The Kidnap Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  He went across the room and into the bathroom. This room too was brightly lit. He glanced at the long metal cord hanging from the electric fixture, and with his hand tested the weight of the painted glass cylindrical ornament attached to the end of the chain. He released it and watched it swing back and forth. He looked into the tumbler which stood on the wide rim of the washbowl and, setting it down again, examined the washbowl itself, and around the edges. He then bent over the soap dish. Markham, standing in the bathroom doorway, followed his movements with a puzzled frown.

  “What in the name of God—” he began irritably.

  “Tut, tut, my dear fellow,” Vance interrupted, turning to him with a contemplative look. “I was merely attemptin’ to ascertain at just what time the lady departed... I would surmise, don’t y’ know, that it was round ten o’clock this evening.”

  Markham still looked perplexed.

  “How do you figure that out?” he asked skeptically.

  “Indications may be entirely misleadin’.” Vance sighed slightly. “Nothing certain, nothing accurate in this world. One may only venture an opinion. I’m no oracle, Delphic or otherwise. Merely strugglin’ toward the light.” He pointed with his cigarette to the pull-chain of the electric fixture overhead. It was still swinging back and forth like a pendulum, but with a slight rotary motion, and its to-and-fro movement had not perceptibly abated.

  “When I came into the bathroom,” Vance explained, “yon polished brass chain was at rest—oh, quite—and I opined that its movement, with that heavy and abominable solid glass cylinder to control it, would discernibly continue, once it was pulled and released, for at least an hour. And it’s just half-past eleven now... Moreover, the glass here is quite dry, showing that it has not been used for an hour or two. Also, there’s not a drop of water, either in the washbowl or on the edge; and a certain number of drops and a little dampness always remain after the washbowl has been used. And, by the by, the rubber stopper is dry. That process, I believe, would take in the neighborhood of an hour and a half. Even the small amount of lather left on the cake of soap is dry and crumbly, which would point to the fact that it had not been used for at least an hour or so.”

  He took several puffs on his cigarette.

  “And I cannot imagine Mrs. Kenting, with her habit of remaining up late, performing her nightly toilet as early as these matters would indicate. And yet the light was on in the bathroom, and there is a certain amount of evidence that she had been powdering her nose and spraying herself with perfume some time during the evening. Moreover, my dear Markham, there are indications of haste in the performance of these feminine rites, for she did not put the perfume atomizer back where it belongs, nor did she stop to retrieve the powder puff from where it had fallen on the floor.”

  Markham nodded glumly.

  “I begin to see what you are trying to get at, Vance,” he mumbled.

  “And all these little details, taken in connection with the open latch and the unthrown bolt and the missing key in the hall door, lead me—rather vaguely and shakily, I admit—to the theory that she had a rendezvous elsewhere, for which she was a wee bit late, at some time around the far-from-witching hour of ten o’clock.”

  Markham thought a moment. Then he said slowly:

  “But that’s only a theory, Vance. It might have been at any time earlier in the evening after the dusk was sufficiently advanced to make artificial light necessary.”

  “Quite true,” agreed Vance, “on the mere visible evidence hereabouts. But don’t you recall that Kenting informed us only a few minutes ago that he was here at the house with Mrs. Kaspar Kenting until half-past nine this evening? And have you forgot already, my dear Markham, that Mrs. Falloway mentioned that young Fraim had been with his sister until a short time before he had his important engagement at ten o’clock?—which may have accounted for the lady’s flustered state in preparing herself for the rendezvous, provided the assignation was made for ten o’clock. You see how nicely it all dovetails.”

  Markham nodded comprehendingly.

  “All right,” he said. “But what follows from all that?”

  Without answering the question, Vance turned to Heath.

  “What time, Sergeant,” he asked, “did you notify Fleel and Kenyon Kenting about the arrangements for tonight?”

  “Oh,—I should say—” Heath thought a moment. “Round six o’clock. Maybe a little after.”

  “And where did you find these gentlemen?”

