The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “We’ll get to that later,” Vance replied. “Tell me, what time did you and Mr. Kenting get home last night?”

  “Who said I was with him when he came home?” The man was obviously on his guard.

  “Mrs. Kenting informed us that you and her husband went together to the opening of a casino in Jersey last night, and that Mr. Kenting returned somewhere around three o’clock in the morning. Is that correct?”

  The man hesitated.

  “Even if it is true, what of it?” he asked after a moment.

  “Nothing—really nothing of any importance,” murmured Vance. “Just lookin’ for information. I note you’re still bedecked in your evenin’ togs. And your pumps are a bit muddy. It hasn’t rained since yesterday, don’t y’ know. Offhand, I’d say you’d been sittin’ up all night.”

  “Isn’t that my privilege?” grumbled the other.

  “I think you’d better do some straight talking, Mr. Quaggy,” put in Markham angrily. “We’re investigating a crime, and we haven’t time to waste. You’ll save yourself a lot of trouble, too. Unless, of course, you’re afraid of implicating yourself. In that event, I’ll allow you time to communicate with your attorney.”

  “Attorney hell!” snapped Quaggy. “I don’t need any lawyers. I’ve nothing to be afraid of, and I’ll speak for myself.… Yes, I went with Kaspar last night to the new casino in Paterson, and we got back, as Mrs. Kenting says, around three o’clock—”

  “Did you go to the Kenting house with Mr. Kenting?” asked Vance.

  “No; our cab came down Central Park West, and I got out here. I wish now I had gone with him. He asked me to—said he was worried as the devil about something, and wanted to put me up for the night. I thought he was stewed, and didn’t pay any attention to him. But after he had gone on, I got to thinking about what he’d said—he’s always getting into trouble of one kind or another—and I walked down there about an hour later. But everything seemed all right. There was a light in Kaspar’s room, and I merely figured he hadn’t gone to bed yet. So I decided not to disturb him.”

  Vance nodded understandingly.

  “Did you, by any chance, step into the side yard?”

  “Just inside the gate,” the other admitted.

  “Was the side window of his room open? And was the blind up?”

  “The window might have been open or shut, but the blind was down. I’m sure of that because the light was coming from around the edges.”

  “Did you see a ladder anywhere in the court?”

  “A ladder? No, there was no ladder. What would a ladder be doing there?”

  “Did you remain there long, Mr. Quaggy?”

  “No. I came back here and had a drink.”

  “But you didn’t go to bed, I notice.”

  “It’s every man’s privilege to sit up if he wants to, isn’t it?” Quaggy asked coldly. “The truth is, I began to worry about Kaspar. He was in a hell of a mood last night—all steamed up. I never saw him just that way before. To tell you the truth, I half expected something to happen to him. That’s why I went down to the house.”

  “Was it only Mr. Kaspar Kenting that you were thinking about?” Vance inquired with a shrewd, fixed look. “I understand you’re a close friend of the family and are very highly regarded by Mrs. Kenting.”

  “Glad to know it,” muttered the man, meeting Vance’s gaze squarely. “Madelaine is a very fine woman, and I should hate to see anything happen to her.”

  “Thanks awfully for the information,” murmured Vance. “I think I see your point of view perfectly. Well, your premonitions were quite accurate. Something did happen to the young gentleman, and Mrs. Kenting is frightfully distressed.”

  “Is he all right?” asked Quaggy quickly.

  “We’re not sure yet. The fact is, Mr. Quaggy, your companion of yestereve has disappeared—superficial indications pointin’ to abduction.”

  “The hell you say!” The man showed remarkable control and spoke without change of expression.

  “Oh, yes—quite,” Vance said disinterestedly.

  Quaggy went to the cellarette again and poured himself another drink of whiskey. He offered the bottle to us all in general, and getting no response from us, replaced it on the stand.

  “When did this happen?” he asked between swallows of the whiskey.

  “Oh, early this morning some time,” Vance informed him. “That’s why we’re here. Thought maybe you could give us an idea or two.”

