The Winter Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Very mystifyin’,” Vance murmured. “Only two cases broken.”

  “Probably didn’t have time; hurried job,” suggested O’Leary.

  “Quite, Lieutenant. All indications pointin’ thus… Wonder what Istar has to do with it.”

  He stepped to the side window and forced the catch open. O’Leary looked on as he examined the heavy criss-cross iron bars that enclosed the entire window frame. Then they made a similar inspection of the other window.

  “My word! Here’s something interestin’, Lieutenant. Bit of tamperin’, what?” He directed O’Leary’s attention to some peculiar ragged scratches across three of the bars.

  O’Leary’s brows went up. “Whoever it was must’ve tried this means of entry first and found it too cumbersome an undertaking. No patience.”

  “Or,” returned Vance, “an interruption occurred. Aborted attempt. Could be. Let’s toddle.”

  They reclosed the windows. Vance took another look about the room before unlocking the unwieldy door.

  In the den Doctor Quayne was attempting futilely to console Rexon. “It’s not as if they’d all been taken.” Platitudes like that. “Only a few pieces…”

  “Only a few pieces!” repeated Rexon despairingly. “The very pieces that matter! If they’d taken all the others and left me those—” He did not complete the sentence.

  Vance handed Rexon the key. “I’ve relocked the door, of course. Now tell us just what is missing. And how is Istar mixed up in it?”

  Rexon jerked himself up in his chair; leaned wearily against the desk. “Every unset stone I owned. Spent a lifetime collecting ’em.”

  “Those would be the easiest to dispose of, I take it,” observed O’Leary respectfully.

  “Yes. Exactly. A fortune for anyone into whose hands they came. All but the Istar…”

  “Again, wherefore Istar?” persisted Vance.

  “Queen Istar’s necklace,” groaned Rexon. “The rarest piece in my collection. From Egypt—eighteenth dynasty. It can never be replaced. Six high cabochon emeralds of flawless cut on a chain of smaller stones set in silver and pearls… You must remember it, Vance.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course,” said Vance sympathetically. “Naughty queen—Istar. Always poppin’ in and out to annoy folks.”

  O’Leary was making notes in a small book.

  “When were you last in the room?” asked Vance.

  “This morning, early. I go in every morning. Had Bruce there with me to do a little dusting. For the display to my guests this evening.”

  “Ah, yes. Very sad. Now, of course, there’ll be no display.”

  “No.” Rexon shook his head in keen disappointment.

  “But the youngsters must have their party tonight as though nothing had happened. You agree, Rexon?” Vance’s tone was significantly imperative.

  “Yes, by all means,” complied Rexon. “No need to upset everybody.”

  The doctor rose presently, picked up his bag. “You don’t need my services any more just now, Rexon. Wish I could be more helpful. But I’ll be back this evening to keep an eye on Joan for you.”

  “Thank you, Quayne. That’s very good of you.”

  The doctor bowed himself out.

  O’Leary closed his notebook. “Tell me, Mr. Rexon, was your overseer in to see you this morning?”

  “Gunthar? No,” replied Rexon. “He’s probably been working on the rink and the pavilion all morning. But it’s strange you should ask that. Higgins told me when I came down this morning that Gunthar had been here about half an hour earlier asking if he could see me. Higgins told him I wasn’t down yet, and the man went away grumbling to himself. I don’t understand it, for he never comes here unless I send for him.”

  O’Leary nodded with satisfaction. He stepped to the open window, lowered it and raised it again. Then he leaned out for a moment as if inspecting the flagging below. There was a speculative look in his eyes as he rejoined us.

  In the hall Vance drew the Lieutenant aside. “What about Gunthar?” he asked in a low tone. “Any secrets to unbosom?”

  “It’s a clearer-cut case now than it was yesterday.” The Lieutenant was solemn. “You admitted I had a good case then, sir. But add this to it: I tried to see Gunthar this morning. One of the workmen told me he had gone to the Manor to speak to the Squire. Seemed natural. So I waited around a while. But Gunthar didn’t come back.”

  O’Leary cocked a triumphant eye at Vance.

