The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  Heath was amused in spite of his annoyance.

  “I ain’t arranging murders for your convenience. But if I caught you in an idle moment this time, it’s fine with me… There’s the fellow in the chair over there. It’s Mr. Vance’s find—and Mr. Vance has got ideas about it.”

  Doremus pushed his hat further back on his head, thrust his hands deep in his trousers pockets and stepped leisurely to the rattan chair with its lifeless occupant. He made a cursory examination of the limp figure, scrutinized the bullet hole, tested the arms and legs for rigor mortis, and then swung about to face the rest of us.

  “Well, what about it?” he asked, in his easy cynical manner. “He’s dead; shot in the head with a small-calibre bullet; and the lead’s probably lodged in the brain. No exit hole. Looks as if he’d decided to shoot himself. There’s nothing here to contradict the assumption. The bullet went into the temple, and is at the correct angle. Furthermore, there are powder marks, showing that the gun was held at very close range—almost a contact wound, I should say. There’s an indication of singeing around the orifice.”

  He teetered on his toes and leered at the Sergeant.

  “You needn’t ask me how long he’s been dead, for I can’t tell you. The best I can do is to say that he’s been dead somewhere between thirty minutes and a couple of hours. He isn’t cold yet, and rigor mortis hasn’t set in. The blood from the wound is only slightly coagulated, but the variations of this process—especially in the open air—do not permit an accurate estimate of the time involved:… What else do you want me to tell you?”

  Vance took the cigarette from his mouth and addressed Doremus.

  “I say, doctor; speakin’ of the blood on the johnnie’s temple, what would you say about the amount?”

  “Too damned little, I’d say,” Doremus returned promptly. “But bullet wounds have a queer way of acting sometimes. Anyway, there ought to be a lot more gore.”

  “Precisely,” Vance nodded. “My theory is that he was shot elsewhere and brought to this chair.”

  Doremus made a wry face and cocked his head to one side.

  “Was shot? Then you don’t think it was suicide?” He pondered a moment. “It could be, of course,” he decided finally. “There’s no reason why a corpse can’t be carried from one place to another. Find the rest of the blood and you’ll probably know where his death occurred.”

  “Thanks awfully, doctor.” Vance smiled faintly. “That did flash through my mind, don’t y’ know; but I believe the blood was wiped up. I was merely hopin’ that your findings would substantiate my theory that he did not shoot himself while sitting in that chair, without any one else around.”

  Doremus shrugged indifferently.

  “That’s a reasonable enough assumption,” he said. “There really ought to be more blood. And I can tell you that he didn’t mop it up himself after the bullet was fired. He died instantly.”

  “Have you any other suggestions?” asked Vance.

  “I may have when I’ve gone over the body more carefully after these babies”—he waved his hand toward the photographer and the finger-print men—“finish their hocus-pocus.”

  Captain Dubois and Detective Bellamy had already begun their routine, with the telephone table as the starting-point; and Quackenbush was adjusting his small metal tripod.

  Vance turned to Dubois. “I say, Captain, give your special attention to the head-phone, the revolver, and the glasses. Also the door-knob of the vault across the hall inside.”

  Dubois nodded with a grunt, and continued his delicate labors.

  Quackenbush, his camera having been set up, took his pictures and then waited by the passageway door for further instructions from the finger-print officers.

  When the three men had gone inside, Doremus drew in an exaggerated sigh and spoke to Heath impatiently.

  “How about getting your corpus delicti over on the settee? Easier to examine him there.”

  “O.K., doc.”

  The Sergeant beckoned to Snitkin with his head, and the two detectives lifted Swift’s limp body and placed it on the same wicker divan where Zalia Graem had lain when she collapsed at the sight of the dead man.

  Doremus went to work in his usual swift and efficient fashion. When he had finished the task, he threw a steamer rug over the dead man, and made a brief report to Vance and Markham.

  “There’s nothing to indicate a violent struggle, if that’s what you’re hoping for. But there’s a slight abrasion on the bridge of the nose, as if his glasses had been jerked off; and there’s a slight bump on the left side of his head, over the ear, which may have been caused by a blow of some kind, though the skin hasn’t been broken.”

  “How, doctor,” asked Vance, “would the following theory square with your findings:—that the man had been shot elsewhere, had fallen to a tiled floor, striking his head against it sharply, that his glasses had been torn off when the left lens came in contact with the floor, and that he was carried out here to the chair, and the glasses replaced on his nose?”

  Doremus pursed his lips and inclined his head thoughtfully.

  “That would be a very reasonable explanation of the lump on his head and the abrasion on the bridge of his nose.” He jerked his head up, raised his eyebrows, and smirked. “So this is another of your cock-eyed murders, is it? Well, it’s all right with me. But I’ll tell you right now, you won’t get an autopsy report tonight. I’m bored and need excitement; and I’m going to Madison Square Garden to see Strangler Lewis and Londos have it out on the mat.” He thrust his chin out in good-natured belligerence at Heath. “And I’m not going to leave my seat number at the box-office either. That’s fair warning to you, Sergeant. You can either postpone your future casualties until tomorrow, or worry one of my assistants.”

