The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “That was wholly a misleading statement on Kaspar’s part,” put in Kenyon Kenting with matter-of-fact suavity. “As I’ve already said to Mrs. Kenting, I can’t remember ever having had any telephone conversation with Kaspar at night. Whenever we had business matters to discuss he either came to my office, or we talked them over here at the house.… I can’t understand these phone conversations—but, of course, they may have no relation whatsoever to this present enigma.”

  “As you say, sir.” Vance nodded. “No plausible connection with this crime apparent. But one never knows, does one?…” His eyes moved slowly back to Mrs. Kenting. “Was there nothing else recently which you can recall, and which might be helpful now?”

  “Yes, there was.” The woman nodded with a show of vigor. “About a week ago a strange, rough-looking man came here to see Kaspar—he looked to me like an underworld character. Kaspar took him immediately into the drawing-room here and closed the doors. They remained in the room a long time. I had gone up to my boudoir, but when the man left the house I heard him say to Kaspar in a loud tone, ‘There are ways of getting things.’ It wasn’t just a statement—the words sounded terribly unfriendly. Almost like a threat.”

  “Has there been anything further?” Vance asked.

  “Yes. Several days later, the same man came again, and an even more sinister-looking individual was with him. I got only the merest glimpse of them as Kaspar led them into this room and closed the doors. I can’t even remember what either of them looked like—except that I’m sure they were dangerous men and I know they frightened me. I asked Kaspar about them the next morning, but he evaded the question and said merely that it was a matter of business and I wouldn’t understand. That was all I could get out of him.”

  Kenyon Kenting had turned his back to the room and was looking out of the window, his hands clasped behind him.

  “I hardly think these two mysterious callers,” he commented with pompous finality, without turning, “have any connection with Kaspar’s kidnapping.”

  Vance frowned slightly and cast an inquisitive glance at the man’s back.

  “Can you be sure of that, Mr. Kenting?” he asked coldly.

  “Oh, no—oh, no,” the other replied apologetically, swinging about suddenly and extending one hand in an oratorical gesture. “I can’t be sure. I merely meant it isn’t logical to suppose that two men would expose themselves so openly if they contemplated a step attended by such serious consequences as a proven kidnapping. Besides, Kaspar had many strange acquaintances, and these men were probably in no way connected with the present situation.”

  Vance kept his eyes fixed on the man, and his expression did not change.

  “It might be, of course, as you say,” he remarked lightly. “Also it might not be—what? Interestin’ speculation. But quite futile. I wonder.…” He drew himself up and, meditatively taking out his cigarette case, lighted another Régie. “And now I think we might go above, to Mr. Kaspar Kenting’s bedroom.”

  We all rose and went toward the sliding doors.

  As we came out into the main hall, the door to a small room just opposite was standing ajar, and through it I saw what appeared to be a miniature museum of some kind. There were the slanting cases set against the walls, and a double row of larger cases down the centre of the room. It looked like a private exhibition, arranged on the lines of the more extensive ones seen in any public museum.

  “Ah! a collection of semiprecious stones,” commented Vance. “Do you mind if I take a brief look?” he asked, addressing Mrs. Kenting. “Tremendously interested in the subject, don’t y’ know.”246

  The woman looked a little astonished, but answered at once.

  “By all means. Go right in.”

  “Your own collection?” Vance inquired casually.

  “Oh, no,” the woman told him—somewhat bitterly, it seemed to me. “It belonged to Mr. Kenting senior. It was here in the house when I first came, long after his death. It was part of the estate he left—residuary property, I believe they call it.”

  Fleel nodded, as if he considered Mrs. Kenting’s explanation correct and adequate.

  Much to Markham’s impatience and annoyance, Vance immediately entered the small room and moved slowly along the cases. He beckoned to me to join him.

