The XYZ Murders, page 59
“The mandolin could not wield itself. It was used to batter the old lady’s head. Then the blow which caused the box to fall must have been a result of the latter half of the swing exerted in striking Mrs. Hatter over the head right beside the table. This is really repetition; at the time we examined the scene of the crime we established these points beyond doubt.”
Lane leaned forward and brandished a muscular forefinger. “Now, we proved before that it was the poisoner—Number Two—who upset the powder-box. Yet at this moment it appears that Number One, the murderer, upset the powder-box. An insurmountable contradiction!” The actor smiled. “Another way of stating it: We discovered that the mandolin lay on top of a film of fallen powder. That means that the mandolin fell when the powder was already on the floor. And since in the first analysis the poisoner upset the powder, that means that the murderer must have come second. But if he came second, where in Heaven’s name are his footprints, since the only footprints found are the poisoner’s?
“And so if we have no murderer’s footprints, there were not two people there after the powder fell; in other words, the murderer as a separate entity did not exist. Which is why I ‘assumed,’ as you say, from the beginning that both poisoner and murderer were one and the same individual!”
Scene 5
THE MORGUE. THURSDAY, JUNE 9. 10:30 A.M.
Mr. Drury Lane mounted the steps of the grimy old City Morgue, a rather expectant expression on his face. Inside he inquired for Dr. Leo Schilling, the Medical Examiner. After a short delay, he was conducted by an attendant to an autopsy-room. His nose wrinkled at the strong odor of disinfectant, and he paused at the door. Dr. Schilling’s chubby little figure was bent over an autopsy table, intent on exploring the vitals of a desiccated corpse. Lolling in a chair, watching the proceedings with a wholly indifferent air, was a short blondish man of middle age with fat features. “Come in, Mr. Lane,” said Dr. Schilling, without looking up from his gruesome work. “Wunderlich, Ingalls, how well preserved this pancreas is.… Sit down, Mr. Lane. Meet Dr. Ingalls, our toxicologist. I’ll be through with this cadaver in a moment.”
“Toxicologist?” asked Lane, shaking hands with the short middle-aged man. “A remarkable coincidence.”
“How?” said Dr. Ingalls.
“He’s the City man,” said the Medical Examiner, busy with the vitals. “You’ve seen his name in the papers. A great one for publicity, Ingalls.”
“Umm,” said Dr. Ingalls.
Dr. Schilling yelled something unintelligible, and two men came in and carted off the corpse. “Well,” he said, “now we can talk.” He stripped off his rubber gloves and went to a basin. “What brings you to the Morgue, Mr. Lane?”
“A most unusual and futile errand, Doctor. I’m endeavoring to track down a smell.”
Dr. Ingalls raised an eyebrow. “A smell, my dear sir?”
The Medical Examiner chuckled as he washed his hands. “You’ve come to the right place, Mr. Lane. The Morgue provides some very fancy smells indeed.”
“Scarcely the kind of odor I’m after, Dr. Schilling,” smiled Lane. “This is sweet and pleasant. It seemingly has no connection with crime, and yet it may be of major importance in the solution of a murder.”
“What odor is it?” inquired Dr. Ingalls. “Perhaps I can help you.”
“It’s the odor of vanilla.”
“Vanilla!” repeated both physicians. Dr. Schilling stared. “You’ve run across a vanilla odor in the Hatter case, Mr. Lane. That is strange, I must say.”
“Yes, Louisa Campion maintains that in the instant of contact with the murderer,” explained Lane patiently, “she detected an aroma which at first she described as ‘piercing sweet,’ and later identified through experiment as that of vanilla. Have you any suggestions?”
“Cosmetics, pastry, perfumes, cookery,” said Ingalls rapidly. “A horde of others, none of them particularly interesting.”
Lane waved his hand. “Naturally we’ve exhausted those. I tried to corral the common sources. Aside from those you have just mentioned. I got nowhere with such things as ice cream, candy, extracts, and so on. Nothing in that direction I’m afraid.”
“Flowers?” hazarded the Medical Examiner.
