The Kennel Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  Vance gave a faint satisfied smile.

  “And now, Gamble, will you ask Mr. Grassi to come here.”

  Gamble went out, and Vance turned to Markham.

  “I suspected from Wrede’s manner that he had found his Latin rival with the young woman. There was probably a most painful scene, and poor Wrede was given his congé. It’s very sad. He doesn’t like Grassi—he doesn’t at all like him. But I doubt if he really suspects him of killing Archer—though I’m sure Wrede doesn’t put it beyond him—”

  “Then why the insinuations?”

  “More subtlety, Markham. Wrede is no fool—he’s deuced clever, in fact. And he thinks that, if we turn our attention to Grassi, we will push past the straw man, so to speak, and find somebody else.”

  “Whom, in the name of Heaven?”

  “Miss Lake, of course.” Before Markham could answer, Vance went on. “Wrede has become vindictive and bitter. My asking him about Miss Lake as a possible suspect put ideas in his head,—he knows of the acute antagonism that has always existed between her and Archer, and he knows, too, that she is a capable, strong-minded woman. Therefore, when he was humiliated a moment ago in front of Grassi, he turned her over to us, as it were, with Grassi as a smoke-screen.”

  Grassi entered the library a moment later.

  “I understand, sir,” Vance addressed him, “that Mr. Archer Coe had consented to sell you certain items from his collection.”

  The Italian was nervous, and declined the chair Vance offered him.

  “Yes,” he replied; “that is true. I informed Mr. Wrede of the fact a moment ago. My reason for so doing was that Mr. Wrede practically ordered me out of the house—on the strength of his engagement to Miss Lake, I presume—and I informed him that my business here was not completed inasmuch as a considerable part of Mr. Coe’s collection belonged technically to me. It was necessary for me to remain to arrange for packing and shipment.”

  “And what did Miss Lake say?”

  The Italian seemed loath to answer, but at length he said:

  “Miss Lake broke off her engagement with Mr. Wrede. And then she asked him to leave the house and remain away.”

  “Most impulsive!” Vance sighed. “Was she violent about it?”

  “She was not over-polite,” Grassi admitted; and there was a faint timbre of satisfaction in his tone.

  “I say, Mr. Grassi”;—Vance spoke suddenly—“do you think that Miss Lake killed her uncle?”

  The Italian took a deep, audible breath and stared at Vance. “I—I—really, sir, I—”

  “Thanks awfully for the effort,” Vance remarked. “I can quite understand your feelings. We’ll let the matter drop. But I should like to know why you didn’t tell us before of Mr. Archer Coe’s agreement to dispose of some of his collection to you.”

  Grassi had recovered from his apparent shock at Vance’s question concerning the possibility of Hilda Lake’s guilt.

  “It did not occur to me that the matter was relevant to the present unfortunate situation.”

  “Was the agreement written or verbal?” Vance asked.

  “Written.” The man reached in his pocket and handed Vance a folded paper. “At my request Mr. Coe wrote that letter to me yesterday,” he explained. “I wished to cable the news to Milan.”

  Vance unfolded the letter and read it, with Markham, Heath and me looking over his shoulder. It was a holograph letter on personal note-paper, and ran:

  Signor Eduàrdo Grassi.

  Dear Sir,

  In confirmation of our recent conversation, I hereby agree to sell to you, as a representative of the Museum of Antiquities at Milan, the following pieces in my private collection:…

  Then came a detailed list of forty or fifty items, including many of Archer Coe’s most famous and valuable specimens of Chinese art. The price of these items, which followed in a separate paragraph, caused Heath to suck in his breath; and I must admit that even I was astonished at the high figure. At the end of the letter was Archer Coe’s sprawling signature. The date at the head of the document was October 10.

  Vance refolded the letter and put it in his pocket.

  “We shall keep this for the present,” he told Grassi. “It will be perfectly safe, and it will be returned to you anon. It may have some bearing on the case, and the authorities may wish to refer to it.”

  I had expected Grassi to protest, but instead he bowed in polite acquiescence.

