The Kidnap Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Very interestin’,” he murmured as he rose and turned to Heath.

  “What’s interesting?” demanded the Sergeant. He again seemed to be nettled by Vance’s complete disregard of the risk of making fingerprints on the ladder.

  “Sergeant,” Vance told him seriously, “the imprints I just made when I mounted the ladder are of practically the same depth as the imprints made by the ladder last night.” Vance took a deep puff on his cigarette. “Do you see the significance of the results of that little test of mine?”

  Heath corrugated his forehead, pursed his lips, and looked at Vance questioningly.

  “Well, Mr. Vance, to tell you the truth—” He hesitated. “I can’t say as I do see what it means—except that you’ve maybe spoiled a lot of good fingerprints.”

  “It means several other things. And don’t stew so horribly about your beloved hypothetical fingerprints.” Vance broke the ashes from his cigarette against the ladder, and sat down lazily on the second rung. “Imprimis, it means that two men were not on the ladder at the same time last night—or, rather, this morning. Secondly, it means that whoever was on that ladder was a very slight person who could not have weighed over 120 or 130 pounds. Thirdly, it means that Mr. Kaspar Kenting was not kidnapped via yon open window at all... Does any of that help?”

  “I still can’t see it.” Heath was holding his cigar meditatively between thumb and forefinger.

  “My dear Sergeant!” sighed Vance. “Let us reflect and analyze for a moment. When the ladder was placed against this window between dawn and six o’clock, before the sun had come up, the ground was much softer than it is now, and any weight or pressure on the ladder would have created imprints of a certain depth in the moist sod. At the present time the soil is obviously drier and harder, for the sun has been shining on it for several hours. However, you noted—did you not?—that the ladder sank into the ground—or, rather, made impressions in the ground—when I mounted it, of equal depth with that of the earlier imprints. I have a feelin’ that if I had mounted the ladder when the ground was considerably damper the ladder would have gone in deeper—eh, what?”

  “I getcha now,” blurted Heath. “The guy who went up that ladder early this morning musta been a damn sight lighter than you, Mr. Vance.”

  “Right-o, Sergeant.” Vance smiled musingly. “It was a very small person. And if two persons had been on that ladder—that is, Mr. Kaspar Kenting and his supposed abductor—I rather think the original impressions made by the ladder would have been far deeper.”

  “Sure they would.” Heath was gazing down at the two sets of impressions as if hypnotized.

  “Therefore,” Vance went on casually, “aren’t we justified in assuming that only one person stepped on this ladder early this morning, and that that person was a very slight and fragile human being?”

  Heath looked up at Vance with puzzled admiration.

  “Yes, sir. But where does that get us?”

  “The findings, as it were,” continued Vance, “taken in connection with the footprints, seem to tell us that a Chinese gentleman of small stature was the only person who used this ladder. Pure supposition, of course, Sergeant; but I rather opine that—”

  “Yes, yes,” Markham interrupted. He had been drawing vigorously on his cigar, giving his earnest attention to the demonstration and Vance’s subsequent conversation with Heath. He now nodded comprehendingly. “Yes,” he repeated. “You see some connection between these footprints and the more-or-less Chinese signature on that ransom note.”

  “Oh, quite—quite,” agreed Vance. “You show amazin’ perspicacity. That’s precisely what I was thinkin’.”

  Markham was silent for a moment.

  “Any other ideas, Vance?” he demanded somewhat peevishly.

  “Oh, no—not a thing, old dear.” Vance blew a ribbon of smoke into the air, and rose lackadaisically.

  He cast a meditative glance back at the ladder and at the trimmed privet hedge behind it, which ran the full length of the house. He stood motionless for a moment and squinted.

  “I say, Markham,” he commented in a low voice; “there’s something shining there in the hedge. I don’t think it’s a leaf that’s reflecting the light at that one spot.”

  As he spoke he moved quickly to a point just at the left of where the ladder now stood. He looked down at the small green leaves of the privet for a moment, and then, reaching forward with both hands, he separated the dense foliage and leaned over, as if seeking something.

