The Kidnap Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  Fleel stood up and bowed stiffly.

  “You can always reach me through my office during the day, or through my home in the evening.” He took an engraved card from his pocket and handed it to Vance. “There are my phone numbers, sir... I think I shall remain a while with Mrs. Kenting and Kenyon.” And he went from the den.

  Markham, looking serious and puzzled, held Vance back.

  “What do you make of that discrepancy in the amount, Vance?” he asked in a gruff, lowered tone.

  “My dear Markham!” Vance shook his head solemnly. “There are many things we cannot make anything of at the present moment. One never knows—does one?—at this stage of the game. Perhaps young Kaspar, having failed with his brother, reduced the ante, as it were, in approaching Fleel, thinking he might get better results at the lower figure. Curious though; the amount demanded in the ransom note corresponds to what he told Kenyon he needed. On the other hand—I wonder... However, let’s commune with the butler before we toddle on.”

  Vance went to the door and opened it. Just outside stood Weem, bending slightly forward, as if he had been eavesdropping. Instead of showing any signs of embarrassment, the man looked up truculently and turned away.

  “See here, Weem,” Vance halted him. “Step inside a moment,” he said with an amused smile. “You can hear better; and, anyway, there are one or two questions we’d like to put to you.”

  The man turned back without a word and entered the den with an air of sulkiness. He looked past us all with his watery eyes and waited.

  “Weem, how long have you been the Kenting butler?” asked Vance.

  “Going on three years,” was the surly response.

  “Three years,” repeated Vance thoughtfully. “Good... Have you any ideas, Weem, as to what happened here last night?” Vance reached in his pocket for his cigarette case.

  “No, sir; none whatever,” the butler returned, without looking at any of us. “But nothing would surprise me in this house. There are too many people who’d like to get rid of Mr. Kaspar.”

  “Are you, by any chance, one of them?” asked Vance lightly, watching the other with faint amusement.

  “I’d just as soon never see him again.” The answer came readily, in a disgruntled, morose tone.

  “And who else do you think feels the same way about Mr. Kaspar Kenting?” Vance went on.

  “Mrs. Falloway and young Mr. Falloway have no love for him, sir.” There was no change in the man’s tone. “And even Mrs. Kenting herself has had more than enough of him, I think. She and Mr. Kenyon are very good friends—and there was never any great love between the two brothers... Mr. Kaspar is a very difficult man to get along with—he is very unreasonable. Other people have some rights, sir; but he doesn’t think so. He’s the kind of man that strikes his wife when he has too much to drink—”

  “I think that will be all,” Vance broke in sharply. “You’re an unspeakable gossip, Weem.” He turned away with a look of keen distaste, and the butler shuffled from the room without any sign of displeasure or offense.

  “Come, Markham,” said Vance. “Let’s get out into the air. I don’t like it in this house—I don’t at all like it.”

  “But it strikes me—” began Markham.

  “Oh, don’t let your conscience bother you,” interrupted Vance. “The only course we can possibly take is to wait for the next step on the part of our dire plotters.” Although Vance spoke in a bantering tone, it was obvious from the deliberate way he lighted a cigarette that he was deeply troubled. “Something will happen soon, Markham. The next move will be expertly engineered, I’ll wager. The case is by no means ended with this concocted kidnappin’. Too many loose ends—oh, far too many.” He moved across the room. “Patience, my dear chap.” He threw the admonition lightly over his shoulder to Markham. “We’re supposed to be bustlin’ with various anticipated activities. Someone is hopin’ we’ll take just the route indicated for us and thus be led entirely off the track. But, I say, let’s not be gullible. Patience is our watchword. Patience and placidity. Nonchalance. Let the other johnnies make the next move. Live patiently and learn. Imitate the mountain—Mohammed is trudgin’ your way.”

  Markham stood still in the center of the room, looking down at the worn early American art square. He seemed to be pondering something that bothered him.

  “See here, Vance,” he said after a brief silence, lifting his head and looking squarely at the other. “You speak of ‘plotters’ and ‘johnnies’—both plural. You really think, then, that this damnable situation is the doing of more than one person?”

