"Yes, sir."
"What time," asked Vance, "did you and your wife go to bed last night?"
The butler hesitated a moment, and then looked shiftily at Mrs. Kenting, but her back was to him.
He transferred his weight from one foot to the other before he answered Vance.
"About eleven o'clock. Mr. Kenting had gone out, and Mrs. Kenting said she would not need me any more after ten o'clock."
"Your quarters are at the rear of the third floor, I believe?"
"Yes," the man returned with an abrupt, stiff nod.
"I say, Weem," Vance went on, "did either you or your wife hear anything unusual in the house, after you had gone to your quarters?"
The man again shifted his weight.
"No," he answered. "Everything was quiet until I went to sleep—and I didn't wake up till Mrs. Kenting rang for coffee around six."
"Then you didn't hear Mr. Kenting return to the house—or any one else moving about the house between eleven o'clock last night and six this morning?"
"No, nobody—I was asleep."
"That's all, Weem." Vance nodded curtly and turned away. "You'd better take the Sergeant's message to Officer McLaughlin."
The butler shuffled away lackadaisically.
"I think," Vance said to Heath, "it was a good idea to get McLaughlin. . . . There's really nothing more to be done up here just now. Suppose we go down and find out what he can tell us."
"Right!" And the Sergeant started toward the door, followed by Vance, Markham, and myself.
Vance paused leisurely just before reaching the door and turned to the small writing-table at the front of the room, on which the telephone stood. He regarded it contemplatively as he approached it. Opening the two shallow drawers, he peered into them. He took up the bottle of ink which stood at the rear of the table, just under the low stationery rack, and read the label. Setting the ink-bottle back in its place, he turned to the small wastepaper basket beside the table and bent over it.
When he rose he asked Mrs. Kenting:
"Does your husband do his writing at this table?"
"Yes, always," the woman answered, staring at Vance with a puzzled frown.
"And never anywhere else?"
The woman shook her head slowly.
"Never," she told him. "You see, he has very little correspondence, and that writing-table was always more than adequate for his needs."
"But did he never need any paste or mucilage?" Vance asked. "I don't see any here."
"Paste?" Mrs. Kenting appeared still more puzzled. "Why, no. As a matter of fact, I don't believe there's any in the house. . . . But why—why do you ask?"
Vance looked up at the woman and smiled at her somewhat sympathetically.
"I'm merely trying to learn the truth about everything, and I beg that you forgive any questions which seem irrelevant."
The woman made no reply, and Vance again went toward the door where Markham and Heath and I were waiting, and we all went out into the hall.
As we reached the narrow landing half-way down the stairs, Markham suddenly stopped, letting Heath proceed on his way. He took Vance by the arm, detaining him.
"See here, Vance," he said aggressively, but in a subdued tone, so that no one in the room from which we had just come should overhear him. "This kidnapping doesn't strike me as being entirely on the level. And I don't believe you yourself think that it is."
"Oh, my Markham!" deplored Vance. "Art thou a mind-reader?"
"Drop that," continued Markham angrily. "Either the kidnappers have no intention of harming young Kenting, or else—as Fleel suggests—Kenting staged the whole affair and kidnapped himself."
"I am waiting patiently for the question I fear is en route," sighed Vance with resignation.
"What I want to know," Markham went on doggedly, "is why you refused to offer any hope, or to admit the possibility of either of these hypotheses, when you know damn well that the mere expression of such an opinion by you would have mitigated the apprehensions of both Mrs. Kenting and the young fellow's brother."
Vance heaved a deep sigh and gazed at Markham a moment with a look of mock commiseration.
"Really, y' know, Markham," he said lightly, but with a certain seriousness, "you're a most admirable character, but you're far too naive for this unscrupulous world. Both you and your legal friend, Fleel, are quite wrong in your suppositions. I assure you, don't y' know, that I am not sufficiently cruel to extend false hopes to any one."
"What do you mean by that, Vance?" Markham demanded.
"My word, Markham! I can mean only one thing."
