S THE u i | GARDEN | MURDER J S.S^fAN DINE m COPYRIGHT J S.S.VAN DINE W-N.U. SERVICE. SYNOPSIS Philo Vance, famous detective, and John F. X. Markham, district attorney for New York county, are dining in Vance’s apartment when Vance receives an anonymous telephone message in* forming him of a ’’disturbing psycho logical tension at Professor Ephrlam Garden's apartment” advising that he read up on radio-active sodium, consult a passage in the Aeneid and counseling that “Equanimity is essential.” Pro fessor Garden is famous in chemical re search. The message, decoded by Vance, reminds him that Professor Gar den’s son Floyd and his puny cousin, Woode Swift, are addicted to hbrse-rac ing. Vance says that ’’Equanimity" is a horse running next day in the River mont handicap. CHAPTER I—Continued —2— “Therefore, we get the results that the sender of the message is a doc tor whom I know and one who is aware of my acquaintance with the Gardens. The only doctor who ful fills these conditions, and who, inci dentally, is middle-aged and cul tured and highly judicial—Currie’s description, y’know — is Miles Siefert. And, added to this simple deduction, I happen to know that Siefert is a Latin scholar—I once encountered him at the Latin so ciety club-rooms. Another point in my favor is the fact that he is the family physician of the Gardens and would have ample opportunity to know about the galloping horses— and perhaps about Equanimity in particular—in connection with the Garden Household.” “That being the case,” Markham protested, “why don’t you phone him and find out exactly what’s | back of his cryptography?” “My dear Markham — oh, my dear Markham! Siefert would not only indignantly repudiate any knowledge of the message, but would automatically become the first obstacle in any bit of pry in’ I might decide to do. The ethics of the medical profession are most fantastic; and Siefert, as becomes his unique position, is a fanatic on the subject. From the ract that he communicated with me in this roundabout way I rather suspect that some grotesque point of honor is involved. Perhaps his conscience overcame him for the moment, and he temporarily relaxed his adher ence to what he considers his code of honor . . . No, no, that course wouldn’t do at all. I must ferret out the matter for myself—as he undoubtedly wishes me to do.” “But what is this matter that you feel called upon to ferret out?” per sisted Markham. “Granting all you say, I still don’t see how you can regard the situation as in any way serious.” “One never knows, does one? drawled Vance. “Still, I’m rather fond of the horses myself, don’t y’know.” Markham seemed to relax and fitted his manner to Vance’s change of mood. “And what do you propose to do?” he asked good naturedly. Vance looked up whimsically. “The public prosecutor of New York—that noble defender of the rights of the common people—to wit: the Honorable John F-X. Mark ham—must grant me immunity and protection before I’ll consent to an swer.” Markham’s eyelids drooped a lit tle as he studied Vance. He was familiar with the «r rious import that often lay beneath the other's most frivolous remarks. “Are you planning to break the law?” he asked. “Oh, yes—quite,” he admitted nonchalantly. “Jailable offense, I believe.” Markham studied him for another moment. “All right,” he said, without the slightest trace of lightness. “I’ll do what I can for you. What’s it to be?” Vance took another sip of the Napoleon. “Well, Markham old dear,” he announced with a half smile, “I’m going to the Gardens’ penthouse to morrow afternoon and play the horses with the younger set.” 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 mur mured, 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 al ways struck me as at least super ficially 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 arrange ments. 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 de pression. 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 our selves 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 w’ill be there and also an insuffer able creature named Lowe Hammle, a horsey gentleman from some ob scure estate on Long Island. Lat er we’ll be joined by various mem bers of the sporting set, and togeth er we’ll indulge in that ancient and fascinatin’ pastime of laying wag ers on the thoroughbreds.” 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 handi capped the horses.” Although I was well aware that Vance had some serious object in lunching with young Garden the fol lowing 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 identifi cation 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 Sat urday afternoon. And aside from the brutal Garden murder, thpt aft ernoon will always remain memor able 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 im personal attitude of his analytical mind melted before the appeal of an attractive woman. CHAPTER II Shortly before noon the next day we arrived at Professor Garden’s beautiful skyscraper apartment, and were cordially, and a little ex uberantly, greeted by young Gar den. Floyd Garden was a man in his early thirties, erect and athletically built. He was about six feet tall, with powerful shoulders and a slen der 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 sub merged competency in the way he moved and in the rapidity of his mental reactions. “There are only five of us for lunch, Vance,” he remarked breezi ly. “The old gentleman is fussing with his test-tubes and Bunsen burn ers at the university; the mater is having a grand time playing sick. But Pop Hammle is coming—rum old bird, but a good sport; and we’ll also be burdened with beloved cous in Woode. You know Swift, I be lieve, Vance. 