Philo Vance 12 Novels Complete Bundle

by S. S. Van Dine

  "No, I don't believe so," answered Vance noncommittally. "However, that isn't the point that interests me at the moment. The fact is, Mr. Mirche, there was an officer in the street outside Saturday night, and he insists he didn't see this dishwasher of yours enter the office here, after he was last seen coming out of it at about six o'clock."

  "Probably didn't notice him," said Mirche indifferently.

  "No--oh, no. The officer--who, by the by, knew young Allen--is quite positive the man did not enter your office from the balcony all evening."

  Mirche looked up and spread his hands.

  "I must still insist, Mr. Vance---"

  "Is it possible the fellow could have come in here some other way?" Vance paused momentarily and looked about him. "He might, don't y' know, have come through that little door in the wall at the rear."

  Mirche did not speak for a moment. He stared shrewdly at Vance, and the muscles in his body seemed to tighten. If I have ever seen a living picture of a man thinking rapidly, Mirche was that picture.

  Suddenly the man let out a short laugh.

  "And I thought I had guarded my little secret so well!...That door is a device of mine--purely for my own convenience, you understand." He rose and went to the rear of the office. "I'll show you how it works." He pressed a small medallion on the wainscoting, and a panel barely two feet wide swung silently into the room. Beyond was the narrow passageway in which Gracie Allen had lost her way.

  Vance looked at the concealed catch on the secret door and then turned away, as if the revelation were nothing new to him.

  "Quite neat," he drawled.

  "A great convenience," said Mirche, closing the door. "A private entrance to my office from the cafe. You can see, Mr. Vance----"

  "Oh, yes--quite. Useful no end when you crave a bit of privacy. I've known certain Wall Street brokers to have just such contraptions. Can't say I blame them...But how should your dishwasher have known of this arrangement?"

  Mirche stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  "I'm sure I don't know. Although it's wholly possible, of course, that some of the help around here have spied on me--or perhaps run into the secret accidentally."

  "Miss Del Marr's aware of it, of course?"

  "Oh, yes," Mirche admitted. "She helps me here a bit at times. I see no reason for not letting her use the door when she wishes."

  It was apparent that Vance was somewhat taken aback at Mirche's frankness, and he straightway turned the conversation into other channels. He put numerous questions about Allen, and then reverted to the events of Saturday night.

  In the midst of one of Vance's questions the front door opened, and Miss Del Marr herself appeared in the doorway. Mirche invited her in and immediately introduced us.

  "I have just been telling these gentlemen," he said quickly, "about the private entrance to this room." He forced a laugh. "Mr. Vance seemed to think there might be some mysterious connection between that and----"

  Vance held up his hand, protesting pleasantly.

  "I'm afraid you read hidden meanings into my words, Mr. Mirche." Then he smiled at Miss Del Marr. "You must find that door a great convenience."

  "Oh, yes--especially when the weather is bad. In fact, it has proved most convenient." She spoke in a casual tone, but there was a hardness, almost a bitterness, in her expression.

  Vance was scrutinizing her closely. I expected him to question her regarding Allen's death, for I knew this had been his intention. But, instead, he chatted carelessly regarding trivial things, quite unrelated to the matter which had brought him there.

  Shortly before he made his adieus, he said disarmingly to Miss Del Marr: "Forgive me if I seem personal, but I cannot help admiring the scent you are wearing. I'd hazard a guess it is a blend of jonquille and rose."

  If the woman was astonished at Vance's comment, she gave no indication of it.

  "Yes," she replied indifferently. "It has a ridiculous name--quite unworthy of it, I think. Mr. Mirche uses the perfume, too--I am sure it was my influence." She gave the man a conventional smile; and again I detected the hardness and bitterness in her manner.

  We took our leave soon thereafter, and as we walked toward Seventh Avenue, Vance was unusually serious.

  "Deuced clever, our Mr. Mirche," he muttered. "Can't understand why he wasn't more concerned about the secret door. He's worried, though. Oh, quite. Very queer...No need whatever to question the Lorelei. Changed my mind about that the moment she spoke so dulcetly and looked at Mirche. There was hatred, Van,--passionate, cruel hatred...And they both use Kiss Me Quick. Oh, where does that aromatic item belong?...Most puzzlin'!..."

