The XYZ Murders, page 43
“I see. Has the child fully recovered?”
Inspector Thumm snorted. “And how! Take more than a swig of poison to kill him. What a kid! The kind of brat you feel like choking to death. ’Course he didn’t want to steal the eggnog—oh no, of course not! He doesn’t know why he drank it. Said: ‘Gran’ma Em’ly scared me, and I just swallowed it.’ Just like that. Too bad he didn’t swallow a little more, I say.”
“I’ll wager you weren’t exactly a Little Lord Fauntleroy yourself when you were a child, Inspector,” chuckled Lane. “What was the disposition physically of the others during the approximate period when the eggnog must have been poisoned? The papers weren’t clear.”
“Well, sir, in a mess, as you might expect. This sea-captain, Trivett—he’d been right in the next room, the library, reading a newspaper. But he didn’t hear anything, he says. Then Jill Hatter—she was in her bedroom upstairs, half awake, in bed. At half-past two, mind you!”
“The young lady was probably out the night before,” observed Lane dryly, “on what is professionally known, I believe, as a bender. Rather a pagan, I gather. The others?”
Thumm enveloped his brandy glass in a glance full of gloom. “Well, this Louisa woman—the queer one—generally takes a nap after lunch. She and her old lady occupy the same bedroom upstairs. Anyway, Mrs. Hatter, who’d be out in the garden making it miserable for somebody, went up, woke Louisa, and just at half-past two they came downstairs together, bound for the eggnog. The skirt-chaser, Conrad—the kid’s old man—he’d been wandering up and down the alley on the east side of the house, smoking. Had a bad headache—hangover, most likely—and wanted a breath of air, he says. The gal who writes poetry, Barbara Hatter—she’s a big shot, I understand, and the only human one of the bunch, Mr. Lane, just a nice young lady with brains—she’d been writing in her workroom upstairs. Miss Smith, Louisa’s nurse, whose bedroom is next door to Louisa’s, overlooking the alley on the east—she’d been in her room, she says, reading the Sunday newspapers.”
“And the others?”
“Small fry. There’s this Mrs. Arbuckle, the housekeeper—she was in the kitchen at the back, cleaning up after lunch with the maid Virginia. George Arbuckle, Mrs. Arbuckle’s husband, was in the garage at the back shining up the car. And that’s about all. Sort of hopeless, isn’t it?”
Lane nodded; his eyes were fixed immovably on the Inspector’s lips. “Your one-legged Captain Trivett,” he said finally. “An interesting character. Just where does he fit into the puzzle, Inspector? What was he doing in the house at two-thirty of a Sunday?”
“Oh, him,” grunted Thumm. “He’s an ex-sea-captain. Been living next door to the Hatters for a good many years—bought the place on his retirement. We’ve looked him up, don’t worry. Got plenty of jack—he’d been to sea with his own freighting vessel for thirty years. Forced to retire after a bad storm in the South Atlantic. Big sea came over and swept him off his feet—busted his leg in a couple of places. First mate did a rotten job, and when they made port they had to amputate. He’s a rather salty old guy.”
“But you haven’t answered my question, Inspector,” said Lane gently. “How did he happen to be in the house?”
“Give me a chance, can’t you?” growled Thumm. “Excuse me. I was feeling grand until you reminded me of this business.… Trivett’s always coming into the Hatter house. They say he was the only real friend York Hatter had—two pretty lonesome old codgers brought together, I suppose, by their mutual loneliness. Trivett took Hatter’s disappearance and suicide pretty hard, I understand. But he didn’t stop his visits. You see, he sort of shines up to this Louisa Campion—maybe because she’s such a sweet uncomplaining sort with a terrible affliction, and him with a leg gone.”
“Very likely. Physical deficiencies do bring people together. Then the good Captain was merely waiting to pay his respects to Louisa Campion?”
“That’s the ticket. Calls on her every day. They get along fine, and even that old she-devil approves—only too glad there’s someone who pays attention to the deaf-mute—God knows the others don’t much. He came in around two o’clock; Mrs. Arbuckle told him Louisa was upstairs, napping, and he went into the library to wait for her.”
“How do they communicate, Inspector? After all, the poor woman can’t hear, see, or speak.”
