The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Oh, he might have been thinkin’ caressingly of Doctor Bliss’s trachea,” Vance conceded. “However, the dagger episode doesn’t worry me half as much as something that didn’t happen tonight.”

  “Well, it looks to me like plenty happened,” retorted Heath.

  Markham regarded Vance inquisitively.

  “What’s in your mind?” he asked.

  “The picture presented to us tonight, d’ ye see, wasn’t finished. I could still detect some of the underpainting. And there was no vernissage. The canvas needed another form—the generating line wasn’t complete.…”

  Just then we could hear footsteps on the stairs. Salveter, with a wrinkled Shantung dressing-gown wrapped about his pyjamas, blinked as he faced the lights in the drawing-room. He appeared only half awake, but when his pupils had become adjusted to the glare, he ran his eyes sharply over the four of us and then shot a glance at the bronze clock on the mantel.

  “What now?” he asked. “What has happened?” He seemed both bewildered and anxious.

  “Doctor Bliss phoned me that some one had tried to kill him,” Vance explained. “So we hobbled over.… Know anything about it?”

  “Good God, no!” Salveter sat down heavily in a chair by the door. “Some one tried to kill the doctor? When?… How?” He fumbled in his dressing-gown pockets, and Vance, reading his movements correctly, held out his cigarette-case. Salveter lighted a Régie nervously, and drew several deep inhalations on it.

  “Shortly after midnight,” Vance answered. “But the attempt failed dismally.” He tossed the dagger in Salveter’s lap. “Familiar with that knickknack?”

  The other studied the weapon a few seconds without touching it. A growing astonishment crept into his expression, and he carefully picked up the dagger and inspected it.

  “I never saw it in my life,” he said in an awed tone. “It’s a very valuable archaeological specimen—a rare museum piece. Where, in Heaven’s name, did you unearth it? It certainly doesn’t belong to the Bliss collection.”

  “Ah, but it does,” Vance assured him. “A private item, so to speak. Always kept secluded from pryin’ vulgar eyes.”

  “I’m amazed. I’ll bet the Egyptian Government doesn’t know about it.” Salveter looked up abruptly. “Has this dagger anything to do with the attempt on the doctor’s life?”

  “Everything apparently,” Vance replied negligently. “We found it lodged in the headboard of the doctor’s bed, evidently thrown with great force at the spot where his throat should have been.”

  Salveter contracted his brow and set his lips.

  “See here, Mr. Vance,” he declared at length; “we haven’t any Malayan jugglers in this house.… Unless,” he added, as a startled afterthought, “Hani knows the art. Those orientals are full of unexpected lore and practices.”

  “The performance tonight was not, according to all accounts, what one would unqualifiedly call artistic. It was, in fact, somewhat amateurish. I’m sure a Malay could have done much better with his kris. In the first place, the intruder’s footsteps and the opening of the door were plainly heard by Doctor Bliss; and, in the second place, there was sufficient delay between the projection of the flash-light and the actual hurling of the dagger to give the doctor time to remove his head from the line of propulsion.…”

  At this moment Hani appeared at the door holding a small object in his hand. Walking forward he laid it on the centre-table.

  “Here, effendi,” he said in a low voice, “is the sheath of the royal dagger. I found it lying against the baseboard of the second-story hall, near the head of the stairs.”

  Vance scarcely glanced at it.

  “Thanks awfully,” he drawled. “I rather thought you’d find it. But of course it wasn’t in the hall.”

  “I assure you—”

  “Oh, quite.” Vance looked straight into Hani’s eyes, and presently a faint, gentle smile crept into his gaze. “Isn’t it true, Hani,” he asked pointedly, “that you found the sheath exactly where you and I believed it to be hidden?”

  The Egyptian did not answer at once. Presently he said:

  “I have told my story, effendi. You may draw your own conclusion.”

  Vance appeared satisfied and waved his hand toward the door.

  “And now, Hani, go to bed. We sha’n’t need you any more tonight. Leiltak sa’îda.”

  “Leiltak sa’îda wemubâraka.” The man bowed and departed.

