“My word, such flattery!” exclaimed Vance. “I haven’t a single prodigious power—I’m a mere broken reed. But I simply can’t bear not to inspect that ladder.”
Heath chuckled.
“Well, that’s easy, Mr. Vance. Come on round to the yard. No trouble getting in from the street.”
And he started energetically toward the front door.
CHAPTER V
ON THE RUNGS OF THE LADDER
(Wednesday, July 20; 12:30 P.M.)
We followed the Sergeant through the ponderous front door, down the stone steps, and across the flagstones. The sun was still shining brightly, and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. The light was so brilliant that for a moment it almost blinded me after the dimness of the Kenting interior. The Sergeant led the way thirty or forty feet east, along the sidewalk, until he came to the small gate in the low iron fence which divided the attractively sodded court of the Kenting house from the street. The gate was not on the latch, but stood slightly ajar, and the Sergeant pushed it wide open with his foot.
Heath was first to enter the enclosure, and he walked ahead with arms outstretched, holding us back from a too precipitate intrusion, like a prudent brood-hen guiding her recalcitrant and over-ambitious chicks.
“Don’t come too close,” he admonished us with a solemn air. “There are footprints at the bottom of the ladder and we gotta save ’em for Cap Jerym’s248 plaster casts.”
“Well, well,” smiled Vance. “Maybe you’ll permit me to come as near as Captain Jerym will have to go to perform his sculpture?”
“Sure.” Heath grinned. “But I don’t want them footprints interfered with. They may be the best clue we’ll get.”
“Dear me!” sighed Vance. “As important as all that, Sergeant?”
Heath leaned forward and scowled as Vance stood beside him.
“Look at this one, Mr. Vance,”—and the Sergeant pointed to an impression in the border of the hedge within a foot of where the ladder stood.
“My word!” exclaimed Vance. “I’m abominably flattered by even such consideration as letting me come within viewing distance of the bally footprints.” Again taking out his monocle he adjusted it carefully and, kneeling down on the lawn, inspected the imprint. He took several moments doing so, and a puzzled frown slowly spread over his face as he carefully scrutinized the mark in the neatly raked soil of the hedge.
“You know, sir, we was lucky,” Heath asserted. “It drizzled most of yesterday afternoon, and around about eight o’clock last night it got to raining pretty hard, though it did clear up before midnight.”
“Really, Sergeant! I knew it only too well!” Vance did not look up. “I planned to go to the tennis matches at Forest Hills yesterday afternoon, to see young Henshaw249 play, but I simply couldn’t bear the inclement weather.” He said nothing more for several moments—his entire interest seemed to be centred on the footprint he was inspecting. At length he murmured without turning: “Rather small footprint here—eh, what?”
“I’ll say it is,” agreed Heath. “Mighta been a dame. And it looks like it was made with flat slippers of some kind. There’s no heel mark.”
“No, no heel mark,” agreed Vance abstractedly. “As you say, no heel mark. Quite right. Obvious, in fact. Curious. I wonder.…”
He leaned closer to the impression in the sod of the hedge, and went on:
“But really, y’ know, I shouldn’t say the print was made by a slipper—unless, of course, you wish to call a sandal a slipper.”
“Is that it, Mr. Vance?” The Sergeant was half contemptuous and half interested.
“Yes, yes; rather plain,” Vance returned in a low voice. “Not an ordin’ry sandal, either. A Chinese sandal I’d say. Slightly turned-up tip.”
“A Chinese sandal?” Heath’s tone was almost one of ridicule now.
“More than likely, don’t y’ know.” Vance rose and brushed the soil from his trousers.
“I suppose you’ll be telling us next that this whole case is just another Tong war.” Heath evidently did not deem Vance’s conclusion worthy of serious consideration.
Vance was still leaning forward, rubbing vigorously at a spot on one knee. He stopped suddenly and, ignoring the Sergeant’s raillery, leaned still farther forward.
“And, by Jove! here’s another imprint.” He pointed with his cigarette to a slight depression in the lawn just at the foot of the ladder.
The Sergeant leaned over curiously.
