Philo Vance 12 Novels Complete Bundle

by S. S. Van Dine

  "What in the world are you talking about?" Vance laughed and looked at her with puzzled eyes. "Who do you think it was?"

  She looked back at him searchingly for a few moments, and then said: "Why, it was Benny the Buzzard!"

  Sergeant Heath stiffened suddenly, his mouth agape.

  "Where did you ever hear that name, Miss?" he almost shouted.

  "Why--why-----" She stammered, taken aback by his vehemence. "Mr. Vance told me all about him."

  "Mr. Vance told you----?"

  "Of course he did!" the girl said defiantly. "That's how I know that Benny the Buzzard was killed in Riverdale."

  "Killed in Riverdale?" The Sergeant looked dazed. "And maybe you know who killed him, too?"

  "I should say I do know...It was Mr. Vance himself!"

  CHAPTER XVI - ANOTHER SHOCK

  (Tuesday, May 21; 10:50 am.)

  The appalling accusation came like a paralyzing shock. It was several moments before I could collect myself sufficiently to see the logic behind it. It was the natural outcome of the story which Vance had built up for the girl the afternoon he had first met her.

  Markham, with only meagre details of that rustic encounter and knowing nothing of the tall tale spun by Vance, must have recalled immediately the conversation at the Bellwood Country Club, in which Vance had expressed his extravagant ideas as to how Pellinzi should be disposed of.

  Heath, too, flabbergasted by the girl's announcement, must have remembered that Friday--night dinner; and it was not beyond reason to assume that he now held some hazy suspicion of Vance's guilt.

  Vance himself was temporarily astounded. Weightier matters had undoubtedly crowded the entire Riverdale episode from his mind for the moment; but now he suddenly realized how Gracie Allen's accusation took on the colour of plausibility.

  Markham approached the girl with an austere frown.

  "That is a grave charge you have just made, Miss Allen," he said. His gruff tone indicated the intangible doubts in the recesses of his mind.

  "My word, Markham!" Vance put in, not without annoyance. "Please glance about you. This is not a courtroom."

  "I know exactly where I am," retorted Markham testily. "Let me handle this matter--it's full of dynamite." He turned back to the girl. "Tell me just why you say Mr. Vance killed Benny the Buzzard."

  "Why, I didn't say it--that is, I didn't make it up out of my own head. I just sort of repeated it."

  Although she obviously did not regard the situation as serious, it was evident that Markham's sternness had disturbed her.

  "It was Mr. Vance who said it. He said it when I first met him in Riverdale beside the road that runs along a big white wall--last Saturday afternoon, when I was with--that is, I went there with----"

  Markham, aware of the girl's nervousness, smiled reassuringly and spoke in an altered manner.

  "There's nothing for you to worry about, Miss Allen," he said. "Just tell me the whole story, exactly as it happened."

  "Oh!" she exclaimed, a brighter note returning to her voice. "Why didn't you tell me that's what you wanted?...All right, I will tell you. Well, I went up to Riverdale last Saturday afternoon--we don't have to work at the factory on Saturday afternoons, ever; Mr. Doolson is very nice about that. I went up with Mr. Puttie--he's one of our salesmen, you know; but I really don't think he's as good as some of the other In--O--Scent salesmen.--Do you, George?"

  She turned momentarily to Burns, but did not wait for a reply.

  "Well, anyhow, George wanted me to go somewhere else with him; but I thought maybe it might be best if I went to Riverdale with Mr. Puttie, especially as he was taking me to dinner that night. And I thought maybe he might get angry if I didn't go to Riverdale with him, and then he wouldn't take me to dinner; so I didn't go with George, but I went to Riverdale with Mr. Puttie. Don't you think maybe I was right? Anyhow, that's how I happened to be at Riverdale...Well, we got to Riverdale--I often go there--I think it's just lovely up there. But it's an awful long walk from Broadway--and then Mr. Puttie went to look for a nunnery----"

  "Please, Miss Allen," interrupted Markham, with admirable composure; "tell me how you happened to meet Mr. Vance, and what he said to you."

  "Oh, I was coming to that...Mr. Vance came falling over the wall. And I asked him what he'd been doing. And he said he'd been killing a man. And I said what was the man's name. And he said Benny the Buzzard."

