“A difficult situation,” he said with a formal effort at condolence. “My deepest sympathy goes to you, Kenyon.”
Kenting shrugged despondently.
“You yourself had a pretty close call last night.”
“Oh, well,” the other muttered, “at least I’m safe and sound enough now. But I can’t understand that attack. Can’t imagine who would want to shoot me, or what good it would do anyone. It’s the most incredible thing.”
Kenting threw a sharp look at Vance, but Vance was busying himself with a fresh cigarette and seemed oblivious to the conventional interchange between the two men.
Fleel moved toward the District Attorney’s desk.
“I brought the note I received in the mail this morning,” he said, fumbling in his pocket. “There’s no reason whatever why I should be getting anything like this—unless the kidnappers imagine that I control all the Kenting money and have it on deposit... You can understand that I am greatly disturbed by this communication, and I thought it would be best to show it to you without delay, at the same time explaining to you that there’s absolutely nothing I can do in the matter.”
“There’s no need for an explanation,” said Markham abruptly. “We are wholly cognizant of that phase of the situation. Let’s see the note.”
Fleel had drawn an envelope from his inside coat pocket and held it out to Markham. As he did so his eyes fell on the note that Kenting had brought and which lay on the District Attorney’s desk.
“Do you mind if I take a look at this?” he asked.
“Go right ahead,” answered Markham as he opened the envelope Fleel had given him.
The note that Fleel turned over to Markham was not as long as the one received by Kenting. It was, however, written on the same kind of paper; and it was written in pencil and in the same handwriting.
The few brief sentences struck me as highly ominous:
You have double-crossed us. You have control of the money. Get busy. And don’t try any more foolishness again. You are a good lawyer and can handle everything if you want to. And you had better want to. We expect to see you according to the instructions our letter to Kenting today in this year of our Lord, 1936, or else it will be too bad.*
The interlocking, ink-brushed squares completed the message.
When Markham had finished reading it and handed it to Vance, Vance went through it quickly but carefully and, sliding it into the envelope, laid it on Markham’s desk beside the note which Kenting had brought in, and which Fleel had read and replaced without comment.
“I can say to you, Mr. Fleel,” Vance told him, “only what I have already said to Mr. Kenting—that there is nothing to be done at the present moment. A rational decision is quite impossible just now. You must wait for the next communication—by whatever method it may come—before you can decide on a course of action.”
He rose and confronted the two unstrung men.
“There is much to be done yet,” he said. “And we are most sympathetic and eager to be helpful. Please believe that we are doing everything possible. I would advise that you both remain in your offices until you have heard something further. We will certainly communicate with you later, and we appreciate the cooperation you are giving us... By the by,”—he spoke somewhat offhand to Kenting—“has your money been returned to you?”
“Yes, yes, Vance.” It was Markham’s impatient voice that answered. “Mr. Kenting received the money the first thing this morning. Two of the men in the Detective Division across the hall delivered it to him.”
Kenting nodded in confirmation of the District Attorney’s statement.
“Most efficient,” sighed Vance. “After all, y’ know, Markham, Mr. Kenting couldn’t give the money out unless he had it again in his possession... Most grateful for the information.”
Vance addressed Fleel and Kenting again.
“We will, of course, expect to hear immediately when you receive any further communication, or if any new angle develops.” His tone was one of polite dismissal.
“Don’t worry on that score, Mr. Vance.” Kenting was reaching for his hat. “As soon as either one of us gets the instructions promised in my note, you’ll hear all about it.”
A few moments later he and Fleel left the office together.
As the door closed behind them Vance swung swiftly about and went to Markham’s desk.
“That note to Fleel!” he exclaimed. “I don’t like it, Markham. I don’t at all like it. It is the most curious concoction. I must see it again.”
As he spoke he picked up the note once more and, resuming his chair, studied the paper with far more interest and care than he had shown when the lawyer and Kenting had been present.
“You notice, of course, that both notes were cancelled in the same post-office station as was yesterday’s communication—the Westchester Station.”
“Certainly I noticed it,” Markham returned almost angrily. “But what is there significant about the postmark?”
“I don’t know, Markham,—I really don’t know. It’s probably a minor point.”
Vance did not look up: he was earnestly engaged with the note. He read it through several times, lingering with a troubled frown at the last two or three lines.
“I cannot understand the reference to ’this year of our Lord.’ It doesn’t belong here. It’s out of key. My eyes go back to it every time I finish reading the note. It bothers me frightfully. Something was in the writer’s mind—he had a strange thought at that time. It may be entirely meaningless, or it may have been written down inadvertently, like an instinctive or submerged thought which had struggled through in expression, or it could have been written into the note with some very subtle significance for someone who was expected to see it.”
“I noticed that phrase, too,” said Markham. “It is curious; but, in my opinion, it means nothing at all.”
“I wonder...” Vance raised his hand and brushed it lightly over his forehead. Then he got to his feet. “I’d like to be alone a while with this note. Where can I go—are the judges’ chambers unoccupied?”
