Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 1

by S. S. Van Dine

  "There are too many cross-currents in this house—too many motives, too many objects to be gained, too many emotional complications. A plausible case could be made out of almost any one. . . ."

  "But who could have benefited by Bliss's entanglement in the crime?" Markham asked.

  "Oh, my word!" Vance leaned against the centre-table and gazed at a large oil portrait of the doctor which hung on the east wall. "Every one apparently. Hani doesn't like his employer and writhes in psychic agony at each basketful of sand that is excavated from Intef's tomb. Salveter is infatuated with Mrs. Bliss, and naturally her husband is an obstacle to his suit. As for the lady herself: I do not wish to wrong her, but I'm inclined to believe she returns the young gentleman's affection. If so, the elimination of Bliss would not drive her to suicidal grief."

  Markham's face clouded.

  "I got the impression, too, that Scarlett was not entirely impervious to her charms and that there was a chilliness between him and Salveter."

  "Quite. Ça crève les yeux." Vance nodded abstractedly. "Mrs. Bliss is undeniably fascinatin'. . . . I say; if only I could find the clew I'm looking for! Y' know, Markham, I've an idea that something new is going to happen anon. The plot thus far has gone awry. We've been led into a Moorish maze by the murderer, but the key hasn't yet been placed in our hands. When it is, I'll know which door it'll unlock—and it won't be the door the murderer intends us to use it on. Our difficulty now is that we have too many clews; and not one of 'em is the real clew. That's why we can't make an arrest. We must wait for the plot to unfold."

  "It's unfolding, as you call it, too swift for me," Heath retorted impatiently. "And I don't mind admitting that I think we're getting sidetracked. After all's said and done, weren't Bliss's finger-prints found on the statue, and no one else's? Wasn't his stick-pin found beside the body? And didn't he have every opportunity to bump Kyle off? . . ."

  "Sergeant,"—Vance spoke patiently—"would a man of intelligence and profound scientific training commit a murder and not only overlook his finger-prints on the weapon, but also be so careless as to drop his scarf-pin at the scene of the murder, and then calmly wait in the next room for the police to arrest him, after having made bloody footprints to guide them?"

  "And there's the opium, too, Sergeant," added Markham. "It seems pretty clear to me that the doctor was drugged."

  "Have it your own way, sir." Heath's tone bordered on impoliteness. "But I don't see that we're getting anywheres."

  As he spoke Emery came to the door.

  "Telephone call for you, Sergeant," he announced. "Down-stairs."

  Heath hurried eagerly from the room and disappeared down the hall. Three or four minutes later he returned. His face was wreathed in smiles, and he swaggered as he walked toward Vance.

  "Huh!" He inserted his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. "Your good friend Bliss has just tried to make a getaway. My man, Guilfoyle,[18] who I'd phoned to tail the doctor, picked him up as he came out of this house for his walk in the park. But he didn't go to the park, Mr. Vance. He beat it over to Fourth Avenue and went to the Corn Exchange Bank at Twenty-ninth Street. It was after hours, but he knew the manager and didn't have no trouble getting his money. . . ."

  "Money?"

  "Sure! He drew out everything he had in the bank—got it in twenties, fifties and hundreds—and then took a taxi. Guilfoyle hopped another taxi and followed him up-town. He got off at Grand Central Station and hurried to the ticket office. 'When's the next train for Montreal?' he asked. 'Four forty-five,' the guy told him. 'Gimme a through ticket,' he said. . . . It was then four o'clock; and the doc walked to the gate and stood there, waiting. Guilfoyle came up to him and said: 'Going for a jaunt to Canada?' The doc got haughty and refused to answer. 'Anyway,' said Guilfoyle, 'I don't think you'll leave the country to-day.' And taking the doc by the arm, he led him to a telephone booth. . . . Guilfoyle's on his way here with your innocent friend." The Sergeant rocked back and forth on his feet. "What do you think of that, sir?"

  Vance regarded him lugubriously.

  "And that is taken as another sign of the doctor's guilt?" He shook his head hopelessly. "Is it possible that you regard such a childish attempt of escape as incriminating? . . . I say, Sergeant; mightn't that come under the head of panic on the part of an impractical scientist?"

