The Casino Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  The woman thrust out her chin aggressively, and, with the suggestion of a shrug, sat down with rigid dignity on the edge of a straight chair near the door.

  “It’s quite likely,” she replied. “Do you consider them as having any bearing on the tragedy that has happened tonight?” There was an undercurrent of contempt in the question.

  Vance did not pursue the subject. Instead, he asked her:

  “Do you know of any reason why your daughter-in-law should have taken her own life?”

  Not a muscle of the woman’s face moved for several moments; but her eyes suddenly darkened, as if in thought. Presently she raised her head.

  “Suicide?” There was a repressed animation in her voice. “I hadn’t thought of her death in that light, but now that you make the suggestion, I can see that such an explanation would not be illogical.” She nodded slowly. “Virginia was most unhappy here. She did not fit into her new environment, and several times she said to me that she wished she were dead. But I attached no importance to the remark,—it’s a much abused figure of speech. However, I did everything I could to make the poor child happy.”

  “A tryin’ situation,” murmured Vance sympathetically. “By the by, madam, would you mind telling us—wholly in confidence, I assure you—what the general terms of your will might be?”

  The woman glared at Vance in angry consternation.

  “I would mind—most emphatically! Indeed, I resent the question. My will is a matter that concerns no one but myself. It could have no bearing whatever on the present hideous predicament.”

  “I’m not entirely convinced of that,” returned Vance mildly. “There is one line of reasoning, for example, that might lead us to speculate on the possibility that one of the potential beneficiaries would gain by the—shall we say, absence?—of certain other heirs.”

  The woman sprang to her feet and stood in tense rigidity, her eyes glowering at Vance with vindictive animosity.

  “Are you intimating, sir,”—her voice was cold and venomous—“that my brother—?”

  “My dear Mrs. Llewellyn!” Vance remonstrated sharply. “I had no one in mind. But you do not seem to appreciate the significance of the fact that two members of your household have been poisoned tonight, and that it is our duty to ascertain every possible factor that may, even remotely, have some bearing on the case.”

  “But you yourself,” protested the woman in a mollified voice, reseating herself, “advanced the possibility of Virginia’s having committed suicide.”

  “Hardly that, madam,” Vance corrected her. “I merely asked you whether you considered such a theory plausible... On the other hand, do you think it likely that your son attempted to take his own life?”

  “No—certainly not!” she replied dogmatically. Then a distracted look came into her eyes. “And yet...I don’t know—I can’t tell. He has always been very emotional—very temperamental. The least little thing would upset him. He brooded, and exaggerated...”

  “Personally,” said Vance, “I cannot believe that your son attempted to end his life. I was watching him at the time he was stricken. He was winning heavily, and was intent on every turn of the wheel.”

  The woman seemed to have lost interest in everything but her son’s welfare.

  “Do you think he’s all right?” she asked pleadingly. “You should have let me go to him. Couldn’t you inquire again how he is?”

  Vance rose immediately and went toward the door.

  “I’ll be glad to, madam.”

  A few moments later we heard him talking over the telephone in the hall. Then he returned to the drawing-room.

  “Mr. Llewellyn,” he reported, “is apparently out of danger. Doctor Rogers has left the hospital; but the house physician on night duty tells me your son is resting quietly, and that his pulse is practically normal now. He believes Mr. Llewellyn will be able to return home tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank God!” The woman breathed a sigh of relief. “I shall be able to sleep now... Was there anything more you wished to ask me?”

  Vance inclined his head.

  “The question will doubtless seem irrelevant to you; but the answer may clarify a certain phase of this unfortunate situation.” He looked directly at Mrs. Llewellyn. “Just what is Mr. Bloodgood’s status in this household?”

  The woman raised her eyebrows, and gazed back at Vance for a full half-minute before answering. Then she spoke in a conventional and curiously detached tone.

  “Mr. Bloodgood is a very close friend of my son’s. They were at college together. And I believe he knew Virginia quite well for several years before her marriage into our family. My brother—Mr. Kinkaid—has, for a long time, been an ardent admirer of Mr. Bloodgood’s. He saw possibilities in the young man, and trained him for his present position. Mr. Bloodgood comes here to my home a great deal, both socially and on business... You see,” she added in explanation, “my brother lives here. The house is really half his.”

