Philo Vance 12 Novels Complete Bundle

by S. S. Van Dine

  Vance leaped to his feet.

  "The suit-case--that's it! What would he have done with the suit-case if he had not taken the early train and had intended to go on to Chicago later. . . ?"

  "He'd have checked it in the station, wouldn't he?" asked Heath contemptuously.

  "Exactly!" Vance wheeled to Gamble. "Describe that suit-case."

  "It was quite an ordinary case, sir," the man replied in a dazed tone. "Black seal-skin, leather lined, with rounded corners, and the initials 'B. C' in gold letters on one end."

  Vance turned back to Heath.

  "Can you check on that in the parcel room at the station, Sergeant? It's important."

  Heath looked interrogatively toward Markham, and received a significant nod.

  "Sure I can," he said. He beckoned Snitkin with a jerk of the head. "Got the dope?"

  The detective grinned.

  "Hell, yes," he rumbled. "A cinch."

  "Then hop to it," ordered Heath. "And phone me pronto. . . . Make it snappy."

  Snitkin disappeared from the room with an alacrity that seemed out of all keeping with his bulk.

  Markham drummed nervously on the desk and fixed a sombre, inquisitive gaze on Vance who was now standing by one of the east windows looking meditatively out into the October sunshine.

  "Where do you think Brisbane Coe fits into this affair?" he asked.

  "I don't know--I'm not sure." Vance spoke quietly, without turning. "But many strange things happened here last night. Certain plans went awry. Events overlapped one another. Nothing happened on schedule. And until we know more of the preliminaries, we'll merely go on plunging around in the dark."

  "But Brisbane Coe," persisted Markham.

  Vance turned slowly back to the room.

  "There has always been bad blood between Archer and Brisbane, for some reason. I've never understood it. It wasn't merely the antagonism of similar temperaments. It went deeper than that. . . . By the by, maybe Miss Lake could enlighten us while we're waiting for Snitkin's call. . . . I say, Gamble; ask the young lady to be good enough to join us here."

  The butler went out, and we could hear him mounting the stairs to the third floor.

  Five minutes later Hilda Lake came swinging into the room, dressed in a dazzling yellow bouclé sport suit.

  "Sorry to have kept you waiting and all the usual amenities," she said, sitting down and crossing her knees; "but I hadn't quite finished doffing my golf togs when the far-from-admirable Crichton summoned me. Anyway, I should be furious with you. Why was I denied my muffins and tea?"

  Vance apologized.

  "We've been using Gamble a bit intensively."

  "Oh, he's full of the family's scandals. I sincerely hope he never takes it into his head to turn blackmailer. He'd impoverish us. . . . Did you get many racy items from him?"

  "Alas, no!" Vance sighed with simulated lugubriousness. "The fact is, Gamble has been passionately upholding the honor of the Coes."

  Hilda Lake looked at Gamble with comical amazement.

  "You positively stagger me, Gamble. I'll speak to Uncle Brisbane today and have your wages raised."

  "In the meantime," said Vance, "I'm sure you're hungry. . . . Gamble, take tea and muffins to Miss Lake's quarters." The man, who had been standing in the door, bowed and disappeared; and Vance turned pleasantly back to Miss Lake. "By the time your breakfast is ready we will let you return to your rooms." Then he added with a serious mien. "There are a few questions we'd like you to answer."

  She gave Vance a cold look, and waited with imperturbable calm.

  "What was the cause," he asked, "of the animosity between Archer and Brisbane Coe?"

  "Oh, that!" A cynical smile curled her lips. "Money--nothing else. Old Major Coe left everything to Uncle Archer. Uncle Brisbane had only an allowance--until Uncle Archer should die. Then the money was to go to him. The situation naturally irked him, and he got pretty nasty about it at times. It amused me no end,--I was in the same predicament. The fact is, I've often been tempted to make an alliance with Uncle Brisbane for the purpose of murdering Uncle Archer. Together we could have got away with it, don't you think?"

  "I'm sure you could--even alone," Vance returned lightly. "What held you back?"

  "My unspeakable golf score. I've needed all my time and energy to improve my game."

  "Most distressin'," sighed Vance. "And now some one has killed Uncle Archer for you."