  “You see, sir, how easy it would have been for the man to have entered the den through the window, either then or later when Mr. Rexon was out of the room. He had only to wait back of the screen till the time was ripe. When he had struck the blow it would have been a moment’s work for him to snatch the key and get to the Gem Room.”

  Vance nodded. “Deuced clever, Lieutenant. Logical from many points of view.”

  “Yes. And what’s more,” persisted O’Leary, “I’m not at all convinced his daughter Ella wasn’t mixed up in it—you know, sir, like giving him the tip-off—”

  “Oh, my dear fellow! You startle me no end. I say, aren’t you carrying this prejudice against Gunthar a bit too far?”

  O’Leary looked surprised that Vance apparently could not appreciate the circumstantial possibilities of the situation.

  “No, I wouldn’t say so,” he retorted with the calmness of conviction. “I’ve got enough to arrest the girl along with her father.”

  “But on what grounds, Lieutenant?” Vance was concerned.

  “As a material witness, if nothing else,” was O’Leary’s confident rejoinder.

  Vance lighted a cigarette and blew a long ribbon of smoke. “Not attemptin’ to try your case, Lieutenant. No. It’s far too logical. Merely making an urgent request. Neither the girl nor papa is likely to run off tonight, what? Surely, tomorrow will serve your purpose quite as well. You’ll wait, Lieutenant? I’m beggin’.”

  O’Leary studied Vance several moments. There was no denying the look of admiration beneath his perturbation and doubt. Finally he nodded. “I’ll wait, sir. Though it goes against my best judgment.” And he strode off across the veranda and disappeared down the side steps.

  Vance, too, stepped out on the veranda a moment later. Joan Rexon still sat where we had left her, but Ella Gunthar was no longer there. In her place sat Carlotta Naesmith.

  “My word!” murmured Vance. “No use hopin’ the doughty Lieutenant didn’t note Miss Ella’s absence. No. Observin’ fellow, O’Leary.”

  Bassett was still hunched over the table where he had started his game of Canfield. Stanley Sydes had joined him and sat in a chair opposite, acting as banker. A decanter of Bourbon stood between them.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Farewell Soirêe

  (Saturday, January 18; 9 p.m.)

  THE AFTERNOON HAD passed uneventfully. After lunch Carlotta Naesmith and Stanley Sydes invited Vance to go with the others and watch their practice routine on the ice. He had politely declined. Richard Rexon, who likewise remained at the Manor, had talked briefly with Vance regarding the stolen emeralds and spent the rest of the afternoon brooding about the matter. Miss Joan retired to her sitting room for a rest. The house was unusually quiet.

  At dinner there was excited talk about the party. Especially were there mysterious hints of a surprise performer whom Mr. Rexon had invited for the occasion. No one seemed to have any specific information, however.

  Dinner over, the older guests assembled on the veranda, grouping themselves on either side of Miss Joan’s chaise longue at the center window. The night was clear and not too cold.

  Shortly before nine Marcia Bruce brought Miss Joan out to her place.

  “Please pull up a chair for Ella beside me,” the girl requested. “She should be here any minute now.”

  Miss Bruce complied.

  Doctor Quayne came up. After a word of encouragement to Miss Joan and a greeting to Richard, he seated himself beside Carrington Rexon behind the young people. Jacques Bassett stoo
d against the closed doors at the rear. Lieutenant O’Leary unobtrusively found a place for himself.

  A high, old-fashioned phonograph was wheeled out to the rink by Higgins and another servant. A box of records was carried down.

  Vance, on skates, in immaculate evening attire, with a white muffler at his throat, appeared on the rink. Additional lights were turned on as he came forward.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began in mock ceremonious style. His voice was clear and resonant. “I have been honored with the privilege of conducting this memorable event. I confidently promise you an evening of most unusual regalement.”

  General applause greeted his statement.

  “We have with us tonight,” he proceeded with exaggerated formality, “performers of wide renown. I might even say, of worldwide renown. Most of you, I am sure, will recognize each name as it is announced…”

  Another round of applause drowned out his next words.

  “The first of our guest stars,” he resumed, “is Miss Sally Alexander. She will entertain you in her own incomparable manner.”

