The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

“I’m not bloodthirsty at all, Markham,” he said, looking quizzically at the District Attorney; “but I rather wish the gentleman with the machine-gun had potted Mr. Fleel. And he was at such short range. I’ve never wielded a machine-gun myself, but I’m quite sure I could have done better than that.… And the poor Sergeant, dashing madly around at this hour. My heart goes out to him. The whole explanation of this evening’s little contretemps lies elsewhere than with the mysterious green coupé.”

  Markham was annoyed. He was standing at the curb, straining his eyes up the avenue to the north. “Sometimes, Vance,” he said, without taking his eyes from the wide macadamized roadway, “you infuriate me with your babble. A lot of good it would have done us to have Fleel shot a few feet away from myself and the police.”

  Vance joined Markham at the edge of the sidewalk and followed his intense gaze northward to the quiet blocks in the distance.

  “Lovely night,” murmured Vance tantalizingly. “So quiet and lonely. But much too warm.”

  “I’ll warrant the Sergeant and McLaughlin overhaul that car somewhere.” Markham was apparently following his own trend of thought.

  “Oh, I dare say,” sighed Vance. “But I doubt if it will get us forrader. One can’t send a green coupé to the electric chair. Silly notion—what?”

  There were several moments of silence, and then a taxicab came at a perilous rate out of the transverse in the park, swung south, and drew up directly in front of us.

  Simultaneously with the car’s abrupt stop the door swung open, and Heath and McLaughlin stepped down.

  “We got the car all right,” announced Heath triumphantly. “The same dirty-green coupé McLaughlin here saw outside the Kenting house Wednesday morning.”

  The officer nodded his head enthusiastically.

  “It’s the same, all right,” he asserted. “I’d swear to it. Jeez, what a break!”

  “Where did you find it, Sergeant?” asked Markham. (Vance was unimpressed and was blowing smoke-rings playfully into the still summer air.)

  “Right up there in the transverse leading through the park.” The Sergeant waved his arm with an impatient backward flourish, and barely missed striking McLaughlin who stood beside him. “It was half-way up on the curb. Abandoned. After the guys in it ditched the car they musta come out and hopped a taxicab up the street, because shortly after the green coupé turned into the transverse two guys walked out and, according to the driver here, took the cab in front of his.”

  Without waiting for a reply from either Markham or Vance, Heath swung about and beckoned imperiously to the chauffeur of the cab from which he had just alighted. A short rotund man of perhaps thirty, with a flat cap and a duster too long for him, struggled out of the front seat and joined us.

  “Look here, you,” bawled Heath, “do you know the name of the man who was running the cab ahead of you on the stand tonight who took the two guys what come out of the transverse?”

  “Sure I know him,” returned the chauffeur. “He’s a buddy of mine.”

  “Know where he lives?”

  “Sure I know where he lives. Up on Kelly Street, in the Bronx. He’s got a wife and three kids.”

  “The hell with his family!” snapped Heath. “Get hold of that baby as soon as you can, and tell him to beat it down to the Homicide Bureau pronto. I wanta know where he took those two guys that came out of the transverse.”

  “I can tell ya that right now, officer,” came the chauffeur’s respectful answer. “I was standin’ talkin’ to Abe when the fares came over from the park. I opened the door for ’em myself. An’ they told Abe to drive like hell to the uptown station of the Lexington Avenue subway at 86th Street.”

  “Ah!” It was Vance who spoke. “That’s very interestin’. Uptown—eh, what?”

  “Anyway, I wanta see this buddy of yours,” Heath went on to the chauffeur, ignoring Vance’s interpolated comment. “Get me, fella?”

  “Sure I getcha, officer,” the chauffeur returned subserviently. “Abe ought to be back on the stand in half an hour.”

  “That’s O.-K.,” growled Heath, turning to Markham. “Gosh, Chief, I gotta get to a telephone quick and get the boys lookin’ for these guys.”

  “Why rush the matter, Sergeant?” Vance spoke casually. “We really ought not to keep Snitkin waiting too long at the apartment, don’t y’ know. I say, let’s take this taxi and we’ll be home in a few minutes. You can then use my phone to your heart’s content. And this gentleman here”—indicating the chauffeur—“can return at once to his stand and await the arrival of his friend, Mr. Abraham.”

