The Kennel Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Could the doctor tell at what time she was hurt?”

  “Not exactly. But from the condition of the swelling about the eye and the dried blood in the wound, he said it might have been as long as twelve hours ago.”

  “That coincides.”

  “Oh, yes—quite. The dog either witnessed the stabbing or was present in the house shortly afterward.”

  “It’s a curious situation,” Markham murmured.

  “Yes, it’s curious,” Vance agreed. “And damnable. But once we trace the dog’s ownership, we may know something pertinent.”

  Markham looked doubtful.

  “How, in Heaven’s name, are we going to trace a stray dog?” he asked dispiritedly. “The city is full of them. And if it belonged to the person who entered here last night, the owner is certainly not going to advertise for it or even answer a ‘found’ advertisement.”

  “True.” Vance nodded. “But the matter isn’t as obscure and difficult as that. That little Scottie is no mere pet-shop companion. Far from it. She’d make trouble in the ring for some of our leading winners. I went over her as carefully as I could when she lay on Blamey’s operating table. She has a short back, a fine spring of ribs, and a perfect tail; and she’s low to the ground, with well bent stifles and sturdy hind-quarters. Also she has amazin’ bone and substance. I know a little about Scotties, Markham, and I have an idea she’s got both Laurieston and Ornsay blood in her. Her sturdiness and substance, coupled with her somewhat bold and slightly light eye, indicates the Laurieston strain—a great strain, by the by, but not sufficiently sensitive for my taste. On the other hand, she has certain very definite refinements—a lean, clean head and a sensitive muzzle, small ears, and a slightly receding occiput—all of which spells Ornsay.”

  “That’s all very well”—Markham was annoyed by Vance’s technicalities—“but what do those things mean to any one but a breeder? I can’t see that they get us anywhere.”

  “Oh, but they do,” smiled Vance. “They get us much forrader. The breeding of certain blood-lines in this country is known to every serious dog fancier. And a bitch like this one is the result of years of intensive breeding. There are such things as pedigrees and stud books and A. K. C. records and professional handlers and licensed judges; and it is not altogether impossible to trace a blue-blooded dog once you have a few clues as to its blood-lines and cross-strains. Furthermore, she’s in perfect show condition now; and the chances are that a dog as good as this one has been shown. And whenever a dog is shown, another set of facts is put on record.”

  Heath had been listening to Vance with bored scepticism. Now he asked a question.

  “Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Vance, that you can find the owner of any good dog you run across?”

  “Oh, no, Sergeant,” Vance hastened to assure him. “I only say that, provided a dog has been put on record and shown, and also provided one has a definite idea of the dog’s progenitors, there is a good chance that, with patience, the owner may be found.”

  “Huh!” Heath was unimpressed. “But even if you did find the owner of this mutt, where would you be? The owner might simply say, ‘Oh, thank you, kind sir. The little devil ran away last Thursday.’ ”

  Vance smiled.

  “So he might, Sergeant. But well-bred dogs don’t follow strangers into unknown houses. Moreover, dogs as good as this one are not generally permitted to roam the streets unattended.” He lay back in his chair and partly closed his eyes. “There’s something particularly strange about that dog’s presence in this house last night. If I had the explanation, I’d know infinitely more about the murderer.”

  Heath gave Vance a shrewd look.

  “Maybe the murderer was somebody who was fond of dogs,” he suggested through his teeth. (It was obvious that he had Wrede in mind.)

  “Oh, quite the contr’ry, Sergeant.” Vance looked at Heath quizzically. “Until we have further data, we must assume that the murderer viciously injured the Scottie—probably to keep her quiet—”

  What Vance was going to say further was interrupted by a noise of footsteps and voices in the lower front hall. A moment later, three plain-clothes men and two uniformed officers from the local precinct station clattered into the room. On seeing the District Attorney they hesitated.

  “I have taken charge of the case,” Markham told them. “We’re handling it from Headquarters, but we’ll want two men to guard the house.”

  “Certainly, sir.” A heavy-set, gray-haired man saluted, and turned to the uniformed officers. “You, Hanlon and Riordan, stay here. Mr. Markham’ll give you orders.” He turned back to the District Attorney. “If there’s anything else, Chief, let me know. I’m Lieutenant Smith.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Footnotes

  *Edwin Reginald Blamey, M.R.C.V.S., the official veterinarian of the American Kennel Club, whose offices and surgery are at 17 West 71st Street.

  *Captain Dubois was the finger-print expert of the New York Police Department; and Heath had asked especially that he be sent to the house.

  †Vance was referring to “Concerning Dogs” in “The Shadow on the Dial,” a collection of Bierce’s essays published posthumously by Robertson in San Francisco.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Ivory-Headed Stick

  (Thursday, October 11; 11 a.m.)

  THE THREE PLAIN-CLOTHES men went out—reluctantly, I thought; but in important criminal cases handled by Headquarters, the men from the local station are automatically eliminated.

  They had scarcely departed when the finger-print experts—Captain Dubois and Detective Bellamy—arrived, with the official photographer, Peter Quackenbush. Under Heath’s orders, they went systematically about their work.

