Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 2

by S. S. Van Dine

  "A vivid, though not a sweet, character sketch," murmured Vance. "One might say offhand that you are rather fond of her but don't approve."

  Garden laughed awkwardly.

  "I can't say that I dislike Zalia. Most men do like her—though I don't think any of them understand her. I know I don't. There's some impenetrable wall around her. And the curious thing is, men like her although she doesn't make the slightest effort to gain their esteem or affection. She treats them shabbily—actually seems to be annoyed by their attentions."

  "A poisonous, passive Dolores, so to speak."

  "Yes, something like that, I should say. She's either damned superficial or deep as hell—I can't make up my mind which. As to her status in this present situation...well, I don't know. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if Madge was right about her. Zalia has staggered me a couple of times—can't exactly explain it. You remember, when you asked me about father's revolver, I told you Zalia had discovered it in that desk and staged a scene with it in this very room. Well, Vance, my blood went cold at the time. There was something in the way she did it, and in the tone of her voice, that made me actually fear that she was fully capable of shooting up the party and then walking about the room to chuckle at the corpses. No reason for my feelings, perhaps; but, believe me, I was damned relieved when she put the gun back and shut the drawer...All I can say," he added, "is that I don't wholly understand her."

  "No. Of course not. No one can wholly understand another person. If any one could he'd understand everything. Not a comfortin' thought...Thanks awfully for the recital of your fears and impressions. You'll look after matters downstairs for a while, won't you?"

  Garden seemed to breathe more freely on being dismissed, and, with a mumbled acquiescence, moved toward the door.

  "Oh, by the by," Vance called after him. "One other little point I wish to ask you about."

  Garden waited politely.

  "Why," asked Vance, blowing a ribbon of smoke toward the ceiling, "didn't you place Swift's bet on Equanimity?"

  The man gave a start, and his jaw dropped. He barely rescued his pipe from falling to the floor.

  "You didn't place it, don't y' know," Vance went on dulcetly, gazing at Garden with dreamy, half-closed eyes. "Rather interestin' point, in view of the fact that your cousin was not destined to live long enough to collect the wager, even if Equanimity had won. And, in the circumstances, had you placed it, you would now be saddled with a ten-thousand-dollar debt—since Swift is no longer able to settle."

  "God Almighty, stop it, Vance!" Garden exploded. He sank limply into a chair. "How the hell do you know I didn't place Woode's bet?"

  Vance regarded the man with searching eyes.

  "No bookie would take a bet of that size five minutes before post time. He couldn't absorb it. He would have to lay a lot of it off—he might even have to place some of it out of town—Chicago or Detroit. He'd need time, don't y' know. A ten-thousand-dollar bet would usually have to be placed at least an hour before the race was run. I've done a bit of hobnobbin' with bookies and race-track men."

  "But Hannix—"

  "Don't make a Wall-Street financier of Hannix for my benefit," Vance admonished quietly. "I know these gentlemen of the chalk and eraser as well as you do. And another thing: I happened to be sitting in a strategic position near your table when you pretended to place Swift's bet. You very deftly pulled the cord taut over the plunger of the telephone when you picked up the receiver. You were talking into a dead phone."

  Garden drew himself together and capitulated with a weary shrug.

  "All right, Vance," he said. "I didn't place the bet. But if you think, for one moment, that I had any suspicion that Woody was going to be shot this afternoon, you're wrong."

  "My dear fellow!" Vance sighed with annoyance. "I'm not thinkin'. Higher intelligence not at work at the moment. Mind a blank. Only tryin' to add up a few figures. Ten thousand dollars is a big item. It changes our total—eh, what?...But you haven't told me why you didn't place the bet. You could have placed it. You had sufficient indication that Swift was going to wager a large sum on Equanimity, and it would only have been necess'ry to inform him that the bet had to be placed early."

  Garden rose angrily, but beneath his anger was a great perturbation.

  "I didn't want him to lose the money," he asserted aggressively. "I knew what it would mean to him."

  "Yes, yes. The Good Samaritan. Very touchin'. But suppose Equanimity had won, and your cousin had survived—what about the pay-off?"