  "Sure it might." Heath laughed unpleasantly. "All crooks and killers get scared and try to make a getaway. But it don't prove their lily-white innocence."

  "Still, Sergeant,"—Vance's voice was discouraged—"a murderer who accidentally left clews on every hand pointing directly to himself and then indulged in this final stupid folly of trying to escape would not be exactly bright. And, I assure you, Doctor Bliss is neither an imbecile nor a lunatic."

  "Them's mere words, Mr. Vance," declared the Sergeant doggedly. "This bird made a coupla mistakes and, seeing he was caught, tried to get outa the country. And, I'm here to tell you, that's running true to form."

  "Oh, my aunt—my precious, dodderin' aunt!" Vance sank into a large chair and let his head fall back wearily against the lace antimacassar.

  14. A HIEROGLYPHIC LETTER

  (Friday, July 13, 4:15 P.M.)

  Markham got up irritably and walked the length of the room and back. As always in moments of perplexity his hands were clasped behind him, and his head was projected forward.

  "Damn your various aunts!" he growled, as he came abreast of Vance. "You're always calling on an aunt. Haven't you any uncles?"

  Vance opened his eyes and smiled blandly.

  "I know how you feel." Despite the lightness of his tone there was unmistakable sympathy in his words. "No one is acting as he should in this case. It's as if every one were in a conspiracy to confuse and complicate matters for us."

  "That's just it!" Markham fumed. "On the other hand, there's something in what the Sergeant says. Why should Bliss—?"

  "Too much theory, Markham old dear," Vance interrupted. "Oh, much too much theory . . . too much speculation . . . too many futile questions. There's a key coming, and it'll explain everything. Our immediate task, it seems to me, is to find that key."

  "Sure!" Heath spoke with heavy sarcasm. "Suppose I begin punching the furniture with hat-pins and ripping up the carpets. . . ."

  Markham snapped his fingers impatiently, and Heath subsided.

  "Let's get down to earth." He regarded Vance with vindictive shrewdness. "You've got some pretty definite idea; and all your maunderings couldn't convince me to the contrary.—What do you suggest we do next?—interview Salveter?"

  "Precisely." Vance nodded with unwonted seriousness. "That bigoted lad fits conspicuously into the picture; and his presence on the tapis now is, as the medicos say, indicated."

  Markham made a sign to Heath, who immediately rose and went to the drawing-room door and bellowed up the staircase.

  "Hennessey! . . . Bring that guy down here. We got business with him."

  A few moments later Salveter was piloted into the room. His eyes were flashing, and he planted himself aggressively before Vance, cramming his hands violently into his trousers' pockets.

  "Well, here I am," he announced with belligerence. "Got the handcuffs ready?"

  Vance yawned elaborately and inspected the newcomer with a bored expression.

  "Don't be so virile, Mr. Salveter," he drawled. "We're all worn out with this depressin' case, and simply can't endure any more vim and vigor. Sit down and let the joints go free. . . . As for the manacles, Sergeant Heath has 'em beautifully polished. Would you like to try 'em on?"

  "Maybe," Salveter returned, watching Vance calculatingly. "What did you say to Meryt—to Mrs. Bliss?"

  "I gave her one of my Régies," Vance told him carelessly. "Most appreciative young woman. . . . Would you care for one yourself? I've two left."

  "Thanks—I smoke Deities."

  "Ever dip 'em in opium?" Vance asked dulcetly.

  "Opium?"

  "The concrete juice of the poppy,
so to speak—obtained from slits in the cortex of the capsule of Papaver somniferum. Greek word: opion—to wit: omicron, pi, iota, omicron, nu."

  "No!" Salveter sat down suddenly and shifted his gaze. "What's the idea?"

  "There seems to be an abundance of opium in the house, don't y' know."

  "Oh, is there?" The man looked up warily.

  "Didn't you know?" Vance selected one of his two remaining cigarettes. "We thought you and Mr. Scarlett had charge of the medical supplies."

  Salveter started and remained silent for several moments.

  "Did Meryt-Amen tell you that?" he asked finally.

  "Is it true?" There was a new note in Vance's voice.

  "In a way," the other admitted. "Doctor Bliss—"

  "What about the opium?" Vance leaned forward.

