“Dr. James Hanson, Coroner's Physician, Criminal Courts Building,” read
Craig Kennedy, as he held a visitor's card in his hand. Then to the
visitor he added, “Take a chair, Doctor.”
The physician thanked him and sat down. “Professor Kennedy,” he began,
“I have been referred to you by Inspector O'Connor of the Detective
Bureau. It may seem an impertinence for a city official to call on you
for assistance, but--well, you see, I'm completely floored. I think,
too, that the case will interest you. It's the Vandam case.”
If Dr. Hanson had suddenly turned on the current of an induction coil
and I had been holding the handles I don't think the thrill I received
could have been any more sudden. The Vandam case was the sensation of
the moment, a triple puzzle, as both Kennedy and myself had agreed. Was
it suicide, murder, or sudden death? Every theory, so far, had proved
unsatisfactory.
“I have read only what the newspapers have published,” replied Craig to
the doctor's look of inquiry. “You see, my friend Jameson here is on the
staff of the Star, and we are in the habit of discussing these cases.”
“Very glad to meet you, Mr. Jameson,” exclaimed Dr. Hanson at the
implied introduction. “The relations between my office and your paper
have always been very satisfactory, I can assure you.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Depend on me to keep them so,” I replied, shaking
his proffered hand.
“Now, as to the case,” continued the doctor slowly. “Here is a beautiful
woman in the prime of life, the wife of a very wealthy retired banker
considerably older than herself--perhaps nearly seventy--of very fine
family. Of course you have read it all, but let me sketch it so you will
look at it from my point of view. This woman, apparently in good health,
with every luxury money can buy, is certain within a very few years,
from her dower rights, to be numbered among the richest women in
America. Yet she is discovered in the middle of the night by her maid,
seated at the table in the library of her home, unconscious. She never
regains consciousness, but dies the following morning.
“The coroner is called in, and, as his physician, I must advise him.
The family physician has pronounced it due to natural causes, the uremic
coma of latent kidney trouble. Some of the newspapers, I think the Star
among them, have hinted at suicide. And then there are others, who have
flatly asserted it was murder.”
The coroner's physician paused to see if we were following him. Needless
to say Kennedy was ahead of him.
“Have you any facts in your possession which have not been given to the
public yet?” asked Craig.
“I'm coming to that in a moment,” replied Dr. Hanson. “Let me sketch
the case first. Henry Vandam had become--well, very eccentric in his old
age, we will say. Among his eccentricities none seems to have impressed
the newspapers more than his devotion to a medium and her manager, Mrs.
May Popper and Mr. Howard Farrington. Now, of course, the case does not
go into the truth or falsity of spiritualism, you understand. You have
your opinion, and I have mine. What this aspect of the case involves is
merely the character of the medium and her manager. You know, of course,
that Henry Vandam is completely under their control.”
He paused again, to emphasise the point.
“You asked me if I was in possession of any facts which have not been
given to the press. Yes, I am. And just there lies the trouble. They are
so very conflicting as to be almost worse than useless, as far as I can
see. We found near the unfortunate woman a small pill-box with three
capsules still in it. It was labelled 'One before retiring' and bore
the name of a certain druggist and the initials 'Dr. C. W. H.' Now, I am
convinced that the initials are merely a blind and do not give any
clue. The druggist says that a maid from the Vandam house brought in
the prescription, which of course he filled. It is a harmless enough
prescription--contains, among other things, four and a half grains of
quinine and one-sixth of a grain of morphine. Six capsules were prepared
altogether.
“Now, of course my first thought was that she might have taken
several capsules at once and that it was a case of accidental morphine
poisoning, or it might even be suicide. But it cannot be either, to my
mind, for only three of the six capsules are gone. No doubt, also, you
are acquainted with the fact that the one invariable symptom of
morphine poisoning is the contraction of the pupils of the eyes to a
pin-point--often so that they are unrecognisable. Moreover, the pupils
are symmetrically contracted, and this symptom is the one invariably
present in coma from morphine poisoning and distinguishes it from all
other forms of death.
“On the other hand, in the coma of kidney disease one pupil is dilated
and the other contracted--they are unsymmetrical. But in this case
both the pupils are normal, or only a very little dilated, and they are
symmetrical. So far we have been able to find no other poison than the
slight traces of morphine remaining in the stomach after so many hours.