  "I was fully prepared to run that risk. It wasn't a hell of a lot. What did the old oat-muncher pay, anyway?—less than two to one. A dollar and eighty cents to the dollar, to be exact. I would have been out eighteen thousand dollars. But there wasn't a chance of Equanimity's coming in—I was quite certain of that. I took the chance for Woody's sake. I was being decent—or weak—I don't know which. If the horse had won, I'd have paid Woody myself—and he would never have known that it wasn't Hannix's money."

  Vance looked at the man thoughtfully.

  "Thanks for the affectin' confession," he murmured at length. "I think that will be all for the moment."

  As he spoke, two men with a long coffin-like wicker basket bustled into the passageway. Heath was at the door in two strides.

  "The Public Welfare boys after the body," he announced over his shoulder.

  Vance stood up.

  "I say, Sergeant, have them go down the outside stairway. No use returning through the apartment." He addressed Garden again. "Would you mind showing them the way?"

  Garden nodded morosely and went out on the roof. A few moments later the two carriers, with Garden leading the way, disappeared through the garden gate with their grim burden.

  11. THE SECOND REVOLVER

  (Saturday, April 14; 6:25 p.m.)

  Markham regarded Vance with dismal concern. "What's the meaning of Garden's not placing that bet?"

  Vance sighed.

  "What's the meaning of anything? Yet, it's from just such curious facts as this that some provisional hypothesis may evolve."

  "I certainly can't figure out what bearing Garden's conduct has on the case, unless—"

  Vance interrupted him quickly.

  "No. Puzzlin' situation. But everything we have learned so far might mean something. Provided, of course, we could read the meanin'. Emotion may be the key."

  "Don't be so damned occult," snapped Markham. "What's on your mind?"

  "My dear Markham! You're too flatterin'. Nothing whatever. I'm seekin' for something tangible. The other gun, for instance. The one that went off somewhere when the chappie was already dead. It should be here or hereabouts..." He turned to Heath. "I say, Sergeant, could you and Snitkin take a look for it? Suggested itiner'ry: the roof-garden and the flowerbeds, the terrace, the public stairs, the lower hallway. Then the apartment proper. Assumption: any one present may have had it. Follow up all the known local migrations of every one downstairs. If it's here it'll probably be in some tempor'ry hidin'-place, awaitin' further disposal. Don't ransack the place. And don't be too dashed official. Sweetness and light does it."

  Heath grinned. "I know what you mean, Mr. Vance."

  "And, Sergeant, before you start reconnoitrin', will you fetch Hammle. You'll probably find him at the bar downstairs, ingesting a Scotch-and-soda."

  When Heath had gone, Vance turned to Markham.

  "Hammle may have some good counsel to offer, and he may not. I don't like the man—sticky sort. We might as well get rid of him—at least tempor'rily. The place is frightfully cluttered..."

  Hammle strutted pompously into the study and was cursorily presented to Markham. Through the window, in the gathering dusk, I could catch glimpses of Heath and Snitkin moving along the flower boxes.

  Vance waved Hammle to a chair and studied him a moment with a melancholy air, as if endeavoring to find an excuse for the man's existence.

  The interview was brief and, as it turned out, of peculiar sign
ificance. The significance lay, not so much in what Hammle said, as in the result of the curiosity which Vance's questions aroused in the man. It was this curiosity which enabled him later to supply Vance with important information.

  "It is not our desire to keep you here any longer than necess'ry, Mr. Hammle,"—Vance began the interview with marked distaste—"but it occurred to me to ask you if you have any ideas that might be helpful to us in solving Swift's murder."

  Hammle coughed impressively and appeared to give the matter considerable thought.

  "No, I have none," he at length admitted. "None whatever. But of course one can never tell about these things. The most insignificant facts can really be interpreted seriously, provided one has given them sufficient thought. As for myself, now, I haven't duly considered the various approaches to the subject."

  "Of course," Vance agreed, "there hasn't been a great deal of time for serious thought concerning the situation. But I thought there might be something in the relationships of the various people here this afternoon—and I am assuming that you are fairly familiar with them all—that might inspire you to make a suggestion."

