“For instance?”
Vance arranged himself comfortably in a large chair.
“Well,” he said, inhaling deeply on his Régie, “I could endure to hear the various persons inside and outside the house chant their runes as to what they know of tonight’s happenings.… And there are other things which might bear casual scrutiny—to wit: Why did Grassi’s call for help not arouse Miss Lake on the third floor ere it penetrated to Gamble’s ears? And what hath yon Cerberus on the front stone steps to say about those who may have come and gone tonight? And where, and doing what, was the subtle Mr. Liang during the upheaval? And also what of the doughty guard which I asked to have stationed in Archer Coe’s bedroom tonight?”
Heath, who during the entire time we had been at the Coe house had been in a state of silent but aggressive indecision, stood up and squared his shoulders.
“Well, Mr. Vance, we’ll get all of your questions answered pronto.”
He went resolutely to the front door. Before he opened it he turned back to the library.
“And I’m telling the world I’d like to get the answers to those questions myself. I asked that detective out front who’d been in here tonight, and he said nobody. But we’ll ask him again.”
He threw the door open.
“Come here, Sullivan,” he bawled; and the dejected figure we had passed on the front steps came into the library.
“A guy’s been stabbed here,” Heath blustered. “You told me no one had come in or gone out the front door. But this is serious business, and we want you to rack your brain, if any, and tell us what you know.”
Detective Sullivan was both abashed and defiant.
“I told you, Sergeant,” he insisted, “that I’ve been sitting on those steps since seven o’clock tonight and nothing or nobody, so much as a cockroach, has passed me, goin’ or comin’.”
“Maybe you went to sleep and just dreamed it all,” the Sergeant suggested sarcastically.
Detective Sullivan became indignant.
“Me sleep? Honest, Sergeant, there’s enough noise in this two-way traffic street to wake up a dead man, let alone allow anybody to pound his ear.”
“That’s enough, Sergeant,” said Vance mildly. “I think Sullivan is telling the truth. I have a feeling that no one came in the front door tonight.”
Sullivan was sent back to the front steps and Heath went into the hall.
“I’ll find out about Burke in Coe’s room,” he offered.
We could hear him going up the steps two at a time and opening Archer’s bedroom door. A moment later he appeared with Detective Burke in tow.
“Tell Mr. Markham and Mr. Vance,” he ordered gruffly, “what you’ve been doing all night.”
“I been sleeping,” Burke admitted frankly. “I pulled up a chair against the door and forgot my troubles. Was there anything the matter with that, Sergeant?”
Heath hesitated.
“Well, I guess not. You been working all day—and I didn’t tell you to keep awake. But a guy’s been stabbed right down the hall from you, and he called for help—and now you know nothin’ about it.” The Sergeant shook his head with disgust. “Well, go on back and see if you can keep awake for a while.”
Burke went out.
“My fault,” the Sergeant explained. “After all, you can’t blame him, Mr. Vance.”
“Burke wouldn’t have been able to help us anyway, I’m afraid,” Vance consoled him.… “Suppose we commune with Gamble.”
The butler was brought in. He was a pitiful figure as he stood before us in questioning fear.
“How do you account for the fact,” Vance asked him, “that you could hear Mr. Grassi’s call from the second floor and that his appeal for help should entirely have missed the ears of Miss Lake who is on the floor between Mr. Grassi’s room and yours?”
Gamble swallowed twice and braced himself against the door.
“That is quite simple, sir,” he said. “Miss Lake’s boudoir is at the rear of the house and there’s a large parlor between her boudoir and the door leading into the hall. I, sir, leave my door open on the fourth floor, in case the front door bell should ring or I should be called.”
When Gamble had been sent back to the upper hall, Vance sighed and crushed out his cigarette.
“Well, that explains that.… Really, y’ know, Markham, we don’t seem to be moving with what might be called precipitate rapidity.”
He lit a fresh cigarette and stood up.
“I think I’ll take a look at the rear of the house. Would you care to stagger along?”
The Sergeant nodded sagely.
