The Casino Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Who the hell wouldn’t—after what I’ve been through?” Kinkaid had modified his tone, and spoke almost petulantly. “I’ve shut down the Casino for a while, out of respect for Virginia.” He sat upright in his chair and fixed Vance with a vicious look. “Believe it or not, sir; but I’d like to get my hands on the brute that killed her.”

  “Noble sentiment,” Vance murmured non-committally. “Primitive but noble. By the by, her water carafe was empty when we arrived at the house Saturday night.”

  “So my nephew informed me. But what of it? No crime in drinking a glass of water, is there?”

  “No,” admitted Vance. “Nor in manufacturing heavy water… Amazin’ plant you have here.”

  “The finest plant in the world,” asserted Kinkaid with obvious pride. “It was Bloodgood’s idea. He saw the possibilities of commercializing heavy water, put it up to me, and I told him to go ahead—that I’d finance it. In another month or so we’ll be ready to market it.”

  “Yes—quite. Most enterprisin’ chappie, Mr. Bloodgood.” Vance nodded, his eyes on Kinkaid in dreamy absorption. “So Bloodgood worked out the idea, went to Quayle in the Frick Laborat’ry and got all the necess’ry data and plans; then he looked up Arnheim and put him in charge of operations. Three ambitious young chemists—all good friends—reaching out, so to speak. Very neat.”

  Kinkaid smiled shrewdly.

  “You seem to know as much about my enterprise as I do. Did Bloodgood tell you?”

  “Oh, no.” Vance shook his head. “He very dexterously avoided the subject. A bit too strenuous in his avoidance, though. Aroused my suspicions. I toddled down to Princeton last night. Put various things together. Your hunting lodge was indicated. So I toddled out.”

  “Why are you so interested in my laboratory?” Kinkaid asked.

  “The water motif, don’t y’ know. Far too much water bubblin’ up here and there in this poisoning case.”

  Kinkaid sprang to his feet, and his face, became an ugly red.

  “What in hell do you mean by that?” he demanded thickly. “Heavy water isn’t a poison.”

  “No one knows, don’t y’ know,” returned Vance mildly. “It might be. No way of tellin’ yet. Interestin’ subject… Anyway, water was indicated. I’ve simply been following the sign-posts.”

  Kinkaid was silent for some time. At length he nodded thoughtfully.

  “Yes, I can see what you mean now.” He shot Vance a penetrating glance. “Did you find out anything?”

  “Nothing I hadn’t suspected,” Vance answered evasively.

  “Too bad your housebreaking was without gratifying results.”

  “Housebreaking—oh, yes. To be sure.” Vance shrugged. “Were you thinkin’ of preferrin’ charges?”

  Kinkaid chuckled.

  “No, I’ll let it go this time.” He spoke almost good-naturedly.

  “Thanks awfully,” Vance murmured, rising. “That being the case, I think Mr. Van Dine and I will stagger along. Sorry to appear in such haste, but I’m dashed hungry. No lunch, d’ ye see.” He went to the door and paused. “By the by, where will you be stayin’ in Atlantic City?”

  Kinkaid showed interest in the question.

  “You think you may want to reach me?” he asked. “I’ll be at the Ritz.”

  “A pleasant visit,” returned Vance; and we went out to the car.

  It was barely half-past four when we arrived home. Vance ordered tea and a change of clothes. Then he telephoned to Markham.

  “I’ve had a jolly afternoon,” he told the District Attorney. “Went housebreakin’. Got myself and Van locked in a dark cellar—same like a shillin’ shocker. Mentioned your name. Open sesame. Was ceremoniously—not to say apologetically—released. Had a chat with Kinkaid. And here I am about to imbibe some of Currie’s excellent Taiwan… Kinkaid, by the by, is making quarts of heavy water at his Jersey hunting lodge. Large, elaborate plant. Bloodgood’s idea—aided and abetted by another classmate, a gruff chappie named Arnheim. Kinkaid doesn’t seem particularly annoyed that I uncovered his secret. Even forgave me for making forcible entry. He’s headed just now for relaxation at Atlantic City… The water trail progresses. I’m carryin’ a bucket or two of cold water, figuratively speaking, to the Llewellyn domicile in a little while… A queer case, Markham. But light is beginning to break. Not a blindin’ illumination. Still, sufficiently bright to show me my way about… Dinner at my humble diggin’s at eight-thirty, what?… Then we’ll hear the Brahms Third at Carnegie Hall. It’s Rimsky-Korsakov the first half, and I’d infinitely prefer canard Molière and a Château Haut-Brion… I’ll pour forth all the news when I see you… And I say, Markham, bring along Hildebrandt’s report, if it’s ready… Cheerio.”

