The Casino Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Oh, once or twice,” Kane answered, with a careless wave of his cigarette holder. “She had rather weak eyes, and I recommended an ordinary eye solution... It’s been my experience,” he added in a pompous tone, “that very light blondes with pale blue eyes—lack of pigmentation, you understand—have weaker eyes than brunettes—”

  “Let’s not indulge in ophthalmological theory,” Vance cut in, with an ingratiating smile. “It’s getting beastly late... What else have you prescribed for young Mrs. Llewellyn?”

  “That’s really about all.” Kane, for all his attempt at poise, was becoming nervous. “I recommended a certain salve for a mild erythema on one of her hands several months ago; and last week, when she had all annoying cold in the head, I suggested regulation rhinitis tablets. I don’t recall anything else—”

  “Rhinitis tablets?” Vance’s penetrating gaze was on the man. “How many did you tell her to take?”

  “Oh, the usual dose,” Kane returned, with an effort at carelessness, “one or two tablets every two hours.”

  “Most rhinitis tablets contain belladonna, y’ know,” remarked Vance in a hard, even tone.

  “Why, yes—of course...” Kane’s eyes suddenly opened wide, and he stared at Vance with frightened intensity. “But—but, really...” He stammered, and broke off.

  “We found an empty hundred-tablet bottle in her medicine cabinet,” Vance informed him, without shifting his gaze. “And, according to your own diagnosis, Mrs. Llewellyn died of belladonna poisoning.”

  Kane’s jaw dropped, and his face went pale.

  “My God!” he muttered. “She—she couldn’t have done that.” The man was trembling noticeably. “She would know better—and I was most explicit...”

  “No one can blame you in the circumstances, doctor,” Vance said consolingly. “Tell me, was Mrs. Llewellyn an intelligent and conscientious patient?”

  “Yes—very.” Kane moistened his lips with his tongue, and made a valiant effort to control himself. “She was always most careful to follow my instructions implicitly. I remember now that she phoned me, the other day, asking if she could take an extra tablet before the two-hour interval had elapsed.”

  “And the eye lotion?” asked Vance with marked casualness.

  “I’m sure she followed my advice,” Kane answered earnestly. “Though, of course, that was an absolutely harmless solution—”

  “And what was your advice regarding it?”

  “I told her she should bathe her eyes with it every night before retiring.”

  “What were the ingredients in the unguent you recommended for her hand?”

  Kane looked surprised.

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” he returned unsteadily. “The usual simple emollients, I suppose. It was a proprietary preparation, on sale at any drug store,—probably contained zinc oxide or lanolin. There couldn’t possibly have been anything harmful in it.”

  Vance walked to the front window and looked out. He was both puzzled and disturbed.

  “Was that the extent of your medical services to Lynn Llewellyn and his wife?” he asked, returning slowly to the centre of the room.

  “Yes!” Though Kane’s voice quavered, there was in it, nevertheless, a note of undeniable emphasis.

  Vance let his eyes rest on the young doctor for a brief period.

  “I think that will be all,” he said. “There’s nothing more you can do here tonight.”

  Kane drew a deep breath of relief and went to the door.

  “Good night, gentlemen,” he said, with a questioning look at Vance. “Please call on me if I can be of any help.” He opened the door and then hesitated. “I’d be most grateful if you’d let me know the result of the autopsy.”

  Vance bowed abstractedly.

  “We’ll be glad to, doctor. And our apologies for having kept you up so late.”

  Kane did not move for a moment, and I thought he was going to say something; but he suddenly went out, and in a moment we could hear the butler helping him with his coat.

  Vance stood at the table for several moments, gazing straight before him and letting his fingers move over the inlaid design of the wood. Then, without shifting his eyes, he sat down and very slowly and deliberately drew out his cigarette-case.

  Markham had been standing near the door during this interview, watching both Vance and the doctor intently. He now walked across the room to the marble mantel and leaned against it.

  “Vance,” he commented gravely, “I’m beginning to see what’s in your mind.”

