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Title:      The Kennel Murder Case (1933)
Author:     S. S. Van Dine
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Edition:    1
Language:   English
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A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title:      The Kennel Murder Case (1933)
Author:     S. S. Van Dine





TO

THE SCOTTISH TERRIER CLUB

OF AMERICA




CONTENTS

I.  The Bolted Bedroom

II.  The Dead Man

III.  A Startling Discovery

IV.  A Strange Interruption

V.  The Wounded Scottie

VI.  The Ivory-Headed Stick

VII.  The Missing Man

VIII.  The Ting Yao Vase

IX.  A Threat of Arrest

X.  "Needles and Pins"

XI.  More Bloodstains

XII.  The Chinese Chest

XIII.  The Scented Lip-stick

XIV.  Vance Experiments

XV.  The Dagger Strikes

XVI.  The Den Window

XVII.  The Six Judges

XVIII.  The Scottie's Trail

XIX.  Death and Revelations

XX.  The Startling Truth




CHARACTERS OF THE BOOK


Philo Vance

John F.-X. Markham--District Attorney of New York County.

Ernest Heath--Sergeant of the Homicide Bureau.

Archer Coe--A collector of Chinese ceramics.

Brisbane Coe--His brother.

Raymond Wrede--A dilettante and friend of the Coes.

Hilda Lake--Archer Coe's niece.

Signor Eduàrdo Grassi--An officer in the Milan Museum of Oriental
Antiquities.

Liang Tsung Wei--The Coe cook.

Gamble--The Coe butler.

Luke Enright--An importer.

Major Julius Higginbottom--Sportsman and dog breeder.

Annie Cochrane--A maid.

Hennessey--Detective of the Homicide Bureau.

Burke--Detective of the Homicide Bureau.

Snitkin--Detective of the Homicide Bureau.

Sullivan--Detective of the Homicide Bureau.

Emery--Detective of the Homicide Bureau.

Guilfoyle--Detective of the Homicide Bureau.

Captain Dubois--Finger-print expert.

Detective Bellamy--Finger-print expert.

Peter Quackenbush--Official photographer.

Doctor Emanuel Doremus--Medical Examiner.

Swacker--Secretary to the District Attorney.

Currie--Vance's valet.




THE KENNEL MURDER CASE



CHAPTER I

THE BOLTED BEDROOM


(Thursday, October 11; 8.45 a. m.)


It was exactly three months after the startling termination of the
Scarab murder case* that Philo Vance was drawn into the subtlest
and the most perplexing of all the criminal problems that came his
way during the four years of John F.-X. Markham's incumbency as
District Attorney of New York County.


* "The Scarab Murder Case" (Scribners, 1930).


Indeed, so mystifying was this case, so apparently inexplicable
were its conflicting elements, that the police were for adding it
to their list of unsolved murder mysteries.  And they would have
been justified in their decision; for rarely in the annals of
modern crime has there been a case that seemed to reverse so
completely the rational laws by which humanity lives and reasons.
In the words of the doughty and practical Sergeant Ernest Heath of
the Homicide Bureau, the case "didn't make sense."  On the surface
it smacked of strange and terrifying magic, of witch-doctors and
miracle-workers; and every line of investigation ran into a blank
wall.

In fact, the case had every outward appearance of being what
arm-chair criminologists delight in calling the perfect crime.
And, to make the plotting of the murderer even more mystifying,
a diabolical concatenation of circumstances was superimposed
upon the events by some whimsical and perverse god, which tended
to strengthen every weak link in the culprit's chain of
ratiocination, and to turn the entire bloody affair into a maze
of incomprehensibility.

Curiously enough, however, it was the very excess of ardor on the
part of the murderer when attempting to divert suspicion, that
created a minute hole in the wall of mystery, through which Vance
was able to see a glimmer of light.  In the process of following
that light to the truth, Vance did what I believe was the shrewdest
and profoundest detective work of his career.  It was his peculiar
knowledge of special and out-of-the-way facts, combined with his
almost uncanny perception of human nature, that made it possible
for him to seize upon apparently unimportant clues and resolve them
into a devastating syllogism.

Vance for years had been a breeder of Scottish terriers.  His
kennels were in New Jersey, an hour's ride from New York, and he
spent much of his time there studying pedigrees, breeding for
certain characteristics which he believed essential to the ideal
terrier, and watching the results of his theories.  Sometimes I
think he manifested a greater enthusiasm in his dogs than in any
other recreative phase of his life; and the only time I have seen
evidences of a thrill in his eyes comparable to that when he had
unearthed and acquired a magnificent Cézanne water-color or
discovered a rare piece of Chinese ceremonial jade in a mass of
opaque modern recuttings, was when one of his dogs went up to
Winners.

I mention this fact--or idiosyncrasy, if you prefer--because it so
happened that Vance's ability to look at a certain stray Scottish
terrier and recognize its blood-lines and show qualities, was what
led him to one phase of the truth in the remarkable case which I am
now recording.

That which led Vance to another important phase of the truth was
his knowledge of Chinese ceramics.  He possessed, in his home in
East 38th Street, a small but remarkable collection of Chinese
antiquities--museum pieces he had acquired in his extensive travels--
and had written various articles for Oriental and art journals on
the subject of Sung and Ming monochrome porcelains.