  "I'm sure it's my reward for virtue." Though her tone was hard, there was an undercurrent of bitter passion in it. "Or perhaps," she added, "Uncle Brisbane went ahead on his own."

  "That might bear looking into," smiled Vance. "The only difficulty is that Gamble tells us Mr. Brisbane hopped to Chicago at five-thirty last evening."

  The woman's eyes flickered--there was little doubt that Vance's statement had been unexpected; but she replied almost at once.

  "That doesn't mean anything. Uncle Brisbane has dabbled enough in criminology to prepare a perfect alibi in the event he himself contemplated a flutter in crime."

  Vance regarded her amiably before speaking again.

  "What takes him on those periodical trips to Chicago?" he asked with sudden seriousness.

  Hilda Lake shrugged.

  "Heaven knows. He never mentioned the matter to me and I never asked." She leaned forward. "Perhaps it's a lady!" she exclaimed in a taunting tone. "If he told any one, that person was Uncle Archer. And I'm afraid it's too late to get any information from that quarter now."

  "Yes, a bit too late," agreed Vance. He sat down on the edge of the desk and clasped his hands around one knee. "But let us suppose that after Mr. Brisbane announced his intention of going to Chicago last evening, he remained in New York all night. What would you say to that?"

  Hilda Lake scrutinized Vance shrewdly for a time before replying. Then she answered gravely:

  "In that case you may eliminate Uncle Brisbane as a suspect. He's much too smooth and canny to leave any such loopholes. He has a very tricky and clever mind--too many persons underestimate him--and if he planned a murder, I'm sure he'd arrange it so as to escape detection." She paused momentarily. "Did Uncle Brisbane remain in New York last night?"

  "I don't know," Vance responded candidly. "I was merely indulging in suppositions."

  "How clever of you!" There was a steely look in her eyes, and her forehead puckered with a slight frown.

  At this moment Gamble passed the door on his way upstairs, with a small covered serving-tray in his hands.

  Vance stood up.

  "Ah! There are your muffins, Miss Lake. I sha'n't keep you any longer."

  "Thanks awfully." She rose and went quickly from the room.

  Vance stood at the door until Gamble returned from the third floor, and ordered him to wait in the lower hall. When the man had gone below, he glanced at his watch and strolled back into the room.

  "I'd rather not go on till we hear from Snitkin. Do you mind waiting, Markham?"

  Markham got up and paced to the bed and back.

  "Have it your own way," he grumbled. "But I can't see the importance of the suit-case. There's small probability, it seems to me, of its being at the station. And in the event it isn't there, we will be no better off than we are now."

  "On the other hand," Vance returned, "if it is at the station, we may conclude that Brisbane did not go to Chicago last night."

  Markham studied Vance gloweringly.

  "And if he didn't go, what then?"

  "Oh, I say--really! My word, Markham, I'm no Delphic oracle. We've only started this--what do the yellow journals call it?--probe. . . . But I'm quite sure Brisbane intended to go to Chicago at some time last night. And if he didn't go, something unexpected kept him here."

  "But his being in New York doesn't connect him with Archer Coe's murder."

  "Certainly not. . . . But I crave enlightenment." He suddenly sobered. "Markham, that last-minute decision of Brisbane's to get out of town had some connection with Archer's death-
-I'm sure of that. He knew something--or feared something. Or perhaps . . . But, anyway, he intended to go to Chicago last night. And maybe he did go . . . but I want to be sure."

  He strolled to the mantel and looked critically at a small, three-legged bowl of delicate green, with a carved teak-wood cover surmounted by a handle of white jade.

  "Ming celadon," he said, running his fingers over the lustrous glaze. "A perfect velvety texture, and an unusual shape. A very rare piece. Celadon, Markham, has baffled occidental artificers; even the Chinese can no longer produce it. It's very old--some experts have placed its origin as far back as the Sui dynasty in the sixth and seventh centuries, naming Ho Chou as its inventor. But the most beautiful celadons, I think, are Ming--those that came from the hands of the Ching-tê-chên experts. I rather imagine, don't y' know, that this is such a piece." He inspected it closely, particularly studying the down-flow of the glaze about the base. "There's a great similarity between the Kuan-yao of the Sung dynasty and the Imperial celadons made in the province of Kiang-si; but, as a rule, the Lung-chuan factories used a reddish paté. And this piece has a white paté--a characteristic of Ching-tê-chên celadons. . . ."

