# The Bishop Murder Case (1929, Charles Scribner's Sons)/Chapter 6

(Saturday, April 2; 3 p. m.)
When we were again in the Dillard drawing-room and Miss Dillard had left us to rejoin her uncle in the library, Vance, without preliminaries, proceeded to the business in hand.
"I didn't care to worry your mother, Mr. Drukker, by questioning you in front of her, but inasmuch as you called here this morning shortly before Mr. Robin's death, it is necessary—as a mere routine procedure—that we seek whatever information you can give us."
Drukker had seated himself near the fireplace. He now drew in his head cautiously, but made no answer.
"You came here," continued Vance, "about half past nine, I believe, to call on Mr. Arnesson."
"Yes."
"By way of the archery range and the basement door?"
"I always come that way. Why walk around the block?"
"But Mr. Arnesson was out this morning."
Drukker nodded. "At the university."
"And, finding Mr. Arnesson away, you sat for a while in the library with Professor Dillard, I understand, discussing an astronomical expedition to South America."
​"The expedition of the Royal Astronomical Society to Sobral to test the Einsteinian deflection," amplified Drukker.
"How long were you in the library?"
"Less than half an hour."
"And then?"
"I went down to the archery-room, and glanced at one of the magazines. There was a chess problem in it—a Zugszwang end-game that came up recently between Shapiro and Marshall—and I sat down and worked it out. . . ."
"Just a moment, Mr. Drukker." A note of suppressed interest came into Vance's voice. "You're interested in chess?"
"To a certain extent. I don't spend much time at it, however. The game is not purely mathematical; and it's insufficiently speculative to appeal to a wholly scientific mind."
"Did you find the Shapiro-Marshall position difficult?"
"Not so difficult as tricky." Drukker was watching Vance shrewdly. "As soon as I discovered that an apparently useless pawn move was the key to the impasse, the solution was simple."
"How long did it take you?"
"Half an hour or so."
"Until about half past ten, shall we say?"
"That would be about right." Drukker settled deeper into his chair, but his covert alertness did not relax.
"Then you must have been in the archery-room when Mr. Robin and Mr. Sperling came there."
The man did not answer at once, and Vance, pre​tending not to notice his hesitancy, added: "Professor Dillard said they called at the house about ten and, and after waiting a while in the drawing-room here, went down to the basement."
"Where's Sperling now, by the way?" Drukker's eyes darted suspiciously from one to the other of us.
"We expect him here any minute," Vance replied. "Sergeant Heath has sent two of his men to fetch him."
The hunchback's eyebrows lifted. "Ah! So Sperling is being forcibly brought back." He pyramided his spatulate fingers and inspected them musingly. Then he slowly lifted his eyes to Vance. "You asked me if I saw Robin and Sperling in the archery-room.—Yes; they came down-stairs just as I was going."
Vance leaned back and stretched his legs before him.
"Did you get the impression, Mr. Drukker, that they had—as we euphemistically say—been having words?"
The man considered this question for several moments.
"Now that you mention it," he said at length, "I do recall that there seemed to be a coolness between them. I wouldn't, however, care to be too categorical on that point. You see, I left the room almost immediately after they entered."
"You went out the basement door, I think you said, and thence through the wall gate into 75th Street. Is that correct?"
For a moment Drukker seemed loath to answer; but he replied with an effort at unconcern.
"Quite. I thought I'd take a stroll along the river ​before going back to work. I went to the Drive, then up the bridle path, and turned into the park at 79th Street."
Heath, with his habitual suspicion of all statements made to the police, put the next question.
"Did you meet any one you knew?"
Drukker turned angrily, but Vance quickly stepped into the breach.
"It really doesn't matter, Sergeant. If it's necess'ry later on to ascertain that point, we can take the matter up again." Then to Drukker: "You returned from your walk a little before eleven, I think you said, and entered your house by the front door."
"That's right."
"You saw nothing, by the by, that was in the least extr'ordin'ry when you were here this morning?"
"I saw nothing except what I've told you."
"And you're quite sure you heard your mother scream at about half past eleven?"
Vance did not move as he asked this question; but a slightly different note had crept into his voice, and it acted on Drukker in a startling manner. He heaved his squat body out of his chair, and stood glaring down on Vance with menacing fury. His tiny round eyes flashed, and his lips worked convulsively. His hands, dangling before him, flexed and unflexed like those of a man in a paroxysm.
