Philo Vance 12 Novels Complete Bundle

by S. S. Van Dine

Doctor Quayne pursed his lips. He expressed considerable doubt.

  "However," persisted Brander, "you couldn't say definitely--could you, doctor--that this particular injury was wholly incompatible with the fall?"

  "No. I couldn't say that definitely. I merely state that the injury seemed strange in the circumstances; one hardly to be expected."

  "But still,"--Brander leaned forward with marked courtesy--"you'll pardon me, doctor, if I insist on the point. Such an injury would have been possible in an accidental fall from the cliff?"

  "Yes,"--Doctor Quayne's tone showed annoyance--"it would have been possible."

  "That will be all, doctor. Thank you for your clarity and help."

  O'Leary was then called. His testimony, brief and businesslike, served merely to corroborate that of preceding witnesses. As he stepped down there came an unexpected and dramatic interlude. Guy Darrup suddenly leaped to his feet.

  "You ain't doin' fair to Lief Wallen, Mr. Brander," he shouted righteously. "You ain't askin' for the things where truth lies. I could tell you--"

  Brander struck the table with his gavel. "If you have evidence to give," he said with acerbity, "you should have stated it when you were on the stand."

  "You didn't ask me the right questions, you didn't, Mr. Brander. I know plenty about poor Lief."

  "Swear him in again, Constable."

  "Not comfortin' for us," whispered Vance to O'Leary.

  "Brander has no choice." O'Leary, too, was apprehensive.

  Darrup took the oath a second time.

  "Now give us your withheld evidence, Darrup." Brander's biting tone was wasted.

  "Maybe you don't know, Mr. Brander, the queer wrong things that goes on over there at the Squire's." Darrup spoke like a zealot aroused. "Mr. Gunthar's always a-bullyin'. An' he drinks too much to suit the Squire. He's been warned, he has. An' it was Lief Wallen that was gonna step in his boots--just like he stepped in Old Jed's boots. An' Lief wanted to marry that pretty girl of his--the one down there who looks after Miss Joan." Ella Gunthar drew back as he pointed. "Lief had a right. He'da made her a good honest husband. But Mr. Gunthar didn't want it. I guess he's got his own ideas." Darrup contorted his lips into a shrewd smile. "An' the girl didn't want it neither. She thinks she's better than us. An' there's been plenty o' trouble about it all--Lief wasn't a boy who'd give up easy..."

  Darrup breathed noisily, and hurried on.

  "But that ain't all, Mr. Brander--not by a long ways. Nothing's right up there at the Squire's. There's funny things goin' on. Deep, dark things--things you ain't taught about in the Bible. What's the girl doin' down in the Green Glen at night times, I'd like to know? I've seen her sneakin' to Old Jed's hut. There's plottin'. Everybody's lyin'. Everybody's hatin'. An' Old Jed's queer. He don't talk to nobody. But he's up to something, always lookin' up at the trees, an' lettin' the stream water run through his fingers, like a kid. An' then, just when young Lief's about to step into Mr. Gunthar's job, he goes an' falls off the cliff. Lief knew his way about the grounds better'n to do that. Anyway, what's he doin' up there that time o' night when he's supposed to be watchin' round the Manor?"

  Brander's patience gave out. His gavel smashed down.

  "Did you come here to vent your hates, man? That's not evidence. That's old women's talk."

  "Not evidence!" shrieked Darrup. "Then ask Mr. Gunthar's girl why she was runnin' down the slope from the cliff at twelve o'clock that night when Lief fell over!"

  "What's that?"

  "You heard me, you did, Mr. Brander. I was workin' late in the pavilion, fixin' things for the Squire's party. An' here she comes runnin' down the slope an' turned right by the pavilion. An' she was cryin', too."

  I looked at Ella Gunthar. Her face was white, her lips trembled. There was a subdued commotion in the room. Brander hesitated, looked uneasy. He rustled through some papers before him. Then he looked angrily at Darrup.

  "Your statements are irrelevant." He paused. "Unless, perhaps,"-- there was jocularity in his tone--"you're accusing a mere girl of hurling a big fellow like Wallen over the cliff. Is that what you mean?"

  "No, Mr. Brander." Darrup lapsed again into sullenness. "It wasn't her as could've done it. I'm only tellin' you--"

  Again the gavel descended. "That's enough! This inquest is not for the purpose of injuring a young woman's reputation. It is merely to establish by what means Wallen came to his death, and, if by criminal means, at whose hand. Your speculations are, therefore, not helpful to this investigation. Step down, Darrup." Darrup obeyed, and Brander turned quickly to O'Leary. "Any more witnesses; Lieutenant?"