“You think the guy that stabbed the Italian got in the back way, do you, Mr. Vance?”
“I have come to the conclusion, Sergeant,” Vance returned sadly, as he went toward the door leading into the dining-room, “that thinking at this hour of the morning is a frightful waste of effort.”
Vance switched on the dining-room lights, and we followed him toward the kitchen. As he opened the door leading into the butler’s pantry I was surprised to see a rectangular line of light around the kitchen door.
Vance halted momentarily.
“I wonder…” he murmured, as if to himself. And then: “No, no; Gamble wouldn’t have dared come near the rear of the house—he’s in a blue funk.”
He proceeded across the pantry and pushed open the swinging door into the kitchen.
Under the central light, seated at a large kitchen table of white pine, was Liang, fully dressed, and with a green eye-shade pulled down to the bridge of his nose. Before him on the table were a pile of books and many sheets of scattered paper. As we entered he rose and faced us, removing his eye-shade. He did not seem at all astonished at seeing us there at such an unusual hour; he smiled pleasantly and made a stiff bow.
“Good evening, Mr. Liang,” Vance greeted him amiably. “You’re working rather late.”
“I had many things to do tonight—my work had accumulated. My monthly report to the Ta Tao Huei is overdue.… I trust I have not discommoded the household.”
“You have been working all night—here in the kitchen?” Vance asked, going to the porch door and trying it. (It was locked.)
“Since eight o’clock,” the Chinaman returned. “May I be of any service to you?”
“Oh, no end.” Vance sauntered back and perched himself on a high stool. “Have you been aware of anything unusual in the house tonight, Mr. Liang?”
The man looked mildly surprised.
“Quite the contrary. It seemed very peaceful after the excitement today.”
“Restful—eh, what? Astonishin’! And yet, Mr. Liang, while you were engaged in your liter’ry labors, Signor Grassi was stabbed.”
There was no change of expression on the Chinaman’s face as he answered: “That is most unfortunate.”
“Yes, yes, quite.” Vance’s tone was slightly irritable. “But did you, by any chance, hear any one or see any one enter the rear door this evening?”
Liang shook his head slightly in a slow and indifferent negative.
“No,” he said. “No one, to my knowledge, entered by the rear door.… Perhaps the front door—”
“Many thanks for the suggestion,” Vance interrupted with a shrug; “but there’s been some one guarding it.”
“Ah!” The Chinaman moved his eyes a little until they rested on a point somewhere above Vance’s head. “That is indeed interesting.… Perhaps the den window—”
“An excellent suggestion!” Vance stepped down from the stool. “The den window, eh, Mr. Liang?”
“It would be a logical choice,” the man answered. “It cannot be seen either from the street or from the house, and there is a cement walk immediately beneath it, so that there would be no footprints.”
“Our gratitude, and all that, Mr. Liang,” Vance murmured. “I’ll have a look at the window.… Pray continue with your work.” And he led the way back through the dining-room into the library.
“Well, wh
at about it?” grumbled Heath. “A swell lot you learned from that Chink.”
“Still, Sergeant,” Vance returned, “it was kind of Mr. Liang to suggest the den window. Why not take a peep at it?”
Heath hesitated, squinted, and then went swiftly across the hall into the drawing-room. We could hear him open the den door and walk heavily across the small room. A few moments later he returned to the library.
“There’s something damn queer about this,” he announced. “Maybe the Chink was right, after all. The den window was open—and the sofa that was in front of it was pulled out at a cock-eyed angle.” He glanced at Markham helplessly. “Maybe somebody did get in and out of that window, Chief.… Anyhow, where do we go from here?”
“Home and to bed, my dear Pepys,” said Vance. “This is no hour for respectable people to be up. There’s nothing more to be done here.”
CHAPTER XVII
THE SIX JUDGES
(Friday, October 12; 9 a. m.)
Vance rose early that morning. I myself was around at nine o’clock and was surprised to find him in street clothes and on the point of leaving the house.
“I’ll be back in half an hour, Van,” he said, as he went out, but gave no further explanation.
