Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 1

by S. S. Van Dine

  Vance, too, was somewhat puzzled, despite his attitude of lackadaisical indifference.

  "Scarlett's a clever lad," he drawled musingly. "And most proper. Why should he call on me at this indecent hour? And why should he be excited? I hope nothing untoward has befallen his erudite employer. . . . Bliss is an astonishin' man, Van—one of the world's great Egyptologists."[1]

  I recalled that during the winter which Vance had spent in Egypt he had become greatly interested in the work of Doctor Bliss, who was then endeavoring to locate the tomb of Pharaoh Intef V who ruled over Upper Egypt at Thebes during the Hyksos domination. In fact, Vance had accompanied Bliss on an exploration in the Valley of the Tombs of the Kings. At that time he had just become attracted by the Menander fragments, and he had been in the midst of a uniform translation of them when the Bishop murder case interrupted his labors.

  Vance had also been interested in the variations of chronology of the Old and the Middle Kingdoms of Egypt—not from the historical standpoint but from the standpoint of the evolution of Egyptian art. His researches led him to side with the Bliss-Weigall, or short, chronology[2] (based on the Turin Papyrus), as opposed to the long chronology of Hall and Petrie, who set back the Twelfth Dynasty and all preceding history one full Sothic cycle, or 1,460 years. After inspecting the art works of the pre-Hyksos and the post-Hyksos eras, Vance was inclined to postulate an interval of not more than 300 years between the Twelfth and Eighteenth Dynasties, in accordance with the shorter chronology. In comparing certain statues made during the reign of Amen-emhêt III with others made during the reign of Thut-mosè I—thus bridging the Hyksos invasion, with its barbaric Asiatic influence and its annihilation of indigenous Egyptian culture—he arrived at the conclusion that the maintenance of the principles of Twelfth-Dynasty aesthetic attainment could not have been possible with a wider lacuna than 300 years. In brief, he concluded that, had the interregnum been longer, the evidences of decadence in Eighteenth-Dynasty art would have been even more pronounced.

  These researches of Vance's ran through my head that sultry July morning as we waited for Currie to usher in the visitor. The announcement of Scarlett's call had brought back memories of many wearying weeks of typing and tabulating Vance's notes on the subject. Perhaps I had a feeling—what we loosely call a premonition—that Scarlett's surprising visit was in some way connected with Vance's aesthetico-Egyptological researches. Perhaps I was even then arranging in my mind, unconsciously, the facts of that winter two years before, so that I might cope more understandingly with the object of Scarlett's present call.

  But surely I could have had not the slightest idea or suspicion of what was actually about to befall us. It was far too appalling and too bizarre for the casual imagination. It lifted us out of the ordinary routine of daily experience and dashed us into a frowsty, miasmic atmosphere of things at once incredible and horrifying—things fraught with the seemingly supernatural black magic of a Witches' Sabbat. Only, in this instance it was the mystic and fantastic lore of ancient Egypt—with its confused mythology and its grotesque pantheon of beast-headed gods—that furnished the background.

  Scarlett almost dashed through the portières of the library when Currie had pulled back the sliding door for him to enter. Either the Courvoisier had added to his excitement or else Currie had woefully underrated the man's nervous state.

  "Kyle has been murdered!" the newcomer blurted, leaning against the library table and staring at Vance with gaping eyes.

  "Really, now! That's very distressin'." Vance held out his cigarette-case. "Do have one of my Régies. . . . And you'll find that chair beside you most comfortable. A Charles chair: I picked it up in London. . . . Beastly mess, people getting murdered, what? But it really can't be helped, don't y' know. The human race is so deuced blood-thirsty."

  His indifference had a salutary effect on Scarlett, who sank limply into the chair and began lighting his cigarette with trembling hands.

  Vance waited a moment and then asked:

  "By the by, how do you know Kyle has been murdered?"

  Scarlett gave a start.

  "I saw him lying there—his head bashed in. A frightful sight. No doubt about it." (I could not help feeling that the man had suddenly assumed a defensive attitude.)

  Vance lay back in his chair languidly and pyramided his long tapering hands.

  "Bashed in with what? And lying where? And how did you happen to discover the corpse? . . . Buck up, Scarlett, and make an effort at coherence."

