Vance looked at the man quizzically.
"Come, come, Major," he said pleasantly. "It really can't be so serious. I was not at Englewood, and I never saw Miss MacTavish till the day before yesterday. The fact of the matter is, Major, your little bitch is now in my apartment in New York."
"You don't say!—In your apartment?" Higginbottom seemed vastly astonished. "How did she get there?—I don't understand at all. This is most peculiar, Mr. Vance. Pray enlighten me."
"But she is your dog, is she not, Major?" Vance asked quietly.
"Well . . . well—the fact is—that is to say—"
Higginbottom was spluttering with embarrassment. "Yes—yes, I suppose you would say that I am the technical owner of her. But I haven't had her at my kennels here for over six months. . . . You see, Mr. Vance, it's this way—I gave Miss MacTavish away to a friend of mine—a very dear friend, y' understand—in New York."
"Ah," breathed Vance, looking up at the cerulean sky. "And who, Major, might this friend be?"
Higginbottom began to splutter again, with an added show of indignation.
"By gad, Mr. Vance! I can't see—really, I can't see—what possible concern that is of any one but myself—and, of course, the recipient. . . . It was a purely private transaction—I might say a personal transaction." He cleared his throat pompously. "Even though you may have the dog in your possession now, I can hardly see—that is, I fail to understand—"
"Major," Vance interrupted brusquely, "I am not prying into your private affairs. But a rather serious matter has arisen, and it will be much better for you to confide in me than to have the District Attorney summon you to his office."
Higginbottom's little eyes opened very wide and he fumbled with the ashes in his pipe.
"Well, well, of course, if the matter is as serious as that, I suppose I can trust you. . . . But, for Heaven's sake, man," he added appealingly, "don't let this go any further."
Again he glanced around to make sure that no one was listening.
"The fact is, Mr. Vance, I have a very dear friend in New York—a young woman—a very charming young woman, I might say—"
"A blonde?" asked Vance casually.
"Yes, yes, the young woman is a blonde. Do you know her by any chance?"
Vance shook his head regretfully.
"No, I haven't had the pleasure. But pray continue, Major."
"Well, you see, it's like this, Mr. Vance. I come to the city quite often—on business, y' understand—and I enjoy a night-club and the theatre now and then, and—you know how it is—I don't care to go alone, and Mrs. Higginbottom has no interest in such frivolous things—"
"Pray don't make apologies, Major," Vance put in. "What did you say the young lady's name was?"
"Miss Doris Delafield—and a very fine young woman she is. Comes of an excellent family—"
"And it was Miss Delafield to whom you gave the dog six months ago?"
"That's right. But I'm most anxious to keep the matter a secret. You see, Mr. Vance, I wouldn't care to have Mrs. Higginbottom know of it, as she might not understand exactly."
"I'm sure she wouldn't," Vance murmured. "And I quite sympathize with your predicament. . . . And where does Miss Delafield live, Major?"
"At the Belle Maison apartments at 90 West 71st Street."
Vance's eyes flickered very slightly as he took out a cigarette and lighted it slowly.
"That's the small apartment house just across the vacant lot from Archer Coe's residence, isn't it?"
"That's right." The major nodded vindictively. "Coe—the old swindler! It served him right, what happened to him the other night. I'll warrant he was killed by somebody he bilked. . . . But, after all," he added more tolerantly, "I couldn't dislike the old chap altogether. And of course we shouldn't say anything but good about the dead. That's the sporting attitude, isn't it?"
"So I understand," nodded Vance. . . . "You've been reading the newspapers, eh, Major?"
"Naturally, sir." Higginbottom seemed a little surprised at the question. "I was interested. The fact is, Mr. Vance, I was calling on Miss Delafield the very night he was murdered."
"Indeed, Major! That's most interestin'." Vance leaned over and snapped off a dead leaf from one of the Talisman bushes. "By the by, Major," he went on in an offhand tone, "little Miss MacTavish was found in the Coe house the next morning, with a rather vicious wound across her head."
The major's pipe fell from his mouth to the lawn, and was ignored. He stared at Vance like a man transfixed, and the blood went from his face.
