Philo Vance 12 Novels Complete Bundle

by S. S. Van Dine

  "By the by, Mr. Kenting," Vance resumed, without moving from the desk, "there's a little point I want cleared up. I know that the District Attorney is aching to ask you a few questions about what happened yesterday evening. He had not heard from you and was unable to reach you. Did you, by any chance, give that fifty thousand dollars to Fleel?"

  "Yes!" Kenting stood up excitedly. "I gave it to him a little after nine o'clock last night. We got the final instructions all right--that is, Fleel got them. He called me up right away and we arranged to meet. He said some one had telephoned to him and told him that the money had to be at a certain place--far up in the Bronx somewhere--at ten o'clock that night. He convinced me that this person on the telephone had said he would not deal with any one but Fleel."

  He hesitated a moment.

  "I was afraid to act through the police again, after that night in the park. So I took Fleel's urgent advice to leave the police out of it, and let him handle the matter. I was desperate! And I trusted him--God help me! I didn't telephone to Mr. Markham, and I wouldn't speak to him when he called. I was afraid. I wanted Madelaine back safe. And I gave the money to Fleel--and thought he could arrange everything. . . ."*

  * The practice of turning over ransom money to outsiders, in the hopes of settling kidnap cases, is not an unusual one. There have been several famous instances of this in recent years.

  "I quite understand, Mr. Kenting." Vance spoke softly, in a tone which was not without pity. "I was pretty sure you had given him the money last night, for he telephoned to the Lord-Street house while we were there, obviously to make immediate arrangements to pay off his commissions, as it were. Sergeant Heath here recognized his voice over the wire. . . . But, really, y' know, Mr. Kenting, you should have trusted the police. Of course, Fleel received no message of instructions last night. It was part of his stupid technique, however, to tell you he had, for he needed the money and was at his wit's end. He too was desperate, I think. When Mr. Markham told me he was unable to get in touch with you, I rather thought, don't y' know, you had done just what you have stated. . . . Fleel was far too bold in showing us that note yesterday. Really, y' know, he shouldn't have done it. There were references in it which he thought only he himself could understand. Luckily, I saw through them. That note, in fact, verified my theory regarding him. But he showed it to us because he wished to make an impression on you. He needed that money. I rather think he had gambled away, in one way or another, the money he held in trust for the Kenting estate. We sha'n't know definitely till we get the report from Stitt and McCoy,* the accountants who are goin' over Fleel's books. It is quite immaterial, however."

  * This was the same firm of certified public accountants whom Markham had called in to inspect the books of the firm of Benson and Benson in the investigation of the Benson murder case.

  Vance suddenly yawned and glanced at his watch.

  "My word, Markham!" he exclaimed, turning to the District Attorney, who had sat stolidly and nonplused through the amazing drama. "It's still rather early, don't y' know. If I hasten, old dear, I'll be able to catch the second act of Tristan and Isolde."

  Vance went swiftly across the room to Mrs. Falloway and bowed over her hand solicitously with a murmured adieu. Then he hurried out to his car waiting at the curb.

  * * * * *

  When the reports from the accountants and the police came in at the end of the day on which Fleel had shot himself, Vance's theory and suppositions were wholly substantiated. The accountants found that Fleel had been speculating heavily on his own behalf with the funds he held in trust for the Kenting estate. His bank had already called upon him to cover the legitimate investments permitted him by law as the trustee of the estate. The amount he had embezzled was approximately fifty thousand dollars, and as he had long since lost his own money in the same kind of precarious bucket-shop transactions, it would have been but a matter of days before the shortage caused by his extra-legal operations would have been discovered.

  In his safe were found practically all the gem-stones missing from the Kenting collection, including the large and valuable alexandrite. (How or when he had acquired this last item was never definitely determined.) The package of bills which Kenyon Kenting had so trustingly given him was also found in the safe.

  All this happened years before the actual account of the case was set down here. Since then, Kenyon Kenting has married his sister-in-law, Madelaine, who returned to the Purple House the second day after Fleel's suicide.