I think you are enough of a chemist to know that no doctor would dare go
on the stand and swear to death from morphine poisoning in the face of
such evidence against him. The veriest tyro of an expert toxicologist
could too easily confute him.”
Kennedy nodded. “Have you the pill-box and the prescription?”
“I have,” replied Dr. Hanson, placing them on the table.
Kennedy scrutinised them sharply. “I shall need these,” he said. “Of
course you understand I will take very good care of them. Is there
anything else of importance?”
“Really, I don't know,” said the physician dubiously. “It's rather out
of my province, but perhaps you would think it important. It's mighty
uncanny anyhow. Henry Vandam, as you doubtless know, was much more
deeply interested in the work of this medium than was his wife. Perhaps
Mrs. Vandam was a bit jealous--I don't know. But she, too, had an
interest in spiritualism, though he was much more deeply influenced by
Mrs. Popper than she.
“Here's the strange part of it. The old man believes so thoroughly in
rappings and materialisations that he constantly keeps a notebook in his
pocket in which he records all the materialisations he thinks he sees
and the rappings he hears, along with the time and place. Now it so
happened that on the night Mrs. Vandam was taken ill, he had
retired--I believe in another part of the house, where he has a regular
seance-room. According to his story, he was awakened from a profound
sleep by a series of rappings. As was his custom, he noted the time
at which they occurred. Something made him uneasy, and he said to his
'control'--at least this is his story:
“'John, is it about Mary?'
“Three raps answered 'yes,' the usual code.
“'What is the matter? Is she ill?'
“The three answering raps were so vigorous that he sprang out of bed and
called for his wife's maid. The maid replied that Mrs. Vandam had not
gone to bed yet, but that there was a light in the library and she would
go to her mistress immediately. The next moment the house was awakened
by the screams of the maid calling for help, that Mrs. Vandam was dying.
“That was three nights ago. On each of the two succeeding nights
Henry Vandam says he has been awakened at precisely the same hour by a
rapping, and on each night his 'control' has given him a message from
his dead wife. As a man of science, I attribute the whole thing to an
overwrought imagination. The original rappings may have been a mere
coincidence with the fact of the condition of Mrs. Vandam. However, I
give this to you for what it is worth.”
Craig said nothing, but, as was his habit, shaded his eyes with the
tips of his fingers, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair: “I
suppose,” he said, “you can give me the necessary authority to enter the
Vandam house and look at the scene of these happenings?”
“Certainly,” assented the physician, “but you will find it a queer
place. There are spirit paintings and spirit photographs in every room,
and Vandam's own part of the house--well, it's creepy, that's all I can
say.”
“And also I suppose you have performed an autopsy on the body and will
allow me to drop into your laboratory to-morrow morning and satisfy
myself on this morphine point?”
“Certainly,” replied the coroner's physician, “at any time you say.”
“At ten sharp, then, to-morrow I shall be there,” said Craig. “It is now
eight-thirty. Do you think I can see Vandam to-night? What time do these
rappings occur?”
“Why, yes, you surely will be able to see him to-night. He hasn't
stirred from the house since his wife died. He told me he momentarily
expected messages from her direct when she had got strong enough in her
new world. I believe they had some kind of a compact to that effect. The
rappings come at twelve-thirty.”
“Ah, then I shall have plenty of time to run over to my laboratory
before seeing Mr. Vandam and get some apparatus I have in mind. No,
Doctor, you needn't bother to go with me. Just give me a card of
introduction. I'll see you to-morrow at ten. Good-night--oh, by the way,
don't give out any of the facts you have told me.”
“Jameson,” said Craig, when we were walking rapidly over toward the
university, “this promises to be an uncommonly difficult case.”
“As I view it now,” I said, “I have suspicions of everybody concerned
in it. Even the view of the Star, that it is a case of suicide due to
overwrought nerves, may explain it.”
“It might even be a natural death,” Craig added. “And that would make
it a greater mystery than ever--a case for psychical research. One thing
that I am going to do to-night will tell me much, however.”
At the laboratory he unlocked a glass case and took out a little
instrument which looked like two horizontal pendulums suspended by fine
wires. There was a large magnet near each pendulum, and the end of
each pendulum bore a needle which touched a circular drum driven by
clock-work. Craig fussed with and adjusted the apparatus, while I said
nothing, for I had long ago learned that in applying a new apparatus
to doing old things Craig was as dumb as an oyster, until his work was
crowned with success.
