The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “They’ve taken Greeff’s body away,” he reported. “And I’ve kept the boys busy on the usual routine stuff. But there’s no new information for you. We’re up against a blank wall, if you ask me.”

  Vance looked at him significantly.

  “Nothing else on your mind, Sergeant?”

  Heath nodded with a slow grin.

  “Sure thing. I was waiting for you to ask me.… We found the wheelbarrow.”

  “Stout fella!”

  “It was in that clump of trees alongside the East Road, about fifty feet this side of the pot-holes. When I got back Hennessey told me about it, and I thought I would take a look around. You know that open sandy space between the Clove and the Bird Refuge—well, I went over that ground pretty thoroughly, knowing what you had in mind, and I found a narrow wheel-track and a lot of depressions that might easily be footprints. So I guess you were right, sir.”

  Markham glanced severely from Heath to Vance.

  “Right about what?” he asked, with annoyance.

  “One of the details connected with Greeff’s death,” Vance answered. “But wait till I check on the things that led up to the wheelbarrow episode.…”

  At this moment Leland, with Bernice Stamm at his side, came through the portières of the drawing-room into the front hall. He appeared somewhat embarrassed.

  “Miss Stamm and I could not stand the noise,” he explained; “so we left the others in the library and came to the drawing-room. It was too sultry outdoors—the house is more bearable.”

  Vance appeared to dismiss the other’s comments as unimportant.

  “Is everybody in the library now?” he asked.

  “Every one but Stamm. He has spent most of the afternoon setting up a windlass on the other side of the pool. He intends to get that fallen rock out today. He asked me to help him, but it was too hot. And, anyway, I was not in the mood for that sort of thing.”

  “Where is Stamm now?” Vance asked.

  “He has gone down the road, I believe, to get a couple of men to operate the windlass for him.”

  Bernice Stamm moved toward the front stairs.

  “I think I’ll go to my room and lie down for a while,” she said, with a curious catch in her voice. Leland’s troubled eyes followed her as she disappeared slowly up the stairs. Then he turned back to Vance.

  “Can I be of any assistance?” he asked. “I probably should have helped Stamm with the rock, but the fact is there were several matters I wanted to talk over with Miss Stamm. She is taking this whole thing far more tragically than she will admit even to herself. She is really at the breaking-point; and I felt that I ought to be with her as much as possible.”

  “Quite so.” Vance studied the man penetratingly.

  “Has anything else happened here today that would tend to upset Miss Stamm?”

  Leland hesitated. Then he said:

  “Her mother sent for me shortly after lunch. She had seen Stamm go down to the pool, and she implored me rather hysterically to bring him back to the house. She was somewhat incoherent in her explanation of why she wanted him here. All I could get out of her was that there was some danger lurking in the pool for him,—the dragon superstition coming back into her mind, no doubt,—and after I had a talk with Mrs. Schwarz, I telephoned Doctor Holliday. He is up-stairs with her now.”

  Vance kept his eyes on Leland, and did not speak immediately. At length he said:

  “We must ask you to remain here for a while.”

  Leland looked up and met Vance’s gaze.

  “I will be on the north terrace—if you should want me.” He took a deep breath, turned quickly, and walked down the hall.

  When he had closed the side door after him, Vance turned to Burke.

  “Stay in the hall here till we return,” he instructed the detective. “And see that no one goes down to the pool.”

  Burke saluted and moved away toward the stairs.

  “Where’s Snitkin, Sergeant?” Vance asked.

  “After the wagon came for Greeff’s body,” Heath informed him, “I told him to wait at the East Road gate.”

  Vance turned toward the front door.

  “That being that, I think we’ll hop down to the pool. But we’ll take the car as far as the little cement walk, and approach from that side.”

  Markham looked puzzled, but said nothing; and we followed Vance down the front steps to his car.