  At about six o’clock Vance presented himself at the Llewellyn residence. The butler admitted us with frigid dignity. Apparently he was not surprised at our call.

  “Whom do you wish to see, sir?”

  “Who might be here, Smith?” Vance asked.

  “Every one is here, sir, except Mr. Kinkaid,” the butler informed him. “Mr. Bloodgood and Doctor Kane are also here. The gentlemen are in the drawing-room with Mr. Lynn, and the ladies are upstairs.”

  Lynn Llewellyn, evidently having heard us in the hall, appeared at the drawing-room door, and invited us in.

  “I’m glad you’ve come, Mr. Vance.” He still seemed peaked and depressed, but his manner was eagerly expectant. “Have you found out anything yet?”

  Before Vance could answer, Bloodgood and Doctor Kane came forward to greet him; and, the amenities over, Vance sat down by the centre-table.

  “I’ve found out a few things,” he said to Llewellyn. Then he turned directly to Bloodgood. “I’ve just come from Closter. I visited the hunting lodge and had a chat with Kinkaid. Interestin’ cellar at the lodge.”

  Llewellyn walked to the table and stood beside Vance.

  “I’ve always suspected the old boy had good wines at the lodge,” he complained. “But he’s never asked me out to sample any of them.”

  Bloodgood’s eyes were on Vance. He ignored Llewellyn’s remarks.

  “Did you meet any one else there?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Vance told him. “Arnheim. Energetic chap. It was he who locked us in the cellar. Kinkaid’s orders, of course. Very annoyin’.” He leaned back and met Bloodgood’s gaze. “I met another classmate of yours last night—Martin Quayle. I was paying a flying visit to Doctor Hugh Taylor. Also had a peep at the Frick Laborat’ry.”

  Bloodgood moved a step, but his eyes did not shift. After a moment he asked:

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “I learned a great deal about water,” Vance returned, with a faint smile.

  “And did you learn perhaps,” asked Bloodgood, in a cold steady voice, “who is responsible for what happened here Saturday night?”

  Vance inclined his head affirmatively and took a deep inhalation on his cigarette.

  “Yes. I think I learned that, too.”

  Bloodgood frowned and rubbed his hand across his chin.

  “What steps do you intend to take now?”

  “My dear fellow!” Vance sighed reproachfully. “You know perfectly well I can take no steps. It’s rather difficult to learn certain facts, don’t y’ know, but much more difficult to prove them… Could you, by any chance, help us?”

  Bloodgood leaned over angrily.

  “No, damn it!” His words fairly exploded. “It’s your problem.”

  “Oh, quite—quite.” Vance spread his hands hopelessly. “A sad and complicated situation…”

  Doctor Kane, who had been listening intently, shook himself, as if out of a bad dream, and got to his feet.

  “I must be running along,” he announced, looking nervously at his wrist-watch. “Office hours at six, you know; and I’ve two uterine cases waiting for diathermy.” He shook hands all round and went out hurriedly.

  Bloodgood paid scant attention to the doctor’s departure. His int
erest was still focussed on Vance.

  “If you know who’s guilty,” he said quietly, “and can’t prove it, perhaps you intend to drop the case?”

  “No, no,” returned Vance. “Persistency—my watchword. And perseverance. Never say die, and that sort of thing. ‘God is with those who persevere.’ Comfortin’ thought. And ‘the waters wear the stones,’ as Job put it. Interestin’ comment, that. Water again, you observe… The fact is, Mr. Bloodgood, I’ll have sufficient proof before long. There’s a chemical report due from the official toxicologist tonight. He’s a clever man. I’ll have something to go on by tomorrow.”

  “And if there is no poison found?” asked Bloodgood.

  “Better yet,” Vance told him. “That’ll simplify matters. But I’m sure there’ll be poison—somewhere. Too much subtlety in this case. That’s its weakness. But I like extended decimals. So much easier to write pi than hundreds of digits.”

