“Go ahead, Snitkin,” ordered Heath, before the man was barely in the room. “Tell us what you know.”
“Oh, I say, Sergeant,” put in Vance, “let Snitkin have a bit of this brandy first.” And he poured a copious drink of his rare Napoléon into a whiskey glass on the end of the library table. “The gruesome particulars will keep a moment.”
Snitkin hesitated and glanced sheepishly at the District Attorney. Markham merely nodded his head, and the detective gulped down the cognac.
“Much obliged, Mr. Vance,” he said. “And here’s all I know about it,”—It is interesting to note that Snitkin addressed himself to Vance and not to either Markham or Heath, although Vance had no official standing in the Police Department—“There’s a small inlet up there in the river, which isn’t over three feet deep, and the fellow on the beat—Nelson, I think it was—saw this baby lying on the bank, with his legs sticking out of the water, along about nine o’clock tonight. So he called in and reported it right away, and they sent over a buggy from the local station. The Medical Examiner of the Bronx gave the body the once-over, and it seems the fellow didn’t even die from drowning. He was already dead when he was dumped into the water. His head was bashed in with—”
“With the usual blunt instrument,” broke in Vance, finishing the sentence. “That’s what the medicos always call it when they are not sure just how a johnnie was laid low by violence.”
“That’s right, Mr. Vance,” resumed Snitkin with a grin. “The fellow’s head was bashed in with a blunt instrument—that’s just what the report said... Well, the doc guessed the guy had been dead twelve hours maybe. There’s no telling how long he’d been lying there in the inlet. It’s not a place that’s likely to be seen by anybody, and it was only by accident that Nelson ran across the body.”
“What about identification?” asked Heath officiously.
“Oh, there was plenty identification, Sarge,” Snitkin answered. “The guy not only fit the description like a glove, but his clothes and his pockets was full of identification. Looked almost like whoever threw him there wanted him to be identified quick. He had his name on a label on the inside of his coat pocket, and another one under the strap of his vest, and still another one sewed into the watch pocket of his pants. And that ain’t all: his name was written on the inside of his shoes—though I don’t get that exactly.”
“That’s quite correct, Snitkin,” remarked Vance. “It’s the practice of all custom boot-makers. And the three labels in his clothes merely mean that they were made to order by a custom tailor. Quite custom’ry and understandable.”
“Anyhow,” Snitkin went on, “I’m simply tellin’ you how we know the body is Kenting’s. There was a wallet with initials in his inside coat pocket, with a couple of letters addressed to him, and a bunch of callin’ cards...”
“I do wish you’d call them visitin’ cards,” murmured Vance.
“Hell, I’ll call ’em anything you want,” grinned Snitkin. “Anyhow, they was there. And there was a fancy pocket comb with his initials on it—”
“A pocket comb—eh?” Vance nodded with satisfaction. “Very interestin’, Markham. When a gentleman carries a pocket comb—not a particularly popular practice these days, since beards went out of fashion—he would certainly not add a toilet comb to his equipment... Forgive the interruption, Snitkin. Go ahead.”
“Well, there was monograms on damn-near everything else he had in his pockets, like his cigarette case and lighter and knife and key-ring and handkerchiefs; and there was even monograms on his underwear. According to the boys at the local station, he was either the Kaspar Kenting we’re looking for, or he wasn’t nobody. And that was a pretty complete description of him we sent out this morning to all the local precincts.”
“No pajamas and no toothbrush in his pocket, Snitkin?” Vance asked.
“Pajamas—a toothbrush?” Snitkin was as much surprised as he was puzzled. “Nothing was said about ’em, Mr. Vance, so I guess they wasn’t there. Are they needed for identification?”
“Oh, no—no,” Vance returned quickly. “Just a bit of curiosity on my part. Oh, I don’t question the identification for a moment, Snitkin. It needs far less proof than you’ve given us.”
“Who gave you all this dope, Snitkin?” asked the Sergeant in a somewhat mollified tone.
“The desk sergeant uptown,” Snitkin told him. “He telephoned the Bureau as soon as he got the report from the doc. I had just come in, and took the call myself. Then I phoned you.”
