Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 2

by S. S. Van Dine

  Vance moved a little in his chair, and his eyes roamed dreamily over the hazy skyline of Manhattan.

  "Where the conception of the dragon originated no one knows; but it is probably the most tenacious of all ancient superstitions. The Christian devil is nothing but a modified dragon of ancient folk-lore. There have, of course, been many speculations as to the origin of this supernatural monster, and Moncure Conway, in his 'Demonology and Devil-Lore,' says it is the result of a confused memory of prehistoric saurians. But other researchers—Sir James George Scott, for instance—take issue with Conway and attribute the conception of the dragon to the primitive imagination in connection with snakes. But whatever the origin, it is a persistent and varied superstition. The dragon has taken many forms in man's mind. It is a far cry, for example, from the Indian Vrtra and the Greek Hydra to the mild Burmese dragon and the drakos of the European Gipsies. And neither of these conceptions is comparable with the enormous tortoise which King Thai-to saw swimming toward his royal bark."

  Vance sipped his drink, which Currie had just served.

  "Every land and every people, Markham, has had its dragons. Even in ancient Egypt the dragon became more or less identified with Seth and fought against Horus in the form of water-monsters. And in the Papyrus of Ani—or Book of the Dead—we read of the fire-breathing dragon Apop, to whom the wicked were thrown. But the dragon was not always a monster. A dragon-horse brought Fu Hsi the Eight Diagrams nearly 3000 years B.C.; and whenever the Yellow Emperor saw dragons he knew that prosperity was at hand. Chinese mythology, in fact, is filled with dragons, both benevolent and malevolent. The Fifth Moon Feast in memory of Ch'ü Yüan's suicide is called the Dragon Festival; and Fei Ch'ang-fang's magic rod turned into a dragon and aided him in conquering the ogres of darkness. In the Buddhist myths we find many references to the dragon as associated with fish; and there is at least one instance where the Dragon King himself was carried off to sea in the body of a fish. . . ."

  Markham looked up sharply.

  "Are you insinuating—" he began; but Vance interrupted him.

  "No, oh no," he said. "I am not referring to Stamm's collection of tropicals. It's the dragon myth itself that fascinates me. . . . In all the Indo-Chinese countries we find the snake—not the fish—as the basis of the dragon. Probably this conception was brought from China and Japan, where the water-snake was formerly worshipped as a god. In Indo-Chinese mythology there are any number of dragon-myths, after the fashion of the Chutia Nagpur tradition. There is the Naga Min, who is at times represented with coils long enough to embrace an entire pagoda; and Galon, the Burmese dragon who appeared like the Indian Garuda; and Bilu, a dragon ogre who fed on human flesh and never cast a shadow. And you perhaps recall the myth of Hkun Ai and his Naga princess who was the daughter of the King of the Dragons, and how he spied upon her and her court one night, only to find that the entire countryside and all the lakes around were filled with these gigantic writhing creatures. . . . In the Han Dynasty the Spirit of the East was Thang-long, the Blue Dragon; and in the legends of the Karens we find the spirit of Satan symbolized as a dragon. The mythology of the Tongkingese abounds in dragons; and their secret hiding-places exist to this day. Buddhist and Taoist tales are filled with dragon lore. Even the great Temple of Linh-lanh was supposed to have been built on a dragon's head. There was a dragon guardian of the city of Hanoi; and in the Ly Dynasty King Thaiton named the capital Thanh-long, meaning the Dragon City. The protective idea of the dragon, d' ye see, is also well established in folk-lore. At Pokhar in Rajputana there is a sacred lake which, tradition tells us, was once inhabited by a dragon who guarded the Burmese Temple nearby. . . . And the dragon permeates the legends of Siam—he was probably brought from India along with Brahmanism and serpent worship. Siamese dragons lived in caves and under the water. . . ."

  Vance gazed up meditatively at the sky.