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 little in common ex cept 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.” Vance had been watching Garden covertly during this rambling re cital of domestic intimacies. ‘‘I know you hate mysteries, and there’s apt to be some funny things happening here this afternoon,” Garden continued. “Woode has been acting queer for the past cou ple of weeks, as if some secret sorrowwas gnawing at his mind.” “Any specific psychcpathic symp toms?” Vance asket* 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 re sult of the race has come through.” “Nothing very unusual about that.” Vance made a deprecatory motion with his hand. "Many gam blers, d’ ye see, are like that.” “You’re probably right,” Garden admitted reluctantly. "But I wish he’d bet moderately, instead of plunging like a 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’11 undoubtedly be the favorite . . . Equanimity!” He snorted with undisguised contempt. "That rail lugger! Probably the second great est horse of modern times —- but what’s the use?” He looked up solemnly. “And that, Vance, means trouble it Equanimity doesn't come in. It means a blow-up of some kind. I’ve j 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 ” “Very interestin’ situation,” com mented Vance. “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 A'ood . . But as you were sayin’, the psychologi cal situation hereabout has you wor ried. I gather there’s a super charged atmosphere round this charmin’ aerie.” “That’s it, exactly,” uarden an swered almost eagerly. "Super charged is right. Nearly every day the mater asks, 'How’s Woody?’ A Slight, Pallid Young Man. 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 to day?”' Vance made no comment on these remarks. Instead he asked in a pe culiarly flat voice: “Do you consid er this recent hyper-tension in the household due entirely tc 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. “No, damn it!" he answered a lit tle vehemently. “And that’s anoth er 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 in visible animals springing up and down the corridors. I can’t figure it out. The mater’s illness doesn’t make sense either. And there’s fun ny business of some kind going on among the gang that drifts in tiere nearly every afternoon to play the races.” 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, ap peared 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 pleas ant manner, and listlessly shook hands with his cousin. Then he picked up a bottle of Bourbon and poured himself a double portion, which he drank at one gulp. “Good Heavens!” Garden ex claimed good-humoredly. “How you have changed, Woody! . . . Who’s the lady now?” The muscles of Swift’s face twitched. “Oh, pipe down, Floyd,’’ he plead ed irritably. Garden shrugged indifferently. “Sorry. What’s worrying you to day 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 smok ing 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 ar rived. He was a heavy-set, short man of fifty or thereabouts. He was wearing a black-and-white checked suit, a gray shirt, a brilliant green four-in-hald, 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 for ward. In a few minutes the butler an nounced lunch. The conversation was almost entirely devoted to horses, the history of racing, the Grand National, and the possibilities of the various entrants in the after noon's Rivermont Handicap. Vance contented himself mainly with listening and studying the oth ers at the table. 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 Gar den. “I thought you were an invalid. Why this spurt of health and en ergy?” He then presented me to his moth er: 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 creme de menthe frappee 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 cam araderie. 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 Gar den. “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,” re turned 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 wom an's tone and manner. “And I’ll get eight or ten to one on Grand Score.” “Right you are,” grinned Garden. "You’re on the dog for a century win and place.” The butler brought the creme de menthe, and Mrs. Garden sipped it and stood up. “And now I’m going,” she an nounced 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. “Sneed,” Garden ordered, "fix the set-up as usual.” I glanced at the electric clock on the mantel: It was exactly ten min utes after one. “Fixing the set-up” was a com paratively simple procedure, but a more or less mysterious operation for anyone unfamiliar with the pur pose it was to serve. From a small closet in the hall Sneed first wheeled out a sturdy wooden stand about two feet square. On this he placed a telephone connected to a loud speaker which resembled a midget radio set. As I learned later, it was a specially constructed amplifier to enable every one in the room to hear distinctly whatever came over the telephone. On one side of the amplifier was attached a black metal switch box with a two-way key. In its upright position this key would cut off the voice at the other end of the line without interfering with the connec tion; and throwing the key forward would bring the voice on again. The butler then brought in a well built folding card-table and opened it beside the stand. On this table he placed another telephone