The Dragon Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  A New Discovery (Sunday, August 12; 12.30 p.m.)

  SO APPALLING AND stupefying was the sight of those hideous hoof-prints, that it was several seconds before the actual realization of their significance was borne in upon us. Heath and Snitkin stood like petrified men, their eyes fixed upon them; and Markham, despite his customary capacity to absorb the unusual, gazed down in speechless bewilderment, his hands opening and shutting nervously as if he had received a physical shock and was unable to control his reflex twitching. My own feeling was one of horror and unbelief. I strove desperately to throw off the sense of hideous unreality which was creeping over me and making every nerve in my body tingle.

  But the man most affected was Stamm. I had never seen any one so near a state of complete collapse from sheer terror. His face, already pale from the excesses of the night before, turned an ugly ashen yellow, and his taut body swayed slightly. Then his head jerked back as if he had been struck by an unseen hand, and he drew in a long, rasping breath. Blood suddenly suffused his cheeks, turning them almost crimson; and there was a spasmodic twitching of the muscles about his mouth and throat. His eyes bulged like those of a man afflicted with exophthalmic goitre.

  It was Vance’s cool, unemotional voice that brought us out of our trance of horror and helped to steady us.

  “Really now,” he drawled, “these imprints are most fascinatin’. They have possibilities—eh, what?... But suppose we return to dry land. My boots are a beastly mess.”

  We filed back slowly along the diverted board, and Heath and Snitkin replaced it as it had been set down originally, so that we could walk back to the shore without following Vance’s example of stepping off into the mud.

  When we were again on the little patch of low ground Stamm plucked at Vance’s sleeve nervously.

  “What—do you make of it?” he stammered. His voice sounded strangely flat and far away, like the unmodulated voice of a deaf man.

  “Nothing—yet,” Vance answered carelessly. Then, addressing Heath: “Sergeant, I’d like some copies of those footmarks—just as a matter of record. The gates will have to be opened pretty soon, but I think there’ll be time enough.”

  The Sergeant had partly regained his self-control.

  “You bet I’ll get the drawings.” He addressed Snitkin officiously. “Copy those footprints in your notebook, and measure ’em. And make it snappy. When you’re through, get the boards back out of the pool and pile ’em up. Then have the men open the gates and close the lock in the dam. Report to me when you’re finished.”

  Vance smiled at the Sergeant’s businesslike seriousness.

  “That being capably settled,” he said, “I think we’ll toddle along back to the house. There’s nothing more we can do here... The short route this time, what?”

  We proceeded across the coping of the filter toward the cabañas opposite. The water in the stream above the pool had risen considerably and was within a foot of the top of the closed gates. As I looked back I saw Snitkin kneeling on two of the boards, with his notebook spread before him, diligently transcribing those astounding markings Vance had found on the basin of the pool. There was no better man in the New York Police Department for such a task, and I recalled that Snitkin had been especially chosen by the Sergeant to make the measurements of the mysterious footprints in the snow outside the old Greene mansion in East 53rd Street.*

  As we passed the cabañas on our way to the steps leading up to the house, Vance halted abruptly.

  “I say, Sergeant, have you rescued the departed Montague’s garments from his cabaña? If not, we might take them along with us. They may hold secrets...a suicide note, or a threatening letter from a lady, or some other jolly clue such as the newspapers adore.” Despite his jocular tone I knew that he was troubled and was reaching out in every direction for some light on the incredible situation.

  Heath grunted assent and began searching through the several cabañas. Presently he emerged with Montague’s attire over one arm; and we proceeded to the house.

  As we reached the top of the steps, Doctor Emanuel Doremus, the Medical Examiner, drove up to the front of the house. Seeing us, he stepped jauntily across the lawn to where we stood. He was a short, dapper man, breezy and petulant in manner, who suggested the stock-broker rather than the shrewd physician that he was. He was dressed in a pale gray sport suit, and his straw hat was set at a rakish angle. He greeted us with a familiar wave of the hand, planted himself with his feet wide apart, thrust his hands in his pockets, and fixed a baleful eye on the Sergeant.

