The conference broke up immediately. It was after five o’clock, and Markham and Vance and I rode up-town together to the Stuyvesant Club. We dropped Arnesson at the subway, and he took leave of us with scarcely a word. His garrulous cynicism seemed entirely to have deserted him. After dinner Markham pleaded fatigue, and Vance and I went to the Metropolitan and heard Geraldine Farrar in “Louise.”[23]
The next morning broke dark and misty. Currie called us at half past seven, for Vance intended to be present at the interview with Drukker; and at eight o’clock we had breakfast in the library before a light grate fire. We were held up in the traffic on our way down-town, and though it was quarter after nine when we reached the District Attorney’s office, Drukker and Heath had not yet arrived.
Vance settled himself comfortably in a large leather-upholstered chair and lighted a cigarette.
“I feel rather bucked this morning,” he remarked. “If Drukker tells his story, and if the tale is what I think it is, we’ll know the combination to the lock.”
His words had scarcely been uttered when Heath burst into the office and, facing Markham without a word of greeting, lifted both arms and let them fall in a gesture of hopeless resignation.
“Well, sir, we ain’t going to question Drukker this morning—or no other time,” he blurted. “He fell offa that high wall in Riverside Park right near his house last night, and broke his neck. Wasn’t found till seven o’clock this morning. His body’s down at the morgue now. . . . Fine breaks we get!” He sank disgustedly into a chair.
Markham stared at him unbelievingly.
“You’re sure?” he asked, with startled futility.
“I was up there before they removed the body. One of the local men phoned me about it just as I was leaving the office. I stuck around and got all the dope I could.”
“What did you learn?” Markham was fighting against an overwhelming sense of discouragement.