The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “I trust it is not too late to disturb her,” said Vance.

  “Oh, no, no,” Kenting assured him. “She almost never retires so early. She has not been able to sleep well for a long time, and reads far into the night. And tonight I was with her till after half-past nine, and she was terribly keyed up; I know she wouldn’t think of retiring till she heard the outcome of our plans tonight.”

  He bustled from the room as he finished speaking, and we heard him going up the stairs. A few moments later we could hear his sharp, repeated knocking on a door. Then there was a long silence, and the sound of a door being opened hurriedly. Vance leaned forward in his chair and seemed to be waiting expectantly.

  A few minutes later Kenting came rushing down the stairs. He stopped in the doorway, glaring at us with wide-open eyes. He looked breathless and horror-stricken as he leaned for support against the door-frame.

  “She’s not there!” he exclaimed in an awed voice. He took a deep breath. “I knocked on her door several times, but I got no answer—and a chill went through me. I tried the door, but it was locked. So I went through Kaspar’s room, into Madelaine’s. The lights are all on, but she isn’t there.…”

  He sucked in his breath again excitedly and stammered as if with tremendous effort:

  “The window—over the yard—is wide open, and—and the ladder is standing against it!”

  CHAPTER XII

  EMERALD PERFUME

  (Thursday, July 21; 11:30 P.M.)

  Kenyon Kenting’s announcement that his sister-in-law was gone from her room and that the portentous ladder was standing below the open window had an instantaneous effect upon the gathering in the drawing-room. Markham and I had stepped into the room, and instinctively both of us turned to Heath who was, after all, technically in charge of the routine end of the Kenting kidnapping case. The wordless feud which had been going on between Heath and Porter Quaggy was immediately forgotten, and Heath was now directing his fierce glance to Kenting as he stood dejectedly in the doorway.

  Quaggy’s cigarette fell from his lips to the rug, where he stepped on it with automatic quickness, without even looking down.

  “Good God, Kenyon!” he exclaimed, half under his breath. The man seemed deeply moved.

  Fleel rose to his feet and, as he jerked down his waistcoat with both hands, appeared dazed and inarticulate. Even Fraim Falloway raised himself suddenly out of his stupor and, glowering at Kenting, began babbling hysterically.

  “The hell you say! The hell you say!” he cried out in a high-pitched voice. “That’s some more of Kaspar’s dirty work. He’s playing a game to get money, I tell you. I don’t believe he was kidnapped at all—”

  The Sergeant swung about and grabbed the youth roughly by the shoulder.

  “Pipe down, young fella,” he ordered. “Makin’ fool statements like that ain’t gonna help anything.”

  Falloway subsided and made a nervous search through his pockets till he found a crumpled cigarette.

  I myself was shocked and dumbfounded by this startling turn of events. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t yet recovered from the strange adventure in the park, and I was totally unprepared for this new blow.

  Only Vance seemed unruffled and composed. He always had astounding control of his nerves, and it was difficult to judge just what was his reaction to the news of Mrs. Kenting’s disappearance.

  Markham, I noticed, was watching Vance closely, and as Vance slowly crushed out his cigarette and got indolently to his feet, Markham blurted out angrily:

  “This doesn’t seem to surprise you, Vance. You’re taking it too damned calmly to suit me. Had you any idea of this—this new outrage when you suggested that Mrs. Kenting be called?”

  “Oh, I rather expected something of the kind, but, frankly, I didn’t think it would happen so soon.”

  “If you expected this thing,” Markham snapped, “why didn’t you let me know, so that we could do something about it?”

  “My dear Markham!” Vance spoke with pacifying coolness. “There was nothing any one could do. The predicament was far from simple; and it’s still a difficult one.”

  Heath had gone to the telephone, and I could hear him, with one ear, as it were, calling the Homicide Bureau and giving officious instructions. Then he slammed down the receiver and stalked toward the stairs.

  “I want to look at that room,” he announced. “Two of the boys from the Bureau are coming up right away. This is a hell of a night.…” His voice trailed off as he went up the steps two at a time. Vance and Markham and I had left the drawing-room and were immediately behind him.

