“I don’t follow you, Vance,” Markham returned; “although I have a vague notion of the theory you’re working out. But many other things might have happened last night.”
“Oh, quite,” agreed Vance. “As I said, I was merely hazardin’ a guess... What about Abe, the buddy of the chauffeur who drove us home last night? I suppose Heath or some of the Torquemadas in Centre Street put the poor devil through the requisite torture?”
“You read too many trashy books, Vance.” Markham was indignant. “Heath talked to the driver of the number one cab at Headquarters within an hour of the time he left here last night. He merely corroborated what our chauffeur told us—namely, that he dropped the two men who came out of the transverse at the uptown entrance of the Lexington Avenue subway. Incidentally, they didn’t wait for change but hurried down the stairs—they were probably just in time to catch the last express.”
Vance again sighed lightly. “Most helpful... Any other coruscatin’ discoveries?”
“I spoke to the doctor who went over Kaspar’s body,” Markham went on. “And there’s little or nothing to add to Snitkin’s report of last night. The exact location of the spot where he was found was determined, and the ground was gone over carefully. But there were no footprints or suggestive indications of any kind. McLaughlin heard and saw nothing last night around the Kenting house; Weem and the cook both stick to the story that they were asleep during that whole time; and two taxicab drivers who were at the Columbus Avenue corner did not remember seeing Mrs. Kenting, whom they know by sight, come down that way.”
“Well, your information seems to be typically thorough and typically useless,” said Vance. “Did anyone do a bit of checkin’ up to ascertain whether there were any unaccounted-for semiprecious stones round town?”
Markham gave him a look of mild surprise and mock pity.
“Good heavens, no! What have your semiprecious stones to do with a case of kidnapping?”
“My dear Markham!” protested Vance. “I have told you—and I thought, in my naive way, that it had even been demonstrated to you—that this is not a case of kidnapping. Won’t you even permit a subtle killer to set the stage for himself—to indulge in a bit of spectacular décor, so to speak? That collection of old Karl Kenting’s gems has a dashed lot to do with the case...”
“Well, suppose those pieces of colored glass do have something to do with the disappearances, what of it?” Markham interrupted aggressively. “I’m not worried as much about such vague factors in the case as I am about that attack on Fleel.”
“Oh, that.” Vance shrugged. “A mere bit of technique. And the operator of the sub-machine gun was kind enough to miss his target. As I told Fleel, he was very lucky.”
“But whether Fleel survived or not,” muttered Markham, “it was a dastardly affair.”
“I quite agree with you there, Markham,” said Vance approvingly.
At this moment Markham’s secretary, coming swiftly through the swinging leather door, interrupted the conversation.
“Chief,” he announced, “there’s a young fellow outside who’s terribly excited and insists on seeing you at once. Says it’s about the Kenting case. Gives his name as Falloway.”
“Oh, send him in, by all means,” said Vance, before Markham had time to answer.
The secretary looked interrogatingly at the District Attorney. Markham hesitated only a moment and then nodded. A few moments later Fraim Falloway was shown into the office. He came into the room with a frightened air, and bade Markham good morning. His eyes seemed larger and his face paler than when I had last seen him.
“Tell us what’s on your mind, Mr. Falloway.” Vance spoke softly.
The youth turned and noticed him for the first time.
“I’ll tell you, all right,” he said in quick, tremulous accents. “That—that beautiful alexandrite stone is gone from the collection. I’m sure it’s been stolen.”
“Stolen?” Vance looked at the youth closely. “Why do you say stolen?”
“I—I don’t know,” was the flustered reply. “All I know is that it is gone—how else could it have disappeared unless it was stolen? It was there two days ago.”
Even I remembered the stone—an unusually large and beautifully cut octagonal stone of perhaps forty carats, which was in a place of honor, in the most conspicuous case, surrounded by other specimens of chrysoberyl. I had taken particular notice of it the morning of Kaspar Kenting’s disappearance when Vance and I had looked over the various glass cases before ascending the stairs to Kaspar’s room.
