The Kennel Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  Doremus was becoming bored. Criminal technicalities were not in his line: his entire interest was medical; and with the finding of the wound in Coe’s back, he felt that he had discharged his duties for the time being. He gave a cavernous yawn, stretched himself, and reached for his hat which he had placed on the floor beside the bed.

  “Well, that lets me out.” He squinted at Heath. “I suppose you want a quick autopsy.”

  “I’ll say we do.” The Sergeant’s head was enveloped in a cloud of cigar smoke. “When can we get it?”

  “Tonight—if you must have it.” Doremus drew a sheet over the prone figure on the bed, and made out an order for the removal of the body. “Get him down to the morgue as soon as possible.” He shook hands cordially with everyone and walked briskly toward the door.

  “Just a moment, doctor.” Markham’s voice halted him. “Any remote possibility of suicide here?”

  “What!” Doremus wheeled in surprise. “Not a chance. That bird was stabbed in the back—couldn’t possibly have done it himself. He died of internal hemorrhage caused by the stab. He’s been dead eight or ten hours—maybe longer. The broken rib and the blow on the left frontal are minor affairs—didn’t do any particular damage. The bullet in his right temple don’t mean a thing—he was already dead… Suicide? Huh!” And with a wave of the hand he went out.

  Markham stood for a time looking unhappily at the floor. Finally he made a commanding gesture to Heath.

  “You’d better notify the boys, Sergeant. Get the fingerprint men and the photographer. We’re in for it… And you’ll take charge, of course.”

  Before Markham had finished speaking, Heath was on his way to the extension telephone which stood on a tabouret beside the desk. A moment later he was in touch with the Police Headquarters Telegraph Bureau. After turning in a brief report to be relayed to the various departments, he ordered the Bureau to notify the Department of Public Welfare to send a wagon immediately for Coe’s body.

  “I hope, sir,” he said a bit pleadingly to Markham, turning from the phone, “that you are not going to step out on this case. I don’t like the way things stack up. Almost anything mighta happened here last night.” (I had rarely seen the Sergeant so perturbed; and I could not blame him, for every phase of the crime seemed utterly contradictory and incomprehensible.)

  “No, Sergeant,” Markham assured him; “I shall remain and do all I can. There must be some simple explanation, and we’re sure to find it sooner or later… Don’t be discouraged,” he added, in a kindly tone. “We haven’t begun the investigation yet.”

  Vance had seated himself in a low-backed chair near the windows and was smoking placidly, his eyes on the ceiling.

  “Yes, Markham,”—he spoke languidly, yet withal thoughtfully—“there’s some explanation, but I doubt if it will prove to be a simple one. There are too many conflicting elements in this equation; and each one seems to eliminate all the others…”

  He took a deep inhalation on his cigarette.

  “Let us summarize, for the sake of clarity, before we proceed with our interviews of the family and guests… First, Coe was struck over the head and perhaps rendered unconscious. Then he probably tumbled against some hard object and broke a rib. All this was evidently preceded by some sort of physical contretemps. Coe was, we may assume, in his street clothes at the time. Later on—how much later we don’t know—he was stabbed in the back through his coat and waistcoat with a small, peculiarly shaped instrument, and he died of internal hemorrhage. At some time subsequent to the stabbing, his coat and waistcoat were removed and carefully hung up in the clothes-closet. His dressing-gown was put on, buttoned, and the belt neatly tied about him. Moreover, his hair was correctly combed. But his street shoes were not changed to bedroom slippers. Furthermore, we found him sitting in a comfortable attitude in an easy chair—in a position he could not possibly have been in when he was stabbed. And his broken rib indicates clearly that he was at one time prostrate over some hard object… Then, as if all this were not incongruous enough, we know that after he was killed by the stab in his back and before rigor mortis had set in, a bullet crashed into his right temple. The gun from which the bullet was presumably fired was clutched tightly in his right hand, so tightly that the official Æsculapius had difficulty in removing it. And we must not forget the serene expression on Coe’s face: it was not the expression of a man who had been struggling with an antagonist and been knocked unconscious by a blow on the head. And this fact, Markham, is one of the strangest phases of the case. Coe was in a peaceful, or at least a satisfied, state of mind when he departed this life…”

  Vance puffed again on his cigarette, and his eyes became dreamy.