  Heath first tried the door-knob of Mrs. Kenting’s room, but, as Kenting had informed us, the door was locked. He went up the hall to Kaspar Kenting’s room. The door here was standing ajar, and at the far end of the room we could see into Mrs. Kenting’s brightly lighted boudoir. Stepping through the first chamber, we entered the lighted bedroom. As Kenting had said, the window facing on the court was wide open, and not only was the Venetian blind raised to the top, but the heavy drapes were drawn apart. Cautiously avoiding any contact with the window-sill, Heath leaned out at the window, and then turned quickly back.

  “The ladder’s there, all right,” he asserted. “The same like it was at the other window yesterday.”

  Vance was apparently not listening. He had adjusted his monocle and was looking round the room without any apparent show of interest. Leisurely he walked to the dressing-table opposite the window and looked down at it for a moment. A round cut-glass powder jar stood uncovered at one side; the tinted glass top was resting on its side several inches away. A large powder puff lay on the floor beneath the table. Vance reached down, picked it up, fitted it back into the jar, and replaced the cover.

  Then he lifted up a small perfume atomizer which was resting perilously near the edge of the dressing-table, and pressed the bulb slightly. He sniffed at the spray, and set the bottle down at the rear of the table, on the crystal tray where it evidently belonged.

  “Courtet’s emerald,” he murmured. “I’m sure this was not the lady’s personal preference in perfumes. Blondes know better, don’t y’ know. Emerald is suitable only for brunettes, especially those with olive complexions and abundant hair.… Very interestin’.”

  Heath was eyeing Vance with obvious annoyance. He could not understand Vance’s actions. But he said nothing and merely watched impatiently.

  Vance then went to the door and inspected it briefly.

  “The night latch isn’t on,” he murmured, as if to himself. “And the turn-bolt hasn’t been thrown. Door locked with a key. And no key in the keyhole.”

  “What are you getting at, Vance?” demanded Markham. “What if there is no key there? The door could have been locked and the key removed.”

  “Quite so—theoretically,” returned Vance. “But rather an unusual procedure just the same—eh, what? When one locks oneself in a bedroom with a key, one usually leaves the key in the lock. Just what would be the object in removing it? Dashed if I know.… It could be, however.…”

  He went across the room and into the bathroom. This room too was brightly lit. He glanced at the long metal cord hanging from the electric fixture, and with his hand tested the weight of the painted glass cylindrical ornament attached to the end of the chain. He released it and watched it swing back and forth. He looked into the tumbler which stood on the wide rim of the washbowl and, setting it down again, examined the washbowl itself, and around the edges. He then bent over the soap dish. Markham, standing in the bathroom doorway, followed his movements with a puzzled frown.

  “What in the name of God—” he began irritably.

  “Tut, tut, my dear fellow,” Vance interrupted, turning to him with a contemplative look. “I was merely attemptin’ to ascertain at just what time the lady departed.… I would surmise, don’t y’ know, that it was round ten o’clock this evening.”

  Markham still looked perplexed.

  “How do you figure that out?�
� he asked skeptically.

  “Indications may be entirely misleadin’.” Vance sighed slightly. “Nothing certain, nothing accurate in this world. One may only venture an opinion. I’m no oracle, Delphic or otherwise. Merely strugglin’ toward the light.” He pointed with his cigarette to the pull-chain of the electric fixture overhead. It was still swinging back and forth like a pendulum, but with a slight rotary motion, and its to-and-fro movement had not perceptibly abated.

  “When I came into the bathroom,” Vance explained, “yon polished brass chain was at rest—oh, quite—and I opined that its movement, with that heavy and abominable solid glass cylinder to control it, would discernibly continue, once it was pulled and released, for at least an hour. And it’s just half-past eleven now.… Moreover, the glass here is quite dry, showing that it has not been used for an hour or two. Also, there’s not a drop of water, either in the washbowl or on the edge; and a certain number of drops and a little dampness always remain after the washbowl has been used. And, by the by, the rubber stopper is dry. That process, I believe, would take in the neighborhood of an hour and a half. Even the small amount of lather left on the cake of soap is dry and crumbly, which would point to the fact that it had not been used for at least an hour or so.”

