Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 2

by S. S. Van Dine

  "What is your favorite perfume, Mr. Fleel?" he asked unexpectedly.

  The man stared at him in blank astonishment, and I am sure that had he been in a courtroom, he would have appealed instantly to the judge with the usual incompetent-irrelevant-and-immaterial objection. However, he managed a condescending smile and replied:

  "I have no favorite perfume—I know nothing about such things. It's true, I send bottles of perfume to my women clients at Christmas, instead of the conventional flower-baskets, but I always leave the selection to my secretary."

  "Do you regard Mrs. Kenting as one of your women clients?" Vance continued.

  "Naturally," answered the lawyer.

  "By the by, Mr. Fleel, is your secret'ry blond or brunette?"

  The man seemed more disconcerted than ever, but answered immediately.

  "I don't know. I suppose you'd call her brunette. Her hair certainly doesn't look anything like Jean Harlow's or like Peggy Hopkins Joyce's—if that's what you mean."

  "Many thanks," said Vance curtly, and shifted his gaze to Fraim Falloway who stood a few feet away, gaping before him with unseeing eyes.

  "What is your favorite scent, Mr. Falloway?" Vance asked, watching the youth closely and appraisingly.

  "I—I don't know," Falloway stammered. "I'm not familiar with such feminine matters. But I think emerald is wonderful—so mysterious—so exotic—so subtle." He raised his eyes almost rapturously, like a young poet reciting his own verses.

  "You're quite right," murmured Vance; and then he focused his gaze on Kenyon Kenting.

  "All perfumes smell alike to me," was the man's annoyed assertion before Vance could frame the question again. "I can't tell one from another—except gardenia. Whenever I give any woman perfume, I give her gardenia."

  A faint smile appeared at the corners of Vance's mouth.

  "Really, y' know," he said, "I shouldn't do it, if I were you."

  As he spoke he turned his head to Porter Quaggy.

  "And how about you, Mr. Quaggy?" he asked lightly. "If you were giving a lady perfume, what scent would you select?"

  Quaggy gave a mirthless chuckle.

  "I haven't yet been guilty of such foolishness," he replied. "I stick to flowers. They're easier. But if I were compelled to present a fair creature with perfume, I'd first find out what she liked."

  "Quite a sensible point of view," murmured Vance, rising as if with great effort and turning. "And now, I say, Sergeant, let's have a curs'ry look at that ladder."

  As we walked down the front steps I saw Guilfoyle still sitting at the wheel of his cab, with the motor humming gently.

  Heath flashed on his powerful pocket light, and for the second time we went through the street gate leading into the yard, and approached the ladder leaning against the side of the house.

  The short grass was entirely dry, and the ground had completely hardened since the rain two nights ago. Vance again bent over at the foot of the ladder while Heath held the flashlight.

  "There's no need to fear my spoiling your adored footprints tonight, Sergeant,—the ground is much too hard. Not even Sweet Alice Cherry[22] could have made an impression on this sod." Vance straightened up after a moment and moved the ladder slightly to the right, as he had done the previous morning. "And don't get jittery about finger-prints, Sergeant," he went on. "I'm quite convinced you'll find none. This ladder, I opine, is merely a stage-prop, as it were; and the person who set it here was clever enough to have used gloves."

  He bent over again and inspected the lawn, but rose almost immediately.

  "Not the slightest depression—only a few blades of grass crushed. . . . I say, sergente mio, it's your turn to step on the ladder—I'm frightfully tired."

  Heath immediately clambered up five or six rungs and then descended; and Vance again moved the ladder a few inches. Both he and Heath now knelt down and scrutinized the ground.

  "Observe," said Vance as he rose to his feet, "that the uprights make a slight depression in the soil, even with the weight of only one person pressing upon the ladder. . . . Let's go inside again and dispense our adieux."

  On re-entering the house Vance immediately joined Kenting at the entrance to the drawing-room and announced to him, as well as to the others inside, that we were going, and that the house would be taken over very shortly by the police. There was a general silent acquiescence to his announcement.

