The Kennel Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Which one of the babies do you want first?” the Sergeant then asked.

  “The Italian, by all means,” said Vance. “He’s frightfully upset, and therefore in an admirable state of mind for questioning. We’ll keep Wrede till later,—he’s teeming with possibilities.”

  Heath went toward the drawing-room door as Vance and Markham and I ascended the stairs to Archer Coe’s room. Liang, with Miss Lake’s breakfast tray, was descending from the third floor when we reached the upper landing, and he stood deferentially aside as we entered Coe’s bedroom.

  Grassi and the Sergeant joined us a few seconds later.

  “Mr. Grassi,” Vance began without preliminaries, “we should like to know exactly what your social and professional status is in this house. A very serious situation has developed here, and we are in need of all the information, however seemingly irrelevant, we can obtain… We understand you have been a house guest of Mr. Coe’s for a week.”

  The Italian now had himself well in hand. He walked to the easy chair in which Archer Coe’s body had been found, and sat down in leisurely fashion.

  “Yes—that is right,” he returned, looking at Vance with calm disdain. “I came here at Mr. Coe’s invitation a week ago yesterday. It was to have been a fortnight’s visit.”

  “Had you any business with Mr. Coe?”

  “Oh, yes. Business, one might say, was the basis of the invitation… I am connected, in an official capacity, with a museum of antiquities in Milan,” he explained; “and I had hoped to be able to purchase from Mr. Coe certain specimens of Chinese ceramic art from his remarkable collection.”

  “His Ting yao vase, for example?”

  Grassi’s dark eyes became suddenly brilliant with astonishment; but almost at once a wary look came into them, and he smiled with cold politeness.

  “I must admit I was interested in the vase,” he said. “Such pieces are very rare. Perhaps you know that genuine Ting yao of the Sung dynasty—not the Tu ting yao with its inevitable crackle—is practically unprocurable today.”

  Vance was standing by the east windows regarding the other with apparent unconcern. “Yes, I knew that… And you are sure Mr. Coe’s vase is not Shu fu yao?”

  “Quite sure—though it really does not matter whether the vase is Imperial ware or not. It is a magnificent specimen, of the amphora shape… Have you examined it?”

  “No,” Vance told him. “I’ve never seen it…but I think I’ve had a fragment of it in my hand.”

  Grassi stared.

  “A fragment!”

  “Yes, a small triangular piece,” Vance nodded. Then he added: “I have grave fears, Mr. Grassi, that the Ting yao vase has been broken.”

  The Italian stiffened, and his eyes clouded with suspicious anger.

  “It’s impossible! I was inspecting the vase only yesterday afternoon. It was on the circular table in the library.”

  “There’s only a Tao Kuang vase there now,” Vance informed him.

  “And where, may I be permitted to ask, did you find this fragment of Ting yao?” The man’s tone was cold and sceptical.

  “On the same table,” Vance replied carelessly. “Beneath the Tao Kuang.”

  “Indeed?” There was a sneer in the inflexion of the word.

  Vance appeared to ignore it. He made a slight gesture of the hand as if dismissing an unimportant matter, and came closer to the Italian.

  “I understand from Gamble that you left the house at about four o’clock yesterday afternoon.”

  Grassi smiled courteously, but he was patently on his guard.

  “That is correct. I had a business appointment for dinner and the evening.”

  “With whom?”

  “Is that information necessary?”

  “Oh, very.” Vance met the other’s smile with one equally arctic.

  Grassi shrugged with elaborate resignation.

  “Very well, then… With one of the curators of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

  “And,” continued Vance, without change of tone, “at what time last night did you meet Miss Lake?”

  The Italian rose indignantly, his sombre eyes flashing.

  “I resent that question, sir!” His voice, though dignified, was unsteady. “Even if I had met Miss Lake, I would not tell you.”

  “Really, Mr. Grassi,” Vance smiled, “I would not have expected you to. Your conduct is quite correct… I take it for granted you were aware that Miss Lake is engaged to Mr. Wrede.”

  Grassi calmed down quickly and resumed his seat.

