The Garden Murder Case Page 2

  “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 racehorses 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.* 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.”

  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 someone who feared I might recognize his voice. Ergo, it was someone 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 y’ 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.”

  Notes

  * “The Casino Murder Case” (Scribners, 1934).

  * 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.

  * 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.

  * At one time Vance was a polo enthusiast and played regularly. He too had a five-goal rating.

  * When Vance read the proof of this record, he made a marginal notation: “And I might also have mentioned Sir Barton, Sysonby, Colin, Crusader, Twenty Grand, and Equipoise.”

  † 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.

  CHAPTER TWO

  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.”
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  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.”

  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 reentering 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 counterchecking, 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 percent 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 pin 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 h
is 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.*