Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 1

by S. S. Van Dine

"Maybe the two together will work," suggested Vance. "Look at the wall just to the right of the jamb and opposite to the bolt. Do you see anything?"

  Heath looked closely, using his pocket magnifying glass and his flashlight.

  "I don't see much," he grumbled. "Right in the crack of the jamb and wall there's what might be a pinhole."

  "That's it, Sergeant!" Vance rose and went to the door; and Markham and I followed him. "I think I'll try the experiment I have in mind."

  We all watched him with fascinated interest. First he reached in his pocket and drew forth the two pieces of string and bent pins and the darning-needle he had found in the pocket of Brisbane Coe's overcoat. By means of his pocket knife he straightened one of the pins and inserted it in the hole Heath had found in the wall at the edge of the jamb, giving it several taps with the handle of his knife to drive it in rather securely. He then threaded the other end of the string in the darning-needle and passed it through the keyhole into the hall, removing the needle and letting the string fall to the hall floor. After this operation, he bent the other pin securely round the upright knob of the bolt, passed the string over the pin he had driven into the wall, and, threading this second string into the darning-needle, passed it also through the keyhole to the hall. He then opened the door about eighteen inches, drawing the two strings partly back through the keyhole in a loop to permit the door to swing inward without disturbing his mechanism.

  "Let us see if the device works," he said, with an undercurrent of suppressed excitement. "You stay in the room while I go outside and manipulate the strings."

  He bent down and passed under the two strings into the hall. Then he closed the door gently, while we remained inside, our eyes riveted to the two strings and the two pins.

  Presently we saw the string which was attached to the bolt-knob go taut, as Vance drew it slowly through the keyhole. Passing over the pin in the wall, which acted as a pulley, the string described a sharp angle, with the pin in the wall as the apex. Slowly Vance drew the string from outside, and the bolt, getting a straight pull around the pin, began to move into its socket on the jamb. The door was bolted!

  The next thing we saw was the tightening of the other string—the one attached to the head of the pin in the wall. There came several jerks on the string—the pin in the wall resisted several times and bent toward the source of the pull. Finally, it was disengaged from the wall; and it was then drawn upward from its depending position, disappearing through the keyhole.

  The other string, still hooked about the bolt-knob, was then drawn taut through the keyhole, describing a straight line from the bolt-knob to the keyhole which was almost directly below it. Another slight pull by Vance on the string, and the knob fell downward into its groove. Another pull, and the bent pin was disengaged from the knob and pulled through the keyhole into the hall.

  Markham, Heath, and I had been bolted in the room from the hall as neatly as if we ourselves had shot the bolt and locked it. And there was no evidence of any kind—save the indiscernible pin-point hole in the crack of the wall—to show that it had not actually been bolted from the inside!

  Vance's demonstration had been fascinating and, at the same time, sinister; for it had brought up vague and unplumbed possibilities and revealed to us that we were battling against a shrewd and resourceful antagonist.

  The Sergeant, after a moment's stupefaction, threw back the bolt and opened the door.

  "It worked?" asked Vance, coming into the room.

  "It worked," mumbled Heath laconically, lighting the cigar he had been chewing on viciously for the past half-hour.

  15. THE DAGGER STRIKES

  (Thursday, October 11; 5.30 p.m.)

  Markham sat for several minutes in a brown study.

  "As you say, Vance," he remarked without looking up, "the technique of the bolting of the door from the hall explains one phase of the problem, but I can't see that we're any further along toward a solution of the double murder. Brisbane, after all, was a victim. Why should he have been interested in bolting Archer in this room?"

  "Really, I couldn't say." Vance appeared as puzzled as Markham. "It might not have been Brisbane at all. The fact that the pins and the string were in his overcoat pocket means little . . . and yet . . ."

  "If you want my opinion," put in Heath, "it was that Chink. Chinamen are full of tricks. Look at the puzzles those yellow babies think up."

