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Title:      The Dragon Murder Case
Author:     S. S. Van Dine
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A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title:      The Dragon Murder Case (1933)
Author:     S. S. Van Dine


A Philo Vance Mystery




Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonish.--Antony and Cleopatra.




CONTENTS

I.  The Tragedy

II.  A Startling Accusation

III.  The Splash in the Pool

IV.  An Interruption

V.  The Water-Monster

VI.  A Contretemps

VII.  The Bottom of the Pool

VIII.  Mysterious Footprints

IX.  A New Discovery

X.  The Missing Man

XI.  A Sinister Prophecy

XII.  Interrogations

XIII.  Three Women

XIV.  An Unexpected Development

XV.  Noises in the Night

XVI.  Blood and a Gardenia

XVII.  The Duplicated Death

XVIII.  Piscatorial Lore

XIX.  The Dragon's Tracks

XX.  The Final Link

XXI.  The End of the Case




CHAPTER I

THE TRAGEDY


(Saturday, August 11; 11.45 p. m.)


That sinister and terrifying crime, which came to be known as the
dragon murder case, will always be associated in my mind with one
of the hottest summers I have ever experienced in New York.

Philo Vance, who stood aloof from the eschatological and
supernatural implications of the case, and was therefore able to
solve the problem on a purely rationalistic basis, had planned a
fishing trip to Norway that August, but an intellectual whim had
caused him to cancel his arrangements and to remain in America.
Since the influx of post-war, nouveau-riche Americans along the
French and Italian Rivieras, he had forgone his custom of spending
his summers on the Mediterranean, and had gone after salmon and
trout in the streams of North Bergenhus.  But late in July of this
particular year his interest in the Menander fragments found in
Egypt during the early years of this century, had revived, and he
set himself to complete their translation--a work which, you may
recall, had been interrupted by that amazing series of Mother-Goose
murders in West 75th Street.*


* "The Bishop Murder Case" (Scribners, 1929).


However, once again this task of research and love was rudely
intruded upon by one of the most baffling murder mysteries in which
Vance ever participated; and the lost comedies of Menander were
again pigeon-holed for the intricate ratiocination of crime.
Personally I think Vance's criminal investigations were closer to
his heart than the scholastic enterprises on which he was
constantly embarking, for though his mind was ever seeking out
abstruse facts in the realm of cultural lore, he found his greatest
mental recreation in intricate problems wholly unrelated to pure
learning.  Criminology satisfied this yearning in his nature, for
it not only stimulated his analytical processes but brought into
play his knowledge of recondite facts and his uncanny instinct for
the subtleties of human nature.

Shortly after his student days at Harvard he asked me to officiate
as his legal adviser and monetary steward; and my liking and
admiration for him were such that I resigned from my father's firm
of Van Dine, Davis and Van Dine to take up the duties he had
outlined.  I have never regretted that decision; and it is because
of the resultant association with him that I have been able to set
down an accurate and semi-official account of the various criminal
investigations in which he participated.  He was drawn into these
investigations as a result of his friendship with John F.-X.
Markham during the latter's four years' incumbency as District
Attorney of New York County.

Of all the cases I have thus far recorded none was as exciting, as
weird, as apparently unrelated to all rational thinking, as the
dragon murder.  Here was a crime that seemed to transcend all the
ordinary scientific knowledge of man and to carry the police and
the investigators into an obfuscous and unreal realm of demonology
and folk-lore--a realm fraught with dim racial memories of
legendary terrors.

The dragon has ever entered into the emotional imaginings of
primitive religions, throwing over its conceivers a spell of
sinister and terrifying superstition.  And here in the city of New
York, in the twentieth century, the police were plunged into a
criminal investigation which resuscitated all the dark passages in
those dim forgotten times when the superstitious children of the
earth believed in malignant monsters and the retributive horrors
which these monsters visited upon man.

The darkest chapters in the ethnological records of the human race
were reviewed within sight of the skyscrapers of modern Manhattan;
and so powerful was the effect of these resuscitations that even
scientists searched for some biological explanation of the
grotesque phenomena that held the country enthralled during the
days following the uncanny and incomprehensible death of Sanford
Montague.  The survival of prehistoric monsters--the development of
subterranean Ichthyopsida--the unclean and darksome matings of
earth and sea creatures--were advanced as possible scientific
explanations of the extraordinary and hideous facts with which the
police and the District Attorney's office were faced.

Even the practical and hard-headed Sergeant Ernest Heath of the
Homicide Bureau was affected by the mysterious and incalculable
elements of the case.  During the preliminary investigation--when
there was no actual evidence of murder--the unim aginative Sergeant
sensed hidden and ominous things, as if a miasmatic emanation had
arisen from the seemingly commonplace circumstances surrounding the
situation.  In fact, had it not been for the fears that arose in
him when he was first called to take charge of the tragic episode,
the dragon murder might never have come to the attention of the
authorities.  It would, in all probability, have been recorded
conventionally in the archives of the New York Police Department as
another "disappearance," accounted for along various obvious lines
and with a cynical wink.

This hypothetical eventuality was, no doubt, what the murderer
intended; but the perpetrator of that extraordinary crime--a crime,
as far as I know, unparalleled in the annals of violent homicide--
had failed to count on the effect of the sinister atmosphere which
enveloped his unholy act.  The fact that the imaginative aboriginal
fears of man have largely developed from the inherent mysteries
enshrouded in the dark hidden depths of water, was overlooked by
the murderer.  And it was this oversight that roused the Sergeant's
vague misgivings and turned a superficially commonplace episode
into one of the most spectacular and diabolical murder cases of
modern times.

Sergeant Heath was the first official to go to the scene of the
crime--although, at the time, he was not aware that a crime had
been committed; and it was he who stammered out his unidentifiable
fears to Markham and Vance.

It was nearly midnight on August 11.  Markham had dined with Vance
at the latter's roof-garden apartment in East 38th Street, and the
three of us had spent the evening in a desultory discussion of
various topics.  There had been a lackadaisical atmosphere over our
gathering, and the periods of silence had increased as the night
wore on, for the weather was both hot and sultry, and the leaves of
the tree-tops which rose from the rear yard were as still as those
on a painted canvas.  Moreover, it had rained for hours, the
downpour ceasing only at ten o'clock, and a heavy breathless pall
seemed to have settled over the city.

Vance had just mixed a second champagne cup for us when Currie,
Vance's butler and major-domo, appeared at the door to the roof-
garden carrying a portable telephone.

"There is an urgent call for Mr. Markham," he announced; "and I
took the liberty of bringing the telephone. . . .  It's Sergeant
Heath, sir."

Markham looked nettled and a bit surprised, but he nodded and took
the instrument.  His conversation with the Sergeant was a brief
one, and when he replaced the receiver he was frowning.

"That's queer," he commented.  "Unlike the Sergeant.  He's worried
about something--wants to see me.  He didn't give any hint of the
matter, and I didn't press the point.  Said he found out at my home
that I was here. . . .  I didn't like the suppressed tone of his
voice, and told him he might come here.  I hope you don't mind,
Vance."

"Delighted," Vance drawled, settling deeper into his wicker chair.
"I haven't seen the doughty Sergeant for months. . . .  Currie," he
called, "bring the Scotch and soda.  Sergeant Heath is joining us."
Then he turned back to Markham.  "I hope there's nothing amiss. . . .
Maybe the heat has hallucinated the Sergeant."

Markham, still troubled, shook his head.

"It would take more than hot weather to upset Heath's equilibrium."
He shrugged.  "Oh, well, we'll know the worst soon enough."

It was about twenty minutes later when the Sergeant was announced.
He came out on the terrace garden, wiping his brow with an enormous
handkerchief.  After he had greeted us somewhat abstractedly he
dropped into a chair by the glass-topped table and helped himself
to a long drink of the Scotch whisky which Vance moved toward him.

"I've just come from Inwood, Chief," he explained to Markham.  "A
guy has disappeared.  And to tell you the truth, I don't like it.
There's something phony somewhere."

Markham scowled.

"Anything unusual about the case?"

"No--nothing."  The Sergeant appeared embarrassed.  "That's the
hell of it.  Everything in order--the usual sort of thing.
Routine.  And yet . . ."  His voice trailed off, and he lifted the
glass to his lips.

Vance gave an amused smile.

"I fear, Markham," he observed, "the Sergeant has become
intuitive."

Heath set down his glass with a bang.

"If you mean, Mr. Vance, that I've got a hunch about this case,
you're right!"  And he thrust his jaw forward.

Vance raised his eyebrows whimsically.

"What case, Sergeant?"

Heath gave him a dour look and then grinned.

"I'm going to tell you--and you can laugh all you want to. . . .
Listen, Chief."  He turned back to Markham.  "Along about ten forty-
five tonight a telephone call comes to the Homicide Bureau.  A
fellow, who says his name is Leland, tells me there's been a
tragedy out at the old Stamm estate in Inwood and that, if I have
any sense, I better hop out. . . ."

"A perfect spot for a crime," Vance interrupted musingly.  "It's
one of the oldest estates in the city--built nearly a hundred years
ago.  It's an anachronism today, but--my word!--it's full of
criminal possibilities.  Legend'ry, in fact, with an amazin'
history."

Heath contemplated Vance shrewdly.

"You got the idea, sir.  I felt just that way when I got out
there. . . .  Well, anyway, I naturally asked this fellow Leland
what had happened and why I should come.  And it seems that a bird
named Montague had dived into the swimming pool on the estate, and
hadn't come up--"

"Was it, by any chance, the old Dragon Pool?" inquired Vance,
raising himself and reaching for his beloved Régie cigarettes.

"That's the one," Heath told him; "though I never knew the name of
it till I got there tonight. . . .  Well, I told him that wasn't in
my line, but he got persistent and said that the matter oughta be
looked into, and the sooner I came the better.  He talked in a
funny tone--it sorta got to me.  His English was all right--he
didn't have any foreign accent--but I got the idea he wasn't an
American.  I asked him why he was calling up about something that
had happened on the Stamm estate; and he said he was an old friend
of the family and had witnessed the tragedy.  He also said Stamm
wasn't able to telephone, and that he had temporarily taken charge
of the situation. . . .  I couldn't get any more out of him; but
there was something about the way the fellow talked that made me
leery."

"I see," Markham murmured non-committally.  "So you went out?"

"Yeah, I went out."  Heath nodded sheepishly.  "I got Hennessey and
Burke and Snitkin, and we hopped a police car."

"What did you find?"

"I didn't find anything, sir," Heath returned aggressively, "except
what that guy told me over the phone.  There was a week-end house-
party on the estate, and one of the guests--this bird named
Montague--had suggested they all go swimming in the pool.  There'd
probably been considerable drinking, so they all went down to the
pool and put on bathing suits. . . ."

"Just a moment, Sergeant," Vance interrupted.  "Was Leland drunk,
by any chance?"

"Not him."  The Sergeant shook his head.  "He was the coolest
member of the lot.  But there was something queer about him.  He
seemed greatly relieved when I got there; and he took me aside and
told me to keep my eyes open.  I naturally asked him what he meant,
but right away he got casual, so to speak, and merely said that a
lot of peculiar things had happened around those parts in the old
days, and that maybe something peculiar had happened tonight."

"I think I know what he meant," Vance said with a slight nod.
"That part of the city has given rise to many strange and grotesque
legends--old wives' tales and superstitions that have come down
from the Indians and early settlers."

"Well, anyway,"--Heath dismissed Vance's comments as irrelevant--
"after the party had gone down to the pool, this fellow Montague
walked out on the spring-board and took a fancy dive.  And he never
came up. . . ."

"How could the others be so sure he didn't come up?" asked Markham.
"It must have been pretty dark after the rain: it's cloudy now."

"There was plenty of light at the pool," Heath explained.  "They've
got a dozen flood-lights on the place."

"Very well.  Go on."  Markham reached impatiently for his
champagne.  "What happened then?"

Heath shifted uneasily.

"Nothing much," he admitted.  "The other men dove after him and
tried to find him, but after ten minutes or so they gave up.
Leland, it seems, told 'em that they'd all better go back to the
house and that he'd notify the authorities.  Then he called the
Homicide Bureau and spilled the story."

"Queer he should do that," ruminated Markham.  "It doesn't sound
like a criminal case."

"Sure it's queer," agreed Heath eagerly.  "But what I found was a
whole lot queerer."

"Ah!"  Vance blew a ribbon of smoke upward.  "That romantic section
of old New York is at last living up to its reputation.  What were
these queer things you found, Sergeant?"

Heath moved again with uneasy embarrassment.

"To begin with, Stamm himself was cock-eyed drunk, and there was a
doctor from the neighborhood trying to get him to function.
Stamm's young sister--a good-looker of about twenty-five--was
having hysterics and going off into faints every few minutes.  The
rest of 'em--there was four or five--were trying to duck and making
excuses why they had to get away pronto.  And all the time this
fellow Leland, who looks like a hawk or something, was going round
as cool as a cucumber with lifted eyebrows and a satisfied grin on
his brown face, as if he knew a lot more than he was telling.--Then
there was one of those sleezy, pasty-faced butlers, who acted like
a ghost and didn't make any noise when he moved. . . ."

"Yes, yes," Vance nodded whimsically.  "Everything most mystifyin'.
. . .  And the wind moaned through the pines; and an owl hooted in
the distance; and a lattice rattled in the attic; and a door
creaked; and there came a tapping--eh, what, Sergeant? . . .  I
say, do have another spot of Scotch.  You're positively jittery."
(He spoke humorously, but there was a shrewd, interested look in
his half-closed eyes and an undercurrent of tension in his voice
that made me realize that he was taking the Sergeant far more
seriously than his manner indicated.)

I expected the Sergeant to resent Vance's frivolous attitude, but
instead he wagged his head soberly.

"You got the idea, Mr. Vance.  Nothing seemed on the level.  It
wasn't normal, as you might say."

