The Garden Murder Case Read online

  “My nose is all powdered for the inquisition,” she announced with a twisted smile. “Is it going to take long?”

  “You might better sit down.” Vance spoke with stern politeness.

  “Is it compulsory?” she asked.

  Vance ignored the question, and she leaned back against the door.

  “We’re investigating a murder, Miss Graem,”—Vance’s voice was courteous but firm—“and it will be necess’ry to ask you questions that you may deem objectionable. But please believe that it will be for your own good to answer them frankly.”

  “Am I a suspect? How thrilling!”

  “Everyone I’ve talked to thus far thinks so.” He looked at the girl significantly.

  “Oh, so that’s how the going is! I’m in for a sloppy track, and I can’t mud. How perfectly beastly!” She frowned. “I thought I detected a vague look of fear in people’s eyes. I think I will sit down, after all.” She threw herself into a chair and gazed up with simulated dejection. “Am I to be arrested?”

  “Not just at the minute. But certain matters must be straightened out. It may be worth your while to help us.”

  “It sounds ghastly. But go ahead.”

  “First,” said Vance, “we’d like to know about the feud between you and Swift.”

  “Oh, the devil!” the girl exclaimed disgustedly. “Must that be raked up? There was really nothing to it. Woody bothered the life out of me. I felt sorry for him and went around with him a bit when he implored me to and threatened to resort to all the known forms of suicide if I didn’t. Then it became too much for me, and I decided to draw a line across the page. But I’m afraid I didn’t go about it in a nice way. I told him I was extravagant and cared only for luxuries, and that I could never marry a poor man. I had a silly notion it might snap him out of his wistful adoration. It worked, after a fashion. He got furious and said nasty things—which, frankly, I couldn’t forgive. So he took the high road, and I took the low—or the other way round.”

  “And so, the conclusion we may draw is that he played the horses heavily in the forlorn hope of amassing a sufficient fortune to overcome your aversion to his poverty—and that his bet on Equanimity today was a last fling—”

  “Don’t say that!” the girl cried, her hands tightening over the arms of the chair. “It’s a horrible idea, but—it might be true. And I don’t want to hear it.”

  Vance continued to study her critically.

  “Yes, as you say. It might be true. On the other hand… however, we’ll let it pass.” Then he asked quickly: “Who telephoned you today, just before the Rivermont Handicap?”

  “Tartarin de Tarascon,” the girl replied sarcastically.

  “And had you instructed this eminent adventurer to call you at just that time?”

  “What has that to do with anything?”

  “And why were you so eager to take the call on the den phone and shut the door?”

  The girl leaned forward and looked at Vance defiantly.

  “What are you trying to get at?” she demanded furiously.

  “Are you aware,” Vance went on, “that the den downstairs is the only room directly connected by wires with this room up here?”

  The girl seemed unable to speak. She sat pale and rigid, her eyes fixed steadily on Vance.

  “And do you know,” he continued, without change of intonation, “that the wires at this end of the line had been disconnected? And are you aware that the shot which we heard downstairs was not the one that ended Swift’s life—that he was shot in the vault off the hall, several minutes before we heard the shot?”

  “You’re being ghastly,” the girl cried. “You’re making up nightmares—nightmares to frighten me. You’re implying terrible things. You’re trying to torture me into admitting things that aren’t true, just because I was out of the room when Woody was shot…”

  Vance held up his hand to stop her reproaches.

  “You misinterpret my attitude, Miss Graem,” he said softly. “I asked you, a moment ago, for your own sake, to answer my questions frankly. You refuse. In those circumstances, you should know the facts as they appear to others.” He paused. “You and Swift were not on good terms. You knew, as did the others, that he usually went up to the roof before races. You knew where Professor Garden kept his revolver. You’re familiar with guns and a good pistol shot. A telephone call for you is perfectly timed. You disappear. Within the next five minutes Swift is shot behind that steel door. Another five minutes pass; the race is over; and a shot is heard. That shot could conceivably have been fired by a mechanism. The buzzer wires up here had been disconnected, obviously for some specific purpose. At the time of the second shot you were at the other end of those wires. You almost fainted at the sight of Swift. Later you tried to go upstairs… Adding all this up: you had a motive, a sufficient knowledge of the situation, access to the criminal agent, the ability to act, and the opportunity.” Vance paused again. “Now are you ready to be frank, or have you really something to hide?”

