The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  His head dropped forward and a shudder ran through his body.

  “Still, it was foolish to attempt to escape, doctor,” Markham said gently. “You might have trusted us. I assure you no injustice will be done you. We have learned many things in the course of our investigation; and we have reason to believe that you were drugged with powdered opium during the period of the crime—”

  “Powdered opium!” Bliss almost leapt out of his chair. “That’s what I tasted! There was something the matter with the coffee this morning—it had a curious flavor. At first I thought Brush hadn’t made it the way I’d instructed him. Then I got drowsy, and forgot all about it.… Opium! I know the taste. I once had dysentery in Egypt, and took opium and capsicum—my Sun Cholera Mixture136 had run out.” His mouth sagged open, and he gave Markham a look of terrified appeal. “Poisoned in my own house!” Suddenly a grim vindictiveness shone in his eyes. “You’re right, sir,” he said, with metallic hardness. “I shouldn’t have attempted to run away. My place is here, and my duty is to help you—”

  “Yes, yes, doctor.” Vance was palpably bored. “Regrets are very comfortin’, but we’re tryin’ to deal with facts. And thus far you haven’t been very helpful.… I say, who had charge of the medical supplies?” He put the question abruptly.

  “Why…why…let me see.…” Bliss averted his eyes and began fidgeting with the crease in his trousers.

  “We’ll drop the matter.” Vance made a resigned gesture. “Maybe you’re willing to tell us how well Mrs. Bliss knows Egyptian hieroglyphs.”

  Bliss looked surprised, and it took him several moments to regain his equanimity.

  “She knows them practically as well as I do,” he answered at length. “Her father, Abercrombie, taught her the old Egyptian language when she was a child, and she has worked with me for years in the deciphering of inscriptions.…”

  “And Hani?”

  “Oh, he has a smattering of hieroglyphic writing—nothing unusual. He lacks the trained mind—”

  “And how well does Mr. Salveter know Egyptian?”

  “Fairly well. He’s weak on grammatical points, but his knowledge of the signs and the vocabulary is rather extensive. He has studied Greek and Arabic; and I believe he had a year or two of Assyrian. Coptic, too. The usual linguistic foundation for an archaeologist.—Scarlett, on the other hand, is something of a wizard, though he’s a loyal adherent of Budge’s system—like many amateurs.137 And Budge, of course, is antiquated. Don’t misunderstand me. Budge is a great man—his contributions to Egyptology are invaluable; and his publication of the Book of the Dead—”

  “I know.” Vance nodded with impatience. “His Index makes it possible to find almost any passage in the Papyrus of Ani.…”

  “Just so.” Bliss had begun to reveal a curious animation: his scientific enthusiasm was manifesting itself. “But Alan Gardiner is the true modern scholar. His Egyptian Grammar is a profound and accurate work. The most important opus on Egyptology, however, is the Erman-Grapow Wörterbuch der aegyptischen Sprache.…”

  Vance had become suddenly interested.

  “Does Mr. Salveter use the Erman-Grapow Wörterbuch?” he asked.

  “Certainly. I insisted upon it. I ordered three sets from Leipzig—one for myself, and one each for Salveter and Scarlett.”

  “The signs differ considerably, I believe, from the Theinhardt type used by Budge.”

  “Oh, yes.” Bliss removed his hat and threw it on the floor. “The consonant transliterated u by Budge—the quail chick—appears as w in the Wörterbuch and every other modern work. And, of course, there’s the cursive spiral sign which is also the hieroglyphic adaptation of the hieratic abbreviated form of the quail.…”

  “Thank you, doctor.” Vance took out his cigarette-case, saw he had only one Régie left, and returned it to his pocket. “I understand that Mr. Scarlett, before leaving the house this afternoon, went up-stairs. I rather thought, don’t y’ know, that he dropped in to see you.”

  “Yes.” Bliss sank back in his chair. “A very sympathetic fellow, Scarlett.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Nothing of any importance. He wished me good luck—said he’d stand by, in case I wanted him. That sort of thing.”

  “How long was he with you?”

  “A minute or so. He went away immediately. Said he was going home.”

  “One more question, doctor,” Vance said, after several moments’ pause. “Who in this house would have any reason for wanting to saddle you with the crime of killing Mr. Kyle?”

