The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Would you mind, Vance,” Markham asked irritably, “dropping these irrelevancies and outlining to me your theory of the Kyle case?”

  “I’d mind terribly,” was Vance’s amiable reply. “After the Bar-le-duc and Gervaise, however.…”

  As a matter of fact it was nearly midnight before the subject of the tragedy was again broached. We had returned to Vance’s apartment after a long drive through Van Cortlandt Park; and Markham and he and I had gone up to the little roof garden to seek whatever air was stirring along East Thirty-eighth Street. Currie had made a delicious champagne cup—what the Viennese call a Bowle—with fresh fruit in it; and we sat under the summer stars smoking and waiting. I say, “waiting,” for there is no doubt that each of us expected something untoward to happen.

  Vance, for all his detachment, was inwardly tense—I could tell this by his slow, restrained movements. And Markham was loath to go home: he was far from satisfied with the way the investigation had progressed, and was hoping—as a result of Vance’s prognostication—that something would develop to take the case out of the hazy realm of conjecture and place it upon a sound basis where definite action could be taken.

  Shortly before twelve o’clock Markham held a long conversation with Heath on the telephone. When he hung up the receiver he heaved a hopeless sigh.

  “I don’t like to think of what the opposition papers are going to say tomorrow,” he remarked gloomily, as he cut the tip off of a fresh cigar. “We’ve got absolutely nowhere in this investigation.…”

  “Oh, yes, we have.” Vance was staring up into the sultry night. “We’ve made amazin’ progress. The case, d’ ye see, is closed as far as the solution is concerned. We’re merely waitin’ for the murderer to get panic-stricken. The moment he does, we’ll be able to take action.”

  “Why must you be so confounded mysterious?” Markham was in a vile humor. “You’re always indulging in cabalistic rituals. The Delphic Pythia herself was no vaguer or more obscure than you. If you think you know who killed Kyle, why not come out with it?”

  “I can’t do it.” Vance, too, was distressed. “Really, y’ know, Markham, I’m not trying to be illusory. I’m strivin’ to find some tangible evidence to corroborate my theory. And if we bide our time we’ll secure that evidence.” He looked at Markham seriously. “There’s danger, of course. Something unforeseen may happen. But there’s no human way to stop it. Whatever step we might take now would lead to tragedy. We have given the murderer an abundance of rope; let us hope he will hang himself.…”

  It was exactly twenty minutes past twelve that night when the thing that Vance had been waiting for happened. We had been sitting in silence for perhaps ten minutes when Currie stepped out into the garden carrying a portable telephone.

  “I beg your pardon, sir—” he began; but before he could continue Vance had risen and walked toward him.

  “Plug it in, Currie,” he ordered. “I’ll answer the call.”

  Vance took the instrument and leaned against the French door.

  “Yes…yes. What has happened?” His voice was low and resonant. He listened for perhaps thirty seconds, his eyes half closed. Then he said merely: “We’ll be there at once,” and handed the telephone to Currie.

  He was unquestionably puzzled, and stood for several moments, his head down, deep in thought.

  “It’s not what I expected,” he said, as if to himself. “It doesn’t fit.”

  Presently he lifted his head, like one struck sharply.

  “But it does fit! Of course it fits! It’s what I should have expected.” Despite the careless pose of his body his eyes were animated. “Logic! How damnable logical!… Come, Markham. Phone Heath—have him meet us at the museum as soon as he can get there.…”

  Markham had risen and was glaring at Vance in ferocious alarm.

  “Who was that on the phone?” he demanded. “And what has happened?”

  “Please be tranquil, Markham.” Vance spoke quietly. “It was Doctor Bliss who spoke to me. And, accordin’ to his hysterical tale, there has been an attempted murder in his house. I promised him we’d look in.…”

  Markham had already snatched the telephone from Currie’s hands and was frantically asking for Heath’s number.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE GOLDEN DAGGER

  (Saturday, July 14; 12:45 A.M.)