  Less than a year later Vance and I had tea with Mrs. Falloway. Vance had a genuine affection for the crippled old woman. As we were about to go, Fraim Falloway entered the room. He was a different man from the one we had known during the investigation of what the papers persisted in calling the Kenting kidnap case (perhaps the alliteration of the nomenclature was largely the reason for it). Fraim Falloway's face had noticeably filled in, and his color was healthy and normal; there was a vitality in his eyes, and he moved with ease and determined alacrity. His whole manner had changed. I learned later that old Mrs. Falloway had called in the endocrinologist whose name Vance had given her, and that the youth had been under observation and treatment for many months.

  After our greetings that day Vance asked Falloway casually how his stamp collecting was going. The youth seemed almost scornful and replied he had no time for such matters any more--that he was too busy with his new work at the Museum of Natural History to devote any of his time to so futile a pursuit as philately.

  It might be interesting to note, in closing, that Kenyon Kenting's first act, after his marriage to Madelaine Kenting, was to have the exterior of the Purple House thoroughly scraped and sand-blasted, so that the natural color of the bricks and stones was restored. It ceased to be the "purple house," and took on a more domestic and gemütlich appearance, and has so remained to the present day.

  THE END

  * * *

  The Gracie Allen Murder Case

  by

  S. S. Van Dine

  * * *

  CHAPTER I - A BUZZARD ESCAPES

  (Friday, May 17; 8 pm.)

  Philo Vance, curiously enough, always liked the Gracie Allen murder case more than any of the others in which he participated.

  The case was, perhaps, not as serious as some of the others--although, on second thought, I am not so sure that this is strictly true. Indeed, it was fraught with many ominous potentialities; and its basic elements (as I look back now) were, in fact, intensely dramatic and sinister, despite its almost constant leaven of humour.

  I have often asked Vance why he felt so keen a fondness for this case, and he has always airily retorted with a brief explanation that it constituted his one patent failure as an investigator of the many crimes presented to him by District Attorney John F.--X. Markham.

  "No--oh, no. Van; it was not my case at all, don't y' know," Vance drawled, as we sat before his grate fire one wintry evening, long after the events. "Really, y'know, I deserve none of the credit. I would have been utterly baffled and helpless had it not been for the charming Gracie Allen who always popped up at just the crucial moment to save me from disaster...If ever you should embalm the cane in print, please place the credit where it rightfully belongs...My word, what an astonishing girl! The goddesses of Zeus' Olympian menage never harrassed old Priam and Agamemnon with the eclat exhibited by Gracie Allen in harassing the recidivists of that highly scented affair. Amazin!..."

  It was an almost unbelievable case from many angles, exceedingly unorthodox and unpredictable. The mystery and enchantment of perfume permeated the entire picture. The magic of fortune--telling and commercial haruspicy in general were intimately involved in its deciphering. And there was a human romantic element which lent it an unusual roseate colour.

  To start with, it was spring--the 17th day of May--and the weather was unusually mild. Vance and Markham and I had dined on the spacious veranda of the Bellwood Country Club overlooking the Hudson. The three of us had chatted in desultory fas
hion, for this was to be an hour of sheer relaxation and pleasure, without any intrusion of the jarring criminal interludes which had, in recent years, marked so many of our talks.

  However, even at this moment of serenity, ugly criminal angles were beginning to protrude, though unsuspected by any of us; and their shadow was creeping silently toward us.

  We had finished our coffee and were sipping our chartreuse when Sergeant Heath [Sergeant Ernest Heath, of the Homicide Bureau, who had been in charge of other cases which Vance had investigated.], looking grim and bewildered, appeared at the door leading from the main dining--room to the veranda, and strode quickly to our table.

  "Hello, Mr. Vance." His tone was hurried."...Howdy, Chief. Sorry to bother you, but this came into the office half an hour after you left and, knowing where you were, I thought it best to bring it to you pronto." He drew a folded yellow paper from his pocket and, opening it out, placed it emphatically before the District Attorney.

  Markham read it carefully, shrugged his shoulders, and handed the paper back to Heath.

  "I can't see," he said without emotion, "why this routine information should necessitate a trip up here."

