# The Bishop Murder Case (1929, Charles Scribner's Sons)/Chapter 5

(Saturday, April 2; 2.30 p. m.)
Vance, after glancing at the strange message with its even stranger signature, reached for his monocle with that slow deliberation which I knew indicated a keen suppressed interest. Having adjusted the glass he studied the paper intently. Then he handed it to Arnesson.
"Here's a valuable factor for your equation." His eyes were fixed banteringly on the man.
Arnesson regarded the note superciliously, and with a wry grimace laid it on the table.
"I trust the clergy are not involved in this problem. They're notoriously unscientific. One can't attack them with mathematics. 'The Bishop'. . . ," he mused. "I'm unacquainted with any gentlemen of the cloth.—I think I'll rule out this abracadabra when making my calculations."
"If you do, Mr. Arnesson," replied Vance seriously, "your equation, I fear, will fall to pieces. That cryptic epistle strikes me as rather significant. Indeed—if you will pardon a mere lay opinion—I believe it is the most mathematical thing that has appeared thus far in the case. It relieves the situation of all haphazardness or accident. It's the g, so to speak—the gravitational constant which will govern all our equations."
​Heath had stood looking down on the typewritten paper with solemn disgust.
"Some crank wrote this, Mr. Vance," he declared.
"Undoubtedly a crank, Sergeant," agreed Vance. "But don't overlook the fact that this particular crank must have known many interestin' and intimate details—to wit, that Mr. Robin's middle name was Cochrane; that the gentleman had been killed with a bow and arrow; and that Mr. Sperling was in the vicinity at the time of the Robin's passing. Moreover, this well-informed crank must have had what amounted to foreknowledge regarding the murder; for the note was obviously typed and inserted in the letter-box before you and your men arrived on the scene."
"Unless," countered Heath doggedly, "he's one of those bimboes out in the street, who got wise to what had happened and then stuck this paper in the box when the officer's back was turned."
"Having first run home and carefully typewritten his communication—eh, what?" Vance shook his head with a rueful smile. "No, Sergeant, I'm afraid your theory won't do."
"Then what in hell does it mean?" Heath demanded truculently.
"I haven't the foggiest idea." Vance yawned and rose. "Come, Markham, let's while away a few brief moments with this Mr. Drukker whom Beedle abhors."
"Drukker!" exclaimed Arnesson, with considerable surprise. "Where does he fit in?"
"Mr. Drukker," explained Markham, "called here this morning to see you; and it's barely possible he ​met Robin and Sperling before he returned home." He hesitated. "Would you care to accompany us?"
"No, thanks." Arnesson knocked out his pipe and got up. "I've a pile of class papers to look over.—It might be as well, however, to take Belle along. Lady Mae's a bit peculiar. . . ."
"Lady Mae?"
"My mistake. Forgot you didn't know her. We all call her Lady Mae. Courtesy title. Pleases the poor old soul. I'm referring to Drukker's mother. Odd character." He tapped his forehead significantly. "Bit touched. Oh, perfectly harmless. Bright as a whistle, but monominded, as it were. Thinks the sun rises and sets in Drukker. Mothers him as if he were an infant. Sad situation. . . . Yes, you'd better take Belle along. Lady Mae likes Belle."
"A good suggestion, Mr. Arnesson," said Vance. "Will you ask Miss Dillard if she'll be good enough to accompany us?"
"Oh, certainly." Arnesson gave us an inclusive smile of farewell—a smile which seemed at once patronizing and satirical—and went up-stairs. A few moments later Miss Dillard joined us.
"Sigurd tells me you want to see Adolph. He, of course, won't mind; but poor Lady Mae gets so upset over even the littlest things. . . ."
"We sha'n't upset her, I hope." Vance spoke reassuringly. "But Mr. Drukker was here this morning, d' ye see; and the cook says she thought she heard him speaking to Mr. Robin and Mr. Sperling in the archery-room. He may be able to help us."
"I'm sure he will if he can," the girl answered with ​emphasis. "But be very careful with Lady Mae, won't you?"
There was a pleading, protective note in her voice, and Vance regarded her curiously.