  Heath hesitated, and Markham nodded after a quick look at Vance.

  “I think that will be the best course, Sergeant,” the District Attorney said, and opened the door of the taxicab.

  We all got inside, leaving McLaughlin standing on the curb, and Heath gave Vance’s address to the driver. As we pulled away, Heath put his head out of the window.

  “Report that empty car,” he called out to McLaughlin. “And then keep your eye on it till the boys come up for it. Also watch for Abie till this fellow gets back—then get to the Kenting house and stand by with Guilfoyle.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  KASPAR IS FOUND

  (Friday, July 22; 12:30 A.M.)

  As we drove rapidly down Central Park West, Markham nervously lighted a cigar and asked Heath, who was sitting on the seat in front of him:

  “Well, what about that telephone call you got at the Kenting house, Sergeant?”

  Heath turned his head and spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Kaspar Kenting’s body has been found in the East River, around 150th Street. The report came in right after Snitkin got back to Headquarters. He’s got all the details.… I thought I’d better not say anything about it up at the Kentings’ place with that snoopy butler hanging around.”

  Markham did not speak for a few seconds. Then he asked:

  “Is that all you know, Sergeant?”

  “My God, Chief!” Heath exclaimed. “Ain’t that enough?” And he settled down in the narrow, cramped quarters of his seat.

  Again there was silence in the cab. Though I could not see Markham’s face, I could well imagine his mixed reactions to this disturbing piece of news.

  “Then you were right, Vance,” he commented at length, in a strained, barely audible tone.

  “The East River—eh?” Vance spoke quietly and without emotion. “Yes, it could easily be. Very distressin’.…” He said no more; nor was there any further talk until we reached Vance’s apartment.

  Snitkin was already waiting in the upper hallway, just outside the library. Heath merely grunted to him as he brushed by and picked up the telephone. He talked for five minutes or more, making innumerable reports relating to the night’s happenings and giving various instructions. When he had the routine police ball rolling he beckoned to Snitkin, and entered the library where Vance, Markham, and I were waiting.

  “Go ahead, Snitkin,” ordered Heath, before the man was barely in the room. “Tell us what you know.”

  “Oh, I say, Sergeant,” put in Vance, “let Snitkin have a bit of this brandy first.” And he poured a copious drink of his rare Napoléon into a whiskey glass on the end of the library table. “The gruesome particulars will keep a moment.”

  Snitkin hesitated and glanced sheepishly at the District Attorney. Markham merely nodded his head, and the detective gulped down the cognac. “Much obliged, Mr. Vance,” he said. “And here’s all I know about it:”—It is interesting to note that Snitkin addressed himself to Vance and not to either Markham or Heath, although Vance had no official standing in the Police Department.—“There’s a small inlet up there in the river, which isn’t over three feet deep, and the fellow on the beat—Nelson, I think it was—saw this baby lying on the bank, with his legs sticking out of the water, along about nine o’clock tonight. So he called in and reported it right away, and they sent over a buggy from the local station. The Medical Examiner of t
he Bronx gave the body the once-over, and it seems the fellow didn’t even die from drowning. He was already dead when he was dumped into the water. His head was bashed in with—”

  “With the usual blunt instrument,” broke in Vance, finishing the sentence. “That’s what the medicos always call it when they are not sure just how a johnnie was laid low by violence.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Vance,” resumed Snitkin with a grin. “The fellow’s head was bashed in with a blunt instrument—that’s just what the report said.… Well, the doc guessed the guy had been dead twelve hours maybe. There’s no telling how long he’d been lying there in the inlet. It’s not a place that’s likely to be seen by anybody, and it was only by accident that Nelson ran across the body.”

  “What about identification?” asked Heath officiously.

  “Oh, there was plenty identification, Sarge,” Snitkin answered. “The guy not only fit the description like a glove, but his clothes and his pockets was full of identification. Looked almost like whoever threw him there wanted him to be identified quick. He had his name on a label on the inside of his coat pocket, and another one under the strap of his vest, and still another one sewed into the watch pocket of his pants. And that ain’t all: his name was written on the inside of his shoes—though I don’t get that exactly.…”

  “That’s quite correct, Snitkin,” remarked Vance. “It’s the practice of all custom boot-makers. And the three labels in his clothes merely mean that they were made to order by a custom tailor. Quite custom’ry and understandable.”