  “Yes; I knew there was some understanding. Mr. Archer Coe informed me of the fact. But he also stated—”

  “Yes, yes. He also stated that he was opposed to the alliance. He enjoyed Mr. Wrede intellectually, but did not regard him favorably as a husband for his ward… What is your opinion of the situation, Mr. Grassi?”

  The Italian seemed surprised at Vance’s question.

  “You must forgive me, sir,” he said after a pause, “if I plead my inability to express an opinion on the subject. I may say, however, that Mr. Brisbane Coe disagreed with his brother. He was very much in favor of the marriage, and stated his views most emphatically to Mr. Archer Coe.”

  “And now both of them are dead,” Vance remarked.

  Grassi’s eyelids drooped, and he turned his head slightly.

  “Both?” he repeated in a low voice. (The man’s purely speculative attitude puzzled me greatly.)

  “Mr. Brisbane was stabbed in the back shortly after Mr. Archer was killed,” Vance informed him.

  “Most unfortunate,” the Italian murmured.

  “Have you,” asked Vance, “any suggestion as to who might desire to have these two gentlemen out of the way?”

  Grassi suddenly became austere and aloof.

  “I have no suggestion,” he replied in a flat, diplomatic voice. “Mr. Archer Coe was the type of man who might inspire enmities; but Mr. Brisbane Coe was quite the opposite—genial, shrewd, kindly—”

  “But he had undercurrents of passion and resentment,” suggested Vance.

  “Oh, yes,” the other agreed. “Also great capabilities. But he was clever enough not to antagonize people.”

  “An excellent characterization,” Vance complimented him. “And what are your impressions of Mr. Wrede?… I assure you any opinion you express will go no further.”

  Grassi appeared ill at ease. He did not answer at once but contemplated the wall before him for some time. Finally he spoke in the slow, precise manner of a man carefully choosing his words.

  “I have not been particularly impressed by Mr. Wrede. On the surface he is most charming. He has a pleasing manner, and is an excellent conversationalist. He has delved into many things; but I have a feeling he is inclined toward superficiality. Withal, he is very clever…”

  “Cleverness is our national curse,” Vance remarked.

  Grassi gave him an appreciative glance.

  “I have felt that, since being in this country. England, however, has neither cleverness nor profundity.”

  “Which,” supplemented Vance, “gives her a great advantage… But forgive my interruption. You were speaking of Mr. Wrede.”

  Grassi readjusted his thoughts.

  “Mr. Wrede, as I have said, impresses me as being very clever. But I have sensed another side to him. He is capable, I should say, of unexpected things. I have a feeling he would stop at nothing to gain his own ends. Beneath his gracious exterior is a sublimated hardness—a cruelty such as the Aztecs—”

  “Thank you!” Vance cut in on the other’s remark with unwonted harshness. “I perfectly understand your feelings.” He looked down at Grassi contemptuously. “And now, sir, we should like to know exactly what you did yesterday between four o’clock in the afternoon and one o’clock in the morning.” His tone was almost menacing.

  The Italian made a valiant effort to meet Vance’s stern gaze.

  “I have said all I intend to say,” he announced.

  Va
nce faced the man threateningly.

  “In that case,” he said, “I shall have to order your arrest on suspicion of having murdered Archer and Brisbane Coe!”

  A look of abject fear came over Grassi’s pallid face.

  “No—you can’t—do that,” he stammered. “I didn’t do it—I assure you I didn’t do it!” His voice rose. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know—anything at all…”

  “That’s much better,” Vance remarked coldly. “Explain where you were yesterday.”

  Grassi leaned forward, grasping the arms of the chair with frantic force.

  “I went to Doctor Montrose’s for tea,” he began in a high-pitched, nervous voice. “We discussed ceramics; and I stayed to dinner. At eight o’clock I excused myself and went to the railway station to take the train for Mount Vernon—to the Crestview Country Club…”

  “Your appointment with Miss Lake was at what time?”

