The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Still, he wants you up there instanter.”

  “As you said.” Vance settled deeper into his chair. “His emeralds, I opine, are to blame for his qualms.”

  Markham looked across at the other shrewdly. “Don’t be clairvoyant. I detest soothsayers. Especially when their guesses are so obvious. Of course, it’s his damned emeralds.”

  “Tell me all. Leave no precious stone unturned. Could you bear it?”

  Markham lighted a cigar. When he had it going he said:

  “No need to tell you of Rexon’s famous emerald collection. You probably know how it’s safeguarded.”

  “Yes,” said Vance. “I inspected it some years ago. Inadequately protected, I thought.”

  “The same today. Thank Heaven the place isn’t in my jurisdiction: I’d be worrying about it constantly. I once tried to persuade Rexon to transfer the collection to some museum.”

  “Not nice of you, Markham. Rexon loves his gewgaws fanatically. He’d wither away if bereft of his emeralds… Oh, why are collectors?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. I didn’t make the world.”

  “Regrettable,” sighed Vance. “What is toward?”

  “An unpredictable situation at the Rexon estate. The old boy’s apprehensive. Hence his desire for your presence.”

  “More light, please.”

  “Rexon Manor,” continued Markham, “is at present filled with guests as a result of young Richard Rexon’s furlough: the chap has just returned from Europe where he has been studying medicine intensively in the last-word European colleges and hospitals. The old man’s giving a kind of celebration in the boy’s honor—”

  “I know. And hoping for an announcement of Richard’s betrothal to the blue-blooded Carlotta Naesmith. Still, why his anxiety?”

  “Rexon being a widower, with an invalid daughter, asked Miss Naesmith to arrange a house party and celebration. She did—with a vengeance. Mostly café society: weird birds, quite objectionable to old Rexon’s staid tastes. He doesn’t understand this new set; is inclined to distrust them. He doesn’t suspect them, exactly, but their proximity to his precious emeralds gives him the jitters.”

  “Old-fashioned chap. The new generation is full of incredible possibilities. Not a lovable and comfortable lot. Does Rexon point specifically?”

  “Only at a fellow named Bassett. And, strangely enough, he’s not of Miss Naesmith’s doing. Acquaintance of Richard’s, in fact. Friendship started abroad—in Switzerland, I believe. Came over on the boat with him this last trip. But the old gentleman admits he has no grounds for his uneasiness. He’s just nervous, in a vague way, about the whole situation. Wants perspicacious companionship. So he phoned me and asked for help, indicating you.”

  “Yes. Collectors are like that. Where can he turn in his hour of uncertainty? Ah, his old friend Markham! Equipped with all the proper gadgets for just such delicate observation. Gadget Number One: Mr. Philo Vance. Looks presentable in a dinner coat. Won’t drink from his finger-bowl. Could mingle and observe, without rousing suspicion. Discretion guaranteed. Excellent way of detecting a lurking shadow—if any.” Vance smiled resignedly. “Is that the gist of the worried Rexon’s runes by long-distance phone?”

  “Substantially, yes,” admitted Markham. “But expressed more charitably. You know damned well that old Rexon likes you, and that if he thought you’d care for the house party, you’d have been more than welcome.”

  “You shame me, Markham,” Vance returned with contrition. “I’m fond of Rexon, just as you are. A lovable man… So, he craves my comfortin’ presence. Very well, I shall strive to smooth his furrowed brow.”

  CHAPTER II

  GLAMOR IN THE MOONLIGHT

  (Wednesday, January 15; 9 P.M.)

  Markham notified Carrington Rexon, and we left New York the following afternoon in Vance’s Hispano-Suiza.

  It was a cold, clear day, and fresh snow had fallen during the night. The drive to Winewood in the Berkshires would ordinarily have taken about five hours, but the roads north of the city were deep in snow, and we were late in arriving at the Rexon estate. Darkness had settled early, but the night was white with stars, and the moon was luminous.

  It was nearly nine o’clock when we turned in through a wide stone gateway that marked the outer limits of the vast estate. There was no one to direct us, and when we had reached the crest of a high rocky hill, Vance was confused as to which turning to take. There were half-hidden tracks in one of the forks of the narrow road, and we turned to the right to follow them.

