When we were back in the car and headed downtown, Markham, after a minute or two spent in getting his cigar going, said:
“Too many factors seem to counteract your original theory, Vance. If this affair was plotted so carefully to be carried out at a certain time, how do you account for the fact that Kaspar seemed to have a definite premonition of something dire and unforeseen happening to him?”
“Premonition?” Vance smiled slightly. “I’m afraid you’re waxing esoteric, old dear. After Hannix’s threat and after, perhaps, a bit of pressure thrown in by the other gentleman to whom he owed money, Kaspar was naturally in a sensitive and worried state of mind. He took their blustering, but harmless, talk too seriously. Suffered from fright and craved the comfort of company. Probably why he went to the casino—trying to put his despondency out of mind. With the threats of the two creditors uppermost in his consciousness, he used them as an argument with both his brother and Fleel. And his invitin’ Quaggy home with him was merely part of this perturbation. Simple. Very simple.”
“You’re still stubborn enough to believe it had nothing to do with the facts of the case?” asked Markham irritably.
“Oh, yes, yes—quite,” Vance replied cheerfully. “I can’t see that his psychic warnings had anything whatsoever to do with what actually befell him later... By the by, Markham,”—Vance changed the subject—“there were two rather amazin’ black opals on the desk in Quaggy’s apartment. Noticed them as I was going out.”
“What’s that!” Markham turned in surprise. Then a look of understanding came into his eyes. “You think they came from the Kenting collection?”
“It’s possible.” Vance nodded slowly. “The collection was quite deficient in black opals when I gazed upon it. The few remainin’ specimens were quite inferior. No self-respectin’ connoisseur would have admitted them to his collection unless he already had more valuable ones to offset them. Those that Quaggy had were undoubtedly a pair of the finest specimens from New South Wales.”
“That puts a different complexion on things,” said Markham grudgingly. “How do you think Quaggy got hold of them?” Vance shrugged.
“Ah! Who knows? Pertinent question. We might ask the gentleman sometime...”
We continued downtown in silence.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ultimatum
(Thursday, July 21; 10 a.m.)
THE NEXT MORNING, shortly before ten o’clock, Markham telephoned Vance at his apartment, and I answered.
“Tell Vance,” came the District Attorney’s peremptory voice, “I think he’d better come down to my office at once. Fleel is here, and I’ll keep him engaged till Vance arrives.”
I repeated the message to Vance while I still held the receiver to my ear, and he nodded his head in agreement.
A few minutes later, as we were about to leave the house, he became unduly serious.
“Van, it may have happened already,” he murmured, “though I really didn’t expect it so soon. Thought we’d have at least a day or two before the next move was made. However, we shall soon know.”
We arrived at Markham’s office a half hour later. Vance did not go to the secretary in the reception room of the District Attorney’s suite in the old Criminal Courts Building, but through the private side door which led from the corridor into Markham’s spacious sanctum.
Markham was seated at his desk, looking decidedly troubled; and in a large upholstered chair before him sat Fleel.
After casual greetings Markham announced:
“The instructions promised in the ransom note have been received. A note came in Mr. Fleel’s mail this morning, and he brought it directly to me. I hardly know what to make of it, or how to advise him. But you seemed to have ideas about the case which you would not divulge. And I think, therefore, you ought to see this note immediately, as it is obvious something must be done about it at once.”
He picked up the small sheet of paper before him and held it out to Vance. It was a piece of ruled notepaper, folded twice. The quality was of a very cheap, coarse nature, such as comes in thick tablets which can be bought for a trifle at any stationer’s. The writing on it was in pencil, in an obviously disguised handwriting. Half of the letters were printed, and whether it was the composition of an illiterate person, or purposely designed to give the impression of ignorance on the writer’s part, I could not tell as I looked at it over Vance’s shoulder.
“I say, let’s see the envelope,” Vance requested. “That’s rather important, don’t y’ know.”