Markham's annoyance was mounting.

"The case doesn't strike me as peculiar, Sergeant," he protested.
"A man dives into a swimming pool, hits his head on the bottom, and
drowns.  And you've related nothing else that can't be explained on
the most commonplace grounds.  It's not unusual for a man to get
drunk, and after a tragedy of this kind a hysterical woman is not
to be regarded as unique.  Naturally, too, the other members of the
party wanted to get away after an episode like this.  As for the
man Leland: he may be just a peculiar officious character who
wished to dramatize a fundamentally simple affair.  And you always
had an antipathy for butlers.  However you look at the case, it
doesn't warrant anything more than the usual procedure.  It's
certainly not in the province of the Homicide Bureau.  The idea
of murder is precluded by the very mechanism of Montague's
disappearance.  He himself suggested a swim in the pool--a rational
enough suggestion on a night like this--and his plunge into the
pool and his failure to come to the surface could hardly be
indicative of any other person's criminal intent."

Heath shrugged and lighted a long black cigar.

"I've been telling myself the same things for the past hour," he
returned stubbornly; "but that situation at the Stamm house ain't
right."

Markham pursed his lips and regarded the Sergeant meditatively.

"Was there anything else that upset you?" he asked, after a pause.

Heath did not answer at once.  Obviously there was something else
on his mind, and it seemed to me that he was weighing the
advisability of mentioning it.  But suddenly he lifted himself in
his chair and took his cigar deliberately from his mouth.

"I don't like those fish!" he blurted.

"Fish?" repeated Markham in astonishment.  "What fish?"

Heath hesitated and contemplated the end of his cigar sheepishly.

"I think I can answer that question, Markham," Vance put in.
"Rudolph Stamm is one of the foremost aquarists in America.  He has
a most amazin' collection of tropical fish--strange and little-
known varieties which he has succeeded in breeding.  It's been his
hobby for twenty years, and he is constantly going on expeditions
to the Amazon, Siam, India, the Paraguay basin, Brazil and Bermuda.
He has also made trips to China and has scoured the Orinoco.  Only
a year or so ago the papers were full of his trip from Liberia to
the Congo. . . ."

"They're queer-looking things," Heath supplemented.  "Some of 'em
look like sea-monsters that haven't grown up."

"Their shapes and their colorings are very beautiful, however,"
commented Vance with a faint smile.

"But that wasn't all," the Sergeant went on, ignoring Vance's
æsthetic observation.  "This fellow Stamm had lizards and baby
alligators--"

"And probably turtles and frogs and snakes--"

"I'll say he has snakes!"  The Sergeant made a grimace of disgust.
"Plenty of 'em--crawling in and out of big flat tanks of
water. . . ."

"Yes."  Vance nodded and looked toward Markham.  "Stamm, I
understand, has a terrarium along with his fish.  The two often go
together, don't y' know."

Markham grunted and studied the Sergeant for a moment.

"Perhaps," he remarked at length, in a flat, matter-of-fact tone,
"Montague was merely playing a practical joke on the other guests.
How do you know he didn't swim under water to the other side of the
pool and disappear up the opposite bank?  Was it dark enough there
so the others couldn't have seen him?"

"Sure it was dark enough," the Sergeant told him.  "The flood-
lights don't reach all across the water.  But that explanation is
out.  I myself thought something of the kind might have happened,
seeing as how there had been a lot of liquor going round, and I
took a look over the place.  But the opposite side of the pool is
almost a straight precipice of rock, nearly a hundred feet high.
Across the upper end of the pool, where the creek runs in, there's
a big filter, and not only would it be hard for a man to climb it,
but the lights reach that far and any one of the party could have
seen him there.  Then, at the lower end of the pool, where the
water has been dammed up with a big cement wall, there's a drop of
twenty feet or so, with plenty of rocks down below.  No guy's going
to take a chance dropping over the dam in order to create a little
excitement.  On the side of the pool nearest the house, where the
spring-board is, there's a concrete retaining wall which a swimmer
might climb over; but there again the floodlights would give him
dead away."

"And there's no other possible way Montague could have got out of
the pool without being seen?"

"Yes, there's one way he might have done it--but he didn't.
Between the end of the filter and the steep cliff that comes down
on the opposite side of the pool, there's a low open space of about
fifteen feet which leads off to the lower part of the estate.  And
this flat opening is plenty dark so that the people on the house
side of the pool couldn't have seen anything there."

"Well, there's probably your explanation."

"No, it isn't, Mr. Markham," Heath asserted emphatically.  "The
minute I went down to the pool and got the lay of the land, I took
Hennessey with me across the top of the big filter and looked for
footprints on this fifteen-foot low bank.  You know it had been
raining all evening, and the ground over there is damp anyway, so
that if there had been any kind of footprints they would have stuck
out plain.  But the whole area was perfectly smooth.  Moreover,
Hennessey and I went back into the grass a little distance from the
bank, thinking that maybe the guy might have climbed up on a ledge
of the rock and jumped over the muddy edge of the water.  But there
wasn't a sign of anything there either."

"That being the case," said Markham, "they'll probably find his
body when the pool is dragged. . . .  Did you order that done?"

"Not tonight I didn't.  It would take two or three hours to get a
boat and hooks up there, and you couldn't do anything much at night
anyway.  But that'll all be taken care of the first thing in the
morning."

"Well," decided Markham impatiently, "I can't see that there's
anything more for you to do tonight.  As soon as the body is found
the Medical Examiner will be notified, and he'll probably say that
Montague has a fractured skull and will put the whole thing down as
accidental death."

There was a tone of dismissal in his voice, but Heath refused to be
moved by it.  I had never seen the Sergeant so stubborn.

"You may be right, Chief," he conceded reluctantly.  "But I got
other ideas.  And I came all the way down here to ask you if you
wouldn't come up and give the situation the once-over."

Something in the Sergeant's voice must have affected Markham, for
instead of replying at once he again studied the other quizzically.
Finally he asked:

"Just what have you done so far in connection with the case?"

"To tell the truth, I haven't done much of anything," the Sergeant
admitted.  "I haven't had time.  I naturally got the names and
addresses of everybody in the house and questioned each one of 'em
in a routine way.  I couldn't talk to Stamm because he was out of
the picture and the doctor was working over him.  Most of my time
was spent in going around the pool, seeing what I could learn.
But, as I told you, I didn't find out anything except that Montague
didn't play any joke on his friends.  Then I went back to the house
and telephoned to you.  I left things up there in charge of the
three men I took along with me.  And after I told everybody that
they couldn't go home until I got back, I beat it down here. . . .
That's my story, and I'm probably stuck with it."

Despite the forced levity of his last remark, he looked up at
Markham with, I thought, an appealing insistence.

Once more Markham hesitated and returned the Sergeant's gaze.

"You are convinced there was foul play?" he queried.

"I'm not convinced of anything," Heath retorted.  "I'm just not
satisfied with the way things stack up.  Furthermore, there's a lot
of funny relationships in that crowd up there.  Everybody seems
jealous of everybody else.  A couple of guys are dotty on the same
girl, and nobody seemed to care a hoot--except Stamm's young sister--
that Montague didn't come up from his dive.  The fact is, they all
seemed damn pleased about it--which didn't set right with me.  And
even Miss Stamm didn't seem to be worrying particularly about
Montague.  I can't explain exactly what I mean, but she seemed to
be all upset about something else connected with his disappearance."

"I still can't see," returned Markham, "that you have any tangible
explanation for your attitude.  The best thing, I think, is to wait
and see what tomorrow brings."

"Maybe yes."  But instead of accepting Markham's obvious dismissal
Heath poured himself another drink and relighted his cigar.

During this conversation between the Sergeant and the District
Attorney, Vance had lain back in his chair contemplating the two
dreamily, sipping his champagne cup and smoking languidly.  But a
certain deliberate tenseness in the way he moved his hand to and
from his lips, convinced me that he was deeply interested in
everything that was being said.

At this point he crushed out his cigarette, set down his glass, and
rose to his feet.

"Really, y' know, Markham old dear," he said in a drawling voice,
"I think we should toddle along with the Sergeant to the site of
the mystery.  It can't do the slightest harm, and it's a beastly
night anyway.  A bit of excitement, however tame the ending, might
help us forget the weather.  And we may be affected by the same
sinister atmospheres which have so inflamed the Sergeant's
hormones."

Markham looked up at him in mild astonishment.

"Why in the name of Heaven, should you want to go to the Stamm
estate?"

"For one thing," Vance returned, stifling a yawn, "I am
tremendously interested, d' ye see, in looking over Stamm's
collection of toy fish.  I bred them myself in an amateur way once,
but because of lack of space, I concentrated on the color-breeding
of the Betta splendens and cambodia--Siamese Fighting Fish, don't
y' know."*


* At one time Vance had turned his sun-parlor into an aquarium and
devoted several years to breeding these beautiful veil-tailed fish.
He succeeded in producing corn-flower blue, deep maroon, and even
black specimens; and he won several awards with them at the
exhibitions of the Aquarium Society at the Museum of Natural
History.


Markham studied him for a few moments without replying.  He knew
Vance well enough to realize that his desire to accede to the
Sergeant's request was inspired by a much deeper reason than the
patently frivolous one he gave.  And he also knew that no amount of
questioning would make Vance elucidate his true attitude just then.

After a minute Markham also rose.  He glanced at his watch and
shrugged.

"Past midnight," he commented disgustedly.  "The perfect hour, of
course, to inspect fish! . . .  Shall we drive out in the
Sergeant's car or take yours?"

"Oh, mine, by all means.  We'll follow the Sergeant."  And Vance
rang for Currie to bring him his hat and stick.



CHAPTER II

A STARTLING ACCUSATION


(Sunday, August 12; 12.30 a. m.)


A few minutes later we were headed up Broadway.  Sergeant Heath led
the way in his small police car and Markham and Vance and I
followed in Vance's Hispano-Suiza.  Reaching Dyckman Street, we
went west to Payson Avenue and turned up the steep winding Bolton
Road.*  When we had reached the highest point of the road we swung
into a wide private driveway with two tall square stone posts at
the entrance, and circled upward round a mass of evergreen trees
until we reached the apex of the hill.  It was on this site that
the famous old Stamm residence had been built nearly a century
before.


* This is not to be confused with Lower Bolton Road, otherwise
known as River Road, which turns off Dyckman Street near the New
York Central Hudson River railroad tracks and passes below the
Memorial Hospital.


It was a wooded estate, abounding in cedar, oak, and spruce trees,
with patches of rough lawn and rock gardens.  From this vantage
point could be seen, to the north, the dark Gothic turrets of the
House of Mercy, silhouetted against a clearing sky which seemed to
have sucked up the ghostly lights of Marble Hill a mile distant
across the waters of Spuyten Duyvil.  To the south, through the
trees, the faintly flickering glow of Manhattan cast an uncanny
spell.  Eastward, on either side of the black mass of the Stamm
residence, a few tall buildings along Seaman Avenue and Broadway
reached up over the hazy horizon like black giant fingers.  Behind
and below us, to the west, the Hudson River moved sluggishly, a
dark opaque mass flecked with the moving lights of boats.

But although on every side we could see evidences of the modern
busy life of New York, a feeling of isolation and mystery crept
over me.  I seemed infinitely removed from all the busy activities
of the world; and I realized then, for the first time, how strange
an anachronism Inwood was.  Though this historic spot--with its
great trees, its crumbling houses, its ancient associations, its
rugged wildness, and its rustic quietude--was actually a part of
Manhattan, it nevertheless seemed like some hidden fastness set
away in a remote coign of the world.

As we turned into the small parking space at the head of the
private driveway, we noticed an old-fashioned Ford coupe parked
about fifty yards from the wide balustraded stone steps that led to
the house.

"That's the doctor's car," Heath explained to us, as he hopped down
from his machine.  "The garage is on the lower road on the east
side of the house."

He led the way up the steps to the massive bronze front door over
which a dim light was burning; and we were met by Detective Snitkin
in the narrow panelled vestibule.

"I'm glad you're back, Sergeant," the detective said, after
saluting Markham respectfully.

"Don't you like the situation either, Snitkin?" Vance asked
lightly.

"Not me, sir," the other returned, going toward the inner front
door.  "It's got me worried."

"Anything else happen?" Heath inquired abruptly.

"Nothing except that Stamm has begun to sit up and take notice."

He gave three taps on the door which was immediately opened by a
liveried butler who regarded us suspiciously.

"Is this really necessary, officer?" he asked Heath in a suave
voice, as he reluctantly held the door open for us.  "You see, sir,
Mr. Stamm--"

"I'm running this show," Heath interrupted curtly.  "You're here to
take orders, not to ask questions."

The butler bowed with a sleek, obsequious smile, and closed the
door after us.

"What are your orders, sir?"

"You stay here at the front door," Heath replied brusquely, "and
don't let any one in."  He then turned to Snitkin, who had followed
us into the spacious lower hallway.  "Where's the gang and what are
they doing?"

"Stamm's in the library--that room over there--with the doctor."
Snitkin jerked his thumb toward a pair of heavy tapestry portières
at the rear of the hall.  "I sent the rest of the bunch to their
rooms, like you told me.  Burke is sitting out on the rear
doorstep, and Hennessey is down by the pool."

Heath grunted.

"That's all right."  He turned to Markham.  "What do you want to do
first, Chief?  Shall I show you the lay of the land and how the
swimming pool is constructed?  Or do you want to ask these babies
some questions?"

Markham hesitated, and Vance spoke languidly.

"Really, Markham, I'm rather inclined to think we should first do a
bit of what you call probing.  I'd jolly well like to know what
preceded this alfresco bathing party, and I'd like to view the
participants.  The pool will keep till later; and--one can't tell,
can one?--it may take on a different significance once we have
established a sort of social background for the unfortunate
escapade."

"It doesn't matter to me."  Markham was plainly impatient and
skeptical.  "The sooner we find out why we're here at all, the
better pleased I'll be."

