Vance beckoned Heath to one side and spoke a few whispered words to him. At length the Sergeant shrugged his shoulders and nodded. Then he turned again to Hennessey.
“That’s all,” he said. “Go home and get some more sleep. But be back on the job at noon.”
When Hennessey had gone, Markham, noting a sudden change in Vance’s manner, frowned add leaned forward.
“What’s on your mind, Vance?” he asked.
“Hennessey’s tale. Y know, in my fairy-story this evening, I didn’t mention the name of the wood-nymph. The name is Gracie Allen. And Philip Allen is her brother. She informed me quite frankly he was a dishwasher at the Domdaniel. She even told me he was going to beard Mirche in his den this afternoon to petition for an increased stipend. And when Miss Allen stopped at my table tonight, she was on her way to meet her brother somewhere in the recesses of the cafe.”
Markham leaned back again with a short laugh.
“Maybe you can fit all that into the fantasy you were spinning earlier.”
“As you say, old dear.” Vance was no longer in a jesting mood. “I’m certainly going to try. I don’t fancy so many irrelevant things happening in one place and at one time. Something must be holding them together. At any rate, I’m in no mood to emulate Pepys and betake myself home and to bed.”
Vance walked the length of the room and back, his head down; then he came to an abrupt stop, and smiled with an abashed, yet determined, earnestness.
“See here, Markham,” he said; “I admit my ideas are dashed vague, and that the charmin’ little witch in Riverdale may have cast a spell over me. But I feel compelled to find out what I can about Philip Allen’s untimely death, and maybe lessen the shock for the young lady. And I need your helpin’ hand. Wouldst humour my vagaries once more?”
Markham sighed with resignation.
“Anything to get rid of you at this ungodly hour.”
“Feelin’ thus, give me the Allen case instanter, to play with as I jolly well please—with the doughty Sergeant at my side, of course.”
Markham hesitated.
“How do you feel about this, Sergeant?”
“If Mr. Vance has got some fancy ideas,” returned Heath vigorously, “I’d just as soon string along with him.”
“All right, Sergeant, go ahead and humour our amateur playwright.” Then Markham turned back to Vance. “And as for you,” he said with good-natured effrontery, “I think you’re a raving maniac.”
“Granted,” said Vance. “No de lunatico inquirendo writ necess’ry.”
CHAPTER VIII
AT THE MORTUARY
(Sunday, May 19; 1:50 am.)
Vance and Heath and I went first to Vance’s apartment. Here, while Vance changed from evening clothes to a plain suit, Heath did some necessary telephoning.
He questioned Guilfoyle at some length regarding any pertinent details Hennessey might have omitted, and gave orders for Sullivan to remain at the Domdaniel till noon the next day. He then called Doctor Mendel. I gathered, both from his expression and the questions he put, that Heath was puzzled and annoyed by the information he was getting from the young doctor. When Vance rejoined us, the Sergeant was apparently still pondering the matter.
“This thing,” he said, “is beginning to look even more cuckoo than Hennessey’s story sounded. Doc Mendel still thinks Allen mighta died natural; but he found a lot of nutty evidence that there coulda been dirty work. He’s passing the buck, and got the body to the morgue quick, where Doremus [Doctor Emanuel Doremus, Chief Medical Examiner of New York.] will do the autopsy. Mendel don’t want any part of it. When I asked him what time he thought the fellow died, he stalled around about rigor mortis and some sort of spasm.”
“Cadaveric spasm,” supplied Vance.
“Yeah, that’s it. And then he began mumbling that there’s lots of things is medicine that ain’t known yet.—Is he tellin’ me!”
“Sounds most familiar, don’t y know,” sighed Vance. “But, in the meantime, what about Mrs. Allen?”
“Sure; she’s gotta be notified. Thought I’d send Martin—he’s smooth and easy.”
“No—oh, no, Sergeant,” said Vance. “I could bear to see the lady myself. You take on the chore, and I’ll stagger along.”
“All right, sir.” The Sergeant cocked his eye and grinned. “You asked for it—and it’s your case. Anyhow, this identification job won’t take long.”
