Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 1

by S. S. Van Dine

  "I was about to suggest getting in touch with the Sergeant," Vance chimed in. "I'd rather like to have him on hand, don't y' know. He's so comfortin'."

  He rang for Currie and ordered the telephone. Then he called Heath and asked him to join us.

  "I have a psychic feelin'," he said to Markham, with an air of forced levity, "that we are going to be summoned anon to witness the irrefutable proof of some one's guilt. And if that proof is what I think it is. . . ."

  Markham suddenly leaned forward in his chair.

  "It has just come to me what you've been hinting about so mysteriously!" he exclaimed. "It has to do with that hieroglyphic letter you found in the study."

  Vance hesitated but momentarily.

  "Yes, Markham," he nodded. "That torn letter hasn't been explained yet. And I have a theory about it that I can't shake off—it fits too perfectly with the whole fiendish scheme."

  "But you have the letter," Markham argued, in an effort to draw Vance out.

  "Oh, yes. And I'm prizin' it."

  "You believe it's the letter Salveter said he wrote?"

  "Undoubtedly."

  "And you believe he is ignorant of its having been torn up and put in the doctor's waste-basket?"

  "Oh, quite. He's still wonderin' what became of it—and worryin', too."

  Markham studied Vance with baffled curiosity.

  "You spoke of some purpose to which the letter might have been put before it was thrown away."

  "That's what I'm waiting to verify. The fact is, Markham, I expected that the letter would enter into the mystery of the dagger throwing last night. And I'll admit I was frightfully downcast when we'd got the whole family snugly back to bed without having run upon a single hieroglyph." He reached for a cigarette. "There was a reason for it, and I think I know the explanation. That's why I'm pinnin' my childlike faith on what may happen at any moment now. . . ."

  The telephone rang, and Vance himself answered it at once. It was Salveter calling from the Grand Central Station; and after a brief verbal interchange, Vance replaced the instrument on the table with an air of satisfaction.

  "The doctor," he said, "was evidently quite willin' to endure to-night and to-morrow without his assistant curator. So that bit of strategy was achieved without difficulty. . . ."

  Half an hour later Heath was ushered into the roof-garden. He was glum and depressed, and his greeting was little more than a guttural rumble.

  "Lift up your heart, Sergeant," Vance exhorted him cheerfully. "This is Bastille Day.[29] It may have a symbolic meaning. It's not beyond the realm of possibility that you will be able to incarcerate the murderer of Kyle before midnight."

  "Yeah?" Heath was utterly sceptical. "Is he coming here to give himself up, bringing all the necessary proof with him? A nice, accommodating fella."

  "Not exactly, Sergeant. But I'm expecting him to send for us; and I think he may be so generous as to point out the principal clew himself."

  "Cuckoo, is he? Well, Mr. Vance, if he does that, no jury'll convict him. He'll get a bill of insanity with free lodging and medical care for the rest of his life." He looked at his watch. "It's ten o'clock. What time does the tip-off come?"

  "Ten?" Vance verified the hour. "My word! It's later than I thought. . . ." A look of anxiety passed over his set features. "I wonder if I could have miscalculated this whole affair."

  He put out his cigarette and began pacing back and forth. Presently he stopped before Markham, who was watching him uneasily.

  "When I sent Salveter away," he began slowly, "I was confident that the expected event would happen forthwith. But I'm afraid something has gone wrong. Therefore I think I had better outline the case to you now."

  He paused and frowned.

  "However," he added, "it would be advisable to have Scarlett present. I'm sure he could fill in a few of the gaps."

  Markham looked surprised.

  "What does Scarlett know about it?"

  "Oh, much," was Vance's brief reply. Then he turned to the telephone and hesitated. "He hasn't a private phone, and I don't know the number of the house exchange. . . ."

  "That's easy." Heath picked up the receiver and asked for a certain night official of the company. After a few words of explanation, he clicked the hook and called a number. There was considerable delay, but at length some one answered at the other end. From the Sergeant's questions it was evident Scarlett was not at home.

  "That was his landlady," Heath explained disgustedly, when he had replaced the receiver. Scarlett went out at eight o'clock—said he was going to the museum for a while and would be back at nine. Had an appointment at nine with a guy at his apartment, and the guy's still waiting for him. . . ."