  “And now,” Vance concluded, “I shall again ask you to wait in your own quarters until we send for you.”

  Grassi went out, with obvious relief.

  “Sergeant,” Vance said, “could you get me a sheet of that note-paper on Archer Coe’s desk? And his fountain-pen?”

  The Sergeant went upstairs and returned shortly with the paper and the pen.

  Vance compared the paper with the letter he had taken from Grassi, and made several marks on the paper with Archer Coe’s pen. After an inspection of both he said:

  “It is certainly Coe’s note-paper; and Archer’s pen wrote the letter… Most significant.”

  He returned Grassi’s letter to his pocket, and ordered Gamble to take lunch to Miss Lake and Grassi.

  “And now, Markham,” he said, “we have chivied all the inmates. What do you say to emulating the voracious Doremus and seeking food? Eggs Bénédict are in order, with an asparagus-tip salad, and a soufflé au Cacao. I know a French restaurant in the neighborhood—”

  Heath, with a grimace, interrupted him.

  “I’m sticking here,” he announced. “I got work to do, and the reporters’ll be swarming around like flies before long. I’ll get my victuals later.”

  Markham had risen.

  “I’ll either be back or phone you later,” he told the Sergeant.

  Vance went toward the front door.

  “Cheer up, old dear,” he exhorted Markham. “It’s not nearly so black as it seems. The clouds are beginning to disperse. We have all the data now, and it’s simply a matter of arranging them and interpreting them correctly.”

  “I wish I could feel so optimistic,” grumbled Markham, following Vance into the vestibule.

  Vance halted and, turning, regarded the perplexed Heath.

  “Oh, by the by, Sergeant,” he said; “one or two little favors,—there’s a good fellow. Will you check up at once—this afternoon, if possible—on the—shall I say alibis?—of Miss Lake and Signor Grassi. Grassi says he dined last night with Doctor Montrose of the Metropolitan Museum, took a wrong train, and ended at the Crestview Country Club at eleven.—Miss Lake, according to her tale as reported by Grassi, dined at Arrowhead Inn with friends, drove to the Country Club alone, had an accident, and arrived shortly after the lost Signor had found his missin’ trail.”

  “That’s easy,” snorted Heath. “Two good men can check all that in a few hours…”

  “And,” added Vance, “you might give this house another search. I’m dashed interested in a blunt instrument that might have been used for striking Archer and the wee Scottie.”

  Heath screwed up his face shrewdly.

  “Anything definite in mind, sir?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes—quite. I noticed that in the fire set in the living-room everything was intact in the rack but the poker.”

  Heath nodded. “I get you, sir. If there’s a poker in this house, I’ll lay hands on it.”

  “Stout fella!” Vance continued toward the front door.

  “And speaking of dogs, sir,” Heath added, “that guy Wrede told me he was very fond of the animals. Owned one before he moved.”

  “Ah!” Vance paused. “Did he mention the breed?”

  “He did. But it wasn’t any dog I’d ever heard of.”

  “It was a Doberman Pinscher,” Markham informed him.

  “Now that’s deuced interestin’, y’ know,” Vance murmured.

  “Anything else, Mr. Vance?” Heath asked.

  “Well, yes,” Vance drawled, turning at the door. “Be so good,
Sergeant, as to have the bolt on Archer’s bedroom door fixed while we’re lunching. I’ll want it in perfect working order when I return.”

  The Sergeant grinned broadly.

  “So that’s on your mind, is it?… Sure, I’ll have it fixed.”

  Footnote

  *Vance’s mirror-black vase, which I had often seen and admired, was fifteen inches tall, whereas the C. P. Allen vase is only seven inches tall.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Chinese Chest

  (Thursday, October 11; 2.15 p.m.)

