The Kennel Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  Vance ignored the retort.

  “And what did you see in this room at about eight o’clock?”

  “How could I have seen anything, when I was not here?” came the calm, unruffled reply.

  “Did you see Mr. Archer Coe?” persisted Vance.

  “I assure you—”

  “And was any one with him?”

  “I was not here.”

  “Perhaps you visited Mr. Coe’s bedroom upstairs,” Vance went on with quiet but firm insistence. “And then, it may be, you thought it advisable to disappear from the house for several hours; and you went out, returning at midnight.”

  Again Liang’s hands moved caressingly over the arms of his chair, and his eyes sought Vance’s face. There was a mild look of wonder in them.

  “I was not in this house”—he spoke with deliberation—“between half-past two yesterday afternoon and midnight.” There was a finality in both his manner and his tone.

  Vance sighed wearily, and, turning to the hall door, called Gamble.

  “Where was Mr. Archer Coe sitting last night when you went out?” he asked, when the butler had appeared.

  “On the davenport, sir,” Gamble told him. “In that corner near the floor lamp. It was Mr. Archer’s favorite seat.”

  Vance nodded and rose.

  “That will be all for the present. Attend to your duties till we need you.”

  Gamble went out, and Vance walked to the davenport and looked down at it. There were three down-filled cushion-seats on it, and the one at the end nearest the lamp was depressed. Beside the lamp, and in front of the davenport, stood a low massive tabouret of teak-wood; and on the floor near the hearth lay a copy of Tchou Tö-y’s “Les Bronzes antiques de la Chine.”

  Vance contemplated the tabouret and the book for a moment. Then, without turning, he said:

  “Mr. Liang, did you find this tabouret upset when you returned to the house early last night?”

  For the first time the Chinaman seemed to lose his cool ivory equanimity. His eyelids drooped noticeably, and he made a slight involuntary movement. Before he could answer, Vance added:

  “And perhaps you set it aright… But you overlooked the book that had fallen from it.”

  “I was not here,” Liang repeated.

  “It will be a simple matter,” said Vance, “to go over the tabouret for finger-prints and to compare them with yours.”

  “It would be unnecessary, however,” came the calm reply. “You would undoubtedly find my fingerprints on it. I often touch the furniture and objects in this room.”

  Vance smiled faintly and, I thought, admiringly.

  “In that case, we sha’n’t bother.”

  He moved round the lamp and stood for a moment beside a circular camphor-wood table just behind the davenport. There were various pieces of small carved ivory figures and at least two dozen snuff-bottles of jade, amber, quartz, crystal and modelled porcelain, scattered about the table’s surface; and in the centre, on a slender teak-wood base, stood a white baluster-type vase about nine inches tall.

  I had noticed Vance stop and glance at this vase when he had first entered the library; but now he studied it critically as if something about it puzzled him. We were all watching him; and not the least interested person in the room was Liang. His eyes were fixed on Vance’s face, and there was a gentle surprise in them—a surprise which, unless my imagination was playing tricks on me, was mingled with apprehension.

  “Extr’ordin’ry!” Vance murmured after several moments’ contemplation of the vase. Then he lifted his eyes lethargically. “I say, Mr. Liang; was this bit of pottery on the table early last night?”

  “How could I possibly know that?” Liang asked in a vague, mechanical voice.

  Vance picked up the vase and inspected it closely.

  “Not exactly a museum piece, is it, Mr. Liang?” he mused. “Rather inferior. I’m astonished that Mr. Coe would have given it a place in his collection. The shops along Fifth Avenue are full of them, at most reasonable prices… I should say it was imitation Ting yao made under Tao Kuang.” He flicked the vase with the nail of his middle finger. “Better material perhaps than the Sung ceramists used, but thicker. Inferior workmanship, too; and the glaze is lacking in the rich lustre of Ting yao, especially Pai ting. This piece would never have deceived a collector as shrewd as Archer Coe… Do you not agree with me, Mr. Liang?”

  “Mr. Coe knew much about Chinese ceramics,” the Chinaman answered evasively, without taking his eyes from Vance.

