The Kennel Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Sergeant,” said Vance, going toward the door, “you flatter me abominably.”

  It was decided to discontinue the investigation for the day. We were all tired and confused, and there were no leads to follow. The case was teeming with possibilities, but the contradictions of the various details made logical speculation well-nigh impossible. Vance suggested a complete cessation until he could make an inquiry into the ownership of the wounded Scottie. His sanguine attitude toward the presence of the dog in the house struck me as extravagant; and I knew Markham felt the same way about it. But since there was little more that could be done at the moment, he gave in hopefully to Vance’s suggestions.

  “It’s quite safe,” Vance told him, when he had reached the lower hall, “to let the various members of the household go about their business. Only, they should be on hand tomorrow for interrogation. I can assure you, Markham, no one will run away.”

  A short conference in the drawing-room settled the matter. Gamble was told to proceed with his duties, as usual; and Miss Lake and Grassi were informed that they were free to go and come as they chose, provided they were available for questioning.

  “Keep a man in Coe’s bedroom, however,” Vance admonished the Sergeant; “and it would also be well to have a man outside to check on any one entering or leaving the house.”

  As we approached the front door Guilfoyle, the detective from the Homicide Bureau whom the Sergeant had sent to check Hilda Lake’s alibi, came in and reported. But he had unearthed nothing helpful. Miss Lake had dined at Arrowhead Inn with friends, and had departed alone by motor, arriving at the Crestview Country Club about eleven o’clock. Guilfoyle had been unable to verify the motor accident which ostensibly had delayed her arrival at the Club.

  Vance, Markham and I went out into the chill air. It had been a day of horror, and the cool breeze from the park was invigorating. When we were entering the District Attorney’s car, Markham asked:

  “Were you serious, Vance, about seeing those people to whom Wrede gave the Doberman Pinscher?”

  “Oh, quite… It will take only a few minutes.”

  The name of the people was Enright; and they lived in a penthouse in one of the new apartment buildings on Central Park West, almost opposite the reservoir. The butler informed us that Mrs. Enright was out of the city, and that Mr. Enright was at that moment walking the dog in the park. He suggested that we might find him on the circular path around the reservoir.

  Entering the park at 85th Street, we traversed the gardens on the west, crossed the main motor road, and cut across the lawn to the reservoir path. Few people were in the park at this hour and the figures about the reservoir were not many. We sat down on a bench by the path entrance and waited. Presently there appeared round the Fifth Avenue turn a very large man with a dog on a leash.

  “That will be Enright,” said Vance. “Suppose we stroll toward him.”

  Enright proved to be a genial, easy-going type of man of great bulk. (I learned later that he was an importer of foodstuffs from out-of-the-way places in the South Seas.) Vance introduced himself and presented Markham and me. Enright was cordial and talkative; and when Vance mentioned Wrede’s name he became voluble regarding his long friendship with the man. As he chatted I had a good look at the dog. I was not familiar with the breed, but I was nevertheless struck with his qualities. He was lean and muscular, with beautiful lines, his coat a shiny black with rust-red, sharply defined markings. The dominating impression he gave was that of compact, muscular power, combined with great speed and intelligence—a dog that would make a loyal and protective friend and a dangerous enemy.

  “Oh, yes,” Enright said, in answer to a question from Vance. “Wrede gave me and the missus Ruprecht last spring. Said he couldn’t keep him in a small apartment. We’ve got a penthouse—plenty of roof for the fellow to run around. But I always take him out at night and give ’im a to-and-fro in the park. Good for him. Dogs get fed up with tiles and brickwork—need to feel the sod under their paws and to get their noses in the good earth now and then. Like human beings. I take a trip to the country every year—into the wilderness.—Rough it—get back to nature—”

  “Oh, quite,” agreed Vance pleasantly. “But one does miss the conveniences when in the wilderness—doesn’t one?”

  He went toward the Doberman and bent over, making a friendly clicking sound with his tongue and calling the dog gently by name. He extended the back of his hand slowly toward the dog’s muzzle and ran his hand over his occiput and down his slightly arched neck. But the dog would not respond. He shrank back, gave a frightened whine, and crouched down on his haunches, trembling.

