“At last I’ve got him!” he announced, without pausing for salutations.
“My word, Sergeant!” Vance greeted him. “Seat yourself and relax. You should have some strengthenin’ coffee. No doubt you’re referring to Burns. But don’t tell me you were round and about all night on your quest.”
Heath sat down heavily.
“I was round and about plenty.—And if you don’t mind, Mr. Vance, would you put a little something else in that coffee? I need pickin’ up.”
Vance complied, smiling.
“Tell me about your nocturnal wanderin’s, Sergeant.”
“Well, the fact is, sir, I ain’t exactly got him yet,” Heath amended; “but I’m expecting a phone call here any minute from Emery—I’ve got him watching Mrs. Allen’s house, and—”
“Mrs. Allen’s house?”
“Yeah! That’s where the guy’s headin’ for.”
“The affair sounds frightfully complicated, don’t y know.”
“It wasn’t so complicated, Mr. Vance,” answered Heath. “It was just a damn nuisance… When I left here last night, I went down to the In-O-Scent factory, and got hold of the night watchman. He let himself into the office with his pass-key, and found the book of employees, and showed me Burns’ name with the address of a second-rate hotel only a few blocks away. So I takes it easy and goes over there. But it seems Burns has already been in, changed his clothes, and gone out again. The night clerk gives me this information. Then I shows him the cigarette-case. And that’s where I run into a piece of luck. The fellow’s ready to swear Burns has got one just like it. Burns often stops to gabble with him when he gets in late.”
“And,” put in Vance, “most likely offers the other a cigarette during the gay banter.”
“That’s it, sir… Then I calls Emery, down at the Bureau, to come up and wait around, in case this Burns figures on coming back. After he gets there I goes home to grab a couple of hours’ sleep.”
“And did your Cerberus interrupt your slumbers with news of the missing perfume-sniffer?”
“No. Burns didn’t show up at his hotel again. So at eight o’clock I goes back to the Hotel myself to see what else I can get outa the night clerk. And it seems that him an’ Burns an’ two other guys, friends of Burns, sometimes sits around playing cards in the lobby at night. One of ’em lives across the street, but this guy says he ain’t seen Burns for days. But he tells me to try the other fellow, named Robbin, out in Brooklyn, as Burns often spends a night at Robbin’s place—especially Saturday night. So I beats it out to Brooklyn. I don’t phone Robbin’s place, because I don’t wanta give Burns any tip-off. It takes me over an hour to locate the house, which is half a dozen blocks off the main line, over to hell-and-gone in Bensonhurst.”
“What a beastly matutinal odyssey, Sergeant!” Vance shuddered dolefully. “And what befell when you came at last to the hut of Eumaeus?”
“The guy’s name is Robbin, like I told you. And he don’t live in a hut… Well, I asked him about Burns, and he told me Burns had come out there at three o’clock this morning, saying he wasn’t feeling so hot and wanted company. Robbin also told me Burns was nervous and didn’t sleep very good. He was up early and had beat it before I got there… What do you make of that, Mr. Vance?”
“Sounds very much like florescent love in a state of suspense,” said Vance. “Ah, the sweet cruelty of woman!”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at, sir,” replied the Sergeant, “but it sounds like a guilty conscience to me. Especially with Burns not staying home—running away, so to speak—and hiding out in the wilds of Bensonhurst… Anyhow, when I showed Robbin the cigarette-case, he knew it right away. He couldn’t remember for sure if Burns had it on him last night. I asked Robbin if he had any idea where Burns went. Then he just laughed and said he knew where Burns went, but that he wouldn’t be there till eleven o’clock. So, seeing that he couldn’t have got back to New York yet, I telephones to Emery at Burns’ hotel, to get on the job watching her house…”
“Mrs. Allen’s house?”
“Yeah. That’s where Robbin said Burns would be at eleven o’clock. And he didn’t have any doubts about it either. I figured this was reasonable. You yourself, Mr. Vance, told me Burns was the girl’s boyfriend; and he mighta had an idea of getting some kind of help from her and the old lady before they got wise to him. So I hops back here to New York in a hurry. And here I am, reportin’ to you and waitin’ for Emery’s phone call.”