We found Mrs. Allen’s residence in East 87th Street a modest place—an old brownstone-front structure that had been divided into small apartments. Mrs. Allen herself answered our ring. She was fully dressed, and all the lights were on in the plainly furnished room.
She was a frail, mouse-like person who seemed much older than I had expected Miss Allen’s mother to be. There was a softness and vagueness in her expression—almost a wistfulness—like that of a woman who had grown old before her time either through sudden sorrow or prolonged hardships.
She appeared highly nervous and frightened by our presence at the door; but when the Sergeant told her who he was, she straightway invited us in. She sat down rigidly as if to steel herself against some blow. Her hands were clasped so tightly that the knuckles showed white.
Heath cleared his throat. For all his hardness of nature, he appeared peculiarly sympathetic.
“You’re Mrs. Allen,” he began. It was half question and half statement.
The woman nodded shakily.
“You got a son named Philip?”
She merely nodded again; but the pupils of her eyes dilated.
Heath shifted his weight and looked about him for a moment. His face softened perceptibly. Only once before had I seen the Sergeant so deeply moved: that was when he gazed into the abandoned closet at the still form of little Madeleine Moffat, [“The Bishop Murder Case” (Cassell, 1929)] during his investigation of the Bishop murder case.
“You’re sitting up pretty late, aren’t you, Mrs. Allen?” he asked, as if he had found no words as yet to soften the blow.
“Yes, Mr. Officer,” the woman said, in a small tremulous voice. “I always sit up and wait for my daughter when she’s out. But I don’t mind.”
Heath nodded and, with a sudden rush of words, came to the point.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I got bad news for you,” he blurted. “Your son Philip’s met with an accident.” He paused for several moments. “Yes, Mrs. Allen, I gotta tell you—he’s dead. He was found tonight at the cafe where he works.”
The woman clutched at her chair. Her eyes opened wide; and her body swayed a little. Vance went quickly to her and, taking her by the shoulders, steadied her.
“Oh, my poor boy!” she moaned several times. Then she looked from one to the other of us as if dazed. “Tell me what happened.”
“We don’t quite know, madam,” Vance said softly.
“But when,” she asked in a colourless tone, “—when did this happen?”
“We got the call about eleven o’clock tonight,” Heath told her.
“I—I don’t know what to do.” She looked up appealingly. “Will you take me to him?”
“That’s just what we came here for, Mrs. Allen. We want you to come with us—for only a few minutes—a little way downtown—and identify him. Mr. Mirche has already done that, of course; but just for the records we got to ask you to do it too. Then we can straighten everything out…”
Vance now spoke to the woman.
“I know it’s a frightfully sad errand for you, Mrs. Allen. But, as the Sergeant explained, it is a necess’ry matter of form; and it will make things easier for you and your daughter later on. You’ll try to be brave, won’t you?”
She nodded vaguely.
“Yes, I’ve got to be brave for Gracie’s sake.”
I could not but admire the fortitude of this frail woman, and when she got up with determination to put on her hat and cape, my admiration for her rose even higher.
“I’ll only stop to leave a note for my daughter,” she said
apologetically, when she was ready to go. “She would worry so if she came home and I wasn’t here.”
We waited while she found a piece of paper. Vance offered her his pencil. Then, with an unsteady hand, she wrote a few words, and left the paper in full view on the table.
On the way downtown the woman did not speak, but listened meekly to the Sergeant’s instructions and suggestions.
When we passed through the elevator door of the city’s mortuary in 89th Street, she put her hands to her face and half breathed a few words, as if in prayer, adding in a louder tone, “Oh, my poor Philip! He was such a good boy at heart.”
Heath took her protectingly by the arm, and led her solicitously into the bare basement room. The episode did not prove as gruesome as I had pictured it beforehand. Mrs. Allen’s harrowing experience was over the moment Heath halted her steps before the still form that had been wheeled out on a slab from its crypt. Her ordeal was terminated quickly and in merciful fashion.
After one momentary glance, she turned away with a stifled sob and collapsed in a crumpled heap.