  A change came over the girl. She relaxed, as if from a sudden attack of weakness. She did not take her eyes from Vance, and appeared to be appraising him and deciding what course to follow.

  Before she managed to speak Heath stamped up the passageway and opened the study door. He carried a woman’s black-and-white tweed top-coat over his arm. He cocked an eyebrow at Vance and nodded triumphantly.

  “I take it, Sergeant,” Vance drawled, “your quest has been successful. You may speak out.” He turned to Zalia Graem and explained: “Sergeant Heath has been searching for the gun that fired the second shot.”

  The girl became suddenly animated and leaned forward attentively.

  “I followed the route you suggested, Mr. Vance,” Heath reported. “After going over the roof and the stairs and the hall of the apartment, I thought I’d look through the wraps hanging in the hall closet. The gun was in the pocket of this.” He threw the coat on the davenport and took a .38 gun-metal revolver from his pocket. He broke it and showed it to Vance and Markham. “Full of blanks—and one of ’em has been discharged.”

  “Very good, Sergeant,” Vance complimented him. “Whose coat is this, by the by?”

  “I don’t know yet, Mr. Vance; but I’m going to find out pronto.”

  Zalia Graem had risen and come forward.

  “I can tell you whose coat that is,” she said. “It belongs to Miss Beeton, the nurse. I saw her wearing it yesterday.”

  “Thanks awfully for the identification,” returned Vance, his eyes resting dreamily on her.

  She gave him a wry smile and returned to her chair.

  “But there’s a question still pending,” Vance said; “—to wit: are you ready to be frank now?”

  “All right.” She focused her gaze on Vance again. “Lemmy Merrit, one of the various scions of the horsy aristocracy that infests our eastern seaboard, asked me to drive out to Sands Point with him for the polo game tomorrow. I thought I might dig up some more exciting engagement and told him to call me here this afternoon at half-past three for a final yes or no. I purposely stipulated that time, so I wouldn’t miss the running of the Handicap. As you know, he didn’t call till after four, with excuses about not having been able to get to a telephone. I tried to get rid of him in a hurry, but he was persistent—the only virtue he possesses, so far as I know. I left him dangling on the wire when I came out to listen to the race, and then went back for a farewell and have-a-nice-time-without-me. Just as I hung up I heard what sounded like a shot and came to the door, to find everyone hurrying along the hall. An idea went through my head that maybe Woody had shot himself—that’s why I went mid-Victorian and almost passed out when I saw him. That’s everything. I know nothing about wires, buzzers, or mechanical devices; and I haven’t been in this room for a week. However, I’ll incriminate myself to the extent of admitting that I didn’t like Woody, and that on many occasions I had the desire to blow his brains out. And, as you say, I am a pretty good shot.”
/>   Vance rose and bowed.

  “Thanks for your ultimate candor, Miss Graem. I’m deuced sorry I had to torture you to obtain it. And please ignore the nightmares you accused me of manufacturing. I’m really grateful to you for helping me fill in the pattern.”

  The girl frowned as her intense gaze rested on Vance.

  “I wonder if you don’t really know more about this affair than you pretend.”

  “My dear Miss Graem! I do not pretend to know anything about it.” Vance went to the door and held it open for her. “You may go now, but we shall probably want to see you again tomorrow, and I must ask for your promise that you will stay at home where you will be available.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be at home.” She shrugged and then added: “I’m beginning to think that maybe Ogden Nash had the right idea.”

