The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  But, with a movement almost as quick as the Chinaman’s, Heath, who was standing close to Vance, brought the butt of his revolver down on the yellow man’s head with terrific force. The Chinaman’s legs disentangled themselves; his arms relaxed; his head fell back; and he began slipping limply to the floor. Vance caught him and eased him down noiselessly. Leaning over for a moment, he looked at the Chinaman by the flame of his cigarette lighter, and then straightened up.

  “He’s good for an hour, at least, Sergeant,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “My word! You’re so brutal.… He was trying to reach that bell signal. The others must be upstairs.” He moved silently toward the narrow carpeted stairway that led above. “This is a damnable situation. Keep your guns handy, both of you, and don’t touch the banister—it may creak.”

  As we filed noiselessly up the dimly-lit stairs, Vance leading the way, Heath just behind him, and I bringing up the rear, I was assailed by a terrifying premonition of disaster. There was something sinister in the atmosphere of that house; and I imagined that grave danger lurked in the deep shadows above us. I grasped my automatic more firmly, and a sensation of alertness seized me as if my brain had suddenly been swept clear of everything but the apprehension of what might lie ahead.…

  It seemed an unreasonably long time before we reached the upper landing—a sensation like a crazy hasheesh distortion—and I felt myself struggling to regain a sense of reality.

  As Vance stepped into the hallway above, which was narrower and dingier than the one downstairs, he stood tensely still for a moment, looking about him. There was only one small lighted gas jet at the rear of the hall. Luckily, the floor was covered with an old worn runner which deadened our footsteps as we followed Vance up the hall. Suddenly the muffled sound of voices came to us, but we could not distinguish any words. Vance moved stealthily toward the front of the house and stood before the only door on the left of the corridor. A line of faint light outlined the threshold, and it was now evident that the voices came from within that room.

  After listening a moment Vance tried the doorknob with extreme care. To our surprise the door was not locked, but swung back easily into a long, narrow, squalid room in the centre of which stood a plain deal table. At one end of the table, by the light of an oil lamp, two illy dressed men sat playing casino, judging by the distribution of the cards.

  Though the room was filled with cigarette smoke, I immediately recognized one of the men as the shabby figure I had seen leaning against the bench in Central Park the night before. The lamp furnished the only illumination in the room, and dark grey blankets, hanging in full folds from over the window-frames, let no ray of light escape either at the front or side window.

  The two men sprang to their feet instantaneously, turning in our direction.

  “Down, Van!” ordered Vance; and his call was submerged under two deafening detonations accompanied by two flashes from a revolver in the hand of the man nearest us. The bullets must have gone over us, for both Heath and I had dropped quickly to the floor at Vance’s order. Almost immediately—so quickly as to be practically simultaneous—there came two reports from Vance’s automatic, and I saw the man who had shot at us pitch forward. The thud of his body on the floor coincided with the crash of the lamp, knocked over by the second man. The room was plunged in complete darkness.

  “Stay down, Van!” came the commanding voice of Vance.

  Almost as he spoke there was a staccato exchange of shots. All I could see were the brilliant flashes from the automatics. To this day I cannot determine the number of shots fired that night, for they overlapped each other in such rapid succession that it was impossible to make an accurate count. I lay flat on my stomach across the door-sill, my head spinning dizzily, my muscles paralyzed with fear for Vance.

  There was a brief respite of black silence, so poignant as to be almost palpable, and then came the crash of an upset chair and the dull heavy sound of a human body striking the floor. I was afraid to move. Heath’s labored breathing made a welcome noise at my side. I could not tell, in the blackness of the room, who had fallen. A terrifying dread assailed me.

  Then I heard Vance’s voice—the cynical, nonchalant voice I knew so well—and my intensity of fright gave way to a feeling of relief and overpowering weakness. I felt like a drowning man, who, coming up for the third time, suddenly feels strong arms beneath his shoulders.

  “Really, y’ know,” his voice came from somewhere in the darkness, “there should be electric lights in this house. I saw the wires as we entered.”