"What are you driving at?" he demanded, his voice a shrill falsetto. "I tell you I heard her scream. I don't care a damn whether she admits it or not. Moreover, I heard her walking in her room. She was in her room, understand, and I was in my room, between eleven and twelve. And you can't prove ​anything different. Furthermore, I'm not going to be cross-examined by you or any one else as to what I was doing or where I was. It's none of your damned business—do you hear me? . . ."
So insensate was his wrath that I expected any minute to see him hurl himself on Vance. Heath had risen and stepped forward, sensing the potential danger of the man. Vance, however, did not move. He continued to smoke languidly, and when the other's fury had been spent, he said quietly and without a trace of emotion:
"There's nothing more we have to ask you, Mr. Drukker. And really, y' know, there's no need to work yourself up. It merely occurred to me that your mother's scream might help to establish the exact time of the murder."
"What could her scream have to do with the time of Robin's death? Didn't she tell you she saw nothing?" Drukker appeared exhausted, and leaned heavily against the table.
At this moment Professor Dillard appeared in the archway. Behind him stood Arnesson.
"What seems to be the matter?" the professor asked. "I heard the noise here, and came down." He regarded Drukker coldly. "Hasn't Belle been through enough to-day without your frightening her this way?"
Vance had risen, but before he could speak Arnesson came forward and shook his finger in mock reprimand at Drukker.
"You really should learn control, Adolph. You take life with such abominable seriousness. You've worked in interstellar spatial magnitudes long ​enough to have some sense of proportion. Why attach so much importance to this pin-point of life on earth?"
Drukker was breathing stertorously.
"These swine——" he began.
"Oh, my dear Adolph!" Arnesson cut him short. "The entire human race are swine. Why particularize? . . . Come along. I'll see you home." And he took Drukker's arm firmly and led him down-stairs.
"We're very sorry we disturbed you, sir," Markham apologized to Professor Dillard. "The man flew off the handle for some unknown reason. These investigations are not the pleasantest things in the world; but we hope to be through before long."
"Well, make it as brief as you can, Markham. And do try to spare Belle as much as possible.—Let me see you before you go."
When Professor Dillard had returned up-stairs, Markham took a turn up and down the room, his brows knit, his hands clasped behind him.
"What do you make of Drukker?" he asked, halting before Vance.
"Decidedly not a pleasant character. Diseased physically and mentally. A congenital liar. But canny—oh, deuced canny. An abnormal brain—you often find it in cripples of his type. Sometimes it runs to real constructive genius, as with Steinmetz; but too often it takes to abstruse speculation along impractical lines, as with Drukker. Still, our little verbal give-and-take has not been without fruit. He's hiding something that he'd like to tell but doesn't dare."
​"That's possible, of course," returned Markham doubtfully. "He's touchy on the subject of that hour between eleven and noon. And he was watching you all the time like a cat."
"A weasel," Vance corrected him. "Yes, I was aware of his flatterin' scrutiny."
"Anyway, I can't see that he's helped us very much."
"No," agreed Vance. "We're not exactly forrader. But we're at least getting some luggage aboard. Our excitable mathematical wizard has opened up some very interestin' lines of speculation. And Mrs. Drukker is fairly teemin' with possibilities. If we knew what both of 'em together know we might find the key to this silly business."
Heath had been sullen for the past hour, and had looked on at the proceedings with bored disdain. But now he drew himself up combatively.
"I'm here to tell you, Mr. Markham, that we're wasting our time. What's the good of all these parleys? Sperling's the boy we want, and when my men bring him in and put him through a little sweating, we'll have enough material for an indictment. He was in love with the Dillard girl and was jealous of Robin—not only on account of the girl, but because Robin could shoot those red sticks straighter than he could. He had a scrap with Robin in this here room—the professor heard 'em at it; and he was down-stairs with Robin, according to the evidence, a few minutes before the murder. . . ."
"And," added Vance ironically, "his name means 'sparrow.' Quod erat demonstrandum.—No, Sergeant; it's much too easy. It works out like a game ​of Canfield with the cards stacked; whereas this thing was planned much too carefully for suspicion to fall directly on the guilty person."
"I can't see any careful planning about it," persisted Heath. "This Sperling gets sore, picks up a bow, grabs an arrow off of the wall, follows Robin outside, shoots him through the heart, and beats it."
Vance sighed.