  As she went out, Miss Beeton was coming up the passageway toward the study. The two women passed each other without speaking.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr. Vance,” the nurse apologized, “but Doctor Siefert has just arrived and asked me to inform you that he wished very much to see you as soon as possible. Mr. Garden,” she added, “has told him about Mr. Swift’s death.”

  At that moment her gaze fell on the tweed coat, and a slight puzzled frown lined her forehead. Before she could speak Vance said:

  “The Sergeant brought your coat up here. He didn’t know whose it was. We were looking for something.” Then he added quickly: “Please tell Doctor Siefert that I will be very glad to see him at once. And ask him if he will be good enough to come here to the study.”

  Miss Beeton nodded and went out, closing the door softly behind her.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Poison Gas

  (Saturday, April 14; 6:40 p. m.)

  VANCE WENT TO the window and looked out for some time in silence. It was obvious he was deeply troubled. Markham respected his perturbation and did not speak.

  It was Vance himself who at length broke the silence.

  “Markham,” he said, his eyes scanning the brilliant sunset colors across the river, “the more I see of this case the less I like it. Everyone seems to be trying to pin the posy of guilt on the other chap. And there’s fear wherever I turn. Guilty consciences at work.”

  “But everyone,” returned Markham, “seems pretty well agreed that this Zalia Graem had a hand in it.”

  Vance inclined his head.

  “Oh, yes,” he murmured. “I had observed that fact. I wonder…”

  Markham studied Vance’s back for several moments.

  “Do you think Doctor Siefert will be of any help?” he asked.

  “He might be, of course,” Vance replied. “Evidently he wants to see me. But I imagine it’s curiosity as much as anything else. However, there’s little that anyone who was not actually here can tell us. The difficulty in this case, Markham, lies in trying to weed out a multiplicity of misleading items…”

  There was a soft knock, and Vance turned from the window. He was confronted by Garden, who had opened the study door without waiting for a summons.

  “Sorry, Vance,” Garden apologized, “but Doc Siefert is downstairs and says he’d like to see you, if convenient, before he goes.”

  Vance looked at the man a moment and frowned.

  “Miss Beeton informed me of the fact a few minutes ago. I asked her to tell the doctor I would be glad to see him at once. I can’t understand his sending you also. Didn’t the nurse give him the message?”

  “I’m afraid not. I know Siefert sent Miss Beeton up here, and I assumed, as I imagine Siefert did, that you had detained her.” He looked round the room with a puzzled expression. “The fact is, I thought she was still up here.”

  “You mean she hasn’t returned downstairs?” Vance asked.

  “No, she hasn’t come down yet.”

  Vance took a step forward.

  “Are you sure of that, Garden?”

  “Yes, very sure.” Garden nodded vigorously. “I’ve been in the front hall, near the foot of the stairs, ever since Doc Siefert arrived.”

  Vance walked thoughtfully to a small table and broke the ashes from his cigarette.

  “Did you see any of the others come down?” he asked Garden.

  “Why, yes,” Garden told him. “Kroon came down and went out. And then Madge Weatherby also came down and went out. And shortly after the nurse had gone up with Siefert’s message to you, Zalia came down and hurried away. But that’s all. And, as I say, I’ve been down there in the front hall all the time.”

  “What about Hammle?”

  “Hammle? No, I haven’t seen anything of him. I thought he was still here with you.”

  “That’s deuced queer.” Vance moved slowly to a chair and sat down with a perplexed frown. “It’s possible you missed him. However, it doesn’t matter.” He had lifted his head a little and was watching Garden speculatively. “Ask the doctor to come up, will you?”

  When Garden had left us Vance sat smoking and staring at the ceiling. I knew from the droop of his eyelids that he was disturbed. He moved restlessly in his chair and finally leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “Deuced queer,” he muttered again.

  “For Heaven’s sake, Vance,” Markham commented irritably. “It’s entirely possible Garden wasn’t watching the stairs as closely as he imagines.”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.” Vance nodded vaguely. “Everyone worried. No one on the alert. Normal mechanisms not functioning. Still, the stairs are visible half way up the hall, and the hall itself isn’t very spacious…”

  “It’s quite possible Hammle went down the main stairs from the terrace, wishing, perhaps, to avoid the others.”

