The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Thank you for that information, sir.” Vance offered a cigarette to Mr. Browning and took one himself. “But when Mr. Kinkaid arranged with you for this large supply of current, did he tell you for what purpose it was going to be used?”

  “I naturally asked him that question,” the manager returned, “and he explained merely that he required such a capacity for experimental purposes.”

  “You did not push the matter further?”

  “Mr. Kinkaid informed me,” the other replied, “that the experimental work which was to be done was of a more or less confidential nature; and my detailed interest in it naturally ended at that point. You appreciate the fact, of course, that our business, as well as our ideal, is to give the best possible service to the public.”

  “Your attitude, sir,” returned Vance, with a slight inclination of the head, “is quite correct. I am most grateful to you for your confidence.”

  Mr. Browning rose.

  “I’m sorry I can give you no more information—unless you would like to know the exact amount of power consumed.”

  “No, thank you,” said Vance, starting for the door. “You’ve told me all that we need to know at present.” And he took his departure.

  When we were again in the car, Vance sat at the wheel for several minutes in indecisive abstraction. Then he took out his cigarette-case and, with great deliberation, lit another of his Régies.

  “I think, Van,” he said slowly, “we’ll take a look at Kinkaid’s retreat. I have a general idea where it is. If we go astray we can make inquiries.”

  He turned the car about and headed back toward the Hudson River. When we were again on route 9-W Vance turned north along the Palisades.

  “There should be a narrow roadway somewhere within the next few miles, and there may be a sign to guide us,” he said. “Keep your eye out. If we miss it we’ll have to go to Closter and inquire our way from there.”

  But this was not necessary, for about two miles farther on we came upon a rustic weather-beaten guide-post at the entrance to a tree-lined private driveway leading away from the river, which told us that Kinkaid’s hunting lodge was somewhere beyond.

  Turning into this roadway, we came almost immediately to a densely wooded stretch of country. We were now in Bergen County, somewhere between Closter township and the New York state line, near that section of New Jersey called Rockleigh. Following this private road for perhaps half a mile, we suddenly came to a clearing in the centre of which stood an old two-story stone cottage, such as might have been built originally as a private residence. There was a look of utter desolation about it. The windows had been boarded up and there was a general air of desuetude about the small front porch and the massive door which was the main entrance to the lodge. Behind the house, on the right, was a metal garage. Vance drove his car into the dense thicket on the left and got out.

  “It looks a bit deserted—eh, what, Van?” he commented as we approached the front door.

  He pulled the old-fashioned brass knob several times; but though we could hear the tinkling of a bell within, there was no answer to his summons.

  “I’m afraid there’s no one here,” he said. “And I had passionately hoped to gain access. Let’s see what the rear of the place holds in store for us.”

  We walked down the pathway to the north, but instead of going directly to the back of the lodge, Vance continued on toward the garage. The door was slightly ajar, but on the latch hung a large padlock. Vance gave this padlock his careful attention and then glanced into the garage.

  “Signs of recent life,” he murmured. “There’s no car, but there’s neither dust nor rust on the lock. Moreover, there are marks of automobile tires on the roadway, as well as traces of fresh oil on this cement flooring. Conclusion: the inhabitant or inhabitants of the lodge have only recently departed. Destination and time of his, or their, return, problematical.”

  He looked up at the rear elevation of the lodge and smoked in speculative silence.

  “I wonder…” he murmured at length. “It might be done. I say, Van, do you feel in a house-breakin’ mood?”

  He approached the small screened porch at the back of the house and mounted the short flight of wooden steps that led to it. The door was not latched and we stepped into the porch. There was a door leading into the lodge, and beside it a small pantry window. Both, however, were locked.

