# The Bishop Murder Case (1929, Charles Scribner's Sons)/Chapter 3

(Saturday, April 2; 1.30 p. m.)
When we reached the main hall Captain Dubois and Detective Bellamy, the finger-print 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 centre of the west wall rose a massive bronze Empire fireplace. By the door stood an elaborate Jacobean side-board, 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, chiselled 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 down-stairs. I heard them talking there together for half an hour or so before they went to the basement club-room. 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."
"The sobriquet was inevitable," Vance observed sympathetically. "And it was rather a nice nickname, don't y' know. The original Cock Robin was loved by 'all the birds of the air,' and they all mourned his passing." He watched the girl closely as he spoke.
"I know," she nodded. "I told him that once.—And every one liked Joseph, too. You couldn't help liking him. He was so—so goodhearted and kind."
Vance again settled back in his chair; and Markham continued his questioning.
"You mentioned, professor, that you heard Robin and Sperling talking in the drawing-room. Could you hear any of their conversation?"
The old man shot a sidelong glance at his niece.
"Does that question really matter, Markham?" he asked, after a moment's hesitation.
"It may have some very vital bearing on the situation."
"Perhaps." The professor drew on his pipe ​thoughtfully. "On the other hand, if I answer it I may give an erroneous impression, and do a grave injustice to the living."
"Can you not trust me to judge that point?" Markham's voice had become at once grave and urgent.
There was another short silence, broken by the girl.
"Why don't you tell Mr. Markham what you heard, uncle? What harm can it do?"
"I was thinking of you, Belle," the professor answered softly. "But perhaps you are right." He looked up reluctantly. "The fact is, Markham, Robin and Sperling were having some angry words over Belle. I heard only a little, but I gathered that each regarded the other as being guilty of playing unfair—of standing in each other's way. . . ."
"Oh! They didn't mean it," Miss Dillard interpolated vehemently. "They were always ragging each other. There was a little jealousy between them; but I wasn't the real cause of it. It was their archery records. You see, Raymond—Mr. Sperling—used to be the better shot; but this last year Joseph beat him at several meets, and at our last annual tournament he became the club's Champion Archer."
"And Sperling thought, perhaps," added Markham, "that he had correspondingly fallen in your estimation."
"That's absurd!" the girl retorted hotly.
"I think, my dear, we can leave the matter safely in Mr. Markham's hands," Professor Dillard said mollifyingly. Then to Markham: "Were there any other questions you cared to ask?"
​"I'd like to know anything you can tell me about Robin and Sperling—who they are; their associations; and how long you have known them."
"I think that Belle can enlighten you better than I. Both boys belonged to her set. I saw them only occasionally."
Markham turned inquiringly to the girl.
"I've known both of them for years," she said promptly. "Joseph was eight or ten years older than Raymond, and lived in England up to five years ago, when his father and mother both died. He came to America, and took bachelor quarters on the Drive. He had considerable money, and lived idly, devoting himself to fishing and hunting and other outdoor sports. He went about in society a little, and was a nice, comfortable friend who'd always fill in at a dinner or make a fourth hand at bridge. There was nothing really much to him—in an intellectual way, you understand. . . ."
She paused, as if her remarks were in some way disloyal to the dead, and Markham, sensing her feelings, asked simply:
"And Sperling?"
"He's the son of a wealthy manufacturer of something or other—retired now. They live in Scarsdale in a beautiful country home,—our archery club has its regular ranges there,—and Raymond is a consulting engineer for some firm down-town; though I imagine he works merely to placate his father, for he only goes to the office two or three days a week. He's a graduate of Boston Tech, and I met him when he was a sophomore, home on vacation. Raymond will never set the world afire, Mr. Mark​ham; but he's really an awfully fine type of American young man—sincere, jolly, a little bashful, and perfectly straight."
It was easy to picture both Robin and Sperling from the girl's brief descriptions; and it was correspondingly difficult to connect either of them with the sinister tragedy that had brought us to the house.
Markham sat frowning for a while. Finally he lifted his head and looked straight at the girl.
"Tell me, Miss Dillard: have you any theory or explanation that might, in any way, account for the death of Mr. Robin?"
"No!" The word fairly burst from her. "Who could want to kill Cock Robin? He hadn't an enemy in the world. The whole thing is incredible. I couldn't believe it had happened until I went and—and saw for myself. Even then it didn't seem real."
