The Bishop Murder Case Page 3

  “Yeh?” Heath gave Vance a look of despondent shrewdness. It was evident he was more or less of the same opinion.

  “Don’t let Mr. Vance dishearten you, Sergeant,” Markham rallied him. “He’s permitting his imagination to run away with him.” Then with an impatient gesture he turned toward the door. “Let’s look over the ground before the others arrive. Later I’ll have a talk with Professor Dillard and the other members of the household. And, by the way, Sergeant, you didn’t mention Mr. Arnesson. Isn’t he at home?”

  “He’s at the university; but he’s expected to return soon.”

  Markham nodded and followed the sergeant into the main hall. As we passed down the heavily carpeted passage to the rear there was a sound on the staircase, and a clear but somewhat tremulous woman’s voice spoke from the semidarkness above.

  “Is that you, Mr. Markham? Uncle thought he recognized your voice. He’s waiting for you in the library.”

  “I’ll join your uncle in a very few minutes, Miss Dillard.” Markham’s tone was paternal and sympathetic. “And please wait with him, for I want to see you, too.”

  With a murmured acquiescence the girl disappeared round the head of the stairs.

  We moved on to the rear door of the lower hall. Beyond was a narrow passageway terminating in a flight of wooden steps which led to the basement. At the foot of these steps we came into a large, low-ceilinged room with a door giving directly upon the areaway at the west side of the house. This door was slightly ajar, and in the opening stood the man from the homicide bureau whom Heath had set to guard the body.

  The room had obviously once been a basement storage; but it had been altered and redecorated, and now served as a sort of clubroom. The cement floor was covered with fiber rugs, and one entire wall was painted with a panorama of archers throughout the ages. In an oblong panel on the left was a huge illustrated reproduction of an archery range labeled “Ayme for Finsburie Archers—London 1594,” showing Bloody House Ridge in one corner, Westminster Hall in the center, and Welsh Hall in the foreground. There were a piano and a phonograph in the room; numerous comfortable wicker chairs; a varicolored divan; an enormous wicker center table littered with all manner of sports magazines; and a small bookcase filled with works on archery. Several targets rested in one corner, their gold discs and concentric chromatic rings making brilliant splashes of color in the sunlight which flooded in from the two rear windows. One wall space near the door was hung with long bows of varying sizes and weights; and near them was a large old-fashioned toolchest. Above it was suspended a small cupboard, or ascham, strewn with various odds and ends of tackle, such as bracers, shooting gloves, piles, points of aim, and bow strings. A large oak panel between the door and the west window contained a display of one of the most interesting and varied collections of arrows I had ever seen.

  This panel attracted Vance particularly, and adjusting his monocle carefully, he strolled over to it.

  “Hunting and war arrows,” he remarked. “Most inveiglin’… Ah! One of the trophies seems to have disappeared. Taken down with considerable haste, too. The little brass brad that held it in place is shockingly bent.”

  On the floor stood several quivers filled with target arrows. He leaned over and, withdrawing one, extended it to Markham.

  “This frail shaft may not look as if it would penetrate the human breast; but target arrows will drive entirely through a deer at eighty yards… Why, then, the missing hunting arrow from the panel? An interestin’ point.”

  Markham frowned and compressed his lips; and I realized that he had been clinging to the forlorn hope that the tragedy might have been an accident. He tossed the arrow hopelessly on a chair and walked toward the outer door.

  “Let’s take a look at the body and the lie of the land,” he said gruffly.

  As we emerged into the warm spring sunlight a sense of isolation came over me. The narrow paved areaway in which we stood seemed like a canyon between steep stone walls. It was four or five feet below the street level, which was reached by a short flight of steps leading to the gate in the wall. The blank, windowless rear wall of the apartment house opposite extended upward for 150 feet; and the Dillard house itself, though only four stories high, was the equivalent of six stories gauged by the architectural measurements of today. Though we were standing out of doors in the heart of New York, no one could see us except from the few side windows of the Dillard house and from a single bay window of the house on 76th Street, whose rear yard adjoined that of the Dillard grounds.