Vance's eyes were roving desultorily about the hallway.  It was
panelled in Tudor style, and the furniture was dark and massive.
Life-sized, faded oil portraits hung about the walls, and all the
doors were heavily draped.  It was a gloomy place, filled with
shadows, and with a musty odor which accentuated its inherent
unmodernity.

"A perfect setting for your fears, Sergeant," Vance mused.  "There
are few of these old houses left, and I'm trying to decide whether
or not I'm grateful."

"In the meantime," snapped Markham, "suppose we go to the drawing-
room. . . .  Where is it, Sergeant?"

Heath pointed to a curtained archway on the right, and we were
about to proceed when there came the sound of soft descending
footsteps on the stairs, and a voice spoke to us from the shadows.

"Can I be of any assistance, gentlemen?"

The tall figure of a man approached us.  When he had come within
the radius of flickering light thrown by the old-fashioned crystal
chandelier, we discerned an unusual and, as I thought at the time,
sinister person.

He was over six feet tall, slender and wiry, and gave the
impression of steely strength.  He had a dark, almost swarthy,
complexion, with keen calm black eyes which had something of the
look of an eagle in them.  His nose was markedly Roman and very
narrow.  His cheek-bones were high, and there were slight hollows
under them.  Only his mouth and chin were Nordic: his lips were
thin and met in a straight line; and his deeply cleft chin was
heavy and powerful.  His hair, brushed straight back from a low
broad forehead, seemed very black in the dim light of the hallway.
His clothes were in the best of taste, subdued and well-cut, but
there was a carelessness in the way he wore them which made me feel
that he regarded them as a sort of compromise with an unnecessary
convention.

"My name is Leland," he explained, when he had reached us.  "I am a
friend of long standing in this household, and I was a guest
tonight at the time of the most unfortunate accident."

He spoke with peculiar precision, and I understood exactly the
impression which the Sergeant had received over the telephone when
Leland had first communicated with him.

Vance had been regarding the man critically.

"Do you live in Inwood, Mr. Leland?" he asked casually.

The other gave a barely perceptible nod.

"I live in a cottage in Shorakapkok, the site of the ancient Indian
village, on the hillside which overlooks the old Spuyten Duyvil
Creek."

"Near the Indian caves?"

"Yes, just across what they now call the Shell Bed."

"And you have known Mr. Stamm a long time?"

"For fifteen years."  The man hesitated.  "I have accompanied him
on many of his expeditions in search of tropical fish."

Vance kept his gaze steadily upon the strange figure.

"And perhaps also," he said, with a coldness which I did not then
understand, "you accompanied Mr. Stamm on his expedition for lost
treasure in the Caribbean?  It seems I recall your name being
mentioned in connection with those romantic adventures."

"You are right," Leland admitted without change of expression.

Vance turned away.

"Quite--oh, quite.  I think you may be just the person to help us
with the present problem.  Suppose we stagger into the drawing-room
for a little chat."

He drew apart the heavy curtains, and the butler came swiftly
forward to switch on the electric lights.

We found ourselves in an enormous room, the ceiling of which was at
least twenty feet high.  A large Aubusson carpet covered the floor;
and the heavy and ornate Louis-Quinze furniture, now somewhat
dilapidated and faded, had been set about the walls with formal
precision.  The whole room had a fusty and tarnished air of
desuetude and antiquity.

Vance looked about him and shuddered.

"Evidently not a popular rendezvous," he commented as if to
himself.

Leland glanced at him shrewdly.

"No," he vouchsafed.  "The room is rarely used.  The household has
lived in the less formal rooms at the rear ever since Joshua Stamm
died.  The most popular quarters are the library and the vivarium
which Stamm added to the house ten years ago.  He spends most of
his time there."

"With the fish, of course," remarked Vance.

"They are an absorbing hobby," Leland explained without enthusiasm.

Vance nodded abstractedly, sat down and lighted a cigarette.

"Since you have been so kind as to offer your assistance, Mr.
Leland," he began, "suppose you tell us just what the conditions
were in the house tonight, and the various incidents that preceded
the tragedy."  Then, before the other could reply, he added:  "I
understand from Sergeant Heath that you were rather insistent that
he should take the matter in hand.  Is that correct?"

"Quite correct," Leland replied, without the faintest trace of
uneasiness.  "The failure of young Montague to come to the surface
after diving into the pool struck me as most peculiar.  He is an
excellent swimmer and an adept at various athletic sports.
Furthermore, he knows every square foot of the pool; and there is
practically no chance whatever that he could have struck his head
on the bottom.  The other side of the pool is somewhat shallow and
has a sloping wall, but the near side, where the cabañas and the
diving-board are, is at least twenty-five feet deep."

"Still," suggested Vance, "the man may have had a cramp or a sudden
concussion from the dive.  Such things have happened, don't y'
know."  His eyes were fixed languidly but appraisingly on Leland.
"Just what was your object in urging a member of the Homicide
Bureau to investigate the situation?"

"Merely a question of precaution--" Leland began, but Vance
interrupted him.

"Yes, yes, to be sure.  But why should you feel that caution was
necess'ry in the circumstances?"

A cynical smile appeared at the corners of the man's mouth.

"This is not a household," he replied, "where life runs normally.
The Stamms, as you may know, are an intensely inbred line.  Joshua
Stamm and his wife were first cousins, and both pairs of
grandparents were also related by blood.  Paresis runs in the
family.  There has been nothing fixed or permanent in the natures
of the last two generations of Stamms, and life in this household
is always pushing out at unexpected angles.  The ordinary family
diagrams are constantly being broken up.  There is little
stabilization, either physical or intellectual."

"Even so"--Vance, I could see, had become deeply interested in the
man--"how would these facts of heredity have any bearing on
Montague's disappearance?"

"Montague," Leland returned in a flat voice, "was engaged to
Stamm's sister, Bernice."

"Ah!"  Vance drew deeply on his cigarette.  "You are inferring
perhaps that Stamm was opposed to the engagement?"

"I am making no inferences."  Leland took out a long-stemmed briar
pipe and a pouch of tobacco.  "If Stamm objected to the alliance,
he made no mention of it to me.  He is not the kind of man who
reveals his inner thoughts or feelings.  But his nature is pregnant
with potentialities, and he may have hated Montague."  Deftly he
filled his pipe and lighted it.

"And are we to assume, then, that your calling in the police was
based on--what shall we call it?--the Mendelian law of breeding as
applied to the Stamms?"

Again Leland smiled cynically.

"No, not exactly--though it may have been a factor in rousing my
suspicious curiosity."

"And the other factors?"

"There has been considerable drinking here in the last twenty-four
hours."

"Oh, yes; alcohol--that great releaser of inhibitions. . . .  But
let's forgo the academic for the time being."

Leland moved to the centre-table and leaned against it.

"The personages of this particular house-party," he said at length,
"are not above gaining their ends at any cost."

Vance inclined his head.

"That remark is more promising," he commented.  "Suppose you tell
us briefly of these people."

"There are few enough of them," Leland began.  "Besides Stamm and
his sister, there is a Mr. Alex Greeff, a reputed stock-broker, who
unquestionably has some designs on the Stamm fortune.  Then there
is Kirwin Tatum, a dissipated and disreputable young ne'er-do-well,
who, as far as I can make out, exists wholly by sponging on his
friends.  Incidentally, he has made something of an ass of himself
over Bernice Stamm. . . ."

"And Greeff--what are his sentiments toward Miss Stamm?"

"I cannot say.  He poses as the family's financial adviser, and
I know that Stamm has invested rather heavily at his suggestion.
But whether or not he wishes to marry the Stamm fortune is 
problematical."

"Thanks no end. . . .  And now for the other members of the party."

"Mrs. McAdam--they call her Teeny--is the usual type of widow,
talkative, gay, and inclined to overindulgence.  Her past is
unknown.  She is shrewd and worldly, and has a practical eye on
Stamm--always making a great fuss over him, but obviously with some
ulterior motive.  Young Tatum whispered to me confidentially, in a
moment of drunken laxity, that Montague and this McAdam woman once
lived together."

Vance clicked his tongue in mock disapproval.

"I begin to sense the potentialities of the situation.  Most
allurin'. . . .  Any one else to complicate this delightful social
mélange?"

"Yes, a Miss Steele.  Ruby is her first name.  She is an intense
creature, of indeterminate age, who dresses fantastically and is
always playing a part of some kind.  She paints pictures and sings
and talks of her 'art.'  I believe she was once on the stage. . . .
And that completes the roster--except for Montague and myself.
Another woman was invited, so Stamm told me, but she sent in her
regrets at the last minute."

"Ah!  Now that's most interestin'.  Did Mr. Stamm mention her
name?"

"No, but you might ask him when the doctor gets him in shape."

"What of Montague?" Vance asked.  "A bit of gossip regarding his
proclivities and background might prove illuminatin'."

Leland hesitated.  He knocked the ashes out of his pipe and
refilled it.  When he had got it going again he answered with a
show of reluctance:

"Montague was what you might call a professional handsome-man.  He
was an actor by profession, but he never seemed to get very far--
although he was featured in one or two motion pictures in
Hollywood.  He always lived well, at one of the fashionable and
expensive hotels.  He attended first nights and was a frequenter of
the east-side night-clubs.  He had a decidedly pleasant manner and
was, I understand, most attractive to women. . . ."  Leland paused,
packed his pipe, and added:  "I really know very little about the
man."

"I recognize the type."  Vance regarded his cigarette.  "However, I
shouldn't say the gathering was altogether unusual, or that the
elements involved were necess'rily indicative of deliberate
tragedy."

"No," Leland admitted.  "But it impressed me as noteworthy that
practically every one present at the party tonight might have had
an excellent motive for putting Montague out of the way."

Vance lifted his eyebrows interrogatively.

"Yes?" he urged.

"Well, to begin with, Stamm himself, as I have said, might have
been violently opposed to Montague's marrying his sister.  He is
very fond of her, and he certainly has intelligence enough to
realize that the match would have been a sorry misalliance.--Young
Tatum is certainly in a state of mind to murder any rival for Miss
Stamm's affections.--Greeff is a man who would stop at nothing, and
Montague's marrying into the Stamm family might easily have wrecked
his financial ambition to control the fortune.  Or, perhaps he
actually hoped to marry Bernice himself.--Then again, there was
unquestionably something between Teeny McAdam and Montague--I
noticed it quite plainly after Tatum had told me of their former
relationship.  She may have resented his deflection to another
woman.  Nor is she the kind that would tolerate being thrown over.
Furthermore, if she really has any matrimonial designs on Stamm,
she may have been afraid that Montague would spoil her prospects by
telling Stamm of her past."

"And what about the tense bohémienne, Miss Steele?"

A hard look came into Leland's face as he hesitated.  Then he said,
with a certain sinister resolution:

"I trust her least of them all.  There was some definite friction
between her and Montague.  She was constantly making unpleasant
remarks about him--in fact, she ridiculed him openly, and rarely
addressed an ordinarily civil word to him.  When Montague suggested
the swim in the pool she walked with him to the cabañas, talking
earnestly.  I could not make out what was said, but I got a decided
impression that she was berating him for something.  When we came
out in our bathing suits and Montague was about to take the first
dive, she walked up to him with a leer and said, in a tone which I
could not help overhearing, 'I hope you never come up.'  And when
Montague failed to appear her remark struck me as significant. . . .
Perhaps now you can realize--"

"Quite--oh, quite," Vance murmured.  "I can see all the
possibilities you put forth.  A sweet little conclave--eh, what?"
He looked up sharply.  "And what about yourself, Mr. Leland?  Were
you, by any chance, interested in Montague's demise?"

"Perhaps more than any of the others," Leland answered with grim
frankness.  "I disliked the man intensely, and I considered it an
outrage that he was to marry Bernice.  I not only told her so, but
I also expressed my opinion to her brother."

"And why," pursued Vance dulcetly, "should you take the matter so
much to heart?"

Leland shifted his position on the edge of the table and took his
pipe slowly from his mouth.

"Miss Stamm is a very fine and unusual young woman."  He spoke with
slow deliberation, as if carefully choosing his words.  "I admire
her greatly.  I have known her since she was a child, and during
the past few years we have become very good friends.  I simply did
not think that Montague was good enough for her."  He paused and
was about to continue, but changed his mind.

Vance had been watching the man closely.

"You're quite lucid, don't y' know, Mr. Leland," he murmured,
nodding slowly and looking vaguely at the ceiling.  "Yes--quite so.
I apprehend that you had an excellent motive for doing away with
the dashing Mr. Montague. . . ."

At this moment there came an unexpected interruption.  The
portières of the drawing-room had been left parted, and suddenly we
heard rapid footsteps on the stairs.  We turned toward the door,
and a moment later a tall, spectacular woman thrust herself
excitedly into the room.

She was perhaps thirty-five years old, with an unusually pallid
face and crimson lips.  Her dark hair was parted in the middle and
smoothed back over her ears into a knot at the back of her neck.
She wore a long black chiffon gown which seemed to have been cut in
one piece and moulded to her figure.  The only touches of color in
her costume were supplied by her jade jewelry.  She wore long
pendant jade earrings, a triple jade bead necklace, jade bracelets,
several jade rings, and a large carved jade brooch.

As she entered the room her eyes were fixed blazingly on Leland,
and she took a few steps toward him.  There was a tiger-like menace
in her attitude.  Then she cast a quick glance at the rest of us,
but immediately brought her gaze back to Leland, who stood
regarding her with quizzical imperturbability.  Slowly she raised
her arm and pointed at him, at the same time leaning toward him and
narrowing her eyes.

"There's the man!" she cried passionately, in a deep resonant
voice.

Vance had risen lazily to his feet and reached for his monocle.
Adjusting it, he regarded the woman mildly but critically.