“Oh, they’ve worked it out some way,” grumbled the Inspector. “She didn’t get deaf, you know, until she was eighteen, and in the meantime they taught her lots of things. Mostly, though, Captain Trivett sits and holds her hand. She likes him a lot.”
“Pitiful business! Now, Inspector, the poison itself. Have you attempted to track down the source of the strychnine?”
Thumm grinned sourly. “No luck. We grabbed that lead right from the start. Naturally. But it stacks up this way. You see, this bird York Hatter never really lost his love for chemistry—big pumpkins as a chemical research worker in his young days, I understand. He’d rigged up a laboratory in his bedroom. Used to spend whole days up there.”
“His personal escape from a distasteful environment. Quite so. And the strychnine came from that laboratory?”
Thumm shrugged. “I’d say so. Even there, though, we got into trouble. Ever since Hatter’s fade-out the old lady’s kept the laboratory locked. Strict orders; no one was to go in there. Sort of monument to his memory, or something. She wanted to preserve it in exactly the same condition that Hatter left it—especially two months ago when his body was found and it was definitely known that he was dead. See? Only one key, and she had it all the time. No other entrances to the lab—windows barred with iron. Well, as soon as I heard about the lab, I scooted up there for a look around, and——”
“You got the key from Mrs. Hatter?”
“Yes.”
“She has had it in her possession all the time, you’re certain?”
“That’s what she claims. Anyway, we found strychnine tablets there in a bottle on a bunch of shelves Hatter had built. So we figured the poison came from that bottle—easier to drop a tablet into the eggnog than to carry around a powder or a liquid. But how in hell did he get into the lab?”
Lane did not reply at once. He crooked a long, pale muscular finger at Falstaff. “Fill the mugs.… A rhetorical question, Inspector. Windows barred with iron—Hatter must have been inordinately jealous of his one avenue of escape—door locked, and the only key constantly in Mrs. Hatter’s possession. Hmm … Not necessarily demanding a fantastic explanation. There are such things as wax impressions.”
“Sure,” snarled Thumm, “and didn’t we think of that. Way I figure it, Mr. Lane, there are three possible explanations. First: the poisoner may have stolen the strychnine from the laboratory before York Hatter’s disappearance, when the room was open and accessible to anybody, and saved the poison till last Sunday.…”
“Ingenious,” commented Lane. “Go on, Inspector.”
“Second, someone took a wax impression of the lock, as you suggest, had a key made, and so gained entrance to the lab and got the poison shortly before the attempted crime.”
“Or long before, Inspector. Yes?”
“Or third, the poison was secured from an outside source altogether.” Thumm accepted a brimming, spumy mug from Falstaff’s hand, and drained it thirstily. “Swell,” he said in a gurgly voice. “I mean the beer. Well, we’ve done what we could. The key theory—followed it up—general search of all locksmith and hardware stores … nothing doing yet. Outside source—we’re checking up on that, also with no success to date. And that’s how it stands today.”
Lane drummed reflectively on the table. The room was thinning; they were almost alone in the Mermaid. “And has it occurred to you,” he said after a silence, “that the eggnog might have been poisoned before Mrs. Arbuckle carried it into the dining-room?”
“Holy Mother of God, Mr. Lane,” growled the Inspector, “what do you think I am? Sure it occurred to me. Examined the kitchen, but there wasn’t a sign of the strychnine or poisoner. It’s true, though, that Mrs. Arbuckle had left it on the kitchen table for a couple of minutes and had gone into the pantry for something. The maid Virginia had gone into the drawing-room a minute before to dust it. So someone might have sneaked into the kitchen and poisoned the drink while Mrs. Arbuckle wasn’t looking.”
“I begin to appreciate your perplexity,” said Lane with a rueful smile. “And to share in it, Inspector. There was no one else in the Hatter house that Sunday afternoon?”
“Not a soul that I’ve been able to discover. But the front door was unlocked, and anyone might have slipped into the house and out without being seen. That business of the daily eggnog in the dining-room at half-past two is known to all the acquaintances of the Hatters.”
“I understand that someone of the household was not in the house at the time of the poisoning—Edgar Perry, the private tutor of Conrad Hatter’s two children. Have you checked up on him?”
