The Kennel Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Now, that’s final, Mr. Vance,” Mr. Rice said. “You may rest assured that the information is correct. We go through that process with every entry in every show. Dog people don’t realize the enormous amount of detail work which goes on at the A.K.C. in order to keep the hundreds of thousands of records correct and to insure everyone in the dog game an almost absolute protection.”

  After dropping into an office across the hall to pay his respects to Mr. Louis de Casanova, the editor of The American Kennel Gazette, Vance took his departure, and instructed his chauffeur to drive immediately to the Criminal Courts Building on the corner of Franklin and Centre Streets.

  On our way downtown Vance expressed his admiration for the A.K.C. system.

  “It’s amazin’, Van. An entire institution based on the ideal of accuracy. It has no commodity to sell: it’s purely managerial in essence. It sells only accuracy and protection to the many thousands of sportsmen and dog lovers throughout the country. A unique and astonishin’ institution.”

  When we arrived at the District Attorney’s office on the fourth floor of the Criminal Courts Building, Markham was in conference with Sergeant Heath. Swacker, the District Attorney’s secretary, ushered us immediately into Markham’s private office.

  “Things are moving.” Vance sat down and took out his cigarette case. “I have just come from the American Kennel Club and have discovered a bit of most interestin’ information. The wounded Scottie, Markham, belongs to none other than Julius Higginbottom.”

  “And who might he be, Vance? And why does the fact interest you?”

  Vance lighted his cigarette leisurely.

  “I have met Higginbottom. He’s a member of the Crestview Country Club, and he has a large country estate at Mount Vernon, where he spends his entire time living what he imagines to be the life of a country gentleman—”

  Heath sat forward in his chair.

  “It was the Crestview Country Club at Mount Vernon,” he interjected, “where Miss Lake and Grassi went to a dance Wednesday night.”

  “And that’s not all, Sergeant.” Vance sprawled luxuriously in his chair and took a deep inhalation on his Régie. “Higginbottom knew Archer Coe pretty well. Several years ago Higginbottom inherited, from an aunt, a very fine collection of early Chinese paintings, many of which Coe bought from him at a preposterously low price. Higginbottom is something of a gay bird—the sporting type of man—and knew nothing of the value of the paintings. After he had sold them to Coe he learned from a dealer that they were very valuable, and there was consequent talk, in certain New York art circles, to the effect that Coe had put over a shrewd and somewhat unethical deal on Higginbottom. Higginbottom, as I know, took the matter up with Coe, but without any success, and there has been a certain amount of bad blood between them ever since. Higginbottom was a major in the World War and is a hot-headed sort of a chap.”

  Markham beat a nervous tattoo on the desk.

  “Well, where does that get us?” he asked. “Are you implying that Higginbottom came down from Mount Vernon with his dog and murdered Coe?”

  “Good Lord, no!” Vance made a slight gesture of annoyance. “I’m not implyin’ anything. I am merely reportin’ my findings. But I must confess that I find the relationship between the Scottie and Major Higginbottom and Archer Coe a bit satisfyin’.”

  “It appears to me,” grumbled Markham, “that it merely adds a new and more complicated angle to the situation.”

  “Don’t be discouragin’,” sighed Vance. “At least there’s food for thought in the combination.”

  “My mind is already glutted.” Markham rose irritably and walked to the window overlooking the Tombs. “What do you propose to do now?”

  Vance also rose.

  “I’m taking a bit of a jaunt into the country. I am motoring immediately to Mount Vernon, where I hope to have polite and serious—and, I trust, illuminatin’—intercourse with the major concerning Miss MacTavish… Would you care to hear the result of my social endeavors?”

  Markham turned from the window and sank heavily into his chair.

  “I’ll be here all afternoon,” he answered glumly.

  It was a pleasant drive to Mount Vernon, in the brisk October air. We had little difficulty in finding the Higginbottom estate, and we were lucky enough to find the major sitting on the big colonial front porch.

  He was a rotund man of medium height, with a partly bald head and a florid complexion. There was a look of dissipation about his small, beady gray eyes, which no amount of outdoor country living could disguise. But there was a likable joviality about him.

