"The same. A sharp, narrow, four-cornered instrument. Only, in this case, the hemorrhage was external. A lot of blood lost."
"Died instantly, I take it," remarked Vance.
"Yep." The doctor nodded. "Must have fallen in his tracks."
Vance picked up the blood-stained coat and waistcoat of the dead man, and inspected them.
"And this time the stab was through the clothes he was wearing," he commented. "A minor point, but worth verifying. . . . I say, doctor; any indications of a struggle?"
"Nope." Doremus put on his hat at a rakish angle. "Not a sign. He got it in the back when he wasn't expecting it. Startled him for a split second probably—look at that expression!—and then he curled up and passed out. Doubt if he even saw the fellow that did him in. Quick, smooth business."
"Devilish business," emended Markham.
"Oh, well, I'm no moralist," Doremus confessed. "I'm a doctor. There're too many people in the world anyway." He began filling in a printed blank. "Here's your removal order, Sergeant. And I suppose you'll be wanting a post-mortem report today. . . . All right, ship him down to the morgue—and maybe you'll get the report today, and maybe you won't."
He started for the door, but turned and fixed Heath with a leering eye.
"Say, look here. Got any more corpses round the house? If you have, bring 'em out now. I can't be running up here all day. I got work to do."
"Running?" Heath retorted with good-natured sarcasm. "With that fancy limousine the city furnishes you? . . ."
"So long," said Doremus. "I want food." And in another moment he had slammed the front door behind him.
Heath went at once to the telephone and ordered the wagon from the Department of Public Welfare. Then he returned to the library.
"Now where do we stand?" he asked, spreading his hands hopelessly.
Vance gave him a commiserating smile.
"About the middle of the Gobi desert, I should say, Sergeant."
"And where might that be, Mr. Vance?"
"The Gobi desert," explained Vance, "—or, more correctly, simply the Gobi[10]—is an almost unexplored territory in Mongolia, extending from the Pamirs to the Khingan mountains, and from the Yablonoi mountains to Altyn-tagh and the Nan-shan—which are the northernmost ranges of the Kuenlun mountains. The Chinese call the Gobi desert Han-hal and Sha-mo. The Mongolians say Sa-mak—"
"That's enough, sir," Heath interrupted. "I understand what you mean." He regarded Vance shrewdly. "And it's my opinion the Chink cook did it. If Mr. Markham would give me the word, I'd arrest him now."
"Why such haste, Sergeant?" sighed Vance. "You haven't a particle of evidence against him—and he knows it. That's why he will not admit that he was here earlier last night."
Heath started to say something but Markham made a gesture for silence.
"See here, Vance," he said, "how do you know Liang was here early last night?"
"By the fact that Gamble heard him come in at midnight. Gamble said he 'sneaked' in; but I assure you, Markham, if Liang had wanted to come in the back way without being heard, he would have done so with no difficulty whatever. Moreover, I imagine he always comes in silently—it's a Chinese characteristic. On general principles, the Chinese never want their movements, however innocent, to be known to foreigners. But last night Liang was heard returning—and Gamble had already retired to the fourth floor. A bit significant—eh, what? Liang probably saw Gamble's boudoir light ablaze, and let it be known, in a subtle way, that he was arriving from his afternoon and evening off. I can even imagine Liang leaving the kitchen door and windows open while he clattered Archer Coe's supper dishes and brewed himself a pot of tea. . . . Tea at midnight for a cultured Chinaman? No, no, Markham. Really, it's not done in the best oriental circles. And Liang had probably been flooding his system with goak-fa steepings most of the evening. He was merely signalling to Gamble that he had returned at midnight."
"I see what you mean." Markham nodded dubiously. "But, after all, your reasoning is purely speculative."
"Oh, quite," Vance admitted. "But the entire case is in a speculative stage just now, what? . . . Anyway, I have even more definite evidence that Liang was here early last night, and I'll present him with it later. . . . And that being the present state of affairs, what do you say to our having polite intercourse with Wrede and the Signor Grassi?"
Markham waved his hand in assent.