  Markham sighed with impatience. "Can you tell me a few other things, Miss Allen, about the incident?"

  "All right. As I already told you, Mr. Vance came falling over the wall, just behind where I was sitting--no, excuse me, I wasn't sitting, because somebody had just thrown a cigarette at me--that cigarette up there on the mantelpiece--only it was burning--and I was standing up, shaking it off my dress, when I heard Mr. Vance fall. He seemed in an awful hurry, too. I told him about the cigarette, and he said maybe he had thrown it himself; although I thought someone had thrown it out of a big automobile that had just whizzed by. Anyhow, Mr. Vance told me to get a new dress and it wouldn't cost me anything because he was sorry. And then he sat down and smoked some more cigarettes."

  She took a deep breath and hurried on.

  "And then was when I asked him what he was doing on the other side of the wall, and he said that he had just killed a very bad man named Benny the Buzzard. He said he did it because this Mr. Buzzard had broken out of jail and was going to murder a friend of his--that is, I mean a friend of Mr. Vance's. Mr. Vance was all mussed up, and he certainly looked like he might have just killed somebody. I was even scared of him myself for a while. But I got all over that..."

  She took a moment to survey Vance up and down, as if making a sartorial comparison.

  "Well now, let's see, where was I? Oh, yes...He was running away in a terrible hurry, because he said he didn't want anybody to know about his killing the man. But he told me. I guess he saw right away he could trust me. But I don't know why he was worried about it, because he said he thought he had done right to save his friend from danger. Anyhow, he asked me not to tell anybody; and I promised. But he just now asked me to tell what I meant about the dead man in Riverdale, so I guess he meant I didn't have to keep my promise any more. So that's why I'm telling you."

  Markham's astonishment rose as the girl rambled on. When she completed her recital and looked round for approval, the District Attorney turned to Vance.

  "Good Heavens, Vance! Is this story actually true?"

  "I fear so," Vance admitted, shrugging.

  "But why--how did you come to tell her such a story?"

  "The balmy weather, perhaps. In the spring, y' know..."

  "But," demanded the girl, "aren't you going to arrest him?"

  "No--I-----" Markham was left floundering.

  "Why not?" the girl insisted. "I'll bet I know why! I'll bet you think that you can't arrest a detective. I thought so, too--once. But Sunday I asked a policeman; and he said of course you can arrest a detective."

  "Yes; you can arrest a detective," smiled Markham, "if you know that he has broken a law. But I have very grave doubts that Mr. Vance has actually killed a man."

  "But he said so himself. And how else could you know? I really didn't think he was guilty either--at first. I thought he was just telling me a romantic story because I love romantic stories! But then, Mr. Vance himself just said--right here in this very room--you heard him--he said that there was a dead man killed with the cigarette in Riverdale last Saturday. And he was very serious about it--I could tell by the way he acted and talked. It wasn't at all like he was making up a romantic story again..."

  She stopped abruptly and looked at the befuddled Mr. Burns. Judging from her expression, another idea had come into her head. She turned back to Markham with renewed seriousness.

  "But you really ought to arrest Mr. Vance," she said with definiteness. "Even if he isn't guilty. I guess I don't really think he is guilty myself. He's been so awfully nice to me. But still I think you ought to arrest him j
ust the same. You see, what I mean is that you can pretend that you believe he killed this man in Riverdale. And then everything would be all right for George. And Mr. Vance wouldn't care a bit--I know he wouldn't. Would you, Mr. Vance?"

  "What in Heaven's name are you driving at now?" asked Markham.

  Vance smiled.

  "I know exactly what she means, Markham." He turned to Miss Allen. "But really, y' know, my arrest wouldn't help Mr. Burns."

  "Oh, yes it would," she insisted. "I know it would. Because there's somebody following him wherever he goes. And George says he bets it's a detective of some kind. And all the policemen around George's hotel look at him in the strangest way. There's just lots of people, I bet, who think George is guilty--like after they came to the house and took him away in a wagon to jail, and everything. George told me all about it, and it worries him terribly. He isn't at all like he used to be. He can't sleep very well; and he doesn't smell so good. So how can he work?...You don't know how awful it is, Mr. Vance. But if you got arrested, then everybody would think that you were guilty and they wouldn't bother George any more; and he could go back to work and be just like he used to be. And then, after a while, they'd find the real person, and everything would be all right for everybody."

