Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 2

by S. S. Van Dine

  "Huh! I've got plenty of ideas. That's my difficulty: too damn many ideas."

  "For instance?"

  "Well, there's our old friend, potassium cyanide. There's plenty of indications pointing to hydrocyanic acid. I'd say he got a few sniffs of cyanide gas and passed out. The bulging eyes and the colour of the skin might mean cyanide—and they might also mean something else again. And I did get a bit of the smell in the lungs and gastric mucosa. But nothing from the mouth, or when I opened the cranial cavity. But that doesn't mean anything either, especially as a lot of other things showed up that didn't spell prussic acid backwards or forwards, or two ways from the middle."

  "I believe Doctor Mendel spoke of some burns—probably just a local reaction—on the lips and in the throat. What of them?"

  "You tell me." Doremus seemed annoyed with the world in general. "My whiff of the lungs indicated a probable inhalation of something, as I've already said."

  "Might it have been nitrobenzene?" suggested Vance.

  "I wouldn't know—I'm just a medical man."

  "Come, come, doctor," Vance said good-naturedly. "I'm merely trying to steer you clear of ancient toxic lore."

  Doremus sat up with a jerk and grinned apologetically.

  "I don't blame you, Mr. Vance. I'm hot and annoyed. Maybe I do sound as if I was messing around with ancient Egyptians, and mandragora, and viper venoms, and secret Gypsy potions, and witches' ointments with their henbane, and Borgia poisons, and Perugia water, and aqua Tofana——"

  "Did you say Tofana, doc?" interrupted Heath. "That's the name of that fortune-telling Delpha, Mr. Vance. And I don't put poison beyond her and her husband."

  "No, no, Sergeant," Vance corrected him. "The Tofana the doctor mentioned died in Sicily in the seventeenth century. And she wasn't a fortune-teller. Far from it. She devoted her talents to mixing a liquid which has since come to be known by her name. Aqua Tofana was a deadly poison; and this woman plied her poisoning trade on such a wholesale scale that the name of her concoction has never been forgot. Though her mixture was probably nothing but a strong solution of arsenic, there's still a lot of mystery attaching to it.—That's the lady, dead for centuries, to whom Doctor Doremus was referring."

  "I still say Rosa Tofana ain't beyond the same kind of tricks," insisted Heath doggedly.

  "You seem astonishingly full of hatreds and suspicions, Sergeant."

  "In my business I gotta be," Heath mumbled.

  Vance turned back to Doremus.

  "Forgive us for interrupting, doctor. We all seem to have become embittered by the present case...But what about poisons isolated from flowers? These would be difficult to trace, wouldn't they?"

  "No! They're easy enough, but they'd take time. And I know 'em all. You mean, I take it, colchicine from meadow saffron, helleborin from the Christmas rose, narcissine from the daffodil, convallarin from the lily of the valley—things like that. But I assure you it wasn't anything as mild as these that did this fellow in...Or maybe——" He cocked his eye in a leer at Vance. "Now it's you that's talking about the so-called poisoned posies of medieval romance. Humph! Modern science laughs at 'em."

  "No—oh, no. I haven't gone afield as far as that," laughed Vance. "I was merely thinking of the lavender peddler in London, who passed out when he sniffed the oil of mirbane he'd put on his flowers to enhance their aroma."

  "There's nothing to that." Doremus shook his head scornfully. "I'm only saying that I don't know just now what it was this Allen man inhaled... But give me time—give me time. I'll find out tomorrow. And, what's more, it won't be as crazy as it sounds now."

  "Could you say when he died, doc?" asked Heath.

  Doremus glared at the Sergeant.

  "How would I know? I'm no necromancer. I didn't even see the body till this afternoon." His anger abated at sight of Heath's discomfiture. "I talked with Doctor Mendel, but he wouldn't venture a guess. Said there was no rigor mortis when he first saw the body. But you can't time stiffening of the muscles with a stop-watch. The onset is highly variable—lot of different factors operating. From what I've been able to learn, the fellow could have died within a couple of hours before he was found, or he could have died as long as ten hours before...I don't know; Mendel don't know; you don't know..."

  When Doremus had sputtered a while longer, he left us with a breezy wave of the hand.

