
“You’re an incorrigible pessimist, Markham,” Vance returned, getting
into a printed foulard dressing-gown. “It has been just fifteen hours
since we found Sakhmet athwart Kyle’s skull; and you must admit,
painful as it may be to a District Attorney, that the average murder
investigation has scarcely begun in so brief a time.…”
“In the average murder case, however,” Markham retorted acidly, “we’d
at least have found a lead or two and outlined a workable routine. If
Heath had been handling the matter he’d have made an arrest by
now--the field of possibilities is not an extensive one.”
“I dare say he would. He’d no doubt have had every one in jail,
including Brush and Dingle and the Curators of the Metropolitan
Museum. Typical tactics: butcher innocent persons to make a
journalistic holiday. I’m not entranced with that technic, though. I’m
far too humane--I’ve retained too many of my early illusions.
Sentimentality, alas! will probably be my downfall.”
Markham snorted, and seated himself at the end of the table. For
several moments he beat the devil’s tattoo on a large, vellum-bound
copy of “Malleus Maleficarum.”
“You told me quite emphatically,” he said, “that when this second
episode happened--the attempt on Bliss’s life--you’d understand all
the phases of the plot and perhaps be able to adduce some tangible
evidence against Kyle’s murderer. It appears to me, however, that
to-night’s affair has simply plunged us more deeply into uncertainty.”
Vance shook his head seriously in disagreement.
“The throwing of that dagger and the hiding and finding of the sheath
have illuminated the one moot point in the plot.”
Markham looked up sharply.
“You think you know now what the plot is?”
Vance carefully fitted a _Régie_ into a long jet holder and gazed at
a small Picasso still-life beside the mantel.
“Yes, Markham,” he returned slowly; “I think I know what the plot is.
And if the thing that I expect to happen to-night occurs, I can, I
believe, convince you that I am right in my diagnosis. Unfortunately
the throwing of the dagger was only part of the pre-arranged episode.
As I said to you a while ago, the tableau was not completed. Something
intervened. And the final touch--the rounding-out of the episode--is
yet to come.”
He spoke with impressive solemnity, and Markham, I could see, was
strongly influenced by his manner.
“Have you any definite notion,” he inquired, “what that final touch
will prove to be?”
“Oh, quite. But just what shape it will take I can’t say. The plotter
himself probably doesn’t know, for he must wait for a propitious
opportunity. But it will centre about one specific object, or, rather,
clew--a planted clew, Markham. That clew has been carefully prepared,
and the placing of it is the only indefinite factor left.… Yes, I am
waiting for a specific item to appear; and when it does, I can
convince you of the whole devilish truth.”
“When do you figure this final clew will turn up?” Markham asked
uneasily.
“At almost any moment.” Vance spoke in low, level and quiet tones.
“Something prevented its taking shape to-night, for it is an intimate
corollary of the dagger-throwing. And by refusing to take that episode
too seriously, and by letting Hani find the sheath, I made the
immediate planting of the final clew necess’ry. Once again we refused
to fall into the murderer’s trap--though, as I say, the trap was not
fully baited.”
“I’m glad to have some kind of explanation for your casual attitude
to-night.” Despite the note of sarcasm in Markham’s voice, it was
obvious that at bottom he was not indulging in strictures upon Vance’s
conduct. He was at sea and inclined, therefore, to be irritable. “You
apparently had no interest in determining who hurled the dagger at
Bliss’s pillow.”
“But, Markham old dear, I knew who hurled the bejewelled bodkin.”
Vance made a slight gesture of impatience. “My only concern was with
what the reporters call the events leading up to the crime.”
Markham realized it was of no use to ask, at this time, who had thrown
the dagger; so he pursued his comments on Vance’s recent activities at
the Bliss house.
“You might have got some helpful suggestions from Scarlett--he
evidently was in the museum during the entire time.…”
“Even so, Markham,” Vance countered, “don’t forget there is a thick
double wall between the museum and the Bliss domicile, and that those
steel doors are practically sound-proof. Bombs might have been
exploded in the doctor’s room without any one in the museum hearing
them.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Markham rose and stood contemplating Vance
appraisingly. “I’m putting a lot of trust in you--you confounded
æsthete. And I’m going against all my principles and stultifying the
whole official procedure of my office because I believe in you. But
God help you if you fail me.… What’s the programme for to-morrow?”
Vance shot him a grateful, affectionate look. Then, at once, a cynical
smile overspread his face.
“I’m the unofficial straw, so to speak, at which the drowning District
Attorney clutches--eh, what? Not an overwhelmin’ compliment.”
It was always the case with these two old friends that when one
uttered a generous remark the other immediately scotched it, lest
there be some outward show of sentiment.
“The programme for to-morrow?” Vance took up Markham’s question.
