Heath left the room and returned shortly with the garment.
Vance began turning the pockets inside out. A gray silk handkerchief and a pair of gloves fell to the table. Then from the left-hand outside pocket Vance drew forth two pieces of fine, waxed linen string about four feet long. He was about to throw these to one side, when he suddenly bent forward and inspected them. One end of each piece of string was tied securely to a large bent pin.
Heath was looking on with rapt fascination.
“And what might that be, Mr. Vance?” he asked.
Vance did not answer, but put his hand again into the left-hand pocket of the top-coat. When he withdrew it he was holding a long slender piece of steel.
“Ah!” he exclaimed with satisfaction.
We all looked down at it wonderingly. It was perhaps the last thing in the world we expected to see.
The object which Vance had taken from the pocket of Brisbane Coe’s coat was a darning-needle!
Footnote
*I learned later that the dagger dated from the Hsüan Tê reign of the Ming dynasty.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
More Bloodstains
(Thursday, October 11; 1.45 p.m.)
MARKHAM LOOKED FROM the needle back to the little pile of string, and then at Vance.
“Well, what does that mean—if anything?” he asked.
Vance slowly picked up the needle and the two pieces of string and put them in his own coat pocket.
“It means deviltry, Markham. And it means that we are dealing with a shrewd, subtle, and tricky brain. The technique of this crime had been thought out to several decimal points—and then everything went wrong. The murderer was forced to add complications to his plot in order to cover himself. And he has confused the issue out of all recognizability…”
“But what about the string and that darning-needle?” interrupted Markham.
“That was where the plot went wrong—”
“But who used this string and needle? And for what purpose?”
Vance looked up gravely.
“If I knew who used them, I’d have an important key to the entire situation. The fact that they were in Brisbane’s top-coat means little. That is the logical place that any one would have put them after having used them. It’s always safe, don’t y’ know, to throw suspicion on a dead man.”
Markham stiffened and his eyes became hard.
“You think there’s a possibility that Brisbane killed Archer?”
“My word, no!” Vance spoke wearily but with emphasis. “I doubt if Brisbane even returned to the house until Archer was dead.”
“You believe the same person killed both Brisbane and Archer?”
Vance nodded, but the puzzled frown did not leave his face.
“Undoubtedly. The technique of both murders was the same; and the same weapon was used in both killings.”
“But,” argued Markham, “the dagger was found in Archer’s bolted bedroom.”
“That’s another incredible complication,” Vance returned. “Really, y’ know, the dagger shouldn’t have been there. It should have been here in the library.”
“Here?” Markham uttered the word with astonishment. “But why in the library? Neither man was killed here.”
“I wonder…” Vance leaned over the table, deep in thought. “It would have been the logical place…and yet neither body was found here…”
“Why was this room the logical place?” Markham asked sharply.
“Because of this substituted Tao Kuang vase and the broken piece of Ting yao porcelain with the blood on it—” He stopped abruptly and his eyes drifted into space. “That blood-stained Ting yao!… Ah! What happened after that Sung vase was broken?—what would the stabber have done then? Would he have gone out, taking the blood with him?… No! He wouldn’t have dared—it wouldn’t have fitted in with his sinister purpose. He would have been afraid. He was hiding something, Markham…” Vance looked about the room. “That’s it: he was hiding something!… Twice he hid it…and then something unexpected happened—something startling and upsetting. The corpse should have been here in the library, d’ ye see; and therefore the dagger had to be here.”
“Will you get down to something definite?” snapped Markham. “If you have a workable theory, state it in comprehensible terms.”
“I have a theory, Markham,” Vance replied quietly, “—a theory to account for certain contradict’ry phases of this case—but I wouldn’t dare express it—yet. It’s too outlandish. And moreover, it doesn’t fit two-thirds of the facts… But give me a few minutes. Let me see if I can verify one important item in my theory. If I’m able to find what I’m looking for, we’ll be a little farther along.”
He walked to the mantelpiece and stood before a large blue-green vase.