  “Nine o’clock.” The man looked appealingly at Vance. “There was to be a dance…but—but I took the wrong train,—I’m not familiar—”

  “Quite—quite.” Vance spoke encouragingly. “And what time was it when you arrived at the Club?”

  “It was after eleven.” Grassi fell back into the chair, as if exhausted. “I had to make several transportation changes,” he continued in a forced tone. “It was most unfortunate…”

  “Yes, very.” Vance studied the other icily. “Did the lady forgive your tardiness?”

  “Yes! Miss Lake accepted my explanation,” the man returned, with a show of heat. “The fact is, she did not arrive until several minutes after I did. She had motored to the Arrowhead Inn with friends for dinner, and had an accident of some kind on her return to the Club.”

  “Very distressin’,” murmured Vance. “Were her friends with her at the time of the accident?”

  Grassi hesitated and moved uneasily.

  “I do not believe they were,” he answered. “Miss Lake told me she had motored back alone.”

  At this point Detective Burke stepped into the room.

  “That Chinaman downstairs wants to speak to Mr. Vance,” he said. “He’s all hot and bothered.”

  Vance nodded to Heath.

  “Send him up, Burke,” the Sergeant ordered.

  Burke turned and called down the stairs.

  “Step on it, Wun Lung.” He beckoned sweepingly with his whole arm.

  Liang appeared at the door and waited till Vance came to him. He said something in a low voice which the rest of us in the room could not distinguish, and held out a crudely twisted paper parcel.

  “Thank you, Mr. Liang,” said Vance; and the Chinaman, with a bow, returned downstairs.

  Vance took the parcel to the desk and began opening it.

  “The cook,” he said, speaking directly to the Italian, “has just found this package tucked away in the garbage-pail on the rear porch. It may interest you, Mr. Grassi.”

  As he spoke, he smoothed out the corners of the paper; and there were revealed to all of us many fragments of beautiful, delicate porcelain with a pure-white lustre.

  “Here,” he went on, still addressing the Italian, “are the remains of Mr. Coe’s Ting yao vase… And, if you will notice, several of these pieces of fragile Sung porcelain are stained with blood.”

  Grassi rose and stared at the fragments, stupefied.

  Footnote

  *Gobi is a Mongol word meaning “desert.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Needles and Pins”

  (Thursday, October 11; 1.15 p.m.)

  THERE WAS A long silence. Finally Grassi looked up.

  “It’s an outrage!” he exclaimed. “I don’t comprehend it in the least… And the blood! Do you think, sir, that this vase had anything to do with the death of Mr. Coe?”

  “Without doubt.” Vance was watching the Italian with a puzzled look. “But pray sit down again, Mr. Grassi. There are one or two more questions I should like to ask you.”

  The other resumed his seat reluctantly.

  “If you were with Miss Lake at the Country Club late last night,” Vance proceeded, “how did it happen that you and she returned to the house at different hours? I presume, of course, that you accompanied her back to the city.”

  Grassi appeared embarrassed.

  “It was Miss Lake’s suggestion,” he said, “that we should not be heard entering the house at the same time. So I waited in Central Park for a quarter of an hour after she had gone in.”

  Vance nodded.

  “I thought as much. It was the proximity of your two returns that made me conclude that possibly you had been together last night. And furthermore, business appointments with curators of the Metropolitan Museum are not apt to extend into the early hours of the morning… But what reason did Miss Lake give for the deception?”

  “No particular reason. Miss Lake merely said she thought it would be better if Mr. Brisbane Coe did not hear us coming in together.”

  “She specifically mentioned Mr. Brisbane Coe?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she did not mention Mr. Archer Coe?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “That is quite understandable,” Vance remarked. “Uncle Brisbane was her ally in her engagement to Mr. Wrede; and she may have feared that he would not have approved of her being out so late with another man… The older generation, Mr. Grassi, is inclined to be strait-laced about these little matters. The modern girl is quite different.”

  The Italian was manifestly grateful for Vance’s attitude, and bowed his appreciation.

  Vance strolled to the window.

  “By the by, Mr. Grassi, your quarters here are the suite of rooms at the front of the house on this floor, are they not?”