  “So much for the present situation as it relates to Coe’s dead body and to the hypothetical events leading up to his demise. Now, there are other elements in the situation that must be taken into consideration. For instance, we found him in a room securely and powerfully bolted on the inside, and with no other means of ingress or egress. All the windows are closed, and all the shades drawn. The electric lights are burning, and the bed has not been slept in. What took place here last night, therefore, must have happened before Coe’s usual time for retiring. Furthermore, I am inclined to think that we must also consider the implied fact that, just before his death, he had been reading about peach-bloom vases and that he had started to write a letter or make a memorandum of some kind. That dated piece of stationery and that fountain-pen on the floor must be added to the problem…”

  At this point we could hear hurried footsteps mounting the stairs, and the next moment Gamble stood at the door with a startled look in his eyes.

  “Mr. Markham,” he stammered, “excuse the interruption, sir, but—but there’s something queer—very queer, sir—down in the front hall.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Wounded Scottie

  (Thursday, October 11; 10.30 a.m.)

  THE BUTLER’S ATTITUDE was one of amazement rather than fear; and we all regarded him with misgivings.

  “Well, what’s in the hall?” barked Markham. Vance’s recapitulation had produced an irritating effect on him.

  “A dog, sir!” Gamble announced.

  Markham gave a start of exasperation.

  “What of it?”

  “A wounded dog, sir,” the butler explained.

  Before Markham could answer, Vance had leaped to his feet.

  “That’s the thing I’ve been waiting for!” There was a suppressed note of excitement in his voice. “A wounded dog! My word!…” He went swiftly to the door. “Come along, Gamble,” he called, as he passed quickly down the stairs.

  We all followed in silent amazement. The situation up to this point had been topsy-turvy enough, but this new element seemed to shunt the case still further off the track of rationality.

  “Where is it?” Vance demanded when he had reached the lower hallway.

  Gamble stepped to the heavy portières at the right of the entrance door, and drew one of them aside.

  “I heard a strange sound just now,” he explained. “Like a whine, sir. It startled me terribly. When I looked back of this curtain, there I saw the dog.”

  “Does it belong to any one in the house?” Markham asked.

  “Oh, no, sir!” the man assured him. “That’s why I was so startled. There’s never been a dog in this house since I’ve been here—and that’s going on ten years.”

  As he held back the portière, we could see the small, prone shape of a slightly brindled Scottish terrier, lying on its side with its four short legs stretched out. Over the left eye was a clotted wound; and on the floor was a black stain of dried blood. The eye beneath the wound was swollen shut, but the other eye, dark hazel and oval, looked up at us with an expression of tragic appeal.

  Vance was already on his knees beside the dog.

  “It’s all right, lassie,” he was murmuring. “Everything’s all right.”

  He took the dog tenderly in his arms, and stood up.<
br />
  “What street’s this?” he asked of no one in particular. “Seventy-first?… Good!… Open that door, Gamble.”

  The butler, apparently as much surprised as any of the rest of us, hurried to obey.

  Vance stepped into the vestibule, the dog held gently against his breast.

  “I’m going to Doctor Blamey,”* he announced. “He’s just up the street. I’ll be back presently.” And he hurried down the stone steps.

  This new development left us all even more puzzled than before. Vance’s animated response to Gamble’s announcement regarding the dog, and his cryptic remark as he hurried downstairs, added another element of almost outlandish mystery to a situation already incredibly complicated.

  When Vance had disappeared with the wounded Scottie in his arms, Heath, frowning perplexedly, turned to Markham and crammed his hands into his trousers’ pockets.

