Читать книгу The Garden Murder Case - Willard Huntington Wright - Страница 6

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As soon as Markham had left us that night, Vance’s mood changed. A troubled look came into his eyes, and he walked up and down the room pensively.

“I don’t like it, Van,” he murmured, as if talking to himself. “I don’t at all like it. Siefert isn’t the type to make a mysterious phone call like that, unless he has a very good reason for doing so. It’s quite out of character, don’t y’ know. He’s a dashed conservative chap, and no end ethical. There must be something worrying him deeply. But why the Gardens’ apartment? The domestic atmosphere there has always struck me as at least superficially normal—and now a man as dependable as Siefert gets jittery about it to the extent of indulging in shillin’-shocker technique. It’s deuced queer.”

He stopped pacing the floor and looked at the clock.

“I think I’ll make the arrangements. A bit of snoopin’ is highly indicated.”

He went into the anteroom, and a moment later I heard him dialing a number on the telephone. When he returned to the library he seemed to have thrown off his depression. His manner was almost flippant.

“We’re in for an abominable lunch tomorrow, Van,” he announced, pouring himself another pony of cognac. “And we must torture ourselves with the viands at a most ungodly hour—noon. What a time to ingest even good food!” He sighed. “We’re lunching with young Garden at his home. Woode Swift will be there and also an insufferable creature named Lowe Hammle, a horsy gentleman from some obscure estate on Long Island. Later we’ll be joined by various members of the sporting set, and together we’ll indulge in that ancient and fascinatin’ pastime of laying wagers on the thoroughbreds. The Rivermont Handicap tomorrow is one of the season’s classics. That, at any rate, may be jolly good fun....”

He rang for Currie and sent him out to fetch a copy of The Morning Telegraph.

“One should be prepared. Oh, quite. It’s been years since I handicapped the horses. Ah, gullible Youth! But there’s something about the ponies that gets in one’s blood and plays havoc with the saner admonitions of the mind.^[1]... I think I’ll change to a dressing-gown.”

He finished his Napoléon, lingering over it fondly, and disappeared into the bedroom.

Although I was well aware that Vance had some serious object in lunching with young Garden the following day and in participating in the gambling on the races, I had not the slightest suspicion, at the time, of the horrors that were to follow. On the afternoon of April 14 occurred the first grim act of one of the most atrocious multiple crimes of this generation. And to Doctor Siefert must go, in a large measure, the credit for the identification of the criminal, for had he not sent his cryptic and would-be anonymous message to Vance, the truth would probably never have been known.

I shall never forget that fatal Saturday afternoon. And aside from the brutal Garden murder, that afternoon will always remain memorable for me because it marked the first mature sentimental episode, so far as I had ever observed, in Vance’s life. For once, the cold impersonal attitude of his analytical mind melted before the appeal of an attractive woman.

Vance was just re-entering the library in his deep-red surah-silk dressing-gown when Currie brought in the Telegraph. Vance took the paper and opened it before him on the desk. To all appearances, he was in a gay and inquisitive frame of mind.

“Have you ever handicapped the ponies, Van?” he asked, picking up a pencil and reaching for a small tablet. “It’s as absorbin’ an occupation as it is a futile one. At least a score of technical considerations enter into the computations—the class of the horse, his age, his pedigree, the weight he has to carry, the consistency of his past performances, the time he has made in previous races, the jockey that is to ride him, the type of races he is accustomed to running, the condition of the track and whether or not the horse is a mudder, his post position, the distance of the race, the value of the purse, and a dozen other factors—which, when added up, subtracted, placed against one another, and eventually balanced through an elaborate system of mathematical checking and counter-checking, give you what is supposed to be the exact possibilities of his winning the race on which you have been working. However, it’s all quite useless. Less than forty per cent. of favorites—that is, horses who, on paper, should win—verify the result of these calculations. For instance, Jim Dandy beat Gallant Fox in the Travers and paid a hundred to one; and the theoretically invincible Man o’ War lost one of his races to a colt named Upset. After all your intricate computations, horse-racing still remains a matter of sheer luck, as incalculable as roulette. But no true follower of the ponies will place a bet until he has gone through the charmin’ rigmarole of handicapping the entries. It’s little more than abracadabra—but it’s three-fourths of the sport.”

He gave me a waggish look.

“And that’s why I shall sit here for another hour or two at least, indulging one of my old weaknesses. I shall go to the Gardens’ tomorrow with every race perfectly calculated—and you will probably make a pin choice and collect the rewards of innocence.” He waved his hand in a pleasant gesture. “Cheerio.”

I turned in with a feeling of uneasiness.

