The Kidnap Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  Vance smoked a moment before replying. Then he spoke as if the explanation were of no importance:

  “My word, Sergeant! It seems sufficiently indicated.”

  He paused again and looked back meditatively to the District Attorney, who was standing before him, teetering impatiently on his toes.

  “Do you really think, Markham, that your plotting Kaspar would have gone to the Jersey casino to indulge in a bit of gamblin’ on his big night—that is to say, on the night he intended to carry out his grand coup involvin’ fifty thousand dollars?”

  “And why not?” Markham wanted to know.

  “It’s quite obvious this criminal undertaking was carefully prepared in advance. The note itself is sufficient evidence of this, with its letters and words painstakingly cut out and all neatly pasted on a piece of disguised paper.”

  “The criminal undertaking, as you call it, need not necessarily have been prepared very far in advance,” objected Markham. “Kaspar would have had time to do his cutting and pasting when he returned from the casino.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so,” Vance returned at once. “I took a good look at the desk and the wastepaper basket. No evidence whatever of such activity. Moreover, the johnnie’s phone call in the wee hours of the morning shows a certain amount of expectation on his part of getting the matter of his financial difficulties settled.”

  “Go on,” said Markham, as Vance paused once more.

  “Very good,” continued Vance. “Why should Kaspar Kenting have taken three hours to change to street clothes after he had returned from his pleasant evening of desult’ry gambling? A few minutes would have sufficed. And another question: Why should he wait until bright daylight before going forth? The darkness would have been infinitely safer and better suited to his purpose.”

  “How do you know he didn’t go much earlier—before it was daylight?” demanded Markham.

  “But, my dear fellow,” explained Vance, “the ladder was still leanin’ against the tree around dawn, when McLaughlin saw it, and therefore was not placed against the window until after sun-up. I’m quite sure that, had Kaspar planned a disappearance, he would have placed the ladder at the window ere he departed—eh, what?”

  “I see what you mean, Mr. Vance,” Heath threw in eagerly. “And Mrs. Kenting herself told us that she heard someone in the room at six o’clock this morning.”

  “True, Sergeant; but that’s not the important thing,” Vance answered casually. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think it was Kaspar at all whom Mrs. Kenting says she heard in her husband’s room at that hour this morning... And, by the by, Markham, here’s still another question to be considered: Why was the communicatin’ door between Kaspar’s room and his wife’s left unlocked, if the gentleman contemplated carrying out a desperate and important plot that night? He would certainly not have left that door unlocked if he planned any such action. He would have guarded against any unwelcome intrusion on the part of his wife, who had merely to turn the knob and walk in and spoil all the fun, as it were... And, speakin’ of the door, you remember the lady opened it at six, right after hearin’ someone walkin’ in the room in what she described as soft slippers. But when she went into the room there was no one there. Ergo: Whoever it was she heard must have left the room hurriedly when she first knocked and called to her husband. And don’t forget that it is his heavy blucher shoes that are gone—not his slippers. If it had been Kaspar she heard, imitatin’ a slipper-shod gentleman, and if Kaspar had quickly gone out the hall door and down the front stairs, she would certainly have heard him, as she was very much on the alert at that moment. And, also, if he’d scrambled through the window and down the ladder with his heavy shoes on, he could hardly have done so without a sound. But the tellin’ question in this connection is: Why, if the soft-footed person in the master bedroom was Kaspar, did he wait till his wife knocked on the door and called to him before he made a precipitate getaway? He could have left at any time during the three hours after he had come home from his highballs and roulette-playin’. All of which, I rather think, substantiates the assumption that it was another person that the lady heard at six o’clock this morning.”

  Markham’s head moved slowly up and down. His cigar had gone out, but he paid no attention to it.