“Absolutely. Perry has his Sundays off; and last Sunday morning he took a long walk, he says, through Central Park—spent the day by himself. Didn’t get back to the house until late afternoon, when I was already there.”
“How did he take the news of the attempted poisoning?”
“Seemed surprised and, I think, kind of worried when he learned about it. Couldn’t offer any explanation.”
“We seem,” observed Mr. Drury Lane, the smile gone from his carved features, a frown between his eyes, “to be pushing farther into the fog. And motive? The crux of the situation may lie there.”
Inspector Thumm groaned unashamedly, as a strong man with his strength balked might groan. “Every damned one of ’em might have had motive. The Hatter bunch are nuts—crazy as loons, the caboodle of ’em, excepting maybe the poetess, Barbara, and even she’s screwy in her own way, only her screwiness is poetry. You see, Mrs. Hatter’s whole life is wrapped up in this deaf-dumb-and-blind daughter of hers. Watches over her like a mama tiger. Sleeps in the same room, practically feeds her, helps her dress—devotes her life to making Louisa’s as bearable as possible. Only thing in the old hell-cat that’s human.”
“And, of course, the other children are jealous,” murmured Lane with a flicker in his lamp-eyes. “They would be. Passionate, wild and with the instinct to violence unrestrained by any moral consideration.… Yes. I begin to see the possibilities.”
“I’ve been seeing ’em for a week,” snapped the Inspector. “The old lady’s attentions to Louisa are so persistent that her other children are damned sore, jealous. Not that it’s any matter of sweetness and light and ‘I love you, mummy dear!’” The Inspector smiled wickedly. “I doubt if it’s love. It’s just pride and a sort of cussedness. And then, as far as Louisa is concerned—well, remember that she isn’t their sister, Mr. Lane, but their half-sister.”
“It makes a considerable difference,” agreed Lane.
“It makes all the difference in the world. For instance, Jill, the youngest, won’t have a thing to do with Louisa, claims her presence is a pall over the house and that none of her friends like to come there, because Louisa makes everybody feel uncomfortable with her peculiar ways. Peculiar ways! She can’t help it, but that doesn’t make a particle of difference to Jill. Not her. I wish she were my daughter.” Thumm’s hand descended with a swish on his thigh. “Conrad feels the same way—constantly bickering with his mother to have Louisa shipped off to some institution where she’ll be out of the way. Claims she prevents them from leading normal lives. Normal!” sneered the Inspector. “That bird’s idea of normal living is a case of hooch under the table and a Follies girl on each knee.”
“And Barbara Hatter?”
“Now that’s something else again.” Inspector Thumm seemed to have developed a passion for the poetess, for he consulted his beer, licked his chops, and replied in a very warm tone after Lane’s questioning glance: “What I mean—she’s a fine girl, Mr. Lane. Sensible. I won’t say she loves the deaf-mute, but from all I’ve fished out of ’em Barbara pities her, tries to help her get some interest in life—what you’d expect a real woman with a heart in her to do.”
“Miss Hatter has evidently made a conquest,” said Lane, rising. “Come along, Inspector, for a breath of air.”
Thumm struggled to his feet, loosened his belt, and preceded his host into the quaint little street. They strolled back toward the gardens. Lane was sunk in thought, his eyes cloudy and his mouth a tight line. Thumm clumped along rather morosely. “Conrad and his wife don’t get on very well, I take it,” said Lane at last, dropping on a rustic bench. “Sit down, Inspector.”
Thumm obeyed, limply, like a man tired of thinking. “They don’t. Lead a cat-and-dog life. She told me that she was going to take her two kids out of ‘this awful house’ as soon as she could—got all excited, she did.… Found out something interesting about her from Miss Smith, Louisa’s nurse. Couple of weeks ago Martha and the old lady had a scrap. Seems Mrs. Hatter was slapping the kids around, and Martha got all worked up. Called her mother-in-law an ‘evil old witch,’ damned her for an interfering old busybody, and said she wished the old lady were dead—you know how women are when they get excited. Anyway, it developed into almost a hair-pulling match. Miss Smith got the kids out of the room—both of ’em were scared stiff.… Martha’s meek as a lamb, you understand, but bad when she’s riled. I sort of feel sorry for her; she’s living in a nut-factory. I wouldn’t want my kids growing up in such an environment, I’ll tell you that.”
