Vance's eyes closed slowly. One hand went to his mouth. He coughed chokingly. His hand fell to his lap. He seemed to go limp, and his head drooped. Then he pitched slowly forward on his face and lay in a distorted heap at Llewellyn's feet. My eyes, which felt as if they were bulging from their sockets, were focused on Vance in wild helpless horror.
Llewellyn glanced down at him quickly, without change of expression. He stepped a little to one side, at the same time taking precise aim at Markham, who sat as if petrified.
"Stand up!" Llewellyn ordered.
Markham took a deep audible breath and rose vigorously to his feet. His shoulders were squared defiantly, and not for a moment did his steady, aggressive gaze falter.
"You're only a policeman at heart," Llewellyn said. "I think I'll shoot you in the back. Turn around."
Markham did not move.
"Not for you, Llewellyn," he returned calmly. "I'll take anything you've got to give me facing you."
As he spoke I heard a curious unfamiliar sliding noise at the other end of the little office, and I instinctively glanced in that direction. A startling sight met my eyes. One of the wide wooden panels in the opposite wall had apparently disappeared and in the opening stood Kinkaid, a large blue automatic in his hand. He was leaning slightly forward; and he held the gun at his hip pointed directly at Llewellyn.
Llewellyn also had heard the noise, for he turned partly and glanced suspiciously over his shoulder. Then there were two resounding explosions. But this time they came from Kinkaid's gun. Llewellyn stopped short in mid-movement. His eyes opened in glazed astonishment, and the revolver he held fell from his fingers. He stood as if frozen for perhaps two full seconds. Then all his muscles seemed to go limp: his head drooped, and he crumpled to the floor. Realizing what had happened, both Markham and I were too stunned to move or speak.
In the brief, terrible silence that followed, a startling and extraordinary thing happened. For a moment I felt as though I were witnessing some strange and uncanny bit of magic: a fantastic miracle seemed to be taking place. My fascinated gaze had followed Llewellyn's collapse, and my eyes had shifted to the still form of Vance. And then Vance moved and rose leisurely to his feet. Removing the handkerchief from his breast pocket, he began dusting himself.
"Thanks awfully, Kinkaid," he drawled. "You've saved us a beastly lot of trouble. I heard your car drive up and tried to hold the johnnie off till you got upstairs. I was hopin' you'd hear the shots and would take a pop at him yourself. That's why I let him think he had killed me."
Kinkaid narrowed his eyes angrily. Then his expression changed, and he laughed gruffly.
"You wanted me to shoot him, did you? That's all right with me. Glad of the opportunity. . . . Sorry I didn't get here sooner. But the train was a little late, and my taxi was held up in traffic."
"Pray don't apologize," said Vance. "You arrived at exactly the right moment." He knelt down beside Llewellyn and ran his hand over the body. "He's quite dead. You got him through the heart. You're an excellent shot, Kinkaid."
"I always was," the other returned dryly.
Markham was still standing like a man in a daze. His face was pale, and there were large globules of perspiration on his forehead. He managed now to speak.
"You're--you're sure you're all right, Vance?"
"Oh, quite." Vance smiled. "Never better. I'll have to die some time, alas! But, really. I wouldn't let a pathological degenerate like Llewellyn choose the time for my demise." His eyes turned to Markham contritely. "I'm deuced sorry to have caused you and Van all this agitation. But I had to get Llewellyn's confession on the records. We didn't have any overwhelming evidence against him, don't y' know."
"But--but--" Markham stammered, still apparently unable to accept the astonishing situation.
"Oh, Llewellyn's revolver had nothing but blank cartridges in it," Vance explained. "I saw to that this morning when I visited the Llewellyn domicile."
"You knew what he was going to do?" Markham looked at Vance incredulously and rubbed his handkerchief vigorously over his face.
"I suspected it," said Vance, lighting a cigarette.
Markham sank back into his chair, like an exhausted man.