Fifteen minutes later Markham arrived, and he had waited but ten minutes when Vance came in. He was carrying the Scottish terrier bitch in his arms. There was a dressing on her head held in place by adhesive tape, but otherwise she seemed alert and well.
“Morning, Markham,” Vance greeted the District Attorney. “Really, y’ know, I didn’t expect you so early. I’ve just toddled over to Doctor Blamey’s to see how the little Scotch lassie was getting along—and here she is.”
He put the dog down and rang for Currie. When the man came he ordered Melba toast and a dish of warm milk.
“A little breakfast for the lass,” he explained. “I’ve a feelin’ she’s going to do a bit of travellin’ today.”
Markham looked at him sceptically.
“You still think you can trace the person we want through that dog?”
“It’s about our only hope,” Vance told him seriously. “The case is far too complicated as it stands—there are too many contradictions. I am sure that you, as a prosecuting attorney, could pin the various crimes on any one of three or four people. But until I have traced the ownership and peregrinations of this Scottie, I sha’n’t be satisfied.”
Markham frowned. “Just how do you intend to go about it?”
Vance studied the terrier for a few moments as he crumbled the Melba toast into the dish of milk. He ran his hands over her contours; he looked at her teeth; he felt her coat; put his fist under her brisket; and took one of her forelegs in his hand.
“As I told you, Markham, this little bitch is in perfect show condition. She’s been trimmed and conditioned by an expert, and it seems pretty certain that she’s been entered in some show recently. She’s a show dog, and her stripping is that of a professional handler; it is no pet-shop or hospital assistant’s job; and owners of dogs do not go to the professional type of trimmer unless they have the ring in mind. My guess is, from her condition, that she’s been shown within the last month. And it’s simple enough to find what shows have been held within a reasonable radius of New York during that period.”
“But why couldn’t she have been shown before?” Markham asked.
“Because,” explained Vance, “her coat wouldn’t have been ready. She’s just in full coat now—it’s only beginning to go ‘bye.’ Over a month ago her coat would have been too short.… But never mind the technicalities.”
He went into the library and returned with his file of Popular Dogs. Sitting down in his easy chair he placed the file across his knees and began running his finger down the calendar of official dog shows.
“Now, let’s see,” he murmured. “During the past month there has been held around New York the show at Syracuse—make a note of these, will you, Van? Then came the Cornwall show; and after that, Tuxedo. And a week later was the Camden show, which was followed by Westbury, and also the Englewood show.… That brings us pretty well up to date, and they are all possibilities. Moreover, if she was on exhibition at any of these shows, she was in either the puppy or the novice class—and perhaps in the American-bred, although I doubt it.”
“And how do you figure that?” Markham was still sceptical.
“That’s not so difficult,” Vance elucidated. “She’s about a year old, I should say—perhaps a month or two either way.…”
“You mean to tell me,” asked Markham, “that you can look at a dog and tell how old it is?”
“Approximately—yes. But one looks at the teeth for one’s information. Both the temporary and the permanent teeth of a dog appear at certain ages. The third molar, for instance, appears when the dog is between six and nine months old. And as this Scottie’s molars are well formed, I know she is at least nine or ten months old. But that is not the real test. Age is judged largely by the appearance of the incisors and the wearing-away of the cusps. The incisors are crowned with three lobes—a central and two lateral—resembling a fleur-de-lis. During the first year these three cusps are all present and show very little wear; but during the second year the middle cusp begins to wear level with the laterals, and the fleur-de-lis disappears from the central incisors of the lower jaw.… Now, if we assume that this Scottie has had a normal diet, has not had too many bones to gnaw, and has not come in contact with stones, it may fairly accurately be deduced, from the condition of her teeth, that she is about a year old—perhaps just entering her second year.…”
“Very well.” Markham was becoming bored. “Go on from there.”
“Up to twelve months,” Vance continued, “dogs are eligible for the puppy class. Moreover, any dog which hasn’t won a blue ribbon, except in the puppy class, is eligible for the novice class. This dog is too young to have won any important blue ribbons, and therefore my guess would be that her entries would have been in the puppy and novice classes.… It’s not an important matter, although it limits and facilitates my investigation somewhat.”
