The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “No, it couldn’t have been there. We would have been able to see.” His eyes moved inquiringly up and down the hall, and after a moment a strange, startled look came into them. “It could be!” he exclaimed. “Oh, my aunt! Damnable things are happening here. Wait a second.”

  He rapidly retraced his steps to the vault door. Grasping the knob, he rattled it violently; but the door was now locked. Taking the key from its nail, he inserted it hurriedly into the lock. As he opened the heavy door a crack, a pungent, penetrating odor assailed my nostrils. Vance quickly drew back.

  “Out into the air!” he called over his shoulder, in our direction. “All of you!”

  Instinctively we made for the door to the garden.

  Vance held one hand over his nose and mouth and pushed the vault door further inward. Heavy amber-colored fumes drifted out into the hall, and I felt a stifling, choking sensation. Vance staggered back a short step, but kept his hand on the door-knob.

  “Miss Beeton! Miss Beeton!” he called. There was no response; and I saw Vance put his head down and move forward into the dense fumes that were emanating from the open door. He sank to his knees on the threshold and leaned forward into the vault. The next moment he had straightened up and was dragging the limp body of the nurse out into the passageway.

  The whole episode took much less time than is required to relate it. Actually no more than ten seconds had elapsed from the time he had inserted the key into the lock. I knew what an effort he was making, for even as I stood outside the garden door, where the fumes were comparatively thin, I felt half suffocated, and Markham and Heath were choking and coughing.

  As soon as the girl was out of the vault, Vance took her up in his arms and carried her unsteadily out into the garden, where he placed her gently on the wicker settee. His face was deathly pale; his eyes were watering; and he had difficulty with his breathing. When he had released the girl, he leaned heavily against one of the iron posts which supported the awning. He opened his mouth wide and sucked the fresh air into his lungs.

  The nurse was gasping stertorously and clutching her throat. Although her breast was rising and falling convulsively, her whole body was limp and lifeless.

  At that moment Doctor Siefert stepped through the garden door, a look of amazement on his face. He had all the outward appearance of the type of medical man Vance had described to us the night before. He was about sixty, conservatively but modishly attired, and with a bearing studiously dignified and self-sufficient.

  With a great effort Vance drew himself erect.

  “Hurry, doctor,” he called. “It’s bromin gas.” He made a shaky gesture with one hand toward the prostrate figure of the nurse.

  Siefert came rapidly forward, moved the girl’s body into a more comfortable position and opened the collar of her uniform.

  “Nothing but the air can help her,” he said, as he moved one end of the settee around so that it faced the cool breeze from the river. “How are you feeling, Vance?”

  Vance was dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief. He blinked once or twice and smiled faintly.

  “I’m quite all right.” He went to the settee and looked down at the girl for a moment. “A close call,” he murmured.

  Siefert inclined his head gravely.

  At this moment Hammle came strutting up briskly from a remote corner of the garden.

  “Good Gad!” he exclaimed. “What’s the matter?”

  Vance turned to the man in angry surprise.

  “Well, well,” he greeted him. “The roll call is complete. I’ll tell you later what’s the matter. Or perhaps you will be able to tell me. Wait over there.” And he jerked his head in the direction of a chair nearby.

  Hammle glared in resentment and began spluttering; but Heath, who had come quickly to his side, took him firmly by the arm and led him diplomatically to the chair Vance had indicated. Hammle sat down meekly and took out a cigarette.

  “I wish I’d taken the earlier train to Long Island,” he muttered.

  “It might have been better, don’t y’ know,” murmured Vance, turning away from him.

  The nurse’s strangled coughing had abated somewhat. Her breathing was deeper and more regular, and the gasping had partly subsided. Before long she struggled to sit up.

  Siefert helped her.

  “Breathe as deeply and rapidly as you can,” he said. “It’s air you need.”

  The girl made an effort to follow instructions, one hand braced against the back of the settee, and the other resting on Vance’s arm.