“So it is, sir!” he exclaimed, and his tone had become respectful. “I didn’t see that one before.”
“It really doesn’t matter, y’ know. Similar to the other one.” Vance stepped past Heath and grasped the ladder with both hands.
“Look out, sir!” cautioned Heath angrily. “You’ll make finger-prints on that ladder.”
Vance relaxed his hold on the ladder momentarily, and turned to Heath with an amused smile.
“I’ll at least give Dubois and Bellamy something to work on,” he said lightly. “I fear there won’t be any other finger-prints on this irrelevant exhibit. And it will be rather difficult to pin the crime on me. I’ve an unimpeachable alibi. Sittin’ at home with Van Dine here, and readin’ a bedtime story from Boccaccio.”
Heath was spluttering. Before he could answer, Vance turned, grasped the ladder again, and lifted it so that its base was clear of the ground. Then he set it down several inches to the right.
“Really, Sergeant, you have nothing whatever to be squeamish about. Cheer up, and be more trustin’. Consider the lilies, and don’t forget that the snail’s on the thorn.”
“What’s lilies and snails gotta do with it?” demanded Heath irritably. “I’m tryin’ to tell you—”
Before the Sergeant could protest Vance had thrown his cigarette carelessly away and was moving quickly up the ladder, rung by rung. When he was about three-quarters of the way up he stopped and made his way down. When he had descended and stood again on the lawn, he carefully and deliberately lighted another cigarette.
“I’m rather afraid to look and see just what happened. It would be most humiliatin’ if I were wrong. However.…”
Again he lifted the ladder and moved it still farther to the right. Then he went a second time on his knees and inspected the new imprints which the two uprights of the ladder had made in the ground. After a moment he looked studiously at the original imprints of the ladder; and I could see that he was comparing the two sets.
“Very interestin’,” he murmured as he rose and turned to Heath.
“What’s interesting?” demanded the Sergeant. He again seemed to be nettled by Vance’s complete disregard of the risk of making finger-prints on the ladder.
“Sergeant,” Vance told him seriously, “the imprints I just made when I mounted the ladder are of practically the same depth as the imprints made by the ladder last night.” Vance took a deep puff on his cigarette. “Do you see the significance of the results of that little test of mine?”
Heath corrugated his forehead, pursed his lips, and looked at Vance questioningly.
“Well, Mr. Vance, to tell you the truth—” He hesitated. “I can’t say as I do see what it means—except that you’ve maybe spoiled a lot of good finger-prints.”
“It means several other things. And don’t stew so horribly about your beloved hypothetical fingerprints.” Vance broke the ashes from his cigarette against the ladder, and sat down lazily on the second rung. “Imprimis, it means that two men were not on the ladder at the same time last night—or, rather, this morning. Secondly, it means that whoever was on that ladder was a very slight person who could not have weighed over 120 or 130 pounds. Thirdly, it means that Mr. Kaspar Kenting was not kidnapped via yon open window at all.… Does any of that help?”
“I still can’t see it.” Heath was holding his cigar meditatively between thumb and forefinger.
“My dear Sergeant!” sighed Vance. “Let us reflect and analyze for a moment. When the ladder was placed against this
window between dawn and six o’clock, before the sun had come up, the ground was much softer than it is now, and any weight or pressure on the ladder would have created imprints of a certain depth in the moist sod. At the present time the soil is obviously drier and harder, for the sun has been shining on it for several hours. However, you noted—did you not?—that the ladder sank into the ground—or, rather, made impressions in the ground—when I mounted it, of equal depth with that of the earlier imprints. I have a feelin’ that if I had mounted the ladder when the ground was considerably damper the ladder would have gone in deeper—eh, what?”
“I getcha now,” blurted Heath. “The guy who went up that ladder early this morning musta been a damn sight lighter than you, Mr. Vance.”
“Right-o, Sergeant.” Vance smiled musingly. “It was a very small person. And if two persons had been on that ladder—that is, Mr. Kaspar Kenting and his supposed abductor—I rather think the original impressions made by the ladder would have been far deeper.”
