When Heath had got rid of Quinan with promises such as would have gladdened any reporter's heart,[24] there were several minutes of tense silence in the office. "The Bishop" had been at his grisly work again; and the case had now become a terrible triplicate affair, with the solution apparently further off than ever. It was not, however, the insolubility of these incredible crimes that primarily affected us; rather was it the inherent horror that emanated, like a miasma, from the acts themselves.

    Vance, who was pacing sombrely up and down, gave voice to his troubled emotions.

    "It's damnable, Markham—it's the essence of unutterable evil. . . . Those children in the park—up early on their holiday in search of dreams—busy with their play and make-believe . . . and then the silencing reality—the awful, overpowering disillusion. . . . Don't you see the wickedness of it? Those children found Humpty Dumpty—their Humpty Dumpty, with whom they had played—lying dead at the foot of the famous wall—a Humpty Dumpty they could touch and weep over, broken and twisted and never more to be put together. . . ."

    He paused by the window and looked out. The mist had lifted, and a faint diffusion of spring sunlight lay over the gray stones of the city. The golden eagle on the New York Life Building glistened in the distance.

    "I say; one simply mustn't get sentimental," he remarked with a forced smile, turning back to the room. "It decomposes the intelligence and stultifies the dialectic processes. Now that we know Drukker was not the capricious victim of the law of gravity, but was given a helpin' hand in his departure from this world, the sooner we become energetic, the better, what?"

    Though his change of mood was an obvious tour de force, it roused the rest of us from our gloomy apathy. Markham reached for the telephone and made arrangements with Inspector Moran for Heath to handle the Drukker case. Then he called the Medical Examiner's office and asked for an immediate post-mortem report. Heath got up vigorously, and after taking three cups of ice-water, stood with legs apart, his derby pulled far down on his forehead, waiting for the District Attorney to indicate a line of action.

    Markham moved restlessly.

    "Several men from your department, Sergeant, were supposed to be keeping an eye on the Drukker and Dillard houses. Did you talk to any of them this morning?"

    "I didn't have time, sir; and, anyway, I figured it was only an accident. But I told the boys to hang around until I got back."

    "What did the Medical Examiner have to say?"

    "Only that it looked like an accident; and that Drukker had been dead about ten hours. . . ."

    Vance interpolated a question.

    "Did he mention a fractured skull in addition to the broken neck?"

    "Well, sir, he didn't exactly say the skull was fractured, but he did state that Drukker had landed on the back of his head." Heath nodded understandingly. "I guess it'll prove to be a fracture all right—same like Robin and Sprigg."

    "Undoubtedly. The technique of our murderer seems to be simple and efficacious. He strikes his victims on the vault, either stunning them or killing them outright, and then proceeds to cast them in the rôles he has chosen for them in his puppet-plays. Drukker was no doubt leaning over the wall, perfectly exposed for such an attack. It was misty, and the setting was somewhat obscured. Then came the blow on the head, a slight heave, and Drukker fell noiselessly over the parapet—the third sacrificial offering on the altar of old Mother Goose."

    "What gets me," declared Heath with surly anger, "is why Guilfoyle,[25] the fellow I set to watch the rear of the Drukker house, didn't report the fact that Drukker was out all night. He returned to the Bureau at eight o'clock, and I missed him.—Don't you think, sir, it might be a good idea to find out what he knows before we go up-town?"

    Markham agreed, and Heath bawled an order over the telephone. Guilfoyle made the distance between Police Headquarters and the Criminal Courts Building in less than ten minutes. The Sergeant almost pounced on him as he entered.

    "What time did Drukker leave the house last night?" he bellowed.

    "About eight o'clock—right after he'd had dinner." Guilfoyle was ill at ease, and his tone had the wheedling softness of one who had been caught in a dereliction of duty.

    "Which way did he go?"

    "He came out the back door, walked down the range, and went into the Dillard house through the archery-room."

    "Paying a social visit?"

    "It looked that way, Sergeant. He spends a lot of time at the Dillards'."

    "Huh! And what time did he come back home?"

    Guilfoyle moved uneasily.

    "It don't look like he came back home, Sergeant."

    "Oh, it don't?" Heath's retort was ponderous with sarcasm. "I thought maybe after he'd broke his neck he mighta come back and passed the time of day with you."