We had no trouble in getting in to see Mr. Vandam in his seance-room.
His face was familiar to me, for I had seen him in public a number of
times, but it looked strangely altered. He was nervous, and showed his
age very perceptibly.
It was as the coroner's physician had said. The house was littered
with reminders of the cult, books, papers, curious daubs of paintings
handsomely framed, and photographs; hazy overexposures, I should have
called them, but Mr. Vandam took great pride in them, and Kennedy quite
won him over by his admiration for them.
They talked about the rappings, and the old man explained where and when
they occurred. They proceeded from a little cabinet or closet at one end
of the room. It was evident that he was a thorough believer in them and
in the messages they conveyed.
Craig carefully noted everything about the room and then fell to
admiring the spirit photographs, if such they might be called.
“The best of all I do not display, they are too precious,” said the old
man. “Would you like to see them?”
Craig assented eagerly, and Vandam left us for a moment to get them. In
an instant Craig had entered the cabinet, and in a dark corner on the
floor he deposited the mechanism he had brought from the laboratory.
Then he resumed his seat, shutting the box in which he had brought the
mechanism, so that it would not appear that he had left anything about
the room.
Artfully he led the conversation along lines that interested the old
man until he seemed to forget the hour. Not so, Craig. He knew it was
nearing half-past twelve. The more they talked the more uncanny did this
house and room of spirits seem to me. In fact, I was rapidly reaching
the point where I could have sworn that once or twice something
incorporeal brushed by me. I know now that it was purely imagination,
but it shows what tricks the imagination can play on us.
Rap! rap! rap! rap! rap!
Five times came a curiously hollow noise from the cabinet. If it
had been possible I should certainly have fled, it was so sudden and
unexpected. The hall clock downstairs struck the half-hour in those
chimes written by Handel for St. Paul's.
Craig leaned over to me and whispered hoarsely, “Keep perfectly
still--don't move a hand or foot.”
The old man seemed utterly to have forgotten us. “Is that you, John?” he
asked expectantly.
Rap! rap! rap! came the reply.
“Is Mary strong enough to speak to me to-night?”
Rap! rap!
“Is she happy?”
Rap! rap!
“What makes her unhappy? What does she want? Will you spell it out?”
Rap! rap! rap!
Then, after a pause, the rapping started slowly, and distinctly to spell
out words. It was so weird and uncanny that I scarcely breathed. Letter
after letter the message came, nineteen raps for “s,” eight for “h,”
five for “e,” according to the place in the alphabet, numerically, of
the required letter. At last it was complete.
“She thinks you are not well. She asks you to have that prescription
filled again.”
“Tell her I will do it to-morrow morning. Is there anything else?”
Rap! rap! came back faintly:
“John, John, don't go yet,” pleaded the old man earnestly. It was easy
to see how thoroughly he believed in “John,” as perhaps well he might
after the warning of his wife's death three nights before. “Won't you
answer one other question?”
Fainter, almost imperceptibly, came a rap! rap!
For several minutes the old man sat absorbed in thought, trance-like.
Then, gradually, he seemed to realise that we were in the room with
him. With difficulty he took up the thread of the conversation where the
rappings had broken it.
“We were talking about the photographs,” he said slowly. “I hope soon
to get one of my wife as she is now that she is transfigured. John has
promised me one soon.”
He was gathering up his treasures preparatory to putting them back in
their places of safekeeping. The moment he was out of the room Craig
darted into the cabinet and replaced his mechanism in the box. Then he
began softly to tap the walls. At last he found the side that gave a
noise similar to that which we had heard, and he seemed pleased to have
found it, for he hastily sketched on an old envelope a plan of that part
of the house, noting on it the location of the side of the cabinet.
Kennedy almost dragged me back to our apartment, he was in such a hurry
to examine the apparatus at his leisure. He turned on all the lights,
took the thing out of its case, and stripped off the two sheets of ruled
paper wound around the two revolving drums. He laid them flat on
the table and studied them for some minutes with evidently growing
satisfaction.
At last he turned to me and said, “Walter, here is a ghost caught in the
act.”
I looked dubiously at the irregular up-and-down scrawl on the paper,
while he rang up the Homicide Bureau of the Central Office and left word
for O'Connor to call him up the first thing in the morning.
