Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 2

by S. S. Van Dine

  Vance suddenly yawned and glanced at his watch.

  "My word, Markham!" he exclaimed, turning to the District Attorney, who had sat stolidly and nonplused through the amazing drama. "It's still rather early, don't y' know. If I hasten, old dear, I'll be able to catch the second act of Tristan and Isolde."

  Vance went swiftly across the room to Mrs. Falloway and bowed over her hand solicitously with a murmured adieu. Then he hurried out to his car waiting at the curb.

  * * * * *

  When the reports from the accountants and the police came in at the end of the day on which Fleel had shot himself, Vance's theory and suppositions were wholly substantiated. The accountants found that Fleel had been speculating heavily on his own behalf with the funds he held in trust for the Kenting estate. His bank had already called upon him to cover the legitimate investments permitted him by law as the trustee of the estate. The amount he had embezzled was approximately fifty thousand dollars, and as he had long since lost his own money in the same kind of precarious bucket-shop transactions, it would have been but a matter of days before the shortage caused by his extra-legal operations would have been discovered.

  In his safe were found practically all the gem-stones missing from the Kenting collection, including the large and valuable alexandrite. (How or when he had acquired this last item was never definitely determined.) The package of bills which Kenyon Kenting had so trustingly given him was also found in the safe.

  All this happened years before the actual account of the case was set down here. Since then, Kenyon Kenting has married his sister-in-law, Madelaine, who returned to the Purple House the second day after Fleel's suicide.

  Less than a year later Vance and I had tea with Mrs. Falloway. Vance had a genuine affection for the crippled old woman. As we were about to go, Fraim Falloway entered the room. He was a different man from the one we had known during the investigation of what the papers persisted in calling the Kenting kidnap case (perhaps the alliteration of the nomenclature was largely the reason for it). Fraim Falloway's face had noticeably filled in, and his color was healthy and normal; there was a vitality in his eyes, and he moved with ease and determined alacrity. His whole manner had changed. I learned later that old Mrs. Falloway had called in the endocrinologist whose name Vance had given her, and that the youth had been under observation and treatment for many months.

  After our greetings that day Vance asked Falloway casually how his stamp collecting was going. The youth seemed almost scornful and replied he had no time for such matters any more—that he was too busy with his new work at the Museum of Natural History to devote any of his time to so futile a pursuit as philately.

  It might be interesting to note, in closing, that Kenyon Kenting's first act, after his marriage to Madelaine Kenting, was to have the exterior of the Purple House thoroughly scraped and sand-blasted, so that the natural color of the bricks and stones was restored. It ceased to be the "purple house," and took on a more domestic and gemütlich appearance, and has so remained to the present day.

  THE END

  Footnotes

  [1] "The Garden Murder Case" (Scribners, 1935).

  [2] This famous case had taken place just three months earlier.

  [3] As I learned later, he was referring to his Scottish terrier, Pibroch Sandyman. Incidentally, this dog won the puppy class that day and received Reserve Winners as well. Later he became a Champion.

  [4] Markham and Vance had been close friends for over fifteen years, and, although Vance's unofficial connection with the District Attorney's office had begun somewhat in the spirit of an experimental adventure, Markham had now come to depend implicitly upon his friend as a vital associate in his criminal investigations.

  [5] There had been several recent kidnappings at this time, two of a particularly atrocious nature, and the District Attorney's office and the Commissioner of Police were being constantly and severely criticized by the press for their apparent helplessness in the situation.

  [6] Vance was referring to the gambling establishment which figured so prominently in the Casino murder case.

  [7] Vance was mistaken about this, as Kenting belonged to the old, or original, Klan, in which there was no such title as King Keagle. This title did not come into existence until 1915, with the modern Klan. Kenting probably had been a Grand Dragon (or State head) in the original Klan.

  [8] Robert A. MacDermott was Vance's kennel manager.

