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Title: The Garden Murder Case (1935)
A Philo Vance Story
Author: S. S. Van Dine
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Title: The Garden Murder Case (1935)
A Philo Vance Story
Author: S. S. Van Dine
An two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind.--
Much Ado About Nothing.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE TROJAN HORSES
II. DOMESTIC REVELATIONS
III. THE RIVERMONT RACES
IV. THE FIRST TRAGEDY
V. A SEARCH IN THE VAULT
VI. AN INTERRUPTED INTERVIEW
VII. EVIDENCE OF MURDER
VIII. DISCONNECTED WIRES
IX. TWO CIGARETTE STUBS
X. THE $10,000 BET
XI. THE SECOND REVOLVER
XII. POISON GAS
XIII. THE AZURE STAR
XIV. RADIOACTIVE SODIUM
XV. THREE VISITORS
XVI. THROUGH THE GARDEN DOOR
XVII. AN UNEXPECTED SHOT
XVIII. THE SCRATCH SHEET
CHARACTERS OF THE BOOK
PHILO VANCE
JOHN F.-X. MARKHAM
District Attorney of New York County.
ERNEST HEATH
Sergeant of the Homicide Bureau.
EPHRAIM GARDEN
Professor of chemistry.
MARTHA GARDEN
Professor Garden's wife.
FLOYD GARDEN
Their son.
WOODE SWIFT
Nephew of the Gardens.
ZALIA GRAEM
Young sportswoman, and friend of Floyd Garden.
LOWE HAMMLE
An elderly follower of horse-racing.
MADGE WEATHERBY
A woman with dramatic aspirations.
CECIL KROON
Another of Floyd Garden's friends.
BERNICE BEETON
A nurse in the Garden home.
DOCTOR MILES SIEFERT
The Gardens' family physician.
SNEED
The Garden butler.
HENNESSEY
Detective of the Homicide Bureau.
SNITKIN
Detective of the Homicide Bureau.
SULLIVAN
Detective of the Homicide Bureau.
BURKE
Detective of the Homicide Bureau.
DOCTOR EMANUEL DOREMUS
Medical Examiner.
CAPTAIN DUBOIS
Finger-print expert.
DETECTIVE BELLAMY
Finger-print expert.
PETER QUACKENBUSH
Official photographer.
JACOB HANNIX
A book-maker.
CURRIE
Vance's valet.
THE GARDEN MURDER CASE
CHAPTER I
THE TROJAN HORSES
(_Friday, April 13; 10 p.m._)
There were two reasons why the terrible and, in many ways, incredible
Garden murder case--which took place in the early spring following the
spectacular Casino murder case* (*"The Casino Murder Case" [1934])--was
so designated. In the first place, the scene of this tragedy was the
penthouse home of Professor Ephraim Garden, the great experimental
chemist of Stuyvesant University; and secondly, the exact _situs
criminis_ was the beautiful private roof-garden over the apartment
itself.
It was both a peculiar and implausible affair, and one so cleverly
planned that only by the merest accident--or, perhaps I should say a
fortuitous intervention--was it discovered at all. Despite the fact
that the circumstances preceding the crime were entirely in Philo
Vance's favor, I cannot help regarding it as one of his greatest
triumphs in criminal investigation and deduction; for it was his quick
uncanny judgments, his ability to read human nature, and his tremendous
flair for the significant undercurrents of the so-called trivia of
life, that led him to the truth.
The Garden murder case involved a curious and anomalous mixture of
passion, avarice, ambition and horse-racing. There was an admixture of
hate, also; but this potent and blinding element was, I imagine, an
understandable outgrowth of the other factors. However, the case was
amazing in its subtleties, its daring, its thought-out mechanism, and
its sheer psychological excitation.
The beginning of the case came on the night of April 13. It was one of
those mild evenings that we often experience in early spring following
a spell of harsh dampness, when all the remaining traces of winter
finally capitulate to the inevitable seasonal changes. There was a
mellow softness in the air, a sudden perfume from the burgeoning life
of nature--the kind of atmosphere that makes one lackadaisical and
wistful, and, at the same time, stimulates one's imagination.
I mention this seemingly irrelevant fact because I have good reason to
believe these meteorological conditions had much to do with the
startling events that were imminent that night and which were to break
forth, in all their horror, before another twenty-four hours had
passed.
And I believe that the season, with all its subtle innuendoes, was the
real explanation of the change that came over Vance himself during his
investigation of the crime. Up to that time I had never considered
Vance a man of any deep personal emotion, except in so far as children
and animals and his intimate masculine friendships were concerned. He
had always impressed me as a man so highly mentalized, so cynical and
impersonal in his attitude toward life, that an irrational human
weakness like romance would be alien to his nature. But in the course
of his deft inquiry into the murders in Professor Garden's penthouse, I
saw, for the first time, another and softer side of his character.
Vance was never a happy man in the conventional sense; but after the
Garden murder case there were evidences of an even deeper loneliness in
his sensitive nature.
But these sentimental side-lights perhaps do not matter in the
reportorial account of the astonishing history I am here setting down,
and I doubt if they should have been mentioned at all but for the fact
that they gave an added inspiration and impetus to the energy Vance
exerted and the risks he ran in bringing the murderer to justice.
As I have said, the case opened--so far as Vance was concerned with it--
on the night of April 13. John F.-X. Markham, then District Attorney
of New York County, had dined with Vance at his apartment in East 38th
Street. The dinner had been excellent--as all of Vance's dinners were--
and at ten o'clock the three of us were sitting in the comfortable
library, sipping _Napoléon_ 1809--that famous and exquisite cognac
brandy of the First Empire.* (*I realize that this statement will call
forth considerable doubt, for real _Napoléon_ brandy is practically
unknown in America. But Vance had obtained a case in France; and Lawton
Mackall, an exacting connoisseur, has assured me that, contrary to the
existing notion among experts, there are at least eight hundred cases
of this brandy in a warehouse in Cognac at the present day.)
Vance and Markham had been discussing crime waves in a desultory
manner. There had been a mild disagreement, Vance discounting the
theory that crime waves are calculable, and holding that crime is
entirely personal and therefore incompatible with generalizations or
laws. The conversation had then drifted round to the bored young people
of post-war decadence who had, for the sheer excitement of it,
organized crime clubs whose members tried their hand at murders wherein
nothing was to be gained materially. The Loeb-Leopold case naturally
was mentioned, and also a more recent and equally vicious case that had
just come to light in one of the leading western cities.
It was in the midst of this discussion that Currie, Vance's old English
butler and major-domo, appeared at the library door. I noticed that he
seemed nervous and ill at ease as he waited for Vance to finish
speaking; and I think Vance, too, sensed something unusual in the man's
attitude, for he stopped speaking rather abruptly and turned.
"What is it, Currie? Have you seen a ghost, or are there burglars in
the house?"
"I have just had a telephone call, sir," the old man answered,
endeavoring to restrain the excitement in his voice.
"Not bad news from abroad?" Vance asked sympathetically.
"Oh, no, sir; it wasn't anything for me. There was a gentleman on the
phone--"
Vance lifted his eyebrows and smiled faintly. "A gentleman, Currie?"
"He spoke like a gentleman, sir. He was certainly no ordinary person.
He had a cultured voice, sir, and--"
"Since your instinct has gone so far," Vance interrupted, "perhaps you
can tell me the gentleman's age?"
"I should say he was middle-aged, or perhaps a little beyond," Currie
ventured. "His voice sounded mature and dignified and judicial."
"Excellent!" Vance crushed out his cigarette. "And what was the object
of this dignified, middle-aged gentleman's call? Did he ask to speak to
me or give you his name?"
A worried look came into Currie's eyes as he shook head.
"No, sir. That's the strange part of it. He said he did not wish to
speak to you personally, and he would not tell me his name. But he
asked me to give you a message. He was very precise about it and made
me write it down word for word and then repeat it. And the moment I had
done so he hung up the receiver." Currie stepped forward. "Here's the
message, sir." And he held out one of the small memorandum sheets Vance
always kept at his telephone.
Vance took it and nodded a dismissal. Then he adjusted his monocle and
held the slip of paper under the light of the table lamp. Markham and I
both watched him closely, for the incident was unusual, to say the
least. After a hasty reading of the paper he gazed off into space, and
a clouded look came into his eyes. He read the message again, with more
care, and sank back into his chair.
"My word!" he murmured. "Most extr'ordin'ry. It's quite intelligible,
however, don't y' know. But I'm dashed if I can see the connection..."
Markham was annoyed. "Is it a secret?" he asked testily. "Or are you
merely in one of your Delphic-oracle moods?"
Vance glanced toward him contritely.
"Forgive me, Markham. My mind automatically went off on a train of
thought. Sorry--really." He held the paper again under the light. "This
is the message that Currie so meticulously took down: 'There is a most
disturbing psychological tension at Professor Ephraim Garden's
apartment, which resists diagnosis. Read up on radioactive sodium. See
Book XI of the _Aeneid_, line 875. Equanimity is essential.'...Curious--eh,
what?"
"It sounds a little crazy to me," Markham grunted. "Are you troubled
much with cranks?"
"Oh, this is no crank," Vance assured him. "It's puzzlin', I admit; but
it's quite lucid."
Markham sniffed skeptically.
"What, in the name of Heaven, have a professor and sodium and the
_Aeneid_ to do with one another?"
Vance was frowning as he reached into the humidor for one of his
beloved _Régie_ cigarettes with a deliberation which indicated a mental
tension. Slowly he lighted the cigarette. After a deep inhalation he
answered.
"Ephraim Garden, of whom you surely must have heard from time to time,
is one of the best-known men in chemical research in this country. Just
now, I believe, he's professor of chemistry at Stuyvesant University--
that could be verified in _Who's Who_. But it doesn't matter. His
latest researches have been directed along the lines of radioactive
sodium. An amazin' discovery, Markham. Made by Doctor Ernest 0.
Lawrence, of the University of California, and two of his colleagues
there, Doctors Henderson and McMillan. This new radioactive sodium has
opened up new fields of research in cancer therapy--indeed, it may
prove some day to be the long-looked-for cure for cancer. The new gamma
radiation of this sodium is more penetrating than any ever before
obtained. On the other hand, radium and radioactive substances can be
very dangerous if diffused into the normal tissues of the body and
through the blood stream. The chief difficulty in the treatment of
cancerous tissue by radiation is to find a selective carrier which will
distribute the radioactive substance in the tumor alone. But with the
discovery of radioactive sodium tremendous advances have been made; and
it will be but a matter of time when this new sodium will be perfected
and available in sufficient quantities for extensive experimentation...."*
(*It is interesting to note the recent announcement that a
magnetic accelerator of five million volts and weighing ten tons for
the manufacture of artificial radium for the treatment of malignant
growths, such as cancer, is being built by the University of
Rochester.)
"That is all very fascinating," Markham commented sarcastically. "But
what has it to do with you, or with trouble in the Garden home? And
what could it possibly have to do with the _Aeneid_? They didn't have
radioactive sodium in the time of Aeneas."
"Markham old dear, I'm no Chaldean. I haven't the groggiest notion
wherein the situation concerns either me or Aeneas, except that I
happen to know the Garden family slightly. But I've a vague feeling
about that particular book of the _Aeneid_. As I recall, it contains
one of the greatest descriptions of battle in all ancient literature.
But let's see..." Vance rose quickly and went to the section of his
book-shelves devoted to the classics, and, after a few moments' search,
took down a small red volume and began to riffle the pages. He ran his
eye swiftly down a page near the end of the volume and after a minute's
perusal came back to his chair with the book, nodding his head
comprehensively, as if in answer to some question he had inwardly asked
himself.
"The passage referred to, Markham," he said after a moment, "is not
exactly what I had in mind. But it may be even more significant. It's
the famous onomatopoeic _Quadrupedumque putrem cursu quatit ungula
campum_--meanin', more or less literally: 'And in their galloping
course the horsehoof shakes the crumbling plain.'"
Markham took the cigar from his mouth and looked at Vance with
undisguised annoyance.
"You're merely working up a mystery. You'll be telling me next that the
Trojans had something to do with this professor of chemistry and his
radioactive sodium."
"No. Oh, no." Vance was in an unusually serious mood. "Not the Trojans.
But the galloping horses perhaps."
Markham snorted. "That may make sense to you."
"Not altogether," returned Vance, critically contemplating the end of
his cigarette. "There is, nevertheless, the vague outline of a pattern
here. You see, young Floyd Garden, the professor's only offspring, and
his cousin, a puny chap named Woode Swift--he's quite an intimate
member of the Garden household, I believe--are addicted to the ponies.
Quite a prevalent disease, by the way, Markham. They're both interested
in sports in general--probably the normal reaction to their
professorial and ecclesiastical forebears: young Swift's father, who
has now gone to his Maker, was a D.D. of sorts. I used to see both
young johnnies at Kinkaid's Casino occasionally. But the galloping
horses are their passion now. And they're the nucleus of a group of
young aristocrats who spend their afternoons mainly in the futile
attempt to guess which horses are going to come in first at the various
tracks."
"You know this Floyd Garden well?"
Vance nodded. "Fairly well. He's a member of the Far Meadows Club and
I've often played polo with him. He's a five-goaler and owns a couple
of the best ponies in the country. I tried to buy one of them from him
once--but that's beside the point.* (*At one time Vance was a polo
enthusiast and played regularly. He too had a five-goal rating.) The
fact is, young Garden has invited me on several occasions to join him
and his little group at the apartment when the out-of-town races were
on. It seems he has a direct loud-speaker service from all the tracks,
like many of the horse fanatics. The professor disapproves, in a mild
way, but he raises no serious objections because Mrs. Garden is rather
inclined to sit in and take her chances on a horse now and then."
"Have you ever accepted his invitation?" asked Markham.
"No," Vance told him. Then he glanced up with a far-away look in his
eyes. "But I think it might be an excellent idea."