“Extr’ordin’ry!” murmured Vance. “What zeal! You’ve fitted many facts together, and not unskilfully, while I merely slumbered. And I presume you will fare forth when you get Emery’s summons and chivy young Burns no end.”
“I’ll say I will!” Then the Sergeant added: “I’m beginning to think you actually had an idea last night at theD.A.’s.”
“I wonder… In any event, I’m going along with you, Sergeant.” And Vance started for the door of his dressing-room.
“I thought you’d be wanting to go, sir. But there’s one thing got to ask you—let me handle this my own way.”
“Oh by a1l means, Sergeant.” And Vance went from the library.
He had just returned to the room, fully dressed, when the telephone rang. Heath jumped from his chair and had the receiver at his ear before Currie, Vance’s old valet and majordomo, could reach the instrument.
It was the awaited call from Emery, and after listening for a brief moment. Heath responded eagerly.
“Right! I’ll there in five minutes.” He slammed down the receiver and, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction, made for the door. “Come on, Mr. Vance. We’re getting places at last…”
As we turned the corner from Lexington Avenue, we saw Emery lounging across the street from Mrs. Allen’s house. He took a few steps toward us and nodded significantly.
Heath grunted his acknowledgment, and gave Emery orders to follow us inside.
It was Gracie Allen who answered our ring this time. She caught sight of Vance immediately and threw up her hands in exuberant delight.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Vance! How wonderful!” she called out musically, seeming almost to flutter. “How did you find out where I live? You must be an awfully smart detective…”
As she noticed the grim presence of the two other men, she broke off abruptly.
“These gentlemen are police officers. Miss Allen,” Vance told her, “and we have come to—”
“Oh! They caught you, didn’t they!” she exclaimed in dismay. “Isn’t that terrible!” Her eyes grew large. “But honest, Mr. Vance, I didn’t tell on you. I wouldn’t do such a thing—really, I wouldn’t. Not after I gave you my promise…”
Heath and Emery were brushing past her into the room, and Vance held up his hand to her.
“Please, my dear,” he said earnestly. “Just a moment. We’ve come here about quite a different matter.”
She stepped back from him, awed by his serious manner; and Vance followed the two officers into the room.
On a sofa against the opposite wall sat young George Burns, obviously annoyed by our intrusion. Heath had already crossed rapidly to him.
“Your name’s George Burns, ain’t it?” he asked gruffly.
“It always has been,’ Burns returned with surly resentment. “Who wants to know?”
“Wise guy, eh?” Heath fumbled in his pockets, and then asked in a conciliatory tone. “Got a cigarette, Burns?”
Burns automatically brought out a package of cigarettes.
“What!” exclaimed the Sergeant. “Ain’t you got a cigarette-case?”
“Why, of course, he has!” stated Gracie Allen loftily. “I gave him one myself last Christmas—a real pretty one, like a checkerboard—”
Vance silenced her with an arresting gesture.
“Yes,” admitted Burns, “I did have one; but I—I lost it yesterday.” He seemed nonplussed by the line of questioning.
“Maybe this is it.” Heath spoke with menacing emphasis, as h
e shoved the little cigarette-case under Burns’ nose.
Burns, startled and intimidated, nodded weakly. Taking the case, he held it against his nostrils and muffed at it several times. Then he looked up at the Sergeant.
“Kiss Me Quick!”
“What!” exploded Heath.
“Oh,” mumbled Burns, embarrassed. “That’s just the name of a well-known handkerchief perfume. The formula calls for cassie, jonquille, civet, citronel—”
“Oh, and I know what else,” supplied Miss Allen eagerly. “Jasmin and tuberose—”
Burns was exasperated.
“You’re thinking of Leap Year…”
[Both Kiss Me Quick and Leap Year Bouquet are popular “fancy” concentrates. Full descriptions and recipes may be found in Poucher’s standard work, “Perfumes, Cosmetics and Soaps.”]
“Say, listen!” bawled Heath. “What’s going on here, anyhow?”
Vance was laughing quietly to himself.
