The Kidnap Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “And I suppose he got away from the police—as usual. Is that it?” Quaggy had turned again and was contemplating Vance’s bland features.

  “Oh, no. No. We saw to that.” Vance took a long puff on his cigarette. “The culprit is here with us in this room.”

  Quaggy straightened with a start.

  “The fact is,” went on Vance, “I escorted the guilty person home myself. It was Mrs. Falloway.”

  Quaggy’s expression did not change—he was as unemotional and noncommittal as a veteran poker player; but I had a feeling the news had shocked him considerably. Before the man had time to say anything Vance continued lackadaisically.

  “By the by, Mr. Quaggy, are you particularly interested in black opals? I noticed a jolly good pair of them on your desk yesterday.”

  Quaggy hesitated for several moments.

  “And if I am, what then?” His lips barely moved as he spoke, and there was no change in the intonation of his voice.

  “Queer, don’t y’ know,” Vance went on, “that there are no representative black opals in Karl Kenting’s collection. Blank spaces in the case where they should be. I can’t imagine, really, how an expert collector of semiprecious stones should have overlooked so important an item as the rarer black opal.”

  “I get the implication. Anything else?” Quaggy was standing relaxed but motionless in front of Vance. Slowly he moved one foot forward, as if shifting the burden of his weight from an overtired leg. By an almost imperceptible movement his foot came to within a few inches of Vance’s shoe.

  “Really, y’ know,” Vance said with a cold smile, lifting his eyes to the man, “I shouldn’t try that if I were you—unless, of course, you wish to have me break your leg and dislocate your hip. I’m quite familiar with the trick. Picked it up in Japan.”

  Quaggy abruptly withdrew his foot, but said nothing.

  “I found a balas ruby in Kaspar Kenting’s dinner jacket yesterday morning,” Vance proceeded calmly. “A balas ruby is also missing from the collection across the hall. Interestin’ mathematical item—eh?”

  “What the hell’s interesting about it?” retorted the other with a sneer.

  Vance looked at him mildly.

  “I was only wonderin’,” he said, “if there might be some connection between that imitation ruby and the black opals in your apartment... By the by, do you care to mention where you obtained such valuable gem specimens?”

  Quaggy made a noise in his throat which sounded to me like a contemptuous laugh, but the expression on his face did not change. He did not answer, and Vance turned to the District Attorney.

  “I think, in view of the gentleman’s attitude, Markham, and the fact that he is the last person known to have been with the missing Kaspar, it would be advisable to hold him as a material witness.”

  Quaggy drew himself erect with a jerk.

  “I came by those opals legitimately,” he said quickly. “I bought them from Kaspar last night, as he said he needed some immediate cash for the evening.”

  “You knew, perhaps, that the stones were part of the Kenting collection?” asked Vance coldly.

  “I didn’t inquire where they came from,” the man returned sullenly. “I naturally trusted him.”

  “‘Naturally,’” murmured Vance.

  Mrs. Falloway struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on her stick.

  “I’ve suspected for a long time,” she said, “that Kaspar had been resorting to that collection of gems for gambling money. I’ve come down occasionally and gone over the exhibits, and it seemed to me each time there were a few more missing... But I’m very tired, and I’m sufficiently rested now to return to my room...”

  “But, Mrs. Falloway,” blurted Kenting—I had noticed that he had been staring at the woman incredulously ever since we had returned to the house, and he could not, apparently, restrain his curiosity any longer; “I—I don’t understand your being in the park tonight. Why—why—?”

  The woman gave him a withering look.

  “Mr. Vance understands,” she answered curtly. “That, I think, is quite sufficient.” Her gaze shifted from Kenting and she seemed to take us all in with a gracious glance. “Good night, gentlemen...”

  She started unsteadily toward the door, and Vance sprang to her side.

  “Permit me, madam, to accompany you. It’s a long climb to your room.”