"Tell us something of Mrs. Drukker—or Lady Mae—before we visit her. Why should we be so careful?"
"She's had such a tragic life," the girl explained. "She was once a great singer—oh, not just a second-rate artist, but a prima donna with a marvelous career before her. She married a leading critic of Vienna—Otto Drucker—and four years later Adolph was born. Then one day in the Wiener Prater, when the baby was two years old, she let him fall; and from that moment on her entire life was changed. Adolph's spine was injured, and he became a cripple. Lady Mae was heartbroken. She held herself to blame for his injury, and gave up her career to devote herself to his care. When her husband died a year later she brought Adolph to America, where she had spent some of her girlhood, and bought the house where she now lives. Her whole life has been centred on Adolph, who grew up a hunchback. She has sacrificed everything for him, and cares for him as though he were a baby. . . ." A shadow crossed her face. "Sometimes I think—we ​all think—that she still imagines he's only a child. She has become—well, morbid about it. But it's the sweet, terrible morbidity of a tremendous motherlove—a sort of insanity of tenderness, uncle calls it. During the past few months she has grown very strange—and peculiar. I've often found her crooning old German lullabies and kindergarten songs, with her arms crossed on her breast, as if—oh, it seems so sacred and so terrible!—as if she were holding a baby. . . . And she has become frightfully jealous of Adolph. She's resentful of all other men. Only last week I took Mr. Sperling to see her—we often drop in to call on her: she seems so lonely and unhappy—and she looked at him almost fiercely, and said: 'Why weren't you a cripple, too?' . . ."
The girl paused and searched our faces.
"Now don't you understand why I asked you to be careful? . . . Lady Mae may think we have come to harm Adolph."
"We sha'n't add unnecessarily to her suffering," Vance assured her sympathetically. Then, as we moved toward the hall, he asked her a question which recalled to my mind his brief intent scrutiny of the Drukker house earlier that afternoon. "Where is Mrs. Drukker's room situated?"
The girl shot him a startled look, but answered promptly:
"On the west side of the house—its bay window overlooks the archery range."
"Ah!" Vance took out his cigarette-case, and carefully selected a Régie. "Does she sit much at this window?"
"A great deal. Lady Mae always watches us at ​archery practice—why I don't know. I'm sure it pains her to see us, for Adolph isn't strong enough to shoot. He's tried it several times, but it tired him so he had to give it up."
"She may watch you practising for the very reason that it does torture her—a kind of self-immolation, y' know. Those situations are very distressing." Vance spoke almost with tenderness—which, to one who did not know his real nature, would have sounded strange. "Perhaps," he added, as we emerged into the archery range through the basement door, "it would be best if we saw Mrs. Drukker first for a moment. It might tend to allay any apprehensions our visit might cause her. Could we reach her room without Mr. Drukker's knowledge?"
"Oh, yes." The girl was pleased at the idea. "We can go in the rear way. Adolph's study, where he does his writing, is at the front of the house."
We found Mrs. Drukker sitting in the great bay window on a sprawling old-fashioned chaise-longue, propped up with pillows. Miss Dillard greeted her filially and, bending over her with tender concern, kissed her forehead.
"Something rather awful has happened at our house this morning, Lady Mae," she said; "and these gentlemen wanted to see you. I offered to bring them over. You don't mind, do you?"
Mrs. Drukker's pale, tragic face had been turned away from the door as we entered, but now she stared at us with fixed horror. She was a tall woman, slender to the point of emaciation; and her hands, which lay slightly flexed on the arms of the chair, were sinewy and wrinkled like the talons of fabulous bird-​women. Her face, too, was thin and deeply seamed; but it was not an unattractive face. The eyes were clear and alive, and the nose was straight and dominant. Though she must have been well past sixty, her hair was luxuriant and brown.
For several minutes she neither moved nor spoke. Then her hands closed slowly, and her lips parted.
"What do you want?" she asked in a low resonant voice.
"Mrs. Drukker,"—it was Vance who answered—"as Miss Dillard has told you, a tragedy occurred next door this morning, and since your window is the only one directly overlooking the archery range, we thought that you might have seen something that would aid us in our investigation."