The Sergeant, who had been watching the woman closely from the time we had stepped out of the elevator, took her up swiftly in his arms, and carried her into the dimly-lighted reception-room, where he placed her on a wicker sofa. Her face was colourless, and her breathing shallow; but after a few minutes she began to move feebly. Then, with the rush of blood to the cheeks and moisture to the skin, which accompanies the reaction from a faint, came a flood of fears.
When she had wept freely for a moment or two, Heath pulled up a chair and sat down facing her.
“I know, Mrs. Allen,” he said, “this must be mighty painful for you, but you know we got to be careful in cases like this. It’s the law. We couldn’t afford to make any mistakes about it. And you wouldn’t want us to, would you?”
“Oh, that would be terrible.” Her hand moved slowly across her eyes, as if to blot out some terrifying vision.
“Sure… I know,” mumbled the Sergeant. “That’s why you got to forgive us for being sort of heartless.”
“When,” she asked, like one who had not heard his words, “—when will the poor boy—?”
“That’s another thing I got to tell you, Mrs. Allen.” Heath interrupted her unfinished query. “You see, we ain’t going to be able to let you take your son right away. The doctor ain’t sure just what he died of; and we got to make sure. It’s as much for your sake as it is for ours. So we got to keep him for a day—maybe two days.”
She moved her head up and down sadly.
“I know what you mean,” she said. “I once had a nephew who died in a hospital…” She left the sentence unfinished, and added: “I know I can trust you.”
“Yes, Mrs. Allen,” Vance assured her. “The Sergeant won’t take any longer than is necess’ry. These matters must be handled legally and carefully. I promise to let you know myself the very moment the matter is settled… I’ll also be very glad to help you and your daughter in any other way I can.”
The woman turned slowly to Vance and studied him for a moment. A look of confidence and appeal came into her eyes.
“It’s my daughter,” she began softly. “I want to ask you something for her sake. It will mean so much to her, and to me, just now. Please—please—don’t tell my daughter about Philip yet. Not till she has to know—and then I want to tell her myself… She would worry about things which maybe aren’t true at all. She has a lot of imagination—inherited from me, I guess. Why not let her have one more day, or maybe two more days, of happiness? Just until you make sure?”
It was obvious the woman’s request was actuated by a suspicion that her son had not died a natural death; and she feared a similar doubt might haunt the daughter too.
“But, Mrs. Allen,” Vance asked, “if we keep this matter quiet for a time, how would you account to your daughter for her brother’s absence? Surely, she would be concerned about that.”
Mrs. Allan shook her head.
“No. Philip stays away from home often, sometimes for days at a time. Only today he said he might give up his job at the cafe and maybe leave the city. No, Gracie won’t suspect anything.”
Vance looked interrogatively at Heath.
“I believe, Sergeant,” he said, “that it would be both humane and wise to comply with Mrs. Allen’s wishes.”
Heath nodded vigorously.
“Yes, so do I, Mr. Vance. I think it can be managed.”
An understanding look passed between the two, and then Vance addressed Mrs. Allen again.
“We will be very happy to make you that promise, madam.”
“And there will be nothing about it in the papers?” she asked tentatively.
“I think that, too, can be arranged,” Vance said.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Allen simply.
Just then an attendant came into the room and motioned to the Sergeant, who rose and walked across to him. A few words passed between them, and together they walked out through a side door. A few minutes later the Sergeant returned, slipping something into his pocket.
Mrs. Allen had now somewhat recovered her composure; and as the Sergeant rejoined us, he smiled at her encouragingly.
“I guess we can be taking you home now.”
We drove Mrs. Allen back to her little apartment, and bade her good night.
A few minutes later the three of us were in Vance’s library. It was just half-past two in the morning.
“A strange little woman,” Vance murmured, as he poured a nightcap of brandy for each of us. “Remarkably brave, too. I really had no anxiety about leaving her alone in her home. She rallied better than I thought she would after the distressing experience.”
“I’ve known a lot of little women like that,” commented Heath, “who could take it better than a big husky bruiser.”
“Yes, quite… I wonder if her effort to spare her daughter will be as successful as she hopes. Gracie Allen is no ordin’ry young woman—she’s astute, despite her astonishin’ and flighty vivacity.”
“The old lady sure made it easy for us,” the Sergeant remarked.
