He looked up with a troubled glance and drew in a deep breath.
“No—oh, no; it’s not a nice case,” he went on as if to himself. “But what are we to do about it? Today may bring an answer. Haste on our part might spoil everything. But haste—oh, tremendous haste—is now of the utmost importance to the killer. That is why I think something will happen before very long. I’m hopin’, Van. I’m also countin’ on the anxiety of the person who has plotted and carried out this beastly affair to this point.…”
He smoked a while in silence. I offered no comment or opinion, for I knew he had been thinking aloud rather than addressing me personally. When the lighted tip of his cigarette had almost reached the platinum rim of his slender ivory holder he got up slowly, moved to the front window, and stood gazing out at the sunlit street. Despite the sunshine, a humid mist fell over the city and presaged a stagnant, airless day. When Vance turned back to me he seemed to have made a decision.
“I think we’ll take a spin down to Markham’s office, Van,” he said. “There’s nothing to do here, and there may be some news which Markham naively regards as too trivial to telephone me about. But it’s the little obscure things that are goin’ to solve this case.”259
Vance walked energetically across the room and, ringing for Currie, ordered his car.
Vance drove swiftly down Madison Avenue in a curiously abstracted mood. We arrived at Markham’s office a few minutes before ten o’clock.
“Glad you came, Vance,” was Markham’s greeting. “I was about to call you on the phone.”
“Ah!” Vance sat down lazily. “Any tidin’s, glad or otherwise?”
“I’m afraid not,” Markham returned dispiritedly, “although things have been going ahead. A great deal of the necessary police work has been done, but we haven’t come upon any promising lead as yet.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” Vance smiled mildly. “Jolly old Police Department simply must imitate the whirling dervish before they feel entitled to settle down to the serious business in hand. I suppose you mean finger-prints, photographs, and the futile search for possible lookers-on, and the grilling—as you call it—of perfectly innocent and harmless people, and a careful search of the spot where Kaspar was found, as well as a thorough overhauling of the abandoned car.”
Markham responded with a contemptuous snort.
“Those things simply have to be done. Very often they lead us to vital facts in the case. All criminals are not super-geniuses—they make mistakes occasionally.”
“Oh, to be sure,” Vance sighed. “Concatenation of circumstances impossible of duplication. Reconstruction from two points of view—and so on ad infinitum. I think I know all the catch phrases by this time.… However, proceed to unburden thyself.”
“Well,” said Markham in a hard, practical voice, ignoring Vance’s frivolous interlude, “Kenyon Kenting was taken to the uptown morgue this morning and he identified his brother’s body beyond a doubt. And I saw no need to put any other members of the family through the harrowing experience.”
“Most considerate of you,” murmured Vance—and it was difficult to know whether his remark was intended to convey a tinge of sarcasm or was merely a conventional retort. In any event, Markham’s statement left him utterly indifferent.
“Mrs. Kenting’s room,” continued Markham, “as well as the window-sill and the ladder, was gone over thoroughly for finger-prints—”
“And none was found, of course, except the Sergeant’s and mine.”
“You’re right,” conceded Markham. “The person, or persons, must have worn gloves.”
“Assumin’ there was a person—or persons.”
“All right, all right.” Markham was beginning to be annoyed. “You’re so damned cryptic about everything, and so reticent, that I have no way of knowing what prompted that last remark of yours. But, whatever you think, there must have been some one somewhere, or Mrs. Kenting could not have disappeared as she did.”
“Quite true,” returned Vance. “We can quite safely eliminate a capella accidents or amnesia or such things, in view of all the circumstances. I suppose all the hospitals have been checked as part of the pirouetting activities of Centre Street’s master minds?”
“Naturally. And we drew a blank at every step. But if we failed in that respect we have, at least, disposed of the possibility.”
“Amazin’ progress,” commented Vance. “There’ll be finger-prints somewhere, so don’t be downcast, old dear. But the signs-manual will be found, if at all, somewhere far removed from the Kenting house. Personally, I’d say you wouldn’t find them till you have located the car in which Mrs. Kenting was probably driven away last night.”
“What do you mean—what car?” demanded Markham.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Vance laconically. “But I hardly think the lady walked out of sight.… And, by the by, Markham, speakin’ of cars, what enormous array of information did you marshal about the green coupé that the energetic Sergeant found so conveniently waiting for him in the transverse?… Doubtless stolen—eh, what?”
Markham nodded glumly.
“Yes, Vance, that’s just it. Belongs to a perfectly respectable spinster on upper West End Avenue. And a careful search of the car itself produced only the fact that there was a small sub-machine gun thrown into the tool chest under the seat.”
“And the license plates?” asked Vance casually.
“Oh, those were stolen too.” Markham spoke disgustedly.
“Plates didn’t belong to the car, eh?” Vance smoked meditatively without stirring. “Very interestin’. Stolen car and stolen license plates. A car that doesn’t belong to the fleeing occupants, and plates that don’t belong to the car—well, well. Implies two cars, don’t you know. Maybe it was the second car in which Mrs. Kenting was spirited away. Merely hazardin’ a guess, don’t y’ know.” He now uncrossed his knees and drew himself up slightly in his chair. “I rather imagine the dirty-green coupé was following Fleel around last night when Mrs. Kenting sallied forth to her assignation, and it was left to the other car to take care of the lady, as it were. Fairly well equipped gang.”