  At this moment the front door opened and slammed, and Burke called to the Sergeant from the lower hall. One of the detectives that had been sent out earlier that afternoon to check Miss Lake's and Grassi's alibis had returned to report. He was Emery, from the Homicide Bureau, who had worked on several other cases in which Vance had been interested.[23] He had been assigned to the Grassi alibi; and his report was brief and efficient.

  "I interviewed Doctor Montrose at the Metropolitan. This fellow Grassi arrived there a little after four, and then the two of 'em went to the doc's apartment in East 86th Street. Grassi stayed there for dinner and went out at eight, saying he had an appointment in Mount Vernon at nine. He asked the doc directions for getting to Grand Central station."

  Emery took out his note-book and opened it.

  "I then hopped out to the Crestview Country Club and talked to the steward. He was for being cagy, but he finally came through and dug up the head waiter and the porter. They both remembered the Italian—on account of Miss Lake, I guess—and as far as they recollected he didn't show up till late—round eleven. Miss Lake had a table reserved for the dance, but didn't get there till after Grassi did. The party broke up about twelve-thirty.—And that's all I got."

  Heath made a grimace at Markham.

  "That checks with his story. But what I wanta know is where he was between eight and eleven. And there's no way of finding out unless we get a freak break."

  "He was shuttling to and fro over our complicated transportation system—according to his tale," smiled Vance. Then he turned to Emery. "I say, did Doctor Montrose give you any titbits of gossip regarding Grassi's call aside from his request for information regarding Grand Central station?"

  "Nothing, sir." Emery shook his head with ponderous discouragement. "Except that the Italian was called up on the phone during dinner."

  When the detective had gone Vance went to the telephone and called Doctor Montrose at his home. After a few minutes' conversation he hung up the receiver and paced up and down.

  "That phone call to Grassi," he murmured, "—very strange. Doctor Montrose says it upset Grassi terribly. Hardly finished his dinner, and seemed in a hurry to get away. The phone was in the hall just outside the dining-room door and Montrose couldn't help hearing some of Grassi's end of the conversation. Montrose says he protested bitterly against the message he received—called it an outrage, and intimated strongly that he would take steps. . . . Steps—now what could that mean? And who could have called him and upset him? Who knew he was going to Montrose's for dinner? . . . It couldn't have been Miss Lake—he wouldn't have threatened her and then joined her at a country-club dance. And Wrede could have had no dealings with him. . . . Perhaps Brisbane . . . or Archer. . . ."

  It was growing dark and Vance switched on the electric lights. Then he sat down and inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

  "Archer—yes, it could have been. . . . Sergeant, suppose you fetch the signor."

  Heath went from the room, and Vance said to Markham:

  "Ceramics, I opine. Nothing would be so likely to stir up Grassi as a disappointment along that line. . . ."

  The Italian was ushered in by the Sergeant; and Vance went straight to the point.

  "Who telephoned to you, Mr. Grassi, at Doctor Montrose's yesterday during dinner?"

  Grassi gave a slight start; then looked defiantly at Vance.

  "It was a personal matter—my own affair."

  Vance sighed and with slow deliberation drew from his pocket the agreement that Archer Coe had written to Grassi regarding the sale of his collection. As Vance op
ened the letter and laid it on his knee, he watched Grassi. I, too, was watching the man, and I saw a peculiar change come over him. His eyes widened and stared; his face became almost blanched; and he stood with breathless rigidity as if suddenly transfixed by hypnosis.

  "It was Mr. Archer Coe who phoned you, was it not, Mr. Grassi?" came Vance's flat and unemotional voice.

  Grassi neither moved nor spoke.

  "Perhaps he regretted the bargain he had made with you for the sale of so many of his beloved pieces," Vance continued. "Perhaps he decided to call the deal off, after thinking it over alone with his treasures. . . . Perhaps he thought it best to inform you immediately of his decision so you would not talk of the transaction to Doctor Montrose. . . ."

  Still Grassi did not move, but the inevitable impression he gave was that Vance had guessed the import of the telephone call he had received at the Curator's home the night before.

  "I can well imagine how you felt, Mr. Grassi," Vance went on, without alteration of tone. "After all, the bargain had been made and you held Mr. Coe's letter of confirmation. But really, y' know, you shouldn't have threatened him—"

  Suddenly the Italian's pent-up emotion broke forth.