"Still, my dear child," put in Professor Dillard, "the man was killed; so there must have been something in his life that you didn't know or suspect. We're constantly finding new stars that the old-time astronomers didn't believe existed."
"I can't believe Joseph had an enemy," she retorted. "I won't believe it. It's too utterly absurd."
"You think then," asked Markham, "that it's unlikely Sperling was in any way responsible for Robin's death?"
"Unlikely?" The girl's eyes flashed. "It's impossible!"
"And yet, y' know, Miss Dillard,"—it was Vance who now spoke in his lazy casual tone—"Sperling means 'sparrow'."
​The girl sat immobile. Her face had gone deathly pale, and her hands tightened over the arms of the chair. Then slowly, and as if with great difficulty, she nodded, and her breast began to rise and fall with her labored breathing. Suddenly she shuddered and pressed her handkerchief to her face.
"I'm afraid!" she whispered.
Vance rose and, going to her, touched her comfortingly on the shoulder.
"Why are you afraid?"
She looked up and met his eyes. They seemed to reassure her, for she forced a pitiful smile.
"Only the other day," she said, in a strained voice, "we were all on the archery range down-stairs; and Raymond was just preparing to shoot a single American Round, when Joseph opened the basement door and stepped out on the range. There really wasn't any danger, but Sigurd—Mr. Arnesson, you know—was sitting on the little rear balcony watching us; and when I cried 'He! He!' jokingly to Joseph, Sigurd leaned over and said: 'You don't know what a chance you're running, young man. You're a Cock Robin, and that archer's a sparrow; and you remember what happened to your namesake when a Mr. Sparrow wielded the bow and arrow'—or something like that. No one paid much attention to it at the time. But now! . . ." Her voice trailed off into an awed murmur.
"Come, Belle; don't be morbid." Professor Dillard spoke consolingly, but not without impatience. "It was merely one of Sigurd's ill-timed witticisms. You know he's continually sneering and jesting at realities: it's about the only outlet he has from his constant application to abstractions."
​"I suppose so," the girl answered. "Of course, it was only a joke. But now it seems like some terrible prophecy.—Only," she hastened to add, "Raymond couldn't have done it."
As she spoke the library door opened suddenly, and a tall gaunt figure appeared on the threshold.
"Sigurd!" Belle Dillard's startled exclamation held an undeniable note of relief.
Sigurd Arnesson, Professor Dillard's protégé and adopted son, was a man of striking appearance—over six feet tall, wiry and erect, with a head which, at first view, appeared too large for his body. His almost yellow hair was unkempt, like a schoolboy's; his nose was aquiline; and his jowls were lean and muscular. Though he could not have been over forty, there was a net-work of lines in his face. His expression was sardonically puckish; but the intense intellectual passion that lighted his blue-gray eyes belied any superficiality of nature. My initial reaction to his personality was one of liking and respect. There were depths in the man—powerful potentialities and high capabilities.
As he entered the room that afternoon, his searching eyes took us all in with a swift, inquisitive glance. He nodded jerkily to Miss Dillard, and then fixed the old professor with a look of dry amusement.
"What, pray, has happened in this three-dimensional house? Wagons and populace without: a guardian at the portals . . . and when I finally overcame the Cerberus and was admitted by Pyne, two plainclothes men hustled me up here without ceremony or explanation. Very amusing, but disconcerting. . . . Ah! I seem to recognize the District ​Attorney. Good morning—or rather, afternoon—, Mr. Markham."
Before Markham could return this belated greeting Belle Dillard spoke.
"Sigurd, please be serious.—Mr. Robin has been killed."
"'Cock Robin,' you mean. Well, well! With such a name what could the beggar expect?" He appeared wholly unmoved by the news. "Who, or what, returned him to the elements?"
"As to who it was, we don't know." It was Markham who answered, in a tone of reproach for the other's levity. "But Mr. Robin was killed with an arrow through the heart."
"Most fitting." Arnesson sat down on the arm of a chair and extended his long legs. "What could be more appropriate than that Cock Robin should die from an arrow shot from the bow of——"
"Sigurd!" Belle Dillard cut him short. "Haven't you joked enough about that? You know that Raymond didn't do it."