  A sudden change came over Bliss. His eyes glared straight ahead, and the lines of his face hardened into almost terrifying contours. He clutched the arms of his chair and drew in his feet. Both fear and hatred possessed him; he was a man about to leap at a mortal enemy. Then he stood up, every muscle in his body tense.

  “I can’t answer that question; I refuse to answer it!… I don’t know—I don’t know! But there is some one—isn’t there?” He reached out and grasped Vance’s arm. “You should have let me escape.” A wild look came into his eyes, and he glanced hurriedly toward the door as if he feared some imminent danger lurking in the hall. “Have me arrested, Mr. Vance! Do anything but ask me to stay here.…” His voice had become pitifully appealing.

  Vance drew away from him.

  “Pull yourself together, doctor,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Nothing is going to happen to you.… Go to your room and remain there till tomorrow. We’ll take care of the criminal end of the case.”

  “But you have no idea who did this frightful thing,” Bliss protested.

  “Oh, but we have, don’t y’ know.” Vance’s calm assurance seemed to have a quieting effect on him. “It’s only necess’ry for us to wait a bit. At present we haven’t enough evidence to make an arrest. But since the murderer’s main object has failed, it’s almost inevitable that he will make another move. And when he does, we may get the necess’ry evidence against him.”

  “But suppose he takes direct action—against me?” Bliss remonstrated. “The fact that he has failed to involve me may drive him to more desperate measures.”

  “I hardly think so,” returned Vance. “But if anything happens, you can reach me at this telephone number.” He wrote his private number on a card and handed it to Bliss.

  The doctor took the card eagerly, glanced at it, and slipped it into his pocket.

  “I’m going up-stairs now,” he said, and walked distractedly out of the room.

  “Are you sure, Vance,” Markham asked in a troubled voice, “that we’re not subjecting Doctor Bliss to unnecessary risk?”

  “Pretty sure.” Vance had become thoughtful. “Anyway, it’s a delicate game, and there’s no other way to play it.” He went to the window. “I don’t know…,” he murmured. Then after several moments: “Sergeant, I’d like to speak to Salveter.—And there’s no need for Hennessey to remain up-stairs. Let him go.”

  Heath, nonplussed and helpless, went into the hall and called to Hennessey.

  When Salveter came into the drawing-room, Vance did not even glance in his direction.

  “Mr. Salveter,” he said, looking out at the dusty trees in Gramercy Park, “if I were you I’d lock my door tonight.… And don’t write any more letters,” he added. “Also, keep out of the museum.”

  Salveter appeared frightened by these admonitions. He studied Vance’s back for some time, and then set his jaw.

  “If any one starts anything round here—” he began with an almost ferocious aggressiveness.

  “Oh, quite.” Vance sighed. “But don’t project your personality so intensively. I’m fatigued.”

  Salveter, after a moment’s hesitation, swung about and strode from the room.

  Vance came to the centre-table and rested heavily against it.

  “And now, a word with Hani, and we can depart.”

  Heath shrugged his shoulders resignedly, and went to the door.

  “Hey, Snitkin, round up
that Ali Baba in the kimono.”

  Snitkin leapt to the staircase, and a few minutes later the Egyptian stood before us, serene and detached.

  “Hani,” said Vance, with an impressiveness wholly uncharacteristic, “you will do well to watch over this household tonight.”

  “Yes, effendi. I comprehend perfectly. The spirit of Sakhmet may return and complete the task she has begun—”

  “Exactly.” Vance gave a tired smile. “Your feline lady foozled things this morning, and she’ll probably be back to tie up a few loose ends.… Watch for her—do you understand?”

  Hani inclined his head.

  “Yes, effendi. We understand each other.”

  “That’s positively rippin’. And incidentally, Hani, what is the number of Mr. Scarlett’s domicile in Irving Place?”

  “Ninety-six.” The Egyptian revealed considerable interest in Vance’s question.

  “That will be all.… And give my regards to your lion-headed goddess.”

  “It may be Anûbis who will return, effendi,” said Hani sepulchrally, as he left us.

  Vance looked whimsically at Markham.

  “The stage is set, and the curtain will go up anon.… Let’s move on. There’s nothing more we can do here. And I’m totterin’ with hunger.”

  As we passed out into Twentieth Street Vance led the way toward Irving Place.