    "What I meant was, Sergeant—"

    "You meant that Drukker—the bird you were supposed to keep an eye on—went to call on the Dillards at eight o'clock, and then you set down in the arbor, most likely, and took a little beauty nap. . . ." What time did you wake up?"

    "Say, listen!" Guilfoyle bristled. "I didn't take no nap. I was on the job all night. Just because I didn't happen to see this guy come back home don't mean I was laying down on the watch."

    "Well, if you didn't see him come back, why didn't you phone in that he was spending his week-end out of town or something?"

    "I thought he musta come in by the front door."

    "Thinking again, were you? Ain't your brain worn out this morning?"

    "Have a heart, Sergeant. My job wasn't to tail Drukker. You told me to watch the house and see who went in and out, and that if there was any sign of trouble to bust in.—Now, here's what happened. Drukker went to the Dillards' at eight o'clock, and I kept my eye on the windows of the Drukker house. Along about nine o'clock the cook goes up-stairs and turns on the light in her room. Half an hour later the light goes out, and says I: 'She's put to bed.' Then along about ten o'clock the lights are turned on in Drukker's room—"

    "What's this?"

    "Yeh—you heard me. The lights go on in Drukker's room about ten o'clock; and I can see a shadow of somebody moving about.—Now, I ask you, Sergeant: wouldn't you yourself have took it for granted that the hunchback had come in by the front door?"

    Heath grunted.

    "Maybe so," he admitted. "You're sure it was ten o'clock?"

    "I didn't look at my watch; but I'm here to tell you it wasn't far off of ten."

    "And what time did the lights go out in Drukker's room?"

    "They didn't go out. They stayed on all night. He was a queer bird. He didn't keep regular hours, and twice before his lights were on till nearly morning."

    "That's quite understandable," came Vance's lazy voice. "He has been at work on a difficult problem lately.—But tell us, Guilfoyle: what about the light in Mrs. Drukker's room?"

    "Same as usual. The old dame always keeps a light burning in her room all night."

    "Was there any one on guard in front of the Drukker house last night?" Markham asked Heath.

    "Not after six o'clock, sir. We've had a man tailing Drukker during the day, but he goes off duty at six when Guilfoyle takes up his post in the rear."

    There was a moment's silence. Then Vance turned to Guilfoyle.

    "How far away were you last night from the door of the alleyway between the two apartment houses?"

    The man paused to visualize the scene.

    "Forty or fifty feet, say."

    "And between you and the alleyway were the iron fence and some tree branches."

    "Yes, sir. The view was more or less cut off, if that's what you mean."

    "Would it have been possible for any one, coming from the direction of the Dillard house, to have gone out and returned by that door without your noticing him?"

    "It mighta been done," the detective admitted; "provided, of course, the guy didn't want me to see him. It was foggy and dark last night, and there's always a lot of traffic noises from the Drive that woulda drowned out his movements if he was being extra cautious."

    When the Sergeant had sent Guilfoyle back to the Bureau to await orders, Vance gave voice to his perplexity.

    "It's a dashed complicated situation. Drukker called on the Dillards at eight o'clock, and at ten o'clock he was shoved over the wall in the park. As you observed, the note that Quinan just showed us was postmarked 11 p.m.—which means that it was probably typed before the crime. The Bishop therefore had planned his comedy in advance and prepared the note for the press. The audacity of it is amazin'. But there's one assumption we can tie to—namely, that the murderer was some one who knew of Drukker's exact whereabouts and proposed movements between eight and ten."

    "I take it," said Markham, "your theory is that the murderer went and returned by the apartment-house alley."

    "Oh, I say! I have no theory. I asked Guilfoyle about the alley merely in case we should learn that no one but Drukker was seen going to the park. In that event we could assume, as a tentative hypothesis, that the murderer had managed to avoid detection by taking the alleyway and crossing to the park in the middle of the block."

    "With that possible route open to the murderer," Markham observed gloomily, "it wouldn't matter much who was seen going out with Drukker."

    "That's just it. The person who staged this farce may have walked boldly into the park under the eyes of an alert myrmidon, or he may have hied stealthily through the alley."

    Markham nodded an unhappy agreement.

    "The thing that bothers me most, however," continued Vance, "is that light in Drukker's room all night. It was turned on at about the time the poor chap was tumbling into eternity. And Guilfoyle says that he could see some one moving about there after the light went on—"

    He broke off, and stood for several seconds in an attitude of concentration.