  “Tao Kuang, Markham,” Vance elucidated, “was the most consistent imitator of all foregoing dynastic wares in the history of China. And he marked his imitations with no regard for veracity, although genuine Pai ting yao and Nan ting yao were never marked.” He turned the vase over. “Ah! The Wan Li signature.” He shook his head sadly. “No, Archer would never have been taken in by this specimen… It’s most confusin’.”

  He started to replace the vase on its stand, but suddenly withheld the movement of his hand, and set the vase to one side.

  Leaning over, he pushed the little teak-wood pedestal out of the way, revealing a tiny triangle of thin white porcelain, about an inch wide, which had been lying hidden underneath. Carefully adjusting his monocle he picked up the bit of porcelain and held it between his thumb and forefinger to the light.

  “Now, this is eminently different,” he remarked, studying it closely. “Apparently a particle of genuine Sung Ting yao. Not Nan ting, either: it hasn’t the rice-flower color, but is a dazzling white. A soft pâte, like vellum…very thin and fragile… and opaque, despite its fineness… Still, it might be Yuan Shu fu yao or Yung lo… But that really doesn’t matter, don’t y’ know. A vase of this delicate porcelain would do honor to any collection.”

  Gently he placed the little white triangle in his pocket, and addressed the Chinaman, who had sat immobile and unblinking during Vance’s comments.

  “Did not Mr. Coe possess a Sung Ting yao vase, Mr. Liang, about the size of this execrable Tao Kuang?”

  “I believe he did.” Liang spoke in a curiously repressed voice, without modulation or inflexion. “Although, as you suggested, it might have been Shu fu yao made in the Yuan dynasty. There is, as you know, little appreciable difference between them.”

  “And when did you see the Ting yao vase last?”

  “I do not remember.”

  Vance kept his steady gaze on the man.

  “When, Mr. Liang, did you last see this nineteenth-century imitation?” He pointed to the vase on the table.

  Liang did not reply at once. He looked thoughtfully at the vase for a full half-minute; then his eyes returned to Vance.

  “I have never seen it before,” he said finally.

  “Fancy that!” Vance returned his monocle to his waistcoat pocket. “And here it sits in a place of honor, crying out its spuriousness to any one who enters the room… Most interestin’.”

  Markham, who had been chafing under Vance’s apparent irrelevancies, now spoke.

  “This art discussion may be interesting to you, Vance; but it certainly does not interest me. What possible connection can a vase have with the murder of Archer and Brisbane Coe?”

  “That point,” answered Vance dulcetly, “is what I am endeavorin’ to ascertain. Y’ see, Markham, Archer Coe would not have included this Tao Kuang vase in his collection. Why is it here? I haven’t the groggiest notion.—On the other hand, that little broken piece of Sung porcelain is of a beautiful quality. I can imagine Coe waxing ecstatic over a vase of such ware.”

  “Well?” Markham retorted irritably. “I still can’t see the significance…”

  “Nor can I.” Vance became serious. “But it has significance—and a vital significance. It is another absurdly irrelevant factor in this hideous case.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because,” replied Vance, “that little triangular bit of Ting yao porcelain was on the table just back of where Archer Coe sat last night. A
nd it was hidden beneath a vase which Archer would not have tolerated in the same room with him…”

  He paused and looked up sombrely.

  “Moreover, Markham, that broken fragment of porcelain has blood on it.”

  Footnote

  *“The Great Sword Society,” an organization opposed to extraterritoriality and foreign aggression and plunder.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A Threat of Arrest

  (Thursday, October 11; 12.45 p.m.)

  LIANG WAS DISMISSED with instructions to remain in the house until further notice.

  While we were waiting for the Medical Examiner, there ensued a brief discussion concerning the blood on the piece of porcelain and Liang’s possible relationship to the events preceding the double murder. But Vance was evidently as much in the dark as the rest of us; and there was little to be done until we had Doctor Doremus’s report.

