Philo Vance 12 Novels Complete Bundle

by S. S. Van Dine

  "Rexon's quite right," put in Quayne impressively. "Think of the scandal..."

  "I am thinking of it." Vance's manner remained cool. "But it is no longer a question of just the emeralds. We have certainly one murder on our hands. Possibly two. Surely, you wouldn't say 'be damned' to that."

  The elder Rexon shook his head despondently. He sank back into his chair. The son, at a gesture of dismissal from Vance, resumed his former place on the window sill.

  CHAPTER XVI - FINAL CURTAIN

  (Sunday, January 19; 2:45 p.m.)

  Vance took a few paces across the room. His attention was caught by a pair of eyes peering in at the window behind Richard Rexon. It was the Green Hermit. He made no move as Vance approached the window and raised it.

  "Might as well join us in here, Jed," Vance suggested casually. "You'll see much better, don't y' know. And hear. More satisfact'ry, what?" He closed the window as the old man moved away.

  Vance came back to a chair, crossed his knees as he sat down.

  Higgins opened the door with a surprised look on his face. "It's Old Jed, sir," he mumbled awkwardly.

  "Yes--oh, yes. Let him come in." It was Vance who spoke.

  The white-haired old man came shuffling into the room, looking from side to side as if to find a place where he might hide. He finally chose a chair in the corner nearest Vance and sat down without a word.

  "Where do we stand now?" Vance began anew. "Ah, yes. We still have to determine the identity of the persons involved in a dramatic piece of mayhem and thievery."

  He rose from the chair and stood leaning against it.

  "Mr. Rexon tells me, Doctor Quayne, that you are planning to leave Winewood." Vance looked at the man lazily.

  The doctor seemed taken aback. "Frankly, yes," he returned. "Though I don't recall having mentioned it. At any rate, I don't see what my future plans can have to do with this matter."

  "You will in a moment, doctor." Vance brought out a visiting card and a pencil. He wrote a few words hastily, toyed with the card for a moment. "Our problem is falling nicely into line," he announced, looking up. "I said Bassett could not have obtained the jewels. But he could--and probably did--assault Mr. Rexon and secure the key to the Gem Room...Yes. He would have had just enough time for that...This assumption assigns to him half of the second rôle. But our cast is still woefully incomplete...Permit me one more question, Doctor Quayne. Just why were you determined to let me know it was after twelve yesterday?"

  "I resent the imputation, sir. I was simply in a hurry."

  "As you said. In a hurry to get to the Gem Room and out again, doctor?"

  Quayne made no reply. Merely smiled, as at a precocious child.

  The door opened suddenly. Marcia Bruce came rushing back into the room. Her face was flushed. Her hands were tearing frenziedly at the paper wrappings of a small parcel. She shot a look of disgust at the man on the divan.

  In the momentary confusion Vance passed the card in his hand to Lieutenant O'Leary. The latter stepped from the room, returning almost immediately. He moved leisurely to the divan, sat down beside Quayne.

  Marcia Bruce had removed the last bit of paper and now held in her trembling hands a small, crudely sewn chamois bag, tied with a bit of dental floss. She turned fiery green eyes on Quayne.

  "You charlatan! You thief!" she flung at him. "Did you think I could be so easily deceived? Did you think that because of your honeyed words you could count on me to aid you and shield you in your hour of need?...Your hour of need!" she repeated disdainfully. "Hour of shame! Hour of perfidy!"

  She turned from him and held the bag out to Vance. He took it from her, tossed it lightly to the desk.

  Carrington Rexon, with shaking fingers, managed to get the bag opened. He emptied its contents. The brilliant gems formed a shimmering green pattern on the blotter before him. His son was again at his side. Together they examined the stones.

  "I think they are all here, Vance." The elder Rexon brought out a pocket handkerchief and placed the stones, one by one, in its folds.

  On the divan Quayne sat deathly pale. He seemed to have aged years in a few minutes. O'Leary moved a little closer to him.

  Vance turned to the housekeeper. "May I ask how that little pouch came into your possession, madam?"