  O'Leary shook his head.

  "That's all then." Brander spoke briefly to the jury. They filed out. In less than half an hour their verdict was announced:

  "We find that Lief Walton met his death by an accidental fall, under suspicious circumstances."

  Brander was startled. He opened his mouth, was about to speak, but said nothing. The inquest was over.

  "There's a verdict!" O'Leary scoffed to Vance as we drove back to the Manor. "No sense whatever. But Brander did his best."

  "Yes--oh, yes. Not strictly legal, perhaps. Could have been worse. However..."

  Ella Gunthar sat in the corner of the back seat beside me, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth, staring, unseeing, over the quiet winter landscape.

  Vance took her gently in hand when we arrived. "Was Darrup telling the truth, my dear?" he asked.

  "I don't know what you mean..."

  "Were you running down the slope that night?"

  "I--No. Of course not." She raised her chin defiantly. "I was at home at midnight. I didn't hear anything..."

  "Why are you fibbing?" he asked sternly. She compressed her lips and said nothing. Vance went on with tenderness. "Maybe I know. You're a brave little soldier. But very foolish. Nothing's going to hurt you. I want you to trust me." He held out his hand.

  Her eyes searched his face a moment. A faint smile showed on her lips. Then she placed her hand confidently in his.

  "Now run along to Joan--and let that smile come all the way out."

  CHAPTER VIII - SECRET PLANS

  (Friday, January 17; evening.)

  That evening, shortly after dinner, I stood with Vance on the veranda, looking out over the shadows on the skating rink. Echoes of music and gaiety drifted out to this secluded corner from the drawing room. Vance was in a serious, contemplative mood and smoked a Régie in silence, with a faraway expression.

  Before long, however, there was the sound of approaching footsteps behind us, and Vance turned to greet Carlotta Naesmith.

  "Brooding over your sins, Sir Knight?" the girl asked as she came up, "It really doesn't help. I've tried it...I sought you out to ask a most important question--tu-whit, tu-who: Do you skate gracefully?"

  "At my time of life!" Vance pretended dejection. "But your query's flatterin'. I'm duly grateful."

  "I was hoping you did skate. We do so need a Master of Ceremonies." She prodded him playfully. "You are hereby elected."

  "It sounds interestin'. Explanat'ry instructions in order."

  "It's like this," Miss Naesmith readily complied. "All the inmates of the zoo, barring the decrepit, are throwing a party for Richard tomorrow night. A sort of farewell celebration. It's to be on the rink out there...I'm hostess pro tem, you know. Originality expected from one so brilliant. Hence skates--that being the best idea the brain could conjure up."

  "Sounds jolly," said Vance. "And my duties?"

  "Oh, just to keep things going. Be officious--you can. Announce the animals. I'm sure you get it: every animal act has a ringmaster."

  "Must I supply liniment?"

  "You wrong us, sir!" she chirped indignantly. "We all skate amazingly well. I understand the bar will be temporarily padlocked."

  "That could help, y' know." Vance smiled. "We're planning it quite seriously," she ran on. "We're even going to practice on the lower rink tomorrow. And we're going to Winewood in the morning to
scout for costumes...Sounds a bit horrible, doesn't it?"

  "Oh, no!" Vance protested. "Sounds jolly. As I said." He looked at the girl searchingly. "Tell me, Miss Naesmith, why did you try to hurt Ella Gunthar yesterday?"

  Miss Naesmith's mood changed. Her eyes narrowed. She shrugged noncommittally.

  "It doesn't take both my eyes to see that she and Dick are attracted to each other. They always were as kids."

  "And Sally Alexander?"

  She laughed without mirth. "Dick didn't speak to her all day. But let Ella worry."

  "And it doesn't take both my eyes"--Vance did not shift his gaze-- "to see that you will never pine away if Richard is diverted."

  She pondered that a moment. "Dick's a nice boy. It's Papa Rexon's idea, you know. And who am I to upset his fondest dream?"

  "Is it nice to be bitter?" Vance brought out his cigarettes. Miss Naesmith accepted one, and he lighted one himself.

  "Oh, it's done in the best circles," the girl said facetiously. "And anyway, it's not the man's place to walk out. That's my prerogative."

  "I see. Mere technique of etiquette at fault. Well, well."

  The girl blew Vance a kiss and went back to the noisy drawing room.