  The woman bowed a courteous acknowledgment and, for the second time that evening, took his arm. Fraim Falloway did not rise to assist his mother; he seemed oblivious to everything that was going on. Markham, with a significant look at the Sergeant, left his chair and took the woman’s free arm. Heath moved closer to Quaggy who remained standing. Mrs. Falloway, with her two escorts, went slowly from the drawing room, and I followed them.

  It was with considerable effort that the woman mounted the stairs. She found it necessary to pause momentarily at each step, and when we reached her room she sank into the large wicker armchair with the air of a person wholly exhausted.

  Vance took her stick and placed it on the floor beside the chair. Then he said in a kindly voice:

  “I should like to ask one or two questions, if you are not too weary.”

  The woman nodded and smiled faintly.

  “A question or two won’t do any harm, Mr. Vance,” she said. “Please go ahead.”

  “Why did you make the tremendous effort,” Vance began, “of walking in the park tonight?”

  “Why, to get all that money, of course,” the old woman answered in mock surprise. “Anyway, I didn’t attempt to walk all the way: I took a cab to within a few hundred feet of the tree. Think how rich I would have been had I not been caught in the disgraceful act. And,” she added with a sigh, “you have spoiled everything for me.”

  “I’m frightfully sorry,” said Vance in a bantering manner. “But really, there wasn’t a dollar in that package.” He paused and looked down earnestly at the woman. “Tell me, Mrs. Falloway, how you knew your son intended to go to the tree for that ransom package.”

  For a moment Mrs. Falloway’s face was a mask. Then she said in a deep, clear voice:

  “It is very difficult to fool a mother, Mr. Vance. Fraim knew of the ransom note and the instructions in it. He knew also that Kenyon would raise the money somehow. The boy came upstairs and told me about it after you had left the house this afternoon. Then, when he came to my room a little before ten o’clock tonight, after having spent the evening with his sister and Kenyon, and said he was going out, I knew what was in his mind—although he very often does go out late of an evening. He invented an important engagement—I always know when Fraim isn’t telling the truth, although he doesn’t realize that I do. I knew well enough where he was going and what he was going for. I could read it in his eyes. And I—I wished to save him from that infamy.”*

  Vance was silent for a moment as he regarded the weary old woman with pity and admiration, and Markham nodded sympathetically.

  “But Fraim is a good boy at heart—please believe that,” the woman added. “He merely lacks something—strength of body and spirit, perhaps.”

  Vance bowed.

  “Quite. He’s not well, Mrs. Falloway. He needs medical attention. Have you ever had a basal metabolism test made on him?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “A blood sugar? ” proceeded Vance.

  “No.” Mrs. Falloway’s voice was barely audible.

  “A blood count?”

  Again the woman shook her head.

  “A Wassermann?”

  “The truth is, Mr. Vance,” the woman said, “he has never been examined.” Then she asked quickly: “What do you think it is?”

  “I wouldn’t dare to venture an opinion, don’t y’ know,” Vance returned, “though I’d say there was an endocrine insufficiency somewhere—an inadequacy of some internal secretion, a definite and prolonged hormone disturbance. It may be thyroid, parathyroid, or pituitary, or adrenal. Or maybe neurocirculatory asthenia. It is de
plorable how little science knows as yet about the ductless glands. A great work, however, is being done along those lines, and progress is constantly being made. I think you should have your son checked up. It may be something that can be remedied.”

  He scribbled something on a page from a small notebook and, tearing it out, handed it to Mrs. Falloway.

  “Here is the name and address of one of the country’s greatest endocrinologists. Look him up, for your son’s sake.”

  The woman took the slip of paper, folded it, and put it in one of the large pockets of her skirt.

  “You are very good—and very understanding, Mr. Vance,” she said. “The moment I saw you in the park tonight, I knew you would understand. A mother’s love—”

  “Yes, yes—of course,” murmured Vance. “And now I think we’ll return to the drawing room. And may you have a well-earned night’s rest.”

  The woman looked at him gratefully and held out her hand. He took it and, bowing, raised it to his lips.

  “My eternal admiration, madam,” he said.

