Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 1

by S. S. Van Dine

  Heath bawled out an order, and presently two men bearing a coffin-shaped basket entered the room. They lifted Coe's body into it, and, without a word, carried their gruesome burden out.

  "And now let's have the windows open," ordered Markham. "And turn out those ghastly electric lights."

  Snitkin and Burke leaped to obey him; and a moment later the fresh October air was drifting into the room.

  Markham drew a deep breath and looked at his watch.

  "Get Gamble up here, Sergeant," he said, leaning back in his chair.

  Heath sent one of the uniformed officers to the street with instructions to keep all strangers away from the house. The other he stationed in the hall outside of Coe's room. He ordered Burke to the lower hall to answer the front door. Then he disappeared down the stairs.

  Presently he returned with the butler in tow.

  Markham beckoned Gamble to the desk. The man came boldly forward, but, despite his effort, he could not disguise his nervous fear. His face was a bluish white, and his eyes shifted constantly.

  "We want some information about the conditions in this house last night," Markham began gruffly. "And we want the truth—understand?"

  "Certainly, sir—anything I know, sir." The man tried to meet Markham's stern gaze, but his eyes fell almost immediately.

  "First, take a look at that revolver." Markham pointed to the ivory-inlaid weapon on the desk before him. "Ever seen it before?"

  Gamble glanced at it quickly and nodded his head.

  "Yes, sir. I've seen it often. It was Mr. Archer Coe's revolver."

  "Where did he keep it?"

  "In the drawer of the library table, downstairs."

  "When did you see it last?"

  "Yesterday morning, sir, when I was straightening up the library. Mr. Coe had left a record-book on the table, and when I put it away in the drawer, I saw the revolver."

  Markham nodded, as if satisfied.

  "Now sit down over there." He pointed to a straight chair by the door. When Gamble had seated himself, Markham continued. "Who was in the house last night after dinner?"

  "Yesterday was Wednesday, sir," the man answered. "There is no dinner here on Wednesdays. It's the servants' night off. Every one dines out—except Mr. Archer Coe occasionally. I fix a cold supper for him sometimes before I go."

  "And last night?"

  "Yes, sir. I prepared a salad and cold cuts for him. The rest of the family had engagements outside."

  "What time did you go?"

  "About six-thirty, sir."

  "And there was no one but Mr. Archer Coe in the house at that time?"

  "No, sir—no one. Miss Lake telephoned from the Country Club early in the afternoon that she would not be home till late. And Mr. Grassi, Mr. Coe's guest, went out shortly before four."

  "Do you know where he went?"

  "I understood he had an appointment with the Curator of Oriental Antiquities of the Metropolitan Museum."

  "And Mr. Brisbane Coe, you said over the phone, was in Chicago." Markham's statement was actually a question.

  "He wasn't in Chicago at that time, sir," Gamble explained. "He was en route, so to speak. He took the five-thirty train from the Grand Central last evening."

  Vance lifted his eyebrows and shifted forward in his chair.

  "The Lake Shore Limited, eh?" he remarked. "Why the slow train? Why not the Twentieth Century? He would have saved three hours' travel."

  "Mr. Brisbane is very conservative, sir," Gamble explained. "And very cautious. He dislikes travelling on fast trains, and always took the slower ones."

  "Well, well." Vance sank back in his chair, and Markham resumed the interrogation.

  "How do you know Mr. Coe took the five-thirty train?"

  Gamble looked perplexed.

  "I didn't exactly see him off, sir," he replied, after blinking several times. "But I phoned for the reservations, and packed his suit-case, and got him a taxi."

  "What time did he leave the house?"

  "A little before five, sir."

  Vance again roused himself from apparent lethargy.

  "I say, Gamble,"—he spoke without looking up—"when did the cautious Mr. Brisbane decide on his jaunt to Chicago?"

  The butler turned his head toward Vance in mild surprise.

  "Why, not until after four o'clock. It was a rather sudden decision, sir—or so it seemed to me."

  "Does he usually make these sudden decisions?"

  "Never, sir. This was the first time. And I must say it struck me as most unusual. He generally plans on his Chicago trips the day before."

  "Ah!" Vance raised his eyes languidly. "Does he make many trips to Chicago?"