  Miss Alexander came up from the pavilion, a smiling urchin in colorful tatters, skating gracefully into the spotlight thrown from an upper window of the Manor. She sang a gay Parisian chansonette of dubious significance, and was rewarded with much laughter and cheering. Her next number was a monologue depicting an intoxicated celebrity attempting to thread his way through a bevy of admiring debutantes. Skates made the task none too easy. The small audience was genuinely amused, their approval long and loud.

  Vance assisted the young woman back to the pavilion and returned with Dahlia Dunham and Chuck Throme, both in trunks and jerseys. They skated into the spotlight and made a deep bow. Vance raised the young woman’s hand.

  “On my right, wearing red trunks,” he announced, “is Miss Dahlia Dunham—a most charmin’ battler, with many a vict’ry to her credit. On my left, in white trunks, is Jockey Throme, with a list of wins quite as impressive. The two will now go through three rounds for the skate-weight championship.”

  The gloves were put on, the seconds waved away; the referee came forward, and the bout started. The two contenders sparred lightly for a few seconds. They went into a clinch and were separated by the referee. The slippery ice under their skates sent many of the punches far afield. Those that connected did little damage. When Vance blew his whistle at the end of the third round Miss Dunham was declared the winner by popular acclaim. Chuck Throme, taking his defeat gallantly, essayed another bow. As on an earlier occasion, he carried the obeisance too far. His skates slid out from under him. He lay prone on the ice. Vance and Miss Dunham assisted him to his feet and helped him from the rink.

  Joan Rexon sat up and looked about. “I wish Ella would come,” I heard her say. “She’s missing all the fun. Have you seen her, Dick?”

  Richard Rexon shook his head glumly. “Maybe she’s outside somewhere.” He went to investigate.

  Next Miss Maddox and Pat McOrsay presented a skit with a homemade miniature plane on runners. This was followed by Vance’s announcement of Miss Naesmith’s number with Stanley Sydes. In Spanish costume they creditably performed a series of dances to the accompaniment of the records Vance placed on the phonograph. The other performers joined them for the final tango. Richard Rexon had returned to the disconsolate Joan.

  “And now,” came Vance’s voice again, “we have a surprise for you. I can’t give you the name of this performer because she is practically unknown. We call her the Masked Marvel… But one moment! I must whisper in our maestro’s ear what melody he is to play.” He pantomimed comically to the phonograph as he put on a new record. The lovely strains of Geschichten aus dem Wiener Wald came floating over the still night. And then…

  A petite figure came tripping out on the ice with unbelievable ease and rhythm. Her costume of velvet and sequins shimmered gaily in the lights. A silk mask covered most of her face. Her spaced routine was exquisitely performed. With incredible grace she combined the most difficult school figures with spirals, spins, and jumps of daring originality.

  Everyone gasped with delight. There was a remark that it must be Linda Höffler, the newest skating sensation. Some of the guests questioned Miss Joan and young Rexon. They disclaimed all knowledge. Carrington Rexon, when asked what famous importation he had bagged for the event, would give no information.

  Each time the girl left the rink the applause was so loud and continuous that Vance had to bring her back.

  Finally one voice called out, “Remove the mask!” The cry was taken up in unison. Vance whispered to the girl at his side. She permitted him to take the mask from her face. Smiling happily, Ella Gunthar stood before us.

  Joan Rexon arose in triumphant delight. “I knew it was Ella!” She was almost in tears. “I always knew Ella could do it. Isn’t she marvelous, Richard?”

  But young Rexon was already on the terrace steps, making his way to the rink. Carrington Rexon and the doctor stepped to Miss Joan’s side.

  “Oh, Dad!” the girl exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s as much a surprise to me as it is to you, my dear. Mr. Vance told me merely he had arranged something for you. I had no idea it was a surprise like this.”

  “All right, now. All right,” Quayne put in admonishingly. “I think that’s enough for this evening, Joan.” The two men helped the girl indoors.

  A noisy circle surrounded Ella Gunthar on the rink. The workmen, having been permitted to witness the performance, now moved off. The guests withdrew indoors.