  “What I want most,” the Sergeant told them, “are the prints on those window-catches, the push-button of the electric-light switch, and the door-knob. We’ll get the finger-prints of the people in the house later for comparison… What I want to know is who locked those windows and turned on the lights in this room. And I want to know who went outa this room last.”

  Vance beckoned Heath to one side.

  “I can throw some light into the gloom of your uncertainties, Sergeant,” he said. “Coe himself locked the windows and pulled down the shades; and he also switched on the lights. But I’ll admit I’m in a Stygian darkness as to who was the last person to handle the door-knob. And I’m frightfully afraid that we won’t be able to ascertain that important fact by sign-manuals.”

  Heath blinked and looked up questioningly. He was about to answer, but instead he called to Captain Dubois.

  “Say, Cap; take the right thumb-print of the body on the bed, and see if you can check it with the prints on the window-catches and the light switch.”

  Dubois turned from one of the east windows, where he was sprinkling a light saffron powder over the flat surface of the lever of the catch, and, picking up his small black satchel, went to the bed. A few minutes later he returned with a piece of cardboard on which was an ink impression of Coe’s thumb. Holding it under the light, he inspected it with a jeweller’s-glass. Then he laid it on the desk and, going back to the window, closely inspected the flat surface of the catch. After a moment he gave a grunt.

  “You had the right dope, Sergeant,” he said, taking the glass from his eye. “It looks like the guy on the bed locked this window.”

  He then went through the same process of minute comparison with the catches on the other windows. When he was through he came to Heath.

  “All the same—as far as I can see. Two of the lock-plates are blurred, but they seem to match.”

  The Sergeant shot Vance a sidelong look, but Vance had again relaxed in his chair and was smoking dreamily with closed eyes.

  “Now, Cap,” said Heath, “try the switch and the door-knob.”

  Dubois went to the switch and, after sprinkling the powder over it, blew upon it gently and studied it through his jeweller’s-glass.

  “Same here,” he no
dded. “I can’t be sure, you understand, until I get the photographic enlargements and compare ’em. But the prints look the same—the whorl type with a pronounced ridge dot and several distinctive bifurcations.”

  “Never mind the enlargements,” Heath told him. “Try the knob.”

  Again Dubois used his insufflator to puff the powder over the door-knob, and inspected the result closely with the aid of a flash-light.

  “I’d say the same person handled the knob,” he told the Sergeant. “But it’s not as clear as it might be.”

  Heath grunted.

  “No use trying the outside knob,” he said. “Too many people have handled it this morning.”

  He smoked a while in silence.

  “Try that gun on the desk, wrapped in my handkerchief.”

  Dubois obeyed.

  “Nothing here,” he told the Sergeant after a few minutes. “The trigger’s incised and wouldn’t take a print. And on the left side of the butt there’s a blur on the ivory which may or may not be the dead bird’s thumb-print.”

  “Nothing else on the gun?” Heath asked with obvious disappointment.

  “Nope.” Dubois inserted the glass in his eye and again leaned over the revolver. “Looks to me as if it had been wiped clean before the fellow picked it up.”

  “It had.” Vance spoke lethargically. “It’s a waste of time to inspect the gun. If there are any marks on it, they’re Coe’s.”

  The Sergeant stood glaring at Vance. Finally he shrugged, and waved his hand in dismissal to Dubois.

  “Thanks, Cap. I guess that’ll be all.”

  “Want me to have photographs made and verify the findings?”

  Vance had risen and was crushing out his cigarette.

  “Really, y’ know, Sergeant,” he remarked, “it’s not necess’ry.”

  Heath hesitated; then he shook his head at Dubois.

  “Don’t bother.”

  Dubois and Bellamy and the photographer had scarcely quitted the room when Commanding Officer Moran of the Detective Bureau, followed closely by Detectives Burke and Snitkin of the Homicide Bureau, came in.

  Moran greeted us pleasantly and asked Markham several questions concerning the case. News of it had been relayed to him from the Telegraph Division after Heath’s report over the telephone. He seemed relieved to find Markham on the scene, and, at the District Attorney’s request, officially assigned Heath to the case. He left us almost immediately, manifestly glad to get away.

  Burke and Snitkin had come at Heath’s specific request, and, after greeting the Sergeant, stood by the mantelpiece awaiting orders.

  Markham had sat down in the Windsor chair at the desk, and after telephoning his office that he would be delayed, he lighted a fresh cigar and made a peremptory gesture to Heath.

  “Let’s see what we can find out from the people in the house, Sergeant.” He deferred to Vance. “What do you say to beginning with Gamble?”

  Vance nodded.

  “Quite. A bit of domestic gossip to start with. And don’t fail to pry into the movements and whereabouts of brother Brisbane last night.”

  There was, however, another interruption before the examinations took place. The front door-bell rang, and Hennessey called up the stairs.

  “Hey, Sergeant! The Public Welfare chariot is here.”

  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. Everyone 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.”