The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “I don’t wish to seem too exacting, madam,” Vance returned quietly; “but I would deeply appreciate it if you remained in the drawing-room.”

  The woman raised her eyebrows, shrugged her shoulders, and, turning indifferently, went back up the hall.

  “Frightfully sorry, Vance,” apologized Garden. “The mater is a dowager. Not accustomed to taking orders. And she resents it. I doubt if she really has the slightest desire to sit by Woody’s stiffening body. But she hates to be told what to do and what not to do. She’d probably have spent the day in bed, if Doc Siefert hadn’t firmly told her not to get up.”

  “That’s quite all right.” Vance spoke indifferently, gazing with perplexed meditation at the tip of his cigarette. Then he came quickly to the den door. “Let’s have our little chat—eh, what?” He stood aside for Garden to enter the room; then he followed and closed the door.

  Garden sat down wearily at one end of the davenport and took a pipe from a small drawer in the tabouret. He got out his tobacco and slowly packed the pipe, while Vance walked to the window and stood looking out over the city.

  “Garden,” he began, “there are a few things that I’d like to have cleared up before the District Attorney and the police arrive.” He turned about leisurely and sat down at the desk, facing Garden. The latter was having some difficulty getting his pipe lighted. When he had finally succeeded he looked up dejectedly and met Vance’s gaze.

  “Anything I can do to help,” he mumbled, sucking on his pipe.

  “A few necess’ry questions, don’t y’ know,” Vance went on. “Hope they won’t upset you, and all that. But the fact is, Mr. Markham will probably want me to take a hand in the investigation, since I was a witness to the preamble of this distressin’ tragedy.”

  “I hope he does,” Garden returned. “It’s a damnable affair, and I’d like to see the axe fall, no matter whom it might behead.” His pipe was still giving him trouble. “By the way. Vance,” he went on quietly, “how did you happen to come here today? I’ve asked you so often to join our racing séance—and you pick the one day when the roof blows off the place.”

  Vance kept his eyes on Garden for a moment.

  “The fact is,” he said at length, “I got an anonymous telephone message last night, vaguely outlining the situation here and mentioning Equanimity.”

  Garden jerked himself up to keener attention. His eyes opened wide, and he took the pipe from his mouth.

  “The devil you say!” he exclaimed. “That’s a queer one. Man or woman?”

  “Oh, it was a man,” Vance replied casually. Garden pursed his lips and, after a moment’s meditation, said quietly:

  “Well, anyway, I’m damned glad you did come… What can I tell you that might be of help? Anything you want, old man.”

  “First of all, then,” asked Vance, “did you recognize the revolver? I saw you looking at it rather apprehensively when we came out on the roof.”

  Garden frowned, busied himself for a moment with his pipe, and finally answered, as if with sudden resolution:

  “Yes! I did recognize it, Vance. It belongs to the old gentleman—”

  “Your father?”

  Garden nodded grimly. “He’s had it for years. Why he ever got it in the first place, I don’t know—he probably hasn’t the slightest idea how to use it…”

  “By the by,” Vance put in, “what time does your father generally return home from the University?”

  “Why—why—” Garden hesitated and then continued: “On Saturdays he’s always here early in the afternoon—rarely after three. Gives himself and his staff a half-holiday… But,” he added, “father’s very erratic…” His voice trailed off nervously.

  Vance took two deep inhalations on his cigarette: he was watching Garden attentively. Then he asked in a soft tone:

  “What’s on your mind?—Unless, of course, you have good reason for not wanting to tell me.”

  Garden took a long breath and stood up. He seemed to be deeply troubled as he walked across the room and back.

  “The truth is, Vance,” he said, as he resumed his place on the davenport, “I don’t even know where the pater is this afternoon. As soon as I came downstairs after Woody’s death, I called him to give him the news. I thought he’d want to get here as soon as possible, in the circumstances. But I was told that he’d locked up the laboratory and left the University about two o’clock.” Garden looked up quickly. “He’s probably gone to the library for some research work. Or he may have swung round to Columbia. He spends a good bit of his time there.”

