The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  Vance jumped from the car, took Mrs. Kenting in his arms again, and carried her up the wide marble steps. He returned to the car in less than ten minutes.

  “Everything’s all right, Sergeant,” he said as he approached the car. “The lady has regained consciousness. Fresh air did it. Her mind is a bit misty. Nothing fundamentally wrong, however.”

  Heath had stepped out of the car and was standing on the sidewalk.

  “So long, Mr. Vance,” he said. “I’m getting in that taxi up ahead. I gotta get back to that damn house. I got work to do.” He moved away as he spoke.

  But Vance rushed forward and took him by the arm.

  “Stay right here, Sergeant, and get that arm properly dressed first.”

  He led Heath back, and accompanied him up the hospital steps.

  A few minutes later Vance came out alone.

  “The noble Sergeant is all right, Van,” he said, as he took his place at the wheel again. “He’ll be out before long. But he insists on going back to Lord Street.” And Vance started the car once more, and headed downtown.

  When we reached Vance’s apartment Currie opened the door for us. There was relief written in every line of the old butler’s face.

  “Good heavens, Currie!” said Vance, as we stepped inside. “I told you, you might tuck yourself in at eleven o’clock if you hadn’t heard from me—and here it is nearing midnight, and you’re still up.”

  The old man looked away with embarrassment as he closed the door.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said in a voice which, for all its formality, had an emotional tremolo in it. “I—I couldn’t go to bed, sir, until you returned. I understood, sir,—if you will pardon my saying so—your reference to the documents in the drawer of the secretary. And I’ve taken the liberty this evening of worrying about you. I’m very glad you have come home, sir.”

  “You’re a sentimental old fossil, Currie,” Vance complained, handing the butler his hat.

  “Mr. Markham is waiting in the library,” said Currie, like an old faithful soldier reporting to his superior officer.

  “I rather imagined he would be,” murmured Vance as he went up the stairs. “Good old Markham. Always fretting about me.”

  As we entered the library, we found Markham pacing up and down. He stopped suddenly at sight of Vance.

  “Well, thank God!” he said. And, though he attempted to sound trivial, his relief was as evident as old Currie’s had been. He crossed the room and sank into a chair; and I got the impression, from the way he relaxed, that he had been on his feet for a long time.

  “Greetings, old dear,” said Vance. “Why this unexpected pleasure of your presence at such an hour?”

  “I was merely interested, officially, in what you might have found on Lord Street,” returned Markham. “I suppose you found a vast vacant space with a real estate sign saying ‘Suitable for factory site.’”

  Vance smiled.

  “Not exactly that, don’t y’ know. I had a jolly good time—which will probably make you very angry and envious.”

  He turned round and came to where I had seated myself. I felt weak and shaky. I was only then beginning to feel the reaction from the excitement of the evening. I realized now that in the brief space of time we had spent on Lord Street, I had become too keyed up physically to apprehend completely the dread possibilities of the situation. In the quiet and safety of familiar surroundings, the flood of reality suddenly overwhelmed me, and it was only with great effort that I managed to maintain a normal attitude.

  “Let’s have your gun, Van,” said Vance, in his cool, steadying voice, holding out his hand. “Glad you didn’t have to use it.… Horrible mess—what? Sorry I let you come along. But really, y’ know, I myself was rather surprised and shocked by the turn of affairs.”

  A little abashed, I took the unused automatic from my pocket and handed it over to him: it was he who had assumed the entire brunt of the danger, and I had been unable to be of any assistance. He stepped to the centre-table and pulled open the drawer. Then he tossed my automatic into it, laid his own beside it, and, closing the drawer meditatively, rang the bell for Currie.

  Markham was watching him closely but restrained his curiosity as the old butler entered with a service of brandy. Currie had sensed Vance’s wish and had not waited for an order. When he had set down the tray and left the room, Markham leaned forward in his chair.

  “Well, what the hell did happen?” he demanded irritably.

  Vance sipped his cognac slowly, lighted a Régie, took several deep inhalations, and sat down leisurely in his favorite chair.

  “I’m frightfully sorry, Markham,” he said, “but I fear I have made you a bit of trouble.… The fact is,” he added carelessly, “I killed three men.”