"You're far too forthright for this wicked world, Sergeant. If only things happened with such naïve dispatch, life would be very simple—and depressin'. But such was not the modus operandi of the Robin's murder. First, no archer could shoot at a moving human target and strike just between the ribs over the vital spot of the heart. Secondly, there's that fracture of Robin's skull. He may have acquired it in falling, but it's not likely. Thirdly, his hat was at his feet, where it wouldn't have been if he had fallen naturally. Fourthly, the nock on the arrow is so bruised that I doubt if it would hold a string. Fifthly, Robin was facing the arrow, and during the drawing and aiming of the bow he would have had time to call out and cover himself. Sixthly. . . ."
Vance paused in the act of lighting a cigarette.
"By Jove, Sergeant! I've overlooked something. When a man's stabbed in the heart there's sure to be an immediate flow of blood, especially when the end of the weapon is larger than the shaft and there's no adequate plug for the hole. I say! It's quite possible that you'll find some blood spots on the floor of the archery-room—somewhere near the door most likely."
Heath hesitated, but only momentarily. Experi​ence had long since taught him that Vance's suggestions were not to be treated cavalierly; and with a good-natured grunt he got up and disappeared toward the rear of the house.
"I think, Vance, I begin to see what you mean," observed Markham, with a troubled look. "But, good God! If Robin's apparent death with a bow and arrow was merely an ex-post-facto stage-setting, then we're confronted by something almost too diabolical to contemplate."
"It was the work of a maniac," declared Vance, with unwonted sobriety. "Oh, not the conventional maniac who imagines he's Napoleon, but a madman with a brain so colossal that he has carried sanity to a, humanly speaking, reductio ad absurdum—to a point, that is, where humor itself becomes a formula in four dimensions."
Markham smoked vigorously, lost in speculation.
"I hope Heath doesn't find anything," he said at length.
"Why—in Heaven's name?" returned Vance. "If there's no material evidence that Robin met his end in the archery-room, it'll only make the problem more difficult legally."
But the material evidence was forthcoming. The Sergeant returned a few minutes later, crestfallen but excited.
"Damn it, Mr. Vance!" he blurted. "You had the dope all right." He made no attempt to keep the admiration out of his look. "There isn't any actual blood on the floor; but there's a dark place on the cement where somebody's scrubbed it with a wet rag to-day some time. It ain't dry yet; and the place is ​right near the door, where you said. And what makes it more suspicious is that one of those rugs has been pulled over it.—But that don't let Sperling out altogether," he added pugnaciously. "He mighta shot Robin indoors."
"And then cleaned up the blood, wiped off the bow and arrow, and placed the body and the bow on the range, before making his departure? . . . Why? . . . Archery, to begin with, isn't an indoor sport, Sergeant. And Sperling knows too much about it to attempt murder with a bow and arrow. A hit such as the one that ended Robin's uneventful career would have been a pure fluke. Teucer himself couldn't have achieved it with any degree of certainty—and, according to Homer, Teucer was the champion archer of the Greeks."
As he spoke Pardee passed down the hall on his way out. He had nearly reached the front door when Vance rose suddenly and went to the archway.
"Oh, I say, Mr. Pardee. Just a moment, please."
The man turned with an air of gracious compliance.
"There is one other question we'd like to ask you," said Vance. "You mentioned seeing Mr. Sperling and Beedle leave here this morning by the wall gate. Are you sure you saw no one else use the gate?"
"Quite sure. That is, I don't recall any one else."
"I was thinking particularly of Mr. Drukker."
"Oh, Drukker?" Pardee shook his head with mild emphasis. "No, I would have remembered him. But you realize a dozen people might have entered and left this house without my noticing them."
​"Quite—quite," Vance murmured indifferently. "How good a chess player, by the by, is Mr. Drukker?"
Pardee showed a flicker of surprise.
"He's not a player in the practical sense at all," he explained with careful precision. "He's an excellent analyst, however, and understands the theory of the game amazingly well. But he's had little practice at actual over-the-board play."
When Pardee had gone Heath cocked a triumphant eye at Vance.
"I notice, sir," he remarked good-naturedly, "that I'm not the only one who'd like to check the hunchback's alibi."
"Ah, but there's a difference between checking an alibi, and demanding that the person himself prove it."
At this moment the front door was thrown open. There were heavy footsteps in the hall, and three men appeared in the archway. Two were obviously detectives, and between them stood a tall, clean-cut youth of about thirty.
"We got him, Sergeant," announced one of the detectives, with a grin of vicious satisfaction. "He beat it straight home from here, and was packing up when we walked in on him."