  He made out an order for the removal of the body, readjusted his hat, waved a friendly good-bye which included all of us, and disappeared swiftly through the door into the passageway.

  Vance led the way into the study, and the rest of us followed him. We were barely seated when Captain Dubois came in and reported that there were no finger-prints on any of the objects Vance had enumerated.

  “Handled with gloves,” he finished laconically, “or wiped clean.”

  Vance thanked him. “I’m not in the least surprised,” he added.

  Dubois rejoined Bellamy and Quackenbush in the hall, and the three made their way down the stairs.

  “Well, Vance, are you satisfied?” Markham asked.

  Vance nodded. “I hadn’t expected any fingerprints. Cleverly thought-out crime. And what Doremus found fills some vacant spots in my own theory. Stout fella, Doremus. For all of his idiosyncrasies, he understands his business. He knows what is wanted and looks for it. There can be no question that Swift was in the vault when he was shot; that he fell to the floor, brushing down some of the, papers; that he struck his head on the tiled floor, and broke the left lens of his glasses—you noted, of course, that the lump on his head is also on the left side—and that he was dragged into the garden and placed in the chair. Swift was a small, slender man; probably didn’t weigh over a hundred and twenty pounds; and it would have been no great feat of strength for some one to have thus transported him after death…”

  There were footsteps in the corridor and, as our eyes involuntarily turned toward the door, we saw the dignified elderly figure of Professor Ephraim Garden. I recognized him immediately from pictures I had seen.

  He was a tall man, despite his stooped shoulders; and, though he was very thin, he possessed a firmness of bearing which made one feel that he had retained a great measure of the physical power that had obviously been his in youth. There was benevolence in the somewhat haggard face, but there was also shrewdness in his gaze; and the contour of his mouth indicated a latent hardness. His hair, brushed in a pompadour, was almost white and seemed to emphasize the sallowness of his complexion. His dark eyes and the expression of his face were like his son’s; but he was a far more sensitive and
studious type than young Garden.

  He bowed to us with an old-fashioned graciousness and took a few steps into the study.

  “My son has just informed me,” he said in a slightly querulous voice, “of the tragedy that has occurred here this afternoon. I’m sorry that I did not return home earlier, as is my wont on Saturdays, for in that event the tragedy might have been averted. I myself would have been in the study here and would probably have kept an eye on my nephew. In any event, no one could then have got possession of my revolver.”

  “I am not at all sure, Doctor Garden,” Vance returned grimly, “that your presence here this afternoon would have averted the tragedy. It is not nearly so simple a matter as it appears at first glance.”

  Professor Garden sat down in a chair of antique workmanship near the door and, clasping his hands tightly, leaned forward.

  “Yes, yes. So I understand. And I want to hear more about this affair.” The tension in his voice was patent. “Floyd told me that Woode’s death had all the appearances of suicide, but that you do not accept that conclusion. Would it be asking too much if I requested further details with regard to your attitude in this respect?”

  “There can be no doubt, sir,” Vance returned quietly, “that your nephew was murdered. There are too many indications that contradict the theory of suicide. But it would be inadvisable, as well as unnecess’ry, to go into details at the moment. Our investigation has just begun.”

  “Must there be an investigation?” Professor Garden asked in tremulous protest.

  “Do you not wish to see the murderer brought to justice?” Vance retorted coldly.

  “Yes—yes; of course.” The professor’s answer was almost involuntary; but as he spoke his eyes drifted dreamily to the window overlooking the river, and he sank dejectedly a little lower into his chair. “It’s most unfortunate, however,” he murmured. Then he looked appealingly to Vance. “But are you sure you are right and that you are not creating unnecessary scandal?”

  “Quite,” Vance assured him. “Whoever committed the murder made several grave miscalculations. The subtlety of the crime was not extended through all phases of it. Indeed, I believe that some fortuitous incident or condition made certain revisions necess’ry at the last moment… By the by, doctor, may I ask what detained you this afternoon?—I gathered from your son that you usually return home long before this time on Saturdays.”

  “Of course, you may,” the man replied with seeming frankness; but there was a startled look in his eyes as he gazed at Vance. “I had some obscure data to look up before I could continue with an experiment I’m making; and I thought today would be an excellent time to do it, since I close the laboratory and let my assistants go on Saturday afternoons.”

  “And where were you, doctor,” Vance went on, “between the time you left the laborat’ry and the time of your arrival here?”

  “To be quite specific,” Professor Garden answered, “I left the University at about two and went to the public library where I remained until half an hour ago. Then I took a cab and came directly home.”

  “You went to the library alone?” asked Vance.

  “Naturally I went alone,” the professor answered tartly. “I don’t take assistants with me when I have research work to do.” He stood up suddenly. “But what is the meaning of all this questioning? Am I, by any chance, being called upon to furnish an alibi?”

  “My dear doctor!” said Vance placatingly. “A serious crime has been committed in your home, and it is essential that we know—as a matter of routine—the whereabouts of the various persons in any way connected with the unfortunate situation.”

  “I see what you mean.” Professor Garden inclined his head courteously and moved to the front window where he stood looking out to the low purple hills beyond the river, over which the first crepuscular shadows were creeping.