  Vance picked up the sheath and, taking the dagger from Salveter, fitted the blade into its holder, looking at the gold embossing critically.

  “Aegean influence,” he murmured. “Pretty, but too fussy. These ornate floral devices of the Eighteenth Dynasty bear the same relation to early Egyptian art that the Byzantine ginger-bread does to the simple Greek orders.” He held the sheath closer to his monocle. “And, by the by, here’s a decoration that may interest you, Mr. Salveter. The formal scrolls terminate in a jackal’s head.”

  “Anûpu, eh? Hani’s given name. That’s curious.” Salveter rose and looked at the design. “And another point might be considered, Mr. Vance,” he went on, after a pause. “These lower-class Copts are, for all their superficial Christian veneer, highly superstitious. Their minds run along one traditional groove: they like to fit everything to a preconceived symbolism. There have been nine more or less coincidental deaths of late among those connected with the excavations in Egypt,141 and the natives ridiculously imagine that the afrîts of their ancestors lay in ambush in the various tombs to mow down the western intruders, as a kind of punitive measure. They actually believe in such malefic forces.… And here is Hani, at bottom a superstitious Egyptian, who resents the work of Doctor Bliss:—is it not possible he might consider the death of the doctor by a dagger once worn by a Pharaoh as a sort of mystical retribution in line with all these other irrational ghost stories? And Hani might even regard the jackal’s head on that sheath as a sign that he—named after the jackal-headed god, Anûbis—had been divinely appointed the agent in this act of vengeance.”

  “A charmin’ theory,” was Vance’s somewhat uninterested comment. “But a bit too specious, I fear. I’m comin’ to the opinion that Hani is not nearly so stupid and superstitious as he would have us think. He’s a kind of modern Theogonius, who has found it the part of wisdom to simulate mental inferiority.”142

  Salveter slowly nodded agreement.

  “I’ve felt that same quality in him at times.… But who else—?”

  “Ah! Who else?” Vance sighed. “I say, Mr. Salveter; what time did you go to bed tonight?”

  “At ten-thirty,” the man returned aggressively. “And I didn’t wake up until Hani called me just now.”

  “You retired, then, immediately after you had fetched the memorandum-book from the study for Doctor Bliss.”

  “Oh, he told you about that, did he?… Yes, I handed him the book and went on up to my room.”

  “The book, I understand, was in his desk.”

  “That’s right—But why this cross-examination about a memorandum-book?”

  “That dagger,” Vance explained, “was also kept in one of the drawers of the doctor’s desk.”

  Salveter leapt to his feet.

  “I see!” His face was livid.

  “Oh, but you don’t,” Vance mildly assured him. “And I’d appreciate it immensely if you’d try to be calm. Your vitality positively exhausts me.—Tell me, did you lock your bedroom door tonight?”

  “I always lock it at night.”

  “And during the day?”

  “I leave it open—to air the room.”

  “And you heard nothing tonight after retiring?”

  “Nothing at all. I went to sleep quickly—the reaction, I suppose.”

  Vance rose.

  “One other thing: where did the family have dinner tonight?”

  “In the breakfast-room. It could hardly be called dinner, though. No one was hungry. It was more like a light supper. So we ate down-stairs. Less bother.�
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  “And what did the various members of the household do after dinner?”

  “Hani went up-stairs at once, I believe. The doctor and Mrs. Bliss and I sat here in the drawing-room for an hour or so, when the doctor excused himself and went to his room. A little later Meryt-Amen went up-stairs, and I sat here until about half past ten trying to read.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Salveter. That will be all.” Vance moved toward the hall. “Only, I wish you’d tell Mrs. Bliss and the doctor that we sha’n’t disturb them any more tonight. We’ll probably communicate with them tomorrow.… Let’s go, Markham. There’s really nothing more we can do here.”

  “I could do a whole lot more,” Heath objected with surly antagonism. “But this case is being handled like a pink tea. Somebody in this house threw that dagger, and if I had my way I’d steam the truth out of him.”

  Markham endeavored diplomatically to soothe the Sergeant’s ruffled feelings, but without any marked success.

