The Winter Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  It was nearly nine o’clock when we turned in through a wide stone gateway that marked the outer limits of the vast estate. There was no one to direct us, and when we had reached the crest of a high rocky hill, Vance was confused as to which turning to take. There were half-hidden tracks in one of the forks of the narrow road, and we turned to the right to follow them.

  A mile or so farther on, the road sloped gently downward into a narrow snowclad valley at the far end of which precipitous cliffs rose to a tree-crested plateau. Vance let the car coast noiselessly into the still white fairyland.

  As we reached the base of the long incline the sound of faint music came to us through the trees on our left. There was no habitation visible, and the music intensified the fantasy of the setting which spread before us.

  Applying the brakes, Vance stopped the car and, stepping out, moved towards the source of the lilting notes.

  We had gone scarcely a hundred yards when, through the trees which hid us from view, we spied a small frozen pond on which a girl was skating. The music came from a small portable phonograph placed on a rustic bench at the edge of the pond.

  The girl, in a simple white skating costume, seemed unreal in the light of the moon and stars. She was going through one difficult skating figure after another with serious repetition, as if trying to perfect their intricacies. Vance suddenly became attentive.

  “My word!” he whispered. “Magnificent skating!”

  He stood fascinated by the girl’s proficiency as she executed various school figures and complicated free routines.

  The phonograph ran down and, as the girl completed an involved jump and spiral spin, Vance approached her with a cheerful greeting. At first she was startled; then she smiled shyly.

  “You must be new guests at the Manor,” she remarked in a timid voice. “I’m so sorry you caught me skating. It’s sort of a secret, you see… Maybe you won’t tell anyone,” she added with a note of appeal in her voice.

  “Of course, we shan’t.” Vance studied the girl critically. “I believe I remember you—l was at the Manor some years ago. Weren’t you the friend and companion of Miss Joan?”

  She nodded. “I was. And I still am. I’m Ella Gunthar. But I don’t remember you. It must have been when I was a little girl.”

  “My name is Philo Vance,” Vance told her. “I was just driving to the Manor, and lost my way. When I heard your music I came over in the hope of finding my bearings.”

  “You’re not seriously lost,” she said. “This is the Green Glen and if you go back up the hill and take the narrow road to the right for about a mile, you’ll see the Manor just ahead.”

  Vance thanked her, but lingered a moment. “Tell me, Miss Gunthar: if you are Joan’s companion at the Manor, why do you skate on this little pond so far away from the main house?”

  The girl’s lovely face seemed to cloud for a moment.

  “I—I don’t want to hurt Joan’s feelings,” she answered cryptically. “I always come to the Green Glen at night when my duties are over at the Manor, to do my skating.”

  “But the phonograph,” said Vance; “isn’t it frightfully heavy to carry all this way?”

  “Oh, I don’t keep it at the Manor.” She laughed. “I keep it in Jed’s hut, just around the curve in the road, by that big cypress tree. And I keep my skates and skating clothes there, too. It’s all a secret between Jed and me.”

  Vance smiled at her reassuringly.

  “Well, I promise the secret will go no farther. But it’s really a magnificent secret. You know, don’t you, that you skate beautifully? You’re one of the most talented performers I have ever seen.”

  The girl blushed with pleasure.

  “I love skating,” she replied simply.

  A few minutes later we had turned into the driveway to the brilliantly lighted Rexon Manor.

  As a bald elderly butler led us through the lower hall we could hear the boisterous hilarity of many guests in the drawing room—snatches of popular music, laughter, raised voices: a gay and youthful clamor.

  Carrington Rexon, alone in his den, greeted us with old-world dignity. It was the first time I had met him, but I was not unfamiliar with his features, as pictures of him had frequently appeared in the Metropolitan press. He was a tall, slender, impressive man in his sixties; aloof and stern, and with an imperious air of feudalism. He vaguely suggested Sargent’s famous portrait of Lord Ribblesdale.

  “Ah, Vance! It was generous of you to come. Perhaps you think I am unduly apprehensive…”

  The door opened and a dark, serious young man of athletic build stood on the threshold.

  Rexon turned without surprise.

  “My son Richard,” he informed us with undisguised pride. Then: “But why are you deserting our guests?”

