Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 2

by S. S. Van Dine

  Vance drew on his cigarette.

  "Fascinatin' assortment of facts. Add them up. Mathematically speakin', they make a total...I say, Mr. Kroon, any suggestions?"

  Kroon came to a sudden halt and swung about.

  "No!" he blurted. "Damn your mathematics! And you people hang men on such evidence!" He sucked in a deep noisy breath and made a despairing gesture. "All right, here's the story. Take it or leave it. I've been mixed up with Stella Fruemon for the past year. She's nothing but a gold-digger and blackmailer. Madge Weatherby got on to it. She's the jealous member of this combination—not me. And she cared about as much for Woode Swift as I did. Anyway, I got involved with Stella Fruemon. It came to a show-down, and I had to pay through the nose. To avoid scandal for my family, of course. Otherwise, I'd have thrown her through the window and called it my boy scout's good deed for the day. At any rate, we each got our lawyers, and a settlement was reached. She finally named a stiff figure and agreed to sign a general release from all claims. In the circumstances, I had no alternative. Four o'clock today was the time set for the completion of the transaction. My lawyer and hers were to be at her apartment. The certified check and the papers were ready. So I went down there a little before four to clean up the whole dirty business. And I cleaned it up and got out. I had walked down the two flights of stairs to her apartment, and at four-fifteen, when the hold-up was over, I told the lady she could go to hell, and I walked back up the stairs."

  Kroon took a deep breath and frowned.

  "I was so furious—and relieved—that I kept on walking without realizing where I was going. When I opened the door which I thought led into the public hallway outside the Garden apartment, I found I was out on the terrace of the roof." He cocked an angry eye at Vance. "I suppose that fact is suspicious too—walking up three flights of stairs instead of two—after what I'd been through?"

  "No. Oh, no." Vance shook his head. "Quite natural. Exuberant spirits. Weight off the shoulders, and all that. Three flights of stairs seemin' like two. Light impost, so to speak. Horses run better that way. Don't feel the extra furlong, as it were. Quite comprehensible...But please proceed."

  "Maybe you mean that—and maybe you don't." Kroon spoke truculently. "Anyway; it's the truth...When I saw where I was I thought I'd come through the garden and go down the stairway there. It was really the natural thing to do..."

  "You knew about the gate leading into the garden, then?"

  "I've known about it for years. Everybody who's been up here knows about it. On summer nights Floyd used to leave the gate open and we'd walk up and down the terrace. Anything wrong with my knowing about the gate?"

  "No. Quite natural. And so, you opened the gate and entered the garden?"

  "Yes."

  "And that would be between a quarter after four and twenty minutes after four?"

  "I wasn't holding a stop-watch on myself, but I guess that's close enough...When I entered the garden I saw Swift slumped down in his chair. His position struck me as funny, but I paid no attention to it until I spoke to him and got no answer. Then I approached and saw the revolver lying on the tiles, and the hole in his head. It gave me a hell of a shock, I can tell you, and I started to run downstairs to give the alarm. But I realized it would look bad for me. There I was, alone on the roof with a dead man..."

  "Ah, yes. Discretion. So you played safe. Can't say that I blame you entirely—if your chronology is accurate. So, I take it, you re-entered the public stairway and came down to the front door of the Garden apartment."

  "That's just what I did." Kroon's tone was as vigorous as it was resentful.

  "By the by, during the brief time you were on the roof, or even after you returned to the stairway, did you hear a shot?"

  Kroon looked at Vance in obvious surprise.

  "A shot? I've told you the fellow was already dead when I first saw him."

  "Nevertheless," said Vance, "there was a shot. Not the one that killed him, but the one that summoned us to the roof. There were two shots, don't y' know—although no one seems to have heard the first."

  Kroon thought a moment.

  "By George! I did hear something, now that you put it that way. I thought nothing of it at the time, since Woody was already dead. But just as I re-entered the stairway there was an explosion of some kind outside. I thought it was a car back-firing down in the street, and paid no attention to it."

  Vance nodded with a puzzled frown.

