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Title:      The Gracie Allen Murder Case (1938)
Author:     S. S. Van Dine
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.:  0300251.txt
Edition:    2
Language:   English
Character set encoding:     Latin-1(ISO-8859-1)--8 bit
Date first posted:          February 2003
Date most recently updated: January 2006

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Title:      The Gracie Allen Murder Case (1938)
Author:     S. S. Van Dine



CHAPTER I

A BUZZARD ESCAPES

(Friday, May 17; 8 pm.)

Philo Vance, curiously enough, always liked the Gracie Allen murder case
more than any of the others in which he participated.

The case was, perhaps, not as serious as some of the others--although, on
second thought, I am not so sure that this is strictly true. Indeed, it
was fraught with many ominous potentialities; and its basic elements (as
I look back now) were, in fact, intensely dramatic and sinister, despite
its almost constant leaven of humour.

I have often asked Vance why he felt so keen a fondness for this case,
and he has always airily retorted with a brief explanation that it
constituted his one patent failure as an investigator of the many crimes
presented to him by District Attorney John F.--X. Markham.

"No--oh, no. Van; it was not my case at all, don't y' know," Vance
drawled, as we sat before his grate fire one wintry evening, long after
the events. "Really, y'know, I deserve none of the credit. I would have
been utterly baffled and helpless had it not been for the charming Gracie
Allen who always popped up at just the crucial moment to save me from
disaster..... If ever you should embalm the cane in print, please place
the credit where it rightfully belongs.... My word, what an astonishing
girl! The goddesses of Zeus' Olympian menage never harrassed old Priam
and Agamemnon with the eclat exhibited by Gracie Allen in harassing the
recidivists of that highly scented affair. Amazin!..."

It was an almost unbelievable case from many angles, exceedingly
unorthodox and unpredictable. The mystery and enchantment of perfume
permeated the entire picture. The magic of fortune--telling and
commercial haruspicy in general were intimately involved in its
deciphering. And there was a human romantic element which lent it an
unusual roseate colour.

To start with, it was spring--the 17th day of May--and the weather was
unusually mild. Vance and Markham and I had dined on the spacious veranda
of the Bellwood Country Club overlooking the Hudson. The three of us had
chatted in desultory fashion, for this was to be an hour of sheer
relaxation and pleasure, without any intrusion of the jarring criminal
interludes which had, in recent years, marked so many of our talks.

However, even at this moment of serenity, ugly criminal angles were
beginning to protrude, though unsuspected by any of us; and their shadow
was creeping silently toward us.

We had finished our coffee and were sipping our chartreuse when Sergeant
Heath [Sergeant Ernest Heath, of the Homicide Bureau, who had been in
charge of other cases which Vance had investigated.], looking grim and
bewildered, appeared at the door leading from the main dining--room to
the veranda, and strode quickly to our table.

"Hello, Mr. Vance." His tone was hurried."... Howdy, Chief. Sorry to
bother you, but this came into the office half an hour after you left
and, knowing where you were, I thought it best to bring it to you
pronto." He drew a folded yellow paper from his pocket and, opening it
out, placed it emphatically before the District Attorney.

Markham read it carefully, shrugged his shoulders, and handed the paper
back to Heath.

"I can't see," he said without emotion, "why this routine information
should necessitate a trip up here."

Heath's cheeks inflated with exasperation.

"Why, that's the guy, Chief, that threatened to get you."

"I'm quite aware of that fact," said Markham coldly; then he added in a
somewhat softened tone: "Sit down, Sergeant. Consider yourself off duty
for the moment, and have a drink of your favourite whisky."

When Heath had adjusted himself in a chair, Markham went on.

"Surely you don't expect me, at this late date, to begin taking seriously
the hysterical mouthings of criminals I have convicted in the course of
my duties."

"But, Chief, this guy's a tough hombre, and he ain't the forgetting or
the forgiving kind."

"Anyway,"--Markham laughed without concern--"it would be tomorrow, at the
earliest, before he could reach New York."

As Heath and Markham were speaking, Vance's eyebrows rose in mild
curiosity.

"I say, Markham, all I've been able to glean is that your tutel'ry
Sergeant has fears for your curtailed existence, and that you yourself
are rather annoyed by his zealous worries."

"Hell, Mr. Vance, I'm not worryin'," Heath blurted. "I'm just considering
the possibilities, as you might say."

"Yes, yes, I know," smiled Vance. "Alway careful. Sewin' up seams that
haven't even ripped. Doughty and admirable, as always, Sergeant. But
whence springeth your qualm?"

"I'm sorry, Vance." Markham apologized for his failure to explain. "It's
really of no importance--just a routine telegraphic announcement of a
commonplace jail--break at Nomenica. [Nomenica, southwest of Buffalo, was
the westernmost State prison in New York.] Three men under long sentences
staged the exodus, and two of them were shot by the guards...."

"I'm not botherin' about the guys who was shot," Heath cut in. "It's the
other--one--the guy that got away safe--that's set me to thinkin'----"

"And who might this stimulator of thought be, Sergeant?" Vance asked.

"Benny the Buzzard!" whispered Heath, with melodramatic emphasis.

"Ah!" Vance smiled. "An ornithological specimen--Buteo borealis. Maybe he
flew away to freedom..."

"It's no laughing matter, Mr. Vance." Heath became even more serious.
"Benny the Buzzard--or Benny Pellinzi, to give him his honest
monicker--is plenty tough, in spite of looking like a bloodless,
pretty--faced boy. Only a few years back, he was strutting around telling
anybody who'd listen that he was Public Enemy Number One. That type of
guy. But he was only small change, except for his toughness and
meanness--actually nothing but a dumb, stupid rat---"

"Rat? Buzzard?... My word, Sergeant, aren't fusin' your natural history?"

"And only three years ago," continued Heath doggedly, "Mr. Markham got
him sent up for a twenty--year stretch. And he pulls a jail--break just
this afternoon and gets away with it. Sweet, ain't it?"

"Still," submitted Vance, "such A.W.O.L.'s have been taken ere this."

"Sure they have." Heath extended his off--duty respite and took another
whisky. "But you must've read what this guy pulled in court when he was
sentenced. The judge hadn't hardly finished slipping him the twenty years
when he blew off his gauge. He pointed at Mr. Markham and, at the top of
his voice, swore some kind of cockeyed oath that he'd come back and get
him if it was the last thing he ever did. And he sounded like he meant
it. He was so sore and steamed up that it took two man--eating bailiffs
to drag him out of the court room. Generally it's the judge who gets the
threats; but this guy elected to take it out on the D. A. And that
somehow made more sense.

Vance nodded slowly.

"Yes, quite--quite. I see your point, Sergeant. Different and therefore
dangerous."

"And why I really came here tonight," Heath went on, "was to tell Mr.
Markham what I intended doing. Naturally, we'll be on the lookout for the
Buzzard. He might come here direct, all right; and he might head west and
try to reach the Dakotas--the Bad Lands for him, if he's got a brain."

"Exactly," Markham interpolated. "You're probably right when you suggest
he'll head west. And I'm certainly planning no immediate jaunt to the
Black Hills."

"Anyhow, Chief," the Sergeant persisted stubbornly, "I'm not taking any
chances on him--especially since we've got a pretty good line on his old
cronies in this burg."

"Just what line do you refer to, Sergeant?"

"Mirche, and the Domdaniel cafe, and Benny's old sweetie that sings
there--the Del Marr jane."

"Whether Mirche and Pellinzi are cronies," said Markham, "is a moot
question in my mind."

"It ain't in mine, Chief. And if the Buzzard should sneak back to New
York, I've got a hunch he'd go straight to Mirche for help."

Markham did not argue the possibilities further. Instead, he merely
asked: "What course do you intend to pursue, Sergeant?"

Heath leaned across the table.

"I figure it this way, Chief. If the Buzzard does plan to return to his
old hunting--grounds, he'll be smart about it. He'll do it quick and
sudden--like, figurin' we haven't got set. If he don't show up in the
next few days I'll simply drop the idea, and the boys'll keep their eyes
open in the routine way. But--beginning tomorrow morning, I plan to have
Hennessey in that old lodging--house across from the Domdaniel, covering
the little door leading into Mirche's private office. An' Burke and
Snitkin will be with Hennessey in case the bird does show up."

"Aren't you a bit optimistic, Sergeant?" asked Vance. "Three years in
prison can work many changes in a man's appearance, especially if the
victim is still young and not too robust."

Heath dismissed Vance's scepticism with an impatient gesture.

"I'll trust Hennessey--he's got a good eye."

"Oh, I'm not questioning Hennesey's vision," Vance assured him,
"--provided your liberty--lovin' Buzzard should be so foolish as to
choose the front door for his entry into Mirche's office. But really, my
dear Sergeant, Maestro Pellinzi may deem it wiser to steal in by the rear
door, don't y know."

"There ain't no rear door," explained Heath. "And there ain't no side
door, cither. A strictly private room with only one entrance facing the
street. That's the wide--open and aboveboard set--up of this guy
Mirche--everything on the up--and--up. Slick as they come."

"Is this sanctum a separate structure?" asked Vance. "Or is it an annex
to the café? I don't seem to recall it."

"No. And you wouldn't notice it, if you weren't looking for it. It's like
an end room that's been cut off in the corner of the building--the way
they cut off a doctor's office, or a small shop, in a big
apartment-house. But if you wanta see Mirche that's where you'll most
likely find him. The place looks as innocent as an old ladies' home."

Heath glanced round at us significantly as he continued.

"And yet, plenty goes on in that little room. If I could ever get a
dictaphone planted there, the D.A.'s office would have enough underworld
trials on its hands to keep it busy from now on."

He paused and cocked an eye at Markham.

"How do you feel about my idea for tomorrow?"

"It can't do any harm, Sergeant," answered Markham without enthusiasm.
"But I still think it would be a waste of time and energy."

"Maybe so." Heath finished his whisky. "But I feel I gotta follow my
hunch, just the same."

Vance set down his liqueur glass, and a whimsical expression came into
his eyes.

"But I say, Markham," he drawled, "it would be a waste of time and
energy, no matter what the outcome. Ah, your precious law, and its prissy
procedure! How you Solons complicate the simple things of life! Even if
this red--tailed hawk with the operatic name should appear among his
olden haunts and be snared in the Sergeant's seine, you would still treat
him kindly and caressingly under the euphemistic phrase, 'due process of
law.' You'd coddle him no end. You'd take all possible precautions to
bring him in alive, although he himself might blow the brains out of a
couple of the Sergeant's confreres. Then you'd lodge and nourish him
well; you'd drive him through town in a high--powered limousine; you'd
give him a pleasant scenic trip back to Nomenica. And all for what, old
dear? For the highly questionable privilege of supportin' him elegantly
for life."

Markham was obviously nettled.

"I suppose you could settle the whole situation with a lirp"

"It could be, don't y know." Vance was in one of his tantalizing moods.
"Here's a worthless johnnie who has long been a thorn in the side of the
law; who has, as you jolly well know, killed a man and been convicted
accordingly; who has engineered a lawless prison break costing two more
lives; who has promised to murder you in cold blood; and who is even now
deprivin' the Sergeant of his slumber. Not a nice person, Markham. And
all these irregularities might be so easily and expeditiously adjusted by
shooting the johnnie on sight, or otherwise disposing of him quickly,
without ado or Chinoiserie."

"And I suppose"--Markham spoke almost angrily--"that you yourself would
be willing to undertake this illegal purge."

"Willing?" There was a teasing tone in Vance's voice. "I'd be positively
delighted. My good deed for that day."

Markham puffed vigorously at his cigar. He was always irritated when
Vance's persiflage took this line.

"Deliberately taking a human life, Vance----"

"Please spare me the logion, Reverend Doctor. I know the answer. With
Society and Law and Order singing the Greek chorus a capella. But you
must admit my suggested solution is logical, practical, and just."

"We've gone into that sophistry before," snapped Markham. "And
furthermore, I'm not going to let you spoil my dinner with such
nonsensical chatter."

CHAPTER II

A RUSTIC INTERLUDE

(Saturday, May 18; afternoon.)

The next day, shortly after noon, we met Markham in his dingy private
office overlooking the Tombs. Ordinarily the District Attorney's office
was closed at this hour on Saturdays, but Markham was in the meshes of a
trying political tangle and wished to see the affair settled as soon as
possible.

"I'm deuced sorry, don't y' know," said Vance, "that you must slave on an
afternoon like this. I was hoping you might be persuaded to come for a
drive over the countryside."

"What!" exclaimed Markham in mock surprise. "Are you succumbing to your
natural impulses? Don't tell me Mother Nature's sirenical tones can sway
a hothouse sybarite like yourself! Why not have Van lash you to the mast
in true Odyssean manner?"

"No. I find myself actually longin' for the spell of an Ogygian isle with
citron scent and cedar--sawn--"

"And perhaps a wood--nymph like Calypso."

"My dear Markham! Really, now!" Vance pretended indignation. "No--oh, no.
I merely plan a bit of gambolin' in the Bronx greenery."

"I see that the clear--toned Sirens of the flowered fields have snared
you." Markham's smile was playfully derisive. "If Heath's ominous dream
is fulfilled we'll later be steering a stormy course between Scylla and
Charybdis."

"One never knows, does one? But should it come to pass, I trust no man
shall be caught from out our hollow ship by the voracious Scylla."

"For Heaven's sake, Vance, don't be so gloomy. You're talking utter
nonsense."

(I particularly remember this bit of classical repartee which certainly
would not have found its way into this record, had it not been that it
proved curiously prophetic, even to the scent of citron and the Messina
monster's cave.)

"And I suppose," suggested Markham, "you'll do your gamboling in
immaculate attire. I somehow can't picture you in vagabondian trappings."

"You're quite wrong," said Vance. "I shall don a rugged old tweed
suit--the most ancient bit of coverin' I possess.... But tell me,
Markham, how goes it with the zealous Sergeant and his premonitions?"

"Oh, I suppose he's gone ahead with his useless arrangements." Markham
spoke with indifference. "But if poor Hennessey has to invite strabismus
for very long I'll have more to fear from him in the way of retribution
than from Mr. Beniamino Pellinzi.... I don't quite understand Heath's
sudden case of jitters over my safety."

