The Kidnap Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  When Fleel presented us to her she nodded curtly with a frightened air, and kept her eyes focused sharply on Markham. Kenyon Kenting went directly to her and, sitting down on the edge of the sofa, put his arm half around her and patted her gently on the back.

  “You must be brave, my dear,” he said in a tone that was almost endearing. “These gentlemen have come to help us, and I’m sure they’ll be wanting to know all you can tell them about the events of last night.”

  The woman drew her eyes slowly away from Markham and looked up wistfully and trustingly at her brother-in-law. Then she nodded her head slowly, in complete and confiding acquiescence and again turned her eyes to Markham.

  Sergeant Heath broke gruffly into the scene.

  “Don’t you want to go upstairs, Chief, and see the room from where the snatch was made? Snitkin’s on duty up there, to see that nothing is moved around or changed.”

  “I say, just a moment, Sergeant.” Vance sat down on the sofa beside Mrs. Kenting. “I’d like to ask Mrs. Kenting a few questions first.” He turned to the woman. “Do you mind?” he asked in a mild, almost deferential tone. As she silently shook her head in reply he continued: “Tell me, when did you first learn of your husband’s absence?”

  The woman took a deep breath, and after a barely perceptible hesitation answered in a slightly rasping, low-pitched voice which contrasted strangely with her colorless, semi-anemic appearance.

  “Early this morning—about six o’clock, I should say. The sun had just risen.”*

  “And how did you happen to become aware of his absence?”

  “I wasn’t sleeping well last night,” the woman responded. “I was restless for some unknown reason, and the early morning sun coming through the shutters into my room not only awakened me, but prevented me from going back to sleep. Then I thought I heard a faint unfamiliar sound in my husband’s room—you see, we occupy adjoining rooms on the next floor—and it seemed to me I heard someone moving stealthily about. There was the unmistakable sound of footsteps across the floor—that is, like someone walking around in soft slippers.”

  She took another deep breath, and shuddered slightly.

  “I was already terribly nervous, anyway, and these strange noises frightened me, for Kaspar—Mr. Kenting—is usually sound asleep at that hour of the morning. I got up, put on my slippers, threw a dressing gown around me, and went to the door which connects our two rooms. I called to my husband, but got no answer. Then I called again, and still again, in louder tones, at the same time knocking at the door. But there was no response of any kind—and I realized that everything had suddenly become quiet in the room. By this time I was panicky; so I pulled open the door quickly and entered the room...”

  “Just a moment, Mrs. Kenting,” Vance interrupted. “You speak of having been startled by an unfamiliar sound in your husband’s room this morning, and you say you heard someone walking about in the room. Just what kind of sound was it that first caught your attention?”

  “I don’t know exactly. It might have been someone moving a chair, or dropping something, or maybe it was just a door surreptitiously opened and shut. I can’t describe it any better than that.”

  “Could it have been a scuffle of some kind—I mean, did it sound as if more than one person might have been making the noise?”

  The woman shook her head vaguely.

  “I don’t think so. It was over too quickly for that. I should say it was a sound that was not intended—something accidental—do you see what I mean? I can’t imagine what it could have been—so many things might have happened...”

  “When you entered the room, were the lights on?” Vance asked, with what appeared to be almost utter indifference.

  “Yes,” the woman hastened to answer animatedly. “That was the curious thing about it. Not only was the chandelier burning brightly, but the light beside the bed also. They were a ghastly yellow in the daylight.”

  “Are the two fixtures controlled with the same switch?” Vance asked, frowning down at his unlighted Régie.

  “No,” the woman told him. “The switch for the chandelier is near the hall door, while the night lamp is connected to an outlet in the baseboard and is worked by a switch on the lamp itself. And another strange thing was that the bed had not been slept in.”

  Vance’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he did not look up from his fixed contemplation of the cigarette between his fingers.

  “Do you know what time Mr. Kenting came to his bedroom last night?”

  The woman hesitated a moment and flashed a glance at Kenyon Kenting.

  “Oh, yes,” she said hurriedly. “I heard him come in. It must have been soon after three this morning. He had been out for the evening, and I happened to be awake when he got back—or else the unlocking and closing of the front door awakened me—I really don’t know. I heard him enter his bedroom and turn on the lights. Then I heard him telephoning to someone in an angry voice. Right after that I fell asleep again.”

  “You say he was out last night. Do you know where or with whom?”

  Mrs. Kenting nodded, but again she hesitated. Finally she answered in the same brittle, rasping voice:

  “A new gambling casino was opened in Jersey yesterday, and my husband was invited to be a guest at the opening ceremonies. His friend Mr. Quaggy called for him about nine o’clock—”

  “Please repeat the name of your husband’s friend.”

  “Quaggy—Porter Quaggy. He’s a very trustworthy and loyal man, and I’ve never objected to my husband’s going out with him. He has been more or less a friend of the family for several years, and he always seems to know just how to handle my husband when he shows an inclination to go a little too far in his—his, well, his drinking. Mr. Quaggy was here at the house yesterday afternoon, and it was then that he and Kaspar made arrangements to go together to the new casino.”

