The Kidnap Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “The idiot!” Vance was murmuring. “He kept his lighted cigarette in his mouth, and I was able to follow every move he made... There must be a switch or a fixture, somewhere. The lamp and the blankets at the window were only to give the house the appearance of being untenanted.”

  The ray from Heath’s pocket flash moved about the walls and ceiling, but I could see neither him nor Vance. Then the light came to a halt, and Heath’s triumphant voice rang out.

  “Here it is, sir—a socket beside the window.” And as he spoke a weak, yellowed bulb dimly lit up the room.

  Heath was at the front window, his hand still on the switch of a small electric light socket; and Vance stood nearby, to all appearances cool and unconcerned. On the floor lay two motionless bodies.

  “Pleasant evening, Sergeant.” Vance spoke in his usual steady, whimsical voice. “My sincerest apologies, and all that.” Then he caught sight of me, and his face sobered. “Are you all right, Van?” he asked.

  I assured him I had escaped the mêlée unscathed, and added that I had not used my automatic because I was afraid I might have hit him in the dark.

  “I quite understand,” he murmured and, nodding his head, he went quickly to the two prostrate bodies. After a momentary inspection, he stood up and said:

  “Quite dead, Sergeant. Really, y’ know, I seem to be a fairly accurate shot.”

  “I’ll say!” breathed Heath with admiration. “I wasn’t a hell of a lot of help, was I, Mr. Vance?” he added a bit shamefacedly.

  “Really nothing for you to do, Sergeant.”

  Vance looked about him. Through a wide alcove at the far end of the room a white iron bed was clearly visible. This adjoining chamber was like a small bedroom, with only dirty red rep curtains dividing it from the main room. Vance stepped quickly between the curtains, and switched on a light just over the wooden mantel near the bed. At the rear of the room, near the foot of the bed, was a door standing half ajar. Between the mantel and the bed with its uncovered mattress, was a small bureau with a large mirror swung between two supports rising from the bureau itself.

  Heath had followed Vance into the room, and I trailed weakly after them. Vance stood before the bureau for a moment or so, looking down at the few cigarette-burnt toilet articles scattered about it. He opened the top drawer and looked into it. Then he opened the second drawer.

  “Ah!” he murmured half aloud, and reached inside.

  When he withdrew his hand he was holding a neatly rolled pair of thin Shantung-silk pajamas. He inspected them for a moment and smiled slightly.

  “The missin’ pajamas,” he said as if to himself, though both Heath and I heard every word he spoke. “Never been worn. Very interestin’.” He unrolled them on the top of the bureau and drew forth a small green-handled toothbrush. “And the missin’ toothbrush,” he added. He ran his thumb over the bristles. “And quite dry... The pajamas, I opine, were rolled quickly round the toothbrush and the comb, brought here, and thrown into the drawer. The comb, of course, slipped out into the hedge as the Chinaman now prostrate below descended the ladder from Kaspar Kenting’s room.” He re-rolled the pajamas, placed them back into the drawer, and resumed his inspection of the toilet articles on the bureau top.

  Heath and I were both near the archway, our eyes on Vance, when he suddenly called out, “Look out, Sergeant!”

  The last word had been only half completed when there came two shots from the rear door. The slim, crouching figure of a man, somewhat scholarly looking and well dressed, had suddenly appeared there.

  Vance had swung about simultaneously with his warning to Heath, and there were two more shots in rapid succession, this time from Vance’s gun.

  I saw the poised revolver of blue steel drop from the raised hand of the man at the rear door: he looked round him, dazed, and both his hands went to his abdomen. He remained upright for a moment; then he doubled up and sank to the floor where he lay in an awkward crumpled heap.

  Heath’s revolver too dropped from his grip. When the first shot had been fired, he had pivoted round as if some powerful unseen hand had pushed him: he staggered backward a few feet and slid heavily into a chair. Vance looked a moment at the contorted figure of the man on the floor, and then hastened to Heath.

  “The baby winged me,” Heath said with an effort. “My gun jammed.”

  Vance gave him a cursory examination and then smiled encouragingly.