"Stout fella, Heath." Vance studied the ash on his cigarette with a
hesitant smile. "Fact is, Markham, I intend to partake of Mirche's
expensive hospitality tonight myself."

"You too!... You're actually going to the Domdaniel tonight?"

"Not in the hope of encounterin' your friend the Buzzard," replied Vance.
"But Heath has stirred my curiosity. I should like to take a closer look
at the incredible Mr. Mirche. I've seen him before, of course, at his
hospice, but I've never really paid attention to his features. And I
could bear a peep--from the outside only, of course--at this mysterious
office which has so fretted the Sergeant's imagination.... And there's
always the chance a little excitement may ensue when the early portentous
shadows of the mysterious night----"

"Come, come, Vance. You sound like a penny--dreadful. What arriere pense
is being screened by this smoke of words?"

"If you really must know, Markham, the food is excellent at the
Domdaniel. I was merely tryin' to hide a gourmet's yearnin'...."

Markham snorted, and the talk shifted to a discussion of other matters,
interrupted now and then by telephone calls. When Markham had completed
his arrangements for the afternoon and evening, he ushered us out through
the judges' private chambers and down to the street.

After a brief lunch we drove Markham back to his office, and then headed
uptown to Vance's apartment. Here Vance changed his suit for the old
disreputable tweed, and put on heavier boots and a soft well--worn
Homburg hat. Then we went out again to his Hispano--Suiza, and in an
hour's time we were driving leisurely along Palisade Avenue in the
Riverdale section of the Bronx.

Both sides of the road were thickly grown with trees and shrubs. The
fragrance of spring flowers hung in the air, and we caught a fleck of
bright colour now and then. On our left, beyond an unbroken steel--mesh
fence, a gentle slope dipped to the Hudson. On the right the ground rose
more abruptly, so that the rough stone wall did not shut off the
prospect.

At the top of a slight incline, just where the road swung inland, Vance
turned off the roadway, and brought the car to a gentle stop.

"This, I think, would be an ideal spot for minglin' with the flora and
communin' with nature."

Except for the fence on the river side, and the stone wall, perhaps five
feet high, along the inner border of the road, we were, to all
appearances, on a lonely country road. Vance crossed the broad and shaded
grassy strip that stretched like a runner of green carpet between the
roadway and the wall. He clambered up the stone enclosure, beckoning me
to do likewise as he disappeared in the lush rustic foliage on the
farther side.

For over an hour we trudged back and forth through the woods, and then,
as we suddenly came face to face with the stone enclosure again, Vance
reluctantly looked at his watch.

"Almost five," he said. "We'd better be staggerin' home, Van."

I preceded him to the roadway, and started slowly back toward the car. A
large automobile, running almost noiselessly, suddenly came round the
turn. I stopped as it sped by, and watched it disappear over the edge of
the hill. Then I continued in the direction of our own car.

After a few steps, I became aware of a young woman standing near the
wall, well back from the roadway, in a secluded grassy bower. She was
shaking the front of her skirt nervously and with marked agitation, and
was stamping one foot in the soft loam. She looked perturbed and
displeased, and as I drew nearer I saw that on the front of her flimsy
summer frock there was an inch--wide burnt hole.

As a vexed exclamation escaped her, Vance leaped--or, I should say,
fell--from the wall behind her. His heel caught in the crude masonry, and
as he strove to regain his balance, a sharp projection of the plaster
tore the sleeve of his coat. The unexpected commotion startled the young
woman anew, and she turned, inquisitively alert.

She was a petite creature, and gracefully animated, with a piquant oval
face and regular, sensitive features. Her eyes were large and brown, with
extremely long lashes curling over them. A straight and slender nose lent
dignity and character to a mouth made for smiling. She was slim and
supple, and seemed to fit in perfectly with her pastoral surroundings.

"My word!" murmured Vance, looking down at her. "That wasn't a very
graceful entry into your arbour. Please forgive me if I frightened you."

The girl continued to stare at him distrustfully, and as I looked at
Vance again I could well understand her reaction. He was quite
dishevelled; his shoes and trousers were generously spattered with mud;
his hat was crushed and grotesquely awry; and his torn coat--sleeve
looked like that of some roving mendicant.

In a moment the girl smiled. "Oh, I'm not frightened," she assured him in
a musical voice which had a very youthful engaging timbre, "I'm just
angry. Terribly angry. Were you ever angry?... But I'm not angry with
you, for I don't even know you.... Maybe I would be angry I with you if I
knew you.... Did you ever think of that?"

"Yes--yes. Quite often." Vance laughed and removed his hat: immediately
he looked far more presentable. "And I'm sure you'd be entirely
justified, too.... By the by, may I sit down? I'm beastly tired, don't y'
know."

The girl looked quickly up the road, and then seated herself rather
abruptly, much as a child might throw herself carelessly on the ground.

"That would be wonderful. I'll read your palm. Have you ever had your
palm read? I'm very good at it. Delpha taught me all the lines. Delpha
knows all about the hands, and the stars, and lucky numbers. She's a
fortune--teller. And she's psychic, too. Just like me. I'm psychic. Are
you psychic? But maybe I can't concentrate today." Her voice took on a
mystic quality. "Some days, when I'm feeling in tune, I could tell you
how old you are and how many children you have...."

Vance laughed, and seated himself beside her.

"But really, y' know, I don't think I could bear to learn such staggerin'
facts about myself just now...."

Vance took out his cigarette--case and opened it slowly. "I'm sure you
wouldn't mind if I smoked," he said ingratiatingly, holding out the case
to her; but receiving only a giggle and a shake of the head, he lighted
one of his Regies for himself.

"But I'm awfully glad you mentioned cigarettes," the girl said. "It
reminds me how mad I was."

"Oh, yes." Vance smiled indulgently. "But won't you tell me with whom you
were so angry?"

She squinted at the cigarette between his fingers.

"I don't know now," she answered with slight confusion.

"By Jove, that's unfortunate. Maybe it was me you were angry with all the
time?"

"No, it wasn't you--at least, I didn't think it was you. Now I'm not so
sure. At first I thought it was somebody in a big car that just went
by-----"

"And what were you angry about?"

"Oh, that.... Well, look at the front of my new dress here." She spread
the skirt about her. "Do you see that big burnt hole? It's just ruined.
And I simply adore this dress. Don't you like it?--that is, if it wasn't
burnt? I made it myself--well, anyhow, I told mother how I wanted it
made. It made me look awfully cute. And now I can't wear it any more."
There was real distress in her tone. "Did you throw that lighted
cigarette?"

"What cigarette?" asked Vance.

"Why, the cigarette that burnt my dress. It's about here somewhere....
Well, anyhow, it was an awfully good shot, especially since you couldn't
see me. And maybe you didn't even know I was here. And that would make it
much harder to hit me, don't you think?"

"Yes, I can see your point." Vance was as much interested as he was
amused. "But really, my dear, it must have been some villain in the
car--if there was a car."

The girl sighed.

"Well, then," she murmured with resignation, "I guess it wasn't you I was
mad with. And now I don't know who it was. And that makes me madder than
ever. I'm sure if I was mad with you, you'd do something about it."

"Shall we say then, that I'm just as sorry about it as if I had thrown
the cigarette?" suggested Vance.

"But now I don't know whether you did or not. If you couldn't see me
through the wall, how could I see you?"

"Irrefragable logic!" Vance returned, adjusting himself to her seemingly
fanciful mood. "Therefore, you must permit me to make amends--no matter
who the culprit was."

"Really," she said, "I don't know what you mean." But a twinkle in her
eyes seemed to belie the words.

"I mean just this: I want you to go down to Chareau and Lyons [Chareau
and Lyons was at that time one of the more exclusive and fashionable
dress shops of New York.] and select one of their prettiest frocks--one
which will make you look just as cute as this one does."

"Oh, I couldn't afford it!"

He took out his card--case, and, jotting a few words on one of his
visiting cards, tucked it beneath the flap of the girl's handbag which
was lying on the grass.

"You just take that card to Mr. Lyons himself and tell him I sent you."

Her eyes beamed gratefully, and she did not protest further.

"As you quite correctly say," Vance continued, "you couldn't see through
the wall, and I therefore see no human way of proving that I did not
throw the cigarette."

"Well, now, that's settled, isn't it?" The girl giggled again. "I'm so
glad it was you I was mad with for throwing the cigarette."

"And so am I," asserted Vance. "And, incidentally, I also hope you'll use
the same perfume when you wear your new dress. It's somehow just like the
springtime--a 'delicious scent of citron and orange trees,' as Longfellow
paeaned in his Wayside Inn."

"Oh, did he?"

"By the by, what is it? I don't recognize it as any of the popular
scents."

"I don't know," the girl replied. "I guess nobody knows. It hasn't any
name. Imagine not having a name! If we didn't have names we'd get
terribly mixed up, wouldn't we?... It was made specially for me by
George--but I suppose I shouldn't really call him George to strangers.
His name is Mr. Burns. I'm his assistant at the In--O--Scent
Corporation--that's a big perfume factory. He's always mixing different
things together and smelling them. That's his job. He's very clever too.
Only, he's much too serious. But I don't think he mixed any citron in
it--I really don't know exactly what citron smells like. I thought it was
something you put in cake."

"It's the preserved rind of the citron that goes into cake," Vance
explained. "The oil of citron is quite different. It has the smell of
citronella and lemons; and when it is treated with sulphuric acid it even
has the smell of violets."

"Isn't that wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Why, you sound just like George.
He's always saying things like that. I'm sure Mr. Burns knows all about
it. He gets me so mixed up sometimes, bringing him the right bottles of
extracts and essences. And he's so particular about it. Sometimes he even
says I don't know how to boil his old flasks and tubes and graduates.
Imagine!"

"But I'm sure," Vance asserted, "that you brought him the right phials
when he prepared the scent you are wearing. And I'm sure one of them
contained citron, though it may have had some other name.... And speaking
of names, is your name, by any chance, Calypso?"

She shook her head.

"No, but it's something almost like that. It's Gracie Allen."

Vance smiled, and the girl's chatter took still another direction. "But
aren't you going to tell me what you were doing over beyond the wall? You
know, that's private property, and I wouldn't go in there for anything.
It wouldn't be right. Would it? And anyhow, I don't know where there's a
gate. But this is nice out here. I've come here several times, and yet no
one's ever thrown lighted cigarettes at me before, although I've been
right in this same spot many times. But I guess everything has to happen
the first time sometime. Have you ever thought of that?"

"Yes--oh, yes. It's a profound question." He chuckled. "But aren't you
afraid to come to such an unfrequented spot alone?"

"Alone?" Again the girl glanced up the road. "I don't come alone. I
generally come with a friend who lives over toward Broadway. His name is
Mr. Puttie, and he works in the same business house I do. Mr. Puttie's a
salesman. And Mr. Burns--I told you about him before--was very angry with
me for coming out here this afternoon with Mr. Puttie. But he's always
angry when I go anywhere with anybody else, and especially if it's Mr.
Puttie. Don't you think that's silly?" She made a self--satisfied moue.

"And where might Mr. Puttie be now?" asked Vance. "Don't tell me he's
attempting to sell perfumes along the highways and byways of Riverdale."

"Oh, goodness, no! He never works on Saturday afternoons. And neither do
I. I really think the brain should have a rest now and then, don't
you?... Oh, you asked me where Mr. Puttie in. Well, I'll tell you--I'm
sure he wouldn't mind. He's gone to look for a nunnery."

"A nunnery? Good Heavens! What for?"

"He said there was a lovely view from there, with benches and flowers and
everything. But he didn't know whether it was up the road from here or
down. So I told him to find out first. I didn't feel like going to a
nunnery when I didn't even know where it was. Would you go to a nunnery
if you didn't know where it was--especially if your shoes hurt you?"

"No, I think you were eminently sensible. But I happen to know where it
is: it's quite a distance down the other way."

"Well, Jimmy--that is, Mr. Puttie--has gone in the wrong direction then.
That's just like him. I'm lucky I made him look first...."

CHAPTER III

THE STARTLING ADVENTURE

(Saturday, May 18; 6:30 pm.)

The girl leaned forward, and looked at Vance with impulsive eagerness.

"But I forgot: I'm just dying to know what you were doing on the other
side of the wall. I do hope it was exciting. I'm very romantic, you know.
Are you romantic? I mean, I just love excitement and thrills. And it's so
thrilling and exciting along here--especially with that high wall. I know
you must have been having a simply wonderful adventure of some kind. All
kinds of thrilling and exciting things happen inside of walls. People
don't just build walls for nothing, do they?"

"No--rarely." Vance shook his head in pretended earnestness. "People
generally have a very good reason for building walls, such as: to keep
other people out--or, sometimes, to keep them in."

"You see, I was right!... And now tell me, she pleaded, "what wild,
exciting adventure did you have there?"

Vance drew a deep puff on his cigarette. "Really, y' know," he said with
a mock seriousness, "I'm afraid to breathe a word of it to anyone.... By
the by, just how exciting do you like your adventures?"

"Oh, they must be terribly exciting--and dangerous--and dark--and filled
with the spirit of revenge. You know, like a murder--maybe a murder for
love...."

"That's it!" Vance slapped his knee. "Now I can tell you everything--I
know you'll understand." He lowered his voice to an intimate, sepulchral
whisper. "When I came dashing so ungracefully over the wall, I had just
committed a murder."

"How simply wonderful!" But I noticed she edged away from him a bit.

"That's why I was running away so fast," Vance went on.

"I think you're joking." The girl was at her ease again. "But go on."

"It was really an act of altruism," Vance continued, seeming to take
genuine enjoyment in his fantastic tale. "I did it for a friend--to save
a friend from danger--from revenge."

"He must have been a very bad man. I'm sure he deserved to die and that
you did a noble deed--like the heroes of olden times. They didn't wait
for the police and the law and all those things. They just rode forth and
fixed everything up--just like that."

She snapped her fingers, and I could not help thinking of Markham's
sarcastic allusion to Vance's conclusive "lirp" the previous evening.

Vance studied her in sombre astonishment.

"'Out of the mouth of babes-----' " he began.

"What?" Her brow furrowed.

