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THE DEAD MAN

(Thursday, October 11; 9.15 a. m.)

The room, which was at the extreme rear of the house, was long and narrow, with windows on two sides. There was a bay window opposite the door, and a wide double window at the left, facing east. The dark green shades were all drawn, excluding the daylight. But the room was brilliantly lighted by an enormous crystal chandelier in the centre of the ceiling.

At the rear of the room stood an enormous canopied bed, which, I noticed, had not been slept in. The covers were turned back with meticulous precision. The bedroom, like the drawing-room, contained far too much furniture. On the right was a large embayed book-case filled with octavo and quarto volumes, and, facing the door was a mahogany kidney-shaped desk covered with books, pamphlets and papers—the desk of a man who spends many hours at literary labor. To the left of this desk, in the east wall, was a large fireplace with an Empire mantel of bronze and Venetian marble, supported by two ugly caryatides. Gas logs were in the grate. About the walls hung at least a dozen Chinese scroll paintings. Had there not been a bed and a dressing-table in the room, one would have taken it for a collector’s sanctum.

These details of the room, however, protruded themselves upon us later. What first focused our attention was the inert body of Archer Coe, with its quiet pallid face and the black grisly spot on the right temple. The body was slumped down in a velour upholstered armchair beside the desk. The head seemed to lie almost on the left shoulder, as if the impact of the bullet had forced it into an unnatural angle.

There was an expression of peace on the thin aquiline features of the dead man; and his eyes were closed as though in sleep. His right hand—the one nearest the fireplace—lay on the end of the desk clutching a carved, ivory-inlaid revolver of fairly large calibre. His left hand hung at his side over the tufted arm of the chair.

There was a straight Windsor chair behind the desk, and I could not help wondering why Coe had selected the armchair at the side of the desk, facing the door. Was it because he had considered it more comfortable for his last resting place in this life? The answer to this passing speculation of mine did not come for many hours; and when it did come, as a result of Vance’s deductions, it constituted one of the vital links in the evidential chain of this strange and perplexing case.

Coe’s body was clothed in a green silk-wool dressing-gown which came nearly to his ankles; but on his feet, which were extended straight in front of him, was a pair of high, heavy street shoes, laced and tied. Again a question flashed through my mind: Why did Coe not wear bedroom slippers with his dressing-gown? The answer to this question also was to prove a vital point in the solution of the tragedy.

DIAGRAM OF ARCHER COE’S BEDROOM

Vance went immediately to the body, touched the dead man’s hand, and bent forward over the wound in the forehead. Then he walked back to the door with its hanging bolt, scrutinized it for a moment, ran his eye around the heavy oak framework and lintel, and turned slowly back to the room. A frown wrinkled his brow. Very deliberately he reached in his pocket and took out another cigarette. When he had lighted it, he strolled to the west wall of the room and stood gazing at a faded ninth-century Chinese painting of Ucchushma.^[4]

In the meantime the rest of us had pressed round the body of Coe, and stood inspecting it in silence. Wrede and Grassi seemed appalled in the actual presence of death. Wrede spoke to Markham.

“I trust I did right in advising Gamble to call you before breaking in the door. I realize now that if there had remained a spark of life——”

“Oh, he was quite dead hours ago,” Vance interrupted, without turning from the painting. “Your decision has worked out perfectly.”

Markham swung about.

“What do you mean by that, Vance?”

“Merely that, if the door had been broken in, and the room overrun with solicitous friends, and the body handled for signs of life, and all the locked-in evidence probably destroyed, we would have had a deuced difficult time arrivin’ at any sensible solution of what really went on here last night.”

“Well, it’s pretty plain to me what went on here last night.” It was Heath who projected himself, a bit belligerently, into the talk. “This guy locked himself in, and blew his brains out. And even you, Mr. Vance, can’t make anything original outa that.”

Vance turned slowly and shook his head.

“Tut, tut, Sergeant,” he said pleasantly. “It’s not I who am going to spoil your simple and beautiful theory.”

“No?” Heath was still belligerent. “Then who is?”

“The corpse,” answered Vance mildly.

Before Heath could reply, Markham, who had been watching Vance closely, turned quickly to Wrede and Grassi.

“I will ask you gentlemen to wait downstairs.... Hennessey, please go to the drawing-room and see that these gentlemen do not leave it until I give them permission.... You understand,” he added to Wrede and Grassi, “that it will be necessary to question you about this affair after we have had the verdict of the Medical Examiner.”