"And we'd better go upstairs," Vance suggested. "Brisbane is not a pretty sight."
Heath gave orders to Burke to remain at the library door and see that no one entered the room. Gamble was told to stay in the front hall and answer the door bell.
"Which one of the babies do you want first?" the Sergeant then asked.
"The Italian, by all means," said Vance. "He's frightfully upset, and therefore in an admirable state of mind for questioning. We'll keep Wrede till later,—he's teeming with possibilities."
Heath went toward the drawing-room door as Vance and Markham and I ascended the stairs to Archer Coe's room. Liang, with Miss Lake's breakfast tray, was descending from the third floor when we reached the upper landing, and he stood deferentially aside as we entered Coe's bedroom.
Grassi and the Sergeant joined us a few seconds later.
"Mr. Grassi," Vance began without preliminaries, "we should like to know exactly what your social and professional status is in this house. A very serious situation has developed here, and we are in need of all the information, however seemingly irrelevant, we can obtain. . . . We understand you have been a house guest of Mr. Coe's for a week."
The Italian now had himself well in hand. He walked to the easy chair in which Archer Coe's body had been found, and sat down in leisurely fashion.
"Yes—that is right," he returned, looking at Vance with calm disdain. "I came here at Mr. Coe's invitation a week ago yesterday. It was to have been a fortnight's visit."
"Had you any business with Mr. Coe?"
"Oh, yes. Business, one might say, was the basis of the invitation. . . . I am connected, in an official capacity, with a museum of antiquities in Milan," he explained; "and I had hoped to be able to purchase from Mr. Coe certain specimens of Chinese ceramic art from his remarkable collection."
"His Ting yao vase, for example?"
Grassi's dark eyes became suddenly brilliant with astonishment; but almost at once a wary look came into them, and he smiled with cold politeness.
"I must admit I was interested in the vase," he said. "Such pieces are very rare. Perhaps you know that genuine Ting yao of the Sung dynasty—not the Tu ting yao with its inevitable crackle—is practically unprocurable today."
Vance was standing by the east windows regarding the other with apparent unconcern.
"Yes, I knew that. . . . And you are sure Mr. Coe's vase is not Shu fu yao?"
"Quite sure—though it really does not matter whether the vase is Imperial ware or not. It is a magnificent specimen, of the amphora shape. . . . Have you examined it?"
"No," Vance told him. "I've never seen it . . . but I think I've had a fragment of it in my hand."
Grassi stared.
"A fragment!"
"Yes, a small triangular piece," Vance nodded. Then he added: "I have grave fears, Mr. Grassi, that the Ting yao vase has been broken."
The Italian stiffened, and his eyes clouded with suspicious anger.
"It's impossible! I was inspecting the vase only yesterday afternoon. It was on the circular table in the library."
"There's only a Tao Kuang vase there now," Vance informed him.
"And where, may I be permitted to ask, did you find this fragment of Ting yao?" The man's tone was cold and sceptical.
"On the same table," Vance replied carelessly. "Beneath the Tao Kuang."
"Indeed?" There was a sneer in the inflexion of the word.
Vance appeared to ignore it. He made a slight gesture of the hand as if dismissing an unimportant matter, and came closer to the Italian.
"I understan
d from Gamble that you left the house at about four o'clock yesterday afternoon."
Grassi smiled courteously, but he was patently on his guard.
"That is correct. I had a business appointment for dinner and the evening."
"With whom?"
"Is that information necessary?"
"Oh, very." Vance met the other's smile with one equally arctic.
Grassi shrugged with elaborate resignation.
"Very well, then. . . . With one of the curators of the Metropolitan Museum of Art."
"And," continued Vance, without change of tone, "at what time last night did you meet Miss Lake?"
The Italian rose indignantly, his sombre eyes flashing.
"I resent that question, sir!" His voice, though dignified, was unsteady. "Even if I had met Miss Lake, I would not tell you."
"Really, Mr. Grassi," Vance smiled, "I would not have expected you to. Your conduct is quite correct. . . . I take it for granted you were aware that Miss Lake is engaged to Mr. Wrede."