  "As I thought," he murmured, as if to himself. "Neither wants it. Richard makes the fact evident. Ergo, pique. Evinced by a display of cruelty. Ancient feminine sequence. However, nice girl at heart. It'll all arrange itself. Poor papa. Yes, the Rexon dynasty is crumblin'. Same like Bruce predicts." He looked out over the shadowy rink, drawing deeply on his Régie. "Come, I've a wishful idea." He spoke irrelevantly as he turned suddenly and went inside.

  We found Joan Rexon in her own sitting room across the hall. She was on a divan by the window, and Marcia Bruce was reading to her.

  "Why aren't you in the drawing room, young lady?" Vance asked pleasantly.

  "I'm resting tonight," the girl replied. "Carlotta told me there's to be a big party for Dick tomorrow night, and I want to feel well, so I won't miss any of it."

  Vance sat down. "Would it tire you too much if I talked to you a few minutes?"

  "Why, no. I'd love it."

  Vance turned to Miss Bruce. "Mind if I speak with Miss Joan alone?"

  The housekeeper rose in resentful dignity and went to the door. "More mystery." Her tone was hollow. Her green eyes flashed.

  "Oh, quite," laughed Vance. "A dark plot, in fact. But I can complete my dire machinations in ten minutes. Come back then, what? There's an angel."

  The woman went without a word.

  "I want to talk a moment about Ella." Vance drew up his chair beside the slight reclining figure of Joan Rexon.

  "Dear Ella," the girl said sweetly.

  "She is a dear, isn't she?...I've wondered since I've been here why I never see her on the rink. Doesn't she skate?"

  Joan Rexon smiled sadly. "Oh, she used to love skating. But I guess she's lost her interest--since I fell."

  "But I know you love to see others skating and being happy."

  She nodded. "I do. I do. I've never forgot what fun I used to have myself. That's why Dad kept up the rinks and the pavilion. So I can sit on the veranda and watch the others. He often brings famous skaters up here just to perform for me."

  "He'd do anything he thought would make you happy," said Vance.

  She nodded again, emphatically. "And so would Ella...You know, Mr. Vance, I'm really a very lucky girl. And I do have wonderful times just watching others do the things I'd love to do."

  "That's why I thought Miss Ella might be doing your skating for you, so to speak."

  The girl turned her head slowly toward the window. "Maybe I'm to blame, Mr. Vance. I've often thought that."

  "Tell me about it," Vance urged softly.

  "Well, you see, when I was a little girl, just after my accident, Ella went out on the rink and skated--she was a beautiful skater. I watched her and I was very selfish, I think. Just the sight of her skating seemed to hurt me. I don't exactly understand it. I was such a baby. It--it--"

  "I understand, my dear."

  "And when Ella came back to the veranda I was crying...After that, for several years, I saw Ella only at intervals. She was at school, you know. And we never spoke again about her skating."

  Vance took her hand gently. "She was probably too busy with other things to keep up her skating. Or perhaps she lost interest because you couldn't join her. You needn't feel guilty...But it wouldn't hurt you any more, would it?"

  "Oh, no." She forced a smile. "I wish she would skate again. I was just terribly foolish."

  "We're all foolish when we're young." Vance laughed.

  The girl nodded seriously. "I'm not foolish--that way--any more. Now when I see some wonderful skater I wish it were Ella. I know she could have done it."

  "I know just how you feel." As he rose the door opened and Marcia Bruce entered.

  "The plot's concocted," said Vance. "And I'm sure I haven't tired the young lady. She's quite ready to hear the ending of the story you were reading to her."

  As we came out again into the hail and approached the stairway two figures stood conversing earnestly in a secluded nook at the rear. They were Carlotta Naesmith and Stanley Sydes. Vance merely glanced toward them and proceeded to the drawing room.

  CHAPTER IX - AN ABRUPT SUMMONS

  (Saturday, January 18; forenoon.)

  The next morning Vance rose in good season and, after a hasty cup of coffee, left the house, alone, disappearing down the wide path which led past the pavilion to Gunthar's cottage. Shortly after his departure the other guests straggled down to the breakfast room and then assembled before the spacious gabled garage. One by one the cars were brought out and the cavalcade swung gaily up the hill to the main road and toward Winewood. Half an hour or so later the housekeeper piloted Joan Rexon tenderly to the now deserted veranda and with motherly attentions installed her on the specially built chaise longue near the windows overlooking the skating rink.

  Barely was the girl settled when Vance and Ella Gunthar turned the corner of the path by the pavilion and came toward the house.