  He took several puffs on his cigarette.

  “And I cannot imagine Mrs. Kenting, with her habit of remaining up late, performing her nightly toilet as early as these matters would indicate. And yet the light was on in the bathroom, and there is a certain amount of evidence that she had been powdering her nose and spraying herself with perfume some time during the evening. Moreover, my dear Markham, there are indications of haste in the performance of these feminine rites, for she did not put the perfume atomizer back where it belongs, nor did she stop to retrieve the powder puff from where it had fallen on the floor.”

  Markham nodded glumly.

  “I begin to see what you are trying to get at, Vance,” he mumbled.

  “And all these little details, taken in connection with the open latch and the unthrown bolt and the missing key in the hall door, lead me—rather vaguely and shakily, I admit—to the theory that she had a rendezvous elsewhere, for which she was a wee bit late, at some time around the far-from-witching hour of ten o’clock.”

  Markham thought a moment. Then he said slowly:

  “But that’s only a theory, Vance. It might have been at any time earlier in the evening after the dusk was sufficiently advanced to make artificial light necessary.”

  “Quite true,” agreed Vance, “on the mere visible evidence hereabouts. But don’t you recall that Kenting informed us only a few minutes ago that he was here at the house with Mrs. Kaspar Kenting until half-past nine this evening? And have you forgot already, my dear Markham, that Mrs. Falloway mentioned that young Fraim had been with his sister until a short time before he had his important engagement at ten o’clock?—which may have accounted for the lady’s flustered state in preparing herself for the rendezvous, provided the assignation was made for ten o’clock. You see how nicely it all dovetails.”

  Markham nodded comprehendingly.

  “All right,” he said. “But what follows from all that?”

  Without answering the question, Vance turned to Heath.

  “What time, Sergeant,” he asked, “did you notify Fleel and Kenyon Kenting about the arrangements for tonight?”

  “Oh,—I should say—” Heath thought a moment. “Round six o’clock. Maybe a little after.”

  “And where did you find these gentlemen?”

  “Well, I called Fleel at his home and he wasn’t there yet. But I left word for him and he called me back in a little while. But I didn’t think to ask him where he was. And Kenting was here.”

  Vance smoked a moment and said nothing, but he seemed satisfied with the answer. He glanced about him and again addressed Heath.

  “I’m afraid, Sergeant, your finger-print men and your photographers and your busy boys from the Homicide Bureau are going to draw a blank here. But I’m sure you’d be horribly disappointed if they didn’t clutter this room up with insufflators and tripods and what not.”

  “I still want to know,” persisted Markham, “what all this time-table hocus-pocus means.”

  Vance looked at him with unwonted seriousness.

  “It means deviltry, Markham.” His voice was unusually low and resonant. “It means something damnable. I don’t like this case.—I don’t at all like it. It infuriates me because it leaves us so helpless. Again, I fear, we must wait.”

  “But we can’t just sit back,” said Markham in a dispirited voice. “Isn’t there some step you can suggest?”

  “Well, yes. But it won’t help much. I propose that first we ask one or two questions of the gentlemen downstairs. And then I propose that we go into the yard and take a look at the ladder.” Vance turned to Heath. “Have you your flashlight, Sergeant?”

  “Sure I have,” the other answered.

  “And after that,” Vance went on, resuming his reply to Markham, “I propose that we go home and bide our time. The Sergeant will carry on with his prescribed but futile activities while we slumber.”

  Heath grunted and started toward Kaspar Kenting’s room, headed for the hallway.

  When we reached the drawing-room we found all four of its occupants anxious and alert. Even Fraim Falloway seemed excited and expectant. They were all standing in a small group, talking to each other in short jerky sentences the gist of which I did not catch, for the conversation stopped abruptly, and they turned to us eagerly the moment we entered the room.

  “Have you learned anything?” asked Fraim Falloway, in a semi-hysterical falsetto.

  “We’re not through looking round yet,” Vance returned placatingly. “We hope to know something definite very soon. Just now, however, I wish to ask each of you gentlemen a question.”