The woman's vigilance relaxed perceptibly, but it was a moment or two before she spoke.
"And what did take place?"
"A Mr. Robin was killed.—You knew him perhaps?"
"The archer—Belle's Champion Archer? . . . Yes, I knew him. A strong healthy child who could pull a heavy bow and not get tired.—Who killed him?"
"We don't know." Vance, despite his negligent air, was watching her astutely. "But inasmuch as he was killed on the range, within sight of your window, we hoped you might be able to help us."
Mrs. Drukker's eyelids drooped craftily, and she clasped her hands with a kind of deliberate satisfaction.
"You are sure he was killed on the range?"
"We found him on the range," Vance returned non-committally.
​"I see. . . . But what can I do to help you?" She lay back relaxed.
"Did you notice any one on the range this morning?" asked Vance.
"No!" The denial was swift and emphatic. "I saw no one. I haven't looked out on the range all day."
Vance met the woman's gaze steadily, and sighed.
"It's most unfortunate," he murmured. "Had you been looking out of the window this morning, it's wholly possible you might have seen the tragedy. . . . Mr. Robin was killed with a bow and arrow, and there seems to have been no motive whatever for the act."
"You know he was killed with a bow and arrow?" she asked, a tinge of color coming into her ashen cheeks.
"That was the Medical Examiner's report. There was an arrow through his heart when we found him."
"Of course. That seems perfectly natural, doesn't it? . . . An arrow through the Robin's heart!" She spoke with vague aloofness, a distant, fascinated look in her eyes.
There was a strained silence, and Vance moved toward the window.
"Do you mind if I look out?"
With difficulty the woman brought herself back from some far train of thought.
"Oh, no. It isn't much of a view, though. I can see the trees of 76th Street toward the north, and a part of the Dillard yard to the south. But that brick wall opposite is very depressing. Before the apartment house was built I had a beautiful view of the river."
​Vance looked for a while down into the archery range.
"Yes," he observed; "if only you had been at the window this morning you might have seen what happened. Your view of the range and the basement door of the Dillards' is very clear. . . . Too bad." He glanced at his watch. "Is your son in, Mrs. Drukker?"
"My son! My baby! What do you want with him?" Her voice rose pitifully, and her eyes fastened on Vance with venomous hatred.
"Nothing important," he said pacifying. "Only, he may have seen some one on the range——"
"He saw no one! He couldn't have seen any one, for he wasn't here. He went out early this morning, and hasn't returned."
Vance looked with pity at the woman.
"He was away all morning?—Do you know where he was?"
"I always know where he is," Mrs. Drukker answered proudly. "He tells me everything."
"And he told you where he was going this morning?" persisted Vance gently.
"Certainly. But I forget for the moment. Let me think. . . ." Her long fingers tapped on the arm of the chair, and her eyes shifted uneasily. "I can't recall. But I'll ask him the moment he returns."
Miss Dillard had stood watching the woman with growing perplexity.
"But, Lady Mae, Adolph was at our house this morning. He came to see Sigurd——"
Mrs. Drukker drew herself up.
​"Nothing of the kind!" she snapped, eyeing the girl almost viciously. "Adolph had to go—down-town somewhere. He wasn't near your house—I know he wasn't." Her eyes flashed, and she turned a defiant glare on Vance.
It was an embarrassing moment; but what followed was even more painful.
The door opened softly, and suddenly Mrs. Drukker's arms went out.
"My little boy—my baby!" she cried. "Come here, dear."
But the man at the door did not come forward. He stood blinking his beady little eyes at us, like a person waking in strange surroundings. Adolph Drukker was scarcely five feet tall. He had the typical congested appearance of the hunchback. His legs were spindling, and the size of his bulging, distorted torso seemed exaggerated by his huge, dome-like head. But there was intellectuality in the man's face—a terrific passionate power which held one's attention. Professor Dillard had called him a mathematical genius; and one could have no doubts as to his erudition.
"What does all this mean?" he demanded in a high-pitched, tremulous voice, looking toward Miss Dillard. "Are these friends of yours, Belle?"
The girl started to speak, but Vance halted her with a gesture.