  We drove down the East Road as far as the gate, picked up Snitkin, and then backed up to the tree-lined cement walk, where Vance halted. When we got out of the car Vance reached into the tonneau and took out the hand-bag that he had directed Currie to put there. Then he led the way down the walk to the low area of ground at the northeast corner of the pool. To our left, near the filter, was a large circular wooden windlass, well anchored in the ground, and beside it lay a coil of heavy sisal rope. But Stamm, evidently, had not yet returned.

  “Stamm’s a neat chap,” Vance commented casually, looking at the windlass. “He’s made a pretty good job of that winch. It’ll take a lot of energy, though, to get that rock out of the pool. Good exercise, however—excellent for one’s psychic balance.”

  Markham was impatient.

  “Did you bring me all the way out here,” he asked, “to discuss the advantages of physical exercise?”

  “My dear Markham!” Vance reproved him mildly. Then he added sombrely: “It may be I’ve brought you on an even more foolish errand. And yet—I wonder.…”

  We were standing at the end of the cement walk. Vance took up his hand-bag and started across the fifteen feet or so, which divided us from the rim of the pool.

  “Please stay where you are just a minute,” he requested. “I have a bit of an experiment to make.”

  He crossed the grass to the muddy bank. When he came within a few feet of the water, he bent over, placing the hand-bag in front of him. His body partly shielded it from our view, so that none of us could quite make out what he was doing with it. This particular part of the ground, always moist from its direct contact with the water, was, at this time, unusually soft and yielding, owing to the heavy downpour of rain early in the afternoon.

  From where I stood I could see Vance open the bag before him. He reached into it and took out something. Then he bent over almost to the edge of the water, and leaned forward on one hand. After a moment he drew back; and again I saw him reach into the bag. Once more he bent forward, and threw all his weight on his extended hands.

  Markham moved a little to one side, in order to get a better view of Vance’s activities; but apparently he was unable to see what was going on, for he shrugged impatiently, sighed deeply, and thrust his hands into his pockets with a movement of exasperation. Both Heath and Snitkin stood looking on placidly, without the slightest indication of any emotion.

  Then I heard the bag snap shut. Vance knelt on it for several moments, as if inspecting the edge of the pool. Finally he stood up and placed the bag to one side. He reached in his pocket, took out a cigarette, and deliberately lighted it. Slowly he turned, looked at us hesitantly, and beckoned to us to join him.

  When we reached him he pointed to the flat surface on the muddy ground, near the water, and asked in a strained voice:

  “What do you see?”

  We bent over the small section of ground he had indicated; and there, in the mud, were outlined two familiar demarcations. One was like the imprint of a great scaly hoof; and the other resembled the impression of a three-taloned claw.

  Markham was leaning over them curiously.

  “Good Heavens, Vance! What’s the meaning of this? They’re like the marks we saw on the bottom of the pool!”

  Heath, his serenity shaken for the moment, shifted his startled gaze to Vance’s face, but made no comment.

  Snitkin had already knelt down in the mud and was inspecting the imprints closely.

  “What do you think about them?” Vance asked him.

  Snitkin did not reply immediately. He continued his e
xamination of the two marks. Then he slowly got to his feet and nodded several times with thoughtful emphasis.

  “They’re the same as the ones I made copies of,” he declared. “No mistaking ’em, sir.” He looked inquiringly at Heath. “But I didn’t see these imprints on the bank when I was making the drawings.”

  “They weren’t here then,” Vance explained. “But I wanted you to see them, nevertheless—to make sure they were the same as the others.… I just made these myself.”

  “How did you make them—and with what?” Markham demanded angrily.

  “With part of the sartorial outfit I purchased today,” Vance told him. “The new gloves and the new shoes, don’t y’ know.” Despite his smile his eyes were grave.

  He picked up the hand-bag and walked back toward the cement path.

  “Come, Markham,” he said, “I’ll show you what I mean. But we had better go back to the car. It’s beastly damp here by the pool.”

  He entered the spacious tonneau, and we did likewise, wondering. Snitkin stood in the road by the open door, with one foot on the running-board.

