“But, Vance,” protested Markham, “if you were so certain from the first that the crime was rational and commonplace, why all the silly pother about a dragon?”
“It was not silly. There was always the remote possibility that some strange fish, or sea-monster, had been responsible for Montague’s death. Even the greatest zoologists understand but little about aquatic life: it is positively amazin’ how meagre our knowledge of under-water creatures really is. The breeding of the Betta, for instance, has been going on for decades, and with all our experimentation with this labyrinth family, no one knows whether the Betta pugnax is a nest-builder or a mouthbreeder. Mrs. Stamm was quite right when she ridiculed scientific knowledge of submarine life. And you must not forget, Markham, that Stamm was an ardent fish hunter, and that he brought back to this country all kinds of rare specimens about which practically nothing is known. Scientifically, the superstition of the pool could not be ignored. But, I admit, I did not take the matter very seriously. I clung childishly to the trodden paths, for life has a most disappointin’ way of proving commonplace and rational when we are hopin’ most passionately for the bizarre and supernatural. Anyway, I thought it worth while to inspect Stamm’s collection of fish. But I was more or less familiar with all his exhibits; so I descended to the realm of simple, understandable things, and tested the soil in the jardinière.”
“And incidentally,” Markham commented, with a slow smile, “you lingered over the fish and the other plants so as not to give Stamm any idea of what you were really after in the rubber-plant pot.”
Vance smiled back.
“It may be, don’t y’ know.… How about another magnum of Pol Roger?” And he rang for Currie.
It was less than a year after these two sinister murders at the old Dragon Pool, with their sequence of tragedies, that Leland and Bernice Stamm were married. They were both strong and, in many ways, remarkable characters; but the memory of the tragedies affected them too deeply for them to remain in Inwood. They built a home in the hills of Westchester, and went there to live. Vance and I visited them shortly after their marriage.
The old Stamm residence was never occupied again, and the estate was acquired by the city and added to what is now Inwood Hill Park. The house was torn down, and only the crumbling stones of its foundation remain. But the two square stone posts of the entrance gate, which marked the beginning of the driveway from Bolton Road, are still standing. The old Dragon Pool exists no more. The stream that fed it was diverted into Spuyten Duyvil Creek. Its semi-artificial bed has been filled in, and what was once the basin of the Dragon Pool is now overgrown with wild vegetation. It would be difficult today even to trace the course of the old stream or to determine the former boundaries of that sinister and tragic pool.
After the final tragedy and the breaking up of the century-old traditions of the Stamm estate, I often wondered what became of Trainor, the butler, when the doors of the ancient mansion had been closed for all time. Why the memory of the fellow should have remained in my mind, I cannot say; but there was in him something at once ghost-like and corporeal, something both pathetic and offensive, which made a strong impression on me. I was, therefore, glad when I recently ran into him.
Vance and I were visiting a tropical-fish shop in East 34th Street; and there, behind the counter, half hidden by the tanks, was Trainor.
He recognized Vance at once, and shook his head lugubriously as we approached him.
“I’m not doing so well with my Scatophagus here,” he repined. “Not the proper conditions—if you know what I mean, sir.”
194 The Moraine Cooler was one of Vance’s favorite summer drinks. It is ordinarily made with Rhine wine, lemon juice (with the rind), Curaçao, and club soda; but Vance always substituted Grand Marnier for the Curaçao.
195 The papers that day had carried spectacular accounts of Montague’s murder; and the reporters had let their imaginations run riot over the possibilities of an actual aquatic monster having caused his death. A zoologist from one of the local universities had been interviewed and had expressed the opinion that such an explanation could not be scientifically refuted because of our scant knowledge of submarine life.
196 Markham, I believe, was referring to the opportunity that Vance had given the murderer in The ‘Canary’ Murder Case to commit suicide after he had admitted his guilt.
THE CASINO MURDER CASE (Part 1)
Quam saepe forte temere eveniunt, quae non audeas optare!
—Terence.
DEDICATION
TO
AUGUSTA MacMANNUS
(“Our Mac”)
CHARACTERS OF THE BOOK
PHILO VANCE
JOHN F.-X. MARKHAM
District Attorney of New York County.
ERNEST HEATH
Sergeant of the Homicide Bureau.
MRS. ANTHONY LLEWELLYN
A prominent social worker.
RICHARD KINKAID
Her brother, and owner of the Casino.
AMELIA LLEWELLYN
Her daughter; an art student.
LYNN LLEWELLYN
Her son, a night-club habitué and gambler.
VIRGINIA LLEWELLYN
Lynn Llewellyn’s wife: formerly Virginia Vale, a musical-comedy star.
MORGAN BLOODGOOD
Former instructor in mathematics, and Kinkaid’s chief croupier.
DOCTOR ALLAN KANE
A young doctor; friend of the Llewellyns.
DOCTOR ROGERS
A physician.
DOCTOR ADOLPH HILDEBRANDT
Official Toxicologist.
SMITH
The Llewellyn butler.
HENNESSEY
Detective of the Homicide Bureau.
SNITKIN
Detective of the Homicide Bureau.
