The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

Rexon, frowning deeply, rang. Higgins appeared and was given instructions. Vance paced up and down the room. He lighted a fresh Régie. The Lieutenant stood stoically at the window. He fumbled with his pipe.

  Higgins returned. “Sorry, sir. Mr. Bassett is not in his room.”

  “Well, can’t you find him, man?” Rexon showed impatience.

  “It would seem, sir, the gentleman hasn’t been in his room all night.”

  “Oh, my word!” Vance stood perfectly still, his cigarette halfway to his lips. “Are you sure, Higgins?”

  “I knocked on the door, sir. No one answered. The door was unlocked, and I looked in, sir. The bed hasn’t been slept in all night. I checked with the chambermaid, sir.”

  A groan escaped from Rexon.

  O’Leary stood up, aggressively indignant. “I felt we should have acted sooner, Mr. Vance.”

  Vance ignored the implied reprimand. “Higgins, call the garage.”

  The butler dialed three numbers, handed the instrument to Vance.

  “Any car been taken out this morning?” Vance waited a moment. “And last night?”… He put the telephone down. “Every car cozily in its place. Curious. Suppose we toddle up to the gentleman’s boudoir.”

  The room showed no sign of disorder. One closet held a number of suits neatly arranged on their hangers. The other disclosed a grey topcoat, a tan one, two or three robes, and several pairs of shoes. Three hats rested on an upper shelf. From the closets Vance went to the bureau, inspected the drawers. These were neatly filled with the customary accessories of a man of taste. A trunk stood in one corner of the room with a matching bag beside it. Vance opened these, found them empty.

  “Can’t see that we’ll learn anything here.” He took in every detail of the room. “Suggest we go down to Winewood. Confab with the station master might prove illuminatin’.”

  The Lieutenant’s small car was parked outside the veranda. O’Leary turned toward it as we came down the steps.

  “Oh, I say!” Vance checked him. “Please! Mind functions more efficiently at lesser speed. Let’s go on foot. If you don’t mind.”

  O’Leary shrugged. We continued to the end of the pathway, swung into the vehicle road leading through the estate to the county highway. The fresh layer of snow was unmarred but for a single set of tire tracks marking the Lieutenant’s arrival an hour or two earlier.

  Vance lighted a cigarette. We trudged along.

  “Not every day one has the opportunity to lay his hands on a murderer.” O’Leary spoke glumly. “Too bad if he’s got away.”

  “Oh, yes. Quite. Very sad. But I’m not convinced the man is a murderer. My own observations contraindicative. No. Not the type that deals in murder. Too suave. Wouldn’t bloody his hands.”

  “Then you don’t think he killed Wallen in an earlier attempt to get at the emeralds?” O’Leary seemed surprised.

  “No—oh, no. As I said. Not the type. However…”

  “But you admit he’s gone off now with the gems?”

  “My dear Lieutenant! I admit nothing. Just lookin’ round at present. Strivin’ to learn.”

  “That throws us back on Eric Gunthar. Has he been asked to account for himself during yesterday’s incident?”

  “No. Not yet. Good thought, however. I’ll speak with him later. ‘Where were you on the night?’ And all that sort of thing. Might help. Might not…” Vance flung the end of his cigarette aside.

  We had just passed through the large gates and taken perhaps a hundred paces on the highway toward Winewood.

  O’Leary brought out his pipe. “The car would have been quicker—”

  “Quicker. Yes.” Vance stopped abruptly. “But not as productive of results… Look yonder, Lieutenant.”

  He directed our gaze into a clump of trees at one side of the roadway, just beneath the towering wall of the Rexon estate. An irregular mound of snow, with patches of black here and there, ended in a pair of patent leather shoes.

  “Might have driven right past that, don’t y’ know.” Vance stepped through the undergrowth. O’Leary followed in abashed silence.

  As we came nearer, the mass resolved itself into the outlines of a hunched human form, one arm twisted crazily under the torso; the other extended straight from the shoulder.

  “That, I opine, is our missing jewel expert.” Vance spoke solemnly. He approached the figure, turned the face upward.

  It was Jacques Bassett, in the evening attire in which I had last seen him the previous night. Now he wore a black Chesterfield as well. Vance bent down, examined the body more closely. A streak of sticky, darkened snow above the right ear caught his attention.