  Vance nodded slightly, and directed his gaze to the floor as if trying to connect something the woman had told him with something already in his mind.

  “Where does Mr. Quaggy live?” he asked.

  “Just up the street, near Central Park West, at the Nottingham...” She paused, and drew a deep breath. “Mr. Quaggy’s a frequent and welcome visitor here.”

  Vance threw Heath a significant coup d’œil, and the Sergeant made a note in the small leather-bound black book which lay before him on the desk.

  “Do you happen to know,” Vance continued, still addressing the woman, “whether Mr. Quaggy returned to the house last night with Mr. Kenting?”

  “Oh, no; I’m quite sure he did not,” was the prompt reply. “I heard my husband come in alone and mount the stairs; and I heard him alone in his bedroom. As I said, I dozed off shortly afterwards, and didn’t wake up again until after the sun rose.”

  “May I offer you a cigarette?” said Vance, holding out his case.

  The woman shook her head slightly and glanced questioningly at Kenyon Kenting.

  “No, thank you,” she returned. “I rarely smoke. But I don’t in the least mind others smoking, so please light your own cigarette.”

  With a courteous bow in acknowledgment, Vance proceeded to do so, and then asked:

  “When you found that your husband was not in his room at six this morning, and that the lights were on and the bed had not been slept in, what did you think?—and what did you do?”

  “I was naturally upset and troubled and very much puzzled,” Mrs. Kenting explained; “and just then I noticed that the big side window overlooking the lawn was open and that the Venetian blind had not been lowered. This was queer, because Kaspar was always fussy about this particular blind in the summertime because of the early morning sun. I immediately ran to the window and looked down into the yard, for a sudden fear had flashed through my mind that perhaps Kaspar had fallen out... You see,” she added reluctantly, “my husband often has had too much to drink when he comes home late at night... It was then I saw the ladder against the house; and I was wondering about tha
t vaguely, when suddenly I noticed that horrible slip of paper pinned to the windowsill. Immediately I realized what had happened, and why I had heard those peculiar noises in his room. The realization made me feel faint.”

  She paused and dabbed gently at her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief.

  “When I recovered a little from the shock of this frightful thing,” she continued, “I went to the telephone and called up Mr. Fleel. I also called Mr. Kenyon Kenting here—he lives on Fifth Avenue, just across the park. After that I simply ordered some black coffee, and waited, frantic, until their arrival. I said nothing about the matter to the servants, and I didn’t dare inform the police until I had consulted with my brother-in-law and especially with Mr. Fleel, who is not only the family’s legal advisor, but also a very close friend. I felt that he would know the wisest course to follow.”

  “How many servants are there here?” Vance asked.

  “Only two—Weem, our butler and houseman, and his wife, Gertrude, who cooks and does maid service.”

  “They sleep where?”

  “On the third floor, at the rear.”

  Vance had listened to the woman’s account of the tragic episode with unusual attentiveness, and while to the others he must have seemed casual and indifferent, I had noticed that he shot the narrator several appraising glances from under his lazily drooping eyelids.

  At last he rose and, walking to the desk, placed his halfburnt cigarette in a large onyx ash receiver. Turning to Mrs. Kenting again, he asked quietly:

  “Had you, or your husband, any previous warning of this event? ”

  Before answering, the woman looked with troubled concern at Kenyon Kenting.

  “I think, my dear,” he encouraged her, in a ponderous, declamatory tone, “that you should be perfectly frank with these gentlemen.”

  The woman shifted her eyes back to Vance slowly, and after a moment of indecision said:

  “Only this: several nights, recently, after I had retired, I have heard Kaspar dialing a number and talking angrily to someone over the telephone. I could never distinguish any of the conversation—it was simply a sort of muffled muttering. And I always noticed that the next day Kaspar was in a terrible humor and seemed worried and agitated about something. Twice I tried to find out what the trouble was, and asked him to explain the phone calls; but each time he assured me nothing whatever was wrong, and refused to tell me anything except that he had been speaking to his brother regarding business affairs...”

  “That was wholly a misleading statement on Kaspar’s part,” put in Kenyon Kenting with matter-of-fact suavity. “As I’ve already said to Mrs. Kenting, I can’t remember ever having had any telephone conversation with Kaspar at night. Whenever we had business matters to discuss he either came to my office, or we talked them over here at the house... I can’t understand these phone conversations—but, of course, they may have no relation whatsoever to this present enigma.”

  “As you say, sir.” Vance nodded. “No plausible connection with this crime apparent. But one never knows, does one?...” His eyes moved slowly back to Mrs. Kenting. “Was there nothing else recently which you can recall, and which might be helpful now?”

  “Yes, there was.” The woman nodded with a show of vigor. “About a week ago a strange, rough-looking man came here to see Kaspar—he looked to me like an underworld character. Kaspar took him immediately into the drawing room here and closed the doors. They remained in the room a long time. I had gone up to my boudoir, but when the man left the house I heard him say to Kaspar in a loud tone, ’There are ways of getting things.’ It wasn’t just a statement—the words sounded terribly unfriendly. Almost like a threat.”