  [9] Captain Dubois and Detective Bellamy were finger-print experts attached to the New York Police Department.

  [10] Peter Quackenbush was the official police photographer.

  [11] The official time of sunrise on that day was 4:45, local mean time, or 4:41, Eastern standard time; but daylight saving time was then in effect, and Mrs. Kenting's reference to sunrise in New York at approximately six o'clock was correct.

  [12] Although Vance never collected semiprecious stones himself, he had become deeply interested in the subject as early as his college days.

  [13] "The Benson Murder Case" (Scribners, 1926).

  [14] Captain Anthony P. Jerym, Bertillon expert of the New York Police Department.

  [15] The sensational Davis cup winner and America's first seeded player at the time.

  [16] This was the same Mr. Hannix whom Vance had already met both at Bowie and at Empire, and who had acted as Floyd Garden's book-maker before that young man lost his interest in racing as a result of the tragic events related in "The Garden Murder Case."

  [17] The Westchester Station of the Post-Office Department, situated at 1436 Williamsbridge Road, at the intersection of East Tremont Avenue, collects and delivers mail in the following territory, starting from Paulding Avenue and Pelham Parkway: South side of Pelham Parkway to Kingsland Avenue; to Mace Avenue; to Wickham Avenue; to Gunhill Road; to Bushnell Avenue; to Hutchinson River; west side of Hutchinson River to Givans Creek; to Eastchester Bay; to Long Island Sound; to Bronx River; to Ludlow Avenue (now known as Eastern Boulevard); to Pugsley Avenue; to McGraw Avenue; to Storrow Street; to Unionport Road; to East Tremont Avenue; to Bronxdale Avenue; to Van Nest Avenue; to Paulding Avenue; to Pelham Parkway.

  [18] A detective of the Homicide Bureau who participated in nearly all of Vance's criminal investigations.

  [19] Burke was a detective from the Homicide Bureau, who, as a rule, acted as Sergeant Heath's right-hand man.

  [20] Guilfoyle was another detective from the Homicide Bureau, and had helped with the investigation of the "Canary" murder case.

  [21] Vance's immediate knowledge regarding the exact truth of the situation, when he recognized Mrs. Falloway beneath the tree that night, was another instance of his uncanny ability to read human nature. I myself was startled by the simplicity and accuracy of his logic as the woman confessed the facts; for Vance had reasoned, almost in a flash, that the crippled old woman, who obviously was not guilty of the crime of kidnapping, could not have summoned sufficient strength for so heroic an act, unless it was on behalf of some one very dear to her and whose welfare and protection were foremost in her mind.

  [22] A famous side-show "fat woman" of the time.

  [23] It is interesting to note that in the entire association between Markham and Vance I had never heard either of them pay the other a compliment of any kind. When one of them so much as bordered on a compliment, the other always broke in sharply with a remark which made any further outward display of sentiment impossible. To me it seemed as if both of them had a deep-rooted instinct to keep the intimate and personal side of their affection for each other disguised and unspoken.

  [24] "The Casino Murder Case" (Scribners, 1934).

  [25] Vance was greatly mistaken on this point, as I now have reason to know. It turned out to be no less than a matter of life and death.

  [26] I have made one small and wholly immaterial change in transcribing this note. I have used the year in which I am actually writing the record of that memorable case, instead of stating the exact year in which it occurred (
which, naturally, was the year given in the note); for I regard it as both unimportant and unnecessary to identify specifically the time at which the events herewith enumerated occurred. If that date has been forgotten, or if it is of any particular interest to the reader of this chronicle, it will not be difficult to find the year by referring to the back files of newspapers, for what has come to be known as the Kenting kidnap case received nation-wide publicity at the time.

  [27] Sergeant Ernest Heath was what is popularly known as a confirmed bachelor. Even when he retired from the Homicide Bureau at fifty, he devoted himself not to a wife, but to raising wyandottes on his farm in the Mohawk valley.