  "Well, Vance," said the District Attorney, "how are you going to fit that preposterous situation into your story?"

  Vance shook his head pensively.

  "I don't know, Markham. But rest assured it fits somewhere, and I'm still haunted by the various converging factors of my tale...And, Sergeant, that was a curious interpolation of yours about the Tofanas. Y' know, your friend Rosa is strangely interested in the deceased gentleman..."

  He rose and walked back and forth several times.

  "I'm not admitting defeat yet, Markham. There are too many questions in my mind crying out for answers. How, for instance, did the chap get into Mirche's office again after Hennessey saw him at six o'clock?"

  "Hennessey musta been lookin' the other way," said Heath stolidly.

  "That's not likely, Sergeant. Something very peculiar there."

  He smoked for a while in silence.

  "I wish I could see the plans for the remodeling of that old house when Mirche took it over for his cafe. There might be something suggestive about them. An odd desire, I'll admit. But I could bear to look at them."

  "I don't see how those plans would do you any good," said Heath. "But if you really want 'em, I can get 'em for you easy. Doyle and Schuster did the job, and I've had dealings with their chief draughtsman before."

  "That sounds hopeful, Sergeant. When could you get the blue-prints for me?"

  "Before you're up in the morning, sir," returned the other confidently. "Say around ten o'clock."

  Markham looked amused.

  "Why not get the blue-prints for a couple of mare's-nests, too, while you're about it, Vance?—The sensible thing to do, it seems to me, would be to wait till you get Doremus' final report."

  "You're quite right," Vance reluctantly conceded. "But my instincts don't run to so many coincidences. I crave simplicity. Besides, I have an appealin' young lady to consider."

  "I assure you," said Markham unsympathetically, "after you've scanned the blue-prints tomorrow, you'll have ample time to consider your young lady."

  "No—no, Markham." Vance spoke soberly. "It is not a subject for levity..."

  Then he told in detail of Gracie Allen's pathetic visit to him that afternoon—her appeal for help, her concern for Burns, and his own compassionate suggestions to keep her mind occupied.

  "Both the Sergeant and I," he concluded, "have made a promise to her mother, and, after the girl's impromptu visit today, I want to impress upon both of you that we must be considerate whenever the girl chooses to intrude on us."

  "I deem it a pleasure, not to say a rarity, to commend your sentimental punctilio," Markham said. "But I myself shall probably not be called upon to assist in the charitable deception. The brunt of the situation, it seems to me, will fall upon you and the Sergeant."

  "It's all right with me, Chief," said Heath. "That Mrs. Allen is a mighty sweet little woman. And the girl is plenty cute."

  Vance smiled gratefully.

  "You'll have to be rather careful, Sergeant. The best way to meet the situation is to show no outward sympathy. That might make the girl suspicious. We should simply act at all times as if we knew no more about her brother's death than she does herself. An actor, Sergeant! Could you be an actor?"

  "Sure I'll be an actor!" Heath voiced his decision with ready sincerity. "But I ain't so hard-boiled yet that I'm gonna promise not to sometimes get a lump in my gullet..."

  He seemed a little ashamed of his unbecoming outburst of sentiment.

  "Hell!" he added quickly. "I'll even be one of those damn matinee idols."

  12. A STRANGE DISCOVERY

  (Monday, May 2
0; 9 am.)

  Vance had been reluctant Sunday evening to leave Markham's apartment, and had remained late. But he was up earlier than usual the following morning. By half-past eight he was completely dressed and had drunk his coffee. Shortly after nine, Sergeant Heath arrived, striding into the library in jaunty triumph.

  "Here you are, Mr. Vance," he announced, placing a long cardboard tube on the desk. "If all my jobs were as easy as getting these blue-prints for you, I'd never die from overwork."

  "My word, such efficiency!"

  Vance drew the plans from their holder and spread them on the desk. He scrutinized them all, inspecting the sheet for each floor in turn. He gave more time, however, to the ground-floor plan which included the actual cafe room, the entrance-hall and the checkrooms, the kitchen quarters, and the office. The Sergeant watched him with expectant amusement.

