Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 2

by S. S. Van Dine

  15. THE TWO-O'CLOCK APPOINTMENT

  (Tuesday, October 18; 9:30 a.m.)

  Vance arrived at the District Attorney's office at half-past nine the next morning. After the chamber music at Carnegie Hall the night before, Markham had gone directly home, and Vance had stayed up until long past midnight, reading sections here and there in various medical books. He had seemed nervous and expectant, and after a Scotch and soda I had gone to bed, leaving him in the library; but I was still awake when he turned in some two hours later. The events of the day had stimulated my mental processes, and it was nearly dawn when I fell asleep. At eight Vance awakened me and asked if I wished to participate in the activities he had planned for the day.

  I got up at once and found him in excellent mood when I joined him in the library for breakfast.

  "Something final and revealin' should happen today, Van," he greeted me cheerfully. "I'm countin' on the conjunctivas and the psychology of fear. I've told every one connected with the case, with the exception of Kinkaid, all I know; and Bloodgood can be relied upon to relay my remarks to him in his seaside retreat. I'm hopin' that some of the seeds sown by my comments fell into good ground and will bring forth fruit, perchance an hundredfold—though I'd be jolly well satisfied with the sixtyfold or even the thirtyfold. . . . We're heading for Markham's office as soon as you encompass those poached eggs. I could bear seein' Hildebrandt's latest report. . . ."

  Markham had been in his office only a short time when we arrived. He was studying a typewritten sheet of paper, and did not rise when we entered.

  "You guessed it," he informed Vance immediately. "Hildebrandt's report was on my desk when I got in."

  "Ah!"

  "Conjunctivæ, lachrymal sacs and mucous membranes of the nose all saturated with belladonna. Also belladonna in the blood. Hildebrandt says there's no doubt now as to the cause of death."

  "That's most interestin'," said Vance. "I was reading last night of a case of death in a four-year-old child by the instillation of belladonna in the eyes."

  "But that being the case," Markham objected, "where does your heavy water fit in?"

  "Oh, it fits in perfectly," Vance returned. "We weren't supposed to learn of the belladonna in the membrane of the eyelids and the anterior part of the eyeball. We were supposed to plunge into heavy water, head first, so to speak. The poisoner's toxicology was quite all right in an academic sense, but it didn't provide for all possible eventualities."

  "I don't pretend," Markham retorted irritably, "to understand your cryptic remarks. Doctor Hildebrandt's report, however, is sufficiently definite, but it doesn't help us in the legal sense."

  "No," admitted Vance. "Legally speaking, it makes the case more difficult. It could still be suicide, don't y' know. But it wasn't."

  "And it is your theory," Markham asked, "that belladonna was also the poison taken by Lynn Llewellyn and his sister?"

  "Oh, no." Vance shook his head emphatically. "That was something entirely different. And the distressin' part of the whole affair is that we have no proof of murderous intent in any of the three poisonings. But at least we know where we stand now, with that report of Hildebrandt's on the records. . . . Any other news, perchance?"

  "Yes," nodded Markham. "A rather peculiar piece of news. I don't attach any particular importance to it, however. But the first thing this morning, before I got here, Kinkaid phoned from Atlantic City. Swacker spoke to him. He said he was called back to New York unexpectedly—some business at the Casino—and if I cared to meet him there, and bring you along, he thought he could give us some further information about the Llewellyn case."

  Vance was deeply stirred by this information.

  "Did he mention any specific time?"

  "He told Swacker that he was going to be very busy all day, and said two o'clock would be most convenient for him."

  "Did you, by any chance, call him back?"

  "No. He informed Swacker he was taking a train immediately. And I didn't know where he was stopping, anyway. Moreover, I saw no necessity for phoning him; and, in any event, I wouldn't have done anything till I spoke to you. You seem to have some ideas about the case, which, I'll admit, have not suggested themselves to me. . . . What do you make of his invitation? Do you think it's likely he's handing out any vital information?"

  "No, I don't think so." Vance lay back and, half closing his eyes, pondered the matter for several moments. "Queer situation. He's deuced casual about it. He may be just worried about my discovery of his heavy-water enterprise yesterday, and wants to set himself right in case we suspect anything. He can't be seriously upset, though, or he'd come here to your office, instead of risking our disappointing him at the Casino. . . ."

