The Kidnap Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Not a thing, Sarge—absolutely not a thing,” Dubois replied. “And I sure went over it carefully. If anyone went out that window during the night, they certainly wiped it clean, or else wore gloves and was mighty careful. And there’s just the kind of finish on that windowsill—that old polished ivory finish—that’ll take fingerprints like smoke-paper. Anyhow, I may have picked up a stray print here and there that’ll check with something we’ve got in the files. I’ll let you know more about it, of course, when we’ve developed and enlarged what we got.”

  The Sergeant seemed greatly disappointed.

  “I’ll be wanting you later for the ladder,” he told Dubois, shifting the long black cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “I’ll get in touch with you when we’re ready.”

  “All right, Sergeant.” Dubois picked up his small black case. “That’ll be a tough job though. Don’t make it too late in the afternoon—I’ll want all the light I can get.” And he waved a friendly farewell to Heath and departed, followed by Bellamy.

  Kaspar Kenting’s bedroom was distinctly old-fashioned, and conventional in the extreme. The furniture was shabby and worn. A wide Colonial bed of mahogany stood against the south wall, and there was a mahogany chest of drawers, with a hanging mirror over it, near the entrance to the room. Several easy chairs stood here and there about the room, and a faded flower-patterned carpet covered the floor. In one corner at the front of the room was a small writing table on which stood a French telephone.

  There were two windows in the room, one at the front of the house, overlooking the street; the other was in the east wall, and I recognized it at once as the window to which Mrs. Kenting said she had run in her fright. It was thrown wide open, with the Venetian blind drawn up to the top, and the outside shutters were invisible from where we stood; whereas the front window was half closed, with its blind drawn halfway down. At the rear of the room, to the right of the bed, was a door, now wide open. Beyond it another bedroom, similar to the one in which we stood, was identifiable: it was obviously Mrs. Kenting’s boudoir. Between Kaspar Kenting’s bed and the east wall two narrower doors led into the bathroom and a closet respectively.

  The electric lights were still burning with a sickly illumination in the old-fashioned crystal chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling, and in the standard modern fixture near the head of the bed.

  Vance looked about him with seeming indifference; but I knew that not a single detail of the setting escaped him. His first words were directed to the missing man’s wife.

  “When you came in here this morning, Mrs. Kenting, was this hall door locked or bolted?”

  The woman looked uncertain and faltered in her answer.

  “I—I—really, I can’t remember. It must have been unlocked, or else I would probably have noticed it. I went out through the door when the coffee was ready, and I don’t recall unlocking it.”

  Vance nodded understandingly.

  “Yes, yes; of course,” he murmured. “A deliberate act like unlocking a door would have made a definite mental impression on you. Simple psychology...”

  “But I really don’t know, Mr. Vance. You see,” she added hurriedly, “I was so upset. I wanted to get out of this room.”

  “Oh, quite. Wholly natural. But it really doesn’t matter.” Vance dismissed the subject. Then he went to the open window and looked down at the ladder.

  As he did so Heath took from his pocket a knife such as boy scouts use, and pried loose the thumbtack which held a soiled and wrinkled sheet of paper to the broad windowsill. He picked up the paper gingerly and handed it to Markham. The District Attorney took it and looked at it, his face grim and troubled. I glanced over his shoulder as he read it. The paper was of the ordinary typewriter quality and had been trimmed irregularly at the edges to disguise its original size. On it were pasted words and separate characters in different sizes and styles of type, apparently cut from a newspaper. The uneven lines, crudely put together, read:

  If you want him back safe price will be 50 thousands $ otherwise killed will let you no ware & when to leave money later.

  This ominous communication was signed with a cabalistic signature consisting of two interlocking uneven squares which were outlined with black ink. (I am herewith including a copy of the ransom note which was found that morning at the Kenting home.)

  Vance had turned back to the room, and Markham handed him the note. Vance glanced at it, as if it were of little interest to him, and read it through quickly, with the faint suggestion of a cynical smile.