  [28] This, I later learned, was Givans Basin.

  [29] The practice of turning over ransom money to outsiders, in the hopes of settling kidnap cases, is not an unusual one. There have been several famous instances of this in recent years.

  [30] This was the same firm of certified public accountants whom Markham had called in to inspect the books of the firm of Benson and Benson in the investigation of the Benson murder case.

  THE GRACIE ALLEN MURDER CASE

  First Published 1938

  CONTENTS

  1. A Buzzard Escapes

  2. A Rustic Interlude

  3. The Startling Adventure

  4. The Domdaniel Cafe

  5. A Rendezvous

  6. The Dead Man

  7. Queer Coincidences

  8. At the Mortuary

  9. Held On Suspicion

  10. An Unexpected Visitor

  11. Folklore and Poisons

  12. A Strange Discovery

  13. News of an Owl

  14. A Dying Madman

  15. An Appalling Accusation

  16. Another Shock

  17. Fingerprints

  18. Jonquille and Rose

  19. Through the Shadow

  20. Happy Landing

  1. A BUZZARD ESCAPES

  (Friday, May 17; 8 pm.)

  Philo Vance, curiously enough, always liked the Gracie Allen murder case more than any of the others in which he participated.

  The case was, perhaps, not as serious as some of the others—although, on second thought, I am not so sure that this is strictly true. Indeed, it was fraught with many ominous potentialities; and its basic elements (as I look back now) were, in fact, intensely dramatic and sinister, despite its almost constant leaven of humour.

  I have often asked Vance why he felt so keen a fondness for this case, and he has always airily retorted with a brief explanation that it constituted his one patent failure as an investigator of the many crimes presented to him by District Attorney John F.-X. Markham.

  "No—oh, no. Van; it was not my case at all, don't y' know," Vance drawled, as we sat before his grate fire one wintry evening, long after the events. "Really, y'know, I deserve none of the credit. I would have been utterly baffled and helpless had it not been for the charming Gracie Allen who always popped up at just the crucial moment to save me from disaster...If ever you should embalm the case in print, please place the credit where it rightfully belongs...My word, what an astonishing girl! The goddesses of Zeus' Olympian menage never harrassed old Priam and Agamemnon with the eclat exhibited by Gracie Allen in harassing the recidivists of that highly scented affair. Amazin!..."

  It was an almost unbelievable case from many angles, exceedingly unorthodox and unpredictable. The mystery and enchantment of perfume permeated the entire picture. The magic of fortune-telling and commercial haruspicy in general were intimately involved in its deciphering. And there was a human romantic element which lent it an unusual roseate colour.

  To start with, it was spring—the 17th day of May—and the weather was unusually mild. Vance and Markham and I had dined on the spacious veranda of the Bellwood Country Club overlooking the Hudson. The three of us had chatted in desultory fashion, for this was to be an hour of sheer relaxation and pleasure, without any intrusion of the jarring criminal interludes which had, in recent years, marked so many of our talks.

  However, even at this moment of serenity, ugly criminal angles were beginning to protrude, though unsuspected by any of us; and their shadow was creeping silently toward us.

  We had finished our coffee and were sipping our chartreuse when Sergeant Heath [Sergeant Ernest Heath, of the Homicide Bureau, who had been in charge of other cases which Vance had investigated.], looking grim and bewildered, appeared at the door leading from the main dining-room to the veranda, and strode quickly to our table.

  "Hello, Mr. Vance." His tone was hurried."...Howdy, Chief. Sorry to bother you, but this came into the office half an hour after you left and, knowing where you were, I thought it best to bring it to you pronto." He drew a folded yellow paper from his pocket and, opening it out, placed it emphatically before the District Attorney.

  Markham read it carefully, shrugged his shoulders, and handed the paper back to Heath.

  "I can't see," he said without emotion, "why this routine information should necessitate a trip up here."