Scotties and Chinese ceramics!  A truly unusual combination.  And
yet, without a knowledge of these two antipodal interests, the
mysterious murder of Archer Coe, in his old brownstone house in
West 71st Street, would have remained a closed book for all time.

The opening of the case was rather tame: it promised little in the
line of sensationalism.  But within an hour of the telephone call
Markham received from the Coe butler, the District Attorney's
office and the New York Police Department were plunged into one of
the most astounding and baffling murder mysteries of our day.

It was shortly after half-past eight on the morning of October 11,
that Vance's door-bell rang; and Currie, his old English valet and
majordomo, ushered Markham into the library.  I was temporarily
installed in Vance's duplex roof-garden apartment at the time.
There was much legal and financial work to be done--an accumulation
of months, for Vance had insisted that I accompany him on the
Mediterranean cruise he took immediately after the solving of the
Scarab murder.  For years, almost since our Harvard days, I had
been Vance's legal adviser and monetary steward (a post which
included as much of friendship as of business) and his affairs kept
me fairly busy--so busy, in fact, that a two months' interregnum
meant much overtime labor afterwards.

On this particular autumn morning I had risen at seven and was
busily engaged with a mass of cancelled checks and bank statements
when Markham arrived.

"Go ahead with your chores, Van Dine," he said, with a perfunctory
nod.  "I'll rout out the sybarite myself."  He seemed a trifle
perturbed as he disappeared into Vance's bedroom, which was just
off the library.

I heard him call Vance a bit peremptorily, and I heard Vance give a
dramatic groan.

"A murder, I presume," Vance complained through a yawn.  "Nothing
less than gore would have led your footsteps to my boudoir at this
ungodly hour."

"Not a murder--" Markham began.

"Oh, I say!  What time might it be, then?"

"Eight forty-five," Markham told him.

"So early--and not a murder!"  (I could hear Vance's feet hit the
floor.)  "You interest me strangely. . . .  Your wedding morn
perhaps?"

"Archer Coe has committed suicide," Markham announced, not without
irritation.

"My word!"  Vance was now moving about.  "That's even stranger than
a murder.  I crave elucidation. . . .  Come, let's sit down while I
sip my coffee."

Markham re-entered the library, followed by Vance clad in sandals
and an elaborate Mandarin robe.  Vance rang for Currie and ordered
Turkish coffee, at the same time settling himself in a large Queen
Anne chair and lighting one of his favorite Régie cigarettes.

Markham did not sit down.  He stood near the mantelpiece, regarding
his host with narrowed, inquisitive eyes.

"What did you mean, Vance," he asked, "by Coe's suicide being
stranger than murder?"

"Nothing esoteric, old thing," Vance drawled languidly.  "Simply
that there would be nothing particularly remarkable in any one's
pushing old Archer into the Beyond.  He's been inviting violence
all his life.  Not a sweet and love-inspiring chappie, don't y'
know.  But there's something deuced remarkable in the fact that he
should push himself over the border.  He's not the suicidal type--
far too egocentric."

"I think you're right.  And that idea was probably in the back of
my head when I told the butler to hold everything till I got
there."

Currie entered with the coffee, and Vance sipped the black, cloudy
liquid for a moment.  At length he said:

"Do tell me more.  Why should you be notified at all?  And what did
the butler pour into your ear over the phone?  And why are you here
curtailing my slumbers?  Why everything?  Why anything?  Just why?
Can't you see I'm bursting with uncontrollable curiosity?"  And
Vance yawned and closed his eyes.

"I'm on my way to Coe's house."  Markham was annoyed at the other's
attitude of indifference.  "Thought maybe you'd like to--what's
your favorite word?--'toddle' along."  This was said with sarcasm.

"Toddle," Vance repeated.  "Quite.  But why toddle blindly?  Do be
magnanimous and enlighten me.  The corpse won't run away, even if
we are a bit latish."

Markham hesitated, and shrugged.  Obviously he was uneasy, and
obviously he wanted Vance to accompany him.  As he had admitted,
something was in the back of his head.

"Very well," he acquiesced.  "Shortly after eight this morning
Coe's butler--the obsequious Gamble--phoned me at my home.  He was
in a state of nerves, and his voice was husky with fear.  He
informed me, with many hems and haws, that Archer Coe had shot
himself, and asked me if I would come to the house at once.  My
first instinct was to tell him to notify the police; but, for some
reason, I checked myself and asked him why he had called me.  He
said that Mr. Raymond Wrede had so advised him--"

"Ah!"

"It seems he had first called Wrede--who, as you know, is an
intimate family friend--and that Wrede had immediately come to the
house."

"And Wrede said 'get Mr. Markham.'"  Vance drew deep on his
cigarette.  "Something dodging about in the recesses of Wrede's
brain, too, no doubt. . . .  Well, any more?"

"Only that the body was bolted in Coe's bedroom."

"Bolted on the inside?"

"Exactly."

"Amazin'!"

"Gamble brought up Coe's breakfast at eight as usual, but received
no answer to his knocking. . . ."

"So he peeped through the keyhole--yes, yes, butlers always do.
Some day, Markham, I shall, in a moment of leisure, invent a
keyhole that can't be seen through by butlers.  Have you ever
stopped to think how much of the world's disturbance is caused by
butlers being able to see through keyholes?"