"Thanks awfully," he drawled.  "We have met Mr. Leland informally.
But we haven't yet had the pleasure--"

"My name is Steele," she cut in almost viciously.  "Ruby Steele.
And I could hear some of the things that were being said about me
by this man.  They are all lies.  He is only trying to shield
himself--to focus suspicion on others."

She turned her fiery eyes from Vance back to Leland and again
lifted an accusing finger.

"He's the man that's responsible for Sanford Montague's death.  It
was he who planned and accomplished it.  He hated Monty, for he
himself is in love with Bernice Stamm.  And he told Monty to keep
away from Bernice, or he would kill him.  Monty told me that
himself.  Ever since I came to this house yesterday morning, I have
had a clutching feeling here"--she pressed her hands dramatically
against her bosom--"that some terrible thing was going to happen--
that this man would carry out his threat."  She made a theatrical
gesture of tragedy, interlocking her fingers and carrying them to
her forehead.  "And he has done it! . . .  Oh, he is sly!  He is
shrewd--"

"Just how, may I ask," put in Vance, in a cool, unemotional voice,
"did Mr. Leland accomplish this feat?"

The woman swung toward him disdainfully.

"The technique of crime," she replied throatily, and with
exaggerated hauteur, "is not within my province.  You should be
able to find out how he did it.  You're policemen, aren't you?  It
was this man who telephoned to you.  He's sly, I tell you!  He
thought that if anything suspicious were discovered when poor
Monty's body was found, you'd eliminate him as the murderer because
he had telephoned to you."

"Very interestin'," nodded Vance, with a touch of irony.  "So you
formally accuse Mr. Leland of deliberately planning Mr. Montague's
death?"

"I do!" the woman declared sententiously, extending her arms in a
studied gesture of emphasis.  "And I know I'm right, though it's
true I do not know how he did it.  But he has strange powers.  He's
an Indian--did you know that?--an Indian!  He can tell when people
have passed a certain tree, by looking at the bark.  He can track
people over the whole of Inwood by broken twigs and crushed leaves.
He can tell by the moss on stones how long it has been since they
were moved or walked over.  He can tell by looking at the ashes of
fires how long the flames have been out.  He can tell by smelling a
garment or a hat, to whom it belongs.  And he can read strange
signs and tell by the scent of the wind when the rain is coming.
He can do all manner of things of which white men know nothing.  He
knows all the secrets of these hills, for his people have lived in
them for generations.  He's an Indian--a subtle, scheming Indian!"
As she spoke her voice rose excitedly and an impressive histrionic
eloquence informed her speech.

"But, my dear young lady," Vance protested pleasantly, "the
qualities and characteristics which you ascribe to Mr. Leland are
not what one would call unusual, except in a comparative sense.
His knowledge of woodcraft and his sensitivity to odors are really
not a convincing basis for a criminal accusation.  Thousands of boy
scouts would constantly be in jeopardy if that were the case."

The woman's eyes became sullen, and she compressed her lips into a
line of anger.  After a moment she extended her hands, palms
upward, in a gesture of resignation, and gave a mirthless laugh.

"Be stupid, if you want to," she remarked with forced and hollow
lightness.  "But some day you'll come to me and tell me how right I
was."

"It will be jolly good fun, anyway," smiled Vance.  "Forsan et haec
olim meminisse juvabit, as Vergil put it. . . .  In the meantime, I
must be most impolite and ask that you be good enough to wait in
your room until such time as we shall wish to question you further.
We have several little matters to attend to."

Without a word she turned and swept majestically from the room.



CHAPTER III

THE SPLASH IN THE POOL


(Sunday, August 12; 1.15 a. m.)


During Ruby Steele's diatribe Leland had stood smoking placidly,
watching the woman with stoical dignity.  He did not seem in the
least disturbed by her accusation, and when she had left the room,
he shrugged mildly and gave Vance a weary smile.

"Do you wonder," he asked, with a touch of irony, "why I telephoned
the police and insisted that they come?"

Vance studied him listlessly.

"You anticipated being accused of having manoeuvred Montague's
disappearance--eh, what?"

"Not exactly.  But I knew there would be all manner of rumors and
whisperings, and I thought it best to have the matter over with at
once, and to give the authorities the best possible chance of
clarifying the situation and fixing the blame.  However, I did not
expect any such scene as we have just gone through.  Needless to
tell you, all Miss Steele has just said is a hysterical
fabrication.  She told but one truth--and that was only half a
truth.  My mother was an Algonkian Indian--the Princess White Star,
a proud and noble woman, who was separated from her people when a
child and reared in a southern convent.  My father was an
architect, the scion of an old New York family, many years my
mother's senior.  They are both dead."

"You were born here?" asked Vance.

"Yes, I was born in Inwood, on the site of the old Indian village,
Shorakapkok; but the house has long since gone.  I live here
because I love the place.  It has many happy associations of my
childhood, before I was sent to Europe to be educated."

"I suspected your Indian blood the moment I saw you," Vance
remarked, with non-committal aloofness.  Then he stretched his legs
and took a deep inhalation on his cigarette.  "But suppose you tell
us, Mr. Leland, just what preceded the tragedy tonight.  I believe
you mentioned the fact that Montague himself suggested the swim."

"That is true."  Leland moved to a straight chair by the table and
sat down.  "We had dinner about half-past seven.  There had been
numerous cocktails beforehand, and during dinner Stamm brought out
some heavy wines.  After the coffee there was brandy and port, and
I think every one drank too much.  As you know, it was raining and
we could not go outdoors.  Later we went to the library, and there
was more drinking--this time Scotch highballs.  There was a little
music of a rowdy nature.  Young Tatum played the piano and Miss
Steele sang.  But that did not last long--the drinking had begun to
take effect, and every one was uneasy and restless."

"And Stamm?"

"Stamm especially indulged.  I have rarely seen him drink so much,
though he has managed for years to punish liquor pretty
systematically.  He was taking Scotch straight, and after he had
downed at least half a bottle I remonstrated with him.  But he was
in no condition to listen to reason.  He became sullen and quiet,
and by ten o'clock he was ignoring every one and dozing off.  His
sister, too, tried to bring him back to his senses, but without any
success."

"At just what time did you go for your swim?"

"I do not know exactly, but it was shortly after ten.  It stopped
raining about that time, and Montague and Bernice stepped out on
the terrace.  They came back almost immediately, and it was then
that Montague announced that the rain had ceased and suggested that
we all take a swim.  Every one was willing--every one, that is, but
Stamm.  He was in no condition to go anywhere or do anything.
Bernice and Montague urged him to join us, thinking perhaps that
the water would sober him.  But he was ugly and ordered Trainor to
bring him another bottle of Scotch. . . ."

"Trainor?"

"That is the butler's name. . . .  Stamm was sodden and helpless,
so I told the others to leave him alone, and we all went down to
the cabañas.  I myself pushed the switch in the rear hallway, that
turns on the lights on the stairs down to the pool and also the
flood-lights at the pool.  Montague was the first to appear in
his bathing suit, but the rest of us were ready a minute or so
later. . . .  Then came the tragedy--"

"I say, just a moment, Mr. Leland," Vance interrupted, leaning over
and breaking the ashes of his cigarette in the fireplace.  "Was
Montague the first in the water?"

"Yes.  He was waiting at the spring-board--posing, I might say--
when the rest of us came out of the cabañas.  He rather fancied
himself and his figure, and I imagine there was a certain amount of
vanity in his habit of always hurrying to the pool and taking the
first plunge when he knew all eyes would be on him."

"And then?"

"He took a high swan dive, beautifully timed and extremely graceful--
I'll say that much for the chap.  We naturally waited for him to
come up before following suit.  We waited an interminable time--it
was probably not more than a minute, but it seemed much longer.
And then Mrs. McAdam gave a scream, and we all went quickly, with
one accord, to the very edge of the pool and strained our eyes
across the water in every direction.  By this time we knew
something had happened.  No man could stay under water voluntarily
as long as that.  Miss Stamm clutched my arm, but I threw her off
and, running to the end of the spring-board, dived in as near as
possible at the point where Montague had disappeared."

Leland compressed his lips, and his gaze shifted.

"I swam downward," he continued, "till I came to the bottom of the
pool, and searched round as best I could.  I came up for air and
went down again, and again I came up.  A man was in the water just
beside me, and I thought for a moment it was Montague.  But it was
only Tatum, who had joined me in the water.  He too had dived in,
in an effort to find Montague.  Greeff also, in a bungling kind of
way--he is not a very good swimmer--helped us look for the poor
fellow. . . .  But it was no go.  We spent at least twenty minutes
in the effort.  Then we gave it up. . . ."

"Exactly how did you feel about the situation?" Vance asked,
without looking up.  "Did you have any suspicions then?"

Leland hesitated and pursed his lips, as if trying to recall his
exact emotions.  Finally he replied:

"I cannot say just how I did feel about it.  I was rather
overwhelmed.  But still there was something--I do not know just
what--in the back of my mind.  My instinct at that moment was to
get to a telephone and report the affair to the police.  I did not
like the turn of events--they struck me as too unusual. . . .
Perhaps," he added, lifting his eyes to the ceiling with a far-away
look, "I remembered--unconsciously--too many tales about the old
Dragon Pool.  My mother told me many strange stories when I was a
child--"

"Yes, yes.  Quite a romantic and legend'ry spot," Vance murmured,
with a tinge of sarcasm in his words.  "But I'd much rather know
just what the women were doing and how they affected you when you
joined them after your heroic search for Montague."

"The women?"  There was a mild note of surprise in Leland's voice,
and he looked penetratingly at Vance.  "Oh, I see--you wish to know
how they acted after the tragedy. . . .  Well, Miss Stamm was
crouched down on the top of the wall at the edge of the water, with
her hands pressed to her face, sobbing convulsively.  I do not
think she even noticed me--or any one else, for that matter.  I got
the impression that she was more frightened than anything else.--
Miss Steele was standing close beside Bernice, with her head thrown
back, her arms out-stretched in a precise gesture of tragic
supplication. . . ."

"It sounds rather as if she were rehearsing for the role of
Iphigeneia at Aulis. . . .  And what about Mrs. McAdam?"

"Funny thing about her," Leland ruminated, frowning at his pipe.
"She was the one who screamed when Montague failed to come to the
surface; but when I got out of the water, she was standing back
from the bank, under one of the flood-lights, as cold and calm as
if nothing had happened.  She was looking out across the pool in a
most detached fashion, as if there was no one else present.  And
she was half smiling, in a hard, ruthless sort of way.  'We could
not find him,' I muttered, as I came up to her: I do not know why I
should have addressed her rather than the others.  And without
moving her eyes from the opposite side of the pool, she said, to no
one in particular:  'So that's that.'"

Vance appeared unimpressed.

"So you came to the house here and telephoned?"

"Immediately.  I told the others they had better get dressed and
return to the house at once, and after I had telephoned I went back
to my cabaña and got into my clothes."

"Who notified the doctor about Stamm's condition?"

"I did," the other replied.  "I did not enter the library when I
first came here to telephone, but when I had got into my clothes I
went at once to Stamm, hoping his mind would have cleared
sufficiently for him to realize the terrible thing that had
happened.  But he was unconscious, and the bottle on the tabouret
by the davenport was empty.  I did my best to arouse him, but did
not succeed."

Leland paused, frowned with uncertainty, and then continued:

"I had never before seen Stamm in a state of complete insensibility
through overindulgence in liquor, although I had seen him pretty
far gone on several occasions.  The state of the man shocked me.
He was scarcely breathing, and his color was ghastly.  Bernice came
into the room at that moment and, on seeing her brother sprawled
out on the davenport, exclaimed, 'He's dead, too.  Oh, my God!'
Then she fainted before I could reach her.  I intrusted her to Mrs.
McAdam--who showed an admirable competency in handling the
situation--and went immediately to the telephone to summon Doctor
Holliday.  He has been the Stamm family physician for many years
and lives in 207th Street, near here.  Luckily he was at home and
hurried over."

Just then a door slammed noisily somewhere at the rear of the
house, and heavy footsteps crossed the front hall and approached
the drawing-room.  Detective Hennessey appeared at the door, his
mouth partly open and his eyes protruding with excitement.

He greeted Markham perfunctorily and turned quickly to the
Sergeant.

"Something's happened down there at the pool," he announced,
jerking his thumb over his shoulder.  "I was standing by the spring-
board like you told me to do, smoking a cigar, when I heard a funny
rumbling noise up at the top of the rock cliff opposite.  And
pretty soon there was a hell of a splash in the pool--sounded like
a ton of bricks had been dumped off the cliff into the water. . . .
I waited a coupla minutes, to see if anything else'd happen, and
then I thought I'd better come up and tell you."

"Did you see anything?" demanded Heath aggressively.

"Nary a thing, Sergeant."  Hennessey spoke with emphasis.  "It's
dark over there by the rocks, and I didn't go round over the filter
ledge, because you told me to keep off that low stretch at the
other end."

"I told him to keep off," the Sergeant explained to Markham,
"because I wanted to go over that ground again for footprints in
the daylight tomorrow."  Then he turned back to Hennessey.  "Well,
what do you think the noise was?" he asked with the gruffness of
exasperation.

"I'm not thinkin'," Hennessey retorted.  "I'm simply tellin' you
all I know."

Leland rose and took a step toward the Sergeant.

"If you will pardon me, I think I can offer a reasonable
explanation of what this man heard in the pool.  Several large
pieces of rock, at the top of the cliff, are loosened where the
strata overlap, and I have always had a fear that one of them might
come crashing down into the pool.  Only this morning Mr. Stamm and
I went up to the top of the bluff and inspected those rocks.  In
fact, we even attempted to pry one of them loose, but could not do
so.  It is quite possible that the heavy rain tonight may have
dislodged the earth that was holding it."

Vance nodded.

"At least that explanation is a pleasin' bit of rationality," he
observed lightly.

"Maybe so, Mr. Vance," Heath conceded reluctantly.  Hennessey's
tale had disturbed him.  "But what I want to know is why it should
happen on this particular night."