  A few minutes later she was able to speak, but with considerable difficulty.

  “I feel—better now. Except for the burning—in my nose and throat.”

  Siefert sent Heath for some water and when the Sergeant had fetched it Miss Beeton drank a glassful in choking gulps. In another two or three minutes she seemed to have recovered to a great extent. She looked up at Vance with frightened eyes.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “We don’t know yet.” Vance returned her gaze with obvious distress. “We only know that you were poisoned with bromin gas in the vault where Swift was shot. We were hoping that you could tell us about it yourself.”

  She shook her head vaguely, and there was a dazed look in her eyes.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you very much. It all happened so unexpectedly—so suddenly. All I know is that when I went to tell Doctor Siefert he might come upstairs, I was struck on the head from behind, just as I passed the garden door. The blow didn’t render me entirely unconscious, but it stunned me so that I was unaware of anything or anybody around me. Then I felt myself being caught from behind, turned about, and forced back up the passageway and into the vault. I have a faint recollection of the door being shut upon me, although I wasn’t sufficiently rational to protest or even to realize what had happened. But I was conscious of the fact that inside the vault there was a frightful suffocating smell. I was leaning up against the wall and it was very painful to breathe… I felt myself sinking— and that’s the last I remember…” She shuddered. “That’s all I knew— until just now.”

  “Yes. Not a pleasant experience. But it could have been much worse.” Vance spoke in a low voice and smiled gravely down at the girl. “There’s a bad bruise on the back of your head. That too might have been worse, but the starched band of your cap probably saved you from more serious injury.”

  The girl had got to her feet and stood swaying a little as she steadied herself against Vance.

  “I really feel all right now.” She looked at Vance wistfully. “And I have you to thank—haven’t I?”

  Siefert spoke gruffly. “A few more minutes of that bromin gas would have proved fatal. Whoever found you and got you out here did so just in time.”

  The girl had not taken her eyes from Vance.

  “How did you happen to find me so soon?” she asked him.

  “Belated reasoning,” he answered. “I should have found you several minutes before—the moment I learned that you had not returned downstairs. But at first it was difficult to realize that anything serious could have happened to you.”

  “I can’t understand it even now,” the girl said with a bewildered air.

  “Neither can I—entirely,” returned Vance. “But perhaps I can learn something more.”

  Going quickly to the pitcher of water Heath had brought, he dipped his handkerchief into it. Pressing the handkerchief against his face, he disappeared into the passageway. A minute or so later he returned. In his hand he held a jagged piece of thin curved glass, about three inches long.

  It was part of a broken vial, and still clinging to it was a small paper label on which was printed the symbol “Br.”

  “I found this on the tiled floor, in the far corner of the vault. It was just beneath one of the racks which holds Professor Garden’s assortment of chemicals. There’s an empty space in the rack, but this vial of bromin couldn’t have fallen to the floor accidentally. It could only have been taken out de
liberately and broken at the right moment.” He handed the fragment of glass to Heath. “Take this, Sergeant, and have it gone over carefully for fingerprints. But if, as I suspect, the same person that killed Swift handled it, I doubt if there will be any telltale marks on it. However…”

  Heath accepted the bit of glass gingerly, rolled it in his handkerchief and thrust it into his pocket.

  “If it does show any finger-prints,” he grumbled, “it’ll be the first we found around here.”

  Vance turned to Markham, who had been standing near the rock pool during the entire scene, looking on with aggressive bewilderment.

  “Bromin,” he explained, “is a common reagent. It’s to be found in almost every chemist’s laborat’ry. It’s one of the halogens, and, though it’s never found free in nature, it occurs in various compounds. Incidentally, it got its name from the Greek bromos, which means stench. It hasn’t figured very often as a criminal agent, although accidental cases of bromin poisoning are numerous. But it was used extensively during the war in the manufacture of gas bombs, for it volatilizes on coming in contact with the air. And bromin gas is suffocating and deadly. Whoever planned this lethal chamber for Miss Beeton wasn’t without cruelty.”