"No, Vance, I never have," returned Markham wearily.  "My brain is
inadequate--I'll leave that speculation to you. . . .  Nevertheless,
because of your dalliance in the matter of inventing opaque
keyholes, Gamble saw Coe seated in his armchair, a revolver in his
hand, and a bullet wound in his right temple. . . ."

"And, I'll warrant, Gamble added that his master's face was deathly
pale--eh, what?"

"He did."

"But what about Brisbane Coe?  Why did Gamble call Wrede when
Archer's brother was in the house?"

"Brisbane Coe didn't happen to be in the house.  He's at present in
Chicago."

"Ah!  Most convenient. . . .  So when Wrede arrived he advised
Gamble to phone direct to you, knowing that you knew Coe.  Is that
it?"

"As far as I can make out."

"And you, knowing that I had visited Coe on various occasions,
thought you'd pick me up and make it a conclave of acquaintances."

"Do you want to come?" demanded Markham, with a trace of anger.

"Oh, by all means," Vance replied dulcetly.  "But, really, y' know,
I can't go in these togs."  He rose and started towards the
bedroom.  "I'll hop into appropriate integuments."  As he reached
the door he stopped.  "And I'll tell you why your invitation
enthralls me.  I had an appointment with Archer Coe for three this
afternoon to look at a pair of peach-bloom vases fourteen inches
high he had recently acquired.  And, Markham, a collector who has
just acquired a pair of peach-bloom vases of that size doesn't
commit suicide the next day."

With this remark Vance disappeared, and Markham stood, his hands
behind him, looking at the bedroom door with a deep frown.
Presently he lighted a cigar and began pacing back and forth.

"I shouldn't wonder if Vance were right," he mumbled, as if to
himself.  "He's put my subconscious thought into words."

A few minutes later Vance emerged, dressed for the street.

"Awfully thoughtful of you, and all that, to pick me up," he said,
smiling jauntily at Markham.  "There's something positively
fascinatin' about the possibilities of this affair. . . .  And by
the by, Markham, it might be convenient to have the pugnacious
Sergeant* on hand."


* Vance was referring to Sergeant Ernest Heath, of the Homicide
Bureau, who had been in charge of the various cases in which Vance
had figured.


"So it might," agreed Markham drily, putting on his hat.  "Thanks
for the suggestion.  But I've already notified him.  He's on his
way uptown now."

Vance's eyebrows went up whimsically.

"Oh, pardon! . . .  Well, let's grope our way hence."

We entered Markham's car, which was waiting outside, and were
driven rapidly up Madison Avenue.  We cut through Central Park to
the West Side, came out at the 72nd-Street entrance, and went for a
block against traffic on Central Park West.  Turning into 71st
Street, we drew up at No. 98.

The Coe house was an old brownstone mansion of double frontage
occupying two city lots, built in a day when dignity and comfort
were among the ideals of New York architects.  The house was
uniform with the other residences in the block, with the exception
that most of the houses were single structures with only a twenty-
foot frontage.  The basements were three or four feet below the
street level and opened on a sunken, paved areaway.  Flights of
stone stairs, with wide stone balustrades, led to the first floors,
each house being entered through a conventional vestibule.

As we ascended the steps of the Coe house the door was opened for
us before we had time to pull the old-fashioned brass bell-knob;
and the flushed face of Gamble looked out at us cringingly.  The
butler made a series of suave bows as he pulled the heavy oak door
ajar for us to enter.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Markham."  His voice reeked of oily
subservience.  "It's very terrible, sir.  And I really didn't know
just what I should do--"

Markham brushed the man aside and we stepped into the dimly lighted
hallway.  A heavy deep-napped carpet covered the entire hall, and
several dingy oil paintings made enormous black squares against the
dark tapestry on the walls.  Ahead of us a broad flight of carpeted
stairs led upward into a vault of darkness.  On the right hung a
pair of deep maroon portières evidently veiling double sliding
doors.  To the left were other portières; but these were drawn
back, and we could look through the open doors into a stuffy
drawing-room, filled with all manner of heavy ancient furniture.

Two men came forward from this room to greet us.  The one in
advance I recognized immediately as Raymond Wrede.  I had met him
several times at the Coe home when I had accompanied Vance there to
inspect some particular "find" in Chinese pottery or bronzes, which
Archer Coe had made.  Wrede, I knew, was a close friend of the Coe
family, and particularly of Hilda Lake, Archer Coe's niece.  He was
a studious man in his late thirties, slightly gray, with an
ascetic, calm face of the chevaline type.  He was mildly interested
in Oriental ceramics--probably as a result of his long association
with Coe--though his particular fancy was ancient oil lamps; and he
owned a collection of rare specimens for which (I have been told)
the Metropolitan Museum of Art had offered him a small fortune.

As he greeted us this morning, there was a look bordering on
bewilderment in his wide-set, gray eyes.

He bowed formally to Markham, whom he knew slightly; nodded
perfunctorily to me; and extended his hand to Vance.  Then, as if
suddenly remembering something, he turned toward the man behind
him, and made a brief presentation, which in reality was an
explanation.