  “Just where are Mr. Kinkaid’s quarters?” Vance asked.

  “He occupies the entire third floor.”

  “And may I,” continued Vance, “ask what the relationship is between Mr. Bloodgood and your daughter?”

  The woman shot Vance a quick look, but did not hesitate to answer the question with apparent frankness.

  “Mr. Bloodgood is deeply interested in Amelia. He has asked her to marry him, I believe; but she has given him no definite answer, as far as I know. Sometimes I think she likes him, but there are other times when she treats him abominably. I have a feeling she does not altogether trust him. But then again, she is constantly thinking of her art; and she may merely have the idea that marriage would interfere with her career.”

  “Would you approve of the union?” Vance asked casually.

  “I’d neither approve nor disapprove,” she said, and closed her lips tightly.

  Vance regarded her with a slightly puzzled frown.

  “Is Doctor Kane also interested in your daughter?”

  “Oh, yes, I imagine he’s interested enough—in a calf-like way. But I can assure you Amelia has no sentimental leanings in his direction. She uses him constantly though,—she has no scruples in that respect. Allan Kane is a great convenience to her at times; and he comes of a very good family.”

  Vance got up lazily from his chair and bowed.

  “We sha’n’t detain you any longer,” he said with an air of stern courtesy. “We appreciate your help, and we wish you to know that everything will be taken care of with the least possible inconvenience to yourself.”

  Mrs. Llewellyn drew herself up haughtily, rose, and went from the room without a word.

  When she was out of hearing Markham got to his feet aggressively and confronted Vance.

  “I’ve had enough of this.” His tone was one of irritable reproach. “All this domestic gossip is getting us nowhere. You’re simply manufacturing bugaboos.”

  Vance sighed resignedly.

  “Ah, well! Let’s toddle along. The witchin’ hour has long since passed.”

  As we went out into the hall, Detective Sullivan came down the stairs.

  “The Sergeant’s going to wait for the buggy and put everybody to bed,” he told Markham. “I’m going home and hit the hay. Good night, Chief... So long, Mr. Vance.” And he lumbered out into the night.

  The cadaverous butler, looking tired and drowsy, helped us with our coats.

  “You’ll take orders from Sergeant Heath,” Markham instructed him.

  The man bowed and went toward the door to open it for us. But before he reached it there came the sound of a key being inserted in the lock; and in another moment Kinkaid blustered into the hall. He drew up shortly as he caught sight of us.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded truculently. “And what are those officers doing outside?”

  “We’re here on a matter of duty,” Markham told him. “There’s been a tragedy here tonight.”

  The muscles of Kinkaid’s face sudd
enly relaxed into a calm, cold, blank expression: he had become, in the fraction of a second, the inscrutable gambler.

  “Your nephew’s wife is dead,” Vance said. “She was poisoned. And, as you know, Lynn Llewellyn also was poisoned tonight...”

  “To hell with Lynn!” Kinkaid spoke through his teeth. “What’s the rest of the story?”

  “That’s all we know at the moment—except that Mrs. Llewellyn died at approximately the same time her husband collapsed in your Casino. The Medical Examiner says bella-donna. Sergeant Heath of the Homicide Bureau is waiting upstairs for the car to take her body to the mortuary. We hope to know more after the post mortem tomorrow. Your nephew, by the by,—according to the latest report—is out of danger...”

  At this moment there came a startling interruption. A woman’s voice cried out from somewhere upstairs. A door opened and slammed, and a faint sound of moaning came to us. Then there was the sound of heavy footsteps running along the hallway above us. The blood seemed to freeze in my veins—I cannot say why—and we all moved toward the stairs.

  Suddenly Heath appeared on the upper landing. Under the strong glare of the hall light I could see that his eyes were round with excitement. He beckoned to us with an agitated sweep of the arm.