  “Frightfully sorry, Sergeant,—it was all the fault of my trustin’ nature. McLaughlin told us there were only two men in that green car, and I foolishly concluded that two gentlemen and the Chinaman would be all we should have to contend with. I should have been more far-seein’. Most humiliatin’... You’ll have a sore arm for a couple of weeks,” he added. “Lucky it’s only a flesh wound. You’ll probably lose a lot of gore; but really, y’ know, you’re far too full of blood as it is.” And he expertly bound up Heath’s right arm, using a handkerchief for a bandage.

  The Sergeant struggled to his feet.

  “You’re treating me like a damn baby.” He stepped to the mantel and leaned against it. “There’s nothing the matter with me. Where do we go from here?” His face was unusually white, and I could see that the mantel behind him was a most welcome prop.

  “Glad I had that mirror in front of me,” murmured Vance. “Very useful devices, mirrors.”

  He had barely finished speaking when we heard a repeated ringing near us.

  “By Jove, a telephone!” commented Vance. “Now we’ll have to find the instrument.”

  Heath straightened up.

  “The thing’s right here on the mantel,” he said. “I’ve been standing in front of it.”

  Vance made a sudden move forward, but Heath stood in the way.

  “You’d better let me answer it, Mr. Vance. You’re too refined.” He picked up the receiver with his left hand.

  “What d’ you want?” he asked, in a gruff, officious tone. There was a short pause. “Oh, yeah? O. K., go ahead.” A longer pause followed, as Heath listened. “Don’t know nothing about it,” he shot back, in a heavy, resentful voice. Then he added: “You got the wrong number.” And he slammed down the receiver.

  “Who was it, do you know, Sergeant?” Vance spoke quietly as he lighted a cigarette.

  Heath turned slowly and looked at Vance. His eyes were narrowed, and there was an expression of awe on his face as he answered.

  “Sure I know,” he said significantly. He shook his head as if he did not trust himself to speak. “There ain’t no mistaking that voice.”

  “Well, who was it, Sergeant?” asked Vance mildly, without looking up from his cigarette.

  The Sergeant seemed stronger: he stood away from the mantelpiece, his legs wide apart and firmly planted. Rivulets of blood were running down over his right hand, which hung limply at his side.

  “It was—” he began, and then he was suddenly aware of my presence in the room. “Mother o’ God!” he breathed. “I don’t have to tell you, Mr. Vance. You knew this morning.”

  Footnote

  * This, I later learned, was Givans Basin.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Windowless Room

  (Friday, July 22; 10:30 p.m.)

  VANCE LOOKED AT the Sergeant a moment and shook his head.

  “Y’ know,” he said, in a curiously repressed voice, “I was almost hoping I was wrong. I hate to think—” He came suddenly forward to Heath who had fallen back weakly against the mantel and was blindly reaching for the wall, in an effort to hold himself upright. Vance put his arm around Heath and led him to a chair.

  “Here, Sergeant,” he said in a kindly tone, handing him an etched silver flask, “take a drink of this—and don’t be a sissy.”

  “Go to hell,” grumbled Heath, and inverted the flask to his lips. Then he handed it back to Vance. “That’s potent juice,” he said, standing up and pushing Vance away from him. “Let’s get going.”

  “Right-o, Sergeant. We’ve only begun.” As
he spoke he walked toward the rear door and stepped over the dead man, into the next room. Heath and I were at his heels.

  The room was in darkness, but with the aid of his flashlight the Sergeant quickly found the electric light. We were in a small box-like room, without windows. Opposite us, against the wall, stood a narrow army cot. Vance rushed forward and leaned over the cot. The motionless form of a woman lay stretched out on it. Despite her disheveled hair and her deathlike pallor, I recognized Madelaine Kenting. Strips of adhesive tape bound her lips together, and both her arms were tied securely with pieces of heavy clothesline to the iron rods at either side of the cot.

  Vance dexterously removed the tape from her mouth, and the woman sucked in a deep breath, as if she had been partly suffocated. There was a low rumbling in her throat, expressive of agony and fear, like that of a person coming out of an anæsthetic after a serious operation.

