“Did Miss Delafield know of the way Coe had treated you in connection with your Chinese paintings?”
“Oh, yes.” The major was candor itself. “I told her about it. But she didn’t see how that could make any difference. You know how women are. No sense of business ethics.”
“No doubt—no doubt,” Vance returned vaguely.
Then he held out his hand.
“Well, Major, I want to thank you for your help. I’ll let you know of any developments in connection with the little Scottie. In the meantime you may rest assured she is being taken good care of.”
“What should I do now?” asked the major.
“Well,” returned Vance cheerfully, “if I were you, I’d go home and get a good night’s rest.”
“Not me,” declared the major. “I’m going to the club and dive into my locker—I never needed Scotch as I do at this minute.”
When he had gone, Vance entered his car, which was waiting outside the Belle Maison, and gave orders to be driven at once to the Criminal Courts Building. As soon as we were shown into Markham’s office, Vance threw himself into a chair and, lying back, closed his eyes.
“I have a bit of news, Markham, old dear,” he announced.
“I’m most grateful.” Markham reached into a drawer for a fresh cigar. “What might it be?”
Vance sank even deeper into his chair.
“I think I know who killed the Coe brothers.”
CHAPTER XIX
DEATH AND REVELATIONS
(Saturday, October 13; 4.30 p. m.)
Markham leaned forward in his chair, and gave Vance a quizzical look.
“You positively stagger me,” he said. “What name shall I write in on the warrant?”
“Too much haste, Markham,” Vance reproved him. “Far too much haste. There are various little things to be done—little knots to be tied—before the arm of the law can pounce upon the culprit—only, arms don’t pounce, do they?”
“In that case, perhaps you could bring yourself to confide in me.” Markham still spoke ironically.
“Really, I’d rather not, old dear. Let me have my little secret for a brief period.” Then Vance became serious. “After all, my conclusion is, to a certain extent, only a guess. It hangs on a somewhat slender clue—a clue which any good criminal lawyer could tear to shreds. And the fact that my conclusion satisfies me does not mean that it would satisfy a jury—or even a lawyer. But I believe I can add a little substantiation to it.… You don’t mind biding a wee, do you, Markham?”
“Since you seem to have gone Scotch,” retorted Markham, “I’ll merely say that I’ll make an effort to dree my weird.… I assume, however, that you know how the crimes were committed.”
“Alas, no!” Vance shook his head lugubriously. “That’s the chief reason why I shall hoard my theory as to who perpetrated them. Really, y’ know, Markham, one shouldn’t accuse a person of committing a crime when one has no idea how it was committed, and especially when the person could prove conclusively that he couldn’t have committed it.”
“You sound extremely vague,” Markham commented.
“I feel vague,” said Vance. “I could make out an excellent case against the murderer for the doing-in of Archer. My great difficulty, however, would be that there was no point whatever in the murderer’s killing Brisbane. Motive is lacking—in fact, that particular murder is meaningless from a logical point of view. But I’m sure the murderer most passionately desired the death of Archer. And yet, it would be utterly unreasonable to accuse him of killing Archer—he apparently couldn’t possibly have done it.… And there you are. Do you not sympathize with me in my predicament?”
“I’m on the point of bursting into tears,” returned Markham. “But just what do you propose doing to extricate yourself from your embarrassing situation?”
Vance drew himself together and stood up. He was now alert and serious.
“I propose to go to the Coe house and ask many questions of its inmates. Will you accompany me?”
Markham glanced at the clock on the wall and rang for Swacker.
“I’m leaving for the day,” he told his secretary.
And, taking his hat and coat from the stand in the corner, he went toward the private-entrance door. “I’m interested,” he said, “—in a mild way.… But what about Heath?”
“Oh, the Sergeant, by all means,” Vance replied. “He’s definitely indicated.”
Markham returned to his desk and phoned the Homicide Bureau. When he had replaced the receiver he walked back to the door.
“Heath will be waiting for us in front of Police Headquarters.”
