Markham's head moved slowly up and down. His cigar had gone out, but he paid no attention to it.
"I'm beginning to see what you mean, Vance; and I can't say your conclusions leave me happy. But what I want to know is--"
"Just a moment, Markham old dear. Just a wee moment." Vance raised his hand to indicate that he had something further to say. "If it had been Kaspar that Mrs. Kenting heard at six o'clock, he would hardly have had time, before he scooted off at his wife's knock, to collect his comb and toothbrush and pajamas. Why should the chappie have bothered to take them, in the first place? True, they are things he could well make use of on his hypothetical jaunt for the purpose of getting hold of brother Kenyon's lucre, but he would hardly go to that trouble on so vital and all-important a venture,--the toilet articles would be far too trivial and could easily be bought wherever he was going, if he was finicky about such details. Furthermore, if so silly a plot had been planned by him he would have equipped himself surreptitiously beforehand and would have had the beautifyin' accessories waitin' for him wherever he had decided to go, rather than grabbin' them up at the last minute."
Markham made no comment, and after a moment or two Vance resumed.
"Carryin' the supposition a bit forrader, he would have realized that the absence of these necess'ry articles would be highly suspicious and would point too obviously to the impression he would have wished to avoid--namely, his own wilful participation in the attempt to extort the fifty thousand dollars. I'd say, y' know, that these items for the gentleman's toilet were collected and taken away--in order to give just this impression--by the soft-footed person heard by Mrs. Kenting. . . . No, no, Markham. The comb and the toothbrush and the pajamas and the shoes are only textural details--like the cat, the shawl-fringe, the posies, the ribbon, and the bandanna in Manet's Olympia. . . ."
"Manufactured evidence--that's your theory, is it?" Markham spoke without any show of aggressiveness or antagonism.
"Exactly," nodded Vance. "Far too many leadin' clues. Really, the culprit overdid it. An embarras de richesses. Whole structure does a bit of topplin' of its own weight. Very thorough. Too dashed thorough. Nothing left to the imagination."
Markham took a few steps up the room, turned, and then walked back.
"You think it's a real kidnapping then?"
"It could be," murmured Vance. "But that doesn't strike me as wholly consistent either. Too many counter-indications. But I'm only advancin' a theory. For instance, if Kaspar was allowed time to change his suit and shoes--as we know he did--he had time to call out, or to make a disturbance of some kind which would have upset all the kind-hearted villain's plans. Hanging up his dinner jacket so carefully, transferring things from his pockets, and putting away his oxfords in the closet, all indicate leisure in the process--a leisure which the kidnappers would hardly have permitted. Kidnappers are not benevolent persons, Markham."
"Well, what do you think happened?" Markham asked in a subdued, worried tone.
"Really, I don't know." Vance studied the tip of his cigarette with concern. "We do know, however, that Kaspar had an engagement last night which kept him out until three this morning; and that upon his return here he telephoned to some one and then changed to street clothes. It might therefore be assumed that he made some appointment to be kept between three and six and saw no necessity of going to bed in the interval. This would also account for the leisurely changing of his attire; and it is highly possible he went quietly out through the front door when he fared forth to keep his early-morning rendezvous. Assumin' that this theory is correct, I'd say further that he expected to return anon, for he left all the lights on. And one more thing: I think it safe to assume that the door from his bedroom into the hall was unlocked this morning--otherwise, Mrs. Kenting would have remembered unlocking it when she ordered coffee and went downstairs."
"And even if everything you say is true," argued Markham, "what could have happened to him?"
Vance sighed deeply.
"All we actually know at the moment, my dear Markham," he answered, "is that the johnnie did not come back. He seems to have disappeared. At any rate, he isn't here."
"Even so,"--Markham drew himself up with a slight show of annoyance--"why do you take it for granted that Kaspar Kenting is already dead?"