  "Quite conventional," Vance murmured, tapping the sheets with his finger. "An excellent bit of planning. Intelligently done. No more, no less. Sad.. sad."

  At this moment Gracie Allen unexpectedly arrived. She preceded Currie into the room, making his announcement superfluous.

  "Oh, I just had to come and see you, Mr. Vance! Somehow I don't seem to be getting anywhere—and I worked so hard. Honest, I did!"

  "But my word! Young lady,"—Vance spoke pleasantly—"why aren't you at the factory this morning?"

  "I just couldn't go there," she returned. "Not for a while, anyhow. I've got so much on my mind—that is, terribly important things. And I'm sure Mr. Doolson won't mind...George didn't go to the factory today, either. He phoned me last night and said he couldn't possibly do anything. He's so upset."

  "Well, perhaps after all, Miss Allen, a few days' rest..."

  "Oh, I'm not resting." She appeared hurt. "I'm frightfully busy every minute. You yourself said I have to keep busy. Remember?" She caught sight of Heath, and a frightened look came into her large eyes as she recognized him.

  Vance eased the situation by casually introducing the Sergeant.

  "He is working with us, too," he added. "You can trust the Sergeant. I explained his error to him yesterday, and now he's on our side... Furthermore," Vance went on cheerfully, "he has five letters in his name."

  "Oh!" Her fears were somewhat allayed by this information, though she looked dubiously at Heath again before she broke into a faint smile. Then she pointed to the desk. "What are all those blue papers, Mr. Vance?—they weren't there yesterday. Maybe they're a clue, or something. Are they?"

  "No, I'm afraid not. They're just plans of the Domdaniel where you were Saturday night..."

  "Oh, may I look?"

  "Certainly," Vance replied, and bent over the desk with her. "See, this is the big dining-room, and the entrance-door from the hall; and over here is the kitchen, and the side door; and right along here is the driveway that goes under the arch; and right in this corner is the office, with the door opening on the terrace; and—"

  "Wait a minute," she interrupted. "That's not really an office."

  She bent closer over the chart and traced corridors and directions with her finger, calling them off as she did so. She ended by following the outline of the small room. Then she looked up.

  "Why, that's Dixie Del Marr's private room. She told me so herself... Don't you think she's just beautiful, Mr. Vance? And she can sing so lovely, too. I wish I could sing like her. You know, classical songs."

  "I'm sure your singing is much prettier," Vance told her gallantly. "But I think you're mistaken about that room being Miss Del Marr's. Really, y' know, it's Mr. Mirche's office—isn't it, Sergeant?"

  "I'll say it is!"

  Gracie Allen bent still lower over the papers.

  "Oh, but it is the room I was in," she asserted conclusively. "I'll show you:—that window looks right out on the driveway; and here's the street, through those tiny windows. It even says '50th Street' right on the picture. Why, it's got to be Miss Del Marr's room. And you can't have two rooms in the same place, can you—even in a picture?"

  "No, not very well——"

  "And aren't the walls all done in mauve? And aren't there three or four big leather chairs along this wall? And isn't there a big dead fish on a board, hanging up here?" She pointed out the locations as she spoke. "And isn't there a funny little glass chandelier hanging——Oh, where's the ceiling, Mr. Vance? I don't see any ceiling on this picture."

  Heath had become highly interested in the girl's inventory.

  "Sure," he said. "The walls are a sort of light purple; and Mirche says he caught that fish down in Florida. She's dead right, Mr. Vance...But see here. Miss, when were you ever in that room?"

  "Why, I was in it just last Saturday night."

  "What!" bellowed Heath.

  The girl was startled.

  "Did I say something wrong? I didn't mean to go in there."

  Vance spoke now.

  "What time during the evening did you go in there, Miss Allen?"

  "Why, you know, Mr. Vance. When I went to look for Philip, at ten o'clock...But I didn't see Philip. He wasn't around. And he didn't come home yesterday, either. I guess he's gone on a vacation somewhere. And he promised he wouldn't quit his job."

  Vance diverted the girl's aimless chatter.

  "Let's not talk about Philip now. Just tell me how you happened to go out on the terrace looking for your brother, when you really wanted to go to the rear of the cafe."