  Quaggy finished the remainder of his glass of whiskey.

  “Sorry, I can’t help you,” he said as he put down the glass. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “That’s frightfully good of you,” said Vance indifferently. “We may want to talk to you later, however.”

  “That’s all right with me.” The man turned, without looking up from the liquor stand. “Ask me whatever you want whenever you damn please. But it won’t get you anywhere, for I’ve already told you all I know.”

  “Perhaps you’ll recall an additional item or two when you are rested.”

  “If you mean when I’m sober, why don’t you say so?” Quaggy asked with annoyance.

  “No, no, Mr. Quaggy. Oh, no. I think you’re far too shrewd and cautious a man to permit yourself the questionable luxury of inebriety. Clear head always essential, don’t y’ know. Helps no end in figuring percentages quickly.”

  Vance was at the archway now, and I was just behind him. Markham and Heath had already preceded us. Vance paused for a moment and looked down at a small conventional desk which stood near the entrance. Quickly he adjusted his monocle and scrutinized the desk. On it lay a crumpled piece of tissue paper in the centre of which reposed two perfectly matched dark stones, with a remarkable play of color in them—a pair of black opals!

  When we were back in the car and headed downtown, Markham, after a minute or two spent in getting his cigar going, said:

  “Too many factors seem to counteract your original theory, Vance. If this affair was plotted so carefully to be carried out at a certain time, how do you account for the fact that Kaspar seemed to have a definite premonition of something dire and unforeseen happening to him?”

  “Premonition?” Vance smiled slightly. “I’m afraid you’re waxing esoteric, old dear. After Hannix’s threat and after, perhaps, a bit of pressure thrown in by the other gentleman to whom he owed money, Kaspar was naturally in a sensitive and worried state of mind. He took their blustering, but harmless, talk too seriously. Suffered from fright and craved the comfort of company. Probably why he went to the casino—trying to put his despondency out of mind. With the threats of the two creditors uppermost in his consciousness, he used them as an argument with both his brother and Fleel. And his invitin’ Quaggy home with him was merely part of this perturbation. Simple. Very simple.”

  “You’re still stubborn enough to believe it had nothing to do with the facts of the case?” asked Markham irritably.

  “Oh, yes, yes—quite,” Vance replied cheerfully. “I can’t see that his psychic warnings had anything whatsoever to do with what actually befell him later.… By the by, Markham,”—Vance changed the subject—“there were two rather amazin’ black opals on the desk in Quaggy’s apartment. Noticed them as I was going out.”

  “What’s that!” Markham turned in surprise. Then a look of understanding came into his eyes. “You think they came from the Kenting collection?”

  “It’s possible.” Vance nodded slowly. “The collection was quite deficient in black opals when I gazed upon it. The few remainin’ specimens were quite inferior. No self-respectin’ connoisseur would have admitted them to his collection unless he already had more valuable ones to offset them. Those that Quaggy had were undoubtedly a pair of the finest specimens from New South Wales.”

  “That puts a different complexion on things,” said Markham grudgingly. “How do you think Quaggy got hold of them?”

  Vance shrugged.

  “Ah! Who knows? Pertinent qu
estion. We might ask the gentleman sometime.…”

  We continued downtown in silence.

  CHAPTER VIII

  ULTIMATUM

  (Thursday, July 21; 10 A.M.)

  The next morning, shortly before ten o’clock, Markham telephoned Vance at his apartment, and I answered.

  “Tell Vance,” came the District Attorney’s peremptory voice, “I think he’d better come down to my office at once. Fleel is here, and I’ll keep him engaged till Vance arrives.”

  I repeated the message to Vance while I still held the receiver to my ear, and he nodded his head in agreement.

  A few minutes later, as we were about to leave the house, he became unduly serious.

  “Van, it may have happened already,” he murmured, “though I really didn’t expect it so soon. Thought we’d have at least a day or two before the next move was made. However, we shall soon know.”

  We arrived at Markham’s office a half-hour later. Vance did not go to the secretary in the reception-room of the District Attorney’s suite in the old Criminal Courts Building, but through the private side door which led from the corridor into Markham’s spacious sanctum.