Sperling's eyes swept the room with angry apprehension. Heath had planted himself before the man, and stood looking him up and down triumphantly.
"Well, young fella, you thought you'd get away, did you?" The Sergeant's cigar bobbed up and down between his lips as he spoke.
​The color mounted to Sperling's cheeks, and he set his mouth stubbornly.
"So! You've got nothing to say?" Heath went on, squaring his jaw ferociously. "You're one of these silent lads, are you? Well, we'll make you talk." He turned to Markham. "How about it, sir? Shall I take him to Headquarters?"
"Perhaps Mr. Sperling will not object to answering a few questions here," said Markham quietly.
Sperling studied the District Attorney a moment; then his gaze moved to Vance, who nodded to him encouragingly.
"Answer questions about what?" he asked, with an obvious effort at self-control. "I was preparing to go away for the week-end when these ruffians forced their way into my room; and I was brought here without a word of explanation or even an opportunity to communicate with my family. Now you talk of taking me to Police Headquarters." He gave Heath a defiant glare. "All right, take me to Police Headquarters—and be damned to you!"
"What time did you leave here this morning, Mr. Sperling?" Vance's tone was soft and ingratiating, and his manner reassuring.
"About a quarter past eleven," the man answered. "In time to catch the 11.40 Scarsdale train from Grand Central."
"And Mr. Robin?"
"I don't know what time Robin went. He said he was going to wait for Belle—Miss Dillard. I left him in the archery-room."
"You saw Mr. Drukker?"
"For a minute—yes. He was in the archery-​room when Robin and I went down-stairs; but he left immediately."
"Through the wall gate? Or did he walk down the range?"
"I don't remember—in fact, I didn't notice. . . . Say, look here: what's all this about anyway?"
"Mr. Robin was killed this morning," said Vance, "—at some time near eleven o'clock."
Sperling's eyes seemed to start from his head.
"Robin killed? My God! . . . Who—who killed him?" The man's lips were dry, and he wetted them with his tongue.
"We don't know yet," Vance answered. "He was shot through the heart with an arrow."
This news left Sperling stunned. His eyes traveled vaguely from side to side, and he fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette.
Heath stepped nearer to him, and thrust out his chin.
"Maybe you can tell us who killed him—with a bow and arrow!"
"Why—why do you—think I know?" Sperling managed to stammer.
"Well," returned the Sergeant relentlessly, "you were jealous of Robin, weren't you? You had a hot argument with him about the girl, right in this room, didn't you? And you were alone with him just before he was croaked, weren't you? And you're a pretty good shot with the bow and arrow, aren't you?—That's why I think that maybe you know something." He narrowed his eyes and drew his upper lip over his teeth. "Say! Come clean. Nobody else but you coulda done it. You had a fight with him ​over the girl, and you were the last person seen with him—only a few minutes before he was killed. And who else woulda shot him with a bow and arrow except a champeen archer—huh? . . . Make it easy for yourself, and spill the story. We've got you."
A strange light had gathered in Sperling's eyes, and his body became rigid.
"Tell me,"—he spoke in a strained, unnatural voice—"did you find the bow?"
"Sure we found it." Heath laughed unpleasantly. "Right where you left it—in the alley."
"What kind of a bow was it?" Sperling's gaze had not moved from some distant point.
"What kind of a bow?" repeated Heath. "A regular bow——"
Vance, who had been watching the youth closely, interrupted.
"I think I understand the question, Sergeant.—It was a woman's bow, Mr. Sperling. About five-feet-six, and rather light—under thirty pounds, I should say."
Sperling drew a slow, deep breath, like a man steeling himself for some bitter resolution. Then his lips parted in a faint, grim smile.
"What's the use?" he asked listlessly. "I thought I'd have time to get away. . . . Yes, I killed him."
Heath grunted with satisfaction, and his belligerent manner at once disappeared.
"You got more sense than I thought you had," he said, in an almost paternal tone, nodding in a businesslike manner to the two detectives. "Take him along, boys. Use my buggy—it's outside. And lock ​him up without booking him. I'll prefer the charge when I get to the office."
"Come along, bo," ordered one of the detectives, turning toward the hall.
But Sperling did not at once obey. Instead he looked appealingly at Vance.
"Could I—might I——" he began.
Vance shook his head.
"No, Mr. Sperling. It would be best if you didn't see Miss Dillard. No use of harrowin' her feelings just now. . . . Cheerio."
The man turned without another word and went out between his captors.