The Gracie Allen Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “The ethics of woman…” Owen began; then lapsed into silence.

  “Have you anything to say before we arrest you, Mirche?” Vance’s tone was low, but it cut like a lash.

  Mirche stared hideously, and his flabby figure seemed to shrink. Suddenly, however, he drew himself up, and shook a quivering finger at Owen. His veins stood out like cords.

  Owen made a small contemptuous noise.

  “Your blood pressure, fool,” he scoffed. “Don’t cheat the gibbet.”

  I doubt if Mirche heard the biting words. Vituperation and profanity poured from him. His wrath seemed to surpass all human bounds. His venom left him a mere automaton—insensate, contorted, repulsive.

  “You think I’ll take the rap for you—without a word! I have knuckled under too long already to your bidding. I carried out your dirty schemes for you. I’ve shut my mouth whenever they tried to twist from me the filthy truth about you. I may go to the chair, Owl—but not alone! I’ll take you and your poisoned, hypnotic brain along with me!”

  He flashed a look at Vance, and pointed anew at Owen.

  “There’s the twisted mind behind it all!… I warned him of the Buzzard’s arrival, and he sent me for the cigarettes. He told me what I must do. I was afraid to refuse—I was in his power…”

  Owen looked at the man with calm derision: he was still aloof and scornful. The play was drawing to a close, and his contemptuous boredom had not abated.

  “You’re an unclean spectacle, Dan.” His lips barely moved.

  “You think I haven’t prepared myself against this moment? You are the fool—not me. I’ve kept every record—names, dates, places—all! For years I’ve kept them. I’ve hidden them where no one can find them. But I know where to find them! And the world will know—”

  Those were the last words Mirche ever spoke.

  There was a shot. A small black hole appeared on Mirche’s forehead between the eyes. Blood trickled from it. The man fell forward over the desk.

  Heath and the two officers, their automatics drawn, started swiftly across the room to the passive Owen who sat without moving, one hand lying limply in his lap, holding a smoking revolver.

  But Vance quickly intervened. His back to the silent figure in the chair, he faced Heath with a commanding gesture. Leisurely he turned, and extended his hand. Owen glanced up at him; then, as if with instinctive courtesy, he turned the revolver round and held it out with meek indifference. Vance tossed the weapon into an empty chair and, looking down again at the man, waited.

  Owen’s eyes were half closed and dreamy. He no longer seemed to be aware of his surroundings or of the sprawled body of Mirche whom he had just killed. Finally he spoke, his voice seeming to come from far off.

  “That would have meant ripples.”

  Vance nodded.

  “Yes. Cleanliness of spirit… But now there’s the trial, and the chair, and the scandal—indelibly written…”

  A shudder shook Owen’s slight frame. His voice rose to a shrill cry.

  “But how can one escape the finite—how cut through the shadow—clean?”

  Vance took out his cigarette case and held it for a moment in his hand; but he did not open it.

  “Would you care to smoke, Mr. Owen?” he asked.

  The man’s eyes contracted. Vance dropped his cigarette case back into his pocket.

  “Yes…” Owen breathed at length. “I believe I shall have a cigarette.” He reached into an inner pocket and drew forth a small Florentine-leather case…

  “See here, Vance!” snapped Markham. “This is no longer your affair. A murder has been committed before my eyes, and I myself order this man’s arrest.”

  “Quite,” Vance drawled. “But I fear you are too late.”

  Even as he spoke, Owen slumped deeper in his chair; the cigarette he had lighted slipped from his lips and fell to the floor. Vance quickly crushed it with his foot.

  Owen’s head fell forward on his breast—the muscles of his neck had suddenly relaxed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Happy Landing

  (Wednesday, May 22; 10:30 a.m.)

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Vance was sitting in the District Attorney’s office, talking with Markham. Heath had been there earlier with his report of the arrest of the Tofanas. Sufficient evidence had been unearthed in the cellar of their house to convict them both—or so the Sergeant hoped.