“Really, y’ know, I hadn’t given it any Cartesian consideration.…
There’s an exhibition of Gauguins at Wildenstein’s. I might stagger in
and bask in the color harmonics of the great Pont-Avenois. Then
there’s a performance of the Beethoven _Septet_ at Carnegie Hall; and
a preview of Egyptian wall paintings from the tombs of Nakhte and
Menena and Rekh-mi-Rê----”
“And there’s an orchid show at the Grand Central Palace,” Markham
suggested with vicious irony. “But see here, Vance: if we let this
thing run on another day without taking some kind of action, there may
be danger ahead for some one else, just as there was danger for Bliss
to-night. If the murderer of Kyle is as ruthless as you say and his
job hasn’t been completed----”
“No, I don’t think so.” Vance’s face clouded again. “The plot doesn’t
include another act of violence. I believe it has now entered upon a
quiescent and subtle--and more deadly--stage.” He smoked a moment
speculatively. “And yet… there may be a remote chance. Things haven’t
gone according to the murderer’s calculations. We’ve blocked his two
most ambitious moves. But he has one more combination left, and I’m
countin’ on his trying it.…”
His voice faltered, and rising he walked slowly to the French window
and back.
“Anyway, I’ll take care of the situation in the morning,” he said.
“I’ll guard against any dangerous possibility. And at the same time
I’ll hasten the planting of that last clew.”
“How long is this rigmarole going to take?” Markham was troubled and
nervous. “I can’t go on indefinitely waiting for apocalyptic events to
happen.”
“Give me twenty-four hours. Then, if we haven’t received further
guidance from the gentleman who is pullin’ the strings, you may turn
Heath loose on the family.”
It was less than twenty-four hours when the culminating event
occurred. The fourteenth of July will always remain in my memory as
one of the most terrible and exciting days of my life; and as I set
down this record of the case, years later, I can hardly refrain from a
shudder. I do not dare think of what might have happened--of what
soul-stirring injustice might have been perpetrated in good faith--had
not Vance seen the inner machinations of the diabolical plot
underlying Kyle’s murder, and persisted in his refusal to permit
Markham and Heath taking the obvious course of arresting Bliss.
Vance told me months later that never in his career had he been
confronted by so delicate a task as that of placating Markham and
convincing him that an impassive delay was the only possible means of
reaching the truth. Almost from the moment Vance entered the museum in
answer to Scarlett’s summons, he realized the tremendous difficulties
ahead; for everything had been planned in order to force Markham and
the police into making the very move against which he had so
consistently fought.
Though Markham did not take his departure from Vance’s apartment on
the night of the dagger episode until half past two, Vance rose the
next morning before eight o’clock. Another sweltering day was
promised, and he had his coffee in the roof-garden. He sent Currie to
fetch all the morning newspapers, and spent a half hour or so reading
the accounts of Kyle’s murder.
Heath had been highly discreet about giving out the facts, and only
the barest skeleton of the story was available to the press. But the
prominence of Kyle and the distinguished reputation of Doctor Bliss
resulted in the murder creating a tremendous furore. It was emblazoned
across the front page of every metropolitan journal, and there were
long reviews of Bliss’s Egyptological work and the financial interest
taken in it by the dead philanthropist. The general theory seemed to
be--and I recognized the Sergeant’s shrewd hand in it--that some one
from the street had entered the museum, and, as an act of vengeance or
enmity, had killed Kyle with the first available weapon.
Heath had told the reporters of the finding of the scarab beside the
body, but had given no further information about it. Because of this
small object, which was the one evidential detail that had been
vouchsafed, the papers, always on the lookout for identifying titles,
named the tragedy the Scarab murder case; and that appellation has
clung to it to the present day. Even those persons who have forgotten
the name of Benjamin H. Kyle still remember the sensation caused by
his murder, as a result of that ancient piece of lapis-lazuli carved
with the name of an Egyptian Pharaoh of the year 1650 B.C.
Vance read the accounts with a cynical smile.
“Poor Markham!” he murmured. “Unless something definite happens very
soon, the anti-administration critics will descend on him like a host
of trolls. I see that Heath has announced to the world that the
District Attorney’s office has taken full charge of the case.…”
He smoked meditatively for a time. Then he telephoned to Salveter and
asked him to come at once to his apartment.
“I’m hopin’ to remove every possibility of disaster,” he explained to
me as he hung up the receiver; “though I’m quite certain another
attempt to hoodwink us will be made before any desperate measures are
taken.”
For the next fifteen minutes he stretched out lazily and closed his
eyes. I thought he had fallen asleep, but when Currie softly opened
the door to announce Salveter, Vance bade him show the visitor up
before the old man could speak.
Salveter entered a minute later looking anxious and puzzled.
