Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 1

by S. S. Van Dine

  "God help me!" he cried; and the sound of his voice sent a chill over me. "Those are my finger-prints on that statue!"

  The effect of this admission was dumbfounding. Even Vance seemed momentarily shaken out of his habitual calm, and going to a small standard ashtray he abstractedly crushed out his cigarette, though he had smoked less than half of it.

  Heath was the first to break the electric silence that followed Bliss's cry of anguish. He took his dead cigar from his lips, and thrust out his chin.

  "Sure, they're your finger-prints!" he snapped unpleasantly. "Who else's would they be?"

  "Just a moment, Sergeant!" Vance had wholly recovered himself, and his voice was casual. "Finger-prints can be very misleadin', don't y' know. And a few digital signatures on a lethal weapon don't mean that their author is necessarily a murderer. It's most important, d' ye see, to ascertain when and under what circumstances the signatures were made."

  He approached Bliss, who had remained staring at the statue of Sakhmet like a stricken man.

  "I say, doctor;"—he had assumed an easy, off-hand manner—"how do you know those finger-prints are yours?"

  "How do I know?" Bliss repeated the question in a resigned, colorless tone. He appeared to have aged before our very eyes; and his white, sunken cheeks made him resemble a death's-head. "Because—oh, my God!—because I made them! . . . I made them last night—or, rather, early this morning, before I turned in. I took hold of the statue—around the ankles—exactly where that gentleman says there are the marks of two hands."

  "And how did you happen to do that, doctor?" Vance asked quietly.

  "I did it without thought—I'd even forgotten doing it till the finger-prints were mentioned." Bliss spoke with feverish earnestness: he seemed to feel that his very life depended on his being believed. "When I had finished arranging all the figures of the report early this morning, at about three o'clock, I came down here to the museum. I'd told Kyle about the new shipment, and I wanted to make sure that everything was in order for his inspection. . . . You see, Mr. Vance, a great deal depended on the impression the new treasures made on him. . . . I looked over the items in that end cabinet, and then re-drew the curtain. Just as I was about to depart I noticed that the statue of Sakhmet had not been placed evenly on the top of the cabinet—it was not in the exact centre, and was slightly sidewise. So I reached up and straightened it—taking hold of it by the ankles. . . ."

  "Pardon me for intruding, Vance,"—Scarlett, a troubled look on his face, had stepped forward—"but I can assure you that such an act was quite natural with Doctor Bliss. He's a stickler for orderliness—it's a good-natured joke among the rest of us. We never dare leave anything out of place: he's constantly criticising us and rearranging things after us."

  Vance nodded.

  "Then, as I understand you, Scarlett, if a statue was left a bit askew, it would be practically inevitable that Doctor Bliss, on seeing it, would set it right."

  "Yes—I think that's a reasonable conclusion."

  "Many thanks." Vance turned again to Bliss. "Your explanation is that you adjusted the statue of Sakhmet, by taking hold of its ankles, and forthwith went to bed?"

  "That's the truth—so help me God!" The man searched Vance's eyes eagerly. "I turned out the lights and went up-stairs. And I've not set foot in the museum till you knocked on my study door."

  Heath was obviously not satisfied with this story. It was plain that he had no intention of relinquishing his belief in Bliss's guilt.

  "The trouble with that alibi," he retorted doggedly, "is that you haven't got any witnesses. And it's the sort of alibi any one would pull when they'd got caught with the goods."

  Markham diplomatically intervened. He himself was patently not convinced one way or the other.

  "I think, Sergeant," he said, "that it might be advisable to have Captain Dubois verify the identity of those finger-prints. We'll at least know definitely then if the prints are the ones Doctor Bliss made. . . . Can you do that now, Captain?"

  "Sure thing."

  Dubois reached in the hand-bag and drew forth a tiny inked roller, a narrow glass slab, and a small paper pad.

  "I guess the thumbs'll be enough," he said. "There's only one set of hands showing on the statue."

  He ran the inked roller over the glass slab, and going to Bliss, asked him to hold out his hands.

  "Press your thumbs on the ink and then put 'em down on this paper," he ordered.