  “Come up here, Mr. Markham,” he called in a husky voice. “Something—something’s happened!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  More Poison

  (Sunday, October 16; 3.30 a.m.)

  WHEN WE REACHED the upper landing Heath was already far down the hall, lumbering toward the open door of a room at the north end. We followed rapidly, but the Sergeant’s broad back obstructed our view, and it was not until we had actually entered the room that we saw the cause of the sudden and startling summons that had come to us. This room, like the hallway, was brilliantly lighted: it was obviously Mrs. Anthony Llewellyn’s bedroom. Though larger than Virginia Llewellyn’s room, it contained far less furniture,—there was a rigorous, almost bleak, severity about it, which reflected the character and personality of its occupant.

  Mrs. Llewellyn stood leaning against the wall just inside the door, her lace handkerchief pressed tight against her drawn face, her eyes staring down at the floor in frightened horror. She was moaning and trembling, and did not lift her eyes when we came in. What she was looking at seemed to hold her fascinated and speechless.

  There, within a few feet of her, limp and crumpled on the deep blue carpet, lay the still form of Amelia Llewellyn.

  At first Mrs. Llewellyn merely pointed. Then with a great effort she said in an awed, husky voice:

  “She was just going to her room, and she suddenly staggered, put her hands to her head, and collapsed there.” Again she pointed stiffly to her daughter, almost as if she imagined we could not see the prostrate figure.

  Vance was already on his knees beside the girl. He felt her pulse, listened to her breathing, looked at her eyes. Then he beckoned to Heath and motioned to the bed opposite. They lifted the girl and placed her across the bed, letting her head hang down over the side.

  “Smelling salts,” ordered Vance. “And, Sergeant, call the butler.”

  Mrs. Llewellyn jerked herself into activity, went to her dressing-table and produced a green bottle like the one that Kinkaid had given Vance at the Casino earlier that night.

  “Hold it under her nose—not too close to burn,” he instructed the woman, and turned toward the door.

  The butler appeared. His weariness seemed to have vanished; he was now nervously alert.

  “Get Doctor Kane on the phone,” Vance said peremptorily. The man went swiftly to a small telephone desk and began dialing a number.

  Kinkaid remained in the doorway looking on with a hard face, rigidly immobile. Only his eyes moved as he took in each aspect of the situation. He looked toward the bed, but his gaze was not on the quiet form of his niece: it was coldly focused on his sister.

  “What’s the answer, Mr. Vance?” he asked stiffly.

  “Poison,” Vance mumbled, lighting a cigarette. “Yes—quite. Same like Lynn Llewellyn. An ugly business.” He glanced up slowly. “Does it surprise you?”

  Kinkaid’s eyes drooped menacingly.

  “What the hell do you mean by that question?”

  But Doctor Kane was on the wire, and Vance spoke to him:

  “Amelia Llewellyn’s seriously ill. Come over immediately. And bring your hypo—caffein and digitalis and adrenalin. Understand?... Right-o.” He replaced the receiver and turned back to the room. “Kane’s still up, fortunately—he’ll be here in a few minutes.” Then he adjusted his monocle and studied Kinkaid. “What’s your answer to my question?”

  Kinkaid began to bluster, apparently thought better of it, and thrust out his jaw.

  “Yes!” he snapped, meeting Vance’s gaze squarely. “I’m as much surprised as you are.”

  “You’d be amazed to know how far I am from being surprised,” Vance murmured, and moved toward the two women. He took the smelling salts from Mrs. Llewellyn, and again felt the girl’s pulse. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and waved Mrs. Llewellyn aside.

  “What’s the whole story?” he asked her, not unkindly. “Let’s have it before the doctor gets here.”

  The woman had stumbled to a chair, seated herself erectly, and drawn her robe about her. When she spoke it was in a calm self-possessed tone.

  “Amelia came to my room here and told me you wanted to see me. She sat down in this chair I’m sitting in now. She told me she’d wait for me here—that she wanted to talk to me...”

  “Is that all?” asked Vance. “You didn’t come down immediately, don’t y’ know. I did a bit of typing in the interim.”

