The Dragon Murder Case Page 8

  “Let go of my arm. I know what I’m doing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Vance stepped quickly to the stricken man.

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

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

  “Come, old friend,” he said, “you need rest.”

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

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

  Greeff turned his head and nodded over his shoulder.

  “Oh, that’s all right.” And he and the doctor piloted Stamm across the hallway toward the stairs.

  A moment later the front door-bell rang. Trainor admitted the nurse for whom Doctor Holliday had telephoned and led her immediately up-stairs.

  Vance turned from the door, where he had been standing, and came back into the room, halting before Leland who had remained passive throughout the strange scene between Stamm and Greeff.

  “Have you, by any chance,” he asked, “any comments to make on the little contretemps we have just witnessed?”

  Leland frowned and inspected the bowl of his pipe.

  “No-o,” he replied, after a pause, “except that it is obvious Stamm is frightfully on edge and in a state of shock after his excessive drinking tonight... And it might be, of course,” he supplemented, “that in the back of his mind there has been a suspicion of Greeff in connection with financial matters, which came to the surface in his weakened condition.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” Vance mused. “But why should Stamm mention the word murder?”

  “He is probably excited and suspicious because of the presence of you gentlemen here,” Leland suggested. “Not having been a witness to the tragedy, he is ignorant of all the details.”

  Vance did not reply. Instead he walked to the mantelpiece and inspected a carved gold clock which stood there. He ran his fingers over the incised scroll-work for a moment, and then turned slowly. His face was serious, and his eyes were looking past us.

  “I think that will be all for tonight,” he said in a flat, far-away tone. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Leland. But we must ask you too to remain here till tomorrow. We will be here again in the morning.”

  Leland bowed and, without a word, went softly from the room.

  When he had gone, Markham rose.

  “So you’re coming here again in the morning?”

  “Yes, old dear.” Vance’s manner had suddenly changed. “And so are you, don’t y’ know. You owe it to your constituency. It’s a most absorbin’ case. And I’d wager one of my Cézanne water-colors that when Montague’s body is found, the Medical Examiner’s report will be anything but what you expect.”

  Markham’s eyelids fluttered, and he looked searchingly at Vance.

  “You think you have learned something that would point to an explanation other than accidental death?”

  “Oh, I’ve learned an amazin’ amount,” was all that Vance would vouchsafe. And Markham knew him well enough not to push the matter further at that time.

  Footnote

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

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

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Bottom of the Pool (Sunday, August 12; 9.30 a.m.)

  AT HALF-PAST NINE the following day Vance drove to Markham’s quarters to take him back to the old Stamm estate in Inwood. On the way home the night before, Markham had protested mildly against continuing the case before the Medical Examiner had made his report; but his arguments were of no avail. So determined was Vance to return to the house next day, that Markham was impressed. His long association with Vance had taught him that Vance never made such demands without good reason.

  Vance possessed what is commonly called an intuitive mind, but it was, in fact, a coldly logical one, and his decisions, which often seemed intuitive, were in reality based on his profound knowledge of the intricacies and subtleties of human nature. In the early stages of any investigation he was always reluctant to tell Markham all that he suspected:
he preferred to wait until he had the facts in hand. Markham, understanding this trait in him, abided by his unexplained decisions; and these decisions had rarely, to my knowledge, proved incorrect, founded, as they were, on definite indications which had not been apparent to the rest of us. It was because of Markham’s past experiences with Vance that he had grudgingly, but none the less definitely, agreed to accompany him to the scene of the tragedy the following morning.

  Before we left the Stamm house the night before, there had been a brief consultation with Heath, and a course of action had been mapped out under Vance’s direction. Every one in the house was to remain indoors; but no other restrictions were to be placed upon their actions. Vance had insisted that no one be allowed to walk through the grounds of the estate until he himself had made an examination of them; and he was particularly insistent that every means of access to the pool be kept entirely free of people until he had completed his inspection. He was most interested, he said, in the small patch of low ground north of the filter, where Heath and Hennessey had already looked for footprints.

