251 The Westchester Station of the Post-Office Department, situated at 1436 Williamsbridge Road, at the intersection of East Tremont Avenue, collects and delivers mail in the following territory, starting from Paulding Avenue and Pelham Parkway: South side of Pelham Parkway to Kingsland Avenue; to Mace Avenue; to Wickham Avenue; to Gunhill Road; to Bushnell Avenue; to Hutchinson River; west side of Hutchinson River to Givans Creek; to Eastchester Bay; to Long Island Sound; to Bronx River; to Ludlow Avenue (now known as Eastern Boulevard); to Pugsley Avenue; to McGraw Avenue; to Storrow Street; to Unionport Road; to East Tremont Avenue; to Bronxdale Avenue; to Van Nest Avenue; to Paulding Avenue; to Pelham Parkway.
252 A detective of the Homicide Bureau who participated in nearly all of Vance’s criminal investigations.
THE KIDNAP MURDER CASE (Part 2)
CHAPTER XI
ANOTHER EMPTY ROOM
(Thursday, July 21; 11:10 P.M.)
It was but a short time before the rest of us started for the Kenting house. As soon as Snitkin had driven off with Vance and Mrs. Falloway, Heath began to dash around excitedly, giving innumerable brusque orders to Burke,253 who came ambling toward us across the narrow path from the east. When he had made all his arrangements, he walked to the wide lane where the second taxicab still stood. This cab, I noticed, was manned by the diminutive Guilfoyle,254 one of the two “chauffeurs” who came to the tree with sub-machine guns, ready for action.
“I guess we’d better follow Mr. Vance,” Heath growled. “There’s something mighty phony about this whole business.”
Markham, Fleel and young Falloway got into the back seat of the cab; Kenting and I took our places on the two small folding seats forward in the tonneau; and the Sergeant crowded into the front of the cab with Guilfoyle. When the doors were shut Guilfoyle drove off rapidly toward the main roadway on the west side of the park. Nothing was said on that short ride. Every one, it seemed, was too dumbfounded to make any comment on the unexpected outcome of the night’s adventure.
Markham sat stiffly upright, looking out of the window, a dark frown on his face. Fleel leaned back more comfortably against the cushions in silence, staring straight ahead but apparently seeing nothing. Fraim Falloway crouched morosely in the corner of the seat, with his hat pulled far down over his eyes, his face a puzzled mask; and when I offered him a cigarette he seemed utterly oblivious to my gesture. Once or twice on the way to his home he uttered a cackling, breathless chuckle, as if at some thought that had flashed through his mind. Kenyon Kenting, sitting at my left, seemed weary and distressed, and bent forward with his elbows on his knees, his head bowed in his hands.
Through the plate-glass panel in front of me, I could see the Sergeant bobbing up and down with the motion of the cab, and shifting his cigar angrily from one side of his mouth to the other. Occasionally he turned to Guilfoyle, and I could see his lips move, but I could hear nothing over the hum of the motor; then he would resume his dour and bitter silence. It was obvious he was deeply disappointed and believed all his plans had gone awry for some reason he could not figure out.
After all, the whole incident that night had been unexpected and amazing. I tried to reason out what had happened, but could not fit any of the known factors together, and finally gave the matter up. The climax of the episode was the last thing I could possibly have dreamed of, and I am sure the others felt the same way about it. If no one had come to the tree for the package of supposed bank notes, it would have been easily understandable, but the fact that a crippled old woman had turned out to be the collector of the money was as astonishing as it was incredible. And, to add to every one’s perplexity, there was Vance’s attitude toward her—which was perhaps the most astounding thing of all.
Where had been the person who sent the note? And then I suddenly remembered the shabby man who had been leaning against the bench on the pathway, watching Fleel. Could this have been the person?—had he seen us at the tree and known that the spot was under observation?—had he lost his courage and gone off without attempting to secure the package of bills?—or was my imagination keyed up to a pitch where I was ready to suspect every stray figure? The problem was far too confusing, and I could not arrive at even a tentative solution.