"I'll get some brandy," Kinkaid announced. "We can all stand a drink." And he went out through the door which led to the bar.
Markham's eyes were still on Vance, but they had lost their startled look.
"What did you mean just now," he asked, "when you said you had to get Llewellyn's confession on the records?"
"Just that," Vance returned. "And that reminds me. I'd better disconnect the dictaphone now."
He went to a small picture hanging over Kinkaid's desk and took it down, revealing a small metal disk.
"That's all, boys," he said, apparently addressing the wall. Then he severed the two wires attached to the disk.
"You see, Markham," he elucidated, "when you told me this morning of the supposed telephone call from Kinkaid I couldn't understand it. But it soon came to me that it was not Kinkaid at all who had phoned, but Llewellyn. It was from Llewellyn that I was expecting some move, after the remarks I had poured indirectly into his ear last night. I'll admit I wasn't expecting anything quite as forthright and final as this little act: that's why I was puzzled at first. But once the idea dawned on me, I could see that it was both a logical and subtle move. Premise: you and I were in the way. Conclusion: you and I would have to be put out of the way. And, inasmuch as we were being lured to the Casino, it was not particularly difficult to follow Llewellyn's syllogism. I was pretty sure he had actually gone to Atlantic City to make the telephone call--it's difficult, don't y' know, to simulate a long-distance call from a local station. Therefore, I knew I had several hours in which to make arrangements. I called Kinkaid at Atlantic City at once, told him all the circumstances, and asked him to come immediately to New York. I also found out from him how I could get into the Casino to install a dictaphone. That's why I called on the doughty Sergeant. He and some of the boys from the Homicide Bureau and a stenographer are in an apartment of the house next door, and have taken down everything that has been said here this afternoon."
He sat down in a chair facing Markham and drew deeply on his cigarette.
"I'll admit," he went on, "that I wasn't quite sure what method Llewellyn would use to put us out of his way and throw suspicion on his loving uncle. So I warned you and Van not to drink anything,--there was, of course, the possibility that he would use poison again. But I thought that he might use his revolver; and so I purchased a box of blanks, went to his home this morning on a perfectly silly pretext, and when I was alone in his bedroom I substituted the blanks for the cartridges in his revolver. There was the chance that he would have noticed this substitution if he examined the gun from the front; but I saw that the blanks were in place before I took my seat beside you a while ago. Otherwise I would have practised a bit of jiu-jitsu on the johnnie immediately. . . ."
Kinkaid reentered the office with a bottle of brandy and four glasses. Setting the tray on his desk, he filled the glasses and waved his hand toward them, inviting us to help ourselves.
"Shall I, Vance?" Markham asked, with a grim smile. "You told us not to drink anything here."
"It's quite all right now." Vance sipped his Courvoisier. "From the very first I have regarded Mr. Kinkaid as our most valuable ally."
"The hell you say!" Kinkaid grumbled good-naturedly. "After all you put me through!"
At this moment there came to us the sound of a slamming door, followed by heavy, hurrying footsteps on the stairs. Kinkaid stepped to the office door leading into the Gold Room, and opened it. On the threshold stood Heath, a Colt revolver in his hand. Behind him, crowding forward, were Snitkin, Hennessey and Burke. Heath's eyes, fixed on Vance, were wide in childlike amazement.
"You're not dead!" he almost shouted.
"Far from it, Sergeant," Vance returned. "But please put away that gun. Let's not have any more shootin' today."
Heath's hand dropped to his side, but his astonished eyes did not leave Vance's face.
"I know, Mr. Vance," he said, "you told me that I wasn't to get upset at anything I heard over the dictaphone, and to stay on the job till you gave me the sign-off. But when I heard what that baby said, and then the shots and you falling, I beat it right over."