Markham shot him a shrewd look and handed him a stamped envelope, of no better quality than the paper, which had been slit neatly across the top. The postmark showed that the note had passed through the post office the previous afternoon at five o’clock from the Westchester Station.
“And where might the Westchester Station be?” asked Vance, sinking lazily into a chair and taking out a cigarette.
“I had it looked up as soon as Mr. Fleel showed me the note,” responded Markham. “It’s in the upper Bronx.”
“Interestin’,” murmured Vance. “‘East Side, West Side, All Around the Town,’ so to speak... And what are the bound’ries of the district it serves?”
Markham glanced down at the yellow pad on his desk.
“It takes in a section of nine or ten square miles on the upper east side of the Bronx, between the Hutchinson and Bronx Rivers and a zigzag line on the west boundary.* A lot of it is pretty desolate territory, and can probably be eliminated without consideration. As a matter of fact, it’s the toughest district in New York in which to trace anyone by a postmark.”
Vance nodded casually and, opening the note, adjusted his monocle and read the pencil-scrawled communication carefully. It ran:
Sir: I no you and famly have money and unless 50 thousand $ is placed in hole of oke tree 200 foot west of Southeast corner of old resivore in central park thursday at leven oclock at nite we will kill Casper Kenton. This is finel. If you tell police deel is off and we will no it. We are watching every move you make.
The ominous message was signed with interlocking squares made with brush strokes, like those we had already seen on the ransom note found pinned to the windowsill of the Kenting house.
“No more original than the first communication,” commented Vance dryly. “And it strikes me, offhand, that the person who worded this threatening epistle is not as unschooled as he would have us believe...”
He looked up at the lawyer, who was watching him intently.
“Just what are your ideas on the situation, Mr. Fleel?” he asked.
“Personally,” the man said, “I am willing to leave the whole matter to Mr. Markham here, and his advisors. I—I don’t know exactly what to say—I’d rather not offer any suggestions. The ransom demands can’t possibly be met out of the estate, as what funds were entrusted to me are largely in long-term bonds. However, I feel sure that Mr. Kenyon Kenting will be able to get the necessary amount together and take care of the situation—if that is his wish. The decision, naturally, must be left entirely up to him.”
“Does he know of this note?” asked Vance.
Fleel shook his head in negation.
“Not yet,” he said, “unless he, too, received a copy. I brought this one immediately to Mr. Markham. But my opinion is that Kenyon should know about it, and it was my intention to go to the Kenting house from here and inform Kenyon of this new development. He is not at his office this morning, and I imagine he is spending the day with Mrs. Kenting. I’ll do nothing, however, without the consent of Mr. Markham.” He looked toward the District Attorney as if he expected an answer to his remark.
Markham had risen, and now moved toward one of the windows which looked out into Franklin Street and over the grey walls of the Tombs. His hands were clasped behind him, and an unlighted cigar hung listlessly from his lips. It was Markham’s characteristic attitude when he was making an important decision. After a while he turned, came back to the desk, and reseated himself.
“Mr. Fleel,” he said slowly, “I think you should go to Kenyon Kenting at once, and tell him the exact circumstances.” There was a hesitant note in his words, as if he had reached a decision but was uncertain as to the feasibility of its logical application.
“I’m glad you feel that way, Mr. Markham,” the lawyer said, “for I certainly believe that he is entitled to know. After all, if a decision is to be made regarding the money, he must be the one to make it.” He rose as he spoke, taking his hat from the floor beside him. With ponderous steps he moved toward the door.
“I quite agree with you both,” murmured Vance, who was drawing vigorously on his cigarette and looking straight before him into space. “Only, I would ask you, Mr. Fleel, to remain at the Kenting house until Mr. Markham and I arrive there. We will be joining you very soon.”
“I’ll wait,” mumbled Fleel as he passed through the swinging leather door out to the reception room.
Vance settled back in his chair, stretched out his long legs, and gazed dreamily through the window. Markham watched him expectantly for some time without speaking. At last it seemed that he could bear the silence no longer, and he asked anxiously:
“Well, Vance, what do you think?”