  Bliss complied without a word; and when the impressions had been made Dubois again placed the jeweller's-glass in his eye and inspected the marks.

  "Looks like 'em," he commented. "Ulnar loops—same like those on the statue. . . . Anyhow, I'll check 'em."

  He knelt down beside the statue and held the pad close to its ankles. For a minute or so he studied the two sets of finger-prints.

  "They match," he announced at length. "No doubt about it. . . . And there ain't another visible mark on the statue. This gentleman"—he gestured contemptuously toward Bliss—"is the only person who's laid hands on the statue, so far as I can see."

  "That's bully with me," grinned Heath. "Let me have the enlargements as soon as you can—I got a feeling I'm going to need 'em." He took out a fresh cigar and bit the end off with gloating satisfaction. "I guess that'll be all Captain. Many thanks. . . . Now you can go and victual up."

  "And let me tell you I need it." Dubois passed his camera and paraphernalia to Bellamy, who packed them with stodgy precision; and the two of them walked noisily out of the museum.

  Heath finally got his cigar going, and for several moments stood puffing on it voluptuously, one eye cocked at Vance.

  "That sorta sews things up—don't it, sir?" he asked. "Or maybe you've swallowed the doctor's abili." He addressed himself to Markham. "I put it up to you, sir. There's only one set of finger-prints on that statue; and if those prints were made last night, I'd like to have somebody drive up in a hearse and tell me what became of the finger-prints of the bird who cracked Kyle over the head. Kyle was hit with the top of the statue, and whoever did it musta had hold of it by the legs. . . . Now, Mr. Markham, I ask you: is any one going to rub off his own finger-prints and leave those of the doctor? He couldn't have done it if he'd wanted to."

  Before Markham could reply, Vance spoke.

  "How do you know, Sergeant, that the person who killed Mr. Kyle actually wielded the statue?"

  Heath gave Vance a look of amazement.

  "Say! You don't seriously think, do you, that this lion-headed dame did the job by herself—like this Yogi says?" He jerked his thumb at Hani without turning his eyes.

  "No, Sergeant." Vance shook his head. "I haven't yet gone in for the supernatural. And I don't think the murderer erased his finger-prints and left those of Doctor Bliss. But I do think, d' ye see, that there's some explanation which will account for all the contradict'ry phases of this astonishin' case."

  "Maybe there is." Heath felt that he could be tolerant and magnanimous. "But I'm pinning my opinion on finger-prints and tangible evidence."

  "A very dangerous procedure, Sergeant," Vance told him, with unwonted seriousness. "I doubt if you could ever get a conviction against Doctor Bliss on the evidence you possess. It's far too obvious—too imbecile. You're bogged with an embarras de richesse—meanin' that no sane man would commit a crime and leave so many silly bits of damnin' evidence around. . . . And I believe Mr. Markham will agree with me."

  "I'm not so sure," said Markham dubiously. "There's something in what you say, Vance; but on the other hand—"

  "Excuse me, gentlemen!" Heath had suddenly become animated. "I gotta see Hennessey—I'll be back in a minute." And he stalked with vigorous determination to the front door and disappeared.

  Bliss, to all appearances, had taken no interest in the discussion of his possible guilt. He had sunk back in his chair, where he sat staring resignedly at the floor—a tragic, broken figure. When the Sergeant had left us he moved his head slowly toward Vance.
<
br />   "Your detective is fully justified in his opinion," he said. "I can see his point of view. Everything is against me—everything!" His tone, though flat and colorless, was bitter. "If only I hadn't fallen asleep this morning, I'd know the meaning of all this. . . . My scarab-pin, that financial report, those fingerprints. . . ." He shook his head like a man in a daze. "It's damnable—damnable!" His trembling hands went to his face, and he placed his elbows on his knees, bending forward in an attitude of utter despair.

  "It's too damnable, doctor," Vance replied soothingly. "Therein lies our hope of a solution."

  Again he walked to the cabinet and remained for some time in distrait contemplation. Hani had returned to his ascetic adoration of Teti-shiret; and Scarlett, frowning and unhappy, was pacing nervously up and down between the delicate state chair and the shelves holding the shawabtis. Markham stood in a brown study, his hands clasped behind him, gazing at the shaft of sunshine which had fallen diagonally through the high rear windows.