  She stopped to catch her breath; then quickly ran on with almost fiery determination.

  "And that's why I think you ought to arrest Mr. Vance. And if you don't, I'm going to call up the newspapers and tell them everything he said and all about Benny the Buzzard, and how he wasn't killed at the Domdaniel at all, but somewheres else. I'll bet they'll print it, too. Especially as Mr. Puttie was standing just behind the tree when Mr. Vance was talking to me, and he heard everything. And if they don't believe me, they'll believe Mr. Puttie. And if they don't believe him, they'll have to believe the two of us together. And then I'm sure they'll print it. And everybody'll be so interested in a famous man like Mr. Vance being guilty, that they won't bother about George any more. Don't you see what I mean?"

  There was the zealous resolution of the crusader in her eyes; and her disorganized phrases pulsated with an unreasoning passion to help the man she loved.

  "Good God, Chief!" blurted Heath. "There sure is dynamite there. You said it!"

  Vance moved lethargically in his chair and looked at Heath with a satirical smile.

  "You see what you and your shadowing Mr. Tracy have got me in for, Sergeant?"

  "Sure I do!" Heath took a step toward Miss Allen. His perturbation was almost comical. "See here, Miss," he blustered. "Listen to me a minute. You're all wrong. You got everything mixed up. We don't know there was a murder in Riverdale. We don't know nothing about that, see? We only know about the dead guy in the cafe. And he wasn't the Buzzard; he was your brother----"

  He stopped short with a jerk, and his face went red.

  "Holy Mackerel! I'm sorry as hell, Mr. Vance."

  Vance rose quickly and went to the girl's side. She had her hands to her face in a spasm of uncontrollable laughter.

  "My brother? My brother?" Then as quickly as she had burst into mirth, she sobered. "You can't fool me that way, Mr. Officer."

  Vance stepped back.

  "Tell me,"--a sudden new note came into his voice--"what do you mean by that, Miss Allen?"

  "My brother's in jail!"

  CHAPTER XVII - FINGERPRINTS

  (Tuesday, May 21; 11:30 am.)

  It was at this moment that Mrs. Allen, serene and self--effacing, was guided into the room by Currie.

  Vance turned quickly and welcomed her with but the briefest of greetings.

  "Is it true, Mrs. Allen," he asked, "that your son is not dead?"

  "Yes, it is true, Mr. Vance. That's why I came over here."

  Vance nodded with an understanding smile and, leading the woman to a chair, asked her to explain more fully.

  "You see, sir," she began in a colorless voice, "Philip was arrested over near Hackensack that awful night, after he had given up his job at the cafe. He was with another boy in an automobile, and a policeman got in and told this other boy--it's Stanley Smith I mean, a friend of Philip's--to drive to the police station. He accused them of stealing the car; and then, when they were on the way to the jail, the policeman said that it was the same car that had just killed an old man and run off--you know, what you call a hit--and--run murder. And this frightened Philip terribly, because he didn't know what Stanley might have done before they met. And then, when the car stopped for a light, Philip jumped out and ran away. The policeman shot at him, but he wasn't caught." Vance nodded sympathetically. "Then Philip telephoned to me--I could tell how frightened he was--and said that the police were after him and that he was going somewhere to hide...Oh, I was so terribly worried, Mr. Vance, with the poor miserable boy so scared, and biding--you know, a fugitive from justice. And then when you came that night I thought you were looking for him; but when you told me my boy was dead, you can imagine----"

  Heath leaped forward.

  "But you said that was your son down at the morgue!" He flung the words at her.

  "No, I didn't, Mr. Officer," the woman said simply.

  "The hell you didn't!" bellowed Heath.

  "Sergeant!" Vance held up his hand. "Mrs. Allen is quite correct...If you think back, you will remember she did not once say it was her son. I'm afraid we said it for her, because we thought it was true." He smiled wistfully.