“So many things,” Vance told him, “that I couldn’t begin to enumerate them. All probably frivolous and worthless.”
“Well, to be more specific,” Markham went on, endeavoring to control his rising anger, “what do you think of that note you have there?”
“Quite authentic—oh, quite,” Vance returned without hesitation. “As I said, the money is passionately desired. Hasty business is afoot. A bit too precipitate for my liking, however. But there’s no overlooking the earnestness of the request. I’ve a feelin’ something must be done without loss of time.”
“The instructions seem somewhat vague.”
“No. Oh, no, Markham. On the contr’ry. Quite explicit. I know the tree well. Romantic lovers leave billets-doux there. No difficulties in that quarter. Quiet spot. All approaches visible. As good a crossroads as any for the transaction of dirty work. However, it could be adequately covered by the police. I wonder...”
Markham was silent for a long time, smoking intently, his brow deeply corrugated.
“This situation upsets me,” he rumbled at length. “The newspapers were full of it this morning, as you may have noticed. The police are being condemned for refusing information to the federal boys. Maybe it would have been best if I had washed my hands of it all in the first place. I don’t like it—it’s poison. And there’s nothing to go on. I was trusting, as usual, to your impressions.”
“Let us not repine, Markham old dear,” Vance encouraged him. “It was only yesterday the bally thing happened.”
“But I must get some action,” Markham asserted, striking his clenched fist on the desk. “This new note changes the whole complexion of things.”
“Tut, tut.” Vance’s admonition was almost frivolous. “Really, y’ know, it changes nothing. It was precisely what I was waitin’ for.”
“Well,” snapped Markham, “now that you have it, what do you intend to do?”
Vance looked at the District Attorney in mock surprise.
“Why, I intend to go to the Purple House,” he said calmly. “I’m not psychic, but something tells me we shall find a hand pointin’ to our future activities when we arrive there.”
“Well, if that’s your idea,” demanded Markham, “why didn’t you go with Fleel?”
“Merely wished to give him sufficient time to break the news to the others and to discuss the matter with brother Kenyon.” Vance expelled a series of smoke rings toward the chandelier. “Nothing like letting everyone know the details of the case. We’ll get forrader that way.”
Markham half closed his eyes and regarded Vance appraisingly.
“You think, perhaps,” he asked, “that Kenyon Kenting is going to try to raise the money and meet the demands of that outrageous note?”
“It’s quite possible, don’t y’ know. And I rather think he’ll want the police to give him a free hand. Anyway, it’s time we were toddlin’ out and ascertainin’.” Vance struggled to his feet and adjusted his Bangkok hat carefully. “Could you bear to come along, Markham?”
Markham pressed a buzzer under the ledge of his desk and gave various instructions to the secretary who answered his call.
“This thing is too important,” he said as he turned back to Vance. “I’m joining you.” He glanced at his watch. “My car is downstairs.”
And we went out through the private office and judges’ chambers and descended in the special elevator.
Footnote
* The Westchester Station of the Post-Office Department, situated at 1436 Williamsbridge Road, at the intersection of East Tremont Avenue, collects and delivers mail in the following territory, starting from Paulding Avenue and Pelham Parkway: South side of Pelham Parkway to Kingsland Avenue; to Mace Avenue; to Wickham Avenue; to Gunhill Road; to Bushnell Avenue; to Hutchinson River; west side of Hutchinson River to Givans Creek; to Eastchester Bay; to Long Island Sound; to Bronx River; to Ludlow Avenue (now known as Eastern Boulevard); to Pugsley Avenue; to McGraw Avenue; to Storrow Street; to Unionport Road; to East Tremont Avenue; to Bronxdale Avenue; to Van Nest Avenue; to Paulding Avenue; to Pelham Parkway.
CHAPTER NINE
Decisions are Reached
(Thursday, July 21; 11:15 a.m.)