When we pulled up in front of the Kenting house, which suddenly seemed black and sinister in the semi-dark, we all quickly jumped to the sidewalk and hastened in a body to the front door. Only Guilfoyle did not move; he relaxed a little in his narrow seat and remained there, his hands still at the wheel.
Weem, in a dark pongee dressing-robe, opened the door for us and made a superfluous gesture toward the drawing-room. Through the wide-open sliding doors we could see Vance and Mrs. Falloway seated. Vance, without rising, greeted us whimsically as we entered.
“Mrs. Falloway,” he explained to us, “wished to remain here a short while to rest before going upstairs. Beastly ascent, y’ know.”
“I really feel exhausted,” the woman supplemented in her low, cultured voice, looking at Markham and ignoring the rest of us. “I simply had to rest a while before climbing those long flights of stairs. I do wish old Karl Kenting hadn’t put such unnecessarily high ceilings in this old house, or else that he had added a lift. It’s very tiring, you know, to walk from one floor to another. And I’m so fatigued just now, after my long walk in the park.” She smiled cryptically and adjusted the pillow behind her back.
At that moment there was a ring at the front door, and Heath went out quickly to answer it. As he swung the ponderous door back, I could easily see, from where I stood, the figure of Porter Quaggy outside.
“What do you want?” Heath demanded bluntly, barring the way with his thick body.
“I don’t want anything,” Quaggy returned in a cold, unfriendly voice; “—if that answer will benefit you in any way—except to ask how Mrs. Kenting is and if you know anything more about Kaspar. I saw you drive past my hotel just now and get off here.… Do you want to tell me, or don’t you?”
“Let the johnnie come in, Sergeant,” Vance called out in a low, commanding voice. “I’ll tell him what he wants to know. And I also desire to ask him a question or two.”
“All right,” Heath grumbled in a modified tone to the man waiting on the threshold. “Come on in and get an earful.”
Quaggy stepped inside briskly and joined us in the drawing-room. He glanced round the room with narrowed eyes and then asked of no one in particular:
“Well, what happened tonight?”
“Nothing—really nothing,” Vance answered casually, without looking up. “Positively nothing. Quite a fizzle, don’t y’ know. Very sad.… But I am rather glad you decided to pay us this impromptu visit, Mr. Quaggy. Would you mind telling us where you were tonight?”
The man’s eyelids drooped still lower, till they were almost entirely shut, and he looked down at Vance for several moments with a passive and expressionless face.
“I was at home,” he said finally, in an arctic, aggressive tone, “fretting about Kaspar.” Then he suddenly shot forth, “Where were you?”
Vance smiled and sighed.
“Not that it should concern you in the slightest, sir,” he said in his most dulcet voice, “but—since you ask—I was climbing a tree. Silly pastime—what?”
Quaggy swung about to Kenting.
“You raised the money, Kenyon, and complied with the instructions in the follow-up note?” he asked.
Kenting inclined his head: he was still solemn and perturbed.
“Yes,” he said in a low voice, “but it did no good.”
“A swell bunch of cheap dicks,” Quaggy sneered, flashing Heath a contemptuous glance. “Didn’t any one show up to collect?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Quaggy.” It was Vance who answered. “Some one called for the money at the appointed hour, and actually took it.”
“And I suppose he got away from the police—as usual. Is that it?” Quaggy had turned again and was contemplating Vance’s bland features.
“Oh,
no. No. We saw to that.” Vance took a long puff on his cigarette. “The culprit is here with us in this room.”
Quaggy straightened with a start.
“The fact is,” went on Vance, “I escorted the guilty person home myself. It was Mrs. Falloway.”
Quaggy’s expression did not change—he was as unemotional and noncommittal as a veteran poker player; but I had a feeling the news had shocked him considerably. Before the man had time to say anything Vance continued lackadaisically.
“By the by, Mr. Quaggy, are you particularly interested in black opals? I noticed a jolly good pair of them on your desk yesterday.”
Quaggy hesitated for several moments.
“And if I am, what then?” His lips barely moved as he spoke, and there was no change in the intonation of his voice.