“I don’t know anything about those stones in the collection,” Falloway went on excitedly, “but I do know about this magnificent alexandrite. It always fascinated me—it was the only gem in the collection I cared anything about. It was a wonderful and beautiful thing. I used to go into the room often just to look at that stone. I could lose myself before it for an hour at a time. In the daytime it was the most marvellous green, like dark jade, with only touches of red in it; but at night, in the artificial light, it changed its color completely and became a thrilling red, like wine.”
As Markham threw him a look of incredulity, Falloway hastened on.
“Oh, it was no miracle—I looked it up in a book; I read about it. It had some strange and mystic quality which made it absorb and refract and reflect the light upon it in different ways. But I haven’t feasted my eyes on it for two days—we’ve all been so upset—until last night—but that was in the yellow artificial light—and it was a beautiful red then.”
Falloway paused and then hurried on ecstatically.
“But I like it most in the daylight when it turns green and mysterious—that’s when it recalls to me Swinburne’s great poem, The Triumph of Time: ‘I will go back to the great sweet mother, mother and lover of men, the sea’—Oh, I hope you see what I mean...” He looked at each of us in turn. “So this morning—a little while ago—I went downstairs to look at it; I needed something—something. But it wasn’t green at all. It was still red, almost purple. And after I had looked at it a while in amazement, I realized that even the cutting was different. It was the same size and shape—but that was all. Oh, I know every facet of that alexandrite. It was not the same stone. It has been taken away and another stone left in its place!...”
He fumbled nervously in his outside pocket and finally drew out a large deep-colored gem, which can best be described as deep red but with a very decided purple cast. He held it out to Vance on the palm of his shaking hand.
“That’s what was left in the place of my beloved alexandrite!”
Vance took the stone and looked at it a moment. Still holding the gem he let his hand fall to his lap, and looked up at Falloway with a comprehending nod.
“Yes, I see what you mean—quite,” he said. “As good a substitution as possible. This is merely amethyst. Of comparatively little value. Similar to alexandrite, however, and often mistaken for it by amateurs. Anyone would trade an amethyst for an alexandrite, the price of which has recently begun to soar. Can you say with any accuracy when the exchange was made?”
Falloway shook his head vaguely and sat down heavily.
“No,” he said phlegmatically. “As I told you, I haven’t seen it in daylight for two days, and last night I looked at it for just a second and didn’t realize that it wasn’t the alexandrite. I discovered the truth this morning. The exchange might have been made at any time since I last saw the real stone in daylight.”
Vance again looked at the stone and handed it back to Falloway.
“Return it to the case as soon as you reach home. And say nothing about it to anyone till I speak to you again.” He turned to the District Attorney. “Y’ know, Markham, fine alexandrite is a very rare and valuable variety of chrysoberyl. It was discovered less than a hundred years ago, in the Urals, and it was named after the czarevitch who later became the conservative and reformative Alexander II, Czar of Russia, for it first came to light on his birthday. As Mr. Falloway rightly says, i
t is a curious dichroic gem. The light of the spectrum is reflected, absorbed and refracted in such a way that in the daylight it is quite green, and in artificial light, especially gaslight, it is a pronounced deep and scintillating red, slightly on the blue, or short wavelength end of the spectrum. A fine specimen of alexandrite the size of that stone would now be worth a small fortune. Such a specimen is the dream of every collector. I saw the stone when I glanced through the cases Wednesday morning and marvelled at old Karl’s good luck. The other indifferent items in the collection were anything but consistent with that alexandrite; and when I spoke to Kenyon Kenting that morning, I entirely omitted any mention of that particular stone, for it takes more than one exceptional piece of chrysoberyl, no matter how beautiful, to constitute a well-rounded collection.”
Vance paused a moment with a reflective look, and then continued.