  “He hadn’t his hat up here with him,” Vance returned without looking up. “He would have had to enter the front hall and pass Garden to get it. No point in such silly manœuvres… But it isn’t Hammle I’m thinking of. It’s Miss Beeton. I don’t like it…” He got up slowly and took out another cigarette. “She’s not the kind of girl that would neglect taking my message to Siefert immediately, unless for a very good reason.”

  “A number of things might have happened—” Markham began, but Vance cut in.

  “Yes, of course. That’s just it. Too many things have happened here today already.” He went to the north window and looked out into the garden. Then he returned to the center of the room and stood for a moment in tense meditation. “As you say, Markham.” His voice was barely audible. “Something may have happened…” Suddenly he threw his cigarette into an ashtray and turned on his heel. “Oh, my word! I wonder… Come, Sergeant. We’ll have to make a search—immediately.”

  He opened the door quickly and started down the hall. We followed him with vague apprehension, not knowing what was in his mind and with no anticipation of what was to follow. Vance peered out through the garden door. Then he turned back, shaking his head.

  “No, it couldn’t have been there. We would have been able to see.” His eyes moved inquiringly up and down the hall, and after a moment a strange, startled look came into them. “It could be!” he exclaimed. “Oh, my aunt! Damnable things are happening here. Wait a second.”

  He rapidly retraced his steps to the vault door. Grasping the knob, he rattled it violently; but the door was now locked. Taking the key from its nail, he inserted it hurriedly into the lock. As he opened the heavy door a crack, a pungent, penetrating odor assailed my nostrils. Vance quickly drew back.

  “Out into the air!” he called over his shoulder, in our direction. “All of you!”

  Instinctively we made for the door to the garden.

  Vance held one hand over his nose and mouth and pushed the vault door further inward. Heavy amber-colored fumes drifted out into the hall, and I felt a stifling, choking sensation. Vance staggered back a short step, but kept his hand on the door-knob.

  “Miss Beeton! Miss Beeton!” he called. There was no response; and I saw Vance put his head down and move forward into the dense fumes that
were emanating from the open door. He sank to his knees on the threshold and leaned forward into the vault. The next moment he had straightened up and was dragging the limp body of the nurse out into the passageway.

  The whole episode took much less time than is required to relate it. Actually no more than ten seconds had elapsed from the time he had inserted the key into the lock. I knew what an effort he was making, for even as I stood outside the garden door, where the fumes were comparatively thin, I felt half suffocated, and Markham and Heath were choking and coughing.

  As soon as the girl was out of the vault, Vance took her up in his arms and carried her unsteadily out into the garden, where he placed her gently on the wicker settee. His face was deathly pale; his eyes were watering; and he had difficulty with his breathing. When he had released the girl, he leaned heavily against one of the iron posts which supported the awning. He opened his mouth wide and sucked the fresh air into his lungs.

  The nurse was gasping stertorously and clutching her throat. Although her breast was rising and falling convulsively, her whole body was limp and lifeless.

  At that moment Doctor Siefert stepped through the garden door, a look of amazement on his face. He had all the outward appearance of the type of medical man Vance had described to us the night before. He was about sixty, conservatively but modishly attired, and with a bearing studiously dignified and self-sufficient.

  With a great effort Vance drew himself erect.

  “Hurry, doctor,” he called. “It’s bromine gas.” He made a shaky gesture with one hand toward the prostrate figure of the nurse.

  Siefert came rapidly forward, moved the girl’s body into a more comfortable position and opened the collar of her uniform.

  “Nothing but the air can help her,” he said, as he moved one end of the settee around so that it faced the cool breeze from the river. “How are you feeling, Vance?”

  Vance was dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief. He blinked once or twice and smiled faintly.

  “I’m quite all right.” He went to the settee and looked down at the girl for a moment. “A close call,” he murmured.