  “I’m a bit fed up.” Then the young man shrugged his shoulders apologetically and smiled. “I guess I’m not used to it. It’s such a change—”

  A girl of about twenty-five appeared in the doorway and looked about.

  The elder Rexon somewhat relaxed his stern manner and presented us. Her likeness, too, I had seen many times in the New York papers. Carlotta Naesmith had been a vivid and gifted debutante a few years before. She was a colorful auburn-haired young woman, animated and vital, with sagacious eyes and an air of self-assurance. She nodded to us casually, and turned to young Rexon.

  “Completely overcome, Dick? Has the gaiety got you down? Come, don’t desert the ship just when the sea’s getting stormy.”

  “I think Carlotta is quite right, Richard,” Carrington Rexon commented. “You came home for relaxation. Forget your scalpels and microbes for a while. Go on back with Carlotta, and take Mr. Vance with you. He’ll want to meet your friends.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Bourbon Glass

  (Wednesday, January 15; 10:30 p.m.)

  AN UNUSUALLY GAY and colorful sight confronted us in the great drawing room. Groups of young people stood about joking and laughing; others danced. A spirit of carefree revelry animated the scene.

  Carlotta Naesmith was a capable hostess. She led us through the boisterous throng, introducing us haphazardly.

  “This is Dahlia Dunham,” she said, snaring a wiry and tense young woman of perhaps thirty. “Dahlia’s a political spellbinder, full of incredible phrases, and death to hecklers. She’ll stump for any cause from Socialism to Fletcherism—”

  “But not for prohibition, dear,” the other retorted in a raucous unsteady voice, as she withdrew her arm from Miss Naesmith’s and hurried toward the miniature bar.

  Another girl came up, complaining.

  “A hell of a place! No landing field! When you snare the Rexon millions, Carlotta, see to it that Dick builds one.”

  She was blonde and frail, with liquid eyes that dominated her pointed face. I recognized the much publicized Beatrice Maddox before Carlotta Naesmith presented us. She had recently won fame as an airplane pilot, and only a governmental veto had stayed her proposed solo flight across the Atlantic.

  “What’s up, Bee?” came a rumbling voice behind me, and a young Irish giant threw his arms about Miss Maddox. “You look glum. Out of gas? So am I.” He whisked her away to the bar.

  “That was Pat McOrsay,” Miss Naesmith told us. “He drives ’em fast. Won last year’s auto grind at Cincinnati. He’s sweet on Bee, but she holds mere auto racers in contempt. Maybe they’ll compromise. I did want you to meet Pat—he’s such a beast… But wait. There’s another speed demon of a kind over there… Hi there, Chuck,” she called across the room. “Stop trying to tout Sally and come over here a moment—if you can make it.”

  Chuck Throme, the internationally famous gentleman jockey who had won the last Steeplechase at Aintree, staggered stiffly up. His eyes wouldn’t focus, but his manner was impeccable.

  “Sit down, darling, and meet Mr. Vance,” Miss Naesmith exhorted. “Don’t try it standing up. Your stirrups’ll bend.”

  Throme drew himself up indignantly to his fi
ve-feet-five and bowed with a Chestertonian flourish. But the supreme gesture was not completed. He continued his obeisance to the rug and lay there.

  “That’s one race Chuck didn’t win,” laughed our cicerone. “Let’s move on. Some assistant starter will put him back in the saddle… Isn’t it positively disgusting, Mr. Vance? Liquor is a frightful curse. Saps the brain, undermines the morals, and all that… Which reminds me: let’s take an intermission in our round of social duties and have a drink.”

  She led us to the bar.

  “I’m very demure—for Richard’s sake. I drink only Dubonnet in public. But don’t let my girlish restraint affect your batting average. Everything’s available, including trinitrotoluene.”

  Vance drank brandy. As we stood chatting a tall, rugged, sunburnt man came up and put his arms possessively about Miss Naesmith.

  “I’m still yearning to know your answer, Carlotta,” he blustered good-naturedly. “For the next-to-the-last time: Are you, or are you not, coming with me to Cocos Island when Dick returns to his bone-sawing?”

  “Ha!” Carlotta Naesmith swung about and pushed him away playfully. “Still crooning your Once-Aboard-the-Lugger ditty. You’re inelegant, Stan. And right under Dick’s nose.”