  “Ah!... My word!”

  As Vance separated the foliage still farther, I saw a silver-backed dressing comb wedged between two closely forked branches of the privet.

  Markham, who was standing at an angle to Vance, started forward.

  “What is it, Vance?” he demanded.

  Vance, without answering him, reached down and retrieving the comb, turned and held it out in the palm of his hand.

  “It’s just a comb, as you see, old dear,” he said. “An ordin’ry comb from a gentleman’s dressing set. Ordin’ry, except for the somewhat elaborate scrollwork of the silver back.” He glanced at the astonished Heath. “Oh, no need to be upset, Sergeant. The scrolled silver wouldn’t take any clear fingerprints, anyway. And I’m quite certain you wouldn’t find any, in any event.”

  “You think that’s Kaspar Kenting’s missing comb?” asked Markham quickly.

  “It could be, of course,” nodded Vance. “I rather surmise as much. It was just beneath the open window of the chappie’s boudoir.”

  Heath was shaking his head somewhat shamefacedly. “How the hell did Snitkin and I miss that?” His tone carried a tinge of regret and self-criticism.

  “Oh, cheer up, Sergeant,” Vance encouraged him good-naturedly. “You see, it was caught in the hedge before reaching the ground, and was jolly well hidden by the density of the leaves. I happened to be standing at just the right angle to get a glimpse of it through the leaves with the sun on it... I imagine that whoever dropped it couldn’t find it either, and, as time was pressin’, the curs’ry search was abandoned. Interestin’ item—what?” He tucked the comb into his upper waistcoat pocket.

  Markham was still scowling, his eyes fixed inquiringly on Vance.

  “What do you think about it?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m not thinkin’, Markham.” Vance started toward the gate. “I’m utterly exhausted. Let’s stagger back into the Kenting domicile.”

  As we entered the front door, Mrs. Kenting, Kenyon Kenting, and Fleel were just descending the stairs.

  Vance approached them and asked, “Do any of you happen to know anything about that ladder in the yard?”

  “I never saw it before this morning,” Mrs. Kenting answered slowly, in a deadened voice.

  “Nor I,” added her brother-in-law. “I can’t imagine where it came from, unless it was brought here last night by the kidnappers.”

  “And I, of course,” said Fleel, “would have no way of knowing anything about any ladders here. I haven’t been here for a long time, and I never remember seeing a ladder around the premises before.”

  “You’re quite sure, Mrs. Kenting,” pursued Vance, “the ladder doesn’t belong here? Might it, perhaps, have been kept somewhere at the rear of the house without your having seen it?” He looked at the woman with a slight frown.

  “I’m quite sure it doesn’t belong here,” she said in the same muffled tone of voice. “Had it ever been here, I should have known about it. And, anyway, we have no need of such a ladder.”

  “Most curious,” murmured Vance. “The ladder was resting against the maple tree in your courtyard early this morning when Officer McLaughlin passed the house.”

  “The maple tree?” Kenyon Kenting spoke with noticeable astonishment. “Then it was moved from the maple tree to the side of the house later?”

  “Exactly. Obviously the people concerned in this affair made two trips here last night. Very confusin’—what?”

  Vance dismissed the subject,
and, reaching in his pocket, brought out the comb he had found in the privet hedge, and held it out to the woman.

  “By the by, Mrs. Kenting, is this, by any chance, your husband’s comb?”

  The woman stared at it with frightened eyes.

  “Yes, yes!” she exclaimed almost inaudibly. “That’s Kaspar’s comb. Where did you find it, Mr. Vance—and what does it mean?”

  “I found it in the privet hedge just beneath his window,” Vance told her. “But I don’t know yet what it means, Mrs. Kenting.”

  Before the woman could ask further questions Vance turned quickly to Kenyon Kenting and said:

  “We should like to have a little chat with you, Mr. Kenting. Where can we go?”

  The man looked around as if slightly dazed and undecided.