  Later they gathered in the drawing room. The performers came up from the pavilion, still in their costumes. Vance, showered with congratulations, disclaimed all credit.

  “It’s all Miss Naesmith’s doing, I assure you,” he told everyone.

  Ella Gunthar came in, escorted by Richard Rexon. She was enthusiastically greeted on all sides. She seemed upset and nervous and remained only long enough to embrace Miss Joan and say a few words to her. Young Rexon’s and Vance’s offers to see her home were refused with polite determination. She hurried away alone.

  The phonograph was brought back from the rink. Someone wound it up and started a record. Soon dancing began. Quayne brought the housekeeper in and directed her to get Miss Joan off to bed. The woman had a new look of pride about her and was almost cheerful as she took charge of the girl and led her from the room.

  The gaiety of the party increased. Only Jacques Bassett sat morosely by himself. Quayne was about to approach him, but was buttonholed by Miss Naesmith with a request for the best antidote to seasickness. Richard Rexon joined Bassett at his table.

  Vance had had enough. He bade his host good night. O’Leary came up with a questioning look. But Vance put him off.

  “Let’s sleep on it, Lieutenant,” he said. “Come round before noon… Jolly party, what!… Cheeri-o.”

  O’Leary watched sullenly as Vance mounted the stairs.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Queen Istar’s Necklace

  (Sunday, January 19; 9:30 a.m.)

  VANCE ROSE EARLY again Sunday. After strong coffee he invited me to stroll with him in the clear winter sunshine. Snow had fallen in the early hours of the morning; the world about us was covered with a fresh white blanket. We took a footpath that led down to the small pond in the Green Glen where we had first come upon Ella Gunthar. As we skirted a high bush at one end of the pond a small cabin came into view.

  “The Green Hermit’s cottage, I’ll warrant,” commented Vance. “Sabbath morn visit to the druid in order.”

  The door was slightly ajar. Vance rapped. There was no response. He pushed the door wide open. At a small table near a window sat Old Jed. He looked up without surprise.

  “Good morning,” Vance said pleasantly from the threshold. “May we come in?”

  The old man nodded indifferently. His attention was focused on some object between his fingers. As we approached him he raised his hands. The sun fell full on a dazzling necklace of
emeralds.

  “Six cabochons on a chain of smaller stones,” said Vance half to himself. Then admiringly to the old man: “Lovely, isn’t it?”

  Old Jed smiled with childish delight as he let the green stones slide between his fingers.

  Vance sat down beside him. “What else have you?”

  Old Jed shook his head.

  “What did you do with the others?”

  “No others. Only this.” He spread the necklace on the table, inviting Vance to share his ecstasy. “Like the green meadows in springtime,” he said mystically. “Like running streams of water—like God’s trees in summer:—green, all beauty in nature is green.” His eyes shone fanatically.

  “Yes,” said Vance, falling in with his mood. “Spring… the green of nature all about:

  ‘And all the meadows, wide unrolled,

  Were green and silver, green and gold.’”

  He looked up kindly.

  “Find it, Jed?”

  A shake of the head from the old man.

  “Where did you get it?”

  Another shake of the head. “You’re a friend of Miss Ella?” the hermit asked as if eager to change the subject.

  “Yes. Of course. And you are too.”

  The grey head bobbed enthusiastically up and down. “But that fellow Mr. Richard brought home with him. Are you a friend of his?”

  “Mr. Bassett? No. No friend of his. Far from it… What about him?”

  “No good,” declared Old Jed with strict economy of words.

  Vance raised his brows slightly. “Did he give you that green necklace?”

  “No!” The old man was petulant. “He came here to make trouble for Miss Ella.”

  “Really, now! When was that?”

  “He came here last night. Before the swell doin’s up at the big house. He thought Miss Ella was alone. But I saw him.” Old Jed cackled. “Now he won’t come here no more.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “He won’t come no more,” repeated the other vaguely… “But up at the big house, Mister: you’ll take care of Ella?”

  “Certainly,” promised Vance. “She’ll be all right… But tell me, Jed; how did you get that trinket?”