Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 2

by S. S. Van Dine

  "If I didn't know you, I'd say——"

  "Tut, tut!...Call Heath—there's a good fellow."

  Markham rose resignedly: he had known Vance too long not to perceive the seriousness so often hid beneath his bantering. Then he went toward the telephone.

  "This is your case," he said, "—if it is a case—and you can handle it any way you see fit. I have my own troubles."

  The Sergeant had just reached the station when Markham called and gave orders in accord with Vance's request.

  Fifteen minutes later Heath escorted Burns into the District Attorney's library. Vance carefully outlined the circumstances to Burns, and exacted from him a definite promise to make no mention of Philip Allen's death to anyone, impressing upon him the situation with regard to Gracie Allen herself.

  George Burns, with unmistakable sincerity, readily enough agreed to the restriction; and the Sergeant informed him he was free to go.

  When we were alone, however. Heath began to fume.

  "After all my work last night!" he complained bitterly. "Runnin' down that cigarette-case; losing my sleep and doing plenty of fancy work this morning; tying that guy in bow-knots and getting him just where I wanted him!...And it was all your idea, Mr. Vance. And now I find you something definite, and what do you do? You have the baby turned loose!"

  He chewed viciously on his cigar. "But if you think I'm not going to keep that guy covered, you ain't so smart, Mr. Vance. I sent Tracy up here ahead of me, and he's going to tail Burns from the minute he steps out of this building."

  "I rather expected you would do just that, don't y' know." Vance shrugged pleasantly. "But please, Sergeant, don't get an erroneous impression from my whim to free the young perfume mixer. I shall put all my energy into unravellin' the present tangle. And I shall await the Medical Examiner's report all a-twitter...By the by, in the midst of your energetic activities, did you learn anything about the autopsy?"

  "Sure I did," said Heath. "I called up Doc Doremus just before I left the station. He gave me hell, as usual, but he said he'd get busy right after lunch, and that he'd have the report tonight."

  "Most gratifyin'," sighed Vance. "I salute you, Sergeant, and beg forgiveness for upsettin' your admirable but useless plan to deprive Mr. Burns of his liberty. I do hope, y' know, it won't distract your mind from safeguardin' Mr. Markham from the shadow of Pellinzi."

  "Nothin's going to distract me from worrying about the Buzzard and Mr. Markham," Heath asserted. "Don't you worry! That office is being watched day and night; and there's husky lads on hand to pluck that bird proper if he shows up."

  The Sergeant left us a few minutes later, and we accepted Markham's invitation to remain for lunch.

  It was almost three o'clock when Vance and I returned to his apartment. Currie met us at the door, looking highly perturbed.

  "I'm horribly upset, sir," he said sotto voce. "There's a most incredible young person here waiting to see you. I tried most firmly to send her away, sir; but I couldn't seem to make her understand. She was most determined and—and hoydenish, sir." He took a quick backward glance. "I've been watching her very carefully, and I'm sure she has touched nothing. I do hope, sir——"

  "You're forgiven, Currie." Vance broke into the distracted old man's apologies, and, handing him his hat and stick, went directly into the library.

  Gracie Allen was sitting in Vance's large lounge chair, engulfed in the enormous tufted upholstery. When she leaped up to greet Vance it was without her former exuberance.

  "Hello, Mr. Vance," she said solemnly. "I bet you didn't expect to see me. And I bet you don't know where I got your address. And the grouchy old man who met me at the door didn't expect to see me either. But I didn't tell you how I got your address. I got it the same way I got your name—right on your card. Though I really don't feel like going down and getting that new dress tomorrow. Maybe I won't go. That is, maybe I'll wait till I know that nothing's happened to George..."

  "I'm very glad you were so clever as to find my address." Vance's tone was subdued. "And I'm delighted you're still using the citron scent."

  "Oh, yes!" She looked at him gratefully. "You know, I didn't like it so much at first, but now—somehow—I just love it! Isn't that funny? But I believe in people changing their minds. Just sup—"

  "Yes," nodded Vance, with a faint smile. "Consistency is the hobgoblin——"

  "But I don't believe in hobgoblins—that is, I haven't since I was a little girl."

