The Man in the Moonlight, page 5
Foyle read the list aloud:
Malcolm Southerland, trustee
Raymond Prickett, Professor Experimental Psychology
Marian Prickett, his wife
Julian Salt, Assistant Professor of Social Anthropology
Amy Salt, his wife
Albert Feng Lo, Visiting Prof of Abnormal Psychology
Ian Halsey, undergraduate student and assistant to Dr Prickett
Gisela von Hohenems, Dr Konradi’s secretary.
“Now you see why we are so sure the murderer was not a Nazi.” The Inspector’s glance rested on Gisela. “No German or Austrian name is on the list — except yours.”
She sat still and white save for dark hair and burning eyes. “You are not accusing me—?”
“Not at all. But I’d like some particulars. Why did you leave Austria?”
“My father supported Dr von Schuschnigg’s campaign against them. My father was too old to survive a concentration camp. The day before they crossed the border, I drove him from Vienna to Slovakia. We were just in time. We went to Prague, but I couldn’t find work there and we had very little money. The Dean, Dr Lysaght, was in Paris then and he wrote me suggesting I come to America. We had known him years ago in Vienna when he spent his sabbatical year there. I left my father in Prague until I could get enough money to bring him over here. I learned to type in New York. When Dr Lysaght heard that Konradi wanted a secretary who understood German he got me the job.”
“Was that the first time you met Konradi?”
“Yes. Of course, I had heard of him all my life. We both lived in Vienna for years, but we never met.”
“Do you know anything about Konradi’s family? Or where he was born?”
“He had no close relatives living. I believe he was born in Styria. He spoke German like a Styrian.”
“You are Styrian, too?”
“No, my family came from Vorarlberg.”
“Your father’s name?”
“Alois von Hohenems.”
Foyle jotted it down. “And now” — he settled back in his chair — “when did you last see Konradi?”
“This evening a little while ago.”
“Where?”
“At home. I have a small apartment at the east end of 79th Street.”
“Was he there often?”
“No. He had never been there before.”
“Why did he go there this evening?”
“I don’t know. He came while I was at dinner — about quarter of eight. I think he was worried about something. He said he had been walking and thinking ever since he had left his laboratory this afternoon. But before he could say more, the phone rang, and a man’s voice asked for Dr Konradi. He seemed surprised. He said, ‘I told no one I was coming here.’ Then he took the phone and frowned as he listened. After a while he said, ‘Very well, I’ll come at once.’ And then: ‘Of course I understand. I won’t mention your name to anyone. The whole thing must be kept quiet.’ He hung up the receiver and I asked if there were anything wrong. He answered, ‘No, nothing of importance.’ But he was still frowning. Then he said, ‘I must go to the laboratory, but I’ll be back soon.’ Those were the last words I heard him say.”
Foyle broke the silence. “Did you recognise the voice on the telephone?”
“No. It was a lisping voice. I don’t know anyone with a lisp.”
“A lisp can be assumed — like a limp. Did Konradi ask who was calling?”
“No. I’ve told you everything he said.” Her eyes dilated with horror. “You think that was the voice of the — murderer?”
“Yes,” answered Foyle grimly. “And someone Konradi knew and trusted. He wouldn’t have gone back to Southerland Hall alone at that hour if he hadn’t recognised the voice. I saw him enter the building myself. He was in such a hurry he went straight to his laboratory without stopping to switch on the lights in the corridor. He never suspected a trap.”
“If only I had known—” Her voice was more vibration than sound. They could hardly hear her. “If only I had followed him sooner—”
“You were following him when I met you?” suggested Basil.
“Yes.” The word came with a sigh. “He said, ‘I’ll be back soon.’ And he didn’t come. I watched the clock until I couldn’t stand it any longer. My apartment is opposite the southern end of the University grounds. So I threw on a coat and started to walk to Southerland Hall. When you asked me the way here, I thought you must have something to do with the man who phoned. I was afraid Konradi was in some danger. That was why I tried to keep you from coming here.”
“‘Some danger’? As vague as that?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you sounded rather — definite when you tried to keep me from coming here. Remember?”
For a moment there was colour in her cheeks. When it faded, she was paler than ever. “I had no definite reason to believe Konradi was in danger. It was only a feeling — an impression.”
“Who was the boy talking to you on the path a moment before I spoke to you?”
“Boy?” She had regained control of her voice. Her eyes were wide and blank. “There was no boy. I didn’t meet anyone on the path but you.”
Foyle waited. But Basil had no further questions at the moment. Then Foyle asked, “Why did Southerland want to see Konradi this afternoon?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long was Southerland in the building?”
“About ten minutes — I don’t know exactly. I was in Konradi’s office when Southerland came. I left him there while I crossed the hall to see if Konradi was in his laboratory. He wasn’t but he had left the door unlocked. I never knew him to do such a thing before. I went into Dr Prickett’s room to ask him if he’d seen Konradi. You must remember that because it was you who told me Konradi had left the building. When I went back to tell Southerland, he wasn’t in Konradi’s office where I had left him — he was just coming out of Konradi’s laboratory. I told him Konradi had gone and suggested telephoning him. But Southerland said he couldn’t wait any longer. As soon as he’d gone, I locked the laboratory and the office and went home.”
