He paused a moment, and then reaching upward to one of the lower branches of the tree, he pulled himself up easily. I saw him stand up on the branch, reach over his head to the next one, and draw himself up again. In a moment he had disappeared among the black foliage.
I followed at once, although I had not the skill he displayed—in fact, I had to sit down astride the lower limb for a moment or two before I could work myself upward into the outspreading branches. It was very dark, and I had difficulty keeping a sure foothold while I gave my attention to climbing higher. At last I found a fork-shaped limb on which I could establish myself with more or less comfort, and from which I could see, through various narrow openings in the leaves, in nearly all directions. After a few moments I heard Vance’s voice at my left—he was evidently on the other side of the broad trunk.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “What an experience! I thought my boyhood days were over. And there’s not an apple on the tree. No, not so much as a cherry. A pillow would be most comfortin’.”
We had been sitting in silence in our precarious seclusion for about ten minutes when a corpulent figure, which I recognized as Fleel, came into sight on the pathway to the left. He stood irresolutely opposite the tree for several moments and looked about him. Then he strolled along the footpath, across the greensward, and approached the tree. If anyone had been watching, Fleel must certainly have been observed, for he chose a moment when there was no other person visible within a considerable radius of him.
He paused beneath where I sat twelve or fourteen feet above him, and ran his hand around the trunk of the tree until he found the large irregular hole on the east side; then he took a package from under his coat. The package was about ten inches long and four inches square, and he inserted it slowly and carefully into the hole. Backing away, he ostentatiously relighted his cigar, tossed the burnt match end aside, and walked slowly toward the west, to another pathway at least a hundred yards away.
At that moment I happened to glance toward the narrow path by which we had entered the park and, by the light from a passing car, I suddenly noticed a shabbily dressed man leaning lazily against a bench in the shadows and evidently watching Fleel as he moved away in the distance. After a few moments I saw the same man step out from the darkness, stretch his arms, and move along the pathway to the north.
“My word!” muttered Vance in the darkness, in a low, guarded tone, “the assiduous Fleel has been observed—which is probably what the Sergeant wished. If everything moves according to schedule we shouldn’t have to cling here precariously for more than fifteen minutes longer. I do hope the abductor or his agent is a prompt chappie. I’m gettin’ jolly well worn out.”
It was, in fact, less than ten minutes later that I saw a figure moving toward us from the north. No one had passed along that little-known, illy-lighted pathway since we had taken our places in the tree. At each succeeding light I picked out an additional detail of the approaching figure: a long dark cape which seemed to trail on the ground; a curious toque-shaped, dark hat, with a turned-down visor extending far over the eyes; and a slim walking stick.
I felt an involuntary tightening of my muscles: I was not only expectant, but half frightened. Holding tightly with my left hand to the branch on which I was sitting, I reached into my coat pocket and fingered the butt of the automatic, to make sure that it was handy.
“How positively thrillin’!” I heard Vance whisper, though his voice did not sound in the least excited. “This may be the culprit we’re waitin’ for. But what in the world will we do with him when we catch him? If only he wouldn’t walk so deuced slowly.”
As a matter of fact, the dark-caped figure was moving at a most deliberate gait, pausing frequently to look right and left, as if sizing up the situation in all directions. It was impossible to tell whether the figure was stout or thin, because of the flowing cape. It was a sinister-looking form, moving along in the semidarkness, and cast a grotesque shadow on the path as it proceeded toward us. Its gait was so dilatory and cautious that a chill ran over me as I watched—it was like a mysterious nemesis, imperceptibly but inevitably creeping up on us.
“A purely fictional character,” murmured Vance. “Only Eugene Sue could have thought of it. I do hope this tree is its destination. That would be most fittin’—eh, what?”
The shapeless form was now opposite us and, halting ominously, looked in our direction. Then it peered forward up the narrow winding path and backward along the route it had come. After a few moments the black form turned and approached the cluster of oak trees. Its progress over the lawn was even slower than on the cement walk. It seemed an interminable time before the dim shape reached the tree in which Vance and I were perched, and I could feel cold chills running up and down my spine. The figure was there beneath the branches, and stood several feet from the trunk, turning and gazing in all directions.
