The Casino Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “And yet, Markham, you have the substantiation of my apparently insane conclusion lying on your desk. There’s the suicide note; there’s the letter to me, filled with innuendoes and suspicions of foul play; and there’s your report that the same hand typed them both.”

  He paused.

  “And what of the next inevitable step in our ratiocination? As I have whispered into your reluctant ear, I think the murderer wishes us to look in the wrong direction for our culprit. He is, as it were, attempting the impossible feat of taking two tricks of the same suit with a singleton. And that’s what makes the thing so subtle and fiendish.”

  “But it wasn’t a singleton,” Markham objected. “You overlook the fact that three people were poisoned. If your theory is correct, why couldn’t the murderer merely have poisoned the girl and then poisoned the victim we were supposed to fix on? Why make us a party to his plan when he’s apparently in the wholesale poisoning business?”

  “A reasonable question,” Vance nodded; “and one that has tortured me since last night. Such a procedure would have been the rational one. But, Markham, there’s nothing rational about this crime. There isn’t merely one straw-man confronting us, but a series of straw-men. And I have a horrible suspicion that they are arranged in a circle, with the actual murderer beyond the circumference. Our only hope lies in the fact that something has gone wrong. In any delicate and intricate mechanism, one little failure—one trifling slip in functioning—undermines the entire structure and renders the machine incapable of operating. This is not a plastic crime. Despite all its hyper-subtleties and divagations and convolutions, it’s static and fixed in its conception. And therein lies both its strength and its weakness...”

  At this point Swacker tapped on the leather swinging door and pushed it open. In his hand was a thick envelope.

  “The autopsy report,” he said, placing it on Markham’s desk and going out again.

  Markham opened the envelope at once and glanced over the typewritten pages which were bound together in a blue folder. As he read, his face clouded and a puzzled look came into his eyes; and when he had reached the end of the last page there was a deep scowl on his forehead.

  He raised his head slowly and fixed on Vance, who had seated himself before the desk, a look of baffled calculation.

  “My dear Markham,” Vance complained; “what dark secret are you hoarding?”

  “There was no belladonna whatever found in the girl’s stomach! And no quinin or camphor—which entirely eliminates the rhinitis tablets.”

  Vance lighted a cigarette with slow deliberation.

  “Any details?”

  Markham referred to the report.

  “The exact findings are: Congestion of the lungs; considerable serum in the pleural cavities; blood mostly in the veinous side of the circulation; right heart engorged, left heart comparatively empty; brain tissues and meninges congested; and the throat, trachea and œsophagus hyperemic...”

  “All symptoms of death from asphyxia.” Vance looked out unhappily through the high windows to the south. “And no poison!... Does Doremus offer any opinion?”

  “Nothing specific,” Markham informed him. “He’s professionally non-committal here. He merely states that the cause of asphyxia is as yet unknown.”

  “Yes, yes. Pending analysis of the liver, kidneys, intestines, and blood. That will take a couple of days. But some of the poison should be in the stomach, if it was taken orally.”

  “But Doremus states here that the history he received of the case and his findings on the immediate examination of the body, indicated an overdose of belladonna or atropin.”

  “We knew that last night.” Vance reached over and, taking the report, went through it carefully. “Yes. As you say.”

  He settled down in his chair, brought his eyes slowly back to Markham’s troubled gaze, and took a deep inhalation on his cigarette. Then he tossed the report back on Markham’s desk with a despondent gesture.

  “That tears it, old dear. A lady is given poison, presumably orally; but no traces of it are found. Two other persons are poisoned and recover. We are supposed to tag some innocent bystander for the heinous crime... Oh, my aunt! What an astonishin’ situation!...”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fear of Water

  (Sunday, October 16; 12.30 p.m.)

  SWACKER LOOKED IN.

  “Sergeant Heath’s here with a gentleman named Bloodgood.”

  Markham glanced at Vance, who nodded, and told Swacker to show them in.

  Bloodgood was in an unpleasant and sullen mood. A brown cigarette hung limply from his thick lips, and his hands were thrust deep in his trousers pockets. He nodded stolidly to Vance, without speaking, and barely acknowledged his introduction to Markham and myself. Slouching to the nearest chair, he sank into it heavily.