  “A fine time,” he complained waspishly, “to drag me out into the country. Don’t you think I ever need any rest—even on Sunday?... Well, where’s the body? Let’s get the business over with, so I can get back in time for lunch.” He teetered a moment on his toes while Heath cleared his throat and looked embarrassed.

  “The fact is, doc,”—Heath spoke apologetically—“there ain’t no body...”

  Doremus squinted, settled down on his heels, and studied the Sergeant maliciously.

  “What’s that!” he snapped. “No corpse?” He pushed his hat further back on his head and glowered. “Whose clothes are those you’re holding?”

  “They belong to the guy that I wanted you to report on,” Heath returned sheepishly. “But we can’t find the guy himself.”

  “Where was he when you phoned me?” Doremus demanded irritably. “I suppose the corpse said ‘toodle-oo’ to you and walked off... Say, what is this—a practical joke?”

  Markham stepped diplomatically into the breach.

  “We’re sorry for the trouble we’ve caused you, doctor. But the explanation is simple. The Sergeant had every reason to believe that a man had been drowned, under suspicious circumstances, in the swimming pool down the hill. But when the pool was drained there was no body in it, and we’re all a bit mystified.”

  Doctor Doremus nodded curtly in acknowledgment of Markham’s explanation, and turned back to the unhappy Sergeant.

  “I don’t head the Bureau of Missing Persons,” he grumbled. “I happen to be the Chief Medical Examiner...”

  “I thought—” Heath began, but the doctor interrupted him.

  “Good Gad!” He glared at the Sergeant in mock astonishment. “You ‘thought’! Where did the members of the Homicide Bureau get the idea that they could think?... Sunday! The day of rest. Hot, too! And I’m dragged out of my easy chair into this God-forsaken part of the country, because you had a thought... I don’t want thoughts—I want bodies. And when there aren’t any bodies I want to be let alone.”

  The Sergeant was piqued, but his many experiences with the peppery Medical Examiner had taught him not to take the other too seriously; and he finally grinned good-naturedly.

  “When I have a corpse for you,” he retorted, “you complain about it. Now when I haven’t got one and there’s nothing for you to do, you complain anyway... Honest, doc, I’m sorry I got you up here, but if you’d been in my place—”

  “Heaven forbid!” Doremus fixed a commiserating look on the Sergeant and shook his head dolefully. “A homicide sleuth without a corpse!”

  Markham was, I thought, a little annoyed at the Medical Examiner’s frivolous manner.

  “This is a serious situation, doctor,” he said. “The man’s body should logically have been in the pool, and the case is enough to upset any one’s nerves.”

  Doremus sighed exaggeratedly, and extended his hands, palms upward.

  “But, after all, Mr. Markham, I can’t perform an autopsy on a theory. I’m a doctor—not a philosopher.”

  Vance exhaled a long ribbon of smoke.

  “You can still have your luncheon on time, don’t y’ know. Really, doctor, you should be deuced grateful to the Sergeant for not detaining you.”

  “Huh! I suppose you’re right, though.” Doremus grinned and wiped his brow with a blue silk handkerchief. “Well, I’ll be running along.”

  “If we find the body—” Heath began.

  “Oh,
don’t consider my feelings,” the doctor returned. “I don’t care if you never find another body. But, if you do, for Gad’s sake, don’t make it at mealtime.” He waved a cheery farewell, which included all of us, and hurried back across the lawn to his car.

  “The Sergeant having been duly chastened for his precipitancy,” smiled Vance, “suppose we proceed on our way.”

  Stamm opened the side door for us with his key, and we entered the dingy hallway that led from the main stairs to the rear of the house. Even in the daytime, the depressing musty atmosphere of a bygone age enveloped us, and the sunlight that filtered into the hall from the main entrance appeared dead and dusty, as if it too had been vitiated by the stagnation of accumulated decay.

  As we approached the library we heard the low murmur of several voices within, and it was evident that most of the household had gathered in that room. There was a sudden lull in the conversation, and Leland came out into the hallway to greet us.