"Nothing, really." And Vance laughed under his breath.... "Well, to
continue with my dark confession: I knew this man was a very dangerous
person, and that my friend's life was in peril. So I came out here this
afternoon, and back there, in yon shady wood, where no one could see, I
killed him.... I am so glad you think I did right."

His fabricated story, based on his conversation with Markham the night
before, fitted in well with the girl's unexpected request for an exciting
adventure.

"And what was the murdered man's name?" she asked. "I hope it was a
terrible name. I always say people have just the names they deserve. It's
like numerology--only it's different. If you have a certain number of
letters in your name, it isn't like having a different number of letters,
is it? It means something, too. Delpha told me."

"What names do you especially like?" Vance asked.

"Well, let me see.... Burns is a pretty name, don't you think?"

"Yes, I do." Vance smiled pleasantly. "Incidentally, it's Scotch----"

"But George isn't a bit Scotch," the girl protested indignantly. "He's
awfully generous."

"No, no," Vance hastened to assure her. "Not Scotch like that. I was
going to say that it's Scotch for 'brook' or 'rivulet'...."

"Oh, water! That's different. You see, I was right!" she chirped; then
nodded sagely. "Water! That's George! He never drinks--you know, liquor.
He says it affects his nose, so he can't smell."

"Smell?"

"Uh--huh. George has simply got to smell--it's his job. Smelling scents,
and knowing which one will sell big, and which one will make you a vamp,
and which one is bad enough for hotel soap. He's terribly clever that
way. He even invented In--O--Scent--mixed it all himself. And Mr.
Doolson--he's our boss--named the new factory after George. Well, not
exactly after George, but you know what I mean."

Pride shone in her eyes.

"And oh!" she ran on; "George has five letters in his name--honest--just
you count them--B--U--R--N--S. And I've got five letters in my last name,
too. Isn't that funny? But it means something--something important.
It's--it's science. I vibrate to five. But six is awfully unlucky for me.
I'm allergic--that's what Delpha calls it--to six. It's very
scientific--really!"

"Mr. Puttie has six letters in his name," said Vance, with a puckish
glance at her.

"That's right. I've thought of that.... Oh, well... But I forgot:--what
was the name of the man you so bravely killed?"

"He had a very unpleasant name. He was called Benny the Buzzard."

The girl's head bobbed up and down vigorously in complete understanding.

"Yes, that's a very bad name. It's got--let me see--seven letters. Oh!
That's a mystical number. It's sort of like Fate!"

"Well, he was sent to prison for twenty years." Vance resumed his
ingenious recital. "But he broke away and escaped only yesterday, and
came back to New York to kill my friend."

"Oh, then there will be headlines in all the papers tomorrow about your
murdering him!"

"My word! I hope not." Vance pretended a show of great concern. "I feel I
have done a good deed, but I do hope, don't y' know, I am not found out.
And I am sure you wouldn't tell anyone, would you?"

"Oh, no," the girl assured him.

Vance heaved an exaggerated sigh, and slowly rose to his feet.

"Well, I must get into hiding," he said, "before the police learn of my
crime. Another hour or so and--who knows?--they may be after me."

"Oh, policemen are so silly." She pouted. "They're always getting people
into trouble. Do you know?--if everybody was good we wouldn't need any
policemen, would we?"

"No--o----"

"And if we didn't have any policemen, we wouldn't need to bother about
being good, would we?"

"My word!" Vance murmured. "Do you, by any chance, happen to be a
philosopher in disguise?"

She seemed astonished.

"Why, this isn't a disguise. I only wore a disguise once--when I was a
little girl. I went to a party disguised as a fairy."

Vance smiled admiringly.

"I'm sure," he said, "it was quite a needless costume. You'll never need
a disguise, my dear, to pass as a most charming fairy.... Would you care
to shake hands with a dyed--in--the--wool villain?"

She put her hand in his. "You're not really a villain. Why, you only
murdered one bad man. And thank you so much for the lovely new dress,"
she added. "Did you really mean it?"

"I really did." His sincerity dissipated any remaining doubt. "And good
luck with Mr. Puttie--and Mr. Burns."

She waved solemnly as we made our way down the dusty road toward our car.
Vance was occupied with lighting another Regie, and as we turned the bend
of the road I looked back. A dapper young man stood before the girl; and
I knew that Mr. Puttie, the perfumery salesman, had returned from his
fruitless quest for the nunnery.

"What an amazin' creature!" murmured Vance, as we climbed into the car
and drove off. "I really think she half believes my dramatization of the
Sergeant's fears and my ribbing of Markham. There's naivete, Van. Or,
mayhap, a basically shrewd nature, plethoric with romance, striving to
live among the clouds in this sordid world. And living by the manufacture
of perfume. What an incredible combination of circumstances! And all
mixed up with springtime--and visions of heroics--and young love."

I looked at him questioningly.

"Quite," he repeated. "That was definitely indicated. But I fear that Mr.
Puttie's long jaunts from upper Broadway will come to naught in the end.
You noted that she anointed herself with the fragrant aroma of Mr. Burns'
nameless concoction, even when transiently countrysiding with Mr. Puttie.
All signs considered, I regard the mixer and smeller of the subtle scents
of Araby as the odds--on favourite to win the Lovin' Cup."

CHAPTER IV

THE DOMDANIEL CAFE

(Saturday, May 18; 8 pm.)

The Domdaniel cafe, situated in West 50th Street near Seventh Avenue, had
for many years attracted a general and varied clientele. The remodelling
of the large old mansion in which the café was housed had been tastefully
achieved, and much of the old air of solidity and durability remained.

From either side of the wide entrance to the ends of the building ran a
narrow open terrace attractively studded with pseudo--Grecian pots of
neatly--trimmed privet. At the western end of the house a delivery alley
separated the cafe from the neighboring edifice. At the east side there
was a paved driveway, perhaps ten feet wide, passing under an ivy--draped
porte--cochere to the garage in the rear. A commercial skyscraper at the
corner of Seventh Avenue abutted on this driveway.

It was nearly eight o'clock when we arrived that mild May evening.
Lighting a cigarette, Vance peered into the shadows of the porte--cochre
and the dimly-lighted area beyond. He then sauntered for a short distance
into this narrow approach, and gazed at the ivy--covered windows and side
door almost hidden from the street. In a few moments he rejoined me on
the sidewalk and turned his seemingly casual attention to the front of
the building.

"Ah!" he murmured. "There's the entrance to Senor Mirche's mysterious
office which so strangely inflamed the Sergeant's hormones. Probably a
window enlarged, when the old house was remodelled. Merely utilitarian,
don't y' know."

It was, as Vance observed, an unpretentious door opening directly on the
narrow terrace; and two sturdy wooden steps led down to the sidewalk. At
each side of the door was a small window--or, I should say, an opening
like a machicolation--securely barred with a wrought--iron grille.

"The office has a larger window at the side, overlooking the tessellated
driveway," said Vance; "and that too, is closely grilled. The light from
without must be rather inadequate when, as the Sergeant seems to think,
Mr. Mirche is engaged in his nefarious plottin's."

To my surprise, Vance went up the wooden steps to the terrace and
casually peered through one of the narrow windows into the office.

"The office appears to be quite as honest and upright inside as it does
from out here," he said. " I fear the suspicious Sergeant is a victim of
nightmares...."

He turned and looked across the street at the rooming--house. Two
adjoining windows on the second floor, directly opposite the small corner
door of the Domdaniel, were dark.

"Poor Hennessey!" sighed Vance. "Behind one of those sombre squares of
blackness he is watchin' and hopin'. Symbolic of all mankind.... Ah,
well, let's not tarry longer. I have amorous visions of a fricandeau de
veau Macedonie. I trust the chef has lost none of his cunning since last
I was here. Then, it was really sublime."

We walked on to the main entrance, and were greeted in the impressive
reception--hall by the unctuous Mr. Mirche himself. He seemed well
pleased to see Vance, whom he addressed by name, and turned us over to
the head--waiter, pompously exhorting our cicerone that we be given every
attention and consideration.

The rejuvenated interior of the Domdaniel had a far more modern
appearance than did the exterior. Withal, much of the charm of another
day still lingered in the panels of carved wood and the scrolled
banisters of the stairway, and in a wide fireplace which had been left
intact at one side of the huge main room.

We could not have selected a better table than the one to which we were
led. It was near the fireplace, and since the tables along the walls were
slightly elevated, we had an unobstructed view of the entire room. Far on
our right was the main entrance, and on our left the orchestra stand.
Opposite us, at the other end of the room, an archway led to the hall;
and beyond that, almost as if framed in the doorway, we could see the
wide carpeted stairs to the floor above.

Vance glanced over the room cursorily and then gave his attention to
ordering the dinner. This accomplished, he leaned back in his chair and,
lighting a Regie, relaxed comfortably. But I noted that, from under his
half--closed eyelids, he was scrutinizing the people about us. Suddenly
he straightened up in his chair, and leaning toward me, murmured: "My
word! My aging eyes must be playing tricks on me. I say, peep far over on
my right, near the entrance. It's the astonishing young woman of the
citron scent. And she's having a jolly time. She is accompanied by a
youthful swain in sartorial splendor.... I wonder whether it is her
explorin' escort in Riverdale, or the more serious teetotaler, Mr. Burns.
Whoever it is, he is being most attentive, and is pleased with himself no
end."

At once I recognized the elegant young man of whom I had caught a glimpse
as we rounded the turn on Palisade Avenue on our way back to the car. I
informed Vance that it was undoubtedly Mr. Puttie.

"I'm in no way surprised," was his response. "The young woman is
obviously following the approved and time--honoured technique. Puttie
will receive, alas! an overwhelming percentage of her favours until the
really important moment of final decision is at hand. Then, I opine, the
beneficiary will be the neglected Burns." He laughed softly. "The
chicaneries of amour never change. If only Burns himself were on the
scene tonight, separate and apart, glowerin' with jealousy, and eatin out
his heart!" He smiled with wistful amusement.

His glance roved about the room again as he puffed lazily at his
cigarette. Before long his eyes rested quizzically on a man alone at a
small table near the far corner.

"Really, y' know, I believe I have found our Mr. Burns, the dolorous
hypotenuse of my imagin'ry triangle. At least the gentleman fulfils all
the requirements. He is alone. He is of a suitable age. He is serious. He
sits at a table placed at just the right angle to observe his strayin'
wood--nymph and her companion. He is watching her rather closely and
seems displeased and jealous enough to be contemplating murder. He has no
appetite for the food before him. He has no wine or other alcoholic
beverage. And--he is actually glowerin'!"

I let my gaze follow Vance's as he spoke, and I observed the lonely young
man. His face was stern and somewhat rugged. Despite the sense of humour
denoted by the upward angle of his eyebrows, his broad forehead gave the
impression of considerable depth of thought and a capacity for accurate
judgment. His grey eyes were set well apart, and engaging in their
candour; and his chin was firm, yet sensitive. He was dressed neatly and
unostentatiously, in severe contrast with the showy grandeur of Mr.
Puttie.

During an intermission in the floor show the lone young man in question
rose rather hesitantly from his chair and walked with determined strides
to the table occupied by Miss Allen and her companion. They greeted him
without enthusiasm. The newcomer, frowning unpleasantly, made no attempt
to be cordial.

The young woman raised her eyebrows with a histrionic hauteur altogether
incongruous with the elfish cast of her features. Her companion's manner
was degage and palpably condescending--his was the role of the victor
over a conquered and harassed enemy. His effect upon Burns--if it was
Burns--must have been exceedingly gratifying to him. Combined with the
young woman's simulated disdain, it perceptibly enhanced the interloper's
gloom. He made an awkward gesture of defeat, and, turning away, went
despondently back to his table. However, I noticed that Miss Allen shot
several covert glances in his direction--which suggested that she was far
from being the indifferent damsel she had pretended to be.

Vance had watched the little drama with delighted interest.

"And now, Van," he said, "the canvas of young love is quite complete. Ah,
the eternally sadistic, yet loyal, heart of woman!..."

Fifteen or twenty minutes later Mirche, beaming and bowing, came into the
dining--room from the main entrance hall, and passed on toward the rear
of the room to a small table just behind the orchestra dais, at which one
of the entertainers sat. She was a blond and flashingly handsome woman
whom I knew to be the well--known singer Dixie Del Marr.

She greeted Mirche with a smile which seemed more intimate than would be
expected from an employee to an employer. Mirche drew out the chair
facing her and sat down. I was somewhat surprised to note that Vance was
watching them closely, and felt that this was no idle curiosity on his
part.

I turned my gaze again to the singer's table. Dixie Del Marr and Mirche
had begun what appeared to be a confidential chat. They were leaning
toward each other, evidently wishing to avoid being overheard by those
about them. Mirche was emphasizing some point, and Dixie Del Marr was
nodding in agreement. Then Miss Del Marr made some answering remark to
which he, in turn, nodded understandingly.

After a brief continuation of their conversation in this overt, yet
secretive, manner, they both sat back in their chairs, and Mirche gave an
order to a passing waiter. A few moments later the waiter returned with
two slender glasses of rose--coloured liquid.

"Very interestin'," murmured Vance. "I wonder...."

CHAPTER V

A RENDEZVOUS

(Saturday, May 18; 9:30 pm.)

It was shortly thereafter that I noticed Gracie Allen rise gaily from her
seat beside the self--satisfied Mr. Puttie. She waved to him coyly as she
sallied forth across the dining--room, like a graceful gazelle.

"My word!" chuckled Vance. "The astonishin' wood--nymph is coming our
way. If she recognizes me, my tall tale of derring--do this afternoon
will crumble to dust about my mendacious head...."

Even as he spoke, she spied him, threw up her hands in rapturous
surprise, and came to our table.

"Why, hello," she sang out; and then reprimanded Vance in lower tones:
"You're a terribly bold murderer. Oh, awfully bold. Don't you know that
someone is apt to see you here? You know, like a waiter, or somebody."

"Or you, yourself," smiled Vance.

"Oh, but I wouldn't tell. Don't you remember? I promised not to tell."
She sat down with startling suddenness, and giggled musically. "And I
always say everybody should keep a promise, if you know what I mean...
But my brother's funny that way. He doesn't ever keep a promise. But he
keeps lots of other things. And sometimes he gets into awful trouble by
not keeping a promise. He's always getting into trouble. Maybe it's
because he's so ambitious. Are you ambitious?"