  Scarlett frowned and took several deep inhalations on his cigarette. He was a man of about forty, tall and slender, with a head more Alpine than Nordic—a Dinaric type. His forehead bulged slightly, and his chin was round and recessive. He had the look of a scholar, though not that of a sedentary bookworm, for there was strength and ruggedness in his body; and his face was deeply tanned like that of a man who has lived for years in the sun and wind. There was a trace of fanaticism in his intense eyes—an expression that was somehow enhanced by an almost completely bald head. Yet he gave the impression of honesty and straightforwardness—in this, at least, his British institutionalism was strongly manifest.

  "Right you are, Vance," he said after a brief pause, with a more or less successful effort at calmness. "As you know, I came to New York with Doctor Bliss in May as a member of his staff; and I've been doing all the technical work for him. I have my diggings round the corner from the museum, in Irving Place. This morning I had a batch of photographs to classify, and reached the museum shortly before half past ten. . . ."

  "Your usual hour?" Vance put the question negligently.

  "Oh, no. I was a bit latish this morning. We'd been working last night on a financial report of the last expedition."

  "And then?"

  "Funny thing," continued Scarlett. "The front door was slightly ajar—I generally have to ring. But I saw no reason to disturb Brush—"

  "Brush?"

  "The Bliss butler. . . . So I merely pushed the door open and entered the hallway. The steel entrance door to the museum, which is on the right of the hallway, is rarely locked, and I opened it. Just as I started to descend the stairs into the museum I saw some one lying in the opposite corner of the room. At first I thought it might be one of the mummy cases we'd unpacked yesterday—the light wasn't very good—and then, as my eyes got adjusted, I realized it was Kyle. He was crumpled up, with his arms extended over his head. . . . Even then I thought he had only fallen in a faint; and I started down the steps toward him."

  He paused and passed his handkerchief—which he drew from his cuff—across his shining head.

  "By Jove, Vance!—it was a hideous sight. He'd been hit over the head with one of the new statues we placed in the museum yesterday, and his skull had been crushed in like an egg-shell. The statue still lay across his head."

  "Did you touch anything?"

  "Good heavens, no!" Scarlett spoke with the emphasis of horror. "I was too ill—the thing was ghastly. And it didn't take half an eye to see that the poor beggar was dead."

  Vance studied the man closely.

  "I say, what was the first thing you did?"

  "I called out for Doctor Bliss—he has his study at the top of the little spiral stairs at the rear of the museum. . . ."

  "And got no answer?"

  "No—no answer. . . . Then—I admit—I got frightened. Didn't like the idea of being found alone with a murdered man, and toddled back toward the front door. Had a notion I'd sneak out and not say I'd been there. . . ."

  "Ah!" Vance leaned forward and carefully selected another cigarette. "And then, when you were again in the street, you fell to worryin'."

  "That's it precisely! It didn't seem cricket to leave the poor devil there—and still I didn't want to become involved. . . . I was now walking up Fourth Avenue threshing the thing out with myself and bumping against people without seeing 'em. And I happened to think of you. I knew you were acquainted with Doctor Bliss and the outfit, and could give me good advice. An
d another thing, I felt a little strange in a new country—I wasn't just sure how to go about reporting the matter. . . . So I hurried along to your flat here." He stopped abruptly and watched Vance eagerly. "What's the procedure?"

  Vance stretched his long legs before him and lazily contemplated the end of his cigarette.

  "I'll take over the procedure," he replied at length. "It's not so dashed complicated, and it varies according to circumstances. One may call the police station, or stick one's head out the window and scream, or confide in a traffic officer, or simply ignore the corpse and wait for some one else to stumble on it. It amounts to the same thing in the end—the murderer is almost sure to get safely away. . . . However, in the present case I'll vary the system a bit by telephoning to the Criminal Courts Building."

  He turned to the mother-of-pearl French telephone on the Venetian tabouret at his side, and asked for a number. A few moments later he was speaking to the District Attorney.