  "About one a month, I should say, sir."

  "And does he tarry long on these visits?"

  "Only a day or so."

  "Do you know what the attraction is in Chicago?"

  "Not exactly, sir." Gamble was growing restless. He clasped his hands tightly together and gazed straight ahead. "But several times I have heard him discussing the meetings there of some learned society. My impression is that he goes to Chicago to attend them."

  "Yes, quite reasonable. . . . Queer chap, Brisbane," Vance mused. "He's interested in all sorts of out-of-the-way subjects. . . . So he made a sudden decision to migrate west after four o'clock yesterday, and departed before five. . . . Most interestin'. . . . And, by the by, Gamble, did he tell any one but you of his decision?"

  "I hardly think so, sir—except Mr. Archer, of course. The fact is, there was no one else in the house."

  "Did he speak to any one over the phone between four o'clock and his departure?"

  "No one, sir."

  "And there were no visitors to whom he might have confided his intentions?"

  "No, sir. No one called."

  "Most interestin'," Vance repeated. "And now, Gamble, think carefully before you answer. Did you notice anything unusual in Mr. Brisbane Coe's manner last evening?"

  The man gave a slight start, and I noticed that the pupils of his eyes expanded. His gaze turned quickly to Vance, and he swallowed twice before answering.

  "I did, sir—so help me God, I did! He was not altogether himself. He's usually very calm and even-going. But before he left here he seemed distracted and—and fidgety. And he did a most peculiar thing, sir, before he left the house:—he shook hands with Mr. Archer. I've never seen him shake hands with Mr. Archer before. And he said 'Good-bye, brother.' It was most peculiar, for he has never, to my knowledge, called Mr. Archer by anything but his first name."

  "Oh really now!" Vance was studying the butler closely. "And how did Mr. Archer take this unwonted burst of fraternal affection?"

  "I doubt if he even noticed it, sir. He was studying a piece of egg-shell china under an electric bulb; and he scarcely answered Mr. Brisbane."

  "That would be like Archer," Vance commented to Markham. "When he was absorbed in an example of Chinese ceramic art, the roof could have toppled in, and he wouldn't have been aware of it. . . . Do you mind if I continue with Gamble?"

  Markham nodded his assent, and Vance turned again to the butler.

  "As I understand it, when Mr. Brisbane had gone you and Mr. Archer were left alone in the house."

  "Why, yes, sir." The man was breathing heavily: all of his obsequiousness had departed. "But I only stayed long enough to prepare Mr. Archer's supper. . . ."

  "And left Mr. Archer alone?"

  "Yes! He was sitting in the library downstairs reading."

  "And where did you go and how disport yourself?"

  Gamble leaned forward earnestly.

  "I had dinner in Childs, and then I went to a motion picture."

  "Not an exciting evening, was it, Gamble? . . . And what other servants are there in the house?"

  For some reason the man breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  "There's only two, sir, besides myself." His voice was steadier now. "The Chinese cook—"

  "Ah, a Chinese cook, eh? How long has he b
een here?"

  "Only a few months."

  "Go on."

  "Then there's Miss Lake's personal maid. And that's all, sir—except the woman that comes twice a week to clean house."

  "When did the cook and Miss Lake's maid leave the house yesterday?"

  "Right after lunch. That's the usual order on Wednesdays, sir."

  "And when did they return?"

  "Late last night. I myself came in at eleven; and it was about half-past eleven when Myrtle—that's the maid's name—returned. I was just retiring—about midnight, I should say, sir—when I heard the cook sneak in."

  Vance's eyebrows went up.

  "Sneak?"

  "He always sneaks, sir." There was a note of animosity in Gamble's voice. "He's very sly and tricky and—and devious, sir—if you know what I mean."

  "Probably his oriental upbringing," remarked Vance casually, with a faint smile. "So the cook sneaked in about midnight, eh? . . . Tell me, is it usual for the servants to stay out late Wednesdays?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then, if any one were familiar with the domestic arrangements here, he would know that he could count on the house being free from servants Wednesday nights."

  "That's right, sir."

  Vance smoked thoughtfully a moment. Then:

  "Do you know at what hour Miss Lake and Mr. Grassi came in last night?"