Lane shook his head. “The only trace in that connection is that there is a variety of orchid which exudes a vanilla odor. But that doesn’t make sense, and we can find no trace of such a variety in the contemporary history of the case. I thought that you, Dr. Schilling, out of your knowledge of such things, might be able to suggest another source, perhaps more directly connected with the general concept of crime.”
The two doctors exchanged glances, and Dr. Ingalls shrugged. “How about chemicals?” ventured Dr. Schilling. “It seems to me——”
“My dear Doctor,” said Lane with a faint smile, “that’s why I’m here. I finally thought of the elusive vanilla as a possible chemical. It was natural for me not to consider vanilla in relation to chemistry at first, since the two conceptions are so utterly opposed in spirit, and my knowledge of the sciences is so abysmally small besides. Is there a poison, Dr. Ingalls, which smells like vanilla?”
The toxicologist shook his head. “I can’t recall any off hand. Certainly it’s no common toxin, or even toxicoid.”
“You know,” said Dr. Schilling thoughtfully, “vanilla itself has virtually no medicinal value. Oh yes, sometimes it’s used as an aromatic stimulant in cases of hysteria or low fever, but …”
Lane cocked a suddenly interested eye. Dr. Ingalls looked startled, burst into a laugh, slapped his fat thigh, and rose to go to a desk in the corner. He scribbled a note, chuckling all the while. Then he went to the door. “McMurty!” he cried. An attendant ran up. “Take this to Scott’s.” The man hurried off. “Just wait,” grinned the toxicologist. “I think I’ve got something.”
The Medical Examiner looked piqued. Lane sat quietly. “Do you know, Dr. Schilling,” he said in a calm voice, as if the result of Dr. Ingalls’s inspiration were of no interest to him. “I’ve been kicking myself from one end of The Hamlet to the other for not having thought of sniffing every bottle in York Hatter’s laboratory.”
“Ach, yes, the laboratory. You might have found it there.”
“At least it was a chance. When I did think of it, the moment had passed, the fire had destroyed the room and most of the bottles had been smashed.” He sighed. “However, Hatter’s index is still intact, and I may ask you, Dr. Ingalls, to go over it with me and check every detail itemized in the man’s files. You might get a lead there. I’m useless, naturally, for that kind of work.”
“I don’t believe,” replied the toxicologist, “that such a procedure will be at all necessary, Mr. Lane.”
“I sincerely hope not.”
When the messenger returned, he was carrying a small white jar. Lane stood up abruptly as Dr. Ingalls unscrewed the aluminum cap, sniffed, smiled, and proffered the jar. Lane seized it.… It was filled with a harmless-looking substance of the general color and consistency of honey. He raised it to his nostrils.…
“I think,” he said quietly, letting his arm fall, “that you have done us a great service, Dr. Ingalls. Unmistakably a vanilla odor. What is this stuff?”
The toxicologist lighted a cigarette. “It’s called Balsam of Peru, Mr. Lane, and the astonishing part of this business is that you can find it in any pharmacy and in thousands of homes.”
“Balsam of Peru …”
“Yes. A widely used viscid liquid, as you can see, employed chiefly in lotions and salves. Perfectly harmless, by the way.”
“Lotion? Salve? For what purpose, Doctor?”
Dr. Schilling smote his forehead a mighty blow. “Himmel!” he cried in deep disgust. “What a jackass I am. I should have remembered, although it’s years since I’ve had occasion to think of it. Balsam of Peru is used as a base for lotions or salves applied in certain skin troubles. Very common, Mr. Lane.”
Lane frowned. “Skin troubles … Strange. Is it used in its pure state?”
“Ja, sometimes. Although mostly with other ingredients.”
“How does that help you?” asked Dr. Ingalls curiously.
“I confess that at the moment …” Mr. Drury Lane sat down and spent two minutes in protracted thought. When he looked up, there was doubt in his eyes. “Dr. Schilling, was anything wrong with Mrs. Hatter’s skin? You performed the autopsy, and you must have noticed.”
“The wrong tree,” replied the Medical Examiner emphatically. “Absolutely. Mrs. Hatter’s epidermis was as sound as her internal organs, aside from her heart.”
“Oh, then she showed no evidences of disease internally?” asked Lane slowly, as if Schilling’s response had awakened a forgotten chord in him.