Wrede showed his resentment at Markham’s peremptory manner; but Grassi, with a polite smile, merely bowed; and the two, followed by Hennessey, passed out of the room and down the stairs.

“And you,” said Markham to Gamble, “wait at the front door and bring Doctor Doremus here the moment he arrives.”

Gamble shot a haunted look at the body, and went out.

Markham closed the door, and then wheeled about, facing Vance, who now stood behind Coe’s desk gazing down moodily at the dead man’s hand clutching the revolver.

“What’s the meaning of all these mysterious innuendos?” he demanded testily.

“Not innuendos, Markham,” Vance returned quietly, keeping his eyes on Coe’s hand. “Merely speculations. I’m rather interested in certain aspects of this fascinatin’ crime.”

“Crime?” Markham gave a mirthless smile. “It was all very well for us to theorize before we got here—and I was inclined to agree with you that suicide seemed incompatible with Coe’s temperament—but facts, after all, form the only reasonable basis for a decision. And the facts here seem pretty clean-cut. That door was bolted on the inside; there’s no other means of entrance or exit to this room; Coe is sitting here with the lethal weapon——”

“Oh, call it a revolver,” interrupted Vance. “Silly phrase, ‘lethal weapon.’”

Markham snorted.

“Very well.... With a revolver in his hand, and a hole in his right temple. There are no signs of a struggle; the windows and shades are down, and the lights burning.... How, in Heaven’s name, could it have been anything but suicide?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.” Vance shrugged wearily. “But it wasn’t suicide—really, don’t y’ know.” He frowned again. “And that’s the weird part of it. Y’ see, Markham, it should have been suicide—and it wasn’t. There’s something diabolical—and humorous—about this case. Humorous in a grim, satirical sense. Some one miscalculated somewhere—the murderer was sitting in a game with the cards stacked against him.... Positively amazin’!”

“But the facts,” protested Markham.

“Oh, your facts are quite correct. As you lawyers say, they’re irresistible. But you have overlooked additional facts.”

“For instance?”

“Regard yon bedroom slippers.” Vance pointed to the foot of the bed where a pair of soft red Mephisto slippers were neatly arranged. “And then regard these heavy blucher boots which the corpse is wearing. And yet he has on his dressing-gown, and is sitting in his easy chair. A bit incongruous, what? Why did the hedonistic and luxury-loving Coe not change his footwear to something more relaxing for this great moment in his life. And note that haste was not a factor. His robe—an execrable color, by the by—is neatly buttoned; and the girdle is tied in an admirable bow-knot. We can hardly assume that he suddenly decided on suicide half-way through his changing from street clothes to negligée. And yet, Markham, something must have stopped him—something must have compelled him to sit down, stretch his legs out, and close his eyes before he had finished the operation of making himself sartorially comfortable.”

“Your reasoning is not altogether convincing,” Markham countered. “A man might conceivably wear heavy shoes with a dressing-gown.”

“Perhaps.” Vance nodded. “I sha’n’t be narrow-minded in these matters. But, assuming Coe is a suicide, why should he have chosen this chair facing the door? A man bent on doing a workmanlike job of shooting himself would instinctively sit up straight, where he could perhaps brace his arms and steady his hand. If he were going to sit by the desk at all he would, I think, have chosen the straight chair where he could rest both elbows on the top and thus insure a steady, accurate aim.”

“His arm is on the end of the desk,” put in Heath.

“Oh, quite—and in a rather awkward position—eh, what? Considering how low the easy chair is, Coe could not possibly have had his elbow on the desk when he pulled the trigger. If so, the shot would have gone over his head. His arm was necessarily lower than the desk when the gun was fired—if he fired it. Therefore, we must assume that after the bullet had entered his brain, he lifted his right arm to the desk and arranged it neatly in its present position.”

“Maybe yes and maybe no,” muttered Heath, after a pause during which he studied the body and raised his own right hand to his forehead. Then he added aggressively: “But you can’t get away from that bolted door.”

Vance sighed.

“I wish I could get away from it. It bothers me horribly. If it wasn’t for the fact that the door was bolted on the inside, I’d be more inclined to agree that it was suicide.”

“What’s that!” Markham looked at Vance in amazement. “Now you’re talking in paradoxes.”