“Sure they would.” Heath was gazing down at the two sets of impressions as if hypnotized.
“Therefore,” Vance went on casually, “aren’t we justified in assuming that only one person stepped on this ladder early this morning, and that that person was a very slight and fragile human being?”
Heath looked up at Vance with puzzled admiration.
“Yes, sir. But where does that get us?”
“The findings, as it were,” continued Vance, “taken in connection with the footprints, seem to tell us that a Chinese gentleman of small stature was the only person who used this ladder. Pure supposition, of course, Sergeant; but I rather opine that—”
“Yes, yes,” Markham interrupted. He had been drawing vigorously on his cigar, giving his earnest attention to the demonstration and Vance’s subsequent conversation with Heath. He now nodded comprehendingly. “Yes,” he repeated. “You see some connection between these footprints and the more-or-less Chinese signature on that ransom note.”
“Oh, quite—quite,” agreed Vance. “You show amazin’ perspicacity. That’s precisely what I was thinkin’.”
Markham was silent for a moment.
“Any other ideas, Vance?” he demanded somewhat peevishly.
“Oh, no—not a thing, old dear.” Vance blew a ribbon of smoke into the air, and rose lackadaisically.
He cast a meditative glance back at the ladder and at the trimmed privet hedge behind it, which ran the full length of the house. He stood motionless for a moment and squinted.
“I say, Markham,” he commented in a low voice; “there’s something shining there in the hedge. I don’t think it’s a leaf that’s reflecting the light at that one spot.”
As he spoke he moved quickly to a point just at the left of where the ladder now stood. He looked down at the small green leaves of the privet for a moment, and then, reaching forward with both hands, he separated the dense foliage and leaned over, as if seeking something.
“Ah!… My word!”
As Vance separated the foliage still farther, I saw a silver-backed dressing comb wedged between two closely forked branches of the privet.
Markham, who was standing at an angle to Vance, started forward.
“What is it, Vance?” he demanded.
Vance, without answering him, reached down and retrieving the comb, turned and held it out in the palm of his hand.
“It’s just a comb, as you see, old dear,” he said. “An ordin’ry comb from a gentleman’s dressing set. Ordin’ry, except for the somewhat elaborate scrollwork of the silver back.” He glanced at the astonished Heath. “Oh, no need to be upset, Sergeant. The scrolled silver wouldn’t take any clear finger-prints, anyway. And I’m quite certain you wouldn’t find any, in any event.”
“You think that’s Kaspar Kenting’s missing comb?” asked Markham quickly.
“It could be, of course,” nodded Vance. “I rather surmise as much. It was just beneath the open window of the chappie’s boudoir.”
Heath was shaking his head somewhat shamefacedly.
“How the hell did Snitkin and I miss that?” His tone carried a tinge of regret and self-criticism.
“Oh, cheer up, Sergeant,” Vance encouraged him good-naturedly. “You see, it was caught in the hedge before reaching the ground, and was jolly well hidden by the density of the leaves. I happened to be standing at just the right angle to get a glimpse of it through the leaves with the sun on it.… I imagine that whoever dropped it couldn’t find it either, and, as time was pressin’, the curs’ry search was abandoned. Interestin’ item—what?” He tucked the comb into his upper waistcoat pocket.
Markham was still scowling, his eyes fixed inquiringly on Vance.
“What do you think about it?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m not thinkin’, Markham.” Vance started toward the gate. “I’m utterly exhausted. Let’s stagger back into the Kenting domicile.”
As we entered the front door, Mrs. Kenting, Kenyon Kenting, and Fleel were just descending the stairs.
Vance approached them and asked, “Do any of you happen to know anything about that ladder in the yard?”
“I never saw it before this morning,” Mrs. Kenting answered slowly, in a deadened voice.
“Nor I,” added her brother-in-law. “I can’t imagine where it came from, unless it was brought here last night by the kidnappers.”
“And I, of course,” said Fleel, “would have no way of knowing anything about any ladders here. I haven’t been here for a long time, and I never remember seeing a ladder around the premises before.”
