"Ah, yes." Vance shifted deeper into his chair. "You're always so practical, Markham...Well, I don't like Mirche. A smooth gentleman; but not an admirable one. However, he exerted himself quite earnestly to enchant me. I wonder why...Perhaps he was plotting some shady deed--though he impressed me as being the type who would need another to do his plotting for him. No, not a leader of men, but an unquestioning and able follower. A dark and wicked fellow...Well, there you have the villain of the piece."
"And what shall I do with him?...Your tale is fizzling by the second."
"I fear you're right," admitted Vance. "Let me see...I lovingly inspected Mirche's office; but it was disgustingly void of any wrong. Merely a fair--sized room without a single occupant. And then I gazed fondly at the old door and windows beyond the porte--cochre--inside the driveway, y' know. But all my intensive scrutiny yielded nothing of a helpful nature. The ivy round them, however, was most pleasing. English ivy."
"Now you're down to botany," said Markham. "I must say, I prefer the Sergeant's account of the Pittsburgh shooting...But didn't you speak of a Lorelei?"
"Ah, yes. And deuced blond she was--as becomes a Rhenish siren. Her name, however, has a Gallic ring: Del Marr. A striking Lorelei--more intelligent, I should judge, than Mirche. But there were serious words between her and our Boniface. During a restful intermission of the orchestra they sat together, and I am sure the conversation was not confined to arpeggios and treble clefs and obbligatos. Rather intimate atmosphere. Liberty, egalite, fraternite--comme ca. No mere entertainer conversing with her impresario.
"I figured it that way myself, years ago," Heath put in. "Furthermore, she's got a swell car and a chauffeur, too. Her singing don't pay for all that. And I don't like the looks of that chauffeur either; he's a tough mug--looks like he oughta be a bouncer in a saloon."
"At least, Vance," said Markham hopefully, "you have found one potential connection between the almost totally disorganized and unrelated components of your drama. Maybe you can develop your narrative structure with that; as a basis."
Vance shook his head despondently. "No, I fear I am not equal to the task."
"What of the 'owl without feathers' you mentioned a while ago?"
"Ah!" Vance sipped his cognac. "I was referring to the opaque and mysterious Mr. Owen of obnoxious memory and ill repute."
"I see. 'Owl' Owen, eh? I had a vague idea he was basking in the California sunshine. It was rumored some time ago that he was dying--probably of his sins."
"Oh, he was decidedly at the Domdaniel, sitting far across the room from me with two other men."
"Those two guys," Heath supplied, "were probably his bodyguard. He don't move without 'em."
"I fear there is no material for you in that quarter, Vance," said Markham. "The F.B.I, were once worried about him; but after an investigation they gave the man a clean bill of health."
"I admit defeat." Vance smiled sadly. "I even tried to lure Mirche into an admission of knowing Owen. But he denied the remotest acquaintance with the man..."
After another hour of random talk we were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Markham frowned with annoyance as he answered it; then, putting the receiver down, he turned to Heath.
"For you, Sergeant. It's Hennessey."
Heath, too, was annoyed.
"Sorry, Chief. I didn't leave this number with anyone when I came here."
As he greeted Hennessey over the wire his voice was bellicose. He listened for several minutes, his expression changing rapidly from belligerency to deep puzzlement. Suddenly he bawled into the transmitter:
"Hang on a minute!" Holding the receiver at his side, he turned to us.
"It sounds crazy to me, Chief, but Hennessey's calling from the Domdaniel, and I gotta see him right away..."
"Splendid!" ejaculated Vance. "Why not have Hennessey come here? I'm, sure Mr. Markham wouldn't object."
Markham shot Vance a look of questioning amazement.
"Very well, Sergeant," he grumbled.
Heath quickly put the receiver to his ear again.
"Hey, listen, Hennessey," he barked. "Hop over here to the D.A's."
"What might all the excitement be, Sergeant?' asked Vance. "Has Mirche absconded with his own till and eloped with Miss Del Marr?"
"It's damn queer," muttered Heath, ignoring the question. "The boys found a dead guy over at the cafe."
"I do hope he was found in Mirche's office," Vance said lightly.
