The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Miss Stamm also remembers hearing a car,” Vance informed him. “By the by, how long would you say it was, after Montague’s mysterious dive, that you heard the car on the East Road?”

  Leland thought a moment.

  “Perhaps ten minutes,” he said finally, but he added: “However, it is rather difficult to gauge the passage of time in a situation of that kind.”

  “Quite so,” Vance murmured. “But you are certain it was not merely two or three minutes?”

  “It could not possibly have been as soon as that,” Leland answered with a slight show of emphasis. “You see, we all waited a couple of minutes for the chap to show up after his dive, and I had already gone into the water and made a fairly thorough search for him before I was aware of the sound of the car.”

  “That being the case,” submitted Vance, “it is far from conclusive to connect the sound of the car with the absent Ellen; for it would not have taken Montague more than a minute or so to reach his waiting Juliet at the gate. Certainly he wouldn’t have tarried en route; nor would he have lingered for a loving tête-à-tête in the parked car.”

  “I see what you mean.” Leland inclined his head and looked troubled. “Still, he might have decided there was no need for haste and gotten into some togs before driving off.”

  “Quite so,” Vance admitted carelessly. “There are various possibilities, don’t y’ know.…”

  The conversation was interrupted by Doctor Holliday and Stamm descending the stairs. They crossed the hall and came into the drawing-room.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you again, gentlemen.” The doctor, his face clouded, addressed us apologetically. “When I first came here this morning, I found Mrs. Stamm markedly improved, and I expected she would soon be her normal self again. But when I returned, a little later, she had relapsed. The events of last night seem to have upset her strangely, and she is now in a most unusual mood. She insisted on watching the draining of the pool, and the result threw her into a state of unprecedented excitement. There is, I believe, some fixed idea in her mind, which she will not confide to me or to her son.”

  Doctor Holliday shifted his position awkwardly and cleared his throat.

  “I’m inclined to think,” he went on, “in view of the fact that her interview with you last night seemed to relieve somewhat the tension of this pent-up hallucination, it might be helpful if you gentlemen would see her again. She may be willing to talk about this suppressed idea to you. It is worth trying, at any rate—if you don’t mind. I suggested the interview to her, and she seemed more than willing—quite anxious for it, in fact.”

  “We would be very glad to see Mrs. Stamm, doctor,” Vance returned. “Shall we go up alone?”

  Doctor Holliday hesitated, and then nodded jerkily.

  “I think that might be best. It may be that this supposed secret of hers is being withheld, for some irrational reason, only from members of the family and those she knows.”

  We went immediately to Mrs. Stamm’s quarters, leaving Doctor Holliday, with Stamm and Leland, in the drawing-room.

  Mrs. Schwarz was waiting for us at the door: evidently the doctor had told her we were coming. Mrs. Stamm was seated near the window, her hands folded in her lap. She appeared quite calm, and there was none of the sardonic tenseness about her that we had encountered the night before; instead, there was a look of almost humorous satisfaction on her wizened face.

  “I thought you’d be back,” she greeted us, with a low cackle of triumph. “I told you that the dragon had killed him. And I told you that his body would not be found in the pool. But you didn’t believe me. You thought it was the ravings of an old woman’s cracked mind. But now you know that I told you the truth, and so you’ve come back to learn more. That’s why you’re here—isn’t it? Your foolish science has failed you.”

  She chuckled, and something in the sound of that hideous nasal laughter brought back to me the witches’ cavern scene in “Macbeth,” with the dragon’s scale that was added to the cauldron.

  “I saw you looking for the young man’s footprints on the bank opposite and on the cliffs,” she continued, in a gloating tone. “But the dragon rises to the surface of the water and flies away with his victims. I’ve seen him too often!… And I stood here, at the window, when the water was running out of the pool, and saw you waiting…waiting, and watching for the thing that was not there. And then I saw you walk out across the boards, as if you could not believe your eyes. Didn’t I tell you last night that there would be no body in the pool? Yet you thought that you could find something.” She unfolded her hands and placed them on the arms of the chair, her fingers flexing and unflexing like great talons.