"Speaking of promises," said Vance, "do you keep all your promises to Mr.
Burns?"

"I never made any promise to George," she assured Vance, the tinge of a
confused blush mounting her saucy features. "Whatever made you think of
that? But he's tried awfully hard to make me promise him something. And
he gets terribly angry with me. He's angry tonight. But, of course, he
wouldn't show it in front of so many people. He's so very dignified. No
one can ever tell what he's thinking about. But nobody can tell what I'm
thinking about, either. Only, I'm not dignified. Mr. Puttie says I'm just
cute and attractive. And he's known me a long time. And I think it's much
better to be cute and attractive than to be dignified. Don't you?"

Vance made no effort to restrain his mirth. "I certainly do think so," he
answered. "And by the by, where is the dignified Mr. Burns this evening?"

The girl tittered with embarrassment. "He's sitting over there across the
room." She turned her head gracefully, to indicate the lone young man who
had previously attracted our attention. "And he seems very unhappy, too.
I can't imagine why he came here tonight--I know he's never been here
before.... Do you want to know a secret? Well, I'll tell you, anyhow. I
was never here before, either. But I really like it here. Don't you? It's
awfully big--and noisy. And there's so many people. Don't you like a lot
of people in one place? I think that people are terribly nice. But I'm
afraid George doesn't like it here. Maybe that's why he's so unhappy."

Vance did not interrupt her. He seemed to find pleasant diversion in her
inconsequential rambling.

"And oh!" she exclaimed, as if at some sudden thought of momentous
importance. "I forgot to tell you: I know who you are! What do you think
of that? You're Mr. Philo Vance, aren't you? Don't you think I'm terribly
smart to know that? I bet you don't know how I found out. I looked at the
calling card you gave me this afternoon--and there was your name! That
is, Mr. Puttie looked at your card and he said that must be your name. He
also got angry for a minute when I told him about the new dress I'm going
to get Monday. But then, right away, he was all right again. He said that
if you were that foolish, it was all right with him, and that you were
born every minute. I don't know what he meant. But that's how I found out
what your name was." She barely paused for breath. "And oh! Mr. Puttie
told me something else about you. Something very exciting. He said you
were a sort of detective and got credit for all the hard work the poor
policemen do. Is that really true?"

She did not wait for an answer.

"Once my brother wanted to be a policeman, but he didn't. Anyhow, he's
hardly big enough to be a real policeman. He's not tall like Mr. Puttie.
He's little, like me and George. And I never saw a little policeman, did
you? But maybe he could have been a detective. I'll bet he never thought
of that. Or maybe they don't have little detectives either. Can anybody
be a detective if they're too little? Or maybe you don't know."

Vance laughed delightedly, looking into the girl's eyes as if baffled by
her entangling digressions.

"I have known some small detectives," he told her.

"Well, anyhow, I guess my brother didn't know about that. Or maybe he
didn't want to be a detective. Maybe he just wanted to be a policeman
because they wear uniforms.... Oh, Mr. Vance! I just thought of something
else. I'll bet I know why you're not afraid to be here tonight. They
can't arrest a detective! And they can't arrest a policeman, either, can
they? If they did, who would they have left to arrest robbers and people
like that?... And speaking of my brother, he's here tonight, too. He's
here every night."

"Ah!" murmured Vance. "Where is he sitting?"

"Oh, I don't mean he's here in the dining--room," the girl stated
naively. "He works here."

"Indeed! What does he do?"

"He has a very important job."

"Has he been with the Domdaniel long?"

"Why, he's been here over six months! That's a very long time for my
brother. He never seemed to like work very much. I guess he's just a
thinker. Anyhow, he says he's never appreciated. And only today he said
he was going to try to get his salary raised. But he's afraid the boss
here doesn't appreciate him, either."

"What might be the nature of your brother's work?" Vance inquired.

"He works in the kitchen. He's the dishwasher. That's why his job is so
important. Just imagine if a big cafe like this didn't have a dishwasher!
Wouldn't it be awful? Why, you couldn't even get a meal. How could they
serve you food if all the dishes were dirty and cluttered up?"

"I must grant your argument," Vance said. "It would be a most distressin'
situation. As you say, your brother's job is a most important one. And
incidentally, you, are the most delightfully amazing and the most
perfectly natural child I've ever met."

The compliment was evidently lost on her, for she returned at once to the
subject of her brother. "But maybe he's going to quit here tonight. He
said he would if he didn't get a raise. But I really don't think he
should quit, do you? And I'm going to tell him so!... I bet you don't
know where I was going just now."

"Not to the kitchen, I hope."

"Why, you're a good detective." The girl's eyes, starry and fluttering,
opened wide. "That's where I would have been going, only, Philip--that's
my brother--said they wouldn't let me in the kitchen. But I'm going to
meet him on the kitchen stairs. He said I was only putting on airs when I
told him I was coming here tonight. Imagine! He wouldn't believe me. So I
said, 'All right, I'll show you.' And he said, 'If you are in the
Domdaniel you meet me on the landing of the kitchen stairs at ten
o'clock.' So that's where I was going. He was so sure I wouldn't be here
that he said if I showed him I was here by meeting him, he wouldn't give
up his job, no matter if he didn't get his raise. And I know mother wants
him to keep his job. So you see, everything will work out just fine....
Oh, what time is it, Mr. Vance?"

Vance glanced at his watch.

"It's just five minutes to ten."

The girl rose as suddenly as she had sat down.

"I don't care so much about fooling Philip," she said. "But I do want to
make mother happy."

As she hurried toward the distant archway, the lonely Mr. Burns rose and
followed her swiftly into the hall. Almost simultaneously the two brushed
past the damask draperies of the doorway, and disappeared from view.

Vance had witnessed the young man's pursuit of Miss Allen and nodded with
benevolent satisfaction.

"Poor unhappy lad," he remarked. "He has grasped his one fleeting
opportunity of speaking alone with his inamorata. I trust he's wise
enough not to upbraid her.... Ah, well! Whatever course he pursues, the
goddess Aphrodite is already smiling favourably upon him, though he does
not recognize her beamin' countenance."

I turned my attention indifferently toward the table where Mirche and
Miss Del Marr had been sitting. The singer, however, had disappeared; and
Mirche was scanning the dining--room with complacency. Then he strode
down the aisle toward the main entrance.

As he came to our table he paused with a pompous bow, to assure himself
that all was well with us, and Vance invited him to join us.

There was nothing particularly distinctive about Daniel Mirche. He was
the usual politico--restaurateur type, large and somewhat ostentatious.
He was at once aggressive and fawning, with a superficially polished
manner. His sparse hair was slightly grey, and his eyes had a peculiar
greenish cast.

Vance led the conversation easily along various lines related to Mirche's
interest in the cafe and its management. A discussion of wines and their
vintages followed; and it was but a few moments before Vance had launched
into one of his favourite topics--namely, the rare cognacs of the
west--central Charente Departement in France--the Grande Champagne and
Petite Champagne districts and the vineyards around Mainxe and Archiac.

As I glanced idly across the dining--room, I noted that Mr. Burns had
returned to his table; and soon the young lady herself reappeared in the
archway opposite, steering a direct course back to Mr. Puttie. She did
not even glance in our direction; and from the crestfallen look of her
elf--like face, I assumed that she had failed in her objective.

However, I did not apply myself for long to these reflections. My
attention was caught by the unobtrusive and almost cat--like entrance of
a slender, exiguous man, who moved, as if loath to attract attention, to
a small table in the opposite corner of the room. This table, not far
from the one at which the despondent Mr. Burns sat, was already occupied
by two men whose backs were to the room; and as the newcomer took the
vacant seat facing them, they merely nodded.

My interest in this slight figure was based on the fact that he reminded
me of pictures I had seen of one of the most notorious characters of the
time, named Owen. There were many unsavoury rumours regarding the man,
and there had been reports that he was the guiding intelligence--or, as
the cliché has it, the "master--mind"--behind certain colossal illegal
organizations of gangland. To such an extent was he believed to play a
leading, though surreptitious, part in the activities of the underworld
that he had earned for himself the sobriquet of "Owl."

There was a remarkable character implicit in his super--refined features.
An evil character, to be sure, but one which hinted at vast, and perhaps
heroic, potentialities. He had been graduated cum laude from a great
university; and he recalled to my mind a brilliant painting I had once
seen of Robespierre: there was the same smooth and intelligent
Machiavellian expression. He was dark of hair and eye, but with a
colourless, waxy complexion. The outstanding impression he gave was one
of adamantine hardness: one could readily imagine him performing the
duties of a Torquemada and smiling thinly as he did so.

(I have described this man at such length because he was to play a vital
role in the strange record of the case I am here setting down. That
night, however, I could not, by the most fantastic flight of my
imagination, have associated him in any way with the almost incredible
and carefree Gracie Allen. And yet these two divergent characters were
soon to cross each other's paths in the most astounding fashion.)

I was just about to dismiss the man from my mind, when I became conscious
of an unusual undertone in Vance's voice as he chatted with Mirche. With
that peculiarly alert languor I had come to know so well, he was gazing
at the table in the far corner where the trio of men sat.

"By the by," he said a bit abruptly to Mirche, "isn't that the famous
'Owl' Owen yonder, near the corner pillar?"

"I am not acquainted with Mr. Owen," Mirche returned suavely. However, he
turned slightly with a natural curiosity in the direction which Vance had
indicated. "But it well might be," he added after a moment's scrutiny.
"He is not unlike the pictures I have seen of Mr. Owen.... If I can help
you, I might be able to ascertain."

Vance waved the suggestion aside.

"Oh, no--no," he said. "That's awfully good of you, and all that; but
it's of no importance, don't y' know."

The members of the orchestra were returning to their places, and Vance
pushed back his chair.

"I've had a most pleasant and edifyin' evening," he said to Mirche. "But
really, I must be toddlin' now.

Mirche's polite protestations seemed genuine enough as he suggested that
we remain at least until after Dixie Del Marr's next number. "A splendid
singer," he added enthusiastically. "And a woman of rare personal
charm.--She goes on at eleven, and it's almost that now."

But Vance pleaded urgent matters that still required his attention that
night, and rose from his chair.

Mirche expressed his profound regrets, and accompanied us to the main
entrance where he bade us an effusive good night.

CHAPTER VI

THE DEAD MAN

(Saturday, May 18; 11 pm.)

We descended the broad stone steps to the street and turned east. At
Seventh Avenue Vance suddenly hailed a taxicab and gave the driver the
District Attorney's home address.

"Markham will probably have returned from his round of political chores
by this time," he said as we headed downtown. "He'll doubtless twit me
unmercifully for my evening's empty adventure; but somehow I felt a
strange uneasiness tonight in the spacious confines of the Domdaniel,
after listening to the Sergeant's uncompliment'ry remarks about the place
last night: it was quite the same as of yore. Yet why should the
toxiphorous Borgias haunt my mind as I toyed with my fricandeau and
sipped my Chateau Haut--Brion? Mayhap, as the years roll by, the
entanglin' tentacles of suspicion are closin' about my once trustin'
nature. Eheu, eheu!..."

The cab came to a jerky stop before a small apartment house, and we went
at once to the District Attorney's apartment. Markham, in his smoking
jacket and slippers, greeted us with amused surprise.

"Not another wing--sandalled Hermes, I hope."

"Nary a caduceus up my sleeve. Are you being beset by heralds?"

"More or less," returned Markham, with a wry grimace. "The Sergeant here
has just brought me a message."

I had not been aware of Heath's presence, but now I saw him standing in
the shadow near a window. He came forward with a friendly nod.

"My word, Sergeant," said Vance. "Wherefore?"

"I came on account of that message Mr. Markham was speakin' about, Mr.
Vance. A message from Pittsburgh."

"Were the tidings bad?"

"Well, they weren't what you might call good," Heath complained. "Plenty
bad, I'd say."

"Indeed?"

"I guess I wasn't so far wrong in the way I figured things last night....
Captain Chesholm in Pittsburgh just sent me a report that one of his
motorcycle boys had spotted a car running without lights on a back road,
and that when the car slowed up for a sharp turn, a guy in the back seat
took a couple of shots at him. The car got away, headin' east to the main
highway."

"But, Sergeant, why should this bit of desult'ry gun--play in
Pennsylvania disturb your even tenour?"

"I'll tell you why." Heath removed the cigar from his mouth. "The officer
thought he recognized Benny the Buzzard!"

Vance was unimpressed.

"In the circumst'nces, it could hardly have been a very definite
identification."

"That's exactly what I told the Sergeant." Markham nodded approvingly.
"During the next few weeks we'll be getting reports that Pellinzi has
been seen in every state in the Union."

"Maybe," persisted Heath. "But the way this car was travellin' fits in
with my idea perfect. The Buzzard coulda hit New York this morning if
he'd come straight from Nomenica. But by circling down to Pennsylvania
and coming east from there, he probably figured he would avoid a lot of
trouble."

"Personally," Markham said, "I'm convinced the fellow will stay clear of
New York." His tone was tantamount to a criticism of the Sergeant's
anxiety.

Heath felt the rebuff.

"I hope I haven't bothered you by coming here tonight, Chief. I knew you
had a couple of appointments this evening, and I thought you'd still be
up."

Markham relented.

"Your coming here was quite all right," he said reassuringly. "I'm always
happy to see you, Sergeant. Sit down and help yourself from the
decanter.... Perhaps Mr. Vance himself is seeking an audience for his
information regarding the arch of Mirche's eyebrows and other horrendous
details of his sojourn to the Domdaniel.... How about it, Vance? Have you
a bedtime story of goblins with which to regale us?"

Heath had relaxed in a chair and poured himself a drink. Vance, too,
reached for his favourite brandy.

"I'm deuced sorry, Markham old dear," he drawled. "I have no fantasies to
unfold--not even one about a mysterious fleeing auto. But I shall try to
match the Sergeant's inspiration with a yarn of a wood--nymph and a
perfume--sniffer; of a xanthous Lorelei who sings from a podium instead
of from a rocky crag; of a sleek owner of a caravanserai, and an empty
office screened with mysterious grilles; of an ivy--covered postern, and
an owl without feathers.... Could you bear to hearken to the chantin' of
my runes?"