"It was sweet of you," returned Vance. "But unnecess'ry." He waved his hand toward the limp figure of Lynn Llewellyn. "There's the chappie. No trouble. Shot through the heart. Quite dead. You'll have to get him to the morgue, of course. But that'll be that. Everything worked out beautifully. No pother. No trial. No jury. Justice triumphant nevertheless. Life goes on. But why?"
I doubt if Heath heard anything Vance said. He continued to stare open-mouthed.
"You're sure--you're not hurt?" The words seemed to come from his lips in an automatic expression of his apprehension.
Vance set down his cognac glass and, going to Heath, put his hand affectionately on the other's shoulder.
"Quite sure," he said softly. Then he wagged his head in mock commiseration. "Frightfully sorry to disappoint you, Sergeant."
* * * * *
The murder of Virginia Llewellyn, as you perhaps remember, occupied the front pages of the country's press for several days, but it soon gave way to other scandals. Most of the major facts of the case became public property. But not all of them. Kinkaid was, of course, exonerated for the shooting of Lynn Llewellyn: Markham saw to it that the affair was not even brought before the Grand Jury.
The Casino was permanently closed within a year, and the beautiful old gray-stone house was torn down to make way for the construction of a modern skyscraper. By that time Kinkaid had amassed a small fortune; and the manufacture of heavy water has occupied him ever since.
Mrs. Llewellyn recovered from the shock of her son's death in far shorter time than I had thought possible. She threw herself more energetically than ever into social-welfare work, and I see her name frequently in the papers in connection with her philanthropic activities. Bloodgood and Amelia Llewellyn were married the week after Kinkaid had closed the doors of the Casino for all time, and they are now living in Paris. (Mrs. Bloodgood, incidentally, has given up her artistic career.) I met Doctor Kane on Park Avenue recently. He had an air of great importance, and informed me he was rushing to his office to give a woman patient a diathermic treatment.
THE END
THE DRAGON MURDER CASE
A Philo Vance Mystery
by
S. S. Van Dine
1934
Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonish.--Antony and Cleopatra.
CONTENTS
I. The Tragedy
II. A Startling Accusation
III. The Splash in the Pool
IV. An Interruption
V. The Water-Monster
VI. A Contretemps
VII. The Bottom of the Pool
VIII. Mysterious Footprints
IX. A New Discovery
X. The Missing Man
XI. A Sinister Prophecy
XII. Interrogations
XIII. Three Women
XIV. An Unexpected Development
XV. Noises in the Night
XVI. Blood and a Gardenia
XVII. The Duplicated Death
XVIII. Piscatorial Lore
XIX. The Dragon's Tracks
XX. The Final Link
XXI. The End of the Case
CHAPTER I
THE TRAGEDY
(Saturday, August 11; 11.45 p. m.)
That sinister and terrifying crime, which came to be known as the dragon murder case, will always be associated in my mind with one of the hottest summers I have ever experienced in New York.
Philo Vance, who stood aloof from the eschatological and supernatural implications of the case, and was therefore able to solve the problem on a purely rationalistic basis, had planned a fishing trip to Norway that August, but an intellectual whim had caused him to cancel his arrangements and to remain in America. Since the influx of post-war, nouveau-riche Americans along the French and Italian Rivieras, he had forgone his custom of spending his summers on the Mediterranean, and had gone after salmon and trout in the streams of North Bergenhus. But late in July of this particular year his interest in the Menander fragments found in Egypt during the early years of this century, had revived, and he set himself to complete their translation--a work which, you may recall, had been interrupted by that amazing series of Mother-Goose murders in West 75th Street.*
* "The Bishop Murder Case" (Scribners, 1929).
However, once again this task of research and love was rudely intruded upon by one of the most baffling murder mysteries in which Vance ever participated; and the lost comedies of Menander were again pigeon-holed for the intricate ratiocination of crime. Personally I think Vance's criminal investigations were closer to his heart than the scholastic enterprises on which he was constantly embarking, for though his mind was ever seeking out abstruse facts in the realm of cultural lore, he found his greatest mental recreation in intricate problems wholly unrelated to pure learning. Criminology satisfied this yearning in his nature, for it not only stimulated his analytical processes but brought into play his knowledge of recondite facts and his uncanny instinct for the subtleties of human nature.