“A beautiful example of Tsui se,” he said, running his fingers over the glaze. “Turquoise blue, as we would say, but the Chinese designated it by the color of the kingfisher’s feathers. Its manufacture began some time in the Ming dynasty and continued till the Chia Ch’ing era. And there is no crackle in this piece; and there are phœnixes incised in the pâte…” He put his finger in the neck. “Too small,” he commented, and moved to another vase—a bottle-shaped, dark-red specimen—at the further end of the mantel.
“One of the most perfect examples of Lang yao I’ve ever seen,—ox-blood, or sang de bœuf, as we call it. It’s as fine as the one in the Schiller collection.” He lifted it up, and looked at it closely inside and out. “Watered-green crackle on the base, and signed by the empty double ring in blue, identifying it as K’ang Hsi.” He set it back on its standard, and strolled to a cabinet against the west wall. On it stood a vase of brilliant black.
“Mirror-black, Markham,” he said, touching it delicately. “And one of the rarest varieties,—note the golden speckles floating in the glaze. For pure beauty, however, I prefer the earlier examples of this ware—the Chien yao, for instance, with its green iridescence. Chien yao was not made after the Yüan dynasty. The Ming dynasty did not know it; but it came in favor again during the K’ang Hsi era.”
As he talked, he fingered the vase lovingly and held its lips toward the light.
“My own mirror-black is K’ang Hsi, with brown reflections; and it’s considerably larger than the one in the Allen collection.”*
Markham and Heath were watching Vance closely. Both of them knew that he was not talking at random, but that, beneath his apparently aimless chatter about Chinese ceramics, there lurked some definite and serious purpose.
Vance set the K’ang Hsi mirror-black vase back on the cabinet, and let his eyes run over the other ceramic specimens in the room. There was a vase of dead-white glassy porcelain painted in enamel colors in the style of Ku Yüeh-hsüan; a pair of rouleau-form vases decorated with famille-vert enamels, with panel designs in a ground of floral brocade; a Lungch’üan celadon, copied from an ancient bronze with designs in relief, on fine white ware with a red-brown base; a Sung flower-pot of gray porcelainous ware with a purple, opalescent glaze; a bluish vase of “soft chun” with red markings; a Ju-type vase, pale blue, with carved floral designs; an early Ming turquoise wine-jar incised and bordered; a K’ang Hsi “apple green” vase with a lustrous, transparent glaze; several beautifully incised Kuan Yins of blanc-de-chine, or Fukien, ware; and various ginger-jars, ewers, bottles, water pots, bulb-bowls, plates, libation cups, incense tripods, goblets, wine-jars, Shon Lao figures, fish-bowls, beakers, cups, and the like, ranging from the Han dynasty to the Ch’ing.
But Vance did not linger over any one of them. He gave them merely a casual inspection. He seemed to be searching for some particular type of vase, for he would hesitate here and there, shake his head as if in rejection, and pass on to other pieces. At last he completed his rounds and halted. There was a distinct look of disappointment on his face as he turned back to us.
“I’m afraid my theory is a mere broken reed,” he sighed.
“I certainly haven’t been leanin
g on it,” retorted Markham. He was annoyed at Vance’s secretive manner.
“Neither have I, for that matter,” said Vance a little sadly. “But it furnished a starting-point to reason from—provided, of course, I could verify it.”
He came back slowly toward the centre of the room where we were grouped about the davenport and the circular table. As he reached the end of the library table, he halted and looked down at a small low teak-wood stand on which stood a cornucopia-shaped white vase. The stand was directly behind the end of the davenport farthest from the lamp and against the end of the library table. A set of books piled high on the end of the table almost obscured the vase. Vance approached it.
“That’s dashed interestin’,” he murmured. “A piece of later Ting yao—from the Yung Chêng era, I should say. During the Ming dynasty, y’ know, Markham, and the K’ang Hsi, Yung Chêng, and Ch’ien Lung eras of the Ch’ing dynasty, the Chinese ceramists made many facsimiles of Sung Ting yao, in every way as beautiful as the earlier pieces. In fact, the Ming and Ch’ing artificers developed and improved on the Sung.”