  "I might as well be going along myself," said Kenting despondently. "There is obviously nothing I can do here. But I hope you gentlemen will let me know the moment you learn anything. I'll be at home all night, and in my office tomorrow."

  "Oh, quite," returned Vance, without looking at the man. "Go home, by all means. This has been a trying night, and you can help us better tomorrow if you are able to get any rest now."

  The man seemed grateful: it was obvious he was much discouraged by the shock he had just received. Taking his hat from the hall bench, he hurried out the front door.

  Quaggy's eyes followed the departing man. Then he rose and began pacing up and down the drawing-room.

  "I guess I'll be getting along too," he said finally, with a note of interrogation in his voice. "I may go, I suppose?" There was a suggestion of sneering belligerence in his tone.

  "That's quite all right," Vance told him pleasantly. "You probably need a bit of extra sleep, don't y' know, after your recent all-night vigil."

  "Thanks," muttered Quaggy sarcastically, keeping his eyes down. And he too left the house.

  When the front door had closed after him, Fleel looked up rather apologetically.

  "I trust you gentlemen will not misunderstand my seeming right-about-face this morning regarding the assistance of the Police Department. The fact is, I was entirely sincere in telling you in the District Attorney's office that I was inclined to leave everything in your hands regarding the payment of the fifty thousand dollars. But on my way to the house here to see Kenting, I weighed the matter more carefully, and when I saw how eager Kenting was to follow the thing through alone, I decided it might be better, after all, to agree with him regarding the elimination of the police tonight. I see now that I was mistaken, and that my first instinct was correct. I feel, after what happened in the park tonight—"

  "Pray don't worry on that score, Mr. Fleel," Vance returned negligently. "We quite understand your advis'ry attitude in the matter. Difficult position—eh, what? After all, one can only make guesses, subject to change."

  Fleel was now on his feet, looking down meditatively at his half-smoked cigar.

  "Yes," he muttered; "it is, as you say, a most difficult situation. . . ." He glanced up swiftly. "What do you make of this second terrible episode tonight?"

  "Really, y' know,"—Vance was covertly watching the man—"it is far too early to arrive at any definite conclusions. Perhaps tomorrow. . . ." His voice faded away.

  Fleel shook himself slightly, as with an involuntary tremor.

  "I feel that we have not reached the end of this atrocious business yet. There appears to be a malicious desperation back of these happenings. . . . I wish I had never been brought into the case—I'm actually beginning to harbor fears for my own safety."

  "We appreciate just how you feel," Vance returned.

  Fleel straightened up with an effort and moved forward resolutely.

  "I think I too will be going." He spoke in a weary tone, and I noticed that his hand trembled slightly as he picked up his hat and adjusted it.

  "Cheerio," said Vance as the lawyer turned at the front door and bowed stiffly to us.

  Meanwhile Fraim Falloway had risen from his place on the davenport. He now moved silently past us, with a drawn look on his face, and trudged heavily up the stairs.

  Falloway had barely time to reach the first landing when the telephone resting on a small wobbly stand in the hall began ringing. Weem suddenly appeared from the dimness of the rear hall and picked up the receiver with a blunt "hello." He listened for a moment; then laying down the receiver, tu
rned sullenly in our direction.

  "It's a call for Sergeant Heath," he announced, as if his privacy had been needlessly invaded.

  The Sergeant went quickly to the telephone and put the receiver to his ear.

  "Well, what is it?" he started belligerently. ". . . . Sure it's the Sarge—shoot! . . . Well, for the love of—Hold it a minute." He clapped his hand over the mouthpiece and swung about quickly.

  "Where'll we be in half an hour, Chief?"

  "We'll be at Mr. Vance's apartment," Markham answered after one glance at Heath's expression.

  "Oh, my word!" sighed Vance. "I had hoped to be reposing. . . ."

  The Sergeant turned back to the instrument.

  "Listen, you," he fairly bawled; "we'll be at Mr. Vance's apartment in East 38th Street. Know where it is? . . . That's right—and make it snappy." He banged down the receiver.

  "Important, is it, Sergeant?" asked Markham.