Vance nodded as he sipped his brandy.
“Exactly. That’s just what I had in mind, Sergeant. We need have no concern about interference until Doremus’ post-mortem report is completed. Mrs. Allen will surely not press us, for I imagine she will be grateful for any additional respite for her daughter. And Mirche will certainly find it advantageous to keep his own counsel—he’s not eager for any unsav’ry publicity in connection with the Domdaniel… Will you do all you can to keep the case hushed up as long as possible, Sergeant?”
“At last you’re asking me to do something easy,” grinned Heath. “I’ll tell the boys at the Bureau to pipe down; and you can go on runnin’ round and asking questions for a couple of days without anyone nagging at you.”
Vance smiled languidly, but he was still troubled.
Heath finished his brandy, and lighted a long black cigar. “By the way, Mr. Vance, here’s something that might interest you.” He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a small wooden cigarette-case, peculiarly grained and with alternating squares of light and dark lacquer, giving it a distinctive checkerboard design. “I found it among Allen’s belongings at the morgue.”
“But why, my dear Sergeant, should it interest me?”
“Well, I don’t exactly know, sir.” Heath was almost apologetic. “But I know you got ideas about tonight that I ain’t got.”
“But there’s nothing extr’ordin’ry in the fact that the young chap smoked cigarettes.”
“It ain’t that, sir.” Heath opened the case and pointed to one inside corner of the lid. “There’s a name burnt in the wood there—looks like a amateur job. And, it so happens, the name is ‘George’. That ain’t the dead fellow’s name.”
Vance’s expression changed suddenly. He leaned forward and, taking the cigarette-case from Heath, looked at the crudely burnt lettering.
“Things shouldn
’t happen this way—really, y’ know, they shouldn’t, Sergeant. Gracie Allen’s true-love is named George. George Burns, to be precise. The same johnnie I mentioned earlier at Mr. Markham’s. And this Mr. Burns was at the Domdaniel tonight. And so was Gracie. And her flashy escort, Mr. Puttie. And Philip Allen. And the oleaginous Mirche. And the undecipherable Dixie Del Marr. And the mysterious ‘Owl’ Owen. And the ominous shadow of a buzzard.”
“What do you make of it, Mr. Vance?”
“Sergeant—oh, my Sergeant!” sighed Vance. “What could anyone make of it? Precisely nothing. That’s why I’m aging so perceptibly before your very eyes. That’s why my locks are turning white.”
“How do you think that cigarette-case got in Philip Allen’s pocket, Mr. Vance?” Heath held stubbornly to his problem.
“Stop torturing me!” Vance pleaded.
Heath took the cigarette-case, snapped it shut, and returned it to his pocket.
“I’m going to find out,” he said with determination. “If Philip Allen didn’t die a natural death, and if this gimmick belongs to the Burns guy, I’ll sweat the truth out of him if I got to invent a new way to do it… This thing’s getting me down, too, Mr. Vance. None of it makes sense, sir; and I don’t like anything that don’t make sense… I’ll find the baby—and I’ll find him tonight. The Domdaniel’s closed by now, so maybe he went home—if he’s got a home. I’ll tackle the factory first. What did you say that name was, sir?”
“The In-O-Scent Corporation,” smiled Vance. “Rather discouragin’ name with which to start your quest for a suspect—eh, what, Sergeant? Somehow I rather hope the name’ll prove symbolic.”
“You’re too deep for me, sir,” Heath complained, moving toward the door. “All I gotta worry about right now is finding that guy Burns.”
“Well, Sergeant, when you do corner Mr. Burns, we can either eliminate one part of the puzzle, or else put it some place where it will fit.” He drew a deep sigh. “I’ll be waiting for your scented tidings in the morning.”
CHAPTER IX
HELD ON SUSPICION
(Sunday, May 19; 10:30 am.)
It was almost half-past ten Sunday morning when Heath called at Vance’s apartment. Vance had risen only shortly before and was sitting in the library, robed in a mandarin dressing-gown, having his usual scant breakfast of thick Turkish coffee. He had just lighted his second cigarette when the Sergeant was ushered in, looking somewhat weary but triumphant.
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