  I noted that Hennessey had silently entered the main door and taken his post on the stair landing, one hand resting ominously in his right coat pocket.

  Then the little metal door at the head of the iron spiral stairs swung open, and Heath appeared at the entrance to Doctor Bliss's study. One hand was behind him, out of sight, as he descended to the floor of the museum. He walked directly to Bliss and stood for a moment glowering grimly at the man whose guilt he believed in. Suddenly his hand shot forward—it was holding a white canvas tennis shoe.

  "That yours, doctor?" he barked.

  Bliss gazed at the shoe with perplexed astonishment.

  "Why . . . yes. Certainly it's mine. . . ."

  "You bet your sweet life it's yours!" The Sergeant strode to Markham and held up the sole of the shoe for inspection. I was standing at the District Attorney's side, and I saw that the rubber sole was criss-crossed with ridges and that there was a pattern of small hollow circles on the heel. But that which sent an icy breath of horror through me was the fact that the entire sole was red with dried blood.

  "I found that shoe in the study, Mr. Markham," Heath was saying. "It was wrapped in a newspaper at the bottom of the waste-basket, covered up with all kinds of trash . . . hidden!"

  It was several moments before Markham spoke. His eyes moved from the shoe to Bliss and back again; finally they rested on Vance.

  "I think that clinches it." His voice was resolute. "I have no alternative in the matter now—"

  Bliss sprang to his feet and hurried toward the Sergeant, his hypnotized gaze fastened on the shoe.

  "What is it?" he cried. "What has that shoe to do with Kyle's death. . . ?" He caught sight of the blood. "Oh, God in Heaven!" he moaned.

  Vance placed a hand on the man's shoulder.

  "Sergeant Heath found footprints here, doctor. They were made by one of your canvas shoes. . . ."

  "How can that be?" Bliss's fascinated eyes were riveted on the bloody sole. "I left those shoes upstairs in my bedroom last night, and I came down this morning in my slippers. . . . There's something diabolical going on in this house."

  "Something diabolical, yes!—something unspeakably devilish. . . . And rest assured, Doctor Bliss, I am going to find out what it is. . . ."

  "I'm sorry, Vance," Markham's stern voice rang forth ominously. "I know you don't believe Doctor Bliss is guilty. But I have a duty to perform. I'd be betraying the people who elected me if, in view of the evidence, I didn't take action—And, after all, you may be wrong." (He said this with the kindliness of an old friend.) "In any event, my duty is clear."

  He nodded to Heath.

  "Sergeant, place Doctor Bliss under arrest, and charge him with the murder of Benjamin H. Kyle."

  8. IN THE STUDY

  (Friday, July 13; 2 P.M.)

  I had often seen Vance in crucial moments of violent disagreement with Markham's judgment, but, whatever his feelings had been, he had always assumed a cynical and nonchalant attitude. Now, however, no lightness or playfulness marked his manner. He was grim and serious: a deep frown had settled on his forehead, and a look of baffled exasperation had come into his cold gray eyes. He compressed his lips tightly and crammed his hands deep into his coat pockets. I expected him to protest vigorously against Markham's action, but he remained silent, and I realized that he was confronted by one of the most difficult and unusual problems in his career.

  His eyes drifted from Bliss to the immobile back of Hani and rested there. But they were unseeing eyes—eyes that were turned inward as if seeking for some means of counteracting the drastic step about to be taken against the great Egyptologist.

  Heath, on the contrary, was elated. A grin of satisfaction had overspread his dour face at Markham's order, and without moving from in front of Bliss, he called stridently to the ominous figure of the detective on the stair landing.

  "Hey, Hennessey! Tell Snitkin to phone Precinct Station 8 for a wagon. . . . Then go out back and get Emery, and bring him in here."

  Hennessey disappeared, and Heath stood watching Bliss like a cat, as though he expected the doctor to make a dash for liberty. Had the situation not been so tragic the Sergeant's attitude would have appeared humorous.

  "You needn't book and finger-print the doctor at the local station," Markham told him. "Send him direct to Headquarters. I'll assume all responsibility."