“Oh, no.” Vance shook his head slightly. “A man of Coe’s intelligence wouldn’t plan suicide and then deliberately make it difficult for any one to reach his body. What could he have gained by securely bolting the door on the inside so that it would have to be broken in? The act of shooting would have been over in a second; and there was no danger of his being disturbed in his own bedroom. Had he killed himself he would have wanted Gamble—or some one else—to find him at the earliest possible moment. He would certainly not have placed deliberate difficulties in their way.”

“But,” argued Markham, “your very theory contradicts itself. Who but Coe could have bolted the door on the inside?”

“No one, apparently,” answered Vance with a dispirited sigh. “And that’s what makes the affair so dashed appealin’. The situation reads thus: A man is murdered; then he rises and bolts the door after the slayer has departed; and later he arranges himself in an easy chair so as to make it appear like suicide.”

“That’s a swell theory!” grunted Heath disgustedly. “Anyway, we’ll know more about it when Doc Doremus gets here. And my bet is he’s going to wash the whole case up by calling it suicide.”

“And my bet is, Sergeant,” Vance replied mildly, “that he’s going to do nothing of the sort. I have an irresistible feelin’ that Doctor Doremus will inform us that it is not suicide.”

Heath screwed his face into a questioning frown and studied Vance. Then he snorted.

“Well, we’ll see,” he mumbled.

Vance paid scant attention. His eyes were moving over the desk. At one side of the blotter lay a quarto volume of “Li Tai Ming Ts’u T’ou P’u,” by Hsiang Yuan-p’ien.^[5] A pair of gold library shears were inserted between the pages, and Vance opened the book at this point, revealing a large colored plate of an amphora-shaped P’in Kuo Hung vase of a slightly neutralized red glaze shading into a liver color, and broken by patches of olive green and spots of russet brown.

“You see, Markham,” he said, “Coe was apparently dreaming of his latest acquisition in peach-bloom shortly before he departed this life. And it is rather safe to assume that a man contemplating suicide does not indulge his acquisitiveness and investigate the history of his ceramic wares just before sending a bullet into his brain.”

Markham waited without answering.

“And here’s something else rather significant.” Vance pointed to a small pile of blank note paper in the middle of the blotter. “This paper is lying a little on the bias, in the position that a right-handed man would place it if he contemplated writing on it. And, also, note that at the head of the first page is yesterday’s date—Wednesday, October 10——”

“Ain’t that natural?” put in Heath. “All these birds who commit suicide write letters first.”

“But, Sergeant,” smiled Vance, “the letter isn’t written. Coe got no farther than the date.”

“Can’t a guy change his mind?” Heath persisted.

Vance nodded.

“Oh, quite. But, in that case, the pen would, in all probability, be in the holder set. And you will observe that the pen container is empty, and that there is no pen visible on the desk.”

“Maybe it’s in his pocket.”

“Maybe.” Vance stepped back and, bending over, ran his gaze over the floor round the desk. Then he knelt down and looked under the desk. Presently he reached out his arm and, from beneath the right-hand tier of drawers, drew forth a fountain-pen. Rising, he held the pen out.

“Coe dropped the pen, and it rolled under the desk.” He placed it beside the note paper. “Men don’t ordinarily drop fountain-pens in the middle of writing something and then fail to pick them up.”

Heath glowered in silence, and Markham asked:

“You think Coe was interrupted in the midst of writing something?”

“Interrupted? ... In a way perhaps.” Vance himself seemed puzzled. “Still there are no signs of a struggle, and he is reclining in an easy chair at the end of the desk. Furthermore, his features are quite serene; his eyes are closed peacefully—and the door was bolted on the inside.... Very strange, Markham.”

He walked to the shaded window and back, smoking leisurely. Suddenly he stopped and lifted his head, looking Markham straight in the eyes.

“Interrupted—yes! That’s it! But not by any outside agency—not by an intruder. He was interrupted by something more subtle—more deadly. He was interrupted while he was alone. Something happened—something sinister intruded—and he stopped writing, dropped the pen, forgot it, rose, and seated himself in that easy chair. Then came the end, swift and unexpected—before he could change his shoes.... Don’t you see? Those shoes are another indication of that terrible interruption.”

“And the gun?” asked Heath contemptuously.

“I doubt if Coe even saw the gun, Sergeant.”

[4]	Ucchushma was “the Killer of Demons,” and many pictures of him are in existence. Perhaps the best is in the British Museum.

[5]	“An Illustrated Description of the Celebrated Wares of Different Dynasties.” (Dr. S. W. Bushell has made translations of this great work in his famous book on Chinese ceramics.)