"Come, come, Vance!" protested Markham. "Even if you see some cryptic
relationship between the disconnected items of this message you've just
received, how, in the name of Heaven, can you take it seriously?"
Vance drew deeply on his cigarette and waited a moment before
answering.
"You have overlooked one phrase in the message: 'Equanimity is
essential,'" he said at length. "One of the great race-horses of today
happens to be named Equanimity. He belongs in the company of such
immortals of the turf as Man o' War, Exterminator, Gallant Fox, and
Reigh Count.* (*When Vance read the proof of this record, he made a
marginaal notation: "And I might also have mentioned Sir Barton,
Sysonby, Colin, Crusader, Twenty Grand, and Equipoise.") Furthermore,
Equanimity is running in the Rivermont Handicap tomorrow."
"Still I see no reason to take the matter seriously," Markham objected.
Vance ignored the comment and added: "Moreover, Doctor Miles Siefert*
told me at the club the other day that Mrs. Garden had been quite ill
for some time with a mysterious malady." (*Miles Siefert was, at that
time, one of the leading pathologists of New York, with an extensive
practice among the fashionable element of the city.)
Markham shifted in his chair and broke the ashes from his cigar.
"The affair gets more muddled by the minute," he remarked irritably.
"What's the connection between all these commonplace data and that
precious phone message of yours?" He waved his hand contemptuously
toward the paper which Vance still held.
"I happen to know," Vance answered slowly, "who sent me this message."
"Ah, yes?" Markham was obviously skeptical.
"Quite. It was Doctor Siefert."
Markham showed a sudden interest.
"Would you care to enlighten me as to how you arrived at this
conclusion?" he asked in a satirical voice.
"It was not difficult," Vance answered, rising and standing before the
empty hearth, with one arm resting on the mantel. "To begin with, I was
not called to the telephone personally. Why? Because it was some one
who feared I might recognize his voice. Ergo, it was some one I know.
To continue, the language of the message bears the earmarks of the
medical profession. 'Psychological tension' and 'resists diagnosis' are
not phrases ordinarily used by the layman, although they consist of
commonplace enough words. And there are two such identifying phrases in
the message--a fact which eliminates any possibility of a coincidence.
Take this example, for instance: the word _uneventful_ is certainly a
word used by every class of person; but when it is coupled with another
ordin'ry word, _recovery_, you can rest pretty much assured that only a
doctor would use the phrase. It has a pertinent medical significance--
it's a _cliché_ of the medical profession...To go another step: the
message obviously assumes that I am more or less acquainted with the
Garden household and the race-track passion of young Garden. Therefore,
we get the result that the sender of the message is a doctor whom I
know and one who is aware of my acquaintance with the Gardens. The only
doctor who fulfills these conditions, and who, incidentally, is middle-aged
and cultured and highly judicial--Currie's description, y' know,--is
Miles Siefert. And, added to this simple deduction, I happen to know
that Siefert is a Latin scholar--I once encountered him at the Latin
Society club-rooms. Another point in my favor is the fact that he is
the family physician of the Gardens and would have ample opportunity to
know about the galloping horses--and perhaps about Equanimity in
particular--in connection with the Garden household."
"That being the case," Markham protested, "why don't you phone him and
find out exactly what's back of his cryptography?"
"My dear Markham--oh, my dear Markham!" Vance strolled to the table and
took up his temporarily forgotten cognac glass. "Siefert would not only
indignantly repudiate any knowledge of the message, but would
automatically become the first obstacle in any bit of pryin' I might
decide to do. The ethics of the medical profession are most fantastic;
and Siefert, as becomes his unique position, is a fanatic on the
subject. From the fact that he communicated with me in this roundabout
way I rather suspect that some grotesque point of honor is involved.
Perhaps his conscience overcame him for the moment, and he temporarily
relaxed his adherence to what he considers his code of honor...No,
no, that course wouldn't do at all. I must ferret out the matter for
myself--as he undoubtedly wishes me to do."
"But what is this matter that you feel called upon to ferret out?"
persisted Markham. "Granting all you say, I still don't see how you can
regard the situation as in any way serious."
"One never knows, does one?" drawled Vance. "Still, I'm rather fond of
the horses myself, don't know."
Markham seemed to relax and fitted his manner to Vance's change of
mood.
"And what do you propose to do?" he asked good-naturedly.
Vance sipped his cognac and then set down the glass. He looked up
whimsically.
"The Public Prosecutor of New York--that noble defender of the rights
of the common people--to wit: the Honorable John F.-X. Markham--must
grant me immunity and protection before I'll consent to answer."
Markham's eyelids drooped a little as he studied Vance. He was familiar
with the serious import that often lay beneath the other's most
frivolous remarks.
"Are you planning to break the law?" he asked.
Vance picked up the lotus-shaped cognac glass again and twirled it
gently between thumb and forefinger.
"Oh, yes--quite," he admitted nonchalantly. "Jailable offense, I
believe."
Markham studied him for another moment.
"All right," he said, without the slightest trace of lightness. "I'll
do what I can for you. What's it to be?"
Vance took another sip of the _Napoléon_.
"Well, Markham old dear," he announced, with a half smile, "I'm going
to the Gardens' penthouse tomorrow afternoon and play the horses with
the younger set."
CHAPTER II
DOMESTIC REVELATIONS
(_Saturday, April 14; noon._)
As soon as Markham had left us that night, Vance's mood changed. A
troubled look came into his eyes, and he walked up and down the room
pensively.
"I don't like it, Van," he murmured, as if talking to himself. "I don't
at all like it. Siefert isn't the type to make a mysterious phone call
like that, unless he has a very good reason for doing so. It's quite out
of character, don't y' know. He's a dashed conservative chap, and no end
ethical. There must be something worrying him deeply. But why the
Gardens' apartment? The domestic atmosphere there has always struck me
as at least superficially normal--and now a man as dependable as Siefert
gets jittery about it to the extent of indulging in shillin'-shocker
technique. It's deuced queer."
He stopped pacing the floor and looked at the clock.
"I think I'll make the arrangements. A bit of snoopin' is highly
indicated."
He went into the anteroom, and a moment later I heard him dialing a
number on the telephone. When he returned to the library he seemed to
have thrown off his depression. His manner was almost flippant.
"We're in for an abominable lunch tomorrow, Van," he announced, pouring
himself another pony of cognac. "And we must torture ourselves with the
viands at a most ungodly hour--noon. What a time to ingest even good
food!" He sighed. "We're lunching with young Garden at his home. Woode
Swift will be there and also an insufferable creature named Lowe
Hammle, a horsy gentleman from some obscure estate on Long Island.
Later we'll be joined by various members of the sporting set, and
together we'll indulge in that ancient and fascinatin' pastime of
laying wagers on the thoroughbreds. The Rivermont Handicap tomorrow is
one of the season's classics. That, at any rate, may be jolly good
fun..."
He rang for Currie and sent him out to fetch a copy of _The Morning
Telegraph_.
"One should be prepared. Oh, quite. It's been years since I handicapped
the horses. Ah, gullible Youth! But there's something about the ponies
that gets in one's blood and plays havoc with the saner admonitions of
the mind...I think I'll change to a dressing-gown."* (*Vance at one
time owned several excellent race-horses. His Magic Mirror, Smoke
Maiden, and Aldeen were well known in their day; and Magic Mirror, as a
three-year-old won two of the most important handicaps on the eastern
tracks. But when, in the famous Elmswood Special, this horse broke a
leg on entering the back-stretch and had to be destroyed, Vance seemed
to lose all interest in racing and disposed of his entire stable. He is
probably not a true horseman, any more than he is a truly great breeder
of Scottish terriers, for his sentiments are constantly interfering
with the stern and often ruthless demands of the game.)
He finished his _Napoléon_, lingering over it fondly, and disappeared
into the bedroom.
Although I was well aware that Vance had some serious object in
lunching with young Garden the following day and in participating in
the gambling on the races, I had not the slightest suspicion, at the
time, of the horrors that were to follow. On the afternoon of April 14
occurred the first grim act of one of the most atrocious multiple
crimes of this generation. And to Doctor Siefert must go, in a large
measure, the credit for the identification of the criminal, for had he
not sent his cryptic and would-be anonymous message to Vance, the truth
would probably never have been known.
I shall never forget that fatal Saturday afternoon. And aside from the
brutal Garden murder, that afternoon will always remain memorable for
me because it marked the first mature sentimental episode, so far as I
had ever observed, in Vance's life. For once, the cold impersonal
attitude of his analytical mind melted before the appeal of an
attractive woman.
Vance was just re-entering the library in his deep-red surah-silk
dressing-gown when Currie brought in the _Telegraph_. Vance took the
paper and opened it before him on the desk. To all appearances, he was
in a gay and inquisitive frame of mind.
"Have you ever handicapped the ponies, Van?" he asked, picking up a
pencil and reaching for a small tablet. "It's as absorbin' an
occupation as it is a futile one. At least a score of technical
considerations enter into the computations--the class of the horse, his
age, his pedigree, the weight he has to carry, the consistency of his
past performances, the time he has made in previous races, the jockey
that is to ride him, the type of races he is accustomed to running, the
condition of the track and whether or not the horse is a mudder, his
post position, the distance of the race, the value of the purse, and a
dozen other factors--which, when added up, subtracted, placed against
one another, and eventually balanced through an elaborate system of
mathematical checking and counter-checking, give you what is supposed
to be the exact possibilities of his winning the race on which you have
been working. However, it's all quite useless. Less than forty per
cent. of favorites--that is, horses who, on paper, should win--verify
the result of these calculations. For instance, Jim Dandy beat Gallant
Fox in the Travers and paid a hundred to one; and the theoretically
invincible Man o' War lost one of his races to a colt named Upset.
After all your intricate computations, horse-racing still remains a
matter of sheer luck, as incalculable as roulette. But no true follower
of the ponies will place a bet until he has gone through the charmin'
rigmarole of handicapping the entries. It's little more than
abracadabra--but it's three-fourths of the sport."
He gave me a waggish look.
"And that's why I shall sit here for another hour or two at least,
indulging one of my old weaknesses. I shall go to the Gardens' tomorrow
with every race perfectly calculated--and you will probably make a
choice and collect the rewards of innocence." He waved his hand in a
pleasant gesture. "Cheerio."
I turned in with a feeling of uneasiness.
Shortly before noon the next day we arrived at Professor Garden's
beautiful skyscraper apartment, and were cordially, and a little
exuberantly, greeted by young Garden.
Floyd Garden was a man in his early thirties, erect and athletically
built. He was about six feet tall, with powerful shoulders and a
slender waist. His hair was almost black, and his complexion swarthy.
His manner, while easy and casual, and with a suggestion of swagger,
was in no way offensive. He was not a handsome man: his features were
too rugged, his eyes set too close together, his ears protruded too
much, and his lips were too thin. But he had an undeniable charm, and
there was a quiet submerged competency in the way he moved and in the
rapidity of his mental reactions. He was certainly not intellectual,
and later, when I met his mother, I recognized at once that his
hereditary traits had come down to him from her side of the family.
"There are only five of us for lunch, Vance," he remarked breezily.
"The old gentleman is fussing with his test-tubes and Bunsen burners at
the University; the mater is having a grand time playing sick, with
medicos and nurses dashing madly back and forth to arrange her pillows
and light her cigarettes for her. But Pop Hammle is coming--rum old
bird, but a good sport; and we'll also be burdened with beloved cousin
Woode with the brow of alabaster and the heart of a chipmunk. You know
Swift, I believe, Vance. As I remember, you once spent an entire
evening here discussing Ming celadons with him. Queer crab, Woody."
He pondered a moment with a wry face.
"Can't figure out just how he fits into this household. Dad and the
mater seem inordinately fond of him--sorry for him, perhaps; or maybe
he's the kind of serious, sensitive guy they wish I'd turned out to be.
I don't dislike Woode, but we have damned little in common except the
horses. Only, he takes his betting too seriously to suit me--he hasn't
much money, and his wins or losses mean a lot to him. Of course, he'll
go broke in the end. But I doubt if it'll make much difference to him.
My loving parents--one of 'em, at least--will stroke his brow with one
hand and stuff his pockets with the other. If I went broke as a result
of this horse-racing vice they'd tell me to get the hell out and go to
work."
He laughed good-naturedly, but with an undertone of bitterness.
"But what the hell!" he added, snapping his fingers. "Let's scoop one
down the hatch before we victual."
He pushed a button near the archway to the drawing-room, and a very
correct, corpulent butler came in with a large silver tray laden with
bottles and glasses and ice.
Vance had been watching Garden covertly during this rambling recital of
domestic intimacies. He was, I could see, both puzzled and displeased
with the confidences: they were too obviously in bad taste. When the
drinks had been poured, Vance turned to him coolly.
"I say, Garden," he asked casually, "why all the family gossip? Really,
y' know, it isn't being done."
"My social blunder, old man," Garden apologized readily. "But I wanted
you to understand the situation, so you'd feel at ease. I know you hate
mysteries, and there's apt to be some funny things happening here this
afternoon. If you're familiar with the set-up beforehand, they won't
bother you so much."
"Thanks awfully and all that," Vance murmured. "Perhaps I see your
point."
"Woode has been acting queer for the past couple of weeks," Garden
continued; "as if some secret sorrow was gnawing at his mind. He seems
more bloodless than ever. He suddenly goes sulky and distracted for no
apparent reason. I mean to say, he acts moonstruck. Maybe he's in love.
But he's a secretive duffer. No one'll ever know, not even the object
of his affections."
"Any specific psychopathic symptoms?" Vance asked lightly.
"No-o." Garden pursed his lips and frowned thoughtfully. "But he's
developed a curious habit of going upstairs to the roof-garden as soon
as he's placed a large bet, and he remains there alone until the result
of the race has come through."