  Dixie Del Marr had also called, at Markham’s request, to supply such details as were needed for the official records. As there was no question of pressing charges against her for the part she had played in Mirche’s affairs, she was comparatively content when she left us.

  “Really, y’ know, Markham,” Vance remarked, “in view of the woman’s primitive infatuation for Benny Pellinzi, her conduct, as we know it, is quite understandable—and forgivable… As for Mirche, his end was far better than he deserved… And Owen! A diseased maniac. Fortunate for the world he chose so expeditious a way of making his exit! He knew he was dying; and the stalking dread of a vengeful hereafter inspired his act… We may well be content to call the whole matter closed. And, after all, I did give the lunatic a vague promise to guard his aftermath so there should be no ‘ripples,’ as he put it, to follow him.”

  Vance laughed dismally.

  “What does it really matter? A minor gangster is found dead—a quite commonplace event; a major gangster is shot—also an ordin’ry episode; and the guiding light of a criminal band turns felo de se—well, perhaps a rare occurrence, but certainly not important… And anyway, the year’s at the spring; the lark’s on the wing; the snail’s on the thorn—I say! how about some escargots Bordelaise later?”

  As he spoke, the buzzer sounded, and a voice announced the presence of Mr. Amos Doolson in the outer office.

  Markham looked at Vance.

  “I suppose it’s about that preposterous reward. But I can’t see the man now—”

  Vance stood up quickly.

  “Keep him waiting, Markham! An idea smites me!”

  Then he went to the telephone and spoke to the In-O-Scent Corporation. When he hung up the receiver he smiled at Markham. “Gracie Allen and George Burns will be here in fifteen minutes.” He chuckled with genuine delight. If anyone deserves that reward, it’s the dryad. And I’m going to see that she gets it.”

  “Are you out of your mind!” exclaimed Markham in surprise.

  “No—oh, no. Quite sane, don’t y’ know. And—though you may doubt it—I’m passionately devoted to justice.”

  Miss Allen, with Mr. Burns, arrived shortly thereafter.

  “Oh, what a terrible place!” she said. “I’m glad I don’t have to live here, Mr. Markham.” She turned troubled eyes on Vance. “Have I got to go on with my detecting? I’d much rather work at the factory—now that George is back, and everything.”

  “No, my dear,” said Vance kindly. “You have already done ample. And the results you have achieved have been superb. In fact, I wanted you to come here this morning merely to receive your reward. A reward of five thousand dollars was offered to the person who would solve the murder of that man in the Domdaniel. It was Mr. Doolson who made the offer; and he’s waiting in the other room now.”

  “Oh!” For once the girl was too puzzled and stunned to speak.

  When Doolson was ushered in he took one amazed look at his two employees and went direct to Markham’s desk.

  “I want to withdraw that reward immediately, sir,” he said. “Burns came back to work this morning in excellent spirits, and therefore there is no necessity—”

  Markham, who had readily adjusted himself to Vance’s jocular but equitable view of the situation, spoke in his most judicial manner.

  “I regret extremely, Mr. Doolson, that such a withdrawal is entirely out of the question. The case was completed and shelved yesterday afternoon—well within the time limit you stipulated. I have no alternative but to pay that money to the person who earned it.”

  The man’s gorge rose and h
e spluttered.

  “But—!” he began to expostulate.

  “We’re frightfully sorry, and all that, Mr. Doolson,” Vance cut in dulcetly. “But I am sure you will be quite reconciled to your impulsive generosity when I inform you that the recipient is to be Miss Gracie Allen.”

  “What!” Doolson burst forth apoplectically. “What has Miss Allen to do with it? Preposterous!”

  “No,” replied Vance. “Simple statement of fact. Miss Allen had everything to do with the solution of the case. It was she who supplied every important clue… And, after all, you did get back the services of your Mr. Burns today.”

  “I won’t do it!” shouted the man. “It’s chicanery! A farce! You can’t legally hold me to it!”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Doolson,” said Markham, “I am forced to regard the money as the property of the young lady. The very wording of the reward—dictated here by yourself—would not leave you a leg to stand on if you decided to make a legal issue of it.”