  “But we did find something, Mrs. Stamm,” Vance said gently. “We found strange imprints in the mud.”

  She smiled at him, like an older person humoring a child.

  “I could have told you that too,” she said. “They were the imprints of the dragon’s claws. Didn’t you recognize them?” (The matter-of-fact simplicity of this astounding statement sent a chill up my spine.)

  “But where,” asked Vance, “did the dragon take the body of this man he killed?”

  A sly look came into the woman’s eyes.

  “I knew you would ask me that question,” she answered, with a satisfied, tight-lipped smile. “But I shall never tell you! That’s the dragon’s secret—the dragon’s and mine!”

  “Has the dragon a home other than the pool?”

  “Oh, yes. But this is his real home. That’s why it is called the Dragon Pool. Sometimes, though, he flies away to the Hudson and hides in its waters. At other times he lies beneath the surface of Spuyten Duyvil. And on cold nights he flies down the valley and seeks shelter in the Indian caves. But he doesn’t put his victims in any of those places. He has a different hiding-place for them. It is older than history—older even than man. It is a cavern made for him when the world was young.…” Her voice trailed out, and a fanatical look came into her eyes—a look such as I imagine shone in the eyes of the old religious martyrs when they were led to the rack.

  “That’s all most interestin’,” Vance remarked. “But I am afraid it is not very helpful to us in our present dilemma. You are sure you could not be persuaded to tell us where the dragon took young Montague’s body?”

  “Never!” The woman sat up rigidly in her chair and glared straight ahead.

  Vance regarded her sympathetically for a moment; then terminated the distressing interview.

  When we had again descended to the drawing-room he explained briefly to Doctor Holliday the result of his conversation, and the doctor and Stamm took leave of us and went up-stairs.

  Vance smoked in moody silence for a while.

  “Queer about her prognostications,” he mused. “I wonder.…” He moved restively in his chair, and then, glancing up, questioned Leland regarding the superstition connected with the dragon’s various abodes.

  But Leland, though obviously frank in his answers, was unable to throw any light on Mrs. Stamm’s fanciful remarks.

  “The old tales of the dragon,” he said, “contained references to his visits to neighboring waters, such as the Hudson and Spuyten Duyvil, and even Hell Gate. And I remember hearing, when I was a child, that he occasionally was seen in the Indian caves. But he was generally supposed to make his home in the pool here.”

  “There was one thing Mrs. Stamm said,” Vance persisted, “that struck me as unusually fantastic. In speaking of the place where the dragon hides his victims she mentioned that it was older than both history and man, and that it was shaped for him when the world was young. Have you any idea what she could have meant by that?”

  Leland frowned thoughtfully for a moment. Then his face lighted up, and he took his pipe from his mouth.

  “The pot-holes, of course!” he exclaimed. “Her description fits them perfectly. The glacial potholes, you know—there are several of them at the foot of the rocks near the Clove. They were fashioned in the ice age—the
result of glacial gyrations, I believe—but they are really nothing but small cylindrical cavities in the rocks.…”191

  “Yes, yes, I know what pot-holes are,” Vance interrupted, with a note of suppressed excitement. “But I didn’t know there were any in Inwood. How far are they from here?”

  “Ten minutes’ walk, I should say, toward the Clove.”

  “Near the East Road?”

  “Just to the west of it.”

  “A car would be quicker, then.” Vance walked hurriedly into the hall. “Come, Markham, I think we’ll take a bit of a ride.… Will you be our guide, Mr. Leland?” He was already headed for the front door. We followed, wondering at this new whim that had suddenly animated him.

  “What wild-goose chase is this, Vance?” Markham protested, as we went through the vestibule and down the front steps.