  Doctor Holliday was to be permitted to come and go as he chose, but Vance suggested that the nurse whom the doctor had called in be confined to the house, like the others, until such time as she was given permission to depart. Trainor was ordered to instruct the other servants—of whom there were only two, a cook and a maid—that they were to remain indoors until further notice.

  Vance also suggested that the Sergeant place several of his men around the house at vantage points where they could see that all orders were carried out by the guests and members of the household. The Sergeant was to arrange for a small corps of men to report at the estate early the following morning to close the gates above the filter and open the lock in the dam, in order that the pool might be drained.

  “And you’d better see that they come down the stream from the East Road, Sergeant,” Vance advised, “so there won’t be any new footprints round the pool.”

  Heath was placed in complete charge of the case by Markham, who promised to get the official verification of the assignment from Commanding Officer Moran of the Detective Bureau.

  Heath decided to remain at the house that night. I had never seen him in so eager a frame of mind. He admitted frankly that he could see no logic in the situation; but, with a stubbornness which verged on fanaticism, he maintained that he knew something was vitally wrong.

  I was also somewhat astonished at Vance’s intense interest in the case. Heretofore he had taken Markham’s criminal investigations with a certain nonchalance. But there was no indifference in his attitude in the present instance. That Montague’s disappearance held a fascination for him was evident. This was owing, no doubt, to the fact that he had seen, or sensed, certain elements in the affair not apparent to the rest of us. That his attitude was justified is a matter of public record, for the sinister horror of Montague’s death became a national sensation; and Markham, with that generosity so characteristic of him, was the first to admit that, if it had not been for Vance’s persistence that first night, one of the shrewdest and most resourceful murderers of modern times would have escaped justice.

  Although it was long past three in the morning when we arrived home, Vance seemed loath to go to bed. He sat down at the piano and played that melancholy yet sublime and passionate third movement from Beethoven’s Sonata, Opus 106; and I knew that not only was he troubled, but that some deep unresolved intellectual problem had taken possession of his mind. When he had come to the final major chord he swung round on the piano bench.

  “Why don’t you go to bed, Van?” he asked somewhat abstractedly. “We have a long, hard day ahead of us. I’ve a bit of reading to do before I turn in.” He poured himself some brandy and soda and, taking the glass with him, went into the library.

  For some reason I was too nervous to try to sleep. I picked up a copy of “Marius the Epicurean,” which was lying on the centre-table, and sat down at the open window. Over an hour later, on my way to my room, I looked in at the library door, and there sat Vance, his head in his hands, absorbed in a large quarto volume which lay on the table before him. A score of books, some of them open, were piled haphazardly about him, and on the stand at his side was a sheaf of yellowed maps.

  He had heard me at the door, for he said: “Fetch the Napoléon and soda, will you, Van? There’s a good fellow.”

  As I placed the bottles in front of him I looked over his shoulder. The book he was reading was an old illuminated copy of “Malleus Maleficarum.” At one side, opened, lay Elliot Smith’s “The Evolution of the Dragon” and Remy’s “Demonolatry.” At his other side was a volume of Howey’s work on ophiolatry.

  “Mythology is a fascinatin’ subject, Van,” he remarked. “And many thanks for the cognac.” He buried himself in his reading again; and I went to bed.

  Vance was up before I was the next morning. I found him in the living-room, dressed in a tan silk poplin suit, sipping his matutinal Turkish coffee and smoking a Régie.

  “You’d better ring for Currie,” he greeted me, “and order your plebeian breakfast. We’re picking up the reluctant District Attorney in half an hour.”

  We had to wait nearly twenty minutes in Vance’s car before Markham joined us. He was in execrable mood, and his greeting to us, as he stepped into the tonneau, was barely amiable.

  “The more I think of this affair, Vance,” he complained, “the more I’m convinced that you’re wasting your time and mine.”

  “What else have you to do today?” Vance asked dulcetly.

  “Sleep, for one thing—after your having kept me up most of the night. I was slumbering quite peacefully when the hall boy rang my phone and told me that you were waiting for me.”