  A mile or so farther on, the road sloped gently downward into a narrow snowclad valley at the far end of which precipitous cliffs rose to a tree-crested plateau. Vance let the car coast noiselessly into the still white fairyland.

  As we reached the base of the long incline the sound of faint music came to us through the trees on our left. There was no habitation visible, and the music intensified the fantasy of the setting which spread before us.

  Applying the brakes, Vance stopped the car and, stepping out, moved towards the source of the lilting notes.

  We had gone scarcely a hundred yards when, through the trees which hid us from view, we spied a small frozen pond on which a girl was skating. The music came from a small portable phonograph placed on a rustic bench at the edge of the pond.

  The girl, in a simple white skating costume, seemed unreal in the light of the moon and stars. She was going through one difficult skating figure after another with serious repetition, as if trying to perfect their intricacies. Vance suddenly became attentive.

  “My word!” he whispered. “Magnificent skating!”

  He stood fascinated by the girl’s proficiency as she executed various school figures and complicated free routines.

  The phonograph ran down and, as the girl completed an involved jump and spiral spin, Vance approached her with a cheerful greeting. At first she was startled; then she smiled shyly.

  “You must be new guests at the Manor,” she remarked in a timid voice. “I’m so sorry you caught me skating. It’s sort of a secret, you see… Maybe you won’t tell anyone,” she added with a note of appeal in her voice.

  “Of course, we shan’t.” Vance studied the girl critically. “I believe I remember you—I was at the Manor some years ago. Weren’t you the friend and companion of Miss Joan?”

  She nodded. “I was. And I still am. I’m Ella Gunthar. But I don’t remember you. It must have been when I was a little girl.”

  “My name is Philo Vance,” Vance told her. “I was just driving to the Manor, and lost my way. When I heard your music I came over in the hope of finding my bearings.”

  “You’re not seriously lost,” she said. “This is the Green Glen and if you go back up the hill and take the narrow road to the right for about a mile, you’ll see the Manor just ahead.”

  Vance thanked her, but lingered a moment. “Tell me, Miss Gunthar: if you are Joan’s companion at the Manor, why do you skate on this little pond so far away from the main house?”

  The girl’s lovely face seemed to cloud for a moment.

  “I—I don’t want to hurt Joan’s feelings,” she answered cryptically. “I always come to the Green Glen at night when my duties are over at the Manor, to do my skating.”

  “But the phonograph,” said Vance; “isn’t it frightfully heavy to carry all this way?”

  “Oh, I don’t keep it at the Manor.” She laughed. “I keep it in Jed’s hut, just around the curve in the road, by that big cypress tree. And I keep my skates and skating clothes there, too. It’s all a secret between Jed and me.”

  Vance smiled at her reassuringly.

  “Well, I promise the secret will go no farther. But it’s really a magnificent secret. Yon know, don’t you, that you skate beautifully? You’re one of the most talented performers I have ever seen.”

  The girl blushed with pleasure.

  “I love skating,” she replied simply.

  A few minutes later we had turned into the dr
iveway to the brilliantly lighted Rexon Manor.

  As a bald elderly butler led us through the lower hall we could hear the boisterous hilarity of many guests in the drawing room—snatches of popular music, laughter, raised voices: a gay and youthful clamor.

  Carrington Rexon, alone in his den, greeted us with old-world dignity. It was the first time I had met him, but I was not unfamiliar with his features, as pictures of him had frequently appeared in the Metropolitan press. He was a tall, slender, impressive man in his sixties; aloof and stern, and with an imperious air of feudalism. He vaguely suggested Sargent’s famous portrait of Lord Ribblesdale.

  “Ah, Vance! It was generous of you to come. Perhaps you think I am unduly apprehensive…”

  The door opened and a dark, serious young man of athletic build stood on the threshold.

  Rexon turned without surprise.

  “My son Richard,” he informed us with undisguised pride. Then: “But why are you deserting our guests?”

  “I’m a bit fed up.” Then the young man shrugged his shoulders apologetically and smiled. “I guess I’m not used to it. It’s such a change—”

  A girl of about twenty-five appeared in the doorway and looked about.

  The elder Rexon somewhat relaxed his stern manner and presented us. Her likeness, too, I had seen many times in the New York papers. Carlotta Naesmith had been a vivid and gifted debutante a few years before. She was a colorful auburn-haired young woman, animated and vital, with sagacious eyes and an air of self-assurance. She nodded to us casually, and turned to young Rexon.