  "He brought it to me." She pointed scornfully. "Last night. For safekeeping. It was all wrapped up. It was to be a surprise. A surprise I was to share with him when we were married and--" She broke off abruptly.

  Vance bowed to the woman. "Thank you, madam. It was the tangible proof I needed...Fortunate for Mr. Rexon the banks were already closed yesterday--eh, what, doctor?"

  Quayne shrugged helplessly.

  "Your theory wasn't far wrong, doctor...Now, if we assign to Doctor Quayne the role of obtaining the gems, as circumst'nces so irresistibly suggest, the problem is no longer a problem."

  "But how in the world, Vance--" Carrington Rexon was at a loss for words.

  "If the good doctor will help me elucidate further...Bassett's appearance on the veranda yesterday was your cue that he had carried out his half of the plan.--Am I right, doctor?"

  Quayne gave no sign that he had heard.

  "And, having established for yourself an iron-clad alibi through that perilous hour of noon, you had only to enter the house, take the key from where you knew he had left it for you, and the rest was simplicity itself. Your presence anywhere on the lower floor here would excite no suspicion...But won't you tell us, doctor, what form of blackmail Bassett employed to induce you to enter this scheme with him?"

  Still Quayne sat in stony silence.

  "Then I must resort again to our limited cast," continued Vance. "You were most helpful a little earlier, doctor. No doubt thought you were helping yourself. You suggested an eye witness to the murder of Wallen. Now, whom could we place in that rôle more appropriately than Mr. Bassett?...Of course, it would be only guess-work. But he would seem to meet every requirement..."

  There was an unexpected interruption from the Green Hermit. "You're not guessing, Mister; if you mean the night Lief Wallen died I was there. I was there because I came to look for Miss Ella. Miss Ella oughtn't to come by herself...I saw the doctor walk a ways with Lief. And I saw your Mr. Bassett walk after them. All very quiet and peaceful. I didn't know they meant harm..."

  Vance suddenly turned to O'Leary with a questioning look. The Lieutenant arose, making a jerky motion of his arm, much as a magician does when he is about to produce a surprise. Gradually dropping from his sleeve, came a heavy straight wrench, about twelve inches in length, with varied square openings at each end. He passed it to Vance.

  "By Jove!" said Vance evenly. "A spanner! Usually part of the tool equipment of an automobile--eh, what, doctor?"

  Quayne stiffened; his eyes bulged, fastened on the telltale wrench in Vance's hand.

  "Too bad your first attempt to enter the Gem Room was not more successful, doctor." Vance looked coolly at the man on the divan. "So Bassett was the eye witness. He must have driven a hard bargain."

  Quayne now spoke for the first time. His voice was strained and bitter. "Half of what I might get. And he ran only the minimum of risk."

  "And did you take the additional precaution of leaving the necklace at the pavilion in the hope of further involving Gunthar who already seemed to be seriously under suspicion?"

  The doctor spread his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

  "But in the end you felt you could not trust your partner? You deemed it safer--and more profitable--to put him out of your way permanently?"

  Quayne leaned forward rigidly.

  "I might as well tell you everything," he said wearily. "'When I was abroad two years ago, Richard introduced me to Jacques Bassett. It was an unfortunate acquaintance for me. From the first I disliked the man, though I tried to give no indication of it. Brief as our association was, I felt his evil influence. In a weak moment I was persuaded to undertake smuggling a packet of gems into this country for him.
I was fairly successful. Though I was under suspicion for some time, the federal investigation was finally dropped. When I sent the rascal his share of the transaction, I thought I had put him out of my life forever...Then Richard came home and brought Bassett with him. I was distressed to see that their friendship had continued. But I could say nothing...As I have already suggested, Bassett's trip here was motivated solely by his desire to acquire the Rexon emeralds. He lost no time in re-establishing contact with me. He made it plain to me that he was fortunate to find an unwilling ally who was necessarily under his thumb. He gave me the choice of doing as he said or being exposed in the smuggling matter. He painted rosy pictures for me if I would follow his bidding...For years I've been hoping to marry Marcia Bruce..."

  He sent a look of appeal across the room to the woman. She had regained her poise and looked back at him coldly.