  "All I can say," returned Hammle, carefully weighing his words, "is that there were many warring elements in the gathering—that is to say, many peculiar combinations. Oh, nothing criminal." He waved his hand quickly in deprecation. "I would have you understand that absolutely. But there was a combination of this and that, which might lead to— well, to anything."

  "To murder, for instance?"

  Hammle frowned. "Now, murder is a very, very serious business." His tone bordered on the sententious. "But, Mr. Vance, you can take it from me, in all solemnity, I wouldn't put even murder past any of those present today. No, by Gad!"

  "That's an amazin' indictment," muttered Vance; "but I'm glad to have your opinion and we'll consider it...By the by, didn't you notice anything irregular in Garden's placing Swift's large bet on Equanimity at the last minute?"

  Hammle's countenance went quickly blank. He presented Vance momentarily with a perfect "poker face." Then, unable to withstand the direct scrutiny of Vance's cold gaze, he puckered up his mouth into a shrewd smile.

  "Why deny it?" he chuckled. "The laying of that bet was not only irregular—it was damned near impossible. I don't know a book-maker in New York who would take such an amount when there was not even enough time to throw some 'come-back money' into the totalizator. A swell time this Hannix would have had trying to balance his book with a cloudburst like that at the last minute! The whole transaction struck me as damned peculiar. Couldn't imagine what Garden was up to."

  Vance leaned forward, and his eyelids drooped as he focused his gaze on Hammle.

  "That might easily have had some bearing on the situation here this afternoon, and I'd like very much to know why you didn't mention it."

  For a brief moment the man seemed flustered; but almost immediately he settled back in his chair with a complacent look, and extended his hands, palms up.

  "Why should I become involved?" he asked with cynical suavity. "I have never believed in bothering too much with other people's concerns. I've too many problems of my own to worry about."

  "That's one way of looking at life," Vance drawled. "And it has its points. However..." He contemplated the tip of his cigarette, then asked: "Would your discretion permit you to comment on Zalia Graem?"

  Hammle sat up with alacrity.

  "Ah!" He nodded his head significantly. "That's something to think about. There are varied possibilities in that girl. You may be on the right track. A most likely suspect for the murder. You never can tell about women, anyway. And, come to think of it, the shooting must have taken place during the time she was out of the room. She's a good pistol shot, too. I recall once when she came out to my estate on Long Island—she did a bit of target practice that afternoon. Oh, she knows weapons as most women know bonnets, and she's as wild as a two-year-old filly at her first barrier."

  Vance nodded and waited.

  "But don't think, for a minute," Hammle hurried on, "that I am intimating that she had anything to do with Swift's death. Absolutely not! But the mention of her name gave me pause." As he finished speaking he nodded his head sagely.

  Vance stood up with a stifled yawn.

  "It's quite evident," he said, "you're not in the mood to be specific. I wasn't looking for generalities, don't y' know. Consequently I may want to have another chat with you. Where can you be reached later, should we need you?"

  "If I am permitted to go now, I shall return to Long Island immediately," Hammle answered readily, glancing speculatively at his watch. "Is that all you wish at the moment?"

  "That is all, thank you."

  Hammle again referred to his watch, hesitated a moment, and then left us.

  "Not a nice person, Markham," Vance commented dolefully when Hammle had gone. "Not at all a nice person. As you noticed, every one, according to him, is fitted for the role of killer—every one except himself, of course. A smug creature. And that unspeakable waistcoat! And the thick soles of his shoes! And the unpressed clothes! Oh, very careless and sportin'—and very British. The uniform of the horse-and-dog gentry. Animals really deserve better associates."

  He shrugged sadly and, going to the buzzer, pressed the button.

  "Queer reports on that Graem girl." He walked back to his chair musingly. "The time has come to commune with the lady herself..."

  Garden appeared at the door.

  "Did you ring for me, Vance?"

  "Yes." Vance nodded. "The buzzer is working now. Sorry to trouble you, but we would like to see Miss Graem. Would you do the honors?"

  Garden hesitated, his eyes fixed sharply on Vance. He started to say something, changed his mind and, with a muttered "Right-o," swung about and returned downstairs.

  Zalia Graem swaggered into the room, her hands in her jacket pockets, and surveyed us with breezy cynicism.

  "My nose is all powdered for the inquisition," she announced with a twisted smile. "Is it going to take long?"