Dr. Schilling looked puzzled. “I can’t see … No. Autopsy revealed no pathological condition. Didn’t run across anything … Just what do you mean?”
Lane regarded him steadily. A thoughtful squint came into the Medical Examiner’s eye. “I see. No, Mr. Lane, nothing like that superficially. But, of course, I wasn’t looking for such things. I wonder …” Mr. Drury Lane shook hands with both physicians and left the autopsy-room. Dr. Schilling stared after him. Then he shrugged and said to the toxicologist: “A queer fellow, hey, Ingalls?”
Scene 6
DR. MERRIAM’S OFFICE. THURSDAY, JUNE 9. 11:45 A.M.
The car drew up twenty minutes later before an old sandstone three-story house on 11th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues—a quiet aristocratic old neighborhood a few blocks from the Square. Mr. Drury Lane descended, looked up, caught the neat black-and-white placard in the first-floor window:
Y. MERRIAM, M.D.
VISITING HOURS
11–12 A.M. 6–7 P.M.
and slowly ascended the stone stoop. He rang the outer bell and a colored maid in uniform opened the door.
“Dr. Merriam?”
“This way, sir.” The maid led him into a half-filled waiting-room directly off the front hall. The waiting-room contained half a dozen patients, and Lane took his place in a chair by the front window, patiently awaiting his turn.
After an empty hour of waiting a trim nurse opened the sliding doors at the rear of the room and approached him. “You haven’t an appointment, have you?”
Lane fumbled for his card case. “No. But I think Dr. Merriam will see me.”
He handed her one of his unpretentious personal cards, and her eyes widened. She hurried through the sliding doors and returned a moment later followed by old Dr. Merriam himself, spotless in a long surgical gown.
“Mr. Lane!” said the physician, hurrying forward. “Why didn’t you announce yourself before? My nurse informs me you’ve been sitting here for an hour. Come in, come in.”
Lane murmured: “No matter,” and followed Dr. Merriam into a large office, from which an examining-room could be seen. The office was like the waiting-room—neat and clean and old-fashioned.
“Sit down, Mr. Lane. What brings you here? Ah—you’re not feeling well?”
Lane chuckled. “Not a personal call, Doctor. I’m always in disgustingly robust health. The only sign of senility I betray is that I insist on boasting about how far I can swim.…”
“All right, Miss Fulton,” said Dr. Merriam abruptly, and the nurse went out, closing the sliding doors tight behind her. “Now, Mr. Lane.” He managed, despite the tinge of amiability in his voice, to convey the impression that after all he was a professional man, whose every moment was precious.
“Yes.” Lane clasped his hands on the head of his rattan. “Dr. Merriam, have you ever prescribed for any of the Hatter family, or for anyone connected with the Hatter family, a vanilla preparation?”
“Hmm,” said the physician. He leaned back in his swivel-chair. “Still on the trail of that vanilla odor, I see. No, I have not.”
“You’re sure, Doctor? Perhaps you don’t remember. Perhaps it was a case of hysteria, or of what I understand is called low fever.”
“No!” Dr. Merriam’s fingers traced patterns on the blotter before him.
“Then suppose you answer this question. Which of the Hatters received from you, probably within recent months, a prescription for a skin ailment which contained the pharmaceutical ingredient of Balsam of Peru?”
Merriam started convulsively, red dyeing his face. Then he sank back again, wonder in his old blue eyes. “It’s absolutely imposs——” he began, and stopped. He stood up suddenly and said with anger: “I refuse to answer questions concerning my patients, Mr. Lane, and it’s useless for you——”
“But you have answered it already, Doctor,” said Lane gently. “It was York Hatter, I suppose?”
The old physician stood still by his desk, staring down at his blotter. “Very well,” he said in a low forced voice. “Yes, it was York. About nine months ago. He came to me with a rash on his arms, above the wrists. It was a trifle, although he seemed very conscious of it. I prescribed a salve which contained Balsam of Peru—black balsam, it’s also called. For some reason he insisted on my preserving secrecy—he was sensitive about it, he said, and asked me to tell no one, not even his family … Balsam of Peru. I should have thought of it …”
“Yes,” said Lane dryly. “So you should; we should have been saved considerable trouble. He never came to you again?”