We got into Vance’s car, picked up the Sergeant, who seemed unusually surly, and drove uptown. At 59th Street and Fifth Avenue we entered Central Park and took the winding roads toward the 72nd Street west-side entrance.
It was still light as we passed the lake, although there was a sunset haze in the air. The thermometer had been rising all afternoon, and there was a muggy, warm atmosphere over the city. I remember that the thought passed through my mind that we were probably entering upon Indian summer. The leaves had begun to turn, and the vista of the park, spread out before us in its hazy and speckled coloring, recalled a Monet painting I had seen in the Salle Commandeau, in the Louvre.
As we approached the western entrance to the park, I noticed a familiar figure seated on one of the benches just beyond the cut privet hedge, a little distance from the roadway; and at that moment Vance leaned over and gave an order to the chauffeur to halt the car.
“Wrede is communing with his soul on yon bench,” he said. “And he was one of the persons with whom I wished to have parley. I think I’ll toddle over and put a few questions to him.”
He opened the door of the car. We followed him into the roadway and turned east toward a small opening in the hedge.
Wrede was sitting with his back to us, perhaps a hundred feet away, gazing over the lake. Just as we came opposite him along the hedge, I noticed the rotund figure of Enright walking down the path toward the bench on which Wrede sat. He had the Doberman Pinscher on a leash.
“Well, well,” Vance remarked; “the talkative Mr. Enright is invading new territory. Perhaps Ruprecht tired of the vista over the reservoir.…”
Just then an amazing thing happened. The Doberman suddenly halted in his tracks, drew back a foot or two, and crouched down as if in terror. Then, with a curious whine, he bounded forward, dragging his leash from the astonished Enright’s hand. He leapt straight toward Wrede.
Wrede turned his head toward the dog, drew back, and started to rise. But he was too late. The Doberman sprang at him with unerring aim and fastened his powerful fangs in the man’s neck. Wrede was bowled over backwards, with the dog on top of him growling throatily. It was a terrible sight.
Sergeant Heath yelled at the top of his voice in a futile effort to distract the dog, and jumped over the hedge with an alacrity that amazed me. As he ran toward the struggling Wrede, he drew his revolver. Vance looked on with a coldness that I could not understand.
“There’s justice in that, Markham,” he commented, lighting a cigarette with steady fingers.
Heath had now reached the dog and placed the revolver against its head. There were two sharp reports. The Doberman staggered forward on its side and went limp, lying very still.
When we reached Wrede, there was no movement in his body. He lay on his back, his eyes staring, his arms drawn up, as motionless as death. His throat was red, and a great pool of blood had formed under his head. It was a sight I wish I had never seen.
Enright came lumbering up, his mouth open, his face the color of chalk.
“My God!—oh, my God!” he muttered over and over.
Vance stood looking down at Wrede, smoking complacently. He turned to Enright.
“It’s quite all right, don’t y’ know,” he said in a hard voice. “It serves him jolly well right. He’d beaten and misused the animal in some outrageous fashion; and thi
s is the dog’s revenge.”
Vance knelt down and felt the prostrate man’s pulse. Then he leaned over and inspected the wound in Wrede’s neck, nodding slowly. He stood up and shrugged.
“He’s quite dead, Markham,” he said without the slightest emotion. “The dog’s fangs severed the jugular vein and the carotid artery. Wrede died almost at once from the profuse hemorrhage and, possibly, an air embolism.… No use rushing him to a doctor’s.”
At this moment a uniformed officer came running up. He recognized Markham and saluted.
“Anything I can do, sir?”
“You might call an ambulance, officer,” Markham answered in a strained, husky voice. “This is Sergeant Heath of the Homicide Bureau,” he added.
The officer hurried away toward his call-box on 72nd Street.
“And what do you want me to do?” wailed the frightened Enright.
Vance answered him.
“Go home and take a stiff drink and try to forget the episode. If we need you, we’ll call on you.”
Enright made an attempt to answer, but failing, he turned and waddled away into the gathering mist.