  Vance looked up and sighed deeply.

  “Really, Markham?” He shook his head with a discouraged air. “You’re far more penetratin’ than I am. I’d give my ting-yao vase to know what is in my mind. It’s all very confusin’. Everything fits—it’s a perfect mosaic. And that’s what frightens me.”

  He shook himself gently, as if to throw off some unpleasant intrusion of thought, and, going to the door, summoned the butler.

  “Please tell Miss Llewellyn,” he said, when the man appeared, “—I think she is in her own apartment—that we should appreciate her coming to the drawing-room.”

  When the man had turned down the hall toward the stairs, Vance moved to the mantel and stood beside Markham.

  “There are a few other little things I want to know before we make our adieux,” he explained. He was troubled and restless: I had rarely seen him in such a mood. “No case I have ever helped you with, Markham, has made me feel so strongly the presence of a subtle and devastating personality. Not once has it manifested itself in all the tragic events of this evening; but I know it’s there, grinning at us and defying us to penetrate to the bottom of this devilish scheme. And all the ingredients in the plot are, apparently, commonplace and obvious,—but I’ve a feelin’ they’re signposts pointing away from the truth.” He smoked a moment in silence; then he said: “The fiendish part of it is, it’s not even intended that we should follow the sign-posts...”

  There was the sound of soft footsteps descending the stairs; and a moment later Amelia Llewellyn stood at the drawing-room door.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A Cry in the Night

  (Sunday, October 16; 3 a.m.)

  SHE HAD CHANGED her tufted robe for a pair of black satin lounging pyjamas; and I saw evidences of the recent application of rouge, lip-stick and powder. She was smoking a cigarette in an embossed ebony holder; and as she stood before us, framed in the ivory of the door casement, she made a striking figure which somehow reminded me of one of Zuloaga’s spectacular poster-paintings.

  “I received your verbal subpœna from the jittery yet elegant Crichton—our butler’s name is really Smith—and here I am.” She spoke with an air of facetious worldliness. “Well, where do we stand now?”

  “We much prefer not to stand, Miss Llewellyn,” Vance answered, moving a chair forward with a commanding soberness.

  “Delighted.” She settled herself in the chair and crossed her knees. “I’m frightfully tired, what with all this unusual excitement.”

  Vance sat down facing her.

  “Has it occurred to you, Miss Llewellyn,” he asked, “that your brother’s wife may have committed suicide?”

  “Good Heavens, no!” The girl leaned forward in questioning amazement: she had suddenly dropped her cynical manner.

  “You know of no reason, then, why she should have taken her life?” Vance pursued quietly.

  “She had no more reason than any one else has.” Amelia Llewellyn gazed thoughtfully past Vance. “We could all find some good excuse for suicide. But Virginia had nothing to worry about. She was well provided for, and she was living more comfortably, materially, than she ever had been before.” (This remark was made with a decided tinge of bitterness.) “She knew Lynn pretty well before she married him, and she must have calculated every advantage and disadvantage beforehand. Considering the fact that we did not particularly like her, we treated her quite decently—especially mother. But then, Lynn has always been mot
her’s darling, and she’d treat a boaconstrictor with kindness and consideration if Lynn brought it into the house.”

  “Still,” suggested Vance, “even in such circumstances, people do occasionally commit suicide, y’ know.”

  “That’s quite true.” The girl shrugged. “But Virginia was too cowardly to take her own life, no matter how unhappy she may have been.” (A note of animosity informed her voice.) “Besides, she was always self-centred and vain—”

  “Vain about what, for instance?” Vance interrupted.

  “About everything.” She filliped the ashes of her cigarette to the floor. “She was particularly vain about her personal appearance. She was at all times on the stage and in make-up, so to speak.”

  “Does it not seem possible to you”—Vance was peculiarly persistent—“that if she had been miserable enough—?”

  “No!” The girl anticipated the rest of his question with an emphatic denial. “If Virginia had been too miserable to stand the life here, she wouldn’t have done away with herself. She would have run off with some other man. Or perhaps gone back to the stage—which is just an indirect way of doing the same thing.”