  “Same like Wallen, Lieutenant. Not a nice business. Not at all a nice business. No.”

  “You’re right, sir. Too much like Wallen. Same kind of wound. I don’t like it either, sir… Been dead long, would you say?” O’Leary asked as Vance rose.

  “Eight or ten hours. But, my word, Lieutenant! I’m not the Medical Examiner. Should have Quayne here. Shall I stagger back to the Manor and phone your Aesculapius, or would you prefer to do the chore while I wait here?”

  “No need for you to stay here, sir.” O’Leary was respectful. “I’ll remain. If you’ll be good enough to phone Doctor Quayne.”

  “Gladly, Lieutenant… By the by,…” Vance hesitated. “Could you tell me if the emeralds are in the gentleman’s attire?”

  “Really shouldn’t do it, sir. Against regulations.” O’Leary knelt down as he spoke and made a swift examination of Bassett’s pockets. He rose. “No emeralds, sir. Just the usual.” Then he added quickly, “You see what this means, sir?”

  Vance looked at the other from the corner of his eye. “You’re far too clever for this bailiwick, Lieutenant.”

  “I like it here… It does throw the case back on Eric Gunthar harder than ever—doesn’t it, sir?”

  Vance nodded. “I’m afraid it does—theoretically. But surely, Lieutenant, you don’t believe—”

  “I’m not paid to believe things, sir. I’m paid to follow facts.” O’Leary drew on his pipe. “And I’m afraid I’ll have to go through with the arrest of Gunthar and his daughter. I’m telling you now, sir. I want to be fair.”

  “I understand, Lieutenant.” Turning away, Vance retraced his steps to the Manor.

  On the veranda a few of the guests were talking animatedly. Joan Rexon had gone indoors. Ella Gunthar sat apart from the others, looking listlessly toward the rink. She was still guarded rather ludicrously by the Winewood constable. Vance approached her.

  “Listen carefully, my dear. There’s real danger for you and your father. I need your help. You and I must work together. We’ll get rid of the nightmare: Here’s what I want you to do. Get your skates and skating costume. Tell your father Mr. Rexon would like to see him in his den. And Old Jed too, if you can find him. This gentleman will accompany you.”—Vance indicated the constable.—“Then you are to come back here to the rink and skate as if everything you ever wanted depended on it. Keep all the guests interested. Keep them away from the house at any cost. Skate until I give you the signal to stop. In the meantime, I’ll be working hard for you and your father. Understand?”

  The girl’s lips quivered. Then she raised her chin and looked Vance straight in the eye. “I’ll do everything you ask.” There was determination, submission, heroism, in her voice. She turned toward the pavilion, the burly officer close behind her.

  Vance started for the den. Carlotta Naesmith ran up inquisitively, as if to ask a question.

  Vance held up his hand. “Not now, please. I have an urgent favor to ask of you. All the guests must be kept out here. Away from the house. Ella Gunthar is going to skate for them. You’ve hurt her much. She’s suffering now. Be kind.”

  Before Miss Naesmith could answer, Vance continued to the den.

  He found Carrington Rexon still alone there and briefly told him of the new developments.

  The man sank dejectedly into a chair. “Another death!” h
e groaned miserably. “And the emeralds?”

  “Not on him. May still be recovered.”

  Vance reached for the telephone. He called Quayne, apprised him of the situation, and informed him just where he would find Lieutenant O’Leary waiting by Bassett’s body.

  “What do you make of it all, Vance?” asked Rexon as the other sat down opposite.

  “Nothing yet, old friend. Tryin’ to add things up. Must make a simple sum eventually… Would you ask your housekeeper to come here, please? A few queries I’d like to put to her.”

  Rexon telephoned the request.

  Vance rose with suppressed nervousness and went to the window. He lighted a cigarette. At length he turned and faced his host.

  “I’ve a feeling that somewhere this morning I’ve missed something. Of no importance. Bothers me no end, though. Something unconsciously waited for. Hasn’t happened…”

  CHAPTER XIV

  SKATING FOR TIME

  (Sunday, January 19; 1:15 P.M.)

  Marcia Bruce came in, dignified and composed. Vance drew up a chair for her.

  “We have a few questions to put to you, Miss Bruce,” he began tentatively.

  “Nothing here surprises me any more,” the housekeeper returned philosophically. “I’ll do my best to answer.”

