The girl paused long enough for Vance to present Markham. She accepted him without the suspicion she had previously accorded Heath; and Markham was both fascinated and amused by her lively and irrelevant chatter.
“And now, Mr. Vance,” the girl continued, going to the desk and taking the tight cover from the little box she had brought, “I’ve simply got to show you my clues. But I really don’t think they’re any good, because I didn’t know exactly where to look for them. Anyhow…”
She began to display her treasures. Vance humored her and pretended to be greatly interested. Markham, puzzled but smiling, came forward a few steps; and Burns stood, ill at ease, at the other side of the desk. Heath, annoyed by the frivolous interruption, disgustedly lighted a cigar and walked to the window.
“Now here, Mr. Vance, is the exact size of a footprint.” Gracie Allen took out a slip of paper with some figures written on it. “It measures just eleven inches long, and the man at the shoe store said that was the length of a number nine-and-a-half shoe—unless it was an English shoe, and then it might be only a number nine. But I don’t think he was English—I mean the man with the foot. I think he was a Greek, because he was one of the waiters up at the Domdaniel. You see, I went up there because that’s where you said the dead man was found. And I waited a long time for someone to come out of the kitchen to make a footprint; and then, when no one was looking, I measured it…”
She put the paper to one side.
“And now, here’s a piece of blotter that I took from the desk in Mr. Puttle’s office at lunch-time yesterday, when he wasn’t there. And I held it to a mirror, but all it says is ‘4 dz Sw So,’ just like I wrote it out again here. All that means is, ‘four dozen boxes of sandalwood soap.’…”
She brought out two or three other useless odds and ends which she explained in amusing detail, as she placed them beside the others.
Vance did not interrupt her during this diverting, but pathetic, display. But Burns, who was growing nervous and exasperated at the girl’s unnecessary wasting of time, finally seemed to lose his patience and burst out:
“Why don’t you show the gentlemen the almonds you have there, and get this silly business over with?”
“I haven’t any almonds, George. There’s only one thing left in the box, and that hasn’t anything to do with it. I was just sort of practicing when I got that clue—”
“But something smells like bitter almond to me.”
Vance suddenly became seriously interested.
“What else have you in the box, Miss Allen?” he asked.
She giggled as she took out the last item—a slightly bulging and neatly sealed envelope.
“It’s only an old cigarette,” she said. “And that’s a good joke on George. He’s always smelling the funniest odors. I guess he can’t help it.”
She tore away the corner of the envelope and let a flattened and partly broken cigarette slip into her hand. At first glimpse, I would have said that it had not been lighted, but then I noticed its charred end, as if a few inhalations had been taken on it. Vance took the cigarette and held it gingerly near his nose.
“Here’s your odor of bitter almond, Mr. Burns.” His eyes were focused somewhere far in space. Then he sealed the cigarette again in one of his own envelopes, and placed it on the mantel.
“Where did you find that cigarette, Miss Allen?” he asked.
The girl giggled again musically.
“Why, that’s the one that burned a hole in my dress last Saturday—out in Riverdale. You remember… And then when you told me all about how important cigarettes are, I thought I’d go out there right away. I wanted to see if I could find the cigarette and maybe tell if it was a man or a woman that had thrown it at me. You see, I didn’t really believe it was you that did it… I had a terrible time finding the cigarette, because I had stepped on it and it was half covered up. Anyhow, I couldn’t tell anything from it, and I was awfully mad all over again. I started to throw it away. But I thought I’d just better keep it, because it was the first clue I had gotten—although it really didn’t have anything to do with the case I was helping you with.”
“My dear child,” said Vance slowly, “it may not have anything to do with our case, but it may have something to do with some other case.”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful!” the girl exclaimed delightedly. “Then we’d have two cases, and I’d really be a detective, wouldn’t I?”
Markham had come forward.
“What did you mean by that last remark, Vance?”