  “Completely overcome, Dick? Has the gaiety got you down? Come, don’t desert the ship just when the sea’s getting stormy.”

  “I think Carlotta is quite right, Richard,” Carrington Rexon commented. “You came home for relaxation. Forget your scalpels and microbes for a while. Go on back with Carlotta, and take Mr. Vance with you. He’ll want to meet your friends.”

  CHAPTER III

  THE BOURBON GLASS

  (Wednesday, January 15; 10:30 P.M.)

  An unusually gay and colorful sight confronted us in the great drawing room. Groups of young people stood about joking and laughing; others danced. A spirit of carefree revelry animated the scene.

  Carlotta Naesmith was a capable hostess. She led us through the boisterous throng, introducing us haphazardly.

  “This is Dahlia Dunham,” she said, snaring a wiry and tense young woman of perhaps thirty. “Dahlia’s a political spellbinder, full of incredible phrases, and death to hecklers. She’ll stump for any cause from Socialism to Fletcherism—”

  “But not for prohibition, dear,” the other retorted in a raucous unsteady voice, as she withdrew her arm from Miss Naesmith’s and hurried toward the miniature bar.

  Another girl came up, complaining.

  “A hell of a place! No landing field! When you snare the Rexon millions, Carlotta, see to it that Dick builds one.”

  She was blonde and frail, with liquid eyes that dominated her pointed face. I recognized the much publicized Beatrice Maddox before Carlotta Naesmith presented us. She had recently won fame as an airplane pilot, and only a governmental veto had stayed her proposed solo flight across the Atlantic.

  “What’s up, Bee?” came a rumbling voice behind me, and a young Irish giant threw his arms about Miss Maddox. “You look glum. Out of gas? So am I.” He whisked her away to the bar.

  “That was Pat McOrsay,” Miss Naesmith told us. “He drives ’em fast. Won last year’s auto grind at Cincinnati. He’s sweet on Bee, but she holds mere auto racers in contempt. Maybe they’ll compromise. I did want you to meet Pat—he’s such a. beast… But wait. There’s another speed demon of a kind over there… Hi there, Chuck,” she called across the room. “Stop trying to tout Sally and come over here a moment—if you can make it.”

  Chuck Throme, the internationally famous gentleman jockey who had won the last Steeplechase at Aintree, staggered stiffly up. His eyes wouldn’t focus, but his manner was impeccable.

  “Sit down, darling, and meet Mr. Vance,” Miss Naesmith exhorted. “Don’t try it standing up. Your stirrups’ll bend.”

  Throme drew himself up indignantly to his five-feet-five and bowed with a Chestertonian flourish. But the supreme gesture was not completed. He continued his obeisance to the rug and lay there.

  “That’s one race Chuck didn’t win,” laughed our cicerone. “Let’s move on. Some assistant starter will put him back in the saddle… Isn’t it positively disgusting, Mr. Vance? Liquor is a frightful curse. Saps the brain, undermines the morals, and all that… Which reminds me: let’s take an intermission in our round of social duties and have a drink.”

  She led us to the bar.

  “I’m very demure—for Richard’s sake. I drink only Dubonnet in public. But don’t let my girlish restraint affect your batting average. Everything’s available, including trinitrotoluene.”

  Vance drank brandy. As we stood chatting a tall, rugged, sunburnt man came up and put his arms possessively about Miss Naesmith.

  “I’m still yearning to know your answer, Carlotta,” he blustered good-naturedly. “For the next-to-the-last time: Are you, or are you not, coming with me to Cocos Island when Dick returns to his bone-sawing?”

  “Ha!” Carlotta Naesmith swung about and pushed him away playfully. “Still crooning your Once-Aboard-the-Lugger ditty. You’re inelegant, Stan. And right under Dick’s nose.”

  Richard Rexon showed no annoyance. He came forward and, putting one hand on the other man’s arm, introduced him to us. It was Stanley Sydes, a young society man with too much money, who spent his time on expeditions in quest of buried treasure.

  Vance knew of his exploits, and a brief discussion took place.

  “A playboy bulging with good money who spends it hunting dirty doubloons!” Carlotta Naesmith laughed. “There’s a paradox—or is the whole world crazy except me?”