Markham looked at him in puzzled amazement.
“I don’t know.” His perturbed, questioning scrutiny of Vance continued. “By the way, Sergeant Heath should be here any minute now.”
“Stout fella, Heath,” Vance murmured. “I may want to see him... But where can I go?”
“You can go into my private office, you damned prima donna.” Markham pointed to a narrow door in the west wall of the room. “You’ll be alone in there. Shall I let you know when Heath gets here?”
“No—no.” Vance shook his head as he crossed the room. “Just tell him to wait for me.” And, carrying the note before him, he opened the side door and went out of the room.
Markham looked after him in bewildered silence. Then he turned half-heartedly to a pile of papers and documents neatly arranged at one side of his desk blotter. He worked for some time on extraneous matters.
It was fully ten minutes before Vance emerged from the private office. In the meantime Heath had arrived and was waiting impatiently in one of the leather lounging chairs near the steel letter files in one corner of the room. When the Sergeant had stepped into the office Markham greeted him with simulated annoyance.
“Our pet orchid is communing with his soul in my private office,” he explained. “He said he may want to see you; so you’d better take a chair in the corner and wait to see what his profound contemplation will produce. Meanwhile, you might look at the note Kenting received this morning.” Markham handed it to the Sergeant. “Another note, received by Fleel, is being submitted to the searching monocle, as it were.”
Heath had grinned at Markham’s sarcastic, but good-natured, comments and sat down as the District Attorney returned to his work.
When Vance reentered the room he threw a quick glance in Heath’s direction. It was obvious he was in an unusually serious mood and seemed unmindful of his surroundings.
“Cheerio, Sergeant,
” he greeted Heath as he became fully aware of his presence. “I’m glad you came in. Thanks awfully for waitin’, and all that... I’m sure you’ve already read the note Kenting received. Here’s the one Fleel brought in.”
And he tossed it negligently to me with a nod of his head toward Heath. His eyes, a little strained and with an unwonted intensity in them, were still on Markham as I stepped across the room to Heath with the paper.
Vance now stood in the center of the room, gazing down at the floor, deep in thought as he smoked. After a moment he raised his head slowly and let his eyes rest meditatively on Markham again.
“It could be—it could be,” he murmured. And I felt that he was making an effort to control himself. “I want to see a detailed map of New York right away.”
“On that wall—over there.” Markham was watching him closely. “In the wood frame. Just pull it down—it’s on a roller.”
Vance unrolled the black-and-white chart, with its red lines, and smoothed it against the wall. After a few minutes’ search of the intersecting lines he turned back to Markham with a curious look on his face and heaved a sigh of relief.
“Let me see that yellow slip you had yesterday, with the official bound’ries of the Westchester Station post-office district.”
Markham, still patiently silent, handed him the paper. Vance took it back to the map with him, glanced from the slip of paper to the chart and back again, and began to trace an imaginary zigzag line with his finger. I heard him enumerating, half to himself: “Pelham, Kingsland, Mace, Gunhill, Bushnell, Hutchinson River...”
Then his finger came to a stop, and he turned triumphantly.
“That’s it! That’s it!” His voice had a peculiar pitch. “I think I have found the meaning of that phrase.”
“What in the name of Heaven do you mean?” Markham had half risen from his chair and was leaning forward with his hands on the desk.
“ ‘This year of our Lord,’ and the numerals. There’s a Lord Street in that outlined section—up near Givans Basin—a section of open spaces and undeveloped highways. And the year 19—” and he gave the other two digits. “That’s the house number—they run in the nineteen-hundreds over near the water on Lord Street. And, incidentally, I note that the only logical way to reach there is to take the Lexington Avenue subway uptown.”
Markham sank slowly back into his chair without taking his eyes from Vance.
“I see what you mean,” he said. “But—” He hesitated a moment. “That’s merely a wild guess. A groundless assumption. It’s too specious, too vague. It may not be an address at all...” Then he added: “You may merely have stumbled on a coincidence—” He stopped abruptly. “Do you think we ought to send some men out there—on a chance?”
“My word, no!” Vance returned emphatically. “That might wreck everything, providin’ we’ve really got something here. Your myrmidons would be sure to give warning and bungle things; and only a moment would be needed for a strategic move fatal to our plans. This matter must be handled differently.”
His face darkened; his eyelids drooped menacingly; and I knew that some new and overpowering emotion had taken hold of him.
“I’m going myself,” he said. “It may be a wild-goose chase, but it must be done, don’t y’ know. We can’t leave any possible avenue of approach untried just now. There’s something frightful and sinister going on. And I’m not at all certain as to what will be found there. I’m a helpless babe, cryin’ for the light.”
Markham was impressed and, I believe, a little concerned at his manner.
“I don’t like it, Vance. I think you should have protection, in case of an emergency—”
Heath had come forward and stood solemnly at one end of the desk.