"Nothing very unusual about that." Vance made a deprecatory motion with
his hand. "Many gamblers, d' ye see, are like that. The emotional
element, don't y' know. Can't bear to be on view when the result comes
in. Afraid of spillin' over. Prefer to pull themselves together before
facing the multitude. Mere sensitiveness. Oh, quite. Especially if the
result of the wager means much to them...No...no. I wouldn't say
that your cousin's retiring to the roof at such tense moments is
remarkable, after what you've volunteered about him. Quite logical, in
fact."
"You're probably right," Garden admitted reluctantly. "But I wish he'd
bet moderately, instead of plunging like a damned fool whenever he's
hot for a horse."
"By the by," asked Vance, "why do you particularly look for strange
occurrences this afternoon?"
Garden shrugged.
"The fact is," he replied, after a short pause, "Woody's been losing
heavily of late, and today's the day of the big Rivermont Handicap. I
have a feeling he's going to put every dollar he's got on Equanimity,
who'll undoubtedly be the favorite...Equanimity!" He snorted with
undisguised contempt. "That rail-lugger! Probably the second greatest
horse of modern times--but what's the use? When he does come in he's apt
to be disqualified. He's got wood on his mind--in love with fences. Put
a fence across the track a mile ahead, with no rails to right or left,
and he'd very likely do the distance in 1:30 flat, making Jamestown,
Roamer and Wise Ways look like cripples.* (*These three horses were the
first to better, by fractions of a second, Jack High's 1:35 record for
the mile at Belmont.) He had to cede the win to Vanderveer in the
Youthful Stakes. He cut in toward the rail on Persian Bard at Bellaire;
and he was disqualified for the same thing in Colorado, handing the race
over to Grand Score. In the Urban he tried the same rail-diving, with
the result that Roving Flirt won by a nose...How's any one to know about
him? And there's always the chance he'll lose, rail or no rail. He's not
a young horse any more, and he's already lost eighteen races to date.
He's up against some tough babies today--some of the greatest routers
from this country and abroad. I'd say he was a pretty bad bet; and yet I
know that nut cousin of mine is going to smear him on the nose with
everything he owns."
He looked up solemnly.
"And that, Vance, means trouble if Equanimity doesn't come in. It means
a blow-up of some kind. I've felt it coming for over a week. It's got
me worried. To tell you the truth, I'm glad you picked this day to sit
in with us."
Vance, who had been listening intently and watching Garden closely as
he talked, moved to the front window where he stood smoking
meditatively and gazing out over Riverside Park twenty stories below,
at the sun-sprayed water of the Hudson River.
"Very interestin' situation," he commented at length. "I agree in the
main with what you say regarding Equanimity. But I think you're too
harsh, and I'm not convinced that he's a rail-lugger because of any
innate passion for wood. Equanimity always had shelly feet and a
quarter crack or two, and as a result often lost his plates. And, in
addition, he had a bad off fore-ankle, which, when it began to sting at
the close of a gruelling race, caused him to bear in toward the rail.
But he's a great horse. He could do whatever was asked of him at any
distance on any kind of track. As a two-year-old he was the leading
money-winner of his age; as a three-year-old he already had foot
trouble and was started only three times; but as a four-year-old he
came back with a new foot and won ten important races. The remarkable
thing about Equanimity is that he could either go right to the front
and take it on the Bill Daly, or come from behind and win in the
stretch. In the Futurity, when he was left at the post and entered the
stretch in last place, he dropped two of his plates and, in spite of
this, ran over Grand Score and Sublimate to win going away. It was a
bad foot that kept him from being the world's outstanding champion."
"Well, what of it?" retorted Garden dogmatically. "Excuses are easy to
find, and if, as you say, he has a bad foot, that's all the more reason
for not playing him today."
"Oh, quite," agreed Vance. "I myself wouldn't wager a farthing on him
in this big Handicap. I spent some time porin' over the charts last
night after I phoned you, and I decided to stay off Equanimity in
today's feature. My method of fixing the ratings is no doubt as balmy
as any other system, but I couldn't manipulate the ratios in his
favor..."
"What horse do you like there?" Garden asked with interest.
"Azure Star."
"Azure Star!" Garden was as contemptuous as he was astonished. "Why,
he's almost an outsider. He'll be twelve or fifteen to one. There's
hardly a selector in the country who's given him a play. An
ex-steeplechaser from the bogs of Ireland! His legs are too weak from
jumping to stand the pace today. And at a mile and a quarter! He can't
do it! Personally, I'd rather put my money on Risky Lad. There's a horse
with great possibilities."
"Risky Lad checks up as unreliable," said Vance. "Azure Star beat him
badly at Santa Anita this year. Risky Lad entered the stretch in the
lead and then tired to finish fifth. And he certainly didn't run a good
mile race at the same track when he finished fifth again in a field of
seven. If I remember correctly, he weakened in last year's Classic and
was out of the money. His stamina is too uncertain, I should say..."
Vance sighed and smiled. "Ah, well, _chacun à son cheval._...But as
you were sayin', the psychological situation hereabouts has you
worried. I gather there's a super-charged atmosphere round this
charmin' aerie."
"That's it, exactly," Garden answered almost eagerly. "Super-charged is
right. Nearly every day the mater asks, 'How's Woody?' And when the old
gentleman comes home from his lab at night he greets me with a
left-handed 'Well, my boy, have you seen Woody today?'...But _I_ could
die of the hoof-and-mouth disease without stirring up such solicitude
in my immediate ancestors."
Vance made no comment on these remarks. Instead he asked in a
peculiarly flat voice: "Do you consider this recent hyper-tension in
the household due entirely to your cousin's financial predicament and
his determination to risk all he has on the horses?"
Garden started slightly and then settled back in his chair. After he
had taken another drink he cleared his throat. "No, damn it!" he
answered a little vehemently. "And that's another thing that bothers
me. A lot of the golliwogs we're harboring are due to Woode's cuckoo
state of mind; but there are other queer invisible animals springing up
and down the corridors. I can't figure it out. The mater's illness
doesn't make sense either, and Doc Siefert acts like a pompous old
Buddha whenever I broach the subject. Between you and me, I don't
think he knows what to make of it himself. And there's funny business
of some kind going on among the gang that drifts in here nearly every
afternoon to play the races. They're all right, of course--belong to
'our set,' as the phrase goes, and spring from eminently respectable,
if a trifle speedy, environments..."
At this moment we heard the sound of light footsteps coming up the
hall, and in the archway, which constituted the entrance from the hall
into the drawing-room, appeared a slight, pallid young man of perhaps
thirty, his head drawn into his slightly hunched shoulders, and a
melancholy, resentful look on his sensitive, sallow face. Thick-lensed
_pince-nez_ glasses emphasized the impression he gave of physical
weakness.
Garden waved his hand cheerily to the newcomer.
"Greetings, Woody. Just in time for a spot before lunch. You know
Vance, the eminent sleuth; and this is Mr. Van Dine, his patient and
retiring chronicler."
Woode Swift acknowledged our presence in a strained but pleasant
manner, and listlessly shook hands with his cousin. Then he picked up
the bottle of Bourbon and poured himself a double portion, which he
drank at one gulp.
"Good Heavens!" Garden exclaimed good-humoredly. "How you have changed,
Woody!...Who's the lady now?"
The muscles of Swift's face twitched, as if he felt a sudden pain.
"Oh, pipe down, Floyd," he pleaded irritably.
Garden shrugged indifferently. "Sorry. What's worrying you today
besides Equanimity?"
"That's enough worry for one day." Swift managed a sheepish grin; then
he added aggressively: "I can't possibly lose." And he poured himself
another drink. "How's Aunt Martha?"
Garden narrowed his eyes.
"She's pretty fair. Nervous as the devil this morning, and smoking one
cigarette after another. But she's sitting up. She'll probably be in
later to take a crack or two at the prancing steeds..."
At this point Lowe Hammle arrived. He was a heavy-set, short man of
fifty or thereabouts, with a round ruddy face and closely cropped gray
hair. He was wearing a black-and-white checked suit, a gray shirt, a
brilliant green four-in-hand, a chocolate-colored waistcoat with
leather buttons, and tan blucher shoes the soles of which were
inordinately thick.
"The Marster of 'Ounds, b' Gad!" Garden greeted him jovially. "Here's
your Scotch-and-soda; and here also are Mr. Philo Vance and Mr. Van
Dine."
"Delighted--delighted!" Hammle exclaimed heartily, coming forward. He
extended his hand effusively to Vance. "Been a long time since I saw
you, sir...Let me see...Ah, yes. Broadbank. You hunted with me that
morning. Nasty spill you got. Warned you in advance that horse couldn't
take the fences. But you were in at the kill--yes, by George!
Recollect?"
"Oh, quite. Jolly affair. A good fox. Never fancied your bolting him
from that drain into the jaws of the pack after the sport he showed."*
(*In America, where earths are not stopped, not more than one fox in
twenty is actually killed in the open, and it is very unpopular--and by
many considered unsportsmanlike--to force a fox out of a place in which
he has taken refuge, in order to kill him. But this practice is
regularly resorted to in England, for various reasons; and occasionally
an American Master will ape the English to this extent in order to
boast that he had killed his fox and not merely accounted for him.)
Vance's manner was icy--obviously he did not like the man--and he
turned immediately to Swift and began chatting amiably about the day's
big race. Hammle busied himself with his Scotch-and-soda.
In a few minutes the butler announced lunch. The meal was heavy and
tasteless, and the wine of dubious vintage,--Vance had been quite right
in his prognostication.
The conversation was almost entirely devoted to horses, the history of
racing, the Grand National, and the possibilities of the various
entrants in the afternoon's Rivermont Handicap. Garden was dogmatic in
stating his opinions but eminently pleasant and informative: he had
made a careful study of modern racing and had an amazing memory.
Hammle was voluble and suave, and harked back to the former glories of
racing and to famous dead heats--Attila and Acrobat in the Travers,
Springbok and Preakness in the Saratoga Cup, St. Gatien and Harvester
in the English Derby, Pardee and Joe Cotton at Sheepshead Bay, Kingston
and YumYum at Gravesend, Los Angeles and White in the Latonia Derby,*
(*"Lucky" Baldwin, the owner of Los Angeles, insisted upon run-off
(which was the privilege of the owners of dead-heat winners up to
1932), and Los Angeles won.) Domino and Dobbins at Sheepshead Bay,
Domino again and Henry of Navarre at Gravesend, Arbuckle and George
Kessler in the Hudson Stakes, Sysonby and Race King in the Metropolitan
Handicap, Macaw and Nedana at Aqueduct, and Morshion and Mate, also at
Aqueduct. He spoke of the great upsets on the track, both here and
abroad--of that early winning of the Epsom Derby by an unnamed outsider
known as the "Fidget colt"; of the lone success of Amato over Grey
Momus, forty-one years later; of the lucky win of Aboyeur in 1913, when
Craganour was disqualified; and of the recent win of April the Fifth.
He discussed the Kentucky Derby--the unlooked-for success of Day Star
as a result of the poor ride given Himyar, and the tragic failure to
win of Proctor Knott. And he talked of the great strategy of "Snapper"
Garrison in bringing Boundless home in the World's Fair Derby of 1893;
of the two lucky races of Plucky Play when he won over Equipoise in the
Arlington Handicap and over Faireno in the Hawthorne Gold Cup. He
mentioned the fateful ride that Coltiletti gave Sun Beau at Agua
Caliente, losing the race to Mike Hall. He had a fund of historic
information and, despite his prejudices, knew his subject well.
Swift, nervous and somewhat peevish, had little to say, and though he
assumed an outward attitude of attention, I got the impression that
other and more urgent matters were occupying his mind. He ate little
and drank too much wine.
Vance contented himself mainly with listening and studying the others
at the table. When he spoke at all, it was to mention with regret some
of the great horses that had recently been destroyed because of
accidents--Black Gold, Springsteel, Chase Me, Dark Secret and others.
He spoke of the tragic and unexpected death of Victorian after his
courageous recovery, and the accidental poisoning of the great
Australian horse, Phar Lap.
We were nearing the end of the luncheon when a tall, well-built and
apparently vigorous woman, who looked no more than forty (though I
later learned that she was well past fifty), entered the room. She wore
a tailored suit, a silver-fox scarf and a black felt toque.
"Why, mater!" exclaimed Garden. "I thought you were an invalid. Why
this spurt of health and energy?"
He then presented me to his mother: both Vance and Hammle had met her
on previous occasions.
"I'm tired of being kept in bed," she told her son querulously, after
nodding graciously to the others. "Now you boys sit right down--I'm
going shopping, and just dropped in to see if everything was going all
right...I think I'll have a _crème de menthe frappée_ while I'm
here."
The butler drew up a chair for her beside Swift, and went to the
pantry.
Mrs. Garden put her hand lightly on her nephew's arm.
"How goes it with you, Woody?" she asked in a spirit of _camaraderie_.
Without waiting for his answer, she turned to Garden again. "Floyd, I
want you to place a bet for me on the big race today, in case I'm not
back in time."
"Name your poison," smiled Garden.
"I'm playing Grand Score to win and place--the usual hundred."
"Right-o, mater." Garden glanced sardonically at his cousin. "Less
intelligent bets have been made in these diggin's full many a time and
oft...Sure you don't want Equanimity, mater?"
"Odds are too unfavorable," returned Mrs. Garden, with a canny smile.
"He's quoted in the over-night line at five to two."
"He won't stay there." There was authority and assurance in the woman's
tone and manner. "And I'll get eight or ten to one on Grand Score. He
was one of the greatest in his younger days, and the old spark may
still be there--if he doesn't go lame, as he did last month."
"Right you are," grinned Garden. "You're on the dog for a century win
and place."
The butler brought the _crème de menthe_, and Mrs. Garden sipped it and
stood up.
"And now I'm going," she announced pleasantly. She patted her nephew on
the shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Woody...Good afternoon,
gentlemen." And she went from the room with a firm, masculine stride.
After a soggy _Baba au Rhum_, Garden led the way back to the drawing-room
and the butler followed for further instructions.
"Sneed," Garden ordered, "fix the set-up as usual."
I glanced at the electric clock on the mantel: it was exactly ten
minutes after one.