  Markham was seated at his desk, looking decidedly troubled; and in a large upholstered chair before him sat Fleel.

  After casual greetings Markham announced: “The instructions promised in the ransom note have been received. A note came in Mr. Fleel’s mail this morning, and he brought it directly to me. I hardly know what to make of it, or how to advise him. But you seemed to have ideas about the case which you would not divulge. And I think, therefore, you ought to see this note immediately, as it is obvious something must be done about it at once.” He picked up the small sheet of paper before him and held it out to Vance. It was a piece of ruled note-paper, folded twice. The quality was of a very cheap, coarse nature, such as comes in thick tablets which can be bought for a trifle at any stationer’s. The writing on it was in pencil, in an obviously disguised handwriting. Half of the letters were printed, and whether it was the composition of an illiterate person, or purposely designed to give the impression of ignorance on the writer’s part, I could not tell as I looked at it over Vance’s shoulder.

  “I say, let’s see the envelope,” Vance requested. “That’s rather important, don’t y’ know.”

  Markham shot him a shrewd look and handed him a stamped envelope, of no better quality than the paper, which had been slit neatly across the top. The postmark showed that the note had passed through the post-office the previous afternoon at five o’clock from the Westchester Station.

  “And where might the Westchester Station be?” asked Vance, sinking lazily into a chair and taking out a cigarette.

  “I had it looked up as soon as Mr. Fleel showed me the note,” responded Markham. “It’s in the upper Bronx.”

  “Interestin’,” murmured Vance. “‘East Side, West Side, All Around the Town,’ so to speak.… And what are the bound’ries of the district it serves?”

  Markham glanced down at the yellow pad on his desk.

  “It takes in a section of nine or ten square miles on the upper east side of the Bronx, between the Hutchinson and Bronx Rivers and a zigzag line on the west boundary.251 A lot of it is pretty desolate territory, and can probably be eliminated without consideration. As a matter of fact, it’s the toughest district in New York in which to trace any one by a postmark.”

  Vance nodded casually and, opening the note, adjusted his monocle and read the pencil-scrawled communication carefully. It ran:

  Sir: I no you and famly have money and unless 50 thousand $ is placed in hole of oke tree 200 foot west of Southeast corner of old resivore in central park thursday at leven oclock at nite we will kill Casper Kenton. This is finel. If you tell police deel is off and we will no it. We are watching every move you make.

  The ominous message was signed with interlocking squares made with brush strokes, like those we had already seen on the ransom note found pinned to the window-sill of the Kenting house.

  “No more original than the first communication,” commented Vance dryly. “And it strikes me, offhand, that the person who worded this threatening epistle is not as unschooled as he would have us believe.…”

  He looked up at the lawyer, who was watching him intently.

  “Just what are your ideas on the situation, Mr. Fleel?” he asked.

  “Personally,” the man said, “I am willing to leave the whole matter to Mr. Markham here, and his advisors. I—I don’t know exactly what to say—I’d rather not offer any suggestions. The ransom demands can’t possibly be met out of the estate, as what funds were entrusted to me are largely in long-term bonds. However, I feel sure that Mr. Kenyon Kenting will be able to get the necessary amount together and take care of the situation—if that is his wish. The decision, naturally, must be left entirely up to him.”

  “Does he know of this note?” asked Vance.

  Fleel shook his head in negation.

  “Not yet,” he said, “unless he, too, received a copy. I brought this one immediately to Mr. Markham. But my opinion is that Kenyon should know about it, and it was my intention to go to the Kenting house from here and inform Kenyon of this new development. He is not at his office this morning, and I imagine he is spending the day with Mrs. Kenting. I’ll do nothing, however, without the consent of Mr. Markham.” He looked toward the District Attorney as if he expected an answer to his remark.

  Markham had risen, and now moved toward one of the windows which looked out into Franklin Street and over the grey walls of the Tombs. His hands were clasped behind him, and an unlighted cigar hung listlessly from his lips. It was Markham’s characteristic attitude when he was making an important decision. After a while he turned, came back to the desk, and reseated himself.

