“Did any one else answer your summons?”
“No. The butler went immediately to the telephone in the hall, downstairs, and I could hear him summoning medical assistance.”
“He called me also,” Markham put in. “That’s why we happen to be here.”
“And I am most grateful,” said Grassi graciously.
Vance rose slowly and walked to a beautiful old Boule cabinet between the two east windows, and ran his fingers over the inlay.
“I say, Mr. Grassi”—he spoke without turning round—“what about that blood-stained bath towel in the hamper?”
Grassi glanced up with more alertness than he had shown at any time during the conversation.
“There was a bath towel on this little stand beside the bed,” he explained. “You see, I have no private bath and the butler always leaves me my bath towel at night. When I arose I wrapped it around my arm—”
“Ah, yes—quite so.” Vance turned from the Boule cabinet and walked toward the door. “That accounts for the fact that there are no bloodstains on the floor.”
Vance was now inspecting the lock of the door.
“How did it happen, Mr. Grassi,” he asked in an offhand manner, “that you didn’t lock your door before you said your prayers and went to bed last night?”
“The lock does not work,” Grassi returned in a tone of injured defiance.
Gamble stepped up to the threshold at this moment.
“That’s quite true, sir,” he said. “I owe Mr. Grassi an apology. I should have had it mended long ago, but it escaped my memory.”
Vance waved the butler away.
“That’s quite all right, Gamble. You’ve explained matters perfectly.”
At this moment a siren was heard in the street, and Vance went to the front window and looked out.
“The ambulance is here,” he announced. “We hope, Mr. Grassi, that you have a quiet night, and that we will see you tomorrow feeling quite yourself again.”
Doctor Lobsenz appeared at the door with Gamble.
“Through with my patient?” he asked. “If so, I’ll get some clothes on him and take him along.”
Vance nodded.
“Thank you, doctor, and good luck… And now, Markham, suppose we go downstairs to the library and do a bit of thinking—although it’s a beastly hour for mentation…”
After Grassi, accompanied by Doctor Lobsenz, had departed, Vance closed the library doors and walked to the large centre table.
“There it is, Markham, old dear,” he said with a grim smile, pointing to the Chinese dagger before him.
The dagger lay on the library table in almost exactly the same spot where we had left it the afternoon before; but now there was undried blood upon it and its condition told us, only too plainly, that it was the weapon which had been used to strike through Grassi’s arm.
“But why,” asked Markham with a puzzled frown, “should the man who attempted to kill Grassi bring the weapon back here to the library?”
“Probably,” replied Vance, “for the same reason that the person who stabbed Archer and Brisbane Coe put the dagger in the vase in this same room.”
“I don’t understand it.”
“Neither do I—altogether. But at least there’s a certain consistency in the actions of our stabber.”
“You think,” asked Markham, “that the same person who stabbed the Coes attempted Grassi’s life also?”
“Why leap at conclusions?” sighed Vance. “There are so many other things to be ascertained before we can reach any intelligent conclusion.”
“For instance?”
Vance arranged himself comfortably in a large chair.
“Well,” he said, inhaling deeply on his Régie, “I could endure to hear the various persons inside and outside the house chant their runes as to what they know of tonight’s happenings… And there are other things which might bear casual scrutiny—to wit: Why did Grassi’s call for help not arouse Miss Lake on the third floor ere it penetrated to Gamble’s ears? And what hath yon Cerberus on the front stone steps to say about those who may have come and gone tonight? And where, and doing what, was the subtle Mr. Liang during the upheaval? And also what of the doughty guard which I asked to have stationed in Archer Coe’s bedroom tonight?”
Heath, who during the entire time we had been at the Coe house had been in a state of silent but aggressive indecision, stood up and squared his shoulders.
“Well, Mr. Vance, we’ll get all of your questions answered pronto.”
He went resolutely to the front door. Before he opened it he turned back to the library.
“And I’m telling the world I’d like to get the answers to those questions myself. I asked that detective out front who’d been in here tonight, and he said nobody. But we’ll ask him again.”
He threw the door open.
“Come here, Sullivan,” he bawled; and the dejected figure we had passed on the front steps came into the library.
“A guy’s been stabbed here,” Heath blustered. “You told me no one had come in or gone out the front door. But this is serious business, and we want you to rack your brain, if any, and tell us what you know.”
Detective Sullivan was both abashed and defiant.
“I told you, Sergeant,” he insisted, “that I’ve been sitting on those steps since seven o’clock tonight and nothing or nobody, so much as a cockroach, has passed me, goin’ or comin’.”
“Maybe you went to sleep and just dreamed it all,” the Sergeant suggested sarcastically.
Detective Sullivan became indignant.
“Me sleep? Honest, Sergeant, there’s enough noise in this two-way traffic street to wake up a dead man, let alone allow anybody to pound his ear.”
“That’s enough, Sergeant,” said Vance mildly. “I think Sullivan is telling the truth. I have a feeling that no one came in the front door tonight.”
Sullivan was sent back to the front steps and Heath went into the hall.
“I’ll find out about Burke in Coe’s room,” he offered.
We could hear him going up the steps two at a time and opening Archer’s bedroom door. A moment later he appeared with Detective Burke in tow.
“Tell Mr. Markham and Mr. Vance,” he ordered gruffly, “what you’ve been doing all night.”
“I been sleeping,” Burke admitted frankly. “I pulled up a chair against the door and forgot my troubles. Was there anything the matter with that, Sergeant?”
Heath hesitated.
“Well, I guess not. You been working all day and I didn’t tell you to keep awake. But a guy’s been stabbed right down the hall from you, and he called for help—and now you know nothin’ about it.” The Sergeant shook his head with disgust. “Well, go on back and see if you can keep awake for a while.”
Burke went out.
“My fault,” the Sergeant explained. “After all, you can’t blame him, Mr. Vance.”
“Burke wouldn’t have been able to help us anyway, I’m afraid,” Vance consoled him… “Suppose we commune with Gamble.”
The butler was brought in. He was a pitiful figure as he stood before us in questioning fear.
“How do you account for the fact,” Vance asked him, “that you could hear Mr. Grassi’s call from the second floor and that his appeal for help should entirely have missed the ears of Miss Lake who is on the floor between Mr. Grassi’s room and yours?”
Gamble swallowed twice and braced himself against the door.
“That is quite simple, sir,” he said. “Miss Lake’s boudoir is at the rear of the house and there’s a large parlor between her boudoir and the door leading into the hall. I, sir, leave my door open on the fourth floor, in case the front door bell should ring or I should be called.”
When Gamble had been sent back to the upper hall, Vance sighed and crushed out his cigarette.
“Well, that explains that… Really, y’ know, Markham, we don’t seem to be moving with what might be called precipitate rapidity.”
>
He lit a fresh cigarette and stood up.
“I think I’ll take a look at the rear of the house. Would you care to stagger along?”
The Sergeant nodded sagely.
“You think the guy that stabbed the Italian got in the back way, do you, Mr. Vance?”
“I have come to the conclusion, Sergeant,” Vance returned sadly, as he went toward the door leading into the dining-room, “that thinking at this hour of the morning is a frightful waste of effort.”
Vance switched on the dining-room lights, and we followed him toward the kitchen. As he opened the door leading into the butler’s pantry I was surprised to see a rectangular line of light around the kitchen door.
Vance halted momentarily.
“I wonder…,” he murmured, as if to himself. And then: “No, no; Gamble wouldn’t have dared come near the rear of the house—he’s in a blue funk.”
He proceeded across the pantry and pushed open the swinging door into the kitchen.
Under the central light, seated at a large kitchen table of white pine, was Liang, fully dressed, and with a green eye-shade pulled down to the bridge of his nose. Before him on the table were a pile of books and many sheets of scattered paper. As we entered he rose and faced us, removing his eye-shade. He did not seem at all astonished at seeing us there at such an unusual hour; he smiled pleasantly and made a stiff bow.
“Good evening, Mr. Liang,” Vance greeted him amiably. “You’re working rather late.”
“I had many things to do tonight—my work had accumulated. My monthly report to the Ta Tao Huei is overdue… I trust I have not discommoded the household.”
“You have been working all night—here in the kitchen?” Vance asked, going to the porch door and trying it. (It was locked.)
“Since eight o’clock,” the Chinaman returned. “May I be of any service to you?”
“Oh, no end.” Vance sauntered back and perched himself on a high stool. “Have you been aware of anything unusual in the house tonight, Mr. Liang?”
The man looked mildly surprised.
“Quite the contrary. It seemed very peaceful after the excitement today.”
“Restful—eh, what? Astonishin’! And yet, Mr. Liang, while you were engaged in your liter’ry labors, Signor Grassi was stabbed.”
There was no change of expression on the Chinaman’s face as he answered: “That is most unfortunate.”
“Yes, yes, quite.” Vance’s tone was slightly irritable. “But did you, by any chance, hear any one or see any one enter the rear door this evening?”
Liang shook his head slightly in a slow and indifferent negative.
“No,” he said. “No one, to my knowledge, entered by the rear door… Perhaps the front door—”
“Many thanks for the suggestion,” Vance interrupted with a shrug; “but there’s been some one guarding it.”
“Ah!” The Chinaman moved his eyes a little until they rested on a point somewhere above Vance’s head. “That is indeed interesting… Perhaps the den window—”
“An excellent suggestion!” Vance stepped down from the stool. “The den window, eh, Mr. Liang?”
“It would be a logical choice,” the man answered. “It cannot be seen either from the street or from the house, and there is a cement walk immediately beneath it, so that there would be no footprints.”
“Our gratitude, and all that, Mr. Liang,” Vance murmured. “I’ll have a look at the window… Pray continue with your work.” And he led the way back through the dining-room into the library.
“Well, what about it?” grumbled Heath. “A swell lot you learned from that Chinaman.”
“Still, Sergeant,” Vance returned, “it was kind of Mr. Liang to suggest the den window. Why not take a peep at it?”
Heath hesitated, squinted, and then went swiftly across the hall into the drawing-room. We could hear him open the den door and walk heavily across the small room. A few moments later he returned to the library.
“There’s something damn queer about this,” he announced. “Maybe the Chinaman was right, after all. The den window was open—and the sofa that was in front of it was pulled out at a cock-eyed angle.” He glanced at Markham helplessly. “Maybe somebody did get in and out of that window, Chief… Anyhow, where do we go from here?”
“Home and to bed, my dear Pepys,” said Vance. “This is no hour for respectable people to be up. There’s nothing more to be done here.”
Footnote
*It might be interesting to note here that Jacob Munter Lobsenz, M.D., later became Vance’s personal physician.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Six Judges
(Friday, October 12; 9 a.m.)
VANCE ROSE EARLY that morning. I myself was around at nine o’clock and was surprised to find him in street clothes and on the point of leaving the house.
“I’ll be back in half an hour, Van,” he said, as he went out, but gave no further explanation.
Fifteen minutes later Markham arrived, and he had waited but ten minutes when Vance came in. He was carrying the Scottish terrier bitch in his arms. There was a dressing on her head held in place by adhesive tape, but otherwise she seemed alert and well.
“Morning, Markham,” Vance greeted the District Attorney. “Really, y’ know, I didn’t expect you so early. I’ve just toddled over to Doctor Blamey’s to see how the little Scotch lassie was getting along and here she is.”
He put the dog down and rang for Currie. When the man came he ordered Melba toast and a dish of warm milk.