  “You’re not very charitable,” murmured Vance.

  “Charitable?” She laughed unpleasantly. “Perhaps not. But, at any rate, I’m not altogether stupid, either.”

  “Suppose,” remarked Vance mildly, “that I should tell you that we found a suicide note?”

  The girl’s eyes opened wide, and she gazed at Vance in consternation.

  “I don’t believe it!” she said vehemently.

  “And yet, Miss Llewellyn, it’s quite true,” Vance told her with quiet gravity.

  For several moments no one spoke. Amelia Llewellyn’s eyes drifted from Vance out into space; her lips tightened; and a shrewd, hard expression appeared on her face. Vance watched her closely, without seeming to do so. At length she moved in her chair and said with artificial simplicity:

  “One never can tell, can one? I guess I’m not a very good psychologist. I can’t imagine Virginia killing herself. It’s most theatrical, however. Did Lynn attempt self-annihilation, too?—a suicide pact, or something of the sort?”

  “If he did,” returned Vance casually, “he evidently failed—according to the latest report.”

  “That would be quite in keeping with his character,” the girl remarked in a dead tone. “Lynn is not the soul of efficiency. He always just misses the mark. Too much maternal supervision, perhaps.”

  Vance was annoyed by her attitude.

  “We’ll let that phase of the matter drop for the moment,” he said with a new sharpness. “We’re interested just now in facts. Can you tell us anything of your uncle’s—that is, Mr. Kinkaid’s—attitude toward your sister-in-law? The note we found mentioned that he had been particularly kind to her.”

  “That’s true.” The girl assumed a less supercilious air. “Uncle Dick always seemed to have a soft spot in his heart for Virginia. Maybe he felt that, as Lynn’s wife, she was to be pitied. Or maybe he considered her an adventurer like himself. In any event, there seemed to be a bond of some kind between them. Sometimes I’ve thought that Uncle Dick has let Lynn win at the Casino occasionally so that Virginia would have more spending money.”

  “That’s most interestin’.” Vance lighted a fresh cigarette and went on. “And that brings me to another question. I do hope you won’t mind. It’s a bit personal, don’t y’ know; but the answer may help us no end...”

  “Don’t apologize,” the girl put in. “I’m not in the least secretive. Ask me anything you care to.”

  “That’s very sportin’ of you,” murmured Vance. “The fact is, we should like to know the exact financial status of the members of your family.”

  “Is that all?” She looked genuinely surprised, perhaps even disappointed. “The answer is quite simple. When my grandfather, Amos Kinkaid, died, he left the bulk of his fortune to my mother. He had great faith in her business ability; but he didn’t think so much of Uncle Dick and willed him only a small portion of the estate. We children—Lynn and I—were too young to receive any individual consideration; and anyway, he probably counted on mother to look out for our welfare. The result is that Uncle Dick has had to look after himself more or less, and that mother is the custodian of Old Amos’s money. Lynn and I are both wholly dependent on her generosity; but she gives us a fair enough allowance... And that’s about all there is to it.”

  “But how,” asked Vance, “will the estate be distributed in the event of your mother’s death?”

  “That only mother can tell you,” replied the girl. “But I imagine it will be divided between Lynn and myself—with the greater part, of course, going to Lynn.”

  “What of your uncle?”

  “Oh, mother regards him with too much disapproval. I doubt seriously that she has considered him in her will at all.”

  “But in the event that your mother outlives both you and your brother, where would the money go then?”

  “To Uncle Dick, I guess—if he were alive. Mother has a pronounced clannish instinct. She’d much prefer Uncle Dick to inherit the fortune to having it fall into the hands of an outsider.”

  “But suppose either you or your brother should die before your mother, do you think the remaining child would inherit everything?”

  Amelia Llewellyn nodded.

  “That is my opinion,” she answered, with quiet frankness. “But no one can tell what plans or ideas mother has. And, naturally, it’s not a subject that’s ever discussed between us.”