"Signor Grassi.*. . .  Mr. Grassi has been a house guest of Mr.
Coe's for several days.   He represents an Italian museum of
Oriental antiquities at Milan."


* I learned later that Grassi claimed some family connection with
the famous Italian doctor who, with Bastianelli, furthered the
researches of Ronald Ross and proved that the Anopheles--a genus of
mosquito--is the only insect that carries the malaria germ, and the
sole method of transmission of this disease.


Grassi bowed very low, but said nothing.  He was considerably
shorter than Wrede, slim, immaculately dressed, with shiny black
hair brushed straight back from his forehead, and a complexion
whose unusual pallor was accentuated by large luminous eyes.  His
features were regular, and his lips full and shapely.  His
manicured hands moved with an almost feline grace.  My first
impression was that he was effeminate, but before many days had
passed I radically changed my opinion.

Markham wasted no time on ceremony.  He turned abruptly to Gamble.

"Just what is the situation?  A police sergeant and the Medical
Examiner will be here any moment."

"Only what I told you on the telephone, sir."  The man, beneath his
obsequious manner, was patently frightened.  "When I saw the master
through the keyhole I knew he was dead--it was quite unnerving, sir--
and my first impulse was to break in the door.  But I thought it
best to seek advice before taking such a responsibility.  And, as
Mr. Brisbane Coe was in Chicago, I phoned to Mr. Wrede and begged
him to come over immediately.  Mr. Wrede was good enough to come,
and after looking at the master he suggested that I call you, sir,
before doing anything else--"

"It was obvious"--Wrede took up the story--"that poor Coe was dead,
and I thought it best to leave everything intact for the
authorities.  I didn't want to insist on having the door broken
in."

Vance was watching the man closely.

"But what harm could that have done?" he asked mildly.  "Since the
door was bolted on the inside, suicide was rather plainly indicated--
eh, what?"

"Perhaps you are right, Mr. Vance."  Wrede appeared ill at ease.
"But--somehow--my instinct told me that it might be best--"

"Quite--quite."  Vance took out his cigarette-case.  "You, too,
were sceptical--despite the appearances."

Wrede gave a start, and stared fixedly at Vance.

"Coe," Vance continued, "wasn't exactly the suicidal type--was he?"

"No-o."  Wrede's eyes did not shift.

Vance lighted a cigarette.

"My own feeling is you acted quite wisely."

"Come!"  Markham turned toward the stairs and made a peremptory
gesture to Gamble.  "Lead the way."

The butler turned and mounted the stairs.  Markham, Vance and I
followed, but Wrede and Grassi remained below.  At the head of the
stairs Gamble fumbled along the wall and pressed an electric switch-
button.  A light flooded the upper hallway.  Directly ahead of us
was a wide door, ivory enamelled.  Gamble stood by the switch and,
without a word, indicated the door.

Markham came forward, tried the knob, and shook it.  Then he knelt
down and looked through the keyhole.  When he rose his face was
grim.

"It looks as if our suspicions were unfounded," he said in a low
voice.  "Coe is sitting in his chair, a black hole in his right
temple, and his hand is still clutching a revolver.  The electric
lights are on. . . .  Look, Vance."

Vance was gazing at an etching on the wall at the head of the
stairs.

"I'll take your word for it, Markham," he drawled.  "Really, y'
know, it doesn't sound like a pretty sight.  And I'll see it
infinitely better when we've forced an entry. . . .  I say!  Here's
an early Marin.  Rather sensitive.  Same feeling for delicate
composition we find in his later water-colors. . . ."

At this moment the front door bell rang violently, and Gamble
hastened down the stairs.  As he drew the door back, Sergeant
Ernest Heath and Detective Hennessey burst into the lower hallway.

"This way, Sergeant," Markham called.

Heath and Hennessey came noisily up the stairs.

"Good morning, sir."  The Sergeant waved a friendly hand to
Markham.  Then he cocked an eye at Vance.  "I mighta known you'd be
here.  The world's champeen trouble-shooter!"  He grinned good-
naturedly, and there was genuine affection in his tone.

"Come, Sergeant," Markham ordered.  "There's a dead man in this
room, and the door's bolted on the inside.  Break it open."

Heath, without a word, hurled himself against the crosspiece of the
door just above the knob, but without result.  A second time his
shoulder crashed against the crosspiece.

"Give me a hand, Hennessey," he said.  "That's a bolt--no foolin'.
Hard wood."

The two men threw their combined weight against the door, and now
there was a sound of tearing wood as the bolt's screws were
loosened.

During the process of battering in the door, Wrede and Grassi
mounted the stairs, followed by Gamble, and stood directly behind
Markham and Vance.

Two more terrific thrusts by Heath and Hennessey, and the heavy
door swung inward, revealing the death chamber.



CHAPTER II

THE DEAD MAN


(Thursday, October 11; 9.15 a. m.)


The room, which was at the extreme rear of the house, was long and
narrow, with windows on two sides.  There was a bay window opposite
the door, and a wide double window at the left, facing east.  The
dark green shades were all drawn, excluding the daylight.  But the
room was brilliantly lighted by an enormous crystal chandelier in
the centre of the ceiling.