“Cyanide may have been on this cigarette.” He looked at Markham significantly. “For the possible action of this drug, as well as the possible means of its administration, I have only to refer you to Doremus’ remarks Sunday night.”
Markham made a gesture of impatience.
“For Heaven’s sake, Vance! Your attitude toward this case is becoming more insane every minute.”
Vance ignored the other’s comment, and continued.
“Assuming my fantastic, and probably fleeting, notion that this cigarette is the actual lethal weapon we have been yearning for, many other equally fantastic things in the case become rational. We could then connect several of our unknown, nightmarish quantities and thus build up a theory which—within its own limitations, at least—would glimmer with sense. Perpend: We could account for Hennessey’s failure to see the chap enter the office Saturday evening. We could limit the knowledge of the secret door to Mirche and his immediate circle—which, you must admit, would be logical. We could assume that the crime took place elsewhere than in Mirche’s office—in Riverdale, to be specific—and that the body was brought to the office for some definite reason. Such an assumption might offer an explanation of the peculiar manner in which the police were notified; and it might account for the difficulty Doctor Mendel had in determining the time of death. For if the killing took place in the office, it could not have been earlier than ten o’clock, since Miss Allen was in there at about that hour; whereas if the killing took place elsewhere, it could have been at any time within ten hours prior to the finding of the body.”
Vance moved to the mantel and thoughtfully tapped the envelope containing the cigarette.
“Should that cigarette prove to have been impregnated with the poison, and should it have been used as Doremus indicated such an item could be used, then we’re up against an utterly implausible coincidence. To wit, we’d have two people, in separate parts of the city, murdered by the same obscure agent, on the same day. And, added to that, we have only one body.”
Markham nodded slowly without enthusiasm.
“Remotely specious. But—”
“I know your objections, Markham,” Vance interrupted. “And they are mine, too. My whole capricious supposition may be less than gossamer—but it’s mine own and, at the moment, I adore it.”
Markham started to speak, but Vance ran on.
“Let me rave a moment longer ere you encase me in a strait-jacket… I behold, as in a dream, the most comfortin’ pastures into which my quaint assumption might lead. It might even tie together the annoyin’ factors that have robbed me of sweet sleep—Mirche’s ready admission concerning his secret door; the hatred I glimpsed in the eyes of the Lorelei; the mystic lore of the Tofanas; and the presence of the ‘Owl’ at the Domdaniel Saturday night. It might explain the subtle implications in the name of the café. It might even justify the Sergeant’s haunting hypothesis of a criminal ring. It might, conceivably, elucidate Mr. Burns’ migrat’ry cigarette case with its scent of jonquille. And there are other things now baffling me that might be assembled into a consistent whole… My word, Markham! it has the most amazin’ possibilities. Let me have my hasheesh dream. A pattern is forming at last in my whirling brain; and it is the first coherent design that has invaded my enfevered imagination since Sabbath eve. With the droll premise that the cigarette was adequately poisoned, I can force a score of hitherto recalcitrant elements into line—or, rather, they tumbl
e into line themselves, like the tiny colored particles in a kaleidoscope.”
“Vance, for the love of Heaven! You’re simply creating a new and more preposterous fantasy to explain away your first fantasy.” Markham’s severe tone quickly sobered Vance.
“Yes, you’re quite right,” he said. “I shall, of course, send the cigarette at once to Doremus for analysis. And it will probably reveal nothing. As you say. Frankly, I don’t understand how the odor could have remained on the cigarette so long, unless one of the combining poisons acted as a fixator and retarded volatilization… But, Markham, I do want—I need—a dead man who was killed in Riverdale last Saturday.”
Gracie Allen had been looking from one to the other in a bewildered daze.
“Oh, now I bet I understand!” she exclaimed exultantly. “You really think the cigarette could have killed somebody… But I never heard of anyone dying from smoking just one cigarette.”
“Not an ordin’ry cigarette, my dear,” Vance explained patiently. “It is only possible if the cigarette has been dipped in some terrible poison.”