  “I don’t know, old dear,” Vance admitted readily. “But I have a cravin’ just now to see those potholes.”

  He stepped into his car and we climbed in after him, as if led irresistibly by the tenseness of his decision. A moment later we were circling the house on the south and turning into the East Road. At the boundary of the estate Snitkin opened the gate for us; and we drove rapidly past the Bird Refuge and on toward the Clove.

  We had gone perhaps five hundred yards, when Leland gave the signal to stop. Vance drew up at the side of the road and stepped down. We were about fifty feet from the base of a precipitous rocky ridge which was an extension of the cliff that formed the north boundary of the Dragon Pool.

  “And now for a bit of geological reconnoitring.” Though he spoke lightly, there was, beneath his words, a sombre intentness.

  “There are several large glacial pot-holes here,” Leland offered, leading the way toward the cliff. “There’s an oak tree growing in one of them; and one of the others is not as clearly marked as the rest. But there’s one excellent deep-cut example of glacial activity—there, just ahead.”

  We had now come to the foot of the cliff. Before us, as if chiselled in the steep rock, was a great irregular, oval scar, perhaps twenty feet long and spreading outward toward the bottom to a width of about four feet—it was as if some falling meteor had dropped perpendicularly and cut its pathway along the rock and down into the earth. Across the bottom of this upright tunnel was the projection of the frontal rock, about five feet high, which formed a sort of wall across the lower section of the pothole, making of it a miniature well.192

  “That is the most interesting of the pot-holes,” Leland explained. “You can see the three successive borings which indicate, no doubt, the advance and retreat of the ice during the long glacial period. The striæ and polish have been well preserved, too.”

  Vance threw away his cigarette and approached it.

  Markham was standing behind him.

  “What, in the name of Heaven, do you expect to find here, Vance?” he asked irritably. “Surely, you’re not taking Mrs. Stamm’s maunderings seriously.”

  Vance, by this time, had climbed on the low wall and was looking over into the depths of the pot-hole.

  “It might interest you, nevertheless, to see the interior of this pot-hole, Markham,” he said, without turning his eyes from the depths beyond.

  There was an unwonted note of awe in his voice, and we quickly came to the edge of the narrow stone wall and looked over into the ancient rock cavity.

  And there we saw the huddled, mangled body of a man in a bathing suit. On the left side of his head was a great ragged gash; and the blood that had run down over his shoulder was black and clotted. The jersey of his suit had been torn down over the chest, and three long gaping wounds on his body marked the line of the tear. His feet were drawn up under him in a hideous distorted posture; and his arms lay limply across his torso, as if detached from his body. The first impression I got was that he had been dropped into the pot-hole from a great height.

  “That is poor Montague,” said Leland simply.

  CHAPTER XI

  A SINISTER PROPHECY

  (Sunday, August 12; 2.30 p. m.)

  Despite the horror of the sight that confronted us in the pot-hole, the discovery of Montague’s mangled body did not come altogether as a shock. Although Markham had shown evidences, throughout the investigation, of discounting Heath’s strong contentions that there had been foul play, he was, nevertheless, prepared for the finding of the body. My impression was that he had battled against the idea as a result of his mental attitude toward the absence of any logical indications pointing to murder. Vance, I knew, had harbored grave suspicions of the situation from the very first; and I myself, in spite of my skepticism, realized, upon my first glimpse of Montague’s body, that there had long been, in the back of my mind, definite doubts as to the seemingly fortuitous facts behind Montague’s disappearance. The Sergeant, of course, had, from the beginning, been thoroughly convinced that there was a sinister background to the superficially commonplace disappearance of the man.

  There was a grim look on Leland’s face as he stared down into the pot-hole, but there was no astonishment in his expression; and he gave me the impression of having anticipated the result of our short ride. After identifying the body as that of Montague he slid down from the wall and stood looking thoughtfully at the cliffs at the left. His eyes were clouded, and his jaw was set rigidly as he reached in his pocket for his pipe.