  “Go ahead,” he said indifferently. “Kinkaid phoned me you were going to put me on the carpet.”

  “Did he, now?” Vance was again gazing out of the high windows. “That’s most interestin’. Did he warn you to be careful, or advise you what to say?”

  Bloodgood bristled.

  “No. Why should he? But he did say you had linked me up with Lynn Llewellyn’s mishap last night.”

  “You linked yourself up, Mr. Bloodgood,” Vance returned mildly, without turning his eyes from the gray skies beyond the dull window-panes. “We merely thought you might have some explanation or suggestion that would help us to get to the bottom of this devilish business.”

  Vance’s tone, though assured and stern, was not unfriendly; and Bloodgood was evidently impressed by it, for he straightened up a little in his chair and dropped his ill-natured manner. Indeed, when he spoke I was again conscious of the man’s poise and urbanity.

  “There’s really nothing I can explain, Mr. Vance. You’re referring, I assume, to my instructions to the Japanese boy to bring Llewellyn plain water... That was an unfortunate coincidence. I was merely being polite to a guest of the Casino—all in the line of duty. Kinkaid’s a stickler for that sort of thing. I knew Llewellyn never drinks charged water, and I’d heard him order plain water earlier in the evening. Most of the boys know his tastes, but Mori hasn’t been with us very long. And I’ll say this for Llewellyn: he doesn’t drink much when he’s at the Casino. He’s probably read somewhere that you must keep your brain clear when gambling. As if it mattered!” Bloodgood gave a snort of contempt. “Luck doesn’t inquire into a man’s mental state before striking.”

  “Quite so,” murmured Vance. “And the law of probabilities operates on the sober and the inebriated alike. Yes. Wholly amoral. Consolin’ thought. But I say, was there no motive behind your politesse to Llewellyn other than the desire to live up to your employer’s standard of punctilio?”

  “A sinister motive?” Bloodgood asked resentfully, becoming suddenly rigid.

  “Really, y’ know, I didn’t specify.” Vance was smoking placidly. “Why put the least charitable construction on my query? I trust the worm of conscience doth not begnaw thy soul.”

  Bloodgood relaxed, and the suggestion of a weary smile moved the corners of his mouth.

  “I’ll probably hang myself yet. I do a kindly act, and the recipient all but dies. You hand me a knife, and I pick it up by the blade.” He shrugged. “The fact is, I wouldn’t ordinarily have interfered with Llewellyn’s beverages at the Casino—I’m not over-fond of the man—but I felt a little sorry for him last night. Kinkaid doesn’t like him, and he’s had the worst possible luck playing roulette. He rarely wins, and Kinkaid is inclined to gloat over the fact. Last night he had a run of good luck; he’d already won back a considerable amount of what he’d previously lost. Then he went to pieces—psychological reaction, I imagine—got nervous and unbalanced, and began doing the most preposterous things—covering his bets and even betting against himself, taking the short end of every percentage. He couldn’t have lasted much longer. He needed a drink, if ever a man di
d; and when I saw the charged water, which he wouldn’t have touched, I felt a sort of human inclination to help him out. So I ordered the plain water. In one way it was a good turn: he passed out some thirty thousand ahead. But my kindness evidently got me in wrong.”

  “Yes, things are like that. One never knows, does one? A whimsical world. No accountin’ for it.” Vance spoke impersonally. “By the by, do you know where the water, which you so charitably ordered, came from?”

  “From the bar, I suppose.”

  “Oh, no. No. Not the bar. Mori was shunted on his errand of mercy. The water came from Kinkaid’s private carafe.”

  Bloodgood sat up straight, and his eyes opened wide.

  Vance nodded.

  “Yes. Kinkaid told Mori to fetch the water from his office. Too many people at the bar, he explained to me. Unnecess’ry delay. Thinkin’ only of Llewellyn. Every one so considerate of his welfare last night. Guardian angels. All very sympathetic. And then the ungrateful johnnie collapses with poison.”