At the rear of the room stood an enormous canopied bed, which, I
noticed, had not been slept in.  The covers were turned back with
meticulous precision.  The bedroom, like the drawing-room,
contained far too much furniture.  On the right was a large embayed
book-case filled with octavo and quarto volumes, and, facing the
door was a mahogany kidney-shaped desk covered with books,
pamphlets and papers--the desk of a man who spends many hours at
literary labor.  To the left of this desk, in the east wall, was a
large fireplace with an Empire mantel of bronze and Venetian
marble, supported by two ugly caryatides.  Gas logs were in the
grate.  About the walls hung at least a dozen Chinese scroll
paintings.  Had there not been a bed and a dressing-table in the
room, one would have taken it for a collector's sanctum.

These details of the room, however, protruded themselves upon us
later.  What first focused our attention was the inert body of
Archer Coe, with its quiet pallid face and the black grisly spot on
the right temple.  The body was slumped down in a velour
upholstered armchair beside the desk.  The head seemed to lie
almost on the left shoulder, as if the impact of the bullet had
forced it into an unnatural angle.

There was an expression of peace on the thin aquiline features of
the dead man; and his eyes were closed as though in sleep.  His
right hand--the one nearest the fireplace--lay on the end of the
desk clutching a carved, ivory-inlaid revolver of fairly large
calibre.  His left hand hung at his side over the tufted arm of the
chair.

There was a straight Windsor chair behind the desk, and I could not
help wondering why Coe had selected the armchair at the side of the
desk, facing the door.  Was it because he had considered it more
comfortable for his last resting place in this life?  The answer to
this passing speculation of mine did not come for many hours; and
when it did come, as a result of Vance's deductions, it constituted
one of the vital links in the evidential chain of this strange and
perplexing case.

Coe's body was clothed in a green silk-wool dressing-gown which
came nearly to his ankles; but on his feet, which were extended
straight in front of him, was a pair of high, heavy street shoes,
laced and tied.  Again a question flashed through my mind:  Why did
Coe not wear bedroom slippers with his dressing-gown?  The answer
to this question also was to prove a vital point in the solution of
the tragedy.

Vance went immediately to the body, touched the dead man's hand,
and bent forward over the wound in the forehead.  Then he walked
back to the door with its hanging bolt, scrutinized it for a
moment, ran his eye around the heavy oak framework and lintel, and
turned slowly back to the room.  A frown wrinkled his brow.  Very
deliberately he reached in his pocket and took out another
cigarette.  When he had lighted it, he strolled to the west wall of
the room and stood gazing at a faded ninth-century Chinese painting
of Ucchushma.*


* Ucchushma was "the Killer of Demons," and many pictures of him
are in existence.  Perhaps the best is in the British Museum.


In the meantime the rest of us had pressed round the body of Coe,
and stood inspecting it in silence.  Wrede and Grassi seemed
appalled in the actual presence of death.  Wrede spoke to Markham.

"I trust I did right in advising Gamble to call you before breaking
in the door.  I realize now that if there had remained a spark of
life--"

"Oh, he was quite dead hours ago," Vance interrupted, without
turning from the painting.  "Your decision has worked out
perfectly."

Markham swung about.

"What do you mean by that, Vance?"

"Merely that, if the door had been broken in, and the room overrun
with solicitous friends, and the body handled for signs of life,
and all the locked-in evidence probably destroyed, we would have
had a deuced difficult time arrivin' at any sensible solution of
what really went on here last night."

"Well, it's pretty plain to me what went on here last night."  It
was Heath who projected himself, a bit belligerently, into the
talk.  "This guy locked himself in, and blew his brains out.  And
even you, Mr. Vance, can't make anything original outa that."

Vance turned slowly and shook his head.

"Tut, tut, Sergeant," he said pleasantly.  "It's not I who am going
to spoil your simple and beautiful theory."

"No?"  Heath was still belligerent.  "Then who is?"

"The corpse," answered Vance mildly.

Before Heath could reply, Markham, who had been watching Vance
closely, turned quickly to Wrede and Grassi.

"I will ask you gentlemen to wait downstairs. . . .  Hennessey,
please go to the drawing-room and see that these gentlemen do not
leave it until I give them permission. . . .  You understand," he
added to Wrede and Grassi, "that it will be necessary to question
you about this affair after we have had the verdict of the Medical
Examiner."

Wrede showed his resentment at Markham's peremptory manner; but
Grassi, with a polite smile, merely bowed; and the two, followed by
Hennessey, passed out of the room and down the stairs.

"And you," said Markham to Gamble, "wait at the front door and
bring Doctor Doremus here the moment he arrives."

Gamble shot a haunted look at the body, and went out.

Markham closed the door, and then wheeled about, facing Vance, who
now stood behind Coe's desk gazing down moodily at the dead man's
hand clutching the revolver.

"What's the meaning of all these mysterious innuendos?" he demanded
testily.

"Not innuendos, Markham," Vance returned quietly, keeping his eyes
on Coe's hand.  "Merely speculations.  I'm rather interested in
certain aspects of this fascinatin' crime."

"Crime?"  Markham gave a mirthless smile.  "It was all very well
for us to theorize before we got here--and I was inclined to agree
with you that suicide seemed incompatible with Coe's temperament--
but facts, after all, form the only reasonable basis for a
decision.  And the facts here seem pretty clean-cut.  That door was
bolted on the inside; there's no other means of entrance or exit to
this room; Coe is sitting here with the lethal weapon--"

"Oh, call it a revolver," interrupted Vance.  "Silly phrase,
'lethal weapon.'"