  We had to walk to Fifth Avenue to find a taxicab at that hour, and even then there was five minutes’ wait until an unoccupied one came by. The result was that it was fully twenty minutes before we turned into Gramercy Park and drew up in front of the Bliss residence.

  As we alighted another taxicab swung round the corner of Irving Place and nearly skidded into us as its brakes were suddenly thrown on. The door was flung open before the cab had come to a standstill, and the bulky figure of Sergeant Heath projected itself to the sidewalk. Heath lived in East Eleventh Street and had managed to dress and reach the museum almost simultaneously with our arrival.

  “My word, Sergeant!” Vance hailed him. “We synchronize, don’t y’ know. We arrive at the same destination at the same time, but from opposite directions. Jolly idea.”

  Heath acknowledged the somewhat enigmatical pleasantry with a grunt.

  “What’s all the excitement anyway?” he asked Markham. “You didn’t give me much of an earful over the phone.”

  “An attempt has been made on Doctor Bliss’s life,” Markham told him.

  Heath whistled softly.

  “I certainly didn’t expect that, sir.”

  “Neither did Mr. Vance.” The rejoinder was intended as a taunt.

  We went up the stone steps to the vestibule, but before we could ring the bell Brush opened the door. He placed his forefinger to his lips and, leaning forward mysteriously, said in a stage whisper:

  “Doctor Bliss requests that you gentlemen be very quiet so as not to disturb the other members of the household.… He’s in his bedchamber waiting for you.”

  Brush was clad in a flannel robe and carpet slippers, but despite the hot sultriness of the night he was visibly shivering. His face, always pale, now appeared positively ghastly in the dim light.

  We stepped into the hall, and Brush closed the door cautiously with trembling hands. Suddenly, Vance wheeled about and caught him by the arm, spinning him round.

  “What do you know about the occurrence here tonight?” he demanded in a low tone.

  The butler’s eyes bulged and his jaw sagged.

  “Nothing—nothing,” he managed to stammer.

  “Really, now! Then why are you so frightened?” Vance did not relax his hold.

  “I’m afraid of this place,” came the plaintive answer. “I want to leave here. Strange things are going on—”

  “So they are. But don’t fret; you’ll be able to look for another berth before long.”

  “I’m glad of that, sir.” The man seemed greatly relieved. “But what has happened tonight, sir?”

  “If you’re ignorant of what has taken place,” returned Vance, “how do you happen to be here at this hour awaiting our arrival and acting like a villain in a melodrama?”

  “I was told to wait for you, sir. Doctor Bliss came down-stairs to my room—”

  “Where is your room, Brush?”

  “In the basement, at the rear, just off the kitchen.”

  “Very good. Go on.”

  “Well, sir, Doctor Bliss came to my room about half an hour ago. He seemed very much upset, and frightened—if you know what I mean. He told me to wait at the front door for you gentlemen—that you’d arrive any minute. And he instructed me to make no noise and also to warn you—”

  “Then he went up-stairs?”

  “At once, sir.”

  “Where is Doctor Bliss’s room?”

  “It’s the rear door on the second floor, just at the head of the stairs. The forward door is the mistress’s bedchamber.”

  Vance released the man’s arm.

  “Did you hear any disturbance t
onight?”

  “None, sir. Everything has been quiet. Every one retired early, and I myself went to bed before eleven.”

  “You may go back to bed now,” Vance told him.

  “Yes, sir.” And Brush went quickly away and disappeared through the door at the rear of the hall.

  Vance made a gesture for us to follow him and led the way up-stairs. A small electric bulb was burning in the upper hall, but we did not need it to find Doctor Bliss’s room, for his door was a few inches ajar and a shaft of light fell diagonally across the floor outside.

  Vance, without knocking, pushed the door inward and stepped into the room. Bliss was sitting rigidly in a straight chair in the far corner, leaning slightly forward, his eyes riveted on the door. In his hand was a brutal-looking army revolver. At our entrance he leapt to his feet, and brought the gun up simultaneously.