  “I think the den might be the best place,” he said. He walked down the hall to a room just beyond the still open entrance to the gem-room, and, throwing the door wide, stepped to one side for us to enter. Mrs. Kenting and Fleel proceeded through the sliding doors into the drawing room on the opposite side of the hall.

  Footnotes

  * Captain Anthony P. Jerym, Bertillon expert of the New York Police Department.

  † The sensational Davis cup winner and America’s first seeded player at the time.

  CHAPTER SIX

  $50,000

  (Wednesday, July 20; 12:45 p.m.)

  KENYON KENTING FOLLOWED us into the den and, closing the door, stepped to a large leather armchair, and sat down uneasily on the edge of it.

  “I will be very glad to tell you anything I know,” he assured us. Then he added, “But I’m afraid I can be of little help.”

  “That, of course, remains to be seen,” murmured Vance. He had gone to the small bay window and stood looking out with his hands deep in his coat pockets. “First of all, we wish to know just what the financial arrangement is between you and your brother. I understand that when your father died the estate was all left at your disposal, and that whatever money Kaspar Kenting should receive would be subject to your discretion.”

  Kenting nodded his head repeatedly, as if agreeing; but it was evident that he was thinking the matter over. Finally he said:

  “That is quite right. Fleel however, was appointed the custodian, so to speak, of the estate. And I wish to assure you that not only have I maintained this house for Kaspar, but have given him even more money than I thought was good for him.”

  “Your brother is a bit of a spendthrift—eh, what?”

  “He is very wasteful—and very fond of gambling.” Kenting spoke in a guarded semi-resentful tone. “He is constantly making demands on me for his gambling debts. I’ve paid a great many of them, but I had to draw the line somewhere. He has a remarkable facility for getting into trouble. He drinks far too much. He has always been a very difficult problem—especially in view of the fact that Madelaine, his wife, has to be considered.”

  “Did you always decide these monet’ry matters entirely by yourself?” Vance asked the man casually. “Or did you confer with Mr. Fleel about them?”

  Kenting shot Vance a quick look and then glanced down again.

  “I naturally consulted Mr. Fleel on any matters of importance regarding the estate. He is co-executor, appointed by my father. In minor matters this is not necessary, of course; but I do not have a free hand, as the distribution of the money is a matter of joint responsibility; and, as I say, Mr. Fleel has, in a way, complete legal charge of it. But I can assure you that there were never any clashes of opinion on the subject—Fleel is wholly reasonable and understands the situation thoroughly. I find it an ideal arrangement.”

  Vance smoked for several moments in silence, while the other man looked vaguely before him. Then Vance turned from the window and sat down in the swivel chair before the old-fashioned roll-top desk of oak at one side of the window.

  “When was the last time you saw your brother?” he asked, busying himself with his cigarette.

  “The day before yesterday,” the man answered promptly. “I generally see him at least three times a week—either here or at my office downtown—there are always minor matters of one kind or another to decide on, and he naturally depends a great deal on my judgment. In fact, the situation is such that even the ordinary household expenses have always been referred to me.”

  Vance nodded without looking up.

  “And did your brother bring up the subject of finances on Monday?”

  Kenyon Kenting fidgeted a bit and shifted his position in the chair. He did not answer at once. But at length he said, in a half-hearted tone, “I would prefer not to go into that, inasmuch as I regard it as a personal matter, and I cannot see that it has any bearing on the present situation.”

  Vance studied the man for a moment.

  “That is a point for us to decide, I believe,” he said in a peculiarly hard voice. “We should like you to answer the question.”

  Kenting looked again at Vance and then fixed his eyes on the wall ahead of him.

  “If you deem it necessary, of course—” he began. “But I would much prefer to say nothing about it.”

  “I’m afraid, sir,” put in Markham, in his most aggressive official manner, “we must insist that you answer the question.”

  Kenting shrugged reluctantly and settled back in his chair, joining the tips of his fingers.