  "I had every right to threaten him!" he burst forth, the blood rushing back to his face. "For a week I have been negotiating—meeting his constantly increasing prices. Finally, yesterday, we reach an understanding. He puts it in writing, and I cable to Italy announcing my success. Then he rejects the agreement; he tells me he will not sell—that he has changed his mind. He insults me over the telephone: he says I have swindled him. He dares me to do anything about it! He even says to me that he will swear I forced him to sign that letter by pointing a revolver at him. . . ." Grassi raised his clenched hands in a gesture of outrage. "What could I do?" he almost shouted. "I threatened him as he had threatened me. I told him I would use any means at my disposal to hold him to his agreement. I was justified!"

  "Oh, doubtless—in such circumstances." Vance nodded vaguely. "What did Mr. Coe say then?"

  "What did he say?" Grassi took a step toward Vance and bent forward. He spoke in a curious, hushed tone. "He said he would break every vase he owned before he would let me have them."

  Vance gave a mirthless smile.

  "No wonder you were a bit disconcerted at the sight of those Ting yao fragments! . . . But Mr. Coe didn't smash the vase, Mr. Grassi. That desecration was achieved—inadvertently—by the person who killed him. Most unfortunate, what?"

  Vance got to his feet wearily, folded Archer Coe's letter, and held it out to Grassi.

  "If this document will comfort you, you may have it back. I believe I've finished with it. . . . That will be all for the present."

  Grassi hesitated. He studied Vance suspiciously for a moment. Then he took the letter, made a low bow, and left the room.

  Markham, who had been following the interview intently, addressed Vance as soon as Grassi was out of hearing.

  "A curious and ominous situation. Grassi is refused the collection, on which he has obviously set his heart and staked his honor; and he threatens Coe. Then he disappears for three hours, saying he took the wrong train; and this morning Coe is found dead, with all the superficial indications of suicide."

  "Exactly."

  "And what's more," added Heath aggressively, "Coe was stabbed in the back with a dagger. These Italians are mighty handy with the stiletto."

  "But why should he also stab Brisbane?" Vance asked dispiritedly. "And why the revolver? And why the bolted door? And especially why the Scottie? . . . We now have nearly all the parts of the puzzle, but none of them seems to fit."

  "You were counting a great deal on the dog this morning," Markham observed.

  "Yes, yes—the dog." Vance lapsed into silence for a while, his eyes gazing out of the east window into the gathering dusk of the October twilight. "And no one here liked dogs—no one but Wrede. Funny he should give his pet away. . . ." Vance's voice was scarcely audible: it was as though he were thinking out loud. "A Doberman Pinscher . . . too big, of course, to keep in a small apartment. And I wouldn't take Wrede for a dog lover. Too unsympathetic. . . . I think I'll have converse with him. . . ."

  He stepped to the telephone. A moment later he was talking with Wrede. The conversation was very brief, but during it Vance jotted down some notes on the phone pad. When he had replaced the receiver Markham gave an exasperated grunt.

  "Why should you be concerned with Wrede's former pets?" he asked.

  "I'm sure I don't know," Vance admitted frankly. "Some vague association perhaps. The unknown Scottie was found downstairs; and the only other dog that has been mentioned in this case is Wrede's. I'll confess the connection is far-fetched. But Wrede and dogs don't go together—the combination is almost as incongruous as was the presence of the wounded Scottie in the hall. And I hate incongruities."

  Markham strove to control his irritation.

  "Well, what did you learn about Wrede's dog?"