  “Really, y’ know, Markham old dear, it isn’t what you could possibly term original. It’s been done so many times before.”

  He was about to return the paper to Markham when he suddenly drew his hand back and made a new examination of the note. His eyes grew serious and clouded, and the smile faded from his lips.

  “Interestin’ signature,” he murmured. He took out his monocle and, carefully adjusting it, scrutinized the paper closely. “Made with a Chinese pencil,” he announced, “—a Chinese brush—held vertically—and with China ink... And those small squares...” His voice trailed off.

  “Sure!” Sergeant Heath slapped his thigh and puffed vigorously at his cigar. “Same as the holes like I’ve seen in Chinese money.”

  “Quite so, Sergeant.” Vance was still studying the cryptic signature. “Not illuminatin’, however. But worth remembering.” He returned his monocle to his waistcoat pocket and gave the paper back to Markham. “Not an upliftin’ case, old dear... Let’s stagger about a bit...”

  He moved to the chest of drawers and adjusted his cravat before the mirror: then he smoothed back his hair and flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the left lapel of his coat. Markham glowered, and Heath made an expressive grimace of disgust.

  “By the by, Mrs. Kenting,” Vance asked casually, “is your husband, by any chance, bald?”

  “Of course not,” she answered indignantly. “What makes you ask that?”

  “Queer—very queer,” murmured Vance. “All the necess’ry toilet articles are in place on the top of this lowboy except a comb.”

  “I—don’t understand,” the woman returned in amazement. She moved swiftly across the room and stood beside Vance. “Why, the comb is gone!” she exclaimed in a tone of bewilderment. “Kaspar always kept it right here.” And she pointed to a vacant place on the faded silk covering of what had obviously served Kaspar Kenting as a dresser.

  “Most extr’ordin’ry. Let’s see whether your husband’s toothbrush is also missing. Do you know where he kept it?”

  “In the bathroom, of course,”—Mrs. Kenting seemed frightened and breathless—“in a little rack beside the medicine cabinet. I’ll see.” As she spoke she turned and went quickly toward the door nearest the east wall. She pushed it open and stepped into the bathroom. After a moment she rejoined us.

  “It’s not there,” she remarked dejectedly. “It isn’t where it should be—and I’ve looked in the cabinet for it too.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Vance returned. “Do you remember what clothes your husband was wearing last night when he went to the opening of the casino in New Jersey with Mr. Quaggy?”

  “Why, he wore evening dress, of course,” the woman answered without hesitation. “I mean, he wore a tuxedo.”

  Vance walked quickly across the room and, opening the door beside the bathroom, looked into the narrow clothes closet. After a brief inspection of its contents he turned and again addressed Mrs. Kenting who now stood near the open east window, her hands clasped on her breast, and her eyes wide with apprehension.

  “But his dinner jacket is hanging here in the closet, Mrs. Kenting. Has he more than one?...”

  The woman shook her head vaguely.

  “And I say, I suppose that Mr. Kenting wore the appropriate evening oxfords with his dinner coat.”

  “Naturally,” the woman said.

  “Amazin’,” murmured Vance, “There are a pair of evening oxfords
standin’ neatly on the floor of the closet, and the soles are dampish—it was rather wet out last night, don’t y’ know, after the rain.”

  Mrs. Kenting moved slowly across the room to where Kenyon Kenting was standing and put her arm through his, seeming to lean against him. Then she said in a low voice, “I really don’t understand, Mr. Vance.”

  Vance gave the woman and her brother-in-law a thoughtful glance and stepped inside the closet. But he turned back to the room in a moment and once more addressed Mrs. Kenting.

  “Are you familiar with your husband’s wardrobe?” he asked.

  “Of course, I am,” she returned with an undertone of resentment. “I help him select the materials for all his clothes.”

  “In that case,” Vance said politely, “you can be of great assistance to me if you will glance through this closet and tell me whether anything is missing.”

