Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 2

by S. S. Van Dine

  "My dear Justinian!" Vance greeted him. "I'm amazed and delighted. You're actually up and about. And have you breakfasted too? Such touchin' devotion to your civic duties!"

  "Furthermore," grumbled Markham in patent ill-humor, "I've roused one of our experts on this Sabbath morning and sent all those typewritten papers to the laboratory. Also I've routed Swacker[10] out of bed and told him to report at the office."

  Vance wagged his head in derisive admiration.

  "I'm positively staggered by your matutinal activities."

  When we arrived at the Llewellyn house the door was opened for us by the butler. Heath was in the entrance hall, glum and officious. Snitkin and Sullivan were also there, smoking ponderously and looking bored.

  "Anything new, Sergeant?" Markham asked.

  "Call it new, if you like, sir." The Sergeant was irritable. "Three hours' sleep I've had, and the usual battle with the reporters. And nowhere to go from here. I've been hanging around waiting to hear from you." He shifted his cigar to the other side of his mouth. "Everybody's in the house. The old woman came downstairs at eight-thirty and shut herself up in that room with the books off the drawing-room—"

  Vance turned to him.

  "Really, now! And how long did she tarry there?"

  "About half an hour. Then she went back upstairs."

  "Any report on the young lady?"

  "She's all right, I guess. She was walking around, and I heard her talking. Young Doc Kane came in half an hour ago. He's upstairs with her now."

  "Have you seen Kinkaid this morning?"

  Heath snorted.

  "Sure, I've seen him. He came down bright and early. Wanted to give me a drink, and said he was going out. But I told him he'd have to stick around till I got orders from the District Attorney."

  "Did he object?" asked Vance.

  "Hell, no. Said that was fine with him. Seemed pleased. Said he could attend to everything by phone, ordered a gin rickey, and went back upstairs."

  "I'd rather have enjoyed hearing his phone calls," murmured Vance.

  "It wouldn't have done you any good," Heath told him, with a gesture of discouraged disgust. "I listened in on the phone down here. He talked to his broker at his home, and the fellow named Bloodgood, and the cashier at the Casino. All business stuff. Not even a dame."

  "No out-of-town calls?" Vance put the question casually.

  Heath took the cigar from his mouth and gave him a shrewd look.

  "Yeah—one. He called a Closter number—"

  "Ah!"

  "But he didn't get any answer, and hung up."

  "That's very disappointin'," commented Vance. "Do you remember the number?"

  Heath gave a broad triumphant grin.

  "Sure. And I found out all about it. It's the old boy's hunting lodge just outside of Closter."

  "Stout fella!" Vance nodded admiringly. "Anything else happen around here, Sergeant?"

  "The young guy blew in about twenty minutes ago. . . ."

  "Lynn Llewellyn?"

  Heath nodded indifferently.

  "He looked groggy, but he isn't what you'd call an invalid. Stepped lively and wanted to pick a fight with me and Snitkin." The Sergeant smiled sourly. "I guess he hadn't heard the news—though, from all the dope I've heard around here, he wouldn't give a damn, anyway. I didn't spill anything to him—I simply told him, nice and sweet, he'd better go up and talk to mother. . . . And that's everything exciting that's happened."

  Vance shook his head sadly.

  "You're not very helpful this morning, Sergeant. And I had hopes. However. . . ." He looked at Markham and sighed pensively. "We're doomed to the role of beavers, old dear—just toilin', busy beavers. We'll tackle Lynn and Amelia. But first I think I'll take another peep at Virginia's boudoir. Maybe we overlooked something last night." He went toward the stairs, and Markham and I followed.

  As we approached the top landing the sound of a hysterical voice came to us from the direction of Virginia Llewellyn's room, though no words were distinguishable. But when we stepped into the upper hallway the whole tragic scene was revealed to us. Through the open door at the end of the corridor we could see Mrs. Llewellyn seated in a straight chair near the bed, and kneeling before her was Lynn Llewellyn. He was looking up at his mother excitedly and clutching her arms. The woman's head was bent forward and her hand was on his shoulder. They were both in profile, and apparently were not aware of our presence at the head of the stairs.