Heath nodded as if satisfied.
“That’s all right, Snitkin. You’d better go home now and hit the hay—you been wearin’ out your dogs all day. But get down to the Bureau early tomorrow—I’ll be needin’ you. I’ll see about getting some members of the family for official identification of the body in the morning—probably the fellow’s brother will be enough. This is a hell of a case.”
“But ain’t you gonna tear off some rest yourself, Sergeant?” Snitkin asked solicitously.
“I’m a young fellow,” retorted Heath with good-natured contempt. “I can take it. You old guys need a lot of beauty sleep.”
Snitkin grinned again and looked at the Sergeant admiringly.
“Have another little spot, Snitkin, before you go,” suggested Vance. And, without waiting for a response, he refilled the whiskey glass.
As before, Snitkin hesitated.
“You know, I’m not officially on duty now, Chief,” he said, looking toward Markham almost coyly.
Markham did not glance up—he seemed depressed and worried.
“Go ahead,” he barked, but not without a certain kindliness. “And don’t talk so much. We all need a little support right now.”
Snitkin picked up the whiskey glass and emptied it with alacrity. As he set the glass down he drew his coat sleeve across his mouth.
“Chief, you’re a swell—” he began. But Heath cut him short.
“Get the hell out of here,” he bawled at his subordinate. The Sergeant knew only too well Markham’s aversion for any compliments and the curious reticence of the District Attorney’s nature.*
Snitkin went out—somewhat meekly and wonderingly, but, withal, gratefully—and ten minutes later Heath followed. When we were alone Markham asked:
“What do you think of it, Vance?”
“Thinkin’ is an awful bore, Markham,” Vance answered with irritating nonchalance. “And it’s growing frightfully late, especially considerin’ how early I dragged myself into consciousness this morning.”
“Never mind all that.” Markham spoke with exasperation. “How did you know Kaspar Kenting was dead when I spoke to you on the stairway yesterday morning? ”
“You flatter me,” said Vance. “I didn’t really know. I merely surmised it—basin’ my conclusion on the indications.”
“So that’s your mood,” snorted Markham hopelessly. “I’m telling you, you outrageous fop, that this is a damned serious situation—what happened to Fleel tonight ought to prove that.”
Vance smoked a moment in silence, and his brow clouded: his whole expression, in fact, changed.
“I know only too well, Markham, how serious the situation is,” he said in a grave and curiously subdued voice. “But there’s really nothing we can do. We must wait—please believe me. Our hands and feet are tied.” He looked at Markham and continued with unwonted earnestness. “The most serious part of the whole affair is that this is not a kidnapping case at all, in the conventional sense. It goes deeper than that. It’s coldblooded, diabolical murder. But I can’t quite see my way yet to proving it. I’m far more worried than you, Markham. The whole thing is unspeakably horrible. There are subtle and abnormal elements mixed up in the situation. It’s an abominable affair, but as we sit here tonight, I want to tell you that I don’t know—I don’t know... I’m afraid to make a move until we learn more.”
I had rarely heard Vance speak in this tone, and a curious sensation of fear, so potent as to be almost a physi
cal reaction, ran through me.
I am certain that Vance’s words had a similar effect on Markham, who made no comment: he sat silent for several minutes. Then he took his leave, without again referring to the case. Vance bade him good night absent-mindedly and remained in his chair, gazing before him into the grate.
I myself went immediately to bed and—I am a little loath to admit it—slept fairly well: I was somewhat exhausted, and a physical relaxation had come over me, despite my mental tension. But had I known what terrible and heart-paralyzing events the following day held in store, I doubt if I could have slept a wink that night.
Footnote
* It is interesting to note that in the entire association between Markham and Vance I had never heard either of them pay the other a compliment of any kind. When one of them so much as bordered on a compliment, the other always broke in sharply with a remark which made any further outward display of sentiment impossible. To me it seemed as if both of them had a deep-rooted instinct to keep the intimate and personal side of their affection for each other disguised and unspoken.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Alexandrite and Amethyst
(Friday, July 22; 8:40 a.m.)