"I—I—really. . . . Are you—sure?" he stammered.
"Oh, quite. Quite. As I told you, I have Miss MacTavish in my apartment now. I found her in the house—in the lower hall. I took her to Doctor Blamey,—she's coming round in first-class shape. . . . But how do you account for the fact, Major,"—Vance looked at the man squarely—"that your dog was in the murder house at the time the crime was committed?"
"Account for it!" the man blustered excitedly. "I can't account for it. . . . Good gad! This is incredible! I'm completely bowled over—"
"But how does it happen, Major," Vance cut in placidly, "that you haven't heard of the dog's absence from Miss Delafield's apartment—?"
"Oh, I forgot to tell you," said the major, and hesitated.
"Ah, what did you forget to tell me?"
The major shifted his eyes.
"I omitted to mention the fact that Miss Delafield sailed for Europe on Wednesday night."
"The night Mr. Archer Coe was murdered," Vance said slowly.
"Just so," the major returned aggressively. "The reason I happened to be at her apartment that night was because we were having a farewell dinner, and I was to see her off on the boat."
"And how does it happen, Major, that your dog was not returned to your kennels here when Miss Delafield sailed for Europe?"
"The fact of the matter is"—Higginbottom became apologetic—"Doris—that is, Miss Delafield—on my advice, left the dog in the care of her maid, who was to look after the apartment during her absence."
"On your advice? . . . Why?"
"I thought it best," the major explained weakly. "You see, sir, if I brought the dog here it might involve the situation a bit, as I would have to give explanations to my wife when Doris—Miss Delafield—returned from Europe and wished to have the dog back. And, of course—"
"Ah, yes. I quite understand," nodded Vance.
"You see," Higginbottom continued, "I had expected my wife to go to Europe this fall, but she decided to remain here, and one or two matters of a—ah—confidential nature arose, which made it advisable for me to let Miss Delafield sail to Europe for a short while—until certain little gossip blew over. . . . I'm sure, Mr. Vance, you can comprehend the situation."
"Oh, quite. And what time did Miss Delafield sail Wednesday night?"
"On the Olympic—at midnight."
"And you were in the apartment at what time?"
"I called about six o'clock and we went out immediately. We had dinner—let me see—at a little restaurant—I suppose you might call it a speakeasy—and we remained there until it was time to go to the boat."
"What little restaurant was it?"
Higginbottom knit his brow.
"Really, Mr. Vance, I can't remember." He hesitated. "You know, I'm not certain that it even had a name. It was a small place in the West Fifties—or was it the Forties? It was a place that had been recommended to Miss Delafield by a friend."
"A bit vague—eh, what?" Vance let his eyes come to rest mildly on the major. "But thank you just the same. I think I'll stagger back to New York and have a chat with Miss Delafield's maid. I'm sure you won't mind. What, by the by, is her name?"
The major looked a bit startled.
"Annie Cochrane," he said, and then hurried on: "But I say, Mr. Vance, this thing sounds rather serious. Would you mind if I accompanied you to the city? I myself would like to know why Annie didn't report to me the absence of the dog.
"
"I'd be delighted," Vance told him.
We drove back to New York with Major Higginbottom, stopping at the Riviera for a hurried luncheon, and went direct to the Belle Maison.
Annie Cochrane was a young dark-haired woman in her early thirties, obviously of Irish descent, and when, on opening the door to our ring, she saw Major Higginbottom, she appeared frightened and flustered.
"Listen here, Annie," the major began aggressively. "Why didn't you let me know that Miss Delafield's dog had disappeared?"
Annie explained stumblingly that she had been afraid to say anything about the dog's disappearance, as she considered it her fault that the dog was gone, and that she had hoped from day to day that it would return. The woman was patently frightened.
"Just when did the dog disappear, Annie?" asked Vance in a consoling tone.
The woman looked up at him gratefully. "I missed her, sir," she said, "just after Major Higginbottom and Miss Doris went out Wednesday night, at about nine o'clock, sir."