  Mrs. Kenting withdrew her arm from that of her brother-in-law and, with a dazed and slightly startled expression, joined Vance at the clothes closet. As he took a step to one side, she turned her back to him and gave her attention to the row of hangers. Then she faced him with a puzzled frown.

  “His Glen Urquhart suit is missing,” she said. “It’s the one he generally wears when he goes away for a weekend or a short trip.”

  “Very interestin’,” Vance murmured. “And is it possible for you to tell me what shoes he may have substituted for his evening oxfords?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, and she looked at Vance with dawning comprehension.

  “Yes!” she said, and immediately swung about to inspect the shoe rack in the closet. After a moment she again turned to Vance with a look of bewilderment in her eyes. “One pair of his heavy tan bluchers are not here,” she announced in a hollow, monotonous tone. “That’s what Kaspar generally wears with his Glen Urquhart.”

  Vance bowed graciously and muttered a conventional “thank you,” as Mrs. Kenting returned slowly to Kenyon Kenting and stood rigid and wide-eyed beside him.

  Vance turned back into the closet and it was but a minute before he came out and walked to the window. Between his thumb and forefinger he held a small cut gem—a ruby, I thought—which he examined against the light.

  “Not a genuine ruby,” he murmured. “Merely a balas ruby—the two are often confused. A necess’ry item, to be sure, for a representative collection of gemstones, but of little worth in itself.. By the by, Mrs. Kenting, I found this in the outer side pocket of your husband’s dinner jacket. I took the liberty of ascertaining whether he had transferred the contents of his pockets when he changed his clothes after returning home last night. This bit of balas ruby was all I found...”

  He looked at the stone again and placed it carefully in his waistcoat pocket. Then he took out another cigarette and lighted it slowly and thoughtfully.

  “Another thing that would interest me mildly,” he remarked, looking vaguely before him, “is what kind of pajamas Mr. Kenting wears.”

  “Shantung silk,” Mrs. Kenting asserted, stepping suddenly forward. “I just gave him a new supply on his birthday.” She was looking directly at Vance, but now her eyes shifted quickly to the bed.

  “There’s a pair on—” She left the sentence unfinished, and her pale eyes opened still wider. “They’re not there!” she exclaimed excitedly.

  “No. As you say. Bed neatly turned down. Slippers in place. Glass of orange juice on the nightstand. But no pajamas laid out. I did notice the omission. A bit curious. But it may have been an oversight...”

  “No,” the woman interrupted emphatically. “It was not an oversight. I placed his pajamas at the foot of the bed myself, as I always do.”

  “Thin Shantung?” Vance asked, without looking at her.

  “Yes—the sheerest summer weight.”

  “Might easily be rolled up and placed in a pocket?”

  The woman nodded vaguely. She was now staring at Vance.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “Tell me, what is it?”

  “I really don’t know.” Vance spoke with kindliness. “I’m merely observing things. There is no answer as yet. It’s most puzzlin’.”

  Markham had been standing in silence near the door, watching Vance with grim curiosity. Now he spoke.

  “I see what you’re getting at, Vance,” he said. “The situation is damnably peculiar. I don’t know just how to take it. But, at any rate, if the indications are correct, I think we can safely assume that we are not dealing with inhuman criminals. When they came here and took Mr. Kenting to be held for ransom, they at least permitted him to get dressed, and to take with him two or three of the things a man misses most when he’s away from home.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course.” Vance spoke without enthusiasm. “Most kind of them—eh, what? If true.”

  “If true?” repeated Markham aggressively. “What else have you in mind?”

  “My dear Markham!” protested Vance mildly. “Nothing whatever. Mind an utter blank. Evidence points in various directions. Whither go we? ”

  “Well, anyway,” put in Sergeant Heath, “I don’t see that there’s any reason to worry about any harm coming to the fella. It looks to me like the guys who did the job were only after the money.”

  “It could be, of course, Sergeant.” Vance nodded. “But I think it is a bit early to jump to conclusions.” He gave Heath a significant look under drooped eyelids, and the Sergeant merely shrugged his shoulders and said no more.