“Why, that’s awful, if it’s really true,” she mused. “And up in Riverdale, of all places! It’s so pretty and quiet up there…”
Her eyes began to grow wide, and finally she exclaimed: “But I bet I know who the dead man was! I bet I know!”
“What in the world are you talking about?” Vance laughed and looked at her with puzzled eyes. “Who do you think it was?”
She looked back at him searchingly for a few moments, and then said:
“Why, it was Benny the Buzzard!”
Sergeant Heath stiffened suddenly, his mouth agape. “Where did you ever hear that name, Miss?” he almost shouted.
“Why—why—“ She stammered, taken aback by his vehemence. “Mr. Vance told me all about him.”
“Mr. Vance told you—?”
“Of course he did!” the girl said defiantly. “That’s how I know that Benny the Buzzard was killed in Riverdale.”
“Killed in Riverdale?” The Sergeant looked dazed. “And maybe you know who killed him, too?”
“I should say I do know… It was Mr. Vance himself!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Another Shock
(Tuesday, May 21; 10:30 a.m.)
THE APPALLING ACCUSATION came like a paralyzing shock. It was several moments before I could collect myself sufficiently to see the logic behind it. It was the natural outcome of the story which Vance had built up for the girl the afternoon he had first met her.
Markham, with only meager details of that rustic encounter and knowing nothing of the tall tale spun by Vance, must have recalled immediately the conversation at the Bellwood Country Club, in which Vance had expressed his extravagant ideas as to how Pellinzi should be disposed of.
Heath, too, flabbergasted by the girl’s announcement, must have remembered that Friday-night dinner; and it was not beyond reason to assume that he now held some hazy suspicion of Vance’s guilt.
Vance himself was temporarily astounded. Weightier matters had undoubtedly crowded the entire Riverdale episode from his mind for the moment; but now he suddenly realized how Gracie Allen’s accusation took on the color of plausibility.
Markham approached the girl with an austere frown.
“That is a grave charge you have just made, Miss Allen,” he said. His gruff tone indicated the intangible doubts in the recesses of his mind.
“My word, Markham!” Vance put in, not without annoyance. “Please glance about you. This is not a courtroom.”
“I know exactly where I am,” retorted Markham testily. “Let me handle this matter—it’s full of dynamite.” He turned back to the girl. “Tell me just why you say Mr. Vance killed Benny the Buzzard.”
“Why, I didn’t say it—that is, I didn’t make it up out of my own head. I just sort of repeated it.”
Although she obviously did not regard the situation as serious, it was evident that Markham’s sternness had disturbed her.
“It was Mr. Vance who said it. He said it when I first met him in Riverdale beside the road that runs along a big white wall—last Saturday afternoon, when I was with—that is, I went there with—”
Markham, aware of the girl’s nervousness, smiled reassuringly and spoke in an altered manner.
“There’s nothing for you to worry about, Miss Allen,” he said. “Just tell me the whole story, exactly as it happened.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, a brighter note returning to her voice. “Why didn’t you tell me that’s what you wanted?… All right, I will tell you. Well, I went up to Riverdale last Saturday afternoon—we don’t have to work at the factory on Saturday afternoons, ever; Mr. Doolson is very nice about that. I went up with Mr. Puttle—he’s one of our salesmen, you know; but I really don’t think he’s as good as some of the other In-O-Scent salesmen. Do you, George?”
She turned momentarily to Burns, but did not wait for a reply.
“Well, anyhow, George wanted me to go somewhere else with him; but I thought maybe it might be best if I went to Riverdale with Mr. Puttle, especially as he was taking me to dinner that night. And I thought maybe he might get angry if I didn’t go to Riverdale with him, and then he wouldn’t take me to dinner; so I didn’t go with George, but I went to Riverdale with Mr. Puttle. Don’t you think maybe I was right? Anyhow, that’s how I happened to be at Riverdale… Well, we got to Riverdale—I often go there—I think it’s just lovely up there. But it’s an awful long walk from Broadway—and then Mr. Puttle went to look for a nunnery—”
“Please, Miss Allen,” interrupted Markham, with admirable composure; “tell me how you happened to meet Mr. Vance, and what he said to you.”