  Neatly arranged in the cases were specimens, in various shapes and sizes, of aquamarine, topaz, spinel, tourmaline, and zircon; rubelite, amethyst, alexandrite, peridot, hessonite, pyrope, demantoid, almandine, kinzite, andalusite, turquoise, and jadeite. Many of these gem-stones were beautifully cut and lavishly faceted, and I was admiring their lustrous beauty, impressed by what I assumed to be their great value, when Vance murmured softly:

  “A most amazin’ and disquietin’ collection. Only one gem of real value here, and not a rare specimen among the rest. A schoolgirl’s assortment, really. Very queer. And there seem to be many blank spaces. Judgin’ by the vacancies and general distribution, old Kenting must have been a mere amateur.…”

  I looked at him in amazement. Then his voice trailed off, and he suddenly wheeled about and returned to the hall.

  “A most curious collection,” he murmured again.

  “Semiprecious stones were one of my father’s hobbies,” Kenting returned.

  “Yes, yes. Of course.” Vance nodded abstractedly. “Most unusual collection. Hardly representative, though.… Was your father an expert, Mr. Kenting?”

  “Oh, yes. He studied the subject for many years. He was very proud of this gem-room, as he called it.”

  “Ah!”

  Kenting shot the other a peculiar, shrewd look but said nothing; and Vance at once followed Heath toward the wide stairway.

  CHAPTER III

  THE RANSOM NOTE

  (Wednesday, July 20; 11 A.M.)

  As we entered Kaspar Kenting’s bedroom, Captain Dubois and Detective Bellamy were just preparing to leave it.

  “I don’t think there’s anything for you, Sergeant,” Dubois reported to Heath after his respectful greetings to Markham. “Just the usual kind of marks and smudges you’d find in any bedroom—and they all check up with the finger-prints on the silver toilet set and the glass in the bathroom. Can’t be any one else’s finger-prints except the guy what lives here. Nothing new anywhere.”

  “And the window-sill?” asked Heath with desperate hopefulness.

  “Not a thing, Sarge,—absolutely not a thing,” Dubois replied. “And I sure went over it carefully. If any one went out that window during the night, they certainly wiped it clean, or else wore gloves and was mighty careful. And there’s just the kind of finish on that window-sill—that old polished ivory finish—that’ll take finger-prints like smoke-paper.… Anyhow, I may have picked up a stray print here and there that’ll check with something we’ve got in the files. I’ll let you know more about it, of course, when we’ve developed and enlarged what we got.”

  The Sergeant seemed greatly disappointed.

  “I’ll be wanting you later for the ladder,” he told Dubois, shifting the long black cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “I’ll get in touch with you when we’re ready.”

  “All right, Sergeant.” Dubois picked up his small black case. “That’ll be a tough job though. Don’t make it too late in the afternoon—I’ll want all the light I can get.” And he waved a friendly farewell to Heath and departed, followed by Bellamy.

  Kaspar Kenting’s bedroom was distinctly old-fashioned, and conventional in the extreme. The furniture was shabby and worn. A wide Colonial bed of mahogany stood against the south wall, and there was a mahogany chest of drawers, with a hanging mirror over it, near the entrance to the room. Several easy chairs stood here and there about the room, and a faded flower-patterned carpet covered the floor. In one corner at the front of the room was a small writing-table on which stood a French telephone.

  There were two windows in the room, one at the front of the house, overlooking the street; the other was in the east wall, and I recognized
it at once as the window to which Mrs. Kenting said she had run in her fright. It was thrown wide open, with the Venetian blind drawn up to the top, and the outside shutters were invisible from where we stood; whereas the front window was half closed, with its blind drawn half-way down. At the rear of the room, to the right of the bed, was a door, now wide open. Beyond it another bedroom, similar to the one in which we stood, was identifiable: it was obviously Mrs. Kenting’s boudoir. Between Kaspar Kenting’s bed and the east wall two narrower doors led into the bathroom and a closet respectively.

  The electric lights were still burning with a sickly illumination in the old-fashioned crystal chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling, and in the standard modern fixture near the head of the bed.

  Vance looked about him with seeming indifference; but I knew that not a single detail of the setting escaped him. His first words were directed to the missing man’s wife.

  “When you came in here this morning, Mrs. Kenting, was this hall door locked or bolted?”