  "Oh, there has always been opium in the cabinet up-stairs—nearly a canful."

  "Have you had it in your room lately?"

  "No . . . yes . . . I—"

  "Thanks awfully. We take our choice of answers, what?"

  "Who said there was opium in my room?" Salveter squared his shoulders.

  Vance leaned back in his chair.

  "It really doesn't matter. Anyway, there's no opium there now. . . . I say, Mr. Salveter; did you return to the breakfast-room this morning after you and Mrs. Bliss had gone up-stairs?"

  "I did not! . . . That is," he amended, "I don't remember. . . ."

  Vance rose abruptly and stood menacingly before him.

  "Don't try to guess what Mrs. Bliss told us. If you don't care to answer my questions, I'll turn you over to the Homicide Bureau—and God help you! . . . We're here to learn the truth, and we want straight answers.—Did you return to the breakfast-room?"

  "No—I did not."

  "That's much better—oh, much!" Vance sighed and resumed his seat. "And now, Mr. Salveter, we must ask you a very intimate question.—Are you in love with Mrs. Bliss?"

  "I refuse to answer!"

  "Good! But you would not be entirely brokenhearted if Doctor Bliss should be gathered to his fathers?"

  Salveter clamped his jaws and said nothing.

  Vance contemplated him ruminatingly.

  "I understand," he said amicably, "that Mr. Kyle has left you a considerable fortune in his will. . . . If Doctor Bliss should ask you to finance the continuation of his excavations in Egypt, would you do it?"

  "I'd insist upon it, even if he did not ask me." A fanatical light shone in Salveter's eyes. "That is," he added, as a reasoned afterthought, "if Meryt-Amen approved. I would not care to go against her wishes."

  "Ah!" Vance had lit his cigarette and was smoking dreamily. "And do you think she would disapprove?"

  Salveter shook his head.

  "No, I think she would do whatever the doctor wanted."

  "A dutiful wife—quo?"

  Salveter bristled and sat up.

  "She's the straightest, most loyal—"

  "Yes, yes." Vance exhaled a spiral of cigarette smoke. "Spare me your adjectives. . . . I take it, however, she's not entirely ecstatic with her choice of a life mate."

  "If she wasn't," Salveter returned angrily, "she wouldn't show it."

  Vance nodded uninterestedly.

  "What do you think of Hani?" he asked.

  "He's a dumb beast—a good soul, though. Adores Mrs. Bliss. . . ." Salveter stiffened and his eyes opened wide. "Good God, Mr. Vance! You don't think—" He broke off in horror; then he shook himself. "I see what you're getting at. But . . . but. . . . Those degenerate modern Egyptians! They're all alike—oriental dogs, every one of 'em. No sense of right and wrong—superstitious devils—but loyal as they make 'em. I wonder. . . ."

  "Quite. We're all wonderin'." Vance was apparently unimpressed by Salveter's outbreak. "But, as you say, he's pretty close to Mrs. Bliss. He'd do a great deal for her—eh, what? Might even risk his neck, don't y' know, if he thought her happiness was at stake. Of course, he might need a bit of coaching. . . ."

  A hard light shone in Salveter's eyes.

  "You're on the wrong tack. Nobody coached Hani. He's capable of acting for himself—"

  "And throwing the suspicion on some one else?" Vance looked at the other. "I'd say the planting of that scarab pin was a bit too subtle for a mere fellah."

  "You think so?" Salveter was almost contemptuous. "You don't know those people the way I do. The Egyptians were working out intricate plots when the Nordic race were arboreans."

  "Bad anthropology," murmured Vance. "And you're doubtless thinkin' of Herodotus's silly story of the treasure house of King Rhampsinitus. Personally, I think the priests were spoofing the papa of history. . . . By the by, Mr. Salveter; do you know any one round here, besides Doctor Bliss, who uses Koh-i-noor pencils?"

  "Didn't even know the doctor used 'em." The man flicked his cigarette ashes on the carpet and brushed his foot over them.

  "You didn't by any chance see Doctor Bliss this morning?"

  "No. When I came down to breakfast Brush told me he was working in the study."

  "Did you go into the museum this morning before you went on your errand to the Metropolitan?"

  Salveter's eyes blinked rapidly.