  "You see, Miss Joan," Vance said as they entered, "not only do I see your charming companion home in the evening, but I escort her to you in the morning."

  Ella Gunthar smiled. She seemed particularly happy. There was a new sparkle in her eyes. Marcia Bruce, apparently sensing something unusual, looked from Ella to Vance and back again. Then she rose, patted Joan Rexon fondly, and went indoors.

  Vance remained on the veranda a while, chatting in his most trivial manner, and finally went inside to seek the comfort of the easy chair in his room. He seemed preoccupied and lay back, smoking listlessly for some time. His meditations, whatever they were, were interrupted by a knock on the door. Lieutenant O'Leary came in and sat down. There was an added sternness in his aquiline face.

  "I wanted to see you alone, Mr. Vance. The butler said you were here, so I took the liberty..."

  "Delighted, Lieutenant." Vance rearranged himself in his chair and lighted another Régie. "I trust you haven't brought disconsolate tidin's."

  O'Leary fumbled with his pipe a moment without replying. When he got it going he looked up.

  "I wonder, sir, if, by any chance, you have the same idea I have?"

  "It could be." Vance's eyebrows went up questioningly. "What is your thought?"

  "I'm convinced I know who killed Wallen."

  Vance lay back lethargically and studied the strong set face of the man opposite.

  "Amazin'!" he murmured. Then he shook his head. "No. No such thoughts here. Mind a blank as to that. Anyway, thanks for your confidence. Could you stretch it further?"

  O'Leary, hesitant at first, now seemed eager to talk.

  "I figure it this way, sir: I don't think Guy Darrup was lying at the inquest yesterday."

  "No. Not lying. Merely impulsive and ingenuous. A simple honest mind ruled by zealous emotions. Indignations churned up in him, and boiled over."

  "Then you be
lieve him?"

  "Oh, yes. Quite. No alternative. Fact is, I'd done a spot of spyin' around myself and already knew most of what he poured forth. Not a pleasant situation here and abouts. But where's it criminal? I need more guidance. Do you have it?"

  "Here's how I've put it all together: Gunthar drinks too much and is about to be discharged. Wallen's slated for the promotion. That in itself is a good enough motive with rugged straightforward natures. Gunthar has just such a nature. He's not subtle, and apt to be cruel in his cups: he'd take the straight line--strong and forthright-- when perplexed with a problem. Now, add to this motive the friction between him and Wallen regarding his daughter's future. Wouldn't you say that would set the stage?"

  "Granted." Vance nodded. "Opportunity even simpler. But continue, Lieutenant."

  "Exactly, sir. A fine opportunity. Gunthar knows the lay of the land. He knows Wallen's habits and knows his weaknesses. What could be easier for him than to inveigle Wallen to the cliff on some pretext, bash him over the head, and throw him over into the Gulch?...Miss Gunthar probably suspected her father's intent, followed him secretly up the cliff, and, when the thing was done, came running down, crying."

  "And what could Gunthar hope to gain?" asked Vance indifferently. "He would still be discharged."

  "Oh, I know Wallen wasn't the only available man for the job. Rexon can get a dozen others, given a little time. But I gather Gunthar intended to give up his tippling--which is only of recent origin-- and insinuate himself again into Rexon's good graces."

  "But Gunthar was still drinking too much yesterday, I saw him both before and after the inquest."

  "That substantiates my theory," O'Leary declared. "He needed it to buck him up--the experience is enough to undo a stronger man."

  "True," conceded Vance. "The point fits snugly. What else, Lieutenant?"

  "Gunthar threatened Wallen twice."

  "Gossip?"

  "Necessarily, of course. But I believe it's authentic enough. It'll be sworn to by reliable witnesses."

  "A clever analysis, Lieutenant," drawled Vance. "But not a defense-proof case."

  O'Leary showed resentment. "That's not all, sir." He pulled himself forward in his chair. "Gunthar can't prove a satisfactory alibi for the supposed time of the killing. He came into Murphy's tavern at Winewood at ten o'clock that night. He was nervous and drank more than usual. He left at about half-past eleven. It takes nearly half an hour to walk here from Winewood. An hour later Sokol, the druggist in Winewood, was driving home from a late party and saw Gunthar crossing the meadow on the far side of Tor Gulch. The man thought nothing of it at the time; but after the inquest he figured the information might have some bearing, and told me about it. True enough, Gunthar was headed for his cottage. But that isn't the short cut from Winewood.--And it is the route he would have taken if he'd first been to the cliff...Does that strengthen my ease against Gunthar?" finished O'Leary doggedly.