Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 1

by S. S. Van Dine

  He pointed to the first cartridge that had rolled out of the magazine.

  "Observe that this one cartridge—the last to be inserted into the magazine—is a bit brighter than its fellows. The inf'rence is—you're an adept at infrences, y' know—that it is a newer cartridge and was placed in the magazine rather recently."

  He looked straight into Markham's eyes. "It was placed there to take the place of the one which Captain Hagedorn is keeping."

  Markham lifted his head jerkily, as if shaking himself out of an encroaching spell of hypnosis. He smiled but with an effort.

  "I still think your case against Mrs. Platz is your masterpiece."

  "My picture of the major is merely blocked in," answered Vance. "The revealin' touches are to come. But first, a brief catechism:—How did the major know that brother Alvin would be home at twelve thirty on the night of the thirteenth?—He heard Alvin invite Miss St. Clair to dinner—remember Miss Hoffman's story of his eavesdropping?—and he also heard her say she'd unfailingly leave at midnight. When I said yesterday, after we had left Miss St. Clair, that something she told us would help convict the guilty person, I referred to her statement that midnight was her invariable hour of departure. The major therefore knew Alvin would be home about half past twelve, and he was pretty sure that no one else would be there. In any event, he could have waited for him, what? . . . Could he have secured an immediate audience with his brother en déshabillé?—Yes. He tapped on the window; his voice was recognized beyond any shadow of doubt; and he was admitted instanter. Alvin had no sartorial modesties in front of his brother and would have thought nothing of receiving him without his teeth and toupee. . . . Is the major the right height?—He is. I purposely stood beside him in your office the other day; and he is almost exactly five feet, ten and a half."

  Markham sat staring silently at the disemboweled pistol. Vance had been speaking in a voice quite different from that he had used when constructing his hypothetical cases against the others; and Markham had sensed the change.

  "We now come to the jewels," Vance was saying. "I once expressed the belief, you remember, that when we found the security for Pfyfe's note, we would put our hands on the murderer. I thought then the major had the jewels; and after Miss Hoffman told us of his requesting her not to mention the package, I was sure of it. Alvin took them home on the afternoon of the thirteenth, and the major undoubtedly knew it. This fact, I imagine, influenced his decision to end Alvin's life that night. He wanted those baubles, Markham."

  He rose jauntily and stepped to the door.

  "And now it remains only to find 'em. . . . The murderer took 'em away with him; they couldn't have left the house any other way. Therefore, they're in this apartment. If the major had taken them to the office, someone might have seen them; and if he had placed them in a safe deposit box, the clerk at the bank might have remembered the episode. Moreover, the same psychology that applied to the gun applies to the jewels. The major has acted throughout on the assumption of his innocence; and, as a matter of fact, the trinkets were safer here than elsewhere. There'd be time enough to dispose of them when the affair blew over. . . . Come with me a moment, Markham. It's painful, I know; and your heart's too weak for an anaesthetic."

  Markham followed him down the passageway in a kind of daze. I felt a great sympathy for the man, for now there was no question that he knew Vance was serious in his demonstration of the major's guilt. Indeed, I have always felt that Markham suspected the true purpose of Vance's request to investigate the major's alibi, and that his opposition was due as much to his fear of the results as to his impatience with the other's irritating methods. Not that he would have balked ultimately at the truth, despite his long friendship for Major Benson; but he was struggling—as I see it now—with the inevitability of circumstances, hoping against hope that he had read Vance incorrectly and that, by vigorously contesting each step of the way, he might alter the very shape of destiny itself.

  Vance led the way to the living room and stood for five minutes inspecting the various pieces of furniture, while Markham remained in the doorway watching him through narrowed lids, his hands crowded deep into his pockets.