  Heath had taken a violent dislike to Liang, and suggested to Vance that, if there was any possibility of Liang’s having been in the house earlier than midnight on the day before, he would take the Chinaman to Headquarters and “let the boys shellack ’im.”

  Vance promptly discouraged the proposal.

  “It would be a waste of time, Sergeant. You would learn nothing by such crude methods. Chinamen are not like Occidentals. When they make up their minds to remain silent, there is no known torture that can force them to speak. For centuries the Chinese have been impregnated with Buddhistic stoicism; and Liang would merely be indifferent to your most violent third-degree methods. We must approach this problem from a different angle.”

  “Still and all, you think the Chinaman was here early last night and that he knows something about what went on.”

  “Oh, undoubtedly,” Vance admitted.

  “Maybe it was him who put the bathrobe on the guy upstairs.”

  “That,” replied Vance, “was one of the possibilities I was toying with.”

  It was at this point in the discussion that Burke came to the door and beckoned to Heath.

  “Say, Sergeant,” he reported from the corner of his mouth, “that Chinaman just went upstairs. Right with you?”

  Heath looked sour, and shot Vance an angry look.

  “Now, what’s the idea?” he bawled.

  Gamble entered the hall from the dining-room at this moment, and Vance addressed him.

  “What is Liang doing upstairs?”

  The butler seemed perturbed at Vance’s tone, and replied with apologetic obsequiousness:

  “I told him to fetch Miss Lake’s tray, and tidy up her quarters… Shouldn’t I have done it, sir? You told me to proceed with my duties…”

  Vance scrutinized the man closely.

  “When he returns keep him downstairs,” he said. “And you’d better stay here yourself.”

  Gamble bowed and returned to the dining-room; and a moment later Doctor Doremus arrived. He was in execrable mood and, after a brusque nod, he glared at Heath angrily.

  “First you ruin my breakfast, and now you interfere with my lunch,” he protested. “Don’t you ever eat?”

  The Sergeant grinned: years of contact had taught him not to take the waspy Medical Examiner too seriously.

  “Me, I’m dieting,” he chuckled… “Want to see the body?”

  “What d’ ye think I’m here for?” snapped Doremus.

  “Well, follow the leader.” And Heath went briskly out of the room and down the corridor to the closet.

  We were close behind him when he opened the closet door. Doremus, straightway assuming a professional air, knelt down and touched Brisbane Coe’s body.

  “Dead,” he announced. “But even a member of the Homicide Bureau could have guessed that.”

  Heath simulated astonishment.

  “Honest, is he dead? And me thinking all the time he was playing ’possum!”

  Doremus snorted.

  “Take hold of his shoulders.” And he and the Sergeant carried the body into the library and placed it on the davenport. For the second time that day Doremus went about his gruesome task, and once again I was forced to admire the man’s deftness and competency.

  “Could you tell us, doctor,” Vance asked, “which of the two victims died first?”

  Doremus, who had been testing the movability of the dead man’s head and limbs, glanced at his watch.

  “That’s easy,” he said. “The one upstairs. The advance of rigor mortis in the two bodies is practically the same. This one might be slightly further along; but it’s been nearly four hours since I went over the other fellow. Therefore, I’d say that this one died anywhere from two to three hours later.”

  “How about nine o’clock last night?” put in Heath.

  “Maybe.” Doremus again bent over the corpse. “But I’d put it later. Say eight o’clock for the one upstairs and about ten o’clock for this one… That’s not certain, y’ understand; but it’s my guess.”

  He then proceeded with his examination. After a while he straightened up and frowned at Markham.

  “You know what killed this guy?”

  Markham shook his head.

  “Not yet. What was it?”

  “A stab in the back!… Same like the fellow upstairs. And almost in the same place.”

  “And the weapon?”

  “The same. A sharp, narrow, four-cornered instrument. Only, in this case, the hemorrhage was external. A lot of blood lost.”

  “Died instantly, I take it,” remarked Vance.

  “Yep.” The doctor nodded. “Must have fallen in his tracks.”

  Vance picked up the blood-stained coat and waistcoat of the dead man, and inspected them.