  He welcomed Vance effusively and invited us to sit down and have a highball.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this call, sir?” He spoke with hospitable good-nature. “I am really delighted. You should come oftener.”

  “I’d be charmed.” Vance sat down beside a small glass table. “But today, Major, d’ ye see, I hopped out here on a little matter of business… The truth is, I’m dashed interested in a Scottie bitch belonging to you—Miss MacTavish—who was shown at Englewood…”

  At the mention of the dog’s name Higginbottom gave a loud cough, pushed his chair back with a scraping sound, and glanced over his shoulder to the open window leading into the house. The man seemed deeply perturbed, and his tone of voice and his manner, when he answered, struck me as most peculiar.

  “Yes, yes; of course,” he blustered, rising and walking toward the front steps. “I rarely go to dog shows any more. By the way, Mr. Vance, I want to show you my roses…” And he walked down the stairs toward a small rose garden at the right.

  Vance lifted his eyebrows in mild astonishment and followed his host. When we were out of hearing of the house, the major placed his hand on Vance’s shoulder and spoke confidentially:

  “By gad, sir! I hope my wife didn’t hear that question of yours. She’s generally in the drawing-room during the mornings, and the windows were open.” He appeared troubled. “Yes, sir, it would be most annoying if she heard it. I didn’t mean to be impolite, sir—no, sir, by gad!—but you startled me for a moment… A most trying and delicate situation.” He put his head a little closer to Vance. “Where did you hear of that little bitch of mine?—were you at the Englewood show?—and why should you be interested?” He glanced again over his shoulder toward the porch. “George! I hope your question didn’t reach my wife’s ears.”

  Vance looked at the man quizzically.

  “Come, come, Major,” he said pleasantly. “It really can’t be so serious. I was not at Englewood, and I never saw Miss MacTavish till the day before yesterday. The fact of the matter is, Major, your little bitch is now in my apartment in New York.”

  “You don’t say!—In your apartment?” Higginbottom seemed vastly astonished. “How did she get there?—I don’t understand at all. This is most peculiar, Mr. Vance. Pray enlighten me.”

  “But she is your dog, is she not, Major?” Vance asked quietly.

  “Well…well—the fact is—that is to say—” Higginbottom was spluttering with embarrassment. “Yes—yes, I suppose you would say that I am the technical owner of her. But I haven’t had her at my kennels here for over six months… You see, Mr. Vance, it’s this way—I gave Miss MacTavish away to a friend of mine—a very dear friend, y’ understand—in New York.”

  “Ah,” breathed Vance, looking up at the cerulean sky. “And who, Major, might this friend be?”

  Higginbottom began to splutter again, with an added show of indignation.

  “By gad, Mr. Vance! I can’t see—really, I can’t see—what possible concern that is of any one but myself—and, of course, the recipient… It was a purely private transaction—I might say a personal transaction.” He cleared his throat pompously. “Even though you may have the dog in your possession now, I can hardly see—that is, I fail to understand—”

  “Major,” Vance interrupted brusquely, “I am not prying into your private affairs. But a rather serious matter has arisen, and
it will be much better for you to confide in me than to have the District Attorney summon you to his office.”

  Higginbottom’s little eyes opened very wide and he fumbled with the ashes in his pipe.

  “Well, well, of course, if the matter is as serious as that, I suppose I can trust you… But, for Heaven’s sake, man,” he added appealingly, “don’t let this go any further.”

  Again he glanced around to make sure that no one was listening.

  “The fact is, Mr. Vance, I have a very dear friend in New York—a young woman—a very charming young woman, I might say—”

  “A blonde?” asked Vance casually.

  “Yes, yes, the young woman is a blonde. Do you know her by any chance?”

  Vance shook his head regretfully.

  “No, I haven’t had the pleasure. But pray continue, Major.”

  “Well, you see, it’s like this, Mr. Vance. I come to the city quite often—on business, y’ understand—and I enjoy a night-club and the theatre now and then, and—you know how it is—I don’t care to go alone, and Mrs. Higginbottom has no interest in such frivolous things—”

  “Pray don’t make apologies, Major,” Vance put in. “What did you say the young lady’s name was?”