The Sergeant snatched the cigarette-case from Burns, and put it back into his pocket.
“Where did you lose that case yesterday?”
Burns fidgeted.
“I—I didn’t exactly lose it. I just—well, I just sort of lent it to somebody.”
“So! Lending Christmas presents from your best girl, was you?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly lend it, either.” Burns became confused. “I met a fellow and offered him a cigarette. Then we got in a little argument; and I guess he just forgot…”
“Sure! He just walked off with the case,” retorted Heath with mammoth sarcasm. “And you forgot to ask him for it, and let him keep it—as a nice little present from you to him. That’s swell!… Who was the fellow?”
Burns squirmed. “Well—if you must know—it was Miss Allen’s brother.”
“Sure it was! You’re pretty foxy, ain’t you?” Then a new idea suddenly smote the Sergeant. “That musta been up near the Domdaniel cafe. Along about four o’clock in the afternoon.”
“How did you know?” Burns asked, amazed.
“I’m asking the questions,” snapped Heath. “And it wasn’t just a little argument like you said. It came pretty near being a fist-fight, didn’t it? You were good and sore about something, weren’t you?”
Burns stared helplessly at the Sergeant, and then at Gracie Allen.
“Oh, goodness, George!” the girl exclaimed. “Were you and Philip squabbling again. You’re just a pair of squabs.”
Heath gritted his teeth. “You keep outa this, Baby-doll,”
“Oooo!” The girl giggled coyly. “That’s what Mr. Puttie called me last night.”
Heath turned back to Burns in disgust. “What were you and Allen fighting about?”
The man rolled his eyes vaguely, as if afraid to answer yet afraid not to answer. Finally he stammered:
“It was about Gracie—Miss Allen. Philip doesn’t seem to like me. He told me to keep away from—well, away from here. And then he said I didn’t know how to dress—that I didn’t have the style of this Mister Puttie…”
“Well, I got something to tell you, too. And it’s nifty—”
Vance quickly tapped the Sergeant on the shoulder and whispered something to him.
Heath drew himself up and, turning round, pointed at the girl.
“You go in the other room, Miss. I got something to say to this young man alone—get me?—alone.”
“That’s right, Gracie.” I was surprised to hear Mrs. Allen’s quiet voice. She was standing timidly wedged in a small opening between the sliding doors at the rear of the room. How long she had been there I did not know. “You come with me, Gracie, and leave these gentlemen with George.”
The girl did not demur; and she and her mother went into the rear room, drawing the doors together behind them.
“And now for the bad news, young fellow,” Heath resumed, stepping threateningly toward the dumbfounded Burns. But again Vance interrupted him.
“Just a moment, Sergeant.—Why, Mr. Burns, were you so surprised just now at the scent on your cigarette-case?”
“I don’t—I don’t know, exactly.” Burns frowned. “It’s not a usual scent; I haven’t come across it for a long time. But at the cafe last night, I did notice it quite strong at the entrance in the front hall, just as I was going into the dining-room.”
“Who was wearing it?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly know that—there were so many people standing around.”
Vance seemed satisfied and, with a gesture, turned the young man back to the Sergeant.
“Well, here’s the bad news,” Heath barked abusively at Burns. “We found a dead guy last night—and that cigarette-case of yours was in his pocket.”
Burns’ head came up with a jerk, and a stunned, frightened light came into his eyes.
“My God!” he breathed. “Who—who was it?”
Heath grinned cruelly.
“I just can’t imagine. Maybe you can guess.”
“It wasn’t—Philip!” Burns gasped. “Oh, my God!… I know he isn’t here today. But he went out of town—honest to God, he did. He told me yesterday he was going.”
“You ain’t quite smart enough, though you was pretty foxy tryin’ to drag someone else in it with that hocus-pocus about perfume.” Heath paused, and then reached a sudden decision. He made a curt sign to Emery. “We’re taking this baby along with us,’ he announced. “We’ll keep him where we can reach him easy.”
Vance coughed diffidently.
“So you’re going to take him into custody on suspicion—eh, Sergeant? Or, perhaps, as a material witness.”