  “It was a dastardly thing, Vance,” Siefert burst out, his eyes flashing.

  Vance nodded and his eyes moved to the nurse. “Yes. All of that, doctor. So was Swift’s murder… How are you feeling now, Miss Beeton?”

  “A little shaky,” she answered with a weak smile. “But nothing more.” She was leaning against one end of the settee.

  “Then we’ll carry on, what?”

  “Of course,” she returned in a low voice.

  Floyd Garden stepped out from the hallway at this moment. He coughed and looked at us with blinking, inquisitive eyes.

  “What’s this beastly odor in the hall?” he asked. “It’s gotten downstairs, and Sneed is already crying like a lost baby. Is anything wrong?”

  “Not now. No,” Vance returned. “A little bromin gas a few minutes ago; but the air will be clear in a little while. No casualties. Every one doing well… Did you want to see me?”

  Garden looked round at the group on the roof with a puzzled air.

  “Awfully sorry to interrupt you, Vance; but the fact is, I came for the doctor.” His eyes rested on Siefert, and he smiled dryly. “It’s the usual thing, doc,” he said. “The mater seems almost in a state of collapse—she assured me vigorously that she hadn’t an ounce of strength left. I got her to go to bed—which she seemed perfectly willing to do. But she insists on seeing you immediately. I never know when she means it and when she doesn’t. But that’s the message.”

  A worried look came into Siefert’s eyes, and he took a slow deep breath before answering.

  “I’ll come at once, of course,” he said. He looked at the nurse and then lifted his gaze to Vance. “Will you excuse me?”

  Vance bowed. “Certainly, doctor. But I think Miss Beeton had better remain here in the air for a while longer.”

  “Oh, by all means. By all means. If I need her I’ll send word. But I trust that won’t be necessary.” And Siefert left the roof reluctantly, with Garden following him.

  Vance watched them until they turned through the door of the passageway; then he spoke to the nurse.

  “Please sit here a few minutes, Miss Beeton. I want to have a talk with you. But first I’d like a minute or two with Mr. Hammle.”

  The nurse nodded her assent and sat down a little wearily on the settee.

  Vance beckoned curtly to Hammle. “Suppose we go inside for a moment.”

  Hammle rose with alacrity. “I was wondering how much longer you gentlemen were going to keep me here.”

  Vance led the way into the study, and Markham and I followed behind Hammle.

  “What were you doing on the roof, Mr. Hammle?” asked Vance. “I told you some time ago, after our brief interview, that you might go.”

  Hammle fidgeted. He was patently apprehensive and wary.

  “There’s no crime in going out into the garden for a while—is there?” he asked with unimpressive truculence.

  “None whatever,” Vance returned casually. “I was wonderin’ why you preferred the garden to going home. Devilish things have been happening in the garden this afternoon.”

  “As I told you, I wish I had gone. How did I know—?”

  “That’s hardly the point, Mr. Hammle.” Vance cut him short. “It doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Well now, look here,” Hammle explained fulsomely; “I had just missed a train to Long Island, and it was more than an hour until the next one. When I went out of here and started to go downstairs, I suddenly said to myself, ‘It’ll be pleasanter waiting in the garden than in the Pennsylvania Station.’ So I went out on the roof and hung around. And here I am.”

  Vance regarded the man shrewdly and nodded his head. “Yes, as you say. Here you are. More or less in evidence. By the by, Mr. Hammle, what did you see while you were waiting in the garden for the next train?”

  “Not a thing—absolutely!” Hammle’s tone was aggressive. “I walked along the boxwood hedges, smoking, and was leaning over the parapet by the gate, looking out at the city, when I heard you come out carrying the nurse.”

  Vance narrowed his eyes: it was obvious he was not satisfied with Hammle’s explanation.

  “And you saw no one else either in the garden or on the terrace?”