Still eyeing with satisfaction the record traced on the sheets of paper,
he lighted a cigarette in a matter-of-fact way and added: “It proves to
be a very much flesh-and-blood ghost, this 'John.' It walked up to the
wall back of that cabinet, rapped, listened to old Vandam, rapped
some more, got the answer it wanted, and walked deliberately away. The
cabinet, as you may have noticed, is in a corner of the room with one
side along the hallway. The ghost must have been in the hall.”
“But who was it?”
“Not so fast, Walter,” laughed Craig. “Isn't it enough for one night
that we have found out that much?”
Fortunately I was tired, or I certainly should have dreamed of rappings
and of “John” that night. I was awakened early by Kennedy talking with
someone over the telephone. It was Inspector O'Connor.
Of course I heard only one side of the conversation, but as near as I
could gather Kennedy was asking the inspector to obtain several samples
of ink for him. I had not heard the first part of the conversation, and
was considerably surprised when Kennedy hung up the receiver and said:
“Vandam had the prescription filled again early this morning, and it
will soon be in the hands of O'Connor. I hope I haven't spoiled things
by acting too soon, but I don't want to run the risk of a double
tragedy.”
“Well,” I said, “it is incomprehensible to me. First I suspected
suicide. Then I suspected murder. Now I almost suspect a murder and a
suicide. The fact is, I don't know just what I suspect. I'm like Dr.
Hanson--floored. I wonder if Vandam would voluntarily take all the
capsules at once in order to be with his wife?”
“One of them alone would be quite sufficient if the 'ghost' should take
a notion, as I think it will, to walk in the daytime,” replied Craig
enigmatically. “I don't want to run any chances, as I have said. I may
be wrong in my theory of the case, Walter, so let us not discuss this
phase of it until I have gone a step farther and am sure of my ground.
O'Connor's man will get the capsules before Vandam has a chance to take
the first one, anyhow. The 'ghost' had a purpose in that message, for
O'Connor tells me that Vandam's lawyer visited him yesterday and in all
probability a new will is being made, perhaps has already been made.”
We breakfasted in silence and later rode down to the office of Dr.
Hanson, who greeted us enthusiastically.
“I've solved it at last,” he cried, “and it's easy.”
Kennedy looked gravely over the analysis which Dr. Hanson shoved into
his hand, and seemed very much interested in the probable quantity
of morphine that must have been taken to yield such an analysis. The
physician had a text-book open on his desk.
“Our old ideas of the infallible test of morphine poisoning are all
exploded,” he said, excitedly beginning to read a passage he had marked
in the book.
“'I have thought that inequality of the pupils, that is to say, where
they are not symmetrically contracted, is proof that a case is not one
of narcotism, or morphine poisoning. But Professor Taylor has recorded
a case of morphine poisoning in which the unsymmetrical contraction
occurred.'
“There, now, until I happened to run across that in one of the
authorities I had supposed the symmetrical contraction of the pupils
of the eyes to be the distinguishing symptom of morphine poisoning
Professor Kennedy, in my opinion we can, after all, make out our case as
one of morphine poisoning.”
“Is that case in the book all you base your opinion on?” asked Craig
with excessive politeness.
“Yes, sir,” replied the doctor reluctantly.
“Well,” said Kennedy quietly, “if you will investigate that case quoted
from Professor Taylor, you will find that it has been proved that the
patient had one glass eye.”
“Then my contention collapses and she was not poisoned?”
“No, I do not say that. All I say is that expert testimony would refute
us as far as we have gone. But if you will let me make a few tests of my
own I can readily clear up that end of the case, I now feel sure. Let me
take these samples to my laboratory.”
I was surprised when we ran into Inspector O'Connor waiting for us in
the corridor of the Criminal Courts Building as we left the office of
the coroner's physician. He rushed up to Kennedy and shoved into
his hand a pill-box in which six capsules rattled. Kennedy narrowly
inspected the box, opened it, and looked thoughtfully at the six white
capsules lying so innocently within.
“One of these capsules would have been worth hundreds of thousands of
dollars to 'John,'” said Craig contemplatively, as he shut the box and
deposited it carefully in his inside vest pocket. “I don't believe
I even said good morning to you, O'Connor,” he continued. “I hope I
haven't kept you waiting here long. Have you obtained the samples of
ink?”
“Yes, Professor. Here they are. As soon as you telephoned this morning
I sent my men out separately to get them. There's the ink from the
druggist, this is from the Vandam library, this is from Farrington's
room, and this is from Mrs. Popper's apartment.”