“I’m going with you, Mr. Vance,” he said, in a voice that was both stolid and final. “I got a feeling you may be needin’ me. An’ I sorta like the idea of that address you figured out. Anyhow, I’ll have something to tell my grandchildren about learnin’ how wrong you were.”
Vance looked at the man a while seriously, and then slowly nodded.
“That will be quite all right, Sergeant,” he said calmly. “I may need your help. And as for finding me wrong: I’m willin’, don’t y’ know—like Barkis. But how are you going to have grandchildren when you’re not even a benedick?*... In the meantime, Sergeant,” he went on, dropping his jocular manner, and jotting down something on a small piece of yellow paper he had torn from the scratch-pad on Markham’s desk, “have this carefully attended to—constant observation. You understand?”
Heath took the yellow slip, looked at it in utter amazement, and then stuffed it into his pocket. His eyes were wide and a look of skepticism and incredulity came into them.
“I don’t like to say so, Mr. Vance, but I think you’re daffy, sir.”
“I don’t in the least mind, Sergeant.” Vance spoke almost affectionately. “But I want you to see to it, nevertheless.” And he met the other’s gaze coldly and steadily.
Heath moved his head up and down, his lips hanging open in disbelief.
“If you say so, sir,” he mumbled. “But I still think—”
“Never mind making the effort, Sergeant.” There was an irresistibly imperious note in Vance’s tone. “But if you disobey that order—which, incidentally, is the first I’ve ever given you—I cannot proceed with the case.”
Heath tried to grin but failed.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. Though he was still awestricken, his tone was subdued. “When do we go?”
“After dark, of course,” Vance replied, relaxing perceptibly. “It’s misty and somewhat overcast today... Be at my apartment at half-past eight. We’ll drive up in my car.”
Again the Sergeant moved his head up and down slowly.
“God Almighty!” he said. “I can’t believe it: it don’t make sense. Anyway,” he added, “I’ll string along with you, Mr. Vance. I’ll be there at eight-thirty—heeled plenty.”
“So you really believe I may be right,” said Vance with a smile.
“Well, I ain’t taking any chances—come what may.”
Footnotes
* I have made one small and wholly immaterial change in transcribing this note. I have used the year in which I am actually writing the record of that memorable case, instead of stating the exact year in which it occurred (which, naturally, was the year given in the note); for I regard it as both unimportant and unnecessary to identify specifically the time at which the events herewith enumerated occurred. If that date has been forgotten, or if it is of any particular interest to the reader of this chronicle, it will not be difficult to find the year by referring to the back files of newspapers, for what has come to be known as the Kenting kidnap case received nation-wide publicity at the time.
* Sergeant Ernest Heath was what is popularly known as a confirmed bachelor. Even when he retired from the Homicide Bureau at fifty, he devoted himself not to a wife, but to raising wyandottes on his farm in the Mohawk valley.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Shots in the Dark
(Friday, July 22; noon.)
VANCE REMAINED IN Markham’s office only a short time after his enigmatic talk with Heath. (I did not regard that brief conversation as particularly momentous at the time, but within a few hours I learned that it was actually one of the most important conversations that had ever passed between these two widely disparate, but mutually sympathetic, men.)
Markham attempted repeatedly, with both cajolery and brusqueness, to draw Vance out. The District Attorney wished particularly to hear what significance Vance attached to the missing alexandrite, and what import he had sensed in the two notes which Kenting and Fleel had brought in. Vance, however, was unusually grave and adamant. He would give no excuse for not expressing freely his theory regarding the case; but his manner was such that Markham realized, as did I, that Vance had an excellent reason for temporarily withholding his suspicions from the District Attorney—and, I might add, from me
as well.
In the end Markham was highly annoyed and, I think, somewhat resentful.
“I trust you know, Vance,” he said in a tone intended to be coldly formal, but which did not entirely disguise his deep-rooted respect for the peculiar methods Vance followed in his investigation of a case, “that, as official head of the Police Department, I can compel Sergeant Heath here to show me that slip of paper you handed him.”
“I fully appreciate that fact,” Vance replied in a tone equally as frigid as Markham’s. “But I also know you will not do it.” Only once, during the investigation of the Bishop murder case, had I seen so serious an expression in Vance’s eyes. “I know I can trust you to do nothing of the kind, and to forgo your technical rights in this instance.” His voice suddenly softened and a look of genuine affection overspread his face as he added: “I want your confidence until tonight—I want you to believe that I have good and specific reasons for my seemingly boorish obstinacy.”
Markham kept his eyes on Vance for several moments and then glanced away as he busied himself a little ostentatiously with a cigar.
“You’re a damned nuisance,” he mumbled, with simulated anger. “I wish I had never seen you.”
“Do you flatter yourself, for one minute, Markham,” retorted Vance, “that I have particularly enjoyed your acquaintance during the past fifteen years?”
And then Vance did something I had never seen him do before. He took a step toward Markham and held out his hand. Markham turned to him without any show of surprise and grasped his hand with sincere cordiality.
The Kidnap Murder Case Page 18