I SHALL NEVER FORGET the following day. It will ever remain in my memory as one of the great horrors of my life. It was the day when Vance and Heath and I came nearer to death than ever before or since. I still remember the scene in the private office of the now closed Kinkaid Casino;* and the report of Vance’s hideous death in the course of the Garden murder case will never be erased from my mind. But as I look back upon these and other frightful episodes which froze my blood and filled my heart with cold fear, not one of them looms as appalling as do the events of that memorable Friday in the blistering heat of this particular summer.
It was, in a way, the outcome of Vance’s own decision. He deliberately sought it as the result of some strange and unusual emotional reaction. He staked his own life in the attempt to prevent something which he considered diabolical. Vance was a man whose cold mental processes generally governed his every action; but in this emergency he impulsively followed his instincts. I frankly admit that it was, to me, a new phase of the man’s many-sided character—a phase with which I was unfamiliar, and which I would not have believed was actually part of his make-up.
The day began conventionally enough, except that Vance rose at eight. I did not know how much sleep he actually got after Markham departed the night before. I know only that I myself woke up for a brief interval, hours after I had retired, and could hear his footsteps as if he were pacing up and down in the library. But when I joined him for breakfast at half-past eight that morning, there was no indication either in his eyes or in his manner—which was as nonchalant and disinterested as ever—that he had been deprived of his rest.
He was dressed in a dark grey herringbone suit, a pair of soft black leather oxfords, and a dark green cravat with white polka dots. He greeted me with his customarily cynical but pleasant ease. But he made no comment to explain his early (for him) rising. He seemed altogether natural and unconcerned about the happenings of the day before. When he had finished his Turkish coffee and lighted a second Régie he settled back in his chair and spoke, quite casually, about the Kenting case.
“An amazin’ and complicated affair—eh, what, Van? There are far too many facets to it—same like those stones in old Karl Kenting’s collection—to leave one entirely comfortable. Dashed elusive—and deuced tangled. I naturally have certain suspicions, but I am by no means sure of my ground. I don’t like those missin’ gems—they tie up too consistently with the rest of the incidents. I don’t like that unused ladder—so subtly and uselessly moved from one window to another. I don’t like that abortive attempt on Fleel’s life last night, or Quaggy’s fortuitous appearance on the scene—Fleel was undoubtedly in a jittery state when we found him and actually incredulous at finding himself still alive. And I don’t at all like the general situation in that old high-ceilinged purple house—it’s not a wholesome place and has too many sinister possibilities... There has already been one murder that we know of, and there may be another which we haven’t yet heard about.”
He looked up with a troubled glance and drew in a deep breath.
“No—oh, no; it’s not a nice case,” he went on as if to himself. “But what are we to do about it? Today may bring an answer. Haste on our part might spoil everything. But haste—oh, tremendous haste—is now of the utmost importance to the killer. That is why I think something will happen before very long. I’m hopin’, Van. I’m also countin’ on the anxiety of the person who has plotted and carried out this beastly affair to this point.”
He smoked a while in silence. I offered no comment or opinion, for I knew he had been thinking aloud rather than addressing me personally. When the lighted tip of his cigarette had almost reached the platinum rim of his slender ivory holder he got up slowly, moved to the front window, and stood gazing out at the sunlit street. Despite the sunshine, a humid mist fell over the city and presaged a stagnant, airless day. When Vance turned back to me he seemed to have made a decision.
“I think we’ll take a spin down to Markham’s office, Van,” he said. “There’s nothing to do here, and there may be some news which Markham naively regards as too trivial to telephone me about. But it’s the little obscure things that are goin’ to solve this case.”*
Vance walked energetically across the room and, ringing for Currie, ordered his car.
Vance drove swiftly down Madison Avenue in a curiously abstracted mood. We arrived at Markham’s office a few minutes before ten o’clock.
“Glad you came, Vance,” was Markham’s greeting. “I was about to call you on the phone.”