  WE WALKED THROUGH the invigorating autumn air to a small French restaurant in West 72nd Street near the Drive. Vance, who knew the patron, ordered our lunch. We had a glass of Dubonnet, a young Chambertin with our eggs, and a few sips of Grand Marnier after our coffee. Vance talked of dogs in general and of Scottish terriers in particular. He told us of the famous blood lines—the Ems, Barlae, Abertay, Laindon, Albourne, Laurieston, Merlewood, Taybank, Ornsay, and Heather—and described their characteristics. He went into the obscure origin of the Scottie, the West Highland and the Cairn; and discussed the status of the Scottie in Great Britain and America. He described the type of dog he preferred, and criticised the tendency among certain Scottish terrier breeders to produce “freaks.”

  “Proportion in all things,” he said. “One must approach a Scottie as one approaches a work of art. The fundamental principles are the same. A dog, like a painting or a piece of sculpture, must have free movement in three dimensions, balance, organization, rhythm—a perfect plastic ensemble. If the head is too long and the body too short, both balance and proportion are lost. Some of our breeders, with no appreciation of co-ordinated ensemble, are ruining the conformation and workability of the Scottie by faddish distortions. They are endeavoring to make clowns of a breed of dogs that are fundamentally serious and dignified. The Scottie is at heart a gentleman—deep-natured, reserved, honorable, patient, tolerant, and courageous. He never whines or complains: he meets life as he finds it, with an instinctive philosophy of stoical intrepidity, and a mellow understanding. He is calm and firm—and stubborn. He minds his own business—and minds it well. He is independent, and incapable of an underhand act. He is loyal—and he remembers. He’s a Spartan and can suffer pain without whimpering. He will attack a lion or a tiger if his rights are invaded. And he may die in the struggle; but he never shows the white feather or runs away. He is the grandest and most admirable of all sports—forthright and brave. You know exactly where you stand with a Scottie; and if you are a friend, he is gentle and loving and protective… And this is the dog, Markham, that certain breeders would turn into a grotesque zany—a butt for humor, an object for snickering—by taking away his beautiful proportions, lengthening his fore face, shortening his body and tail, and making of him a monstrosity fit only for gibes…”

  Vance paused, sipped his Chamberlin, and went on.

  “Then there’s the question of size. A tendency has developed among a class of breeders and judges recently to give preference to large, coarse dogs. But there is no reason whatever for Scotties to be large. They are terriers—ground dogs (the very name comes from the Low Latin terrarius)—and they are supposed to go to earth for foxes, otters, and other burrowing vermin. Obviously size is a handicap—unless, of course, we desire to turn the breed into freak show dogs. There have, of course, been many heavy champions of undeniable merit; but why any one should favor heavy Scotties in general is a mystery. McCandlish, one of the greatest breeders of Scottish terriers and a man who knows the breed as few others now living, puts the correct weight at sixteen to eighteen pounds for bitches, and eighteen to twenty pounds for dogs. And he is perfectly right. Even the Standard of Points, as adopted by the Scottish Terrier Club of England, says specifically that specimens of over twenty pounds should be discouraged… But does this deter the breeders of ‘freaks’? Alas, no! They want baby elephants. And if they are called on to judge a show, they’ll put down a small dog that meets the Standard, and elevate large, overweight huskies that couldn’t get down a fox-hole…”*

  Again Vance sipped his wine.

  “There is alas! a tendency here and there to breed show dogs rather than natural terriers. Some breeders, by their intensification of certain ring traits, have robbed Scotties of their natural heritage. With the recent mania in certain quarters for lowness and short legs, many of the breed can’t move as freely as they should—they lack mobility and speed and agility—and it is impossible for them to defend themselves adequately against their enemies. I think it is this loss of terrier power and its resultant loss of confidence that accounts for the increasing number of shy Scotties today. A real Scottie, in his natural state and bred for workability rather than ribbons, possesses an indefinable character of derring-do. This true Scottie character combines keenness and eagerness, a desire to be busy all the time, a readiness to play or fight or raise what-for at any hour of the day: it has in it a deep-seated inquisitiveness, an instinct to investigate whatever turns up—a complete and eager responsiveness to any manifestation, however trivial, of the world about it—a seeking quality which keeps the dog’s mind and muscles constantly on the qui vive… That is the real terrier character; and there are no keener terriers than Scotties. It’s a quality hard to analyze, as are all colorful personalities; and I suppose the best way to describe it is to call it an ever-blazing internal fire, both physical and temperamental, that shines forth from the dog’s eyes, vitalizes his expression, invigorates his body, and animates his every activity…”

  Vance smiled waggishly at Markham.