  "I'll say it is." Heath stepped quickly away from the telephone table. "Let's get going, sir. I'll tell you about it on the way down. Snitkin's meeting us at Mr. Vance's apartment. And Sullivan and Hennessey will be here any minute to take over."

  The butler was still in the hall, half standing and half leaning against one of the large newel posts at the foot of the stairs, and Heath now addressed him peremptorily.

  "Some of my men will be here pretty soon, Weem. And then you can go to bed. This house is in the hands of the police from now on—understand?"

  The butler nodded his head dourly, and shuffled away toward the rear of the house.

  "Just a moment, Weem," called Vance.

  The man turned and approached us again, sulky and antagonistic.

  "Weem, did you or your wife hear any one go out or enter this house around ten o'clock tonight?" Vance asked.

  "No, I didn't hear anything. Neither did Gertrude. Mrs. Kenting told both of us that we wouldn't be needed and could do as we pleased after dinner. We had a long day and were tired, and we were both asleep from nine o'clock till you and Mrs. Falloway rang and I had to let you in. After the others came I got dressed and came down to see if there was anything I could do."

  "Most admirable of you, Weem," Vance commended him, turning to the front door. "That's all I wanted to ask just now."

  13. THE GREEN COUPÉ

  (Thursday, July 21; midnight.)

  Just as Markham and Heath and I turned to follow Vance, there came, from somewhere outside, a startling and ominous rattle that sounded like the staccato and rapid sputtering of a machine-gun. So keyed up were my nerves that the reports went through me with a sickening horror, almost as if it had been the bullets themselves.

  "God Almighty!" came the explosive exclamation of the Sergeant, who was at my side; and he stopped abruptly, as if he, too, had been struck by a bombardment of bullets. Then he suddenly sprang forward past Vance and, jerking the front door open, hurried out into the warm summer night without a word to any one. The rest of us followed close behind him. The Sergeant had halted at the edge of the stone pathway to the sidewalk and was looking confusedly up and down the street, uncertain which way to turn. Guilfoyle had jumped down from his seat in the cab as we came out of the vestibule, and was gesticulating excitedly in front of Heath.

  "The shots came from up that way," he told Heath, waving his arm toward Central Park West. "What do you want me to do, Sarge?"

  "Stay here and keep your eyes open," Heath ordered in clipped accents, "until Sullivan and Hennessey arrive. . . . And," he added as he started off toward the park, "stick around after that, in case of any emergency."

  "I'm wise," Guilfoyle called after him.

  Guilfoyle saluted half-heartedly, as Markham and Vance appeared on the sidewalk, and again he waved his arm to indicate, I presume, which way Heath had gone. He leaned reluctantly against his cab as we followed the Sergeant up the street.

  "No," murmured Vance as we hurried along, "not a pleasant case. . . . And if my intuition is correct, these shots are another manifestation of its complexity."

  Heath was now breaking into a run ahead of us; and Markham and I had difficulty keeping pace with Vance as he, too, lengthened his stride.

  Just this side of the Nottingham Hotel at the corner, a small group of excited men were gathered under the bright light of the lamppost set between two trees along the curb. As Heath came abreast of the cluster of onlookers we could hear his gruff voice ordering them to disperse, and one by one they reluctantly moved off. Some continued on whatever business they had been about, while others remained to look on from the opposite side of the street. In the few moments it took us to reach the lamppost, the Sergeant had succeeded in clearing the scene.

  There, leaning in a crouching attitude against the iron lamppost, was Fleel. His face was deathly pale. I have yet to see so unmistakable a picture of collapse from fright as he presented. His nerves were completely shattered. He was as pitiful a figure as I have ever looked at, huddled beneath the unflattering glare of the large electric light overhead, as he leaned weakly for support against the lamppost. In front of the lawyer stood Quaggy, looking at him with a curious hard-faced serenity.

  Heath was staring at Fleel with a startled, inquisitive look in his eyes; but before he could speak to Fleel, Vance took the man under the arms and, knocking his feet from under him, set him down gently on the narrow strip of lawn which bordered the sidewalk, with his back against the lamppost.

  "Breathe deeply," Vance advised the lawyer, when he had settled him on the ground. "And pull yourself together. Then see if you can tell us what happened."