  Richard Rexon showed no annoyance. He came forward and, putting one hand on the other man’s arm, introduced him to us. It was Stanley Sydes, a young society man with too much money, who spent his time on expeditions in quest of buried treasure.

  Vance knew of his exploits, and a brief discussion took place.

  “A playboy bulging with good money who spends it hunting dirty doubloons!” Carlotta Naesmith laughed. “There’s a paradox—or is the whole world crazy except me?”

  “Not a paradox, Miss Naesmith,” Vance put in pleasantly. “I understand Mr. Sydes’ urge perfectly. It’s really not the treasure, y’ know. It’s the quest.”

  “Right!” boomed Sydes. “The joy of outwitting others, of solving riddles; and the acquisition of the unique… Hell, I’m talking like a collector—Forgive me, Richard. No offense to your eminent sire.” A noisy group opposite attracted his attention, and he joined them.

  His place at the bar was taken almost immediately by the girl who had been bantering with Throme.

  “My God, Sally!” Miss Naesmith greeted her. “Really alone? Hasn’t your gentleman jockey regained his mount?… Gentlemen,”—she turned to us—“we have here none other than Sally Alexander, the inimitable—pride of the Purple Room, off-color raconteuse and pianist extraordinary. A one-woman slum. She carried the Blue Book to the masses—and made ’em like it. A feat, egad!”

  “I’m being maligned, gents,” Sally Alexander protested. “I’m elegant, no end.”

  “I quite agree,” Vance defended her. “I’ve heard Miss Alexander sing, and never once have I blushed.”

  “That must have been when she sang in the village choir, in her sub-deb days.”

  “Just for that,” retorted Miss Alexander, “I’m going to take Dick away from you.” And, slipping her arm through Richard Rexon’s, she led him to the dance floor.

  Miss Naesmith shrugged. She looked at Vance.

  “Had enough of this, Sir Galahad? There are other exhibits in the zoo. Nothing really special, however. Am I not an honest guide?”

  “Honest and charming.” Vance set down his glass. “But isn’t there a Mr. Bassett?”

  “Oh, Jacques…” She looked round the room. “He’s Richard’s friend, you know. A more or less imported specimen, I believe. Anyway, he came over on the boat with Dick and is always comparing our ski runs with those of Switzerland—to the detriment of ours, of course. Maybe he does yodel and live on goat’s milk. I wouldn’t know. Though I do know he speaks American with a prairie accent—if my ears don’t lie.”

  She caught sight of Bassett.

  “There’s your man, in the far corner, drinking lustily by himself. Come along. You can have him gladly. Then I’ll go and rescue Dick. Sally’ll be at the risqué-story stage by now.”

  Jacques Bassett sat at a small table, drinking Bourbon. He was tall, dark, aggressively athletic. His heavy eyebrows met over a broad flat nose.

  He talked about Europe. Vance showed interest. Swiss winter resorts came up. Vance asked questions. Bassett expatiated. He was eloquent about the toboggan runs and the ski trails at Oberlachen in the Tyrol. Vance mentioned Amsterdam. But the subject had no interest for Bassett. He wandered away.

  Vance turned his back. Then he threw his handkerchief over the glass from which Bassett had been drinking. Slipping it into his pocket, he left the room abruptly.

  A little later, I found Vance with Carrington Rexon in the den. Another man was seated with them before the log fire. He was in his late forties, with steel-grey hair, and a soft voice which seemed to cover a tension: obviously a man of the world, with a highly professional manner which was rigid, but not without ingratiation. I was not surprised to find that he was Doctor Loomis Quayne, the Rexon physician.

  “Doctor Quayne,” Rexon explained, “dropped by to see my daughter Joan. But the excitement of so many guests has wearied her and she retired long ago.” His voice was wistful. (Vance had told me during our drive to Winewood something of Joan Rexon’s tragedy: how she had fallen and injured her spine while skating, when she was only ten years old.)

  “Joan’s fatigue need not worry you, my dear Rexon,” the doctor assured him. “It’s natural in the circumstances. This little excitement may do her good, in fact—stimulate her interest, lead her mind along new lines. Psychological therapy is our chief recourse just now… I’ll drop in again tomorrow. I hope I’ll see Richard then, too. I’ve hardly talked with him since he came. But I’m glad to find him looking as well as when I saw him on my trip abroad two years ago.”