  "You will note how the water motif runs through these ancient superstitions," he continued. "Perhaps one of the most significant tales—this is from the Japanese—is that of Kobo Daishi, the founder of Shingon Buddhism in the ninth century, who drew the ideogram for dragon on the waters of a stream in the Kozuke district. When he had finished the ideogram it became an actual dragon which rose over the water; and it is supposed to have hovered there ever since—a superstition no doubt based on the dense vapors which constantly rise from this mountain stream. And similar to this tale is the one in which Le-loi's sword turned into a jade-colored dragon and disappeared in the waters of the sacred lake which, to this day, is called the Lake of the Great Sword. Then, there's the legend of the province of Izumo, in Japan, which tells of a water-dragon who demanded the sacrifice of a virgin each year, and of how Susa-no-wo slew him when he came up out of the river. The hero of course married the young lady he had thus saved. . . . Japanese mythology, like the Chinese, is filled with Dragon Kings: we find many tales of them in the Shinto chronicles. One of the most significant legends connected with the Dragon Kings was that of a Chinese emperor who sent a shipload of treasures to Japan. During a storm a priceless crystal, which perpetually held the image of Buddha, was lost. It was supposed to have been stolen by the Dragon King who lived in the deep waters off the coast of Sanuki. The crystal was recovered from the Dragon Palace by a poor fisher-woman who, as a reward, had her only child brought up by the noble Fujiwara family. The water motif again, Markham. . . . And do you recall how Toda saved the dragon folk in Lake Biwa by slaying the giant centipede with poisoned arrows?"

  "No, I don't recall it," growled Markham. "And anyway, what's the point of all this?"

  "The dragon myth, old dear—a most engagin' subject," Vance returned. Then he went on blandly: "Iranian mythology is filled with dragons, and they too are related, to a great extent, to water. In fact, the water of the earth was supposed to be the result of a god slaying a dragon who was hidden in the clouds. Indra, with his thunderbolt, slew the dragon of drought. Trita, the son of Aptya, also slew a tri-headed dragon named Visvarupa. And there's the story of Keresaspa who slew the dragon Srvra and for whom Zarathustra intervened. Saam, the vassal of Minucihr, met many a dragon, but his great battle was with the one that haunted the river Kashaf. Then there's the Iranian tale which relates of Ahura Mazda and the monster Azhi with the serpents springing from his shoulders. And in a Persian manuscript of the Shahnamah, in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, there is a vivid picture of Gushtasp battling with a dragon."

  "I do hope," sighed Markham, "you're not going to ask me to go to the Metropolitan Museum to inspect the manuscript."

  Vance ignored Markham's sarcasm and continued his treatise.

  "In Armenian mythology we have the Median king, Azdahak—a name which means 'dragon'—who fought Tigranes and who, after his defeat, was compelled to bring his family and settle in Armenia. Anush, who was the Mother of Dragons, was, we are told, Azdahak's first queen. And here we have, perhaps, the origin of the dragon children about whom the old songs were written. . . . Vahagn, the most popular of all the Armenian deities, was known far and wide as the 'dragon-reaper,' and in later syncretistic times he was identified with Heracles. Then there was the dragon of the Macedonians, closely related to the Indian Vrtra and the Armenian Vishap. This dragon was a gigantic and terrible monster. But in all Armenian mythology the dragon was, as with other primitive peoples, associated with meteorology and was supposed to represent the whirlwind, the water spout, thunder and lightning, and heavy rain; and often the meteorological and the eschatological dragon were confused. . . . The water idea connected with the dragon is found also in the records of the Mayas. The great ceremonial monolith at Quirigua is known as the Great Turtle or the Dragon, and played an important part in the Mayan religion."

  Vance sipped his drink and glanced up at Markham.

  "Am I borin' you horribly?" he asked.

  Markham compressed his lips and said nothing; and Vance, with a sigh, settled himself more comfortably in his chair.

  "In Semitic mythology," he wen
t on, "the dragon played an important and sinister part. In the Babylonian Epic of Creation we read of the dragons which issued from the belly of Tiamat, released by Bêl and the Imhullu wind. These eleven dragons became gods of the lower regions and were later identified by the astrologers with various constellations. The Assyrian fish-man was one of the dragons of Chaos and represented the constellation Aquarius; and Ninurta, in the creation myth, was commanded by Anu and Enlil to conquer the ushumgal, or Great Sea Serpent. . . ."

  Vance smoked a while in silence.