  "I didn't go out on the terrace." She shook her head emphatically. "What would I want to go on the terrace for, anyhow? I'd have caught cold in that thin dress I was wearing. Don't you think that was an awfully pretty dress, Mr. Vance? Mother made that too."

  "Yes, you looked very charming in it...But you must have forgot, for the only way to get into that room is from the terrace."

  "Oh, but I went in the other way—through the door at the back." She pointed to the wall directly opposite the street door of Mirche's office; then her eyes opened wide as she scrutinized the blue-print. "There's something awfully funny here, Mr. Vance. Whoever made this picture wasn't very careful."

  Vance came closer to her. The Sergeant, too, moved nearer, and stood beside them with an air of curious expectancy, his cigar poised in mid-air.

  "You think there should be another door shown at that spot?" Vance asked softly.

  "Why, of course! Because there is a door right there. Otherwise, how could I have gotten in Miss Del Marr's private room? But I can't imagine why she keeps that fish in there. I don't think it's pretty at all."

  "Don't worry about the fish. Look here at the plan a minute...Now, here's the archway through which you left the dining-room—"

  "Uh—huh. The one with the big carved stairway in front of it."

  "And then—let's see—you must have gone this way in the hall——"

  "That's right. George wanted me to stay and speak to him, but I was in a hurry. So I went right on back, until I passed another little passage. And then I didn't know which way to go."

  "You must have turned into that narrow passage, and walked down to this point, here." Vance brought to a stop the pencil with which he was tracing her course on the blue-print.

  "That's just what I did! How do you know? Were you watching me?"

  "No, my dear," Vance answered patiently. "But maybe you're a little confused. There is a door here, at the end of this narrow passage, where you say you walked down."

  "Yes, I saw that door. I even opened it. But there wasn't anything there—only the driveway. That's how I knew I was lost. And then as I stood there leaning against the wall and wondering how to find Philip, this other door I was telling you about—you know, the one into Miss Del Marr's room—opened right behind me." She tittered, as at some joke she was just about to relate. "And I fell right into the room! It was terribly embarrassing. But I didn't spoil my dress at all. And I might have torn it, falling like that...I guess it was my own fault though, for not looking where I was leaning. But I didn't know there was a door there. I didn't see any
door at all. Anyhow, there I was in the room. Isn't that silly—not seeing a door and leaning up against it, and then falling down right into a lady's room?" She laughed engagingly at the recital of her mishap.

  Vance led the girl to a chair and arranged a pillow for her.

  "Sit right there, my dear," he said, "and tell us all about it."

  "But I have told you," she said, arranging herself comfortably. "It was awfully funny, and I was so embarrassed. Miss Del Marr was embarrassed too. She told me that was her private room. So, I told her I was awfully sorry and explained about looking for my brother—she even knew Philip. I guess that's because they both work at the same place, like me and George...And then she showed me back down the hall, and pointed out the exact way to the landing on the kitchen stairs. She was awfully nice. Well, I waited a long time, but Philip didn't show up. So I went back to Mr. Puttie. I knew how to find my way back, all right...And now, Mr. Vance, I want to ask you some more questions about what you said yesterday——"

  "I'd love to answer them, Miss Allen," Vance said; "but I really haven't any time this morning. Maybe later—this afternoon. You won't mind, will you?"

  "Oh, no." The girl jumped up quickly. "I've got something very important to do, too. And maybe George will come up for a while." She shook Vance's hand, nodded suspiciously to Heath, and in a moment she was gone.

  "Holy suffering sauerkraut!" exploded Heath, almost before the door closed on Miss Allen. "Didn't I tell you that Mirche was a crafty customer? So he's got a secret door! The dizzy doll didn't see it—sure she didn't! Somebody musta got careless—her leani'n up against a invisible door and goin' plop—right into the room where her brother was killed! That's somethin'!"

  Vance smiled grimly.

  "But, after all, Sergeant, there's no law against a man having a secret door to his own office. And that, undoubtedly, is our answer to the question of how the dead fellow got in there without being seen by Hennessey. But someone must have been in there with him. Not Mirche: he was at my table between ten and eleven. And certainly no dead man was there at ten."

  "But don't you think Mr. Vance——"