  “You know, of course, that several of the emeralds have been stolen from the Gem Room?”

  “Mr. Rexon has informed me of it. That surprises me less than anything else. I’ll be glad to be free of the atmosphere surrounding those stones.”

  “What do you mean, Bruce?” interposed Rexon.

  “I might as well tell you, sir. You’ll have to know sooner or later. I’m resigning immediately, sir. And leaving here for good in about a week—maybe sooner.”

  “Resigning! Leaving! But why, Bruce?”

  The woman blushed. “Doctor Quayne has done me the honor of asking me to marry him.”

  Vance smiled pleasantly. “Well, well! That would have been last evening—eh, what, Miss Bruce? Just before you came for Miss Joan.”

  The woman seemed startled. “How could you know that?”

  “Lovelight in a woman’s eyes. I saw the signs. May I be the first to congratulate you.”

  “And I too, am delighted to hear it, Bruce…” Rexon’s voice trailed off. Then, “But couldn’t you stay on? Joan would miss you…”

  “And I’ll be sorry to leave Miss Joan, sir. But Loomis—that is, the doctor—wants to leave Winewood. He finds it increasingly difficult to manage here—what with two younger men making such inroads on his practice.”

  “Where does he plan to go?”

  “I’m not quite sure yet, sir. He mentioned the possibility of going abroad.”

  Rexon nodded resignedly. “I understand. I understand. I imagine it is getting a hard row for Quayne to hoe. But, Gad! I’ll miss him. And you too, Bruce.”

  “To get back to less pleasant matters, Miss Bruce.” Vance seated himself on the arm of a chair. “You must have been down on the lower floor here yesterday about noon.”

  “I was. I was down most of the morning, seeing about meals, and—”

  “Did you see Eric Gunthar here?”

  “I noticed him hovering outside the rear entrance. But I don’t know whether he came into the house.”

  “Did you see Old Jed?”

  “That hermit! He never comes near the house, sir.”

  “Well, can you remember any one you did specifically see? Out in the hall there, or near the Gem Room?”

  “So many of the guests were up and down.” She hesitated a moment, as if to collect her thoughts. “Mr. Richard dashed through the hall once or twice. I think I saw his foreign-looking friend, too. And that treasure-hunting gentleman was hovering around. I don’t know whether he was waiting for Miss Naesmith, or what. And I saw Doctor Quayne, though I didn’t have a chance to speak to him.” She seemed avid for any excuse to mention the man’s name.

  “Was that when he arrived in the morning?” Vance asked.

  “No. It was when he was leaving. He had stayed longer than usual and he was late. I remember the noon siren had blown a few minutes earlier—”

  Vance sprang to his feet and held up his hand for silence. A far-away look came into his eyes. He paced back and forth nervously several times. Then he came to a sudden stop before Rexon’s desk.

  “That insignificant something,” he remarked slowly, as he sank into a chair. “I think I have it. The siren. Haven’t heard it today.”

  “It’s not sounded on Sundays,” Rexon told him.

  “No. Of course not. But yesterday.”

  “What can the siren have to do with it all, Vance?”

  “Everything. Needs a little thought.” He brought out his case and selected a cigarette with marked deliberation. He walked to the window, stood gazing out for a moment. As he turned back, a soft knock on the door was followed by the timid entry of Eric Gunthar, twisting his hat nervously in his hands.

  “You wanted to see me, Squire?” he asked, looking down at the floor.

  It was Vance who answered his query. “You might as well know the worst, Gunthar. Lieutenant O’Leary is determined to arrest you and Miss Ella on what he calls suspicion. You must have noted he has a constable watching Miss Ella now… She came back with you?”

  “Yes, sir. She did. She’s down at the pavilion, changing her clothes. She said she was going to skate on the rink.”

  “Good,” said Vance. “We must all go out and watch her anon.”

  “She asked me to tell you, sir, that she couldn’t find Old Jed anywhere.”

  “Thank you. It doesn’t matter… But to get back to what I was saying. I see no reason why you shouldn’t be here too. No use trying to run away. The Lieutenant will arrive any minute. You’re to sit there. Trust to me. Just as Ella is doing. I’ll do my best. May fail. But can’t be helped. Sit tight and wait. Understand?”