  “Tut, tut, doctor!” Vance smiled whimsically. “Put the firearms away and chant us the distressin’ rune.”

  Bliss drew an audible sigh of relief, and placed the weapon on a small table at his side.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Vance,” he said in a strained tone. “And you, Mr. Markham.” He acknowledged Heath’s and my presence with a slight, jerky bow. “The thing you predicted has happened.… There’s a murderer in this house!”

  “Well, well! That would hardly come under the head of news.” (I could not understand Vance’s attitude.) “We’ve known that fact since eleven this morning.”

  Bliss, too, was perplexed and, I imagine, somewhat piqued by Vance’s negligent manner, for he stepped stiffly to the bed and, pointing at the headboard, remarked irritably:

  “And there’s the proof!”

  The bed was an old Colonial piece, of polished mahogany, with a great curving headboard rising at least four feet above the mattress. It stood against the left-hand wall at a right angle to the door.

  The object at which Bliss pointed with a quivering finger was an antique Egyptian dagger, about eleven inches long, whose blade was driven into the headboard just above the pillow. The direction of penetration was on a line with the door.

  We all moved forward and stood for several seconds staring at the sinister sight. The dagger had undoubtedly been thrown with great force to have entered the hard mahogany wood so firmly; and it was obvious that if any one had been lying on the pillow at the time it was hurled, he would have received the full brunt of it somewhere in the throat.

  Vance studied the position of the dagger, gauging its alignment and angulation with the door, and then he reached out his hand to grasp it. But Heath intercepted the movement.

  “Use your handkerchief, Mr. Vance,” he admonished. “There’ll be fingerprints—”

  “Oh, no, there won’t, Sergeant.” Vance spoke with an impressive air of knowledge. “Whoever threw that dagger was careful to avoid any such incriminatin’ tokens.…” Whereupon he drew the blade, with considerable difficulty, from the headboard, and took it to the table-lamp.

  It was a beautiful and interesting piece of workmanship. Its handle was ornamented with decorations of granulated gold and with strips of cloisonné and semi-precious stones—amethysts, turquoises, garnets, carnelians, and tiny cuttings of obsidian, chalcedony and felspar. The haft was surmounted with a lotiform knob of rock crystal, and at the hilt was a chair-scroll design in gold wire. The blade was of hardened gold adorned with shallow central grooves ending with an engraved palmette decoration.139

  “Late Eighteenth Dynasty,” murmured Vance, fingering the dagger and studying its designs. “Pretty, but decadent. The rugged simplicity of early Egyptian art went frightfully to pot during the opulent renaissance following the Hyksos invasion.… I say, Doctor Bliss; how did you come by this flamboyant gewgaw?”

  Bliss was ill at ease, and when he answered his tone was apologetic and embarrassed.

  “The fact is, Mr. Vance, I smuggled that dagger out of Egypt. It was an unusual and unexpected find, and purely accidental. It’s a most valuable relic, and I was afraid the Egyptian Government would claim it.”

  “I can well imagine they’d want to keep it in their own country.” Vance tossed the dagger to the table. “And where did you ordinarily keep it?”

  “Under some papers in one of my desk drawers in the study,” he replied presently. “It was a rather personal item, and I thought it best not to list it in the museum.”

  “Most discreet.… Who besides yourself knew of its existence?”

  “My wife, of course, and—” He broke off suddenly, and a peculiar light came in his eyes.

  “Come, come, doctor.” Vance spoke with annoyance. “This won’t do. Finish your sentence.”

  “It is finished. My wife was the only person I confided in.”

  Vance accepted the statement without further argument.

  “Still,” he said, “any one might have discovered it, what?”

  Bliss nodded slowly.

  “Provided he had been snooping through my desk.”

  “Exactly. When did you last see the dagger in your desk drawer?”