  "Greetings, Markham old dear. Beastly weather, what?" His voice was too indolent to be entirely convincing. "By the by, Benjamin H. Kyle has passed to his Maker by foul means. He's at present lying on the floor of the Bliss Museum with a badly fractured skull. . . . Oh, yes—quite dead, I understand. Are you interested, by any chance? Thought I'd be unfriendly and notify you. . . . Sad—sad. . . . I'm about to make a few observations in situ criminis. . . . Tut, tut! This is no time for reproaches. Don't be so deuced serious. . . . Really, I think you'd better come along. . . . Right-o! I'll await you here."

  He replaced the receiver on the bracket and again settled back in his chair.

  "The District Attorney will be along anon," he announced, "and we'll probably have time for a few observations before the police arrive."

  His eyes shifted dreamily to Scarlett.

  "Yes . . . as you say . . . I'm acquainted with the Bliss outfit. Fascinatin' possibilities in the affair: it may prove most entertainin'. . . ." (I knew by his expression that his mind was contemplating—not without a certain degree of anticipatory interest—a new criminal problem.) "So, the front door was ajar, eh? And when you called out no one answered?"

  Scarlett nodded but made no audible reply. He was obviously puzzled by Vance's casual reception of his appalling recital.

  "Where were the servants? Couldn't they have heard you?"

  "Not likely. They're in the other side of the house—down-stairs. The only person who could have heard me was Doctor Bliss—provided he'd been in his study."

  "You could have rung the front door-bell, or summoned someone from the main hall," Vance suggested.

  Scarlett shifted in his chair uneasily.

  "Quite true," he admitted. "But—dash it all, old man!—I was in a funk. . . ."

  "Yes, yes—of course. Most natural. Prima-facie evidence and all that. Very suspicious, eh what? Still, you had no reason for wanting the old codger out of the way, had you?"

  "Oh, my God, no!" Scarlett went pale. "He footed the bills. Without his support the Bliss excavations and the museum itself would go by the board."

  Vance nodded.

  "Bliss told me of the situation when I was in Egypt. . . . Didn't Kyle own the property in which the museum is situated?"

  "Yes—both houses. You see, there are two of 'em. Bliss and his family and young Salveter—Kyle's nephew—live in one, and the museum occupies the other. Two doors have been cut through, and the museum-house entrance has been bricked up. So it's practically one establishment."

  "And where did Kyle live?"

  "In the brownstone house next to the museum. He owned a block of six or seven adjoining houses along the street."

  Vance rose and walked meditatively to the window.

  "Do you know how Kyle became interested in Egyptology? It was rather out of his line. His weakness was for hospitals and those unspeakable English portraits of the Gainsborough school. He was one of the bidders for the Blue Boy. Luckily for him, he didn't get it."

  "It was young Salveter who wangled his uncle into financing Bliss. The lad was a pupil of Bliss's when the latter was instructor of Egyptology at Harvard. When he was graduated he was at a loose end, and old Kyle financed the expedition to give the lad something to do. Very fond of his nephew, was old Kyle."

  "And Salveter's been with Bliss ever since?"

  "Very much so. To the extent of living in the same house with him. Hasn't left his side since their first visit to Egypt three years ago. Bliss made him Assistant Curator of the Museum. He deserved the post, too. A bright boy—lives and eats Egyptology."

  Vance returned to the table and rang for Currie.

  "The situation has possibilities," he remarked, in his habitual drawl. . . . "By the by, what other members of the Bliss ménage are there?"

  "There's Mrs. Bliss—you met her in Cairo—a strange girl, half Egyptian, much younger than Bliss. And then there's Hani, an Egyptian, whom Bliss brought back with him—or, rather, whom Mrs. Bliss brought back with her. Hani was an old dependent of Meryt's father. . . ."

  "Meryt?"

  Scarlett blinked and looked ill at ease.

  "I meant Mrs. Bliss," he explained. "Her given name is Meryt-Amen. In Egypt, you see, it's customary to think of a lady by her native name."

  "Oh, quite." A slight smile flickered at the corner of Vance's mouth. "And what position does this Hani occupy in the household?"

  Scarlett pursed his lips.

