The Kennel Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “How clever of you!” There was a steely look in her eyes, and her forehead puckered with a slight frown.

  At this moment Gamble passed the door on his way upstairs, with a small covered serving-tray in his hands.

  Vance stood up.

  “Ah! There are your muffins, Miss Lake. I sha’n’t keep you any longer.”

  “Thanks awfully.” She rose and went quickly from the room.

  Vance stood at the door until Gamble returned from the third floor, and ordered him to wait in the lower hall. When the man had gone below, he glanced at his watch and strolled back into the room.

  “I’d rather not go on till we hear from Snitkin. Do you mind waiting, Markham?”

  Markham got up and paced to the bed and back.

  “Have it your own way,” he grumbled. “But I can’t see the importance of the suit-case. There’s small probability, it seems to me, of its being at the station. And in the event it isn’t there, we will be no better off than we are now.”

  “On the other hand,” Vance returned, “if it is at the station, we may conclude that Brisbane did not go to Chicago last night.”

  Markham studied Vance gloweringly.

  “And if he didn’t go, what then?”

  “Oh, I say—really! My word, Markham, I’m no Delphic oracle. We’ve only started this—what do the yellow journals call it?—probe… But I’m quite sure Brisbane intended to go to Chicago at some time last night. And if he didn’t go, something unexpected kept him here.”

  “But his being in New York doesn’t connect him with Archer Coe’s murder.”

  “Certainly not… But I crave enlightenment.” He suddenly sobered. “Markham, that last-minute decision of Brisbane’s to get out of town had some connection with Archer’s death—I’m sure of that. He knew something—or feared something. Or perhaps… But, anyway, he intended to go to Chicago last night. And maybe he did go…but I want to be sure.”

  He strolled to the mantel and looked critically at a small, three-legged bowl of delicate green, with a carved teak-wood cover surmounted by a handle of white jade.

  “Ming celadon,” he said, running his fingers over the lustrous glaze. “A perfect velvety texture, and an unusual shape. A very rare piece. Celadon, Markham, has baffled occidental artificers; even the Chinese can no longer produce it. It’s very old—some experts have placed its origin as far back as the Sui dynasty in the sixth and seventh centuries, naming Ho Chou as its inventor. But the most beautiful celadons, I think, are Ming—those that came from the hands of the Ching-tê-chên experts. I rather imagine, don’t y’ know, that this is such a piece.” He inspected it closely, particularly studying the down-flow of the glaze about the base. “There’s a great similarity between the Kuan-yao of the Sung dynasty and the Imperial celadons made in the province of Kiang-si; but, as a rule, the Lung-chuan factories used a reddish pâte. And this piece has a white pâte —a characteristic of Ching-tê-chên celadons…”

  “Vance,” interrupted Markham irritably, “you’re boring me to tears.”

  “My word!” Vance put down the celadon bowl and sighed. “And I was trying to entertain you until Snitkin reported…”

  As he spoke, the phone rang. Heath answered it, and after listening for several minutes, replaced the receiver on the hook.

  “The suit-case is there, all right,” he announced. “Snitkin picked it out at once—it was on the ‘hurry’ shelf. The bird at the window says a middle-aged, nervous guy checked it around six last night, saying he’d missed his train—and he was shaking so he could hardly lift the bag to the counter.”

  Vance nodded slowly.

  “I was afraid of that—and yet I was hoping it wasn’t so.” He took out a cigarette and lighted it with slow and deliberate precision—a sign of his tense perturbation. “Markham, I don’t like this situation; I don’t at all like it. Something unforeseen has happened: unforeseen—and sinister. It wasn’t on the cards. Brisbane Coe intended to go to Chicago last night—and he didn’t go. Some terrible thing stopped him… And something stopped Archer Coe before he could change his shoes…” He leaned over the desk and looked straight at Markham. “Don’t you see what I mean? Those shoes of Archer’s—and that stick of Brisbane’s… That stick! —in the front hall! It shouldn’t have been there… Oh, my precious aunt!…” He threw his cigarette into a tray, and hurried toward the door.