Then, as if with a burst of vigor, the cloaked form stepped toward the natural cache on the east side of the trunk and, fumbling round a moment or two, withdrew the package that Fleel had placed there a quarter of an hour earlier.
I glanced apprehensively at the red floodlight on the lamppost Heath had described to us, and saw it flash on and off like a grotesquely winking monster. Suddenly there were wide shafts of white light from the direction of Fifth Avenue splitting the gloom; and the whole tree and its immediate environs were flooded with brilliant illumination. For a moment I was blinded by the glare, but I could hear a bustle of activity all about us. Then came Vance’s startled and awestruck voice somewhere at my left.
“Oh, my word!” he exclaimed over and over again; and there was the sound of his scrambling down the tree. At length I saw him swing from the lower limb and drop gracefully to the ground, like a well-balanced pole-vaulter.
Everything seemed to happen simultaneously. Markham and Fleel and Kenyon Kenting came rushing across the eastern lawn, preceded by Heath and Sullivan.* The two detectives were the first to reach the spot, and they grasped the black-clad figure just as it straightened up to move away from the tree. Each man had an arm tight in his clasp, and escape was impossible.
“Pretty nice work,” Heath sang out with satisfaction, just as I reached the ground and took a tighter hold on my automatic. Vance brushed by me from around the tree and stood directly in front of Heath.
“My dear fellow—oh, my dear fellow!” he said with quick sternness. “Don’t be too precipitate.”
As he spoke, two taxicabs swung crazily along the pedestrian walk on the left with a continuous shrill blowing of horns. They came to a jerky stop with a tremendous clatter and squealing of brakes. Then the two chauffeurs leaped out of the cabs and came rushing to the scene with sub-machine guns poised ominously before them.
Heath and Sullivan looked at Vance in angry amazement.
“Step back, Sergeant,” Vance commanded. “You’re far too rough. I’ll handle this situation.” Something in his voice overrode Heath’s zeal—there was no ignoring the authority his words carried. Both Heath and Sullivan released their hold on the silent figure between them and took a backward step, bumping unseeingly into the startled group formed by Markham, Fleel and Kenting behind them.
The apprehended culprit did not move, except to reach up and push back the visor of the toque cap, revealing the face in the glare of the searchlights.
There before us, leaning weakly and shakily on a straight snakewood stick, the package of false bank notes still clutched tightly in the left hand, was the benign, yet cynical, Mrs. Andrews Falloway. Her face showed no trace of fear or of agitation. In fact, there was an air of calm satisfaction in her somewhat triumphant gaze.
In her deep, cultured voice she said, as if exchanging pleasantries with someone at an afternoon tea:
“How are you, Mr. Vance?” A slight smile played over her features.
“I am quite well, thank you, Mrs. Falloway,” Vance returned suavely, with a courteous bow; “although I must admit the rough limb which I chose in the
dark was a bit sharp and uncomfortable.”
“Truly I am desolated, Mr. Vance.” The woman was still smiling.
Just then a slender form skulked swiftly across the lawn from the nearby path and, without a word, joined the group directly behind the woman. It was Fraim Falloway. His expression was both puzzled and downcast. Vance threw him a quick glance, but took no more notice of him. His mother must have seen him out of the corner of her eye, but she showed no indication that she was aware of her son’s presence.
“You’re out late tonight, Mrs. Falloway,” Vance was saying graciously. “Did you enjoy your evening stroll?”
“I at least found it very profitable,” the woman answered with a hardening voice. As she spoke she held out the package. “Here’s the bundle—containing money, I believe—which I found in the hole of the tree. You know,” she added lightly, “I’m getting rather old for lovers’ trysts. Don’t you think so?”