  “I rather think we owe it to Scarlett to let him know how things stand,” he explained negligently. “He brought us the sad tidings and is probably all agog and aflutter. He lives just round the corner.”

  Markham glanced at Vance inquisitively, but made no comment. Heath, however, grunted impatiently.

  “It looks to me like we’re doing ’most everything but clean up this homicide,” he groused.

  “Scarlett’s a shrewd lad; he may have conjured up an idea or two,” Vance returned.

  “I got ideas, too,” the Sergeant declared maliciously. “But what good are they? If I was handling this case, I’d arrest the whole outfit, put ’em in separate cells, and let ’em sweat. By the time they got habeas-corpus proceedings started I’d know a damn sight more than I do now.”

  “I doubt it, Sergeant.” Vance spoke mildly. “I think you’d know even less.… Ah, here’s number ninety-six.”

  He turned into the Colonial entrance of an old brick house a few doors from Twentieth Street, and rang the bell.

  Scarlett’s quarters—two small rooms with a wide, arched doorway between—were on the second floor at the front. They were furnished severely but comfortably in Jacobean style, and typified the serious-minded bachelor. Scarlett had opened the door at our knock and invited us in with the stiff cordiality of the English host. He seemed relieved to see us.

  “I’ve been in a frightful stew for hours,” he said. “Been trying to analyze this affair. I was on the point of running round to the museum and finding out what progress you gentlemen had made.”

  “We’ve made a bit of progress,” Vance told him; “but it’s not of a tangible nature. We’ve decided to let matters float for a while in the anticipation that the guilty person will proceed with his plot and thus supply us with definite evidence.”

  “Ah!” Scarlett took his pipe slowly from his mouth and looked sharply at Vance. “That remark makes me think that maybe you and I have reached the same conclusion. There was no earthly reason for Kyle’s having been killed unless his demise was to lead to something else—”

  “To what, for example?”

  “By Jove, I wish I knew!” Scarlett packed his pipe with his finger and held a match to it. “There are several possible explanations.”

  “My word! Are there?… Several? Well, well! Could you bear to outline one of them? We’re dashed interested, don’t y’ know.”

  “Oh, I say, Vance! Really, now, I’d hate like the Old Harry to wrong any one,” Scarlett spluttered. “Hani, however, didn’t care a great deal for Doctor Bliss—”

  “Thanks awfully. Astonishin’ as it may seem, I noted that fact myself this morning. Have you any other little beam of sunshine you’d care to launch in our direction?”

  “I think Salveter is hopelessly smitten with Meryt-Amen.”

  “Fancy that!”

  Vance took out his cigarette-case and tapped his one remaining Régie on the lid. Deliberately he lighted it and, after a deep inhalation, looked up seriously.

  “Yes, Scarlett,” he drawled, “it’s quite possible that you and I have arrived at the same conclusion. But naturally we can’t make a move until we have something definite with which to back up our hypotheses.… By the by, Doctor Bliss attempted to leave the country this afternoon. If it hadn’t been for one of Sergeant Heath’s minions he presumably would be on his way to Montreal at this moment.”

  I expected to see Scarlett express astonishment at this news, but instead he merely nodded his head.

  “I’m not surprised. He’s certainly in a funk. Can’t say that I blame him. Things appear rather black for him.” Scarlett puffed on his pipe, and shot a surreptitious look at Vance. “The more I think about this affair, the more I’m impressed with the possibility that, after all—”

  “Oh, quite.” Vance cut him short. “But we’re not pantin’ for possibilities. What we crave is specific data.”

  “That’s going to be difficult, I’m afraid.” Scarlett grew thoughtful. “There’s been too much cleverness—”

  “Ah! That’s the point—too much cleverness. Exactly! Therein lies the weakness of the crime. And I’m hopefully countin’ on that abundantia cautelae.” Vance smiled. “Really, y’ know, Scarlett, I’m not as dense as I’ve appeared thus far. My object in stultifyin’ my perceptions has been to wangle the murderer into new efforts. Sooner or later he’ll overplay his hand.”

  Scarlett did not answer for some time. Finally he spoke.

  “I appreciate your confidence, Vance. You’re very sporting. But my opinion is, you’ll never be able to convict the murderer.”