CHAPTER III
THE RIVERMONT RACES
(_Saturday, April 14; 1:10 p.m._)
"Fixing the set-up" was a comparatively simple procedure, but a more or
less mysterious operation for any one unfamiliar with the purpose it
was to serve. From a small closet in the hall Sneed first wheeled out a
sturdy wooden stand about two feet square. On this he placed a
telephone connected to a loud speaker which resembled a midget radio
set. As I learned later, it was a specially constructed amplifier to
enable every one in the room to hear distinctly whatever came over the
telephone.
On one side of the amplifier was attached a black metal switch box with
a two-way key. In its upright position this key would cut off the voice
at the other end of the line without interfering with the connection;
and throwing the key forward would bring the voice on again.
"I used to have ear-phones for the gang," Garden told us, as Sneed
rolled the stand back against the wall beside the archway and plugged
the extension wires into jacks set in the baseboard.
The butler then brought in a well-built folding card-table and opened
it beside the stand. On this table he placed another telephone of the
conventional French, or hand, type. This telephone, which was gray, was
plugged into an additional jack in the baseboard. The gray telephone
was not connected with the one equipped with the amplifier, but was on
an independent line.
When the two instruments and the amplifier had been stationed and
tested, Sneed brought in four more card-tables and placed them about
the drawing-room. At each table he opened up two folding chairs. Then,
from a small drawer in the stand, he took out a long manila envelope
which had evidently come through the mail, and, slitting the top, drew
forth a number of large printed sheets approximately nine by sixteen
inches. There were fifteen of these sheets--called "cards" in racing
parlance--and after sorting them he spread out three on each of the
card-tables. Two neatly sharpened pencils, a well-stocked cigarette
box, matches and ash trays completed the equipment on each table. On
the table holding the gray telephone was one additional item--a small,
much-thumbed ledger.
The final, but by no means least important, duty of Sneed in "fixing
the set-up" was to open the doors of a broad, low cabinet in one corner
of the room, revealing a miniature bar inside.
A word about the "cards": These concentrated racing sheets were
practically duplicates of the programs one gets at a race track, with
the exception that, instead of having each race on a separate page, all
the races at one track were printed, one after the other, across a
single sheet. There were only three tracks open that month, and the
cards on each table were the equivalent of the three corresponding
programs. Each of the printed columns covered one race, giving the post
position of the horses, the name of each entry and the weights
carried.* (*On the "cards" for New York State, however, the numbers do
not correspond to the post positions, as here these positions are drawn
shortly before the races begin, except in stake races.) At the top of
each column were the number and distance of the race, and at the bottom
were ruled spaces for the pari-mutuel prices. At the left of each
column was a space for the odds; and between the names of the horses
there was sufficient room to write in the jockeys' names when that
information was received.
(In order to make more readily comprehensible the technique of this
particular racing service, I am reproducing herewith an exact copy of
the Rivermont Park card for that day. Race number Four was that
memorable Rivermont Handicap which was to prove the vital primary
factor in the terrible tragedy that took place in Professor Garden's
home that afternoon.)
When Sneed had arranged everything he started from the room, but
hesitated significantly in the archway. Garden grinned broadly and,
sitting down at the table with the gray telephone, opened the small
ledger before him and picked up a pencil.
"All right, Sneed," he said, "on what horse do you want to lose your
easily earned money today?" Sneed coughed discreetly.
"If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to risk five dollars on Roving Flirt
to show."
Garden made a notation in the ledger.
"All right, Sneed; you're on Roving Flirt for a V at third."
With an apologetic "Thank you, sir," the butler disappeared into the
dining-room. When he had gone Garden glanced at the clock and reached
for the black telephone connected with the amplifier.
"The first race today," he said, "is at two-thirty, and I'd better hop
to it and get the line-up. Lex will be coming on in a few minutes; and
the boys and girls will want to be knowing everything and a little bit
more when they arrive with their usual high hopes and misgivings."*
(*Alexis Flint was the service announcer at the central news station.)
He lifted the receiver from the hook of the telephone and dialed a
number. After a pause he spoke into the transmitter:
"Hello, Lex. B-2-9-8. Waiting for the dope." And, laying the receiver
down on the stand, he threw the switch key forward.
A clear-cut, staccato voice came through the amplifier: "O.K., B-2-9-8."
Then there was a click, followed by several minutes of silence.
Finally the same voice began speaking: "_Everybody get ready. The exact
time now is one-thirty and a quarter.--Three tracks today. The order
will be Rivermont, Texas, and Cold Springs. Just as you have them on
the cards. Here we go. Rivermont: weather clear and track fast. Clear
and fast. First post, 2:30. And now down the line. First race: 20,
Barbour; 4, Gates; 5, Lyon; 3, Shea; scratch twice; 3, Denham; 20, Z.
Smythe--that's S-m-y-t-h-e; 10, Gilly; 10, Deel; 15, Carr.--And the
Second race: 4, Elkind; 20, Barbour; 4, Carr; 20, Hunter; 10, Shea;
scratch number 6; 20, Gedney, and make the weight 116; scratch number
8; 3 to 5, Lyon; 4, Martinson.--And the Third race: The top one is 10,
with Huron; scratch twice; 20, Denham; 20, J. Briggs--that's Johnny
Briggs; 20, Hunter; 4, Gedney; even money, Deel; 20, Landseer. And now
race number Four. The Rivermont Handicap. The top one is 8, with
Shelton; 15, Denham; 10, Redman; 6, Baroco; 20, Gates; 20, Hunter; 6,
Cressy; 5, Barbour; 12, J. Briggs--that's Johnny Briggs; 5, Elkind; 4,
Martinson; scratch number 12; 20, Gilly; 21/2, Birken.--And the Fifth:
6, Littman; 12, Huron..._"
The incisive voice continued with the odds and jockeys and scratches on
the two remaining races at Rivermont Park. As the announcements came
over, Garden attentively and rapidly filled in the data on his card.
When the last entrant of the closing race at Rivermont Park had been
reached there was a slight pause. Then the announcements continued:
"_Now everybody go to Texas. At Texas, weather cloudy and track slow.
Cloudy and slow. In the First: 4, Burden; 10, Lansing--_"
Garden leaned over and threw the amplifier switch up, and there was
silence in the room.
"Who cares about Texas?" he remarked negligently, rising from his chair
and stretching. "No one around here plays those goats anyway. I'll pick
up the Cold Springs dope later. If I don't, some one's sure to ask for
it, just to be contrary." He turned to his cousin. "Why don't you take
Vance and Mr. Van Dine upstairs and show them around the garden?...They
might," he added with good-natured sarcasm, "be interested in your
lonely retreat on the roof, where you listen in to your fate. Sneed has
probably got it arranged for you."
Swift rose with alacrity.
"Damned glad of the chance," he returned surlily. "Your manner today
rather annoys me, Floyd." And he led the way down the hall and up the
stairs to the roof-garden, Vance and I following. Hammle, who had
settled himself in an easy chair with a Scotch-and-soda, remained below
with our host.
The stairway was narrow and semicircular, and led upward from the
hallway near the front entrance. In glancing back up the hall, toward
the drawing-room, I noticed that no section of that room was visible
from the stair end of the hall. I made this mental note idly at the
time, but I mention it here because the fact played a very definite
part in the tragic events which were to follow.
At the head of this narrow stairway we turned left into a corridor,
barely four feet wide, at the end of which was a door leading into a
large room--the only room on the roof. This spacious and beautifully
appointed study, with high windows on all four sides, was used by
Professor Garden, Swift informed us, as a library and private
experimental laboratory. Near the door to this room, on the left wall
of the corridor, was another door, of calamine, which, I learned later,
led into a small storeroom built to hold the professor's valuable
papers and data.
Half-way down the corridor, on the right, was another large calamine
weather door which led out to the roof. This door had been propped
open, for the sun was bright and the day mild. Swift preceded us into
one of the loveliest skyscraper gardens I have ever seen. It covered a
space about forty feet square and was directly over the drawing-room,
the den and the reception hall. In the centre was a beautiful rock
pool. Along the low brick balustrade were rows of thick privet and
evergreens. In front of these were boxed flowerbeds, in which the
crocuses, tulips and hyacinths were already blooming in a riot of
color. That part of the garden nearest the study was overhung by a gay
stationary awning, and various pieces of comfortable garden furniture
were arranged in its shade.
We walked leisurely about the garden, smoking. Vance seemed deeply
interested in two or three rare evergreens, and chatted casually about
them. At length he turned, strolled back toward the awning, and sat
down in a chair facing the river. Swift and I joined him. The
conversation was desultory: Swift was a difficult man to talk to, and
as the minutes went by he became more and more _distrait_. After a
while he got up nervously and walked to the other end of the garden.
Resting his elbows on the balustrade, he looked for several minutes
down into Riverside Park; then, with a sudden jerky movement, almost as
if he had been struck, he straightened up and came back to us. He
glanced apprehensively at his wristwatch.
"We'd better be going down," he said. "They'll be coming out for the
first race before long."
Vance gave him an appraising look and rose. "What about that _sanctum
sanctorum_ of yours which your cousin mentioned?" he asked lightly.
"Oh, that..." Swift forced an embarrassed smile. "It's that red chair
over there against the wall, next to the small table...But I don't
see why Floyd should spoof about it. The crowd downstairs always rags
me when I lose, and it irritates me. I'd much rather be alone when I
get the results."
"Quite understandable," nodded Vance with sympathy.
"You see," the man went on rather pathetically, "I frankly play the
ponies for the money--the others downstairs can afford to take heavy
losses, but I happen to need the cash just now. Of course, I know it's
a hell of a way to try to make money. But you either make it in a hurry
or lose it in a hurry. So what's the difference?"
Vance had stepped over to the little table on which stood a desk
telephone which had, instead of the ordinary receiver, what is known as
a head receiver--that is, a flat disk ear-phone attached to a curved
metal band to go over the head.
"Your retreat is well equipped," commented Vance.
"Oh, yes. This is an extension of the news-service phone downstairs;
and there's also a plug-in for a radio, and another for an electric
plate. And floodlights." He pointed them out to us on the study wall.
"All the comforts of a hotel," he added with a sneer.
He took the ear-phone from the hook and, adjusting the band over his
head, listened for a moment.
"Nothing new yet at Rivermont," he mumbled.
He removed the earphone with nervous impatience and tossed it to the
table. "Anyway we'd better get down." And he walked toward the door by
which we had come out in the garden.
When we reached the drawing-room we found two newcomers--a man and a
woman--seated at one of the tables, poring over the racing cards and
making notations. Vance and I were casually introduced to them by
Garden.
The man was Cecil Kroon, about thirty-five, immaculately attired and
sleek, with smooth, regular features and a very narrow waxed mustache.
He was quite blond, and his eyes were a cold steely blue. The woman,
whose name was Madge Weatherby, was about the same age as Kroon, tall
and slender, and with a marked tendency toward theatricalism in both
her attire and her make-up. Her cheeks were heavily rouged and her lips
crimson. Her eyelids were shaded with green, and her eyebrows had been
plucked and replaced with fine penciled lines. In a spectacular way she
was not unattractive.
Hammle had moved from his easy chair to one of the card-tables at the
end of the room nearest the entrance, and was engaged in checking over
the afternoon's entries.
Swift went to the same table and, nodding to Hammle, sat down opposite
him. He removed his glasses, wiped them carefully, reached for one of
the cards, and glanced over the races.
Garden looked up and motioned to us--he was holding the receiver of the
black telephone to his ear.
"Choose a table, Vance, and see how accurate, or otherwise, your method
of handicapping is. They'll be coming to the post for the first race in
about ten minutes, and we'll be getting a new line shortly."
Vance strolled over to the table nearest Garden's, and seating himself,
drew from his pocket a sheet of note-paper on which were written rows
of names and figures and computations--the results of his labors, the
night before, with the past-performance charts of the horses in that
day's races. He adjusted his monocle, lighted a fresh cigarette, and
appeared to busy himself with the Rivermont race card. But I could see
that he was covertly studying the occupants of the room more intently
than he was the racing data.
"It won't be long now," Garden announced, the receiver still at his
ear. "Lex is repeating the Cold Springs and Texas lines for some
subscribers who were late calling in."
Kroon went to the small bar and mixed two drinks which he took back to
his table, setting one down before Miss Weatherby.
"I say, Floyd," he called out to Garden; "Zalia coming today?"
"Absolutely," Garden told him. "She was all stirred up when she phoned
this morning. Full of sure things. Bulging with red-hot tips direct
from trainers and jockeys and stable-boys and all the other phony
sources of misinformation."
"Well, what about it?" came a vivacious feminine voice from down the
hall; and the next moment a swaggering, pretty girl was standing in the
archway, her hands on her muscular boyish hips. "I've concluded I can't
pick any winners myself, so why not let the other guy pick 'em for
me?...Hello, everybody," she threw in parenthetically..."But Floyd, old
thing, I really have a humdinger in the First at Rivermont today. This
tip didn't come from a stable-boy, either. It came from one of the
stewards--a friend of dad's. And am I going to smear that hay-burner!"
"Right-o, Baby-face," grinned Garden. "Step into our parlor."
She started forward, and hesitated momentarily as she caught sight of
Vance and me.
"Oh, by the way, Zalia,"--Garden put the receiver down and rose--"let
me present Mr. Vance and Mr. Van Dine...Miss Graem."
The girl staggered back dramatically and lifted her hands to her head
in mock panic.
"Oh, Heaven protect me!" she exclaimed. "Philo Vance, the detective! Is
this a raid?"
Vance bowed graciously.
"Have no fear, Miss Graem," he smiled. "I'm merely a fellow criminal.
And, as you see, I'm dragging Mr. Van Dine along the downward path with
me."
The girl flashed me a whimsical glance.
"But that isn't fair to Mr. Van Dine. Where would you be without him,
Mr. Vance?"