  "We could, of course, have an expert searcher rake the apartment over inch by inch," observed Vance. "But I don't think it necess'ry. The major's a bold, cunning soul. Witness his wide square forehead, the dominating stare of his globular eyes, the perpendicular spine, and the indrawn abdomen. He's forthright in all his mental operations. Like Poe's Minister D——, he would recognize the futility of painstakingly secreting the jewels in some obscure corner. And anyhow, he had no object in secreting them. He merely wished to hide 'em where there'd be no chance of their being seen. This naturally suggests a lock and key, what? There was no such cache in the bedroom—which is why I came here."

  He walked to a squat rosewood desk in the corner, and tried all its drawers; but they were unlocked. He next tested the table drawer; but that, too, was unlocked. A small Spanish cabinet by the window proved equally disappointing.

  "Markham, I simply must find a locked drawer," he said.

  He inspected the room again and was about to return to the bedroom when his eye fell on a Circassian-walnut humidor half hidden by a pile of magazines on the undershelf of the center table. He stopped abruptly and, going quickly to the box, endeavored to lift the top. It was locked.

  "Let's see," he mused: "what does the major smoke? Romeo y Julieta Perfeccionados, I believe—but they're not sufficiently valuable to keep under lock and key."

  He picked up a strong bronze paper knife lying on the table and forced its point into the crevice of the humidor just above the lock.

  "You can't do that!" cried Markham; and there was as much pain as reprimand in his voice.

  Before he could reach Vance, however, there was a sharp click, and the lid flew open. Inside was a blue velvet jewel case.

  "Ah! 'Dumb jewels more quick than words,'" said Vance, stepping back. Markham stood staring into the humidor with an expression of tragic distress. Then slowly he turned and sank heavily into a chair.

  "Good God!" he murmured. "I don't know what to believe."

  "In that respect," returned Vance, "you're in the same disheartenin' predic'ment as all the philosophers. But you were ready enough, don't y' know, to believe in the guilt of half a dozen innocent people. Why should you gag at the major, who actu'lly is guilty?"

  His tone was contemptuous, but a curious, inscrutable look in his eyes belied his voice; and I remembered that, although these two men were welded in an indissoluble friendship, I had never heard a word of sentiment, or even sympathy, pass between them.

  Markham had leaned forward in an attitude of hopelessness, elbows on knees, his head in his hands.

  "But the motive!" he urged. "A man doesn't shoot his brother for a handful of jewels."

  "Certainly not," agreed Vance. "The jewels were a mere addendum. There was a vital motive—rest assured. And, I fancy, when you get your report from the expert accountant, all—or at least a goodly part—will be revealed."

  "So that was why you wanted his books examined?"

  Markham stood up resolutely. "Come. I'm going to see this thing through."

  Vance did not move at once. He was intently studying a small antique candlestick of oriental design on the mantel.

  "I say!" he muttered. "That's a dev'lish fine copy!"

  24. THE ARREST

  (Thursday, June 20; noon.)

  On leaving the apartment, Markham took with him the pistol and the case of jewels. In the drug store at the corner of Sixth Avenue he telephoned Heath to meet him immediately at the office and to bring Captain Hagedorn. He also telephoned Stitt, the public accountant, to report as soon as possible.

  "You observe, I trust," said Vance, when we were in the taxicab headed for the Criminal Courts Building, "the great advantage of my methods over yours. When one knows at the outset who committed a crime, one isn't misled by appearances. Without that foreknowledge, one
is apt to be deceived by a clever alibi, for example. . . . I asked you to secure the alibis because, knowing the major was guilty, I thought he'd have prepared a good one."

  "But why ask for all of them? And why waste time trying to disprove Colonel Ostrander's?"

  "What chance would I have had of securing the major's alibi if I had not injected his name surreptitiously, as it were, into a list of other names? . . . And had I asked you to check the major's alibi first, you'd have refused. I chose the colonel's alibi to start with because it seemed to offer a loophole—and I was lucky in the choice. I knew that if I could puncture one of the other alibis, you would be more inclined to help me test the major's."

  "But if, as you say, you knew from the first that the major was guilty, why, in God's name, didn't you tell me, and save me this week of anxiety?"