  “Not a paradox, Miss Naesmith,” Vance put in pleasantly. “I understand Mr. Sydes’ urge perfectly. It’s really not the treasure, y’ know. It’s the quest.”

  “Right!” boomed Sydes. “The joy of outwitting others, of solving riddles; and the acquisition of the unique… Hell, I’m talking like a collector.—Forgive me, Richard. No offense to your eminent sire.” A noisy group opposite attracted his attention, and he joined them.

  His place at the bar was taken almost immediately by the girl who had been bantering with Throme.

  “My God, Sally!” Miss Naesmith greeted her. “Really alone? Hasn’t your gentleman jockey regained his mount?… Gentlemen,”—she turned to us—“we have here none other than Sally Alexander, the inimitable—pride of the Purple Room, off-color raconteuse and pianist extraordinary. A one-woman slum. She carried the Blue Book to the masses—and made ’em like it. A feat, egad!”

  “I’m being maligned, gents,” Sally Alexander protested. “I’m elegant, no end.”

  “I quite agree,” Vance defended her. “I’ve heard Miss Alexander sing, and never once have I blushed.”

  “That must have been when she sang in the village choir, in her sub-deb days.”

  “Just for that,” retorted Miss Alexander, “I’m going to take Dick away from you.” And, slipping her arm through Richard Rexon’s, she led him to the dance floor.

  Miss Naesmith shrugged. She looked at Vance.

  “Had enough of this, Sir Galahad? There are other exhibits in the zoo. Nothing really special, however. Am I not an honest guide?”

  “Honest and charming.” Vance set down his glass. “But isn’t there a Mr. Bassett?”

  “Oh, Jacques…” She looked round the room. “He’s Richard’s friend, you know. A more or less imported specimen, I believe. Anyway, he came over on the boat with Dick and is always comparing our ski runs with those of Switzerland—to the detriment of ours, of course. Maybe he does yodel and live on goat’s milk. I wouldn’t know. Though I do know he speaks American with a prairie accent—if my ears don’t lie.”

  She
caught sight of Bassett.

  “There’s your man, in the far corner, drinking lustily by himself. Come along. You can have him gladly. Then go and rescue Dick. Sally’ll be at the risqué-story stage by now.”

  Jacques Bassett sat at a small table, drinking Bourbon. He was tall, dark, aggressively athletic. His heavy eyebrows met over a broad flat nose.

  He talked about Europe. Vance showed interest. Swiss winter resorts came up. Vance asked questions. Bassett expatiated. He was eloquent about the toboggan runs and the ski trails at Oberlachen in the Tyrol. Vance mentioned Amsterdam. But the subject had no interest for Bassett. He wandered away.

  Vance turned his back. Then he threw his handkerchief over the glass from which Bassett had been drinking. Slipping it into his pocket, he left the room abruptly.

  A little later I found Vance with Carrington Rexon in the den. Another man was seated with them before the log fire. He was in his late forties, with steel-grey hair, and a soft voice which seemed to cover a tension: obviously a man of the world, with a highly professional manner which was rigid, but not without ingratiation. I was not surprised to find that he was Doctor Loomis Quayne, the Rexon physician.

  “Doctor Quayne,” Rexon explained, “dropped by to see my daughter Joan. But the excitement of so many guests has wearied her and she retired long ago.” His voice was wistful.

  (Vance had told me during our drive to Winewood something of Joan Rexon’s tragedy: how she had fallen and injured her spine while skating, when she was only ten years old.)

  “Joan’s fatigue need not worry you, my dear Rexon,” the doctor assured him. “It’s natural in the circumstances. This little excitement may do her good, in fact—stimulate her interest, lead her mind along new lines. Psychological therapy is our chief recourse just now… I’ll drop in again tomorrow. I hope I’ll see Richard then, too. I’ve hardly talked with him since he came. But I’m glad to find him looking as well as when I saw him on my trip abroad two years ago.”

  “Dick’s in the drawing room now,” Rexon suggested with a twinkle.

  The doctor smiled. “No, not this evening. I must be going soon. I left the motor of my car running so I won’t have to bother priming it. These cold days the starter doesn’t work so well… And I think I prefer the quiet of your den, if I may sit and finish my highball.”