"I admit I'd be unknown and unsung," returned Vance. "But I'd be a
happier man--an obscure, but free, spirit. And I'd never have
unconsciously provided the inspiration for Ogden Nash's poetic
masterpiece."*
(*Vance was referring to Nash's famous couplet:
"Philo Vance
Needs a kick in the pance.")
Zalia Graem smiled broadly, and then pouted.
"It was horrid of Nash to write that jingle," she said. "Personally, I
think you're adorable." She went toward the unoccupied card-table.
"But, after all, Mr. Vance," she threw back over her shoulder, "you
_are_ terribly stingy with your _g's_."
At this moment Garden, who was again listening through the receiver,
announced:
"The new line's coming. Take it down if you want it."
He pressed forward the key on the switch box, and in a moment the voice
we had heard earlier was again coming through the amplifier.
"_Coming out at Rivermont, and here's the new line: 20, 6, 4, 8 to 5,
scratch twice, 3, 20, 15, 10, 15...Who was it wanted the run-down at
Texas--_?"
Garden cut out the amplifier.
"All right, boys and girls," he sang out, drawing the ledger to him.
"What's on your mind? Be speedy. Only two minutes to post time. Any
customers?...How about your hot tip, Zalia?"
"Oh, I'm playing it, all right," Miss Graem answered seriously. "And
he's ten to one. I want fifty on Topspede to win--and...seventy-five
on him to show."
Garden wrote rapidly in the ledger.
"So you don't quite trust your hot tip?" he gloated. "Covering, as it
were...Who else?"
"I'm playing Sara Bellum," Hammle spoke up. "Twenty-five across the
board."
"And I want Moondash--twenty on Moondash to show." This bet came from
Miss Weatherby.
"Any others?" asked Garden. "It's now or never."
"Give me Miss Construe--fifty to win," said Kroon.
"How about you, Vance?" asked Garden.
"I had Fisticuffs and Black Revel down as about equal choices, so I'll
take the one with the better odds--but not to win. Make it a hundred on
Black Revel a place."
Garden turned to his cousin. "And you, Woody?" Swift shook his head.
"Not this race."
"Saving it all for Equanimity, eh? Right-o. I'm staying off this race
myself." Garden reached for the gray telephone and dialed a
number..."Hello, Hannix.* (*Hannix was Floyd Garden's book-maker.) This
is Garden...Feeling fine, thanks...Here's the book for the First at
Rivermont: Topspede, half a hundred-0-seventy-five. Sara Bellum,
twenty-five across the board. Moondash, twenty to show. Miss Construe,
half a hundred to win. Black Revel a hundred a place...Right."
He hung up the receiver and cut in the amplifier. There was a momentary
silence. Then:
"_I got 'em at the post at Rivermont. At the post, Rivermont. Topspede
is making trouble...They've taken him to the outside...And there
they go! Off at Rivermont at 2:32 and a half...At the quarter: it's
Topspede, by a length; Sara Bellum, by a head; and Miss Construe...At
the half: Sara Bellum, half a length; Black Revel, a length; and
Topspede...In the stretch: Black Revel, a length; Fisticuffs, a head
and gaining; and Sara Bellum...AND the Rivermont winner: Fisticuffs.
The winner is Fisticuffs. Black Revel is second. Sara Bellum is third.
The numbers are 4, 7, and 3. Winner closed at eight to five. Hold on
for the official O.K. and the muts*..._" (*The pari-mutuel prices.)
"Well, well, well!" chortled Garden. "That was a grand race for Hannix,
as far as this crowd was concerned. They came in like little trained
pigs. Even our two winners here didn't nick the old fox for much. Pop
Hammle chiseled out a bit of show money, but he has to deduct fifty
dollars. And Vance probably picked about even money at place on Black
Revel...What, about that humdinger of yours, Zalia? Oh, trusting
child, will you never learn?..."
"Well, anyway," protested the girl good-naturedly, "wasn't Topspede a
length ahead at the quarter? And he was still in the money at the half.
I had the right idea."
"Sure," returned Garden. "Topspede made a noble effort, but I suspect
he's a blood-brother of Morestone and a boy-friend of Nevada Queen--the
world's most eminent folder-uppers. He'd probably go big at three
furlongs on the Nursery Course."* (*David Alexander, the entertaining
turf chronicler, wrote an item about these two horses recently.
"Morestone," said Mr. Alexander, "could run plenty fast--up to six
furlongs. But after six furlongs he flagged the horse ambulance.
Morestone could quit in track record time. Nothing like it had been
seen since they tried to make Nevada Queen go more than a half-mile a
few years ago. There were two mysteries about Morestone. One was how he
could run so fast, and the other was how he could quit so fast.")
"Who cares?" retorted Zalia Graem. "I'm still young and healthy..."
The voice over the amplifier came back:
"_O.K. at Rivermont. Official. They got off at 2:32 and a half. Winner:
number 4, Fisticuffs; second, number 7, Black Revel; third, number 3,
Sara Bellum. The running time, 1:24...And here are the mots:
Fisticuffs paid $5.60--$3.10--$2.90. Black Revel paid $3.90 and $3.20.
Sara Bellum paid $5.80...Post time for the second race 3:05. The
line: 3, 15, 5, 20, 12, scratch, 15, scratch, 4 to 5, 6...They're
coming out at Cold Springs. And here's a new line--_"
Garden cut out the amplifier again.
"Well, Vance," he said, "you're the only winner on the first race. You
made ninety-five dollars--all entered up in the ledger. And you, Pop,
lose two dollars and a half."* (*Mutuel prices are figured on the basis
of a two-dollar bet made at the track, and already paid in there.
Therefore, away from the track, where the money wagered has not
actually been passed over, the two dollars is subtracted from the
mutuel price and the remainder is then divided by two to ascertain the
exact odds which the horse paid on one dollar. In this particular race,
Vance's horse paid $3.90 to come in second, or place. Two dollars
subtracted from this leaves $1.90, and this amount divided by two gives
ninety-five cents--that is, in the position in which Vance played him,
Black Revel paid ninety-five cents on the dollar. Hence, Vance, having
wagered $100 on the horse to place, won $95. In Hammle's case, the
horse paid $5.80 in third place, so that the net odds were $1.90 to the
dollar in that position. And, since he bet $25 on the horse to come in
third, he won $47.50. But, from this must be deducted the $25 he played
on the horse to win, and the $25 he put on the same horse to come in
second--both of which bets he lost. This left him minus $2.50.)
Since no one present was interested in the Texas or Cold Springs meets,
there was approximately a half-hour between races. During these
intervals the members of the party moved from table to table, chatting,
discussing horses, and indulging in pleasant, intimate give-and-take;
and there was considerable traffic to and from the bar. Occasionally
Garden cut in the amplifier to pick up any late scratches, changes of
odds, and other flashes from the tracks.
Vance, while apparently mingling casually with the alternately gay and
serious groups, was closely watching everything that went on. I could
plainly see that he was far less interested in the races than in the
human and psychological relationships of those present.
Despite the superficial buoyancy of the gathering, I could detect an
undercurrent of extreme tension and expectancy; and I made mental note
of various little occurrences during the first hour or so. I noticed,
for instance, that from time to time Zalia Graem joined Cecil Kroon and
Madge Weatherby and engaged them in serious low-toned conversation.
Once the three strolled out on the narrow balcony which ran along the
north side of the drawing-room.
Swift was by turns hysterically gay and dejected, and he made frequent
trips to the bar. His inconsistent moods impressed me unpleasantly; and
several times I noticed Garden watching him with shrewd concern.
One incident connected with Swift puzzled me greatly. I had noticed
that he and Zalia Graem had not spoken to each other during the entire
time they had been in the drawing-room. Once they had brushed against
each other near Garden's table, and each, as if instinctively, had
drawn resentfully to one side. Garden had cocked his head at them
irritably and said:
"Aren't you two on speaking terms yet--or is this feud to be
permanent?...Why don't you kiss and make up and let the gaiety of the
party be unanimous?"
Miss Graem had proceeded as if nothing had happened, and Swift had
merely given his cousin a quick, indignant glance. Garden had then
smiled sourly, shrugged his shoulders, and turned back to the ledger.
Hammle maintained his complacent, jovial manner throughout the
afternoon; but even he seemed ill at ease at times, and his gaze
drifted repeatedly to Kroon and Miss Weatherby. Once when Zalia Graem
was at their table, he strolled over and boisterously slapped Kroon on
the back. Their conversation ceased abruptly, and Hammle filled in the
sudden silence with a pointless anecdote about Salvator's race against
time at Monmouth Park in 1890.
Garden did not leave his seat at the telephones, and, with the
exception of an occasional furtive scrutiny of his cousin, he paid
little attention to his guests....
The Second race at Rivermont Park, which went off at eight minutes
after three, brought the group better results than the first. Only
Kroon lost--he had played the odds-on favorite, Invulnerable, heavily
to win; and Invulnerable, though in the lead coming into the stretch,
quit badly. However, the next race--which took place a few minutes
after half-past three--was a disappointment to every one. The even-money
favorite was bumped at the stretch turn and barely managed to
finish third, and an outsider, Ogowan, won the race and paid $86.50.
Luckily, no large amount had been placed on the race by any of those
present. Swift, incidentally, made no wagers on any of the first three
races.
The following race, the Fourth--the post time of which was announced as
4:10--was the Rivermont Handicap; and Garden had no more than cut out
the amplifier after the third race, than I felt a curiously subdued and
electrified atmosphere in the room.
CHAPTER IV
THE FIRST TRAGEDY
(_Saturday, April 14; 8 p.m._)
"The great moment approaches!" Garden announced, and though he spoke
with sententious gaiety, I could detect signs of strain in his manner.
"Hannix's phone is going to be pretty busy during the last ten minutes
of this momentous intermission, and I'd advise all of you to get your
bets in before the post line comes across. There won't be any material
changes, anyway; so speed the hopeful wagers."
There was silence for several moments, and then Swift, looking up from
his card, said in a peculiarly flat voice:
"Get the latest run-down, Floyd. We haven't had one since the opening
line, and there may be some shifts in the odds or a late scratch."
"Anything you say, dear cousin," Garden acceded in a cynical, yet
troubled, tone, as he drew down the switch to cut in the amplifier and
picked up the black receiver. He waited for a pause in the
announcements from Texas and Cold Springs, and then spoke into the
transmitter:
"Hello, Lex. Give me the run-down on the big one at Rivermont."
From the amplifier came the now familiar voice:
"_I just gave the latest line there. Where've YOU been?...All right,
here it is, but listen this time--6, 12, 12, 5, 20, 20, 10, 6, 10, 6,
4, scratch, 20, 2. Post, 4:10..._"
Garden cut out the amplifier and looked down at the new row of figures
he had hastily scribbled beside the earlier odds.
"Not very different from the morning line," he commented. "Heat
Lightning, down two; Train Time, down three; Azure Star, up two; Roving
Flirt, down one; Grand Score up from six to ten--what a picnic for the
mater if he comes in! Risky Lad, up one--and that helps me. Head Start,
down two; Sarah Dee, up one; and the rest as they were. Except
Equanimity." He shot a quick look at his cousin. "Equanimity has gone
from two-and-a-half to two, and I doubt if he'll pay even that much.
Too many hopeful but misguided enthusiasts shoveling coarse money into
the tote."* (*Short for totalizator, an electrical, automatic betting
device used at mutuel tracks.)
Garden got up, mixed himself a highball, and carried it back to the
table. Having disposed of it, he turned about in his chair.
"Well, aren't any of the master minds present made up?" He was a little
impatient now.
Kroon rose, finished the drink which stood on the table before him, and
dabbing his mouth with a neatly folded handkerchief which he took from
his breast pocket, he moved toward the archway.
"My mind was made up yesterday." He spoke across the room, as if
including every one. "Put me down in your fateful little book for one
hundred on Hyjinx to win and two hundred on the same filly a place. And
you can add two hundred on Head Start to show. Making it, all told,
half a grand. That's my contribution to the afternoon's festivities."
"Head Start's a bad actor at the post," advised Garden, as he entered
the bets in the ledger.
"Oh, well," sighed Kroon, "maybe he'll be a smart little boy and beat
the barrier today." And he turned into the hall.
"Not deserting us, are you Cecil?" Garden called after him.
"Frightfully sorry," Kroon answered, looking back. "I'd love to stay
for the race, but a legal conference at a maiden aunt's is scheduled
for four-thirty, and I've got to be there. Papers to sign, and such
rubbish. I'll try to get back though, if I don't have to read the bally
documents." He waved his hand and, with a "Cheerio," continued down the
hall.
Madge Weatherby immediately picked up her cards and moved to Zalia
Graem's table, where the two women began a low, whispered conversation.
Garden's inquiring glance moved from one to another of the party.
"Is that the only bet I'm to give Hannix?" he asked impatiently. "I'm
warning you not to wait too long."
"Put me down for Train Time," Hammle rumbled ponderously. "I've always
liked that bay colt. He's a grand stretch runner--but I don't think
he'll win today. Therefore, I'm playing him place and show. Make it a
hundred each."
"It's in the book," said Garden, nodding to him. "Who's next?"
At this moment a young woman of unusual attractiveness appeared in the
archway--and stood there hesitantly, looking shyly at Garden. She wore
a nurse's uniform of immaculate white, with white shoes and stockings,
and a starched white cap set at a grotesque angle on the back of her
head. She could not have been over thirty; yet there was a maturity in
her calm, brown eyes, and evidence of great capability in the reserve
of her expression and in the firm contour of her chin. She wore no
make-up, and her chestnut hair was parted in the middle and brushed
back simply over her ears. She presented a striking contrast to the two
other women in the room.
"Hello, Miss Beeton," Garden greeted her pleasantly. "I thought you'd
be having the afternoon off, since the mater's well enough to go
shopping...What can I do for you? Care to join the madhouse and hear
the races?"
"Oh, no. I've too many things to do." She moved her head slightly to
indicate the rear of the house. "But if you don't mind, Mr. Garden,"
she added timidly, "I would like to bet two dollars on Azure Star to
win, and to come in second, and to come in third."