Markham snorted.

"Very well. . . .  With a revolver in his hand, and a hole in his
right temple.  There are no signs of a struggle; the windows and
shades are down, and the lights burning. . . .  How, in Heaven's
name, could it have been anything but suicide?"

"I'm sure I don't know."  Vance shrugged wearily.  "But it wasn't
suicide--really, don't y' know."  He frowned again.  "And that's
the weird part of it.  Y' see, Markham, it should have been suicide--
and it wasn't.  There's something diabolical--and humorous--about
this case.  Humorous in a grim, satirical sense.  Some one
miscalculated somewhere--the murderer was sitting in a game with
the cards stacked against him. . . .  Positively amazin'!"

"But the facts," protested Markham.

"Oh, your facts are quite correct.  As you lawyers say, they're
irresistible.  But you have overlooked additional facts."

"For instance?"

"Regard yon bedroom slippers."  Vance pointed to the foot of the
bed where a pair of soft red Mephisto slippers were neatly
arranged.  "And then regard these heavy blucher boots which the
corpse is wearing.  And yet he has on his dressing-gown, and is
sitting in his easy chair.  A bit incongruous, what?  Why did the
hedonistic and luxury-loving Coe not change his footwear to
something more relaxing for this great moment in his life.  And
note that haste was not a factor.  His robe--an execrable color, by
the by--is neatly buttoned; and the girdle is tied in an admirable
bow-knot.  We can hardly assume that he suddenly decided on suicide
half-way through his changing from street clothes to negligée.  And
yet, Markham, something must have stopped him--something must have
compelled him to sit down, stretch his legs out, and close his eyes
before he had finished the operation of making himself sartorially
comfortable."

"Your reasoning is not altogether convincing," Markham countered.
"A man might conceivably wear heavy shoes with a dressing-gown."

"Perhaps."  Vance nodded.  "I sha'n't be narrow-minded in these
matters.  But, assuming Coe is a suicide, why should he have chosen
this chair facing the door?  A man bent on doing a workmanlike job
of shooting himself would instinctively sit up straight, where he
could perhaps brace his arms and steady his hand.  If he were going
to sit by the desk at all he would, I think, have chosen the
straight chair where he could rest both elbows on the top and thus
insure a steady, accurate aim."

"His arm is on the end of the desk," put in Heath.

"Oh, quite--and in a rather awkward position--eh, what?  Considering
how low the easy chair is, Coe could not possibly have had his elbow
on the desk when he pulled the trigger.  If so, the shot would have
gone over his head.  His arm was necessarily lower than the desk
when the gun was fired--IF HE FIRED IT.  Therefore, we must assume
that after the bullet had entered his brain, he lifted his right arm
to the desk and arranged it neatly in its present position."

"Maybe yes and maybe no," muttered Heath, after a pause during
which he studied the body and raised his own right hand to his
forehead.  Then he added aggressively:  "But you can't get away
from that bolted door."

Vance sighed.

"I wish I could get away from it.  It bothers me horribly.  If it
wasn't for the fact that the door was bolted on the inside, I'd be
more inclined to agree that it was suicide."

"What's that!"  Markham looked at Vance in amazement.  "Now you're
talking in paradoxes."

"Oh, no."  Vance shook his head slightly.  "A man of Coe's
intelligence wouldn't plan suicide and then deliberately make it
difficult for any one to reach his body.  What could he have gained
by securely bolting the door on the inside so that it would have to
be broken in?  The act of shooting would have been over in a
second; and there was no danger of his being disturbed in his own
bedroom.  Had he killed himself he would have wanted Gamble--or
some one else--to find him at the earliest possible moment.  He
would certainly not have placed deliberate difficulties in their
way."

"But," argued Markham, "your very theory contradicts itself.  Who
but Coe could have bolted the door on the inside?"

"No one, apparently," answered Vance with a dispirited sigh.  "And
that's what makes the affair so dashed appealin'.  The situation
reads thus:  A man is murdered; then he rises and bolts the door
after the slayer has departed; and later he arranges himself in an
easy chair so as to make it appear like suicide."

"That's a swell theory!" grunted Heath disgustedly.  "Anyway, we'll
know more about it when Doc Doremus gets here.  And my bet is he's
going to wash the whole case up by calling it suicide."

"And my bet is, Sergeant," Vance replied mildly, "that he's going
to do nothing of the sort.  I have an irresistible feelin' that
Doctor Doremus will inform us that it is NOT suicide."

Heath screwed his face into a questioning frown and studied Vance.
Then he snorted.

"Well, we'll see," he mumbled.

Vance paid scant attention.  His eyes were moving over the desk.
At one side of the blotter lay a quarto volume of "Li Tai Ming Ts'u
T'ou P'u," by Hsiang Yuan-p'ien.*  A pair of gold library shears
were inserted between the pages, and Vance opened the book at this
point, revealing a large colored plate of an amphora-shaped P'in
Kuo Hung vase of a slightly neutralized red glaze shading into a
liver color, and broken by patches of olive green and spots of
russet brown.