  "I couldn't say, sir." Gamble shot Vance a curious look from the corner of his eye. "But it must have been very late. It was after one o'clock before I went to sleep, and neither of them had returned at that time."

  "Mr. Grassi has a key to the house?"

  "Yes, sir. I had an extra one made for him at Mr. Coe's request."

  "How long has Mr. Grassi been Mr. Coe's guest?"

  "It was a week yesterday."

  Vance was silent for a moment. His eyes, as they looked out of the east windows, were placid, but there was the suggestion of a frown on his forehead; and I knew that something was troubling him. Without change of expression he put an apparently irrelevant question to Gamble.

  "Did you, by any chance, see Mr. Archer Coe after you returned to the house last night?"

  "No—I didn't see him, sir." There was a slight hesitancy in the reply, and Vance looked toward the man quickly.

  "Come, come, Gamble," he admonished severely. "What's on your mind?"

  "Well, sir—it's really nothing; but when I went up to bed I noticed that the library doors were open and that the lights were on. I thought, of course, that Mr. Archer was still in the library. And then I noticed the light in Mr. Archer's bedroom here, through the keyhole—it's quite noticeable in a dark hall as you come up the stairs, sir—and I took it for granted that he had retired. So I went back to the library and turned out the lights and shut the doors."

  "You heard no sound in here?"

  "No, sir." Gamble leaned forward and regarded Vance with staring eyes. "Do you think he was dead then?"

  "Oh, undoubtedly. If you'd taken the trouble to glance through the keyhole last night, you'd have seen him just as you saw him this morning."

  Gamble appeared stunned.

  "Good God, sir! And I never knew!" he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper.

  Vance yawned mildly.

  "Really, y' know," he said, "we sha'n't hold it against you. . . . And, by the by, there's a question I forgot to ask. Did Mr. Brisbane Coe take a walking-stick with him when he set forth for Chicago?"

  Gamble drew himself together, and gave a puzzled nod.

  "Yes, sir. He never goes anywhere without a stick. He's subject to rheumatism—"

  "So he's told me a score of times. . . . And what kind of stick did he take with him?"

  "His ivory-headed stick, sir. It's his favorite. . . .

  "The one with the crooked handle and the carvings?"

  "Yes, sir. It's a most unusual stick, sir. Mr. Brisbane bought it in Borneo years ago. . . ."

  "I know the stick well, Gamble. I've seen him carrying it on various occasions. . . . You're quite sure, are you, that he took this particular stick with him to Chicago?"

  "Positive. I handed it to him myself at the door of the taxicab."

  "You'd swear to that?"

  Gamble was as mystified as the rest of us at Vance's insistence.

  "Yes, sir!" he returned resolutely.

  Vance kept his eyes on the man, and stood up. He walked very deliberately to where Gamble sat, and looked down at him searchingly.

  "Gamble,"—he spoke pointedly—"did you see Mr. Brisbane Coe in this house after you returned last night?"

  The butler went white, and his lips began to tremble. The question was so unexpected that even I received a distinct shock from it. Markham half rose in his chair, and Heath froze into a startled attitude, his cigar half raised to his lips. Gamble cringed beneath Vance's steady gaze.

  "No, sir—no, sir!" he cried. "Honest to God, I didn't! I would have told you if I had."

  Vance shrugged and turned away.

  "Still, he was here last night."

  Markham struck the desk noisily with his fist.

  "What's back of that remark?" he demanded. "How do you know Brisbane Coe was here last night?"

  Vance looked up blandly, and said in a mild tone:

  "Very simple: his ivory-headed stick is hanging over the back of one of the chairs in the lower hall."

  7. THE MISSING MAN

  (Thursday, October 11; 11.45 a.m.)

  There was a momentary tense silence. Vance's statement, with the possibilities it suggested, threw a pall of vague horror over all of us. I was watching Gamble, and again I saw the pupils of his eyes dilate. Unsteadily he rose, and bracing himself with one hand on the back of his chair, glared at Vance like a man who had seen a malignant spectre.