  "We can reach him at the museum, then." Vance rang up the Bliss number and asked Brush to call Scarlett to the phone. After several minutes he pushed the instrument from him.

  "Scarlett isn't at the museum either," he said. "He came, so Brush says, at about eight, and must have departed unobserved. He's probably on his way back to his quarters. We'll wait a while and phone him there again."

  "Is it necessary to have Scarlett here?" Markham asked impatiently.

  "Not precisely necess'ry," Vance returned evasively; "but most desirable. You remember he admitted quite frankly he could tell me a great deal about the murderer—"

  He broke off abruptly, and with tense deliberation selected and lighted another cigarette. His lids drooped, and he stared fixedly at the floor.

  "Sergeant," he said in a repressed tone, "I believe you said Mr. Scarlett had an appointment with some one at nine and had informed his landlady he would return at that hour."

  "That's what the dame told me over the phone."

  "Please see if he has reached home yet."

  Without a word Heath again lifted the receiver and called Scarlett's number. A minute later he turned to Vance.

  "He hasn't shown up."

  "Deuced queer," Vance muttered. "I don't at all like this, Markham. . . ."

  His mind drifted off in speculation, and it seemed to me that his face paled slightly.

  "I'm becoming frightened," he went on in a hushed voice. "We should have heard about that letter by now. . . . I'm afraid there's trouble ahead."

  He gave Markham a look of grave and urgent concern.

  "We can't afford to delay any longer. It may even be too late as it is. We've got to act at once." He moved toward the door. "Come on, Markham. And you, Sergeant. We're overdue at the museum. If we hurry we may be in time."

  Both Markham and Heath had risen as Vance spoke. There was a strange insistence in his tone, and a foreboding of terrible things in his eyes. He disappeared swiftly into the house; and the rest of us, urged by the suppressed excitement of his manner, followed in silence. His car was outside, and a few moments later we were swinging dangerously round the corner of Thirty-eighth Street and Park Avenue, headed for the Bliss Museum.

  20. THE GRANITE SARCOPHAGUS

  (Saturday, July 14, 10:10 P.M.)

  We arrived at the museum in less than ten minutes. Vance ran up the stone steps, Markham and Heath and I at his heels. Not only was there a light burning in the vestibule, but through the frosted glass panels of the front door we could see a bright light in the hall. Vance pressed the bell vigorously, but it was some time before Brush answered our summons.

  "Napping?" Vance asked. He was in a tense, sensitive mood.

  "No, sir." Brush shrank from him. "I was in the kitchen—"

  "Tell Doctor Bliss we're here, and want to see him at once."

  "Yes, sir." The butler went down the hall and knocked on the study door. There was no answer, and he knocked again. After a moment he turned the knob and looked in the room. Then he came back to us.

  "The doctor is not in his study. Perhaps he has gone to his bedroom. . . . I'll see."

  He moved toward the stairs and was about to ascend when a calm, even voice halted him.

  "Bliss effendi is not up-stairs." Hani came slowly d
own to the front hall. "It is possible he is in the museum."

  "Well, well!" Vance regarded the man reflectively. "Amazin' how you always turn up. . . . So you think he may be potterin' among his treasures—eh, what?" He pushed open the great steel door of the museum. "If the doctor is in here, he's whiling away his time in the dark." Stepping to the stair-landing inside the museum door, he switched on the lights and looked about the great room. "You're apparently in error, Hani, regarding the doctor's whereabouts. To all appearances the museum is empty."

  The Egyptian was unruffled.

  "Perhaps Doctor Bliss has gone out for a breath of air."

  There was a troubled frown on Vance's face.

  "That's possible," he murmured. "However, I wish you'd make sure he is not up-stairs."

  "I would have seen him had he come up-stairs after dinner," the Egyptian replied softly. "But I will follow your instructions nevertheless." And he went to search for Bliss.

  Vance stepped up to Brush and asked in a low voice:

  "At what time did Mr. Scarlett leave here to-night?"

  "I don't know, sir." The man was mystified by Vance's manner. "I really don't know. He came at about eight—I let him in. He may have gone out with Doctor Bliss. They often take a walk together at night."