“Not for that. He consulted me about—other things. I once asked him how his skin was getting along. He said it recurred periodically, and he applied the salve I had prescribed. Made his own prescriptions, I think—he had a pharmacy degree. And bandaged his arms himself, too.”
“Himself?”
Dr. Merriam looked annoyed. “Well, he said that his daughter-in-law, Martha, had once walked in on him while he was applying the salve; and he was forced to tell her what was the matter with his arms. She was sympathetic, it seems, and after that she helped him bandage his arms once in a while.”
“Interesting,” murmured Lane. “There was no in-law problem as far as Hatter and Martha were concerned, then.”
“I don’t believe so. He didn’t care if she knew, he told me; she was the only one in the house, he said, that he’d trust with a secret anyway.”
“Hmm … Martha. He and she were really the only outsiders, in a sense, living in the house at that time.” Lane stopped, and then said swiftly: “What caused York Hatter’s skin ailment, Doctor?”
The physician blinked. “Blood condition. Really, Mr. Lane——”
“Would you mind giving me a duplicate of the original prescription?”
“Not at all,” replied Merriam with relief. He reached for a pad of prescription blanks and wrote laboriously with a large blunt pen as old-fashioned as his office. When he had finished, Lane took the scribbled note from him and glanced over it. “Nothing poisonous, I fancy?”
“Of course not!”
“Merely a precautionary question, Doctor,” murmured Lane, placing the prescription in his wallet. “And now, if you will let me see your record card on York Hatter …”
“Eh?” Dr. Merriam blinked again, very rapidly, and a tide of red surged into his waxen ears. “My record card?” he shouted. “This is outrageous! Asking me to disclose intimate details about my patients.… Why, I never heard of such a thing! I sh——”
“Dr. Merriam, let’s understand each other. I thoroughly appreciate and commend your attitude. Still, you are aware that I’m here as an accredited representative of the law, that my purpose is only to apprehend a murderer.”
“Yes, but I can’t——”
“There may be other murders. It is within your province to assist the police, and you may have valuable facts at your command which we as yet do not know. Then where is your professional secrecy?”
“Can’t do it,” muttered the physician. “Against the ethics of the medical profession.”
“Hang the ethics of the medical profession.” Lane’s smile dropped from him. “Shall I tell you why you can’t tell me? Professional ethics! Do you think I’m as blind as I’m deaf?”
Something like alarm scurried into the old man’s eyes and was hidden by the instant dropping of his veined lids. “What on earth …” he faltered. “What do you mean?”
“I mean precisely this. You refuse to open the Hatter case histories to me because you’re afraid I will discover the pathological skeleton in the Hatter closet.”
Dr. Merriam did not raise his eyelids. Lane relaxed and the faint smile returned; not a smile of triumph, but of sadness. “Really, Doctor, it is all so hideously plain. Why Louisa Campion was born blind and dumb, and with a disposition toward deafness.…” Dr. Merriam paled. “Why Barbara Hatter is a genius.… Why Conrad Hatter is subject to maniacal rages, why he drinks and wastes his life away.… Why Jill Hatter is reckless and beautiful, but innately vicious, a harpy.…”
“Oh, stop, for God’s sake,” cried Dr. Merriam. “I’ve known them so long—seen them grow up—fought for them, for their right to live as decent human beings.…”
“I know, Doctor,” said Lane softly. “You’ve apotheosized the most Spartan virtues of your profession. At the same time, humanity itself dictates heroic measures. ‘Diseases desperate grown,’ as Claudius says, ‘by desperate appliance are reliev’d.’”
Dr. Merriam shrank into his chair.
“It didn’t take much,” continued Lane in the same gentle voice. “I saw why they’re half mad, wild, eccentric; why poor York Hatter committed suicide. Of course, the root of the trouble was Emily Hatter. I have no doubt now that she caused the death of her first husband, Thomas Campion, by infecting him before he grasped his danger; that she infected her second husband, Hatter, and transmitted the invidious germ to her children, and to her children’s children.… It’s horribly essential that we see eye to eye in this matter, Doctor, and forget for the period of the emergency all consideration of ethics.”