  "You—are sure you saw the stick, sir?" he stammered, with a hideous contortion of the face. "I didn't see it. And Mr. Brisbane never hangs his stick over the hall chair. He always puts it in the umbrella-stand. Maybe some one else—"

  "Don't be hysterical, Gamble," Vance interrupted curtly. "Who but Mr. Brisbane himself would bring that precious stick back to the house and hang it over a chair in the hall?"

  "But, Mr. Vance, sir," the man persisted in an awed tone, "he once reprimanded me for hanging it over a chair—he said it might fall and get broken. Why, sir, should he hang it over the chair?"

  "Less noisy, perhaps, than chucking it into a brass umbrella-holder."

  Markham was leaning over the desk scowling at Vance.

  "What do you mean by that?" he demanded.

  Vance lifted his eyes slowly and let them rest on the District Attorney.

  "I opine, my dear Markham," he said slowly, "that brother Brisbane didn't want any one to hear him when he returned here last night."

  "And why do you 'opine' any such thing?" Markham's irritation was bordering on anger.

  "There may have been sinister business afoot," Vance returned evasively. "Brisbane started for Chicago on a night when he knew no one but Archer would be home. And then he missed his train—to speak euphemistically. He returned to the house—with his stick. And here's his stick hanging over the back of a tufted chair . . . but no Brisbane. And Archer—the sole occupant of this cluttered domicile last night—has gone to his Maker in most outlandish fashion."

  "Good God, Vance!" Markham sank back in his chair. "You don't mean that Brisbane—?"

  "Tut, tut! There you go jumping at conclusions again. . . ." Vance spoke in an offhand manner, but he could not entirely disguise his deep concern over the situation. He began walking up and down, his hands sunk deep in his coat pockets. "I can understand Brisbane's presence here last night," he murmured as if to himself, "but I can't understand the presence of his stick here this morning. It's very curious—it doesn't fit into the picture. Even if he had not taken the Lake Shore Limited to Chicago, there were other trains later on. The Iroquois goes about midnight, and there's another slow train around twelve-thirty. . . ."

  Heath took his c
igar from his mouth.

  "How do you know the bird didn't take one of those trains—that is, supposing he'd missed the Lake Shore Limited?"

  "By the stick in the lower hall, Sergeant."

  "Couldn't a guy forget his stick?"

  "Not Brisbane Coe—and certainly not in the circumstances. . . ."

  "What circumstances?" cut in Markham.

  "That's what I don't know exactly." Vance made a wry face. "But I begin to see a method in all this seeming madness; and that stick downstairs stands out like some terrible and accusing error. . . ."

  He stopped abruptly, and suddenly swinging about, went toward the door.

  "I'll be back in a minute. There's a possibility. . . ." He passed swiftly into the hall.

  Heath looked disgustedly at Markham.

  "What's he got on his mind, sir?"

  "I couldn't tell you, Sergeant." Markham was even more puzzled than Heath.

  "Well, sir, if you ask me," the Sergeant submitted surlily, "I think Mr. Vance is leaning too heavily on that stick. We've only got this guy's word"—he jerked his thumb toward Gamble—"that he took it with him in the first place. And until we know definitely that he didn't go to Chicago, we're stirring up a lot of trouble for nothing."

  Markham, I felt, was inclined to agree, but he made no comment.

  Presently Vance returned to the room, smoking abstractedly. His face was crestfallen.

  "He's not there," he announced. "I thought Brisbane might be in his room. But the shades are up; and the bed hasn't been slept in; and the lights are out." He sat down wearily. "His room's empty."

  The Sergeant planted himself in front of Vance.

  "Look here, Mr. Vance, even if he did miss the Lake Shore Limited, he's probably on his way to Chicago. Anybody might forget a stick. His suit-case ain't here—"

  Vance leaped to his feet.

  "The suit-case—that's it! What would he have done with the suit-case if he had not taken the early train and had intended to go on to Chicago later. . . ?"

  "He'd have checked it in the station, wouldn't he?" asked Heath contemptuously.

  "Exactly!" Vance wheeled to Gamble. "Describe that suit-case."

  "It was quite an ordinary case, sir," the man replied in a dazed tone. "Black seal-skin, leather lined, with rounded corners, and the initials 'B. C' in gold letters on one end."