  Vance busied himself with the cruel cords binding her wrists. When he had released them he laid his ear against her heart for a moment, and poured a little of the cognac from his flask between her lips. She swallowed automatically and coughed. Then Vance lifted her in his arms and started from the room.

  Just as he reached the door the telephone rang again, and Heath went toward it.

  “Don’t bother to answer it, Sergeant,” said Vance. “It’s probably the same person calling back.” And he continued on his way, with the woman in his arms.

  I preceded him as he carried his inert burden down the dingy stairway.

  “We must get her to a hospital at once, Van,” he said when we had reached the lower hallway.

  I held the front door open for him, my automatic extended before me, ready for instant use, should the occasion arise. Vance went down the shaky steps without a word, just as Heath joined me at the door. The Chinaman still lay where we had left him, on the floor against the wall.

  “Drag him up to that pipe in the corner, Mr. Van Dine,” the Sergeant told me in a strained voice. “My arm is sorta numb.”

  For the first time I noticed that a two-inch water pipe, corroding for lack of paint, rose through the front hall, behind the door, a few inches from the wall. I moved the limp form of the Chinaman until his head came in contact with the pipe; and Heath, with one hand, drew out a pair of handcuffs. Clamping one of the manacles on the unconscious man’s right wrist, he pulled it around the pipe and with his foot manipulated the Chinaman’s left arm upward till he could close the second iron around it. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a piece of clothesline which he had obviously brought from the windowless room upstairs.

  “Tie his ankles together, will you, Mr. Van Dine?” he said. “I can’t quite make it.”

  I slipped my gun back into my coat pocket and did as Heath directed.

  Then we both went out into the murky night, Heath slamming the door behind him. Vance, with his burden, was perhaps a hundred yards ahead of us, and we came up with him just as he reached the car. He placed Mrs. Kenting on the rear seat of the tonneau and arranged the cushions under her head.

  “You can both sit in front with me,” he suggested over his shoulder, as he took his place at the wheel; and before Heath and I were actually seated he had started the engine, shifted the gear, and got the car in motion with a sudden but smooth roll. He continued straight down Waring Avenue.

  As we approached a lone patrolman after two or three blocks, Heath requested that we stop. Vance threw on his brakes, and honked his horn to attract the patrolman’s attention.

  “Have I got a minute, Mr. Vance?” asked Heath.

  “Certainly, Sergeant,” Vance told him, as he drew up to the curb beside the officer. “Mrs. Kenting is fairly comfortable and in no immediate danger. A few minutes more or less in arrivin’ at a hospital will make no material difference.”

  Heath spoke to the officer through the open window, identified himself, and then asked the man, “Where’s your call-box?”

  “On the next corner, Sergeant, at Gunhill Road,” answered the officer, saluting.

  “All right,” returned Heath brusquely. “Hop on the running board.” He leaned back in the seat again and we went on for another block, stopping at the direction of the officer.

  The Sergeant slid out of the car, and the patrolman unlocked the box for him. Heath’s back was to us, and I could not hear what he was saying over the telephone, but when he turned he addressed the officer peremptorily:

  “Get up to Lord Street”—he gave the number, and added: “The second house from the corner of Waring—and stay on duty. Some of the boys from the 47th Precinct station will join you in a few minutes, and a couple of men from the Homicide Bureau will be coming up a little later—as soon as they can get here. I’ll be returning myself inside of an hour or so. You’ll find three stiffs in the joint and a Chinaman chained up to a water pipe in the front hall. There’ll be an ambulance up before long.”

  “Right, sir,” the officer answered, and started on the run up Waring Avenue.

  Heath had climbed into the car as he spoke, and Vance drove off without delay.

  “I’m heading for the Doran Hospital, just this side of Bronx Park, Sergeant,” Vance said, as we sped along. In about fifteen minutes, ignoring all traffic lights and driving at a rate far exceeding the city speed limit, we drew up in front of the hospital.

  Vance jumped from the car, took Mrs. Kenting in his arms again, and carried her up the wide marble steps. He returned to the car in less than ten minutes.