  “Oh, quite—quite.” Vance smoked for a moment and then raised himself a little in his chair. “There’s one other question I’d like to ask you. You’ve been very generous, don’t y’ know. The situation is quite serious at the moment, and there’s no tellin’ what facts or suggestions may prove of assistance to us...”

  “I think I understand.” The girl spoke with an apparent softness and appreciation of which I had heretofore thought her incapable. “Please don’t hesitate to ask me anything that may be of help to you. I’m terribly upset—really. I didn’t care for Virginia, but—after all—a death like hers is—well, something you wouldn’t wish for your worst enemy.”

  Vance took his eyes from the girl and contemplated the tip of his cigarette. I tried to probe his mental reaction at the moment, but his face showed nothing of what was going through his mind.

  “My question concerns Mrs. Lynn Llewellyn,” he said. “It’s simply this: if she had survived both you and your brother, what effect would that have had on your mother’s will?”

  Amelia Llewellyn pondered the question.

  “I really couldn’t say,” she replied at length. “I’ve never thought of the situation in that light. But I’m inclined to believe mother would have made Virginia her chief beneficiary. She would probably have clutched at anything to keep Uncle Dick from getting the estate. And furthermore her almost pathological devotion to Lynn would affect her decision. After all, Virginia was Lynn’s wife; and Lynn and everything pertaining to him has always come first with mother.” She looked up appealingly. “I wish I could help you more than I have.”

  Vance rose.

  “You have helped us no end—really. We’re all gropin’ about in the dark just now. And we sha’n’t keep you up any longer... But we’d like to speak to your mother. Would you mind asking her to come here to the drawing-room?”

  “Oh, no.” The girl rose wearily and went toward the door. “She’ll be delighted, I’m sure. Her one ambition in life is to have a hand in every one’s affairs and to be the centre of every disturbance.” She went slowly from the room, and we could hear her ascending the stairs.

  “A strange creature,” Vance commented, as if he were thinking out loud. “A combination of extremes...cold as steel, yet highly emotional. Constant cerebral antagonism goin’ on...can’t make up her mind. She’s livin’ on a psychic borderline—heart and mind at odds... Curiously symbolic of this entire case. No compass
es and no way of takin’ our bearin’s.” He looked up wistfully. “Don’t you feel that, Markham? There are a dozen roads to take—and they all may lead us astray. But there’s a hidden alley somewhere, and that’s the route we have to take...”

  He walked toward the rear of the drawing-room.

  “In the meantime,” he said, in a lighter tone, “I’ll indulge my zeal for thoroughness.”

  Behind heavy velour drapes in the middle of the rear wall were massive sliding doors; and Vance drew one of them aside. He felt along the wall in the room beyond, and in a few seconds there was a flood of light revealing a small library. We could see Vance stand for a moment looking about him; and then he went to the low kidney-shaped desk and sat down. On the desk stood a typewriter, and after inserting a piece of paper in it, he began typing. In a few moments he withdrew the paper from the machine, looked at it closely, and, folding it, put it in his inside breast pocket.

  On his way back to the drawing-room he paused before a set of book-shelves and let his eye run over the neat array of volumes it held. He was still inspecting the books when Mrs. Llewellyn came in with an air of imperious regality. Vance must have heard her enter, for he turned immediately, and rejoined us in the drawing-room.

  He bowed, and, indicating one of the large silk-covered chairs by the centre-table, asked her to sit down.

  “What did you gentlemen wish to see me about?” Mrs. Llewellyn asked, without making any move to seat herself.

  “I notice, madam,” Vance returned, ignoring both her manner and her question, “that you have a most interestin’ collection of medical books in the little room beyond.” He moved his hand in a designating gesture toward the sliding doors.

  Mrs. Llewellyn hesitated and then said:

  “I shouldn’t be in the least surprised. My late husband, though not a doctor, was greatly interested in medical research. He wrote occasionally for some of the scientific journals.”

  “There are,” continued Vance, without any change of intonation, “several standard works on toxicology among the more general treatises.”