  Heath's cheeks inflated with exasperation.

  "Why, that's the guy, Chief, that threatened to get you."

  "I'm quite aware of that fact," said Markham coldly; then he added in a somewhat softened tone: "Sit down, Sergeant. Consider yourself off duty for the moment, and have a drink of your favourite whisky."

  When Heath had adjusted himself in a chair, Markham went on.

  "Surely you don't expect me, at this late date, to begin taking seriously the hysterical mouthings of criminals I have convicted in the course of my duties."

  "But, Chief, this guy's a tough hombre, and he ain't the forgetting or the forgiving kind."

  "Anyway,"--Markham laughed without concern--"it would be tomorrow, at the earliest, before he could reach New York."

  As Heath and Markham were speaking, Vance's eyebrows rose in mild curiosity.

  "I say, Markham, all I've been able to glean is that your tutel'ry Sergeant has fears for your curtailed existence, and that you yourself are rather annoyed by his zealous worries."

  "Hell, Mr. Vance, I'm not worryin'," Heath blurted. "I'm just considering the possibilities, as you might say."

  "Yes, yes, I know," smiled Vance. "Alway careful. Sewin' up seams that haven't even ripped. Doughty and admirable, as always, Sergeant. But whence springeth your qualm?"

  "I'm sorry, Vance." Markham apologized for his failure to explain. "It's really of no importance--just a routine telegraphic announcement of a commonplace jail--break at Nomenica. [Nomenica, southwest of Buffalo, was the westernmost State prison in New York.] Three men under long sentences staged the exodus, and two of them were shot by the guards..."

  "I'm not botherin' about the guys who was shot," Heath cut in. "It's the other--one--the guy that got away safe--that's set me to thinkin'----"

  "And who might this stimulator of thought be, Sergeant?" Vance asked.

  "Benny the Buzzard!" whispered Heath, with melodramatic emphasis.

  "Ah!" Vance smiled. "An ornithological specimen--Buteo borealis. Maybe he flew away to freedom..."

  "It's no laughing matter, Mr. Vance." Heath became even more serious. "Benny the Buzzard--or Benny Pellinzi, to give him his honest monicker--is plenty tough, in spite of looking like a bloodless, pretty--faced boy. Only a few years back, he was strutting around telling anybody who'd listen that he was Public Enemy Number One. That type of guy. But he was only small change, except for his toughness and meanness--actually nothing but a dumb, stupid rat---"

  "Rat? Buzzard?...My word, Sergeant, aren't fusin' your natural history?"

  "And only three years ago," continued Heath doggedly, "Mr. Markham got him sent up for a twenty--year stretch. And he pulls a jail--break just this afternoon and gets away with it. Sweet, ain't it?"

  "Still," submitted Vance, "such A.W.O.L.'s have been taken ere this."

  "Sure they have." Heath extended his off--duty respite and took another whisky. "But you must've read what this guy pulled in court when he was sentenced. The judge hadn't hardly finished slipping him the twenty years when he blew off his gauge. He pointed at Mr. Markham and, at the top of his voice, swore some kind of cockeyed oath that he'd come back and get him if it was the last thing he ever did. And he sounded like he meant it. He was so sore and steamed up that it took two man--eating bailiffs to drag him out of the court room. Generally it's the judge who gets the threats; but this guy elected to take it out on the D. A. And that somehow made more sense.

  Vance nodded slowly.

  "Yes, quite--quite. I see your point, Sergeant. Different and therefore dangerous."

  "And why I really came here tonight," Heath went on, "was to tell Mr. Markham what I intended doing. Naturally, we'll be on the lookout for the Buzzard. He might come here direct, all right; and he might head west and try to reach the Dakotas--the Bad Lands for him, if he's got a brain."

  "Exactly," Markham interpolated. "You're probably right when you suggest he'll head west. And I'm certainly planning no immediate jaunt to the Black Hills."

  "Anyhow, Chief," the Sergeant persisted stubbornly, "I'm not taking any chances on him--especially since we've got a pretty good line on his old cronies in this burg."

  "Just what line do you refer to, Sergeant?"