Vance turned to Higginbottom with a faint smile. "Didn't I understand you to say that you went out at six o'clock, Major?"
Before Higginbottom could answer, the maid blurted: "Oh, no; it wasn't six o'clock. It wasn't until nine o'clock. I got dinner for them here a little after eight."
The major looked down and stroked his chin cogitatingly.
"Yes, yes." He nodded. "That's right. I'd thought it was six o'clock, but now I remember. And an excellent dinner you prepared that night, Annie." He looked up at Vance with a smile of nonchalant frankness. "Sorry to have misinformed you, Mr. Vance. The—ah—incident rather slipped my memory. . . . I had intended to take Miss Delafield out to dinner. But when I arrived Annie had prepared everything for us, so we changed our plans."
Vance appeared to accept his explanation without question.
"And what time did you arrive here that evening, Major?"
Higginbottom seemed to ponder the question; but before he could speak Annie supplied the information.
"You arrived about six o'clock, sir," she informed him with a respectful naïveté. "And Miss Doris came in at half-past seven."
"Ah, yes. Quite right, Annie." The major pretended to be grateful for having this moot point recalled to his memory. "Miss Delafield," he explained blandly to Vance, "said she had been shopping."
"Well, well," murmured Vance. "I didn't know the shops were open so late. . . . Astonishin'."
The major squinted his small eyes and glanced quickly in Vance's direction.
"Oh, I'm quite sure," he supplied, "that a number of the smaller Madison Avenue shops are open late."
Vance apparently did not hear this explanation. He had already turned to the maid.
"By the by, Annie," he asked, "was the dog here during dinner?"
"Oh, yes, sir," the woman assured him. "She always gets under my feet when I'm serving."
"And how do you account for the fact that she disappeared immediately after Major Higginbottom and Miss Delafield had gone?"
"I don't know, sir—honest I don't. I looked for her everywhere. I looked out in the back yard and in the court, and I went through every rear hallway in the house. But she wasn't anywhere."
"Why didn't you look in the street?" Vance asked.
"Oh, she couldn't have got into the street," the maid explained. "She was in the kitchen and the dining-room here, sir; and only the front door of the living-room leads into the main hall. But that was closed and locked after Miss Doris and Mr. Higginbottom went out."
"Then, as I understand it, the dog could only have gone into the rear yard?"
"Yes, sir; that's all. And that's the strange thing about it, sir; for if she had been in the rear yard, I would have found her."
"Did you look in the vacant lot next door, between this house and Mr. Coe's residence?"
"I looked there too, sir, though I knew it wouldn't do any good. There's no way she could have gotten through the gate, for it's always kept locked."
"Miss MacTavish was allowed, however, to run in the rear yard, wasn't she?"
"Oh, yes, sir. Being as we are on the first floor, it was most convenient, and I always left the kitchen door open so she could come and go when she wanted to."
Vance did not speak for a moment; then he asked with unwonted seriousness:
"At just what time, Annie, did you start your search for the dog? It is quite important that you be accurate."
"I can tell you almost exactly, sir," the woman answered, without hesitation. "It was when I was through with my dishes and the housework. Miss Doris and Mr. Higginbottom went out at nine o'clock, and when I had straightened everything up, it was exactly half-past ten."
Vance nodded. "How do you account for the dog's disappearance, Annie?"
"I can't account for it, sir. At first, when I couldn't find her, I thought that maybe some delivery boy, or one of the expressmen, had stolen her. She's a sly little devil, she is. And very sweet. And she has a lovable nature. Almost any one could get her to follow them. But no one had been here after seven o'clock that evening."
She turned to the major beseechingly.
"I'm terrible sorry, sir, honest I am. I loved little Miss MacTavish—"
"That's quite all right, Annie," Vance said in a kindly tone. "Miss MacTavish is well and happy." He turned to Higginbottom.
"By the by," he asked, "where did you get Miss MacTavish, Major?"
"I bought her from Mr. Henry Bixby, when she was five months old, and I turned her over immediately to Miss Delafield," the major said regretfully. "Doris became attached to her and insisted upon showing her. I tried to discourage her—"
"She was quite worthy of being shown," said Vance. . . . "So you drove out to Mr. William Prentice's and had him trim her for the ring—eh, what? . . . But why did you enter her under your own name at Englewood?"