  "Did Mr. Scarlett go into the museum when he arrived at eight?"

  "No, sir. He asked for Doctor Bliss. . . ."

  "Ah! And did he see the doctor?"

  "Yes, sir. . . . That is,"—Brush corrected himself—"I suppose he did. I told him Doctor Bliss was in the study, and he at once went down the hall. I returned to the kitchen."

  "Did you notice anything unusual in Mr. Scarlett's manner?"

  The butler thought a moment.

  "Well, sir, since you mention it, I might say that Mr. Scarlett was rather stiff and distant, like there was something on his mind—if you know what I mean."

  "And the last you saw of him was when he was approaching the study door?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Vance nodded a dismissal.

  "Remain in the drawing-room for the time being," he said.

  As Brush disappeared through the folding door Hani came slowly down the stairs.

  "It is as I said," he responded indifferently. "Doctor Bliss is not up-stairs."

  Vance scrutinized him sternly.

  "Do you know that Mr. Scarlett called here tonight?"

  "Yes, I know." A curious light came into the man's eyes. "I was in the drawing-room when Brush admitted him."

  "He came to see Doctor Bliss," said Vance.

  "Yes. I heard him ask Brush—"

  "Did Mr. Scarlett see the doctor?"

  The Egyptian did not answer at once. He met Vance's gaze steadily as if trying to read the other's thoughts. At length, reaching a decision, he said:

  "They were together—to my knowledge—for at least half an hour. When Mr. Scarlett entered the study he left the door open by the merest crack, and I was able to hear them talking together. But I could not distinguish anything that was said. Their voices were subdued."

  "How long did you listen?"

  "For half an hour. Then I went up-stairs."

  "You have not seen either Doctor Bliss or Mr. Scarlett since?"

  "No, effendi."

  "Where was Mr. Salveter during the conference in the study?" Vance was striving hard to control his anxiety.

  "Was he here in the house?" Hani asked evasively. "He told me at dinner that he was going to Boston."

  "Yes, yes—on the nine-thirty train. He needn't have left the house until nine.—Where was he between eight and nine?"

  Hani shrugged his shoulders.

  "I did not see him. He went out before Mr. Scarlett arrived. He was certainly not here after eight—"

  "You're lying." Vance's tone was icy.

  "Wahyât en-nabi—"

  "Don't try to impress me—I'm not in the humor." Vance's eyes were like steel. "What do you think happened here to-night?"

  "I think perhaps Sakhmet returned."

  A pallor seemed to overspread Vance's face: it may, however, have been only the reflection of the hall light.

  "Go to your room and wait there," he said curtly.

  Hani bowed.

  "You do not need my help now, effendi. You understand many things." And the Egyptian walked away with much dignity.

  Vance stood tensely until he had disappeared. Then, with a motion to us, he hurried down the hall to the study. Throwing open the door he switched on the lights.

  There was anxiety and haste in all his movements, and the electric atmosphere of his demeanor was transmitted to the rest of us. We realized that something tragic and terrible was leading him on.

  He went to the two windows and leaned out. By the pale reflected light he could see the asphalt tiles on the ground below. He looked under the desk, and measured with his eyes the four-inch clearance beneath the divan. Then he went to the door leading into the museum.

  "I hardly thought we'd find anything in the study; but there was a chance. . . ."

  He was now swinging down the spiral stairs.

  "It will be here in the museum," he called to us. "Come along, Sergeant. There's work to do. A fiend has been loose to-night. . . ."

  He walked past the state chair and the shelves of shawabtis, and stood beside the long glass table case, his hands deep in his coat pockets, his eyes moving rapidly about the room. Markham and Heath and I waited at the foot of the stairs.

  "What's this all about?" Markham asked huskily. "What has taken place? And what, incidentally, are you looking for?"

  "I don't know what has taken place." Something in Vance's tone sent a chill through me. "And I'm looking for something damnable. If it isn't here. . . ."

  He did not finish the sentence. Going swiftly to the great replica of Kha-ef-Rê he walked round it. Then he went to the statue of Ramses II and inspected its base. After that he moved to Teti-shiret and tapped the pedestal with his knuckles.