  Markham leaped to his feet as if he had been shot upward by the sudden release of a powerful steel spring. He glared at Vance, in doubt whether the other was jesting or in earnest. Simultaneously he exploded:

  “What do you mean, Vance?”

  Vance drew deeply again on his cigarette before answering. Then he said with a tantalizing smile:

  “J’ai tué trois hommes—Ich habe drei Männer getötet—Ho ucciso tre uomini—He matado tres hombres—Három embert megöltem—Haragti sheloshah anashim. Meanin’, I killed three men.”

  “Are you serious?” blurted Markham.

  “Oh, quite,” answered Vance. “Do you think you can save me from the dire consequences?… Incidentally, I found Mrs. Kenting. I took her to the Doran Hospital. Not a matter of life and death, but she required immediate and competent attention. Rather upset, I should imagine, by her detention. A bit out of her mind, in fact. Frightful experience she went through. Doin’ nicely, however. Under excellent care. Should be quite herself in a few days. Can’t co-ordinate just yet.… Oh, I say, Markham, do sit down again and take your cognac. You look positively perturbed.”

  Markham obeyed automatically, like a frightened child submitting to his parent. He swallowed the brandy in one gulp.

  “For the love of God, Vance,” he pleaded, “drop this silly ring-around-the-rosy stuff and talk to me like a sane human being.”

  “Sorry, Markham, and all that sort of thing,” murmured Vance contritely. And then he told Markham in detail everything that had happened that night. But I thought he too greatly minimized his own part in the tragic drama. When he had finished his recital he asked somewhat coyly:

  “Am I a doomed culprit, or were there what you would call extenuatin’ circumstances?—I’m horribly weak on the intricacies of the law, don’t y’ know.”

  “Damn it! forget everything,” said Markham. “If you’re really worried, I’ll get you a brass medal as big as Columbus Circle.”

  “My word, what a fate!” sighed Vance.

  “Have you any idea who these three men were?” Markham went on, in tense seriousness.

  “Not the groggiest notion,” admitted Vance sadly. “One of them, Van Dine tells me, was watchin’ us from the footpath in the park last night. Two of the three were probably the lads McLaughlin saw in the green coupé outside the Kenting domicile Wednesday morning. The other one I have never had the exquisite pleasure of meetin’ before. I’d say, however, he had a gift for tradin’ in doubtful securities on the sly: I’ve seen bucket-shop operators who resembled him. Anyhow, Markham old dear, why fret about it tonight? They were not nice persons, not nice at all. The geniuses at Headquarters will check up on their identities.…”

  The front door-bell rang, and a minute later Heath entered the library. His ordinarily ruddy face was a little pale and drawn, and his right arm was in a sling. He saluted Markham and turned sheepishly to Vance.

  “Your old saw-bones at the hospital told me I had to go home,” he complained. “And there’s nothing in God’s world the matter with me,” he added disgustedly. “Imagine him puttin’ this arm in a sling!—said I had to take the weight offen it, that it would heal quicker that way. And then had to go and make my other arm sore
by stickin’ a needle in it!… What was the needle for, Mr. Vance?”

  “Tetanus antitoxin, Sergeant,” Vance told him, smiling. “Simply has to be done, don’t y’ know, with all gun-shot wounds. Nothing to cause you any discomfort, though. Reaction in a week—that’s all.”

  Heath snorted. “Hell! If my gun hadn’t jammed—”

  “Yes, that was a bad break, Sergeant,’’ nodded Markham.

  “The doc wouldn’t even let me go back to the house,” grumbled Heath. “Anyway, I got the report from the local station up there. They took the three stiffs over to the morgue. The Chink’ll live. Maybe we can—”

  “You’ll never wangle anything out of him,” put in Vance quietly. “Your beloved hose-pipes and water-cures and telephone directories will get you nowhere. I know Chinamen. But Mrs. Kenting will have an interestin’ story to tell as soon as she’s rational again.… Cheer up, Sergeant, and have some more medicine.” He poured Heath a liberal drink of his rare brandy.

  “I’ll be on the job tomorrow all right, Chief,” the Sergeant asserted as he put down the glass on a small table at his side. “Just imagine that young whipper-snapper of an intern at the Doran Hospital tryin’ to make a Little Lord Fauntleroy outa me! A sling!”