  I could not understand the man’s perturbation; and I could see that it puzzled Vance as well. Vance endeavored to put him at his ease.

  “It really doesn’t matter,” he said, as if dismissing the subject. “It may be just as well that your father doesn’t learn of the tragedy till later.” He smoked for a moment. “But to get back to the revolver: where was it usually kept?”

  “In the centre drawer of the desk upstairs,” Garden told him promptly.

  “And was the fact generally known to the other members of the household, or to Swift himself?”

  Garden nodded. “Oh, yes. There was no secret about it. We often joked with the old gentleman about his ‘arsenal.’ Only last week, at dinner, he thought he heard some one in the garden and ran upstairs to see who it was. The mater called after him spoofingly: ‘At last you may have a chance to use your precious revolver.’ The old gentleman returned in a few minutes rather sheepishly. One of the flower-pots had been blown over and had rolled across the tiles. We all rode him good-naturedly for the rest of the meal.”

  “And the revolver was always loaded?”

  “So far as I know, yes.”

  “And was there an extra supply of cartridges?”

  “As to that, I cannot say,” Garden answered; “but I don’t think so.”

  “And here’s a very important question, Garden,” Vance went on. “How many of the people that are here today could possibly have known that your father kept this loaded revolver in his desk? Now, think carefully before answering.”

  Garden meditated for several moments. He looked off into space and puffed steadily on his pipe.

  “I am trying to remember,” he said reminiscently, “just who was here the day Zalia came upon the gun—”

  “What day was that?” Vance cut in sharply.

  “It was about three months ago,” Garden explained. “You see, we used to have the telephone set-up connected upstairs in the study. But some of the western races came in so late that it began to interfere with the old gentleman’s routine when he came home from the University. So we moved the paraphernalia down into the drawing-room. As a matter of fact, it was more convenient; and the mater didn’t object—in fact, she rather enjoyed it—”

  “But what happened on this particular day?” insisted Vance.

  “Well, we were all upstairs in the study, going through the whole silly racing rigmarole that you witnessed this afternoon, when Zalia Graem, who always sat at the old gentleman’s desk, began opening the drawers, looking for a piece of scratch paper on which to figure the mutuels. She finally opened the centre drawer and saw the revolver. She brought it out with a flourish and, laughing like a silly schoolgirl, pointed it around the room. Then she made some comments about the perfect gambling accommodations, drawing a parallel between the presence of the gun and the suicide room at Monte Carlo. ‘All the conveniences of the Riviera,’ she babbled. Or something to that effect. ‘When you’ve lost your chemise, you can blow out your brains.’ I reprimanded her—rather rudely, I’m afraid—and ordered her to put the revolver back in its place, as it was loaded—and just then a race came over the amplifier, and the episode was ended.”

  “Most interestin’,” murmured Vance. “And can you recall how many of those present today were likewise present at Miss Graem’s little entr’acte?”

  “I rather think they were all there, if my memory is correct.”

  Vance
sighed.

  “A bit futile—eh, what? No possible elimination along that line.”

  Garden looked up, startled.

  “Elimination? I don’t understand. We were all downstairs here this afternoon except Kroon—and he was out—when the shot was fired.”

  “Quite—oh, quite,” agreed Vance, leaning back in his chair. “That’s the puzzlin’ and distressin’ part of this affair. No one could have done it, and yet someone did. But let’s not tarry over the point. There are still one or two matters I want to ask you about.”

  “Go right ahead.” Garden seemed completely perplexed…

  At this moment there was a slight commotion in the hallway. It sounded as if a scuffle of some kind was in process, and a shrill, protesting voice mingled with the calm but determined tones of the nurse. Vance went immediately to the door and threw it open. There, just outside the den door, only a short distance from the stairway, were Miss Weatherby and Miss Beeton. The nurse had a firm hold on the other woman and was calmly arguing with her. As Vance stepped toward them, Miss Weatherby turned to face him and drew herself up arrogantly.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded. “Must I be mauled by a menial because I wish to go upstairs?”