  "But I never had sufficient income to take care of her," Quayne continued. "My practice had dwindled to a point where the Rexon fee was all I could count on. In the many years of my association here, stealing the emeralds never occurred to me. The scheme was Bassett's. But I was an easy prey to his designing chicanery...Wallen interrupted our first attempt, and it became necessary to get rid of him. I had the spanner with me and used it to fracture Wallen's skull. Then we dragged him to the cliff and threw him over. It looked as if we were safe; and I wanted to quit then. But Bassett held this second crime over my head more ominously than the first. I had no choice but to go on..."

  He paused briefly, then resumed.

  "You've shrewdly guessed, Mr. Vance, how Bassett obtained the key for me...Late last night I met him just outside the grounds to divide the gems. Distrusting him as I did, I took the spanner along as a precaution. There was a violent dispute. He threatened me, and I used the spanner again...The rest you know..."

  Quayne rose suddenly. O'Leary did likewise, a pair of manacles in one hand. Vance made a negative gesture. The doctor looked about him with clouded eyes. One hand moved slowly from his vest pocket to his mouth...

  He was immediately catapulted back to the divan, in horrible convulsions. In a few seconds he was still.

  "Odor of bitter almonds," Vance commented calmly. "Cyanide...Wiser than I thought. Leaves us without any problem. Eliminates the second actor in the dual performance."

  A hush fell over the room. Two or three minutes passed.

  O'Leary broke the silence. "But, Mr. Vance, how did you get a line on that wrench?"

  "It wasn't over difficult," drawled Vance. "There were two factors missin' in the pattern. The time element, and the lethal instrument. The first was cleared up when I realized their clever ruse built round the siren. The second dawned on me when Quayne returned with you this afternoon from viewing Bassett's body. He brought a noticeable aroma of gasoline with him. And I was reminded of an evening earlier in the week when he spoke of priming the engine of his car instead of using the starter. There are two tools with which to remove the spark plugs for this process: a socket wrench, or a spanner...You will recall the nature of the injuries on Wallen's skull and on Bassett's. A linear depressed fracture over the thin temporal bone. A crushing blow with a stout steel wrench would do the trick. I mentioned just such a weapon as a possibility on the morning Wallen was found."

  Vance paused to light a cigarette.

  "Ordin'rily, of course, the murderous weapon is disposed of as quickly as possible. But in this case it must of necessity be kept on hand to loosen the spark plugs. I was convinced it would be found within easy reach--on the floor of his car, perhaps...Is that correct, Lieutenant?"

  O'Leary nodded admiringly. "But, Mr. Vance," he said somewhat sheepishly, "suppose you hadn't been on the veranda when that siren sounded? Quayne couldn't count on your presence at the right moment."

  "Obviously not. That wouldn't have mattered. He counted on Miss Joan and Miss Ella. Served his purpose admirably. Perhaps better, in fact. And yet...I don't know. He would have insisted on bringing the point up. He considered it his irrefutable 'out,' don't y' know..."

  "And how," asked, Carrington Rexon, "did Bassett manage to come in here without my seeing him?"

  "Didn't you say you were out of the room, old friend?" Vance drew deeply on his Régie. "The man was patient. He was playing for big odds..."

  Carlotta Naesmith burst into the room. "The poor kid's all tired out, Sir Galahad. But she says you told her to keep on skating."

  Vance quickly stepped before the limp figure of Quayne on the divan. "Thank you, Miss Naesmith. I'll tell her in a moment that it's all right now. We'll all be joining you."

  "Please, Sir Galahad, let me tell her." Miss Naesmith whisked from the room before Vance could reply.

  * * *

  The guests left Rexon Manor the next morning. Richard Rexon, too, was to drive to New York with Vance and me later in the day. Carlotta Naesmith and Stanley Sydes were the last to take their departure. We formed a somewhat subdued group on the veranda as Higgins carried their bags out.

  Miss Naesmith stopped on the terrace. "You'll mail me your new address, Dick?" she called back. "I'll be sending you picture post-cards from Cocos Island. I hope you'll like that, Dick."