  "No, of course not."

  "And when I found out you lived so close to me, I thought that was awfully convenient, because I just had to ask you a lot of important questions." She looked up at Vance as if to see how he would react to this announcement. "And oh, I discovered something else about you! You have five letters in your name—just like me and George. It's Fate, isn't it? If you had six letters maybe I wouldn't have come. But now I know everything is going to come out all right, isn't it?"

  "Yes, my dear," nodded Vance. "I'm sure it will."

  She released her breath suddenly, as if some controversial point had successfully been disposed of. "And now I want you to tell me exactly why those policemen took George away. I'm really frightfully worried and upset, although George phoned me he was all right."

  Vance sat down facing the girl. "You really need not be concerned about Mr. Burns," he began. "The men who took him away this morning foolishly thought there were some suspicious circumst'nces connected with him. But everything will be cleared up in a day or two. Please trust me."

  There was complete confidence in her frank gaze.

  "But it must have been something very serious that made those men come to my house this morning and upset George so terribly."

  "But," explained Vance, "they only thought it was serious. The truth is, my dear, a man was found dead last night at the Domdaniel, and——"

  "But what could George have to do with that, Mr. Vance?"

  "Really, y' know, I'm certain he has nothing to do with it."

  "Then why did the men act so funny about the cigarette-case I gave George? How did they get it, anyhow?"

  Vance hesitated several moments; then he apparently reached a decision as to how far he should enlighten the girl.

  "As a matter of fact," he explained patiently, "Mr. Burns' cigarette-case was found in the pocket of the man who died."

  "Oh! But George wouldn't give away anything I bought for him."

  "As I say, I think it was all a great mistake." The girl looked at Vance long and searchingly. "But suppose, Mr. Vance,—suppose this man didn't just die. Suppose he was—well—suppose he was killed, like you said you killed that bad man in Riverdale yesterday. And suppose George's cigarette-case was found in his pocket. And suppose—oh, lots of things like that. I've read in the papers how policemen sometimes think that somebody is killed by innocent people, and how——" She stopped abruptly and put her hands to her mouth in horror.

  Vance leaned over and put his hand on her arm. "Please, please, my dear child!" he said. "You're beginning to believe in hobgoblins again. And you mustn't. They're such ridiculous little imps; and they don't really exist. Nothing is going to happen to Mr. Burns."

  "But it might!" Her fears were but slightly allayed. "Can't you see, it might! And you've got to be an awfully, awfully good detective if anything like that should happen." A frightened, pleading look was in her eyes. "I was terribly worried this morning after George had gone. And do you know what I did? I went up-town and talked with Delpha. I always go to Delpha when I have any troubles—and sometimes even when I haven't any. And she always says she's glad to see me, because she likes to have me around. I guess it's because I'm so psychic. And having psychic people around makes it easy for you to concentrate, doesn't it?...She's got the queerest place, Delpha has. It makes you feel spooky at first. She's got long black curtains hanging all around, and you can't see any windows. And there's only one door; and when the black curtains are pulled across it, you just feel as though you were somewhe
re far away with only Delpha and the spirits that tell her things."

  She looked about her and shook herself slightly.

  "And then, Delpha has great big pictures of hands on the curtains, with lots of lines on them. And funny signs, too—Delpha calls them symbols. And there's a big glass ball on a table, and a little one. And maps of the stars, with funny words around them which mean something in case you're a crab or a fish or a goat, or things like that."

  "And what did Delpha tell you?" Vance asked with kindly interest.

  "Oh! I didn't tell you, did I?" The girl's face brightened. "She was very mystical, and she seemed terribly surprised when I told her about George. She asked me the funniest questions: all about the men that came to the house, and about the cigarette-case—you know, like she was trying to draw me out. I guess she was trying to read my mind because it was vibrating. And Delpha always says it's a great help to her when anybody is in tune. Anyhow, she said that nothing was going to happen to George—just like you say, Mr. Vance. Only, she said I must help him..."

  She looked at Vance eagerly.