Foyle opened one of the notebooks on the desk. Basil could see the paper, white with lines of faint green instead of the usual blue. It was covered with small handwriting in black ink — equations, formulae and dates interspersed with comments in German.
“Did Konradi keep anything in these besides laboratory notes?” asked Foyle. “Anything the Nazis might have wanted, such as letters from anti-Nazis in Germany?”
Gisela, her voice low and troubled, answered, “No. He always destroyed letters from Germany as soon as he received them.”
“If Konradi made a discovery of commercial or military value, who would have the patent?”
“The University. Any discovery made by a member of the faculty becomes the property of the University automatically, so they can use the royalties to finance further research in the same field. But—” a fugitive smile touched her lips “—I can’t imagine Konradi concocting a new poison gas or a kiss-proof lipstick. He was a biological chemist, you know — not an industrial chemist. Cancer interested him. It’s too slow a death to have military value and I don’t see how a study of it could be put to commercial use.”
“But if Konradi had found a cure for cancer? Surely that would have commercial value?”
“When I first came here, he told me he was trying to discover ways to avoid cancer — not ways to cure it. That sort of discovery is never commercialised.”
Foyle glanced at Basil for confirmation. He nodded. “It’s only in copybooks that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. Fortunes are made through patent medicines, but I don’t believe anyone has ever made a cent through preventing disease.”
Foyle had laid his mine carefully. Now he exploded it. “In view of all this, how do you explain that seventy pages have been stolen from Konradi’s most recent notebook?”
“Stolen?” The white silk jersey shimmered as her breast rose and fell in a quick breath. “Are you sure?”
“This book is seventy pages short as compared with the others. They’re all alike except for that. I happen to know that Konradi was looking for some missing laboratory notes this afternoon a few hours before his death. Didn’t he ask you about them?”
“No.”
“The last entry is dated February 28. My men have searched his laboratory, his office and his apartment without finding any notes for March and April. I can only conclude they have been stolen.”
“But — why?”
“We’ve been rather counting on you to tell us that. As Konradi’s secretary you must know what subjects were discussed in the notes for March and April.”
“But I don’t. I-I haven’t typed any recent notes.”
“Surely you have some idea what work he was doing. You saw him every day. I understand you were often in the laboratory.”
“I’m sorry. But I never understood anything I saw him do. I didn’t even understand the notes I typed. You see, I’ve never studied chemistry.”
Foyle received this with open scepticism. Basil wondered. Konradi could have had his pick of Yorkville graduates who knew chemistry as well as German and shorthand. Had he preferred Gisela because she was a fellow refugee — and lovely? It seemed out of character for a scientist of Konradi’s standing to mix work with sentiment or pleasure.
“Who were Konradi’s friends among the other chemists on the faculty?” continued Foyle.
“I can’t recall seeing him with other chemists. Their laboratories are all in the School of Medicine. He rarely had occasion to go there.”
“Do you mean to say he never discussed his work with other men working in the same field?”
“He didn’t make friends easily.”
“Where were the notes kept when not in use?”
“In a safe in the laboratory. Sometimes he took them home with him.”
“Who had the combination?”
“No one but Konradi.”
Basil intervened. “No doubt Dr Konradi’s laboratory assistants can tell us what was in the missing notes. No need to bother Miss von Hohenems about it.”
Gisela lifted stricken eyes to him. Her voice was thin and brittle. “Dr Konradi had no assistants.”
“Isn’t that rather unusual?” Basil’s voice was casual.
“I don’t know. I tell you I don’t know anything about chemistry.”
“Who cleaned the laboratory?”
“The janitor — under Konradi’s supervision. The mice were usually kept in the animal room at the School of Medicine. The mechanics there looked after his laboratory equipment when it needed repairing.”
She realised that some further explanation was needed. “Perhaps…” She seemed to grope for words. “Perhaps Konradi thought new assistants would be more hindrance than help. You see, he was repeating from memory experiments he had already made in Vienna. He was forced to leave all his records in his Viennese laboratory when he was arrested and of course he couldn’t recover them when he escaped.”
Basil could almost see Storm Troopers invading Konradi’s, laboratory — disciplined stupidity destroying knowledge. Had there been violence? Had Konradi known what was coming and waited with resignation? Or had they taken him by surprise and burst into the room during some delicate manipulation? And could this have anything to do with Konradi’s murder at an American university a year later?
Of all his questions Basil put only one to Gisela, “Was Konradi arrested for political activity?”
“No. He never took any part in politics. They arrested him because he was a Jew. There was some technical charge — lack of National Socialist spirit or some such formula that could be stretched to cover anything. But the real charge against him was his race, just as that was the real charge against Freud.”
“What became of the laboratory assistants he had in Vienna?” asked Foyle.
“There were only two. Both died at Dachau. I am very tired. May I go home now?”
“Yes.” Foyle spoke with more consideration than he had shown previously. “I think I’ll send Sergeant Samson with you — in the circumstances.”