  "Vance," interrupted Markham irritably, "you're boring me to tears."

  "My word!" Vance put down the celadon bowl and sighed. "And I was trying to entertain you until Snitkin reported. . . ."

  As he spoke, the phone rang. Heath answered it, and after listening for several minutes, replaced the receiver on the hook.

  "The suit-case is there, all right," he announced. "Snitkin picked it out at once--it was on the 'hurry' shelf. The bird at the window says a middle-aged, nervous guy checked it around six last night, saying he'd missed his train--and he was shaking so he could hardly lift the bag to the counter."

  Vance nodded slowly.

  "I was afraid of that--and yet I was hoping it wasn't so." He took out a cigarette and lighted it with slow and deliberate precision--a sign of his tense perturbation. "Markham, I don't like this situation; I don't at all like it. Something unforeseen has happened: unforeseen--and sinister. It wasn't on the cards. Brisbane Coe intended to go to Chicago last night--and he didn't go. Some terrible thing stopped him. . . . And something stopped Archer Coe before he could change his shoes. . . ." He leaned over the desk and looked straight at Markham. "Don't you see what I mean? Those shoes of Archer's--and that stick of Brisbane's. . . . That stick!--in the front hall! It shouldn't have been there. . . . Oh, my precious aunt! . . ." He threw his cigarette into a tray, and hurried toward the door.

  "Come, Markham. . . . Come, Sergeant. There's something hideous in this house . . . and I don't want to go alone."

  As he spoke, he ran down the stairs, Markham and Heath and I following. When he had reached the lower hall, he pulled the portières aside and opened the library door. He looked round him, and then passed into the dining-room.

  After several minutes' search, he returned to the hall.

  "Maybe the den," he said; and hurrying through the drawing-room, where Wrede and Grassi sat near the window, he went into the small room at the rear. But he came back at once, a bewildered look in his eyes.

  "Not there." His tone was unnatural. "But he's somewhere--somewhere. . . ."

  He came again into the front hall.

  "He wouldn't be on the third floor, and he's not on the second floor." Vance stood staring at the ivory-headed stick which, for the first time, I noticed hanging over the back of a chair beside the library door. "There's his stick," he said; "but his hat and top-coat. . . . Oh, what a fool I've been!"

  He brushed Gamble out of his way, and walked swiftly down the narrow corridor along the stairs until he came to the closet door at the rear of the hall.

  "Your flashlight, Sergeant," he called over his shoulder, as he placed his hand on the door-knob.

  He pulled the door open, revealing only a great rectangle of blackness. Almost simultaneously, the circle of yellow light from Heath's pocket flashlight penetrated the gloom.

  Markham and I were behind him, straining our eyes into the closet. There were various overcoats and hats hanging from the hooks.

  "Lower, Sergeant!" came Vance's dictatorial voice. "The floor--the floor! . . ."

  The light descended; and then we saw the thing that Vance, through some process of obscure logic, had been searching for.

  There, in a huddled heap, his glassy eyes staring up at us, lay the dead body of Brisbane Coe.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE TING YAO VASE

  (Thursday, October 11; 12.15 p. m.)

  Though the sight was not altogether unexpected, in view of Vance's strange actions and even stranger comments, I received a tremendous shock as I gazed down into the closet. A large irregular pool of blood, perhaps a foot in diameter, had spread over the hardwood floor just beneath Coe's shoulder. It had dried and darkened, and looked sinisterly black against the yellow boarding.

  Even to an amateur like myself the fact that Brisbane Coe was dead was apparent. The stiff, unnatural pose of the body, and the hideous fixety of his gaze, together with the drawn bloodless lips and the waxen pallor of his skin, attested to violent and unexpected death. I had rarely seen a corpse as lifeless as Coe's, as irremediably beyond all human possibility of resuscitation.

  And as I looked at it, temporarily petrified by the horror of this new development, I could not help comparing the dead body of Brisbane with that of Archer. They were both tall and cadaverous; and, although Archer was the older by five years, they had a certain similarity of facial features. But whereas Archer had died with a peaceful expression on his face, and in a natural and comfortable position, Brisbane had a shocked, almost wild, look in his eyes, as if he had been startled and frightened at the moment of death.