Grassi calmed down quickly and resumed his seat.
"Yes; I knew there was some understanding. Mr. Archer Coe informed me of the fact. But he also stated—"
"Yes, yes. He also stated that he was opposed to the alliance. He enjoyed Mr. Wrede intellectually, but did not regard him favorably as a husband for his ward. . . . What is your opinion of the situation, Mr. Grassi?"
The Italian seemed surprised at Vance's question.
"You must forgive me, sir," he said after a pause, "if I plead my inability to express an opinion on the subject. I may say, however, that Mr. Brisbane Coe disagreed with his brother. He was very much in favor of the marriage, and stated his views most emphatically to Mr. Archer Coe."
"And now both of them are dead," Vance remarked.
Grassi's eyelids drooped, and he turned his head slightly.
"Both?" he repeated in a low voice. (The man's purely speculative attitude puzzled me greatly.)
"Mr. Brisbane was stabbed in the back shortly after Mr. Archer was killed," Vance informed him.
"Most unfortunate," the Italian murmured.
"Have you," asked Vance, "any suggestion as to who might desire to have these two gentlemen out of the way?"
Grassi suddenly became austere and aloof.
"I have no suggestion," he replied in a flat, diplomatic voice. "Mr. Archer Coe was the type of man who might inspire enmities; but Mr. Brisbane Coe was quite the opposite—genial, shrewd, kindly—"
"But he had undercurrents of passion and resentment," suggested Vance.
"Oh, yes," the other agreed. "Also great capabilities. But he was clever enough not to antagonize people."
"An excellent characterization," Vance complimented him. "And what are your impressions of Mr. Wrede? . . . I assure you any opinion you express will go no further."
Grassi appeared ill at ease. He did not answer at once but contemplated the wall before him for some time. Finally he spoke in the slow, precise manner of a man carefully choosing his words.
"I have not been particularly impressed by Mr. Wrede. On the surface he is most charming. He has a pleasing manner, and is an excellent conversationalist. He has delved into many things; but I have a feeling he is inclined toward superficiality. Withal, he is very clever. . . ."
"Cleverness is our national curse," Vance remarked.
Grassi gave him an appreciative glance.
"I have felt that, since being in this country. England, however, has neither cleverness nor profundity."
"Which," supplemented Vance, "gives her a great advantage. . . . But forgive my interruption. You were speaking of Mr. Wrede."
Grassi readjusted his thoughts.
"Mr. Wrede, as I have said, impresses me as being very clever. But I have sensed another side to him. He is capable, I should say, of unexpected things. I have a feeling he would stop at nothing to gain his own ends. Beneath his gracious exterior is a sublimated hardness—a cruelty such as the Aztecs—"
"Thank you!" Vance cut in on the other's remark with unwonted harshness. "I perfectly understand your feelings." He looked down at Grassi contemptuously. "And now, sir, we should like to know exactly what you did yesterday between four o'clock in the afternoon and one o'clock in the morning." His tone was almost menacing.
The Italian made a valiant effort to meet Vance's stern gaze.
"I have said all I intend to say," he announced.
Vance faced the man threateningly.
"In that case," he said, "I shall have to order your arrest on suspicion of having murdered Archer and Brisbane Coe!"
A look of abject fear came over Grassi's pallid face.
"No—you can't—do that," he stammered. "I didn't do it—I assure you I didn't do it!" His voice rose. "I'll tell you anything you want to know—anything at all. . . ."
"That's much better," Vance remarked coldly. "Explain where you were yesterday."
Grassi leaned forward, grasping the arms of the chair with frantic force.
"I went to Doctor Montrose's for tea," he began in a high-pitched, nervous voice. "We discussed ceramics; and I stayed to dinner. At eight o'clock I excused myself and went to the railway station to take the train for Mount Vernon—to the Crestview Country Club. . . ."
"Your appointment with Miss Lake was at what time?"
"Nine o'clock." The man looked appealingly at Vance. "There was to be a dance . . . but—but I took the wrong train,—I'm not familiar—"
"Quite—quite." Vance spoke encouragingly. "And what time was it when you arrived at the Club?"