  "That's very interestin'..." His eyes drifted off into space. "I wonder..." After a moment he returned his gaze to Kroon. "But to continue your tale. You say you left the roof immediately and came downstairs. But there were at least ten minutes from the time you left the garden to the time I encountered you entering the apartment at the front door. How and where did you spend these ten intervening minutes?"

  "I stayed on the landing of the stairs and smoked a couple of cigarettes. I was trying to pull myself together. After what I had been through, and then finding Woody shot, I was in a hell of a mental state."

  Heath stood up quickly, one hand in his outside coat pocket, and thrust out his jaw belligerently toward the agitated Kroon.

  "What kind of cigarettes do you smoke?" he barked.

  The man looked at the Sergeant in bewilderment, and then said: "I smoke gold-tipped Turkish cigarettes. What about it?"

  Heath drew his hand from his pocket and looked at something which he held on his palm.

  "All right," he muttered. Then he addressed Vance. "I got the stubs here. Picked 'em up on the landing when I came up from the dame's apartment. Thought maybe they might have some connection."

  "Well, well," sneered Kroon. "So the police actually found something!...What more do you want?" he demanded of Vance.

  "Nothing for the moment, thank you," Vance, returned with exaggerated courtesy. "You have done very well by yourself this afternoon, Mr. Kroon. We won't need you any more...Sergeant, give instructions to Hennessey that Mr. Kroon may leave the apartment."

  Kroon went to the door without a word.

  "Oh, I say." Vance delayed him at the threshold. "Do you, by any chance, possess a maiden aunt?"

  Kroon looked back over his shoulder with a vicious grin.

  "No, thank God!" And he slammed the door noisily behind him.

  10. THE $10,000 BET

  (Saturday, April 14; 6:15 p.m.)

  "A good story," Markham commented dryly when Kroon had gone.

  "Yes, yes. Good. But reluctant." Vance appeared disturbed.

  "Do you believe it?"

  "My dear Markham, I keep an open mind, neither believin' nor disbelievin'. Prayin' for facts. But no facts yet. Drama everywhere, but no substance. Kroon's story is at least consistent. One of the reasons why I'm skeptical. Always distrust consistency. Too easy to manufacture. And Kroon's shrewd no end."

  "Still," put in Markham, "those cigarette butts which Heath found check with his story."

  "Yes. Oh, yes." Vance nodded and sighed. "I don't doubt he smoked two cigarettes on the stair landing. But he could have smoked them just as well if he'd done the johnnie in. At the moment I'm suspectin' every one here. Lot of angles protrudin' from this case."

  "On the other hand," objected Markham, "with that entrance from the main stairway to the door open to anybody, why couldn't an outsider have killed Swift?"

  Vance looked up at him with a melancholy air.

  "Oh, Markham—my dear Markham! The legalistic intelligence at work. Ever lookin' for loopholes. The prosecutin' attorney hopin' for the best. No. Oh, no. No outsider. Too many sound objections. The murder was too perfectly timed. Only some one present could have executed it so fittingly. Moreover, it was committed in yon vault. Only some one thoroughly familiar with the Garden household and the exact situation here this afternoon could have done it..."

  There was a rustle in the passageway, and Madge Weatherby came rushing into the study, with Heath following and protesting vigorously. It was obvious that Miss Weatherby had dashed up the st
airs before any one could interfere with her.

  "What's the meaning of this?" she demanded imperiously. "You're letting Cecil Kroon go, after what I've told you? And I"—she indicated herself with a dramatic gesture—"I am being held here, a prisoner."

  Vance rose wearily and offered her a cigarette. She brushed the proffered case aside and sat down rigidly.

  "The fact is, Miss Weatherby," said Vance, returning to his chair, "Mr. Kroon explained his brief absence this afternoon lucidly and with impellin' logic. It seems that he was doing nothing more reprehensible than conferring with Miss Stella Fruemon and a brace of attorneys."

  "Ah!" The woman's eyes glared with venom.