  “Mr. Fleel,” he said slowly, “I think you should go to Kenyon Kenting at once, and tell him the exact circumstances.” There was a hesitant note in his words, as if he had reached a decision but was uncertain as to the feasibility of its logical application.

  “I’m glad you feel that way, Mr. Markham,” the lawyer said, “for I certainly believe that he is entitled to know. After all, if a decision is to be made regarding the money, he must be the one to make it.” He rose as he spoke, taking his hat from the floor beside him. With ponderous steps he moved toward the door.

  “I quite agree with you both,” murmured Vance, who was drawing vigorously on his cigarette and looking straight before him into space. “Only, I would ask you, Mr. Fleel, to remain at the Kenting house until Mr. Markham and I arrive there. We will be joining you very soon.”

  “I’ll wait,” mumbled Fleel as he passed through the swinging leather door out to the reception-room.

  Vance settled back in his chair, stretched out his long legs, and gazed dreamily through the window. Markham watched him expectantly for some time without speaking. At last it seemed that he could bear the silence no longer, and he asked anxiously:

  “Well, Vance, what do you think?”

  “So many things,” Vance told him, “that I couldn’t begin to enumerate them. All probably frivolous and worthless.”

  “Well, to be more specific,” Markham went on, endeavoring to control his rising anger, “what do you think of that note you have there?”

  “Quite authentic—oh, quite,” Vance returned without hesitation. “As I said, the money is passionately desired. Hasty business is afoot. A bit too precipitate for my liking, however. But there’s no overlooking the earnestness of the request. I’ve a feelin’ something must be done without loss of time.”

  “The instructions seem somewhat vague.”

  “No. Oh, no, Markham. On the contr’ry. Quite explicit. I know the tree well. Romantic lovers leave billets-doux there. No difficulties in that quarter. Quiet spot. All approaches visible. As good a crossroads as any for the transaction of dirty work. However, it could be adequately covered by the police. I wonder.…”

  Markham was silent for a long time, sm
oking intently, his brow deeply corrugated.

  “This situation upsets me,” he rumbled at length. “The newspapers were full of it this morning, as you may have noticed. The police are being condemned for refusing information to the federal boys. Maybe it would have been best if I had washed my hands of it all in the first place. I don’t like it—it’s poison. And there’s nothing to go on. I was trusting, as usual, to your impressions.”

  “Let us not repine, Markham old dear,” Vance encouraged him. “It was only yesterday the bally thing happened.”

  “But I must get some action,” Markham asserted, striking his clenched fist on the desk. “This new note changes the whole complexion of things.”

  “Tut, tut.” Vance’s admonition was almost frivolous. “Really, y’ know, it changes nothing. It was precisely what I was waitin’ for.”

  “Well,” snapped Markham, “now that you have it, what do you intend to do?”

  Vance looked at the District Attorney in mock surprise.

  “Why, I intend to go to the Purple House,” he said calmly. “I’m not psychic, but something tells me we shall find a hand pointin’ to our future activities when we arrive there.”

  “Well, if that’s your idea,” demanded Markham, “why didn’t you go with Fleel?”

  “Merely wished to give him sufficient time to break the news to the others and to discuss the matter with brother Kenyon.” Vance expelled a series of smoke rings toward the chandelier. “Nothing like letting every one know the details of the case. We’ll get forrader that way.”

  Markham half closed his eyes and regarded Vance appraisingly.

  “You think, perhaps,” he asked, “that Kenyon Kenting is going to try to raise the money and meet the demands of that outrageous note?”

  “It’s quite possible, don’t y’ know. And I rather think he’ll want the police to give him a free hand. Anyway, it’s time we were toddlin’ out and ascertainin’.” Vance struggled to his feet and adjusted his Bangkok hat carefully. “Could you bear to come along, Markham?”

  Markham pressed a buzzer under the ledge of his desk and gave various instructions to the secretary who answered his call.