  “Everything’s all right, Sergeant,” he said as he approached the car. “The lady has regained consciousness. Fresh air did it. Her mind is a bit misty. Nothing fundamentally wrong, however.”

  Heath had stepped out of the car and was standing on the sidewalk.

  “So long, Mr. Vance,” he said. “I’m getting in that taxi up ahead. I gotta get back to that damn house. I got work to do.” He moved away as he spoke.

  But Vance rushed forward and took him by the arm.

  “Stay right here, Sergeant, and get that arm properly dressed first.”

  He led Heath back, and accompanied him up the hospital steps.

  A few minutes later Vance came out alone.

  “The noble Sergeant is all right, Van,” he said, as he took his place at the wheel again. “He’ll be out before long. But he insists on going back to Lord Street.” And Vance started the car once more, and headed downtown.

  When we reached Vance’s apartment Currie opened the door for us. There was relief written in every line of the old butler’s face.

  “Good heavens, Currie!” said Vance, as we stepped inside. “I told you, you might tuck yourself in at eleven o’clock if you hadn’t heard from me—and here it is nearing midnight, and you’re still up.”

  The old man looked away with embarrassment as he closed the door.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said in a voice which, for all its formality, had an emotional tremolo in it. “I—I couldn’t go to bed, sir, until you returned. I understood, sir,—if you will pardon my saying so—your reference to the documents in the drawer of the secretary. And I’ve taken the liberty this evening of worrying about you. I’m very glad you have come home, sir.”

  “You’re a sentimental old fossil, Currie,” Vance complained, handing the butler his hat.

  “Mr. Markham is waiting in the library,” said Currie, like an old faithful soldier reporting to his superior officer.

  “I rather imagined he would be,” murmured Vance as he went up the stairs. “Good old Markham. Always fretting about me.”

  As we entered the library, we found Markham pacing up and down. He stopped suddenly at sight of Vance.

  “Well, thank God!” he said. And, though he attempted to sound trivial, his relief was as evident as old Currie’s had been. He crossed the room and sank into a chair; and I got the impression, from the way he relaxed, that he had been on his feet for a long time.

  “Greetings, old dear,” said Vance. “Why this unexpected pleasure of your
presence at such an hour? ”

  “I was merely interested, officially, in what you might have found on Lord Street,” returned Markham. “I suppose you found a vast vacant space with a real estate sign saying ‘Suitable for factory site.’ ”

  Vance smiled.

  “Not exactly that, don’t y’ know. I had a jolly good time—which will probably make you very angry and envious.”

  He turned round and came to where I had seated myself. I felt weak and shaky. I was only then beginning to feel the reaction from the excitement of the evening. I realized now that in the brief space of time we had spent on Lord Street, I had become too keyed up physically to apprehend completely the dread possibilities of the situation. In the quiet and safety of familiar surroundings, the flood of reality suddenly overwhelmed me, and it was only with great effort that I managed to maintain a normal attitude.

  “Let’s have your gun, Van,” said Vance, in his cool, steadying voice, holding out his hand. “Glad you didn’t have to use it... Horrible mess—what? Sorry I let you come along. But really, y’ know, I myself was rather surprised and shocked by the turn of affairs.”

  A little abashed, I took the unused automatic from my pocket and handed it over to him: it was he who had assumed the entire brunt of the danger, and I had been unable to be of any assistance. He stepped to the center table and pulled open the drawer. Then he tossed my automatic into it, laid his own beside it, and, closing the drawer meditatively, rang the bell for Currie.

  Markham was watching him closely but restrained his curiosity as the old butler entered with a service of brandy. Currie had sensed Vance’s wish and had not waited for an order. When he had set down the tray and left the room, Markham leaned forward in his chair.

  “Well, what the hell did happen?” he demanded irritably.

  Vance sipped his cognac slowly, lighted a Régie, took several deep inhalations, and sat down leisurely in his favorite chair.

  “I’m frightfully sorry, Markham,” he said, “but I fear I have made you a bit of trouble... The fact is,” he added carelessly, “I killed three men.”