  Vance and Markham and Heath discussed the case from various angles for perhaps a half hour longer. Markham was getting impatient.

  “I’m going home,” he said finally, as he rose. “We’ll get this thing straightened out in the morning.”

  Vance left his chair reluctantly.

  “I sincerely hope so, Markham,” he said. “It’s not at all a particularly nice case, and the sooner you’re free of it, the better.”

  “Is there anything you want me to do, Mr. Vance?” Heath’s tone was respectful, but a little weary.

  Vance looked at him with commiseration.

  “I want you to go home and have a good sleep.… And, by the by, Sergeant, how about rounding everybody up and invitin’ them to the Purple House tomorrow, around noon?” he asked. “I’m speakin’ of Fleel, Kenyon Kenting, and Quaggy. Mrs. Falloway and her son will, I’m sure, be there, in any event.”

  Heath got to his feet and grinned confidently.

  “Don’t you worry, Mr. Vance,” he said. “I’ll have ’em there for you.” He went toward the door, then suddenly turned round and held out his left hand to Vance. “Much obliged, sir, for tonight—”

  “Oh, please ignore it, my good Sergeant,—it was merely a slight nuisance, after all,” returned Vance, though he grasped the Sergeant’s hand warmly.

  Markham and Heath departed together, and Vance again pressed the bell for Currie.

  When the old man had entered the room Vance said:

  “I’m turning in, Currie. That will be all for tonight.”

  The butler bowed, and picked up the tray and the empty cognac glasses.

  “Very good, sir. Thank you, sir. Good night, sir.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE FINAL SCENE

  (Saturday, July 23; 9 A.M.)

  Vance was up and dressed in good season the next morning. He seemed fairly cheerful but somewhat distrait. Before he sat down to his typical meager breakfast he went into the anteroom and telephoned to Heath. It was rather a long conversation, but no word of it reached me where I sat at the desk in the library.

  As he returned to the room he said to me: “I think, Van, we’re in a position now to get somewhere with this case. The poor Sergeant!—he’s practically a ravin’ maniac this morning, with the reporters houndin’ him every minute. The news of last night’s altercation did not break soon enough for the morning editions of the papers. But the mere thought of reading of our escapade in the noon editions fills me with horror.” He sipped his Turkish coffee. “I had hoped we could clear up the beastly matter before the news venders began giving tongue. The best place to conclude the case is in the Purple House. It’s a family gathering-place, as it were. Every one connected with the family, don’t y’ know, is rather intimately concerned, and hopin’ for illumination.…”

  Late in the forenoon Markham, haggard and drawn, joined us at the apartment. He did not ask Vance any questions, for he knew it would be futile in the mood Vance was in. He did, however, greet him cordially.

  “I think you’re going to get that medal, whether you like it or not,” he said, lighting a cigar and leaning against the mantel. “All three men have been definitely identified, and they have all been on the police books for years. They’ve been urgently wanted at Headquarters for a long time. Two of them have served terms: one for extortion, and the other for manslaughter. They’re Goodley Franks and Austria Rentwick—no, he didn’t come from Austria. The third man was none other than our old elusive friend, Gilt-Edge Lamarne, with a dozen aliases—a very shrewd crook. He’s been arrested nine times, but we’ve never been able to make the charges stick. He’s kept the local boys, as well as the federal men, awake nights for years. We’ve had the goods on him for eight months now, but we couldn’t find him.”

  Markham smiled at Vance with solemn satisfaction.

  “It was a very fortunate affair last night, from every point of view. Everybody’s happy; only, I fear you’re about to become a hero and will have ticker-tape rained on you from the windows whenever you go down Broadway.”

  “Oh, my Markham, my Markham!” wailed Vance. “I won’t have it. I’m about to sail to South America, or Alaska, or the Malay Peninsula.…” He got to his feet and went to the table where he finished his old port. “Come along, Markham,” he said as he put his glass down. “Let’s get uptown and conclude this bally case before I sail for foreign parts where ticker-tape is unknown.”

  He went toward the door, with Markham and me following him.

  “You think we can finish the case today?” Markham looked skeptical.