Vance continued to gaze at the District Attorney with sympathetic affection and lowered his voice.
"The chappie, I fear, is already dead."
4. A STARTLING DECLARATION
(Wednesday, July 20; 11:45 a.m.)
There was something as startling as it was ominous about Vance's astonishing words. However, even in the dim light of the stairway I could see the serious expression on his face, and the finality of his tone convinced me that there was little or no doubt in his mind as to the truth of his words regarding Kaspar Kenting's fate.
Markham was stunned for a moment, but he was, I could see, frankly skeptical. The various bits of evidence uncovered in Kaspar Kenting's room seemed to point indisputably toward a very definite conclusion, which was quite the reverse of the conclusion which Vance had evidently reached. And I was sure that Markham felt as I did about it, and that he was as much surprised and confused as I at Vance's amazing statement. Markham did not relinquish his hold on Vance's arm. He apparently recovered his poise almost immediately and spoke in a hoarse undertone.
"You have a reason for saying that, Vance?"
"Tut, tut, my dear fellow," Vance returned lightly "This is neither the place nor the time to discuss the matter. I'll be quite willin' to point out all the obvious evidence to you later on. We are not dealing here with surface indications—those are quite consistent with the pattern which has been so neatly cut out for us. We are dealing with falsifications and subtleties; and I abhor them. . . . We'd better wait a while, don't y' know. At the moment I am most anxious to hear what McLaughlin has to say to the Sergeant. Let's descend and listen, what?"
Markham shrugged, gave Vance a nettled look, and relaxed his grip on the other's arm.
"Have it your own way," he grumbled. "Anyway," he added stubbornly, "I think you're wrong."
"It could be, of course," returned Vance with a nod. "Really, I'd like to believe it."
Slowly he went down the remaining steps to the lower hallway. Markham and I followed in silence.
McLaughlin, a heavy-footed Irishman, was just entering the drawing-room in answer to a peremptory beckoning finger from the Sergeant, who had preceded him. The officer looked overgrown and abnormally muscular in his tight civilian suit of blue serge. I caught a whimsical look in Vance's eyes as his glance followed the man through the open sliding doors.
Weem was just closing the street door, with his sullen, indifferent manner. A moment after we had reached the lower hallway, he turned and, without a glance in our direction as he passed us, went swiftly but awkwardly toward the rear of the house. Vance watched him pass from our line of vision, shook his head musingly, and then went toward the drawing-room.
McLaughlin (whom I remembered from the famous case of Alvin Benson,[13] when he came to that fateful house on West 48th Street, to report the presence of a mysterious grey Cadillac) was just about to speak to the Sergeant when he heard us enter the drawing-room. Recognizing Markham, he saluted respectfully and stepped to one side, facing us and waiting for orders.
"McLaughlin," Heath began—his tone carried that official gruffness he always displayed to his inferior officers, much to Vance's amusement—"something damn wrong happened in this house last night—or maybe it was early this morning, to be more exact. What time are you relieved from your beat here?"
"Regular time—eight o'clock," answered the man. "I was just fixing to go
to bed an hour ago when the Inspector—"
"All right, all right," snapped Heath. "I ordered the Department to send you up. We need a report.—Listen: where were you around six o'clock this morning?"
"Doing my duty, sir," the officer assured Heath earnestly; "walking down the other side of the street opposite here, makin' my regular rounds."
"Did you see anybody, or anything, that looked suspicious?" demanded the Sergeant, thrusting his jaw forward belligerently.
The man started slightly and squinted as if trying to recall something.
"I did, at that, Sergeant!" he said. "Only I wouldn't say as how it was suspicious at the time, although the idea passed through my mind. But there wasn't any cause to take action."
"What was it, McLaughlin? Shoot everything, whether you think it's important or not."
"Well, Sergeant, a coupé—it was a dirty green color—pulled up on this side of the street along about that time. There were two men in it, and one of the guys got out and opened the hood and took a look at the engine. I came across the street and gave the car the once-over. But everything seemed on the up-and-up, and I didn't bother 'em. Anyhow, I stood there and watched, and pretty soon the driver got in and the coupé drove away. When it went down the block toward Columbus Avenue, the exhaust was open. . . . Well, Sergeant, there was nothing I could do about it then, so I went back across the street and walked on up to Broadway."