  “Well, I called Fleel at his home and he wasn’t there yet. But I left word for him and he called me back in a little while. But I didn’t think to ask him where he was. And Kenting was here.”

  Vance smoked a moment and said nothing, but he seemed satisfied with the answer. He glanced about him and again addressed Heath.

  “I’m afraid, Sergeant, your fingerprint men and your photographers and your busy boys from the Homicide Bureau are going to draw a blank here. But I’m sure you’d be horribly disappointed if they didn’t clutter this room up with insufflators and tripods and what not.”

  “I still want to know,” persisted Markham, “what all this timetable hocus-pocus means.”

  Vance looked at him with unwonted seriousness.

  “It means deviltry, Markham.” His voice was unusually low and resonant. “It means something damnable. I don’t like this case—I don’t at all like it. It infuriates me because it leaves us so helpless. Again, I fear, we must wait.”

  “But we can’t just sit back,” said Markham in a dispirited voice. “Isn’t there some step you can suggest?”

  “Well, yes. But it won’t help much. I propose that first we ask one or two questions of the gentlemen downstairs. And then I propose that we go into the yard and take a look at the ladder.” Vance turned to Heath. “Have you your flashlight, Sergeant?”

  “Sure I have,” the other answered.

  “And after that,” Vance went on, resuming his reply to Markham, “I propose that we go home and bide our time. The Sergeant will carry on with his prescribed but futile activities while we slumber.”

  Heath grunted and started toward Kaspar Kenting’s room, headed for the hallway.

  When we reached the drawing room we found all four of its occupants anxious and alert. Even Fraim Falloway seemed excited and expectant. They were all standing in a small group, talking to each other in short jerky sentences the gist of which I did not catch, for the conversation stopped abruptly, and they turned to us eagerly the moment we entered the room.

  “Have you learned anything?” asked Fraim Falloway, in a semi-hysterical falsetto.

  “We’re not through looking round yet,” Vance returned placatingly. “We hope to know something definite very soon. Just now, however, I wish to ask each of you gentlemen a question.”

  He did not seem particularly concerned and sat down as he spoke, crossing his knees leisurely. When he had selected a cigarette from his platinum-and-jet case he turned suddenly to the lawyer.

  “What is your favorite perfume, Mr. Fleel? ” he asked unexpectedly.

  The man stared at him in blank astonishment, and I am sure that had he been in a courtroom, he would have appealed instantly to the judge with the usual incompetent-irrelevant-and-immaterial objection. However, he managed a condescending smile and replied:

  “I have no favorite perfume—I know nothing about such things. It’s true, I send bottles of perfume to my women clients at Christmas, instead of the conventional flower-baskets, but I always leave the selection to my secretary.”

  “Do you regard Mrs. Kenting as one of your women clients?” Vance continued.

  “Naturally,” answered the lawyer.

  “By the by, Mr. Fleel, is your secret’ry blond or brunette?”

  The man seemed more disconcerted than ever, but answered immediately.

  “I don’t know. I suppose you’d call her brunette. Her hair certainly doesn’t look anything like Jean Harlow’s or like Peggy Hopkins Joyce’s—if that’s
what you mean.”

  “Many thanks,” said Vance curtly, and shifted his gaze to Fraim Falloway who stood a few feet away, gaping before him with unseeing eyes.

  “What is your favorite scent, Mr. Falloway?” Vance asked, watching the youth closely and appraisingly.

  “I—I don’t know,” Falloway stammered. “I’m not familiar with such feminine matters. But I think emerald is wonderful—so mysterious—so exotic—so subtle.” He raised his eyes almost rapturously, like a young poet reciting his own verses.

  “You’re quite right,” murmured Vance; and then he focused his gaze on Kenyon Kenting.

  “All perfumes smell alike to me,” was the man’s annoyed assertion before Vance could frame the question again. “I can’t tell one from another—except gardenia. Whenever I give any woman perfume, I give her gardenia.”

  A faint smile appeared at the corners of Vance’s mouth.

  “Really, y’ know,” he said, “I shouldn’t do it, if I were you.”