  Vance opened the bag and, reaching into it, drew out the most unusual pair of gloves I had ever seen. They were made of heavy rubber, with gauntlets extending about six inches above the wrists; and though they had a division for the thumb, they had only two broad tapering fingers. They looked like some monster’s three-pronged talons.

  “These gloves, Markham,” Vance explained, “are technically known as two-fingered diving mittens. They are the United States Navy standard pattern, and are constructed in this fashion for convenience when it is necess’ry to have the use of the fingers under water. They are adapted to the most difficult types of submarine work. And it was with one of these gloves that I just made the mark on the earth there.”

  Markham was speechless for a moment; then he tore his fascinated gaze from the gloves and looked up at Vance.

  “Do you mean to tell me it was with a pair of gloves like those that the imprints were made on the bottom of the pool!”

  Vance nodded and tossed the gloves back into the bag.

  “Yes, they explain the claw-marks of the dragon.… And here is what made the dragon’s hoof-prints in the silt of the pool.”

  Reaching into the bag again, he brought out a pair of enormous, strange-looking foot-gear. They had heavy solid-brass bottoms with thick leather tops; and across the instep and the ankle were wide leather straps, with huge buckles.

  “Diving shoes, Markham,” Vance remarked. “Also standard equipment.… Look at the corrugations on the metal soles, made to prevent slipping.”

  He turned one of the shoes over, and there, etched, in the brass, were scale-like ridges and grooves, such as are found in the tread of an automobile tire.

  There was a long silence. This revelation of Vance’s had started, in all of us, new processes of speculative thought. Heath’s face was rigid and dour, and Snitkin stood staring at the shoes with an air of fascinated curiosity. It was Markham who first roused himself.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed, in a low tone, as if expressing his feelings aloud, but without reference to any listener. “I’m beginning to see.…” Then he turned his eyes quickly to Vance. “But what about the suit you were going to get?”

  “I saw the suit when I purchased the shoes and gloves,” Vance replied, inspecting his cigarette thoughtfully. “It really wasn’t necess’ry to own it, once I had seen it, and its workability had been explained to me. But I had to make sure, don’t y’ know,—it was essential to find the missing integers of my theory. However, I needed the shoes and gloves to experiment with. I wanted to prove, d’ ye see, the existence of the diving suit.”

  Markham inclined his head comprehendingly, but there was still a look of awe and incredulity in his eyes.

  “I see what you mean,” he murmured. “There’s a diving suit and a similar pair of shoes and gloves somewhere about here.…”

  “Yes, yes. Somewhere hereabouts. And there’s also an oxygen tank.…” His voice drifted off, and his eyes became dreamy. “They must be near at hand,” he added, “—somewhere on the estate.”

  “The dragon’s outfit!” mumbled Markham, as if following some inner train of thought.

  “Exactly.” Vance nodded and threw his cigarette out of the car window. “And that outfit should be somewhere near the pool. There wasn’t time to carry it away. It couldn’t have been taken back to the house—that would have been too dangerous. And it couldn’t have been left where it might have been accidentally discovered.… There was design in these crimes—a careful plotting of details. Nothing haphazard, nothing fortuitous—”

  He broke off suddenly and, rising quickly, stepped out of the car.

  “Come, Markham! There’s a chance!” There was suppressed excitement in his voice. “By Jove! it’s the only chance. The equipment must be there—it couldn’t be anywhere else. It’s a hideous idea—gruesome beyond words—but maybe…maybe.”

  CHAPTER XX

  THE FINAL LINK

  (Monday, August 13; 5 p. m.)

  Vance hastened back down the cement walk toward the pool, with the rest of us close behind him, not knowing where he was leading us and with only a vague idea of his object. But there was something in his tone, as well as in his dynamic action, which had taken a swift and strong hold on all of us. I believe that Markham and Heath, like myself, felt that the end of this terrible case was near, and that Vance, through some subtle contact with the truth, had found the road which led to its culmination.

  Half-way down the walk Vance turned into the shrubbery at the right, motioning us to follow.

  “Be careful to keep out of sight of the house,” he called over his shoulder, as he headed for the vault.