* "An Illustrated Description of the Celebrated Wares of Different
Dynasties."  (Dr. S. W. Bushell has made translations of this great
work in his famous book on Chinese ceramics.)


"You see, Markham," he said, "Coe was apparently dreaming of his
latest acquisition in peach-bloom shortly before he departed this
life.  And it is rather safe to assume that a man contemplating
suicide does not indulge his acquisitiveness and investigate the
history of his ceramic wares just before sending a bullet into his
brain."

Markham waited without answering.

"And here's something else rather significant."  Vance pointed to a
small pile of blank note paper in the middle of the blotter.  "This
paper is lying a little on the bias, in the position that a right-
handed man would place it if he contemplated writing on it.  And,
also, note that at the head of the first page is yesterday's date--
Wednesday, October 10--"

"Ain't that natural?" put in Heath.  "All these birds who commit
suicide write letters first."

"But, Sergeant," smiled Vance, "the letter isn't written.  Coe got
no farther than the date."

"Can't a guy change his mind?" Heath persisted.

Vance nodded.

"Oh, quite.  But, in that case, the pen would, in all probability,
be in the holder set.  And you will observe that the pen container
is empty, and that there is no pen visible on the desk."

"Maybe it's in his pocket."

"Maybe."  Vance stepped back and, bending over, ran his gaze over
the floor round the desk.  Then he knelt down and looked under the
desk.  Presently he reached out his arm and, from beneath the right-
hand tier of drawers, drew forth a fountain-pen.  Rising, he held
the pen out.

"Coe dropped the pen, and it rolled under the desk."  He placed it
beside the note paper.  "Men don't ordinarily drop fountain-pens in
the middle of writing something and then fail to pick them up."

Heath glowered in silence, and Markham asked:

"You think Coe was interrupted in the midst of writing something?"

"Interrupted? . . .  In a way perhaps."  Vance himself seemed
puzzled.  "Still there are no signs of a struggle, and he is
reclining in an easy chair at the end of the desk.  Furthermore,
his features are quite serene; his eyes are closed peacefully--and
the door was bolted on the inside. . . .  Very strange, Markham."

He walked to the shaded window and back, smoking leisurely.
Suddenly he stopped and lifted his head, looking Markham straight
in the eyes.

"Interrupted--yes!  That's it!  But not by any outside agency--not
by an intruder.  He was interrupted by something more subtle--more
deadly.  He was interrupted WHILE HE WAS ALONE.  Something happened--
something sinister intruded--and he stopped writing, dropped the
pen, forgot it, rose, and seated himself in that easy chair.  Then
came the end, swift and unexpected--BEFORE HE COULD CHANGE HIS
SHOES. . . .  Don't you see?  Those shoes are another indication of
that terrible interruption."

"And the gun?" asked Heath contemptuously.

"I doubt if Coe even saw the gun, Sergeant."



CHAPTER III

A STARTLING DISCOVERY


(Thursday, October 11; 9.30 a. m.)


At this moment the front door downstairs opened and shut with a
bang, and we could hear a rather strident feminine voice address
the butler.

"Morning, Gamble.  Take my clubs and tell Liang to rustle me up
some tea and muffins."

Then there came a sound of footsteps on the stairs, and Gamble's
appealing voice said:

"But, Miss Lake, I beg of you--just a moment, please."

"Tea and muffins," came Miss Lake's voice curtly; and the footsteps
continued up the stairs.

Markham and Heath and I stepped toward the door just as the young
woman reached the upper landing.

Miss Hilda Lake was a short, somewhat stockily built woman of about
thirty, strong, resilient and athletic-looking.  Her blue-gray eyes
were steady and, I thought, a trifle hard; her nose was small and
too broad for beauty; and her lips were full though unemotional.
Her yellow-brown hair was cut short and combed straight back from a
broad, low forehead.  A soft felt hat was tucked under her arm.
She wore a tweed suit and heavy tan oxfords with rubber soles.  A
white shirtwaist with a green four-in-hand added a final touch of
mannishness to her appearance.

As she reached the head of the stairs and saw Markham, she came
forward with a swinging stride and held out her hand.

"Greetings," she said.  "What brings you here so early?  Business
with uncle, I suppose."  She ran her eyes appraisingly over Heath
and me as she spoke, and frowned.  Then before Markham could answer
she added:  "Anything wrong?"

"Something seriously wrong, Miss Lake," Markham replied, trying to
bar her way into the room.  "If you will be so good as to wait--"

But the young woman, with an aggressive gesture, brushed past us
and entered the room.  The moment she caught sight of Archer Coe
she went swiftly to him and knelt down, putting her arm about him.

"Hey!  Don't touch that body!"  Heath stepped quickly up to her and
put his hand on her shoulder none too gently, pulling her to her
feet.

She swung toward him angrily, both hands sunk deep into the outer
pockets of her tweed jacket, and stood glowering at him, her feet
wide apart.

Markham stepped diplomatically into the breach.

"Nothing must be touched, Miss Lake," he explained, "until the
Medical Examiner arrives."

She regarded Markham calculatingly.

"Is it also against the law to tell me what's happened?" she asked.

"We know little more than you do," Markham returned mildly.  "We
have just arrived, and we found your uncle's body exactly as you
see it."