  “I see what you mean.” Bloodgood looked at his watch, and rose. “You’ll excuse me. I’ve a seven o’clock train to catch to Atlantic City. Kinkaid wants me there. He’s making the train at Newark.” He bowed to us stiffly and went toward the hall.

  At the door he stopped and turned.

  “Any objection,” he asked Vance, “to my telling Kinkaid what you’ve said to me about knowing who poisoned Virginia?”

  Vance hesitated before answering. Then he said:

  “No, none whatsoever. A good idea. Kinkaid’s entitled to know. And I say, you might add that tomorrow will end the case.”

  Bloodgood caught his breath and stared at Vance.

  “You’re sure you want me to tell him that?”

  “Oh—quite.” Vance exhaled a series of smoke rings. “I presume you, too, are stopping at the Ritz?”

  Bloodgood did not answer for some time. Finally he said:

  “Yes. I’ll be there.” And, turning on his heel, he went out quickly.

  He had no more than disappeared when Lynn Llewellyn sprang up and clutched at Vance’s arm excitedly. His eyes were glittering and he was shaking from head to foot.

  “My God!” he panted. “You don’t really think—”

  Vance rose quickly and shook him off.

  “Don’t be hysterical,” he said contemptuously. “Go and tell your mother and sister that I’d like to see them for a moment.”

  Llewellyn, abashed and shamefaced, muttered an apology, and went from the room. When he returned, a few minutes later, he informed Vance that the women were both in Amelia Llewellyn’s room and that they would see him there.

  Vance went immediately upstairs, where Mrs. Llewellyn and her daughter were waiting for him.

  After a brief greeting Vance, keeping his eyes on Mrs. Llewellyn, said to them:

  “I think it only fair to tell you ladies what I have already told the other persons concerned in this case. I believe I know who is responsible for this hideous situation. I know who poisoned your son, madam, and who put the poison in your carafe, from which Miss Llewellyn drank. And I also know who poisoned your daughter-in-law and wrote the suicide note. At the present moment I can do nothing about it, as I haven’t the necess’ry legal proof. But I am hoping that by tomorrow I may have sufficient facts in hand to warrant my taking definite measures. My findings will cause both of you much agony; and I wish you to be prepared.”

  Both women remained silent, and Vance bowed unhappily and went quickly from the room. But, instead of returning directly to the main floor, he turned down the hall toward the room in which Virginia Llewellyn had died.

  “I want to take one more look around, Van,” he said to me, entering the bedroom. I followed him in, and he closed the door noiselessly.

  For five minutes he walked about the room, looking meditatively at each item of furniture. He lingered over the dressing-table; he again inspected the books on the hanging shelves; he opened the drawer of the night-stand and inspected its contents; he tried the door of the passageway that led to Amelia Llewellyn’s room; and finally he walked into the bathroom. He looked about him, sniffed the perfume in the atomizer, and then opened the small mirrored door of the medicine cabinet. He gazed inside for several minutes but touched nothing. At length he snapped the door shut and came back into the bedroom.

  “There’s nothing more to be learned here, Van,” he announced. “Let’s go home and wait for the dawn.”

  As we passed the drawing-room door, we could see Lynn Llewellyn sitting in a chair by the fireplace, his head in his hands. Either he did not hear us, or he was too stunned by Vance’s recent statements to bother with the conventional courtesies of hospitality, for he made no sign that he was aware of the fact that we were leaving the house.

  Markham arrived at Vance’s apartment at half-past seven.

  “I feel the need of a few rounds of cocktails before dinner,” he remarked. “This case has been bothering me all day. And your cryptic phone call didn’t exactly elevate my spirits… Give me the whole story, Vance. Why and how did you come to be locked in a cellar? It sounds incredible.”

  “On the contr’ry, it was quite reasonable,” Vance smiled. “Van and I were housebreakers. We used a chisel as a jimmy to effect our entry into Kinkaid’s hunting lodge. Most lurid.”

  “Thank God you got back safely.” Markham spoke lightly, but there was a troubled expression in his eyes as he looked at Vance. “My jurisdiction doesn’t extend to Jersey, you know.”

  Vance rang for Currie and ordered dry Martinis with Beluga caviar canapés and a glass of Dubonnet for himself.