of the conventional French, or hand, type. This telephone, which was gray, was plugged into an additional jack in the baseboard. The gray telephone was not connected with the one equipped with the amplifier, but was on an independent line. (TO III. CONTINUED) Fifteen Famous Women The fifteen most famous women in history, it is believed, says Collier’s Weekly, were: Queens Elizabeth and Anne of England, Mary Stuart of Scotland, Catherine of Russia, Maria Theresa of Hungary, Chris tina of Sweden. Cleopatra of Egypt, and Joan of Arc, Marie Antoinette, Josephine, George Sand, Catherine de’ Medici, Madame de Stael, Ma dame de Sevigne and Madame de Maintenon of France. —> J\ Holida Jor Tujo s 1 bij Luella B. Lqons i HIS being with the family on Christmas is the bunk so I won't mind parking myself down there in Martinville, Mr. Howard,” Paul Boyd told his employer. That’s how he found himself spending the holilays in a lonely little room in a boarding and rooming house. His landlady had gone out to church services, he knew, but he determined to pass the lonely hours by reading, hav ing prepared himself with a flock of new detective Action before leav ing the city. Before another half hour had passed, Paul tossed the book aside and began pacing the floor. Here he was alone at last on one Christ mas eve, far from too-cor cerned relatives and friends As the crowning insult, without a moment's warning, the little light that hung on a single cord from the ceiling, flickered and went out. "Great day, this is the end! I Tossed the Book Aside and Began racing the Floor. wonder what they do here when the lights go out—go to bed, I sup pose!" he muttered disgustedly. But just the same he began scratching matches to hunt for a possible kerosene lamp he might have overlooked. Five matches lat er, he found a candle and lost no time lighting that. “At least I can find my way about while getting ready to retire,” he grumbled. But as he jerked at his tie, the unmistakable sound of a smothered sob came to him through the hot air register. Paul wanted to be alone, but fobs did things to him and it took him just three minutes to locate the door from behind which was darkness and those sobs. All because a thoughtless land lady had failed to provide the love ly and lonely girl with an extra bit of lighting in case the rather unre liable power company servne dis continued without notice, wasn't the only reason for the sobs. “Being in a noisy city where folks are celebrating, asking all kinds of favors of you at the holi day time, doing the same old par ties, family dinners and all that—I thought it would be nice to escape it for a change.” she explained. Jean Hathaway, she said was her name. “Jean, I said the same thing and maybe we were both right only that—that,” and suddenp he be came embarrassed but struggled on, “that it is all okeh if you don’t have to escape alone. Just one for company and for celebrating is about the right number. What do you think, Jean?” “Alone together! It doesn't make sense as for English, but it does Christmas-edly speaking!” and the light of the candle burned high ind proud on that holiday for just two. ffi Western Newspaper Union. iy THE CHRISTMAS CAROL «<&> ; by |! Helen Waterman THE Christmas Spirit, if such a sprite there be, must have fled in dismay from old Silas Wentworth, for a crustier, harder, less Christmas-spirited man would be hard to imagine. Yet Sally Blaine, his clerk and bookkeeper, had the temerity to bring Christmas into the store, stringing lines of tinsel Old Silas, coming to work, stopped and stared at this unusual addition to the colored globes and patent medicines with which his windows were adorned. Sally Blaine, rather frightened now, looked up. "Merry Christ mas, Mr. Wentworth.” Silas surveyed the store grimly. "Take it down!" But Sally hesitated. "I said take it down. More of your fool notions! What's this?” “Dickens' Christmas Carol, sir.” He thrust the book on a back shelf. "Humph! Don’t let me catch you reading on the job.” "Yes, sir. I’m sorry about the decorations—” At nine o’clock on Christmas eve Silas saw out his last customer, and began putting up the shutters. It was beastly cold, and his numb fingers were slow at their task. As he was about to lock up, he was confronted by two men, one carry ing a revolver. "Let us in and lock the door,” said the man. Silas, his teeth chattering from fear more than cold, complied. “Now if you’re quiet you won’t get hurt,” said the spokesman. “My pal here has had an accident. I need some medicines. You’ll be paid all right." "Of course; of course,” Silas an swered. and brought out a stock of supplies. The wounded man spoke up. "Sorry to keep you on Christmas eve, buddy.” Silas grunted. "Tommyrot.’* The other mar. had been rum maging about the store. “Here," Silas Surveyed the Store Grimly. “Take it Down!” he commanded. “I can’t watch what you’re doing. So you read aloud until I get through." And he handed Silas “Christmas Carol.” He was scarcely half way through when the men paid him and left. He threw the book down and started off, but at the door he turned, and sitting by the night light, read again. “So like me,” | he muttered, as he finished. From the wastebasket he drew out the tinsel and strung it awk wardly around the store. He looked through his accounts marked , “Overdue,” and selected several ! bills which he marked “Paid in I Full,” and put in proper envelopes. Then he got his wraps. “Merry Christmas, Silas,” he ex claimed, and went out to the dawn ing of his first merry one in many years.