“I don’t care what you call it, Mr. Vance. He’s going to sit around where he can’t get out, doing some heavy thinking, till we get Doremus’s report… You better put the bracelets on him, Emery, till we get to the corner and call the wagon.”
Heath and Emery were just leading the petrified Burns to the door, when Gracie Allen came dashing back into the room, wriggling free from her mother’s restraining hold.
“Oh, George, George! What’s the matter? Where are they taking you? I had a feeling—like when I get psychic…”
Vance stepped to her and put both his hands on her shoulders.
“My dear child,” he said in a consoling voice, “please believe me when I tell you there is nothing for you to worry about. Don’t make it any harder for Mr. Burns… Won’t you trust me?”
Her head dropped, and she turned to her mother. The two officers, with Burns between them, had already left the room; and, as Vance turned and reopened the door, Mrs. Allen’s gentle voice spoke again.
“Thank you, sir. I am sure Gracie trusts you—just as I do.”
The girl’s head was on her mother’s shoulder. “Oh, mom,” she sniffled. “I don’t really care about George not dressing as snappy as Mr. Puttie.”
CHAPTER X
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
(Sunday, May 19; noon.)
When the patrol-wagon arrived and the unhappy Burns was stepping into it, Vance smiled at him encouragingly.
“Cheerio,” he said; and then stood watching the wagon as it drove off. As soon as it was out of sight he summoned a taxicab and went at once to the District Attorney’s apartment.
“Really, Markham,” he began, “Sergeant Heath is far too logical. Ordin’rily I’d welcome such admirable mentation; but in this case I must sue for your intervention.”
He then gave Markham a concise summary of all the events that had taken place since we left his apartment the night before; the trip to the mortuary and the promise to Mrs. Allen; Heath’s appropriation of the cigarette-case and his all-night search for Burns; the interview with the befuddled young man when he was found; and, finally, Heath’s decision to hold Burns until Doremus reported.
Markham listened attentively, but without enthusiasm. “I think, all in all, Heath has done a fairly intelligent piece of work. I can’t see just where, or why, you want me to intervene.”
“Burns is innocent,�
� asserted Vance. “And I’m obdurate in my belief. Ergo, I want you to call the police station and tell Heath to release him. In fact, Markham, I insist upon it.—But I want the Sergeant to bring the chappie up here first—if that’s convenient for you. Y’ see, I want him to understand clearly that one condition of his freedom is absolute silence, for the present, on the matter of the johnnie in the morgue. That was our promise to Mrs. Allen, and Burns must co-operate with us when he is released… Please hasten, old dear.”
“You know this Burns?” asked Markham.
“I’ve seen him but twice. But I have my whimsies, don’t y’ know.”
“As good a euphemism as any for your present unbalanced state of mind!… Just why do you want this fellow released?”
“I’m enraptured with the wood-nymph,” smiled Vance.
Markham drew his lips together in annoyance.
“If I didn’t know you, I’d say—”
“Tut, tut!… Call Heath—there’s a good fellow.”
Markham rose resignedly: he had known Vance too long not to perceive the seriousness so often hid beneath his bantering. Then he went toward the telephone.
“This is your case,” he said, “—if it is a case—and you can handle it any way you see fit. I have my own troubles.”
The Sergeant had just reached the station when Markham called and gave orders in accord with Vance’s request.
Fifteen minutes later Heath escorted Burns into the District Attorney’s library. Vance carefully outlined the circumstances to Burns, and exacted from him a definite promise to make no mention of Philip Allen’s death to anyone, impressing upon him the situation with regard to Gracie Allen herself.
George Burns, with unmistakable sincerity, readily enough agreed to the restriction; and the Sergeant informed him he was free to go.
When we were alone, however. Heath began to fume.
“After all my work last night!” he complained bitterly. “Runnin’ down that cigarette-case; losing my sleep and doing plenty of fancy work this morning; tying that guy in bow-knots and getting him just where I wanted him!… And it was all your idea, Mr. Vance. And now I find you something definite, and what do you do? You have the baby turned loose!”
The Philo Vance Megapack Page 252
