The Casino Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “You’re sure it’s poison?” he asked, his fish-like eyes fixed on Vance.

  “Poison? Yes, yes. Excitation symptoms, of course. But that won’t do. Collapse, or faint, from natural causes, responds to an inverted head and smellin’ salts. This is different. Same here as with your nephew. One difference, though. Lynn got the bigger dose.”

  Kinkaid’s face was like a mask, and when he spoke again his lips scarcely moved.

  “And like a damned fool I gave him a drink from my carafe.”

  Vance nodded.

  “Yes. I noticed that. Grave blunder on your part—speakin’ ex post facto.”

  The butler appeared at the door again.

  “Pardon me, sir.” He spoke directly to Vance. “I trust you will not think me presumptuous. I heard your inquiry regarding the water jugs, and I took it upon myself to waken Annie and ask her regarding them. She assured me, sir, she filled them all tonight, as usual, when she did the rooms shortly after dinner.”

  Vance looked at the gaunt, pallid man with open admiration.

  “Excellent, Smith!” he exclaimed. “We’re most grateful.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The sound of a bell came to us. The butler hastened away, and a few moments later Doctor Kane, still in dinner clothes and carrying a small medicine case, was ushered in. His color was even paler than when I had last seen him, and there were shadows under his eyes. He went directly to the bed where Amelia Llewellyn lay unconscious. There was a look of distress on his face that struck me as a personal rather than a professional one.

  “Symptoms of collapse,” Vance told him, standing at his side. “Thin, fast pulse, shallow breathing, pallor, et cetera. Drastic stimulants indicated. Caffein first—three grains,—then digitalis. Maybe the adrenalin won’t be needed... Don’t ask questions, doctor. Work fast. My responsibility. Been through it once tonight already.”

  Kane followed Vance’s instructions. I felt a bit sorry for him, though at the time I could not have explained my attitude. He impressed me as a pathetic character, a weakling dominated by Vance’s stronger personality.

  While Kane was in the bathroom preparing the hypodermic, Vance prepared Amelia Llewellyn’s arm for the injection. When the caffein had been administered, Vance turned to us.

  “We’d better wait downstairs.”

  “Are you including me?” Mrs. Llewellyn asked haughtily.

  “It might be best,” said Vance.

  The woman acquiesced ungraciously, preceding us to the door.

  A little while later Doctor Kane joined us in the drawing-room.

  “She’s reacted,” he told Vance in a voice that was somewhat tremulous with emotion. “Her pulse is better and her color is more normal. She’s moving a little and trying to talk.”

  Vance rose.

  “Excellent... You put her to bed, Mrs. Llewellyn... And you, doctor, please hover round a while and watch things.” He moved toward the door. “We’ll be back in the morning.”

  As we were going out, the wagon arrived to take away the body of Virginia Llewellyn. The drizzle had ceased, but the night was still damp and cold.

  “Distressin’ case,” Vance commented to Markham, as he started the motor of his car and headed downtown. “Devilish work goin’ on. Three persons poisoned—one of ’em quite dead; the two others under medical care. Who’ll be next? Why are we here, Markham? Why is anything? And all eternity to dawdle about in. Depressin’ thought. However...” He sighed. “There’s a great darkness. I can’t find my way. Too many obstacles thrown in our path, clutterin’ up the road. Lies and realities all shuffled together—and only one way open to us—the way of make-believe, leadin’ to the worst crime of all...”

  “I don’t get your meaning.” Markham was gloomy and perturbed. “Naturally I feel some sinister influence—”

  “Oh, it’s far worse than that,” Vance interjected. “What I was tryin’ to say is that this case is a crime within a crime: we are supposed to commit the final horror. The ultimate chord in this macabre symphony is to be our conviction of an innocent person. The entire technique is based on a colossal deception. We are supposed to follow the specious and apparent truth—and it will not be the truth at all, but the worst and most diabolical lie of the whole subtle business.”

  “You’re taking it too seriously.” Markham endeavored to be matter-of-fact. “After all, both Lynn Llewellyn and his sister are recovering.”

  “Yes, yes.” Vance nodded glumly, not taking his eyes from the shining macadam of the roadway. “There’s been a miscalculation. Which merely makes it all so much more difficult to figure out.”