“It sounds like shooting into the dark.” Markham was far from convinced.
“You’re right, to a certain extent,” Vance agreed. “But there’s a simpler way of determining the dog’s ownership—and I shall try that first.”
Vance stood looking down at the bandaged Scottie as she ate her milk and toast.
“The more I see of her, Markham, the more I’m convinced that there are only about five men in this part of the country who could have done such a perfect job of trimming. It takes a profound knowledge of the Scottish terrier and long years of experience to produce a contour and a balance of coat like this one. William Prentice could have done it; and George Wimberly, and Jimmy McNab, and Ellery Burke, and Steve Parton.”
Vance walked round the dog several times, studying her.
“Wimberly is in Boston, so we may eliminate him on the grounds of distance. McNab is working in a private capacity for a kennel on Long Island, and I hardly think he would qualify. Both Burke and Parton are fairly distant from New York, although they are certainly possibilities.”
He knelt down and ran his hand over the contour of the dog’s neck and lifted the hair along the spine. Then he stood up.
“William Prentice! That’s the chap. That outline of the neck and the back has been achieved by a master hand, and there’s no greater master at that in this country than Prentice. Furthermore, he’s only a short distance from New York.… I think I’ll try him first. If he did trim this dog he may be able to give us some information as to her ownership.”
As soon as Markham had left us that morning, we drove to Mr. Prentice’s famous Barlae Kennels at Haworth, New Jersey. Mr. Prentice, a middle-aged Scotsman with a dour demeanor but a twinkle in his blue eyes, stepped out of the main kennel as we alighted from the car. He took one look at the dog in Vance’s arms.
“How d’ ye do, Mr. Vance,” was his greeti
ng. (Vance had known him for years: Prentice had handled many of his dogs in the ring.) “A good one, yon bitch.”
“You know her then?” asked Vance eagerly.
“Ay.”
“And you trimmed her?”
“Ay.”
“And about how long ago might that be?”
“I couldna say exactly, but it was after the first of September.”
“Whose bitch is it?”
“That I couldna say. A lady and a gentleman drove up one afternoon and asked me if I could trim the dog at once. I said ‘ay,’ and I trimmed it.”
Vance seemed disappointed.
“Was anything else said?” he asked.
“The gentleman said he wanted the bitch put in show condition.”
“Ah! And have you seen her at any of the shows since then?”
Prentice shook his head thoughtfully. “I’ve been showing mostly Cairns this fall.”
“What sort of man brought the dog to you? Could you describe him?”
“Ay. He was a large man, around fifty, and he had little enough to say.”
“And the woman?”
“She was young and not difficult to look at.”
“A blonde?”
“Ay.”
“His daughter, perhaps?”
A shrewd twinkle came into the Scotsman’s eyes.
“I hae me doots,” was all he vouchsafed. Vance remained at the Barlae Kennels for perhaps half an hour, discussing dogs. On the way home he seemed in better spirits.
“In any event, Van,” he said, “we can now go ahead with a certain assurance of success. If only Prentice had taken the owner’s name and address, how simple everything would have been.”
Returning to his apartment, he telephoned to the American Kennel Club and obtained the names of the Scottish terrier judges in the six shows he had selected as the most likely ones where the bitch might have been exhibited.
The six judges turned out to be Marguerite Kirmse, Karl B. Smith, Edwin Megargee, William MacBain, Morgan Stinemetz, and Robert D. Hartshorne.
Vance glanced down the list of names he had made. “Now, let us see.… I can probably find most of these judges in the city. Mr. Hartshorne and Mr. Smith may be at their offices, although it is Columbus Day. And at this time of year Mrs. Cole is generally in New York.174 I may find Mr. Megargee in his studio. Mr. MacBain is somewhere in Wall Street, I believe; and Mr. Stinemetz surely must have an office in New York.… Let’s see what we can find out.”
The Philo Vance Megapack Page 155