  Doolson’s jaw sagged.

  “Oh, Mr. Doolson!” exclaimed Gracie Allen. “That’s such a lovely reward! And did you really do it to get George back to work for the big rush? I never thought of that. But you do need him terribly, don’t you?… And oh, that gives me another idea. You ought to raise George’s salary.”

  “I’ll be damned if I will!” For a moment I thought Doolson was on the verge of a stroke.

  “But just suppose, Mr. Doolson,” Miss Allen went on, “if George got worried again and couldn’t do his work! What would become of the business?”

  The man took hold of himself and studied Burns darkly and thoughtfully for several moments.

  “You know, Burns,” he said almost placatingly, “I’ve been thinking for some time that you deserved a raise. You’ve been most loyal and valuable to the corporation. You come back to your laboratory at once—and we can discuss the matter amicably.” Then he turned and shook his finger wrathfully at the girl. “And you, young woman. You’re fired!”

  “Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Doolson,” the girl returned with smiling nonchalance. “I bet the raise you give George will make his salary as much as his and mine put together now—if you know what I mean.”

  “Who gives a damn what you mean!” And Doolson stalked angrily from the room.

  “I believe,” said Vance musingly, “that the next remark should come from Mr. Burns himself.” And he smiled at the young man significantly.

  Burns, though obviously astonished by the proceedings of the past half-hour, was nevertheless sufficiently clear-headed to understand the import of Vance’s words. Grasping the suggestion offered, he walked resolutely to the girl.

  “How about that proposition I made to you the morning I was arrested?” Our presence, far from embarrassing him, had given him courage.

  “Why, what proposition?” the girl asked archly.

  “You know what I mean!” His tone was gruff and determined. “How about you and me getting married?”

  The girl fell back into a chair, laughing musically.

  “Oh, George! Was that what you were trying to say!”

  There is little more that need be told regarding what Vance has always insisted on calling the Gracie Allen murder case.

  The Domdaniel, as everyone knows, has long been closed, and a few years ago it was replaced by a modern commercial structure. Tony and Rosa Tofana found it expedient to confess, and are now serving time in prison. I do not know what became of Dixie Del Marr. She probably took a new name and left this part of the country, to live quietly far from the scenes of her former triumphs and tragedies.

  Gracie Allen and George Burns were married shortly after that unexpected and amusing proposal in Markham’s office.

  One Saturday afternoon, months later, Vance and I met them strolling down Fifth Avenue. They seemed inordinately happy, and the girl was chatting animatedly, as usual.

  We stopped for a few minutes to speak with them. We learned that Burns had been made a junior officer in the In-O-Scent Corporation; and, much to Vance’s delight, the fact came out that Miss Allen had, for sentimental reasons, presented his card to Mr. Lyons of Chareau and Lyons, when selecting her wedding dress.

  As we walked with them a short distance, Burns, in the midst of a sentence, suddenly stopped, and I noticed that his nostrils dilated slightly as he leaned close to Vance.

  “Farina’s original formula of Eau de Cologne!”

  Vance laughed.

  “Yes. I always bring back a supply from Europe… Which reminds me: this morning I saw in a French magazine the name of a perfume, which, after the indispensable work Mrs. Burns did on our case, you might most appropriately give to the delightful citron-scented mixture you made for her. It was called La Femme Triomphante.”

  Burns grinned proudly.

  “I guess Gracie did help you a lot, Mr. Vance.”

  The girl looked from one to the other with a puzzled frown, and then laughed shyly.

  “I don’t get it.”

  We hope you loved The Gracie Allen Murder Case.

  If Philo Vance is your cup of tea, you may also like Elizabeth Daly’s Henry Gamadge series. Gamadge is a classic gentleman sleuth of the Golden Age—an expert in rare books and documents consulting on high-society crimes. He’s less snooty than Vance but just as intelligent and refined, and Daly’s writing is a treat. She was, notably, Agatha Christie’s favorite mystery author. We’ve included the first few chapters of Unexpected Night (Henry Gamadge #1) to give you a taste—enjoy!