  “Come, Markham… Come, Sergeant. There’s something hideous in this house…and I don’t want to go alone.”

  As he spoke, he ran down the stairs, Markham and Heath and I following. When he had reached the lower hall, he pulled the portières aside and opened the library door. He looked round him, and then passed into the dining-room.

  After several minutes’ search, he returned to the hall.

  “Maybe the den,” he said; and hurrying through the drawing-room, where Wrede and Grassi sat near the window, he went into the small room at the rear. But he came back at once, a bewildered look in his eyes.

  “Not there.” His tone was unnatural. “But he’s somewhere—somewhere…”

  He came again into the front hall.

  “He wouldn’t be on the third floor, and he’s not on the second floor.” Vance stood staring at the ivory-headed stick which, for the first time, I noticed hanging over the back of a chair beside the library door. “There’s his stick,” he said; “but his hat and top-coat… Oh, what a fool I’ve been!”

  He brushed Gamble out of his way, and walked swiftly down the narrow corridor along the stairs until he came to the closet door at the rear of the hall.

  “Your flashlight, Sergeant,” he called over his shoulder, as he placed his hand on the door-knob.

  He pulled the door open, revealing only a great rectangle of blackness. Almost simultaneously, the circle of yellow light from Heath’s pocket flashlight penetrated the gloom.

  Markham and I were behind him, straining our eyes into the closet. There were various overcoats and hats hanging from the hooks.

  “Lower, Sergeant!” came Vance’s dictatorial voice. “The floor—the floor!…”

  The light descended; and then we saw the thing that Vance, through some process of obscure logic, had been searching for.

  There, in a huddled heap, his glassy eyes staring up at us, lay the dead body of Brisbane Coe.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Ting Yao Vase

  (Thursday, October 11; 12.15 p.m.)

  THOUGH THE SIGHT was not altogether unexpected, in view of Vance’s strange actions and even stranger comments, I received a tremendous shock as I gazed down into the closet. A large irregular pool of blood, perhaps a foot in diameter, had spread over the hardwood floor just beneath Coe’s shoulder. It had dried and darkened, and looked sinisterly black against the yellow boarding.

  Even to an amateur like myself the fact that Brisbane Coe was dead was apparent. The stiff, unnatural pose of the body, and the hideous fixety of his gaze, together with the drawn bloodless lips and the waxen pallor of his skin, attested to violent and unexpected death. I had rarely seen a corpse as lifeless as Coe’s, as irremediably beyond all human possibility of resuscitation.

  And as I looked at it, temporarily petrified by the horror of this new development, I could not help comparing the dead body of Brisbane with that of Archer. They were both tall and cadaverous; and, although Archer was the older by five years, they had a certain similarity of facial features. But whereas Archer had died with a peaceful expression on his face, and in a natural and comfortable position, Brisbane had a shocked, almost wild, look in his eyes, as if he had been startled and frightened at the moment of death.

  The discovery of Brisbane Coe’s body affected all of us strongly. Heath stared down with hunched shoulders. The blood seemed to have left his face, and he was like a man hypnotized. Markham’s jaw was set, and his eyes were mere slits.

  “Good God!” he breathed, in an awe-stricken voice, and looked vaguely at Vance who stood beside the Sergeant gazing down cr
itically at the dead man.

  Vance spoke, and his voice, usually so calm, sounded strained and unnatural.

  “It’s worse than I thought… I had hoped he might still be alive—a prisoner perhaps. I didn’t altogether expect this.”

  Heath’s hand containing the flashlight dropped to his side, and he stepped back. Vance closed the closet door and turned.

  “It’s very strange,” he murmured, looking at Markham yet past him. “He is without his hat and top-coat; and yet his stick is hanging here in the hall. And he is dead in the closet. Why not in his own room?—or the library?—or anywhere else but in there?… Nothing fits, Markham. The whole picture has been painted by a crazy man.”

  Markham stared at him; then he said in a dazed voice:

  “I can’t follow any of it. Why did Brisbane Coe return here last night? And who knew he was going to return?”