SULLIVAN
Detective of the Homicide Bureau.
BURKE
Detective of the Homicide Bureau.
DOCTOR EMANUEL DOREMUS
Medical Examiner.
CURRIE
Vance’s valet.
CHAPTER I
AN ANONYMOUS LETTER
(Saturday, October 15; 10 a. m.)
It was in the cold bleak autumn following the spectacular Dragon murder case that Philo Vance was confronted with what was probably the subtlest and most diabolical criminal problem of his career. Unlike his other cases, this mystery was one of poisoning. But it was not an ordinary poisoning case: it involved far too clever a technique, and was thought out to far too many decimal points, to be ranked with even such famous crimes as the Cordelia Botkin, Molineux, Maybrick, Buchanan, Bowers and Carlyle Harris cases.
The designation given to it by the newspapers—namely, the Casino murder case—was technically a misnomer, although Kinkaid’s famous gambling Casino in West 73rd Street played a large part in it. In fact, the first sinister episode in this notorious crime actually occurred beside the high-stake roulette table in the “Gold Room” of the Casino; and the final episode of the tragedy was enacted in Kinkaid’s walnut-paneled Jacobean office, just off the main gambling salon.
Incidentally, I may say that that last terrible scene will haunt me to my dying day and send cold shivers racing up and down my spine whenever I let my mind dwell on its terrifying details. I have been through many shocking and unnerving situations with Vance during the course of his criminal investigations, but never have I experienced one that affected me as did that terrific and fatal dénouement that came so suddenly, so unexpectedly, in the gaudy environment of that famous gambling rendezvous.
And Markham, too, I know, underwent some chilling metamorphosis in those few agonizing moments when the murderer stood before us and cackled in triumph. To this day, the mere mention of the incident makes Markham irritable and nervous—a fact which, considering his usual calm, indicates clearly how deep and lasting an impression the tragic affair made upon him.
The Casino murder case, barring that one fatal terminating event, was not so spectacula
r in its details as many other criminal cases which Vance had probed and solved. From a purely objective point of view it might even have been considered commonplace; for in its superficial mechanism it had many parallels in well-known cases of criminological history. But what distinguished this case from its many antetypes was the subtle inner processes by which the murderer sought to divert suspicion and to create new and more devilish situations wherein the real motive of the crime was to be found. It was not merely one wheel within another wheel: it was an elaborate and complicated piece of psychological machinery, the mechanism of which led on and on, almost indefinitely, to the most amazing—and erroneous—conclusions.
Indeed, the first move of the murderer was perhaps the most artful act of the entire profound scheme. It was a letter addressed to Vance thirty-six hours before the mechanism of the plot was put in direct operation. But, curiously enough, it was this supreme subtlety that, in the end, led to the recognition of the culprit. Perhaps this act of letter-writing was too subtle: perhaps it defeated its own purpose by calling mute attention to the mental processes of the murderer, and thereby gave Vance an intellectual clue which fortunately diverted his efforts from the more insistent and more obvious lines of ratiocination. In any event, it achieved its superficial object; for Vance was actually a spectator of the first thrust, so to speak, of the villain’s rapier.
And, as an eye witness to the first episode of this famous poison murder mystery, Vance became directly involved in the case; so that, in this instance, he carried the problem to John F.-X. Markham, who was then the District Attorney of New York County and Vance’s closest friend; whereas, in all his other criminal investigations, it was Markham who had been primarily responsible for Vance’s participation.
The letter of which I speak arrived in the morning mail on Saturday, October 15. It consisted of two typewritten pages, and the envelop was postmarked Closter, New Jersey. The official post-office stamp showed the mailing time as noon of the preceding day. Vance had worked late Friday night, tabulating and comparing the æsthetic designs on Sumerian pottery in an attempt to establish the cultural influences of this ancient civilization,197 and did not arise till ten o’clock on Saturday. I was living in Vance’s apartment in East 38th Street at the time; and though my position was that of legal adviser and monetary steward I had, during the past three years, gradually taken over a kind of general secretaryship in his employ. “Employ” is perhaps not the correct word, for Vance and I had been close friends since our Harvard days; and it was this relationship that had induced me to sever my connection with my father’s law firm of Van Dine, Davis and Van Dine and to devote myself to the more congenial task of looking after Vance’s affairs.
On that raw, almost wintry, morning in October I had, as usual, opened and segregated his mail, taking care of such items as came under my own jurisdiction, and was engaged in making out his entry blanks for the autumn field trials,198 when Vance entered the library and, with a nod of greeting, sat down in his favorite Queen-Anne chair before the open fire.
That morning he was wearing a rare old mandarin robe and Chinese sandals, and I was somewhat astonished at his costume, for he rarely came to breakfast (which invariably consisted of a cup of Turkish coffee and one of his beloved Régie cigarettes) in such elaborate dress.
“I say, Van,” he remarked, when he had pushed the table-button for Currie, his aged English butler and majordomo; “don’t look so naïvely amazed. I felt depressed when I awoke. I couldn’t trace the designs on some of the jolly old stelæ and cylinder seals they’ve dug up at Ur, and in consequence had a restless night. Therefore, I bedecked myself in this Chinese attire in an effort to counteract my feelin’s, and in the hope, I may add, that I would, through a process of psychic osmosis, acquire a bit of that Oriental calm that is so highly spoken of by the Sinologists.”