“Ah!” Vance sat down lazily. “Any tidin’s, glad or otherwise?”
“I’m afraid not,” Markham returned dispiritedly, “although things have been going ahead. A great deal of the necessary police work has been done, but we haven’t come upon any promising lead as yet.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” Vance smiled mildly. “Jolly old Police Department simply must imitate the whirling dervish before they feel entitled to settle down to the serious business in hand. I suppose you mean fingerprints, photographs, and the futile search for possible lookers-on, and the grilling—as you call it—of perfectly innocent and harmless people, and a careful search of the spot where Kaspar was found, as well as a thorough overhauling of the abandoned car.”
Markham responded with a contemptuous snort.
“Those things simply have to be done. Very often they lead us to vital facts in the case. All criminals are not super-geniuses—they make mistakes occasionally.”
“Oh, to be sure,” Vance sighed. “Concatenation of circumstances impossible of duplication. Reconstruction from two points of view—and so on ad infinitum. I think I know all the catch phrases by this time... However, proceed to unburden thyself.”
“Well,” said Markham in a hard, practical voice, ignoring Vance’s frivolous interlude, “Kenyon Kenting was taken to the uptown morgue this morning and he identified his brother’s body beyond a doubt. And I saw no need to put any other members of the family through the harrowing experience.”
“Most considerate of you,” murmured Vance—and it was difficult to know whether his remark was intended to convey a tinge of sarcasm or was merely a conventional retort. In any event, Markham’s statement left him utterly indifferent.
“Mrs. Kenting’s room,” continued Markham, “as well as the windowsill and the ladder, was gone over thoroughly for fingerprints—”
“And none was found, of course, except the Sergeant’s and mine.”
“You’re right,” conceded Markham. “The person, or persons, must have worn gloves.”
“Assumin’ there was a person—or persons.”
“All right, all right.” Markham was beginning to be annoyed. “You’re so damned cryptic about everything, and so reticent, that I have no way of knowing what prompted that las
t remark of yours. But, whatever you think, there must have been someone somewhere, or Mrs. Kenting could not have disappeared as she did.”
“Quite true,” returned Vance. “We can quite safely eliminate a capella accidents or amnesia or such things, in view of all the circumstances. I suppose all the hospitals have been checked as part of the pirouetting activities of Centre Street’s masterminds?”
“Naturally. And we drew a blank at every step. But if we failed in that respect we have, at least, disposed of the possibility.”
“Amazin’ progress,” commented Vance. “There’ll be fingerprints somewhere, so don’t be downcast, old dear. But the signs-manual will be found, if at all, somewhere far removed from the Kenting house. Personally, I’d say you wouldn’t find them till you have located the car in which Mrs. Kenting was probably driven away last night.”
“What do you mean—what car?” demanded Markham.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Vance laconically. “But I hardly think the lady walked out of sight... And, by the by, Markham, speakin’ of cars, what enormous array of information did you marshal about the green coupé that the energetic Sergeant found so conveniently waiting for him in the transverse?... Doubtless stolen—eh, what?”
Markham nodded glumly.
“Yes, Vance, that’s just it. Belongs to a perfectly respectable spinster on upper West End Avenue. And a careful search of the car itself produced only the fact that there was a small sub-machine gun thrown into the tool chest under the seat.”
“And the license plates?” asked Vance casually.
“Oh, those were stolen too.” Markham spoke disgustedly.
“Plates didn’t belong to the car, eh?” Vance smoked meditatively without stirring. “Very interestin’. Stolen car and stolen license plates. A car that doesn’t belong to the fleeing occupants, and plates that don’t belong to the car—well, well. Implies two cars, don’t you know. Maybe it was the second car in which Mrs. Kenting was spirited away. Merely hazardin’ a guess, don’t y’ know.” He now uncrossed his knees and drew himself up slightly in his chair. “I rather imagine the dirty-green coupé was following Fleel around last night when Mrs. Kenting sallied forth to her assignation, and it was left to the other car to take care of the lady, as it were. Fairly well equipped gang.”
The Kidnap Murder Case Page 16