  “It happens, however—” began Markham; but Vance interrupted impatiently.

  “My dear fellow! That’s the damnable part of it. ‘It happens.’ Everything ‘happens’. There’s no design. Chaos everywhere. It happens that Kane prescribed rhinitis tablets containing the drug that gives the exact symptoms of Virginia Llewellyn’s hideous death. It happens that Amelia Llewellyn was in the clothes closet at just the right moment to hear Virginia cry out and to witness her passing. It happens that Lynn Llewellyn and his wife were poisoned at practically the same moment, though they were on different sides of the city. It happens that Amelia drank the water in her mother’s jug. It happens that every one was in the house tonight at dinner-time and thus had access to all the bathrooms and water-services. It happens that no water was in any of the carafes when we got to them. It happens that Kinkaid gave Lynn a drink from his carafe ten minutes before the chap collapsed. It happens that I received a letter and was on hand to witness Lynn’s passing out. It happens that Doctor Kane was invited to dinner at the last moment. It happens that we were in the house when Amelia was poisoned. It happens that Kinkaid arrived at the house at just that moment. It happens the letter I received was postmarked Closter, New Jersey. It happens—”

  “Just a moment, Vance. What’s the point of that last remark about Closter?”

  “Merely that Kinkaid has a hunting lodge on the outskirts of Closter and spends much of his time there, though I believe he closes it for the season before this time of year—generally in September.”

  “Good Heavens, Vance!” Markham sat up straight and leaned forward. “You’re not intimating—”

  “My dear fellow—oh, my dear fellow!” Vance spoke reprovingly. “I’m not intimating anything: just driftin’ along vaguely in what the psychoanalysts call free association... The only point I’m endeavorin’ to make is that life is real and life is earnest, and that there’s nothing real and nothing earnest about this case. It’s tragic—fiendishly tragic—but it’s a drama of puppets; and they’re all being manipulated in a carefully prepared stage set—for the sole purpose of deception.”

  “It’s the devil’s own work,” mumbled Markham hopelessly.

  “Oh, quite. A clear case of Luciferian guilt. A soothin’ idea. But quite futile.”

  “At least,” submitted Markham, “you can eliminate Lynn Llewellyn’s wife from the plot. Her suicide—”

  “Oh, my word!” Vance shook his head. “Her death is the subtlest, most incalculable part of the plot. Really, y’ know, Markham, it wasn’t suicide. No woman, in the circumstances, commits self-destruction that way. She was an actress and vain,—Amelia explained that to us in no uncertain terms. Would she have made herself unlovely, with a generous application of skin food and a hair-net, for her last great dramatic scene on earth? Oh, no, Markham. No. She had gone to bed in the most approved conventional and slovenly domestic fashion, with all indications of having looked forward to the morrow—unpleasant as it might have turned out to be... And why should she have called out in distress when the poison began to work?”

  “But the note she left,” Markham protested. “That was certainly indicatory enough.”

  “That note would have been more convincing,” Vance answered, “if it had been more in evidence. But it was hidden, so to speak—folded and placed under the telephone. We, d’ ye see, were sup
posed to find it. But she was to die without knowing of its existence.”

  Markham was silent, and Vance continued after a pause. “But we were not to believe it. That’s the incredible part of it. We were to suspect it—to look for the person who might have prepared it and put it there for us.”

  “Good God, Vance!” Markham’s voice was scarcely audible above the hum of the car. “What an astounding idea!”

  “Don’t you see, Markham?” (Vance had drawn up sharply in front of Markham’s house.) “That note and the letter I received were typed in precisely the same inexpert way—obviously both of them were done by the same person: even the punctuation and the margination are the same. Do you think for one moment a distracted woman on the point of suicide would have sent me the letter I received?... And that reminds me...”

  He reached into his pocket and, taking out the letter, the suicide note, and the sheet of paper on which he had typed a few lines in the Llewellyn home, handed them to Markham.

  “I say, will you have these checked for me? Get one of your bright young men to use his magnifying glass and scientific tests. I’d adore an official verification that all were done on the same machine.”