“Amethyst, a variety of quartz, which likewise comes from Russia, although somewhat similar in shade to alexandrite, does not have that peculiar dichroic characteristic. Amethyst, d’ ye see, has a structural dissimilarity from alexandrite. At times we find in the crystals a right-angular formation to the edge of the prism, shaped in sectoral triangles. This accounts for its bicoloration—the so-called white and purple tints, making it resemble two separate, fused stones. The fractural ripples and the feather-like effects—so apparent in amethyst—result from this peculiar laterality of structure. On the other hand, Markham, alexandrite—”
“Thanks for the lecture, but forgive me if I am not interested.” Markham was irritated. “What I’d like to know is whether you see anything significant in the disappearance of the alexandrite and the substitution of the amethyst.”
“Oh, yes—decidedly. You’d be amazed if you knew how highly significant it is.” He turned quickly to Fraim Falloway, who had been listening with an eagerness of interest I had not seen him display at any previous time. “I think, Mr. Falloway, you would better return to your home at once and do exactly as I told you. We are grateful no end for your coming here and telling us about the missin’ stone.”
Falloway rose heavily.
“I’ll put the stone back in place right away.”
“Oh, by the by, Mr. Falloway.” Vance drew himself up sharply. “If, as you have intimated, your favorite cutting of alexandrite was stolen, could you suggest the possible thief? Could it, for instance, have been anyone you know?”
“You mean someone in the house?—or Mr. Quaggy or Mr. Fleel?” retorted Falloway with a show of indignation. “What would they want with my alexandrite?” He shook his head shrewdly. “But I have an idea who did take it.”
“Ah!”
“Yes! I know more than you think I do.” Falloway made a pitiful effort to thrust forward his narrow chest. “It was Kaspar—that’s who it was!”
Vance nodded indulgently.
“But Kaspar is dead. His body was found last night.”
“A damned good riddance!” Vance’s announcement left Falloway unruffled. “I was hoping he wouldn’t come back.”
“He won’t,” interjected Markham laconically, staring at the youth with unmistakable disgust.
I doubt if Falloway even heard the District Attorney’s remark: his attention was concentrated on Vance.
“But do you think you can ever find my beautiful alexandrite?” he asked. He seemed to regard the disappearance of the alexandrite as a personal loss.
“Oh, yes—I’m quite sanguine we shall recover it,” Vance assured him.
The youth, greatly relieved, went toward the door with heavy, dragging feet.
Markham’s secretary came again through the leather door, just before Falloway reached it, and announced Kenyon Kenting.
“Send him in,” said Markham.
Kenting and Falloway passed each other on the threshold. I was forcibly struck by the wordless exchange of hostility which passed between the elder and the younger man. Kenting bowed stiffly and muttered a word of greeting as he passed the other, with a stiff, elderly dignity in his manner. But Falloway did not respond as he went through to the outer office.
Footnotes
* “The Casino Murder Case” (Scribners, 1934).
* Vance was greatly mistaken on this point, as I now have reason to know. It turned out to be no less than a matter of life and death.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“This Year of Our Lord”
(Friday, July 22; 11 a.m.)
AS KENTING STEPPED into the office it was obvious that he was in a perturbed state of mind. He nodded to Vance and to me, and, going to Markham’s desk, dejectedly placed an envelope before the District Attorney.
“That came in the second mail this morning, to my office,” Kenting said, controlling his excitement with considerable effort. “It’s another one of those damn notes.”
Markham had already picked up the envelope and was carefully extracting the folded sheet of paper from inside.
“And Fleel,” added Kenting, “got a similar one in the same mail—at his office. He phoned me about it, just as I was leaving to come here. He sounded very much upset and asked me if I also had received a note from the kidnappers. I told him I had, and I read it to him over the phone. I added I was bringing it immediately to you; and Fleel said he would meet me here shortly and bring his own note with him. He hasn’t, by any chance, come already?”