“Thank you, Inspector. I don't know what I'd do without your help,”
said Kennedy, eagerly taking four small vials from him. “Science is all
right, but organisation enables science to work quickly. And quickness
is the essence of this case.”
During the afternoon Kennedy was very busy in his laboratory, where I
found him that night after my hurried dinner, from which he was absent.
“What, is it after dinner-time?” he exclaimed, holding up a glass
beaker and watching the reaction of something he poured into it from a
test-tube.
“Craig, I believe that when you are absorbed in a case, you would rather
work than eat. Did you have any lunch after I left you?”
“I don't think so,” he replied, regarding the beaker and not his answer.
“Now, Walter, old fellow, I don't want you to be offended with me,
but really I can work better if you don't constantly remind me of such
things as eating and sleeping. Say, do you want to help me--really?”
“Certainly. I am as interested in the case as you are, but I can't make
heads or tails of it,” I replied.
“Then, I wish you would look up Mrs. Popper to-night and have a private
seance with her. What I want you to do particularly is to get a good
idea of the looks of the room in which she is accustomed to work. I'm
going to duplicate it here in my laboratory as nearly as possible. Then
I want you to arrange with her for a private 'circle' here to-morrow
night. Tell her it is with a few professors at the university who are
interested in psychical research and that Mr. Vandam will be present.
I'd rather have her come willingly than to force her to come.
Incidentally watch that manager of hers, Farrington. By all means he
must accompany her.”
That evening I dropped casually in on Mrs. Popper. She was a woman
of great brilliance and delicacy, both in her physical and mental
perceptions, of exceptional vivacity and cleverness. She must have
studied me more closely than I was aware of, for I believe she relied on
diverting my attention whenever she desired to produce one of her really
wonderful results. Needless to say, I was completely mystified by her
performance. She did spirit writing that would have done credit to the
immortal Slade, told me a lot of things that were true, and many more
that were unverifiable or hopelessly vague. It was really worth much
more than the price, and I did not need to feign the interest necessary
to get her terms for a circle in the laboratory.
Of course I had to make the terms with Farrington. The first glance
aroused my suspicions of him. He was shifty-eyed, and his face had a
hard and mercenary look. In spite of, perhaps rather because of, my
repugnance we quickly came to an agreement, and as I left the apartment
I mentally resolved to keep my eye on him.
Craig came in late, having been engaged in his chemical analyses all the
evening. From his manner I inferred that they had been satisfactory,
and he seemed much gratified when I told him that I had arranged
successfully for the seance and that Farrington would accompany the
medium.
As we were talking over the case a messenger arrived with a note from
O'Connor. It was written with his usual brevity: “Have just found from
servants that Farrington and Mrs. P. have key to Vandam house. Wish
I had known it before. House shadowed. No one has entered or left it
to-night.”
Craig looked at his watch. It was a quarter after one. “The ghost
won't walk to-night, Walter,” he said as he entered his bedroom for a
much-needed rest. “I guess I was right after all in getting the capsules
as soon as possible. The ghost must have flitted unobserved in there
this morning directly after the maid brought them back from the
druggist.”
Again, the next morning, he had me out of bed bright and early. As we
descended from the Sixth Avenue “L,” he led me into a peculiar little
shop in the shadow of the “L” structure. He entered as though he knew
the place well; but, then, that air of assurance was Kennedy's stock in
trade and sat very well on him.
Few people, I suppose, have ever had a glimpse of this workshop of magic
and deception. This little shop of Marina's was the headquarters of the
magicians of the country. Levitation and ghostly disappearing hands were
on every side. The shelves in the back of the shop were full of nickel,
brass, wire, wood, and papier-mache contrivances, new and strange to the
eye of the uninitiated. Yet it was all as systematic as a hardware shop.
“Is Signor Marina in?” asked Craig of a girl in the first room, given
up to picture post-cards. The room was as deceptive as the trade, for
it was only an anteroom to the storeroom I have described above. This
storeroom was also a factory, and half a dozen artisans were hard at
work in it.
Yes, the signor was in, the girl replied, leading us back into the
workshop. He proved to be a short man with a bland, open face and frank
eyes, the very antithesis of his trade.
“I have arranged for a circle with Mrs. May Popper,” began Kennedy,
handing the man his card. “I suppose you know her?”
“Indeed yes,” he answered. “I furnished her seance room.”