  “Miss Doris Delafield—and a very fine young woman she is. Comes of an excellent family—”

  “And it was Miss Delafield to whom you gave the dog six months ago?”

  “That’s right. But I’m most anxious to keep the matter a secret. You see, Mr. Vance, I wouldn’t care to have Mrs. Higginbottom know of it, as she might not understand exactly.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t,” Vance murmured. “And I quite sympathize with your predicament… And where does Miss Delafield live, Major?”

  “At the Belle Maison apartments at 90 West 71st Street.”

  Vance’s eyes flickered very slightly as he took out a cigarette and lighted it slowly.

  “That’s the small apartment house just across the vacant lot from Archer Coe’s residence, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.” The major nodded vindictively. “Coe—the old swindler! It served him right, what happened to him the other night. I’ll warrant he was killed by somebody he bilked… But, after all,” he added more tolerantly, “I couldn’t dislike the old chap altogether. And of course we shouldn’t say anything but good about the dead. That’s the sporting attitude, isn’t it?”

  “So I understand,” nodded Vance… “You’ve been reading the newspapers, eh, Major?”

  “Naturally, sir.” Higginbottom seemed a little surprised at the question. “I was interested. The fact is, Mr. Vance, I was calling on Miss Delafield the very night he was murdered.”

  “Indeed, Major! That’s most interestin’.” Vance leaned over and snapped off a dead leaf from one of the Talisman bushes. “By the by, Major,” he went on in an offhand tone, “little Miss MacTavish was found in the Coe house the next morning, with a rather vicious wound across her head.”

  The major’s pipe fell from his mouth to the lawn, and was ignored. He stared at Vance like a man transfixed, and the blood went from his face.

  “I—I—really… Are you—sure?” he stammered.

  “Oh, quite. Quite. As I told you, I have Miss MacTavish in my apartment now. I found her in the house—in the lower hall. I took her to Doctor Blamey,—she’s coming round in first-class shape… But how do you account for the fact, Major,”—Vance looked at the man squarely—“that your dog was in the murder house at the time the crime was committed?”

  “Account for it!” the man blustered excitedly. “I can’t account for it… Good gad! This is incredible! I’m completely bowled over—”

  “But how does it happen, Major,” Vance cut in placidly, “that you haven’t heard of the dog’s absence from Miss Delafield’s apartment—?”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” said the major, and hesitated.

  “Ah, what did you forget to tell me?”

  The major shifted his eyes.

  “I omitted to mention the fact that Miss Delafield sailed for Europe on Wednesday night.”

  “The night Mr. Archer Coe was murdered,” Vance said slowly.

  “Just so,” the major returned aggressively. “The reason I happened to be at her apartment that night was because we were having a farewell dinner, and I was to see her off on the boat.”

  “And how does it happen, Major, that your dog was not returned to your kennels here when Miss Delafield sailed for Europe?”

  “The fact of the matter is”—Higginbottom became apologetic—“Doris—that is, Miss Delafield—on my advice, left the dog in the care of her maid, who was to look after the apartment during her absence.”

  “On your advice?… Why?”

  “I thought it best,” the major explained weakly. “You see, sir, if I brought the dog here it might involve the situation a bit, as I would have to give explanations to my wife when Doris—Miss Delafield—returned from Europe and wished to have the dog back. And, of course—”

  “Ah, yes. I quite understand,” nodded Vance.

  “You see,” Higginbottom continued, “I had expected my wife to go to Europe this fall, but she decided to remain here, and one or two matters of a—ah—confidential nature arose, which made it advisable for me to let Miss Delafield sail to Europe for a short while—until certain little gossip blew over… I’m sure, Mr. Vance, you can comprehend the situation.”

  “Oh, quite. And what time did Miss Delafield sail Wednesday night?”

  “On the Olympic —at midnight.”

  “And you were in the apartment at what time?”

  “I called about six o’clock and we went out immediately. We had dinner—let me see—at a little restaurant—I suppose you might call it a speakeasy—and we remained there until it was time to go to the boat.”