  At the District Attorney's office Markham told us about Doolson's visit that morning.

  "The man is desperately concerned, Vance, and for the most incredible reason. It seems he has an exalted opinion of this young Burns' ability. Imagines his perfumery business cannot function without the fellow. Is convinced that Burns holds the key to the factory's continued success. And more of that sort of amazing twaddle."

  "Not twaddle at all, Markham," Vance put in. "Doolson probably has every reason to regard Burns highly. It was Burns who concocted the formula for In--O--Scent and saved Doolson from bankruptcy. I understand just what the man means."

  "Well, it seems, further, that the business of the concern is of a somewhat seasonal nature and that the annual peak is approaching. Doolson has invested heavily in an intensive campaign of some kind, and is in immediate need of various new popular scents. His contention is that only Burns can turn the trick."

  "Both interesting and plausible. But why his visit here to your sanctum?"

  "It appears Burns has chucked his job until cleared of all suspicion in the Allen affair. He's nervous and, I imagine, not a little frightened. Can't work, can't think, can't sniff--completely disorganized. And Doolson is frantic. He had a talk with the fellow this morning, and got the reasons for his obstinate refusal to return to his work. Burns told him the affair was being kept quiet temporarily, and gave no names; but explained that he was in some way concerned with it and therefore upset. Having complete faith in Burns, Doolson hastened here in despair. Probably thought my office wasn't making enough speed."

  "Well?"

  "He insists on offering a reward for the solution to the case, in the desperate hope of spurring me and the staff to get the matter settled at once, so his precious Burns can get back to work. Personally, I think the man is crazy."

  "It could be, Markham. But don't disabuse him."

  "I've already tried. But he was insistent."

  "And at what figure does he estimate the immediate and carefree services of Mr. Burns?"

  "Five thousand dollars!"

  "Quite insane," Vance laughed.

  "I agree with you. I wouldn't believe it myself if I didn't have the written and signed instructions and the certified cheque right here in my safe at this moment--incidentally, with an expiration clause of forty--eight hours."

  After Vance had absorbed this fantastic information, he related his own activities of the morning. He told of the secret door to Mirche's office, and dwelt on the Sergeant's stubborn suspicion that the Domdaniel was the centre of some far--reaching criminal ring.

  To this last, Markham nodded slowly and thoughtfully.

  "I'm not sure," he remarked, "that the Sergeant's suspicions are unfounded. That place has always troubled me a bit, but nothing definite has ever been brought to light."

  "The Sergeant mentioned Owen as a possible guiding genius," Vance said. "And the idea rather appeals to me. I'm half inclined, don't y' know, to search for the 'Owl' and see if I can ruffle his feathers...By the by, Markham, in case my impulse should overcome my discretion, what might be his Christian name? Really, one can't go about inquiring for a predat'ry nocturnal bird."

  "As I remember, it's Dominic."

  "Dominic--Dominic..." Suddenly Vance stood up, his eyes fixed before him. "Dominic Owen! And Daniel Mirche!" He held his cigarette suspended. "Now
the whole thing has become fantasy. You're right, Markham--I'm having visions: I'm enmeshed in an abracadabra. It's all as fantastic as the Papyrus of Ani!"

  "In the name of Heaven-----" began Markham.

  "Doesn't it pierce your consciousness?" Then he said: "Dominic--Daniel. To wit, DOMDANIEL!"

  Markham raised his eyebrows sceptically.

  "Sheer coincidence, Vance. Though a neat bit of fantasy, I'll admit. As I recall my Arabian Nights, the original Domdaniel was under the ocean, somewhere near Tunis, and was the abode of evil spirits. Even if Mirche had ever heard of that undersea palace and was a partner of Owen's in the cafe, he'd never have had enough initiative, or courage, for that."

  "Not Mirche, Markham. But Owen. He would have the subtlety and the daring and the grim humour. The idea would have been quite magnificent, don't y'know. Offering the world a key to his secret, and then chuckling to himself much like one of the evil afrits who originally inhabited that subterranean citadel of sin..."

  He commiserated with Markham on the intricacies of life, and left him to draw his own conclusions.

  It was not Heath who was waiting for us when we returned to Vance's apartment a little before three. It was the ubiquitous Gracie Allen; and, as usual, she greeted Vance with gay exuberance.