  He was fumbling around somewhere above me, and suddenly the Sergeant’s flashlight swept over the room. I staggered to my feet and leaned limply against the casing of the door.

  “The idiot!” Vance was murmuring. “He kept his lighted cigarette in his mouth, and I was able to follow every move he made.… There must be a switch or a fixture somewhere. The lamp and the blankets at the window were only to give the house the appearance of being untenanted.”

  The ray from Heath’s pocket flash moved about the walls and ceiling, but I could see neither him nor Vance. Then the light came to a halt, and Heath’s triumphant voice rang out.

  “Here it is, sir,—a socket beside the window.” And as he spoke a weak, yellowed bulb dimly lit up the room.

  Heath was at the front window, his hand still on the switch of a small electric light socket; and Vance stood near-by, to all appearances cool and unconcerned. On the floor lay two motionless bodies.

  “Pleasant evening, Sergeant.” Vance spoke in his usual steady, whimsical voice. “My sincerest apologies, and all that.” Then he caught sight of me, and his face sobered. “Are you all right, Van?” he asked.

  I assured him I had escaped the mêlée unscathed, and added that I had not used my automatic because I was afraid I might have hit him in the dark.

  “I quite understand,” he murmured and, nodding his head, he went quickly to the two prostrate bodies. After a momentary inspection, he stood up and said:

  “Quite dead, Sergeant. Really, y’ know, I seem to be a fairly accurate shot.”

  “I’ll say!” breathed Heath with admiration. “I wasn’t a hell of a lot of help, was I, Mr. Vance?” he added a bit shamefacedly.

  “Really nothing for you to do, Sergeant.”

  Vance looked about him. Through a wide alcove at the far end of the room a white iron bed was clearly visible. This adjoining chamber was like a small bedroom, with only dirty red rep curtains dividing it from the main room. Vance stepped quickly between the curtains, and switched on a light just over the wooden mantel near the bed. At the rear of the room, near the foot of the bed, was a door standing half ajar. Between the mantel and the bed with its uncovered mattress, was a small bureau with a large mirror swung between two supports rising from the bureau itself.

  Heath had followed Vance into the room, and I trailed weakly after them. Vance stood before the bureau for a moment or so, looking down at the few cigarette-burnt toilet articles scattered about it. He opened the top drawer and looked into it. Then he opened the second drawer.

  “Ah!” he murmured half aloud, and reached inside.

  When he withdrew his hand he was holding a neatly rolled pair of thin Shantung-silk pajamas. He inspected them for a moment and smiled slightly.

  “The missin’ pajamas,” he said as if to himself, though both Heath and I heard every word he spoke. “Never been worn. Very interestin’.” He unrolled them on the top of the bureau and drew forth a small green-handled toothbrush. “And the missin’ toothbrush,” he added. He ran his thumb over the bristles. “And quite dry.… The pajamas, I opine, were rolled quickly round the toothbrush and the comb, brought here, and thrown into the drawer. The comb, of course, slipped out into the hedge as the Chinaman now prostrate below descended the ladder from Kaspar Kenting’s room.” He re-rolled the pajamas, placed them back into the drawer, and resumed his inspection of the toilet articles on the bureau top.

  Heath and I were both near the
archway, our eyes on Vance, when he suddenly called out, “Look out, Sergeant!”

  The last word had been only half completed when there came two shots from the rear door. The slim, crouching figure of a man, somewhat scholarly looking and well dressed, had suddenly appeared there.

  Vance had swung about simultaneously with his warning to Heath, and there were two more shots in rapid succession, this time from Vance’s gun.

  I saw the poised revolver of blue steel drop from the raised hand of the man at the rear door: he looked round him, dazed, and both his hands went to his abdomen. He remained upright for a moment; then he doubled up and sank to the floor where he lay in an awkward crumpled heap.

  Heath’s revolver too dropped from his grip. When the first shot had been fired, he had pivoted round as if some powerful unseen hand had pushed him: he staggered backward a few feet and slid heavily into a chair. Vance looked a moment at the contorted figure of the man on the floor, and then hastened to Heath.