“Sit down, Mr. Salveter.” Vance waved him indolently to a chair. “I’ve
been thinkin’ about Queen Hetep-hir-es and the Boston Museum. Have you
any business that might reasonably take you to Boston to-night?”
Salveter appeared even more puzzled.
“I always have work that I can do there,” he replied, frowning.
“Especially in view of the excavations of the Harvard-Boston
Expedition at the Gîzeh pyramids. It was in connection with these
excavations that I had to go to the Metropolitan yesterday morning for
Doctor Bliss.… Does that answer your question satisfactorily?”
“Quite.… And these reproductions of the tomb furniture of
Hetep-hir-es: couldn’t you arrange for them more easily if you saw
Doctor Reisner personally?”
“Certainly. The fact is, I’ll have to go north anyway in order to
close up the business. I was merely on the trail of preliminary
information yesterday.”
“Would the fact that to-morrow is Sunday handicap you in any way?”
“To the contrary. I could probably see Doctor Reisner away from his
office, and go into the matter at leisure with him.”
“That being the case, suppose you hop a train to-night after dinner.
Come back, let us say, to-morrow night. Any objection?”
Salveter’s puzzlement gave way to astonishment.
“Why--no,” he stammered. “No particular objection. But----”
“Would Doctor Bliss think it strange if you jumped out on such sudden
notice?”
“I couldn’t say. Probably not. The museum isn’t a particularly
pleasant place just now.…”
“Well, I want you to go, Mr. Salveter.” Vance abandoned his lounging
demeanor and sat up. “And I want you to go without question or
argument.… There’s no possibility of Doctor Bliss’s forbidding you to
go, is there?”
“Oh, nothing like that,” Salveter assured him. “He may think it’s
queer, my running off at just this time; but he never meddles in the
way I choose to do my work.”
Vance rose.
“That’s all. There’s a train to Boston from the Grand Central at half
past nine to-night. See that you take it.… And,” he added, “you might
phone me from the station, by way of verification. I’ll be here
between nine and nine-thirty.… You may return to New York any time you
desire after to-morrow noon.”
Salveter gave Vance an abashed grin.
“I suppose those are orders.”
“Serious and important orders, Mr. Salveter,” Vance returned with
quiet impressiveness. “And you needn’t worry about Mrs. Bliss. Hani,
I’m sure, will take good care of her.”
Salveter started to make a reply, changed his mind, and, turning
abruptly, strode rapidly away.
Vance yawned and rose languorously.
“And now I think I’ll take two more hours’ sleep.”
After lunch at Marguéry’s, Vance went to the Gauguin exhibition, and
later walked to Carnegie Hall to hear the Beethoven _Septet_. It was
too late when the concert was over to see the Egyptian wall paintings
at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Instead, he called for Markham in
his car, and the three of us drove to the Claremont for dinner.
Vance explained briefly what steps he had taken in regard to Salveter.
Markham made scant comment. He looked tired and discouraged, but there
was a distracted tensity about his manner that made me realize how
greatly he was counting on Vance’s prediction that something tangible
would soon happen in connection with the Kyle case.
After dinner we returned to Vance’s roof-garden. The enervating
mid-summer heat still held, and there was scarcely a breath of air
stirring.
“I told Heath I’d phone him----” Markham began, sinking into a large
peacock wicker chair.
“I was about to suggest getting in touch with the Sergeant,” Vance
chimed in. “I’d rather like to have him on hand, don’t y’ know. He’s
so comfortin’.”
He rang for Currie and ordered the telephone. Then he called Heath and
asked him to join us.
“I have a psychic feelin’,” he said to Markham, with an air of forced
levity, “that we are going to be summoned anon to witness the
irrefutable proof of some one’s guilt. And if that proof is what I
think it is.…”
Markham suddenly leaned forward in his chair.
“It has just come to me what you’ve been hinting about so
mysteriously!” he exclaimed. “It has to do with that hieroglyphic
letter you found in the study.”
Vance hesitated but momentarily.
“Yes, Markham,” he nodded. “That torn letter hasn’t been explained
yet. And I have a theory about it that I can’t shake off--it fits too
perfectly with the whole fiendish scheme.”
“But you have the letter,” Markham argued, in an effort to draw Vance
out.
“Oh, yes. And I’m prizin’ it.”
“You believe it’s the letter Salveter said he wrote?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And you believe he is ignorant of its having been torn up and put in
the doctor’s waste-basket?”
“Oh, quite. He’s still wonderin’ what became of it--and worryin’,
too.”
Markham studied Vance with baffled curiosity.
“You spoke of some purpose to which the letter might have been put
before it was thrown away.”