  "You told me to come back this afternoon. Or didn't you? Anyhow, you did say something about later this afternoon, and I didn't know what time that was; so I thought I'd come early. I've got lots of clues collected--that is, I've got three or four. But I don't think they're any good. Have you got any clues, Mr. Vance?"

  "Not yet," he said, smiling. "That is, I haven't any definite clues. But I have several ideas."

  "Oh, tell me all about your ideas, Mr. Vance," she urged. "Maybe they will help. You never know what will come out of just thinking. Only last week I thought there'd be a thunderstorm--and there was!"

  "Well, let me see..." And Vance, somewhat in the spirit of facetiousness, yet with a manifest benignity, told her of his surmise regarding the meaning of the word "Domdaniel." He dwelt entertainingly on the mystery and romance of the Arabian Nights legend of the original Domdaniel--the Syrian califs, the "roots of the ocean," the four entrances and the four thousand steps, and Maghrabi and the other magicians and sorcerers.

  Heath had come in at the beginning of the story, and stood listening throughout as enthralled as was the girl. When Vance had finished Gracie Allen relaxed momentarily.

  "That's simply wonderful, Mr. Vance. I wish I could help you find the man named Dominic. We have a big fat shipping clerk down at the factory named Dominic. But he can't be the one you mean."

  "No, I'm sure he's not. This one is a small man, with very dark, piercing eyes, and a white face, and hair that's almost black."

  "Oh! Maybe it was the man I saw in Miss Del Marr's room."

  "What!" The Sergeant's exclamation startled the girl.

  "Goodness! Did I say something wrong again, Mr. Heath?"

  Vance reproachfully waved the Sergeant back. Then he spoke calmly to the girl.

  "You mean, Miss Allen, that you saw someone besides Miss Del Marr when you fell into that room last Saturday?"

  "Yes. A man exactly like you described."

  "But why," asked Vance, "did you not tell me about him this morning?"

  "Why, you didn't ask me! If you'd asked me I'd have told you. And anyhow, I didn't think it made any difference--about the man being there, I mean. He didn't have anything at all to do with my tumble."

  "And you're sure," Vance went on, "that he looked like the man I just described to you?"

  "Uh--huh, I'm sure."

  "I don't suppose you had ever seen him before."

  "I never saw him before in all my life. And I'd have remembered, too, if I'd ever seen him. I always remember faces, but I can't hardly ever remember names. But I did see him afterwards."

  "Afterwards? Where was that?"

  "Why, he was sitting in the dining--room, right in the corner, not very far from George. I can't imagine how I happened to look over in that direction, because I was with Mr. Puttie that evening."

  "Was there anyone else with the man when you saw him in the dining--room?" Vance pursued.

  "But I couldn't see them, because they had their backs to me."

  "Them? Just whom do you mean?"

  "Why, the two other men at the same table."

  Vance inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

  "Tell me. Miss Allen: what was the man doing when you saw him in Miss Del Marr's room?"

  "Well, let me see. I guess he was a very personal friend of Miss Del Marr's because he was putting a big notebook away in one of the drawers. And he must have been a very personal friend of Miss Del Marr's, or he wouldn't know where the book belonged, would he? And then Miss Del Marr came over to me and put her hand on my arm, and led me out very quick. I guess she was in a hurry. But she was awfully nice..."

  "Well, that was a very amusing experience, my dear."

  Shortly after this astounding recital, Miss Allen cheerfully took leave of us, saying, with a comical air of mystery, that she had a lot of very important things to attend to. She intimated that she might even be seeing Mr. Burns.

  When she had gone Vance looked across at the Sergeant as if expecting some comment.

  Heath sprawled in a chair, apparently stunned. "I got nothin' to say, Mr. Vance. I'm goin' nuts!"

  "I'm a bit groggy myself," said Vance. "But now it's imperative that I see Owen. Frankly, I've been only half--hearted about communing with him, and only vaguely believed in my game of charades about Owen and Mirche. Yet Gracie Allen knew of the connection all along. Yes, now it is highly imperative that I tree the 'Owl.' Can you help, Sergeant?"

  Heath pursed his lips. "I don't know where the guy's staying in New York, if that's what you mean. But one of the federal boys I know might have the dope. Wait a minute..."