  Despite his inherent calm, he appeared drawn and restless. After the brief greetings, he asked in a voice that struck me as somewhat strained:

  “Have you discovered anything new?”

  “Oh, a number of things,” Vance answered cheerfully. “But Montague himself has eluded us in the most amazin’ fashion.”

  Leland shot Vance a swift, quizzical look.

  “He was not in the pool?”

  “Oh, not at all,” said Vance blandly. “He was entirely absent, don’t y’ know. Mystifyin’, what?”

  Leland frowned, studied Vance a moment, and then glanced quickly at the rest of us. He started to say something but refrained.

  “By the by,” Vance continued, “we’re going up to Montague’s room for a bit of sartorial inspection. Would you care to limp along?”

  Leland seemed confused for a moment; then he caught sight of the wearing apparel the Sergeant was carrying.

  “By George!” he exclaimed. “I had quite forgotten the poor chap’s clothes. I should have brought them to the house last night... You think they may contain something that will explain his disappearance?”

  Vance shrugged, and proceeded to the front entrance hall.

  “One never knows, does one?” he murmured.

  Stamm summoned Trainor, who was standing near the main door, and told him to fetch a pair of slippers for Vance to wear while his shoes were being cleaned. As soon as the butler had made the exchange we went up-stairs.

  The bedroom that had been assigned to Montague was far down on the north side of the second-story hallway, directly under, as I figured it, the bedroom of Mrs. Stamm. It was not as large a room as hers, but it had a similar window overlooking the Dragon Pool. The room was comfortably furnished, but it possessed none of the air of having been lived in, and I surmised that it was used merely as an overflow guest-chamber.

  On a low table by the chest of drawers was a black sealskin travelling bag, its cover thrown back against the wall. It was fitted with silver toilet articles, and appeared to contain only the usual items of male attire. Over the foot of the colonial bed hung a suit of mauve silk pajamas, and on a chair nearby had been thrown a purple surah silk dressing-gown.

  Heath placed the clothes he had found in the cabaña on the centre-table and began a systematic search of the pockets.

  Vance walked leisurely to the open window and looked out across the pool. Four men were busily engaged in the operation of opening the stream gates, and Snitkin, his drawings evidently completed, was dragging the last board up the bank toward the vault. Vance stood for several moments gazing out, smoking thoughtfully, his eyes moving from the filter to the dam and then to the cliff opposite.

  “Really, y’ know,” he remarked to Stamm, “that fallen piece of rock should be removed before the water is let in.”

  Stamm, for some reason, seemed disconcerted by the suggestion.

  “There wouldn’t be time,” he answered. “And, anyway, the water’s shallow at that point. I’ll get the rock out in a day or so.”

  Vance appeared hardly to have heard him and turned back to the room, walking slowly toward the centre-table where the Sergeant had made a small heap of the contents of Montague’s dinner clothes.

  Heath turned one more pocket inside out, and then spread his hands in Vance’s direction.

  “That’s the total,” he said, with patent disappointment. “And there’s nothing here that will tell us anything.”

  Vance glanced cynically at the various objects on the table—a platinum watch and chain, a small pocket-knife, a gold cigarette-case and lighter, a fountain-pen, several keys, two handkerchiefs, and a small amount of silver and paper money. Then he walked to the suit-case and made an inspection of its contents.

  “There’s nothing helpful here either, Sergeant,” he said at length.

  He glanced about him, examined the top of the dressing-table, opened the two drawers, looked under the pillows on the bed, and finally felt in the pockets of the pajamas and the dressing-gown.

  “Everything’s quite conventional and in order,” he sighed, dropping into a chair by the window. “I fear we’ll have to look elsewhere for clues.”

  Stamm had gone to the clothes-closet and opened the door; and Leland, as if animated by the spirit of the search, had followed him. Stamm reached up and turned on the light in the closet.

  Leland, looking over the other’s shoulder, nodded approvingly.

  “Of course,” he murmured, without any great show of enthusiasm. “His day suit.”

  Vance rose quickly.