  “If only I could answer those questions!”

  Burke and Gamble were sitting on a hall bench near the drawing-room door. The butler’s face was white and drawn. He had not seen the dead man in the closet, for our bodies had shielded him. But it was obvious that he suspected the truth.

  Vance went to him.

  “What kind of top-coat and hat did Mr. Brisbane wear when he went to the station last night?”

  The man made a desperate effort to pull himself together.

  “A—a tweed coat, sir,” he replied huskily, “—black-and-white tweed. And a light gray fedora hat.”

  Vance returned to the closet, and presently emerged with a hat and coat.

  “Are these the ones?”

  Gamble swallowed hard and nodded his head.

  “Yes, sir.” His eyes stared abnormally at the two articles of attire.

  Vance replaced the coat and hat in the closet, and commented to Markham:

  “They were hanging up so neatly.”

  “Is it not possible,” asked Markham, “that just as he had hung them up after returning to the house, he was killed?”

  “Possible—yes.” Vance nodded slowly. “But that would not explain the other things that went on here last night. It’s more reasonable, I think, to assume that Brisbane was killed as he was preparing to leave the house. But then again, there’s the time element…”

  Heath had already gone to the hall telephone and was dialling a number.

  “I’ll soon get the time element for you,” he growled.

  A moment later he was speaking to Doctor Doremus in his office in the Municipal Building.

  “The doc’s coming right away,” he said, hanging up the receiver.

  “In the meantime, Markham,” suggested Vance, “I think we might have parlance with the Chinese cook… Fetch him, will you, Gamble.”

  The butler hastened through the dining-room door at the rear, and Vance strolled into the library, the rest of us following.

  The library was a fairly large room on the north front of the house, directly opposite to the drawing-room. Although there were perhaps a thousand volumes in a series of bookshelves occupying almost the entire south wall, the room did not have the general appearance of a library. It resembled far more a curio shop. There were various cabinets containing carved jade and jewelry and objets d’art of oriental design and workmanship; and on every available flat surface stood examples of Chinese ceramic art, ceremonial bronzes, ivory figures, and carved lacquer ornaments. Many of the pieces of furniture were of teak-wood and camphor-wood; and, wherever space permitted, large squares of brocaded and embroidered silk had been hung and draped. In the centre of the west wall was a rococo Louis-Quinze mantelpiece which seemed hideously out of place; and here and there were pieces of modern furniture—a large fumed-oak Mission library table, an overstuffed davenport, a steel commercial filing cabinet, and several pseudo-colonial mahogany straight chairs—all of which gave to the room a violent air of anachronistic chaos.

  We had scarcely seated ourselves when a tall, slender, scholarly-looking Chinaman of about forty stepped softly into the room through the door between the library and the dining-room. He was dressed in an immaculate white duck suit, and wore black padded slippers. He stood beside the door with relaxed immobility, and, after one swift glance at us, lifted his eyes uneagerly above our heads. Though he looked at nothing in particular, I felt that he saw everything.

  Vance regarded the man curiously, and it was several moments before he spoke. Then he asked:

  “What is your name?”

  “Liang,” came the soft and almost inaudible response.

  “Your whole name, please.”

  There was a slight pause, and the man gave Vance a fleeting glance.

  “Liang Tsung Wei.”

  “Ah!… And I understand you are the Coe cook.”

  The other nodded quickly.

  “Me cook.”

  Vance sighed, and a faint smile overspread his face.

  “Be so good as to forgo the pidgin-English, Mr. Liang. It will handicap our conversation terribly.” He slowly lighted a cigarette. “And please take a chair.”

  The Chinaman, with a faint flicker in his eyes, moved his gaze till it rested on Vance’s face. Then he bowed and sat down in an arm-chair between the door and the book-shelves.

  “Thank you,” he said in a finely modulated voice. “I suppose you desire to question me regarding the tragedy last night. I deeply regret I can throw no light upon it.”

  “How do you know there has been a tragedy?” Vance inspected the end of his cigarette.