Shortly before noon the next day we arrived at Professor Garden’s beautiful skyscraper apartment, and were cordially, and a little exuberantly, greeted by young Garden.

Floyd Garden was a man in his early thirties, erect and athletically built. He was about six feet tall, with powerful shoulders and a slender waist. His hair was almost black, and his complexion swarthy. His manner, while easy and casual, and with a suggestion of swagger, was in no way offensive. He was not a handsome man: his features were too rugged, his eyes set too close together, his ears protruded too much, and his lips were too thin. But he had an undeniable charm, and there was a quiet submerged competency in the way he moved and in the rapidity of his mental reactions. He was certainly not intellectual, and later, when I met his mother, I recognized at once that his hereditary traits had come down to him from her side of the family.

“There are only five of us for lunch, Vance,” he remarked breezily. “The old gentleman is fussing with his test-tubes and Bunsen burners at the University; the mater is having a grand time playing sick, with medicos and nurses dashing madly back and forth to arrange her pillows and light her cigarettes for her. But Pop Hammle is coming—rum old bird, but a good sport; and we’ll also be burdened with beloved cousin Woode with the brow of alabaster and the heart of a chipmunk. You know Swift, I believe, Vance. As I remember, you once spent an entire evening here discussing Ming celadons with him. Queer crab, Woody.”

He pondered a moment with a wry face.

“Can’t figure out just how he fits into this household. Dad and the mater seem inordinately fond of him—sorry for him, perhaps; or maybe he’s the kind of serious, sensitive guy they wish I’d turned out to be. I don’t dislike Woode, but we have damned little in common except the horses. Only, he takes his betting too seriously to suit me—he hasn’t much money, and his wins or losses mean a lot to him. Of course, he’ll go broke in the end. But I doubt if it’ll make much difference to him. My loving parents—one of ’em, at least—will stroke his brow with one hand and stuff his pockets with the other. If I went broke as a result of this horse-racing vice they’d tell me to get the hell out and go to work.”

MAIN FLOOR OF GARDEN APARTMENT

He laughed good-naturedly, but with an undertone of bitterness.

“But what the hell!” he added, snapping his fingers. “Let’s scoop one down the hatch before we victual.”

He pushed a button near the archway to the drawing-room, and a very correct, corpulent butler came in with a large silver tray laden with bottles and glasses and ice.

Vance had been watching Garden covertly during this rambling recital of domestic intimacies. He was, I could see, both puzzled and displeased with the confidences: they were too obviously in bad taste. When the drinks had been poured, Vance turned to him coolly.

“I say, Garden,” he asked casually, “why all the family gossip? Really, y’ know, it isn’t being done.”

“My social blunder, old man,” Garden apologized readily. “But I wanted you to understand the situation, so you’d feel at ease. I know you hate mysteries, and there’s apt to be some funny things happening here this afternoon. If you’re familiar with the setup beforehand, they won’t bother you so much.”

“Thanks awfully and all that,” Vance murmured. “Perhaps I see your point.”

“Woode has been acting queer for the past couple of weeks,” Garden continued; “as if some secret sorrow was gnawing at his mind. He seems more bloodless than ever. He suddenly goes sulky and distracted for no apparent reason. I mean to say, he acts moonstruck. Maybe he’s in love. But he’s a secretive duffer. No one’ll ever know, not even the object of his affections.”

“Any specific psychopathic symptoms?” Vance asked lightly.

“No-o.” Garden pursed his lips and frowned thoughtfully. “But he’s developed a curious habit of going upstairs to the roof-garden as soon as he’s placed a large bet, and he remains there alone until the result of the race has come through.”

“Nothing very unusual about that.” Vance made a deprecatory motion with his hand. “Many gamblers, d’ ye see, are like that. The emotional element, don’t y’ know. Can’t bear to be on view when the result comes in. Afraid of spillin’ over. Prefer to pull themselves together before facing the multitude. Mere sensitiveness. Oh, quite. Especially if the result of the wager means much to them.... No... no. I wouldn’t say that your cousin’s retiring to the roof at such tense moments is remarkable, after what you’ve volunteered about him. Quite logical, in fact.”

“You’re probably right,” Garden admitted reluctantly. “But I wish he’d bet moderately, instead of plunging like a damned fool whenever he’s hot for a horse.”

“By the by,” asked Vance, “why do you particularly look for strange occurrences this afternoon?”

Garden shrugged.