“Well, I want to hire for to-night just the same sort of tables,
cabinets, carpets, everything that she has--only hire, you understand,
but I am willing to pay you well for them. It is the best way to get a
good sitting, I believe. Can you do it?”
The little man thought a moment, then replied: “Si, signor yes--very
nearly, near enough. I would do anything for Mrs. Popper. She is a good
customer. But her manager--”
“My friend here, Mr. Jameson, has had seances with her in her own
apartment,” interposed Craig. “Perhaps he can help you to recollect just
what is necessary.”
“I know very well, signor. I have the duplicate bill, the bill which was
paid by that Farrington with a check from the banker Vandam. Leave it to
me.”
“Then you will get the stuff together this morning and have it up to my
place this afternoon.”
“Yes, Professor, yes. It is a bargain. I would do anything for Mrs.
Popper--she is a fine woman.”
Late that afternoon I rejoined Craig at his laboratory. Signor Marina
had already arrived with a truck and was disposing the paraphernalia
about the laboratory. He had first laid a thick black rug. Mrs. Popper
very much affected black carpets, and I had noticed that Vandam's room
was carpeted in black, too. I suppose black conceals everything that one
oughtn't to see at a seance.
A cabinet with a black curtain, several chairs, a light deal table,
several banjos, horns, and other instruments were disposed about the
room. With a few suggestions from me we made a fair duplication of the
hangings on the walls. Kennedy was manifestly anxious to finish, and at
last it was done.
After Marina had gone, Kennedy stretched a curtain over the end of
the room farthest from the cabinet. Behind it he placed on a shelf
the apparatus composed of the pendulums and magnets. The beakers and
test-tubes were also on this shelf.
He had also arranged that the cabinet should be so situated that it was
next a hallway that ran past his laboratory.
“To-night, Jameson,” he said, indicating a spot on the hall wall just
back of the cabinet, “I shall want you to bring my guests out here and
do a little spirit rapping--I'll tell you just what to do when the time
comes.”
That night, when we gathered in the transformed laboratory, there were
Henry Vandam, Dr. Hanson, Inspector O'Connor, Kennedy, and myself.
At last the sound of wheels was heard, and Mrs. Popper drove up in a
hansom, accompanied by Farrington. They both inspected the room narrowly
and seemed satisfied. I had, as I have said, taken a serious dislike
to the man, and watched him closely. I did not like his air of calm
assurance.
The lights were switched off, all except one sixteen-candle-power lamp
in the farthest corner, shaded by a deep-red globe. It was just light
enough to see to read very, large print with difficulty.
Mrs. Popper began immediately with the table. Kennedy and I sat on her
right and left respectively, in the circle, and held her hands and feet.
I confess to a real thrill when I felt the light table rise first on two
legs, then on one, and finally remain suspended in the air, whence it
dropped with a thud, as if someone had suddenly withdrawn his support.
The medium sat with her back to the curtain of the cabinet, and several
times I could have sworn that a hand reached out and passed close to my
head. At least it seemed so. The curtain bulged at times, and a breeze
seemed to sweep out from the cabinet.
After some time of this sort of work Craig led gradually up to a request
for a materialisation of the control of Vandam, but Mrs. Popper refused.
She said she did not feel strong enough, and Farrington put in a hasty
word that he, too, could feel that “there was something working against
them.” But Kennedy was importunate and at last she consented to see if
“John” would do some rapping, even if he could not materialise.
Kennedy asked to be permitted to put the questions.
“Are you the 'John' who appears to Mr. Vandam every night at
twelve-thirty?”
Rap! rap! rap! came the faint reply from the cabinet. Or rather it
seemed to me to come from the floor near the cabinet, and perhaps to be
a trifle muffled by the black carpet.
“Are you in communication with Mrs. Vandam?”
Rap! rap! rap!
“Can she be made to rap for us?”
Rap! rap!
“Will you ask her a question and spell out her answer?”
Rap! rap! rap!
Craig paused a moment to frame the question, then shot it out
point-blank: “Does Mrs. Vandam know now in the other world whether
anyone in this room substituted a morphine capsule for one of those
ordered by her three days before she died? Does she know whether the
same person has done the same thing with those later ordered by Mr.
Vandam?”
“John” seemed considerably perturbed at the mention of capsules. It
was a long time before any answer was forthcoming. Kennedy was about to
repeat the question when a faint sound was heard.