“Queer, don’t y’ know,” Vance went on, “that there are no representative black opals in Karl Kenting’s collection. Blank spaces in the case where they should be. I can’t imagine, really, how an expert collector of semiprecious stones should have overlooked so important an item as the rarer black opal.”
“I get the implication. Anything else?” Quaggy was standing relaxed but motionless in front of Vance. Slowly he moved one foot forward, as if shifting the burden of his weight from an overtired leg. By an almost imperceptible movement his foot came to within a few inches of Vance’s shoe.
“Really, y’ know,” Vance said with a cold smile, lifting his eyes to the man, “I shouldn’t try that if I were you—unless, of course, you wish to have me break your leg and dislocate your hip. I’m quite familiar with the trick. Picked it up in Japan.”
Quaggy abruptly withdrew his foot, but said nothing.
“I found a balas-ruby in Kaspar Kenting’s dinner jacket yesterday morning,” Vance proceeded calmly. “A balas-ruby is also missing from the collection across the hall. Interestin’ mathematical item—eh?”
“What the hell’s interesting about it?” retorted the other with a sneer.
Vance looked at him mildly.
“I was only wonderin’,” he said, “if there might be some connection between that imitation ruby and the black opals in your apartment.… By the by, do you care to mention where you obtained such valuable gem specimens?”
Quaggy made a noise in his throat which sounded to me like a contemptuous laugh, but the expression on his face did not change. He did not answer, and Vance turned to the District Attorney.
“I think, in view of the gentleman’s attitude, Markham, and the fact that he is the last person known to have been with the missing Kaspar, it would be advisable to hold him as a material witness.”
Quaggy drew himself erect with a jerk.
“I came by those opals legitimately,” he said quickly. “I bought them from Kaspar last night, as he said he needed some immediate cash for the evening.”
“You knew, perhaps, that the stones were part of the Kenting collection?” asked Vance coldly.
“I didn’t inquire where they came from,” the man returned sullenly. “I naturally trusted him.”
“‘Naturally,’” murmured Vance.
Mrs. Falloway struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on her stick.
“I’ve suspected for a long time,” she said, “that Kaspar had been resorting to that collection of gems for gambling money. I’ve come down occasionally and gone over the exhibits, and it seemed to me each time there were a few more missing.… But I’m very tired, and I’m sufficiently rested now to return to my room.…”
“But, Mrs. Falloway,” blurted Kenting—I had noticed that he had been staring at the woman incredulously ever since we had returned to the house, and he could not, apparently, restrain his curiosity any longer; “I—I don’t understand your being in the park tonight. Why—why—?”
The woman gave him a withering look.
“Mr. Vance understands,” she answered curtly. “That, I think, is quite sufficient.” Her gaze shifted from Kenting and she seemed to take us all in with a gracious glance. “Good night, gentlemen.…”
She started unsteadily toward the door, and Vance sprang to her side.
“Permit me, madam, to accompany you. It’s a long climb to your room.”
The woman bowed a courteous acknowledgment and, for the second time that evening, took his arm. Fraim Falloway did not rise to assist his mother; he seemed oblivious to everything that was going on. Markham, with a significant look at the Sergeant, left his chair and took the woman’s free arm. Heath moved closer to Quaggy who remained standing. Mrs. Falloway, with her two escorts, went slowly from the drawing-room, and I followed them.
It was with considerable effort that the woman mounted the stairs. She found it necessary to pause momentarily at each step, and when we reached her room she sank into the large wicker armchair with the air of a person wholly exhausted.
Vance took her stick and placed it on the floor beside the chair. Then he said in a kindly voice:
“I should like to ask one or two questions, if you are not too weary.”
The woman nodded and smiled faintly.
“A question or two won’t do any harm, Mr. Vance,” she said. “Please go ahead.”
“Why did you make the tremendous effort,” Vance began, “of walking in the park tonight?”
“Why, to get all that money, of course,” the old woman answered in mock surprise. “Anyway, I didn’t attempt to walk all the way: I took a cab to within a few hundred feet of the tree. Think how rich I would have been had I not been caught in the disgraceful act. And,” she added with a sigh, “you have spoiled everything for me.”