  “Miss Beeton has orders that no one is to go upstairs,” Vance said sternly. “And I was unaware that she is a menial.”

  “But why can’t I go upstairs?” the woman asked with dramatic emphasis. “I want to see poor Woody. Death is so beautiful; and I was very fond of Woody. By whose orders, pray, am I being denied this last communion with the departed?”

  “By my orders,” Vance told her coldly. “Furthermore, this particular death is far from beautiful, I assure you. Unfortunately, we are not living in a Maeterlinckian era. Swift’s death is rather a sordid one, don’t y’ know. And the police will be here any minute. Until then no one will be permitted to disturb anything upstairs.”

  Miss Weatherby’s eyes flashed.

  “Then why,” she demanded with histrionic indignation, “was this—this woman”—she glanced with exaggerated contempt at the nurse—“coming down the stairs herself when I came into the hall?”

  Vance made no attempt to hide a smile of amusement.

  “I’m sure I don’t know. I may ask her later. But she happens to be under instructions from me to let no one go upstairs. Will you be so good, Miss Weatherby,” he added, almost harshly, “as to return to the drawing-room and remain there until the officials arrive?”

  The woman glared superciliously at the nurse, and then, with a toss of the head, strode toward the archway. There she turned and, with a cynical smirk, called back in an artificial tone:

  “Blessings upon you, my children.” Whereupon she disappeared into the drawing-room.

  The nurse, obviously embarrassed, turned to resume her post, but Vance stopped her.

  “Were you upstairs, Miss Beeton?” he asked in a kindly tone.

  She was standing very erect, her face slightly flushed. But, for all her apparent mental disturbance, she was like a symbol of poise. She looked Vance frankly and firmly in the eye and slowly shook her head.

  “I haven’t left my post, Mr. Vance,” she said quietly. “I understand my duty.”

  Vance returned her gaze for a moment, and then bowed his head slightly.

  “Thank you, Miss Beeton,” he said.

  He came back into the den, and closing the door, addressed Garden again.

  “Now that we have disposed temporarily of the theatrical queen,”—he smiled sombrely—“suppose we continue with our little chat.”

  Garden chuckled mildly and began repacking his pipe.

  “Queer girl, Madge; always acting like a tragedienne—but I don’t think she’s ever really been on the stage. Suppressed theatrical ambition and that sort of thing. Dreams of herself as another Nazimova. And morbid as they come. Outside of that, she’s a pretty regular sort. Takes her losses like an old general—and she’s lost plenty the last few months…”

  “You heard her tell me she was particularly fond of Swift,” remarked Vance. “Just what did she mean by that?”

  Garden shrugged. “Nothing at all, if you ask me. She didn’t know that Woody was on earth, so to speak. But dead, Woody becomes a dramatic possibility.”

  “Yes, yes—quite,” murmured Vance. “Which reminds me: what was the tiff between Swift and Miss Graem about? I noticed your little peace-maker advances this afternoon.”

  Garden became serious.

  “I haven’t been able to figure that situation out myself. I know they were pretty soft on each other some time ago—that is, Woody was pretty deep in the new-mown hay as far as Zalia went. Hovered round her all the time, and took all her good-natured bantering without a murmur. Then, suddenly, the embryonic love affair—or whatever it was—went sour. I’ll-never-speak-to-you-again stuff. Like two kids. Both of them carrying around at least a cord of wood on each shoulder whenever the other was present. Obviously something had happened, but I never got the straight of it. It may have been a new flame on Woody’s part—I rather imagine it was something of the kind. As for Zalia, she was never serious about it anyway. And I have an idea that Woody wanted that extra twenty thousand today for some reason connected with Zalia…” Garden stopped speaking abruptly and slapped his thigh. “By George! I wouldn’t be surprised if that hard-bitten little gambler had turned Woody down because he was comparatively hard up. You can’t tell about these girls today. They’re as practical as the devil himself.”

  Vance nodded thoughtfully.