"As Mr. Leland has told us, he and Mr. Stamm attempted to pry the
rock loose today--or should I say yesterday?  Perhaps they did
loosen it, and that would account for its having shifted and fallen
after the rain."

Heath chewed viciously on his cigar for a moment.  Then he waved
Hennessey out of the room.

"Go back and take up your post," he ordered.  "If anything else
happens down at the pool, hop up here and report pronto."

Hennessey disappeared--reluctantly, I thought.

Markham had sat through the entire proceedings with an air of
tolerant boredom.  He had taken only a mild interest in Vance's
questioning, and when Hennessey had left us, he got to his feet.

"Just what is the point in all this discussion, Vance?" he asked
irritably.  "The situation is normal enough.  Admittedly it has
certain morbid angles, but all of this esoteric stuff seems to me
the result of nerves.  Every one's on edge, and I think the best
thing for us to do is to go home and let the Sergeant handle the
matter in the routine way.  How could there be anything
premeditated in connection with Montague's possible death when he
himself suggested going swimming and then dived off the spring-
board and disappeared while every one was looking on?"

"My dear Markham," protested Vance, "you're far too logical.  It's
your legal training, of course.  But the world is not run by logic.
I infinitely prefer to be emotional.  Think of the masterpieces of
poetry that would have been lost to humanity if their creators had
been pure logicians--the Odyssey, for instance, the Ballade des
dames du temps jadis, the Divina Commedia, Laus Veneris, the Ode on
a Grecian Urn--"

"But what do you propose to do now?" Markham cut in, annoyed.

"I propose," answered Vance, with an exasperating smile, "to
inquire of the doctor concerning the condition of our host."

"What could Stamm have to do with it?" protested Markham.  "He
seems less concerned in the affair than any of the other people
here."

Heath, impatient, had risen and started for the door.

"I'll get the doc," he rumbled.  And he went out into the dim
hallway.

A few minutes later he returned, followed by an elderly man with a
closely cropped gray Vandyke.  He was clad in a black baggy suit
with a high, old-fashioned collar several sizes too large for him.
He was slightly stout and moved awkwardly; but there was something
in his manner that inspired confidence.

Vance rose to greet him, and after a brief explanation of our
presence in the house, he said:

"Mr. Leland has just told us of Mr. Stamm's unfortunate condition
tonight, and we'd like to know how he's coming along."

"He's following the normal course," the doctor replied, and
hesitated.  Presently he went on:  "Since Mr. Leland informed you
of Mr. Stamm's condition I won't be violating professional ethics
in discussing the case with you.  Mr. Stamm was unconscious when I
arrived.  His pulse was slow and sluggish, and his breathing
shallow.  When I learned of the amount of whisky he had taken since
dinner I immediately gave him a stiff dose of apomorphine--a tenth
of a grain.  It emptied his stomach at once, and after the reaction
he went back to sleep normally.  He had consumed an astonishing
amount of liquor--it was one of the worst cases of acute alcoholism
I have ever known.  He is just waking up now, and I was about to
telephone for a nurse when this gentleman"--indicating Heath--"told
me you wished to see me."

Vance nodded understandingly.

"Will it be possible for us to talk to Mr. Stamm at this time?"

"A little later, perhaps.  He is coming round all right, and, once
I get him up-stairs to bed, you may see him. . . .  But you
understand, of course," the doctor added, "he will be pretty weak
and played out."

Vance murmured his thanks.

"Will you let us know when it is convenient to have us talk to
him?"

The doctor inclined his head in assent.

"Certainly," he said, and turned to go.

"And in the meantime," Vance said to Markham, "I think it might be
well to have a brief chat with Miss Stamm. . . .  Sergeant, will
you produce the young lady for us?"

"Just a moment."  The doctor turned in the doorway.  "I would ask
you, sir, not to disturb Miss Stamm just now.  When I came here I
found her in a very high-strung, hysterical condition over what had
happened.  So I gave her a stiff dose of bromides and told her to
go to bed.  She's in no condition to be questioned about the
tragedy.  Tomorrow, perhaps."

"It really doesn't matter," Vance returned.  "Tomorrow will do just
as well."

The doctor went lumberingly into the hall, and a moment later we
could hear him dialing a number on the telephone.



CHAPTER IV

AN INTERRUPTION


(Sunday, August 12; 1.35 a. m.)


Markham heaved a deep, annoyed sigh, and focused his eyes on Vance
in exasperation.

"Aren't you satisfied yet?" he demanded impatiently.  "I suggest we
get along home."

"Oh, my dear Markham!" Vance protested whimsically, lighting a
fresh Régie.  "I should never forgive myself if I went without at
least making the acquaintance of Mrs. McAdam.  My word!  Really
now, wouldn't you like to meet her?"

Markham snorted with angry resignation and settled back in his
chair.

Vance turned to Heath.

"Shepherd the butler in, Sergeant."

Heath went out with alacrity, returning immediately with the butler
in tow.  He was a short, pudgy man in his late fifties, with a
smug, round face.  His eyes were small and shrewd; his nose flat
and concave, and the corners of his mouth were pinched into a
downward arc.  He wore a blond toupee which neither fitted him nor
disguised the fact that he was bald.  His uniform needed pressing,
and his linen was far from immaculate; but he had an unmistakable
air of pompous superiority.

"I understand your name is Trainor," said Vance.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Trainor, there seems to be considerable doubt as to just
what happened here tonight.  That's why the District Attorney and I
have come up."  Vance's eyes were fixed on the man with appraising
interest.

"If I may be permitted to say so, sir," Trainor submitted in a
mincing falsetto, "I think your being here is an excellent idea.
One never can tell what is behind these mysterious episodes."

Vance lifted his eyebrows.

"So you think the episode mysterious? . . .  Can you tell us
something that might be helpful?"

"Oh, no, sir."  The man elevated his chin haughtily.  "I haven't
the slightest suggestion to make--thanking you, sir, for the honor
of asking me."

Vance let the matter drop, and said:

"Doctor Holliday has just told us that Mr. Stamm had a close call
tonight, and I understand from Mr. Leland that Mr. Stamm ordered
another bottle of whisky at the time the other members of the party
went down to the pool."

"Yes, sir.  I brought him a fresh quart of his favorite Scotch
whisky--Buchanan's Liqueur . . . although I will say, sir, in
extenuation, so to speak, that I took the liberty of protesting
with Mr. Stamm, inasmuch as he had already been drinking rather
heavily all day.  But he became almost abusive, I might say; and I
remarked to myself, 'Every man to his own poison'--or words to that
effect.  It was not my place, you can understand, to refuse to obey
the master's orders."

"Of course--of course, Trainor.  We certainly do not hold you
responsible for Mr. Stamm's condition," Vance assured him
pleasantly.

"Thank you, sir.  I might say, however, that Mr. Stamm has been
quite unhappy about something these past few weeks.  He's been
worrying a great deal.  He even forgot to feed the fish last
Thursday."

"My word!  Something really upsettin' must have been preying on his
mind. . . .  And did you see to it, Trainor, that the fish did not
go hungry Thursday?"

"Oh, yes, sir.  I am very fond of the fish, sir.  And I'm something
of an authority on the subject--if I do say so myself.  In fact, I
disagree with the master quite frequently on the care of some of
his rarer varieties.  Without his knowing it I have made chemical
tests of the water, for acidity and alkalinity--if you know what I
mean, sir.  And I took it upon myself to increase the alkalinity of
the water in the tanks in which the Scatophagus argus are kept.
Since then, sir, the master has had much better luck with them."

"I myself am partial to brackish water for the Scatophagus," Vance
commented, with an amused smile.  "But we will let that drop for
the moment. . . .  Suppose you tell Mrs. McAdam that we desire to
see her, here in the drawing-room."

The butler bowed and went out, and a few minutes later ushered a
short, plump woman into the room.

Teeny McAdam's age was perhaps forty, but from her clothes and her
manner it was obvious that she was making a desperate effort to
give the impression of youth.  There was, however, a hardness about
her which she could not disguise.  She seemed perfectly calm as she
sat down in the chair which Vance held for her.

Vance explained briefly who we were and why we were there, and I
was interested in the fact that she showed no surprise.

"It's always well," Vance explained further, "to look into
tragedies of this kind, where there is a feeling of doubt in the
mind of any one present.  And there seems to be considerable doubt
in the minds of several witnesses of Mr. Montague's disappearance."

For answer the woman merely gave an arctic smile and waited.

"Are there any doubts in your mind, Mrs. McAdam?" Vance asked
quietly.

"Doubts?  What kind of doubts?  Really, I don't know what you
mean."  She spoke in a cold, stereotyped voice.  "Monty is
unquestionably dead.  Had it been any one else who disappeared, one
might suspect that a practical joke had been played on us.  But
Monty was never a practical joker.  In fact, any sense of humor was
painfully lacking in him.  He was far too conceited for humor."

"You have known him a long time, I take it."

"Far too long," the woman replied, with what I thought was a touch
of venom.

"You screamed, I am told, when he failed to rise to the surface."

"A maidenly impulse," she remarked lightly.  "At my age I should,
of course, be more reserved."

Vance contemplated his cigarette a moment.

"You weren't, by any chance, expecting the young gentleman's demise
at the time?"

The woman shrugged, and a hard light came into her eyes.

"No, not expecting it," she returned bitterly, "but always hoping
for it--as were many others."

"Most interestin'," Vance murmured.  "But what were you looking for
so intently across the pool, after Montague's failure to come up?"

Her eyes narrowed, and her expression belied the careless gesture
she made.

"I really do not recall my intentness at that time," she answered.
"I was probably scanning the surface of the pool.  That was
natural, was it not?"

"Quite--oh, quite.  One does instinctively scan the water when a
diver has failed to reappear--doesn't one?  But I was given the
impression your attitude was not indicative of this natural
impulse.  In fact, I was led to believe that you were looking
ACROSS the water, to the rock cliffs opposite."

The woman shifted her gaze to Leland, and a slow contemptuous smile
spread over her face.

"I quite understand," she sneered.  "This half-breed has been
trying to divert suspicion from himself."  She swung quickly back
to Vance and spoke between clenched teeth.  "My suggestion to you,
sir, is that Mr. Leland can tell you far more of the tragedy than
any one else here."

Vance nodded carelessly.

"He has already told me many fascinatin' things."  Then he leaned
forward with a half smile that did not extend to his eyes.  "By the
by," he added, "it may interest you to know that a few minutes ago
there was a terrific splash in the pool, near the point, I should
say, where you were looking."

A sudden change came over Teeny McAdam.  Her body seemed to go
taut, and her hands tightened over the arms of her chair.  Her face
paled perceptibly, and she took a slow deep breath, as if to steady
herself.

"You are sure?" she muttered, in a strained voice, her eyes fixed
on Vance.  "You are sure?"

"Quite sure. . . .  But why should that fact startle you?"

"There are strange stories about that pool--" she began, but Vance
interrupted.

"Oh, very strange.  But you're not, I trust, superstitious?"

She gave a one-sided smile, and her body relaxed.

"Oh, no, I am far too old for that."  She was speaking again in her
former cold, reserved tone.  "But for a moment I got jumpy.  This
house and its surroundings are not conductive to calm nerves. . . .
So there was a splash in the pool?  I can't imagine what it might
have been.  Maybe it was one of Stamm's flying fish," she
suggested, with an attempt at humor.  Then her face hardened, and
she gave Vance a defiant look.  "Is there anything else you wish to
ask me?"

It was obvious that she had no intention of telling us anything
concerning what she may have feared or suspected, and Vance rose
listlessly to his feet.

"No, madam," he responded.  "I have quite exhausted my possibilities
as an interrogator. . . .  But I shall have to ask you to remain in
your room for the present."

Teeny McAdam rose also, with an exaggerated sigh of relief.

"Oh, I expected that.  It's so messy and inconvenient when any one
dies. . . .  But would it be against the rules and regulations if
the tubby Trainor brought me a drink?"

"Certainly not."  Vance bowed gallantly.  "I will be delighted to
send you anything you desire--if the cellar affords it."

"You are more than kind," she returned sarcastically.  "I'm sure
Trainor can scratch me up a stinger."

She thanked Vance facetiously, and left the room.

Vance sent for the butler again.

"Trainor," he said, when the man entered, "Mrs. McAdam wants a
stinger--and you'd better use two jiggers each of brandy and crème
de menthe."

"I understand, sir."

As Trainor went from the room, Doctor Holliday appeared at the
door.

"I have Mr. Stamm in bed," he told Vance, "and the nurse is on her
way.  If you care to speak to him now it will be all right."

The master bedroom was on the second floor, just at the head of the
main stairs, and when we entered, ushered in by Doctor Holliday,
Stamm stared at us with resentful bewilderment.

I could see, even as he lay in bed, that he was an unusually tall
man.  His face was lined and cadaverous.  His piercing eyes were
ringed with shadows, and his cheeks were hollow.  He was slightly
bald, but his eyebrows were heavy and almost black.  Despite his
pallor and his obviously weakened condition, it was evident he was
a man of great endurance and physical vitality.  He was the type of
man that fitted conventionally into the stories of his romantic
exploits in the South Seas.

"These are the gentlemen that wished to see you," the doctor told
him, by way of introduction.

Stamm looked from one to the other of us, turning his head weakly.

"Well, who are they, and what do they want?"  His voice was low and
peevish.

Vance explained who we were, and added:

"There has been a tragedy here on your estate tonight, Mr. Stamm;
and we are here to investigate it."

"A tragedy?  What do you mean by a tragedy?"  Stamm's sharp eyes
did not leave Vance's face.

"One of your guests has, I fear, been drowned."

Stamm suddenly became animated.  His hands moved nervously over the
silk spread, and he raised his head from the pillow, his eyes
glaring.