  We were now standing just inside the front door preparatory to departing, and Vance paused to light a cigarette. He was facing the great steel door leading into the museum, and I saw his frame suddenly go taut.

  “Oh, just a moment, Mr. Salveter,” he called; and the man, who was now nearly at the head of the first flight of stairs, turned and retraced his steps. “What are the lights doing on in the museum?”

  I glanced toward the bottom of the steel door where Vance’s gaze was resting, and for the first time saw a tiny illuminated line. Salveter, too, glanced at the floor, and frowned.

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” he said in a puzzled voice. “The last person in the museum is supposed to turn off the switch. But no one to my knowledge has been in there tonight.… I’ll see.” He stepped toward the door, but Vance moved in front of him.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” he said peremptorily. “I’ll attend to it.… Good-night.”

  Salveter took the dismissal uneasily but without another word he went upstairs.

  When he had disappeared round the banisters on the second floor, Vance gently turned the knob, and pushed the museum door open. Below us, on the opposite side of the room, seated at the desk-table near the obelisk, and surrounded by filing-boxes, photographs, and cardboard folders, was Scarlett. His coat and waistcoat were hanging over the back of his chair; a green celluloid shade covered his eyes; and a pen was in his hand, poised above a large note-book.

  He looked up as the door opened.

  “Oh, hallo!” he called cheerily. “Thought you were through with the Bliss ménage for today.”

  “It’s tomorrow now,” returned Vance, going down the stairs and crossing the museum.

  “What!” Scarlett reached behind him and took out his watch. “Great Scott! So it is. Had no idea of the hour. Been working here since eight o’clock—”

  “Amazin’.” Vance glanced over a few of the upturned photographs. “Very interestin’.… Who let you in, by the by?”

  “Brush, of course.” Scarlett seemed rather astonished at the question. “Said the family were having dinner in the breakfast-room. I told him not to disturb ’em—that I had a bit of work to finish.…”

  “He didn’t mention your arrival to us.” Vance was apparently engrossed in a photograph of four amuletic bracelets.

  “But why should he, Vance?” Scarlett had risen and was getting into his coat. “It’s a commonplace thing for me to come here and work in the evenings. I’m drifting in and out of the house constantly. When I work at night I always shut off the light on going and see that the front door is fastened. Nothing unusual about my coming here after dinner.”

  “That probably accounts for Brush’s not telling us, don’t y’ know.” Vance tossed the photographs back on the table. “But something out of the ordin’ry did happen here tonight.” He laid the sheathed dagger before Scarlett. “What do you know about that bizarre parazonium?”

  “Oh, much.” The other grinned, and shot Vance an interrogatory look. “How did you happen on it? It’s one of the doctor’s dark secrets.”

  “Really?” Vance lifted his eyebrows in simulated surprise. “Then you’re familiar with it?”

  “Rather. I saw the old scalawag slip in into his khaki shirt when he found it. I kept mum—none of my business. Later, when we were here in New York, he told me he’d smuggled it out of Egypt, and confided to me that he was keeping it sequestered in his study. He was in constant fear that Hani would unearth it, and swore me to secrecy. I agreed. What’s one dagger, more or less? The Cairo Museum has the cream of all the excavated items anyway.”

  “He kept it ensconced under some papers in one of his desk drawers.”

  “Yes, I know. Safe hiding-place. Hani rarely goes in the study.… But I’m curious—”

  “We’re all curious. Distressin’ state, what?” Vance gave him no time to speculate. “Who else knew of the dagger’s existence?”

  “No one, as far as I know. The doctor certainly didn’t disclose the fact to Hani; and I doubt seriously if he informed Mrs. Bliss. She has peculiar loyalties in regard to her native country, and the doctor respects them. No telling how she’d react to the theft of such a valuable treasure.”

  “What about Salveter?”

  “I’d say no.” Scarlett made an unpleasant grimace. “He’d be sure to confide in Meryt-Amen. Impulsive young cub.”