"I don't take it for granted." Vance, too, drew himself up and spoke somewhat vigorously. "I said merely that I feared the johnnie is already dead. If he did not, as it were, kidnap himself, d' ye see, and if he wasn't actually kidnapped as the term is commonly understood, then the chances are he was murdered when he went forth to keep his appointment. His disappearance and the elaborate clues arranged hereabouts to make it appear like a deliberate self-abduction, imply a connection between his appointment and the evidence we observed in his room. Therefore, it's more than likely, don't y' know, that if he were held alive and later released, he could relate enough--whom he had the appointment with, for instance--to lead us to the guilty person or persons. His immediate death would have been the only safe course."
As Vance spoke Heath had come forward and stood close to Markham.
"Your theory, Mr. Vance, sounds reasonable enough the way you tell it," the Sergeant commented doggedly. "But still and all--"
Vance had risen and was breaking his cigarette in an ash tray.
"Why argue about the case, Sergeant," he interrupted, "when, as yet, there is so little evidence to go on? . . . Let's dawdle about a bit longer and learn more about things."
"Learn what, and about what things?" Markham almost barked.
Vance was in one of his most dulcet moods.
"Really, if we knew, Markham, we wouldn't have to learn, would we? But Kenyon Kenting, I ween, harbors a number of fruitful items:--I'm sure a bit of social intercourse with the gentleman would be most illuminatin'. And then there's your friend, Mr. Fleel, the trusted Justinian of the Kenting household: I've a feelin' he might be prevailed upon to suggest a few details here and there and elsewhere. And Mrs. Kenting herself might cast a few more rays of light into the darkness. And let's not overlook old Mrs. Falloway--Mrs. Kenting's mother, y' know--who I think lives here. Exceptional old dowager. I met her once or twice before she became an invalid. Fascinatin' creature, Markham; bulgin' with original ideas, and shrewd no end. And it could be that even the butler Weem would be willin' to spin a yarn or two--he appears displeased and restive enough to give vent to some unflatterin' family confidences. . . . Really, y' know, I think all these seemingly trivial matters should be attended to ere we depart."
"Don't worry about such things, Vance," Markham advised him gravely. "They are all routine matters, and they'll be taken care of at the proper time."
"Oh, Markham--my dear Markham!" Vance was lighting another cigarette. "The present time is always the proper time." He took a few inhalations and blew the smoke forth indolently. "Really, I'm rather interested in the case, don't y' know. It has most amazin' possibilities. And as long as you've deprived me of attendin' the dog show today, I think I'll do a bit of snoopin' here and about."
"All right," Markham acquiesced. "What is it you wish to focus your prodigious powers on first?"
"My word, such flattery!" exclaimed Vance. "I haven't a single prodigious power--I'm a mere broken reed. But I simply can't bear not to inspect that ladder."
Heath chuckled.
"Well, that's easy, Mr. Vance. Come on round to the yard. No trouble getting in from the street."
And he started energetically toward the front door.
CHAPTER V
ON THE RUNGS OF THE LADDER
(Wednesday, July 20; 12:30 p.m.)
We followed the Sergeant through the ponderous front door, down the stone steps, and across the flagstones. The sun was still shining brightly, and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. The light was so brilliant that for a moment it almost blinded me after the dimness of the Kenting interior. The Sergeant led the way thirty or forty feet east, along the sidewalk, until he came to the small gate
in the low iron fence which divided the attractively sodded court of the Kenting house from the street. The gate was not on the latch, but stood slightly ajar, and the Sergeant pushed it wide open with his foot.
Heath was first to enter the enclosure, and he walked ahead with arms outstretched, holding us back from a too precipitate intrusion, like a prudent brood-hen guiding her recalcitrant and over-ambitious chicks.
"Don't come too close," he admonished us with a solemn air. "There are footprints at the bottom of the ladder and we gotta save 'em for Cap Jerym's* plaster casts."
* Captain Anthony P. Jerym, Bertillon expert of the New York Police Department.
"Well, well," smiled Vance. "Maybe you'll permit me to come as near as Captain Jerym will have to go to perform his sculpture?"
"Sure." Heath grinned. "But I don't want them footprints interfered with. They may be the best clue we'll get."
"Dear me!" sighed Vance. "As important as all that, Sergeant?"
Heath leaned forward and scowled as Vance stood beside him.
"Look at this one, Mr. Vance,"--and the Sergeant pointed to an impression in the border of the hedge within a foot of where the ladder stood.