  “The baby winged me,” Heath said with an effort. “My gun jammed.”

  Vance gave him a cursory examination and then smiled encouragingly.

  “Frightfully sorry, Sergeant,—it was all the fault of my trustin’ nature. McLaughlin told us there were only two men in that green car, and I foolishly concluded that two gentlemen and the Chinaman would be all we should have to contend with. I should have been more far-seein’. Most humiliatin’.… You’ll have a sore arm for a couple of weeks,” he added. “Lucky it’s only a flesh wound. You’ll probably lose a lot of gore; but really, y’ know, you’re far too full of blood as it is.” And he expertly bound up Heath’s right arm, using a handkerchief for a bandage.

  The Sergeant struggled to his feet.

  “You’re treating me like a damn baby.” He stepped to the mantel and leaned against it. “There’s nothing the matter with me. Where do we go from here?” His face was unusually white, and I could see that the mantel behind him was a most welcome prop.

  “Glad I had that mirror in front of me,” murmured Vance. “Very useful devices, mirrors.”

  He had barely finished speaking when we heard a repeated ringing near us.

  “By Jove, a telephone!” commented Vance. “Now we’ll have to find the instrument.”

  Heath straightened up.

  “The thing’s right here on the mantel,” he said. “I’ve been standing in front of it.”

  Vance made a sudden move forward, but Heath stood in the way.

  “You’d better let me answer it, Mr. Vance. You’re too refined.” He picked up the receiver with his left hand.

  “What d’ you want?” he asked, in a gruff, officious tone. There was a short pause. “Oh, yeah? O.-K., go ahead.” A longer pause followed, as Heath listened. “Don’t know nothing about it,” he shot back, in a heavy, resentful voice. Then he added: “You got the wrong number.” And he slammed down the receiver.

  “Who was it, do you know, Sergeant?” Vance spoke quietly as he lighted a cigarette.

  Heath turned slowly and looked at Vance. His eyes were narrowed, and there was an expression of awe on his face as he answered.

  “Sure I know,” he said significantly. He shook his head as if he did not trust himself to speak. “There ain’t no mistaking that voice.”

  “Well, who was it, Sergeant?” asked Vance mildly, without looking up from his cigarette.

  The Sergeant seemed stronger: he stood away from the mantelpiece, his legs wide apart and firmly planted. Rivulets of blood were running down over his right hand which hung limply at his side.

  “It was—” he began, and then he was suddenly aware of my presence in the room. “Mother o’ God!” he breathed. “I don’t have to tell you, Mr. Vance. You knew this morning.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE WINDOWLESS ROOM

  (Friday, July 22; 10:30 P.M.)

  Vance looked at the Sergeant a moment and shook his head.

  “Y’ know,” he said, in a curiously repressed voice, “I was almost hoping I was wrong. I hate to think—” He came suddenly forward to Heath who had fallen back weakly against the mantel and was blindly reaching for the wall, in an effort to hold himself upright. Vance put his arm around Heath and led him to a chair.

  “Here, Sergeant,” he said in a kindly tone, handing him an etched silver flask, “take a drink of this—and don’t be a sissy.”

  “Go to hell,” grumbled Heath, and inverted the flask to his lips. Then he handed it back to Vance. “That’s potent juice,” he said, standing up and pushing Vance away from him. “Let’s get going.”

  “Right-o, Sergeant. We’ve only begun.” As he spoke he walked toward the rear door and stepped over the dead man, into the next room. Heath and I were at his heels.

  The room was in darkness, but with the aid of his flashlight the Sergeant quickly found the electric light. We were in a small box-like room, without windows. Opposite us, against the wall, stood a narrow army cot. Vance rushed forward and leaned over the cot. The motionless form of a woman lay stretched out on it. Despite her disheveled hair and her deathlike pallor, I recognized Madelaine Kenting. Strips of adhesive tape bound her lips together, and both her arms were tied securely with pieces of heavy clothes-line to the iron rods at either side of the cot.