“Not yet,” Markham answered, glancing up from the note. His face was unusually grave, and there was a deep, hopeless frown round his eyes. When he had finished his perusal of the note he picked up the envelope and handed thein both to Vance.
“I suppose you’ll want to see these, Vance,” the District Attorney muttered distractedly.
“Oh, quite—by all means.”
Vance, with his monocle already adjusted, took the note and the envelope with suppressed eagerness, glancing first at the envelope and then at the single sheet of paper. I had risen and was standing behind him, leaning over his chair.
The paper on which the note was written in lead pencil was exactly like that of the first note Fleel had received in the mail the day before. The disguised, deliberately clumsy chirography was also similar, but there was a distinct difference in the way it was worded. The spelling was correct, and the sentences grammatically constructed. Nor was there any pretense here in the means of expression. It was as if whoever wrote it had purposely abandoned such tactics so that there might be no mistake or misunderstanding of any kind regarding the import of the message. Vance merely read it through once—he did not seem greatly interested in it. But it was obvious that something about it annoyed and puzzled him.
The note read:
You did not obey instructions. You called in the police. We saw everything. That is why we took his wife. If you fail us again, the same thing will happen to her that happened to him. This is your last warning. Have the $50,000 ready at five o’clock today (Friday). You will get instructions at that time. And if you notify the police this time it is no dice. We mean business. Beware!
For signature there was the interlocking-squares symbol that had come to have such a sinister portent for us all.
“Very interestin’ and illuininatin’,” murmured Vance, as he carefully refolded the note, replaced it in the envelope, and tossed it back on Markham’s desk. “The money is quite obviously wanted immediately. But I am not at all convinced that it was only the presence of the police that turned last night’s episode in the park into a fiasco. However...”
“What shall I do—what shall I do?” Kenting asked, glancing distractedly from Vance to the District Attorney and back again.
“Really, y’ know,” said Vance in a kindly tone, “you can’t do anything at present. You must wait for the forthcoming instructions. And then there’s Mr. Fleel’s billet-doux which we hope to see anon.”
“I know, I know,” mumbled Kenting hopelessly. “But it would be horrible if anything should happen to Madelaine.”
Vance was silent a moment, and his eyes clouded. He sho
wed more concern than he had since he had entered the Kenting case.
“One never knows, of course,” he murmured. “But we can hope for the best. I realize that this waiting is abominable. But we are at a loss at present even as to where to begin... By the by, Mr. Kenting, I don’t suppose you heard the shots that were fired at Mr. Fleel shortly after you left your brother’s house last night?”
“No, I didn’t.” Kenting seemed greatly perturbed. “I was frightfully shocked on hearing about it this morning. When I left you last night I was lucky enough to catch a taxicab just as I reached the corner, and I went directly home. How long after I left the house did Fleel go?”
“Just a few minutes,” Vance returned. “But no doubt you had time to have got a taxi and have been well on your way.”
Kenting considered the matter for a minute; then he looked up sharply with a frightened expression.
“Perhaps—perhaps—” he began in an awed voice which seemed to tremble with a sudden and uncontrollable emotion. “Perhaps those shots were intended for me!...”
“Oh, no, no—nothing like that,” Vance assured him. “I’m quite sure the shots were not intended for you, sir. The fact is, I am not convinced that the shots were intended even for Mr. Fleel.”
“What’s that you say!” Kenting sat up quickly. “What do you mean by that?...”
Before Vance could answer, a buzzer sounded on Markham’s desk. As the District Attorney pressed a key on the inter-communicating call-box a voice from the outer office announced that Fleel had just arrived. Markham had barely given instructions that Fleel be sent in when the lawyer came impatiently through the swinging door and joined us. He, too, looked pale and drawn and showed unmistakable traces of lack of rest—he appeared to have lost much of his earlier self-confidence. He greeted all of us formally with the exception of Kenyon Kenting, with whom he shook hands with a silent, expressive grasp.
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