  As he spoke he turned his head to Porter Quaggy.

  “And how about you, Mr. Quaggy?” he asked lightly. “If you were giving a lady perfume, what scent would you select?”

  Quaggy gave a mirthless chuckle.

  “I haven’t yet been guilty of such foolishness,” he replied. “I stick to flowers. They’re easier. But if I were compelled to present a fair creature with perfume, I’d first find out what she liked.”

  “Quite a sensible point of view,” murmured Vance, rising as if with great effort and turning. “And now, I say, Sergeant, let’s have a curs’ry look at that ladder.”

  As we walked down the front steps I saw Guilfoyle still sitting at the wheel of his cab, with the motor humming gently.

  Heath flashed on his powerful pocket light, and for the second time we went through the street gate leading into the yard, and approached the ladder leaning against the side of the house.

  The short grass was entirely dry, and the ground had completely hardened since the rain two nights ago. Vance again bent over at the foot of the ladder while Heath held the flashlight.

  “There’s no need to fear my spoiling your adored footprints tonight, Sergeant—the ground is much too hard. Not even Sweet Alice Cherry* could have made an impression on this sod.” Vance straightened up after a moment and moved the ladder slightly to the right, as he had done the previous morning. “And don’t get jittery about fingerprints, Sergeant,” he went on. “I’m quite convinced you’ll find none. This ladder, I opine, is merely a stage-prop, as it were; and the person who set it here was clever enough to have used gloves.”

  He bent over again and inspected the lawn, but rose almost immediately.

  “Not the slightest depression—only a few blades of grass crushed... I say, sergente mio, it’s your turn to step on the ladder—I’m frightfully tired.”

  Heath immediately clambered up five or six rungs and then descended; and Vance again moved the ladder a few inches. Both he and Heath now knelt down and scrutinized the ground.

  “Observe,” said Vance as he rose to his feet, “that the uprights make a slight depression in the soil, even with the weight of only one person pressing upon the ladder... Let’s go inside again and dispense our adieux.”

  On reentering the house Vance immediately joined Kenting at the entrance to the drawing room and announced to him, as well as to the others inside, that we were going, and that the house would be taken over very shortly by the police. There was a general silent acquiescence to his announcement.

  “I might as well be going along myself,” said Kenting despondently. “There is obviously nothing I can do here. But I hope you gentlemen will let me know the moment you learn anything. I’ll be at home all night, and in my office tomorrow.”

  “Oh, quite,” returned Vance, without looking at the man. “Go home, by all means. This has been a trying night, and you can help us better tomorrow if you are able to get any rest now.”

  The man seemed grateful: it was obvious he was much discouraged by the shock he had just received. Taking his hat from the hall bench, he hurried out the front door.

  Quaggy’s eyes followed the departing man. Then he rose and began pacing up and down the drawing room.

  “I guess I’ll be getting along too,” he said finally, with a note of interrogation in his voice. “I may go, I suppose?” There was a suggestion of sneering belligerence in his tone.

  “That’s quite all right,” Vance told him pleasantly. “You probably need a bit of extra sleep, don’t y’ know, after your recent all-night vigil.”

  “Thanks,” muttered Quaggy sarcastically, keeping his eyes down. And he too left the house.

  When the front door had closed after him, Fleel looked up rather apologetically.

  “I trust you gentlemen will not misunderstand my seeming right-about-face this morning regarding the assistance of the Police Department. The fact is, I was entirely sincere in telling you in the District Attorney’s office that I was inclined to leave everything in your hands regarding the payment of the fifty thousand dollars. But on my way to the house here to see Kenting, I weighed the matter more carefully, and when I saw how eager Kenting was to follow the thing through alone, I decided it might be better, after all, to agree with him regarding the elimination of the police tonight. I see now that I was mistaken, and that my first instinct was correct. I feel, after what happened in the park tonight—”

  “Pray don’t worry on that score, Mr. Fleel,” Vance returned negligently. “We quite understand your advis’ry attitude in the matter. Difficult position—eh, what? After all, one can only make guesses, subject to change.”