“The fact is,” he replied, after a short pause, “Woody’s been losing heavily of late, and today’s the day of the big Rivermont Handicap. I have a feeling he’s going to put every dollar he’s got on Equanimity, who’ll undoubtedly be the favorite. ... Equanimity!” He snorted with undisguised contempt. “That rail-lugger! Probably the second greatest horse of modern times—but what’s the use? When he does come in he’s apt to be disqualified. He’s got wood on his mind—in love with fences. Put a fence across the track a mile ahead, with no rails to right or left, and he’d very likely do the distance in 1:30 flat, making Jamestown, Roamer and Wise Ways look like cripples.^[2] He had to cede the win to Vanderveer in the Youthful Stakes. He cut in toward the rail on Persian Bard at Bellaire; and he was disqualified for the same thing in Colorado, handing the race over to Grand Score. In the Urban he tried the same rail-diving, with the result that Roving Flirt won by a nose.... How’s any one to know about him? And there’s always the chance he’ll lose, rail or no rail. He’s not a young horse any more, and he’s already lost eighteen races to date. He’s up against some tough babies today—some of the greatest routers from this country and abroad. I’d say he was a pretty bad bet; and yet I know that nut cousin of mine is going to smear him on the nose with everything he owns.”

He looked up solemnly.

“And that, Vance, means trouble if Equanimity doesn’t come in. It means a blow-up of some kind. I’ve felt it coming for over a week. It’s got me worried. To tell you the truth, I’m glad you picked this day to sit in with us.”

Vance, who had been listening intently and watching Garden closely as he talked, moved to the front window where he stood smoking meditatively and gazing out over Riverside Park twenty stories below, at the sun-sprayed water of the Hudson River.

“Very interestin’ situation,” he commented at length. “I agree in the main with what you say regarding Equanimity. But I think you’re too harsh, and I’m not convinced that he’s a rail-lugger because of any innate passion for wood. Equanimity always had shelly feet and a quarter crack or two, and as a result often lost his plates. And, in addition, he had a bad off fore-ankle, which, when it began to sting at the close of a gruelling race, caused him to bear in toward the rail. But he’s a great horse. He could do whatever was asked of him at any distance on any kind of track. As a two-year-old he was the leading money-winner of his age; as a three-year-old he already had foot trouble and was started only three times; but as a four-year-old he came back with a new foot and won ten important races. The remarkable thing about Equanimity is that he could either go right to the front and take it on the Bill Daly, or come from behind and win in the stretch. In the Futurity, when he was left at the post and entered the stretch in last place, he dropped two of his plates and, in spite of this, ran over Grand Score and Sublimate to win going away. It was a bad foot that kept him from being the world’s outstanding champion.”

“Well, what of it?” retorted Garden dogmatically. “Excuses are easy to find, and if, as you say, he has a bad foot, that’s all the more reason for not playing him today.”

“Oh, quite,” agreed Vance. “I myself wouldn’t wager a farthing on him in this big Handicap. I spent some time porin’ over the charts last night after I phoned you, and I decided to stay off Equanimity in today’s feature. My method of fixing the ratings is no doubt as balmy as any other system, but I couldn’t manipulate the ratios in his favor....”

“What horse do you like there?” Garden asked with interest.

“Azure Star.”

“Azure Star!” Garden was as contemptuous as he was astonished. “Why, he’s almost an outsider. He’ll be twelve or fifteen to one. There’s hardly a selector in the country who’s given him a play. An ex-steeplechaser from the bogs of Ireland! His legs are too weak from jumping to stand the pace today. And at a mile and a quarter! He can’t do it! Personally, I’d rather put my money on Risky Lad. There’s a horse with great possibilities.”

“Risky Lad checks up as unreliable,” said Vance. “Azure Star beat him badly at Santa Anita this year. Risky Lad entered the stretch in the lead and then tired to finish fifth. And he certainly didn’t run a good mile race at the same track when he finished fifth again in a field of seven. If I remember correctly, he weakened in last year’s Classic and was out of the money. His stamina is too uncertain, I should say....” Vance sighed and smiled. “Ah, well, chacun à son cheval.... But as you were sayin’, the psychological situation hereabouts has you worried. I gather there’s a super-charged atmosphere round this charmin’ aerie.”

“That’s it, exactly,” Garden answered almost eagerly. “Super-charged is right. Nearly every day the mater asks, ‘How’s Woody?’ And when the old gentleman comes home from his lab at night he greets me with a left-handed ‘Well, my boy, have you seen Woody today?’... But I could die of the hoof-and-mouth disease without stirring up such solicitude in my immediate ancestors.”

Vance made no comment on these remarks. Instead he asked in a peculiarly flat voice: “Do you consider this recent hyper-tension in the household due entirely to your cousin’s financial predicament and his determination to risk all he has on the horses?”

Garden started slightly and then settled back in his chair. After he had taken another drink he cleared his throat.