  "The Greeks, and also the Romans, had their dragons. The Chimera, with her devastating breath of fire, whom Bellerophon slew, was part lion, part goat, and part dragon. The Golden Apples of the Hesperides were guarded by a hydra-headed deathless dragon; and, of course, there was the dragon that Cadmus destroyed and whose teeth he strew over the earth. . . . And throughout Celtic mythology we find dragons called péist or béist—probably from the Latin bestia—living in lochs in various reptilian forms. The saints destroyed many of these monsters; and if a dragon shrieked on May-Eve the land was barren until Lludd buried him alive. And there were the dragons which encircled the oaks in the grove of which Lucan wrote; and the two dragons of Merlin, who slept in hollow stones and, when dug up, did battle with each other. Also there's the dragon who issued from the earth at the sound of Cliach's harp playing. . . ."

  "But we have no harps," protested Markham wearily.

  Vance shook his head sadly.

  "My dear Markham! I fear you have no soul for classical lore. But we are dealing with a dragon of some sort, and the dragon superstition should not be entirely ignored. The conception of the dragon 5000 years ago, for instance, was that he could change his aspect whenever he chose. The five-clawed dragon of the Manchus was benevolent and symbolic of power, but the three-clawed dragon was inimical to man—the symbol of death and destruction."

  "Come, come!" Markham looked up alertly. "Are you trying to get me stirred up by that imprint with the three claws?"

  "Not at all. I'm simply borin' you with a few historical details which may, or may not, prove illuminatin' in our investigation. There are, however, many variations in the pattern of the dragon: some are depicted with bearded heads, some with scaly bodies, some with horns; but all with claws not unlike the marks we have found on the basin of the pool."

  Vance shifted his position a little and went on.

  "And there were many winged dragons in mythology, Markham. Though they lived in lonely pools and lakes and beneath the waters, they nevertheless could fly, and they often bore their victims incredible distances. For instance, there were the winged dragons who bore the chariot of Triptolemus through the skies. And Medea, as you remember, after slaying her children, fled to Athens in a chariot hitched to winged dragons which had been sent to her by Helios."

  Markham rose and paced back and forth for a moment.

  "What has all this dragon lore to do with Montague's death?" he asked at length.

  "Really, y' know, I haven't the vaguest notion," Vance sighed. "But the myths of the Algonkian Indians are quite in line with the classical dragon myths; and it was these Indians who named the Dragon Pool in Inwood and are responsible for the superstition that attaches to it. The important character of the Algonkian myths is the Great Hare, whose name was Manabozho, and he did valiant battle with giants and cannibals and witches. But his outstanding vict'ry was when he slew the Great Fish or Snake that preyed on man. This monster was a water-dragon—Amangemokdom. He ruled the Powers of the Deep, and one of his favorite pastimes was to destroy and devour fishermen. . . . You see how interestin' the parallel is? And, Markham, we're dealing not only with cold-blooded practical facts, but with a sinister superstition; and we cannot afford to ignore either one."

  Markham was restless and disturbed. He walked to the parapet of the roof and looked out over the city for several moments. Then he returned and stood facing Vance.

  "Well," he said with a hopeless gesture, "granted what you say is true, what procedure do you suggest?"

  "Really now," answered Vance sombrely, "I have no definite plans. But I do intend to go to the Stamm estate early tomorrow morning."

  Markham nodded grimly.

  "If you think it necessary, go by all means," he said. "But you'll have to go alone, for I have a busy day at the office tomorrow."

  But Vance did not go alone. Strange and uncanny things happened on the Stamm estate that night. Shortly after nine o'clock the next morning Markham telephoned to Vance. Heath, it seemed, had called the District Attorney's office and reported that Greeff had mysteriously disappeared.

  15. NOISES IN THE NIGHT

  (Monday, August 13; 9.30 a.m.)

  We arrived at the Stamm estate before ten o'clock. Immediately after calling Vance Markham had left his office and stopped in 38th Street to pick him up. The murder of Montague had taken a powerful hold on Markham's imagination, and the news of Greeff's disappearance had made an irresistible demand on his activities. As he explained to us, driving out in the car, he saw in this new development the first tangible element in the whole affair; and he had now put all his other work aside to take personal charge of the case.

  "I've had my suspicions about Greeff from the first," he said. "There is something sinister in the man; and he has impressed me all along as being involved in Montague's death. Now that he has escaped we can go forward with the investigation with something like a definite aim."