  Markham took the papers.

  “That’s easy,” he said, and looked at Vance with questioning uncertainty. Then he got out of the car and stood for a moment on the curb. “Have you anything in mind for tomorrow?”

  “Oh, yes.” Vance sighed. “Life has a way of going on here and there. Everything returneth. One generation passeth away, but the sun also ariseth. It’s all vanity and vexation of spirit.”

  “Pray abjure Ecclesiastes for the moment,” Markham pleaded. “What about tomorrow?”

  “I’ll call for you at ten, and take you to the Llewellyn house. You should be there. Bounden duty and all that. Servant-of-the-people motif. Sad...” He spoke lightly, but there was a look on his face that belied his tone. Markham, too, must have seen it and recognized its significance. “I could bear to have communion with Lynn and Amelia when they will have recovered. A bit of research, don’t y’ know. They’re both survivors, as it were. Heroically rescued by your amicus curiæ. Meanin’ myself.”

  “Very well,” acquiesced Markham with marked discouragement. “Ten o’clock, then. But I don’t see just where questioning Lynn and Amelia Llewellyn will get you.”

  “I don’t ask to see the distant scene—”

  “Yes, yes,” grunted Markham. “One step enough for you. I know, I know. Your Christian piety augurs ill for somebody... Good night. Go home. I detest you.”

  “And a jolly old tut-tut to you.”

  The car sped dangerously down the slippery street toward Sixth Avenue.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Medicine Cabinet

  (Sunday, October 16; 10 a.m.)

  AT EXACTLY TEN o’clock in the morning Vance stopped his car in front of Markham’s apartment. The weather had cleared somewhat; but there was still a chill in the air, and the sky was overcast. Markham was waiting for us in the lobby. He was scowling and impatient, and there was a troubled look in his eyes. The morning papers had carried brief stories of Virginia Llewellyn’s death, with lurid headlines. They quoted a short, non-committal statement by Heath, and gave a half-column of family history. Neither Lynn Llewellyn’s poisoning at the Casino nor Amelia Llewellyn’s collapse at her home was mentioned,—the Sergeant must have tactfully avoided any mention of these two occurrences. But the story was startling enough: the very absence of details gave it an added mystery and stimulated public speculation. Suicide was the explanation advanced, and the suicide note was stressed—although, according to the accounts, the police had not divulged its contents. Many pictures—of Virginia Llewellyn, Mrs. Llewellyn and Kinkaid—accompanied the text. Markham carried the rumpled papers under his arm when he came out on the sidewalk.

  “My dear Justinian!” Vance greeted him. “I’m amazed and delighted. You’re actually up and about. And have you breakfasted too? Such touchin’ devotion to your civic duties!”

  “Furthermore,” grumbled Markham in patent ill-humor, “I’ve roused one of our experts on this Sabbath morning and sent all those typewritten papers to the laboratory. Also I’ve routed Swacker* out of bed and told him to report at the office.”

  Vance wagged his head in derisive admiration.

  “I’m positively staggered by your matutinal activities.”

  When we arrived at the Llewellyn house the door was opened for us by the butler. Heath was in the entrance hall, glum and officious. Snitkin and Sullivan were also there, smoking ponderously and looking bored.

  “Anything new, Sergeant?” Markham asked.

  “Call it new, if you like, sir.” The Sergeant was irritable. “Three hours’ sleep I’ve had, and the usual battle with the reporters. And nowhere to go from here. I’ve been hanging around waiting to hear from you.” He shifted his cigar to the other side of his mouth. “Everybody’s in the house. The old woman came downstairs at eight-thirty and shut herself up in that room with the books off the drawing-room—”

  Vance turned to him.

  “Really, now! And how long did she tarry there?”

  “About half an hour. Then she went back upstairs.”

  “Any report on the young lady?”

  “She’s all right, I guess. She was walking around, and I heard her talking. Young Doc Kane came in half an hour ago. He’s upstairs with her now.”

  “Have you seen Kinkaid this morning?”

  Heath snorted.

  “Sure, I’ve seen him. He came down bright and early. Wanted to give me a drink, and said he was going out. But I told him he’d have to stick around till I got orders from the District Attorney.”