  “Wait here a minute,” Vance directed; and he disappeared down the porch steps into the rear yard. A few moments later he returned with a chisel from the tool-box of his car. “I have always had a suppressed urge to be a burglar,” he said. “Now let’s see.…”

  He worked the flat blade of the chisel between the two small sections of the pantry window, and after a few minutes of manipulation, he succeeded in throwing the circular bolt which held them locked. Then, by inserting the chisel under the lower sash, he was able to raise it. There was an empty wooden box standing in a corner of the porch, and this Vance placed beneath the window. Standing on it, he managed, with considerable effort, to squeeze himself through the narrow opening; and a moment later I heard a heavy thump as he disappeared into the darkness inside. In another minute, however, his face appeared at the window.

  “No damage done, Van,” he announced. “Come along in. I’ll help you through.”

  I pulled my hat over my ears and worked myself forward through the window. Vance took me under the shoulders and drew me into the narrow dark pantry.

  “My word!” he sighed. “Burglary is far too strenuous an undertaken’. I was quite right in renouncin’ the career.… Now we must look for the cellar door. I doubt if there will be anything to interest us on the main floors.”

  The cellar door was easily found. It led directly off the kitchen which was divided from the pantry by a swinging door. Vance led the way down the stairs, holding his pocket cigarette lighter before him.

  “Oh, I say!” I heard his voice from the semi-darkness ahead. “That’s a curious door for an innocent hunting lodge.”

  I was directly behind him now, at the foot of the stairs, and, looking over his shoulder, I saw through the flickering light of the cigarette lighter’s tiny flame an enormous solid-oak door, comparatively new. There was neither door-knob nor lock, but where the knob would ordinarily have been was a large iron drop bolt. Vance lifted the heavy bolt and pushed the door inward. From the black depths beyond there came an acrid chemical odor and a continuous, insistent hum, as of motors; and far off in the blackness I could see several tiny shimmering blue streaks of flame, as of Bunsen burners.

  Vance stepped through the doorway and fumbled around on the adjoining wall. Finally he found the electric switch. There was a click; and a brilliant illumination from a dozen or more suspended electric bulbs replaced the darkness.

  An astonishing sight met my eyes. The stone cellar, though originally it must have been nearly sixty feet square, had been extended on two sides, so that we now found ourselves in an underground room at least a hundred feet wide and a hundred and twenty feet long. It was filled with rows of enormous tables covered with thousands of small circular glass jars. At the rear of the cellar was a series of electric generators; and on some of the tables and wide shelves about the walls were elaborate collections of bottles and intricate chemical paraphernalia.

  Vance looked about him and moved here and there among the heavily laden tables.

  “My word!” he murmured. “Doctor Taylor would be green with envy if he could see this laborat’ry. Amazin’!…”

  He walked across the room to a series of tables whose apparatus was quite unlike the rest, and where I had seen the blue flames.

  “Heavy water, Van,” he explained, indicating several cone-shaped bottles at the end of a long series of tubes, valves and cells. “There must be over a quart of it here. Large-scale production, this. If it’s pure, Kinkaid has a fortune in those bottles.… Do you see how it’s made, Van? A fascinatin’ process.”

  He looked over the apparatus clos
ely.

  “The method of production used here is the same as the one devised by the chemists at Princeton—the first one, by the by, of any real practical value. Electrolyte from commercial electrolytic cells is first distilled to remove the carbonate and hydroxide. Sodium hydroxide is added, and then the solution is electrolyzed in those cells.”

  He pointed to several tables far down the room, containing innumerable hydrometer jars which were cooled by immersion in large shallow tanks of running water.

  “The electrodes, you can see, are bent twice at right-angles to form anode and cathode in the neighboring cells; and the potential of the direct current is supplied from those motor generators over there. It takes about three days to diminish the electrolyte to about twelve per cent of its original volume; and then this concentrated electrolyte is partially neutralized by bubbling carbon dioxide through it. After that it is distilled and added to another group of cells—those on that series of tables at the rear—containing water of the same grade but still with the original sodium hydroxide content. Three successive electrolyses are carried out, which result in water containing about two and a half per cent of the heavy hydrogen isotope. From this stage onward the hydrogen contains the heavy isotope which is recovered by the apparatus on these tables.”