  “What little restaurant was it?”

  Higginbottom knit his brow.

  “Really, Mr. Vance, I can’t remember.” He hesitated. “You know, I’m not certain that it even had a name. It was a small place in the West Fifties—or was it the Forties? It was a place that had been recommended to Miss Delafield by a friend.”

  “A bit vague—eh, what?” Vance let his eyes come to rest mildly on the major. “But thank you just the same. I think I’ll stagger back to New York and have a chat with Miss Delafield’s maid. I’m sure you won’t mind. What, by the by, is her name?”

  The major looked a bit startled.

  “Annie Cochrane,” he said, and then hurried on: “But I say, Mr. Vance, this thing sounds rather serious. Would you mind if I accompanied you to the city? I myself would like to know why Annie didn’t report to me the absence of the dog.”

  “I’d be delighted,” Vance told him.

  We drove back to New York with Major Higginbottom, stopping at the Riviera for a hurried luncheon, and went direct to the Belle Maison.

  Annie Cochrane was a young dark-haired woman in her early thirties, obviously of Irish descent, and when, on opening the door to our ring, she saw Major Higginbottom, she appeared frightened and flustered.

  “Listen here, Annie,” the major began aggressively. “Why didn’t you let me know that Miss Delafield’s dog had disappeared?”

  Annie explained stumblingly that she had been afraid to say anything about the dog’s disappearance, as she considered it her fault that the dog was gone, and that she had hoped from day to day that it would return. The woman was patently frightened.

  “Just when did the dog disappear, Annie?” asked Vance in a consoling tone.

  The woman looked up at him gratefully.

  “I missed her, sir,” she said, “just after Major Higginbottom and Miss Doris went out Wednesday night, at about nine o’clock, sir.”

  Vance turned to Higginbottom with a faint smile.

  “Didn’t I understand you to say that you went out at six o’clock, Major?”

  Before Higginbottom could answer, the maid blurted: “Oh, no; it wasn’t six o’clock. It wa
sn’t until nine o’clock. I got dinner for them here a little after eight.”

  The major looked down and stroked his chin cogitatingly.

  “Yes, yes.” He nodded. “That’s right. I’d thought it was six o’clock, but now I remember. And an excellent dinner you prepared that night, Annie.” He looked up at Vance with a smile of nonchalant frankness. “Sorry to have misinformed you, Mr. Vance. The—ah—incident rather slipped my memory… I had intended to take Miss Delafield out to dinner. But when I arrived Annie had prepared everything for us, so we changed our plans.”

  Vance appeared to accept his explanation without question.

  “And what time did you arrive here that evening, Major?”

  Higginbottom seemed to ponder the question; but before he could speak Annie supplied the information.

  “You arrived about six o’clock, sir,” she informed him with a respectful naïveté. “And Miss Doris came in at half-past seven.”

  “Ah, yes. Quite right, Annie.” The major pretended to be grateful for having this moot point recalled to his memory. “Miss Delafield,” he explained blandly to Vance, “said she had been shopping.”

  “Well, well,” murmured Vance. “I didn’t know the shops were open so late… Astonishin’.”

  The major squinted his small eyes and glanced quickly in Vance’s direction.

  “Oh, I’m quite sure,” he supplied, “that a number of the smaller Madison Avenue shops are open late.”

  Vance apparently did not hear this explanation. He had already turned to the maid.

  “By the by, Annie,” he asked, “was the dog here during dinner?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” the woman assured him. “She always gets under my feet when I’m serving.”

  “And how do you account for the fact that she disappeared immediately after Major Higginbottom and Miss Delafield had gone?”

  “I don’t know, sir—honest I don’t. I looked for her everywhere. I looked out in the back yard and in the court, and I went through every rear hallway in the house. But she wasn’t anywhere.”

  “Why didn’t you look in the street?” Vance asked.

  “Oh, she couldn’t have got into the street,” the maid explained. “She was in the kitchen and the dining-room here, sir; and only the front door of the living-room leads into the main hall. But that was closed and locked after Miss Doris and Mr. Higginbottom went out.”