  UNEXPECTED NIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  A Pale Young Man

  PINE TRUNKS IN a double row started out of the mist as the headlights caught them, opened to receive the car, passed like an endless screen, and vanished. The girl on the back seat withdrew her head from the open window.

  “We’ll never get there at this rate,” she said. “We’re crawling.”

  The older woman sat far back in her corner, a figure of exhausted elegance. She said, keeping her voice low: “In this fog, I don’t think it would be safe to hurry.”

  “I should think it would be safer than keeping him up all night.”

  “We’ll see what Hugh thinks.”

  But the speaker did not move immediately. She looked too tired to move. Her face, under the short veil and the close black hat, showed white in the dimness, of the same whiteness as the small pearls in her ears. Presently she leaned forward, her high-collared woollen coat falling softly away and showing the dark silk dress beneath. She put a hand in a white glove on the back of the driver’s seat.

  “Can we go a little faster, Hugh?” she asked. “It’s so late.”

  “It’s this fog.”

  “I think it’s only what they call a sea turn, up here; it will blow over before morning.”

  “Scares me to death. I don’t know the road, and we don’t want any bumps.”

  “Is he all right?” She peered anxiously at what looked like a heap of rugs beside the driver—a heap surmounted by a Panama hat. It stirred, and she asked: “Are you all right, Amby?”

  A voice replied, drowsily: “All right. Been having a nap.” It added, rather crossly: “Don’t be feeble, Hugh. Step on it.”

  The car picked up speed.

  “I’m sorry if I waked you, dear.” The woman’s voice was calm and cheerful, but her gloved hand gripped the edge of the seat in front. “Would you like another little drink of brandy?”

  “No, thanks, Aunt El. Don’t worry about me.” The words were polite, but the tone was dry. “I’ll make it.”

  She sat back, resting her head, trimly encased in the small hat, against the back of her seat. The young man called Hugh kept his eyes on the road, but he nudged the other with an elbow, and slightly shook his head. A face, which had until now been almost entirely hidden between the turned-down hat brim and the turned-up collar of a heavy topcoat, looked upwards and caught the light. It had fine dark eyes, but in all other respects it resembled a death mask that had been
tinted blue, even to the lips. It spoke, with amiable irony:

  “Calm yourself; I’ll be good.”

  “You’d better be, old boy.”

  “I get so sick of all the fussing.”

  “You ought to be grateful for it.”

  “This ‘bring ’em back alive’ business gets on my nerves.”

  “It gets on my nerves when you talk that rot. Insulting people that care for you!”

  “Invalids always get that way. Didn’t you know?”

  “You’ve been spoiled. If you were well, I’d take it out of you. You think you can say anything.”

  “That’s because I can’t do anything. It gets on my nerves.”

  “You and your nerves. If you had any nerves, you wouldn’t be planning this crazy trip, to-morrow.”

  “I’m going, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “I ought to tell your aunt about it.”

  “She couldn’t stop me. I’ll be of age—don’t forget that.”

  “I’m not likely to forget it; you don’t talk about anything else.” The young man paused, and then said, slowly: “You know I don’t run people down, as a rule; but if Atwood had any decency, he wouldn’t let you try it.”

  “He’s all right. He doesn’t keep on lecturing me, anyway.”

  “What’s a tutor for?”

  “You won’t be a tutor much longer.”

  “Don’t remind me of it. I’m trying to get in a few last licks, to-night.”

  The boy hesitated, and then said persuasively: “You know I’ve asked you again and again to come up there with me.”

  “Go barnstorming with you in that summer theatre? Certainly not. I haven’t taken leave of my senses.”

  “There’s nothing crazy about a summer theatre.”

  “There is for you. Look here, Amby; why not let me drive on straight to the hotel? It’s getting on to midnight. You must be pretty well done up after that bad turn you had to-day, and your aunt and sister are half dead.”