"It was after eleven." Grassi fell back into the chair, as if exhausted. "I had to make several transportation changes," he continued in a forced tone. "It was most unfortunate. . . ."
"Yes, very." Vance studied the other icily. "Did the lady forgive your tardiness?"
"Yes! Miss Lake accepted my explanation," the man returned, with a show of heat. "The fact is, she did not arrive until several minutes after I did. She had motored to the Arrowhead Inn with friends for dinner, and had an accident of some kind on her return to the Club."
"Very distressing'," murmured Vance. "Were her friends with her at the time of the accident?"
Grassi hesitated and moved uneasily.
"I do not believe they were," he answered. "Miss Lake told me she had motored back alone."
At this point Detective Burke stepped into the room.
"That Chink downstairs wants to speak to Mr. Vance," he said. "He's all hot and bothered."
Vance nodded to Heath.
"Send him up, Burke," the Sergeant ordered.
Burke turned and called down the stairs.
"Step on it, Wun Lung." He beckoned sweepingly with his whole arm.
Liang appeared at the door and waited till Vance came to him. He said something in a low voice which the rest of us in the room could not distinguish, and held out a crudely twisted paper parcel.
"Thank you, Mr. Liang," said Vance; and the Chinaman, with a bow, returned downstairs.
Vance took the parcel to the desk and began opening it.
"The cook," he said, speaking directly to the Italian, "has just found this package tucked away in the garbage-pail on the rear porch. It may interest you, Mr. Grassi."
As he spoke, he smoothed out the corners of the paper; and there were revealed to all of us many fragments of beautiful, delicate porcelain with a pure-white lustre.
"Here," he went on, still addressing the Italian, "are the remains of Mr. Coe's Ting yao vase. . . . And, if you will notice, several of these pieces of fragile Sung porcelain are stained with blood."
Grassi rose and stared at the fragments, stupefied.
10. "NEEDLES AND PINS"
(Thursday, October 11; 1.15 p.m.)
There was a long silence. Finally Grassi looked up.
"It's an outrage!" he exclaimed. "I don't comprehend it in the least. . . . And the blood! Do you think, sir, that this vase had anything to do with the death of Mr. Coe?"
"Wit
hout doubt." Vance was watching the Italian with a puzzled look. "But pray sit down again, Mr. Grassi. There are one or two more questions I should like to ask you."
The other resumed his seat reluctantly.
"If you were with Miss Lake at the Country Club late last night," Vance proceeded, "how did it happen that you and she returned to the house at different hours? I presume, of course, that you accompanied her back to the city."
Grassi appeared embarrassed.
"It was Miss Lake's suggestion," he said, "that we should not be heard entering the house at the same time. So I waited in Central Park for a quarter of an hour after she had gone in."
Vance nodded.
"I thought as much. It was the proximity of your two returns that made me conclude that possibly you had been together last night. And furthermore, business appointments with curators of the Metropolitan Museum are not apt to extend into the early hours of the morning. . . . But what reason did Miss Lake give for the deception?"
"No particular reason. Miss Lake merely said she thought it would be better if Mr. Brisbane Coe did not hear us coming in together."
"She specifically mentioned Mr. Brisbane Coe?"
"Yes."
"And she did not mention Mr. Archer Coe?"
"Not that I remember."
"That is quite understandable," Vance remarked. "Uncle Brisbane was her ally in her engagement to Mr. Wrede; and she may have feared that he would not have approved of her being out so late with another man. . . . The older generation, Mr. Grassi, is inclined to be strait-laced about these little matters. The modern girl is quite different."
The Italian was manifestly grateful for Vance's attitude, and bowed his appreciation.
Vance strolled to the window.
"By the by, Mr. Grassi, your quarters here are the suite of rooms at the front of the house on this floor, are they not?"
"Why, yes," the man replied, lifting his eyebrows. "They are directly over the drawing-room and den."
"When you came in last night—or rather, this morning—where did you hang your hat and coat?"
Again a cautious look came into the Italian's eyes.
"I did not wear an outer coat. But I carried my hat and stick to my own room."
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