“I don’t follow you, Vance,” Markham returned; “although I have a vague notion of the theory you’re working out. But many other things might have happened last night.”
“Oh, quite,” agreed Vance. “As I said, I was merely hazardin’ a guess.… What about Abe, the buddy of the chauffeur who drove us home last night? I suppose Heath or some of the Torquemadas in Centre Street put the poor devil through the requisite torture?”
“You read too many trashy books, Vance.” Markham was indignant. “Heath talked to the driver of the number one cab at Headquarters within an hour of the time he left here last night. He merely corroborated what our chauffeur told us—namely, that he dropped the two men who came out of the transverse at the uptown entrance of the Lexington Avenue subway. Incidentally, they didn’t wait for change but hurried down the stairs—they were probably just in time to catch the last express.”
Vance again sighed lightly. “Most helpful.… Any other coruscatin’ discoveries?”
“I spoke to the doctor who went over Kaspar’s body,” Markham went on. “And there’s little or nothing to add to Snitkin’s report of last night. The exact location of the spot where he was found was determined, and the ground was gone over carefully. But there were no footprints or suggestive indications of any kind. McLaughlin heard and saw nothing last night around the Kenting house; Weem and the cook both stick to the story that they were asleep during that whole time; and two taxicab drivers who were at the Columbus Avenue corner did not remember seeing Mrs. Kenting, whom they know by sight, come down that way.”
“Well, your information seems to be typically thorough and typically useless,” said Vance. “Did any one do a bit of checkin’ up to ascertain whether there were any unaccounted-for semiprecious stones round town?”
Markham gave him a look of mild surprise and mock pity.
“Good heavens, no! What have your semiprecious stones to do with a case of kidnapping?”
“My dear Markham!” protested Vance. “I have told you—and I thought, in my naive way, that it had even been demonstrated to you—that this is not a case of kidnapping. Won’t you even permit a subtle killer to set the stage for himself—to indulge in a bit of spectacular décor, so to speak? That collection of old Karl Kenting’s gems has a dashed lot to do with the case.…”
“Well, suppose those pieces of colored glass do have something to do with the disappearances, what of it?” Markham interrupted aggressively. “I’m not worried as much about such vague factors in the case as I am about that attack on Fleel.”
“Oh, that.” Vance shrugged. “A mere bit of technique. And the operator of the sub-machine gun was kind enough to miss his target. As I told Fleel, he was very lucky.”
“But whether Fleel survived or not,” muttered Markham, “it was a dastardly affair.”
“I quite agree with you there, Markham,” said Vance approvingly.
At this moment Markham’s secretary, coming swiftly through the swinging leather door, interrupted the conversation.
“Chief,” he announced, “there’s a young fellow outside who’s terribly excited and insists on seeing you at once. Says it’s about the Kenting case. Gives his name as Falloway.”
“Oh, send him in, by all means,” said Vance, before Markham had time to answer.
The secretary looked interrogatingly at the District Attorney. Markham hesitated only a moment and then nodded. A few moments later Fraim Falloway was shown into the office. He came into the room with a frightened air, and bade Markham good morning. His eyes seemed larger and his face paler than when I had last seen him.
“Tell us what’s on your mind, Mr. Falloway.” Vance spoke softly.
The youth turned and noticed him for the first time.
“I’ll tell you, all right,” he said in quick, tremulous accents. “That—that beautiful alexandrite stone is gone from the collection. I’m sure it’s been stolen.”
“Stolen?” Vance looked at the youth closely. “Why do you say stolen?”
“I—I don’t know,” was the flustered reply. “All I know is that it is gone—how else could it have disappeared unless it was stolen? It was there two days ago.”
Even I remembered the stone—an unusually large and beautifully cut octagonal stone of perhaps forty carats, which was in a place of honor, in the most conspicuous case, surrounded by other specimens of chrysoberyl. I had taken particular notice of it the morning of Kaspar Kenting’s disappearance when Vance and I had looked over the various glass cases before ascending the stairs to Kaspar’s room.
“I don’t know anything about those stones in the collection,” Falloway went on excitedly, “but I do know about this magnificent alexandrite. It always fascinated me—it was the only gem in the collection I cared anything about. It was a wonderful and beautiful thing. I used to go into the room often just to look at that stone. I could lose myself before it for an hour at a time. In the daytime it was the most marvellous green, like dark jade, with only touches of red in it; but at night, in the artificial light, it changed its color completely and became a thrilling red, like wine.”
As Markham threw him a look of incredulity, Falloway hastened on.
“Oh, it was no miracle.—I looked it up in a book; I read about it. It had some strange and mystic quality which made it absorb and refract and reflect the light upon it in different ways. But I haven’t feasted my eyes on it for two days—we’ve all been so upset—until last night—but that was in the yellow artificial light—and it was a beautiful red then.”
Falloway paused and then hurried on ecstatically.