  Lynn Llewellyn's high-pitched, sobbing voice now came to us distinctly.

  ". . . Darling, darling," he was crying, "tell me you didn't do it! Oh, God, tell me it wasn't you! You know I love you, dearest—but I wouldn't have wanted that! . . . You didn't do it, did you, mother? . . ." The agony in the man's voice sent a chill over me.

  Vance cleared his throat emphatically to apprize them of our presence in the hall, and both of them turned their heads quickly toward us. Lynn Llewellyn swiftly rose to his feet and moved out of our range of vision. When we had walked down the hall and entered the room, he was standing at the north window, his back to us. Mrs. Llewellyn had not left her chair, but she had drawn herself up erectly, and she nodded with rigid formality as we stepped across the threshold.

  "We are sorry to intrude, madam," Vance said, with a bow. "But from what Sergeant Heath told us, we expected to find this room unoccupied. Otherwise, we would have asked to be announced."

  "It doesn't matter," the woman returned wearily. "My son wished to come here, for some morbid reason. He has just heard of his wife's death."

  Lynn Llewellyn had turned from the window and now stood facing us. His eyes were blood-shot and the lids were red; and he was wiping away the evidence of recent tears.

  "Excuse my condition, gentlemen," he apologized, with a bow of recognition toward Vance. "The news was a terrible shock. It—it upset me . . . and I'm not quite myself this morning, anyway."

  "Yes, yes. We can understand that," Vance answered compassionately. "A tragic business. And I was at the Casino last night. That was a bad jolt you got. Your sister had a similar experience here last night. Glad you're both about."

  Llewellyn nodded vaguely and looked around him with dazed eyes.

  "I—I can't understand it," he mumbled.

  "We're here to do what we can," Vance told him. "And we'll want to have a talk with you a little later. In the meantime would you mind waiting elsewhere? We've a few things to look into first."

  "I'll wait in the drawing-room." He went heavily to the door, and as he passed his mother he paused and gave her a searching, appealing look which she returned with a cold meaningless stare.

  When he had left the room Mrs. Llewellyn turned her eyes calculatingly toward Vance.

  "Lynn," she said, with a twisted, mirthless smile, "has practically accused me of being responsible for the tragic events of this past night."

  Vance nodded with understanding.

  "I regret that we inadvertently overheard some of the things he said to you. But you must not forget, madam, that he may not be quite himself this morning."

  The woman appeared not to have heard what Vance had said.

  "Of course," she explained, "Lynn does not actually believe the terrible intimations beneath his words. The poor boy is suffering horribly. It has all been a great shock to him. He is reaching out blindly for some explanation. And he has a vague fear that perhaps I am responsible. I wish I could help him,—he is really suffering." Despite the deep concern indicated by her words, her voice had a harsh, artificial tone.

  Vance regarded her a moment. His eyelids drooped over his cold gray eyes, giving him a lackadaisical expression.

  "I quite understand your feelings," he said. "But why should your son suspect you?"

  Mrs. Llewellyn hesitated before answering; then the muscles of her face stiffened as if with a sudden and distressing decision.

  "I may as well tell you frankly that I was strongly opposed to his marriage. I did not like the girl—she was not
worthy of him. And perhaps I have been too outspoken in my remarks to him; I fear now I have not sufficiently restrained my feelings in that regard. But I was unable to dissemble in a matter so vital to my son's happiness." She compressed her lips and then went on. "He may have misconstrued my attitude. He may have taken my remarks even more seriously than they were intended—overestimated the actual strength of my emotions."

  Vance nodded discreetly.

  "I see what you mean," he murmured. Then he added, without taking his gaze from the woman: "You and your son are unusually close to each other."

  "Yes." She nodded with a somewhat abstracted glance. "He has always depended on me."

  "A case of mother fixation, perhaps," suggested Vance.

  "It might be that." She looked down at the floor and, after a moment, said: "It would, of course, account for his fears and suspicions regarding me."

  Vance moved toward the mantel.

  "Yes, that might be one explanation. But we sha'n't go into the possibility just now. Later, perhaps. In the meantime—"

  The woman rose vigorously.