  Vance sat up suddenly.

  "By Jove!" he exclaimed. "There's another way of lookin' at it. Casual—yes. But too dashed casual. Same like the rest of the case. No one actin' rationally. Always too much or too little of everything. No balance."

  He got to his feet and walked to the window. There was a perturbed look in his eyes, and a deep frown on his forehead.

  "I've been hopin' for something to happen—expectin' it to happen. But this isn't it."

  "What did you think might happen, Vance?" Markham asked, studying Vance's back with a troubled look.

  "I don't know," Vance sighed. "But almost anything but this." He tapped out a nervous tattoo on the dingy window-pane.

  "I rather thought we were in for something sudden and startling. But the prospect of chatting with Kinkaid at two o'clock doesn't especially thrill me. . . ."

  He turned round quickly.

  "My word, Markham! This may be exactly what I wanted." There was a flash of expectant fire in his eyes. "It could work out that way, don't y' know. I was lookin' for more subtleties. But it's too late for them now. I should have seen that. The case has reached the forthright stage. . . . I say, Markham, we'll keep that appointment."

  "But, Vance—" Markham started to protest, but the other interrupted him hurriedly.

  "No, no. We must go to the Casino and learn the truth." He took up his hat and coat. "Call by for me at half-past one."

  He went toward the door and Markham looked after him questioningly.

  "You're sure of your ground?"

  Vance paused with one hand on the door-knob.

  "Yes. I think so." I had rarely seen him so serious.

  "And what are you doing till half-past one?" inquired Markham, with a dry, shrewd smile.

  "My dear Markham! You have a most suspicious nature." Vance's manner changed suddenly and he smiled back at Markham with bland good-nature. "Imprimis, I'm going to do a bit of telephonin'. That annoyin' chore accomplished, I shall betake myself to 240 Centre Street and have a heart-to-heart talk with the doughty Sergeant Heath. Then I am going shoppin'; and later I shall pay a fleeting visit to the Llewellyn home. After that I shall drop in at Scarpotti's and have eggs Eugénie, an artichoke salad and—"

  "Good-by!" snapped Markham. "I'll see you at one-thirty."

  Vance left me outside the Criminal Courts Building and I went direct to his apartment where I busied myself with certain routine work which had been accumulating.

  It was a little after one when Vance returned. He seemed abstracted and, I thought, in a state of mental and physical tension. He said very little, and did not once refer to the situation that I knew was uppermost in his mind. He walked up and down the library for perhaps ten minutes, smoking, and then went into the bedroom where I could hear him telephoning. I could not distinguish anything he said; but when he returned to the library he seemed in more cheerful spirits.

  "Everything is going well, Van," he said, and sat down before his favorite Cézanne water-color. "If only this case works out half as well as that beautiful organization," he murmured. "I wonder. . . ."

  Markham arrived at just half-past one.

  "Here I am," he announced aggressively and with a show of irritation; "though I see no reason why we couldn't have had Kinkaid come to the of
fice and tell us what's on his mind."

  "Oh, there's a good reason," said Vance, regarding Markham affectionately. Then he looked away. "I hope there's a good reason. I'm not sure—really. But it's our only chance, and we must take it. There's a fiend at large."

  Markham took a slow, deep breath.

  "I think I know how you feel. Anyway, I'm here. Shouldn't we be starting?"

  Vance hesitated.

  "Suppose there's danger?"

  "Never mind that." Markham spoke gruffly. "As I said, I'm here. Let's carry on."

  "There's one thing I must warn you and Van against," Vance said. "Don't drink anything at the Casino—under any conditions."

  We went down to the car, and fifteen minutes later we had turned into West 73rd Street and were headed toward Riverside Drive. Vance drew up directly in front of the Casino entrance, and we got out of the car and went up the stone steps leading to the glass-enclosed vestibule. Vance looked at his watch.

  "Exactly one minute after two," he remarked. "In the circumstances, that might be called punctuality."