  "You'll let me help you get George out of trouble, won't you? Mother said you told her you were going to do everything you could. I know I can be a sort of detective, if you tell me how. You see, I've simply got to help George."

  Vance, puzzled and disturbed by the girl's genuine appeal, rose thoughtfully and walked to the window. Finally he returned to his chair and sat down again.

  "So you want to be a detective!" he said cheerfully. "I think that's an excellent idea. And I'm going to give you all the help I can. We'll work together; you shall be my assistant, so to speak. But you must keep very busy at it. And you mustn't let anyone suspect that you're doing detective work—that's the first rule."

  "Oh, that's wonderful, Mr. Vance! Just like in a story." The girl's spirits immediately rose. "But now tell me what I must do to be a detective."

  "Very well," began Vance. "Let me see...First, of course, you must make note of anything that will be helpful. Footprints in suspicious places are a good starting-point. If people walk on soft earth, they naturally leave their tracks; and then, by measuring these tracks you can tell what size shoes they were wearing..."

  "But suppose they were wearing another size shoe, just to fool us?"

  Vance smiled admiringly.

  "That, my child," he said, "is a very wise observation. People have been known to do that very thing. However, I do not think we need be concerned with that question just yet...To go on, you should always look at desk-blotters for clues. Blotted writing can generally be read by holding it up to a mirror."

  He demonstrated this point for her, and she was as fascinated as a child watching a magician.

  "And then, y' know, cigarettes are very important. Should you find the butt of a cigarette, you might be able to tell who had smoked it. You would start by looking for a person who smoked that brand. And sometimes the tip of the cigarette will give the smoker away. If there is rouge on it, then you know it was smoked by a lady who used lip-stick."

  "Oh!" The girl suddenly looked crestfallen. "Maybe if I had looked carefully at the cigarette that burned my dress yesterday, I might have been able to tell who threw it."

  "Possibly," Vance returned gaily. "But there are many other ways of verifying your suspicions about people. For instance, if someone had gone to commit a crime in a house where there was a watch-dog, and you knew that the dog had not barked at him, then you could conclude that the intruder was a friend of the dog. Dogs, y' know, do not bark at a friend."

  "But suppose," the girl interposed, "the people kept a cat instead of a dog. Or maybe a canary. What do you do then?"

  Vance could not help smiling.

  "In that case, you'd have to look for other things to identify the culprit..."

  "That's where the footprints would come in handy, isn't it?...But lots of people wear the same size shoes. My shoes fit mother perfectly. And, what's more, her shoes fit me."

  "There are still other ways——"

  "I know one!" she broke in triumphantly. "What about perfume? For instance, if we found a lady's handbag, and it smelled like Frangipanni, then we'd look for a lady who used Frangipanni—not one who used Gardenia...But I wouldn't be very good at that. Would you? I'm always getting scents mixed up. It makes George just furious. But he would be simply wonderful at smelling. He can tell any kind of perfume right away, and what it comes from, too, and all about it—even when I don't smell anything at all. He just has a sort of gift—like when he smelled his cigarette-case this morning...But please go on, Mr. Vance."

  Vance did go on, for more than half an hour, carefully impressing upon her the things he knew would interest her. There was no possible doubt of his sympathetic understanding when, as the girl was about to go, he rang for Currie and gave him explicit instructions.

  "This young lady, Currie," he said, "is to be received whenever she calls here. If I am out and she should care to wait, you are to make her welcome and comfortable."

  When Miss Allen had gone, Vance said to me: "The feeling of having something to lean on, as it were, will do the child a world of good at present. She's really most unhappy, and not a little frightened. Her imagined new occupation should prove a much-needed tempor'ry tonic... Y' know, Van, I have a suspicion I'm growing a bit sentimental as the years go by. Mellowin' with age—same like the grapes of France."

  And he sipped his brandy slowly.

  11. FOLKLORE AND POISONS

  (Sunday, May 19; 9 pm.)

  Markham telephoned Vance at nine o'clock that evening. Vance listened attentively for several minutes, a puzzled frown deepening on his face. Finally he hung up the receiver and turned to me.