  “This case is beginning to get to me, sir,” he complained. “Now, what do you suppose is the meaning of this dog business? And why was Mr. Vance so excited? And anyhow, what could a dog have to do with the stabbing?”

  Markham did not answer. He was staring at the front door through which Vance had just passed, chewing his cigar nervously. Presently he fixed Gamble with an angry look.

  “You never saw that dog before?”

  “No, sir.” The butler had become oily again. “Never, sir. No dog at all has ever been in this house—”

  “No one here was interested in dogs?”

  “No one, sir… It’s most mysterious. I can’t imagine how it got in the house.”

  Wrede and Grassi had come to the drawing-room door, and stood looking out curiously into the hall.

  Markham, seeing them, addressed himself to Wrede.

  “Do you, Mr. Wrede, know anything about a small black shaggy dog that might have found access to this house?”

  Wrede looked puzzled.

  “Why, no,” he answered, after a slight hesitation. “No one here cared for dogs. I happen to know that both Archer and Brisbane detested pets.”

  “What about Miss Lake?”

  “She has no use for dogs. She likes cats. She had a blue Persian at one time, but Archer made her get rid of it. That was years ago.”

  Markham frowned.

  “Well, a dog has just been found here in the hall—back of those curtains.”

  “That’s most remarkable.” Wrede seemed genuinely astonished. “I can’t imagine where it came from. It must have followed some one in, without being seen.”

  Markham did not answer, and Heath, taking his cigar from his mouth, stepped forward belligerently, and thrust out his jaw.

  “But you like dogs, don’t you?” he shot forth, in his best third-degree manner.

  Wrede was taken aback by the Sergeant’s sudden aggressiveness.

  “Why, yes,” he said. “I’m very fond of them. I’ve always kept one till I moved into the apartment next door…”

  “What kind of a dog?” demanded Heath, without relaxing his bellicose manner.

  “A Doberman Pinscher,” Wrede told him, and turned to Markham. “I don’t exactly understand this man’s questions.”

  “We’re all a little on edge,” Markham apologized. “Some very peculiar things went on in this house last night. Coe did not commit suicide—he was murdered.”

  Wrede did not appear surprised.

  “Ah!” he murmured. “I was afraid of that.”

  Grassi now gave a guttural exclamation, and stepped into the hall.

  “Murdered?” he repeated. “Mr. Coe was murdered?” His face was abnormally pale, and his dark eyes stared at Markham in frightened wonderment. “I understood he had taken his own life with a revolver.”

  “He was stabbed in the back,” Markham informed him. “The bullet did not enter his head till after death.”

  Again the Italian gave a curious guttural exclamation and leaned heavily against the casing of the drawing-room door. So white was his face that for a moment I thought he was going to faint. Heath was watching him like a tiger, and at this point he moved deliberately forward until his face was within six inches of Grassi’s.

  “Stabbed with a dagger!” he spat out. “In the back. Wop stuff. What d’ ye know about it?”

  As quickly as he had gone pale, the Italian drew himself together, and stood erect with great dignity, looking Heath steadily in the eyes. A slow sneering smile curled the corners of his heavy lips.

  “I know nothing about it, sir,” he said with quiet suavity. “I am not of the police. Perhaps you know a great deal about it.” His tone, though on the surface polite, was an insult.

  Heath was piqued.

  “We know plenty,” he boasted truculently. “And when we get going, it won’t be so damn pleasant for you.”

  Markham stepped forward and placed his hand on Heath’s shoulder.

  “This can wait, Sergeant,” he said placatingly. “We’ve considerable preliminary investigating to do before we question Mr. Grassi.”

  Heath snorted and walked reluctantly toward the stairs.

  “You gentlemen will have to wait in the drawing-room for a while,” Markham said to Grassi and Wrede. “And please be so good as to keep the door closed until we want you.”

  At these words, Hennessey waved the two men back into the drawing-room and drew the sliding doors shut.

  “Come, Sergeant,” Markham said. “We’d better make a once-over of Coe’s room before the boys get here.”