"By gad, I don't know." The major seemed thoroughly disgusted with himself. "One of those foolish things we all do." He looked appealingly at Vance, who nodded sympathetically. "Mr. Bixby made out the papers in my name," the major continued, "and I never took the trouble to have the dog re-transferred. It never occurred to me that Doris would want to show her. So I filled out the blank—and there you are. Trouble, trouble, trouble. . . . Is there anything else, Mr. Vance?"
"No, I think not. . . . Only, I'd like to ask Annie another question." He turned to the maid. "Annie," he said, "what kind of lip-stick does Miss Delafield use?"
The maid seemed greatly surprised at this question and stared at Vance. Then she shot a quick glance at Higginbottom.
"Well, do you know, or don't you, Annie?" the major asked her severely.
"Yes, sir, I know. Miss Doris sent me to Broadway to the drug-store only Wednesday morning to buy her a lip-stick."
"Well, tell Mr. Vance what kind it was."
"It was a Duplex Carmine—or something like that; Miss Doris wrote it out for me," she said.
"Thanks awfully, Annie. That will be all."
As we emerged into 71st Street, the major expressed his curiosity in a question: "What about that lip-stick, sir?"
"Nothing serious—I hope," Vance returned casually. "I just wanted to clear up a little point. An empty holder of Duplaix's Carmine lip-stick was found in the waste-paper basket in Mr. Coe's library Thursday morning."
"By gad! You don't say!" The major, however, did not seem particularly perturbed. "Doris must have dropped in on Archer Coe to say good-bye."
"Oh, she knew him, then?"
The major nodded sourly.
"I introduced him to her about a year ago. She visited him occasionally, I understand—though, I might add, I didn't encourage these little visits. Fact is, I told her quite frankly I'd prefer she didn't see him."
"Did Miss Delafield know of the way Coe had treated you in connection with your Chinese paintings?"
"Oh, yes." The major was candor itself. "I told her about it. But she didn't see how that could make any difference. You know how women are. No s
ense of business ethics."
"No doubt—no doubt," Vance returned vaguely.
Then he held out his hand.
"Well, Major, I want to thank you for your help. I'll let you know of any developments in connection with the little Scottie. In the meantime you may rest assured she is being taken good care of."
"What should I do now?" asked the major.
"Well," returned Vance cheerfully, "if I were you, I'd go home and get a good night's rest."
"Not me," declared the major. "I'm going to the club and dive into my locker—I never needed Scotch as I do at this minute."
When he had gone, Vance entered his car, which was waiting outside the Belle Maison, and gave orders to be driven at once to the Criminal Courts Building. As soon as we were shown into Markham's office, Vance threw himself into a chair and, lying back, closed his eyes.
"I have a bit of news, Markham, old dear," he announced.
"I'm most grateful." Markham reached into a drawer for a fresh cigar. "What might it be?"
Vance sank even deeper into his chair.
"I think I know who killed the Coe brothers."
19. DEATH AND REVELATIONS
(Saturday, October 13; 4.30 p.m.)
Markham leaned forward in his chair, and gave Vance a quizzical look.
"You positively stagger me," he said. "What name shall I write in on the warrant?"
"Too much haste, Markham," Vance reproved him. "Far too much haste. There are various little things to be done—little knots to be tied—before the arm of the law can pounce upon the culprit—only, arms don't pounce, do they?"
"In that case, perhaps you could bring yourself to confide in me." Markham still spoke ironically.
"Really, I'd rather not, old dear. Let me have my little secret for a brief period." Then Vance became serious. "After all, my conclusion is, to a certain extent, only a guess. It hangs on a somewhat slender clue—a clue which any good criminal lawyer could tear to shreds. And the fact that my conclusion satisfies me does not mean that it would satisfy a jury—or even a lawyer. But I believe I can add a little substantiation to it. . . . You don't mind biding a wee, do you, Markham?"
Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 1 Page 153