  “Did he object?” asked Vance.

  “Hell, no. Said that was fine with him. Seemed pleased. Said he could attend to everything by phone, ordered a gin rickey, and went back upstairs.”

  “I’d rather have enjoyed hearing his phone calls,” murmured Vance.

  “It wouldn’t have done you any good,” Heath told him, with a gesture of discouraged disgust. “I listened in on the phone down here. He talked to his broker at his home, and the fellow named Bloodgood, and the cashier at the Casino. All business stuff. Not even a dame.”

  “No out-of-town calls?” Vance put the question casually.

  Heath took the cigar from his mouth and gave him a shrewd look.

  “Yeah—one. He called a Closter number—”

  “Ah!”

  “But he didn’t get any answer, and hung up.”

  “That’s very disappointin’,” commented Vance. “Do you remember the number?”

  Heath gave a broad triumphant grin. “Sure. And I found out all about it. It’s the old boy’s hunting lodge just outside of Closter.”

  “Stout fella!” Vance nodded admiringly. “Anything else happen around here, Sergeant?”

  “The young guy blew in about twenty minutes ago...”

  “Lynn Llewellyn?”

  Heath nodded indifferently.

  “He looked groggy, but he isn’t what you’d call an invalid. Stepped lively and wanted to pick a fight with me and Snitkin.” The Sergeant smiled sourly. “I guess he hadn’t heard the news—though, from all the dope I’ve heard around here, he wouldn’t give a damn, anyway. I didn’t spill anything to him—I simply told him, nice and sweet, he’d better go up and talk to mother... And that’s everything exciting that’s happened.”

  Vance shook his head sadly.

  “You’re not very helpful this morning, Sergeant. And I had hopes. However...” He looked at Markham and sighed pensively. “We’re doomed to the role of beavers, old dear—just toilin’, busy beavers. We’ll tackle Lynn and Amelia. But first I think I’ll take another peep at Virginia’s boudoir. Maybe we overlooked something last night.” He went toward the stairs, and Markham and I followed.

  As we approached the top landing the sound of a hysterical voice came to us from the direction of Virginia Llewellyn’s
room, though no words were distinguishable. But when we stepped into the upper hallway the whole tragic scene was revealed to us. Through the open door at the end of the corridor we could see Mrs. Llewellyn seated in a straight chair near the bed, and kneeling before her was Lynn Llewellyn. He was looking up at his mother excitedly and clutching her arms. The woman’s head was bent forward and her hand was on his shoulder. They were both in profile, and apparently were not aware of our presence at the head of the stairs.

  Lynn Llewellyn’s high-pitched, sobbing voice now came to us distinctly.

  “... Darling, darling,” he was crying, “tell me you didn’t do it! Oh, God, tell me it wasn’t you! You know I love you, dearest—but I wouldn’t have wanted that!... You didn’t do it, did you, mother?...” The agony in the man’s voice sent a chill over me.

  Vance cleared his throat emphatically to apprize them of our presence in the hall, and both of them turned their heads quickly toward us. Lynn Llewellyn swiftly rose to his feet and moved out of our range of vision. When we had walked down the hall and entered the room, he was standing at the north window, his back to us. Mrs. Llewellyn had not left her chair, but she had drawn herself up erectly, and she nodded with rigid formality as we stepped across the threshold.

  “We are sorry to intrude, madam,” Vance said, with a bow. “But from what Sergeant Heath told us, we expected to find this room unoccupied. Otherwise, we would have asked to be announced.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the woman returned wearily. “My son wished to come here, for some morbid reason. He has just heard of his wife’s death.”

  Lynn Llewellyn had turned from the window and now stood facing us. His eyes were blood-shot and the lids were red; and he was wiping away the evidence of recent tears.

  “Excuse my condition, gentlemen,” he apologized, with a bow of recognition toward Vance. “The news was a terrible shock. It—it upset me...and I’m not quite myself this morning, anyway.”

  “Yes, yes. We can understand that,” Vance answered compassionately. “A tragic business. And I was at the Casino last night. That was a bad jolt you got. Your sister had a similar experience here last night. Glad you’re both about.”