  "Yes!" he blurted finally. "I generally go into the museum every morning after breakfast—a kind of habit. I like to see that everything is all right—that nothing has happened during the night. I'm the assistant curator; and, aside from my responsibility, I'm tremendously interested in the place. It's my duty to keep an eye on things."

  Vance nodded understandingly.

  "What time did you enter the museum this morning?"

  Salveter hesitated. Then throwing his head back he looked challengingly at Vance.

  "I left the house a little after nine. When I got to Fifth Avenue it suddenly occurred to me I hadn't made an inspection of the museum; and for some reason I was worried. I couldn't tell you why I felt that way—but I did. Maybe because of the new shipment that arrived yesterday. Anyway, I turned back, let myself in with my key, and went into the museum—"

  "About half past nine?"

  "That would be about right."

  "And no one saw you re-enter the house?"

  "I hardly think so. In any event, I didn't see any one."

  Vance gazed at him languidly.

  "Suppose you finish the recital. . . . If you don't care to, I'll finish it for you."

  "You won't have to." Salveter tossed his cigarette into a cloisonné dish on the table and drew himself resolutely to the edge of his chair. "I'll tell you all there is to tell. Then if you're not satisfied, you can order my arrest—and the hell with you!"

  Vance sighed and let his head fall back.

  "Such energy!" he breathed. "But why be vulgar? . . . I take it you saw your uncle before you finally quitted the museum for the Great American Mausoleum on the Avenue."

  "Yes—I saw him!" Salveter's eyes flashed and his chin shot forward. "Now, make something out of that."

  "Really, I can't be bothered. Much too fatiguin'." Vance did not even look at the man: his eyes, half closed, were resting on an old-fashioned crystal chandelier which hung low over the centre-table. "Since you saw your uncle," he said, "you must have remained in the museum for at least half an hour."

  "Just about." Salveter obviously could not understand Vance's indifferent attitude. "The fact is I got interested in a papyrus we picked up last winter, and tried to work out a few of the words that stumped me. There were the words ankhet, wash, and tema that I couldn't translate."

  Vance frowned slightly; then his eyebrows lifted.

  "Ankhet . . . wash . . . tema. . . ." He iterated the words slowly. "Was the ankhet written with or without a determinative?"

  Salveter did not answer at once.

  "With the animal-skin determinative," he said presently.

  "And was the next word really wash and not was?"

  Again he hesitated, and looked uneasily at Vance.

  "It was wash, I think. . . . And tema was writt
en with a double flail."

  "Not the sledge ideogram, eh? . . . Now, that's most interestin'.—And during your linguistic throes your uncle walked in."

  "Yes. I was sitting at the little desk-table by the obelisk when Uncle Ben opened the door. I heard him say something to Brush, and I got up to greet him. It was rather dark, and he didn't see me till he'd reached the floor of the museum."

  "And then?"

  "I knew he wanted to inspect the new treasures; so I ran along. Went to the Metropolitan—"

  "Your uncle seemed in normal good spirits when he came into the museum?"

  "About as usual—a bit grouchy perhaps. He was never over-pleasant in the forenoons. But that didn't mean anything."

  "You left the museum immediately after greeting him?"

  "At once. I hadn't realized I'd been so long fussing over the papyrus; and I hurried away. Another thing, I knew he'd come to see Doctor Bliss on a pretty important matter, and I didn't want to be in the way."

  Vance nodded but gave no indication whether or not he unreservedly accepted the other's statements. He sat smoking lazily, his eyes impassive and mild.

  "And during the next twenty minutes," he mused,"—that is between ten o'clock and ten-twenty, at which time Mr. Scarlett entered the museum—your uncle was killed."

  Salveter winced.

  "So it seems," he mumbled. "But"—he shot his jaw out—"I didn't have anything to do with it! That's straight,—take it or leave it."

  "There, now; don't be indelicate," Vance admonished him quietly. "I don't have to take it and I don't have to leave it, d' ye see? I may choose merely to dally with it."

  "Dally and be damned!"

  Vance got to his feet leisurely, and there was a chilly smile on his face—a smile more deadly than any contortion of anger could have been.

  "I don't like your language, Mr. Salveter," he said slowly.