  Heath's cheeks inflated with exasperation.

  "Why, that's the guy, Chief, that threatened to get you."

  "I'm quite aware of that fact," said Markham coldly; then he added in a somewhat softened tone: "Sit down, Sergeant. Consider yourself off duty for the moment, and have a drink of your favourite whisky."

  When Heath had adjusted himself in a chair, Markham went on.

  "Surely you don't expect me, at this late date, to begin taking seriously the hysterical mouthings of criminals I have convicted in the course of my duties."

  "But, Chief, this guy's a tough hombre, and he ain't the forgetting or the forgiving kind."

  "Anyway,"—Markham laughed without concern—"it would be tomorrow, at the earliest, before he could reach New York."

  As Heath and Markham were speaking, Vance's eyebrows rose in mild curiosity.

  "I say, Markham, all I've been able to glean is that your tutel'ry Sergeant has fears for your curtailed existence, and that you yourself are rather annoyed by his zealous worries."

  "Hell, Mr. Vance, I'm not worryin'," Heath blurted. "I'm just considering the possibilities, as you might say."

  "Yes, yes, I know," smiled Vance. "Alway careful. Sewin' up seams that haven't even ripped. Doughty and admirable, as always, Sergeant. But whence springeth your qualm?"

  "I'm sorry, Vance." Markham apologized for his failure to explain. "It's really of no importance—just a routine telegraphic announcement of a commonplace jail-break at Nomenica. [Nomenica, southwest of Buffalo, was the westernmost State prison in New York.] Three men under long sentences staged the exodus, and two of them were shot by the guards..."

  "I'm not botherin' about the guys who was shot," Heath cut in. "It's the other-one—the guy that got away safe—that's set me to thinkin'——"

  "And who might this stimulator of thought be, Sergeant?" Vance asked.

  "Benny the Buzzard!" whispered Heath, with melodramatic emphasis.

  "Ah!" Vance smiled. "An ornithological specimen—Buteo borealis. Maybe he flew away to freedom..."

  "It's no laughing matter, Mr. Vance." Heath became even more serious. "Benny the Buzzard—or Benny Pellinzi, to give him his honest monicker—is plenty tough, in spite of looking like a bloodless, pretty-faced boy. Only a few years back, he was strutting around telling anybody who'd listen that he was Public Enemy Number One. That type of guy. But he was only small change, except for his toughness and meanness—actually nothing but a dumb, stupid rat—"

  "Rat? Buzzard?...My word, Sergeant, aren't fusin' your natural history?"

  "And only three years ago," continued Heath doggedly, "Mr. Markham got him sent up for a twenty-year stretch. And he pulls a jail-break just this afternoon and gets away with it. Sweet, ain't it?"

  "Still," submitted Vance, "such A.W.O.L.'s have been taken ere this."

  "Sure they have." Heath extended his off-duty respite and took another whisky. "But you must've read what this guy pulled in court w
hen he was sentenced. The judge hadn't hardly finished slipping him the twenty years when he blew off his gauge. He pointed at Mr. Markham and, at the top of his voice, swore some kind of cockeyed oath that he'd come back and get him if it was the last thing he ever did. And he sounded like he meant it. He was so sore and steamed up that it took two man-eating bailiffs to drag him out of the court room. Generally it's the judge who gets the threats; but this guy elected to take it out on the D. A. And that somehow made more sense.

  Vance nodded slowly.

  "Yes, quite—quite. I see your point, Sergeant. Different and therefore dangerous."

  "And why I really came here tonight," Heath went on, "was to tell Mr. Markham what I intended doing. Naturally, we'll be on the lookout for the Buzzard. He might come here direct, all right; and he might head west and try to reach the Dakotas—the Bad Lands for him, if he's got a brain."

  "Exactly," Markham interpolated. "You're probably right when you suggest he'll head west. And I'm certainly planning no immediate jaunt to the Black Hills."