  “I’m beginning to see what you mean, Vance; and I can’t say your conclusions leave me happy. But what I want to know is—”

  “Just a moment, Markham old dear. Just a wee moment.” Vance raised his hand to indicate that he had something further to say. “If it had been Kaspar that Mrs. Kenting heard at six o’clock, he would hardly have had time, before he scooted off at his wife’s knock, to collect his comb and toothbrush and pajamas. Why should the chappie have bothered to take them, in the first place? True, they are things he could well make use of on his hypothetical jaunt for the purpose of getting hold of brother Kenyon’s lucre, but he would hardly go to that trouble on so vital and all-important a venture—the toilet articles would be far too trivial and could easily be bought wherever he was going, if he was finicky about such details. Furthermore, if so silly a plot had been planned by him he would have equipped himself surreptitiously beforehand and would have had the beautifyin’ accessories waitin’ for him wherever he had decided to go, rather than grabbin’ them up at the last minute.”

  Markham made no comment, and after a moment or two Vance resumed.

  “Carryin’ the supposition a bit forrader, he would have realized that the absence of these necess’ry articles would be highly suspicious and would point too obviously to the impression he would have wished to avoid—namely, his own wilful participation in the attempt to extort the fifty thousand dollars. I’d say, y’ know, that these items for the gentleman’s toilet were collected and taken away—in order to give just this impression—by the soft-footed person heard by Mrs. Kenting... No, no, Markham. The comb and the toothbrush and the pajamas and the shoes are only textural details—like the cat, the shawl-fringe, the posies, the ribbon, and the bandanna in Manet’s Olympia...”

  “Manufactured evidence—that’s your theory, is it?” Markham spoke without any show of aggressiveness or antagonism.

  “Exactly,” nodded Vance. “Far too many leadin’ clues. Really, the culprit overdid it. An embarras de richesses. Whole structure does a bit of topplin’ of its own weight. Very thorough. Too dashed thorough. Nothing left to the imagination.”

  Markham took a few steps up the room, turned, and then walked back.

  “You think it’s a real kidnapping then?”

  “It could be,” murmured Vance. “But that doesn’t strike me as wholly consistent either. Too many counter-indications. But I’m only advancin’ a theory. For instance, if Kaspar was allowed time to change his suit and shoes—as we know he did—he had time to call out, or to make a disturbance of some kind which would have upset all the kind-hearted villain’s plans. Hanging up his dinner jacket so carefully, transferring things from his pockets, and putting away his oxfords in the closet, all indicate leisure in the process—a leisure which the kidnappers would hardly have permitted. Kidnappers are not benevolent persons, Markham.”

  “Well, what do you think happened?” Markham asked in a subdued, worried tone.

  “Really, I don’t know.” Vance studied the tip of his cigarette with concern. “We do know, however, that Kaspar had an engagement last night which kept him out until three this morning; and that upon his return here he telephoned to someone and then changed to street clothes. It might therefore be assumed that he made some appointment to be kept between three and six and saw no necessity of going to bed in the interval. This would also account for the leisurely changing of his attire; and it is highly possible he went quietly out through the front door when he fared forth to keep his early morning rendezvous. Assumin’ that this theory is correct, I’d say further that he expected to return anon, for he left all the lights on. And one more thing: I think it safe to assume that the door from his bedroom into the hall w
as unlocked this morning—otherwise, Mrs. Kenting would have remembered unlocking it when she ordered coffee and went downstairs.”

  “And even if everything you say is true,” argued Markham, “what could have happened to him?”

  Vance sighed deeply.

  “All we actually know at the moment, my dear Markham,” he answered, “is that the johnnie did not come back. He seems to have disappeared. At any rate, he isn’t here.”

  “Even so,”—Markham drew himself up with a slight show of annoyance—“why do you take it for granted that Kaspar Kenting is already dead?”

  “I don’t take it for granted.” Vance, too, drew himself up and spoke somewhat vigorously. “I said merely that I feared the johnnie is already dead. If he did not, as it were, kidnap himself, d’ ye see, and if he wasn’t actually kidnapped as the term is commonly understood, then the chances are he was murdered when he went forth to keep his appointment. His disappearance and the elaborate clues arranged hereabouts to make it appear like a deliberate self-abduction, imply a connection between his appointment and the evidence we observed in his room. Therefore, it’s more than likely, don’t y’ know, that if he were held alive and later released, he could relate enough—whom he had the appointment with, for instance—to lead us to the guilty person or persons. His immediate death would have been the only safe course.”