  When we reentered the drawing room we found the group just as we had left it. Fleel and Kenyon Kenting still sat stiffly in their chairs near the front window, like awed wooden figures. Quaggy stood smoking thoughtfully before the chair where Vance had sat; and Heath, his sturdy legs spread, was at his side, glowering at him morosely. On the sofa, his head drooping forward, his mouth slightly open, and his arms hanging listlessly, lounged Fraim Falloway. He did not even look up as we entered; and the thought flashed through my mind that he might not be a glandular case at all, but that he was merely suffering from the early stages of encephalitis lethargica.

  Vance glanced about him sharply and then strolled to his chair. Reseating himself with unconcern, he lighted a fresh cigarette. Markham and I remained standing in the doorway.

  “There are one or two matters—” drawled Vance and stopped abruptly. Then he said: “But I think Mrs. Kenting should be here with us for this discussion. After all, it is her husband who has disappeared, and her suggestions might be dashed helpful.”

  Kenyon Kenting stood up, nodding his head vigorously in approval.

  “I think you’re right, Mr. Vance,” he said, going toward the door. “I’ll get Madelaine myself.”

  “I trust it is not too late to disturb her,” said Vance.

  “Oh, no, no,” Kenting assured him. “She almost never retires so early. She has not been able to sleep well for a long time, and reads far into the night. And tonight I was with her till after half-past nine, and she was terribly keyed up; I know she wouldn’t think of retiring till she heard the outcome of our plans tonight.”

  He bustled from the room as he finished speaking, and we heard him going up the stairs. A few moments later we could hear his sharp, repeated knocking on a door. Then there was a long silence, and the sound of a door being opened hurriedly. Vance leaned forward in his chair and seemed to be waiting expectantly.

  A few minutes later Kenting came rushing down the stairs. He stopped in the doorway, glaring at us with wide-open eyes. He looked breathless and horror-stricken as he leaned for support against the door-frame.

  “She’s not there!” he exclaimed in an awed voice. He took a deep breath. “I knocked on her door several times, but I got no answer—and a chill went through me. I tried the door, but it was locked. So I went through Kaspar’s room, into Madelaine’s. The lights are all on, but she isn’t there...”

  He sucked in his breath again excitedly and stammered as if with tremendous effort:

  “The window—over the yard—is wide open, and—and the ladder is standing against it!”

  Footnotes

  *Burke was a detective from the Homicide Bureau, who, as a rule, acted as Sergeant Heath’s right-hand man.

  †Guilfoyle was another detective from the Homicide Bureau, and had helped with the investigation of the “Canary” murder case.

  *Vance’s immediate knowledge regarding the exact truth of the situation, when he recognized Mrs. Falloway beneath the tree that night, was another instance of his uncanny ability to read human nature. I myself was startled by the simplicity and accuracy of his logic as the woman confessed the facts; for Vance had reasoned, almost in a flash, that the crippled old woman, who obviously was not guilty of the crime of kidnapping, could not have summoned sufficient strength for so heroic an act, unless it was on behalf of someone very dear to her and whose welfare and protection were foremost in her mind.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Emerald Perfume

  (Thursday, July 21; 11:30 p.m.)

  KENYON KENTING’S ANNOUNCEMENT that his sister-in-law was gone from her room and that the portentous ladder was standing below the open window had an instantaneous effect upon the gathering in the drawing room. Markham and I had stepped into the room, and instinctively both of us turned to Heath who was, after all, technically in charge of the routine end of the Kenting kidnapping case. The wordless feud which had been going on between Heath and Porter Quaggy was immediately forgotten, and Heath was now directing his fierce glance to Kenting as he stood dejectedly in the doorway.

  Quaggy’s cigarette fell from his lips to the rug, where he stepped on it with automatic quickness, without even looking down.

  “Good God, Kenyon!” he exclaimed, half under his breath. The man seemed deeply moved.

  Fleel rose to his feet and, as he jerked down his waistcoat with both hands, appeared dazed and inarticulate. Even Fraim Falloway raised himself suddenly out of his stupor and, glowering at Kenting, began babbling hysterically.