  “Anyhow,” Snitkin went on, “I’m simply tellin’ you how we know the body is Kenting’s. There was a wallet with initials in his inside coat pocket, with a couple of letters addressed to him, and a bunch of callin’ cards.…”

  “I do wish you’d call them visitin’ cards,” murmured Vance.

  “Hell, I’ll call ’em anything you want,” grinned Snitkin. “Anyhow, they was there. And there was a fancy pocket comb with his initials on it—”

  “A pocket comb—eh?” Vance nodded with satisfaction. “Very interestin’, Markham. When a gentleman carries a pocket comb—not a particularly popular practice these days, since beards went out of fashion—he would certainly not add a toilet comb to his equipment.… Forgive the interruption, Snitkin. Go ahead.”

  “Well, there was monograms on damn-near everything else he had in his pockets, like his cigarette case and lighter and knife and key-ring and handkerchiefs; and there was even monograms on his underwear. According to the boys at the local station, he was either the Kaspar Kenting we’re looking for, or he wasn’t nobody. And that was a pretty complete description of him we sent out this morning to all the local precincts.”

  “No pajamas and no toothbrush in his pocket, Snitkin?” Vance asked.

  “Pajamas—a toothbrush?” Snitkin was as much surprised as he was puzzled. “Nothing was said about ’em, Mr. Vance, so I guess they wasn’t there. Are they needed for identification?”

  “Oh, no—no,” Vance returned quickly. “Just a bit of curiosity on my part. Oh, I don’t question the identification for a moment, Snitkin. It needs far less proof than you’ve given us.”

  “Who gave you all this dope, Snitkin?” asked the Sergeant in a somewhat mollified tone.

  “The desk sergeant uptown,” Snitkin told him. “He telephoned the Bureau as soon as he got the report from the doc. I had just come in, and took the call myself. Then I phoned you.”

  Heath nodded as if satisfied.

  “That’s all right, Snitkin. You’d better go home now and hit the hay,—you been wearin’ out your dogs all day. But get down to the Bureau early tomorrow—I’ll be needin’ you. I’ll see about getting some members of the family for official indentification of the body in the morning—probably the fellow’s brother will be enough. This is a hell of a case.”

  “But ain’t you gonna tear off some rest yourself, Sergeant?” Snitkin asked solicitously.

  “I’m a young fellow,” retorted Heath with good-natured contempt. “I can take it. You old guys need a lot of beauty sleep.”

  Snitkin grinned again and looked at the Sergeant admiringly.

  “Have another little spot, Snitkin, before you go,” suggested Vance. And, without waiting for a response, he refilled the whiskey glass.

  As before, Snitkin hesitated.

  “You know, I’m not officially on duty now, Chief,” he said, looking toward Markham almost coyly.

  Markham did not glance up—he seemed depressed and worried.

  “Go ahead,” he barked, but not without a certain kindliness. “And don’t talk so much. We all need a little support right now.”

  Snitkin picked up the whiskey glass and emptied it with alacrity. As he set the glass down he drew his coat sleeve across his mouth.

  “Chief, you’re a swell—” he began. But Heath cut him short.

  “Get the hell out of here,” he bawled at his subordinate. The Sergeant knew only too well Markham’s aversion for any compliments and the curious reticence of the District Attorney’s nature.257

  Snitkin went out—somewhat meekly and wonderingly, but, withal, gratefully—and ten minutes later Heath followed. When we were alone Markham asked:

  “What do you think of it, Vance?”

  “Thinkin’ is an awful bore, Markham,” Vance answered with irritating nonchalance. “And it’s growing frightfully late, especially considerin’ how early I dragged myself into consciousness this morning.”

  “Never mind all that.” Markham spoke with exasperation. “How did you know Kaspar Kenting was dead when I spoke to you on the stairway yesterday morning?”

  “You flatter me,” said Vance. “I didn’t really know. I merely surmised it—basin’ my conclusion on the indications.”