  "They're all solid," he muttered. "We must try the mummy cases." He recrossed the museum. "Start at that end, Sergeant. The covers should come off easily. If you have any difficulty, tear them off." He himself went to the anthropoid case beside Kha-ef-Rê and, inserting his hand beneath the upstanding lid, lifted it off and laid it on the floor.

  Heath, apparently animated by an urgent desire for physical action, had already begun his search at the other end of the line. He was by no means gentle about it. He tore the lids off viciously, throwing them to the floor with unnecessary clatter.

  Vance, absorbed in his own task, paid scant attention except to glance up as each lid was separated from the case. Markham, however, had begun to grow uneasy. He watched the Sergeant disapprovingly for several minutes, his face clouding over. Then he stepped forward.

  "I can't let this go on, Vance," he remarked. "These are valuable treasures, and we have no right—"

  Vance stood up and looked straight at Markham.

  "And if there is a dead man in one of them?" he asked with a cold precision that caused Markham to stiffen.

  "A dead man?"

  "Placed here tonight—between eight and nine."

  Vance's words had an ominous and impressive quality, and Markham said no more. He stood by, his features strained and set, watching the feverish inspection of the remaining mummy cases.

  But no grisly discovery was made. Heath removed the lid of the last case in obvious disappointment.

  "I guess something's gone wrong with your ideas, Mr. Vance," he commented without animus: indeed, there was a kindly note in his voice.

  Vance, distraught and with a far-away look in his eyes, now stood by the glass case. His distress was so apparent that Markham went to him and touched him on the arm.

  "Perhaps if we could re-calculate this affair along other lines—" he began; but Vance interrupted.

  "No; it can't be re-calculated. It's too logical. There's been a tragedy here to-night—and we were too late to intercept it."
<
br />   "We should have taken precautions." Markham's tone was bitter.

  "Precautions! Every possible precaution was taken. A new element was introduced into the situation to-night—an element that couldn't possibly have been foreseen. To-night's tragedy was not part of the plot. . . ." Vance turned and walked away. "I must think this thing out. I must trace the murderer's reasoning. . . ." He made an entire circuit of the museum without taking his eyes from the floor.

  Heath was puffing moodily on his cigar. He had not moved from in front of the mummy cases, and was pretending to be interested in the crudely colored hieroglyphs. Ever since the "Canary" murder case, when Tony Skeel had failed to keep his appointment in the District Attorney's office, he had, for all his protests, believed in Vance's prognostications; and now he was deeply troubled at the other's failure. I was watching him, a bit dazed myself, when I saw a frown of puzzled curiosity wrinkle his forehead. Taking his cigar from his mouth he bent over one of the fallen mummy cases and lifted out a slender metal object.

  "That's a hell of a place to keep an automobile jack," he observed. (His interest in the jack was obviously the result of an unconscious attempt to distract his thoughts from the tense situation.)

  He threw the jack back into the case and sat down on the base of Kha-ef-Rê's statue. Neither Vance nor Markham had apparently paid the slightest attention to his irrelevant discovery.

  Vance continued pacing round the museum. For the first time since our arrival at the house he took out a cigarette and lighted it.

  "Every line of reasoning leads here, Markham." He spoke in a low, hopeless tone. "There was no necessity for the evidence to have been taken away. In the first place, it would have been too hazardous; and, in the second place, we were not supposed to have suspected anything for a day or two. . . ."

  His voice faltered and his body went suddenly taut. He wheeled toward Heath.

  "An automobile jack!" A dynamic change had come over him. "Oh, my aunt! I wonder . . . I wonder. . . ."

  He hurried toward the black sarcophagus beneath the front windows, and scrutinized it anxiously.

  "Too high," he murmured. "Three feet from the floor! It couldn't have been done. . . . But it had to be done—somehow. . . ." He looked about him. "That taboret!" He pointed to a small solid oak stand, about twenty inches high, against the wall near the Asiatic wooden statue. "It was not there last night; it was beside the desk-table by the obelisk—Scarlett was using it." As he spoke he went to the taboret and picked it up. "And the top is scratched—there's an indentation. . . ." He placed the stand against the head of the sarcophagus. "Quick, Sergeant! Bring me that jack."