Every one smiled covertly, and Garden chuckled. "For Heaven's sake,
Miss Beeton," he chided her, "whatever put Azure Star in your mind?"
"Oh, nothing, really," she answered with a diffident smile. "But I was
reading about the race in the paper this morning, and I thought that
Azure Star was such a beautiful name. It--it appealed to me."
"Well, that's one way of picking 'em." Garden smiled indulgently.
"Probably as good as any other. But I think you'd be better off if you
forgot the beautiful name. The horse hasn't a chance. And besides, my
book-maker doesn't take any bet less than five dollars."
Vance, who had been watching the girl with more interest than he
usually showed in a woman, leaned forward.
"I say, Garden, just a moment." He spoke incisively. "I think Miss
Beeton's choice is an excellent one--however she may have arrived at
it." Then he nodded to the nurse. "Miss Beeton, I'll be very happy to
see that your bet on Azure Star is placed." He turned again to Garden.
"Will your book-maker take two hundred dollars across the board on
Azure Star?"
"Will he? He'll grab it with both hands," Garden replied. "But why--?"
"Then it's settled," said Vance quickly. "That's my bet. And two
dollars of it in each position belongs to Miss Beeton."
"That's perfect with me, Vance." And Garden jotted down the wager in
his ledger.
I noticed that during the brief moments that Vance was speaking to the
nurse and placing his wager on Azure Star, Swift was glowering at him
through half-closed eyes. It was not until later that I understood the
significance of that look.
The nurse cast a quick glance at Swift, and then spoke with simple
directness.
"You are very kind, Mr. Vance." Then she added: "I will not pretend I
don't know who you are, even if Mr. Garden had not called you by name."
She stood looking straight at Vance with calm appraisal; then she
turned and went back down the hall.
"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Zalia Graem in exaggerated rapture. "The birth
of Romance! Two hearts with but a single horse. How positively
stunning!"
"Never mind the jealous persiflage," Garden rebuked the girl
impatiently. "Choose your horse, and say how much."
"Oh, well, I can be practical, if subpoenaed," the girl returned. "I'm
taking Roving Flirt to win...let's see--say, two hundred. And there
goes my new spring suit!...And I might as well lose my sport coat too;
so put another two hundred on him a place...And now I think I'll have
a bit of liquid sustenance." And she went to the bar.
"How about you, Madge?" Garden asked, turning to Miss Weatherby. "Are
you in on this classic?"
"Yes, I'm in on it," the woman answered with affected concern. "I want
Sublimate, fifty across."
"Any more customers?" Garden asked, entering the bet. "I myself, if any
one is interested, am pinning my youthful hopes on Risky Lad--one, two,
and three hundred." He looked across the room apprehensively to his
cousin. "What about you, Woody?"
Swift sat hunched in his chair, studying the card before him and
smoking vigorously.
"Give Hannix the bets you've got," he said without raising his head.
"Don't worry about me--I won't miss the race. It's only four o'clock."
Garden looked at him a moment and scowled.
"Why not get it off your chest now?" As there was no response, he drew
the gray telephone toward him and dialed a number. A moment later he
was relaying to the book-maker the various bets entered in his ledger.
Swift stood up and walked to the cabinet with its array of bottles. He
filled a whiskey glass with Bourbon and drank it down. Then he walked
slowly to the table where his cousin sat. Garden had just finished the
call to Hannix.
"I'll give you my bet now, Floyd," Swift said hoarsely. He pressed one
finger on the table, as if for emphasis. "_I want ten thousand dollars
on Equanimity to win._"
Garden's eyes moved anxiously to the other.
"I was afraid of that, Woody," he said in a troubled tone. "But if I
were you--"
"I'm not asking you for advice," Swift interrupted in a cold steady
voice; "I'm asking you to place a bet."
Garden did not take his eyes from the man's face. He said merely:
"I think you're a damned fool."
"Your opinion of me doesn't interest me either." Swift's eyelids
drooped menacingly, and a hard look came into his set face. "All I'm
interested in just now is whether you're going to place that bet. If
not, say so; and I'll place it myself."
Garden capitulated.
"It's your funeral," he said, and turning his back on his cousin, he
took up the gray hand set again and spun the dial with determination.
Swift walked back to the bar and poured himself another generous drink
of Bourbon.
"Hello, Hannix," Garden said into the transmitter. "I'm back again,
with an additional bet. Hold on to your chair or you'll lose your
balance. I want ten grand on Equanimity to win...Yes, that's what I
said: ten G-strings--ten thousand iron men. Can you handle it? Odds
probably won't be over two to one...Right-o."
He replaced the receiver and tilted back in his chair just as Swift,
headed for the hall, was passing him.
"And now, I suppose," Garden remarked, without any indication of
raillery, "you're going upstairs so you can be alone when the tidings
come through."
"If it won't break your heart--yes." There was a resentful note in
Swift's words. "And I'd appreciate it if I was not disturbed." His eyes
swept a little threateningly over the others in the room, all of whom
were watching him with serious intentness. Slowly he turned and went
toward the archway.
Garden, apparently deeply perturbed, kept his eyes on the retreating
figure. Then, as if on sudden impulse, he stood up quickly and called
out: "Just a minute, Woody. I want to say a word to you." And he
stepped after him.
I saw Garden put his arm around Swift's shoulder as the two disappeared
down the hall.
Garden was gone from the room for perhaps five minutes, and in his
absence very little was said, aside from a few constrained conventional
remarks. A tension seemed to have taken possession of every one
present: there was a general feeling that some unexpected tragedy was
impending--or, at least, that some momentous human factor was in the
balance. We all knew that Swift could not afford his extravagant bet--
that, in fact, it probably represented all he had. And we knew, too, or
certainly suspected, that a serious issue depended upon the outcome of
his wager. There was no gaiety now, none of the former light-hearted
atmosphere. The mood of the gathering had suddenly changed to one of
sombre misgiving.
When Garden returned to the room his face was a trifle pale, and his
eyes were downcast. As he approached our table he shook his head
dejectedly.
"I tried to argue with him," he remarked to Vance. "But it was no use;
he wouldn't listen to reason. He turned nasty...Poor devil! If
Equanimity doesn't come in he's done for." He looked directly at Vance.
"I wonder if I did the right thing in placing that bet for him. But,
after all, he's of age."
Vance nodded in agreement.
"Yes, quite," he murmured dryly, "--as you say. Really, y' know, you
had no alternative."
Garden took a deep breath and, sitting down at his own table, picked up
the black receiver and held it to his ear.
A bell rang somewhere in the apartment, and a few moments later Sneed
appeared in the archway.
"Pardon me, sir," he said to Garden, "but Miss Graem is wanted on the
other telephone."
Zalia Graem stood up quickly and raised one hand to her forehead in a
gesture of dismay.
"Who on earth or in the waters under the earth can that be?" Her face
cleared. "Oh, I know." Then she stepped up to Sneed. "I'll take the
call in the den." And she hurried from the room.
Garden had paid little attention to this interruption: he was almost
oblivious to everything but his telephone, waiting for the time to
switch on the amplifier. A few moments later he turned in his chair and
announced:
"They're coming out at Rivermont. Say your prayers, children...Oh, I
say, Zalia," he called out in a loud voice, "tell the fascinating
gentleman on the phone to call you back later. The big race is about to
start."
There was no response, although the den was but a few steps down the
hall.
Vance rose and, crossing the room, looked down the hallway, but
returned immediately to his table.
"Thought I'd inform the lady," he murmured, "but the den door is
closed."
"She'll probably be out--she knows what time it is," commented Garden
casually, reaching forward to throw on the amplifier.
"Floyd darling," spoke up Miss Weatherby, "why not get this race on the
radio? It's being broadcast by WXZ. Don't you think it'll be more
exciting that way? Gil McElroy is announcing it."
"Bully suggestion," seconded Hammle. He turned to the radio, which was
just behind him, and tuned in.
"Can Woody still get it upstairs?" Miss Weatherby asked Garden.
"Oh, sure," he answered. "This key on the amplifier doesn't interfere
with any of the extension phones."
As the radio tubes warmed up, McElroy's well-known voice gained in
volume over the loud speaker:
"_...and Equanimity is now making trouble at the post. Took the cue from
Head Start...Now they're both back in their stalls--it looks as if we
might get a--Yes! They're off! And to a good even start. Hyjinx has
dashed into the lead; Azure Star comes next; and Heat Lightning is close
behind. The others are bunched. I can't tell one from the other yet.
Wait a second. Here they come past us--we're up on the roof of the
grandstand here, looking right down on them--and it's Hyjinx on top now,
by two lengths; and behind her is Train Time; and--yes, it's Sublimate,
by a head, or a nose, or a neck--it doesn't matter--it's Sublimate
anyway. And there's Risky Lad creeping up on Sublimate...And now they're
going round the first turn, with Hyjinx still in the lead. The relative
positions of the ones out front haven't changed yet...They're in the
backstretch, and Hyjinx is still ahead by half a length; Train Time has
moved up and holds his second position by a length and a half ahead of
Roving Flirt, who's in third place. Azure Star is a length behind Roving
Flirt. Equanimity is pocketed, but he's coming around on the outside
now; he's far behind but gaining; and just behind him is Grand Score,
making a desperate effort to get in the clear..._"
At this point in the broadcast Zalia Graem appeared suddenly in the
archway and stood with her eyes fixed on the radio, her hands sunk in
the pockets of her tailored jacket. She rocked a little back and forth,
her head slightly to one side, wholly absorbed in the description of
the race.
"_...They're rounding the far turn. Equanimity has improved his
position and is getting into his famous stride. Hyjinx has dropped back
and Roving Flirt has taken the lead by a head, with Train Time second,
by a length, in front of Azure Star, who is running third and making a
grand effort...And now they're in the stretch. Azure Star has come to
the front and is a full length in the lead. Train Time is making a
great bid for this classic and is still in second place, a length
behind Azure Star. Roving Flirt is right behind him. Hyjinx has dropped
back and it looks as if she was no longer a serious contender.
Equanimity is pressing hard and is now in sixth place. He hasn't much
time, but he's running a beautiful race and may come up front yet.
Grand Score is falling by the wayside. Sublimate is far out in front of
both of them but is not gaining. And I guess the rest are out of the
running...And here they come to the finish. The leaders are straight
out--there won't be much change. Just a second. Here they come...AND...the
winner is AZURE STAR by two lengths. Next is Roving Flirt. And a
length behind him is Train Time. Upper Shelf finished fourth...Wait a
minute. Here come the numbers on the board--Yes, I was right. It's 3,
4, and 2. Azure Star wins the great Rivermont Handicap. Second is
Roving Flirt. And third is Train Time..._"
Hammle swung round in his chair and shut off the radio.
"Well," he said, releasing a long-held breath, "I was partly right, at
that."
"Not such a hot race," Miss Graem remarked with a toss of her head.
"I'll just about break even. Anyway, I won't have to join a nudist
colony this spring...Now I'll go and finish my phone call." And she
turned back down the hall.
Garden seemed ill at ease and, for the second time that afternoon,
mixed himself a highball.
"Equanimity wasn't even in the money," he commented, as if to himself..."
But the results aren't official yet. Don't let your hopes rise too
high--and don't despair. The winners won't be official for a couple of
minutes--and there's no telling what may happen. Remember the final
race on the get-away day of the Saratoga meet, when all three placed
horses were disqualified?..."* (*Garden was referring to the last race
of the final day of a recent Saratoga season, when Anna V. L., Noble
Spirit, and Semaphore finished in that order, and all were
disqualified, Anna V. L. for swerving sharply at the start and causing
other horses to take up, Noble Spirit for swerving badly at the eighth
pole, and Semaphore for alleged interference with Anna V. L. The
official placing, after the disqualifications, was Just Cap, first;
Celiba, second; and Bahadur, third--the only other three horses in the
race.)
Just then Mrs. Garden bustled into the room, her hat, fox scarf, and
gloves still on, and two small packages tucked under her arm.
"Don't tell me I'm too late!" she pleaded excitedly. "The traffic was
abominable--three-quarters of an hour from 50th Street and Fifth
Avenue...Is the big race over?"
"All over but the O.K., mater," Garden informed her.
"And what did I do?" The woman came forward and dropped wearily into an
empty chair.
"The usual," grinned Garden. "A Grand Score? Your noble steed didn't
score at all. Condolences. But it's not official yet. We'll be getting
the O.K. in a minute now."
"Oh, dear!" sighed Mrs. Garden despondently. "The only foul claimed in
a race I bet on is against my horse when he wins--and it's always
allowed. Nothing can save me now. And I've just spent an outrageous sum
on a Brussels lace luncheon set."
Garden cut in the amplifier. There were several moments of silence, and
then:
"_It's official at Rivermont. O.K. at Rivermont. Off at 4:16. The
winner is number 3, Azure Star. Number 4, Roving Flirt, second; and
number 2, Train Time, third. That's 3, 4, and 2--Azure Star, Roving
Flirt, and Train Time. The running 2:02 and one-fifth--a new track
record. And the mats: Azure Star paid $26.80, $9.00 and $6.60. Roving
Flirt, $5.20 and $4.60. Train Time, $8.40...Next post at 4:40..._"
"Well, there it is," said Garden glumly, throwing back the switch and
making rapid notations in his ledger. "Sneed, our admirable Crichton,
makes six and a half dollars. The absent Mr. Kroon loses five hundred,
and the present Miss Weatherby loses one hundred and fifty. Our old fox
hunter is ahead just two hundred and twenty dollars, with part of which
he can buy me a good dinner tomorrow. And you, mater, lose your two
hundred dollars--very sad. I myself was robbed of six hundred berries.
Zalia--who gets her sizzling tips from the friend of a friend of a
distant relative of the morganatic wife of a double-bug rider--is one
hundred and twenty dollars to the good--enough to get shoes and a hat
and a handbag to match her new spring outfit. And Mr. Vance, the
eminent dopester of crimes and ponies, can now take a luxurious
vacation. He's the possessor of thirty-six hundred and forty dollars--
of which thirty-six dollars and forty cents goes to our dear nurse.