"You win." Heath stared at the floor.
"And who might the corpse be?"
"That's what makes it cuckoo. A kitchen helper of some kind that worked there."
"Will that fact help you revive your fizzled tale?" Markham asked Vance.
"My word, no! It blasts my limpin' yarn completely." Vance turned to Heath again. "Did you get the name of the defunct chappie, Sergeant?"
"I didn't pay much attention to it when Hennessey said the guy was just a kitchen mechanic. But it sounded something like Philip Allen."
Vance's eyelids flickered slightly.
"Philip Allen, eh? Most interestin'!"
CHAPTER VII - QUEER COINCIDENCES
(Sunday, May 19; 18:5 am.)
Hennessey arrived in less than fifteen minutes. He was a heavy--set, serious--minded man with rugged features and an awkward manner.
Heath went directly to the point.
"Tell your story, Hennessey. Then I'll ask questions. But first I want to know why you called me here at this time of night."
"Hell, Sergeant!" Hennessey returned. "I'd been trying for over an hour to get hold of you. I knew you had some idea about Mr. Markham and the Domdaniel, and I figured you'd want to know about an unexpected death there. So I called your home and a lot of other places I thought you might be at. No dice. Then I took a chance and called you here. I didn't want you bawling me out tomorrow."
"Well, what do you know?" grumbled Heath.
"The story sounds cockeyed, Sergeant, but along about eleven o'clock I saw Mr. Vance come out of the cafe. Earlier, I'd seen him monkeying around Mirche's office----"
"At eight," Vance put in with a smile.
Hennessey took out his notebook and turned a few pages.
"Seven fifty--six, Mr. Vance."
"My word, what meticulous observation!"
Hennessey grinned. "Well, about fifteen or twenty minutes after Mr. Vance left, two men from the Bureau drives up with Doc Mendel [One of the Assistant Medical Examiners of New York.]; and the three of 'em go in Mirche's office. It looked like funny business to me, so I left Burke on watch, and Snitkin and I went to see what it was all about. Just as we was hopping up the steps, Mirche himself comes hurrying down the terrace, all excited, and busts past us into the office. I guess the doorman--you know him: Joe Hanley--musta told him that somethin' queer was goin' on..."
"Never mind guessing."
"All right," Hennessey continued. "Inside the office was a guy in a black suit lying all bunched up on the floor, half--way under the desk. Mirche went over to him, sort of staggerin' and dead--white himself. He leaned close over the guy, alongside the doc who was opening the fellow's shirt and putting one of those ear--trumpets on his chest..."
"A stethoscope! My word!" Vance looked at Markham. "I didn't know an official Aesculapius ever carried one of those trusty instruments."
They don't, as a rule," said Markham. "Mendel's a young fellow; just been appointed to the staff; and I wouldn't be surprised if he carries a sphygmomanometer around with him, and his diploma, too."
"Go on, Hennessey," Heath growled. "Then what?"
"Guilfoyle asked Mirche who the guy was. I don't know whether it was before or after Mirche answered the question; but anyhow along about then Dixie Del Marr came rushing in. And Mirche says, husky--like, it was one of his dishwashers at the cafe--a fellow named Philip Allen. I coulda told Guilfoyle that much. I knew Allen, and had seen him myself that afternoon. Then Guilfoyle asks Mirche what the fellow was doing in the office, and
where he lived, and what Mirche knew about his being dead. The old toad says he don't know nothing about the dead guy, or how he come to be there, or where he lives--that it was all a mystery to him. And he sure looked the part."
"You're sure he wasn't puttin' one over on you?" asked Heath suspiciously.
"Huh! Not me," Hennessey asserted. "A guy can't look that jolted and not mean it."
"What happened then?"
Hennessey continued more rapidly.
"The doc went on examining the man, lifting up his eyelids, looking down his throat, moving his legs and arms--the regular rigamarole. And while he was busy monkeying with the guy, this Dixie Del Marr opens the door of a built--in closet, and brings out a ledger. She turns a few pages, then says: 'Here it is, Dan'--meanin' Mirche. 'Philip Allen lives at 198 East 37th Street--with his mother.'"