  “The hell you say! The hell you say!” he cried out in a high-pitched voice. “That’s some more of Kaspar’s dirty work. He’s playing a game to get money, I tell you. I don’t believe he was kidnapped at all—”

  The Sergeant swung about and grabbed the youth roughly by the shoulder.

  “Pipe down, young fella,” he ordered. “Makin’ fool statements like that ain’t gonna help anything.”

  Falloway subsided and made a nervous search through his pockets till he found a crumpled cigarette.

  I myself was shocked and dumbfounded by this startling turn of events. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t yet recovered from the strange adventure in the park, and I was totally unprepared for this new blow.

  Only Vance seemed unruffled and composed. He always had astounding control of his nerves, and it was difficult to judge just what was his reaction to the news of Mrs. Kenting's disappearance.

  Markham, I noticed, was watching Vance closely, and as Vance slowly crushed out his cigarette and got indolently to his feet, Markham blurted out angrily:

  “This doesn’t seem to surprise you, Vance. You’re taking it too damned calmly to suit me. Had you any idea of this—this new outrage when you suggested that Mrs. Kenting be called?”

  “Oh, I rather expected something of the kind, but, frankly, I didn’t think it would happen so soon.”

  “If you expected this thing,” Markham snapped, “why didn’t you let me know, so that we could do something about it?”

  “My dear Markham!” Vance spoke with pacifying coolness. “There was nothing anyone could do. The predicament was far from simple; and it’s still a difficult one.”

  Heath had gone to the telephone, and I could hear him, with one ear, as it were, calling the Homicide Bureau and giving officious instructions. Then he slammed down the receiver and stalked toward the stairs.

  “I want to look at that room,” he announced. “Two of the boys from the Bureau are coming up right away. This is a hell of a night...” His voice trailed off as he went up the steps two at a time. Vance and Markham and I had left the drawing room and were immediately behind him.

  Heath first tried the doorknob of Mrs. Kenting’s room, but, as Kenting had informed us, the door was locked. He went up the hall to Kaspar Kenting’s room. The door here was standing ajar, and at the far end of the room we could see into Mrs. Kenting’s brightly lighted boudoir. Stepping through the first chamber,
we entered the lighted bedroom. As Kenting had said, the window facing on the court was wide open, and not only was the Venetian blind raised to the top, but the heavy drapes were drawn apart. Cautiously avoiding any contact with the windowsill, Heath leaned out at the window, and then turned quickly back.

  “The ladder’s there, all right,” he asserted. “The same like it was at the other window yesterday.”

  Vance was apparently not listening. He had adjusted his monocle and was looking round the room without any apparent show of interest. Leisurely he walked to the dressing table opposite the window and looked down at it for a moment. A round cut-glass powder jar stood uncovered at one side; the tinted glass top was resting on its side several inches away. A large powder puff lay on the floor beneath the table. Vance reached down, picked it up, fitted it back into the jar, and replaced the cover.

  Then he lifted up a small perfume atomizer which was resting perilously near the edge of the dressing table, and pressed the bulb slightly. He sniffed at the spray, and set the bottle down at the rear of the table, on the crystal tray where it evidently belonged.

  “Courtet’s emerald,” he murmured. “I’m sure this was not the lady’s personal preference in perfumes. Blondes know better, don’t y’ know. Emerald is suitable only for brunettes, especially those with olive complexions and abundant hair... Very interestin’.”

  Heath was eyeing Vance with obvious annoyance. He could not understand Vance's actions. But he said nothing and merely watched impatiently.

  Vance then went to the door and inspected it briefly.

  “The night latch isn’t on,” he murmured, as if to himself. “And the turn-bolt hasn’t been thrown. Door locked with a key. And no key in the keyhole.”

  “What are you getting at, Vance?” demanded Markham. “What if there is no key there? The door could have been locked and the key removed.”

  “Quite so—theoretically,” returned Vance. “But rather an unusual procedure just the same—eh, what? When one locks oneself in a bedroom with a key, one usually leaves the key in the lock. Just what would be the object in removing it? Dashed if I know... It could be, however...”