  He did not seem particularly concerned and sat down as he spoke, crossing his knees leisurely. When he had selected a cigarette from his platinum-and-jet case he turned suddenly to the lawyer.

  “What is your favorite perfume, Mr. Fleel?” he asked unexpectedly.

  The man stared at him in blank astonishment, and I am sure that had he been in a courtroom, he would have appealed instantly to the judge with the usual incompetent-irrelevant-and-immaterial objection. However, he managed a condescending smile and replied:

  “I have no favorite perfume—I know nothing about such things. It’s true, I send bottles of perfume to my women clients at Christmas, instead of the conventional flower-baskets, but I always leave the selection to my secretary.”

  “Do you regard Mrs. Kenting as one of your women clients?” Vance continued.

  “Naturally,” answered the lawyer.

  “By the by, Mr. Fleel, is your secret’ry blond or brunette?”

  The man seemed more disconcerted than ever, but answered immediately.

  “I don’t know. I suppose you’d call her brunette. Her hair certainly doesn’t look anything like Jean Harlow’s or like Peggy Hopkins Joyce’s—if that’s what you mean.”

  “Many thanks,” said Vance curtly, and shifted his gaze to Fraim Falloway who stood a few feet away, gaping before him with unseeing eyes.

  “What is your favorite scent, Mr. Falloway?” Vance asked, watching the youth closely and appraisingly.

  “I—I don’t know,” Falloway stammered. “I’m not familiar with such feminine matters. But I think emerald is wonderful—so mysterious—so exotic—so subtle.” He raised his eyes almost rapturously, like a young poet reciting his own verses.

  “You’re quite right,” murmured Vance; and then he focused his gaze on Kenyon Kenting.

  “All perfumes smell alike to me,” was the man’s annoyed assertion before Vance could frame the question again. “I can’t tell one from another—except gardenia. Whenever I give any woman perfume, I give her gardenia.”

  A faint smile appeared at the corners of Vance’s mouth.

  “Really, y’ kn
ow,” he said, “I shouldn’t do it, if I were you.”

  As he spoke he turned his head to Porter Quaggy.

  “And how about you, Mr. Quaggy?” he asked lightly. “If you were giving a lady perfume, what scent would you select?”

  Quaggy gave a mirthless chuckle.

  “I haven’t yet been guilty of such foolishness,” he replied. “I stick to flowers. They’re easier. But if I were compelled to present a fair creature with perfume, I’d first find out what she liked.”

  “Quite a sensible point of view,” murmured Vance, rising as if with great effort and turning. “And now, I say, Sergeant, let’s have a curs’ry look at that ladder.”

  As we walked down the front steps I saw Guilfoyle still sitting at the wheel of his cab, with the motor humming gently.

  Heath flashed on his powerful pocket light, and for the second time we went through the street gate leading into the yard, and approached the ladder leaning against the side of the house.

  The short grass was entirely dry, and the ground had completely hardened since the rain two nights ago. Vance again bent over at the foot of the ladder while Heath held the flashlight.

  “There’s no need to fear my spoiling your adored footprints tonight, Sergeant,—the ground is much too hard. Not even Sweet Alice Cherry256 could have made an impression on this sod.” Vance straightened up after a moment and moved the ladder slightly to the right, as he had done the previous morning. “And don’t get jittery about finger-prints, Sergeant,” he went on. “I’m quite convinced you’ll find none. This ladder, I opine, is merely a stage-prop, as it were; and the person who set it here was clever enough to have used gloves.”

  He bent over again and inspected the lawn, but rose almost immediately.

  “Not the slightest depression—only a few blades of grass crushed.… I say, sergente mio, it’s your turn to step on the ladder—I’m frightfully tired.”

  Heath immediately clambered up five or six rungs and then descended; and Vance again moved the ladder a few inches. Both he and Heath now knelt down and scrutinized the ground.

  “Observe,” said Vance as he rose to his feet, “that the uprights make a slight depression in the soil, even with the weight of only one person pressing upon the ladder.… Let’s go inside again and dispense our adieux.”