  Fleel had been watching and listening attentively, with a shrewd, judicial air.

  “I think, Mr. Vance,” he said, “I know what is in your mind. Knowing the Kentings as well as I do, and knowing the circumstances in this household for a great number of years, I can assure you that it would be no shock to either of them if you were to state exactly what you think regarding this situation.”

  Vance looked at the man for several seconds with the suggestion of an amused smile. At length he said: “Really, y’ know, Mr. Fleel, I don’t know exactly what I do think.”

  “I beg to differ with you, sir,” the lawyer returned in a courtroom manner. “And from my personal knowledge—the result of my many years of association with the Kenting family—I know that it would be heartening—I might even say, an act of mercy—if you stated frankly that you believe, as I am convinced you do, that Kaspar planned this coup himself for reasons that are only too obvious.”

  Vance looked at the man with a slightly puzzled expression and then said noncommittally: “If you believe that to be the case, Mr. Fleel, what procedure would you suggest be followed? You have known the young man for a long time and are possibly in a position to know how best to handle him.”

  “Personally,” answered Fleel, “I think it is about time Kaspar should be taught a rigorous lesson. And I think we shall never have a better opportunity. If Kenyon agrees, and is able to provide this preposterous sum, I would be heartily in favor of following whatever further instructions are received, and then letting the law take its course on the grounds of extortion. Kaspar must be taught his lesson.” He turned to Kenting. “Don’t you agree with me, Kenyon?”

  “I don’t know just what to say,” Kenting returned in an obvious quandary. “But somehow I feel that you are right. However, remember that we have Madelaine to consider.”

  Mrs. Kenting began crying softly and dabbing her eyes.

  “Still,” she demurred, “Kaspar may not have done this terrible thing at all. But if he did...”

  Fleel swung round again to Vance. “Don’t you see what I meant when I asked you to state frankly your belief? It would, I am sure, greatly relieve Mrs. Kenting’s anxiety, even though she thought her husband was guilty of having planned this whole frightful affair.”

  “My dear sir!” returned Vance. “I would be glad to say anything which might relieve Mrs. Kenting’s anxiety regarding the fate of her husband. But I assure you that at the present moment the evidence does not warrant extending the comfort of any such belief, either to you or to any memb
er of the Kenting family...”

  At this moment there was an interruption. At the hall door appeared a short, middle-aged man with a sallow moonlike face, sullen in expression. Scant, colorless blond hair lay in straight long strands across his bulging pate, in an unsuccessful effort to cover up his partial baldness. He wore thick-lensed rimless glasses through which one of his watery blue eyes looked somehow different from the other, and he stared at us as if he resented our presence. He had on a shabby butler’s livery which was too big for him and emphasized his awkward posture. A cringing and subservient self-effacement marked his general attitude despite his air of insolence.

  “What is it, Weem?” Mrs. Kenting asked, with no more than a glance in the man’s direction.

  “There is a gentleman—an officer—at the front door,” the butler answered in a surly tone, “who says he wants to see Sergeant Heath.”

  “What’s his name?” snapped Heath, eyeing the butler with belligerent suspicion.

  The man looked at Heath morosely and answered, “He says his name is McLaughlin.”

  Heath nodded curtly and looked up at Markham.

  “That’s all right, Chief,” he said. “McLaughlin was the man on this beat last night, and I left word at the Bureau to send him up here as soon as they could locate him. I thought he might know something, or maybe he saw something, that would give us a line on what happened here last night.” Then he turned back to the butler. “Tell the officer to wait for me. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  “Just a moment, Weem—have I the name right?” Vance put in. “You’re the butler here, I understand.”

  The man inclined his head.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, in a low rumbling voice.

  “And your wife is the cook, I believe?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What time,” asked Vance, “did you and your wife go to bed last night?”

  The butler hesitated a moment, and then looked shiftily at Mrs. Kenting, but her back was to him. He transferred his weight from one foot to the other before he answered Vance.