  Mrs. Llewellyn compressed her lips. She added coldly:

  “If it’s essential for you to know: I put some powder on my face and straightened my hair at the dressing-table there. I delayed—to pull myself together... I knew it would be an ordeal.”

  “And durin’ this spiritual preparation, just what was your daughter doing or saying?”

  “She didn’t say anything. She lighted a cigarette and smoked...”

  “Nothing else? No other indication of activity?”

  “She may have crossed her knees or folded her hands—I wasn’t noticing.” The woman spoke with withering sarcasm; then added: “Oh, yes. She leaned over to the night-table and poured herself a glass of water from the jug.”

  Vance inclined his head.

  “Natural impulse. Nervous, upset. Too many cigarettes. Dry throat. Yes. Quite in order...” He rose and inspected the vacuum-jug on the night-table between the bed and the chair in which Mrs. Llewellyn was sitting.

  “Empty,” he remarked. “Very thirsty. Yes. Or perhaps...” He returned to his seat on the edge of the bed and appeared to meditate. “Empty,” he repeated, and nodded thoughtfully. “Dashed funny. All water bottles empty tonight. At the Casino. In Mrs. Lynn Llewellyn’s room. And now here. Great paucity of water...” He looked up quickly. “Where, Mrs. Llewellyn, is the entrance to your daughter’s room?”

  “The door at the end of the little corridor that leads off the hall at the head of the stairs.” She was inspecting Vance with a curious concern in which was mingled a patent antagonism.

  Vance addressed himself to Heath.

  “Sergeant, take a peep at the water-service in Miss Llewellyn’s room.”

  Heath went out with alacrity. A few minutes later he returned.

  “It’s empty,” he reported in stolid bewilderment.

  Vance rose and, walking to an ash-tray on the telephone desk, put out his cigarette. He lingered dreamily over the process.

  “Yes, yes. Of course. It would be. As I was sayin’. A drought hereabouts. Water, water nowhere; but many drops to drink—what? Reversin’ the Ancient Mariner...” He lifted his head and faced Mrs. Llewellyn again. “Who fills the jugs?”

  “The maid—naturally.”

  “When?”

  “After dinner—when she turns down the beds.”


  “Ever failed you before?”

  “Never. Annie’s thoroughly competent and dependable.”

  “Well, well. We’ll speak to Annie in the morning. Matter of routine. In the meantime, Mrs. Llewellyn, please continue. Your daughter lit a cigarette, poured herself a glass of water, and you graciously answered our summons. Then, when you came back?”

  “Amelia was still sitting in this chair.” The woman had not moved her eyes from Vance. “She was still smoking. But she complained of a severe headache over her eyes, and her face was greatly flushed. She said her whole head throbbed and that there was a ringing in her ears. She also said she felt dizzy and weak. I attached no importance to it: I put it all down to nervous excitement, and told her she’d better go to bed. She said she thought she would—that she felt miserable—and then she spoke a little incoherently about Virginia, and got up. She pressed her hands to her temples and started toward the door. She was almost there when she swayed from side to side, and fell to the floor. I went to her, shook her, and spoke to her. Then I think I screamed,—horrible things seemed to be happening tonight and I was unstrung for a moment. This gentleman”—she indicated Heath—“came in and immediately called the rest of you. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “That’s quite enough,” murmured Vance. “Many thanks. You’ve explained a good deal. Perfect description of your son’s collapse, too. Quite. Parallel. Only he went out on the west side of the city—your daughter on the east side. He was harder hit. Shallower breathing, faster pulse. But same symptoms. He’s pulled through nicely. Your daughter will come out of it even better, once she has some medical treatment...”

  He slowly drew out his cigarette-case and carefully selected a Régie. When it was lighted he sent a perfect blue ring toward the ceiling.

  “I wonder who’ll be disappointed by the recovery. I wonder... Interestin’ situation. Interestin’ but tragic. Tragic no end.” He lapsed into gloomy thought.

  Kinkaid had moved into the room, and now sat gingerly on the edge of the heavy fumed-oak centre-table.