  “That don’t mean he don’t like you, Mr. Vance,” Enright explained, patting the dog on the head. “He’s shy as the devil. Distrustful of strangers. Gad! You should have seen him when I first got him. He crawled under a big settee in the den and wouldn’t come out for two days—not even to eat. Had to drag him out twice a day and put him on the roof. Then back he’d go under the settee… Queer ideas dogs get. Neither me nor the missus are formidable, and we love dogs. Wouldn’t be without one. But Ruprecht is lots better now than he used to be. Getting a little confidence. He’s pretty near all right when he’s alone with me.”

  “He’ll probably get over it,” Vance told him encouragingly. “The right treatment, don’t y’ know… He’s a beautiful specimen—not a Sieger Kanzler von Sigalsburg,* but he has a clean head, no lippiness, a long arched neck, a deep chest, muscular body and sloping back; and he’s correct size—around seventy pounds, I’d say… Ever show him?”

  “Oh, I entered him once—Cornwall. But he wouldn’t show. Lay down in the ring and whimpered. Damn shame, too, for the two fellows that went over him lacked quality,—one had a loose shoulder, and the other was cow-hocked and had prominent light eyes.”

  “It’s all in the game,” Vance murmured sympathetically.

  We walked with the garrulous Enright back to his apartment house and took leave of him. When we were in the District Attorney’s car, headed downtown, Vance spoke, and his voice was troubled.

  “Something queer about that dog, Markham—something deuced queer. Why should he be timid? Why should he distrust and fear strangers? It’s not like a Doberman to act that way. By nature they are alert and shrewd and fearless, with energetic natures. They’re among the best watch dogs of all the larger breed… Shy—lying down in the ring… Yes, something has happened to him. He’s had a blighting experience of some kind…”

  Markham beat an annoyed tattoo on the window ledge of the car.

  “Yes, yes; it’s very sad, I suppose. But what possible connection can there be between a shy Doberman in Central Park West and the murder of Archer Coe?”

  “I haven’t the vaguest notion,” Vance returned cheerfully. “But there are only two dogs in this case, and one of them is browbeaten and timid, and the other is viciously wounded.”

  “Pretty far-fetched,” Markham grumbled.

  Vance sighed.

  “I dare say. But so are the circumstances surrounding the murders themselves.” He lighted a fresh cigarette and glanced at his watch. “It’s drawing on toward dinner time. Currie has promised me filet of sole Marguéry and Chatouillard potatoes, and hot-house strawberries Parisienne. Does that tempt you?… And I’ll open a bottle of that ’95 Château-Yquem you’re so fond of.”

  “You cheer me, old man.” Markham gave an order to the chauffeur. “But first I’ll take two double ponies of your Napoléon brandy. I’m in vile humor.”

  “Ah, a bit of forgetfulness—eh, what? Quite right you are. There’ll be nothing to irk us till tomorrow.”

  But Vance was mistaken. That night the Coe case entered a new and more sinister phase. Markham dined with us and remained until nearly eleven chatting about various subjects from the drawings of George Grosz to Griffith Taylor’s new theory of the migration and status of races. He departed with the understanding that he was to pick us up at ten the next day.

 
It was exactly half-past two in the morning when Vance’s private phone rang. It woke me from a deep sleep, and it was several minutes before I could answer it. Markham’s voice came over the wire demanding Vance. I carried the portable phone set to his room and handed it to him in bed. He listened a brief minute; then he set the instrument on the floor, yawned, stretched, and threw back the bedclothes.

  “Dash it all, Van!” he complained, as he rang for Currie. “Grassi has been stabbed!”

  Footnotes

  *Notably “The Bishop Murder Case.”

  *This great Doberman, who won his Sieger title when less than fifteen months old, being the youngest dog ever to receive this award, has recently been imported to this country by F. R. Kingman, and made his American championship without difficulty.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Den Window

  (Friday, October 12; 3 a.m.)