  This other house, we were soon to learn, was owned by a Mrs. Drukker; and it was destined to play a vital and tragic part in the solution of Robin’s murder. Several tall willow trees acted as a mask to its rear windows; and only the bay window at the side of the house had an unobstructed view of that part of the areaway in which we stood.

  I noticed that Vance had his eye on this bay window, and as he studied it I saw a flicker of interest cross his face. It was not until much later that afternoon that I was able to guess what had caught and held his attention.

  The archery range extended from the wall of the Dillard lot on 75th Street all the way to a similar street wall of the Drukker lot on 76th Street, where a butt of hay bales had been erected on a shallow bed of sand. The distance between the two walls was 200 feet, which, as I learned later, made possible a sixty-yard range, thus permitting target practice for all the standard archery events, with the one exception of the York Round for men.

  The Dillard lot was 135 feet deep, the depth of the Drukker lot therefore being sixty-five feet. A section of the tall ironwork fence that separated the two rear yards had been removed where it had once transected the space now used for the archery range. At the further end of the range, backing against the western line of the Drukker property, was another tall apartment house occupying the corner of 76th Street and Riverside Drive. Between these two gigantic buildings ran a narrow alleyway, the range end of which was closed with a high board fence in which had been set a small door with a lock.

  For purposes of clarity I am incorporating in this record a diagram of the entire scene; for the arrangement of the various topographical and architectural details had a very important bearing on the solution of the crime. I would call attention particularly to the following points:—first, to the little second-story balcony at the rear of the Dillard house, which projects slightly over the archery range; secondly to the bay window (on the second floor) of the Drukker house, whose southern angle has a view of the entire archery range toward 75th Street; and thirdly, to the alleyway between the two apartment houses, which leads from Riverside Drive into the Dillard rear yard.

  The body of Robin lay almost directly outside of the archery room door. It was on its back, the arms extended, the legs slightly drawn up, the head pointing toward the 76th-Street end of the range. Robin had been a man of perhaps thirty-five, of medium height, and with an incipient corpulency. There was a rotund puffiness to his face, which was smooth-shaven except for a narrow blond moustache. He was clothed in a two-piece sport suit of light gray flannel, a pale-blue silk shirt, and tan Oxfords with thick rubber soles. His hat—a pearl-colored felt fedora—was lying near his feet.

  Beside the body was a large pool of coagulated blood which had formed in the shape of a huge pointing hand. But the thing which held us all in a spell of fascinated horror was the slender shaft that extended vertically from the left side of the dead man’s breast. The arrow protruded perhaps twenty inches, and where it had entered the body there was the large dark stain of the hemorrhage. What made this strange murder seem even more incongruous were the beautifully fletched feathers on the arrow. They had been dyed a bright red; and about the shaftment were two stripes of turquoise blue—giving the arrow a gala appearance. I had a feeling of unreality about the tragedy, as though I were witnessing a scene in a sylvan play for children.

  Vance stood looking down at the body with half-closed eyes, his hands in his coat pockets. Despite the apparent ind
olence of his attitude I could tell that he was keenly alert, and that his mind was busy coordinating the factors of the scene before him.

  “Dashed queer, that arrow,” he commented. “Designed for big game;…undoubtedly belongs to that ethnological exhibit we just saw. And a clean hit—directly into the vital spot, between the ribs and without the slightest deflection. Extr’ordin’ry!…I say, Markham; such marksmanship isn’t human. A chance shot might have done it; but the slayer of this johnny wasn’t leaving anything to chance. That powerful hunting arrow, which was obviously wrenched from the panel inside, shows premeditation and design—” Suddenly he bent over the body. “Ah! Very interestin’. The nock of the arrow is broken down—I doubt if it would even hold a taut string.” He turned to Heath. “Tell me, Sergeant: where did Professor Dillard find the bow?—not far from that clubroom window, what?”