  The discovery of Brisbane Coe's body affected all of us strongly. Heath stared down with hunched shoulders. The blood seemed to have left his face, and he was like a man hypnotized. Markham's jaw was set, and his eyes were mere slits.

  "Good God!" he breathed, in an awe-stricken voice, and looked vaguely at Vance who stood beside the Sergeant gazing down critically at the dead man.

  Vance spoke, and his voice, usually so calm, sounded strained and unnatural.

  "It's worse than I thought. . . . I had hoped he might still be alive--a prisoner perhaps. I didn't altogether expect this."

  Heath's hand containing the flashlight dropped to his side, and he stepped back. Vance closed the closet door and turned.

  "It's very strange," he murmured, looking at Markham yet past him. "He is without his hat and top-coat; and yet his stick is hanging here in the hall. And he is dead in the closet. Why not in his own room?--or the library?--or anywhere else but in there? . . . Nothing fits, Markham. The whole picture has been painted by a crazy man."

  Markham stared at him; then he said in a dazed voice:

  "I can't follow any of it. Why did Brisbane Coe return here last night? And who knew he was going to return?"

  "If only I could answer those questions!"

  Burke and Gamble were sitting on a hall bench near the drawing-room door. The butler's face was white and drawn. He had not seen the dead man in the closet, for our bodies had shielded him. But it was obvious that he suspected the truth.

  Vance went to him.

  "What kind of top-coat and hat did Mr. Brisbane wear when he went to the station last night?"

  The man made a desperate effort to pull himself together.

  "A--a tweed coat, sir," he replied huskily, "--black-and-white tweed. And a light gray fedora hat."

  Vance returned to the closet, and presently emerged with a hat and coat.

  "Are these the ones?"

  Gamble swallowed hard and nodded his head.

  "Yes, sir." His eyes stared abnormally at the two articles of attire.

  Vance replaced the coat and hat in the closet, and commented to Markham:

  "They were hanging up so neatly."

  "Is it not possible," asked Markham, "that just as
he had hung them up after returning to the house, he was killed?"

  "Possible--yes." Vance nodded slowly. "But that would not explain the other things that went on here last night. It's more reasonable, I think, to assume that Brisbane was killed as he was preparing to leave the house. But then again, there's the time element. . . ."

  Heath had already gone to the hall telephone and was dialing a number.

  "I'll soon get the time element for you," he growled.

  A moment later he was speaking to Doctor Doremus in his office in the Municipal Building.

  "The doc's coming right away," he said, hanging up the receiver.

  "In the meantime, Markham," suggested Vance, "I think we might have parlance with the Chinese cook. . . . Fetch him, will you, Gamble."

  The butler hastened through the dining-room door at the rear, and Vance strolled into the library, the rest of us following.

  The library was a fairly large room on the north front of the house, directly opposite to the drawing-room. Although there were perhaps a thousand volumes in a series of book-shelves occupying almost the entire south wall, the room did not have the general appearance of a library. It resembled far more a curio shop. There were various cabinets containing carved jade and jewelry and objets d'art of oriental design and workmanship; and on every available flat surface stood examples of Chinese ceramic art, ceremonial bronzes, ivory figures, and carved lacquer ornaments. Many of the pieces of furniture were of teak-wood and camphor-wood; and, wherever space permitted, large squares of brocaded and embroidered silk had been hung and draped. In the centre of the west wall was a rococo Louis-Quinze mantelpiece which seemed hideously out of place; and here and there were pieces of modern furniture--a large fumed-oak Mission library table, an overstuffed davenport, a steel commercial filing cabinet, and several pseudo-colonial mahogany straight chairs--all of which gave to the room a violent air of anachronistic chaos.

  We had scarcely seated ourselves when a tall, slender, scholarly-looking Chinaman of about forty stepped softly into the room through the door between the library and the dining-room. He was dressed in an immaculate white duck suit, and wore black padded slippers. He stood beside the door with relaxed immobility, and, after one swift glance at us, lifted his eyes uneagerly above our heads. Though he looked at nothing in particular, I felt that he saw everything.