“You’re quite sure, Mrs. Kenting,” pursued Vance, “the ladder doesn’t belong here? Might it, perhaps, have been kept somewhere at the rear of the house without your having seen it?” He looked at the woman with a slight frown.
“I’m quite sure it doesn’t belong here,” she said in the same muffled tone of voice. “Had it ever been here, I should have known about it. And, anyway, we have no need of such a ladder.”
“Most curious,” murmured Vance. “The ladder was resting against the maple tree in your courtyard early this morning when Officer McLaughlin passed the house.”
“The maple tree?” Kenyon Kenting spoke with noticeable astonishment. “Then it was moved from the maple tree to the side of the house later?”
“Exactly. Obviously the people concerned in this affair made two trips here last night. Very confusin’—what?”
Vance dismissed the subject, and, reaching in his pocket, brought out the comb he had found in the privet hedge, and held it out to the woman.
“By the by, Mrs. Kenting, is this, by any chance, your husband’s comb?”
The woman stared at it with frightened eyes.
“Yes, yes!” she exclaimed almost inaudibly. “That’s Kaspar’s comb. Where did you find it, Mr. Vance,—and what does it mean?”
“I found it in the privet hedge just beneath his window,” Vance told her. “But I don’t know yet what it means, Mrs. Kenting.”
Before the woman could ask further questions Vance turned quickly to Kenyon Kenting and said:
“We should like to have a little chat with you, Mr. Kenting. Where can we go?”
The man looked around as if slightly dazed and undecided.
“I think the den might be the best place,” he said. He walked down the hall to a room just beyond the still open entrance to the gem-room, and, throwing the door wide, stepped to one side for us to enter. Mrs. Kenting and Fleel proceeded through the sliding doors into the drawing-room on the opposite side of the hall.
CHAPTER VI
$50,000
(Wednesday, July 20; 12:45 P.M.)
Kenyon Kenting followed us into the den and, closing the door, stepped to a large leather armchair, and sat down uneasily on the edge of it.
“I will be very glad to tell you anything I know,” he assured us. Then he added, “But I’m afraid I can be of little help.”
“That, of course, remains to be seen,” murmur
ed Vance. He had gone to the small bay window and stood looking out with his hands deep in his coat pockets. “First of all, we wish to know just what the financial arrangement is between you and your brother. I understand that when your father died the estate was all left at your disposal, and that whatever money Kaspar Kenting should receive would be subject to your discretion.”
Kenting nodded his head repeatedly, as if agreeing; but it was evident that he was thinking the matter over. Finally he said:
“That is quite right. Fleel, however, was appointed the custodian, so to speak, of the estate. And I wish to assure you that not only have I maintained this house for Kaspar, but have given him even more money than I thought was good for him.”
“Your brother is a bit of a spendthrift—eh, what?”
“He is very wasteful—and very fond of gambling.” Kenting spoke in a guarded semi-resentful tone. “He is constantly making demands on me for his gambling debts. I’ve paid a great many of them, but I had to draw the line somewhere. He has a remarkable facility for getting into trouble. He drinks far too much. He has always been a very difficult problem—especially in view of the fact that Madelaine, his wife, has to be considered.”
“Did you always decide these monet’ry matters entirely by yourself?” Vance asked the man casually. “Or did you confer with Mr. Fleel about them?”
Kenting shot Vance a quick look and then glanced down again.
“I naturally consulted Mr. Fleel on any matters of importance regarding the estate. He is co-executor, appointed by my father. In minor matters this is not necessary, of course; but I do not have a free hand, as the distribution of the money is a matter of joint responsibility; and, as I say, Mr. Fleel has, in a way, complete legal charge of it. But I can assure you that there were never any clashes of opinion on the subject,—Fleel is wholly reasonable and understands the situation thoroughly. I find it an ideal arrangement.”
Vance smoked for several moments in silence, while the other man looked vaguely before him. Then Vance turned from the window and sat down in the swivel chair before the old-fashioned roll-top desk of oak at one side of the window.
“When was the last time you saw your brother?” he asked, busying himself with his cigarette.
The Philo Vance Megapack Page 230