  "That's fine with me, sir." The Sergeant seemed greatly pleased. "I'll want to talk confidentially with this baby myself later on."

  Bliss, once the blow had fallen, had drawn himself together. He sat upright, his head thrown slightly back, his eyes gazing defiantly out of the rear windows. There was no cowering, no longer any fear, in his manner. Faced with the inevitable, he had apparently decided to accept it with stoical intrepidity. I could not help admiring the man's fortitude in extremity.

  Scarlett stood like a man paralyzed, his mouth hanging partly open, his eyes fixed on his employer with a kind of unbelieving horror. Hani, of all the persons in the room, was the least perturbed: he had not even turned round from his rapt contemplation of Teti-shiret.

  Vance, after several moments, dropped his chin on his chest, and his perplexed frown deepened. Then, as if on sudden impulse, he swung about and walked to the end cabinet. He stood absorbed, leaning against the statue of Anûbis; but soon his head moved slowly up and down and from side to side as he inspected various parts of the cabinet and its partly-drawn curtain.

  Presently he came back to Heath.

  "Sergeant, let me have another look at that tennis slipper." His voice was slow and strained.

  Heath, without relaxing his vigilance, reached in his pocket and held out the shoe. Vance took it and, again adjusting his monocle, scrutinized the sole. Then he returned the shoe to the Sergeant.

  "By the by," he said; "the doctor has more than one foot. . . . What about the other slipper?"

  "I didn't look for it," snapped Heath. "This one was enough for me. It's the right shoe—the one that made the footprints."

  "So it is." Vance's drawl informed me that his mind was more at ease. "Still, I could bear to know where the other shoe is."

  "I'll find it—don't worry, sir." Heath spoke with contemptuous cocksureness. "I've got a little investigating to do as soon as I get the doctor safely booked at Headquarters."

  "Typical police procedure," murmured Vance. "Book your man and then investigate. A sweet practice."

  Markham was ruffled by this comment.

  "It seems to me, Vance," he remarked with angry indignity, "that the investigation has already led to something fairly definite. Whatever else we find will be in the nature of supplementary evidence."

  "Oh, will it now? Fancy that!" Vance smiled tauntingly. "I observe you've gone in for fortune-telling. Do you crystal-gaze in your moments of leisure, by any chance? . . . I myself am not what you'd call clairvoyant, but, Markham old dear, I can read the future better than you. And I assure you that when this investigation is continued there will be no supplement'ry evi
dence against Doctor Bliss. Indeed, you'll be amazed at what will turn up."

  He came nearer to the District Attorney and dropped his scoffing tone.

  "Can't you see, Markham, that you're playing into the murderer's hands? The person who killed Kyle planned the affair so you'd do exactly what you are doing. . . . And, as I've already told you, you'll never get a conviction with the preposterous evidence you have."

  "I'll come mighty close to it," Markham retorted. "In any event, my duty is plain. I'll have to take a chance on the conviction. . . . But for once, Vance, I think you've permitted your theories to override a simple, obvious fact."

  Before Vance could reply Hennessey and Emery came into the museum.

  "Here, boys," the Sergeant ordered, "take this bird up-stairs and get some clothes on him, and bring him back here. Make it snappy."

  Bliss went out between the two detectives.

  Markham turned to Scarlett.

  "You'd better wait in the drawing-room. I'll want to question every one, and I think you can give us some of the information we want. . . . And take Hani with you."

  "I'll be glad to do what I can." Scarlett spoke in an awed voice. "But you're making a terrible mistake—"

  "I'll settle that point for myself," Markham interrupted coldly. "Be good enough to wait in the drawing-room."

  Scarlett and Heath walked slowly up the museum and passed out through the great steel door.

  Vance had gone to the front of the spiral stairs and was pacing up and down with suppressed anxiety. A tense atmosphere had settled over the room. No one spoke. Heath was inspecting the small statue of Sakhmet with forced curiosity; and Markham had lapsed into a state of solemn abstraction.

  A few minutes later Hennessey and Emery returned with Doctor Bliss in street clothes. They had hardly reached the rear of the museum when Snitkin put his head in the front door and called: