The Gracie Allen Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

“No, my dear,” Vance answered patiently. “But maybe you’re a little confused. There is a door here, at the end of this narrow passage, where you say you walked down.”

  “Yes, I saw that door. I even opened it. But there wasn’t anything there—only the driveway. That’s how I knew I was lost. And then as I stood there leaning against the wall and wondering how to find Philip, this other door I was telling you about—you know, the one into Miss Del Marr’s room—opened right behind me.” She tittered, as at some joke she was just about to relate. “And I fell right into the room! It was terribly embarrassing. But I didn’t spoil my dress at all. And I might have torn it, falling like that… I guess it was my own fault though, for not looking where I was leaning. But I didn’t know there was a door there. I didn’t see any door at all. Anyhow, there I was in the room. Isn’t that silly—not seeing a door and leaning up against it, and then falling down right into a lady’s room?” She laughed engagingly at the recital of her mishap.

  Vance led the girl to a chair and arranged a pillow for her.

  “Sit right there, my dear,” he said, “and tell us all about it.”

  “But I have told you,” she said, arranging herself comfortably. “It was awfully funny; and I was so embarrassed. Miss Del Marr was embarrassed too. She told me that was her private room. So, I told her I was awfully sorry and explained about looking for my brother—she even knew Philip. I guess that’s because they both work at the same place, like me and George… And then she showed me back down the hall, and pointed out the exact way to the landing on the kitchen stairs. She was awfully nice. Well, I waited a long time, but Philip didn’t show up. So I went back to Mr. Puttle. I knew how to find my way back, all right… And now, Mr. Vance, I want to ask you some more questions about what you said yesterday—”

  “I’d love to answer them, Miss Allen,” Vance said; “but I really haven’t any time this morning. Maybe later—this afternoon. You won’t mind, will you?”

  “Oh, no.” The girl jumped up quickly. “I’ve got something very important to do, too. And maybe George will come up for a while.” She shook Vance’s hand, nodded suspiciously to Heath, and in a moment she was gone.

  “Holy suffering sauerkraut!” exploded Heath, almost before the door closed on Miss Allen. “Didn’t I tell you that Mirche was a crafty customer? So he’s got a secret door! The dizzy doll didn’t see it—sure she didn’t! Somebody musta got careless—her leanin’ up against a invisible door and goin’ plop—right into the room where her brother was killed! That’s somethin’!”

  Vance smiled grimly.

  “But, after all, Sergeant, there’s no law against a man having a secret door to his own office. And that, undoubtedly, is our answer to the question of how the dead fellow got in there without being seen by Hennessey. But someone must have been in there with him. Not Mirche: he was at my table between ten and eleven. And certainly no dead man was there at ten.”

  “But don’t you think Mr. Vance—”

  “Spare me, Sergeant!” Vance was pacing the floor.

  “I’d like to go up to the Domdaniel and smash that fake door in!” Heath asserted violently.

  “No—oh, no,” counseled Vance. “You mustn’t be impetuous. Silkiness. Let that be your watchword for the nonce.”

  “Still and all,” said the determined Heath, “if this Domdaniel’s the headquarters for a crooked ring of some kind, like I’ve always suspected, nothing’d give me more pleasure than smashing the whole place—and Mirche along with it.”

  “Your nature’s too vehement, Sergeant,” Vance rebuked him. “One doesn’t go about shattering people’s offices without proof of their guilt.”

  “I’m just sayin’ what I’d like to do.”

  “And another thing, Sergeant: Mirche would be merely one weak link in your imagin’ry criminal chain. As I said, he’s far from being a leader of men.”

  “He looks like a pretty slick article to me,” Heath remonstrated meekly. “Anyhow, that ‘Owl’ Owen you was worrying about would fill the bill.”

  “Quite—quite,” mused Vance. “But he was merely a fellow diner when I saw him. Very correct and unobtrusive. Though I admit I didn’t relish his being there that night, with so many other queer things all coming together and signifying nothing.” He made an ambiguous gesture. “I think we may forget him for the present, and concentrate on ascertaining who killed the poor chap.”

  “Yeah? How? By checkin’ up a little closer on Mirche?”

  “Precisely, Sergeant. And I sha’n’t overlook Dixie Del Marr either. Not after that amazing information about the door into her private room.”

  “And just how do you intend doing it, Mr. Vance?”

  “Quite openly, Sergeant. I shall drop in for a chat… Where, by the by, does brother Mirche reside?”

  “That’s easy,” Heath told him. “Upstairs at the Domdaniel.”

  “I thought as much… And could you answer with equal ease if I asked you the domicile of Miss Del Marr?”

  “Sure.” Heath grunted. “I wouldn’t have lasted this long on the homicide squad, if I didn’t know where the people live that I think are crooked and mixed up in dirty business. You’ll find her at the Antler Hotel, on 53rd Street.”

  “You’re a fund of information, Sergeant,” Vance complimented him.

  “When do you intend to see ‘em, sir?… And then what?”

  “I’ll try to commune with Mirche and Miss Del Marr this very morning. After that, I’ll endeavor to lure Mr. Markham to lunch. Then I should be charmed to meet you here again at three this afternoon.”

  “It’s still your case, Mr. Vance,” mumbled Heath. “I’m not goin’ to tell you how to handle it.” He remained another half-hour before taking his departure.

  Then Vance telephoned to Markham, after which he sat down and lighted a cigarette, with more than ordinary deliberation.

  “Still another amazin’ facet in the gem, Van,” he said. “Markham was on the point of calling me when I was put through to his office. Mr. Doolson—he of the In-O-Scent Corporation—had just come and gone. Markham promised he’d pour forth the story when I see him later—he seemed inordin’tely amused. We’re to be at his office round one o’clock. I told him if we weren’t there by two, to send a posse of trusty stalwarts to our rescue at the Domdaniel.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  News of an Owl

  (Monday, May 20; 11 a.m.)

  AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK Vance went to the Domdaniel. He had no difficulty about seeing Mirche. After a delay of only five minutes, Mirche came into the reception hall where we were waiting. He greeted Vance effusively, though he gave me the impression that he was acting out a rehearsed part.

  “To what am I indebted for this unexpected visit, sir?” he asked smoothly.

  “I merely wanted a chat with you anent the poor fellow who was found dead here Saturday night.” Vance spoke with a casual pleasantness.

  “Oh, yes.” If Mirche was surprised, he disguised the fact successfully. “Of course, if it’s about his family, we will be very glad to see what can be done… Naturally, I should like to avoid any scandal—the public is sensitive about such matters. A most unfortunate incident. But suppose we go into my office.”

  He led the way along the terrace, and opening the door, stood aside to let us precede him. Vance seated himself in one of the large leather chairs, and Mirche sat down half facing him.

  “The police have naturally been asking a great many questions about the affair,” Mirche began. “But I was hoping the whole thing had been settled by now.”

  “These things are most distressin’, I know,” said Vance. “But there are one or two points about the situation that rather interest me.”

  “I’m greatly surprised that you should be interested, Mr. Vance.” Mirche was cool and suave. “After all, the man was only a dishwasher here. I had dismissed him just before the dinner hour. A question of pay—he didn’t think he was getting enough. I don’t see why he should have come b
ack, unless he thought better of the matter and wished to be reinstated. Most unfortunate he should die in my office. But he didn’t seem to be a particularly robust fellow, and I suppose one can never tell when the heart will give out… By the way, Mr. Vance, have they found out just what did cause his death?”

  “No, I don’t believe so,” answered Vance noncommittally. “However, that isn’t the point that interests me at the moment. The fact is, Mr. Mirche, there was an officer in the street outside Saturday night, and he insists he didn’t see this dishwasher of yours enter the office here, after he was last seen coming out of it at about six o’clock.”

  “Probably didn’t notice him,” said Mirche indifferently.

  “No—oh, no. The officer—who, by the by, knew young Allen—is quite positive the man did not enter your office from the balcony all evening.”

  Mirche looked up and spread his hands.

  “I must still insist, Mr. Vance—”

  “Is it possible the fellow could have come in here some other way?” Vance paused momentarily and looked about him. “He might, don’t y’ know, have come through that little door in the wall at the rear.”

  Mirche did not speak for a moment. He stared shrewdly at Vance, and the muscles in his body seemed to tighten. If I have ever seen a living picture of a man thinking rapidly, Mirche was that picture.

  Suddenly the man let out a short laugh.

  “And I thought I had guarded my little secret so well!… That door is a device of mine—purely for my own convenience, you understand.” He rose and went to the rear of the office. “I’ll show you how it works.” He pressed a small medallion on the wainscoting, and a panel barely two feet wide swung silently into the room. Beyond was the narrow passageway in which Gracie Allen had lost her way.

  Vance looked at the concealed catch on the secret door and then turned away, as if the revelation were nothing new to him.

  “Quite neat,” he drawled.

  “A great convenience,” said Mirche, closing the door. “A private entrance to my office from the café. You can see, Mr. Vance—”

  “Oh, yes—quite. Useful no end when you crave a bit of privacy. I’ve known certain Wall-Street brokers to have just such contraptions. Can’t say I blame them… But how should your dishwasher have known of this arrangement?”

  Mirche stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Although it’s wholly possible, of course, that some of the help around here have spied on me—or perhaps run into the secret accidentally.”

  “Miss Del Marr’s aware of it, of course?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mirche admitted. “She helps me here a bit at times. I see no reason for not letting her use the door when she wishes.”

  It was apparent that Vance was somewhat taken aback at Mirche’s frankness, and he straightway turned the conversation into other channels. He put numerous questions about Allen, and then reverted to the events of Saturday night.

  In the midst of one of Vance’s questions the front door opened, and Miss Del Marr herself appeared in the doorway. Mirche invited her in and immediately introduced us.

  “I have just been telling these gentlemen,” he said quickly, “about the private entrance to this room.” He forced a laugh. “Mr. Vance seemed to think there might be some mysterious connection between that and—”

  Vance held up his hand, protesting pleasantly.

  “I’m afraid you read hidden meanings into my words, Mr. Mirche.” Then he smiled at Miss Del Marr. “You must find that door a great convenience.”

  “Oh, yes—especially when the weather is bad. In fact, it has proved most convenient.” She spoke in a casual tone, but there was a hardness, almost a bitterness, in her expression.

  Vance was scrutinizing her closely. I expected him to question her regarding Allen’s death, for I knew this had been his intention. But, instead, he chatted carelessly regarding trivial things, quite unrelated to the matter which had brought him there.

  Shortly before he made his adieus, he said disarmingly to Miss Del Marr: “Forgive me if I seem personal, but I cannot help admiring the scent you are wearing. I’d hazard a guess it is a blend of jonquille and rose.”

  If the woman was astonished at Vance’s comment, she gave no indication of it.

  “Yes,” she replied indifferently. “It has a ridiculous name—quite unworthy of it, I think. Mr. Mirche uses the perfume, too—I am sure it was my influence.” She gave the man a conventional smile; and again I detected the hardness and bitterness in her manner.

  We took our leave soon thereafter, and as we walked toward Seventh Avenue, Vance was unusually serious.

  “Deuced clever, our Mr. Mirche,” he muttered. “Can’t understand why he wasn’t more concerned about the secret door. He’s worried, though. Oh, quite. Very queer… No need whatever to question the Lorelei. Changed my mind about that the moment she spoke so dulcetly and looked at Mirche. There was hatred, Van—passionate, cruel hatred… And they both use Kiss Me Quick. Oh, where does that aromatic item belong?… Most puzzlin’!…”

  At the District Attorney’s office Markham told us about Doolson’s visit that morning.

  “The man is desperately concerned, Vance—and for the most incredible reason. It seems he has an exalted opinion of this young Burns’ ability. Imagines his perfumery business cannot function without the fellow. Is convinced that Burns holds the key to the factory’s continued success. And more of that sort of amazing twaddle.”

  “Not twaddle at all, Markham,” Vance put in. “Doolson probably has every reason to regard Burns highly. It was Burns who concocted the formula for In-O-Scent and saved Doolson from bankruptcy. I understand just what the man means.”

  “Well, it seems, further, that the business of the concern is of a somewhat seasonal nature and that the annual peak is approaching. Doolson has invested heavily in an intensive campaign of some kind, and is in immediate need of various new popular odors. His contention is that only Burns can turn the trick.”

  “Both interesting and plausible. But why his visit here to your sanctum?”

  “It appears Burns has chucked his job until cleared of all suspicion in the Allen affair. He’s nervous and, I imagine, not a little frightened. Can’t work, can’t think, can’t sniff—completely disorganized. And Doolson is frantic. He had a talk with the fellow this morning, and got the reasons for his obstinate refusal to return to his work. Burns told him the affair was being kept quiet temporarily, and gave no names; but explained that he was in some way concerned with it and therefore upset. Having complete faith in Burns, Doolson hastened here in despair. Probably thought my office wasn’t making enough speed.”

  “Well?”

  “He insists on offering a reward for the solution to the case, in the desperate hope of spurring me and the staff to get the matter settled at once, so his precious Burns can get back to work. Personally, I think the man is crazy.”

  “It could be, Markham. But don’t disabuse him.”

  “I’ve already tried. But he was insistent.”

  “And at what figure does he estimate the immediate and carefree services of Mr. Burns?”

  “Five thousand dollars!”

  “Quite insane,” Vance laughed.

  “I agree with you. I wouldn’t believe it myself if I didn’t have the written and signed instructions and the certified check right here in my safe at this moment—incidentally, with an expiration clause of forty-eight hours.”

  After Vance had absorbed this fantastic information, he related his own activities of the morning. He told of the secret door to Mirche’s office, and dwelt on the Sergeant’s stubborn suspicion that the Domdaniel was the centre of some far-reaching criminal ring.

  To this last, Markham nodded slowly and thoughtfully.

  “I’m not sure,” he remarked, “that the Sergeant’s suspicions are unfounded. That place has always troubled me a bit, but nothing definite has ever been brought to light.”

  “The Ser
geant mentioned Owen as a possible guiding genius,” Vance said. “And the idea rather appeals to me. I’m half inclined, don’t y’ know, to search for the ‘Owl’ and see if I can ruffle his feathers… By the by, Markham, in case my impulse should overcome my discretion, what might be his given name? Really, one can’t go about inquiring for a predat’ry nocturnal bird.”

  “As I remember, it’s Dominic.”

  “Dominic—Dominic…” Suddenly Vance stood up, his eyes fixed before him. “Dominic Owen! And Daniel Mirche!” He held his cigarette suspended. “Now the whole thing has become fantasy. You’re right, Markham—I’m having visions: I’m enmeshed in an abracadabra. It’s all as fantastic as the Papyrus of Ani!”

  “In the name of Heaven—“ began Markham.

  “Doesn’t it pierce your consciousness?” Then he said: “Dominic—Daniel. To wit, DOMDANIEL!”

  Markham raised his eyebrows skeptically.

  “Sheer coincidence, Vance. Though a neat bit of fantasy, I’ll admit. As I recall my Arabian Nights, the original Domdaniel was under the ocean, somewhere near Tunis, and was the abode of evil spirits. Even if Mirche had ever heard of that undersea palace and was a partner of Owen’s in the café, he’d never have had enough initiative, or courage, for that.”

  “Not Mirche, Markham. But Owen. He would have the subtlety and the daring and the grim humor. The idea would have been quite magnificent, don’t y’ know. Offering the world a key to his secret, and then chuckling to himself much like one of the evil afrits who originally inhabited that subterranean citadel of sin…”

  He commiserated with Markham on the intricacies of life, and left him to draw his own conclusions.

  It was not Heath who was waiting for us when we returned to Vance’s apartment a little before three. It was the ubiquitous Gracie Allen; and, as usual, she greeted Vance with gay exuberance.

  “You told me to come back this afternoon. Or didn’t you? Anyhow, you did say something about later this afternoon, and I didn’t know what time that was; so I thought I’d come early. I’ve got lots of clues collected—that is, I’ve got three or four. But I don’t think they’re any good. Have you got any clues, Mr. Vance?”