  “Oh, yes—undoubtedly,” Vance returned readily. “Far too many diverse activities for just one. A certain coordination was needed—and one person cannot be in two different places at the same time, don’t y’ know. Oh, undoubtedly more than one person. One lured the gentleman away from the house; another—possibly two—took care of the chappie at the place appointed by the first; and I rather think it more than likely there was at least another who arranged the elaborate setting in Kaspar’s room—but this is not necess’rily correct, as any one of the three might have returned for the stage setting and been the person that Mrs. Kenting heard in the bedroom.”

  “I see what you mean.” Markham nodded laboriously. “You’re thinking of the two men whom McLaughlin saw in the car in the street here this morning.”

  “Oh, yes. Quite.” Vance’s response was spoken casually. “They fit into the picture nicely. But neither of them was a small man, and I doubt if either of them was the ladder-climber in the smallish Chinese sandals. Considerable evidence against that conclusion. That is why I say I’m inclined to think that there may have been still another helper who attended to the details of the boudoir setting—makin’ four in all.”

  “But, good heavens!” argued Markham; “if there were several persons involved in the affair, it may be just another gang kidnapping, after all.”

  “It’s always possible, of course, despite the contr’ry indications,” Vance returned. “However, Markham, although I have said that there were undoubtedly several persons taking part in the execution of the plot, I am thoroughly convinced there is only a single mind at work on the case—the main organizing culprit, so to speak—someone who merely secured the necess’ry help—what the newspapers amusingly designate as a mastermind. And the person who planned and manipulated this whole distressin’ affair is someone who is quite intimately au courant with the conditions in the Kenting house here. The various episodes have dovetailed together far too neatly to have been managed by an outsider. And really, y’ know, I hardly think that the Purple House harbors, or is in any way related to, a professional kidnapper.”

  Markham shook his head skeptically.

  “Granting,” he said, “for the sake of hypothesis, that you are correct so far, what could have been the motive for such a dastardly act by anyone who was close to Kaspar?”

  “Money—unquestionably money,” Vance ventured. “The exact amount named in the pretty little kindergarten paste-and-paper note attached to the windowsill... Oh, yes; that was a very significant item. Someone wishes the money immediately. It is urgently needed. I rather think a genuine kidnapper—and especially a gang of kidnappers operating for themselves—would not have been so hasty in stating the exact sum, but would have let that little detail wait until a satisfact’ry contact was established and negotiations were definitely underway. And of course, if it had really been Kaspar who had abducted himself for the sake of the gain, the note could be easily understood; but once we eliminate Kaspar as the author of this crime, then we are confronted with the necessity of evolving an entirely new interpretation of the facts. The crime then becomes one of desperation and immediacy, with the money as an imperative desideratum.”

  “I am not so sure you are right this time, Vance,” said Markham seriously.

  Vance sighed.

  “Neither am I, Markham old dear.” He went to the door and opened it. “Let’s move along.” And h
e walked up the hall.

  Vance stopped at the drawing room door, bade the occupants a brief farewell; and a minute later we were descending the outside steps of the house into the noonday sunshine of the street.

  We entered the District Attorney’s car and drove toward Central Park. When we had almost reached the corner of Central Park West, Vance leaned forward suddenly and, tapping the chauffeur on the shoulder, requested him to stop at the entrance to the Nottingham Hotel which we were just passing.

  “Really, y’ know, Markham,” he said as he stepped out of the car, “I think it might be just as well if we paid a little visit to the as-yet-unknown Mr. Quaggy. Queer name—what? He was the last person known to have been with young Kaspar. He’s a gentleman of means and a gentleman of leisure, as well as a gentleman of nocturnal habits. He may be at home, don’t y’ know... But I think we’d better go directly to his apartment without apprising him of the visit by being announced.” He turned to Heath. “I am sure you can manage that, Sergeant—unless you forgot to bring your pretty gilt badge with you this morning.”