  The woman looked uncertain and faltered in her answer.

  “I—I—really, I can’t remember. It must have been unlocked, or else I would probably have noticed it. I went out through the door when the coffee was ready, and I don’t recall unlocking it.”

  Vance nodded understandingly.

  “Yes, yes; of course,” he murmured. “A deliberate act like unlocking a door would have made a definite mental impression on you. Simple psychology.…”

  “But I really don’t know, Mr. Vance.… You see,” she added hurriedly, “I was so upset.… I wanted to get out of this room.”

  “Oh, quite. Wholly natural. But it really doesn’t matter.” Vance dismissed the subject. Then he went to the open window and looked down at the ladder.

  As he did so Heath took from his pocket a knife such as boy scouts use, and pried loose the thumbtack which held a soiled and wrinkled sheet of paper to the broad window-sill. He picked up the paper gingerly and handed it to Markham. The District Attorney took it and looked at it, his face grim and troubled. I glanced over his shoulder as he read it. The paper was of the ordinary typewriter quality and had been trimmed irregularly at the edges to disguise its original size. On it were pasted words and separate characters in different sizes and styles of type, apparently cut from a newspaper. The uneven lines, crudely put together, read:

  If you want him back safe price will be 50 thousands $ otherwise killed will let you no ware & when to leave money later.

  This ominous communication was signed with a cabalistic signature consisting of two interlocking uneven squares which were outlined with black ink. (I am herewith including a copy of the ransom note which was found that morning at the Kenting home.)

  Vance had turned back to the room, and Markham handed him the note. Vance glanced at it, as if it were of little interest to him, and read it through quickly, with the faint suggestion of a cynical smile.

  “Really, y’ know, Markham old dear, it isn’t what you could possibly term original. It’s been done so many times before.”

  He was about to return the paper to Markham when he suddenly drew his hand back and made a new examination of the note. His eyes grew serious and clouded, and the smile faded from his lips.

  “Interestin’ signature,” he murmured. He took out his monocle and, carefully adjusting it, scrutinized the paper closely. “Made with a Chinese pencil,” he announced, “—a Chinese brush—held vertically—and with China ink.… And those small squares…” His voice trailed off.

  “Sure!” Sergeant Heath slapped his thigh and puffed vigorously at his cigar. “Same as the holes like I’ve seen in Chinese money.”

  “Quite so, Sergeant.” Vance was still studying the cryptic signature. “Not illuminatin’, however. But worth remembering.” He returned his monocle to his waistcoat pocket and gave the paper back to Markham. “Not an upliftin’ case, old dear.… Let’s stagger about a bit.…”

  He moved to the chest of drawers and adjusted his cravat before the mirror: then he smoothed back his hair and flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the left lapel of his coat. Markham glowered, and Heath made an expressive grimace of disgust.

  “By the by, Mrs. Kenting,” Vance asked casually, “is your husband, by any chance, bald?”

  “Of course not,” she answered indignantly. “What makes you ask that?”

  “Queer—very queer,” murmured Vance. “All the necess’ry toilet articles are in place on the top of this low-boy except a comb.”

  “I—don’t understand,” the woman returned in amazement. She moved swiftly across the room and stood beside Vance. “Why, the comb is gone!” she exclaimed in a tone of bewilderment. “Kaspar always kept it right here.” And she pointed to a vacant place on the faded silk covering of what had obviously served Kaspar Kenting as a dresser.

  “Most extr’ordin’ry. Let’s see whether your husband’s toothbrush is also missing. Do you know where he kept it?”

  “In the bathroom, of course,”—Mrs. Kenting seemed frightened and breathless—“in a little rack beside the medicine cabinet. I’ll see.” As she spoke she turned and went quickly toward the door nearest the east wall. She pushed it open and stepped into the bathroom. After a moment she rejoined us.

  “It’s not there,” she remarked dejectedly. “It isn’t where it should be—and I’ve looked in the cabinet for it too.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Vance returned. “Do you remember what clothes your husband was wearing last night when he went to the opening of the casino in New Jersey with Mr. Quaggy?”