“Let’s be going, Markham,” suggested Vance. “Wrede’s appearance doesn’t charm me, and the Sergeant will look after things.” He turned to Heath. “By the by, Sergeant, we’ll be at the Coe house. Join us there after the ambulance comes.”
Heath nodded without looking up. He still stood, revolver in hand, gazing down at the dead body of Wrede, like a man hypnotized.
“Who’d have thought a dog could do it!” he mumbled.
“Personally I feel rather grateful to the Doberman,” Vance said in a low voice, as he walked away toward his parked car.
It was only two blocks to the Coe residence and nothing was said en route; but when we were seated in the library, Markham broke the silence by trying to put into words his baffled state of mind.
“There’s something queer about all this, Vance—your interest in that Doberman Pinscher, and then to have him attack Wrede in that brutal fashion. And I can’t see that we’re getting anywhere. There’s just one tragedy after another, without any light on the case. I suppose you see some connection between the Scottish terrier and the Doberman. Would you mind telling me what was in your mind when you looked up Enright?”
“There was nothing cryptic about it, my dear Markham.” Vance was moving about the room aimlessly, looking at the various vases and objets d’art. “When the Sergeant told me that Wrede owned a dog, I was particularly interested, for he wasn’t the type of man that could love any animal. He was an enforced egoist, with a somewhat violent inferiority complex—his egoism, in fact, had been automatically built up to cover his complete lack of confidence in himself. He had a shrewd, unscrupulous brain which he was unable to use in any practical way. And he was constantly in need of substitutes for his sense of inferiority. It is not uncommon for persons of his nature to go in for dumb animals. They do not do so because of any instinctive liking for the animals, but because, having failed to impress themselves upon their equals, they can bully and torment and torture an animal, and thus give themselves a feeling of heroism and superiority. The animal is merely an outlet for their lack of self-confidence; and, at the same time, the animal gratifies their profound instinct for domination. The moment I heard that Wrede had owned a dog, I wanted to see the dog, for I was sure he had mistreated it. And when I saw the Doberman’s frightened and timid demeanor, I knew that he had suffered horribly at Wrede’s hands. Markham, that Doberman showed all the signs of having been beaten and abused—and that fitted perfectly with my estimate of Wrede’s character.”
“But,” objected Markham, “the Doberman certainly showed no timidity at the sight of Wrede. He was aggressive and vicious—ugh!”
“He had regained his confidence in himself,” Vance explained. “Enright’s kindness and benevolent treatment after the dog’s terrible experiences at Wrede’s hands, was what, in the end, revived the Doberman’s courage sufficiently to kill Wrede.”
He sat down and lighted another cigarette.
“Almost any man may be a murderer, but only a certain type of man can injure a dog the way that Scottie was injured here the other night. By striking that little bitch over the head, the murderer left his signature on the crime.… Now do you understand why I was so interested in Wrede’s Doberman Pinscher?”
Markham leaned forward.
“Do you mean to say that Wrede—?”
Vance held up his hand.
“Just a moment. I want to talk to Liang. There are certain things to be explained. Perhaps Liang will tell us—now.”
Before Gamble had brought in the Chinaman, Heath arrived. He was pale and upset. He nodded abstractedly and sat down.
“He was dead all right.… This case don’t look right to me.” He appealed helplessly to Markham. “What next, Chief?”
“Mr. Vance wants to talk to the Chinese cook,” Markham returned listlessly.
“Where’ll that get you, Mr. Vance?” Heath asked with solemn hopelessness.
Before Vance could reply, Liang entered the library from the dining-room and stood respectfully at the door, without looking at any of us.
Vance rose and went to him, holding out his cigarette-case.
“Please have a Régie, Mr. Liang.” His tone was that of an equal. “This is not to be an interrogation. It’s a conference in which we need your help.”
Liang looked at Vance with studious calm. (I shall probably never know what sudden unspoken understanding passed between them in that moment of silent mutual scrutiny.) Liang inclined his head with a murmured “Thank you,” and took one of the Régies, which Vance lighted for him.
Vance returned to his chair and Liang sat down.