  “I am glad you appreciate our difficulties,” Vance said; “and I trust you will be equally considerate when I ask you just what was the relationship between you and your nephew?”

  The man turned slowly and leaned against the broad sill.

  “We were very close,” he answered without hesitation or resentment. “Both my wife and I have regarded Woode almost as a son, since his parents died. He was not a strong person morally, and he needed both spiritual and material assistance. Perhaps because of this fundamental weakness in his nature, we have been more lenient with him than with our own son. In comparison with Woode, Floyd is a strong-minded and capable man, fully able to take care of himself.”

  Vance nodded with understanding.

  “That being the case, I presume that you and Mrs. Garden have provided for young Swift in your wills.”

  “That is true,” Professor Garden answered after a slight pause. “We have, as a matter of fact, made Woode and our son equal beneficiaries.”

  “Has your son,” asked Vance, “any income of his own?”

  “None whatever,” the professor told him. “He has made a little money here and there, on various enterprises—largely connected with sports— but he is entirely dependent on the allowance my wife and I give him. It’s a very liberal one—too liberal, perhaps, judged by conventional standards. But I see no reason not to indulge the boy. It isn’t his fault that he hasn’t the temperament for a professional career, and has no flair for business. And I see no point in his pursuing some uncongenial commercial routine, since there is no necessity for it. Both Mrs. Garden and I inherited our money; and while I have always regretted that Floyd had no interest in the more serious phases of life, I have never been inclined to deprive him of the things which apparently constitute his happiness.”

  “A very liberal attitude, doctor,” Vance murmured; “especially for one who is himself so wholeheartedly devoted to the more serious things of life as you are… But what of Swift: did he have an independent income?”

  “His father,” the professor explained, “left him a very comfortable amount; but I imagine he squandered it or gambled most of it away.”

  “There’s one more question,” Vance continued, “that I’d like to ask you in connection with your will and Mrs. Garden’s: were your son and nephew aware of the disposition of the estate?”

  “I couldn’t say. It’s quite possible they were. Neither Mrs. Garden nor I have regarded the subject as a secret… But what, may I ask,”— Professor Garden gave Vance a puzzled look—“has this to do with the present terrible situation?”

  “I’m sure I haven’t the remotest idea,” Vance admitted frankly. “I’m merely probin’ round in the dark, in the hope of findin’ some small ray of light.”

  Hennessey, the detective whom Heath had ordered to remain on guard below, came lumbering up the passageway to the study.

  “There’s a guy downstairs, Sergeant,” he reported, “who says he’s from the telephone company and has got to fix a bell or somethin’. He’s fussed around downstairs and couldn’t find anything wrong there, so the butler told him the trouble might be up here. But I thought I’d better ask you before I let him come-up. How about it?”

  Heath shrugged and looked inquiringly at Vance.

  “It’s quite all right, Hennessey,” Vance told the detective. “Let him come up.”

  Hennessey saluted half-heartedly and went out.

  “You know, Markham,” Vance said, slowly and painstakingly lighting another cigarette, “I wish this infernal buzzer hadn’t gone out of order at just this time. I abominate coincidences—”

  “Do you mean,” Professor Garden interrupted, “that inter-communicating buzzer between here and the den downstairs?… It was working all right this morning—Sneed summoned me to breakfast with it as usual.”

  “Yes, yes,” nodded Vance. “That’s just it. It evidently ceased functioning after you had gone out. The nurse discovered it and reported it to Sneed who called up the telephone company.”

  “It’s not of any importance,” the professor returned with a lackadaisical gesture of his hand. “It’s a c
onvenience, however, and saves many trips up and down the stairs.”

  “We may as well let the man attend to it, since he’s here. It won’t disturb us.” Vance stood up. “And I say, doctor, would you mind joining the others downstairs? We’ll be down presently, too.”

  The professor inclined his head in silent acquiescence and, without a word, went from the room.

  Presently a tall, pale, youthful man appeared at the door to the study. He carried a small black tool-kit.

  “I was sent here to look over a buzzer,” he announced with surly indifference. “I didn’t find the trouble downstairs.”

  “Maybe the difficulty is at this end,” suggested Vance. “There’s the buzzer behind the desk.” And he pointed to the small black box with the push-button.

  The man went over to it, opened his case of tools and, taking out a flashlight and a small screw-driver, removed the outer shell of the box. Fingering the connecting wires for a moment, he looked up at Vance with an expression of contempt.

  “You can’t expect the buzzer to work when the wires ain’t connected,” he commented.

  Vance became suddenly interested. Adjusting his monocle, he knelt down and looked at the box.

  “They’re both disconnected—eh, what?” he remarked.

  “Sure they are,” the man grumbled. “And it don’t look to me like they worked themselves loose, either.”

  “You think they were deliberately disconnected?” asked Vance.

  “Well, it looks that way.” The man was busy reconnecting the wires. “Both screws are loose, and the wires aren’t bent—they look like they been pulled out.”

  “That’s most interestin’.” Vance stood up, and returned the monocle to his pocket meditatively. “It might be, of course. But I can’t see why any one should have done it… Sorry for your trouble.”