  “Why, he wore evening dress, of course,” the woman answered without hesitation. “I mean, he wore a tuxedo.”

  Vance walked quickly across the room and, opening the door beside the bathroom, looked into the narrow clothes closet. After a brief inspection of its contents he turned and again addressed Mrs. Kenting who now stood near the open east window, her hands clasped on her breast, and her eyes wide with apprehension.

  “But his dinner jacket is hanging here in the closet, Mrs. Kenting. Has he more than one?…”

  The woman shook her head vaguely.

  “And I say, I suppose that Mr. Kenting wore the appropriate evening oxfords with his dinner coat.”

  “Naturally,” the woman said.

  “Amazin’,” murmured Vance. “There are a pair of evening oxfords standin’ neatly on the floor of the closet, and the soles are dampish—it was rather wet out last night, don’t y’ know, after the rain.”

  Mrs. Kenting moved slowly across the room to where Kenyon Kenting was standing and put her arm through his, seeming to lean against him. Then she said in a low voice, “I really don’t understand, Mr. Vance.”

  Vance gave the woman and her brother-in-law a thoughtful glance and stepped inside the closet. But he turned back to the room in a moment and once more addressed Mrs. Kenting.

  “Are you familiar with your husband’s wardrobe?” he asked.

  “Of course, I am,” she returned with an undertone of resentment. “I help him select the materials for all his clothes.”

  “In that case,” Vance said politely, “you can be of great assistance to me if you will glance through this closet and tell me whether anything is missing.”

  Mrs. Kenting withdrew her arm from that of her brother-in-law and, with a dazed and slightly startled expression, joined Vance at the clothes closet. As he took a step to one side, she turned her back to him and gave her attention to the row of hangers. Then she faced him with a puzzled frown.

  “His Glen Urquhart suit is missing,” she said. “It’s the one he generally wears when he goes away for a week-end or a short trip.”

  “Very interestin’,” Vance murmured. “And is it possible for you to tell me what shoes he may have substituted for his evening oxfords?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, and she looked at Vance with dawning comprehension.

  “Yes!” she said, and immediately swung about to inspect the shoe rack in t
he closet. After a moment she again turned to Vance with a look of bewilderment in her eyes. “One pair of his heavy tan bluchers are not here,” she announced in a hollow, monotonous tone. “That’s what Kaspar generally wears with his Glen Urquhart.”

  Vance bowed graciously and muttered a conventional “thank-you,” as Mrs. Kenting returned slowly to Kenyon Kenting and stood rigid and wide-eyed beside him.

  Vance turned back into the closet and it was but a minute before he came out and walked to the window. Between his thumb and forefinger he held a small cut gem—a ruby, I thought—which he examined against the light.

  “Not a genuine ruby,” he murmured. “Merely a balas-ruby—the two are often confused. A necess’ry item, to be sure, for a representative collection of gem-stones, but of little worth in itself.… By the by, Mrs. Kenting, I found this in the outer side-pocket of your husband’s dinner jacket. I took the liberty of ascertaining whether he had transferred the contents of his pockets when he changed his clothes after returning home last night. This bit of balas-ruby was all I found.…”

  He looked at the stone again and placed it carefully in his waistcoat pocket. Then he took out another cigarette and lighted it slowly and thoughtfully.

  “Another thing that would interest me mildly,” he remarked, looking vaguely before him, “is what kind of pajamas Mr. Kenting wears.”

  “Shantung silk,” Mrs. Kenting asserted, stepping suddenly forward. “I just gave him a new supply on his birthday.” She was looking directly at Vance, but now her eyes shifted quickly to the bed.

  “There’s a pair on—” She left the sentence unfinished, and her pale eyes opened still wider. “They’re not there!” she exclaimed excitedly.

  “No. As you say. Bed neatly turned down. Slippers in place. Glass of orange juice on the night-stand. But no pajamas laid out. I did notice the omission. A bit curious. But it may have been an oversight…”

  “No,” the woman interrupted emphatically. “It was not an oversight. I placed his pajamas at the foot of the bed myself, as I always do.”