“No, damn it!” he answered a little vehemently. “And that’s another thing that bothers me. A lot of the golliwogs we’re harboring are due to Woode’s cuckoo state of mind; but there are other queer invisible animals springing up and down the corridors. I can’t figure it out. The mater’s illness doesn’t make sense either, and Doc Siefert acts like a pompous old Buddha whenever I broach the subject. Between you and me, I don’t think he knows what to make of it himself. And there’s funny business of some kind going on among the gang that drifts in here nearly every afternoon to play the races. They’re all right, of course—belong to ‘our set,’ as the phrase goes, and spring from eminently respectable, if a trifle speedy, environments....”

At this moment we heard the sound of light footsteps coming up the hall, and in the archway, which constituted the entrance from the hall into the drawing-room, appeared a slight, pallid young man of perhaps thirty, his head drawn into his slightly hunched shoulders, and a melancholy, resentful look on his sensitive, sallow face. Thick-lensed pince-nez glasses emphasized the impression he gave of physical weakness.

Garden waved his hand cheerily to the newcomer.

“Greetings, Woody. Just in time for a spot before lunch. You know Vance, the eminent sleuth; and this is Mr. Van Dine, his patient and retiring chronicler.”

Woode Swift acknowledged our presence in a strained but pleasant manner, and listlessly shook hands with his cousin. Then he picked up the bottle of Bourbon and poured himself a double portion, which he drank at one gulp.

“Good Heavens!” Garden exclaimed good-humoredly. “How you have changed, Woody!... Who’s the lady now?”

The muscles of Swift’s face twitched, as if he felt a sudden pain.

“Oh, pipe down, Floyd,” he pleaded irritably.

Garden shrugged indifferently. “Sorry. What’s worrying you today besides Equanimity?”

“That’s enough worry for one day.” Swift managed a sheepish grin; then he added aggressively: “I can’t possibly lose.” And he poured himself another drink. “How’s Aunt Martha?”

Garden narrowed his eyes.

“She’s pretty fair. Nervous as the devil this morning, and smoking one cigarette after another. But she’s sitting up. She’ll probably be in later to take a crack or two at the prancing steeds....”

At this point Lowe Hammle arrived. He was a heavy-set, short man of fifty or thereabouts, with a round ruddy face and closely cropped gray hair. He was wearing a black-and-white checked suit, a gray shirt, a brilliant green four-in-hand, a chocolate-colored waistcoat with leather buttons, and tan blucher shoes the soles of which were inordinately thick.

“The Marster of ’Ounds, b’ Gad!” Garden greeted him jovially. “Here’s your Scotch-and-soda; and here also are Mr. Philo Vance and Mr. Van Dine.”

“Delighted—delighted!” Hammle exclaimed heartily, coming forward. He extended his hand effusively to Vance. “Been a long time since I saw you, sir.... Let me see.... Ah, yes. Broadbank. You hunted with me that morning. Nasty spill you got. Warned you in advance that horse couldn’t take the fences. But you were in at the kill—yes, by George! Recollect?”

“Oh, quite. Jolly affair. A good fox. Never fancied your bolting him from that drain into the jaws of the pack after the sport he showed.”^[3] Vance’s manner was icy—obviously he did not like the man—and he turned immediately to Swift and began chatting amiably about the day’s big race. Hammle busied himself with his Scotch-and-soda.

In a few minutes the butler announced lunch. The meal was heavy and tasteless, and the wine of dubious vintage,—Vance had been quite right in his prognostication.

The conversation was almost entirely devoted to horses, the history of racing, the Grand National, and the possibilities of the various entrants in the afternoon’s Rivermont Handicap. Garden was dogmatic in stating his opinions but eminently pleasant and informative: he had made a careful study of modern racing and had an amazing memory.

Hammle was voluble and suave, and harked back to the former glories of racing and to famous dead heats—Attila and Acrobat in the Travers, Springbok and Preakness in the Saratoga Cup, St. Gatien and Harvester in the English Derby, Pardee and Joe Cotton at Sheepshead Bay, Kingston and Yum-Yum at Gravesend, Los Angeles and White in the Latonia Derby,^[4] Domino and Dobbins at Sheepshead Bay, Domino again and Henry of Navarre at Gravesend, Arbuckle and George Kessler in the Hudson Stakes, Sysonby and Race King in the Metropolitan Handicap, Macaw and Nedana at Aqueduct, and Morshion and Mate, also at Aqueduct. He spoke of the great upsets on the track, both here and abroad—of that early winning of the Epsom Derby by an unnamed outsider known as the “Fidget colt”; of the lone success of Amato over Grey Momus, forty-one years later; of the lucky win of Aboyeur in 1913, when Craganour was disqualified; and of the recent win of April the Fifth. He discussed the Kentucky Derby—the unlooked-for success of Day Star as a result of the poor ride given Himyar, and the tragic failure to win of Proctor Knott. And he talked of the great strategy of “Snapper” Garrison in bringing Boundless home in the World’s Fair Derby of 1893; of the two lucky races of Plucky Play when he won over Equipoise in the Arlington Handicap and over Faireno in the Hawthorne Gold Cup. He mentioned the fateful ride that Coltiletti gave Sun Beau at Agua Caliente, losing the race to Mike Hall. He had a fund of historic information and, despite his prejudices, knew his subject well.