“I’m frightfully sorry,” said Vance in a bantering manner. “But really, there wasn’t a dollar in that package.” He paused and looked down earnestly at the woman. “Tell me, Mrs. Falloway, how you knew your son intended to go to the tree for that ransom package.”
For a moment Mrs. Falloway’s face was a mask. Then she said in a deep, clear voice:
“It is very difficult to fool a mother, Mr. Vance. Fraim knew of the ransom note and the instructions in it. He knew also that Kenyon would raise the money somehow. The boy came upstairs and told me about it after you had left the house this afternoon. Then, when he came to my room a little before ten o’clock tonight, after having spent the evening with his sister and Kenyon, and said he was going out, I knew what was in his mind—although he very often does go out late of an evening. He invented an important engagement—I always know when Fraim isn’t telling the truth, although he doesn’t realize that I do. I knew well enough where he was going and what he was going for. I could read it in his eyes. And I—I wished to save him from that infamy.”255
Vance was silent for a moment as he regarded the weary old woman with pity and admiration, and Markham nodded sympathetically.
“But Fraim is a good boy at heart—please believe that,” the woman added. “He merely lacks something—strength of body and spirit, perhaps.”
Vance bowed.
“Quite. He’s not well, Mrs. Falloway. He needs medical attention. Have you ever had a basal metabolism test made on him?”
The woman shook her head.
“A blood sugar?” proceeded Vance.
“No.” Mrs. Falloway’s voice was barely audible.
“A blood count?”
Again the woman shook her head.
“A Wassermann?”
“The truth is, Mr. Vance,” the woman said, “he has never been examined.” Then she asked quickly: “What do you think it is?”
“I wouldn’t dare to venture an opinion, don’t y’ know,” Vance returned, “though I’d say there was an endocrine insufficiency somewhere—an inadequacy of some internal secretion, a definite and prolonged hormone disturbance. It may be thyroid, parathyroid, or pituitary, or adrenal. Or maybe neurocirculatory asthenia. It is deplorable how little science knows as yet about the ductless glands. A great work, however, is being done along those lines, and progress is constantly being made. I think you should hav
e your son checked up. It may be something that can be remedied.”
He scribbled something on a page from a small note-book and, tearing it out, handed it to Mrs. Falloway.
“Here is the name and address of one of the country’s greatest endocrinologists. Look him up, for your son’s sake.”
The woman took the slip of paper, folded it, and put it in one of the large pockets of her skirt.
“You are very good—and very understanding, Mr. Vance,” she said. “The moment I saw you in the park tonight, I knew you would understand. A mother’s love—”
“Yes, yes—of course,” murmured Vance. “And now I think we’ll return to the drawing-room. And may you have a well-earned night’s rest.”
The woman looked at him gratefully and held out her hand. He took it and, bowing, raised it to his lips.
“My eternal admiration, madam,” he said.
When we re-entered the drawing-room we found the group just as we had left it. Fleel and Kenyon Kenting still sat stiffly in their chairs near the front window, like awed wooden figures. Quaggy stood smoking thoughtfully before the chair where Vance had sat; and Heath, his sturdy legs spread, was at his side, glowering at him morosely. On the sofa, his head drooping forward, his mouth slightly open, and his arms hanging listlessly, lounged Fraim Falloway. He did not even look up as we entered; and the thought flashed through my mind that he might not be a glandular case at all, but that he was merely suffering from the early stages of encephalitis lethargica.
Vance glanced about him sharply and then strolled to his chair. Reseating himself with unconcern, he lighted a fresh cigarette. Markham and I remained standing in the doorway.
“There are one or two matters—” drawled Vance and stopped abruptly. Then he said: “But I think Mrs. Kenting should be here with us for this discussion. After all, it is her husband who has disappeared, and her suggestions might be dashed helpful.”
Kenyon Kenting stood up, nodding his head vigorously in approval.
“I think you’re right, Mr. Vance,” he said, going toward the door. “I’ll get Madelaine myself.”
The Philo Vance Megapack Page 236