  “I was preparing the breakfast,” Liang returned, “and I heard the butler impart the information over the telephone.”

  “Ah, yes—of course… Have you been long in this country, Mr. Liang?”

  “Two years only.”

  “Interested in the culinary art of America?”

  “Not particularly—although I am a student of occidental customs. Western civilization is of great interest to certain of my countrymen.”

  “As are, also, I imagine,” added Vance, “the rare ceremonial pieces of Chinese art that have been pilfered from your temples and graves.”

  “We of course regret their loss,” the man answered mildly.

  Vance nodded understandingly, and was silent for a moment. Then:

  “Where were you educated, Mr. Liang?”

  “At the Imperial University at Tientsin and at Oxford.”

  “You are a member, I presume, of the Kuomintang.”

  The Chinaman inclined his head affirmatively.

  “But no longer,” he supplemented. “When I realized that Russian ideals were taking root in my countrymen’s minds, and that the ideals of the Tang and the Sung were receding further and further, I joined the Ta Tao Huei.* Being a Laoist by temperament among confrères who were mostly Confucianists, I realized that my idealism was unfitted for eras of hysteria; and I soon withdrew from all active participation in politics. I still have faith, however, in the old cultural ideals of China, and I am waiting patiently for the day when the philosophic dicta of the Tao Teh King will re-establish the spiritual and intellectual equilibrium of my country.”

  Vance made no comment. He merely asked:

  “How did you happen to seek employment with Mr. Coe?”

  “I had heard of his collection of Chinese antiquities and of his great knowledge of oriental art, and I believed that the atmosphere might prove to be congenial.”

  “And have you found it congenial?”

  “Not altogether. Mr. Coe was a very narrow and selfish man. His interest in art was purely personal. He wished to keep his treasures away from the world—not to share them with humanity.”

  “A typical collector,” observed Vance. He raised himself slightly in his chair and yawned. “By the by, Mr. Liang; when did you leave the house yesterday?”

  “About half-past two,” came the low answer. The Chinaman’s face was an inscrutable mask.

  “And you returned at what time?”

  “Shortly before midnight.”

  “Y
ou were not here at any time in the interim?”

  “No. I was visiting friends on Long Island.”

  “Chinese friends?”

  “Yes. They will be most happy to verify my statement.”

  Vance smiled.

  “I’ve no doubt… Did you return by the front or the rear door?”

  “The rear door—through the tradesmen’s entrance and the yard.”

  “Where do you sleep?”

  “My quarters, such as they are, are connected with the kitchen.”

  “Did you go to bed immediately upon your return?”

  There was a momentary hesitation on the man’s part.

  “Not immediately,” he said. “I cleared away the remains of Mr. Coe’s supper, and made myself some tea.”

  “Did you, by any chance, see Mr. Brisbane Coe after you returned last night?”

  “Mr. Brisbane Coe?” The other repeated the name questioningly. “The butler told me this morning not to prepare breakfast for him as he had gone to Chicago… Was he here last night?”

  Vance ignored the question.

  “Did you hear any sounds in the house before you retired?” he went on.

  “Not until Miss Lake returned. She is always vigorous and noisy. And a quarter of an hour later Mr. Grassi came in. But aside from that I heard no sound whatever.”

  Vance, during this interrogation, had appeared casual; and his manner had been deferential. But now a perceptible change came over his attitude. His eyes hardened, and he leaned forward in his chair. When he spoke, his voice was cold and uncompromising.

  “Mr. Liang,” he said, “at what time did you first return to this house—early last night?”

  There was a clouded, far-away look in the Chinaman’s eyes; and his long thin fingers moved with silken smoothness along the arms of his chair.

  “I did not return early last night,” he answered, in a faintly sing-song voice. “I arrived at midnight.”

  Vance did not shift his steady gaze.

  “Yes, you arrived at midnight—Gamble heard you come in. But I am speaking of your earlier visit—some time around eight o’clock, let us say.”

  “You are evidently laboring under a misapprehension,” Liang returned, without change of intonation or expression.