  Heath snorted.

  “Sure, we’ll go right to his rooms, if that’s what you want, Mr. Vance. Don’t you worry about that. This ain’t the first time I’ve had to handle these babies in a hotel.”

  Heath was as good as his word. We had no difficulty in obtaining the number of Quaggy’s apartment and being taken up in the elevator without an announcement.

  In answer to our ringing, the door was opened by a generously proportioned colored woman, in a Hoover apron and an old stocking tied round her head.

  “We want to see Mr. Quaggy.” Heath’s manner was as intimidating as it was curt.

  The negress looked frightened.

  “I don’t think Mr. Quaggy—” she began in a tremulous voice.

  “Never mind what you think.” Heath cut her short. “Is your boss here, or isn’t he?” He flashed his badge. “We’re from the police.”

  “Yes, sir; yes, sir. He’s here.” The woman was completely cowed by this time. “He’s in the sittin’ room, over yonder.”

  The Sergeant brushed past her to the archway at the end of the foyer, toward which she waved her arm. Markham, Vance and I followed him.

  The room into which we stepped was comfortably and expensively furnished, differing little from the conventional exclusive hotel-apartment living room. There was a mahogany cellarette near a built-in modern fireplace, comfortable overstuffed chairs covered with brocaded satin that was almost colorless, a baby grand piano in one corner, two parchment-shaded table lamps with green pottery bases, and a small glass-doored Tudor bookcase filled with colorful assorted volumes. At the front end of the room were two windows facing on the street, hung with heavy velour drapes and topped with scrolled-metal cornices.

  As we entered, a haggard, dissipated-looking man of about forty rose from a low lounging chair in one corner of the room. He seemed both surprised and resentful at our intrusion. He was an attractive man, with finely chiseled features, but not a man whom one could call handsome. He was unmistakably the gambler type—that is, the type one sees habitually at gaming houses and the racetrack. There was weariness and pallor in his face that morning, and his eyelids were edematous and drawn down at the corners, like those of a man suffering with Bright’s disease. He was still in evening clothes, and his linen was the worse for wear. He wore patent leather pumps which showed distinct traces of dried mud.

  Before he could speak Vance addressed him courteously.

  “Forgive our unceremonious entry. You’re Mr. Porter Quaggy, I believe?”

  The man’s eyes became cold.

  “What if I am?” he demanded. “I don’t understand why you—”

  “You will in a moment, sir,” Vance broke in ingratiatingly. And he introduced himself, as well as Markham and Heath and me. “We have just come from the Kentings’ down the street,” he went on. “A calamity took place there early this morning, and we understand from Mrs. Kaspar Kenting that Mr. Kenting was with you last night.”

  Quaggy’s eyes narrowed to mere slits.

  “Has anything happened to Kaspar?” he asked. He turned to the cellarette and poured himself a generous drink of whiskey. He gulped it down and repeated his question.

  “We’ll get to that later,” Vance replied. “Tell me, what time did you and Mr. Kenting get home last night?”

  “Who said I was with him when he came home?” The man was obviously on his guard.

  “Mrs. Kenting informed us that you and her husband went together to the opening of a casino in Jersey last night, and that Mr. Kenting returned somewhere around three o’clock in the morning. Is that correct?”

  The man hesitated.

  “Even if it is true, what of it?” he asked after a moment.

  “Nothing—really nothing of any importance,” murmured Vance. “Just lookin’ for information. I note you’re still bedecked in your evenin’ togs. And your pumps are a bit muddy. It hasn’t rained since yesterday, don’t y’ know. Offhand, I’d say you’d been sittin’ up all night.”

  “Isn’t that my privilege?” grumbled the other.

  “I think you’d better do some straight talking, Mr. Quaggy,” put in Markham angrily. “We’re investigating a crime, and we haven’t time to waste. You’ll save yourself a lot of trouble, too. Unless, of course, you’re afraid of implicating yourself. In that event, I’ll allow you time to communicate with your attorney.”