  “Very well,” he said resignedly. “If you insist. On Monday my brother asked me for a large sum of money—in fact, he was persistent about it, and became somewhat hysterical when I refused him.”

  “Did he state what he required this money for?” asked Vance.

  “Oh, yes,” the man said angrily. “The usual thing—gambling and unwarranted debts connected with some woman.”

  “Would you be more specific as to the gambling debts?” pursued Vance.

  “Well, you know the sort of thing.” Kenting again shifted in his chair. “Roulette, blackjack, the birdcage, cards—but principally horses. He owed several book-makers some preposterous amount.”

  “Do you happen to know the names of any of these book-makers?”

  “No, I don’t.” Once more the man glanced momentarily at Vance then lowered his eyes. “Wait—I think one of them had a name something like Hannix.”*

  “Ah! Hannix, eh?” Vance contemplated his cigarette for a few moments. “What was so urgent about this as to produce hysterics?”

  “The fact is,” the other went on, “Kaspar told me the men were unscrupulous and dangerous, and that he feared for himself if he did not pay them off immediately. He said he had already been threatened.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Hannix,” mused Vance. “Hannix looks pretty hard, I know, but he’s really a babe at heart. He’s a shrewd gentleman, but hardly a vicious one... And I say, Mr. Kenting, what was the nature of your brother’s debts in connection with the mysterious lady you mentioned? Jewelry, perhaps?”

  The man nodded vigorously.

  “Yes, that’s just it,” he said emphatically.

  “Well, well. Everything seems to be running true to form. Your brother’s position was not in the least original—what? Gamblin’ debts, liquor, and ladies cravin’ precious gems. Most conventional, don’t y’ know.” A faint smile played over Vance’s lips. “And you denied your brother the money?”

  “I had to,” asserted Kenting. “The amount would almost have beggared the estate, what with so much tied up in what we’ve come to call ‘frozen assets.’ It was far more than I could readily get together at the time, and anyway, I would have had to take the matter up with Fleel, even if I had been inclined to comply with Kaspar’s demands. And I knew perfectly well that Fleel would not approve my doing so. He has a moral as well as legal responsibility, you understand.”

  Vance took several deep inhalations on his Regie and sent a succession of ribbons of blue smoke toward the old discolored Queen Anne ceiling.

  “Did your brother approach Mr. Fleel about the matter?”

  “Yes, he
did,” the other returned. “Whenever I refuse him anything he goes immediately to Fleel. As a matter of fact, Fleel has always been more sympathetic with Kaspar than I have. But Kaspar’s demand this time was too utterly outrageous, and Fleel turned him down as definitely as I did. And—although I don’t like to say so—I really think Kaspar was grossly exaggerating his needs. Fleel got the same impression, and mentioned to me over the phone the next morning that he was very angry with Kaspar. He told me, too, that legally he was quite helpless in the matter and could not accommodate Kaspar, even if he had personally wanted to.”

  “Has Mrs. Kenting any money of her own?” Vance asked unexpectedly.

  “Nothing—absolutely nothing!” the man assured him. “She is entirely dependent upon what Kaspar gives her—which, of course, means some part of what I allow him from the estate. Often I think that he does not do the right thing by her and deprives her of many of the things she should have, so that he himself can fritter the money away.” A scowl came over the man’s face. “But there’s nothing I can do about it. I have tried to remonstrate with him, but it’s worse than useless.”

  “In view of this morning’s occurrence,” suggested Vance, “it may be that your brother was not unduly exaggerating about the necessity for this money.”

  Kenting became suddenly serious, and his eyes wandered unhappily about the room.

  “That is a horrible thought, sir,” he said, half under his breath. “But it is one that occurred to me immediately when I arrived here early this morning. And you can be sure it left me uncomfortable.”

  Vance regarded the man dubiously as he addressed him again.

  “When you receive further instructions regarding the ransom money, what do you intend to do about it—that is to say, just what is your feeling in the matter?”

  Kenting rose from his chair and stood looking down at the floor. He appeared deeply troubled.