  “Well, some one knew of its whereabouts,” Vance remarked. “Doctor Bliss phoned me shortly after midnight that he had escaped assassination by the proverbial hair’s-breadth; so we sped hither and found the point of that poniard infixed in the head of his bed.”

  “By Jove! You don’t say!” Scarlett seemed shocked and perplexed. “Some one must have discovered the dagger…and yet—” He stopped suddenly and shot Vance a quick look. “How do you account for it?”

  “I’m not accountin’ for it. Most mysterious.… Hani, by the by, found the sheath in the hall near the doctor’s door.”

  “That’s odd.…” Scarlett paused as if considering. Then he began arranging his papers and photographs in neat piles and stacking his filing-boxes under the table. “Couldn’t you get any suggestions out of the rest of the household?” he asked.

  “Any number of suggestions. All of ’em conflictin’, and most of ’em silly. So we’re toddlin’ along home. Happened to see the light under the door and was overcome with curiosity.… Quitting now?”

  “Yes.” Scarlett took up his hat. “I’d have knocked off long ago but didn’t realize how late it was.”

  We all left the house together. A heavy silence had fallen over us, and it was not until Scarlett paused in front of his quarters that any one of us spoke. Then Vance said:

  “Good-night. Don’t let the dagger disturb your slumbers.”

  Scarlett waved an abstracted adieu.

  “Thanks, old man,” he rejoined. “I’ll try to follow your advice.”

  Vance had taken several steps when he turned suddenly.

  “And I say, Scarlett; if I were you I’d keep away from the Bliss house for the time being.”

  CHAPTER 19

  A BROKEN APPOINTMENT

  (Saturday, July 14; 2 A.M.-10 P.M.)

  Heath left us at Nineteenth Street and Fourth Avenue; and Vance, Markham and I took a taxicab back to Vance’s apartment. It was nearly two o’clock, but Markham showed no indication of going home. He followed Vance up-stairs to the library, and throwing open the French windows gazed out into the heavy, mist-laden night. The events of the day had not gone to his liking; and yet I realized that his quandary was so deep that he felt disinclined to make any decisive move until the conflicting factors of the situation became more clarified.

  The case at the outset had appeared simple, and the number of possible suspects was certainly limited. But, despite these two facts, there was a subtle and mysterious intangibility about the affair that rendered a drastic step impossible. The elements were too fluid, the cross-currents of motives too contradictory. Vance had been the first to
sense the elusory complications, the first to indicate the invisible paradoxes; and so surely had he put his finger upon the vital points of the plot—so accurately had he foretold certain phases of the plot’s development—that Markham had, both figuratively and literally, stepped into the background and permitted him to deal with the case in his own way.

  Withal, Markham was dissatisfied and impatient. Nothing definitely leading to the actual culprit had, so far as could be seen, been brought to light by Vance’s unprofessional and almost casual process of investigation.

  “We’re not making headway, Vance,” Markham complained with gloomy concern, turning from the window. “I’ve stood aside all day and permitted you to deal with these people as you saw fit, because I felt your knowledge of them and your familiarity with things Egyptological gave you an advantage over impersonal official cross-questioning. And I also felt that you had a plausible theory about the whole matter, which you were striving to verify. But Kyle’s murder is as far from a solution as it was when we first entered the museum.”

  “You’re an incorrigible pessimist, Markham,” Vance returned, getting into a printed foulard dressing-gown. “It has been just fifteen hours since we found Sakhmet athwart Kyle’s skull; and you must admit, painful as it may be to a District Attorney, that the average murder investigation has scarcely begun in so brief a time.…”

  “In the average murder case, however,” Markham retorted acidly, “we’d at least have found a lead or two and outlined a workable routine. If Heath had been handling the matter he’d have made an arrest by now—the field of possibilities is not an extensive one.”

  “I dare say he would. He’d no doubt have had every one in jail, including Brush and Dingle and the Curators of the Metropolitan Museum. Typical tactics: butcher innocent persons to make a journalistic holiday. I’m not entranced with that technic, though. I’m far too humane—I’ve retained too many of my early illusions. Sentimentality, alas! will probably be my downfall.”