  "Don't be ingenuous, old man," returned Vance. "If I had accused the major at the beginning, you'd have had me arrested for scandalum magnatum and criminal libel. It was only by deceivin' you every minute about the major's guilt, and drawing a whole school of red herrings across the trail, that I was able to get you to accept the fact even today. And yet, not once did I actu'lly lie to you. I was constantly throwing out suggestions, and pointing to significant facts, in the hope that you'd see the light for yourself; but you ignored all my intimations, or else misinterpreted them, with the most irritatin' perversity."

  Markham was silent a moment. "I see what you mean. But why did you keep setting up these straw men and then knocking them over?"

  "You were bound, body and soul, to circumst'ntial evidence," Vance pointed out. "It was only by letting you see that it led you nowhere that I was able to foist the major on you. There was no evidence against him—he naturally saw to that. No one even regarded him as a possibility: fratricide has been held as inconceivable—a lusus naturae—since the days of Cain. Even with all my finessing you fought every inch of the way, objectin' to this and that, and doing everything imag'nable to thwart my humble efforts. . . . Admit, like a good fellow, that, had it not been for my assiduousness, the major would never have been suspected."

  Markham nodded slowly.

  "And yet, there are some things I don't understand even now. Why, for instance, should he have objected so strenuously to my arresting the captain?"

  Vance wagged his head.

  "How deuced obvious you are! Never attempt a crime, my Markham, you'd be instantly apprehended. I say, can't you see how much more impregnable the major's position would be if he showed no int'rest in your arrests—if, indeed, he appeared actu'lly to protest against your incarc'ration of a victim. Could he, by any other means, have elim'nated so completely all possible suspicion against himself? Moreover, he knew very well that nothing he could say would swerve you from your course. You're so noble, don't y' know."

  "But he did give me the impression once or twice that he thought Miss St. Clair was guilty."

  "Ah! There you have a shrewd intelligence taking advantage of an opportunity. The major unquestionably planned the crime so as to cast suspicion on the captain. Leacock had publicly threatened his brother in connection with Miss St. Clair; and the lady was about to dine alone with Alvin. When, in the morning, Alvin was found shot with an army Colt, who but the captain would be suspected? The major knew the captain lived alone, and that he would have diff'culty in establishing an alibi. Do you now see how cunning he was in recommending Pfyfe as a source of information? He knew that if you interviewed Pfyfe, you'd hear of the threat. And don't ignore the fact that his suggestion of Pfyfe was an apparent afterthought; he wanted to make it appear casual, don't y' know.—Astute devil, what?"

  Markham, sunk in gloom, was listening closely.

  "Now for the opportunity of which he took advantage," continued Vance. "When you upset his calculations by telling him you knew whom Alvin dined with, and that you had almost enough evidence to ask for an indictment, the idea appealed to him. He knew no charmin' lady could ever be convicted of murder in this most chivalrous city, no matter what the evidence; and he had enough of the sporting instinct in him to prefer that no one should actu'lly be punished for the crime. Cons'quently, he was willing to switch you back to the lady. And he played his hand cleverly, making it appear that he was most reluctant to involve her."

  "Was that why, when you wanted me to examine his books and to ask him to the office to discuss the confession, you told me to intimate that I had Miss St. Clair in mind?"

  "Exactly!"

  "And the person the major was shielding—"

  "Was himself. But he wanted you to think it was Miss St. Clair."

  "If you were certain he was guilty, why did you bring Colonel Ostrander into the case?"

  "In the hope that he could supply us with faggots for the major's funeral pyre. I knew he was acquainted intimately with Alvin Benson and his entire camarilla; and I knew, too, that he was an egregious quidnunc who might have got wind of some enmity between the Benson boys and have suspected the truth. And I also wanted to get a line on Pfyfe, by way of elim'nating every remote counterpossibility."

  "But we already had a line on Pfyfe."

  "Oh, I don't mean material clues. I wanted to learn about Pfyfe's nature—his psychology, y' know—particularly his personality as a gambler. Y' see, it was the crime of a calculating, cold-blooded gambler; and no one but a man of that particular type could possibly have committed it."