  “So that’s your mood,” snorted Markham hopelessly. “I’m telling you, you outrageous fop, that this is a damned serious situation—what happened to Fleel tonight ought to prove that.”

  Vance smoked a moment in silence, and his brow clouded: his whole expression, in fact, changed.

  “I know only too well, Markham, how serious the situation is,” he said in a grave and curiously subdued voice. “But there’s really nothing we can do. We must wait—please believe me. Our hands and feet are tied.” He looked at Markham and continued with unwonted earnestness. “The most serious part of the whole affair is that this is not a kidnapping case at all, in the conventional sense. It goes deeper than that. It’s cold-blooded, diabolical murder. But I can’t quite see my way yet to proving it. I’m far more worried than you, Markham. The whole thing is unspeakably horrible. There are subtle and abnormal elements mixed up in the situation. It’s an abominable affair, but as we sit here tonight, I want to tell you that I don’t know—I don’t know.… I’m afraid to make a move until we learn more.”

  I had rarely heard Vance speak in this tone, and a curious sensation of fear, so potent as to be almost a physical reaction, ran through me.

  I am certain that Vance’s words had a similar effect on Markham, who made no comment: he sat silent for several minutes. Then he took his leave, without again referring to the case. Vance bade him good night absent-mindedly and remained in his chair, gazing before him into the empty grate.

  I myself went immediately to bed and—I am a little loath to admit it—slept fairly well: I was somewhat exhausted, and a physical relaxation had come over me, despite my mental tension. But had I known what terrible and heart-paralyzing events the following day held in store, I doubt if I could have slept a wink that night.

  CHAPTER XV

  ALEXANDRITE AND AMETHYST

  (Friday, July 22; 8:40 A.M.)

  I shall never forget the following day. It will ever remain in my memory as one of the great horrors of my life. It was the day when Vance and Heath and I came nearer to death than ever before or since. I still remember the scene in the private office of the now closed Kinkaid Casino;258 and the report of Vance’s hideous death in the course of the Ga
rden murder case will never be erased from my mind. But as I look back upon these and other frightful episodes which froze my blood and filled my heart with cold fear, not one of them looms as appalling as do the events of that memorable Friday in the blistering heat of this particular summer.

  It was, in a way, the outcome of Vance’s own decision. He deliberately sought it as the result of some strange and unusual emotional reaction. He staked his own life in the attempt to prevent something which he considered diabolical. Vance was a man whose cold mental processes generally governed his every action; but in this emergency he impulsively followed his instincts. I frankly admit that it was, to me, a new phase of the man’s many-sided character—a phase with which I was unfamiliar, and which I would not have believed was actually part of his make-up.

  The day began conventionally enough, except that Vance rose at eight. I did not know how much sleep he actually got after Markham departed the night before. I know only that I myself woke up for a brief interval, hours after I had retired, and could hear his footsteps as if he were pacing up and down in the library. But when I joined him for breakfast at half-past eight that morning, there was no indication either in his eyes or in his manner—which was as nonchalant and disinterested as ever—that he had been deprived of his rest.

  He was dressed in a dark grey herring-bone suit, a pair of soft black leather oxfords, and a dark green cravat with white polka-dots. He greeted me with his customarily cynical but pleasant ease. But he made no comment to explain his early (for him) rising. He seemed altogether natural and unconcerned about the happenings of the day before. When he had finished his Turkish coffee and lighted a second Régie he settled back in his chair and spoke, quite casually, about the Kenting case.

  “An amazin’ and complicated affair—eh, what, Van? There are far too many facets to it—same like those stones in old Karl Kenting’s collection—to leave one entirely comfortable. Dashed elusive—and deuced tangled. I naturally have certain suspicions, but I am by no means sure of my ground. I don’t like those missin’ gems—they tie up too consistently with the rest of the incidents. I don’t like that unused ladder—so subtly and uselessly moved from one window to another. I don’t like that abortive attempt on Fleel’s life last night, or Quaggy’s fortuitous appearance on the scene—Fleel was undoubtedly in a jittery state when we found him and actually incredulous at finding himself still alive. And I don’t at all like the general situation in that old high-ceilinged purple house—it’s not a wholesome place and has too many sinister possibilities.… There has already been one murder that we know of, and there may be another which we haven’t yet heard about.”