  "Mirche, and the Domdaniel cafe, and Benny's old sweetie that sings there--the Del Marr jane."

  "Whether Mirche and Pellinzi are cronies," said Markham, "is a moot question in my mind."

  "It ain't in mine, Chief. And if the Buzzard should sneak back to New York, I've got a hunch he'd go straight to Mirche for help."

  Markham did not argue the possibilities further. Instead, he merely asked: "What course do you intend to pursue, Sergeant?"

  Heath leaned across the table.

  "I figure it this way, Chief. If the Buzzard does plan to return to his old hunting--grounds, he'll be smart about it. He'll do it quick and sudden--like, figurin' we haven't got set. If he don't show up in the next few days I'll simply drop the idea, and the boys'll keep their eyes open in the routine way. But--beginning tomorrow morning, I plan to have Hennessey in that old lodging--house across from the Domdaniel, covering the little door leading into Mirche's private office. An' Burke and Snitkin will be with Hennessey in case the bird does show up."

  "Aren't you a bit optimistic, Sergeant?" asked Vance. "Three years in prison can work many changes in a man's appearance, especially if the victim is still young and not too robust."

  Heath dismissed Vance's scepticism with an impatient gesture.

  "I'll trust Hennessey--he's got a good eye."

  "Oh, I'm not questioning Hennesey's vision," Vance assured him, "--provided your liberty--lovin' Buzzard should be so foolish as to choose the front door for his entry into Mirche's office. But really, my dear Sergeant, Maestro Pellinzi may deem it wiser to steal in by the rear door, don't y know."

  "There ain't no rear door," explained Heath. "And there ain't no side door, cither. A strictly private room with only one entrance facing the street. That's the wide--open and aboveboard set--up of this guy Mirche--everything on the up--and--up. Slick as they come."

  "Is this sanctum a separate structure?" asked Vance. "Or is it an annex to the café? I don't seem to recall it."

  "No. And you wouldn't notice it, if you weren't looking for it. It's like an end room that's been cut off in the corner of the building--the way they cut off a doctor's office, or a small shop, in a big apartment-house. But if you wanta see Mirche that's where you'll most likely find him. The place looks as innocent as an old ladies' home."

  Heath glanced round at us significantly as he continued.

  "And yet, plenty goes on in that little room. If I could ever get a dictaphone planted there, the D.A.'s office would have enough underworld trials on its hands to keep it busy from now on."

  He paused and cocked an eye at Markham.


  "How do you feel about my idea for tomorrow?"

  "It can't do any harm, Sergeant," answered Markham without enthusiasm. "But I still think it would be a waste of time and energy."

  "Maybe so." Heath finished his whisky. "But I feel I gotta follow my hunch, just the same."

  Vance set down his liqueur glass, and a whimsical expression came into his eyes.

  "But I say, Markham," he drawled, "it would be a waste of time and energy, no matter what the outcome. Ah, your precious law, and its prissy procedure! How you Solons complicate the simple things of life! Even if this red--tailed hawk with the operatic name should appear among his olden haunts and be snared in the Sergeant's seine, you would still treat him kindly and caressingly under the euphemistic phrase, 'due process of law.' You'd coddle him no end. You'd take all possible precautions to bring him in alive, although he himself might blow the brains out of a couple of the Sergeant's confreres. Then you'd lodge and nourish him well; you'd drive him through town in a high--powered limousine; you'd give him a pleasant scenic trip back to Nomenica. And all for what, old dear? For the highly questionable privilege of supportin' him elegantly for life."

  Markham was obviously nettled.

  "I suppose you could settle the whole situation with a lirp"

  "It could be, don't y know." Vance was in one of his tantalizing moods. "Here's a worthless johnnie who has long been a thorn in the side of the law; who has, as you jolly well know, killed a man and been convicted accordingly; who has engineered a lawless prison break costing two more lives; who has promised to murder you in cold blood; and who is even now deprivin' the Sergeant of his slumber. Not a nice person, Markham. And all these irregularities might be so easily and expeditiously adjusted by shooting the johnnie on sight, or otherwise disposing of him quickly, without ado or Chinoiserie."