Shortly after his student days at Harvard he asked me to officiate as his legal adviser and monetary steward; and my liking and admiration for him were such that I resigned from my father's firm of Van Dine, Davis and Van Dine to take up the duties he had outlined. I have never regretted that decision; and it is because of the resultant association with him that I have been able to set down an accurate and semi-official account of the various criminal investigations in which he participated. He was drawn into these investigations as a result of his friendship with John F.-X. Markham during the latter's four years' incumbency as District Attorney of New York County.
Of all the cases I have thus far recorded none was as exciting, as weird, as apparently unrelated to all rational thinking, as the dragon murder. Here was a crime that seemed to transcend all the ordinary scientific knowledge of man and to carry the police and the investigators into an obfuscous and unreal realm of demonology and folk-lore--a realm fraught with dim racial memories of legendary terrors.
The dragon has ever entered into the emotional imaginings of primitive religions, throwing over its conceivers a spell of sinister and terrifying superstition. And here in the city of New York, in the twentieth century, the police were plunged into a criminal investigation which resuscitated all the dark passages in those dim forgotten times when the superstitious children of the earth believed in malignant monsters and the retributive horrors which these monsters visited upon man.
The darkest chapters in the ethnological records of the human race were reviewed within sight of the skyscrapers of modern Manhattan; and so powerful was the effect of these resuscitations that even scientists searched for some biological explanation of the grotesque phenomena that held the country enthralled during the days following the uncanny and incomprehensible death of Sanford Montague. The survival of prehistoric monsters--the development of subterranean Ichthyopsida--the unclean and darksome matings of earth and sea creatures--were advanced as possible scientific explanations of the extraordinary and hideous facts with which the police and the District Attorney's office were faced.
Even the practical and hard-headed Sergeant Ernest Heath of the Homicide Bureau was affected by the mysterious and incalculable elements of the case. During the preliminary investigation--when there was no actual evidence of murder--the unim aginative Sergeant sensed hidden and ominous things, as if a miasmatic emanation had arisen from the seemingly commonplace circumstances surrounding the situation. In fact, had it not been for the fears that arose in him when he was first called to take charge of the tragic episode, the dragon murder might never have come to the attention of the authorities. It would, in all probability, have been recorded c
onventionally in the archives of the New York Police Department as another "disappearance," accounted for along various obvious lines and with a cynical wink.
This hypothetical eventuality was, no doubt, what the murderer intended; but the perpetrator of that extraordinary crime--a crime, as far as I know, unparalleled in the annals of violent homicide--had failed to count on the effect of the sinister atmosphere which enveloped his unholy act. The fact that the imaginative aboriginal fears of man have largely developed from the inherent mysteries enshrouded in the dark hidden depths of water, was overlooked by the murderer. And it was this oversight that roused the Sergeant's vague misgivings and turned a superficially commonplace episode into one of the most spectacular and diabolical murder cases of modern times.
Sergeant Heath was the first official to go to the scene of the crime--although, at the time, he was not aware that a crime had been committed; and it was he who stammered out his unidentifiable fears to Markham and Vance.
It was nearly midnight on August 11. Markham had dined with Vance at the latter's roof-garden apartment in East 38th Street, and the three of us had spent the evening in a desultory discussion of various topics. There had been a lackadaisical atmosphere over our gathering, and the periods of silence had increased as the night wore on, for the weather was both hot and sultry, and the leaves of the tree-tops which rose from the rear yard were as still as those on a painted canvas. Moreover, it had rained for hours, the downpour ceasing only at ten o'clock, and a heavy breathless pall seemed to have settled over the city.
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