...And Woode, of course..." His voice trailed off.
"What _did_ Woody do?" demanded Mrs. Garden, sitting up stiffly in her
chair.
"I'm frightfully sorry, mater,"--her son groped for words--"but Woody
didn't use his head. I tried to dissuade him, but it was no go..."
"Well, what did Woody do?" persisted Mrs. Garden. "Did he lose much?"
Garden hesitated, and before he could formulate an answer, a paralyzing
sound, like a pistol shot, broke the tense silence.
Vance was the first on his feet. His face was grim as he moved rapidly
toward the archway. I followed him, and just behind came Garden. As I
turned into the hallway I saw the others in the drawing-room get up and
move forward. Had the report not been preceded by so electric an
atmosphere, I doubt if it would have caused any particular
perturbation; but, in the circumstances, every one, I think, had the
same thought in mind when the detonation of the shot was heard.
As we hurried down the hall Zalia Graem opened the den door.
"What was that?" she asked, her frightened eyes staring at us.
"We don't know yet," Vance told her.
In the bedroom door, at the lower end of the hall, stood the nurse,
with a look of inquiring concern on her otherwise placid face.
"You'd better come along, Miss Beeton," Vance said, as he started up
the stairs two at a time. "You may be needed."
Vance swung into the upper corridor and stopped momentarily at the door
on the right, which led out upon the roof. This door was still propped
open, and after a hasty preliminary survey through it, he stepped
quickly out into the garden.
The sight that met our eyes was not wholly unexpected. There, in the
low chair which he had pointed out to us earlier that afternoon, sat
Woode Swift, slumped down, with his head thrown back at an unnatural
angle against the rattan head-rest, and his legs straight out before
him. He still wore the earphone. His eyes were open and staring; his
lips were slightly parted; and his thick glasses were tilted forward on
his nose.
In his right temple was a small ugly hole beneath which two or three
drops of already coagulating blood had formed. His right arm hung limp
over the side of the chair, and on the colored tiling just under his
hand lay a small pearl-handled revolver.
Vance immediately approached the motionless figure, and the rest of us
crowded about him. Zalia Graem, who had forced her way forward and was
now standing beside Vance, swayed suddenly and caught at his arm. Her
face had gone pale, and her eyes appeared glazed. Vance turned quickly
and, putting his arm about her, half led and half carried her to a
large wicker divan nearby. He made a beckoning motion of his head to
Miss Beeton.
"Look after her for a moment," he requested. "And keep her head down."
Then he returned to Swift. "Every one please keep back," he ordered.
"No one is to touch him."
He took out his monocle and adjusted it carefully. Then he leaned over
the crumpled figure in the chair. He cautiously scrutinized the wound,
the top of the head, and the tilted glasses. When this examination was
over he knelt down on the tiling and seemed to be searching for
something. Apparently he did not find what he sought, for he stood up
with a discouraged frown and faced the others.
"Dead," he announced, in an unwontedly sombre tone. "I'm taking charge
of things temporarily."
Zalia Graem had risen from the divan, and the nurse was supporting her
with a show of tenderness. The dazed girl was apparently oblivious to
this attention and stood with her eyes fixed on the dead man. Vance
stepped toward her so that he shut out the sight that seemed to hold
her in fascinated horror.
"Please, Miss Beeton," he said, "take the young lady downstairs
immediately." Then he added, "I'm sure she'll be all right in a few
minutes."
The nurse nodded, put her arm firmly about Miss Graem, and led her into
the passageway.
Vance waited until the two young women were gone: then he turned to the
others.
"You will all be so good as to go downstairs and remain there until
further orders."
"But what are you going to do, Mr. Vance?" asked Mrs. Garden in a
frightened tone. She stood rigidly against the wall, with half-closed
eyes fixed in morbid fascination on the still body of her nephew. "We
must keep this thing as quiet as possible...My poor Woody!"
"I'm afraid, madam, we shall not be able to keep it quiet at all."
Vance spoke with earnest significance. "My first duty will be to
telephone the District Attorney and the Homicide Bureau."
Mrs. Garden gasped, and her eyes opened wide in apprehension.
"The District Attorney? The Homicide Bureau?" she repeated
distractedly. "Oh, no!...Why must you do that? Surely, any one can see
that the poor boy took his own life."
Vance shook his head slowly and looked squarely at the distressed
woman.
"I regret, madam," he said, "that this is not a case of suicide.
...It's murder!"
CHAPTER V
A SEARCH IN THE VAULT
(_Saturday, April 14; 4:30 p.m._)
Following Vance's unexpected announcement there was a sudden silence.
Every one moved reluctantly toward the door to the passageway. Only
Garden remained behind.
"I say, Vance,"--he spoke in a shocked, confidential tone--"this is
really frightful. Are you sure you're not letting your imagination run
away with you? Who could possibly have wanted to shoot poor Woody? He
must have done it himself. He was always a weakling, and he's talked
about suicide more than once."
Vance looked at the man coldly for a moment.
"Thanks awfully for the information, Garden." His voice was as cold as
his glance. "But it won't get us anywhere now, don't y' know. Swift was
murdered; and I want your help, not your skepticism."
"Anything I can do, of course," Garden mumbled hastily, apparently
abashed by Vance's manner.
"Is there a telephone up here?" Vance asked.
"Yes, certainly. There's one in the study."
Garden brushed past us with nervous energy, as if glad of the
opportunity for action. He threw open the door at the end of the
passageway and stood aside for us to enter the study.
"Over there," he said, pointing to the desk at the far end of the room,
on which stood a hand telephone. "That's an open line. No connection
with the one we use for the ponies, though it's an extension of the
phone in the den." He stepped swiftly behind the desk and threw a black
key on the switch box that was attached to the side of the desk. "By
leaving the key in this position, you are disconnected from the
extension downstairs, so that you have complete privacy."
"Oh, quite," Vance nodded with a faint smile. "I use the same system in
my own apartment. Thanks awfully for your thoughtfulness...And now
please join the others downstairs and try to keep things balanced for a
little while--there's a good fellow."
Garden took his dismissal with good grace and went toward the door.
"Oh, by the way, Garden," Vance called after him, "I'll want a little
chat with you in private, before long."
Garden turned, a troubled look on his face.
"I suppose you'll be wanting me to rattle all the family skeletons for
you? But that's all right. I want to be as useful as I possibly can--
you believe that, I hope. I'll come back the minute you want me. I'll
be down there pouring oil on the troubled waters, and when you're ready
for me you've only to press that buzzer on the book-shelves there, just
behind the desk." He indicated a white push-button set flush in the
centre of a small square japanned box on the upright between two
sections of the book-shelves. "That's part of the inter-communicating
system between this room and the den. I'll see that the den door is
left open, so that I can hear the buzz wherever I am."
Vance nodded curtly, and Garden, after a momentary hesitation, turned
and went from the room.
As soon as Garden could be heard making his way down the stairs, Vance
closed the door and went immediately to the telephone. A moment later
he was speaking to Markham.
"The galloping horses, old dear," he said. "The Trojans are riding
roughshod. Equanimity was needed, but came in too far behind. Result, a
murder. Young Swift is dead. And it was as clever a performance as I've
yet seen...No, Markham,"--his voice suddenly became grave--"I'm not
spoofing. I think you'd better come immediately. And notify Heath,* if
you can reach him, and the Medical Examiner. I'll carry on till you get
here..." (*Sergeant Ernest Heath of the Homicide Bureau, who had had
charge of the various criminal investigations with which Vance had been
associated.)
He replaced the receiver slowly. Taking out his cigarette case, he
lighted a _Régie_ with that studied deliberation which, from long
observation, I had come to recognize as the indication of a distressed
and groping frame of mind.
"This is a subtle crime, Van," he meditated. "Too subtle for my peace
of mind. I don't like it--I don't at all like it. And I don't like this
intrusion of horse-racing. Sheer expediency..."
He looked about the study appraisingly. It was a room nearly twenty-five
feet square, lined with books and pamphlets and filing cabinets.
On some of the shelves and in cabinets and atop every available piece
of furniture were specimens of a unique collection of ancient
pharmacists' paraphernalia--mortars and pestles of rare earthenware,
brass, and bronze, chiseled and ornamented with baluster motives,
mascarons, lion herms, leafage, cherub heads, Renaissance scrollings,
bird figures, and _fleurs de lis_--Gothic, Spanish, French, Flemish,
many of them dating back to the sixteenth century; ancient apothecary's
scales of brass and ivory, with round columns on plinths, with urn
finials, supporting embossed scale pans on straight and bow-shaped
steel arms--many of them of late eighteenth-century French design;
numerous early pharmacy jars of various shapes, cylindrical,
ovoglobular, ring-molded barrel, incurvate octagonal, ovoid, and one
inverted pear, in faience, majolica, and priceless porcelains,
exquisitely decorated and lettered; and various other rare and artistic
pharmaceutical items--a collection bespeaking years of travel and
laborious searching.* (*This collection was later sold at auction, and
many of the items are now in the various museums of the country.)
Vance walked round the room, pausing here and there before some unique
vase or jar.
"An amazin' collection," he murmured. "And not without significance,
Van. It gives one an insight into the nature of the man who assembled
it--an artist as well as a scientist--a lover of beauty and also a
seeker for truth. Really, y' know, the two should be synonymous.
However..."
He went thoughtfully to the north window and looked out on the garden.
The rattan chair with its gruesome occupant could not be seen from the
study, as it was far to the left of the window, near the west
balustrade.
"The crocuses are dying," he murmured, "giving place to the hyacinths
and daffodils; and the tulips are well on their way. Color succeeds
color. A beautiful garden. But there's death every hour in a garden,
Van--or else the garden itself would not live...I wonder..."
He turned from the window abruptly and came back to the desk.
"A few words with the colorless Garden are indicated, before the
minions of the law arrive."
He placed his finger on the white button in the buzzer box and
depressed it for a second. Then he went to the door and opened it.
Several moments went by, but Garden did not appear, and Vance again
pressed the button. After a full minute or two had passed without any
response to his summons, Vance started down the passageway to the
stairs, beckoning me to follow.
As he came to the vault door on the right, he halted abruptly. He
scrutinized the heavy calamine door for a moment or two. At first
glance it seemed to be closed tightly, but as I looked at it more
closely, I noticed that it was open a fraction of an inch, as if the
spring catch, which locked it automatically, had failed to snap when
the door had last been shut. Vance pushed on the door gently with the
tips of his fingers, and it swung inward slowly and ponderously.
"Deuced queer," he commented. "A vault for preserving valuable
documents--and the door unlocked. I wonder..."
The light from the hall shone into the dark recess of the vault, and as
Vance pushed the door further inward a white cord hanging from a
ceiling light became visible. To the end of this cord was attached a
miniature brass pestle which acted as a weight. Vance stepped
immediately inside and jerked the cord, and the vault was flooded with
light.
"Vault" hardly describes this small storeroom, except that the walls
were unusually thick, and it had obviously been constructed to serve as
a burglar-proof repository. The room was about five by seven feet, and
the ceiling was as high as that of the hallway. The walls were lined
with deep shelves from floor to ceiling, and these were piled with all
manner of papers, documents, pamphlets, filing cases, and racks of
test-tubes and vials labeled with mysterious symbols. Three of the
shelves were devoted to a series of sturdy steel cash and security
boxes. The floor was overlaid with small squares of black and white
ceramic tile.
Although there was ample room for us both inside the vault, I remained
in the hallway, watching Vance as he looked about him.
"Egoism, Van," he remarked, without turning toward me. "There probably
isn't a thing here that any thief would deign to steal. Formulae, I
imagine--the results of experimental researches--and such abstruse
items, of no value or interest to any one but the professor himself.
Yet he builds a special storeroom to keep them locked away from the
world..."
Vance leaned over and picked up a batch of scattered typewritten papers
which had evidently been brushed down from one of the shelves directly
opposite the door. He glanced at them for a moment and carefully
replaced them in the empty space on the shelf.
"Rather interestin', this disarray," he observed. "The professor was
obviously not the last person in here, or he would certainly not have
left his papers on the floor..." He wheeled about. "My word!" he
exclaimed in a low tone. "These fallen papers and that unlatched
door...It could be, don't y' know." There was a suppressed excitement
in his manner. "I say, Van, don't come in here; and, above all, don't
touch this door-knob."
He took out his monocle and adjusted it carefully. Then he knelt down
on the tiled floor and began a close inspection of the small squares,
as if he were counting them. His action reminded me of the way he had
inspected the tiling on the roof near the chair in which we had found
young Swift. It occurred to me that he was seeking here what he had
failed to find in the garden. His next words confirmed my surmise.
"It should be here," he murmured, as if to himself. "It would explain
many things--it would form the first vague outline of a workable
pattern..."
After searching about for a minute or two, he stopped abruptly and
leaned forward eagerly. Then he took a small piece of paper from his
pocket and adroitly flicked something onto it from the floor. Folding
the paper carefully, he tucked it away in his waistcoat pocket.
Although I was only a few feet from him and was looking directly at
him, I could not see what it was that he had found.
"I think that will be all for the moment," he said, rising and pulling
the cord to extinguish the light. Coming out into the hallway, he
closed the vault door by carefully grasping the shank of the knob. Then
he moved swiftly down the passageway, stepped through the door to the
garden, and went directly to the dead man. Though his back was turned
to me as he bent over the figure, I could see that he took the folded
paper from his waistcoat pocket and opened it. He glanced repeatedly
from the paper in his hand to the limp figure in the chair. At length
he nodded his head emphatically, and rejoined me in the hallway. We
descended the stairs to the apartment below.
Just as we reached the lower hall, the front door opened and Cecil
Kroon entered. He seemed surprised to find us in the hall, and asked
somewhat vaguely, as he threw his hat on a bench:
"Anything the matter?"