"My word!" exclaimed Vance. "I'm abominably flattered by even such consideration as letting me come within viewing distance of the bally footprints." Again taking out his monocle he adjusted it carefully and, kneeling down on the lawn, inspected the imprint. He took several moments doing so, and a puzzled frown slowly spread over his face as he carefully scrutinized the mark in the neatly raked soil of the hedge.
"You know, sir, we was lucky," Heath asserted. "It drizzled most of yesterday afternoon, and around about eight o'clock last night it got to raining pretty hard, though it did clear up before midnight."
"Really, Sergeant! I knew it only too well!" Vance did not look up. "I planned to go to the tennis matches at Forest Hills yesterday afternoon, to see young Henshaw* play, but I simply couldn't bear the inclement weather." He said nothing more for several moments--his entire interest seemed to be centred on the footprint he was inspecting. At length he murmured without turning: "Rather small footprint here--eh, what?"
* The sensational Davis cup winner and America's first seeded player at the time.
"I'll say it is," agreed Heath. "Mighta been a dame. And it looks like it was made with flat slippers of some kind. There's no heel mark."
"No, no heel mark," agreed Vance abstractedly. "As you say, no heel mark. Quite right. Obvious, in fact. Curious. I wonder. . . ."
He leaned closer to the impression in the sod of the hedge, and went on:
"But really, y' know, I shouldn't say the print was made by a slipper--unless, of course, you wish to call a sandal a slipper."
"Is that it, Mr. Vance?" The Sergeant was half contemptuous and half interested.
"Yes, yes; rather plain," Vance returned in a low voice. "Not an ordin'ry sandal, either. A Chinese sandal I'd say. Slightly turned-up tip."
"A Chinese sandal?" Heath's tone was almost one of ridicule now.
"More than likely, don't y' know." Vance rose and brushed the soil from his trousers.
"I suppose you'll be telling us next that this whole case is just another Tong war." Heath evidently did not deem Vance's conclusion worthy of serious consideration.
Vance was still leaning forward, rubbing vigorously at a spot on one knee. He stopped suddenly and, ignoring the Sergeant's raillery, leaned still farther forward.
"And, by Jove! here's another imprint." He pointed with his cigarette to a slight depression in the lawn just at the foot of the ladder.
The Sergeant leaned over curiously.
"So it is, sir!" he exclaimed, and his tone had become respectful. "I didn't see that one before."
"It really doesn't matter, y' know. Similar to the other one." Vance stepped past Heath and grasped the ladder with both hands.
"Look out, sir!" cautioned Heath angrily. "You'll make finger-prints on that ladder."
Vance relaxed his hold on the ladder momentarily, and turned to Heath with an amused smile.
"I'll at least give Dubois and Bellamy something to work on," he said lightly. "I fear there won't be any other finger-prints on this irrelevant exhibit. And it will be rather difficult to pin the crime on me. I've an unimpeachable alibi. Sittin' at home with Van Dine here, and readin' a bedtime story from Boccaccio."
Heath was spluttering. Before he could answer, Vance turned, grasped the ladder again, and lifted it so that its base was clear of the ground. Then he set it down several inches to the right.
"Really, Sergeant, you have nothing whatever to be squeamish about. Cheer up, and be more trustin'. Consider the lilies, and don't forget that the snail's on the thorn."
"What's lilies and snails gotta do with it?" demanded Heath irritably. "I'm tryin' to tell you--"
Before the Sergeant could protest Vance had thrown his cigarette carelessly away and was moving quickly up the ladder, rung by rung. When he was about three-quarters of the way up he stopped and made his way down. When he had descended and stood again on the lawn, he carefully and deliberately lighted another cigarette.
"I'm rather afraid to look and see just what happened. It would be most humiliatin' if I were wrong. However. . . ."
Again he lifted the ladder and moved it still farther to the right. Then he went a second time on his knees and inspected the new imprints which the two uprights of the ladder had made in the ground. After a moment he looked studiously at the original imprints of the ladder; and I could see that he was comparing the two sets.
"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 finger-prints 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 finger-prints."
"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.
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