"Some one drowned!" he exclaimed.  "Where?  And who? . . .  I hope
it was Greeff--he's been pestering the life out of me for weeks."

Vance shook his head.

"No, it was not Greeff--it was young Montague.  He dived into the
pool and didn't come up."

"Oh, Montague."  Stamm sank back on his pillow.  "That vain
ass! . . .  How is Bernice?"

"She's sleeping," the doctor informed him consolingly.  "She was
naturally upset, but she will be all right in the morning."

Stamm seemed relieved, and after a moment he moved his head wearily
toward Vance.

"I suppose you want to ask questions."

Vance regarded the man on the bed critically and, I thought,
suspiciously.  I admit that I myself got a distinct impression that
Stamm was playing a part, and that the remarks he had made were
fundamentally insincere.  But I could not say specifically what had
caused this impression.  Presently Vance said:

"We understand that one of the guests you invited to your week-end
party did not put in an appearance."

"Well, what of it?" complained Stamm.  "Is there anything so
unusual about that?"

"No, not unusual," Vance admitted, "but a bit interestin'.  What
was the lady's name?"

Stamm hesitated and shifted his eyes.

"Ellen Bruett," he said finally.

"Could you tell us something about her?"

"Very little," the man answered ungraciously.  "I haven't seen her
for a great many years.  I met her on a boat going to Europe, and I
ran across her again in Paris.  I know nothing of her personally,
except that she's a pleasant sort, and extremely attractive.  Last
week I was surprised to receive a telephone call from her.  She
said she had just returned from the Orient and intimated that she
would like to renew our acquaintance.  I needed another woman for
the party; so I asked her to join us.  Friday morning she phoned me
again to say she was leaving unexpectedly for South America. . . .
That's the extent of what I know about her."

"Did you," asked Vance, "by any chance, mention to her the names of
the other guests you had invited?"

"I told her that Ruby Steele and Montague were coming.  They had
both been on the stage, and I thought she might know the names."

"And did she?"  Vance raised his cigarette deliberately to his
lips.

"As I recall, she said she had met Montague once in Berlin."

Vance walked to the window and back.

"Curious coincidence," he murmured.

Stamm's eyes followed him.

"What's curious about it?" he demanded sourly.

Vance shrugged and halted at the foot of the bed.

"I haven't the groggiest notion--have you?"

Stamm raised himself from the pillow and glared.

"What do you mean by that question?"

"I mean simply this, Mr. Stamm:"--Vance's tone was mild--"every one
we have talked to so far seems to have a peculiar arrière-pensée
with regard to Montague's death, and there have been intimations of
foul play--"

"What about Montague's body?" Stamm broke in.  "Haven't you found
it yet?  That ought to tell the story.  He probably bashed his
skull while doing a fancy dive to impress the ladies."

"No, his body has not yet been found.  It was too late to get a
boat and grappling hooks to the pool tonight. . . ."

"You don't have to do that," Stamm informed him truculently.
"There are two big gates in the stream just above the filter, and
they can be closed.  And there's a turnstile lock in the dam.  That
lets the water drain from the pool.  I drain it every year or so,
to clean it out."

"Ah!  That's worth knowing--eh, Sergeant?"  Then to Stamm:  "Are
the gates and lock difficult to manipulate?"

"Four or five men can do the job in an hour."

"We'll attend to all that in the morning then."  Vance looked at
the other thoughtfully.  "And, by the by, one of Sergeant Heath's
men just reported that there was quite a noisy splash in the pool a
little while ago--somewhere near the opposite side."

"A part of that damned rock has fallen," Stamm remarked.  "It's
been loose for a long time."  Then he moved uneasily, and asked:
"What difference does it make?"

"Mrs. McAdam seemed rather upset about it."

"Hysteria," snorted Stamm.  "Leland has probably been telling her
stories about the pool. . . .  But what are you driving at,
anyway?"

Vance smiled faintly.

"I'm sure I don't know.  But the fact that a man disappeared in the
Dragon Pool tonight seems to have impressed several people in a
most peculiar fashion.  None of them seem wholly convinced that it
was an accidental death."

"Tommy-rot!"

Stamm drew himself up until he rested on his elbows, and thrust his
head forward.  A wild light came into his glaring eyes, and his
face twitched spasmodically.

"Can't a man get drowned without having a lot of policemen all over
the place?"  His voice was loud and shrill.  "Montague--bah!  The
world's better off without him.  I wouldn't give him tank space
with my Guppies--and I feed them to the Scalares."

Stamm became more and more excited, and his voice grew shriller.

"Montague jumped into the pool, did he?  And he didn't come up?  Is
that any reason to annoy me when I'm ill? . . ."

At this moment there came a startling and blood-chilling
interruption.  The door into the hall had been left open, and there
suddenly came to us, from the floor above, a woman's maniacal and
terrifying scream.



CHAPTER V

THE WATER-MONSTER


(Sunday, August 12; 2 a. m.)


There was a second of tense startled silence.  Then Heath swung
round and rushed toward the door, his hand slipping into his outer
coat pocket where he carried his gun.  As he reached the threshold
Leland stepped quickly up to him and placed a restraining hand on
his shoulder.

"Do not bother," he said quietly.  "It is all right."

"The hell it is!"  Heath shot back, throwing off the other's hand
and stepping into the hallway.

Doors had begun to open along the hallway, and there were several
smothered exclamations.

"Get back in your rooms!" bawled Heath.  "And stay in 'em."  He
planted himself aggressively outside the door, glowering down the
corridor.

Evidently some of the guests, frightened by the scream, had come
out to see what the trouble was.  But confronted with the menacing
attitude of the Sergeant and cowed by his angry command, they
returned to their quarters, and we could hear the doors close
again.  The Sergeant, confused and indecisive, turned threateningly
to Leland who was standing near the door with a calm but troubled
look on his face.

"Where'd that scream come from?" he demanded.  "And what does it
mean?"

Before Leland could answer Stamm raised himself to a semi-recumbent
position and glowered at Vance.

"For the love of God," he complained irritably, "will you gentlemen
get out of here!  You've done enough damage already. . . .  Get
out, I tell you!  Get out!"  Then he turned to Doctor Holliday.
"Please go up to mother, doctor, and give her something.  She's
having another attack--what with all this upheaval round the
house."

Doctor Holliday left the room, and we could hear him mounting the
stairs.

Vance had been unimpressed by the whole episode.  He stood smoking
casually, his eyes resting dreamily on the man in bed.

"Deuced sorry to have upset your household, Mr. Stamm," he
murmured.  "Every one's nerves are raw, don't y' know.  Hope you'll
be better in the morning. . . .  We'll toddle down-stairs--eh,
what, Markham?"

Leland looked at him gratefully and nodded.

"I am sure that would be best," he said, leading the way.

We went out of the room and descended the stairs.  Heath, however,
remained in the hall for a moment glaring up toward the third
floor.

"Come, Sergeant," Vance called to him.  "You're overwrought."

Heath finally took his hand from his coat pocket and followed us
reluctantly.

Again in the drawing-room, Vance settled into a chair and, looking
at Leland inquiringly, waited for an explanation.

Leland took out his pipe again and slowly packed it.

"That was Stamm's mother, Matilda Stamm," he said when he had got
his pipe going.  "She occupies the third floor of the house.  She
is a little unbalanced. . . ."  He made a slight but significant
gesture toward his forehead.  "Not dangerous, you understand, but
erratic--given occasionally to hallucinations.  She has queer
attacks now and then, and talks incoherently."

"Sounds like mild paranoia," Vance murmured.  "Some hidden fear,
perhaps."

"That is it, I imagine," Leland returned.  "A psychiatrist they had
for her years ago suggested a private sanitarium, but Stamm would
not hear of it.  Instead he turned the third floor over to her, and
there is some one with her all the time.  She is in excellent
physical health and is perfectly rational most of the time.  But
she is not permitted to go out.  However, she is well taken care
of, and the third floor has a large balcony and a conservatory for
her diversion.  She spends most of her time cultivating rare
plants."

"How often do her attacks come?"

"Two or three times a year, I understand, though she is always full
of queer ideas about people and things.  Nothing to worry about,
though."

"And the nature of these attacks?"

"They vary.  Sometimes she talks and argues with imaginary people.
At other times she becomes hysterical and babbles of events that
occurred when she was a girl.  Then, again, she will suddenly take
violent dislikes to people, for no apparent reason, and proceed to
berate and threaten them."

Vance nodded.

"Typical," he mused.  Then, after several deep inhalations on his
Régie, he asked in an offhand manner:  "On which side of the house
are Mrs. Stamm's balcony and conservat'ry?"

Leland's eyes moved quickly toward Vance, and he lifted his head.

"On the northeast corner," he answered with a slightly rising
inflection, as if his answer were purposely incomplete.

"Ah!"  Vance took his cigarette slowly from his mouth.
"Overlooking the pool, eh?"

Leland nodded.  Then, after a brief hesitation, he said:  "The pool
has a curious hold on her fancy.  It is the source of many of her
hallucinations.  She sits for hours gazing at it abstractedly, and
the German woman who looks after her--a capable companion-nurse
named Schwarz--tells me that she never goes to bed without first
standing in rapt attention for several minutes at the window facing
the pool."

"Very interestin'. . . .  By the by, Mr. Leland, do you know when
the pool was constructed?"

Leland frowned thoughtfully.

"I cannot say exactly.  I know it was built by Stamm's grandfather--
that is to say, he built the dam to broaden the water of the
stream.  But I doubt if he had anything in mind except a scenic
improvement.  It was Stamm's father--Joshua Stamm--who put in the
retaining wall on this side of the pool, to keep the water from
straying too far up the hill toward the house.  And it was Stamm
himself who installed the filter and the gates, when he first began
to use the pool for swimming.  The water was not particularly free
from rubbish, and he wanted some way of filtering the stream that
fed it, and also of closing off the inflow, so that the pool could
be cleaned out occasionally."

"How did the pool get its name?" asked Vance casually.

Leland gave a slight shrug.

"Heaven only knows.  From some old Indian tradition, probably.  The
Indians hereabouts originally called it by various terms--
Amangaming, Amangemokdom Wikit, and sometimes Amangemokdomipek--but
as a rule the shorter word, Amangaming, was used, which means, in
the Lenape dialect of the Algonkians, the 'place of the water-
monster.'*  When I was a child my mother always referred to the pool
by that name, although at that time it was pretty generally known
as the Dragon Pool, which is a fairly accurate transliteration of
its original name.  Many tales and superstitions grew up around it.
The water-dragon--Amangemokdom** or, sometimes, Amangegach--was
used as a bogy with which to frighten recalcitrant children. . . ."


* I made a note of these unusual words, and years later, when Vance
and I were in California, to see the Munthe Collection of Chinese
art, I brought up the subject with Doctor M. R. Harrington, the
author of "Religion and Ceremonies of the Lenapes" and now Curator
of the Southwest Museum in Los Angeles.  He explained that
Amangemokdoming meant "Dragon-place"; Amangemokdom Wikit, "Dragon
his-house"; and Amangemokdomipek, "Dragon-pond."  He also explained
that the word amangam, though sometimes translated "big fish,"
seems to have meant "water-monster" as well; and that it would
yield the shorter compound Amangaming.  This evidently was the word
preferred by the Lenapes in Inwood.

** In the Walum Olum the word amangam is translated as "monster"
and Brinton in his notes derives it from amangi, "great or
terrifying," and names, "fish with reference to some mythical water-
monster."  In the Brinton and Anthony dictionary, however,
amangamek, the plural form, is translated simply as "large fishes."
The Indians regarded such a creature, not as a mere animal, but as
a manitto, or being endowed with supernatural as well as physical
power.


Markham got to his feet impatiently and looked at his watch.

"This is hardly the hour," he complained, "for a discussion of
mythology."

"Tut, tut, old dear," Vance chided him pleasantly.  "I say, these
ethnological data are most fascinatin'.  For the first time tonight
we seem to be getting a little forrader.  I'm beginning to
understand why nearly every one in the house is filled with doubts
and misgivings."

He smiled ingratiatingly and turned his attention again to Leland.

"By the by," he went on, "is Mrs. Stamm given to such distressin'
screams during her cloudy moments?"

Again Leland hesitated, but finally answered:  "Occasionally--yes."

"And do these screams usually have some bearing on her
hallucinations regarding the pool?"

Leland inclined his head.

"Yes--always."  Then he added:  "But she is never coherent as to
the exact cause of her perturbation.  I have been present when
Stamm has tried to get an explanation from her, but she has never
been lucid on the subject.  It is as if she feared something in the
future which her momentarily excited mind could not visualize.  An
inflamed and confused projection of the imagination, I should say--
without any definite mental embodiment. . . ."

At this moment the curtains parted, and Doctor Holliday's troubled
face looked into the room.

"I am glad you gentlemen are still here," he said.  "Mrs. Stamm is
in an unusual frame of mind, and insists on seeing you.  She is
having one of her periodical attacks--nothing serious, I assure
you.  But she seems very much excited, and she refused to let me
give her something to quiet her. . . .  I really don't feel that I
should mention these facts to you, but in the circumstances--"

"I have explained Mrs. Stamm's condition to these gentlemen,"
Leland put in quietly.

The doctor appeared relieved.

"That being the case," he went on, "I can tell you quite frankly
that I am a little worried.  And, as I say, she insists that she
see the police--as she calls you--at once."  He paused as if
uncertain.  "Perhaps it might be best--if you do not mind.  Since
she has this idea, a talk with you might bring about the desired
reaction. . . .  But I warn you that she is a bit hallucinated, and
I trust that you will treat her accordingly. . . ."

Vance had risen.

"We quite understand, doctor," he said assuringly, adding
significantly:  "It might be better for all of us if we talked with
her."

We retraced our way up the dimly lighted stairs, and at the second-
story hallway turned upward to Mrs. Stamm's quarters.