  “I know I’m boring you. But you’ve been thinking much too strenuously all the forenoon. Your brain needs a little relaxation,—and what could be more soporific than my cackle about dogs?… And while I’m on the subject, I want to tell you, Markham, that the little wounded Scottie Gamble discovered behind the library portières is a beautiful specimen of what a Scottie should be. She has her faults—every dog has—but she’s the type I’d like to have in my own kennels. She’s small, compact, beautifully balanced—and doesn’t weigh an ounce over seventeen pounds… Poor little devil. She can probably never be shown now, even if she recovers. There’ll be a bad scar over her eye. She certainly didn’t deserve that wound, and I hope she’ll have her revenge by helping us find the murderer.”

  He got up.

  “I think I’ll phone and see how she’s getting along.”

  He went out and returned shortly to the table. He looked more cheerful.

  “The doctor says she’s not as badly hurt as he thought at first. A simple fracture, and he had to take only three stitches in her scalp. She’s eating. No fever. Had an intravenous injection of calcium-gluconate, and, aside from being bandaged, she’ll be pretty normal by tomorrow.”

  He took another sip of wine.

  “And that means that I’ll be pretty busy tomorrow. I’ll have to visit the American Kennel Club and perhaps interview a few Scottie judges.”

  “I can’t see the connection—” Markham began.

  “But there is a connection,” insisted Vance. “It is no coincidence that a wounded dog is in a strange hostile house at the exact time of a murder. And it’s reasonable to assume that it was admitted to the house by the murderer, either accidentally or for a purpose. In either case it will be a definite clue. The ownership of the dog—and especially the address of the owner—will give us something pretty definite to work from. The migrations of the dog last night will throw much light on the movements of the person who came to the Coe house… And there is another point to be considered. Neither Brisbane nor Archer saw the dog, for either one of them—with their dislike for dogs—would have put her out of the house immediately.”

  “But where does that deduction lead us?”

  “Not far, I’ll admit. But it helps considerably. From the dog’s presence in the house last night we may argue several very interestin’ and illuminatin’ possibilities. First, that the dog did not arrive before the murderer, becau
se Archer would have thrown her out—”

  “But Archer might have been the person who injured her.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t put it past him; but if he had kicked her or struck her, he would not have left her behind the curtain beside the library door: he would have thrown her down the front steps to the street…”

  “But Brisbane?”

  “Ah! That’s just the point I’m coming to. If it had been Brisbane, then the dog was already in the house, or else she followed him in. If she was in the house and it was he who injured her, he was killed at almost the same instant; for if he had been able, he, like Archer, would have put the dog outside. Therefore, in case the dog was there and Brisbane injured her, then it follows that the murderer didn’t see her or left her there with some definite purpose in mind. As for the dog having followed Brisbane in, I think it highly unlikely. He would have noticed her coming in the front door, and she wouldn’t have got further than the vestibule. Moreover, dogs do not sneak in front doors between strangers’ legs—”

  “But she followed some one in, obviously,” Markham argued, “—unless, of course, she was deliberately brought there.”

  “That is true,” Vance admitted, “and that is a point that puzzles me. She might have followed some one—even a stranger—into the house, provided he had left the door open; but the murderer would scarcely have left the front door open,—in fact, I imagine he would have taken pains to shut it securely. And Brisbane would certainly not have left the door open. And both of them—if they had shut the front door immediately—would have noticed the dog and pushed her back… On the other hand, the vicious injury given the dog seems to indicate that her presence in the house was not deliberate—that, in fact, the person who found her was surprised and, perhaps, frightened. Being afraid he would be seen if he turned her out, he acted impulsively and sought to kill her lest she should start barking and attract attention. In that event, we might conclude that the murderer struck the dog as a sort of self-protective measure; and the second and most important conclusion is that the dog’s presence was not discovered until after the murder.”