  WHEN VANCE AND I arrived at the Coe house, Markham and Sergeant Heath were already there. There was a detective from the Homicide Bureau sitting glumly on the front steps. He gave one look at us and turned his head away—we seemed to spell trouble for him. I did not understand his attitude until later.

  Gamble, white and trembling, in bedroom slippers and a long flannel robe, opened the door for us and led the way upstairs. We went to the second floor, walked back toward the front of the house, and entered Grassi’s quarters. The curtains were drawn and all the lights were on.

  Heath and Markham stood at the foot of Grassi’s bed, looking at the prostrate figure lying there. Sitting in a straight chair, on the opposite side of the bed, was a capable-looking man of about forty, short and slightly bald, who reminded me somewhat of Doctor Alexis Carrel.

  “This is Doctor Lobsenz,” Markham informed Vance. “He has his office in 71st Street, near here, and Gamble called him in.”

  Doctor Lobsenz looked up, nodded, and went on about his work with swift efficiency.*

  Grassi lay on his back, clad in white silk pajamas. He was ghastly pale, and the arm nearest us moved restlessly on the sheets, like that of a person under the influence of hyoscine. There was an area of blood, perhaps twelve inches in diameter, on the sheet at his left side nearest the doctor. His pajama coat was also stained with blood.

  Grassi’s eyes were closed, but his lips were moving incoherently. The left sleeve of his pajama coat had been ripped up to the shoulder, and there was a pad and a close-fitting dressing around the elbow of his left arm. A stain of blood could be seen through the dressing where the hemorrhage was still oozing.

  Presently the doctor rose.

  “I think that’s all I can do for him at the minute, Mr. Markham,” he said. “I’ll send for the ambulance immediately.”

  Markham nodded. “Thank you, doctor.”

  Then he turned to Vance.

  “Grassi was stabbed through the left arm. Doctor Lobsenz says it is not a dangerous wound.”

  Vance’s eyes were on Grassi’s face. Without looking up he spoke. “Just what is the nature of the wound, doctor?”

  “He was stabbed at the outer border of the biceps tendon, where it crosses the dimple of the anti-cubital fossa. The thrust punctured the median basilic vein and caused a profuse hemorrhage. But it luckily missed the basilic artery.”

  “What shaped weapon would you say was used?” asked Vance.

  The doctor hesitated.

  “The wound was a bit ragged, and of a rather peculiar conformation; it was not made with a knife, but with some instrument like a very thick awl.”

  “Could it have been a small dagger with a diamond-shaped blade?”

  “Yes, very easily. The wound was jagged and there was too much bleeding to determine exactly the contours; but I can let you know later, when I’ve washed and sterilized it.”

  Vance nodded. “You needn’t bother.” Then he added: “You’re taking him to the hospital?”

  “Yes; immediately,” the doctor told him. “I have merely put on a temporary dressing—a gauze compress held by a bandage. I’ll have to have him in the hospital in order to enlarge and disinfect the wound and to tie up the severed ends of the bleeding vessel. He should be all right by tomorrow.”

  “Have you given him any medication?”

  “He was pretty nervous and upset, and I gave him three grains of sodium-amytal by mouth. It’ll quiet him tonight and he’ll be able to return here tomorrow. His arm will be in a sling for a few days, but unless there is an infection there’s no danger.”

  Vance still had his eyes on Grassi.

  “Is he in shape to be questioned for a while before you take him to the hospital?” he asked.

  The doctor bent over Grassi, felt his pulse, and looked at his pupils.

  “Oh, yes.” He walked toward the door. “The ambulance won’t be here for half an hour.” He went into the hall where Gamble was standing.

  “Where’s the phone?” we heard him ask the butler.

  Doctor Lobsenz was no sooner out of the room than Grassi opened his eyes and looked up at us, shifting in the bed and trying to assume a more upright position. Vance arranged the pillows under his shoulders and drew up the sheet. Grassi stared from one to the other of us as if he were surprised to see us there.

  “Thank God you’ve come!” he said, his eyes resting on Vance. “After all that has occurred today—then to have this happen. It’s terrible! I hope I never see this house again.” He gave a shudder and his eyes closed. “It’s an outrage!” he went on. “An unspeakable outrage! I have heard many strange tales of American lawlessness, but this surpasses anything I could have imagined.”