  He pressed the small ivory bell-button at the side of the bronze door, and, taking out his cigarette-case, selected a Régie with great care and lighted it. In a few moments we could hear the lock being turned. Then the door swung inward, and we stepped into the semi-darkness of the reception hall.

  I was a little surprised to see that it was Lynn Llewellyn who opened the door for us.

  "My uncle was hoping you might come," he said after greeting us pleasantly. "He expects to be rather busy, and asked me to come over to help him. He's waiting in his office. Will you be so good as to come up?"

  Vance murmured his thanks, and Llewellyn led the way toward the rear of the reception hall and up the wide stairway. He walked through the upper hallway into the Gold Room and, after knocking gently on Kinkaid's office door, he opened it and bowed us in.

  I had barely become aware of the fact that Kinkaid was not in the office when the door slammed shut and the key was turned in the lock. I turned round apprehensively, and there, just inside the door, stood Llewellyn, slightly crouched, with a blue-steel revolver in his hand. He was moving the muzzle threateningly back and forth, keeping all three of us covered. A vicious change seemed to have come over the man. His eyes, half-closed but sinister and keen as daggers, sent a chill through me. His lips were contorted in a cruel smile. And there was a tense sureness in the poised swaying of his body, from which emanated the menace of some deadly power.

  "Thank you for coming," he said in a low, steady voice, the sneer still on his lips. "And now, you dicks sit down in those three chairs against the wall. Before I send you all to hell I've got something to say to you. . . . And keep your hands in front of you."

  Vance looked at the man curiously and then let his eyes rest on the revolver in his hand.

  "There's nothing else to do, Markham," he said. "Mr. Llewellyn seems to be master of ceremonies here."

  Vance was standing between Markham and me, and he resignedly seated himself in the middle chair. The three chairs had been placed in a row against the panels at one end of the office in obvious anticipation of our arrival. Markham and I sat down on either side of Vance and, following his example, placed our hands on the flat arms of the chairs. Llewellyn moved forward cautiously, like a cat, and stood about four feet in front of us.

  "I'm sorry, Markham, for having got you into this," Vance murmured despondently. "And you, too, Van. But it's too late now for regrets."

  "Spit out that cigarette," Llewellyn ordered, his eyes on Vance.

  Vance obeyed, and Llewellyn crushed it out with his foot, without even glancing at the floor. "And don't make the slightest move," he went on. "I'd hate to have to drill you through before I tell you a few things."

  "And we'd like to hear them, don't y' know," Vance said in a curiously suppressed voice. "I thought that I'd seen through all your system playing; but you're cleverer than I suspected."

  Llewellyn chuckled softly.

  "You didn't think far enough. You thought my capital was exhausted—that I'd have to give up, a loser. But I still have six chips to play—these little steel chips here." He patted the cylinder of the revolver lovingly with his left hand. "And I'm placing two of them on each one of you. Does that play win?"

  Vance nodded.

  "Yes. It might. But at least you had to give up your subtleties in the end, and resort to direct methods. It wasn't, after all, the perfect crime. Only by turning gunman can you cover the bets you lost. Not an entirely satisfact'ry finale. A bit humiliatin', in fact, to one who regards himself as diabolically clever."

  There was a devastating contempt in Vance's voice.

  "You see, Markham," he added in an aside, "this is the gentleman who murdered his wife. But he wasn't quite clever enough to achieve his ultimate goal. His beautifully worked-out system went wrong somewhere."

  "Oh, no," Llewellyn interjected. "It didn't go wrong. I merely have to carry the play a little further—one more turn of the wheel."

  "One more turn." Vance smiled dryly. "Yes—quite. You will have to add three more murders to your scheme in order to cover the first."

  "I won't mind that," said Llewellyn, with a vicious snarl. "In fact, it'll be a pleasure."

  He stood, poised and alert, without the slightest trace of nervousness. The revolver in his hand was steady, and his gaze was cold and unfaltering. I watched him, fascinated. Everything about him seemed to personify swift and ineluctable death. The man possessed a power which seemed doubly terrible because of the soft, almost effeminate, contour of his features. There was an abnormal quality in him far more terrifying and sinister than the known and understandable terrors of life. He kept his eyes fixed on Vance; and after a moment he asked:

  "Just how much do you know? I'll fill in the gaps for you. It will take less time that way."