Markham looked up and turned to Vance.
"I see that your not too profound deduction is being mildly substantiated. Your blond Lorelei is evidently Mirche's bookkeeper."
Hennessey was impatient at the interruption.
"Guilfoyle then asked the doc what the fellow had died of. The doc had the body on its face now, and when he looked round at Guilfoyle you'da thought he'd never seen a corpse before. 'I don't know,' he said. 'He might have died a natural death, but I can't tell with this much of an examination. He's got some burns on his lips, and his throat don't look so hot'--or words to that effect. 'You'll have to get him down to the morgue for a post--mortem.' He didn't even seem to know how long the guy was dead."
"What about the Del Marr woman?" prompted Heath.
"She put the book back and sat down in a chair looking hard and indifferent, until Mirche sent her back to the cafe."
"So you sent the body down to the morgue." Heath was puffing gloomily on his cigar.
"That's right, Sergeant. Guilfoyle took care of calling for the buggy. He and the other man from the Bureau, Sullivan, stayed on the job...It's a dumb enough story, but I know you've always been leery about this fellow Mirche--especially now with the Buzzard on the loose."
Heath furrowed his brow and fixed Hennessey with a cold stare.
"All right!" he bellowed. "Who went in that office after Mr. Vance arrived there at eight?"
"Oh, that's easy." The officer laughed mirthlessly. "The Del Marr woman went in around eight--thirty and come right out again. Then, a little while later, the doorman sauntered down, and he went in too. But I figure that ain't nothing unusual for him: I reckon Hanley just sneaked in for a snifter, for he came out rubbing his coat sleeve across his mouth..."
"What time was all this?" asked Heath.
"Early in the evening--within an hour after Mr. Vance had been there."
"I suppose you checked if either of 'em saw the dead guy?"
"Sure I did. But neither one of 'em saw him. The doorman went in after the Del Marr woman did; and you can bet your life that if there'd been a corpse in there, Hanley would have let out a holler. He's a right guy, Sergeant."
"Sure; I've known Joe Hanley plenty long." Heath thought a moment. "All of that don't add up...But here's something you can tell me: What time did you take your nap tonight?"
The import of Heath's question suddenly dawned on me.
"Honest to God, Sergeant, I didn't take any nap. But--so help me!--I never saw that guy Allen go into the office."
"Huh!" A world of sarcasm was in the Sergeant's grunt. "You didn't go to sleep, but Allen slips into the office, has a heart attack, or somethin', and folds up under Mirche's desk!--That's a hot one for the record!"
Hennessey turned a vivid red.
"I--I don't blame you for squawking, Sergeant. But, on the level, I didn't look away from that door for a split second----"
"Then this guy just made himself invisible and wished himself in there. Or maybe he came down the chimney like Santa Claus--if there'd been a chimney." The Sergeant's irony seemed unnecessarily brutal.
"I say, Sergeant," Vance put in. "The real object of Hennessey's vigil, y' know, was to keep an eye open for Benny Pellinzi. You certainly didn't put three husky gentlemen in the lodging--house to keep track of a poor dishwasher."
Heath took up another phase of the problem.
"Who put in the call to Headquarters, Hennessey?"
"That's another funny one, Sergeant. The call came through in the regular way at ten--fifty--not more'n ten minutes or so after you'd left. It was a woman who phoned. She wouldn't give her name; played mysterious and hung up."
"Yeah. I'll say that's funny...Mighta been this Del Marr wren."
"I thought of her myself, and asked her about it. But she seemed as ignorant about it as Mirche did. But it coulda been one of the old crones that work around the kitchen. A lot of the help comes and goes through that driveway alongside the office. And if one of 'em should happen to get nosy, they could stretch up and look through the window."
"What about the office building that adjoins the driveway?" Vance asked.
Heath answered the question.
"There's no windows there, sir. A solid brick wall for the first three floors..."
Vance's cigarette had burnt out, and he lighted a fresh one.
"Puttin' it all together," he commented, "it doesn't look very promisin' for a mysterious crime. Very sad. I had such lofty hopes when Hennessey phoned at this more or less witchin' hour."