"Of course, sis." The man looked at her somewhat wistfully. "I was thinking of Mr. Robin's ornithological progenitor." He turned slowly to Markham. "So it's a real murder mystery, is it—with a corpse, and clews, and all the trappings? May I be entrusted with the tale?"
Markham gave him a brief outline of the situation, to which he listened with rapt interest. When the account was ended he asked:
"Was there no bow found on the range?"
"Ah!" Vance, for the first time since the man's arrival, roused himself from seeming lethargy, and ​answered for Markham. "A most pertinent question, Mr. Arnesson.—Yes, a bow was found just outside of the basement window, barely ten feet from the body."
"That of course simplifies matters," said Arnesson, with a note of disappointment. "It's only a question now of taking the finger-prints."
"Unfortunately the bow has been handled," explained Markham. "Professor Dillard picked it up and brought it into the house."
Arnesson turned to the older man curiously.
"What impulse, sir, directed you to do that?"
"Impulse? My dear Sigurd, I didn't analyze my emotions. But it struck me that the bow was a vital piece of evidence, and I placed it in the basement as a precautionary measure until the police arrived."
Arnesson made a wry face and cocked one eye humorously.
"That sounds like what our psychoanalytic friends would call a suppression-censor explanation. I wonder what submerged idea was actually in your mind. . . ."
There was a knock at the door, and Burke put his head inside.
"Doc Doremus is waiting for you down-stairs, Chief. He's finished his examination."
Markham rose and excused himself.
"I sha'n't bother you people any more just at present. There's considerable preliminary routine work to be done. But I must ask you to remain up-stairs for the time being. I'll see you again before I go."
Doremus was teetering impatiently on his toes when we joined him in the drawing-room.
​"Nothing complicated about it," he began, before Markham had a chance to speak. "Our sporty friend was killed by an arrow with a mighty sharp point entering his heart through the fourth intercostal space. Lot of force behind it. Plenty of hemorrhage inside and out. He's been dead about two hours, I should say, making the time of his death around half past eleven. That's only guesswork, however. No signs of a struggle—no marks on his clothes or abrasions on his hands. Death supervened most likely without his knowing what it was all about. He got a nasty bump, though, where his head hit the rough cement when he fell. . . ."
"Now, that's very interestin'." Vance's drawling voice cut in on the Medical Examiner's staccato report. "How serious a 'bump' was it, Doctor?"
Doremus blinked and eyed Vance with some astonishment.
"Bad enough to fracture the skull. I couldn't feel it, of course; but there was a large hæmatoma over the occipital region, dried blood in the nostrils and the ears, and unequal pupils, indicating a fracture of the vault. I'll know more about it after the autopsy." He turned back to the District Attorney. "Anything else?"
"I think not, Doctor. Only let us have your post-mortem report as soon as possible."
"You'll have it to-night. The Sergeant's already phoned for the wagon." And shaking hands with all of us, he hurried away.
Heath had stood glowering in the background.
"Well, that don't get us anywheres, sir," he complained, chewing viciously on his cigar.
​"Don't be downhearted, Sergeant," Vance chided him. "That blow on the back of the head is worthy of your profoundest consideration. I'm of the opinion it wasn't entirely due to the fall, don't y' know."
The Sergeant was unimpressed by this observation.
"What's more, Mr. Markham," he went on, "there wasn't any finger-prints on either the bow or the arrow. Dubois says they looked as though they'd both been wiped clean. There were a few smears on the end of the bow where the old gentleman picked it up; but not another sign of a print."
Markham smoked a while in gloomy silence.
"What about the handle on the gate leading to the street? And the knob on the door to the alley between the apartment houses?"
"Nothing!" Heath snorted his disgust. "Both of rough, rusty iron that wouldn't take a print."
"I say, Markham," observed Vance; "you're going at this thing the wrong way. Naturally there'd be no finger-prints. Really, y' know, one doesn't carefully produce a playlet and then leave all the stage props in full view of the audience. What we've got to learn is why this particular impresario decided to indulge in silly theatricals."
"It ain't as easy as all that, Mr. Vance," submitted Heath bitterly.
"Did I intimate it was easy? No, Sergeant; it's deucedly difficult. And it's worse than difficult: it's subtle and obscure and . . . fiendish."