  He went to the telephone in the hall, while Vance smoked in silent preoccupation.

  "At last I got it," Heath announced as he came back into the room a half--hour later. "None of the federal boys knew Owen was in town, but one of 'em dug up the file and told me that Owen used to live at the St. Carlton during the old investigation. I took a chance and called up the hotel. He's stopping there, all right--got in Thursday..."

  "Thank you, Sergeant. I'll phone you in the morning. In the meantime, discourage thought."

  The Sergeant departed, and Vance immediately put a call through to Markham.

  "You're breakfasting with me tomorrow," he told the District Attorney. "This evening I shall endeavour to call on the erudite Mr. Owen. I've many things to tell you, and I may have more by morning. Remember, Markham: breakfast tomorrow--it's a ukase, not a frivolous invitation..."

  CHAPTER XIV - A DYING MADMAN

  (Monday, May 20; 8 pm.)

  At eight o'clock that evening Vance went to the St. Carlton hotel. He did not telephone from the reception desk, but wrote the word "Unprofessionally" across one of his personal cards and sent it to Owen. A few minutes later the bellboy returned and led us upstairs.

  Two men were standing by a window when we entered, and Owen himself was seated limply in a low chair against the wall, slowly turning Vance's card between his slender tapering fingers. He looked at Vance, and tossed the card on the inlaid tabouret beside him. Then he said in a soft, imperious voice, "That's all tonight." The two men went out of the room immediately, and closed the door.

  "Forgive me," he said with a wistful, apologetic smile. "Man is a suspicious animal." He moved his hand in a vague gesture: it was his invitation for us to sit down. "Yes, suspicious. But why should one care?" Owen's voice was ominously low, but it had a plaintive carrying quality, like a birdcall at dusk. "I know why you came. And I am glad to see you. Something might have intervened."

  With a closer view of the man, I got the impression that grave illness hung over him. An inner lethargy marked him; his eyes were liquid; his face was almost cyanosed; his voice a monotone. He gave me
the feeling of a living dead man.

  "For several years," he went on, "there has been the vagrant hope that some day...Need for consciousness of kind, like--mindedness..." His voice drifted off.

  "The loneliness of psychic isolation," murmured Vance. "Quite. Perhaps I was not the one."

  "Nobody is the one, of course. Forgive my conceit." Owen smiled wanly and lighted a cigarette. "You think that either of us willed this meeting? Man makes no choices. His choice is his temperament. We are sucked into a vortex, and until we escape we struggle to justify or ennoble this 'choice.'"

  "It doesn't matter, does it?" said Vance. "Something vital always evades us, and the mind can never answer the questions it propounds. Saying a thing, or not saying it and thinking it, is no different."

  "Exactly." The man gave Vance a glance of interrogation. "What thought have you?"

  "I was wondering why you were in New York. I saw you at the Domdaniel on Saturday." Vance's tone had changed.

  "I saw you too, though I was not certain. I thought then you might get in touch with me. Your presence that night was not a coincidence. There are no coincidences. A babu word to cloak our reeking ignorance. There is only one pattern in the entire universe of time."

  "But your visit to the city. Do I intrude on a secret?"

  Owen snarled, and I could feel a chill go down my spine. Then his expression changed to one of sadness.

  "I came to see a specialist--Enrick Hofmann."

  "Yes. One of the world's greatest cardiologists. You saw him?"

  "Two days ago." Owen laughed bitterly. "Doomed! Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin."

  Vance merely raised his eyebrows slightly, and drew deeply on his cigarette.

  "Thank you," said Owen, "for sparing me the meaningless platitudes." Then he asked suddenly: "Are you a Daniel?"

  "Does Belshazzar need an augur?" Vance looked straight at the man... "No, alas! I am no Daniel. Nor am I a Dominic."

  Owen chuckled diabolically.

  "I was sure you knew!" He wagged his head in satisfaction. "Mirche will die without the faintest suspicion of the jest. He's as ignorant of the Thousand and One Nights as he is of Southey and Carlyle. [Southey used the Domdaniel as the subject of his "Thalaba"; and it was Carlyle who made the Domdaniel of the Arabian Night synonymous with a "den of iniquity."] An illiterate swine!"