  He waved his hand over the elaborate chemical array in front of which we were standing.

  “The mixed electrolytic gas passes from those cells at the right through this spray trap, then through this T-tube which, you observe, is immersed in mercury to form a safety valve for releasing excessive pressure; and finally it flows out through that capillary glass nozzle where it burns as a flame.”

  Vance dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed it out with his toe.

  “And that is the final step, Van, in the production of the world’s most expensive liquid. The water formed by the combustion is condensed in this inclined quartz tube—”

  There came to us the sound of soft rapid footsteps on the cellar stairs. Vance swung suddenly about and rushed forward. But he was too late. The great oak door had been drawn violently shut, and almost simultaneously the heavy iron bolt was thrown into its socket with a metallic thud.

  Above the din of the motors and the flow of the running water in the shallow tanks we could distinctly hear the angry but triumphant chuckle of some one on the stairs.

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE WHITE LABEL

  (Monday, October 17; 3 p. m.)

  Vance stood staring at the blank heavy door, a wry smile on his lips.

  “’Pon my soul, Van!” he murmured. “And I abhor melodrama. Moreover, we’ve had no lunch—and it’s three o’clock. Unpleasant but interestin’ situation.” He drew up a small deal chair and, sitting down despondently, smoked thoughtfully.

  Suddenly every light in the cellar was extinguished, and we were left in a black chemical-laden darkness.

  “Our turnkeys have thrown the main switch,” Vance sighed. “Well, well. Can you bear it, Van? I’m deuced sorry to have involved you in this fantastic predicament.… But let us see if our captors are communicative.”

  He went to the door and rapped on it loudly several times with the back of his chair. Footsteps again descended the stairs, and a muffled, unidentifiable voice asked:

  “Who are you—and what do you want here?”

  “I regret that I am Mr. Vance,” Vance called back. “And I’d jolly well like some homard à la Turque and a bottle of light Chauvenet.”

  “You’re going to get something worse than that,” came the muffled voice which, despite its faintness, was harsh and vindictive. “How many of you are there?”

  “Only two,” Vance told him. “Quite harmless. Tourists. Sightseers in the wilds of Jersey.”

  “Harmless burglars—that’s good!” And the voice chuckled viciously. “Anyway, you’ll be harmless when I finish with you. I’ll be calling on you in a minute—as soon as I notify the State Troopers.” And we could hear ascending footsteps on the stairs.

  Vance beat on the door again with his chair.

  “Just a moment,” he called out.

  “Well, what’ll it be now?” The voice seemed farther away this time.

  “Before you annoy the gendarmes,” Vance said, “I may as well inform you that the New York police know exactly where I am and why I came here. Also, I have an appointment with District Attorney Markham at five o’clock, and if I do not put in an appearance, this hunting lodge will be the scene of a most thorough tour of inspection.… But don’t let the fact upset you. I have much to meditate on for the next few hours.” I could hear him replacing the chair and sitting down. Then, by the tiny flash of his cigarette lighter, I could see him lighting a fresh Régie.

  There was a short silence followed by footsteps on the stairs and the low murmur of voices. In a few moments the lights in the cellar blazed forth again and the motors resumed their hum. Shortly afterward came the sound of the iron bolt being lifted; and the ponderous oak door swung slowly inward.

  At the foot of the stairs stood Kinkaid. His face looked more like a mask than ever.

  “I didn’t know it was you, Mr. Vance,” he said in an icy tone entirely without modulation, “or I should not have acted so inhospitably. I drove up and noticed that the pantry window had been forced open. I took it for granted there were burglars here, and when I saw lights in the cellar I ordered the door bolted.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Vance returned dulcetly. “My social error—not yours.”

  Kinkaid held the door open and stood to one side. We mounted the stairs to the kitchen, and Kinkaid led the way into the lounge room. Beside a massive table at one side stood a heavy-set man of about thirty-five, with flaming red hair and a sullen, serious face. He wore puttees, a canvas work suit, and a heavy gray flannel shirt.