  Bloodgood started to speak but quickly closed his lips, and, sinking back in his chair, looked straight ahead in gloomy silence.

  After a short pause Vance crushed out his cigarette and turned his chair round so that he was facing Bloodgood.

  “You know, of course,” he asked, “of the death of Llewellyn’s wife last night?”

  Bloodgood nodded without shifting his eyes from their far-away focus.

  “I saw the papers this morning.”

  “Do you believe it was suicide?”

  Bloodgood jerked his head around and stared at Vance.

  “Wasn’t it? The papers said a suicide note was found...”

  “That’s correct. Not entirely convincing, however.”

  “But she was quite capable of suicide,” Bloodgood offered.

  Vance did not pursue the point.

  “I suppose,” he said, “that Kinkaid told you over the phone that Miss Amelia Llewellyn also had a close call last night?”

  Bloodgood leaped to his feet.

  “What’s that!” he exclaimed. “He said nothing about Amelia. What happened?” The man seemed highly perturbed.

  “She took a glass of water—in her mother’s room—and passed out very much as her brother did. No serious damage, though. She’s quite all right this morning—we’ve just come from there. No cause for worry... Please sit down. There are one or two other matters I wish to ask you about.”

  Bloodgood resumed his seat with seeming reluctance.

  “You’re sure she’s all right?”

  “Yes—quite. You might drop around to see her when you leave here. I’m sure she’ll welcome a visit from you. Kinkaid’s there too... And by the by, just what are your relations with Kinkaid, Mr. Bloodgood?”

  The man hesitated and then said non-committally:

  “Purely business.” When Vance did not speak Bloodgood went on. “There’s a certain feeling of friendship involved, of course. I feel very grateful toward Kinkaid. If it weren’t for him I’d probably be teaching chemistry or mathematics at a third of the salary I’m getting at the Casino, and being bored to death doing it. He’s exacting, but he’s generous enough. I can’t say that I wholly admire him, but he has many likeable qualities, and he has always played the game aboveboard with me.” Bloodgood stopped a moment and then added with a faint smile: “I think he likes me—and that fact, of course, tends to prejudice me in his favor.”

  “Do you attach any significance to his having ordered the water for Llewellyn from his own carafe?”

  The question seemed to disturb Bloodgood considerably. He shifted in his chair and took a deep breath before answering.

  “I don’t know. Damn it, man, you have me wondering. It might be sheer coincidence—it’s like Kinkaid to do things spontaneously like that: he has a very decent streak in him. He takes his losses like a gentleman and never complains when he gets set back. I know he runs his games straight; and, to tell the truth, I can’t picture the man feeding a customer knock-out drops because the game’s going against the house. Especially his own nephew.”

  “There could possibly have been reasons other than Llewellyn’s winning last night,” suggested Vance.

  Bloodgood considered this for some time.

  “I see what you mean,” he replied at length. “With Amelia and Lynn and Lynn’s wife out of the way...” He broke off and shook his head. “No! That doesn’t check with Kinkaid’s character. A gun, perhaps, in an emergency—I happen to know he shot himself out of some bad scrapes in Africa. But not poison. That’s a woman’s weapon. For all his inbreeding and subtleties of nature, Kinkaid’s not a sneak.”

  “Forthright—eh, what?”

  “Yes, just that. Either forthright or inactive. He does a thing or he doesn’t. No finesse, in the psychological sense. That’s why he’s a great poker player and is only indifferent at bridge. He once said to me: ‘Any woman can master bridge, but only a man can play good poker.’ He’s cold and ruthless and utterly without fear; and he’s as shrewd as Lucifer himself. He’d stop at nothing to gain his ends. But he’d always be in the open. You could trust him even if he was out to get you... Poison? No. That doesn’t fit.”

  Vance smoked a while dreamily.

  “You’re a chemist, Mr. Bloodgood,” he said finally, “and you’ve been rather close to Kinkaid. Tell me: is he, too, by any chance, interested in chemistry?”

  For the first time during the interview Bloodgood appeared ill at ease. He shot a searching glance at Vance and cleared his throat nervously.