"I gotta admit," Heath confessed, "I can't get hold of anything special in Hennessey's report, myself...But there's something else I'd like to know." He turned back to Hennessey. "You say you knew this dishwasher, Allen, and saw him earlier in the day. What about that?"
"The way I happen to know him," returned the officer, "is that he came running outa the driveway one night last winter, about three in the morning, and damn near knocked me down. I grabbed him and checked him up with Hanley. Then I turned him loose...This afternoon I seen him buzzing round Mirche's office. He went in and out three or four times between lunch and five o'clock. Then, around six, when Mirche had got there, he went in again and stayed about ten minutes that time. When he came out, that was the last I seen of him."
"Where did he go?"
"How should I know? I ain't no mind--reader. He didn't go back to the kitchen, if that's what you want to know. He just went on down the street."
"You sure it was Allen you saw?" the Sergeant asked dispiritedly.
"I'll say I'm sure!" Hennessey laughed. "But it's damn funny you should ask me that. The first time I seen Allen this afternoon, I got the screwy idea it coulda been Benny the Buzzard: they're both about the same size, with the same round pasty--looking face. And Allen had on a plain black suit, like I told you--which is the way the Buzzard mighta dressed if he'd been sneaking back here and didn't want to be spotted too easy. You remember the loud natty get--ups he wore in the old days. Anyhow, I though I'd make sure. I knew I was being dumb, but I went over and said hello to the fellow. It was Allen, all right. He told me he was hanging around to get a raise out of old Mirche. Swell chance!"
Heath scratched his head.
"Anything else about this fellow Allen come to you?"
"I was just thinking," Hennessey said. "Yeah...he met a guy about the middle of the afternoon--around four o'clock. He was a little fellow like Allen. They met just west of the cafe, and pretty soon they got into an argument. It looked like they was going to come to blows any minute. But I didn't pay much attention to 'em; and finally this guy went on his way...Anything else on your mind, Sergeant?"
Vance beckoned Heath to one side and spoke a few whispered words to him. At length the Sergeant shrugged his shoulders and nodded. Then he turned again to Hennessey.
"That's all," he said. "Go home and get some more sleep. But be back on the job at noon."
When Hennessey had gone, Markham, noting a sudden change in Vance's manner, frowned add leaned forward.
"What's on your mind, Vance?" he asked.
"Hennessey's tale. Y know, in my fairy--story this evening, I didn't mention the na
me of the wood--nymph. The name is Gracie Allen. And Philip Allen is her brother. She informed me quite frankly he was a dishwasher at the Domdaniel. She even told me he was going to beard Mirche in his den this afternoon to petition for an increased stipend. And when Miss Allen stopped at my table tonight, she was on her way to meet her brother somewhere in the recesses of the cafe."
Markham leaned back again with a short laugh.
"Maybe you can fit all that into the fantasy you were spinning earlier."
"As you say, old dear." Vance was no longer in a jesting mood. "I'm certainly going to try. I don't fancy so many irrelevant things happening in one place and at one time. Something must be holding them together. At any rate, I'm in no mood to emulate Pepys and betake myself home and to bed."
Vance walked the length of the room and back, his head down; then he came to an abrupt stop, and smiled with an abashed, yet determined, earnestness.
"See here, Markham," he said; "I admit my ideas are dashed vague, and that the charmin' little witch in Riverdale may have cast a spell over me. But I feel compelled to find out what I can about Philip Allen's untimely death, and maybe lessen the shock for the young lady. And I need your helpin' hand. Wouldst humour my vagaries once more?"
Markham sighed with resignation.
"Anything to get rid of you at this ungodly hour."
"Feelin' thus, give me the Allen case instanter, to play with as I jolly well please--with the doughty Sergeant at my side, of course."
Markham hesitated.
"How do you feel about this, Sergeant?"
"If Mr. Vance has got some fancy ideas," returned Heath vigorously, "I'd just as soon string along with him."
"All right, Sergeant, go ahead and humour our amateur playwright." Then Markham turned back to Vance. "And as for you," he said with good--natured effrontery, "I think you're a raving maniac."
"Granted," said Vance. "No de lunatico inquirendo writ necess'ry."
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