  "I shall be in my own room—if you care to see me again." And she strode angrily to the door and closed it after her.

  Vance studied the tip of his cigarette in lazy meditation.

  "Now, what was the meanin' of all those intimate details? She was not in the least worried about herself, and actually seemed pleased that we had surprised the hysterical Lynn in his jittery genuflexion. I wonder. . . . Painful and perplexin', Markham." He raised his head and surveyed the room dreamily. "Let's see if we can find anything new. Anything at all. The slightest suggestion. The whole background of this case is beclouded. No suggestion of a color scheme. Really, Markham, I don't know anything. The mind is a total loss. Suspicious shadows, however. . . ."

  He strolled to the dressing-table and looked over the array of cosmetics.

  "The usual items," he murmured, opening the top drawer and peering in. "Yes—quite in keeping. Eye shadow, mascara, eyebrow pencil—all the accessories of vanity. And not used last night. Indicatin', as I said, an unexpected and not a premeditated demise." He closed the drawer and moved toward the mantel, pausing before a small hanging bookshelf. "All French novels of the cheaper variety. The lady had abominable liter'ry taste." He tested the old-fashioned china clock on the mantel. "Duly wound—and keeping excellent time." He leant over the grate. "Nothing," he complained dolefully. "Not even a cigarette butt." He moved on round the room, carefully observing each item of furniture and decoration, and finally came to a halt at the foot of the bed. "I fear there's nothing to help us here, Markham." He smoked despondently a moment, and then turned toward the rear of the room without enthusiasm. "The bathroom, once more," he sighed. "A mere precaution. . . ."

  He went into the bathroom and spent some time going over it and reinspecting the medicine cabinet. When he came back into the bedroom his eyes were troubled.

  "Deuced queer," he muttered to no one in particular. Then he lifted his gaze to Markham. "I'd swear some one has been shifting some of those bottles around in the medicine cabinet since I looked at them last night."

  Markham was unimpressed.

  "What makes you think that?" he asked impatiently. "And, even if it were so, what would be the significance?"

  "I can't answer both of your questions," Vance returned. "But last night I got a very definite picture of the—what shall I call it?—compositional outlines of the bottles and boxes and tubes in the cabinet—a certain balance of arrangement of the angles and intersecting planes such as one gets in a Picasso painting. And now the proportions and relationships of the lines and squares are not the same. There's a slight distortion of last night's values: it's as if some stress had been obliterated or some linear form had been accentuated,—the picture has been touched up or modified in some way. But apparently nothing is missing from the cabinet—I've checked every item." He drew deeply on his cigarette. "And yet there is some accent lacking or transposed—an added crayon mark or a small erasure somewhere."

  "It sounds esoteric," grumbled Markham.

  "I dare say," Vance agreed. "Probably is. Anyway, I don't at all like it. Disturbin' to my æsthetic sensibilities." He shrugged and went again to the head of the bed.

  He stood for some time gazing down thoughtfully at the night-table, with its ash-tray, telephone and silk-shaded electric lamp. Then he slowly pulled out the little drawer.

  "My word!" He suddenly reached into the drawer and took out a blue-steel revolver. "That wasn't there last night, Markham," he said. "Amazin'!" He inspected the revolver and, replacing it carefully exactly where he had found it, turned about.

  Markham was more animated now.

  "Are you sure it wasn't there last night, Vance?"

  "Oh, yes. Yes. No error of vision."

  "Even so," said Markham, with a look of baffled impatience, "what possible bearing can it have on all these poisonings?"

  "I haven't the slightest idea," Vance admitted placidly. "But nevertheless, it's of academic interest. . . . Suppose we go downstairs and have parlance with the unhappy Lynn."

  9. A PAINFUL INTERVIEW

  (Sunday, October 16; 10:30 a.m.)

  When we entered the drawing-room Lynn Llewellyn was stretched out in a low comfortable chair, smoking a pipe. On seeing us he struggled to his feet with apparent effort and leaned heavily against the centre-table.

  "What do you make of it?" he asked in a husky voice, his bleary eyes moving from one to the other of us.

  "Nothing yet." Vance scarcely looked at the man and walked toward the front window. "We were hopin' you might assist us."

