The Bishop Murder Case

The series of uncanny and apparently unrelated events which constituted the Bishop murder case and drove all thought of Menander and Greek monostichs from Vance’s mind, began on the morning of April 2, less than five months after the double shooting of Julia and Ada Greene. It was one of those warm luxurious spring days which sometimes bless New York in early April; and Vance was breakfasting in his little roof garden atop his apartment in East 38th Street. It was nearly noon—for Vance worked or read until all hours, and was a late riser—and the sun, beating down from a clear blue sky, cast a mantle of introspective lethargy over the city. Vance sprawled in an easy chair, his breakfast on a low table beside him, gazing with cynical, regretful eyes down at the treetops in the rear yard.

I knew what was in his mind. It was his custom each spring to go to France; and it had long since come to him to think, as it came to George Moore, that Paris and May were one. But the great trek of the post-war American nouveaux riches to Paris had spoiled his pleasure in this annual pilgrimage; and, only the day before, he had informed me that we were to remain in New York for the summer.

For years I had been Vance’s friend and legal adviser—a kind of monetary steward and agent-companion. I had quitted my father’s law firm of Van Dine, Davis & Van Dine to devote myself wholly to his interests—a post I found far more congenial than that

“Damn it, Vance! Don’t start in with a mysteries-of-Udolpho attitude. The crime—if it is a crime—seems clear-cut enough. It’s an unusual method of murder, I’ll admit; but it’s certainly not senseless. Archery has become quite a fad of late. Bows and arrows are in use to-day in practically every city and college in America.”

“Granted. But it’s been a long time since they were used to kill persons named Robin.”

Markham’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at Vance searchingly.

“That idea occurred to you, too, did it?”

“Occurred to me? It leapt to my brain the moment you mentioned the victim’s name.” Vance puffed a moment on his cigarette. “ ‘Who Killed Cock Robin?’ And with a bow and arrow! . . . Queer how the doggerel learned in childhood clings to the memory.—By the by, what was the unfortunate Mr. Robin’s first name?”

Mrs. Drukker’s pale, tragic face had been turned away from the door as we entered, but now she stared at us with fixed horror. She was a tall woman, slender to the point of emaciation; and her hands, which lay slightly flexed on the arms of the chair, were sinewy and wrinkled like the talons of fabulous bird-women. Her face, too, was thin and deeply seamed; but it was not an unattractive face. The eyes were clear and alive, and the nose was straight and dominant. Though she must have been well past sixty, her hair was luxuriant and brown.

For several minutes she neither moved nor spoke. Then her hands closed slowly, and her lips parted.

“What do you want?” she asked in a low resonant voice.

“Mrs. Drukker,”—it was Vance who answered—“as Miss Dillard has told you, a tragedy occurred next door this morning, and since your window is the only one directly overlooking the archery range, we thought that you might have seen something that would aid us in our investigation.”

The woman’s vigilance relaxed perceptibly, but it was a moment or two before she spoke.

“And what did take place?”

“A Mr. Robin was killed.—You knew him perhaps?”

“The archer—Belle’s Champion Archer? . . . Yes, I knew him. A strong healthy child who could pull a heavy bow and not get tired.—Who killed him?”

At this moment the front door was thrown open. There were heavy footsteps in the hall, and three men appeared in the archway. Two were obviously detectives, and between them stood a tall, clean-cut youth of about thirty.

“We got him, Sergeant,” announced one of the detectives, with a grin of vicious satisfaction. “He beat it straight home from here, and was packing up when we walked in on him.”

Sperling’s eyes swept the room with angry apprehension. Heath had planted himself before the man, and stood looking him up and down triumphantly.

“Well, young fella, you thought you’d get away, did you?” The Sergeant’s cigar bobbed up and down between his lips as he spoke.

The color mounted to Sperling’s cheeks, and he set his mouth stubbornly.

“So! You’ve got nothing to say?” Heath went on, squaring his jaw ferociously. “You’re one of these silent lads, are you? Well, we’ll make you talk.” He turned to Markham. “How about it, sir? Shall I take him to Headquarters?”

“Perhaps Mr. Sperling will not object to answering a few questions here,” said Markham quietly.

Sperling studied the District Attorney a moment; then his gaze moved to Vance, who nodded to him encouragingly.

“Answer questions about what?” he asked, with an obvious effort at self-control. “I was preparing to go away for the week-end when these ruffians forced their way into my room; and I was brought here without a word of explanation or even an opportunity to communicate with my family.

Our ring at the Drukker house was answered by a portly German woman, who planted herself stolidly before us and informed us suspiciously that Mr. Drukker was too busy to see any one.

“You’d better tell him, however,” said Vance, “that the District Attorney wishes to speak to him immediately.”

His words produced a strange effect on the woman. Her hands went to her face, and her massive bosom rose and fell convulsively. Then, as though panic-stricken, she turned and ascended the stairs. We heard her knock on a door; there was a sound of voices; and a few moments later she came back to inform us that Mr. Drukker would see us in his study.

As we passed the woman Vance suddenly turned and, fixing his eyes on her ominously, asked:

“What time did Mr. Drukker get up yesterday morning?”

“I—don’t know,” she stammered, thoroughly frightened. “Ja, ja, I know. At nine o’clock—like always.”

Vance nodded and moved on.

Drukker received us standing by a large table covered with books and sheets of manuscript. He bowed sombrely, but did not ask us to have chairs.

Vance studied him a moment as if trying to read the secret that lay behind his restless, hollow eyes.

“Mr. Drukker,” he began, “it is not our desire to cause you unnecess’ry trouble; but we have learned that you were acquainted with Mr. John Sprigg, who, as you probably know, was shot near here yesterday morning.