On the third floor the doctor led the way down a wide passage,
toward the rear of the house, to an open door through which a
rectangular shaft of yellow light poured into the gloom of the
hall.  The room into which we were ushered was large and crowded
with early Victorian furniture.  A dark green shabby carpet covered
the floor, and on the walls was faded green paper.  The overstuffed
satin-covered chairs had once been white and chartreuse green, but
were now gray and dingy.  An enormous canopied bed stood at the
right of the door, draped in pink damask; and similar damask, with
little of its color left, formed the long overdrapes at the window.
The Nottingham-lace curtains beneath were wrinkled and soiled.
Opposite the bed was a fireplace, on the hearth of which lay a
collection of polished conch shells; and beside it stood a high
spool what-not overladen with all manner of hideous trifles of the
period.  Several large faded oil paintings were suspended about the
walls on wide satin ribbons which were tied in bows at the
moulding.

As we entered, a tall, capable-looking gray-haired woman, in a
Hoover apron, stepped aside to make way for us.

"You had better remain, Mrs. Schwarz," the doctor suggested as we
passed her.

On the far side of the room, near the window, stood Mrs. Stamm; and
the sight of her sent a strange chill through me.  She was leaning
with both hands on the back of a chair, her head thrust forward in
an attitude of fearful expectancy.  Even in the brilliant light of
the room her eyes seemed to contain a fiery quality.  She was a
small, slender woman, but she gave forth an irresistible impression
of great strength and vitality, as if every sinew in her body were
like whipcord; and her large-boned hands, as they grasped the back
of the chair, were more like a man's than a woman's.  (The idea
occurred to me that she could easily have lifted the chair and
swung it about.)  Her nose was Roman and pinched; and her mouth was
a long slit distorted into a sardonic smile.  Her hair was gray,
streaked with black, and was tucked back over prominent ears.  She
wore a faded red silk kimono which trailed the floor, showing only
the toes of her knitted slippers.

Doctor Holliday made a brief, nervous presentation which Mrs. Stamm
did not even acknowledge.  She stood gazing at us with that twisted
smile, as if gloating over something that only she herself knew.
Then, after several moments' scrutiny, the smile faded from her
mouth, and a look of terrifying hardness came into her face.  Her
lips parted, and the blazing light in her eyes grew brighter.

"The dragon did it!" were her first words to us.  "I tell you the
dragon did it!  There's nothing more you can do about it!"

"What dragon, Mrs. Stamm?" asked Vance quietly.

"What dragon, indeed!"  She gave a scornful hollow laugh.  "The
dragon that lives down there in the pool below my window."  She
pointed vaguely with her hand.  "Why do you think it's called the
Dragon Pool?  I'll tell you why.  Because it's the home of the
dragon--the old water-dragon that guards the lives and the fortunes
of the Stamms.  When any danger threatens my family the dragon
arises in his wrath."

"And what makes you think"--Vance's voice was mild and sympathetic--
"that the dragon exercised his tutelary powers tonight?"

"Oh, I know, I know!"  A shrewd fanatical light came into her eyes,
and again that hideous smile appeared on her lips.  "I sit here
alone in this room, year in and year out; yet I know all that is
going on.  They try to keep things from me, but they can't.  I know
all that has happened the last two days--I am aware of all the
intrigues that are gathering about my house.  And when I heard
strange voices a while ago, I came to the top of the stairs and
listened.  I heard what my poor son said.  Sanford Montague dived
into the pool--and he didn't come up!  He couldn't come up--he will
never come up!  The dragon killed him--caught him beneath the water
and held him there and killed him."

"But Mr. Montague was not an enemy," Vance suggested mildly.  "Why
should the protective deity of your family kill him?"

"Mr. Montague WAS an enemy," the woman declared, pushing the chair
aside and stepping forward.  "He had fascinated my little girl and
planned to marry her.  But he wasn't worthy of her.  He was always
lying to her, and when her back was turned he was having affairs
with other women.  Oh, I've witnessed much these last two days!"

"I see what you mean," nodded Vance.  "But is it not possible that,
after all, the dragon is only a myth?"

"A myth?"  The woman spoke with the calmness of conviction.  "No,
he's no myth.  I've seen him too often.  I saw him as a child.  And
when I was a young girl I talked with many people who had seen him.
The old Indians in the village saw him too.  They used to tell me
about him when I would go to their huts.  And in the long summer
twilights I would sit on the top of the cliff and watch for him to
come out of the pool, for water-dragons always come out after
sundown.  And sometimes, when the shadows were deep over the hills
and the mists came drifting down the river, he would rise from the
water and fly away--yonder--to the north.  And then I would sit up
all night at my window, when my governess thought I was asleep, and
wait for his return; for I knew he was a friend and would protect
me; and I was afraid to go to sleep until he had come back to our
pool.  But sometimes, when I waited for him on the cliff, he
wouldn't come out of the pool at all, but would just ripple the
water a little to let me know he was there.  And those were the
nights when I could sleep, for I didn't have to sit up and wait for
his return."

Mrs. Stamm's voice, as she related these strange imaginary things,
was poetic in its intensity.  She stood before us, her arms hanging
calmly at her sides, her eyes, which now seemed to have become
misty, gazing past us over our heads.

"That's all very interestin'," Vance murmured politely; but I
noticed that he kept a steady, appraising gaze on the woman from
beneath partly lowered eyelids.  "However, could not all that you
have told us be accounted for by the romantic imaginings of a
child?  After all, don't y' know, the existence of dragons scarcely
fits in with the conceptions of modern science."

"Modern science--bah!"  She turned scornful eyes on Vance and spoke
with almost vitriolic bitterness.  "Science--science, indeed!  A
pleasant word to cover man's ignorance.  What does any man know of
the laws of birth and growth and life and death?  What does any man
know of what goes on under the water?  And the greater part of the
world is water--unfathomable depths of water.  My son collects a
few specimens of fish from the mouths of rivers and from shallow
streams--but has he ever plumbed the depths of the vast oceans?
Can he say that no monsters dwell in those depths?  And even the
few fish he has caught are mysteries to him.  Neither he nor any
other fish collector knows anything about them. . . .  Don't talk
to me of science, young man.  I know what these old eyes have
seen!"

"All that you say is quite true," Vance concurred, in a low voice.
"But even admitting that some giant flying fish inhabits this pool
from time to time, are you not attributing to him too great an
intelligence--too great an insight into the affairs of your
household?"

"How," she retorted contemptuously, "can any one gauge the
intelligence of creatures of whom one knows nothing?  Man flatters
himself by assuming that no creature can have a greater
intelligence than his own."

Vance smiled faintly.

"You are no lover of humanity, I perceive."

"I hate humanity," the woman declared bitterly.  "This would be a
cleaner, better world if mankind had been omitted from the scheme
of things."

"Yes, yes, of course."  Vance's tone suddenly changed, and he spoke
with a certain decisive positivity.  "But may I ask--the hour is
getting rather late, y' know--just why you insisted on seeing us?"

The woman stiffened and leaned forward.  The intense hysterical
look came back into her eyes, and her hands flexed at her sides.

"You're the police--aren't you?--and you're here trying to find out
things. . . .  I wanted to tell you how Mr. Montague lost his life.
Listen to me!  He was killed by the dragon--do you understand that?
He was killed by the dragon!  No one in this house had anything to
do with his death--no one! . . .  That's what I wanted to tell
you."  Her voice rose as she spoke, and there was a terrific
passion in her words.

Vance's steady gaze did not leave her.

"But why, Mrs. Stamm," he asked, "do you assume that we think some
one here had a hand in Montague's death?"

"You wouldn't be here if you didn't think so," she retorted
angrily, with an artful gleam in her eyes.

"Was what you heard your son say, just before you screamed," Vance
asked, "the first inkling you had of the tragedy?"

"Yes!"  The word was an ejaculation.  But she added more calmly:
"I have known for days that tragedy was hanging over this house."

"Then why did you scream, Mrs. Stamm?"

"I was startled--and terrified, perhaps--when I realized what the
dragon had done."

"But how could you possibly have known," argued Vance, "that it was
the dragon who was responsible for Montague's disappearance under
the water?"

Again the woman's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile.

"Because of what I had heard and seen earlier tonight."

"Ah!"

"Oh, yes!  About an hour ago I was standing by the window here,
looking down at the pool--for some reason I was unable to sleep and
had gotten out of bed.  Suddenly I saw a great shape against the
sky, and I heard the familiar flutter of wings coming nearer . . .
nearer. . . .  And then I saw the dragon sweep over the tree-tops
and down before the face of the cliff opposite.  And I saw him dive
into the pool with a great splash, and I saw the white spray rise
from the water where he had disappeared. . . .  And then all was
silence again.  The dragon had returned to his home."

Vance walked to the window and looked out.

"It's pretty dark," he commented.  "I'm dashed if I can see the
cliff from here--or even the water."

"But _I_ can see--_I_ can see," the woman protested shrilly,
turning on Vance and shaking her finger at him.  "I can see many
things that other people can't see.  And I tell you I saw the
dragon return--"

"Return?" repeated Vance, studying the woman calmly.  "Return from
where?"

She gave a shrewd smile.

"I won't tell you that--I won't give away the dragon's secret. . . .
But I will tell you this," she went on: "he had taken the body
away to hide it."

"Mr. Montague's body?"

"Of course.  He never leaves the bodies of his victims in the
pool."

"Then there have been other victims?" Vance inquired.

"Many victims."  The woman spoke in a strained sepulchral voice.
"And he always hides their bodies."

"It might upset your theory a bit, Mrs. Stamm," Vance pointed out
to her, "if we should find Mr. Montague's body in the pool."

She chuckled in a way that sent a shiver through me.

"Find his body?  Find his body in the pool?  You can't find it.
It's not there!"

Vance regarded her a moment in silence.  Then he bowed.

"Thank you, Mrs. Stamm, for your information and help.  I trust the
episode has not disturbed you too much and that you will rest
tonight."

He turned and walked toward the door, and the rest of us followed
him.  In the hall Doctor Holliday stopped.

"I'm staying up here for a while," he told Vance.  "I think I can
get her to sleep now. . . .  But, for Heaven's sake, don't take
anything she said tonight seriously.  She often has these little
periods of hallucinosis.  It's really nothing to worry about."

"I quite understand," Vance returned, shaking hands with him.



CHAPTER VI

A CONTRETEMPS


(Sunday, August 12; 2.20 a. m.)


We descended to the main hallway, and Vance led the way back to the
drawing-room.

"Well, are you through now?" Markham asked him irritably.

"Not quite."

I had rarely seen Vance so serious or so reluctant to postpone an
investigation.  I knew that he had been deeply interested in Mrs.
Stamm's hysterical recital; but I could not understand, at the
time, his reason for prolonging an interview that seemed to me both
futile and tragic.  As he stood before the fireplace his mind
seemed far away, and there was a puzzled corrugation on his
forehead.  He watched the curling smoke from his cigarette for
several moments.  Suddenly, with a slight toss of the head, he
brought himself back to his surroundings and turned to Leland who
was leaning against the centre-table.

"What did Mrs. Stamm mean," he asked, "when she referred to other
victims whose bodies the dragon had hidden?"

Leland moved uneasily and looked down at his pipe.

"There was a modicum of truth in that remark," he returned.  "There
have been two authentic deaths in the pool that I know of.  But
Mrs. Stamm was probably referring also to the wild stories which
the old crones tell of mysterious disappearances in the pool in the
old days."

"Sounds something like the old-timers' tales of Kehoe's Hole in
Newark.* . . .  What were the two authentic cases you speak of?"


* Kehoe's Hole, of which the lake in West Side Park, Newark, is the
last vestige, has had a most unusual history.  The once great swamp
was also called, at different times, Magnolia Swamp and Turtle
Ditch, and an enterprising newspaper reporter has dubbed the
present lake Suicide Lake.  The old swamp had the distinction of
being considered bottomless; and many strange tales are told, by
the old-timers and pseudo-archivists in the neighborhood, of
mysterious drownings in its waters, and of the remarkable
disappearances of the bodies despite every effort to find them.
One story tells of the disappearance beneath its surface of a team
of horses and a wagon.  These amazing tales--extending over a
period of forty years or more--may be accounted for by the fact
that there were once quicksands in parts of the swamp.  But
tradition still has it that the bottom of the present lake has not
been fathomed and that once a body sinks beneath its surface, it is
never found.


"One happened about seven years ago, shortly after Stamm and I
returned from our expedition to Cocos Island.  Two suspicious
characters were scouting the neighborhood--probably with a view to
burglary--and one of them fell off the cliff on the far side of the
pool, and was evidently drowned.  Two schoolgirls from this
vicinity saw him fall, and later the police picked up his companion
who eventually, under questioning, verified the other's
disappearance."

"Disappearance?"

Leland nodded grimly.

"His body was never found."

There was the suggestion of a skeptical smile on Vance's mouth as
he asked:  "How do you account for that?"

"There is only one sensible way of accounting for it," answered
Leland, with a slightly aggressive accent, as if endeavoring to
convince himself with his own words.  "The stream gets swollen at
times, and there is quite a flow of water over the dam--sufficient
to carry a floating body over, if it happened to be caught by the
current at a certain angle.  This fellow's body was probably washed
over the dam and carried down to the Hudson River."

"A bit far-fetched, but none the less tenable. . . .  And the other
case?"

"Some boys trespassed here one afternoon and went swimming.  One of
them, as I recall, dived from a ledge of the cliff into the shallow
water, and did not come up.  As soon as the authorities were
notified--by an unidentified telephone call, incidentally--the pool
was drained, but there was no trace of the body.  Later, however,
after the newspapers had made a two-days' sensation of the affair,
the boy's body was found in the Indian Cave on the other side of
the Clove.  He had fractured his skull."

"And do you, by any chance, have an explanation for that episode
also?" Vance asked, with a tinge of curtness.

Leland shot him a quick glance.