  "I'm not so sure," Vance demurred. He was frowning and smoking thoughtfully. "The case is not going to be so simple even now. Why should Greeff attract suspicion to himself by taking leave of the party? We had no evidence against him; and he must have known that by bolting he would put in operation all the police machinery in the city. Very silly of him, Markham—distressingly silly. And Greeff does not strike me as a silly man."

  "Fear—" Markham began.

  "The man is fearless," Vance interrupted. "It would have been more logical for any other member of the party to have run away. . . . It's most confusin'."

  "The fact remains he's gone," Markham retorted testily. "However, we'll know more when we get there."

  "Oh, quite." And Vance lapsed into silence.

  When we reached the Stamm house Heath greeted us sourly at the entrance.

  "A sweet mess," he complained. "The only guy I had my eye on has made his get-away."

  "Sad . . . sad," sighed Vance. "But console yourself, Sergeant, and unfold your story."

  Heath led the way into the drawing-room and planted himself aggressively before the mantelpiece.

  "First," he said, addressing Markham, "I'd better report on what's been done since yesterday afternoon.—We checked up as best we could on this Bruett woman, but haven't got a trace of her. Furthermore, there hasn't been a boat to South America for four days; so I guess her story to Stamm about sailing was phony. We've checked on all the likely hotels, without any result. And here's a funny one:—she wasn't on the passenger lists of the boats that've arrived from Europe during the past two weeks. Think that over. There's something wrong about that dame, and she'll have a lot of explaining to do when my men locate her."

  Vance smiled tolerantly.

  "I don't wish to dampen your official ardor, Sergeant; but I fear you're not going to find the lady. She's far too sketchy."

  "What do you mean?" snapped Markham. "The automobile on the East Road at the time stated in the note—"

  "It's wholly possible, don't y' know," returned Vance mildly, "that the lady in question wasn't at the wheel. . . . Really, Sergeant, I wouldn't wear my nerves out about her."

  "I'm looking for her, and I'm going to keep on looking for her," Heath asserted with a show of belligerence. Then he turned back to Markham. "We didn't find out anything about Montague except what we already know. Always mixed up with some woman—but what good-looking actor isn't? He always seemed to have money—lived high and spent a lot—but he didn't have many jobs, and no one seems to know where his money came
from."

  "Any news about the car on the East Road Saturday night?" asked Markham.

  "Nothing." Heath was disgusted. "We couldn't find any one in Inwood who'd seen it or heard it. And the officer on duty on Payson Avenue says no car came out of Inwood after nine o'clock that night. He was patrolling from eight o'clock on, and could have seen any car that came down the hill. . . . Anyway," Heath added, "it may have coasted down the hill with the lights out."

  "Or," suggested Vance vaguely, "it may never have left Inwood."

  Markham shot him a quick look.

  "What's back of that remark?" he demanded.

  Vance made a slight gesture and shrugged.

  "Oh, I say! Must there be hidden meanings in all my observations? . . . I was merely offering a counter supposition regarding the elusive vehicle."

  Markham grunted.

  "Anything else, Sergeant?"

  "Well, we put the servants here on the carpet—the cook and the maid; and I went over that pasty-faced butler again." Heath made a wry face. "But all I got was the same line of gossip that we've been hearing for a coupla days. They don't know anything, and we can check 'em off the list."

  "The butler," put in Vance, in a quiet tone, "is not without possibilities, Sergeant. He may not know anything, but no one with eyes like his can be devoid of suspicions."

  Heath looked at Vance with a canny squint.

  "You said something, Mr. Vance," he remarked. "But he's too slippery for me. And he's not giving anything away if he can help it."

  "I didn't want to infer, Sergeant," Vance amended, "that you are to pin your faith on him for a solution to the case. I was merely implyin' that the fish-loving Trainor is full of ideas. . . . But, I say, what about the amazin' disappearance of Alex Greeff? His truancy fascinates me."

  Heath drew himself up and took a deep breath.

  "He sneaked away some time during the night. And he was damn slick about it. I stayed here till eleven o'clock, after everybody had gone to their rooms. Then I went home, leaving Snitkin in charge. There was a man at the east gate and one at the front gate all night. Hennessey covered the south border of the estate, and another man from the Bureau was down below the dam watching Bolton Road. I got back here at eight-thirty this morning; and Greeff was gone. I've been in touch with his apartment and his office; but he hasn't showed up at either place. Skipped out clean. . . ."