  "But she fainted, didn't she?" pursued Heath.

  "I fainted from joy, Mr. Officer," explained the woman, "when I saw it wasn't really Philip."

  Heath was by no means satisfied. "But--but you didn't say it wasn't your son. And you let us think----"

  Again Vance checked him.

  "I believe I understand exactly why Mrs. Allen let us think it was her son. She knew we represented the police, and she also knew her son was hiding from them. And when she saw that we believed her son was dead, she was very glad to let us think so, imagining that would end the hunt for Philip...Isn't that true, Mrs. Allen?"

  "Yes, Mr. Vance." The woman nodded calmly. "And I naturally didn't want you to tell Gracie that Philip was dead, because then I would have to tell her that he was hiding from the police; and that would have made her very unhappy. But I thought that maybe in a few days everything would come out all right; and then I would tell you. Anyhow, I thought you would find out before long that it really wasn't Philip."

  She looked up with a faint sad smile.

  "And everything did come out all right, just as I hoped and prayed--and knew--it would."

  "We're all very happy that it did," said Vance. "But tell us just how everything has come out all right."

  "Why, this morning," resumed Mrs. Allen, "Stanley Smith came to the house to ask for Philip. And when I told him that Philip was still hiding, he said that everything had been a mistake; and how his uncle came to the jail and proved to the police that the car was not stolen, and how it was a different car that had run over the old man...So I told Gracie all about it right away, and went to take the wonderful news to my son and bring him back home..."

  "How come then,"--the Sergeant's continued exasperation was evident in his manner--"if you told your daughter all about it, that she said just now her brother was in jail?"

  Mrs. Allen smiled timidly.

  "Oh, he is. You see, Saturday was such a warm night that Philip had his coat off in the car; and he left it there. That's how the police knew who he was, because he had his work--check in the pocket. So he went to the jail in Hackensack this morning to get his coat. And he's coming home for lunch."

  Vance laughed in spite of himself, and gave Gracie Allen a mischievous look. "And I'll warrant it was a black coat."

  "Oh, Mr. Vance!" the girl exclaimed ecstatically. "What a wonderful detective you are! How could you possibly tell what colour Philip's coat was way over there across the river?"

  Vance chuckled and then became suddenly serious.

  "And now I must ask you all to go," he said, "and prepare for Ph
ilip's home--coming."

  At this point Markham intervened.

  "But what about that story you were threatening to tell to the newspapers, Miss Allen? I couldn't permit anything like that."

  George Burns, with a broad grin on his face, answered the District Attorney.

  "Gracie won't do that, Mr. Markham. You see, I'm perfectly happy now, and I'm going back to work tomorrow morning. I really wasn't worrying about being guilty or about having anybody following me around. But I had to tell that to Gracie--and Mr. Doolson--because you made me promise that I wouldn't say a word about Philip. And it was Philip being dead and Gracie not knowing, and everything, that made me feel so terribly bad that I just couldn't get any sleep or do any work."

  "Isn't that wonderful!" Miss Allen clapped her hands, and then glanced slyly at Vance. "I didn't really want you to go to jail, Mr. Vance--except to help George. So I give you my promise I won't say one word to anybody about your confession. And you know I always keep a promise."

  As Mrs. Allen was departing with her daughter and Burns, she gave Vance a look of shy apology.

  "I do hope, sir," she said, "that you don't think I did wrong in deceiving you about that poor boy--downtown."

  Vance took her hand in his. "I certainly think nothing of the kind. You acted as any mother would have acted, had she been as clever and as quick--witted as you."

  He raised her hand to his lips, and then closed the door after the trio.

  "And now, Sergeant,"--his whole manner changed--"get busy! Call Tracy up here, and then try to have that dead fellow identified by his fingerprints."

  "You don't have to tell me to get busy, sir," returned Heath, hurrying to the window. He beckoned frantically to the man across the street. Then he turned back into the room, and on his way to the telephone, he halted abruptly, as if a sudden thought had left him motionless.

  "Say, Mr. Vance," he asked, "what makes you think his fingerprints'll be on file?"

  Vance gave him a searching, significant look.

  "You may be greatly surprised, Sergeant."