  Heath gave a start.

  “Right outside the window, in fact, Mr. Vance. It’s in on the piano now, waiting for the fingerprint men.”

  “The professor’s sign manual is all they’ll find, I’m afraid.” Vance opened his case and selected another cigarette. “And I’m rather inclined to believe that the arrow itself is innocent of prints.”

  Heath was scrutinizing Vance inquisitively.

  “What made you think the bow was found near the window, Mr. Vance?” he asked.

  “It seemed the logical place for it, in view of the position of Mr. Robin’s body, don’t y’ know.”

  “Shot from close range, you mean?”

  Vance shook his head.

  “No, Sergeant. I was referring to the fact that the deceased’s feet are pointing toward the basement door, and that, though his arms are extended, his legs are drawn up. Is that the way you’d say a man would fall who’d been shot through the heart?”

  Heath considered the point. “No—o,” he admitted. “He’d likely be more crumpled up; or, if he did fall over back, his legs would be straight out and his arms drawn in.”

  “Quite.—And regard his hat. If he had fallen backward, it would be behind him, not at his feet.”

  “See here, Vance,” Markham demanded sharply, “what’s in your mind?”

  “Oh, numberless things. But they all boil down to the wholly irrational notion that this defunct gentleman wasn’t shot with a bow and arrow at all.”

  “Then, why, in God’s name—”

  “Exactly! Why the utter insanity of the elaborate stage setting?—My word, Markham! This business is ghastly.”

  As Vance spoke the basement door opened, and Doctor Doremus, shepherded by Detective Burke, stepped jauntily into the areaway. He greeted us breezily and shook hands all round. Then he fixed a fretful eye on Heath.

  “By Gad, Sergeant!” he complained, pulling his hat down to an even more rakish angle. “I only spend three hours out of the twenty-four eating my meals; and you invariably choose those three hours to worry me with your confounded bodies. You’re ruining my digestion.” He looked about him petulantly and, on seeing Robin, whistled softly. “For Gad’s sake! A nice fancy murder you picked out for me this time!”

  He knelt down and began running his practiced fingers over the body.

  Markham stood for a moment looking on, but presently he turned to Heath.

  “While the doctor’s busy with his examination, Sergeant, I’ll go upstairs and have a chat with Professor Dillard.” Then he addressed himself to Doremus. “Let me see you before you go, Doctor.”

  “Oh, sure.” Doremus did not so much as look up. He had turned the body on one side and was feeling the base of the skull.

  Footnote

  *Heath was referring to Doctor Emanuel Doremus, the Chief Medical Examiner of New York.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A Prophecy Recalled

  (Saturday, April 2; 1:30 p.m.)

  WHEN WE REACHED the main hall, Captain Dubois and Detective Bellamy, the fingerprint experts from headquarters, were just arriving. Detective Snitkin, who had evidently been watching for them, led them at once toward the basement stairs, and Markham, Vance, and I went up to the second floor.

  The library was a large, luxurious room at least twenty feet deep, occupying the entire width of the building. Two sides of it were lined to the ceiling with great embayed bookcases; and in the center of the west wall rose a massive bronze Empire fireplace. By the door stood an elaborate Jacobean sideboard, and opposite, near the windows which faced on 75th Street, was an enormous carved table-desk, strewn with papers and pamphlets. There were many interesting objets d’art in the room; and two diagrammatic Dürers looked down on us from the tapestried panels beside the mantel. All the chairs were spacious and covered with dark leather.

  Professor Dillard sat before the desk, one foot resting on a small tufted ottoman; and in a corner near the windows, huddled in a sprawling armchair, was his niece, a vigorous, severely tailored girl with strong, chiseled features of classic cast. The old professor did not rise to greet us and made no apology for the omission. He appeared to take it for granted that we were aware of his disability. The introductions were perfunctory, though Markham gave a brief explanation of Vance’s and my presence there.