  "We're going down to Markham's. Doremus is there. I don't like it—I don't at all like it, Van. Doremus called him a little while ago full of news and mystery. Didn't know where Heath was, and wanted to see Markham first, anyway. Markham must have unearthed the disgruntled Sergeant, and now wants me to come down as well. Only some cataclysmic upheaval would get the peppery Doremus sufficiently excited to seek the District Attorney out in person, instead of merely turning in his official report. Very mystifyin'."

  Fifteen or twenty minutes later a cab let us out in front of Markham's home. A gruff call halted us just as we were entering the building, and Sergeant Heath came bustling down the street.

  "I just got the D.A.'s message at home, and beat it right over," panted Heath. "Funny business, if you ask me, Mr. Vance."

  The butler was holding the door ajar for us, and we followed him into the library, where the District Attorney and Doctor Emanuel Doremus were awaiting us.

  The doctor squinted malevolently at Heath.

  "It would be one of your cases," he blustered, shaking an accusing finger at the Sergeant. "Why can't you ever dig up a nice, neat, easy murder, instead of these fancy affairs?" Then he nodded greetings to Vance with a weak attempt at cheeriness.

  Doremus was a small, fiery man who gave the impression of a crabbed stockbroker rather than of a highly efficient scientific man.

  "I'm getting sick of these trick murders of yours," he went on to the Sergeant. "Furthermore, I haven't had any food since noon. Can't eat properly even on a Sunday. You and your crazy corpses!"

  The Sergeant grinned and said nothing. He knew Doremus of old, and had long since come to accept his eccentric and sometimes querulous manner.

  "No, doctor," put in Vance placatingly; "the unhappy Sergeant is merely an innocent onlooker...What seems to be the difficulty?"

  "You're in on this too, eh?" Doremus retorted. "I might have known! Say, don't you like to see people shot or stabbed, pretty and clean, instead of being poisoned so I've got to work all the time?"

  "Poisoned?" asked Vance curiously. "Who's been poisoned?"

  "The stiff I'm talking about," shouted Doremus; "the fellow Heath handed me. I forget his name."

  "Philip Allen," supplied the Sergeant.

  "All right, all right. He'
d be just as dead with any other name. And what makes me sore is I don't know any more about what killed him than if he was a dead Zulu in Isipingo."

  "You spoke of poison, doctor," prompted Vance calmly.

  "I did," snapped Doremus. "But you tell me what kind of poison. It doesn't check with any books of mine on toxicology."

  "Really, y' know, that doesn't sound exactly scientific." smiled Vance. "Hope we're not travellin' back to mysticism."

  "Oh, it's scientific enough," Doremus pursued. "The poison—whatever it is—was undoubtedly absorbed through the derma or the mucous membrane. It might have been lots of things. But I couldn't get any straight-cut reaction from the regulation tests. It might have been a combination of some kind." He grunted. "I'll find it, all right. Not tonight, though. It may take a day or so. It's the damnedest thing I've ever been up against."

  "I can readily believe that," said Vance, "or you wouldn't be here tonight."

  "Maybe I shouldn't be. But this pest"—he indicated Heath—"kept yelling about the case being so important, and that it might have something to do with Mr. Markham. Sounded like a hoax; but I thought it best to tell him I couldn't add up the figures tonight. Let him worry. I'm hungry."

  "What have I to do with this, Sergeant?" Markham's tone carried a biting reprimand.

  "Wasn't it in Mirche's office, Chief?" parried Heath aggressively. "And that's where I been looking for trouble for you...And Hennessey watching, and—and everything," he ended lamely, as Vance cut him short with a wave of the hand.

  "We appreciate your trouble and your courtesy, doctor," Vance said. "You're quite sure the fellow couldn't have died a natural death?"

  "Not unless medical science has gone completely bughouse," Doremus returned emphatically. "This fellow was poisoned—that much I know. I don't wonder young Mendel threw up his hands. Not only was it poison, but it was a quick, powerful poison that could have taken effect at once. But it didn't act exactly like anything I'm familiar with."

  "But, doctor," persisted Vance, "you must have some idea."