Vance took the package and threw it to Heath who caught it with automatic dexterity. The Sergeant, as well as the rest of the group, was looking on in stupefied astonishment at the strange and unexpected little drama.
“I am sure you will never be too old for lovers’ trysts,” murmured Vance gallantly.
“You’re an outrageous flatterer, Mr. Vance,” smiled the woman. “Tell me, what do you really think of me after this little—what shall we call it?—escapade tonight?”
Vance looked at her, and his light cynical expression quickly changed to one of solemnity.
“I think you’re a very loyal mother,” he said in a low voice, his eyes fixed on the woman. Quickly his mood changed again. “But, really, y’ know, it’s dampish, and far too late for you to walk home.” Then he looked at the gaping Heath. “Sergeant, can either of your pseudo-chauffeurs drive his taxi with a modicum of safety?”
“Sure they can,” stammered Heath. “Snitkin was a private chauffeur for years before he took up police work.” (I now noticed that one of the two men who had dashed across the lawn with the sub-machine guns, which they had now lowered in utter astonishment, was the same driver who had crossed in front of us as we entered the park.)
“That’s bully—what?” said Vance. He moved to Mrs. Falloway’s side and offered her his arm. “May I have the pleasure of taking you home?”
The woman took his arm without hesitation.
“You’re very chivalrous, Mr. Vance, and I would appreciate the courtesy.”
Vance started across the lawn with the woman.
“Come, Snitkin,” he called peremptorily, and the detective walked swiftly to his cab and opened the door. A moment later they were headed toward the main traffic artery which leads to Central Park West.
Footnote
* A detective of the Homicide Bureau who participated in nearly all of Vance’s criminal investigations.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Another Room
(Thursday, July 21; 11:10 p.m.)
IT WAS BUT a short time before the rest of us started for the Kenting house. As soon as Snitkin had driven off with Vance and Mrs. Falloway, Heath began to dash around excitedly, giving innumerable brusque orders to Burke,* who came ambling toward us across the narrow path from the east. When he had made all his arrangements, he walked to the wide lane where the second taxicab still stood. This cab, I noticed, was manned by the diminutive Guilfoyle,† one of the two “chauffeurs” who came to the tree with sub-machine guns, ready for action.
“I guess we’d better follow Mr. Vance,” Heath growled. “There’s something mighty phony about this whole business.”
Markham, Fleel and young Falloway got into the back seat of the cab; Kenting and I took our places on the two small folding seats forward in the tonneau; and the Sergeant crowded into the front of the cab with Guilfoyle. When the doors were shut Guilfoyle drove off rapidly toward the main roadway on the west side of the park. Nothing was said on that short ride. Everyone, it seemed, was too dumbfounded to make any comment on the unexpected outcome of the night’s adventure.
Markham sat stiffly upright, looking out of the window, a dark frown on his face. Fleel leaned back more comfortably against the cushions in silence, staring straight ahead but apparently seeing nothing. Fraim Falloway crouched morosely in the corner of the seat, with his hat pulled far down over his eyes, his face a puzzled mask; and when I offered him a cigarette he seemed utterly oblivious to my gesture. Once or twice on the way to his home he uttered a cackling, breathless chuckle, as if at some thought that had flashed through his mind. Kenyon Kenting, sitting at my left, seemed weary and distressed, and bent forward with his elbows on his knees, his head bowed in his hands.
Through the plate-glass panel in front of me, I could see the Sergeant bobbing up and down with the motion of the cab, and shifting his cigar angrily from one side of his mouth to the other. Occasionally he turned to Guilfoyle, and I could see his lips move, but I could hear nothing over the hum of the motor; then he would resume his dour and bitter silence. It was obvious he was deeply disappointed and believed all his plans had gone awry for some reason he could not figure out.