  “Why, yes,” the man replied, lifting his eyebrows. “They are directly over the drawing-room and den.”

  “When you came in last night—or rather, this morning—where did you hang your hat and coat?”

  Again a cautious look came into the Italian’s eyes.

  “I did not wear an outer coat. But I carried my hat and stick to my own room.”

  “Why? There is a coat closet in the lower hall.”

  Grassi moved uneasily, and I could have sworn the pallor of his face increased.

  “I did not care to make a noise opening and shutting the closet door,” he explained.

  Vance made no comment, and there was a short silence. Presently he turned from the window and walked back to the desk.

  “That will be all for the present,” he said pleasantly. “And thank you for your help… Would you mind waiting in your room? We shall probably want to question you again before the afternoon is over. I shall see that Gamble serves you luncheon.”

  The man rose and started to say something. But, evidently thinking better of it, he merely bowed and went down the passageway of the hall toward the front of the house.

  Markham was immediately on his feet.

  “What about that broken vase?” he demanded, pointing at the parcel of porcelain fragments on the desk. “Was that the thing with which Archer Coe was struck over the head?”

  “Oh, no.” Vance picked up one of the larger pieces and snapped it easily between his fingers. “This delicate Ting yao china would crack under the least pressure. If a man were struck with such a vase he would hardly feel it. The vase would simply break into pieces.”

  “But the blood…”

  “There was no blood on Archer’s head.” Vance selected one of the fragments and held it up. “Moreover, please note that the blood is not on the outer glaze, but on the inside of the vase. The same is true of the little piece I found on the table downstairs.”

  Markham looked at Vance in amazement.

  “How, in the name of Heaven, do you account for that?”

  Vance shrugged.

  “I’m not accounting for it at present—not altogether. And yet, it’s a most fascinatin’ point. The only noticeable blood in this affair is that which trickled from Bri
sbane’s wound and from the Scottie’s head. But I can’t possibly connect this broken vase with Brisbane’s death or with the Scottie.”

  “And how do you connect it with Archer’s death?”

  Vance became evasive.

  “Wasn’t it standing on the table directly behind the seat that Archer was occupying when Gamble left the house last night to indulge his taste for the art of the cinema?”

  “What of it?” queried Markham, with no attempt to curb his exasperation.

  Vance took out his cigarette-case and sighed.

  “What of it, indeed?… Give me a little more time,” he said. “I have a fairly definite idea about this broken vase with the bloodstains on the inside; but it’s too fantastic—too incredible. I want to verify my suspicions…” His voice trailed off, and he lighted his cigarette meditatively.

  Markham regarded him awhile and then said:

  “The whole affair strikes me as fantastic and incredible.”

  Vance exhaled a blue ribbon of smoke.

  “Suppose we talk to Wrede,” he suggested. “We may know more when he has unburdened his heart to us. He has ideas—otherwise he would not have had Gamble phone direct to you.”

  Markham gave an order to Heath, but at that moment Burke announced the arrival of the wagon from the Department of Public Welfare. The Sergeant went into the hall and was half-way down the stairs when Vance turned quickly from his contemplation of a Ch’ien Lung gourd-shaped vase in millefleur pattern, and hastened after him.

  “Just a moment, Sergeant!”

  So impetuous was Vance’s manner that Markham and I followed him into the hall.

  “I could bear,” Vance called down to Heath, “to snoop in the pockets of Brisbane’s suit before it’s taken away… Would you mind?”

  “Certainly not, Mr. Vance.” Heath, for some reason, was in good humor. “Come along.”

  We all went to the library. The Sergeant closed the door.

  “I had the same idea,” he said. “I’ve been figuring right along that maybe that slick butler was lying to us about the ticket to Chicago.”

  It took but a short time to empty the pockets of Brisbane Coe’s suit to the library table. But there was nothing of interest among the contents, only the usual items to be found in a man’s pockets—a wallet, handkerchiefs, keys, a fountain-pen, a watch, and the like. There were, however, the ticket and berth reservations to Chicago, and also the parcel-room check for the suit-case.