Vance studied him sharply and made no answer; and Kroon went on:
"I suppose the big race is over, damn it! Who won it--Equanimity?"
Vance shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the other.
"Azure Star won the race. I believe Equanimity came in fifth or sixth."
"And did Woody go in on him up to the hilt, as he threatened?"
Vance nodded. "I'm afraid he did."
"Good Gad!" Kroon caught his breath. "That's a blow for the chap. How's
he taking it?" He looked away from Vance as if he would rather not hear
the answer.
"He's not taking it," Vance returned quietly. "He's dead."
"No!" Kroon sucked in his breath with a whistling sound, and his eyes
slowly contracted. When he had apparently recovered from the shock he
spoke in a hushed voice: "So he shot himself, did he?"
Vance's eyebrows went up slightly.
"That's the general impression," he returned blandly. "You're not
psychic--are you? I didn't mention how Swift died, but the fact is, he
did die by a revolver shot. Superficially, I admit, it looks like
suicide." Vance smiled coldly. "Your reaction is most interestin'. Why,
for instance, did you assume that he shot himself, instead of--let us
say--jumping off the roof?"
Kroon set his mouth in a straight line, and a look of anger came into
his narrowed eyes. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, and
finally stammered:
"I don't know--exactly...except that--most people shoot themselves
nowadays."
"Oh, quite." Vance's lips were still set in a stern smile. "Not an
uncommon way of assisting oneself out of this troublous world. But,
really y' know, I didn't mention suicide at all. Why do you take it for
granted that his death was self-inflicted?"
Kroon became aggressive. "He was healthy enough when I left here. No
one's going to blow a man's brains out in public like this."
"Blow his brains out?" Vance repeated. "How do you know he wasn't shot
through the heart?" Kroon was now obviously flustered.
"I--I merely assumed--"
Vance interrupted the man's embarrassment.
"However," he said, without relaxing his calculating scrutiny, "your
academic conclusions regarding a more or less public murder are not
without some logic. But the fact remains, some one did actually shoot
Swift through the head--and practically in public. Things like that do
happen, don't y' know. Logic has very little bearing on life and death--
and horse-racing. Logic is the most perfect artificial means of
arriving at a false conclusion." He held a light to Kroon's cigarette.
"However, I could bear to know just where you've been and just when you
returned to the apartment house here."
Kroon's gaze wandered, and he took two deep puffs on his cigarette
before he answered.
"I believe I remarked before I went out," he said, with an attempt at
serenity, "that I was going to a relative's to sign some silly legal
documents--"
"And may I have the name and address of your relative--an aunt, I
believe you said?" Vance requested pleasantly. "I'm in charge of the
situation here until the officials arrive."
Kroon took the cigarette from his mouth with a forced air of
nonchalance and drew himself up haughtily.
"I cannot see," he replied stiffly, "that that information concerns any
one but myself."
"Neither can I," admitted Vance cheerfully. "I was merely hopin' for
frankness. But I can assure you, in view of what has happened here this
afternoon, that the police will want to know exactly when you returned
from your mysterious signing of documents."
Kroon smirked. "You surely don't think that I've been lingering outside
in the hall, do you? I arrived a few minutes ago and came directly up
here."
"Thanks awfully," Vance murmured. "And now I must ask you to join the
others in the drawing-room, and to wait there until the police arrive.
I trust you have no objections."
"None whatever, I assure you," Kroon returned with a display of cynical
amusement. "The regular police will be a relief, after this amateur
hocus-pocus." He swaggered up the hall toward the archway, with his
hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets.
When Kroon had disappeared into the drawing-room, Vance went
immediately to the front door, opened it quietly and, walking down the
narrow public corridor, pressed the elevator button. A few moments
later the sliding door opened and a dark, thin, intelligent-looking boy
of perhaps twenty-two, in a light-blue uniform, looked out enquiringly.
"Going down?" he said respectfully.
"I'm not going down," Vance replied. "I merely wanted to ask you a
question or two. I'm more or less connected with the District
Attorney's office."
"I know you, Mr. Vance." The boy nodded alertly.
"A little matter has come up this afternoon," Vance said, "and I think
you may be able to help me..."
"I'll tell you anything I know," agreed the boy.
"Excellent! Do you know a Mr. Kroon who visits the Garden apartment?--
The gentleman is blond and has a waxed mustache."
"Sure, I know him," the boy returned promptly. "He comes up here nearly
every afternoon. I brought him up today."
"About what time was that?"
"Two or three o'clock, I guess." The boy frowned. "Isn't he in there?"
Vance answered the question by asking another. "Have you been on the
car all afternoon?"
"Sure I have--since noon. I don't get relieved till seven o'clock."
"And you haven't seen Mr. Kroon since you brought him up here early
this afternoon?"
The boy shook his head. "No, sir; I haven't."
"I was under the impression," said Vance, "that Mr. Kroon went out
about an hour ago and just returned."
Again the boy shook his head, and gave Vance a puzzled look.
"No. I only brought him up once today; and that was at least two hours
ago. I haven't seen him since, going up or down."
The annunciator buzzed, and Vance quickly handed the boy a folded bill.
"Many thanks," he said. "That's all I wanted to know."
The boy pocketed the money and released the door as we turned back to
the apartment.
When we re-entered the front hall, the nurse was standing in the
doorway of the bedroom at the right of the entrance. There was a
worried, inquisitive look in her eyes.
Vance closed the door softly and was about to start up the hall, but he
hesitated and turned toward the girl.
"You look troubled, Miss Beeton," he said kindly. "But, after all, you
should be accustomed to death."
"I am accustomed to it," she answered in a low voice. "But this is so
different. It came so suddenly--without any warning...Although," she
added, "Mr. Swift always impressed me as more or less the suicidal
type."
Vance looked at the nurse appraisingly. "Your impression may have been
correct," he said. "But it happens that Swift did not commit suicide."
The girl's eyes opened wide: she caught her breath and leaned against
the casing of the door. Her face paled perceptibly.
"You mean someone shot him?" Her words were barely audible. "But who--
who--?"
"We don't know." Vance's voice was matter-of-fact. "But we must find
that out...Would you like to help me, Miss Beeton?"
She drew herself up; her features relaxed; and she was once more the
unperturbed and efficient nurse.
"I'd be very glad to." There was more than a suggestion of eagerness in
her words.
"Then I would like you to stand guard, as it were," he said, with a
faint friendly smile. "I want to talk to Mr. Garden, and I don't want
any one to go upstairs. Would you mind taking your post in this chair
and notifying me immediately if any one should attempt to go up?"
"That's so little to ask," the girl replied, as she seated herself in a
chair at the foot of the stairs.
Vance thanked her and proceeded to the den. Inside Garden and Zalia
Graem were sitting close together on a tapestry davenport and talking
in low, confidential tones. An indistinct murmur of voices from beyond
the archway indicated that the other members of the group were in the
drawing-room.
Garden and Miss Graem drew apart quickly as we stepped into the den.
Vance ignored their apparent embarrassment and addressed Garden as if
he were unaware that he had interrupted a _tête-à-tête_.
"I've called the District Attorney, and he has notified the police.
They should be here any minute now. In the meantime, I'd like to see
you alone." He turned his head to Miss Graem and added: "I hope you
won't mind."
The girl stood up and arched her eyebrows. "Pray, don't consider me,"
she replied. "You may be as mysterious as you wish."
Garden rebuked her peevishly.
"Never mind the _hauteur_, Zalia." Then he turned to Vance. "Why didn't
you ring the buzzer for me? I would have come up. I purposely stayed
here in the den because I thought you might be wanting me."
"I did ring, don't y' know," Vance told him. "Twice, in fact. But as
you didn't come up, I came down."
"There was no signal here," Garden assured him. "And I've been right
here ever since I came downstairs."
"I can vouch for that," put in Miss Graem.
Vance's eyes rested on her for a moment, and there was the trace of a
sardonic smile at the corners of his mouth.
"I'm dashed grateful for the corroboration," he murmured.
"Are you sure you pressed the button?" Garden asked Vance. "It's damned
funny. That system hasn't failed in six years. Wait a minute..."
Going to the door he called loudly for Sneed, and the butler came into
the room almost immediately.
"Go upstairs to the study, Sneed," Garden ordered, "and push the buzzer
button."
"The buzzer is out of order, sir," the butler told him imperturbably.
"I've already notified the telephone company and asked them to send a
man to fix it."
"When did you know about it?" Garden demanded angrily.
The nurse, who had heard the conversation, left her chair and came to
the doorway.
"I discovered this afternoon that the buzzer wasn't working," she
explained; "so I told Sneed about it and suggested that he notify the
telephone company."
"Oh, I see. Thank you, Miss Beeton." Garden turned back to Vance.
"Shall we go upstairs now?"
Miss Graem, who had been looking on with a cynical and somewhat amused
expression, started from the room.
"Why go upstairs?" she asked. "I'll fade into the drawing-room, and you
can talk to your heart's content right here."
Vance studied the girl for a few seconds, and then bowed slightly.
"Thank you," he said. "That will be much better." He stood aside as she
strolled leisurely into the hall and closed the door after her.
Vance dropped his cigarette into a small ash tray on the tabouret
before the davenport and, moving swiftly to the door, reopened it. From
where I stood in the den, I could see that Miss Graem, instead of going
toward the drawing-room, was walking rapidly in the opposite direction.
"Just a moment, Miss Graem!" Vance's voice was peremptory. "Please wait
in the drawing-room. No one is to go upstairs just now."
She swung about. "And why not?" Her face was flushed with anger, and
her jaw protruded with defiance. "I have a right to go up," she
proclaimed spiritedly.
Vance said nothing but shook his head in negation, his eyes holding
hers.
She returned his look, but could not resist the power of his scrutiny.
Slowly she came back toward him. A sudden change seemed to have come
over her. Her eyes dimmed, and tears sprang into them.
"But you don't understand," she protested, in a broken voice. "I'm to
blame for this tragedy--it wasn't the race. If it hadn't been for me
Woody would be alive now. I--I feel terrible about it. And I wanted to
go upstairs--to see him."
Vance put his hand on the girl's shoulder. "Really," he said softly,
"there's nothing to indicate that you're to blame."
Zalia Graem looked up at Vance searchingly. "Then what Floyd has been
trying to tell me is true--that Woody didn't shoot himself?"
"Quite true," said Vance.
The girl drew a deep breath, and her lips trembled. She took a quick
impulsive step toward Vance, and resting her head against his arm,
burst into tears.
Vance placed his hands on her arms and held her away from him.
"I say, stop this nonsense," he admonished her sternly. "And don't try
to be so deuced clever. Run along to the drawing-room and have a
highball. It'll buck you up no end."
The girl's face, suddenly became cynical, and she drew up her shoulders
in an exaggerated shrug.
"_Bien_, Monsieur Lecoq," she retorted with a toss of the head. And
brushing past him, she swaggered up the hall toward the drawing-room.
CHAPTER VI
AN INTERRUPTED INTERVIEW
(_Saturday, April 14; 4:50 p.m._)
Vance watched her disappear. Then he turned and met the half wistful,
half indignant gaze of Miss Beeton. He smiled at her a bit grimly and
started back into the den. At this moment Mrs. Garden came through the
archway with a look of resentful determination, and strode aggressively
down the hall.
"Zalia has just told me," she said angrily, "that you forbade her to go
upstairs. It's an outrage! But surely I may go up. This is my house,
remember. You have no right whatever to prevent me from spending these
last minutes with my nephew."
Vance turned to confront her. There was a pained look on his face, but
his eyes were cold and stern.
"I have every right, madam," he said. "The situation is a most serious
one, and if you will not accept that fact, it will be necess'ry for me
to assume sufficient authority to compel you to do so."
"This is unbelievable!" the woman remonstrated indignantly.
Garden stepped to the den door.
"For Heaven's sake, mater," he pleaded, "be reasonable. Mr. Vance is
quite right. And, anyway, what possible reason could you have for
wanting to be with Woody now? We're in for enough scandal as it is. Why
involve yourself further?"
The woman looked squarely at her son, and I had a feeling that some
telepathic communication passed between them.
"It really doesn't make any particular difference," she conceded with
calm resignation. But as she turned her eyes to Vance the look of
cynical resentment returned. "Where, sir," she asked, "do you prefer
that I remain until your policemen arrive?"
"I don't wish to seem too exacting, madam," Vance returned quietly;
"but I would deeply appreciate it if you remained in the drawing-room."
The woman raised her eyebrows, shrugged her shoulders, and, turning
indifferently, went back up the hall.
"Frightfully sorry, Vance," apologized Garden. "The mater is a dowager.
Not accustomed to taking orders. And she resents it. I doubt if she
really has the slightest desire to sit by Woody's stiffening body. But
she hates to be told what to do and what not to do. She'd probably have
spent the day in bed, if Doc Siefert hadn't firmly told her not to get
up."
"That's quite all right." Vance spoke indifferently, gazing with
perplexed meditation at the tip of his cigarette. Then he came quickly
to the den door. "Let's have our little chat--eh, what?" He stood aside
for Garden to enter the room; then he followed and closed the door.
Garden sat down wearily at one end of the davenport and took a pipe
from a small drawer in the tabouret. He got out his tobacco and slowly
packed the pipe, while Vance walked to the window and stood looking out
over the city.
"Garden," he began, "there are a few things that I'd like to have
cleared up before the District Attorney and the police arrive." He
turned about leisurely and sat down at the desk, facing Garden. The
latter was having some difficulty getting his pipe lighted. When he had
finally succeeded he looked up dejectedly and met Vance's gaze.
"Anything I can do to help," he mumbled, sucking on his pipe.
"A few necess'ry questions, don't y' know," Vance went on. "Hope they
won't upset you, and all that. But the fact is, Mr. Markham will
probably want me to take a hand in the investigation, since I was a
witness to the preamble of this distressin' tragedy."
"I hope he does," Garden returned. "It's a damnable affair, and I'd