AT THE KENTING residence we found Kenyon Kenting, Fleel, young Falloway, and Porter Quaggy assembled in the drawing room. They all seemed solemn and tense, and greeted us with grave restraint that suited the occasion.
“Did you bring the note with you, gentlemen?” Kenting asked immediately, with frightened eagerness. “Fleel told me just what’s in it, but I’d like to see the message itself.”
Vance nodded and took the note from his pocket, placing it on the small desk near him.
“It’s the usual thing,” he said. “I doubt if you’ll find any more in it than Mr. Fleel has reported to you.”
Kenting, without a word, bustled across the room, took the folded piece of paper from its envelope, and read it carefully as he smoothed it out on the green blotting pad.
“What do you think should be done about it?” Markham asked him. “Personally, I’m not inclined to have you meet that demand just yet.”
Kenting shook his head in perturbed silence. At last he said:
“I’d always feel guilty and selfish if I did anything else. If I didn’t comply with this request and anything should really happen to Kaspar—”
He left the sentence unfinished as he turned and rested against the edge of the desk, looking dolefully down at the floor.
“But I’ve no idea exactly how I’m going to raise that much money—and at such short notice. It’ll pretty well break me, even if I can manage to get it together.”
“I can help contribute to the fund,” offered Quaggy, in a hard tone, looking up from his chair in the shadows of the room.
“And I’d like to do something, too,” put in Fleel, “but, as you know, my personal funds are pretty well depleted at this time. As a trustee of the Kenting estate I couldn’t use that money for such a purpose without a court order. And I couldn’t get one in such a limited time.”
Fraim Falloway stood back against the wall, listening intently. A half-smoked cigarette drooped limply between his thick, colorless lips.
“Why don’t you let it go?” he suggested, with malicious querulousness. “Kaspar’s not worth that much money to anyone, if you ask me. And how do you know you’re going to save his life, anyway?”
“Shut up, Fraim!” snapped Kenting. “Your opinion hasn’t been asked for.”
Young Falloway shrugged indifferently and said nothing. The ashes from his cigarette fell over his shiny black suit, but he did not take the trouble to brush them off.
“I say, Mr. Fleel,” put in Vance, “just what would be the financial standing of Mrs. Kenting in the hy
pothetical case that Kaspar Kenting should die? Would she benefit by his demise—that is, to whom would Kaspar Kenting’s share in the estate go?”
“To his wife,” answered Fleel. “It was so stipulated in Karl Kenting’s will, although he did not know Mrs. Kenting at the time, as Kaspar was not yet married. But the will clearly states that his share of the inheritance should go to his wife if he were married and she survived him.”
“Sure,” said Fraim Falloway sulkily, “my sister gets everything, and there are no strings attached to it. Kaspar has never done the right thing by Sis, anyway, and it’s about time she was coming in for something. That’s why I say it’s rank nonsense to give up all this money to get Kaspar back. Nobody here thinks he’s worth fifty cents, if they’ll be frank.”
“A sweet and lovable point of view,” murmured Vance. “I suppose your sister is very lenient with you whenever possible?”
It was Kenyon Keating who answered.
“That’s it exactly, Mr. Vance. She’s the kind that would sacrifice everything for her brother and her mother. That’s natural, perhaps. But, after all, Kaspar is my brother, and I think something ought to be done about it, even on the mere chance it may save him, if it does take practically every cent I’ve got in the world. But I’m willing to go through with it, if you gentlemen and the police will agree to keep entirely out of it, until I have found out what I can do without any official assistance which might frighten off the kidnappers.”
He looked at Markham apologetically and then added:
“You see, I discussed the point with Mr. Fleel just before you gentlemen arrived. We are agreed that the police should allow me a clear field in handling this matter in exact accordance with the instructions in the note; for if it is true, don’t you see, that the kidnappers are watching my moves, and if they so much as suspect that the police are waiting for them, they may not act at all, and Kaspar would still remain in jeopardy.”
The Kidnap Murder Case Page 10