  “Mr. Arnheim,” Kinkaid announced casually, by way of introduction. “He’s in charge of the laboratory that you’ve just been inspecting.”

  Vance turned to the man and bowed slightly.

  “Ah! A classmate of Bloodgood’s and Quayle’s?”

  Arnheim gave a slight start, and his eyes clouded.

  “Well, what of it?” he grumbled roughly.

  “That’ll be all, Arnheim,” said Kinkaid, and dismissed the man with a wave of the hand.

  Arnheim walked back to the kitchen and we heard him go down the steps to the cellar. Kinkaid sat down and scrutinized Vance with his fish-like eyes.

  “You appear fairly well acquainted with my affairs,” he commented.

  “Oh, no. No. Only the obvious facts,” Vance assured him pleasantly. “I was seekin’ more data when you arrived.”

  “It’s lucky for you,” said Kinkaid, “that it turned out as it did. Arnheim’s a bad boy when it comes to uninvited guests in the laboratory. I’m on my way to Atlantic City for a few days and Arnheim drove over to Closter to fetch me here.”

  Vance raised his eyebrows.

  “Deuced queer route from New York to Atlantic City, don’t y’ know.”

  Kinkaid’s face hardened, and his eyes became mere slits.

  “It’s not so damned queer,” he retorted. “I wanted to go over some business with Arnheim before leaving, so I took the train to Closter and had him meet me there. He’s driving me to Newark later to catch the seven o’clock train to Atlantic City.… Does that explain my itinerary satisfactorily?”

  “After a fashion, yes.” Vance nodded. “It might be. Quite logical when explained. Gettin’ away from the turmoil of the wicked city for a while—eh, what?”

  “Who the hell wouldn’t—after what I’ve been through?” Kinkaid had modified his tone, and spoke almost petulantly. “I’ve shut down the Casino for a while, out of respect for Virginia.” He sat upright in his chair and fixed Vance with a vicious look. “Believe it or not, sir; but I’d like to get my hands on the brute that killed her.”

  “Noble sentiment,” Vance murmured non-committally. “Primitive but noble. By the by, her water carafe wa
s empty when we arrived at the house Saturday night.”

  “So my nephew informed me. But what of it? No crime in drinking a glass of water, is there?”

  “No,” admitted Vance. “Nor in manufacturing heavy water.… Amazin’ plant you have here.”

  “The finest plant in the world,” asserted Kinkaid with obvious pride. “It was Bloodgood’s idea. He saw the possibilities of commercializing heavy water, put it up to me, and I told him to go ahead—that I’d finance it. In another month or so we’ll be ready to market it.”

  “Yes—quite. Most enterprisin’ chappie, Mr. Bloodgood.” Vance nodded, his eyes on Kinkaid in dreamy absorption. “So Bloodgood worked out the idea, went to Quayle in the Frick Laborat’ry and got all the necess’ry data and plans; then he looked up Arnheim and put him in charge of operations. Three ambitious young chemists—all good friends—reaching out, so to speak. Very neat.”

  Kinkaid smiled shrewdly.

  “You seem to know as much about my enterprise as I do. Did Bloodgood tell you?”

  “Oh, no.” Vance shook his head. “He very dexterously avoided the subject. A bit too strenuous in his avoidance, though. Aroused my suspicions. I toddled down to Princeton last night. Put various things together. Your hunting lodge was indicated. So I toddled out.”

  “Why are you so interested in my laboratory?” Kinkaid asked.

  “The water motif, don’t y’ know. Far too much water bubblin’ up here and there in this poisoning case.”

  Kinkaid sprang to his feet, and his face became an ugly red.

  “What in hell do you mean by that?” he demanded thickly. “Heavy water isn’t a poison.”

  “No one knows, don’t y’ know,” returned Vance mildly. “It might be. No way of tellin’ yet. Interestin’ subject.… Anyway, water was indicated. I’ve simply been following the sign-posts.”