  Heath sullenly led the way upstairs.

  During the next five minutes or so, Markham and the Sergeant walked about Coe’s quarters giving them a cursory inspection. As I have said, the room was at the rear with windows in the east and south walls. Heath went to each window and raised the shades. When he had completed his rounds he went up to Markham, who was standing before the clothes-closet door, looking inside.

  “Here’s a funny one, sir. The windows are all shut tight—but that ain’t all. Every one of ’em is locked. And this room is on the second story, so that no one could get in from the outside. Why all the precaution?”

  “Archer Coe was a peculiar man, Sergeant,” Markham replied. “He was always afraid burglars would break in and steal his treasures.”

  The answer did not satisfy Heath.

  “Who’d want this junk?” he grumbled sceptically, and moved to the desk.

  Markham, after casually inspecting the closet, walked across the room to the teak-wood chest beneath one of the east windows. I then remembered that Vance had regarded this chest curiously during his conversation with Doctor Doremus about Coe’s broken rib.

  Heath was now standing in the middle of the room, gazing about him disgustedly.

  “It’s a cinch,” he said, “that nobody could get in or out of this joss-house except by the door. It beats me.”

  The fact was that the only door in the room other than the main door which we had found bolted on the inside, was the one leading into the small clothes-closet. There was no private bathroom: the house had been built in an era when one common bathroom on the second floor was considered the height of sanitary luxury. We learned later, however, that Miss Lake had installed another bathroom on the third floor. Archer Coe, and his brother Brisbane, whose bedroom was at the front of the house on the same floor as Archer’s, had shared the main bathroom which led off the hall between their quarters.

  “I’ve seen nothing of the weapon that killed Coe,” Markham remarked.

  “It’s not here,” Heath asserted dogmatically. “It was withdrawn from Coe’s body, and I’ll bet the guy cached it where it wouldn’t be found.”

  “That’s possible,” Markham agreed. “Anyway, I think you’d better open the windows—it’s close in here. And you might turn off the electric lights.”

  “Nothing doing.” The Sergeant was indignant. “You see, sir,” he hastened to explain apologetically, “somebody pressed those window catches and also pushed the light switch. And I want to know who it was. I’m going to have Cap Du
bois* get me the finger-prints.”

  A few minutes later Vance returned to the house. As he entered the room his face was troubled, and anger smouldered in his gray eyes.

  “There’s a good chance she’ll live,” he reported; “but that was a vicious blow some one dealt her. A blunt instrument of some kind. Doctor Blamey is fixing her up, and I’ll know more about her condition tonight.” (I had rarely seen Vance so upset.)

  “What does it all mean?” Markham asked him. “Where does that dog fit in?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Vance sank into a chair and took out his case of Régies. “But I have a feelin’ it’s our opening wedge. That little dog is the one totally irrelevant item in this whole bloody affair—she’s our one contact with the world outside. She doesn’t belong here, and therefore will have something important to say to us. Furthermore, she was wounded in this house.”

  Markham’s eyes suddenly narrowed.

  “And the wound was similar to the one on Coe’s head, and in the same place.”

  Vance nodded dubiously.

  “But that may be merely a coincidence,” he returned after a moment. “In any event, no one in this house cared for dogs. There’s never been one here, and I’ve often heard both Coe and his brother express themselves on the subject. I once had to sit for half an hour listening to Brisbane read aloud Ambrose Bierce’s libelous attack on dogs.† No member of this household brought that dog in, Markham. But had the dog got in by mistake, no member of the family would have hesitated to strike it.”

  “You think an outsider brought it in?”

  “No, that wouldn’t be reasonable either.” Vance frowned meditatively. “That’s the strange thing about the dog’s presence here. It was probably a terrible accident—a fatal miscalculation. That’s why I’m so deuced interested. And then there’s this point to be considered: the person who found the dog here was afraid to let her out. Instead—for his own safety—he tried to kill her and then hid her behind the portières downstairs. And he almost succeeded in killing her.”