  When he had reached the great iron door he looked about him carefully, glanced up at the high cliff, and then, with a swift movement to his pocket, took out the vault key. Unlocking the door, he pushed it inward slowly to avoid, I surmised, any unnecessary noise. For the second time that day we entered the dank close atmosphere of the old Stamm tomb, and Vance carefully closed the door. The beam from Heath’s flashlight split the darkness, and Vance took the light from the Sergeant’s hand.

  “I’ll need that for a moment,” he explained, and stepped toward the grim tier of coffins on the right.

  Slowly Vance moved the light along those gruesome rows of boxes, with their corroded bronze fittings and clouded silver name-plates. He worked systematically, rubbing off the tarnish of the silver with his free hand, so that he might read the inscriptions. When he had come to the bottom tier he paused before a particularly old oak coffin and bent down.

  “Slyvanus Anthony Stamm, 1790-1871,” he read aloud. He ran the light along the top of the coffin and touched it at several points with his fingers. “This should be the one, I think,” he murmured. “There’s very little dust on it, and it’s the oldest coffin here. Disintegration of the body will be far advanced and the bone structure will have crumbled, leaving more room for—other things.” He turned to Heath. “Sergeant, will you and Snitkin get this coffin out on the floor. I’d like a peep in it.”

  Markham, who had stood at one side in the shadows watching Vance intently and doubtfully, came quickly forward.

  “You can’t do that, Vance!” he protested. “You can’t break into a private coffin this way. You can be held legally accountable.…”

  “This is no time for technicalities, Markham,” Vance returned in a bitter, imperious voice.… “Come, Sergeant. Are you with me?”

  Heath stepped forward without hesitation. “I’m with you, sir,” he said resolutely. “I think I know what we’re going to find.”

  Markham looked squarely at Vance a moment; then moved aside and turned his back. Knowing what this unspoken acquiescence on Markham’s part meant to a man of his precise and conventional nature, I felt a great wave of admiration for him.

  The coffin was moved from its rack to the floor of the vault, and Vance bent over th
e lid.

  “Ah! The screws are gone.” He took hold of the lid, and with but little effort it slid aside.

  With the Sergeant’s help the heavy top was removed. Beneath was the inner casket. The lid of this was also loose, and Vance easily lifted it off and placed it on the floor. Then he played the flashlight on the interior of the casket.

  At first I thought the thing I saw was some unearthly creature with a huge head and a tapering body, like some illustrations I had seen of Martians. I drew in an involuntary, audible breath: I was shocked and, at the same time, frightened. More monsters! My one instinct was to rush out into the clean sunlight, away from such a hideous and terrifying sight.

  “That’s a duplicate of the suit I saw today, Markham,” came Vance’s steadying, matter-of-fact voice. He played his light down upon it. “A shallow-water diving suit—the kind used largely in pearl-fishing. There’s the three-light screw helmet with its hinged face-plate.… And there’s the one-piece United States Navy diving dress of rubberized canvas.” He bent over and touched the gray material. “Yes, yes, of course—cut down the front. That was for getting out of it quickly without unscrewing the helmet and unlacing the backs of the legs.” He reached into the casket alongside the diving suit and drew forth two rubber gloves and a pair of brass-soled shoes. “And here are duplicates of the shoes and gloves I brought here with me.” (They were both caked with dried mud.) “These are what made the dragon’s imprints on the bottom of the pool.”

  Markham was gazing down into the casket, like a man stunned by a sudden and awe-inspiring revelation.

  “And hidden in that coffin!” he muttered, as if to himself.

  “Apparently the one safe place on the estate,” Vance nodded. “And this particular coffin was chosen because of its age. There would be little more than bones left, after all these years; and with a slight pressure the frame of the chest walls would have caved in, making space for the safe disposal of this outfit.” Vance paused a moment, and then went on: “This type of suit, d’ ye see, doesn’t require an air pump and hose connection. An oxygen tank can be clamped to the breast-plate and attached to the intake-valve of the helmet.… See this?”