  Vance dexterously removed the tape from her mouth, and the woman sucked in a deep breath, as if she had been partly suffocated. There was a low rumbling in her throat, expressive of agony and fear, like that of a person coming out of an anæsthetic after a serious operation.

  Vance busied himself with the cruel cords binding her wrists. When he had released them he laid his ear against her heart for a moment, and poured a little of the cognac from his flask between her lips. She swallowed automatically and coughed. Then Vance lifted her in his arms and started from the room.

  Just as he reached the door the telephone rang again, and Heath went toward it.

  “Don’t bother to answer it, Sergeant,” said Vance. “It’s probably the same person calling back.” And he continued on his way, with the woman in his arms.

  I preceded him as he carried his inert burden down the dingy stairway.

  “We must get her to a hospital at once, Van,” he said when we had reached the lower hallway.

  I held the front door open for him, my automatic extended before me, ready for instant use, should the occasion arise. Vance went down the shaky steps without a word, just as Heath joined me at the door. The Chinaman still lay where we had left him, on the floor against the wall.

  “Drag him up to that pipe in the corner, Mr. Van Dine,” the Sergeant told me in a strained voice. “My arm is sorta numb.”

  For the first time I noticed that a two-inch water pipe, corroding for lack of paint, rose through the front hall, behind the door, a few inches from the wall. I moved the limp form of the Chinaman until his head came in contact with the pipe; and Heath, with one hand, drew out a pair of handcuffs. Clamping one of the manacles on the unconscious man’s right wrist, he pulled it around the pipe and with his foot manipulated the Chinaman’s left arm upward till he could close the second iron around it. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a piece of clothes-line which he had obviously brought from the windowless room upstairs.

  “Tie his ankles together, will you, Mr. Van Dine?” he said. “I can’t quite make it.”

  I slipped my gun back into my coat pocket and did as Heath directed.

  Then we both went out into the murky night, Heath slamming the door behind him. Vance, with his burden, was perhaps a hundred yards ahead of us, and we came up with him just as he reached the car. He placed Mrs. Kenting on the rear seat of the tonneau and arranged the cushions under her head.

  “You can both sit in front with me,” he suggested over his shoulder, as he took his place at the wheel; and before Heath and I were actually seated he had started the engine, shifted the gear, and got the car in motion with a sudden but smooth roll. He continued straight down Waring Avenue.

  As w
e approached a lone patrolman after two or three blocks, Heath requested that we stop. Vance threw on his brakes, and honked his horn to attract the patrolman’s attention.

  “Have I got a minute, Mr. Vance?” asked Heath.

  “Certainly, Sergeant,” Vance told him, as he drew up to the curb beside the officer. “Mrs. Kenting is fairly comfortable and in no immediate danger. A few minutes more or less in arrivin’ at a hospital will make no material difference.”

  Heath spoke to the officer through the open window, identified himself, and then asked the man, “Where’s your call-box?”

  “On the next corner, Sergeant, at Gunhill Road,” answered the officer, saluting.

  “All right,” returned Heath brusquely. “Hop on the running-board.” He leaned back in the seat again and we went on for another block, stopping at the direction of the officer.

  The Sergeant slid out of the car, and the patrolman unlocked the box for him. Heath’s back was to us, and I could not hear what he was saying over the telephone, but when he turned he addressed the officer peremptorily:

  “Get up to Lord Street”—he gave the number, and added: “The second house from the corner of Waring—and stay on duty. Some of the boys from the 47th Precinct station will join you in a few minutes, and a couple of men from the Homicide Bureau will be coming up a little later—as soon as they can get here. I’ll be returning myself inside of an hour or so. You’ll find three stiffs in the joint and a Chink chained up to a water pipe in the front hall. There’ll be an ambulance up before long.”

  “Right, sir,” the officer answered, and started on the run up Waring Avenue.

  Heath had climbed into the car as he spoke, and Vance drove off without delay.

  “I’m heading for the Doran Hospital, just this side of Bronx Park, Sergeant,” Vance said, as we sped along. In about fifteen minutes, ignoring all traffic lights and driving at a rate far exceeding the city speed limit, we drew up in front of the hospital.