“Oh, I was coming to that… Mr. Vance came falling over the wall. And I asked him what he’d been doing. And he said he’d been killing a man. And I said what was the man’s name. And he said Benny the Buzzard.”
Markham sighed with impatience.
“Can you tell me a few other things, Miss Allen, about the—incident?”
“All right. As I already told you, Mr. Vance came falling over the wall, just behind where I was sitting—no, excuse me, I wasn’t sitting, because somebody had just thrown a cigarette at me—that cigarette up there on the mantelpiece—only it was burning—and I was standing up, shaking it off my dress, when I heard Mr. Vance fall. He seemed in an awful hurry, too. I told him about the cigarette, and he said maybe he had thrown it himself; although I thought someone had thrown it out of a big automobile that had just whizzed by. Anyhow, Mr. Vance told me to get a new dress and it wouldn’t cost me anything because he was sorry. And then he sat down and smoked some more cigarettes.”
She took a deep breath and hurried on.
“And then was when I asked him what he was doing on the other side of the wall, and he said that he had just killed a very bad man named Benny the Buzzard. He said he did it because this Mr. Buzzard had broken out of jail and was going to murder a friend of his—that is, I mean a friend of Mr. Vance’s. Mr. Vance was all mussed up, and he certainly looked like he might have just killed somebody. I was even scared of him myself for a while. But I got all over that…”
She took a moment to survey Vance up and down, as if making a sartorial comparison.
“Well now, let’s see, where was I? Oh, yes… He was running away in a terrible hurry, because he said he didn’t want anybody to know about his killing the man. But he told me. I guess he saw right away he could trust me. But I don’t know why he was worried about it, because he said he thought he had done right to save his friend from danger. Anyhow, he asked me not to tell anybody; and I promised. But he just now asked me to tell what I meant about the dead man in Riverdale, so I guess he meant I didn’t have to keep my promise any more. So that’s why I’m telling you.”
Markham’s astonishment rose as the girl rambled on. When she completed her recital and looked round for approval, the District Attorney turned to Vance.
“Good Heavens, Vance! I
s this story actually true?”
“I fear so,” Vance admitted, shrugging.
“But why—how did you come to tell her such a story?”
“The balmy weather, perhaps. In the spring, y’ know…”
“But,” demanded the girl, “aren’t you going to arrest him?”
“No—I—“ Markham was left floundering.
“Why not?” the girl insisted. “I’ll bet I know why! I’ll bet you think that you can’t arrest a detective. I thought so, too—once. But Sunday I asked a policeman; and he said of course you can arrest a detective.”
“Yes; you can arrest a detective,” smiled Markham, “if you know that he has broken a law. But I have very grave doubts that Mr. Vance has actually killed a man.”
“But he said so himself. And how else could you know? I really didn’t think he was guilty either—at first. I thought he was just telling me a romantic story because I love romantic stories! But then, Mr. Vance himself just said—right here in this very room—you heard him—he said that there was a dead man killed with the cigarette in Riverdale last Saturday. And he was very serious about it—I could tell by the way he acted and talked. It wasn’t at all like he was making up a romantic story again…”
She stopped abruptly and looked at the befuddled Mr. Burns. Judging from her expression, another idea had come into her head. She turned back to Markham with renewed seriousness.
“But you really ought to arrest Mr. Vance,” she said with definiteness. “Even if he isn’t guilty. I guess I don’t really think he is guilty myself. He’s been so awfully nice to me. But still I think you ought to arrest him just the same. You see, what I mean is that you can pretend that you believe he killed this man in Riverdale. And then everything would be all right for George. And Mr. Vance wouldn’t care a bit—I know he wouldn’t. Would you, Mr. Vance?”
The Gracie Allen Murder Case Page 12