“And Mrs. Hatter is a wealthy woman,” mused Lane, as if he had not caught the import of Thumm’s story. “Possibly a money motive in the background.…” He was growing gloomier with each passing moment.
They sat in silence. It was cool in the gardens; from the little village came the sound of laughter. The Inspector folded his arms on his chest, watching Lane’s face. What he saw there evidently dissatisfied him, for he growled: “Well, what’s the verdict, Mr. Lane? See any light?”
Mr. Drury Lane sighed, smiled faintly, and shook his head. “Unfortunately I’m not a superman, Inspector.”
“You mean you——?”
“I mean I haven’t the vaguest notion of the answer. Who poisoned the eggnog? Not even a workable theory. Facts, facts—insufficient for an exclusive hypothesis.”
Thumm looked sad. He had both expected and feared this. “Any recommendations?”
Lane shrugged. “Only one warning. Once a poisoner, always a poisoner. There will be, beyond any doubt, another attempt on Louisa Campion’s life. Not immediately, of course. But some day, when the poisoner thinks he is safe.…”
“We’ll do all we can to prevent it,” said the Inspector in a none too confident voice.
The old actor rose suddenly to his lean height, and Thumm looked up at him in astonishment. Lane’s face was expressionless—an infallible sign that an idea was shouting in his brain. “Inspector. I understand that Dr. Merriam took a sample of the poisoned eggnog from the pool of it on the dining-room linoleum?” Thumm wagged his head, eyeing his host curiously. “And did the Medical Examiner analyze the sample?”
The Inspector relaxed. “Oh,” he said. “That. Yes, I had Doc Schilling test it in the City laboratory.”
“Did Dr. Schilling report the result of his analysis?”
“Here, here!” said the Inspector. “What’s eating you? Nothing mysterious about it, Mr. Lane. Sure he reported the result.”
“Did he say whether the amount of poison in the eggnog was a lethal dose?”
The Inspector snorted. “Lethal? You bet your boots it was lethal. Enough in that drink, Doc said, to kill half a dozen people.”
The moment passed, Lane’s face resumed its normal pleasant expression, slightly tinged now with disappointment; and the Inspector read failure in the gray-green eyes. “Then all I can suggest—a poor reward for your long hot journey, Inspector!” said Mr. Drury Lane, “is that you watch the Mad Hatters very closely indeed.”
Scene 2
LOUISA’S BEDROOM. SUNDAY, JUNE 5. 10 A.M.
It will be observed that from the beginning the Hatter case struck a leisurely note. This was no business of crime following hotly on the heels of crime, a swift series of events, a rapid pounding of the fatal hammer. It was slow, slow, almost indolent in its pace, and because of its very slowness there was something remorseless about it, like the march of Jagannath.
In a way, this tardy evolution of events seemed significant, although at the time no one, including Mr. Drury Lane, came within guessing distance of the truth. York Hatter’s disappearance in December, the discovery of his dead body in February, the attempt to poison the deaf-and-dumb-and-blind woman in April, and then, a very little less than two months later, on a sunny Sunday morning in June …
Lane, snug and cloistered in his castellated retreat up the Hudson, had forgotten the Hatter case and Inspector Thumm’s visit. The papers had gradually dropped their copious interest in the poisoning attempt, until finally the entire incident was omitted from the news. Despite Inspector Thumm’s best efforts nothing further had been uncovered which in the slightest degree pointed to any single person as the poisoner. The excitement subsiding, the police subsided as well. Until June the fifth.
Mr. Drury Lane was apprised of it by telephone. He had been lying outstretched on the bare battlements of the castle, sunning his nude body, when old Quacey stumbled up the curving turret stairs, his gnome’s face purple with exertion. “Inspector Thumm!” he wheezed. “On the telephone, Mr. Drury! He—he …”
Lane sat up in alarm. “What is it, Quacey?”
“He says,” panted the ancient, “something has happened at the Hatter house!”
Lane wriggled his brown body forward and squatted on his lean haunches. “So it’s come at last,” he said slowly. “When? Who? What did the Inspector say?”