  “Sad...sad.” Vance wagged his head in mock commiseration. “By Jove, I do hope you sha’n’t be disappointed.”

  Markham grunted and lapsed into silence; and little more was said during our ride to the Stamm estate. As we drove up the circular roadway and came to a halt in the parking-space in front of the house, Heath, who had evidently been waiting for us, came down the stairs to meet us. He seemed disgruntled and ill at ease, and I noticed also that there was a skepticism and insecurity in his manner, as if he distrusted his suspicions of the night before.

  “Things are moving,” he reported half-heartedly; “but nothing’s happened yet. Everything is going smoothly indoors, and the whole outfit is acting like human beings for a change. They all had breakfast together, like a lot of turtle-doves.”

  “That’s interestin’,” Vance remarked. “What about Stamm?”

  “He’s up and about. Looks a little green around the gills; but he’s already taken two or three eye-openers.”

  “Has Miss Stamm put in an appearance this morning?”

  “Yes.” Heath looked puzzled. “But there’s something queer about that dame. She was having hysterics last night and fainting in every open space; but this morning she’s bright and snappy, and—if you ask me—she seems relieved that her boy-friend is out of the way.”

  “On whom did she lavish her attentions this morning, Sergeant?” Vance asked.

  “How should I know?” returned Heath, in an injured tone. “They didn’t ask me to eat at the table with ’em—I was lucky to get any groceries at all... But I noticed that after breakfast she and Leland went into the drawing-room alone and had a long palaver.”

  “Really now.” Vance meditated a moment, regarding his cigarette critically. “Very illuminatin’.”

  “Well, well,” snorted Markham, giving Vance a disdainful look. “I suppose you regard that fact as an indication that your plot is thickening?”

  Vance looked up facetiously.

  “Thickening? My dear Markham! The plot is positively congealin’, not to say stiffenin’.” He sobered and turned back to Heath. “Any news from Mrs. Stamm?”

  “She’s all right today. The doctor was here a little while ago. He looked over the situation and said there was no more need of h
is services at the present. Said he’d be back this afternoon, though... And speaking of doctors, I telephoned to Doc Doremus* and asked him to hop out here. I figured it was Sunday and I might not be able to catch him later; and we’ll have Montague’s body in a little while.”

  “Your men have got the pool gates closed then?”

  “Sure. But it was a tough job. One of the gates had got water-logged. Anyway, they’re all set now. Luckily the stream was pretty low and there wasn’t much of a flow of water. The dam lock was corroded, too, but we hammered it open. It’ll take about another hour for the pool to drain, according to Stamm... By the way, he wanted to go down and supervise the operations, but I told him we could get along without him.”

  “It was just as well,” nodded Vance. “Have your men put a screen of some kind over the lock in the dam? The body might go through, don’t y’ know.”

  “I thought of that too,” Heath returned with a little self-satisfaction. “But it’s all right. There was a coarse wire mesh already over the lock.”

  “Any visitors at the house this morning?” Vance asked next.

  “Nobody, sir. They wouldn’t have got in anyway. Burke and Hennessey and Snitkin are back on the job this morning—I had another bunch of fellows here last night guarding the place. Snitkin is at the east gate, and Burke’s here in the vestibule. Hennessey’s down at the pool seeing that nobody approaches from that direction.” Heath looked at Vance with an uneasy, questioning eye. “What do you want to do first, sir? Maybe you want to interview Miss Stamm and this young Tatum. There’s something wrong about both of ’em, if you ask me.”

  “No,” drawled Vance. “I don’t think we’ll chivy the members of the household just yet. I’d like to meander round the grounds first. But suppose you ask Mr. Stamm to join us, Sergeant.”

  Heath hesitated a second; then went into the house. A few moments later he returned accompanied by Rudolf Stamm.

  Stamm was dressed in gray tweed plus fours and a gray silk sleeveless sport shirt open at the throat. He wore no coat and was bareheaded. His face was pale and drawn, and there were hollows under his eyes, but his gait was steady as he came down the steps toward us.