  Markham apparently was not interested just now in Vance's theories.

  "Did you believe the major," he asked, "when he said his brother had lied to him about the presence of the jewels in the safe?"

  "The wily Alvin prob'bly never mentioned 'em to Anthony," rejoined Vance. "An ear at the door during one of Pfyfe's visits was, I fancy, his source of information. . . . And speaking of the major's eavesdropping, it was that which suggested to me a possible motive for the crime. Your man Stitt, I hope, will clarify that point."

  "According to your theory, the crime was rather hastily conceived." Markham's statement was in reality a question.

  "The details of its execution were hastily conceived," corrected Vance. "The major undoubtedly had been contemplating for some time elim'nating his brother. Just how or when he was to do it he hadn't decided. He may have thought out and rejected a dozen plans. Then, on the thirteenth, came the opportunity: all the conditions adjusted themselves to his purpose. He heard Miss St. Clair's promise to go to dinner; and he therefore knew that Alvin would prob'bly be home alone at twelve thirty, and that, if he were done away with at that hour, suspicion would fall on Captain Leacock. He saw Alvin take home the jewels—another prov'dential circumst'nce. The propitious moment for which he had been waiting, d' ye see, was at hand. All that remained was to establish an alibi and work out a modus operandi. How he did this, I've already eluc'dated."

  Markham sat thinking for several minutes. At last he lifted his head.

  "You've about convinced me of his guilt," he admitted. "But damn it, man! I've got to prove it; and there's not much actual legal evidence."

  Vance gave a slight shrug.

  "I'm not int'rested in your stupid courts and your silly rules of evidence. But, since I've convinced you, you can't charge me with not having met your challenge, don't y' know."

  "I suppose not," Markham assented gloomily.

  Slowly the muscles about his mouth tightened.

  "You've done your share, Vance, I'll carry on."

  Heath and Captain Hagedorn were waiting when we arrived at the office, and Markham greeted them in his customary reserved, matter-of-fact way. By now he had himself well in hand and he went about the task before him with the somber forcefulness that characterized him in the discharge of all his duties.

  "I think we at last have the right man, Sergeant," he said. "Sit down, and I'll go over the matter with you in a moment. There are one or two things I want to attend to first."

  He handed Major Benson's pistol to the firearms expert.

  "Look that gun over, Captain, and tel
l me if there's any way of identifying it as the weapon that killed Benson."

  Hagedorn moved ponderously to the window. Laying the pistol on the sill, he took several tools from the pockets of his voluminous coat and placed them beside the weapon. Then, adjusting a jeweler's magnifying glass to his eye, he began what seemed an interminable series of tinkerings. He opened the plates of the stock and, drawing back the sear, took out the firing pin. He removed the slide, unscrewed the link, and extracted the recoil spring. I thought he was going to take the weapon entirely apart, but apparently he merely wanted to let light into the barrel; for presently he held the gun to the window and placed his eye at the muzzle. He peered into the barrel for nearly five minutes, moving it slightly back and forth to catch the reflection of the sun on different points of the interior.

  At last, without a word, he slowly and painstakingly went through the operation of redintegrating the weapon. Then he lumbered back to his chair and sat blinking heavily for several moments.

  "I'll tell you," he said, thrusting his head forward and gazing at Markham over the tops of his steel-rimmed spectacles. "This, now, may be the right gun. I wouldn't say for sure. But when I saw the bullet the other morning, I noticed some peculiar rifling marks on it; and the rifling in this gun here looks to me as though it would match up with the marks on the bullet. I'm not certain. I'd like to look at this barrel through my helixometer.[21]"

  "But you believe it's the gun?" insisted Markham.

  "I couldn't say, but I think so. I might be wrong."

  "Very good, Captain. Take it along and call me the minute you've inspected it thoroughly."

  "It's the gun, all right," asserted Heath, when Hagedorn had gone. "I know that bird. He wouldn't've said as much as he did if he hadn't been sure. . . . Whose gun is it, sir?"