  Fleel looked up, his chest rising and falling as he sucked in the stagnant air of that humid July night. Slowly he struggled to his feet again and leaned heavily against the post, his eyes fixed before him.

  Quaggy put a hand on the man's shoulder, as if to steady him, and shook him gently as he did so.

  Fleel managed a sickly grimace intended for a smile, and turned his head weakly back and forth, blinking his eyes as if to clear his vision.

  "That was a close call," he muttered. "They almost got me."

  "Who almost got you, Mr. Fleel?" asked Vance.

  "Why—why—" the man stammered, and paused for breath. "The men in the car, of course. I—didn't see—who they were—"

  "Try to tell us, Mr. Fleel," came Vance's steadying voice, "just what happened."

  Fleel took another deep breath and, with an obvious effort, straightened up a little more.

  "Didn't you see it all?" he asked, his voice high and unnatural. "I was on my way to the corner, to get a taxicab, when a car drove up from behind me. I naturally paid no attention to it until it suddenly swerved toward the curb and stopped with a screeching of brakes, just as I reached this street light. As I turned round to see what it was, a small machine-gun was thrust over the ledge of the open window of the car and the firing began. I instinctively grasped this iron post and crouched down. After a number of shots the car jerked forward. I admit I was too frightened to notice which way it turned."

  "But at least you were not hit, Mr. Fleel."

  The man moved his hands over his body.

  "No, thank Heaven for that," he muttered.

  "And," Vance continued, "the car couldn't have been over ten feet away from you. A very poor shot, I should say. You were lucky, sir, this time." He spun round quickly to Quaggy, who had taken a step or two backward from the frightened man. "I don't quite understand your being here, Mr. Quaggy. Surely, you've had more than ample time to ensconce yourself safely in your boudoir."

  Quaggy stepped forward resentfully.

  "I was in my apartment. As you can see,"—he pointed indignantly to his two open front windows in the near-by hotel—"my lights are on. When I got to my rooms I didn't go directly to bed—I hope it wasn't a crime. I went to the front window and stood there for a few minutes, trying to get a breath of fresh air. Then I caught sight of Mr. Fleel coming up the street—he had apparently just left the Kenting house—and behind him came a
car. Not that I paid any particular attention to it, but I did notice it. Only, when it turned in to the curb and stopped directly opposite Mr. Fleel as he reached the light post my curiosity was naturally aroused. And when I heard the machine-gun and saw the spits of fire coming through the window, and also saw Mr. Fleel grasp the lamppost and sink down, I thought he had been shot. I naturally dashed down—so here I am. . . . Anything illegal in that procedure?" he asked with cold sarcasm.

  "No—oh, no," smiled Vance. "Quite normal. Far more normal, in fact, than if you had gone immediately to bed without a bit of airin' by the open window." He glanced at Quaggy with an enigmatical smile. "By the by," he went on, "did you, by any chance, note what type of car it was that attacked Mr. Fleel?"

  "No, I didn't get a very good look at it," Quaggy returned in a chilly tone. "At first I didn't pay much attention to it, as I said; and when the shooting began I was too excited to get any vivid impression. But I think it was a coupé of some kind—not a very large car, and certainly not a new model."

  "And the color?" prompted Vance.

  "It was a dingy, nondescript color." Quaggy narrowed his eyes, as if trying to recall a definite picture. "It might have been a faded green—it was hard to be certain from the window. In fact, I think it was green."

  Heath was watching Quaggy shrewdly.

  "Yeah?" he said skeptically. "Which way did it go?"

  Quaggy turned to the Sergeant.

  "I really didn't notice," he replied none too cordially. "I caught only a glimpse of it as it started toward the park."

  "A fine bunch of spectators," Heath snorted. "I'll see about that car myself." And he started running toward Central Park West.

  As he neared the corner, a burly figure in uniform turned suddenly into 86th Street from the south, and almost collided with the Sergeant. By the bright corner light I could see that the newcomer was McLaughlin, the night officer on duty in that section, who had reported to us the morning of Kaspar Kenting's disappearance. He drew up quickly and saluted with a jerk.