“Mr. Liang,” Vance began, “I think I apprehend the position in which you have been placed by the unfortunate events which have taken place in this house, and I also think you realize that I have not been entirely ignorant of your predicament. You have acted, I might say, in very much the same way I myself might have acted, had our positions been reversed. But the time has come when frankness is wisdom—and I hope you trust me sufficiently to believe me when I tell you that no possible danger can come to you. You are no longer in jeopardy. There is now no possibility of misunderstanding. As a matter of fact, I have not misunderstood you from the first.”
Liang again bowed his head, and said:
“I should be most happy to help you, if I might be assured that the truth would prevail in this unhappy house, and that I would not be accused of things of which some one desired I should be accused.”
“I can assure you of that, Mr. Liang,” Vance returned quietly. Then he added significantly: “Mr. Wrede is dead.”
“Ah!” the man murmured. “That puts a different aspect on matters.”
“Oh, quite. Mr. Wrede was killed by a dog he had abused.”
“Lao-Tzu has said,” returned Liang, “that he who abuses the weak is eventually destroyed by his own weakness.”
Vance inclined his head in polite agreement.
“Some day,” he said, “I hope the wisdom of the Tâo Teh King will penetrate to our western civilization.… But, handicapped as we are by lack of knowledge of the profound wisdom of the Orient, I can only ask you to help us in our present dilemma.… Will you tell us what happened—or, rather, what you saw—when you returned to this house between eight and nine Wednesday night?”
Liang moved slightly in his chair and let his eyes rest searchingly on Vance. He hesitated before he spoke, drawing deeply on the cigarette Vance had given him.
“It was exactly eight,” he began in an even voice. “When I entered the kitchen I heard voices here in the library. Mr. Wrede and Mr. Archer Coe were talking. They were angry. I tried not to listen, but their voices rose until they penetrated even to my bedroom. Mr. Coe was protesting violently, and Mr. Wrede was becoming more angry every second. I heard a scuffle, a startled ejaculation, and a noise as if something heavy h
ad fallen to the floor. A brief silence ensued—and I thought I detected a tinkling sound like broken china. Then another silence. A few moments later I heard some one pass stealthily through the kitchen, and go out the rear door. I waited in my bedroom for perhaps fifteen minutes, asking myself if I should interfere with matters which did not concern me; and then I decided that, in loyalty to my employer, I should investigate the situation.
“So I came forth and looked in the library here. The room was empty, but the small table in front of the davenport was upset. I put it on its feet; then returned to the kitchen and read for perhaps an hour. But something seemed to trouble me—I did not like the fact that Mr. Wrede had not gone out the front door, but went out so stealthily through the kitchen. I went upstairs to Mr. Coe’s bedroom and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I knocked again. Still there was no answer. I tried the door. It was unbolted; and when I opened it, I saw Mr. Coe seated in his chair, apparently asleep. But I did not like the color of his face. I went to him and touched him, but he did not move—and I knew he was dead.… I came out of the room, closed the door, and returned to the kitchen.
“I asked myself what was best for me to do, and decided that since no one knew I had returned to the house I would go away and come back much later that night. So I went—to some friends of mine. When I returned at about midnight, I made unnecessary noise, so that any one in the house would hear me returning. After a while I came again into this library and looked round very carefully, for I could not understand what had happened that night. I found the poker lying on the hearth, and there was blood on it. I also found the dagger in the large Yung Chêng Ting yao vase on the table there. I had a definite feeling that both of these articles were left here for some special purpose, and it occurred to me that if a murder had been committed that night, it was I who was supposed to take the blame.…”
“You are quite right, Mr. Liang. I think that both weapons were left here in order to involve you.”
“I did not quite understand the situation,” the Chinaman continued. “But I felt that it might be safer for me if I took the poker and the dagger and hid them. I could see the possibilities of a case being built up against me, if the weapons were found in the library, especially as it might be proved that I had been here at the time. Moreover, the dagger is Chinese, and it could be easily ascertained that I was not in sympathy with the means Mr. Archer Coe used in depriving my country of its rightful antiques.”
The Philo Vance Megapack Page 158