  Nodding dejectedly, the man moved with awkward steps to the chair Vance had indicated. He continued the twirling motion of the hat in his hands for a moment. Then he placed the hat behind him and rested his head docilely on the palms of his hands. He was abashed, frightened.

  Vance had scarcely resumed his own seat before Rexon’s desk when another tap on the door announced the arrival of the Lieutenant and Doctor Quayne. A faint odor of gasoline accompanied them.

  “I see your chariot has had another intramuscular injection, doctor,” Vance said pleasantly. Quayne merely nodded.

  “Greetings and congratulations, doctor,” said Rexon. “Bruce has just told us of the betrothal…”

  Quayne smiled and looked admiringly at Marcia Bruce. He seated himself on the long leather divan, and Miss Bruce rose from her chair and joined him.

  “I felt somehow you’d be pleased, Rexon,” Quayne said with some show of pride.

  “Naturally. But I’ll miss you both. So will Joan.”

  O’Leary mumbled felicitations, his gaze on the downcast figure of Gunthar perched uneasily on the edge of his chair. Then he furrowed his brow in a puzzled frown and sought Vance’s eyes.

  “Yes. Quite, Lieutenant. Doing the bighearted. Knew you’d be poppin’ in anon. Thought I’d have Gunthar handy for you. Trying to do my share. Always appreciative of favors.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Waiting for you, too. After a manner of speaking. If she isn’t already out on the rink she’ll be there in a minute or two. Skating for the guests. Under the eagle eye of your doughty constable, of course.”

  O’Leary suddenly stepped back, narrowed his eyes and looked at Vance shrewdly. “What’s the meaning of all this, sir? There’s something underneath.”

  Vance smiled wearily and nodded. “Right you are, Lieutenant! Something underneath. But what? I think it’s the siren—the Rexon noonday siren, Lieutenant, which echoes through the hills and—”

  O’Leary broke in impatiently. “Just where is this leading, sir?”

  “To a mere bit of chatting. Puttin�
� things together. Askin’ a few questions. Searchin’ our souls. Good for the soul now and then. When all that’s done, you may lead Gunthar and his daughter forth. If that should still be your desire, Lieutenant.”

  “Sounds like hocus-pocus to me, sir.”

  “More or less true of all life—eh, what?”

  “How long is this to take, sir?” O’Leary’s restlessness was apparent. “I’ve gone pretty far with you already. For my part, I’m ready to take them now…”

  “You shall call the time yourself, Lieutenant.”

  O’Leary packed his pipe. “That’s fair.”

  “Yes—oh, yes. Always fair. May be futile at times. But fair.”

  CHAPTER XV

  QUERIES AND ANSWERS

  (Sunday, January 19; 1:45 P.M.)

  Doctor Quayne moved uneasily in his place on the divan. “It’s a bad business,” he remarked. “A bad business. Bassett’s been dead at least ten hours. We had the body removed to the morgue. Another autopsy to do. From what I’ve seen offhand, I can only say that he met his death very much as Wallen did. But this time there is no cliff from which he might have fallen.”

  “You, too, noticed the similarity of the wounds, did you, doctor?” O’Leary put in.

  “It could hardly be overlooked,” returned Quayne. “I’ve never seen such a strange coincidence. If I weren’t so confused by other factors I’d be willing to state under oath that both deaths were caused in the same manner.”

  O’Leary compressed his lips with great satisfaction and nodded energetically. “The same thought occurred to me,” he said.

  “I understand, Mr. Vance,” the doctor went on, “that you had an official report on the man this morning that throws a rather sinister light on the matter. From what Lieutenant O’Leary has told me, I’ve formed a theory that I’d like to put before you.”

  “Pray do,” said Vance eagerly.

  “It is this: Obviously Bassett came here with the sole purpose of getting his hands on at least some of Mr. Rexon’s emeralds. If we assume that his first attempt was made from outside and that he was surprised in his effort by the guard, Wallen, we can conclude that he had then but one course left to him. Namely, to do away with Wallen. Let us further assume that he took this course; that he was seen taking it, by a friend of Wallen who was, in the circumstances, helpless to prevent the murder. This second man, you may be sure, would carry the grudge, and take his revenge at the very first opportunity. These men are a very simple folk, Mr. Vance. They believe whole-heartedly in the Mosaic law ‘An eye for an eye’. They wouldn’t hesitate to take matters into their own hands and mete out what they consider retributive justice.”