  "Quite so. He was breaking off with the lady for ever and ever. Also getting a release from her and from her heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, from the beginning of the world to the day of the date of these presents—I believe that is the correct legal phraseology. Really, y' know, he never cared for her. He assured us she was quite a nuisance. Was rather vehement about it. No woman would ever dominate and blackmail him—or brave words to that effect. The Cezanne slogan modified:

  Pas une gonzesse ne me mettra le grappin dessus."

  "Is that the truth?" Miss Weatherby straightened in her chair.

  "Yes, yes. No subterfuge. Kroon said you were jealous of Stella. Thought I'd relieve your mind."

  "Why didn't he tell me, then?"

  "There's always the possibility you didn't give him a chance."

  The woman nodded vigorously.

  "Yes, that's right. I wouldn't speak to him when he returned here this afternoon."

  "Care to revamp your original theory?" asked Vance. "Or do you still think that Kroon is the culprit?"

  "I—I really don't know now," the woman answered hesitantly. "When I last spoke to you I was terribly upset...Maybe it was all my imagination."

  "Imagination—yes. Terrible and dangerous thing. Causes more misery than actuality. Especially imagination stimulated by jealousy. 'Not poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the world'..." He looked at the woman quizzically. "Since you're not so sure that Kroon did the deed, have you any other suggestions?"

  There was a tense silence. Miss Weatherby's face seemed to contract: she drew in her lips. Her eyes almost closed.

  "Yes!" she exploded, leaning toward Vance with a new enthusiasm. "It was Zalia Graem who killed Woody! She had the motive, as you call it. She's capable of such things, too. She's breezy and casual enough on the outside. But inside she's a demon. She'd stop at nothing. There was something between her and Woody. Then she chucked him over. But he wouldn't let her alone. He kept on annoying her, and she ignored him. He didn't have enough money to suit her. You saw the way they acted toward each other today."

  "Have you any idea as to how she managed the crime?" Vance asked quietly.

  "She was out of the drawing-room long enough, wasn't she? Supposed to be telephoning. But does any one really know where she was, or what she was doing?"

  "Poignant question. Situation very mysterious." Vance rose slowly and bowed to the woman. "Thanks awfully—we're most grateful. And we shall not hold you prisoner any longer. If we should need you later, we'll communicate with you."

  When she had gone Markham grinned sourly. "The lady is well equipped with suspects. What do you make of this new accusation?"

  Vance was frowning.

  "Animosity shunted from Monsieur Kroon to La Graem. Yes. Queer situation. Logically speakin', this new accusation is more reasonable than her first. It has its points...If only I could get that disconnected buzzer out of my mind. It must fit somewhere...And that second shot—the one we all heard."

  "Couldn't it have been a mechanism of some kind?" suggested Markham. "It's not difficult to effect a detonation by electric wires."

  Vance nodded apathetically.

  "I'd thought of that. But there's nothing about the buzzer to indicate that a gadget might have been attached to it. I looked carefully while the telephone man was working on it."

  Vance again moved to the buzzer and inspected it with care. Then he gave his attention to the bookshelves surrounding it. He took down a dozen or so volumes and scrutinized the empty shelves and the uprights. Finally he shook his head and returned to his chair.

  "No. Nothing there. The dust behind the books is thick and shows no signs of recent disturbance. No powder marks anywhere. And no indications of a mechanism."

  "It could have been removed before the repair man arrived," theorized Markham without enthusiasm.

  "Yes, another possibility. I had thought of that too. But the opportunity was lacking. I came in here immediately after I had found the johnnie shot..." He took the cigarette from his lips and straightened up. "By Jove! Some one might have slipped in here when we all dashed upstairs after the shot. Remote chance, though. And yet...Another curious thing, Markham: three or four different people tried to storm this aerie while I was in the den with Garden. All of them wished to be with the corpse for post-mortem communion—that sort of morbid rigmarole. I wonder...However, it's too late to work from that point now. Nothing to do but to jot down those facts for future reference."

  "Does the buzzer connect with any other room besides the den?"

  Vance shook his head.

  "No. That's the only connection."

  "Didn't you say there was some one in the den at the time you heard this shot?"

  Vance's gaze swept past Markham, and it was several moments before he answered.