"That all you noticed?"
"No, it ain't, Sergeant." McLaughlin was looking a little uncomfortable. "I was just coming round the corner from Central Park West, back into 86th Street again, about twenty minutes later, when the same coupé went by me like hell—only, this time it was headed east instead of west—and it turned into the park—"
"How do you know it was the same coupé, McLaughlin?"
"Well, I ain't takin' no oath on it, Sergeant," the officer answered; "but it was the same kinda car, and the same dirty-green color, and the exhaust was still open. And there was two guys in it, just like before, and the driver looked to me like the same big, smooth-faced guy who had his head stuck in the hood when I first crossed the street to look the situation over." McLaughlin took a deep breath and gave the Sergeant an apprehensive look, as if he expected a reprimand.
"You didn't see or hear anything else?" growled Heath. "It musta been pretty light at that time of the morning, with the sun up."
"Not another thing, Sergeant," the officer asserted, with obvious relief. "When I first seen the car I was headed toward Columbus; and I went on down to Broadway, and then swung round through 87th Street to Central Park West and over again on 86th. As I says, it took me about twenty minutes."
"Exactly where was that coupé when you first got a squint at it?"
"Right along the curb, about a hundred feet up the street from here, toward the park."
"Why didn't you ask some questions of them guys in the car?"
"I told you before, there was nothing suspicious about 'em—not until they went by me, going in the other direction. When I first seen 'em I thought they was just a couple of bums goin' home from a joy-ride. They was quiet and polite enough, and didn't act like trouble. These guys was plenty sober, and they was total strangers to me. There wasn't no reason to interfere with 'em—honest to God!"
Heath thought for a moment and puffed on his cigar.
"Which way did the car go when it entered the park?"
"Well, Sergeant, it went into the transverse, as if it was headed for the east side. Even if I'd wanted to grab the gorillas I wouldn'ta had time. Before I coulda got the call-box on the Avenue and talked to the fella over there, the car woulda been to hell and gone. And there was no car or taxi anywhere round that I coulda chased 'em in. Anyway, I figured they was on the level."
Heath turned with annoyance and paced impatiently up and down the room.
"I say, officer," put in Vance, "were both occupants of the coupé white men?"
"Sure they was, sir." The officer answered emphatically, but with an air of deference which he had not shown to the Sergeant. Vance was standing beside Markham, and McLaughlin must have assumed that Vance was speaking for the District Attorney, as it were.
"And couldn't there have been a third man in the coupé?" Vance proceeded. "A smaller man, let us say, whom you didn't see—on his knees, and hidden from view, perhaps?"
"Well, there mighta been, sir,—I ain't swearin' there wasn't. I didn't open either one of the doors and look in. But there was plenty of room in the car for him to be sittin' up. Why should he be lying on the floor?"
"I haven't the remotest idea—except that he might have been hiding because he didn't wish to be seen," Vance returned apathetically.
"Gosh!" muttered McLaughlin. "You think there was three men in that car?"
"Really, McLaughlin, I don't know," Vance drawled. "It would simplify matters if we knew there had been three men in the car. I crave a small pussy-footed fellow."
The Sergeant had stopped his pacing across the room and now stood near the desk, listening to Vance with an amused interest.
"I don't getcha at all, Mr. Vance," he muttered respectfully. "Two tough guys is enough for any snatch."
"Oh, quite, Sergeant. As you say. Two are quite sufficient," Vance returned somewhat cryptically. Again he addressed himself to McLaughlin. "By the by, officer, did you, by any chance, stumble upon a ladder during your nocturnal circuit in these parts last night?"
"I seen a ladder, if that's what you mean," the man admitted. "It was leanin' up against that maple tree in the garden out here. I noticed it when it began to get light. But I figured it was only being used to prune the tree, or something. There certainly wasn't any use in reportin' a ladder in a gent's yard, was there?"