  “I regret, Markham,” the professor said, when we had settled ourselves, “that a tragedy should be the reason for this meeting; but it’s always good to see you.—I suppose you will want to cross-examine Belle and me. Well, ask anything you care to.”

  Professor Bertrand Dillard was a man in his sixties, slightly stooped from a sedentary studious life: clean-shaven, and with a marked brachycephalic head surmounted with thick white hair combed pompadour. His eyes, though small, were remarkably intense and penetrating; and the wrinkles about his mouth held that grim pursed expression which often comes with years of concentration on difficult problems. His features were those of the dreamer and scientist; and, as the world knows, this man’s wild dreams of space and time and motion had been actualized into a new foundation of scientific fact. Even now his face reflected an introspective abstraction, as if the death of Robin were but an intrusion upon the inner drama of his thoughts.

  Markham hesitated a moment before answering. Then he said with marked deference, “Suppose, sir, you tell me just what you know of the tragedy. Then I’ll put whatever questions I deem essential.”

  Professor Dillard reached for an old meerschaum pipe on the stand beside him. When he had filled and lighted it, he shifted himself more comfortably in his chair.

  “I told you practically everything I know over the telephone. Robin and Sperling called this morning about ten o’clock to see Belle. But she had gone to the courts to play tennis, so they waited in the drawing room downstairs. I heard them talking there together for half an hour or so before they went to the basement clubroom. I remained here reading for perhaps an hour, and then, as the sunshine looked so pleasant, I decided to step out on the balcony at the rear of the house. I had been there about five minutes, I should say, when I chanced to look down on the archery range; and to my horrified amazement I saw Robin lying on his back with an arrow shaft protruding from his breast. I hastened down as quickly as my gout would permit, but I could see at once that the poor fellow was dead; so I immediately telephoned to you. There was no one in the house at the time but old Pyne—the butler—and myself. The cook had gone marketing; Arnesson had left for the university at nine o’clock; and Belle was still out playing tennis. I sent Pyne to look for Sperling, but he was nowhere about; and I came back to the library here to wait for you. Belle returned shortly before your men arrived, and the cook came in a little later. Arnesson won’t be back until after two.”

  “There was no one else here this morning—no strangers or visitors?”

  The professor shook his head. “Only Drukker,—I believe you met him here once. He lives in the house at our rear. He often drops in—mostly, however, to see Arnesson: they have much in common. He’s written a book on World Lines in Multidimensional Continua. The man’s quite a genius in his way; has the true scientific
mind… But when he found that Arnesson was out, he sat for a while with me discussing the Brazilian expedition of the Royal Astronomical Society. Then he went home.”

  “What time was this?”

  “About half past nine. Drukker had already gone when Robin and Sperling called.”

  “Was it unusual, Professor Dillard,” asked Vance, “for Mr. Arnesson to be away on Saturday mornings?”

  The old professor looked up sharply, and there was a brief hesitation before he answered.

  “Not unusual exactly; although he’s generally here on Saturdays. But this morning he had some important research work to do for me in the faculty library… Arnesson,” he added, “is working with me on my next book.”*

  There was a short silence; then Markham spoke.

  “You said this morning that both Robin and Sperling were suitors for Miss Dillard’s hand… ”

  “Uncle!” The girl sat upright in her chair and turned angry, reproachful eyes upon the old professor. “That wasn’t fair.”

  “But it was true, my dear.” His voice was noticeably tender.

  “It was true—in a way,” she admitted. “But there was no need of mentioning it. You know, as well as they did, how I regarded them. We were good friends—that was all. Only last night, when they were here together, I told them—quite plainly—that I wouldn’t listen to any more silly talk of marriage from either of them. They were only boys…and now one of them’s gone… Poor Cock Robin!” She strove bravely to stifle her emotion.

  Vance raised his eyebrows and leaned forward.

  “ ‘Cock Robin’?”

  “Oh, we all called him that. We did it to tease him, because he didn’t like the nickname.”