  "Anything you want." Llewellyn moved his arm vaguely in a gesture of docile compliance. "But I don't see how I can help you. I don't even know what happened to me last night. Guess I was winning too much." His tone had become bitter, and there was a sarcastic sneer on his lips.

  "How much did you win?" asked Vance casually and without turning. "Over thirty thousand. My uncle told me this morning he had it cached in the safe for me." The muscles in the man's jaw tightened. "But I wanted to break his damned bank."

  "By the by,"—Vance came back toward the centre of the room and sat down by the table—"did you note any peculiar taste in the whisky or the water you drank last night?"

  "No, I didn't." The answer came without hesitation. "I thought about that this morning—tried to recall—but there was nothing wrong as far as I could tell. . . . I was pretty much excited at the time, though," he added.

  "Your sister drank a glass of water in your mother's room here last night," Vance went on, "and she collapsed with the same symptoms you showed."

  Lynn Llewellyn nodded.

  "I know. I can't figure it out. It's all a nightmare."

  "Just that," agreed Vance. Then, after a pause, he glanced up. "I say, Mr. Llewellyn, has it occurred to you that your wife might have committed suicide?"

  The man started sharply and, swinging round, glared at Vance with open-eyed astonishment.

  "Suicide? Why—no, no. She had no reason—"

  He broke off suddenly. "But you never can tell," he resumed in a strained, repressed voice. "It may be, of course. I hadn't thought of it. . . . Do you really think it was suicide?"

  "We found a note to that effect," Vance told him quietly.

  Llewellyn said nothing for a moment. He took a few unsteady steps forward; then he walked back and sank into the chair in which we had found him.

  "May I see it?" he asked at length.

  "We haven't it here now." Vance spoke in an offhand manner. "I'll show it to you later. It was typewritten—addressed to you—and spoke of her unhappiness here, and of your uncle's kindness to her. And she wished you the best of luck at roulette. Brief—to the point—and final. Neatly folded under the telephone."

  Llewellyn did not move. He gazed straight ahead without comment or any facial indication of what he was thinking. Finally Vance spoke again.

  "Do you, by any chance, ow
n a revolver, Mr. Llewellyn?" he asked.

  The man stiffened in his chair and looked at Vance with quick interrogation.

  "Yes, I own one. . . . But I don't see the point."

  "And where do you generally keep it?"

  "In the drawer of the night-stand by the bed. We've had a couple of bad burglar scares."

  "It wasn't in the drawer last night."

  "Naturally. The fact is, I had it with me." Llewellyn was still studying Vance with a puzzled frown.

  "Do you always carry it with you when you go out?" Vance asked.

  "No—rarely. But I do take it with me, as a rule, when I go to the Casino."

  "Why do you single out the Casino for this peculiar distinction?"

  Llewellyn paused before answering, and a look of smouldering animosity came into his eyes.

  "I never know what may happen to me there," he said at length, between locked teeth. "There's no love lost between my uncle and myself. He'd like to get my money, and I'd like to get his. To be quite truthful with you: I don't trust him. And the events of last night may or may not justify my suspicions. At any rate, I have my theory as to what happened."

  "We sha'n't ask to hear it just now, Mr. Llewellyn," Vance replied coldly. "I have my ideas too. No use confusin' the issue with speculations. . . . So you carried your revolver to the Casino last night and then replaced it in the night-table drawer this morning: is that correct?"

  "Yes! That's exactly what I did." Llewellyn spoke with a show of aggressiveness.

  Markham put a question.

  "You have a permit to carry a gun?"

  "Naturally." Llewellyn sank back in his chair.

  Vance got up again and stood looking down at him.

  "What about Bloodgood?" he asked. "Is he another reason for your fears?"

  "I don't trust him any more than I do Kinkaid—if that's what you mean," the man returned unhesitatingly. "He's under Kinkaid's thumb—he'd do anything he was told to do. He's as cold as a fish, and he's got plenty to win if he could stack his cards the way he wants to."

  Vance nodded understandingly.

  "Yes—quite. I see your point. Your mother practically told us he wants to marry your sister."