After all, the whole incident that night had been unexpected and amazing. I tried to reason out what had happened, but could not fit any of the known factors together, and finally gave the matter up. The climax of the episode was the last thing I could possibly have dreamed of, and I am sure the others felt the same way about it. If no one had come to the tree for the package of supposed bank notes, it would have been easily understandable, but the fact that a crippled old woman had turned out to be the collector of the money was as astonishing as it was incredible. And, to add to everyone’s perplexity, there was Vance’s attitude toward her—which was perhaps the most astounding thing of all.
Where had been the person who sent the note? And then I suddenly remembered the shabby man who had been leaning against the bench on the pathway, watching Fleel. Could this have been the person?—had he seen us at the tree and known that the spot was under observation?—had he lost his courage and gone off without attempting to secure the package of bills?—or was my imagination keyed up to a pitch where I was ready to suspect every stray figure? The problem was far too confusing, and I could not arrive at even a tentative solution.
When we pulled up in front of the Kenting house, which suddenly seemed black and sinister in the semi-dark, we all quickly jumped to the sidewalk and hastened in a body to the front door. Only Guilfoyle did not move; he relaxed a little in his narrow seat and remained there, his hands still at the wheel.
Weem, in a dark pongee dressing robe, opened the door for us and made a superfluous gesture toward the drawing room. Through the wide-open sliding doors we could see Vance and Mrs. Falloway seated. Vance, without rising, greeted us whimsically as we entered.
“Mrs. Falloway,” he explained to us, “wished to remain here a short while to rest before going upstairs. Beastly ascent, y’ know.”
“I really feel exhausted,” the woman supplemented in her low, cultured voice, looking at Markham and ignoring the rest of us. “I simply had to rest a while before climbing those long flights of stairs. I do wish old Karl Kenting hadn’t put such unnecessarily high ceilings in this old house, or else that he had added a lift. It’s very tiring, you know, to walk from one floor to another. And I’m so fatigued just now, after my long walk in the park.” She smiled cryptically and adjusted the pillow behind her back.
At that moment there was a ring at the front door, and Heath went out quickly to answer it. As he swung the ponderous door back, I could easily see, from where I stood, the figure of Porter Quaggy outside.
“What do you want?” Heath demanded bluntly, barring the way with his thick body.
“I don’t want anything,” Quaggy returned in a cold, unfriendly voice; “—if that answer will benefit you in any way—except to ask how Mrs. Kenting is and if you know anything more about Kaspar. I saw you drive past my hotel just now and get off here... Do you want to tell me, or don’t you? ”
> “Let the johnnie come in, Sergeant,” Vance called out in a low, commanding voice. “I’ll tell him what he wants to know. And I also desire to ask him a question or two.”
“All right,” Heath grumbled in a modified tone to the man waiting on the threshold. “Come on in and get an earful.”
Quaggy stepped inside briskly and joined us in the drawing room. He glanced round the room with narrowed eyes and then asked of no one in particular:
“Well, what happened tonight?”
“Nothing—really nothing,” Vance answered casually, without looking up. “Positively nothing. Quite a fizzle, don’t y’ know. Very sad... But I am rather glad you decided to pay us this impromptu visit, Mr. Quaggy. Would you mind telling us where you were tonight?”
The man’s eyelids drooped still lower, till they were almost entirely shut, and he looked down at Vance for several moments with a passive and expressionless face.
“I was at home,” he said finally, in an arctic, aggressive tone, “fretting about Kaspar.” Then he suddenly shot forth, “Where were you?”
Vance smiled and sighed.
“Not that it should concern you in the slightest, sir,” he said in his most dulcet voice, “but—since you ask—I was climbing a tree. Silly pastime—what?”
Quaggy swung about to Kenting.
“You raised the money, Kenyon, and complied with the instructions in the follow-up note?” he asked.
Kenting inclined his head: he was still solemn and perturbed.
“Yes,” he said in a low voice, “but it did no good.”
“A swell bunch of cheap dicks,” Quaggy sneered, flashing Heath a contemptuous glance. “Didn’t anyone show up to collect?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Quaggy.” It was Vance who answered. “Someone called for the money at the appointed hour, and actually took it.”
The Kidnap Murder Case Page 12