At this moment Currie brought in the coffee. Vance, after lighting a Régie and taking a few sips of the thick black liquid, looked toward me lazily and drawled: “Any cheerin’ mail?”
So interested had I been in the strange anonymous letter which had just arrived—although I had as yet no idea of its tragic significance—that I handed it to him without a word. He glanced at it with slightly raised eyebrows, let his gaze rest for a moment on the enigmatic signature, and then, placing his coffee cup on the table, read it through slowly. I watched him closely during the process, and noted a curiously veiled expression in his eyes, which deepened and became unusually serious as he came to the end.
The letter is still in Vance’s files, and I am quoting it here verbatim, for in it Vance found one of his most valuable clues—a clue which, though it did not actually lead to the murderer at the beginning, at least shunted Vance from the obvious line of research intended by the plotter. As I have just said, the letter was typewritten; but the work was inexpertly done—that is, there was evidence of the writer’s unfamiliarity with the mechanism of a typewriter. The letter read:
DEAR MR. VANCE:
I am appealing to you for help in my distress. And I am also appealing to you in the name of humanity and justice. I know you by reputation—and you are the one man in New York who may be able to prevent a terrible catastrophe—or at least to see that punishment is meted out to the perpetrator of an impending crime. Horrible black clouds are hovering over a certain household in New York—they have been gathering for years—and I know that the storm is about to break. There is danger and tragedy in the air. Please do not fail me at this time, although I admit I am a stranger to you.
I do not know exactly what is going to happen. If I did I could go to the police. But any official interference now would put the plotter on guard and merely postpone the tragedy. I wish I could tell you more—but I do not know any more. The thing is all frightfully vague—it is like an atmosphere rather than a specific situation. But it is going to happen—something is going to happen—and whatever does happen will be deceptive and untrue. So please don’t let appearances deceive you. Look—look—beneath the thing for the truth. All those involved are abnormal and tricky. Don’t underestimate them.
Here is all I can tell you—
You have met young Lynn Llewellyn—that much I know—and you probably know of his marriage three years ago to the beautiful musical-comedy star, Virginia Vale. She gave up her career and she and Lynn have been living with his family. But the marriage was a terrible mistake, and for three years a tragedy has been brewing. And now things have come to a climax. I have seen the terrible forms taking shape. And there are others besides the Llewellyns in the picture.
There is danger—awful danger—for some one—I don’t know just who. And the time is tomorrow night, Saturday.
Lynn Llewellyn must be watched. And watched carefully.
There is to be a dinner at the Llewellyn home tomorrow night—and every principal in this impending tragedy will be present—Richard Kinkaid, Morgan Bloodgood, young Lynn and his unhappy wife, and Lynn’s sister Amelia, and his mother. The occasion is the mother’s birthday.
Although I know that there will be a rumpus of some kind at that dinner, I realize that you can do nothing about it. It will not matter anyway. The dinner will be only the beginning of things. But something momentous will happen later. I know it will happen. The time has now come.
After dinner Lynn Llewellyn will go to Kinkaid’s Casino to play. He goes every Saturday night. I know that you yourself often visit the Casino. And what I beg of you to do is to go there tomorrow night. You must go. And you must watch Lynn Llewellyn—every minute of the time. Also watch Kinkaid and Bloodgood.
You may wonder why I do not take some action in the matter myself; but I assure you my position and the circumstances make it utterly impossible.
I wish I could be more definite. But I do not know any more to tell you. You must find out.
The signature, also typewritten, was “One Deeply Concerned.”
When Vance had perused the letter a second time he settled deep in his chair and
stretched his legs out lazily.
“An amazin’ document, Van,” he drawled, after several meditative puffs on his cigarette. “And quite insincere, don’t y’ know. A literary touch here and there—a bit of melodrama—a few samples of gaudy rhetoric—and, occasionally, a deep concern.… Quite, oh, quite: the signature, though vague, is genuine. Yes…yes—that’s quite obvious. It’s more heavily typed than the rest of the letter—more pressure on the keys.… Passion at work. And not a pleasant passion: a bit of vindictiveness, as it were, coupled with anxiety.…” His voice trailed off. “Anxiety!” he continued, as if to himself. “That’s exactly what exudes from between the lines. But anxiety about what? about whom?… The gambling Lynn? It might be, of course. And yet…” Again his voice trailed off, and once more he inspected the letter, adjusting his monocle carefully and scrutinizing both sides of the paper. “The ordin’ry commercial bond,” he observed. “Available at any stationer’s.… And a plain envelop with a pointed flap. My anxious and garrulous correspondent was most careful to avoid the possibility of being traced through his stationer.… Very sad.… But I do wish the epistler had gone to business school at some time. The typing is atrocious: bad spacings, wrong keys struck, no sense of margin or indentation—all indicative of too little familiarity with the endless silly gadgets of the typewriter.”
The Philo Vance Megapack Page 185