“But I like it most in the daylight when it turns green and mysterious—that’s when it recalls to me Swinburne’s great poem, The Triumph of Time: ‘I will go back to the great sweet mother, mother and lover of men, the sea.’—Oh, I hope you see what I mean.…” He looked at each of us in turn. “So this morning—a little while ago—I went downstairs to look at it: I needed something—something… But it wasn’t green at all. It was still red, almost purple. And after I had looked at it a while in amazement, I realized that even the cutting was different. It was the same size and shape—but that was all. Oh, I know every facet of that alexandrite. It was not the same stone. It had been taken away and another stone left in its place!…”
He fumbled nervously in his outside pocket and finally drew out a large deep-colored gem, which can best be described as deep red but with a very decided purple cast. He held it out to Vance on the palm of his shaking hand.
“That’s what was left in the place of my beloved alexandrite!”
Vance took the stone and looked at it a moment. Still holding the gem he let his hand fall to his lap, and looked up at Falloway with a comprehending nod.
“Yes, I see what you mean—quite,” he said. “As good a substitution as possible. This is merely amethyst. Of comparatively little value. Similar to alexandrite, however, and often mistaken for it by amateurs. Any one would trade an amethyst for an alexandrite, the price of which has recently begun to soar. Can you say with any accuracy when the exchange was made?”
Falloway shook his head vaguely and sat down heavily.
“No,” he said phlegmatically. “As I told you, I haven’t seen it in daylight for two days, and last night I looked at it for just a second and didn’t realize that it wasn’t the alexandrite. I discovered the truth this morning. The exchange might have been made at any time since I last saw the real stone in daylight.”
Vance again looked at the stone and handed it back to Falloway.
“Return it to the case as soon as you reach home. And say nothing about it to any one till I speak to you again.” He turned to the District Attorney. “Y’ know, Markham, fine alexandrite is a very rare and valuable variety of chrysoberyl. It was discovered less than a hundred years ago, in the Urals, and it was named after the czarevitch who later became the conservative and reformative Alexander II, Czar of Russia, for it first came to light on his birthday. As Mr. Falloway rightly says, it is a curious dichroic gem. The light of the spectrum is reflected, absorbed and refracted in such a way that in the daylight it is quite green, and in artificial light, especially gas-light, it is a pronounced deep and scintillating red, slightly on the blue, or short wavelength end of the spectrum. A fine specimen of alexandrite the size of that stone would now be worth a small fortune. Such a specimen is the dream of every collector. I saw the stone when I glanced through the cases Wednesday morning and marvelled at old Karl’s good luck. The other indifferent items in the collection were anything but consistent with that alexandrite; and when I spoke to Kenyon Kenting that morning, I entirely omitted any mention of that particular stone, for it takes more than one exceptional piece of chrysoberyl, no matter how beautiful, to constitute a well-rounded collection.”
Vance paused a moment with a reflective look, and then continued.
“Amethyst, a variety of quartz, which likewise comes from Russia, although somewhat similar in shade to alexandrite, does not have that peculiar dichroic characteristic. Amethyst, d’ ye see, has a structural dissimilarity from alexandrite. At times we find in the crystals a right-angular formation to the edge of the prism, shaped in sectoral triangles. This accounts for its bicoloration—the so-called white and purple tints, making it resemble two separate, fused stones. The fractural ripples and the feather-like effects—so apparent in amethyst—result from this peculiar laterality of structure. On the other hand, Markham, alexandrite—”
“Thanks for the lecture, but forgive me if I am not interested.” Markham was irritated. “What I’d like to know is whether you see anything significant in the disappearance of the alexandrite and the substitution of the amethyst.”
“Oh, yes—decidedly. You’d be amazed if you knew how highly significant it is.” He turned quickly to Fraim Falloway, who had been listening w
ith an eagerness of interest I had not seen him display at any previous time. “I think, Mr. Falloway, you would better return to your home at once and do exactly as I told you. We are grateful no end for your coming here and telling us about the missin’ stone.”
Falloway rose heavily.
“I’ll put the stone back in place right away.”
“Oh, by the by, Mr. Falloway.” Vance drew himself up sharply. “If, as you have intimated, your favorite cutting of alexandrite was stolen, could you suggest the possible thief? Could it, for instance, have been any one you know?”
“You mean some one in the house?—or Mr. Quaggy or Mr. Fleel?” retorted Falloway with a show of indignation. “What would they want with my alexandrite?” He shook his head shrewdly. “But I have an idea who did take it.”
“Ah!”
“Yes! I know more than you think I do.” Falloway made a pitiful effort to thrust forward his narrow chest. “It was Kaspar—that’s who it was!”
Vance nodded indulgently.
“But Kaspar is dead. His body was found last night.”
“A damned good riddance!” Vance’s announcement left Falloway unruffled. “I was hoping he wouldn’t come back.”
“He won’t,” interjected Markham laconically, staring at the youth with unmistakable disgust.
I doubt if Falloway even heard the District Attorney’s remark: his attention was concentrated on Vance.
“But do you think you can ever find my beautiful alexandrite?” he asked. He seemed to regard the disappearance of the alexandrite as a personal loss.
The Philo Vance Megapack Page 240