“A little breakfast for the lass,” he explained. “I’ve a feelin’ she’s going to do a bit of travellin’ today.”
Markham looked at him sceptically.
“You still think you can trace the person we want through that dog?”
“It’s about our only hope,” Vance told him seriously. “The case is far too complicated as it stands—there are too many contradictions. I am sure that you, as a prosecuting attorney, could pin the various crimes on any one of three or four people. But until I have traced the ownership and peregrinations of this Scottie, I sha’n’t be satisfied.”
Markham frowned. “Just how do you intend to go about it?”
Vance studied the terrier for a few moments as he crumbled the Melba toast into the dish of milk. He ran his hands over her contours; he looked at her teeth; he felt her coat; put his fist under her brisket; and took one of her forelegs in his hand.
“As I told you, Markham, this little bitch is in perfect show condition. She’s been trimmed and conditioned by an expert, and it seems pretty certain that she’s been entered in some show recently. She’s a show dog, and her stripping is that of a professional handler; it is no pet-shop or hospital assistant’s job; and owners of dogs do not go to the professional type of trimmer unless they have the ring in mind. My guess is, from her condition, that she’s been shown within the last month. And it’s simple enough to find what shows have been held within a reasonable radius of New York during that period.”
“But why couldn’t she have been shown before?” Markham asked.
“Because,” explained Vance, “her coat wouldn’t have been ready. She’s just in full coat now—it’s only beginning to go ‘bye.’ Over a month ago her coat would have been too short… But never mind the technicalities.”
He went into the library and returned with his file of Popular Dogs. Sitting down in his easy chair he placed the file across his knees and began running his finger down the calendar of official dog shows.
“Now, let’s see,” he murmured. “During the past month there has been held around New York the show at Syracuse—make a note of these, will you, Van? Then came the Cornwall show; and after that, Tuxedo. And a week later was the Camden show, which was followed by Westbury, and also the Englewood show… That brings us pretty well up to date, and they are all possibilities. Moreover, if she was on exhibition at any of these shows, she was in either the puppy or the novice class—and perhaps in the American
-bred, although I doubt it.”
“And how do you figure that?” Markham was still sceptical.
“That’s not so difficult,” Vance elucidated. “She’s about a year old, I should say—perhaps a month or two either way…”
“You mean to tell me,” asked Markham, “that you can look at a dog and tell how old it is?”
“Approximately—yes. But one looks at the teeth for one’s information. Both the temporary and the permanent teeth of a dog appear at certain ages. The third molar, for instance, appears when the dog is between six and nine months old. And as this Scottie’s molars are well formed, I know she is at least nine or ten months old. But that is not the real test. Age is judged largely by the appearance of the incisors and the wearing-away of the cusps. The incisors are crowned with three lobes—a central and two lateral—resembling a fleur-de-lis. During the first year these three cusps are all present and show very little wear; but during the second year the middle cusp begins to wear level with the laterals, and the fleur-de-lis disappears from the central incisors of the lower jaw… Now, if we assume that this Scottie has had a normal diet, has not had too many bones to gnaw, and has not come in contact with stones, it may fairly accurately be deduced, from the condition of her teeth, that she is about a year old—perhaps just entering her second year…”
“Very well.” Markham was becoming bored. “Go on from there.”
“Up to twelve months,” Vance continued, “dogs are eligible for the puppy class. Moreover, any dog which hasn’t won a blue ribbon, except in the puppy class, is eligible for the novice class. This dog is too young to have won any important blue ribbons, and therefore my guess would be that her entries would have been in the puppy and novice classes… It’s not an important matter, although it limits and facilitates my investigation somewhat.”
“It sounds like shooting into the dark.” Markham was far from convinced.
“You’re right, to a certain extent,” Vance agreed. “But there’s a simpler way of determining the dog’s ownership—and I shall try that first.”
The Kennel Murder Case Page 18