"My resistance is low."

Vance stretched his legs before him.

"Well, imprimis," he began, "a most charming and astonishing young woman
joined us at our table this evening for a few minutes--a child whose
spinning brain, much like a pinwheel, radiated the most colourful sparks,
and whose spirit was as guileless as an infant's."

"The wood--nymph of whom you prated in your preamble?"

"Yes--none other. I saw her first this afternoon in a shady nook in
Riverdale. And she was at the Domdaniel tonight, accompanied by a johnnie
named Puttie, with whom she was baiting the true swain of her heart--a
Mr. Burns. He, too, was present tonight, but at a distance, and
alone--and glowering unhappily."

"Your encounter with her in the afternoon suggests more interesting
possibilities," Markham commented listlessly.

"Perhaps you're right, old dear. The fact is, the lady was alone when I
intruded into her woodland bower. But she accepted my encroachment quite
simply. She even offered to read my palm.--It seems that some haruspex
named Delpha taught her the lines of the hand---"

"Delpha?" Heath cut in sharply. "You mean the fortune--teller who does
business under that phony name?"

"It could be," said Vance. "This Delpha, I gathered, deals in palmistry,
astrology, and numerology, and other allied didos. Do you know the
seeress, Sergeant?"

"I'll say I do. I know her husband Tony, too. They're connected in some
queer way with a lot of wrong guys in the underworld. They're tipsters,
jewelry touts--what you might call spies for stick--ups. But you can't
get the goods on 'em. Their name's Tofana; and they run a flashy joint
for suckers.... Delpha!" he snorted. "Plain Rosie she is to the
neighbours. She may get by for a while longer; but I'll nail her some
day."

"You positively astound me, Sergeant. I simply can't imagine my sylvan
fairy--who, by the by, is a working girl in the In--O--Scent perfume
factory on week--days--having aught to do with the darksome witch of your
description."

"I can," said Heath. "That's old Rosa Tofana's neatest stall--surrounding
herself with young innocents. And while she's putting up the sweet,
stainless front, old Tony is probably cooking up some deviltry, or
picking pockets, or moll--buzzing, or dope--peddling in another part of
town. Slick guy, Tony--can do 'most anything."

"Ah, well," murmured Vance, "we may be speaking of two quite different
sibyls, don't y' know. 'Delpha' may be a popular nomenclature with the
mystic sorority. Probably a bit of phonetic suggestion for the Delphic
oracle...."

"Courage, Vance," Markham put in pleasantly. "Don't let the Sergeant
side--track you from your fairy--tale."

"And the most amazin' detail," Vance went on, "was the scent of citron
that hung about the pixie. The perfume was mixed especially for her, and
was nameless. Most mysterious--eh, what? It had been concocted by the
gentleman named Burns--some sort of scent--wizard employed in the same
factory she is--who was so annoyed at her apparent deflection to a rival
suitor."

Markham smiled wryly.

"I hardly see where the mystery of the situation comes in."

"Nor I," confessed Vance. "But let your massive brain dwell upon the fact
that the young lady should have chosen this very night to visit Mirche's
hospitium."

"Probably dogged your footsteps from Riverdale till you reached the
Domdaniel."

"That, alas! is not the answer. She was already there when I arrived."

"Then perhaps the young lady was hungry."

"I had thought of that." Vance's eyes were twinkling gaily. "Perhaps
you've solved the mystery!... But," he went on, "that doesn't account for
the further fact that Mirche himself was at the Domdaniel."

"And where else would you have him, pray?... But perhaps you're going to
tell me he's the long--lost father of your heroine?"

"No," sighed Vance. "Mirche, I fear, is sublimely unaware of the young
lady's very existence. Most annoyin'. And I was trying so hard to build
up a diverting yam for your benefit."

"I appreciate the effort." Markham's cigar needed relighting, and he gave
his attention to it. "But tell me what you thought of Mirche. I recall
that your main object in going to the Domdaniel tonight was to make a
closer study of the man."

"Ah, yes." Vance shifted deeper into his chair. "You're always so
practical, Markham.... Well, I don't like Mirche. A smooth gentleman; but
not an admirable one. However, he exerted himself quite earnestly to
enchant me. I wonder why.... Perhaps he was plotting some shady
deed--though he impressed me as being the type who would need another to
do his plotting for him. No, not a leader of men, but an unquestioning
and able follower. A dark and wicked fellow.... Well, there you have the
villain of the piece."

"And what shall I do with him?... Your tale is fizzling by the second."

"I fear you're right," admitted Vance. "Let me see.... I lovingly
inspected Mirche's office; but it was disgustingly void of any wrong.
Merely a fair--sized room without a single occupant. And then I gazed
fondly at the old door and windows beyond the porte--cochre--inside the
driveway, y' know. But all my intensive scrutiny yielded nothing of a
helpful nature. The ivy round them, however, was most pleasing. English
ivy."

"Now you're down to botany," said Markham. "I must say, I prefer the
Sergeant's account of the Pittsburgh shooting.... But didn't you speak of
a Lorelei?"

"Ah, yes. And deuced blond she was--as becomes a Rhenish siren. Her name,
however, has a Gallic ring: Del Marr. A striking Lorelei--more
intelligent, I should judge, than Mirche. But there were serious words
between her and our Boniface. During a restful intermission of the
orchestra they sat together, and I am sure the conversation was not
confined to arpeggios and treble clefs and obbligatos. Rather intimate
atmosphere. Liberty, egalite, fraternite--comme ca. No mere entertainer
conversing with her impresario.

"I figured it that way myself, years ago," Heath put in. "Furthermore,
she's got a swell car and a chauffeur, too. Her singing don't pay for all
that. And I don't like the looks of that chauffeur either; he's a tough
mug--looks like he oughta be a bouncer in a saloon."

"At least, Vance," said Markham hopefully, "you have found one potential
connection between the almost totally disorganized and unrelated
components of your drama. Maybe you can develop your narrative structure
with that; as a basis."

Vance shook his head despondently. "No, I fear I am not equal to the
task."

"What of the 'owl without feathers' you mentioned a while ago?"

"Ah!" Vance sipped his cognac. "I was referring to the opaque and
mysterious Mr. Owen of obnoxious memory and ill repute."

"I see. 'Owl' Owen, eh? I had a vague idea he was basking in the
California sunshine. It was rumored some time ago that he was
dying--probably of his sins."

"Oh, he was decidedly at the Domdaniel, sitting far across the room from
me with two other men."

"Those two guys," Heath supplied, "were probably his bodyguard. He don't
move without 'em."

"I fear there is no material for you in that quarter, Vance," said
Markham. "The F.B.I, were once worried about him; but after an
investigation they gave the man a clean bill of health."

"I admit defeat." Vance smiled sadly. "I even tried to lure Mirche into
an admission of knowing Owen. But he denied the remotest acquaintance
with the man...."

After another hour of random talk we were interrupted by the ringing of
the telephone. Markham frowned with annoyance as he answered it; then,
putting the receiver down, he turned to Heath.

"For you, Sergeant. It's Hennessey."

Heath, too, was annoyed.

"Sorry, Chief. I didn't leave this number with anyone when I came here."

As he greeted Hennessey over the wire his voice was bellicose. He
listened for several minutes, his expression changing rapidly from
belligerency to deep puzzlement. Suddenly he bawled into the transmitter:

"Hang on a minute!" Holding the receiver at his side, he turned to us.

"It sounds crazy to me, Chief, but Hennessey's calling from the
Domdaniel, and I gotta see him right away...."

"Splendid!" ejaculated Vance. "Why not have Hennessey come here? I'm,
sure Mr. Markham wouldn't object."

Markham shot Vance a look of questioning amazement.

"Very well, Sergeant," he grumbled.

Heath quickly put the receiver to his ear again.

"Hey, listen, Hennessey," he barked. "Hop over here to the D.A's."

"What might all the excitement be, Sergeant?' asked Vance. "Has Mirche
absconded with his own till and eloped with Miss Del Marr?"

"It's damn queer," muttered Heath, ignoring the question. "The boys found
a dead guy over at the cafe."

"I do hope he was found in Mirche's office," Vance said lightly.

"You win." Heath stared at the floor.

"And who might the corpse be?"

"That's what makes it cuckoo. A kitchen helper of some kind that worked
there."

"Will that fact help you revive your fizzled tale?" Markham asked Vance.

"My word, no! It blasts my limpin' yarn completely." Vance turned to
Heath again. "Did you get the name of the defunct chappie, Sergeant?"

"I didn't pay much attention to it when Hennessey said the guy was just a
kitchen mechanic. But it sounded something like Philip Allen."

Vance's eyelids flickered slightly.

"Philip Allen, eh? Most interestin'!"

CHAPTER VII

QUEER COINCIDENCES

(Sunday, May 19; 18:5 am.)

Hennessey arrived in less than fifteen minutes. He was a heavy--set,
serious--minded man with rugged features and an awkward manner.

Heath went directly to the point.

"Tell your story, Hennessey. Then I'll ask questions. But first I want to
know why you called me here at this time of night."

"Hell, Sergeant!" Hennessey returned. "I'd been trying for over an hour
to get hold of you. I knew you had some idea about Mr. Markham and the
Domdaniel, and I figured you'd want to know about an unexpected death
there. So I called your home and a lot of other places I thought you
might be at. No dice. Then I took a chance and called you here. I didn't
want you bawling me out tomorrow."

"Well, what do you know?" grumbled Heath.

"The story sounds cockeyed, Sergeant, but along about eleven o'clock I
saw Mr. Vance come out of the cafe. Earlier, I'd seen him monkeying
around Mirche's office----"

"At eight," Vance put in with a smile.

Hennessey took out his notebook and turned a few pages.

"Seven fifty--six, Mr. Vance."

"My word, what meticulous observation!"

Hennessey grinned. "Well, about fifteen or twenty minutes after Mr. Vance
left, two men from the Bureau drives up with Doc Mendel [One of the
Assistant Medical Examiners of New York.]; and the three of 'em go in
Mirche's office. It looked like funny business to me, so I left Burke on
watch, and Snitkin and I went to see what it was all about. Just as we
was hopping up the steps, Mirche himself comes hurrying down the terrace,
all excited, and busts past us into the office. I guess the doorman--you
know him: Joe Hanley--musta told him that somethin' queer was goin'
on...."

"Never mind guessing."

"All right," Hennessey continued. "Inside the office was a guy in a black
suit lying all bunched up on the floor, half--way under the desk. Mirche
went over to him, sort of staggerin' and dead--white himself. He leaned
close over the guy, alongside the doc who was opening the fellow's shirt
and putting one of those ear--trumpets on his chest...."

"A stethoscope! My word!" Vance looked at Markham. "I didn't know an
official Aesculapius ever carried one of those trusty instruments."

They don't, as a rule," said Markham. "Mendel's a young fellow; just been
appointed to the staff; and I wouldn't be surprised if he carries a
sphygmomanometer around with him, and his diploma, too."

"Go on, Hennessey," Heath growled. "Then what?"

"Guilfoyle asked Mirche who the guy was. I don't know whether it was
before or after Mirche answered the question; but anyhow along about then
Dixie Del Marr came rushing in. And Mirche says, husky--like, it was one
of his dishwashers at the cafe--a fellow named Philip Allen. I coulda
told Guilfoyle that much. I knew Allen, and had seen him myself that
afternoon. Then Guilfoyle asks Mirche what the fellow was doing in the
office, and where he lived, and what Mirche knew about his being dead.
The old toad says he don't know nothing about the dead guy, or how he
come to be there, or where he lives--that it was all a mystery to him.
And he sure looked the part."

"You're sure he wasn't puttin' one over on you?" asked Heath
suspiciously.

"Huh! Not me," Hennessey asserted. "A guy can't look that jolted and not
mean it."

"What happened then?"

Hennessey continued more rapidly.

"The doc went on examining the man, lifting up his eyelids, looking down
his throat, moving his legs and arms--the regular rigamarole. And while
he was busy monkeying with the guy, this Dixie Del Marr opens the door of
a built--in closet, and brings out a ledger. She turns a few pages, then
says: 'Here it is, Dan'--meanin' Mirche. 'Philip Allen lives at 198 East
37th Street--with his mother.'"

Markham looked up and turned to Vance.

"I see that your not too profound deduction is being mildly
substantiated. Your blond Lorelei is evidently Mirche's bookkeeper."

Hennessey was impatient at the interruption.

"Guilfoyle then asked the doc what the fellow had died of. The doc had
the body on its face now, and when he looked round at Guilfoyle you'da
thought he'd never seen a corpse before. 'I don't know,' he said. 'He
might have died a natural death, but I can't tell with this much of an
examination. He's got some burns on his lips, and his throat don't look
so hot'--or words to that effect. 'You'll have to get him down to the
morgue for a post--mortem.' He didn't even seem to know how long the guy
was dead."

"What about the Del Marr woman?" prompted Heath.

"She put the book back and sat down in a chair looking hard and
indifferent, until Mirche sent her back to the cafe."

"So you sent the body down to the morgue." Heath was puffing gloomily on
his cigar.

"That's right, Sergeant. Guilfoyle took care of calling for the buggy. He
and the other man from the Bureau, Sullivan, stayed on the job.... It's a
dumb enough story, but I know you've always been leery about this fellow
Mirche--especially now with the Buzzard on the loose."

Heath furrowed his brow and fixed Hennessey with a cold stare.

"All right!" he bellowed. "Who went in that office after Mr. Vance
arrived there at eight?"

"Oh, that's easy." The officer laughed mirthlessly. "The Del Marr woman
went in around eight--thirty and come right out again. Then, a little
while later, the doorman sauntered down, and he went in too. But I figure
that ain't nothing unusual for him: I reckon Hanley just sneaked in for a
snifter, for he came out rubbing his coat sleeve across his mouth...."

"What time was all this?" asked Heath.

"Early in the evening--within an hour after Mr. Vance had been there."

"I suppose you checked if either of 'em saw the dead guy?"