  "A somewhat anomalous one, if you ask me. Fellahîn stock—a Coptic Christian of sorts. He accompanied old Abercrombie—Meryt's father—on his various tours of exploration. When Abercrombie died, he acted as a kind of foster-father to Meryt. He was attached to the Bliss expedition this spring in some minor capacity as a representative of the Egyptian Government. He's a sort of high-class handy-man about the museum. Knows a lot of Egyptology, too."

  "Does he hold any official post with the Egyptian Government now?"

  "That I don't know . . . though I wouldn't be surprised if he's doing a bit of patriotic spying. You never can tell about these chaps."

  "And do these persons complete the household?"

  "There are two American servants—Brush, the butler, and Dingle, the cook."

  Currie entered the room at this moment.

  "Oh, I say, Currie," Vance addressed him; "an eminent gentleman has just been murdered in the neighborhood, and I am going to view the body. Lay out a dark gray suit and my Bangkok. A sombre tie, of course. . . . And, Currie—the Amontillado first."

  "Yes, sir."

  Currie received the news as if murders were everyday events in his life, and went out.

  "Do you know any reason, Scarlett," Vance asked, "why Kyle should have been put out of the way?"

  The other hesitated almost imperceptibly.

  "Can't imagine," he said, knitting his brows. "He was a kindly, generous old fellow—pompous and rather vain, but eminently likable. I'm not acquainted with his private life, though. He may have had enemies. . . ."

  "Still," suggested Vance, "it's not exactly likely that an enemy would have followed him to the museum and wreaked vengeance on him in a strange place, when any one might have walked in."

  Scarlett sat up abruptly.

  "But you're not implying that any one in the house—"

  "My dear fellow!"

  Currie entered the room at this moment with the sherry, and Vance poured out three glasses. When we had drunk the wine he excused himself to dress. Scarlett paced up and down restlessly during the quarter of an hour Vance was absent. He had discarded his cigarette and lighted an old briar pipe which had a most atrocious smell.

  Almost at the moment when Vance returned to the library an automobile horn sounded raucously outside. Markham was below waiting for us.

  As we walked toward the door Vance asked Scarlett:

  "Was it custom'ry for Kyle to be in the museum at this hour of the morning?"

  "No, most unusual. But Doctor Bliss had made an appointment with him for this morning, to discuss the expenditures of
the last expedition and the possibilities of continuing the excavations next season."

  "You knew of this appointment?" Vance asked indifferently. "Oh, yes. Doctor Bliss called him by phone last night during the conference, when we were assembling the report."

  "Well, well." Vance passed out into the hall. "So there were others who also knew that Kyle would be at the museum this morning."

  Scarlett halted and looked startled.

  "Really, you're not intimating—" he began.

  "Who heard the appointment made?" Vance was already descending the stairs.

  Scarlett followed him with puzzled, downcast eyes.

  "Well, let me see. . . . There was Salveter, and Hani, and . . ."

  "Pray, don't hesitate."

  "And Mrs. Bliss."

  "Every one in the household, then, but Brush and Dingle?"

  "Yes. . . . But see here, Vance; the appointment was for eleven o'clock; and the poor old duffer was done in before half past ten."

  "That's most inveiglin'," Vance murmured.

  2. THE VENGEANCE OF SAKHMET

  (Friday, July 13; 11:30 A.M.)

  Markham greeted Vance with a look of sour reproach.

  "What's the meaning of this?" he demanded tartly. "I was in the midst of an important committee meeting—"

  "The meaning is still to be ascertained," Vance interrupted lightly, stepping into the car. "The cause of your ungracious presence, however, is a most fascinatin' murder."

  Markham shot him a shrewd look, and gave orders to the chauffeur to drive with all possible haste to the Bliss Museum. He recognized the symptoms of Vance's perturbation: a frivolous outward attitude on Vance's part was always indicative of an inner seriousness.

  Markham and he had been friends for fifteen years, and Vance had aided him in many of his investigations. In fact, he had come to depend on Vance's assistance in the more complicated criminal cases that came under his jurisdiction.[3]

  It would be difficult to find two men so diametrically opposed to each other temperamentally. Markham was stern, aggressive, straightforward, grave, and a trifle ponderous. Vance was debonair, whimsical, and superficially cynical—an amateur of the arts, and with only an impersonal concern in serious social and moral problems. But this very disparateness in their natures seemed to bind them together.