  “Dick’s in the drawing room now,” Rexon suggested with a twinkle.

  The doctor smiled. “No, not this evening. I must be going soon. I left the motor of my car running so I won’t have to bother priming it. These cold days the starter doesn’t work so well… And I think I prefer the quiet of your den, if I may sit and finish my highball.”

  “Can’t say that I blame you, doctor… This new generation…” Rexon shook his head disapprovingly.

  As we talked on, largely in generalities, but with an occasional allusion to Richard Rexon’s future in medicine, it became evident that there was something deeper than the mere professional relationship between Rexon and Quayne; a touch of intimacy, perhaps, due to long and tragic association.

  At length the doctor rose and bade us good night. Vance and I left Carrington Rexon shortly after.

  “A strange and dizzy household.” Vance sprawled in an easy chair in his room. “No wonder old Rexon’s jittery. Probably feels lost in the midst of the unknown. Obviously determined on Carlotta as a daughter-in-law, though; he’s just the type to crave a dynastic marriage for his son. And the girl’s not deficient in gifts. Nice; but too vivid for my aging tastes. And Richard. An admirable chap. Too serious for this outfit. Strange, too, his attitude toward Carlotta. Not all it should be. Seemed quite indifferent to the treasure hunter’s poaching. That rather irked the lady. I wonder… Interesting creature, Sydes. Has a mental quirk. He put his finger on it, too. A collector! Just that… But Bassett. Not a nice person. Worries old Rexon. Carlotta feels it, too. Something familiar about those cold eyes. Queer. And why should he pretend about Oberlachen? No ski runs or toboggan slides there. Only a lake and a castle and a few peasants. Probably never been there. He met Richard at Saint Moritz. He would. And when I mentioned Amsterdam, Jacques wasn’t having any. Well, well… No, Van. As I said. A dizzy lot. Social life at its gaudiest. Too much mental makeup.”

  He brought out his Régie cigarettes, lighted one, and stretched his legs.

  “And all through the evening I kept thinking of little Ella Gunthar. Natural and fresh. Lovely. However…”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The First Murder

  (Thursday, January 16; 8
a.m.)

  THE NEXT MORNING at eight there was excited knocking at our door.

  “Mr. Vance! Mr. Vance!” I recognized the old butler’s voice. “Mr. Rexon says will you please come to the den at once, sir.”

  Vance jumped up. “What’s wrong, Higgins?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Right!”

  He dressed speedily, and we went into the hall. A woman, in the black livery of a housekeeper, was bent over the railing of the stairs. She heard us and backed against the wall, eyes staring, body rigid. Vance halted, looked at her sharply. She was tall, well built, about forty. She had green eyes, black hair, a cryptic face. A superior woman, but over-taut.

  “Could you hear?” Vance’s tone was cold.

  “There’s tragedy!” she said, in a tense, contralto voice.

  “Common commodity of life. Relax.”

  We hurried downstairs.

  “The Manor’s strangest creature so far,” Vance remarked to me. “Inhibited. Menacing. Knows too much. Volcanic. But only smouldering. She’s tragedy. God help her…”

  Carrington Rexon was in a house gown. With him in the den was a huge middle-aged man in a lumberjacket, corduroy trousers, and laced leather boots. He was pale and nervous. There was sweat on his hands as he steadied himself against the mantel.

  “Eric Gunthar here, my overseer,” Rexon told us, “just found the body of Lief Wallen in Tor Gulch near here. He’s evidently fallen from the ledge on top. Gunthar came in to report to me and get aid. Would you go with him, Vance? I’ve already phoned for the doctor… Wallen was the guard of the Manor’s west wing, where the Gem Room is.”

  “An indication perhaps. Quite. I understand. Gladly.”

  “Lief must have slipped,” Gunthar put in thickly.

  “Be sure you have someone replace him tonight,” ordered Rexon. “Better take a couple of men to bring him up,” he added.

  “Darrup’s down at the lower rink. I’ll find another.” Gunthar’s hand brushed his forehead. “Wallen was a bad sight, Squire… Can I have another drink—?”