The door closed. Foyle pushed aside Konradi’s notebooks with a weary gesture. “What did he look like? The boy she wasn’t talking to. A track runner?”
“More like a Fra Angelico angel. Altogether too exquisite for an adult male.”
Foyle was baffled. “I certainly haven’t met any angels around here!” He gave Basil a condensed account of his experiences. “Now you know about as much as I do. How are we ever going to clear away this fog of lies and get down to the facts?”
“I don’t want to clear away the lies.” Basil stretched his legs and leaned back in the comfortable armchair.
“But only the facts—”
“You forget that lies are facts — psychological facts. You policemen and lawyers make a great mistake when you shut up a liar and prosecute him for perjury. If you’d only listen to him long enough, you’d learn everything there is to know about him — or her. You should read Jung. ‘Every myth is an important psychological truth — so is every lie.’”
“But that’s screwy. How can a lie be truth?”
“A lie doesn’t reproduce external facts faithfully — it is a product of the liar’s own mind, and therefore a clue to the quality and content of his mind. The liar, like any other storyteller, must draw upon his remembered experiences to build his fantasy, and his choice of detail is guided by his tastes and emotions. So if you want to learn something about a man’s emotions and memories listen to his lies. Wasn’t it Emerson who said, ‘I always listen carefully when a man boasts, for then he is unconsciously revealing his ideal’?”
Foyle rose abruptly and went to one of the north windows. He jerked a cord and the shade shot up with a clatter. “See that lawn sloping up to the campus?”
Basil rose slowly. “What about it?”
“A single figure ran up that slope tonight just after the murder and disappeared among the trees on the campus. That was all I saw. Three other men claim to have seen it. One says it was a short, thin man running awkwardly; another says it was a tall, large man moving like a track runner; and the third says it was a woman in a long, trailing dark coat and a long pale dress. At least two of them must be lying. What would you and Jung make of that?”
“Where were the three men at the time?”
“Two were standing on the lawn about six feet from this window. The third was crossing the quadrangle.”
“Then all three were lying. Because you can’t see any figure distinctly by moonlight at a distance over 16 meters. Even when the moon is full its light is no stronger than the light of one candle at 12 feet, and it’s 24 hours short of full moon tonight.”
“I suppose they might have been honestly mistaken,” admitted Foyle.
Basil smiled. “Mistakes, like remorse, are always dishonest. What happens in mis-observation? A witness sees something indistinctly because the light is poor and he’s excited. He remembers it vaguely. Then he’s asked to describe it. Unconsciously he draws on his emotions and memories to build up details — just as if he were lying consciously. A man’s mis-observations may tell you as much as his deliberate lies. Self-deception and deception are both creative efforts of the mind. That’s proved by the fact that they have the same effect on blood pressure and—”
A knock fell on the door and a voice cried, “Medical examiner wants you, chief. He can’t find the bullet!”
6
Examination
Basil Braced himself for an unpleasant moment. But the still, sprawling figure was as remote from life as a cast-off glove. The flat glare of flood lamps made it seem like an effigy of a man with his brains blown out. It lay on a bench. A stolid young man whom Basil recognised as Dalton, an assistant medical examiner, was bending over it.
“Hello, Willing! I’ll be with you in a minute, Inspector.” His hands were busy.
Basil noticed a moving-picture camera, a chronoscope, and a sphygmomanometer for taking blood pressure.
“Prickett’s?”
“Yeah,” responded Foyle. “This is where he experiments. He’s made a great discovery. He’s found that if you fire a revolver beside a baby’s ear the baby will jump. This stuff on the table is what he says he was using for the experiment tonight. Everything belongs to Prickett except that Corona portable — just like my own — he borrowed that from Halsey. Does the set-up look phoney to you? Or is it really an experiment?”
Basil considered the wine and cigarettes, the book, the box of crackers and what remained of the strawberries. “It might be. Is this the revolver?”
“Uh-huh. No fingerprints but Konradi’s so the murderer must have wiped it clean after Prickett used it this afternoon. Prickett swears he didn’t. As I see it, the murderer wore gloves and tried to make the crime look like suicide by pressing Konradi’s fingertips to the gun after firing it.”
Basil broke the revolver and found two spent partridge cases inside.
“Blanks,” explained Foyle. “Prickett identified them as the kind he’s been using.”
“Where’s the cartridge case the murderer used?”
“We can’t find it.”
“But revolvers don’t eject spent cartridges!”
“I know — but we still can’t find it! The murderer must have taken it away with him.”
“Why take the cartridge case and leave the revolver?”
“Would I know? He just did, that’s all.”
“But why?” insisted Basil. “A suicide couldn’t remove a spent cartridge after it was fired, and a murderer wouldn’t if he wanted the crime to look like suicide.”
Dalton came toward them holding a pair of forceps, rubber-tipped so they wouldn’t scratch the surface of a bullet and confuse the minute marks left by the rifling of a gun barrel. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow and his jaw moved steadily masticating a cud of chewing gum. “Here’s the wad.” He held out a bit of blackened cotton. “Looks like old-fashioned black powder.” He touched it with the tip of his tongue. “Yeah — you can taste the saltpetre.”