  “I can’t say that he is.” His tone was not wholly convincing. “That’s a subject that lies entirely outside his activities and interests.” He stopped, and then added: “If there was any money in chemistry, of course, Kinkaid might be interested in the matter from the angle of pure speculation.”

  “Well, well,” murmured Vance. “Always on the lookout. Cravin’ a lucrative opening, so to speak. Yes. That always goes with the gambling instinct.”

  “Kinkaid realizes,” supplemented Bloodgood, “that his present set-up can’t last indefinitely. A gambling casino, at best, is only a temporary source of income.”

  “Quite. Our hyper-moral civilization. Sad... But let’s dismiss Kinkaid for the moment... Tell us what you know of the youthful Doctor Kane. He was at the Llewellyns’ for dinner last night, y’ know, and Miss Llewellyn called him when Lynn’s wife was stricken.”

  Bloodgood’s face clouded.

  “I’ve seen very little of the man,” he replied stiffly; “and then only at the Llewellyns’. I believe he is interested in Miss Llewellyn. Comes of good family and all that. He’s always been pleasant enough; has a congenial personality, but strikes me as something of a weakling. I’ll say this, too, about him, since you’ve asked me: he has impressed me as being somewhat shifty at times, as if he were adding up numbers before answering a straight question or voicing an opinion.”

  “The arrière-pensée at work,” suggested Vance.

  Bloodgood nodded.

  “Yes. Rather effeminate in his mental processes. Maybe, however, it’s only his snobbery and his constant endeavor to please—the ingratiating manner that young doctors cultivate.”

  “What sort of chap was Lynn Llewellyn when you knew him at college?”

  “He was all right. Pretty regular, but inclined to be wild. He wasn’t much of a student—barely got by. He was too devoted to his good times, and lacked any serious goal. But I’ve never held that against him: it wasn’t altogether his fault. His mother has always coddled him. She’d forgive anything he did and then turn round and make it possible for him to do it again. But she had the good sense to keep her hands on the purse strings. That’s why the fellow gambles—he admits it frankly.”

  “He has an idea,” put in Vance in a casual matter-of-fact tone, “that his mother may have been responsible for the poisonings last night.”

  “Good Heavens! Really?” Bloodgood seemed inordinately astonished. He sat pondering for sev
eral moments. Then he said: “I can understand his attitude in a way, though. He himself used to refer to her as ‘the noblest Roman dowager of them all.’ And he wasn’t far wrong. She was always the man of the family. She’d brook no interference with her plans from anybody.”

  “You’re thinkin’ of Agrippina?” asked Vance.

  “Something like that.” Bloodgood lapsed into silence again.

  Vance got up, walked to the end of the room and back, and then stopped before Bloodgood.

  “Mr. Bloodgood,” he said, his eyes fixed lazily on the other, “three people were poisoned last night. One of them is dead; the two others have recovered. No poison was found in Mrs. Lynn Llewellyn’s stomach. Two of the victims—Llewellyn and his sister—collapsed after taking a glass of water. And the water carafe at the dead woman’s bedside was empty when we arrived—”

  “Good God!” The exclamation was little more than a whisper, but it had the penetrating quality of utter horror. Bloodgood struggled to his feet. His face had suddenly gone pale, and his sunken eyes shone like two polished metal disks. His cigarette fell from his lips but he paid no attention to it. “What are you trying to tell me? All three were poisoned by water—”

  “Why should that astound you so—even if it were true?” Vance asked in a steady, almost indifferent, voice, his calm searching gaze still on the man. “In fact, I was about to ask you, after having given you the details of last night’s occurrences, whether you could suggest any explanation.”

  “No—no. None whatever.” There was an unnatural timbre in Bloodgood’s tone, and he was breathing as if with effort. “I—I was upset by the recurrence of the water, since I was the one who ordered it for Llewellyn.”

  Vance smiled coldly and took a step toward the man.

  “That won’t do, Mr. Bloodgood.” There was a steely quality in his attitude and manner. “You’ll have to find a better excuse for your emotional upheaval.”