  As Vance spoke Heath had come forward and stood close to Markham.

  “Your theory, Mr. Vance, sounds reasonable enough the way you tell it,” the Sergeant commented doggedly. “But still and all—”

  Vance had risen and was breaking his cigarette in an ashtray.

  “Why argue about the case, Sergeant,” he interrupted, “when, as yet, there is so little evidence to go on?... Let’s dawdle about a bit longer and learn more about things.”

  “Learn what, and about what things?” Markham almost barked.

  Vance was in one of his most dulcet moods.

  “Really, if we knew, Markham, we wouldn’t have to learn, would we? But Kenyon Kenting, I ween, harbors a number of fruitful items—I’m sure a bit of social intercourse with the gentleman would be most illuminatin’. And then there’s your friend, Mr. Fleel, the trusted Justinian of the Kenting household: I’ve a feelin’ he might be prevailed upon to suggest a few details here and there and elsewhere. And Mrs. Kenting herself might cast a few more rays of light into the darkness. And let’s not overlook old Mrs. Falloway—Mrs. Kenting’s mother, y’ know—who I think lives here. Exceptional old dowager. I met her once or twice before she became an invalid. Fascinatin’ creature, Markham; bulgin’ with original ideas, and shrewd no end. And it could be that even the butler Weem would be willin’ to spin a yarn or two—he appears displeased and restive enough to give vent to some unflatterin’ family confidences... Really, y’ know, I think all these seemingly trivial matters should be attended to ere we depart.”

  “Don’t worry about such things, Vance,” Markham advised him gravely. “They are all routine matters, and they’ll be taken care of at the proper time.”

  “Oh, Markham—my dear Markham!” Vance was lighting another cigarette. “The present time is always the proper time.” He took a few inhalations and blew the smoke forth indolently. “Really, I’m rather interested in the case, don’t y’ know. It has most amazin’ possibilities. And as long as you’ve deprived me of attendin’ the dog show today, I think I’ll do a bit of snoopin’ here and about.”

  “All right,” Markham acquiesced. “What is it you wish to focus your prodigious powers on first?”

  “My word, such flattery!” exclaimed Vance. “I haven’t a single prodigious power—I’m a mere broken reed. But I simply can’t bear not to inspect that ladder.”

  Heath chuckled.

  “Well, that’s easy, Mr. Vance. Come on round to the yard. No trouble getting in from the street.”

  And he started energetically toward the front door.

  Footnote

  * “The Benson Murder Case” (Scribners, 1926).

  CHAPTER FIVE

  On the Rungs of the Ladder

  (Wednesday, July 20; 12:30 p.m.)

  WE FOLLOWED THE Sergeant through the ponderous front door, down the stone steps, and across the flagstones. The sun was still shining brightly, and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. The light was so brilliant that for a moment it almost blinded me after the dimness of the Kenting interior. The Sergeant led the way thirty or forty feet east, along the sidewalk, until he came to the small gate in the low iron fence which divided the attractively sodded court of the Kenting house from the street. The gate was not on the latch, but stood slightly ajar, and the Sergeant pushed it wide open with his foot.

  Heath was first to enter the enclosure, and he walked ahead with arms outstretched, holding us back from a too precipitate intrusion, like a prudent brood-hen guiding her recalcitrant and over-ambitious chicks.

  “Don’t come too close,” he admonished us with a solemn air. “There are footprints at the bottom of the ladder and we gotta save ’em for Cap Jerym’s* plaster casts.”

  “Well, well,” smiled Vance. “Maybe you’ll permit me to come as near as Captain Jerym will have to go to perform his sculpture?”

  “Sure.” Heath grinned. “But I don’t want them footprints interfered with. They may be the best clue we’ll get.”

  “Dear me!” sighed Vance. “As important as all that, Sergeant?”

  Heath leaned forward and scowled as Vance stood beside him.

  “Look at this one, Mr. Vance,”—and the Sergeant pointed to an impression in the border of the hedge within a foot of where the ladder stood.