"I should say the boy struck his head in diving, and the other boys
in the party became frightened and, not wanting to leave the body
in the pool, lest they become involved, carried it down to the cave
and hid it.  It was probably one of them that telephoned to the
police."

"Oh, quite.  Very simple, don't y' know."  Vance looked into space
meditatively.  "Yet both cases have ample esoteric implications to
have taken root in Mrs. Stamm's weakened mind."

"Undoubtedly," Leland agreed.

A short silence ensued.  Vance walked slowly across the room and
back, his hands in his outer coat pockets, his head forward on his
chest, his cigarette drooping from his lips.  I knew what this
attitude signified:--some stimulus had suddenly roused a train of
thought in his mind.  He again took up his position before the
mantel and crushed out his cigarette on the hearth.  He slowly
turned his head toward Leland.

"You mentioned your expedition to Cocos Island," he said lazily.
"Was it the lure of the Mary Dear treasure?"

"Oh, yes.  The other famous caches are all too vague.  Captain
Thompson's treasure, however, is undeniably real and unquestionably
the largest."

"Did you use the Keating map?"*


* What is purported to be the Keating map, or a copy of it, has
been almost generally used by treasure seekers on Cocos Island.  It
is supposed to have been made by Captain Thompson himself, who left
it to a friend named Keating.  Keating, with a Captain Bogue,
outfitted an expedition to the island.  There was mutiny on board
the boat, and Bogue died on the island; but Keating miraculously
escaped.  At his death his widow turned the map over to Nicholas
Fitzgerald, who, in turn, willed it to Commodore Curzon-Howe of the
British navy.


"Not altogether."  Leland seemed as puzzled as the rest of us by
Vance's line of questioning.  "It is hardly authentic now, and I
imagine several purely romantic directions entered into it--such as
the stone turnstile to the cave.  Stamm ran across an old map in
his travels, which antedated, by many years, the original British
survey of Cocos Island of 1838.  So similar was it to this chart
that he believed it to be genuine.  We followed the directions on
this map, checking them with the navigators' chart in the
Hydrographic Office of the United States Navy Department."

"Did this map of Stamm's," pursued Vance, "indicate the treasure as
hidden in one of the island caves?"

"The details were a bit hazy on that point.  And that was what so
impressed Stamm and, I must confess, myself also.  You see, this
old map differed in one vital respect from the United States Navy
navigators' chart, in that it indicated land where the United
States chart shows Wafer Bay; and it was on this section of land
that the hiding-place of the treasure was indicated."

A flicker came into Vance's eyes, but when he spoke his tone was
casual and but mildly animated.

"By Jove!  I see the point.  Most interestin'.  There's no doubt
that landslides and tropical rains have altered the topography of
Cocos Island, and many of the old landmarks have doubtless
disappeared.  I presume Mr. Stamm assumed that the land where the
treasure was originally hidden now lies under the waters of the bay
which is indicated on the more recent charts."

"Exactly.  Even the French survey of 1889 did not show as large a
bay as the American survey made in 1891; and it was Stamm's theory
that the treasure lay beneath the waters of Wafer Bay, which is
rather shallow at that spot."

"A difficult undertaking," Vance commented.  "How long were you at
the island?"

"The better part of three months."  Leland smiled ruefully.  "It
took Stamm that length of time to realize that he did not possess
the proper equipment.  The shoals in the bay are treacherous, and
there are curious holes at the bottom of the water, owing, no
doubt, to geological conditions; and our diving equipment would
have been scorned by any good pearl-fisher.  What we needed, of
course, was a specially constructed diving-bell, something like Mr.
Beebe's bathysphere.  Even that would have been just a beginning,
for we were helpless without powerful submarine dredges.  The one
we took along was wholly inadequate. . . ."

Markham, who had been noticeably chafing under Vance's discussion
of hidden treasure, now rose and strode forward, his cigar held
tightly between his teeth.

"Where is all this getting us, Vance?  If you are contemplating a
trip to Cocos Island, I'm sure Mr. Leland would be willing to make
a future appointment with you to discuss the details.  And as for
all the other investigations you have made here tonight: I can't
see that anything has been brought to light that hasn't an entirely
normal and logical explanation."

Heath, who had been following all the proceedings closely, now
projected himself into the conversation.

"I'm not so sure about things around here being normal, sir."
Though deferential, his tone was vigorous.  "I'm for going ahead
with this case.  Some mighty queer things have happened tonight,
and I don't like 'em."

Vance smiled appreciatively at the Sergeant.

"Stout fella!"  He glanced toward Markham.  "Another half-hour and
we'll stagger home."

Markham gave in ungraciously.

"What more do you want to do here tonight?"

Vance lighted another cigarette.

"I could bear to commune with Greeff. . . .  Suppose you tell the
butler to fetch him, Sergeant."

A few minutes later Alex Greeff was ushered into the drawing-room
by Trainor.  He was a large, powerfully built man, with a ruddy
bulldog type of face--wide-spaced eyes, a short, thick nose, heavy
lips, and a strong, square chin.  He was slightly bald, and there
were cushions of gray hair over his small, close-set ears.  He was
wearing a conventional dinner suit, but there were certain touches
of vulgar elegance in his attire.  The satin lapels of his coat
were highly peaked.  There were two diamond studs in his shirt-
bosom.  Across his satin waistcoat was draped a platinum chain set
with large pearls.  His tie, instead of being solid black, had
white pin-stripes running through it; and his wing collar seemed
too high for his stocky neck.

He took a few steps toward us with his hands in his pockets,
planted himself firmly, and glowered at us angrily.

"I understand one of you gentlemen is the District Attorney--" he
began aggressively.

"Oh, quite."  Vance indicated Markham with a careless movement of
the hand.

Greeff now centred his bellicose attention on Markham.

"Well, perhaps YOU can tell me, sir," he growled, "why I am being
held a virtual prisoner in this house.  This man"--indicating Heath--
"ordered me to remain in my room until further notice, and refused
to let me go home.  What is the meaning of such high-handed
tactics?"

"A tragedy has taken place here tonight, Mr. Greeff--" Markham
began, but he was interrupted by the other.

"Suppose an accident HAS happened, is that any reason why I should
be held a prisoner without due process of law?"

"There are certain phases of the case," Markham told him, "that we
are looking into, and it was to facilitate the investigation that
Sergeant Heath requested all the witnesses to remain here until we
could question them."

"Well, go ahead and question me."  Greeff seemed a little
mollified, and his tone had lost some of its belligerency.

Vance moved forward.

"Sit down and have a smoke, Mr. Greeff," he suggested pleasantly.
"We sha'n't keep you long."

Greeff hesitated, looked at Vance suspiciously; then shrugged, and
drew up a chair.  Vance waited until the man had fitted a cigarette
into a long jewelled holder, and then asked:

"Did you notice--or sense--anything peculiar about Montague's
disappearance in the pool tonight?"

"Peculiar?"  Greeff looked up slowly, and his eyes narrowed to
shrewd slits.  "So that's the angle, is it?  Well, I'm not saying
there wasn't something peculiar about it, now that you mention it;
but I'm damned if I can tell you what it was."

"That seems to be the general impression," Vance returned; "but I
was hoping you might be more lucid on the point than the others
have been."

"What's there to be lucid about?"  Greeff seemed to be avoiding the
issue.  "I suppose it's reasonable enough when a chap like Montague--
who's always been riding for a fall--gets what's coming to him.
But somehow, when it happens so neatly and at the right time, we're
apt to think it's peculiar."

"Yes, yes, of course.  But it wasn't the logical eventualities I
was referring to."  Vance's voice held a tinge of annoyance.  "I
was referring to the fact that the conditions in the house here
during the last two days constituted a perfect atmosphere for a
type of tragedy quite removed from the merely accidental."

"You're right about the atmosphere."  Greeff spoke harshly.  "There
was murder in the air--if that's what you mean.  And if Montague
had passed out by any other means except drowning, I'd say his
death warranted a pretty thorough investigation.  But he wasn't
poisoned; he wasn't accidentally shot; he didn't get vertigo and
fall out of a window; and he didn't tumble down-stairs and break
his neck.  He simply dived off a spring-board, with every one
looking on."

"That's what makes it so difficult, don't y' know. . . .  I
understand that you and Mr. Leland and young Tatum dived in after
the johnny."

"It was the least we could do," Greeff came back pugnaciously;
"though I'm frank to admit it was more or less a gesture on my
part, as I can't swim much, and if I had run into him he'd probably
have dragged me down with him.  Still, you hate to see any fellow,
however rotten, pass out of this world in front of your eyes
without making some attempt to save him."

"Quite noble of you, I'm sure," Vance murmured indifferently.  "By
the by, I understand Montague was engaged to Miss Stamm."

Greeff nodded and drew on his cigarette.

"I never knew why it was, except that good women always fall for
that type of man," he commented, with a philosophic air.  "But I
think she would have broken the engagement sooner or later."

"Would you mind my asking what your own feelings toward Miss Stamm
are?"

Greeff opened his eyes in surprise, then laughed noisily.

"I see what you're getting at.  But you can't make me out the
villain of the piece.  I like Bernice--everybody who knows her
likes her.  But as for my being sentimental about her: I'm too old
and wise for that.  My feeling for her has always been a fatherly
one.  She often comes to me for advice when Stamm's too deep in his
cups.  And I give her good advice--yes, by Gad!  I told her only
yesterday that she was making a fool of herself to think of
marrying Montague."

"How did she take this advice, Mr. Greeff?"

"The way all women take advice--haughtily and contemptuously.  No
woman ever wants advice.  Even when they ask for it, they're merely
looking for agreement with what they've already decided to do."

Vance changed the subject.

"Just what do you think happened to Montague tonight?"

Greeff spread his hands vaguely.

"Bumped his head on the bottom--or got a cramp.  What else could
have happened to him?"

"I haven't the vaguest notion," Vance admitted blandly.  "But the
episode is teeming with possibilities.  I was hopin', don't y'
know, that you might help to lead us out of our darkness."  He
spoke lightly, but his eyes were fixed with cold steadiness on the
man opposite.

Greeff returned the gaze for several moments in silence, and his
ruddy face tightened into a mask.

"I understand perfectly," he enunciated at length, in a chill, even
tone.  "But my advice to you, my friend, is to forget it.  Montague
had it coming to him, and he got it.  It was an accident that
fitted in with everybody's wishes.  You can play with the idea till
doomsday, but you'll end up with the fact I'm telling you now:
MONTAGUE WAS ACCIDENTALLY DROWNED."

Vance smiled cynically.

"My word!  Are you intimatin' that Montague's death is that
liter'ry pet of the armchair criminologists--the perfect crime?"

Greeff moved forward in his chair and set his jaw.

"I'm not intimating anything, my friend.  I'm merely telling you."

"Really, y' know, we're dashed grateful."  Vance crushed out his
cigarette.  "Anyway, I think we'll do a bit of pryin' around. . . ."

At this moment there came an interruption.  We heard what sounded
like a scuffle on the stairs, and there came to us the angry,
shrill tones of Stamm's voice:

"Let go of my arm.  I know what I'm doing."

And then Stamm jerked the drawing-room portières aside and glared
at us.  Behind him, fuming and remonstrative, stood Doctor
Holliday.  Stamm was clad in his pajamas, and his hair was
dishevelled.  It was obvious that he had just risen from bed.  He
fixed his watery eyes on Greeff with angry apprehension.

"What are you telling these policemen?" he demanded, bracing
himself against the door jamb.

"My dear Rudolf," Greeff protested ingratiatingly, rising from his
chair.  "I'm telling them nothing.  What is there to tell?"

"I don't trust you," Stamm retorted.  "You're trying to make
trouble.  You're always trying to make trouble here.  You've tried
to turn Bernice against me, and now, I'll warrant, you're trying to
turn these policemen against me."  His eyes glared, and he had
begun to tremble.  "I know what you're after--money!  But you're
not going to get it.  You think that if you talk enough you can
blackmail me. . . ."  His voice sank almost to a whisper, and his
words become incoherent.

Doctor Holliday took him gently by the arm and tried to lead him
from the room, but Stamm, with an exhausting effort, threw him off
and moved unsteadily forward.

Greeff had stood calmly during this tirade, looking at his accuser
with an expression of commiseration and pity.

"You're making a great mistake, old friend," he said in a quiet
voice.  "You're not yourself tonight.  Tomorrow you'll realize the
injustice of your words, just as you'll realize that I would never
betray you."

"Oh, you wouldn't, eh?"  Much of the anger had gone out of Stamm's
attitude, but he still seemed to be dominated by the idea of
Greeff's persecution.  "I suppose you haven't been telling these
people"--he jerked his head toward us--"what I said about Montague--"

Greeff raised his hand in protest and was about to reply, but Stamm
went on hurriedly:

"Well, suppose I did say it!  I had more right to say it than any
one else.  And as far as that goes, you've said worse things.  You
hated him more than I did."  Stamm cackled unpleasantly.  "And I
know why.  You haven't pulled the wool over my eyes about your
feelings for Bernice."  He raised his arm and wagged a quivering
finger at Greeff.  "If anybody murdered Montague, it was you!"

Exhausted by his effort, he sank into a chair and began to shake as
if with palsy.

Vance stepped quickly to the stricken man.

"I think a grave mistake has been made here tonight, Mr. Stamm," he
said in a kindly but determined voice.  "Mr. Greeff has reported
nothing to us that you have said.  No remark he has made to us
could possibly be construed as disloyalty to you.  I'm afraid
you're a bit overwrought."

Stamm looked up blearily, and Greeff went to his side, placing a
hand on his shoulder.

"Come, old friend," he said, "you need rest."

Stamm hesitated.  A weary sob shook his body and he permitted
Greeff and Doctor Holliday to lift him from the chair and lead him
to the door.

"That will be all tonight, Mr. Greeff," Vance said.  "But we will
have to ask you to remain here till tomorrow."

Greeff turned his head and nodded over his shoulder.

"Oh, t