  "Nothing staggerin'. He had the Doberman only a few months—bought him at a show in Westchester. Then when he moved from his house in Greenwich Village to his present apartment he gave the dog to some friends of his." He pointed to the phone pad. "I have their name—they live on Central Park West, in the eighties. . . . I think I'll drop by and see them. Y' know, Markham, I'm dashed interested in Doberman Pinschers. They're beautiful dogs. And they were the original police dogs in Germany. 'Police dog' is a misnomer, however, when applied to any one breed. Almost any dog may be a police dog. We have the erroneous idea in this country that the German shepherd dog is the only police dog—in fact, he is called a Police Dog, as if the two names were synonymous. In England he is known as an Alsatian. The Doberman Pinscher is a cross between a shepherd dog and a Pinscher—the name given Continental terriers. He's a comparatively new breed, but has become very popular, for, aside from his beautiful conformation, he is strong, muscular, vigorous, intelligent, extremely alert, and, when incensed, vicious and savage. He's an excellent dog for police work, for, once fully trained, he retains his knowledge better than any other dog. . . ."

  Markham got up and yawned.

  "Thanks awfully. Your dissertation is most edifying. But I hardly think I'll call in a Doberman to solve the present case. It might make the Sergeant jealous."

  Heath grinned good-naturedly.

  "I'm for anything that'll solve this case, Chief. But I'm thinking that Mr. Vance may have something in his mind."

  "Sergeant," said Vance, going toward the door, "you flatter me abominably."

  It was decided to discontinue the investigation for the day. We were all tired and confused, and there were no leads to follow. The case was teeming with possibilities, but the contradictions of the various details made logical speculation well-nigh impossible. Vance suggested a complete cessation until he could make an inquiry into the ownership of the wounded Scottie. His sanguine attitude toward the presence of the dog in the house struck me as extravagant; and I knew Markham felt the same way about it. But since there was little more that could be done at the moment, he gave in hopefully to Vance's suggestions.

  "It's quite safe," Vance told him, when he had reached the lower hall, "to let the various members of the household go about their business. Only, they should be on hand tomorrow for interrogation. I can assure you, Markham, no one will run away."

  A short conference in the drawing-room settled the matter. Gamble was told to proceed with his duties, as usual; and Miss Lake and Grassi were informed that they were free to go and come as they chose, provided they were available for questioning.

  "Keep a man in Coe's bedroom, however," Vance admonished the Sergeant; "and it would also be well to have a man outside to check on any one entering or leaving the house."

  As we approached the front door Guilfoyle, the detective from the Homicide Bureau whom the Sergeant had sent to check Hilda Lake's alibi, came in and reported. But he had unearthed nothing helpful. Miss Lake had dined at Arrowhead Inn with
friends, and had departed alone by motor, arriving at the Crestview Country Club about eleven o'clock. Guilfoyle had been unable to verify the motor accident which ostensibly had delayed her arrival at the Club.

  Vance, Markham and I went out into the chill air. It had been a day of horror, and the cool breeze from the park was invigorating. When we were entering the District Attorney's car, Markham asked: "Were you serious, Vance, about seeing those people to whom Wrede gave the Doberman Pinscher?"

  "Oh, quite. . . . It will take only a few minutes."

  The name of the people was Enright; and they lived in a penthouse in one of the new apartment buildings on Central Park West, almost opposite the reservoir. The butler informed us that Mrs. Enright was out of the city, and that Mr. Enright was at that moment walking the dog in the park. He suggested that we might find him on the circular path around the reservoir.

  Entering the park at 85th Street, we traversed the gardens on the west, crossed the main motor road, and cut across the lawn to the reservoir path. Few people were in the park at this hour and the figures about the reservoir were not many. We sat down on a bench by the path entrance and waited. Presently there appeared round the Fifth Avenue turn a very large man with a dog on a leash.

  "That will be Enright," said Vance. "Suppose we stroll toward him."

  Enright proved to be a genial, easy-going type of man of great bulk. (I learned later that he was an importer of food-stuffs from out-of-the-way places in the South Seas.) Vance introduced himself and presented Markham and me. Enright was cordial and talkative; and when Vance mentioned Wrede's name he became voluble regarding his long friendship with the man. As he chatted I had a good look at the dog. I was not familiar with the breed, but I was nevertheless struck with his qualities. He was lean and muscular, with beautiful lines, his coat a shiny black with rust-red, sharply defined markings. The dominating impression he gave was that of compact, muscular power, combined with great speed and intelligence—a dog that would make a loyal and protective friend and a dangerous enemy.