He picked up the vase and began inspecting it.
“A rather thick biscuit, and decorated in relief: copied from an ancient bronze… Angular crackling in the glaze, which is brittle and glossy… A very beautiful and perfect specimen.”
As he talked, he moved toward the window and held the vase to the light in such a manner that he could look inside it. He peered closely into its broad volute mouth. He then adjusted his monocle and looked again into the interior of the vase.
“I believe there is something here,” he said. Moistening his finger on his tongue, he put his hand deep into the vase. When he withdrew it there was a red smear on the end of his finger.
“Yes, quite so,” he said, looking closely at his finger.
“What have you found?” demanded Markham.
Vance held out his finger.
“Blood!” he said.
He replaced the vase on its stand and rubbed off the stain on his finger with his handkerchief. Then he fixed a grim gaze upon Markham, who was waiting for some explanation of this new discovery.
“And that vase was also near the davenport, only a few feet from where the Sung Ting yao stood. Both vases were used in this devilish plot… A subtle conception—but the plan fell to pieces—”
“See here, Vance,”—Markham spoke quietly, trying to curb his annoyance—“just how were those vases used? And where did the blood on them come from?”
“As I see it, Markham, those two Ting yao vases were used to divert suspicion from the real murderer and to focus it on another person; and they were employed as symbols in order to create a false motive. That is to say, the first delicate Ting yao —the one which originally stood on that circular table, and which has been supplanted by that execrable Tao Kuang—was to have been the signature of the crime, and to have put ideas in our heads. But it broke, and therefore made the selection of the second vase necess’ry—”
“You mean we were to regard the crime as being connected with Archer’s collection of Chinese ceramics?”
Vance nodded.
“I feel sure of it. But in just what way I don’t know. It would probably have been perfectly clear if there had not been a gross miscalculation on the murderer’s part.”
“We were, you think, supposed to find the blood in the vase?”
Vance frowned.
“No—not the blood exactly. That is where the plot went awry.”
“Just a minute, Vance!” Markham’s voice was commanding. “Where did that blood come from?”
“From Archer Coe’s body!” Vance’s answer sent a chill up my spine.
“But there was no external bleeding,” Markham reminded him.
“True.” Vance leaned against the back of the davenport and lighted a cigarette. “But there was blood on the dagger when it was withdrawn from between Archer’s ribs…”
“The dagger?”
“Exactly… As I see it, Markham, the bloody dagger that killed Archer was thrown into the fragile Ting yao vase that was on the table there, in order to indicate—by a subtle and devious symbolism—the motive for the crime. But the steel and gold of the dagger broke the vase—it was of almost eggshell delicacy—and so the dagger was then placed in this other Ting yao. In clearing up the broken pieces of the first vase, the murderer overlooked one small fragment.”
“But why the substituted vase?”
“In order that no attention would be attracted by the glaring absence of the original one. If a valuable Ting yao were missing, it might indicate another motive for the crime, and that motive would have confused the issue and diverted attention from the person the murderer wanted us to think was behind the crime. The substitution of the Tao Kuang vase was in the nature of a precaution.”
“That’s all very well, perhaps,” Markham returned dubiously; “but we did not find the dagger in the other vase—”
“It was taken out and used to kill Brisbane.”
“By the murderer of Archer?”
“Unquestionably. No one else would have known where the dagger was.”
“But, Vance, that theory doesn’t fit the facts. The Sergeant found the dagger upstairs in Archer’s room—with the door bolted on the inside. And Archer died hours before Brisbane was stabbed. Why, if the same person killed both of them, didn’t he replace the dagger in this vase? Archer was already dead, and Brisbane was killed downstairs. Why should the dagger have been in Archer’s bedroom chair?”
Vance smoked unhappily for some time before replying.
“That’s what I can’t make out,” he admitted.