  "Yes, you would have to gratify your vanity," returned Vance. "I'd counted on that. A weakling at heart."

  Llewellyn's lips twisted into a grim, evil smile.

  "Do you think for one moment I haven't the nerve to shoot the three of you?" He tried to laugh, but only a harsh guttural sound issued from his throat.

  "Oh, no. No." Vance spoke despondently. "I'm thoroughly convinced you intend to kill us. But that act will merely prove the desperation of your weakness. So simple to shoot people. The most illiterate and cowardly gangster is thoroughly proficient in that respect. It takes courage and intelligence to achieve one's end without the violence of direct physical action and, at the same time, to escape detection."

  "I've outwitted all of you," Llewellyn boasted, in a hard, rasping tone. "And this little climax here is subtler than you think. I've a perfect alibi for this afternoon. If it interests you, I'm now driving through Westchester with my mother."

  "Yes. Of course. I suspected something of the kind. Your mother was not at home when I went there this morning—"

  "You were at the house this morning?"

  "Yes. Dropped in for a moment. . . . Your mother would perjure herself for you, unfortunately. She has suspected you were guilty from the first, and has done everything she could to cover you and throw suspicion elsewhere. And your sister, too, had an inkling of the truth."

  "That may, or may not, be," the man snarled. "Anyway, suspicions can't hurt anybody. It's proof that counts—and no one could prove anything."

  Vance nodded.

  "Yes. There's something in that. . . . By the by, you went to Atlantic City last night, didn't you?"

  "Naturally. But no one knows I was there. I merely went to telephone on behalf of my dear uncle. That was simple enough; and it worked rather well, didn't it?"

  "Yes. Apparently. Here we are, if that's what you mean. Lucky for your plan Mr. Markham's secret'ry doesn't know either your voice or Kinkaid's."

  "That's why I was careful to phone before the eminent District Attorney had arrived at his office." He spoke with infinite sarcasm, and grinned exultantly.

  Vance no
dded slightly, his eyes still focused intently on the vicious-looking revolver now pointed straight at him.

  "It's plain that you understood all I said to you at your home yesterday evening."

  "That was easy," said Llewellyn. "I knew, when you were pretending to address your remarks to Bloodgood, that you were really talking to me, trying to tell me how much you knew. And you thought I'd be making some move soon to checkmate your knowledge, didn't you?" A sneer came and went on his lips. "Well, I did make a move, didn't I? I got you here—and I'm going to shoot you all. But that wasn't just the move you expected."

  "No." Vance sighed unhappily. "I can't say that it was. The phone call and the appointment puzzled me considerably. I couldn't see why Kinkaid should have taken alarm. . . . But tell me, Llewellyn: how do you know this little party of yours is going to be a success? Some one in the building may hear the shots—"

  "No!" Llewellyn, his deadly vigil unrelaxed, smiled with shrewd self-satisfaction. "The Casino is closed indefinitely, and there's no one here. Kinkaid and Bloodgood are both away. I took a key to the place from Kinkaid's quarters at home weeks ago, thinking I might need it if he tried to hold up my winnings some time." Again he made a rasping noise in his throat. "We're entirely alone here, Vance, with no danger of interruption. The party will be a success—for me."

  "I see you've thought things out pretty thoroughly," murmured Vance in a discouraged tone. "You seem to be in complete control of the situation. What are you waiting for?"

  Llewellyn chuckled.

  "I'm enjoying myself. And I'm interested in knowing just how much of my scheme you were able to figure out."

  "It hurts you, doesn't it," returned Vance, "to think that any one should have seen through your plot?"

  "No," snarled Llewellyn. "I'm just interested. I know you saw through some of it, and I'll tell you the rest before I put you away."

  "That, of course, will come under the head of boasting," said Vance quietly. "It'll help build up your ego—"

  "Never mind that!" Llewellyn's calm, cold tone was more terrifying than violent anger. "Tell your story—I want to hear it. And you'll tell it, too. As long as you can talk you're not dead—and every one likes to hang on to life, if only for a few more minutes. . . . And keep your hands on the arms of your chair—all three of you—or I'll shoot you to hell in a split second."