  "Yes. Zalia Graem was there. Ostensibly telephonin'." His voice, I thought, was a little bitter; and I could see that his mind had gone off on a new line of thought.

  Heath squinted and moved his head up and down. "Well, Mr. Vance, that gets us places."

  Vance stared at him.

  "Does it really, Sergeant? Where? It merely fuddles up the case—until we get some more information along the same line."

  "We might get more information from the young woman herself," Markham put in sarcastically.

  "Oh, yes. Quite. Obvious procedure. But I have a few queries to put to Garden first. Pavin' the way, as it were. I say, Sergeant, collect Floyd Garden and bring him here."

  Garden came into the room uneasily and looking slightly haggard.

  "What a mess!" he sighed, sinking dismally into a chair. He packed his pipe shakily. "Any light on the case?"

  "A few fitful illuminations," Vance told him. "By the by, it seems that your guests walk in and out the front door without the formality of ringing or being announced. Is this practice custom'ry?"

  "Oh, yes. But only when we're playing the races. Much more convenient. Saves annoyance and interruptions."

  "And another thing: when Miss Graem was phoning in the den and you suggested that she tell the gentleman to call back later, did you actually know that it was a man she was talking to?"

  Garden opened his eyes in mild surprise.

  "Why, no. I was merely ragging her. Hadn't the faintest idea. But, if it makes any difference, I'm sure Sneed could give you the information, if Miss Graem won't. Sneed answered the phone, you know."

  "It's of no importance." Vance brushed the matter aside. "It might interest you to know, however, that the buzzer in this room failed to function because someone had carefully disconnected the wires."

  "The devil you say!"

  "Oh, yes. Quite." Vance fixed Garden with a significant look. "This buzzer, if I understand it correctly, is operated only from the den, and when we heard the shot, Miss Graem was in the den. Incidentally, the shot we all heard was not the shot that killed Swift. The fatal shot had been fired at least five minutes before that. Swift never even knew whether he had won or lost his bet."

  Garden's gaze was focused on Vance with wide-eyed awe. A smothered exclamation escaped his half-parted lips. Quickly he drew himself together and, standing up, let his eyes roam vaguely about the room.

  "Good God, man!" He shook his head despondently. "This thing is getting hellish. I see yo
ur implication about the buzzer and the shot we heard. But I can't see just how the trick was done." He turned to Vance with an appealing look. "Are you sure about those disconnected wires and what you say was a second shot?"

  "Quite sure." Vance's tone was casual. "Sad, what? By the by, Miss Weatherby tried to convince us that Miss Graem shot Swift."

  "Has she any grounds for such an accusation?"

  "Only that Miss Graem had a grudge of some kind against Swift and detested him thoroughly, and that, at the supposed time of his demise, Miss Graem was absent from the drawing-room. Doubts that she was in the den phoning all the time. Thinks she was up here, busily engaged in murder."

  Garden drew rapidly on his pipe and seemed to be thinking.

  "Of course, Madge knows Zalia pretty well," he admitted with reluctance. "They go about a great deal together. Madge may know the inside story of the clash between Zalia and Woody. I don't. Zalia might have thought she had sufficient cause to end Woody's career. She's an amazing girl. One never quite knows what she will do next."

  "Do you yourself regard Miss Graem as capable of a cold-blooded, skilfully planned murder?"

  Garden pursed his lips and frowned. He coughed once or twice, as if to gain time; then he spoke.

  "Damn it, Vance! I can't answer that question. Frankly, I don't know who is and who isn't capable of murder. The younger set today are all bored to death, intolerant of every restraint, living beyond their means, digging up scandal, seeking sensations of every type. Zalia is little different from the rest, as far as I can see. She always seems to be stepping on the gas and exceeding the speed limits. How far she would actually go, I'm not prepared to say. Who is, for that matter? It may be merely a big circus parade with her, or it may be fundamental—a violent reaction from respectability. Her people are eminently respectable. She was brought up strictly—even forced into a convent for a couple of years, I believe. Then broke loose and is now having her fling..."