  “’Pon my soul, Mr. Leland, I’d quite forgot it... I say, Sergeant, fetch the johnny’s other togs, will you?”

  Heath hastened to the closet and brought Montague’s sport suit to the centre-table. An examination of its pockets failed to reveal anything of importance until a leather wallet was removed from the inside coat pocket. Within the wallet were three letters, two in envelopes and one merely folded, without a covering. The two in envelopes were a circular from a tailor and a request for a loan.

  The letter without an envelope, however, proved to be one of the most valuable clues in the dragon murder. Vance glanced through it, with a puzzled expression, and then, without a word, showed it to the rest of us. It was a brief note, in characteristically feminine chirography, on pale blue scented notepaper. It was without an address, but it was dated August 9th (which was Thursday, the day before the house-party began) and read:

  Dearest Monty—

  I will be waiting in a car, just outside the gate on the

  East Road, at ten o’clock.

  Ever thine,

  ELLEN.

  Stamm was the last to read the note. His face went pale, and his hand trembled as he gave it back to Vance.

  Vance barely glanced at him: he was gazing with a slight frown at the signature.

  “Ellen...Ellen,” he mused. “Wasn’t that the name, Mr. Stamm, of the woman who said she wasn’t able to join your house-party because she was sailing for South America?”

  “Yes—that’s it.” Stamm’s tone was husky. “Ellen Bruett. And she admitted she knew Montague... I don’t get it at all. Why should she be waiting for him with a car? And even if Montague was in love with her, why should he join her in such an outlandish fashion?”

  “It strikes me,” Leland put in grimly, “that Montague wanted to disappear in order to join this woman. The man was a moral coward, and he did not have the courage to come out and tell Bernice he wanted to break his engagement with her because he was in love with another woman. Moreover, he was an actor and would concoct just such a dramatic episode to avoid his obligations. The fellow was always spectacular in his conduct. Personally, I am not surprised at the outcome.”

  Vance regarded him with a faint smile.

  “But, Mr. Leland, really, don’t y’ know, there isn’t any outcome just yet...”

  “But surely,” protested Leland, with mild emphasis, “that note explains the situation.”

  “It explains many things,” Vance
conceded. “But it doesn’t explain how Montague could have emerged from the pool to keep his rendezvous without leaving the slightest sign of footprints.”

  Leland studied Vance speculatively, reaching in his pocket for his pipe.

  “Are you sure,” he asked, “that there are no footprints whatever?”

  “Oh, there are footprints,” Vance returned quietly. “But they couldn’t have been made by Montague. Furthermore, they are not on the plot of ground at the edge of the pool which leads out to the East Road... The footprints, Mr. Leland, are in the mud on the bottom of the pool.”

  “On the bottom of the pool?” Leland drew in a quick breath, and I noticed that he spilled some of the tobacco as he filled his pipe. “What kind of footprints are they?”

  Vance listlessly shifted his gaze to the ceiling.

  “That’s difficult to say. They looked rather like marks which might have been made by some gigantic prehistoric beast.”

  “The dragon!” The exclamation burst almost explosively from Leland’s lips. Then the man uttered a low nervous laugh and lighted his pipe with unsteady fingers. “I cannot admit, however,” he added lamely, “that Montague’s disappearance belongs in the realm of mythology.”

  “I’m sure it does not,” Vance murmured carelessly. “But, after all, d’ ye see, one must account for those amazin’ imprints in the pool.”

  “I should like to have seen those imprints,” Leland returned dourly. “But I suppose it is too late now.” He went to the window and looked out. “The water is already flowing through the gates...”

  Just then came the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall, and Snitkin appeared at the door, with several pieces of paper in his hand.

  “Here are the copies, Sergeant.” The detective spoke in a strained tone: it was evident that our morning’s adventure on the basin of the pool had had a disquieting effect on him. “I’ve got the men working on the gates, and the lock in the dam is about closed. What’s the orders now?”

  “Go back and boss the job,” Heath told him, taking the sketches. “And when it’s done send the boys home and take up your post at the road gate.”