"Sure I did. But neither one of 'em saw him. The doorman went in after
the Del Marr woman did; and you can bet your life that if there'd been a
corpse in there, Hanley would have let out a holler. He's a right guy,
Sergeant."

"Sure; I've known Joe Hanley plenty long." Heath thought a moment. "All
of that don't add up... But here's something you can tell me: What time
did you take your nap tonight?"

The import of Heath's question suddenly dawned on me.

"Honest to God, Sergeant, I didn't take any nap. But--so help me!--I
never saw that guy Allen go into the office."

"Huh!" A world of sarcasm was in the Sergeant's grunt. "You didn't go to
sleep, but Allen slips into the office, has a heart attack, or somethin',
and folds up under Mirche's desk!--That's a hot one for the record!"

Hennessey turned a vivid red.

"I--I don't blame you for squawking, Sergeant. But, on the level, I
didn't look away from that door for a split second----"

"Then this guy just made himself invisible and wished himself in there.
Or maybe he came down the chimney like Santa Claus--if there'd been a
chimney." The Sergeant's irony seemed unnecessarily brutal.

"I say, Sergeant," Vance put in. "The real object of Hennessey's vigil,
y' know, was to keep an eye open for Benny Pellinzi. You certainly didn't
put three husky gentlemen in the lodging--house to keep track of a poor
dishwasher."

Heath took up another phase of the problem.

"Who put in the call to Headquarters, Hennessey?"

"That's another funny one, Sergeant. The call came through in the regular
way at ten--fifty--not more'n ten minutes or so after you'd left. It was
a woman who phoned. She wouldn't give her name; played mysterious and
hung up."

"Yeah. I'll say that's funny.... Mighta been this Del Marr wren."

"I thought of her myself, and asked her about it. But she seemed as
ignorant about it as Mirche did. But it coulda been one of the old crones
that work around the kitchen. A lot of the help comes and goes through
that driveway alongside the office. And if one of 'em should happen to
get nosy, they could stretch up and look through the window."

"What about the office building that adjoins the driveway?" Vance asked.

Heath answered the question.

"There's no windows there, sir. A solid brick wall for the first three
floors...."

Vance's cigarette had burnt out, and he lighted a fresh one.

"Puttin' it all together," he commented, "it doesn't look very promisin'
for a mysterious crime. Very sad. I had such lofty hopes when Hennessey
phoned at this more or less witchin' hour."

"I gotta admit," Heath confessed, "I can't get hold of anything special
in Hennessey's report, myself.... But there's something else I'd like to
know." He turned back to Hennessey. "You say you knew this dishwasher,
Allen, and saw him earlier in the day. What about that?"

"The way I happen to know him," returned the officer, "is that he came
running outa the driveway one night last winter, about three in the
morning, and damn near knocked me down. I grabbed him and checked him up
with Hanley. Then I turned him loose.... This afternoon I seen him
buzzing round Mirche's office. He went in and out three or four times
between lunch and five o'clock. Then, around six, when Mirche had got
there, he went in again and stayed about ten minutes that time. When he
came out, that was the last I seen of him."

"Where did he go?"

"How should I know? I ain't no mind--reader. He didn't go back to the
kitchen, if that's what you want to know. He just went on down the
street."

"You sure it was Allen you saw?" the Sergeant asked dispiritedly.

"I'll say I'm sure!" Hennessey laughed. "But it's damn funny you should
ask me that. The first time I seen Allen this afternoon, I got the screwy
idea it coulda been Benny the Buzzard: they're both about the same size,
with the same round pasty--looking face. And Allen had on a plain black
suit, like I told you--which is the way the Buzzard mighta dressed if
he'd been sneaking back here and didn't want to be spotted too easy. You
remember the loud natty get--ups he wore in the old days. Anyhow, I
though I'd make sure. I knew I was being dumb, but I went over and said
hello to the fellow. It was Allen, all right. He told me he was hanging
around to get a raise out of old Mirche. Swell chance!"

Heath scratched his head.

"Anything else about this fellow Allen come to you?"

"I was just thinking," Hennessey said. "Yeah... he met a guy about the
middle of the afternoon--around four o'clock. He was a little fellow like
Allen. They met just west of the cafe, and pretty soon they got into an
argument. It looked like they was going to come to blows any minute. But
I didn't pay much attention to 'em; and finally this guy went on his
way.... Anything else on your mind, Sergeant?"

Vance beckoned Heath to one side and spoke a few whispered words to him.
At length the Sergeant shrugged his shoulders and nodded. Then he turned
again to Hennessey.

"That's all," he said. "Go home and get some more sleep. But be back on
the job at noon."

When Hennessey had gone, Markham, noting a sudden change in Vance's
manner, frowned add leaned forward.

"What's on your mind, Vance?" he asked.

"Hennessey's tale. Y know, in my fairy--story this evening, I didn't
mention the name of the wood--nymph. The name is Gracie Allen. And Philip
Allen is her brother. She informed me quite frankly he was a dishwasher
at the Domdaniel. She even told me he was going to beard Mirche in his
den this afternoon to petition for an increased stipend. And when Miss
Allen stopped at my table tonight, she was on her way to meet her brother
somewhere in the recesses of the cafe."

Markham leaned back again with a short laugh.

"Maybe you can fit all that into the fantasy you were spinning earlier."

"As you say, old dear." Vance was no longer in a jesting mood. "I'm
certainly going to try. I don't fancy so many irrelevant things happening
in one place and at one time. Something must be holding them together. At
any rate, I'm in no mood to emulate Pepys and betake myself home and to
bed."

Vance walked the length of the room and back, his head down; then he came
to an abrupt stop, and smiled with an abashed, yet determined,
earnestness.

"See here, Markham," he said; "I admit my ideas are dashed vague, and
that the charmin' little witch in Riverdale may have cast a spell over
me. But I feel compelled to find out what I can about Philip Allen's
untimely death, and maybe lessen the shock for the young lady. And I need
your helpin' hand. Wouldst humour my vagaries once more?"

Markham sighed with resignation.

"Anything to get rid of you at this ungodly hour."

"Feelin' thus, give me the Allen case instanter, to play with as I jolly
well please--with the doughty Sergeant at my side, of course."

Markham hesitated.

"How do you feel about this, Sergeant?"

"If Mr. Vance has got some fancy ideas," returned Heath vigorously, "I'd
just as soon string along with him."

"All right, Sergeant, go ahead and humour our amateur playwright." Then
Markham turned back to Vance. "And as for you," he said with
good--natured effrontery, "I think you're a raving maniac."

"Granted," said Vance. "No de lunatico inquirendo writ necess'ry."

CHAPTER VIII

AT THE MORTUARY

(Sunday, May 19; 1:50 am.)

Vance and Heath and I went first to Vance's apartment. Here, while Vance
changed from evening clothes to a plain suit, Heath did some necessary
telephoning.

He questioned Guilfoyle at some length regarding any pertinent details
Hennessey might have omitted, and gave orders for Sullivan to remain at
the Domdaniel till noon the next day. He then called Doctor Mendel. I
gathered, both from his expression and the questions he put, that Heath
was puzzled and annoyed by the information he was getting from the young
doctor. When Vance rejoined us, the Sergeant was apparently still
pondering the matter.

"This thing," he said, "is beginning to look even more cuckoo than
Hennessey's story sounded. Doc Mendel still thinks Allen mighta died
natural; but he found a lot of nutty evidence that there coulda been
dirty work. He's passing the buck, and got the body to the morgue quick,
where Doremus [Doctor Emanuel Doremus, Chief Medical Examiner of New
York.] will do the autopsy. Mendel don't want any part of it. When I
asked him what time he thought the fellow died, he stalled around about
rigor mortis and some sort of spasm."

"Cadaveric spasm," supplied Vance.

"Yeah, that's it. And then he began mumbling that there's lots of things
is medicine that ain't known yet.--Is he tellin' me!"

"Sounds most familiar, don't y know," sighed Vance. "But, in the
meantime, what about Mrs. Allen?"

"Sure; she's gotta be notified. Thought I'd send Martin--he's smooth and
easy."

"No--oh, no, Sergeant," said Vance. "I could bear to see the lady myself.
You take on the chore, and I'll stagger along."

"All right, sir." The Sergeant cocked his eye and grinned. "You asked for
it--and it's your case. Anyhow, this identification job won't take long."

We found Mrs. Allen's residence in East 87th Street a modest place--an
old brownstone--front structure that had been divided into small
apartments. Mrs. Allen herself answered our ring. She was fully dressed,
and all the lights were on in the plainly furnished room.

She was a frail, mouse--like person who seemed much older than I had
expected Miss Allen's mother to be. There was a softness and vagueness in
her expression--almost a wistfulness--like that of a woman who had grown
old before her time either through sudden sorrow or prolonged hardships.

She appeared highly nervous and frightened by our presence at the door;
but when the Sergeant told her who he was, she straightway invited us in.
She sat down rigidly as if to steel herself against some blow. Her hands
were clasped so tightly that the knuckles showed white.

Heath cleared his throat. For all his hardness of nature, he appeared
peculiarly sympathetic.

"You're Mrs. Allen," he began. It was half question and half statement.

The woman nodded shakily.

"You got a son named Philip?"

She merely nodded again; but the pupils of her eyes dilated.

Heath shifted his weight and looked about him for a moment. His face
softened perceptibly. Only once before had I seen the Sergeant so deeply
moved: that was when he gazed into the abandoned closet at the still form
of little Madeleine Moffat, ["The Bishop Murder Case" (Cassell, 1929)]
during his investigation of the Bishop murder case.

"You're sitting up pretty late, aren't you, Mrs. Allen?" he asked, as if
he had found no words as yet to soften the blow.

"Yes, Mr. Officer," the woman said, in a small tremulous voice. "I always
sit up and wait for my daughter when she's out. But I don't mind."

Heath nodded and, with a sudden rush of words, came to the point.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I got bad news for you," he blurted. "Your son
Philip's met with an accident." He paused for several moments. "Yes, Mrs.
Allen, I gotta tell you--he's dead. He was found tonight at the cafe
where he works."

The woman clutched at her chair. Her eyes opened wide; and her body
swayed a little. Vance went quickly to her and, taking her by the
shoulders, steadied her.

"Oh, my poor boy!" she moaned several times. Then she looked from one to
the other of us as if dazed. "Tell me what happened."

"We don't quite know, madam," Vance said softly.

"But when," she asked in a colourless tone, "--when did this happen?"

"We got the call about eleven o'clock tonight," Heath told her.

"I--I don't know what to do." She looked up appealingly. "Will you take
me to him?"

"That's just what we came here for, Mrs. Allen. We want you to come with
us--for only a few minutes--a little way downtown--and identify him. Mr.
Mirche has already done that, of course; but just for the records we got
to ask you to do it too. Then we can straighten everything out...."

Vance now spoke to the woman.

"I know it's a frightfully sad errand for you, Mrs. Allen. But, as the
Sergeant explained, it is a necess'ry matter of form; and it will make
things easier for you and your daughter later on. You'll try to be brave,
won't you?"

She nodded vaguely.

"Yes, I've got to be brave for Gracie's sake."

I could not but admire the fortitude of this frail woman, and when she
got up with determination to put on her hat and cape, my admiration for
her rose even higher.

"I'll only stop to leave a note for my daughter," she said
apologetically, when she was ready to go. "She would worry so if she came
home and I wasn't here."

We waited while she found a piece of paper. Vance offered her his pencil.
Then, with an unsteady hand, she wrote a few words, and left the paper in
full view on the table.

On the way downtown the woman did not speak, but listened meekly to the
Sergeant's instructions and suggestions.

When we passed through the elevator door of the city's mortuary in 89th
Street, she put her hands to her face and half breathed a few words, as
if in prayer, adding in a louder tone, "Oh, my poor Philip! He was such a
good boy at heart."

Heath took her protectingly by the arm, and led her solicitously into the
bare basement room. The episode did not prove as gruesome as I had
pictured it beforehand. Mrs. Allen's harrowing experience was over the
moment Heath halted her steps before the still form that had been wheeled
out on a slab from its crypt. Her ordeal was terminated quickly and in
merciful fashion.

After one momentary glance, she turned away with a stifled sob and
collapsed in a crumpled heap.

The Sergeant, who had been watching the woman closely from the time we
had stepped out of the elevator, took her up swiftly in his arms, and
carried her into the dimly--lighted reception--room, where he placed her
on a wicker sofa. Her face was colourless, and her breathing shallow; but
after a few minutes she began to move feebly. Then, with the rush of
blood to the cheeks and moisture to the skin, which accompanies the
reaction from a faint, came a flood of fears.

When she had wept freely for a moment or two, Heath pulled up a chair and
sat down facing her.

"I know, Mrs. Allen," he said, "this must be mighty painful for you, but
you know we got to be careful in cases like this. It's the law. We
couldn't afford to make any mistakes about it. And you wouldn't want us
to, would you?"

"Oh, that would be terrible." Her hand moved slowly across her eyes, as
if to blot out some terrifying vision.

"Sure... I know," mumbled the Sergeant. "That's why you got to forgive us
for being sort of heartless."

"When," she asked, like one who had not heard his words, "--when will the
poor boy----?"

"That's another thing I got to tell you, Mrs. Allen." Heath interrupted
her unfinished query. "You see, we ain't going to be able to let you take
your son right away. The doctor ain't sure just what he died of; and we
got to make sure. It's as much for your sake as it is for ours. So we got
to keep him for a day--maybe two days."

She moved her head up and down sadly.

"I know what you mean," she said. "I once had a nephew who died in a
hospital..." She left the sentence unfinished, and added: "I know I can
trust you."

"Yes, Mrs. Allen," Vance assured her. "The Sergeant won't take any longer
than is necess'ry. These matters must be handled legally and carefully. I
promise to let you know myself the very moment the matter is settled....
I'll also be very glad to help you and your daughter in any other way I
can."

The woman turned slowly to Vance and studied him for a moment. A look of
confidence and appeal came into her eyes.

"It's my daughter," she began softly. "I want to ask you something for
her sake. It will mean so much to her, and to me, just now.
Please--please--don't tell my daughter about Philip yet. Not till she has
to know--and then I want to tell her myself.... She would worry about
things which maybe aren't true at all. She has a lot of
imagination--inherited from me, I guess. Why not let her have one more
day, or maybe two more days, of happiness? Just until you make sure?"