  “Well, anyway, you weren’t killed,” Vance murmured.

  He was now walking round the room. He seemed suddenly to have forgotten the presence of the man on the bed and to have taken an interest in the various objects on the floor and about the walls. He looked carefully at the door, tried the knob; studied the arrangement of Grassi’s shoes near the foot of the bed; opened the closet door and looked inside; moved to the east window, opened the shade and drew it again; took the lid off a small ivoried clothes hamper, scrutinized the contents and replaced the lid; studied the arrangement of the furniture; and finally switched the lights off and on again.

  Grassi’s lids were half-closed, but I could see that his eyes followed every move Vance made. When Vance had switched the lights back on, Grassi lifted himself on one elbow.

  “What are you searching for?” he demanded. “What right have you to come in here and take advantage of my helplessness? If you will inform me of what you want I will tell you where to find it—if that is the usual police procedure in this barbarous country.”

  Despite the venomous sarcasm in his voice there was a marked undercurrent of excitement.

  Vance sat down in a chair beside the bed and calmly took out a cigarette, lighting it with leisurely deliberation.

  “Is it not,” he asked, “the custom in your country also, Mr. Grassi, to glance over a room in which a crime—or an attempted crime—has been committed?”

  “Well, what did you find?” demanded the man on the bed.

  “Nothing really excitin’,” Vance replied. “Suppose you tell us what happened.”

  “That will not take long.” Grassi turned to Markham. “But I want justice. I want revenge.”

  “You’ll have it,” Markham assured him. “But we’ll want your help and co-operation. Do you feel equal to going into this matter now?”

  Grassi settled back on the pillows.

  “Certainly.—I went to bed early. I was fatigued—the excitement today… I am sure you will understand. It was before eleven o’clock—and I went to sleep immediately. I was exhausted—”

  “You turned out the lights?” Vance asked casually.

  “Naturally. And I also drew down the shades. The street lights are often annoying… I was awakened by some slight noise—I cannot say exactly what it was. But I lay quiet for a moment, listening, and hearing nothing further, started to doze off again when I suddenly
became aware—I do not know exactly how to explain it—of the presence of somebody in the room. There was no noise or movement—I had a sort of sixth sense…”

  “Perhaps you are psychic,” suggested Vance, with a slight yawn.

  “It may be,” Grassi agreed. “At any rate, I kept perfectly still and let my eyes move about the room. But it was very dark—there was only a faint nimbus of light filtering through the drawn shades. But as I looked at the window I saw a vague shape pass in front of me, and I instinctively threw my left arm across my breast, as if to ward off something which I felt was endangering me, but which I did not understand. Almost simultaneously I felt a sharp stinging pain in my left arm, just above the elbow—and a curious sort of pressure. Whether it was the pain or whether it was from being startled and frightened I do not know, but I lost consciousness for a moment. I probably fainted…

  “When I regained consciousness I felt a warm, sticky wetness under my left side, and the pain in my arm had increased and was throbbing.”

  Grassi looked at Markham appealingly. Then his eyes moved to Heath, and finally to Vance. Both Markham and the Sergeant were standing close to the bed, listening intently; but Vance had settled down in his chair lethargically and was placidly smoking, as if the man’s recital had little or no interest for him. But I knew Vance well enough to realize that he was at this moment intensely absorbed in the recital.

  “What did you do then?” Vance asked.

  Grassi took a deep breath and again closed his eyes.

  “I called out several times and waited; but as no one answered, I arose and pressed the electric switch by the door—”

  “On which side of the bed did you arise?” Vance interrupted.

  “On the side on which you are sitting,” Grassi informed him. “And as soon as I had turned on the lights, I opened the door—”

  Vance’s eyebrows went up.

  “Ah, the door was closed?”

  “Not quite. It was, as you say, unlatched… Then I called again—into the hall; and the butler—upstairs—answered me. I sat down on the edge of the bed and waited until he arrived…”