    "I say, Sergeant; I don't suppose you know whether or not Drukker's front-door key was in his pocket when he was found."

    "No, sir; but I can find out in no time. The contents of his pockets are being held till after the autopsy."

    Heath stepped to the telephone, and a moment later he was talking to the desk sergeant of the 68th-Street Precinct Station. Several minutes of waiting passed; then he grunted and banged down the receiver.

    "Not a key of any kind on him."

    "Ah!" Vance drew a deep puff on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly. "I'm beginnin' to think that the Bishop purloined Drukker's key and paid a visit to his room after the murder. Sounds incredible, I know; but, for that matter, so does everything else that's happened in this fantastic business."

    "But what, in God's name, would have been his object?" protested Markham incredulously.

    "We don't know yet. But I have an idea that when we learn the motive of these astonishin' crimes, we'll understand why that visit was paid."

    Markham, his face set austerely, took his hat from the closet.

    "We'd better be getting out there."

    But Vance made no move. He remained standing by the desk smoking abstractedly.

    "Y' know, Markham," he said, "it occurs to me that we should see Mrs. Drukker first. There was tragedy in that house last night: something strange took place there that needs explaining; and now perhaps she'll tell us the secret that has been locked up in her brain. Moreover, she hasn't been notified of Drukker's death, and with all the rumor and gossip in the neighborhood, word of some kind is sure to leak through to her before long. I fear the result of the shock when she hears the news. In fact, I'd feel better if we got hold of Barstead right away and took him with us. What do you say to my phoning him?"

    Markham assented, and Vance briefly explained the situation to the doctor.

    We drove up-town immediately, called for Barstead, and proceeded at once to the Drukker house. Our ring was answered by Mrs. Menzel, whose face showed plainly that she knew of Drukker's death. Vance, after one glance at her, led her into the drawing-room away from the stairs, and asked in a low tone:

    "Has Mrs. Drukker heard the news?"

    "Not yet," she answered, in a frightened, quavering voice. "Miss Dillard came over an hour ago, but I told her the mistress had gone out. I was afraid to let her up-stairs. Something's wrong. . . ." She began to tremble violently.

    "What's wrong, Mrs. Menzel?" Vance placed a quieting hand on her arm.

    "I don't know. But she hasn't made a sound all morning. She didn't come down for breakfast . . . and I'm afraid to go and call her."

    "When did you hear of the accident?"

    "Early—right after eight o'clock. The paper boy told me; and I saw all the people down on the Drive."

    "Don't be frightened," Vance consoled her. "We have the doctor here, and we'll attend to everything."

    He turned back to the hall and led the way upstairs. When we came to Mrs. Drukker's room he knocked softly and, receiving no answer, opened the door. The room was empty. The night-light still burned on the table, and I noticed that the bed had not been slept in.

    Without a word Vance retraced his steps down the hall. There were only two other main doors, and one of them, we knew, led to Drukker's study. Unhesitatingly Vance stepped to the other and opened it without knocking. The window shades were drawn, but they were white and semi-transparent, and the gray daylight mingled with the ghastly yellow radiation from the old-fashioned chandelier. The lights which Guilfoyle had seen burning all night had not been extinguished.

    Vance halted on the threshold, and I saw Markham, who was just in front of me, give a start.

    "Mother o' God!" breathed the Sergeant, and crossed himself.

    On the foot of the narrow bed lay Mrs. Drukker, fully clothed. Her face was ashen white; her eyes were set in a hideous stare; and her hands were clutching her breast.

    Barstead sprang forward and leaned over. After touching her once or twice he straightened up and shook his head slowly.

    "She's gone. Been dead probably most of the night." He bent over the body again and began making an examination. "You know, she's suffered for years from chronic nephritis, arteriosclerosis, and hypertrophy of the heart. . . . Some sudden shock brought on an acute dilatation. . . . Yes, I'd say she died about the same time as Drukker . . . round ten o'clock."

    "A natural death?" asked Vance.

    "Oh, undoubtedly. A shot of adrenalin in the heart might have saved her if I'd been here at the time. . . ."

    "No signs of violence?"

    "None. As I told you, she died from dilatation of the heart brought on by shock. A clear case—true to type in every respect."