  “Has there been anything further?” Vance asked.

  “Yes. Several days later, the same man came again, and an even more sinister-looking individual was with him. I got only the merest glimpse of them as Kaspar led them into this room and closed the doors. I can’t even remember what either of them looked like—except that I’m sure they were dangerous men and I know they frightened me. I asked Kaspar about them the next morning, but he evaded the question and said merely that it was a matter of business and I wouldn’t understand. That was all I could get out of him.”

  Kenyon Kenting had turned his back to the room and was looking out of the window, his hands clasped behind him.

  “I hardly think these two mysterious callers,” he commented with pompous finality, without turning, “have any connection with Kaspar’s kidnapping.”

  Vance frowned slightly and cast an inquisitive glance at the man’s back.

  “Can you be sure of that, Mr. Kenting?” he asked coldly.

  “Oh, no—oh, no,” the other replied apologetically, swinging about suddenly and extending one hand in an oratorical gesture. “I can’t be sure. I merely meant it isn’t logical to suppose that two men would expose themselves so openly if they contemplated a step attended by such serious consequences as a proven kidnapping. Besides, Kaspar had many strange acquaintances, and these men were probably in no way connected with the present situation.”

  Vance kept his eyes fixed on the man, and his expression did not change.

  “It might be, of course, as you say,” he remarked lightly. “Also it might not be—what? Interestin’ speculation. But quite futile. I wonder...” He drew himself up and, meditatively taking out his cigarette case, lighted another Régie. “And now I think we might go above, to Mr. Kaspar Kenting’s bedroom.”

  We all rose and went toward the sliding doors.

  As we came out into the main hall, the door to a small room just opposite was standing ajar, and through it I saw what appeared to be a miniature museum of some kind. There were the slanting cases set against the walls, and a double row of larger cases down the center of the room. It looked like a private exhibition, arranged on the lines of the more extensive ones seen in any public museum.

  “Ah! a collection of semiprecious stones,” commented Vance. “Do you mind if I take a brief look?” he asked, addressing Mrs. Kenting. “Tremendously interested in the subject, don’t y’ know.”*

  The woman looked a little astonished, but answered at once.

  “By all means. Go right in.”

  “Your own collection?” Vance inquired casually.

  “Oh, no,” the woman told him—somewhat bitterly, it seemed to me. “It belonged to Mr. Kenting senior. It was here in the house when I first came, long after his death. It was part of the estate he left—residuary property, I believe they call it.”

  Fleel nodded, as if he considered Mrs. Kenting’s explanation correct and adequate.

  Much to Markham’s impatience and annoyance, Vance immediately entered the small room and moved slowly along the cases. He beckoned to me to join him.

  Neatly arranged in the cases were specimens, in various shapes and sizes, of aquamarine, topaz, spinel, tourmaline, and zircon; rubelite, amethyst, alexandrite, peridot, hessonite, pyrope, demantoid, almandine, kinzite, andalusite, turquoise, and jadeite. Many of these gemstones were beautifully cut and lavishly faceted, and I was admiring their lustrous beauty, impressed by what I assumed to be their great value, when Vance murmured softly:

  “A most amazin’ and disquietin’ collection. Only one gem of real value here, and not a rare specimen among the rest. A schoolgirl’s assortment, really. Very queer. And there seem to be many blank spaces. Judgin’ by the vacancies and general distribution, old Kenting must have been a mere amateur...”

  I looked at him in amazement. Then his voice trailed off, and he suddenly wheeled about and returned to the hall.

  “A most curious collection,” he murmured again.

  “Semiprecious stones were one of my father’s hobbies,” Kenting returned.

  “Yes, yes. Of course.” Vance nodded abstractedly. “Most unusual collection. Hardly representative, though... Was your father an expert, Mr. Kenting?”

  “Oh, yes. He studied the subject for many years. He was very proud of this gem-room,
as he called it.”

  “Ah!”

  Kenting shot the other a peculiar, shrewd look but said nothing; and Vance at once followed Heath toward the wide stairway.

  Footnotes

  * Captain Dubois and Detective Bellamy were fingerprint experts attached to the New York Police Department.

  † Peter Quackenbush was the official police photographer.

  * The official time of sunrise on that day was 4:45, local mean time, or 4:41, Eastern standard time; but daylight saving time was then in effect, and Mrs. Kenting’s reference to sunrise in New York at approximately six o’clock was correct.

  * Although Vance never collected semiprecious stones himself, he had become deeply interested in the subject as early as his college days.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Ransom Note

  (Wednesday, July 20; 11 a.m.)

  AS WE ENTERED Kaspar Kenting’s bedroom, Captain Dubois and Detective Bellamy were just preparing to leave it.

  “I don’t think there’s anything for you, Sergeant,” Dubois reported to Heath after his respectful greetings to Markham. “Just the usual kind of marks and smudges you’d find in any bedroom—and they all check up with the fingerprints on the silver toilet set and the glass in the bathroom. Can’t be anyone else’s fingerprints except the guy what lives here. Nothing new anywhere.”

  “And the windowsill?” asked Heath with desperate hopefulness.