  Fleel was now on his feet, looking down meditatively at his half-smoked cigar.

  “Yes,” he muttered; “it is, as you say, a most difficult situation...” He glanced up swiftly. “What do you make of this second terrible episode tonight? ”

  “Really, y’ know,”—Vance was covertly watching the man—“it is far too early to arrive at any definite conclusions. Perhaps tomorrow.” His voice faded away.

  Fleel shook himself slightly, as with an involuntary tremor.

  “I feel that we have not reached the end of this atrocious business yet. There appears to be a malicious desperation back of these happenings. I wish I had never been brought into the case—I’m actually beginning to harbor fears for my own safety.”

  “We appreciate just how you feel,” Vance returned.

  Fleel straightened up with an effort and moved forward resolutely.

  “I think I too will be going.” He spoke in a weary tone, and I noticed that his hand trembled slightly as he picked up his hat and adjusted it.

  “Cheerio,” said Vance as the lawyer turned at the front door and bowed stiffly to us.

  Meanwhile Fraim Falloway had risen from his place on the davenport. He now moved silently past us, with a drawn look on his face, and trudged heavily up the stairs.

  Falloway had barely time to reach the first landing when the telephone resting on a small wobbly stand in the hall began ringing. Weem suddenly appeared from the dimness of the rear hall and picked up the receiver with a blunt “hello.” He listened for a moment; then laying down the receiver, turned sullenly in our direction.

  “It’s a call for Sergeant Heath,” he announced, as if his privacy had been needlessly invaded.

  The Sergeant went quickly to the telephone and put the receiver to his ear.

  “Well, what is it?” he started belligerently. “...Sure it’s the Sarge—shoot!... Well, for the love of—Hold it a minute.” He clapped his hand over the mouthpiece and swung about quickly.

  “Where’ll we be in half an hour, Chief?”

  “We’ll be at Mr. Vance’s apartment,” Markham answered after one glance at Heath’s expression.

  “Oh, my word!” sighed Vance. “I had hoped to be reposing.”

  The Sergeant turned back to the instrument.

  “Listen, you,” he fairly bawled; “we’ll be at Mr. Vance’s ap
artment in East 38th Street. Know where it is?... That’s right—and make it snappy.” He banged down the receiver.

  “Important, is it, Sergeant?” asked Markham.

  “I’ll say it is.” Heath stepped quickly away from the telephone table. “Let’s get going, sir. I’ll tell you about it on the way down. Snitkin’s meeting us at Mr. Vance's apartment. And Sullivan and Hennessey will be here any minute to take over.”

  The butler was still in the hall, half standing and half leaning against one of the large newel posts at the foot of the stairs, and Heath now addressed him peremptorily.

  “Some of my men will be here pretty soon, Weem. And then you can go to bed. This house is in the hands of the police from now on—understand?”

  The butler nodded his head dourly, and shuffled away toward the rear of the house.

  “Just a moment, Weem,” called Vance.

  The man turned and approached us again, sulky and antagonistic.

  “Weem, did you or your wife hear anyone go out or enter this house around ten o’clock tonight?” Vance asked.

  “No, I didn’t hear anything. Neither did Gertrude. Mrs. Kenting told both of us that we wouldn’t be needed and could do as we pleased after dinner. We had a long day and were tired, and we were both asleep from nine o’clock till you and Mrs. Falloway rang and I had to let you in. After the others came I got dressed and came down to see if there was anything I could do.”

  “Most admirable of you, Weem,” Vance commended him, turning to the front door. “That’s all I wanted to ask just now.”

  Footnote

  * A famous side-show “fat woman” of the time.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Green Coupé

  (Thursday, July 21; midnight.)

  JUST AS MARKHAM and Heath and I turned to follow Vance, there came, from somewhere outside, a startling and ominous rattle that sounded like the staccato and rapid sputtering of a machine gun. So keyed up were my nerves that the reports went through me with a sickening horror, almost as if it had been the bullets themselves.