Swift, nervous and somewhat peevish, had little to say, and though he assumed an outward attitude of attention, I got the impression that other and more urgent matters were occupying his mind. He ate little and drank too much wine.

Vance contented himself mainly with listening and studying the others at the table. When he spoke at all, it was to mention with regret some of the great horses that had recently been destroyed because of accidents—Black Gold, Springsteel, Chase Me, Dark Secret and others. He spoke of the tragic and unexpected death of Victorian after his courageous recovery, and the accidental poisoning of the great Australian horse, Phar Lap.

We were nearing the end of the luncheon when a tall, well-built and apparently vigorous woman, who looked no more than forty (though I later learned that she was well past fifty), entered the room. She wore a tailored suit, a silver-fox scarf and a black felt toque.

“Why, mater!” exclaimed Garden. “I thought you were an invalid. Why this spurt of health and energy?”

He then presented me to his mother: both Vance and Hammle had met her on previous occasions.

“I’m tired of being kept in bed,” she told her son querulously, after nodding graciously to the others. “Now you boys sit right down—I’m going shopping, and just dropped in to see if everything was going all right.... I think I’ll have a crème de menthe frappée while I’m here.”

The butler drew up a chair for her beside Swift, and went to the pantry.

Mrs. Garden put her hand lightly on her nephew’s arm.

“How goes it with you, Woody?” she asked in a spirit of camaraderie. Without waiting for his answer, she turned to Garden again. “Floyd, I want you to place a bet for me on the big race today, in case I’m not back in time.”

“Name your poison,” smiled Garden.

“I’m playing Grand Score to win and place—the usual hundred.”

“Right-o, mater.” Garden glanced sardonically at his cousin. “Less intelligent bets have been made in these diggin’s full many a time and oft.... Sure you don’t want Equanimity, mater?”

“Odds are too unfavorable,” returned Mrs. Garden, with a canny smile.

“He’s quoted in the over-night line at five to two.”

“He won’t stay there.” There was authority and assurance in the woman’s tone and manner. “And I’ll get eight or ten to one on Grand Score. He was one of the greatest in his younger days, and the old spark may still be there—if he doesn’t go lame, as he did last month.”

“Right you are,” grinned Garden. “You’re on the dog for a century win and place.”

The butler brought the crème de menthe, and Mrs. Garden sipped it and stood up.

“And now I’m going,” she announced pleasantly. She patted her nephew on the shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Woody.... Good afternoon, gentlemen.” And she went from the room with a firm, masculine stride.

After a soggy Baba au Rhum, Garden led the way back to the drawing-room and the butler followed for further instructions.

“Sneed,” Garden ordered, “fix the setup as usual.”

I glanced at the electric clock on the mantel: it was exactly ten minutes after one.

[1]

Vance at one time owned several excellent racehorses. His Magic Mirror, Smoke Maiden, and Aldeen were well known in their day; and Magic Mirror, as a three-year-old, won two of the most important handicaps on the eastern tracks. But when, in the famous Elmswood Special, this horse broke a leg on entering the back-stretch and had to be destroyed, Vance seemed to lose all interest in racing and disposed of his entire stable. He is probably not a true horseman, any more than he is a truly great breeder of Scottish terriers, for his sentiments are constantly interfering with the stern and often ruthless demands of the game.

[2]	These three horses were the first to better, by fractions of a second, Jack High’s 1:35 record for the mile at Belmont.

[3]

In America, where earths are not stopped, not more than one fox in twenty is actually killed in the open, and it is very unpopular—and by many considered unsportsmanlike—to force a fox out of a place in which he has taken refuge, in order to kill him. But this practice is regularly resorted to in England, for various reasons; and occasionally an American Master will ape the English to this extent in order to boost that he had killed his fox and not merely accounted for him.

[4]	“Lucky” Baldwin, the owner of Los Angeles, insisted upon a run-off (which was the privilege of the owners of dead-heat winners up to 1932), and Los Angeles won.