"Oh, no," Vance assured him indifferently. "Silly idea, going about reportin' ladders—eh, what? . . . That ladder's still in the yard, officer; only, this morning it was restin' up against the house, under an open window."
"Honest to God?" McLaughlin's eyes grew bigger. "I hope it was O.-K. not to report it."
"Oh, quite," Vance encouraged him. "It wouldn't have done a particle of good, anyway. Some one, don't y' know, moved it from the tree and placed it against the house while you were strollin' up Broadway and round 87th Street. Probably doesn't mean anything of any particular importance, however. . . . I say, did you ever notice a ladder in this yard before?"
The man shook his head ponderously.
"No, sir," he said, with a certain vague emphasis. "Can't say that I ever have. They generally keep that yard looking pretty neat and nice."
"Thanks awfully." Vance sauntered to the sofa and sat down lazily, stretching his legs out before him. It was obvious he had no other questions to put to the officer.
Heath straightened up and took the cigar from his mouth.
"That's all, McLaughlin. Much obliged for coming down. Go on home and hit the hay. I may, and may not, want to see you again later."
The officer saluted half-heartedly and went toward the door.
"Look here, Sergeant," he said, halting and turning around. "Do you mind telling me what happened here last night? You got me worryin' about that coupé."
"Oh, nothing much happened, I guess. A phony snatch of some kind. It don't look serious, but we have to check up. Young fella named Kaspar Kenting ain't anywhere abouts. And there was a cockeyed ransom note."
The officer seemed speechless for a moment. Then he half gasped.
"Honest? Jeez!"
"Do you know him, McLaughlin?"
"Sure I know him. I see him lots of times coming home at all hours of the mornin'. Half the time he's pie-eyed."
Heath showed no further inclination to talk, and McLaughlin went lumbering from the room. A moment later the front door shut noisily after him.
"What now, Mr. Vance?" Heath was again resting his weight against the desk, puffing vigorously on his cigar.
Vance drew in his legs, as if with great effort, and sighed.
"Oh, much more,
Sergeant," he yawned in answer. "You haven't the faintest idea of how much I'd really like to learn about a number of things. . . ."
"But see here, Vance," interrupted Markham, "I first want to know what you meant by that statement you made as we were coming down the stairs. I can't see it at all, and I'd bet money that fellow Kaspar is as safe as you or I."
"I'm afraid you'd lose your wager, old dear."
"But all the evidence points—" began Markham.
"Please, oh, please, Markham," implored Vance. "Must we necessarily lean wherever a finger points? I say, let's get the completed picture first. Then we can speak with more or less certainty about the indications. Can't a johnnie hazard a guess without being quizzed by the great Prosecutor for the Common People?"
"Damn it, Vance!" Markham returned angrily; "drop the persiflage and get down to business. I want to know why you said what you did on the stairs, in the face of all the evidence to the contrary. Are you in possession of any facts to which I have not had access?"
"Oh, no—no," replied Vance mildly, stretching out still further in the chair. "You've seen and heard everything I have. Only, we interpret the findin's in different ways."
"All right." Markham made an effort to curb his impatience. "Let's hear how you interpret these facts."
"Pardon me, Chief," put in Heath; "I didn't hear what Mr. Vance said to you on the stairs. I don't know what his ideas on the case are."
Markham took the cigar from his mouth and looked at the Sergeant.
"Mr. Vance doesn't believe that Kaspar Kenting was kidnapped merely for money or that he may have walked out and staged the kidnapping himself. He said he thinks that the fellow is already dead."
Heath spun round abruptly to Vance.
"The hell you say!" he exclaimed. "How in the name of God did you get such an idea, Mr. Vance?"
Vance smoked a moment before replying. Then he spoke as if the explanation were of no importance:
"My word, Sergeant! It seems sufficiently indicated."
He paused again and looked back meditatively to the District Attorney, who was standing before him, teetering impatiently on his toes.
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