  “Oh, quite. It was, in fact, finished long ago.” Vance stopped with his hand on the knob and smiled cheerfully. “But, knowin’ your passionate adoration for legal evidence, I have waited till now.”

  Markham studied Vance for a moment, and said nothing. In silence we went out and descended the stairs to the street.

  We arrived at the Kenting residence, Vance driving us there in his car, fifteen minutes before noon. Weem took our hats and made a surly gesture toward the drawing-room. Sergeant Heath and Snitkin were already there.

  A little later Fleel and Kenyon Kenting arrived together, followed almost immediately by Porter Quaggy. They had barely seated themselves when old Mrs. Falloway, supported by her son Fraim, came down the front stairs and joined us.

  “I’m so anxious about Madelaine,” Mrs. Falloway said. “How is she, Mr. Vance?”

  “I received a telephone call from the hospital shortly before I came here,” he replied, addressing himself to the others in the room, as well as to the old woman who, with Fraim’s help, had now seated herself comfortably at one end of the small sofa. “Mrs. Kenting is doing even better today than I would have expected. She is still somewhat irrational—which is quite natural, considering the frightful experience she has been through—but I can assure you that she will be home in two or three days, fully recovered and in her normal mind.”

  He sat down by the window leisurely, and lighted a cigarette.

  “And I imagine she will have a most interestin’ tale to unfold,” he went on. “Y’ know, it was not intended that she return.”

  He moved slightly in his chair.

  “The truth is, this was not a kidnapping case at all. The authorities were expected to accept it in that light, but the murderer made too many errors—his fault lay in trying to be excessively clever. I think I can reconstruct most of the events in their chronological order. Some one wanted money—wanted it rather desperately, in fact,—and all the means for an easy acquisition were at hand. The plot was as simple as it was cowardly. But the plotter met a snag when some of the early steps failed rather dismally, and a new and bolder procedure and technique became necess’ry. A damnable new technique, but one
that was equally encumbered by the grave possibility of error. The errors developed almost inevitably, for the human brain, however clever, has its limitations. But the person who mapped out the plot was blinded and confused by a passionate desire for the money. Everything was sordid.…”

  Again Vance shifted his position slightly and drew deeply on his cigarette, expelling the smoke in curling ribbons, as he went on.

  “There is no doubt whatever that Kaspar Kenting made an appointment for the early morning hours, after he had returned from his evening’s entertainment at the casino with Mr. Quaggy. He came in and went to his room, changed his suit and his shoes, and kept that appointment. It was a vital matter to him, as he was deeply in debt and undoubtedly expected some sort of practical solution of his problem to result from this meeting. The two mysterious and objectionable gentlemen whom Mrs. Kenting described to us as callers here earlier in the week, were quite harmless creatures, but avid for the money Kaspar owed them. One of them was a book-maker, the other a shady fellow who ran a sub-rosa gambling house—I rather suspected their identity from the first, and verified it this morning: I happened to recognize one of the men through Mrs. Kenting’s description.

  “When Kaspar left this house early Wednesday morning, he was met at the appointed place not by the person with whom he had made his appointment, but by others whom he had never seen before. They struck him over the head before he so much as realized that anything was amiss, threw him into a coupé, and then drove off with him to the East River and disposed of him, hoping he would not be found too soon. It was straight, brutal murder. And the persons who committed that murder had been hired for that purpose and had been instructed accordingly. You will understand that the plotter at the source never intended anything less than murder for the victim—since there was grave risk in letting him live to point an accusing finger later.… The slender Chinaman—the lobby-gow of the gang, who now has concussion of the brain from the Sergeant’s blow last night—then returned to the house here, placed the ladder against the window—it had been left here previously for just that purpose—entered the room through the window, and set the stage according to instructions, taking the toothbrush, the comb, and the pajamas, and pinning the note to the window-sill, generally leaving mute but spurious indications that Kaspar Kenting had kidnapped himself in order to collect the money he needed to straighten out his debts. Kaspar’s keeping of the appointment at such an hour naturally implied that the rendezvous was with some one he thought could help him. I found the pajamas and toothbrush, unused, in the Lord-Street house last night. It was the Chinaman that Mrs. Kenting heard moving about in her husband’s room at dawn Wednesday. He was arranging the details in which he had been instructed.”