"The truth is, Mr. Drukker," he explained sombrely, "there has been a tragedy next door. This is ​Mr. Markham, the District Attorney, and Sergeant Heath of the Police Department; and at our request Miss Dillard brought us here that we might ask your mother whether or not she had noticed anything unusual on the archery range this morning. The tragedy occurred just outside the basement door of the Dillard house."
Drukker thrust his chin forward and squinted.
"A tragedy, eh? What kind of tragedy?"
"A Mr. Robin was killed—with a bow and arrow."
The man's face began to twitch spasmodically.
"Robin killed? Killed? . . . What time?"
"Some time between eleven and twelve probably."
"Between eleven and twelve?" Quickly Drukker's gaze shifted to his mother. He seemed to grow excited, and his huge splay fingers worried the hem of his smoking-jacket. "What did you see?" His eyes glinted as he focussed them on the woman.
"What do you mean, son?" The retort was a panic-stricken whisper.
Drukker's face became hard, and the suggestion of a sneer twisted his lips.
"I mean that it was about that time when I heard a scream in this room."
"You didn't! No—no!" She caught her breath, and wagged her head jerkily. "You're mistaken, son. I didn't scream this morning."
"Well, some one did." There was a cold relentlessness in the man's tone. Then, after a pause, he added: "The fact is, I came up-stairs after I heard the scream, and listened at the door here. But you were walking about humming 'Eia Popeia,' so I went back to my work."
​Mrs. Drukker pressed a handkerchief to her face, and her eyes closed momentarily.
"You were at your work between eleven and twelve?" Her voice now rang with subdued eagerness. "But I called you several times——"
"I heard you. But I didn't answer. I was too busy."
"So that was it." She turned slowly toward the window. "I thought you were out. Didn't you tell me——?"
"I told you I was going to the Dillards'. But Sigurd wasn't there, and I came back a little before eleven."
"I didn't see you come in." The woman's energy was spent, and she lay back listlessly, her eyes on the brick wall opposite. "And when I called and you didn't answer I naturally thought you were still out."
"I left the Dillards' by the street gate, and took a walk in the park." Drukker's voice was irritable. "Then I let myself in by the front door."
"And you say you heard me scream. . . . But why should I scream, son? I've had no pains in my back this morning."
Drukker frowned, and his little eyes moved swiftly from Vance to Markham.
"I heard some one scream—a woman—in this room," he iterated stubbornly. "About half past eleven." Then he sank into a chair and gazed moodily at the floor.
This perplexing verbal intercourse between mother and son had held us all spellbound. Though Vance had stood before an old eighteenth-century print near ​the door, regarding it with apparent absorption, I knew that no word or inflection had escaped him. Now he swung about and, giving Markham a signal not to interfere, approached Mrs. Drukker.
"We're very sorry, madam, that we've had to trouble you. Forgive us, if you can."
He bowed and turned to Miss Dillard.
"Do you care to pilot us back? Or shall we find our own way down?"
"I'll come with you," the girl said; and going to Mrs. Drukker she put her arm about her. "I'm so sorry, Lady Mae."
As we were passing out into the hall Vance, as if on second thought, paused and looked back at Drukker.
"You'd better come with us, sir," he said, in a casual yet urgent tone. "You knew Mr. Robin, and you may be able to suggest something——"
"Don't go with them, son!" cried Mrs. Drukker. She was sitting upright now, her face contorted with anguish and fear. "Don't go! They're the enemy. They want to hurt you. . . ."
Drukker had risen.
"Why shouldn't I go with them?" he retorted petulantly. "I want to find out about this affair. Maybe—as they say—I can help them." And with a gesture of impatience he joined us.
* ↑ Mae Brenner will still be remembered by Continental music lovers. Her début was made at the unprecedented age of twenty-three as Sulamith in "Die Königin von Saba" at the Imperial Opera House in Vienna; although her greatest success was perhaps her Desdemona in "Otello"—the last rôle she sang before her retirement.
* ↑ The name was, of course, originally spelled Drucker. The change—possibly some vague attempt at Americanization—was made by Mrs. Drukker when she settled in this country.
* ↑ He gave me very much the same impression as did General Homer Lee when I visited him at Santa Monica shortly before his death.