“That’s what I’m waiting to verify. The fact is, Markham, I expected
that the letter would enter into the mystery of the dagger throwing
last night. And I’ll admit I was frightfully downcast when we’d got
the whole family snugly back to bed without having run upon a single
hieroglyph.” He reached for a cigarette. “There was a reason for it,
and I think I know the explanation. That’s why I’m pinnin’ my
childlike faith on what may happen at any moment now.…”
The telephone rang, and Vance himself answered it at once. It was
Salveter calling from the Grand Central Station; and after a brief
verbal interchange, Vance replaced the instrument on the table with an
air of satisfaction.
“The doctor,” he said, “was evidently quite willin’ to endure to-night
and to-morrow without his assistant curator. So that bit of strategy
was achieved without difficulty.…”
Half an hour later Heath was ushered into the roof-garden. He was glum
and depressed, and his greeting was little more than a guttural
rumble.
“Lift up your heart, Sergeant,” Vance exhorted him cheerfully. “This
is Bastille Day.[*29] It may have a symbolic meaning. It’s not beyond
the realm of possibility that you will be able to incarcerate the
murderer of Kyle before midnight.”
“Yeah?” Heath was utterly sceptical. “Is he coming here to give
himself up, bringing all the necessary proof with him? A nice,
accommodating fella.”
“Not exactly, Sergeant. But I’m expecting him to send for us; and I
think he may be so generous as to point out the principal clew
himself.”
“Cuckoo, is he? Well, Mr. Vance, if he does that, no jury’ll convict
him. He’ll get a bill of insanity with free lodging and medical care
for the rest of his life.” He looked at his watch. “It’s ten o’clock.
What time does the tip-off come?”
“Ten?” Vance verified the hour. “My word! It’s later than I thought.…”
A look of anxiety passed over his set features. “I wonder if I could
have miscalculated this whole affair.”
He put out his cigarette and began pacing back and forth. Presently he
stopped before Markham, who was watching him uneasily.
“When I sent Salveter away,” he began slowly, “I was confident that
the expected event would happen forthwith. But I’m afraid something
has gone wrong. Therefore I think I had better outline the case to you
now.”
He paused and frowned.
“However,” he added, “it would be advisable to have Scarlett present.
I’m sure he could fill in a few of the gaps.”
Markham looked surprised.
“What does Scarlett know about it?”
“Oh, much,” was Vance’s brief reply. Then he turned to the telephone
and hesitated. “He hasn’t a private phone, and I don’t know the number
of the house exchange.…”
“That’s easy.” Heath picked up the receiver and asked for a certain
night official of the company. After a few words of explanation, he
clicked the hook and called a number. There was considerable delay,
but at length some one answered at the other end. From the Sergeant’s
questions it was evident Scarlett was not at home.
“That was his landlady,” Heath explained disgustedly, when he had
replaced the receiver. “Scarlett went out at eight o’clock--said he
was going to the museum for a while and would be back at nine. Had an
appointment at nine with a guy at his apartment, and the guy’s still
waiting for him.…”
“We can reach him at the museum, then.” Vance rang up the Bliss number
and asked Brush to call Scarlett to the phone. After several minutes
he pushed the instrument from him.
“Scarlett isn’t at the museum either,” he said. “He came, so Brush
says, at about eight, and must have departed unobserved. He’s probably
on his way back to his quarters. We’ll wait a while and phone him
there again.”
“Is it necessary to have Scarlett here?” Markham asked impatiently.
“Not precisely necess’ry,” Vance returned evasively; “but most
desirable. You remember he admitted quite frankly he could tell me a
great deal about the murderer----”
He broke off abruptly, and with tense deliberation selected and
lighted another cigarette. His lids drooped, and he stared fixedly at
the floor.
“Sergeant,” he said in a repressed tone, “I believe you said Mr.
Scarlett had an appointment with some one at nine and had informed his
landlady he would return at that hour.”
“That’s what the dame told me over the phone.”
“Please see if he has reached home yet.”
Without a word Heath again lifted the receiver and called Scarlett’s
number. A minute later he turned to Vance.
“He hasn’t shown up.”
“Deuced queer,” Vance muttered. “I don’t at all like this, Markham.…”
His mind drifted off in speculation, and it seemed to me that his face
paled slightly.
“I’m becoming frightened,” he went on in a hushed voice. “We should
have heard about that letter by now.… I’m afraid there’s trouble
ahead.”
He gave Markham a look of grave and urgent concern.
“We can’t afford to delay any longer. It may even be too late as it
is. We’ve got to act at once.” He moved toward the door. “Come on,
Markham. And you, Sergeant. We’re overdue at the museum. If we hurry
we may be in time.”
Both Markham and Heath had risen as Vance spoke. There was a strange
insistence in his tone, and a foreboding of terrible things in his
eyes. He disappeared swiftly into the house; and the rest of us, urged
by the suppressed excitement of his manner, followed in silence. His
car was outside, and a few moments later we were swinging dangerously
round the corner of Thirty-eighth Street and Park Avenue, headed for
the Bliss Museum.