  “If you must have cocktails,…” he sighed, and shrugged. “Forgive me if I don’t partake.”

  While Markham and I were having our cocktails, Vance, sipping his Dubonnet, related in detail the events of that memorable day. When he had finished Markham shook his head in consternation.

  “And where,” he asked, “did it all lead you?”

  “To the poisoner,” said Vance. “But knowing your legalistic mind, I can’t present you with the guilty person yet. You couldn’t do a thing. A grand jury would only hand up a presentment chidin’ you for being over-ambitious.” He became serious. “By the by, any report from Hildebrandt?”

  Markham nodded.

  “Yes; but it’s not final. He phoned me just before I left the office and told me he’d been working all day but hadn’t found any traces of poison yet. He seemed rather worried, and said he was going to keep at it tonight. It seems he’s analyzed the liver, kidneys and intestines without any indicative results; and he is going to work on the blood, lungs and brain. He’s apparently extremely interested in the case.”

  “I’d hoped for something more tangible by this time,” said Vance, rising and pacing up and down. “I can’t understand it,” he murmured, his chin forward on his chest. “There should have been poison found, don’t y’ know. My whole theory is totterin’, Markham. I’ve nothing else to go on.”

  He sat down again and smoked for a while in silence.

  “I looked over Virginia Llewellyn’s boudoir again today, hopin’ to hit on something; but nothing had happened to point a guidin’ finger, except that the medicine chest has righted itself artistically. It’s now as it was when I first beheld it. Everything in place. Pattern balanced again. Composition quite correct.”

  “Did you discover what it was that upset your æsthetic sensibilities yesterday?” Markham put the question without much interest.

  “Yes. Oh, yes. There was a spot missin’ yesterday—a white square. Nothing more significant than a druggist’s label on a tall blue bottle. A bottle of eyewash. Some one had evidently taken the bottle out, after I had first inspected the cabinet, and put it back with the label at the rear or to one side. So, instead of my seeing yesterday a compositional value of a tall blue bottle with a large white label, I saw merely the blank blue rectangle of the bottle. But today the white label on the bottle was to the front as originally.”

  “Very helpful,” Markham commented ironically. “Does that, by any chance,
come under the head of legal evidence?”

  Before Markham had finished speaking Vance was on his feet.

  “By Jove!” He tried to keep the eager excitement out of his voice. “That reversed label may be what I was hoping for when I asked you to withdraw the police from the Llewellyn house. I didn’t know what might happen if every one there was relieved of supervision and restrictions. But I thought something might happen. And the change in the position of that bottle is the only thing that has happened. I wonder…”

  He swung about and went toward the telephone. A few moments later he was talking with Doctor Hildebrandt at the city’s chemical laboratory in the morgue.

  “Before trying anything else, doctor,” he said, “make an analysis of the conjunctivæ, the lachrymal sacs, and the mucous membrane of the nose. Test for the belladonna group. It may save you further investigation…”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Two-O’clock Appointment

  (Tuesday, October 18; 9.30 a.m.)

  VANCE ARRIVED AT the District Attorney’s office at half-past nine the next morning. After the chamber music at Carnegie Hall the night before, Markham had gone directly home, and Vance had stayed up until long past midnight, reading sections here and there in various medical books. He had seemed nervous and expectant, and after a Scotch and soda I had gone to bed, leaving him in the library; but I was still awake when he turned in some two hours later. The events of the day had stimulated my mental processes, and it was nearly dawn when I fell asleep. At eight Vance awakened me and asked if I wished to participate in the activities he had planned for the day.

  I got up at once and found him in excellent mood when I joined him in the library for breakfast.

  “Something final and revealin’ should happen today, Van,” he greeted me cheerfully. “I’m countin’ on the conjunctivæ and the psychology of fear. I’ve told every one connected with the case, with the exception of Kinkaid, all I know; and Bloodgood can be relied upon to relay my remarks to him in his seaside retreat. I’m hopin’ that some of the seeds sown by my comments fell into good ground and will bring forth fruit, perchance an hundredfold—though I’d be jolly well satisfied with the sixtyfold or even the thirtyfold... We’re heading for Markham’s office as soon as you encompass those poached eggs. I could bear seein’ Hildebrandt’s latest report...”