It was obvious the woman's request was actuated by a suspicion that her
son had not died a natural death; and she feared a similar doubt might
haunt the daughter too.

"But, Mrs. Allen," Vance asked, "if we keep this matter quiet for a time,
how would you account to your daughter for her brother's absence? Surely,
she would be concerned about that."

Mrs. Allan shook her head.

"No. Philip stays away from home often, sometimes for days at a time.
Only today he said he might give up his job at the cafe and maybe leave
the city. No, Gracie won't suspect anything."

Vance looked interrogatively at Heath.

"I believe, Sergeant," he said, "that it would be both humane and wise to
comply with Mrs. Allen's wishes."

Heath nodded vigorously.

"Yes, so do I, Mr. Vance. I think it can be managed."

An understanding look passed between the two, and then Vance addressed
Mrs. Allen again.

"We will be very happy to make you that promise, madam."

"And there will be nothing about it in the papers?" she asked
tentatively.

"I think that, too, can be arranged," Vance said.

"Thank you," said Mrs. Allen simply.

Just then an attendant came into the room and motioned to the Sergeant,
who rose and walked across to him. A few words passed between them, and
together they walked out through a side door. A few minutes later the
Sergeant returned, slipping something into his pocket.

Mrs. Allen had now somewhat recovered her composure; and as the Sergeant
rejoined us, he smiled at her encouragingly.

"I guess we can be taking you home now."

We drove Mrs. Allen back to her little apartment, and bade her good
night.

A few minutes later the three of us were in Vance's library. It was just
half--past two in the morning.

"A strange little woman," Vance murmured, as he poured a nightcap of
brandy for each of us. "Remarkably brave, too. I really had no anxiety
about leaving her alone in her home. She rallied better than I thought
she would after the distressing experience."

"I've known a lot of little women like that," commented Heath, "who could
take it better than a big husky bruiser."

"Yes, quite.... I wonder if her effort to spare her daughter will be as
successful as she hopes. Gracie Allen is no ordin'ry young woman--she's
astute, despite her astonishin' and flighty vivacity."

"The old lady sure made it easy for us," the Sergeant remarked.

Vance nodded as he sipped his brandy.

"Exactly. That's just what I had in mind, Sergeant. We need have no
concern about interference until Doremus' post--mortem report is
completed. Mrs. Allen will surely not press us, for I imagine she will be
grateful for any additional respite for her daughter. And Mirche will
certainly find it advantageous to keep his own counsel--he's not eager
for any unsav'ry publicity in connection with the Domdaniel.... Will you
do all you can to keep the case hushed up as long as possible, Sergeant?"

"At last you're asking me to do something easy," grinned Heath. "I'll
tell the boys at the Bureau to pipe down; and you can go on runnin' round
and asking questions for a couple of days without anyone nagging at you."

Vance smiled languidly, but he was still troubled.

Heath finished his brandy, and lighted a long black cigar. "By the way,
Mr. Vance, here's something that might interest you." He reached into his
coat pocket and drew out a small wooden cigarette--case, peculiarly
grained and with alternating squares of light and dark lacquer, giving it
a distinctive checkerboard design. "I found it among Allen's belongings
at the morgue."

"But why, my dear Sergeant, should it interest me?"

"Well, I don't exactly know, sir." Heath was almost apologetic. "But I
know you got ideas about tonight that I ain't got."

"But there's nothing extr'ordin'ry in the fact that the young chap smoked
cigarettes."

"It ain't that, sir." Heath opened the case and pointed to one inside
corner of the lid. "There's a name burnt in the wood there--looks like a
amateur job. And, it so happens, the name is 'George'. That ain't the
dead fellow's name."

Vance's expression changed suddenly. He leaned forward and, taking the
cigarette--ease from Heath, looked at the crudely burnt lettering.

"Things shouldn't happen this way--really, y' know, they shouldn't,
Sergeant. Gracie Allen's true--love is named George. George Burns, to be
precise. The same johnnie I mentioned earlier at Mr. Markham's. And this
Mr. Burns was at the Domdaniel tonight. And so was Gracie. And her flashy
escort, Mr. Puttie. And Philip Allen. And the oleaginous Mirche. And the
undecipherable Dixie Del Marr. And the mysterious 'Owl' Owen. And the
ominous shadow of a buzzard."

"What do you make of it, Mr. Vance?"

"Sergeant--oh, my Sergeant!" sighed Vance. "What could anyone make of it?
Precisely nothing. That's why I'm aging so perceptibly before your very
eyes. That's why my locks are turning white."

"How do you think that cigarette--case got in Philip Allen's pocket, Mr.
Vance?" Heath held stubbornly to his problem.

"Stop torturing me!" Vance pleaded.

Heath took the cigarette--case, snapped it shut, and returned it to his
pocket.

"I'm going to find out," he said with determination. "If Philip Allen
didn't die a natural death, and if this gimmick belongs to the Burns guy,
I'll sweat the truth out of him if I got to invent a new way to do it...
This thing's getting me down, too, Mr. Vance. None of it makes sense,
sir; and I don't like anything that don't make sense.... I'll find the
baby--and I'll find him tonight. The Domdaniel's closed by now, so maybe
he went home--if he's got a home. I'll tackle the factory first. What did
you say that name was, sir?"

"The In--O--Scent Corporation," smiled Vance. "Rather discouragin' name
with which to start your quest for a suspect--eh, what, Sergeant? Somehow
I rather hope the name'll prove symbolic."

"You're too deep for me, sir," Heath complained, moving toward the door.
"All I gotta worry about right now is finding that guy Burns."

"Well, Sergeant, when you do corner Mr. Burns, we can either eliminate
one part of the puzzle, or else put it some place where it will fit." He
drew a deep sigh. "I'll be waiting for your scented tidings in the
morning."

CHAPTER IX

HELD ON SUSPICION

(Sunday, May 19; 10:30 am.)

It was almost half--past ten Sunday morning when Heath called at Vance's
apartment. Vance had risen only shortly before and was sitting in the
library, robed in a mandarin dressing--gown, having his usual scant
breakfast of thick Turkish coffee. He had just lighted his second
cigarette when the Sergeant was ushered in, looking somewhat weary but
triumphant.

"At last I've got him!" he announced, without pausing for salutations.

"My word, Sergeant!" Vance greeted him. "Seat yourself and relax. You
should have some strengthenin' coffee. No doubt you're referring to
Burns. But don't tell me you were round and about all night on your
quest."

Heath sat down heavily.

"I was round and about plenty.--And if you don't mind, Mr. Vance, would
you put a little something else in that coffee? I need pickin' up."

Vance complied, smiling.

"Tell me about your nocturnal wanderin's, Sergeant."

"Well, the fact is, sir, I ain't exactly got him yet," Heath amended;
"but I'm expecting a phone call here any minute from Emery--I've got him
watching Mrs. Allen's house, and---"

"Mrs. Allen's house?"

"Yeah! That's where the guy's headin' for."

"The affair sounds frightfully complicated, don't y know."

"It wasn't so complicated, Mr. Vance," answered Heath. "It was just a
damn nuisance.... When I left here last night, I went down to the
In--O--Scent factory, and got hold of the night watchman. He let himself
into the office with his pass--key, and found the book of employees, and
showed me Burns' name with the address of a second--rate hotel only a few
blocks away. So I takes it easy and goes over there. But it seems Burns
has already been in, changed his clothes, and gone out again. The night
clerk gives me this information. Then I shows him the cigarette--case.
And that's where I run into a piece of luck. The fellow's ready to swear
Burns has got one just like it. Burns often stops to gabble with him when
he gets in late."

"And," put in Vance, "most likely offers the other a cigarette during the
gay banter."

"That's it, sir.... Then I calls Emery, down at the Bureau, to come up
and wait around, in case this Burns figures on coming back. After he gets
there I goes home to grab a couple of hours' sleep."

"And did your Cerberus interrupt your slumbers with news of the missing
perfume--sniffer?"

"No. Burns didn't show up at his hotel again. So at eight o'clock I goes
back to the Hotel myself to see what else I can get outa the night clerk.
And it seems that him an' Burns an' two other guys, friends of Burns,
sometimes sits around playing cards in the lobby at night. One of 'em
lives across the street, but this guy says he ain't seen Burns for days.
But he tells me to try the other fellow, named Robbin, out in Brooklyn,
as Burns often spends a night at Robbin's place--especially Saturday
night. So I beats it out to Brooklyn. I don't phone Robbin's place,
because I don't wanta give Burns any tip--off. It takes me over an hour
to locate the house, which is half a dozen blocks off the main line, over
to hell--and--gone in Bensonhurst."

"What a beastly matutinal odyssey, Sergeant!" Vance shuddered dolefully.
"And what befell when you came at last to the hut of Eumaeus?"

"The guy's name is Robbin, like I told you. And he don't live in a
hut.... Well, I asked him about Burns, and he told me Burns had come out
there at three o'clock this morning, saying he wasn't feeling so hot and
wanted company. Robbin also told me Burns was nervous and didn't sleep
very good. He was up early and had beat it before I got there.... What do
you make of that, Mr. Vance?"

"Sounds very much like florescent love in a state of suspense," said
Vance. "Ah, the sweet cruelty of woman!"

"I don't know what you're getting at, sir," replied the Sergeant, "but it
sounds like a guilty conscience to me. Especially with Burns not staying
home--running away, so to speak--and hiding out in the wilds of
Bensonhurst.... Anyhow, when I showed Robbin the cigarette--case, he knew
it right away. He couldn't remember for sure if Burns had it on him last
night. I asked Robbin if he had any idea where Burns went. Then he just
laughed and said he knew where Burns went, but that he wouldn't be there
till eleven o'clock. So, seeing that he couldn't have got back to New
York yet, I telephones to Emery at Burns' hotel, to get on the job
watching her house...."

"Mrs. Allen's house?"

"Yeah. That's where Robbin said Burns would be at eleven o'clock. And he
didn't have any doubts about it either. I figured this was reasonable.
You yourself, Mr. Vance, told me Burns was the girl's boyfriend; and he
mighta had an idea of getting some kind of help from her and the old lady
before they got wise to him. So I hops back here to New York in a hurry.
And here I am, reportin' to you and waitin' for Emery's phone call."

"Extr'ordin'ry!" murmured Vance. "What zeal! You've fitted many facts
together, and not unskilfully, while I merely slumbered. And I presume
you will fare forth when you get Emery's summons and chivy young Burns no
end."

"I'll say I will!" Then the Sergeant added: "I'm beginning to think you
actually had an idea last night at theD.A--'s."

"I wonder.... In any event, I'm going along with you, Sergeant." And
Vance started for the door of his dressing--room.

"I thought you'd be wanting to go, sir. But there's one thing got to ask
you--let me handle this my own way."

"Oh by a1l means, Sergeant." And Vance went from the library.

He had just returned to the room, fully dressed, when the telephone rang.
Heath jumped from his chair and had the receiver at his ear before
Currie, Vance's old valet and majordomo, could reach the instrument.

It was the awaited call from Emery, and after listening for a brief
moment. Heath responded eagerly.

"Right! I'll there in five minutes." He slammed down the receiver and,
rubbing his hands together in satisfaction, made for the door. "Come on,
Mr. Vance. We're getting places at last...."

As we turned the corner from Lexington Avenue, we saw Emery lounging
across the street from Mrs. Allen's house. He took a few steps toward us
and nodded significantly.

Heath grunted his acknowledgment, and gave Emery orders to follow us
inside.

It was Gracie Allen who answered our ring this time. She caught sight of
Vance immediately and threw up her hands in exuberant delight.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Vance! How wonderful!" she called out musically, seeming
almost to flutter. "How did you find out where I live? You must be an
awfully smart detective...."

As she noticed the grim presence of the two other men, she broke off
abruptly.

"These gentlemen are police officers. Miss Allen," Vance told her, "and
we have come to----"

"Oh! They caught you, didn't they!" she exclaimed in dismay. "Isn't that
terrible!" Her eyes grew large. "But honest, Mr. Vance, I didn't tell on
you. I wouldn't do such a thing--really, I wouldn't. Not after I gave you
my promise...."

Heath and Emery were brushing past her into the room, and Vance held up
his hand to her.

"Please, my dear," he said earnestly. "Just a moment. We've come here
about quite a different matter."

She stepped back from him, awed by his serious manner; and Vance followed
the two officers into the room.

On a sofa against the opposite wall sat young George Burns, obviously
annoyed by our intrusion. Heath had already crossed rapidly to him.

"Your name's George Burns, ain't it?" he asked gruffly.

"It always has been,' Burns returned with surly resentment. "Who wants to
know?"

"Wise guy, eh?" Heath fumbled in his pockets, and then asked in a
conciliatory tone. "Got a cigarette, Burns?"

Burns automatically brought out a package of cigarettes.

"What!" exclaimed the Sergeant. "Ain't you got a cigarette--case?"

"Why, of course, he has!" stated Gracie Allen loftily. "I gave him one
myself last Christmas--a real pretty one, like a checkerboard---"

Vance silenced her with an arresting gesture.

"Yes," admitted Burns, "I did have one; but I--I lost it yesterday." He
seemed nonplussed by the line of questioning.

"Maybe this is it." Heath spoke with menacing emphasis, as he shoved the
little cigarette--case under Burns' nose.

Burns, startled and intimidated, nodded weakly. Taking the case, he held
it against his nostrils and muffed at it several times. Then he looked up
at the Sergeant.

"Kiss Me Quick!"

"What!" exploded Heath.

"Oh," mumbled Burns, embarrassed. "That's just the name of a well--known
handkerchief perfume. The formula calls for cassie, jonquille, civet,
citronel--"

"Oh, and I know what else," supplied Miss Allen eagerly. "Jasmin and
tuberose----"

Burns was exasperated.

"You're thinking of Leap Year...."

[Both Kiss Me Quick and Leap Year Bouquet are popular "fancy"
concentrates. Full descriptions and recipes may be found in Poucher's
standard work, "Perfumes, Cosmetics and Soaps."]

"Say, listen!" bawled Heath. "What's going on here, anyhow?"