  “And this time the stab was through the clothes he was wearing,” he commented. “A minor point, but worth verifying… I say, doctor; any indications of a struggle?”

  “Nope.” Doremus put on his hat at a rakish angle. “Not a sign. He got it in the back when he wasn’t expecting it. Startled him for a split second probably—look at that expression!—and then he curled up and passed out. Doubt if he even saw the fellow that did him in. Quick, smooth business.”

  “Devilish business,” emended Markham.

  “Oh, well, I’m no moralist,” Doremus confessed. “I’m a doctor. There’re too many people in the world anyway.” He began filling in a printed blank. “Here’s your removal order, Sergeant. And I suppose you’ll be wanting a postmortem report today… All right, ship him down to the morgue—and maybe you’ll get the report today, and maybe you won’t.”

  He started for the door, but turned and fixed Heath with a leering eye.

  “Say, look here. Got any more corpses round the house? If you have, bring ’em out now. I can’t be running up here all day. I got work to do.”

  “Running?” Heath retorted with good-natured sarcasm. “With that fancy limousine the city furnishes you?…”

  “So long,” said Doremus. “I want food.” And in another moment he had slammed the front door behind him.

  Heath went at once to the telephone and ordered the wagon from the Department of Public Welfare. Then he returned to the library.

  “Now where do we stand?” he asked, spreading his hands hopelessly.

  Vance gave him a commiserating smile.

  “About the middle of the Gobi desert, I should say, Sergeant.”

  “And where might that be, Mr. Vance?”

  “The Gobi desert,” explained Vance, “—or, more correctly, simply the Gobi* —is an almost unexplored territory in Mongolia, extending from the Pamirs to the Khingan mountains, and from the Yablonoi mountains to Altyn-tagh and the Nanshan—which are the northernmost ranges of the Kuenlun mountains. The Chinese call the Gobi desert Han-hal and Sha-mo. The Mongolians say Samak—”

  “That’s enough, sir,” Heath interrupted. “I understand what you mean.” He regarded Vance shrewdly. “And it’s my opinion the Chinese cook did it. If Mr. Markham would give me the word, I’d arrest him now.”

  “Why such haste, Sergean
t?” sighed Vance. “You haven’t a particle of evidence against him—and he knows it. That’s why he will not admit that he was here earlier last night.”

  Heath started to say something but Markham made a gesture for silence.

  “See here, Vance,” he said, “how do you know Liang was here early last night?”

  “By the fact that Gamble heard him come in at midnight. Gamble said he ‘sneaked’ in; but I assure you, Markham, if Liang had wanted to come in the back way without being heard, he would have done so with no difficulty whatever. Moreover, I imagine he always comes in silently—it’s a Chinese characteristic. On general principles, the Chinese never want their movements, however innocent, to be known to foreigners. But last night Liang was heard returning—and Gamble had already retired to the fourth floor. A bit significant—eh, what? Liang probably saw Gamble’s boudoir light ablaze, and let it be known, in a subtle way, that he was arriving from his afternoon and evening off. I can even imagine Liang leaving the kitchen door and windows open while he clattered Archer Coe’s supper dishes and brewed himself a pot of tea… Tea at midnight for a cultured Chinaman? No, no, Markham. Really, it’s not done in the best oriental circles. And Liang had probably been flooding his system with goak-fa steepings most of the evening. He was merely signalling to Gamble that he had returned at midnight.”

  “I see what you mean.” Markham nodded dubiously. “But, after all, your reasoning is purely speculative.”

  “Oh, quite,” Vance admitted. “But the entire case is in a speculative stage just now, what?… Anyway, I have even more definite evidence that Liang was here early last night, and I’ll present him with it later… And that being the present state of affairs, what do you say to our having polite intercourse with Wrede and the Signor Grassi?”

  Markham waved his hand in assent.

  “And we’d better go upstairs,” Vance suggested. “Brisbane is not a pretty sight.”

  Heath gave orders to Burke to remain at the library door and see that no one entered the room. Gamble was told to stay in the front hall and answer the door bell.