  “You may be right,” Vance admitted. “Nevertheless, I’m appealing to you to keep an eye on the situation.… But I warn you to be careful. The murderer of Kyle is a ruthless johnnie.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that.” Scarlett got up and, walking to the fireplace, leaned against the marble mantel. “I could tell you volumes about him.”

  “I’m sure you could.” To my astonishment Vance accepted the other’s startling statement without the slightest manifestation of surprise. “But there’s no need to go into that now.” He, too, rose, and going to the door gave a casual wave of farewell to Scarlett. “We’re toddlin’ along. Just thought we’d let you know how things stood and admonish you to be careful.”

  “Very kind of you, Vance. Fact is, I’m frightfully upset—nervous as a Persian kitten.… Wish I could work; but all my materials are at the museum. I know I sha’n’t sleep a wink tonight.”

  “Well, cheerio!” Vance turned the door-knob.

  “I say, Vance!” Scarlett stepped forward urgently. “Are you, by any chance, going back to the Bliss house today?”

  “No. We’re through there for the time being.” Vance’s voice was quiet and droning, as with ennui. “Why do you ask?”

  Scarlett fiddled at his pipe with a sort of sudden agitation.

  “No reason.” He looked at Vance with a constricted brow. “No reason at all. I’m anxious about the situation. There’s no telling what may happen.”

  “Whatever happens, Scarlett,” Vance said, with a certain abruptness, “Mrs. Bliss will be perfectly safe. I think we can trust Hani to see to that.”

  “Yes—of course,” the man murmured. “Faithful dog, Hani.… And who’d want to harm Meryt?”

  “Who, indeed?” Vance was now standing in the hallway, holding the door open for Markham and Heath and me to pass through.

  Scarlett, animated by some instinct of hospitality, came forward.

  “Sorry you’re going,” he said perfunctorily. “If I can be of any help.… So you’ve ended you
r investigation at the house?”

  “For the moment, at least.” Vance paused. The rest of us had passed him and were waiting at the head of the stairs. “We’re not contemplatin’ returning to the Bliss establishment until something new comes to light.”

  “Right-o.” Scarlett nodded with a curious significance. “If I learn anything I’ll telephone to you.”

  We went out into Irving Place, and Vance hailed a taxicab.

  “Food—sustenance,” he moaned. “Let us see.… The Brevoort isn’t far away.…”

  We had an elaborate tea at the old Brevoort on lower Fifth Avenue, and shortly afterward Heath departed for the Homicide Bureau to make out his report and to pacify the newspaper reporters who would be swarming in on him the moment the case went on record.

  “You had better stand by,” Vance suggested to the Sergeant, as he left us; “for I’m full of anticipation, and we couldn’t push forward without you.”

  “I’ll be at the office till ten tonight,” Heath told him sulkily. “And after that Mr. Markham knows where to reach me at home. But, I’m here to tell you, I’m disgusted.”

  “So are we all,” said Vance cheerfully.

  Markham telephoned to Swacker138 to close the office and go home. Then the three of us drove to Longue Vue for dinner. Vance refused to discuss the case and insisted upon talking about Arturo Toscanini, the new conductor of the Philharmonic-Symphony Orchestra.

  “A vastly overrated Kapellmeister,” he complained, as he tasted his canard Molière. “It strikes me he is temperamentally incapable of sensing the classic ideals in the great symphonic works of Brahms and Beethoven.… I say, the tomato purée in this sauce is excellent, but the Madeira wine is too vineg’ry. Prohibiton, Markham, worked devastatin’ havoc on the food of this country: it practically eliminated gastronomic aesthetics.… But to return to Toscanini. I’m positively amazed at the panegyrics with which the critics have showered him. His secret ideals, I’m inclined to think, are Puccini and Giordano and Respighi. And no man with such ideals should attempt to interpret the classics. I’ve heard him do Brahms and Beethoven and Mozart, and they all exuded a strong Italian aroma under his baton. But the Americans worship him. They have no sense of pure intellectual beauty, of sweeping classic lines and magistral form. They crave strongly contrasted pianissimos and fortissimos, sudden changes in tempi, leaping accelerandos and crawling ritardandos. And Toscanini gives it all to ’em.… Furtwangler, Walter, Klemperer, Mengelberg, Van Hoogstraaten—any one of these conductors is, in my opinion, superior to Toscanini when it comes to the great German classics.…”