  “My word!” exclaimed Vance. “I’m abominably flattered by even such consideration as letting me come within viewing distance of the bally footprints.” Again taking out his monocle he adjusted it carefully and, kneeling down on the lawn, inspected the imprint. He took several moments doing so, and a puzzled frown slowly spread over his face as he carefully scrutinized the mark in the neatly raked soil of the hedge.

  “You know, sir, we was lucky,” Heath asserted. “It drizzled most of yesterday afternoon, and around about eight o’clock last night it got to raining pretty hard, though it did clear up before midnight.”

  “Really, Sergeant! I knew it only too well!” Vance did not look up. “I planned to go to the tennis matches at Forest Hills yesterday afternoon, to see young Henshaw† play, but I simply couldn’t bear the inclement weather.” He said nothing more for several moments—his entire interest seemed to be centered on the footprint he was inspecting. At length he murmured without turning: “Rather small footprint here—eh, what?”

  “I’ll say it is,” agreed Heath. “Mighta been a dame. And it looks like it was made with flat slippers of some kind. There’s no heel mark.”

  “No, no heel mark,” agreed Vance abstractedly. “As you say, no heel mark. Quite right. Obvious, in fact. Curious. I wonder...”

  He leaned closer to the impression in the sod of the hedge, and went on:

  “But really, y’ know, I shouldn’t say the print was made by a slipper—unless, of course, you wish to call a sandal a slipper.”

  “Is that it, Mr. Vance?” The Sergeant was half contemptuous and half interested.

  “Yes, yes; rather plain,” Vance returned in a low voice. “Not an ordin’ry sandal, either. A Chinese sandal I’d say. Slightly turned-up tip.”

  “A Chinese sandal?” Heath’s tone was almost one of ridicule now.

  “More than likely, don’t y’ know.” Vance rose and brushed the soil from his trousers.

  “I suppose you’ll be telling us next that this whole case is just another Tong war.” Heath evidently did not deem Vance’s conclusion worthy of serious consideration.

  Vance was still leaning forward, rubbing vigorously at a spot on one knee. He stopped suddenly and, ignoring the Sergeant’s raillery, leaned still farther forward.

  “And, by Jove! here’s another imprint.” He pointed with his cig
arette to a slight depression in the lawn just at the foot of the ladder.

  The Sergeant leaned over curiously.

  “So it is, sir!” he exclaimed, and his tone had become respectful. “I didn’t see that one before.”

  “It really doesn’t matter, y’ know. Similar to the other one.” Vance stepped past Heath and grasped the ladder with both hands.

  “Look out, sir!” cautioned Heath angrily. “You’ll make fingerprints on that ladder.”

  Vance relaxed his hold on the ladder momentarily, and turned to Heath with an amused smile.

  “I’ll at least give Dubois and Bellamy something to work on,” he said lightly. “I fear there won’t be any other fingerprints on this irrelevant exhibit. And it will be rather difficult to pin the crime on me. I’ve an unimpeachable alibi. Sittin’ at home with Van Dine here, and readin’ a bedtime story from Boccaccio.”

  Heath was spluttering. Before he could answer, Vance turned, grasped the ladder again, and lifted it so that its base was clear of the ground. Then he set it down several inches to the right.

  “Really, Sergeant, you have nothing whatever to be squeamish about. Cheer up, and be more trustin’. Consider the lilies, and don’t forget that the snail’s on the thorn.”

  “What’s lilies and snails gotta do with it? ” demanded Heath irritably. “I’m tryin’ to tell you—”

  Before the Sergeant could protest Vance had thrown his cigarette carelessly away and was moving quickly up the ladder, rung by rung. When he was about three-quarters of the way up he stopped and made his way down. When he had descended and stood again on the lawn, he carefully and deliberately lighted another cigarette.

  “I’m rather afraid to look and see just what happened. It would be most humiliatin’ if I were wrong. However...”

  Again he lifted the ladder and moved it still farther to the right. Then he went a second time on his knees and inspected the new imprints which the two uprights of the ladder had made in the ground. After a moment he looked studiously at the original imprints of the ladder; and I could see that he was comparing the two sets.