  “This morning. I was searching for some foolscap paper on which to check my report for poor Kyle.…”

  “And who, to your knowledge, has been in your study since we left the house this afternoon?”

  Bliss pondered, and shortly a startled expression came over his face.

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “We can’t do anything to help you, doctor, if you take that attitude,” Vance said severely. “Was it Mr. Salveter who was in the study?”

  Bliss paused for several seconds. Then he set his jaw.

  “Yes!” The word fairly burst from his lips. “I sent him to the study after dinner tonight to get me a memorandum book.…”

  “And where did you keep the book?”

  “In the desk.” This information was given reluctantly. “But any attempt to connect Salveter—”

  “We’re not attemptin’ just now to connect any one with this episode.” Vance interrupted. “We’re merely tryin’ to accumulate all the information possible.… However, you must admit, doctor,” Vance added, “that young Mr. Salveter is—how shall I put it?—rather interested in Mrs. Bliss—”

  “What’s that?” Bliss stiffened and glared at Vance ferociously. “How dare you intimate such a thing? My wife, sir—”

  “No one has criticised Mrs. Bliss,” Vance said mildly. “And one A.M. is hardly the time for indignant pyrotechnics.”

  Bliss sank into his chair and covered his face with his hands.

  “It may be true,” he conceded in a despairing voice. “I’m too old for her—too much absorbed in my work.… But that doesn’t mean that the boy would attempt to kill me.”

  “Perhaps not.” Vance spoke indifferently. “But who, then, do you suspect of endeavorin’ to sever your carotid?”

  “I don’t know—I don’t know.” The man’s voice rose pitifully.

  At this moment the door leading into the front apartment opened, and Mrs. Bliss stood on the threshold, a long flowing robe of oriental pattern draped about her. She was perfectly calm, and her eyes were steady, if a bit brilliant, as they took in the scene before her.

  “Why have you gentlemen returned at this hour?” she inquired imperiously.

  “An attempt has been made on your husband’s life, madam,” Markham answered sombrely; “and he telephoned to us—”

  “An attempt on his life? Impossible!” She spoke with over-emphasis, and her face turned perceptibly pale. Then she went to Bliss and put her arms about him in an attitude of affectionate protection. Her eyes were blazing as she lifted them to Vance. “What absurdity is this? Who would want to take my husband’s life?”

  “Who, indeed?” Vance met her gaze calmly. “If we knew, we could at least arrest the person for assault with a deadly weapon—I believe that’s the phrase.”

  “A deadly weapon?” She frowned with obvious distress. “Oh, tell me what happened!”

  Vance indicated the dagger on th
e table.

  “All we know thus far is that yon golden dagger was projectin’ from the head of the bed when we arrived. We were on the point of asking your husband for a full account of the affair when you appeared—a charming Nefretîti—at the door.… Perhaps,” he went on, turning to Bliss, “the doctor will recount the entire episode for us now.”

  “There’s really little to tell.” Bliss sat up and began nervously to make creases in the folds of his dressing-gown. “I came here to my room shortly after dinner, and went to bed. But I couldn’t sleep, and got up. Just then Salveter passed my door on his way up-stairs and I asked him to fetch the memorandum book from the study,—I thought I might take my mind off the dreadful events of the day—”

  “One moment, doctor,” Vance interposed. “Was your door open?”

  “Yes. I had opened it when I arose, in order to get a little more air in the room,—the atmosphere was stifling.… Then I went over a few old notes and entries relating to last winter’s excavations. But I couldn’t keep my mind on them, and finally I closed the door, switched off the lights, and lay down again on the bed.”

  “That would have been about what time?”

  “Between half past ten and eleven, I should say.… I dozed intermittently till midnight—I could see the time by that clock with the luminous dial—and then became unaccountably restless. I got to thinking about poor Kyle, and all inclination to sleep left me. However, I was dog-tired physically, and lay quite still.… About a quarter past twelve—the house was very quiet, you understand—I thought I could hear footsteps on the stairs—”