  “Your observations rather fit with the remarks she made to me a little while ago. She, too, wanted to go upstairs to see Swift. Gave as her excuse the fact that she felt she was to blame for the whole sordid business.”

  Garden grinned.

  “Well, there you are.” Then he remarked judicially: “But you can never tell about women. One minute Zalia gives the impression of being superficial; and the next minute she’ll make some comment that would almost lead you to believe she were an octogenarian philosopher. Unusual girl. Infinite possibilities there.”

  “I wonder.” Vance smoked in silence for a moment. Then he went on: “There’s another matter in connection with Swift which you might be able to clear up for me. Could you suggest any reason why, when I placed the bet on Azure Star for Miss Beeton this afternoon, Swift should have looked at me as if he would enjoy murdering me?”

  “I saw that too,” Garden nodded. “I can’t say it meant anything much. Woody was always a weak sister where any woman was concerned. It took damned little to make him think he’d fallen in love. He may have become infatuated with the nurse—he’d been seeing her around here for the past few months. And now that you mention it, he’s been somewhat poisonous toward me on several occasions because she was more or less friendly with me and ignored him entirely. But I’ll say this for Woody: if he did have ideas about Miss Beeton, his taste is improving. She’s an unusual girl—different…”

  Vance nodded his head slowly and gazed with peculiar concentration out the window.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “Quite different.” Then, as if bringing himself back from some alien train of thought, he crushed out his cigarette and leaned forward. “However, we’ll drop speculation for the moment… Suppose you tell me something about the vault upstairs.”

  Garden glanced up in evident surprise.

  “There’s nothing to tell about that old catch-all. It’s neither mysterious nor formidable. And it’s really not a vault at all. Several years ago the pater found that he had accumulated a lot of private papers and experimental data that he didn’t want casual callers messing in. So he had this fire-proof storeroom built to house these scientific treasures of his. The vault, as you call it, was built as much for mere privacy as for actual safe-keeping. It’s just a very small room with shelves around the walls.”

  “Has everyone in the house access to it?” asked Vance.

  “Anyone so inclined,” replied Garden. “But wh
o, in the name of Heaven, would want to go in there?”

  “Really, y’ know, I haven’t the groggiest notion,” Vance returned, “except that I found the door to it unlatched when I was coming downstairs a little while ago.”

  Garden shrugged carelessly, as if the matter was neither important nor unusual.

  “Probably,” he suggested, “the pater didn’t shut the door tightly when he went out this morning. It has a spring lock.”

  “And the key?”

  “The key is a mere matter of form. It hangs conveniently on a small nail at the side of the door.”

  “Accordingly,” mused Vance, “the vault is readily accessible to any one in the household who cares to enter it.”

  “That’s right,” nodded the other. “But what are you trying to get at, Vance? What’s the vault to do with poor Woody’s death?”

  “I’m not sure,” returned Vance slowly, rising and going again to the window. “I wish I knew. I’m merely tryin’ not to overlook any possibility.”

  “Your line of inquiry sounds pretty far-fetched to me,” Garden commented indifferently.

  “One never knows, does one?” Vance murmured, going to the door. “Miss Beeton,” he called, “will you be good enough to run upstairs and see if the key to the vault door is in its place?”

  A few moments later the nurse returned and informed Vance that the key was where it was always kept.

  Vance thanked her and, closing the den door, turned again to Garden.

  “There’s one more rather important matter that you can clear up for me— it may have a definite bearing on the situation.” He sat down in a low green leather chair and took out his cigarette case. “Can the garden be entered from the fire exit opening on the roof?”

  “Yes, by George!” The other sat up with alacrity. “There’s a gate in the east fence of the garden, just beside the privet hedge, which leads upon the terrace on which the fire exit of the building opens. When we had the fence built we were required to put this gate in because of the fire laws. But it’s rarely used, except on hot summer nights. Still, if any one came up the main stairs to the roof and went out the emergency fire door, he could easily enter our garden by coming through that gate in the fence.”