Vance was laughing quietly to himself.

The Sergeant snatched the cigarette--case from Burns, and put it back
into his pocket.

"Where did you lose that case yesterday?"

Burns fidgeted.

"I--I didn't exactly lose it. I just--well, I just sort of lent it to
somebody."

"So! Lending Christmas presents from your best girl, was you?"

"Well, I didn't exactly lend it, either." Burns became confused. "I met a
fellow and offered him a cigarette. Then we got in a little argument; and
I guess he just forgot...."

"Sure! He just walked off with the case," retorted Heath with mammoth
sarcasm. "And you forgot to ask him for it, and let him keep it--as a
nice little present from you to him. That's swell!... Who was the
fellow?"

Burns squirmed. "Well--if you must know--it was Miss Allen's brother."

"Sure it was! You're pretty foxy, ain't you?" Then a new idea suddenly
smote the Sergeant. "That musta been up near the Domdaniel cafe. Along
about four o'clock in the afternoon."

"How did you know?" Burns asked, amazed.

"I'm asking the questions," snapped Heath. "And it wasn't just a little
argument like you said. It came pretty near being a fist--fight, didn't
it? You were good and sore about something, weren't you?"

Burns stared helplessly at the Sergeant, and then at Gracie Allen.

"Oh, goodness, George!" the girl exclaimed. "Were you and Philip
squabbling again. You're just a pair of squabs."

Heath gritted his teeth. "You keep outa this, Baby--doll,"

"Oooo!" The girl giggled coyly. "That's what Mr. Puttie called me last
night."

Heath turned back to Burns in disgust. "What were you and Allen fighting
about?"

The man rolled his eyes vaguely, as if afraid to answer yet afraid not to
answer. Finally he stammered:

"It was about Gracie--Miss Allen. Philip doesn't seem to like me. He told
me to keep away from--well, away from here. And then he said I didn't
know how to dress--that I didn't have the style of this Mister
Puttie...."

"Well, I got something to tell you, too. And it's nifty----"

Vance quickly tapped the Sergeant on the shoulder and whispered something
to him.

Heath drew himself up and, turning round, pointed at the girl.

"You go in the other room, Miss. I got something to say to this young man
alone--get me?--alone."

"That's right, Gracie." I was surprised to hear Mrs. Allen's quiet voice.
She was standing timidly wedged in a small opening between the sliding
doors at the rear of the room. How long she had been there I did not
know. "You come with me, Gracie, and leave these gentlemen with George."

The girl did not demur; and she and her mother went into the rear room,
drawing the doors together behind them.

"And now for the bad news, young fellow," Heath resumed, stepping
threateningly toward the dumbfounded Burns. But again Vance interrupted
him.

"Just a moment, Sergeant.--Why, Mr. Burns, were you so surprised just now
at the scent on your cigarette--case?"

"I don't--I don't know, exactly." Burns frowned. "It's not a usual scent;
I haven't come across it for a long time. But at the cafe last night, I
did notice it quite strong at the entrance in the front hall, just as I
was going into the dining--room."

"Who was wearing it?"

"Oh, I couldn't possibly know that--there were so many people standing
around."

Vance seemed satisfied and, with a gesture, turned the young man back to
the Sergeant.

"Well, here's the bad news," Heath barked abusively at Burns. "We found a
dead guy last night--and that cigarette--case of yours was in his
pocket."

Burns' head came up with a jerk, and a stunned, frightened light came
into his eyes.

"My God!" he breathed. "Who--who was it?"

Heath grinned cruelly.

"I just can't imagine. Maybe you can guess."

"It wasn't--Philip!" Burns gasped. "Oh, my God!... I know he isn't here
today. But he went out of town--honest to God, he did. He told me
yesterday he was going."

"You ain't quite smart enough, though you was pretty foxy tryin' to drag
someone else in it with that hocus--pocus about perfume." Heath paused,
and then reached a sudden decision. He made a curt sign to Emery. "We're
taking this baby along with us,' he announced. "We'll keep him where we
can reach him easy."

Vance coughed diffidently.

"So you're going to take him into custody on suspicion--eh, Sergeant? Or,
perhaps, as a material witness."

"I don't care what you call it, Mr. Vance. He's going to sit around where
he can't get out, doing some heavy thinking, till we get Doremus's
report.... You better put the bracelets on him, Emery, till we get to the
corner and call the wagon."

Heath and Emery were just leading the petrified Burns to the door, when
Gracie Allen came dashing back into the room, wriggling free from her
mother's restraining hold.

"Oh, George, George! What's the matter? Where are they taking you? I had
a feeling--like when I get psychic...."

Vance stepped to her and put both his hands on her shoulders.

"My dear child," he said in a consoling voice, "please believe me when I
tell you there is nothing for you to worry about. Don't make it any
harder for Mr. Burns.... Won't you trust me?"

Her head dropped, and she turned to her mother. The two officers, with
Burns between them, had already left the room; and, as Vance turned and
reopened the door, Mrs. Allen's gentle voice spoke again.

"Thank you, sir. I am sure Gracie trusts you--just as I do."

The girl's head was on her mother's shoulder. "Oh, mom," she sniffled. "I
don't really care about George not dressing as snappy as Mr. Puttie."

CHAPTER X

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

(Sunday, May 19; noon.)

When the patrol--wagon arrived and the unhappy Burns was stepping into
it, Vance smiled at him encouragingly.

"Cheerio," he said; and then stood watching the wagon as it drove off. As
soon as it was out of sight he summoned a taxicab and went at once to the
District Attorney's apartment.

"Really, Markham," he began, "Sergeant Heath is far too logical.
Ordin'rily I'd welcome such admirable mentation; but in this case I must
sue for your intervention."

He then gave Markham a concise summary of all the events that had taken
place since we left his apartment the night before; the trip to the
mortuary and the promise to Mrs. Allen; Heath's appropriation of the
cigarette--case and his all--night search for Burns; the interview with
the befuddled young man when he was found; and, finally, Heath's decision
to hold Burns until Doremus reported.

Markham listened attentively, but without enthusiasm. "I think, all in
all, Heath has done a fairly intelligent piece of work. I can't see just
where, or why, you want me to intervene."

"Burns is innocent," asserted Vance. "And I'm obdurate in my belief.
Ergo, I want you to call the police station and tell Heath to release
him. In fact, Markham, I insist upon it.--But I want the Sergeant to
bring the chappie up here first--if that's convenient for you. Y' see, I
want him to understand clearly that one condition of his freedom is
absolute silence, for the present, on the matter of the johnnie in the
morgue. That was our promise to Mrs. Allen, and Burns must co--operate
with us when he is released.... Please hasten, old dear."

"You know this Burns?" asked Markham.

"I've seen him but twice. But I have my whimsies, don't y' know."

"As good a euphemism as any for your present unbalanced state of mind!...
Just why do you want this fellow released?"

"I'm enraptured with the wood--nymph," smiled Vance.

Markham drew his lips together in annoyance.

"If I didn't know you, I'd say----"

"Tut, tut!... Call Heath--there's a good fellow."

Markham rose resignedly: he had known Vance too long not to perceive the
seriousness so often hid beneath his bantering. Then he went toward the
telephone.

"This is your case," he said, "--if it is a case--and you can handle it
any way you see fit. I have my own troubles."

The Sergeant had just reached the station when Markham called and gave
orders in accord with Vance's request.

Fifteen minutes later Heath escorted Burns into the District Attorney's
library. Vance carefully outlined the circumstances to Burns, and exacted
from him a definite promise to make no mention of Philip Allen's death to
anyone, impressing upon him the situation with regard to Gracie Allen
herself.

George Burns, with unmistakable sincerity, readily enough agreed to the
restriction; and the Sergeant informed him he was free to go.

When we were alone, however. Heath began to fume.

"After all my work last night!" he complained bitterly. "Runnin' down
that cigarette--case; losing my sleep and doing plenty of fancy work this
morning; tying that guy in bow--knots and getting him just where I wanted
him!... And it was all your idea, Mr. Vance. And now I find you something
definite, and what do you do? You have the baby turned loose!"

He chewed viciously on his cigar. "But if you think I'm not going to keep
that guy covered, you ain't so smart, Mr. Vance. I sent Tracy up here
ahead of me, and he's going to tail Burns from the minute he steps out of
this building."

"I rather expected you would do just that, don't y' know." Vance shrugged
pleasantly. "But please, Sergeant, don't get an erroneous impression from
my whim to free the young perfume mixer. I shall put all my energy into
unravellin' the present tangle. And I shall await the Medical Examiner's
report all a--twitter.... By the by, in the midst of your energetic
activities, did you learn anything about the autopsy?"

"Sure I did," said Heath. "I called up Doc Doremus just before I left the
station. He gave me hell, as usual, but he said he'd get busy right after
lunch, and that he'd have the report tonight."

"Most gratifyin'," sighed Vance. "I salute you, Sergeant, and beg
forgiveness for upsettin' your admirable but useless plan to deprive Mr.
Burns of his liberty. I do hope, y' know, it won't distract your mind
from safeguardin' Mr. Markham from the shadow of Pellinzi."

"Nothin's going to distract me from worrying about the Buzzard and Mr.
Markham," Heath asserted. "Don't you worry! That office is being watched
day and night; and there's husky lads on hand to pluck that bird proper
if he shows up."

The Sergeant left us a few minutes later, and we accepted Markham's
invitation to remain for lunch.

It was almost three o'clock when Vance and I returned to his apartment.
Currie met us at the door, looking highly perturbed.

"I'm horribly upset, sir," he said sotto voce. "There's a most incredible
young person here waiting to see you. I tried most firmly to send her
away, sir; but I couldn't seem to make her understand. She was most
determined and--and hoydenish, sir." He took a quick backward glance.
"I've been watching her very carefully, and I'm sure she has touched
nothing. I do hope, sir---"

"You're forgiven, Currie." Vance broke into the distracted old man's
apologies, and, handing him his hat and stick, went directly into the
library.

Gracie Allen was sitting in Vance's large lounge chair, engulfed in the
enormous tufted upholstery. When she leaped up to greet Vance it was
without her former exuberance.

"Hello, Mr. Vance," she said solemnly. "I bet you didn't expect to see
me. And I bet you don't know where I got your address. And the grouchy
old man who met me at the door didn't expect to see me either. But I
didn't tell you how I got your address. I got it the same way I got your
name--right on your card. Though I really don't feel like going down and
getting that new dress tomorrow. Maybe I won't go. That is, maybe I'll
wait till I know that nothing's happened to George...."

"I'm very glad you were so clever as to find my address." Vance's tone
was subdued. "And I'm delighted you're still using the citron scent."

"Oh, yes!" She looked at him gratefully. "You know, I didn't like it so
much at first, but now--somehow--I just love it! Isn't that funny? But I
believe in people changing their minds. Just sup--"

"Yes," nodded Vance, with a faint smile. "Consistency is the
hobgoblin----"

"But I don't believe in hobgoblins--that is, I haven't since I was a
little girl."

"No, of course not."

"And when I found out you lived so close to me, I thought that was
awfully convenient, because I just had to ask you a lot of important
questions." She looked up at Vance as if to see how he would react to
this announcement. "And oh, I discovered something else about you! You
have five letters in your name--just like me and George. It's Fate, isn't
it? If you had six letters maybe I wouldn't have come. But now I know
everything is going to come out all right, isn't it?"

"Yes, my dear," nodded Vance. "I'm sure it will."

She released her breath suddenly, as if some controversial point had
successfully been disposed of. "And now I want you to tell me exactly why
those policemen took George away. I'm really frightfully worried and
upset, although George phoned me he was all right."

Vance sat down facing the girl. "You really need not be concerned about
Mr. Burns," he began. "The men who took him away this morning foolishly
thought there were some suspicious circumst'nces connected with him. But
everything will be cleared up in a day or two. Please trust me."

There was complete confidence in her frank gaze.

"But it must have been something very serious that made those men come to
my house this morning and upset George so terribly."

"But," explained Vance, "they only thought it was serious. The truth is,
my dear, a man was found dead last night at the Domdaniel, and----"

"But what could George have to do with that, Mr. Vance?"

"Really, y' know, I'm certain he has nothing to do with it."

"Then why did the men act so funny about the cigarette--case I gave
George? How did they get it, anyhow?"

Vance hesitated several moments; then he apparently reached a decision as
to how far he should enlighten the girl.

"As a matter of fact," he explained patiently, "Mr. Burns'
cigarette--case was found in the pocket of the man who died."

"Oh! But George wouldn't give away anything I bought for him."

"As I say, I think it was all a great mistake." The girl looked at Vance
long and searchingly. "But suppose, Mr. Vance,--suppose this man didn't
just die. Suppose he was--well--suppose he was killed, like you said you
killed that bad man in Riverdale yesterday. And suppose George's
cigarette--case was found in his pocket. And suppose--oh, lots of things
like that. I've read in the papers how policemen sometimes think that
somebody is killed by innocent people, and how-----" She stopped abruptly
and put her hands to her mouth in horror.

Vance leaned over and put his hand on her arm. "Please, please, my dear
child!" he said. "You're beginning to believe in hobgoblins again. And
you mustn't. They're such ridiculous little imps; and they don't really
exist. Nothing is going to happen to Mr. Burns."

"But it might!" Her fears were but slightly allayed. "Can't you see, it
might! And you've got to be an awfully, awfully good detective if
anything like that should happen." A frightened, pleading look was in her
eyes. "I was terribly worried this morning after George had gone. And do
you know what I did? I went up--town and talked with Delpha. I always go
to Delpha when I have any troubles--and sometimes even when I haven't
any. And she always says she's glad to see me, because she likes to have
me around. I guess it's because I'm so psychic. And having psychic people
around makes it easy for you to concentrate, doesn't it?... She's got the
queerest place, Delpha has. It makes you feel spooky at first. She's got
long black curtains hanging all around, and you can't see any windows.
And there's only one door; and when the black curtains are pulled across
it, you just feel as though you were somewhere far away with only Delpha
and the spirits that tell her things."

She looked about her and shook herself slightly.

"And then, Delpha has great big pictures of hands on the curtains, with
lots of lines on them. And funny signs, too--Delpha call