“I got it!” exclaimed Heath. “The guy croaked Archer downstairs and put the dagger in the vase. Just then Brisbane came back from the station and caught him. So he grabbed the dagger and did Brisbane in to protect himself. After that he dragged Archer upstairs, still carrying the dagger, got excited, and left it in the chair where he’d put Archer.”
Vance smiled ruefully and shook his head.
“There are too many loopholes in that theory, Sergeant. Brisbane was not stabbed until hours after Archer. The murderer could have been in Philadelphia by the time Brisbane was stabbed. He certainly wouldn’t have tarried here for several hours after disposing of Archer—”
“But, Mr. Vance, you yourself said the same person croaked both guys.”
“And I still believe it,” returned Vance. “The only explanation I have is that the murderer, after killing Archer and placing the dagger in the vase, returned to the house and killed Brisbane, too.”
“Then, I ask you,”—the Sergeant became petulant—“how did the dagger get in the bolted room?—and who put the bullet through Archer’s head, and why?”
“If I could answer those questions, Sergeant,” Vance told him, “I could solve this whole insane problem.”
At this moment Wrede came down the stairs and walked past the library to the front door.
“Oh, I say, Mr. Wrede,” Vance called out. “Could we speak to you a moment before you go?”
The man turned and came into the library. His face was flushed, and there was a sullen, angry look in his eyes—a look almost murderous. He stood just inside the door, his hands tightly flexed at his sides, looking at Vance with defiant anger.
“Here I am,” he announced curtly through set jaws.
“So I observe,” Vance murmured mildly. “And you seem rather upset, don’t y’ know.”
Wrede’s tense attitude did not relax; and he said nothing.
“You saw Miss Lake?” Vance asked pleasantly.
The man gave a jerky nod.
“And since speaking to her,” Vance pursued languidly, “do you still feel that you have no suggestion to make as to a possible perpetrator of this double crime?”
A shrewd light came into the other’s eyes, and he hesitated for several seconds. Then he said:
“Not at the moment. But it might be well if you temporarily concentrated you
r investigation on Mr. Grassi. I have just learned that Archer Coe had agreed to sell him a considerable section of his collection.”
“Indeed?” Vance’s eyebrows went up. “Did Miss Lake inform you of the fact?”
Again Wrede hesitated. “Miss Lake and I discussed other matters,” he returned at length. Then he added: “It may interest you to know, Mr. Vance, that my engagement to Miss Lake has been broken.”
“Most distressin’.” Vance gave his attention to his cigarette. “But what could Archer’s willingness to dispose of part of his collection have to do with his death?”
“I couldn’t say.” Wrede had become uneasy. “But it strikes me as very peculiar that Archer should consent to sell.”
“I’ll admit,” agreed Vance, “that it doesn’t sound altogether reasonable. Maybe, however, he took a great fancy to Mr. Grassi.”
Wrede narrowed his eyes, but made no reply, and Vance continued:
“But even had Archer consented to dispose of certain pieces in the hope, let us say, of acquiring others, I still can’t see what Mr. Grassi would have gained by his death.”
“Archer may have regretted his decision after he had committed himself…”
“I see your point, Mr. Wrede,” Vance interrupted coldly. “But what of Brisbane?”
“Could not Brisbane’s death have been an accident?”
“Yes—quite.” Vance smiled thoughtfully. “I’m sure it was an accident—a most unfortunate accident. Last night was filled with the most amazin’ accidents… But I sha’n’t keep you from your lunch any longer. I merely wanted to ask you how you felt about the matter after having spoken to Miss Lake; and you have answered me quite frankly.”
Wrede bowed stiffly.
“I’ll be in my apartment all day tomorrow, in case you care to see me again,” he said.
He had no sooner closed the front door behind him than Vance called Gamble from the hall.
“Run upstairs,” he said, “and, not saying anything, find out where Mr. Grassi is.”
The butler left the room, returning shortly.
“Mr. Grassi, sir,” he reported, “is in conversation with Miss Lake in her sitting-room on the third floor.”
The Kennel Murder Case Page 12