  "You might better sit down." Vance spoke with stern politeness.

  "Is it compulsory?" she asked.

  Vance ignored the question, and she leaned back against the door.

  "We're investigating a murder, Miss Graem,"—Vance's voice was courteous but firm—"and it will be necess'ry to ask you questions that you may deem objectionable. But please believe that it will be for your own good to answer them frankly."

  "Am I a suspect? How thrilling!"

  "Every one I've talked to thus far thinks so." He looked at the girl significantly.

  "Oh, so that's how the going is! I'm in for a sloppy track, and I can't mud. How perfectly beastly!" She frowned. "I thought I detected a vague look of fear in people's eyes. I think I will sit down, after all." She threw herself into a chair and gazed up with simulated dejection. "Am I to be arrested?"

  "Not just at the minute. But certain matters must be straightened out. It may be worth your while to help us."

  "It sounds ghastly. But go ahead."

  "First," said Vance, "we'd like to know about the feud between you and Swift."

  "Oh, the devil!" the girl exclaimed disgustedly. "Must that be raked up? There was really nothing to it. Woody bothered the life out of me. I felt sorry for him and went around with him a bit when he implored me to and threatened to resort to all the known forms of suicide if I didn't. Then it became too much for me, and I decided to draw a line across the page. But I'm afraid I didn't go about it in a nice way. I told him I was extravagant and cared only for luxuries, and that I could never marry a poor man. I had a silly notion it might snap him out of his wistful adoration. It worked, after a fashion. He got furious and said nasty things—which, frankly, I couldn't forgive. So he took the high road, and I took the low—or the other way round."

  "And so, the conclusion we may draw is that he played the horses heavily in the forlorn hope of amassing a sufficient fortune to overcome your aversion to his poverty—and tha
t his bet on Equanimity today was a last fling—"

  "Don't say that!" the girl cried, her hands tightening over the arms of the chair. "It's a horrible idea, but—it might be true. And I don't want to hear it."

  Vance continued to study her critically.

  "Yes, as you say. It might be true. On the other hand...however, we'll let it pass." Then he asked quickly: "Who telephoned you today, just before the Rivermont Handicap?"

  "Tartarin de Tarascon," the girl replied sarcastically.

  "And had you instructed this eminent adventurer to call you at just that time?"

  "What has that to do with anything?"

  "And why were you so eager to take the call on the den phone and shut the door?"

  The girl leaned forward and looked at Vance defiantly.

  "What are you trying to get at?" she demanded furiously.

  "Are you aware," Vance went on, "that the den downstairs is the only room directly connected by wires with this room up here?"

  The girl seemed unable to speak. She sat pale and rigid, her eyes fixed steadily on Vance.

  "And do you know," he continued, without change of intonation, "that the wires at this end of the line had been disconnected? And are you aware that the shot which we heard downstairs was not the one that ended Swift's life—that he was shot in the vault off the hall, several minutes before we heard the shot?"

  "You're being ghastly," the girl cried. "You're making up nightmares—nightmares to frighten me. You're implying terrible things. You're trying to torture me into admitting things that aren't true, just because I was out of the room when Woody was shot..."

  Vance held up his hand to stop her reproaches. "You misinterpret my attitude, Miss Graem," he said softly. "I asked you, a moment ago, for your own sake, to answer my questions frankly. You refuse. In those circumstances, you should know the facts as they appear to others." He paused. "You and Swift were not on good terms. You knew, as did the others, that he usually went up to the roof before races. You knew where Professor Garden kept his revolver. You're familiar with guns and a good pistol shot. A telephone call for you is perfectly timed. You disappear. Within the next five minutes Swift is shot behind that steel door. Another five minutes pass; the race is over; and a shot is heard. That shot could conceivably have been fired by a mechanism. The buzzer wires up here had been disconnected, obviously for some specific purpose. At the time of the second shot you were at the other end of those wires. You almost fainted at the sight of Swift. Later you tried to go upstairs...Adding all this up: you had a motive, a sufficient knowledge of the situation, access to the criminal agent, the ability to act, and the opportunity." Vance paused again. "Now are you ready to be frank, or have you really something to hide?"