  A smile of understanding passed between the two as Carrington Rexon knit his brows.

  Sydes, still on the veranda, called out: "You mean that, Goddess?"

  "Nothing else but," she replied as she ran to the car. "When do we start?"

  "As soon as we can get to the yacht, darling." And Sydes went after her.

  A little later Vance was in Carrington Rexon's den bidding him adieu.

  "The ingratitude of our young folks," Rexon complained bitterly. "I don't know what the world is coming to."

  "Really, now, it isn't that bad," Vance said sympathetically. "And wasn't it you, Squire Rexon, who said something about the human heart desiring happiness for others?"

  Rexon looked up at him, and a new light came slowly into his eyes.

  Richard came in. "You'll see that Higgins gets my trunks off, Dad?"

  "Certainly, my boy. Take care of yourself...And--before you go, son, will you bring Ella in here to me."

  Walking out with a smile on his lips, Vance left the two together.

  * * *

  TWENTY RULES FOR WRITING DETECTIVE STORIES

  BY S. S. VAN DINE

  The detective story is a game. It is more--it is a sporting event. And the author must play fair with the reader. He can no more resort to trickeries and deceptions and still retain his honesty than if he cheated in a bridge game. He must outwit the reader, and hold the reader's interest, through sheer ingenuity. For the writing of detective stories there are very definite laws--unwritten, perhaps, but none the less binding: and every respectable and self-respecting concocter of literary mysteries lives up to them.

  Herewith, then, is a sort of Credo, based partly on the practice of all the great writers of stories, and partly on the promptings of the honest author's inner conscience. To wit:

  1. The reader must have equal opportunity with the detective for solving the mystery. All clues must be plainly stated and described.

  2. No wilful tricks or deceptions may be played on the reader other than those played legitimately by the criminal on the detective himself.

  3. There must be no love interest in the story. To introduce amour is to clutter up a purely intellectual experience with irrelevant sentiment. The business in hand is to bring a criminal to the bar of justice, not to bring a lovelorn couple to the hymeneal altar.

  4. The detective himself, or one of the official investigators, should never turn out to be the culprit. This is bald trickery, on a par with offering some one a bright penny for a five-dollar gold piece. It's false pretenses.

  5. The culprit must be determined by logical deductions--not by accident or coincidence or unmotivated confession. To solve a criminal problem in this latter fashion is like sending the reader on a deliberate wild-goose chase, and then telling him, after he has failed, that you had the
object of his search up your sleeve all the time. Such an author is no better than a practical joker.

  6. The detective novel must have a detective in it; and a detective is not a detective unless he detects. His function is to gather clues that will eventually lead to the person who did the dirty work in the first chapter; and if the detective does not reach his conclusions through an analysis of those clues, he has no more solved his problem than the schoolboy who gets his answer out of the back of the arithmetic.

  7. There simply must be a corpse in a detective novel, and the deader the corpse the better. No lesser crime than murder will suffice. Three hundred pages is far too much pother for a crime other than murder. After all, the reader's trouble and expenditure of energy must be rewarded. Americans are essentially humane, and therefore a tiptop murder arouses their sense of vengeance and horror. They wish to bring the perpetrator to justice; and when "murder most foul, as in the best it is," has been committed, the chase is on with all the righteous enthusiasm of which the thrice gentle reader is capable.

  8. The problem of the crime must be solved by strictly naturalistic means. Such methods for learning the truth as slate-writing, ouija-boards, mind-reading, spiritualistic séances, crystal-gazing, and the like, are taboo. A reader has a chance when matching his wits with a rationalistic detective, but if he must compete with the world of spirits and go chasing about the fourth dimension of metaphysics, he is defeated ab initio.

  9. There must be but one detective--that is, but one protagonist of deduction--one deus ex machine. To bring the minds of three or four, or sometimes a gang of detectives to bear on a problem is not only to disperse the interest and break the direct thread of logic, but to take an unfair advantage of the reader, who, at the outset, pits his mind against that of the detective and proceeds to do mental battle. If there is more than one detective the reader doesn't know who his co-deductor is. It's like making the reader run a race with a relay team.