  “The dragon theory seems to be working out consistently,” he commented, as if thinking aloud.

  “Oh, quite,” murmured Vance. “Too consistently, I should say. Fancy finding the johnny here. It’s a bit rococo, don’t y’ know.”

  We had stepped away from the wall of the pothole and turned back toward the parked car.

  Markham paused to relight his cigar.

  “It’s an astonishing situation,” he muttered between puffs. “How, in the name of Heaven, could he have got into that pot-hole?”

  “Anyhow,” observed Heath, with a kind of vicious satisfaction, “we found what we’ve been looking for, and we’ve got something that we can work on.… If you don’t mind, Mr. Vance, I wish you’d drive me up to the gate, so as I can get Snitkin on guard down here before we return to the house.”

  Vance nodded and climbed into his place behind the wheel. He was in a peculiarly abstracted frame of mind; and I knew there was something about the finding of Montague’s body that bothered him. From his manner throughout the investigation I realized that he had been expecting some definite proof that a crime had been committed. But I knew now that the present state of affairs did not entirely square with his preconceived idea of the case.

  We drove to the gate and brought Snitkin back to the pot-hole, where Heath gave him orders to remain on guard and to let no one approach that side of the cliff from the road. Then we drove back to the Stamm house. As we got out of the car Vance suggested that nothing be said for a while regarding the finding of Montague’s body, as there were one or two things he wished to do before apprising the household of the gruesome discovery we had just made.

  We entered the house by the front door, and Heath strode immediately to the telephone.

  “I’ve got to get Doc Doremus—” He checked himself suddenly and turned toward Markham with a sheepish smile. “Do you mind calling the doc for me, Chief?” he asked. “I guess he’s sort of sore at me. Anyhow, he’ll believe you if you tell him we’ve got the body for him now.”

  “Phone him yourself, Sergeant,” Markham returned in an exasperated tone. He was in a bad frame of mind; but the Sergeant’s hesitancy and appealing look softened him, and he smiled back good-naturedly. “I’ll attend to it,” he said. And he went to the telephone to notify the Medical Examiner of the finding of Montague’s body.

  “He’s coming right out,” he informed us as he replaced the receiver.

  Stamm had evidently heard us come in, for at this moment he came down the front stairs, accompanied by Doctor Holliday.

  “I saw you driving down the East Road a while ago,” he said, when
he had reached us. “Have you learned anything new?”

  Vance was watching the man closely.

  “Oh, yes,” he replied. “We’ve unearthed the corpus delicti. But we wish the fact kept from the other members of the household, for the time being.”

  “You mean—you found Montague’s body?” the other stammered. (Even in the dim light of the hall I could see his face go pale.) “Where, in God’s name, was it?”

  “Down the road a bit,” Vance returned in a casual voice, taking out a fresh Régie and busying himself with the lighting of it. “And not a pretty picture, either. The chap had an ugly wound on his head, and there were three long gashes down the front of his chest—”

  “Three gashes?” Stamm turned vaguely, like a man with vertigo, and steadied himself against the newel post. “What kind of gashes? Tell me, man! Tell me what you mean!” he demanded in a thick voice.

  “If I were superstitious,” Vance replied, smoking placidly, “I’d say they might have been made by the talons of a dragon—same like those imprints we saw on the bottom of the pool.” (He had dropped into a facetious mood—for what reason I could not understand.)

  Stamm was speechless for several moments. He swayed back and forth, glaring at Vance as if at a spectre from which he could not tear his eyes. Then he drew himself up, and the blood rushed back into his face.

  “What damned poppycock is this?” he burst out in a half-frenzied tone. “You’re trying to upset me.” When Vance did not answer, he shifted his frantic gaze to Leland and thrust out his jaw angrily. “You’re to blame for this nonsense. What have you been up to? What’s the truth about this affair?”