  “Attorney hell!” snapped Quaggy. “I don’t need any lawyers. I’ve nothing to be afraid of, and I’ll speak for myself... Yes, I went with Kaspar last night to the new casino in Paterson, and we got back, as Mrs. Kenting says, around three o’clock—”

  “Did you go to the Kenting house with Mr. Kenting?” asked Vance.

  “No; our cab came down Central Park West, and I got out here. I wish now I had gone with him. He asked me to—said he was worried as the devil about something, and wanted to put me up for the night. I thought he was stewed, and didn’t pay any attention to him. But after he had gone on, I got to thinking about what he’d said—he’s always getting into trouble of one kind or another—and I walked down there about an hour later. But everything seemed all right. There was a light in Kaspar’s room, and I merely figured he hadn’t gone to bed yet. So I decided not to disturb him.”

  Vance nodded understandingly.

  “Did you, by any chance, step into the side yard?”

  “Just inside the gate,” the other admitted.

  “Was the side window of his room open? And was the blind up?”

  “The window might have been open or shut, but the blind was down. I’m sure of that because the light was coming from around the edges.”

  “Did you see a ladder anywhere in the court?”

  “A ladder? No, there was no ladder. What would a ladder be doing there?”

  “Did you remain there long, Mr. Quaggy?”

  “No. I came back here and had a drink.”

  “But you didn’t go to bed, I notice.”

  “It’s every man’s privilege to sit up if he wants to, isn’t it?” Quaggy asked coldly. “The truth is, I began to worry about Kaspar. He was in a hell of a mood last night—all steamed up. I never saw him just that way before. To tell you the truth, I half expected something to happen to him. That’s why I went down to the house.”

  “Was it only Mr. Kaspar Kenting that you were thinking about?” Vance inquired with a shrewd, fixed look. “I understand you’re a close friend of the family and are very highly regarded by Mrs. Kenting.”

  “Glad to know it,” muttered the man, meeting Vance’s gaze squarely. “Madelaine is a very fine woman, and I should hate to see anything happen to her.”

  “Thanks awfully for the information,” murmured Vance. “I think I see your point of view perfectly. Well, your premonitions were quite accurate. Something did happen to the young gentleman, and Mrs. Kenting is frightfully distressed.”

  “Is he all right?” asked Quag
gy quickly.

  “We’re not sure yet. The fact is, Mr. Quaggy, your companion of yestereve has disappeared—superficial indications pointin’ to abduction.”

  “The hell you say!” The man showed remarkable control and spoke without change of expression.

  “Oh, yes—quite,” Vance said disinterestedly.

  Quaggy went to the cellarette again and poured himself another drink of whiskey. He offered the bottle to us all in general, and getting no response from us, replaced it on the stand.

  “When did this happen?” he asked between swallows of the whiskey.

  “Oh, early this morning some time,” Vance informed him. “That’s why we’re here. Thought maybe you could give us an idea or two.”

  Quaggy finished the remainder of his glass of whiskey.

  “Sorry, I can’t help you,” he said as he put down the glass. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “That’s frightfully good of you,” said Vance indifferently. “We may want to talk to you later, however.”

  “That’s all right with me.” The man turned, without looking up from the liquor stand. “Ask me whatever you want whenever you damn please. But it won’t get you anywhere, for I’ve already told you all I know.”

  “Perhaps you’ll recall an additional item or two when you are rested.”

  “If you mean when I’m sober, why don’t you say so?” Quaggy asked with annoyance.

  “No, no, Mr. Quaggy. Oh, no. I think you’re far too shrewd and cautious a man to permit yourself the questionable luxury of inebriety. Clear head always essential, don’t y’ know. Helps no end in figuring percentages quickly.”

  Vance was at the archway now, and I was just behind him. Markham and Heath had already preceded us. Vance paused for a moment and looked down at a small conventional desk which stood near the entrance. Quickly he adjusted his monocle and scrutinized the desk. On it lay a crumpled piece of tissue paper in the center of which reposed two perfectly matched dark stones, with a remarkable play of color in them—a pair of black opals!