  “Not a soul,” the man assured him.

  “And you heard nothing?”

  “Not until you gentlemen came out.”

  Vance stood regarding Hammle for several moments. Then he turned and walked toward the garden window.

  “That will be all for the moment,” he said brusquely. “But we shall probably want to see you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be at home all day. Glad to be of any service.” Hammle shot a covert look at Vance, made his adieux quickly, and went out down the passageway.

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE AZURE STAR

  (Saturday, April 14; 7 P.M.)

  Vance returned at once to the garden. Miss Beeton drew herself up a little as he approached her.

  “Do you feel equal to a few questions?” he asked her.

  “Oh, yes.” She smiled with more assurance now, and rose.

  Dusk was settling rapidly over the city. A dull slate color was replacing the blue mist over the river. The skies beyond the Jersey hills were luminous with the vivid colors of the sunset, and in the distance tiny specks of yellow light were beginning to appear in the windows of the serried buildings. A light breeze was blowing from the north, and the air was cool.

  As we crossed the garden to the balustrade, Miss Beeton took a deep breath and shuddered slightly.

  “You’d better have your coat,” Vance suggested. He returned to the study and brought it out to her. When he had helped her into it she turned suddenly and looked at him inquiringly.

  “Why was my coat brought to the study?” she asked. “It’s been worrying me frightfully…with all the terrible things that have been going on today.”

  “Why should it worry you?” Vance smiled at the girl. “A misplaced coat is surely not a serious matter.” His tone was reassuring. “But we really owe you an explanation. You see, two revolvers figured in Swift’s death. One of them we all saw on the roof here—that was the one with which the chap was killed. But no one downstairs heard the shot because the poor fellow met his end in Professor Garden’s storeroom vault—”

  “Ah! That was why you wanted to know if the key was in its place.” The girl nodded.

  “The shot we all heard,” Vance went on, “was fired from another revolver after Swift’s body had been carried from the vault and placed in the chair out here. We were naturally anxious to find that other weapon, and Sergeant Heath made a search for it…”

  “But—but—my coat?” Her hand went out and she clutched at Vance’s sleeve as a look of understanding came into her frightened eyes.
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  “Yes,” Vance said, “the Sergeant found the revolver in the pocket of your top-coat. Some one had put it there as a tempor’ry hiding-place.”

  She recoiled with a sudden intake of breath. “How dreadful!” Her words were barely audible.

  Vance put his hand on her shoulder.

  “If you had not come to the study when you did and seen the coat, we would have returned it to the closet downstairs and saved you all this worry.”

  “But it’s too terrible!… And then this—this attempt on my life. I can’t understand. I’m frightened.”

  “Come, come,” Vance exhorted the girl. “It’s over now, and we need your help.”

  She gazed directly into his eyes for several minutes. Then she gave him a faint smile of confidence.

  “I’m very sorry,” she said simply. “But this house—this family— they’ve been doing queer things to my nerves for the past month. I can’t explain it, but there’s something frightfully wrong here… I was in charge of an operating room in a Montreal hospital for six months, attending as many as six and eight operations a day; but that never affected me the way this household does. There, at least, I could see what was going on—I could help and know that I was helping. But here everything goes on in dark corners, and nothing I do seems to be of any use. Can you imagine a surgeon suddenly going blind in the middle of a laparotomy and trying to continue without his sight? That’s how I feel in this strange place… But please don’t think I am not ready to help—to do anything I can for you. You, too, always have to work in the dark, don’t you?”

  “Don’t we all have to work in the dark?” Vance murmured, without taking his eyes from her. “Tell me who you think could have been guilty of the terrible things that have happened here.”

  All fear and doubt seemed to have left the girl. She moved toward the balustrade and stood looking over the river with an impressive calm and self-control.

  “Really, I don’t know,” she answered with quiet restraint. “There are several possibilities, humanly speaking. But I haven’t had time to think about it clearly. It all happened so suddenly…”