She turned, without taking her hands from her pockets, and
contemplated the inert figure in the armchair.

"Well, what do you THINK has happened?"  She put the question in a
hard, even tone.

"There is every appearance of suicide. . . ."

"Suicide?"  She turned back to Markham coldly.  "I wouldn't call it
that."

Vance, who had been standing at the rear of the room near the bed,
came forward.

"Neither would I, Miss Lake," he said.

She moved her head slightly and lifted her eyebrows.

"Ah!  Good morning, Mr. Vance.  In the excitement of the moment I
didn't see you. . . .  You are quite right--it's not suicide."  Her
eyes narrowed.  "It's been a long time since you called.  Ceramics
and corpses would seem to be the only attractions this house holds
for you."  (I thought I detected a note of resentment in her
voice.)

Vance ignored the unfriendly criticism.

"Why do you repudiate the suicide theory?" he asked with pronounced
courtesy.

"Very simple," she replied.  "Uncle was too great an egotist to
deprive the world of his presence."

"But egotism," Vance submitted, "is often the cause of suicide.
Boredom, don't y' know--the inability to find a responsive
appreciation.  Suicide gives the egotist his one supreme moment of
triumph."  Vance spoke with academic aloofness.

"Uncle Archer needed no supreme moments," Hilda Lake returned
contemptuously.  "He had such moments every time he acquired a
Chinese knick-knack.  An utterly worthless piece of soft Chün
porcelain in a silk nest, which was of no use to any human being,
gave him a greater thrill than I would get out of beating Bobby
Jones."

"And of just what use would THAT achievement be to any human
being?" smiled Vance.

"Oh, I know how you feel about ancient pottery," she returned good-
naturedly.  "And, anyway, I wasn't trying to be erudite--I was
merely indulging in analogies by way of explaining why I don't
think uncle killed himself."

"Forgive me."  Vance bowed.  "You are unquestionably right.  But
neither Mr. Markham nor Sergeant Heath agrees with us.  They are
quite ready to dismiss the case as suicide."

She looked from Markham to Heath with a hard, cold smile.

"And why not?" she asked.  "It would be so easy--and would save a
lot of bally scandal."

Markham was piqued by the woman's attitude.

"Who, Miss Lake," he asked in his typical courtroom manner, "would
have any reason for desiring your uncle's death?"

"I, for one," she answered unhesitatingly, looking Markham straight
in the eye.  "He irritated me beyond words.  There was no sympathy
between us.  He stood in the way of everything I wanted to do; and
he was able to make life pretty miserable for me because he held
the purse-strings.  A nice cold arctic day it was for me when he
was appointed my guardian and I was made dependent on him."  (Her
voice became bitter.  There was a clouded angry look in her eyes,
and her square jaw was set slightly forward.)  "His death at any
time these past ten years would have been a godsend to me.  Now
that he's out of the way I'll get my patrimony and be able to do
what I want to do without interference."

Markham and Heath regarded her in amazed indignation.  There was
something icily venomous in her manner--a calculating hatred more
potent and devastating even than her words.  It was Vance's languid
and indifferent voice that broke the momentary silence that
followed her tirade.

"My word!  Really, y' know, Miss Lake, you're dashed refreshin' in
your frankness. . . .  Are we to accept your comments as a
confession of murder?"

"Not at present," was the even reply.  "But if the authorities are
set on calling it suicide, I may come forward later and claim the
credit for his demise--by way of upholding the honor of the family.
You see, I regard a good healthy justifiable murder in higher
esteem than a paltry suicide."

The blood was mounting to Markham's cheeks: he was becoming angry
at Hilda Lake's apparent flippancy.

"This is scarcely the time for jesting," he reproved her.

"Oh, of course."  She looked at him with chilly eyes.  "It's the
perfect occasion for solemnity. . . .  Well, I was never partial to
emulating the owl.  However, I'll do my best in the circumstances."

Markham regarded her sternly, but her fixed gaze did not waver.

"Who besides yourself," he asked, trying to control his feelings,
"would have had reason to murder your uncle?"

The woman looked up at the ceiling with meditative shrewdness and
sat down on the edge of the desk.

"Any number of persons."  She spoke indifferently.  "De mortuis--
and all that kind of rot--but, after all, the fact that Uncle
Archer is dead doesn't make him any more admirable.  And there are
several people who would prefer him dead to alive."

Heath had stood solemnly by during this astonishing conversation,
puffing at a long black cigar and studying the woman with puzzled
belligerence.  At this point he spoke sourly.

"If you think your uncle was such a wash-out and you were so glad
to find he'd been croaked, why did you run over to him and kneel
down, and pretend to be worried?"

Hilda Lake gave the Sergeant a withering, yet whimsical, look.

"My dear Mr. Policeman, I simply wanted to make sure he was dead."

Markham stepped forward.

"You're a brutally unfeeling woman, Miss Lake," he said through set
jaws.

Vance proffered her his cigarette-case.

"Won't you have a Régie?" he asked.

"No, thanks."  She was now looking down at Archer Coe's body.  "I
rarely smoke.  Bad for the wind--upsets the nerves. . . .  Yes,"
she mused, as if reverting to her conversation with Markham, "there
won't be any great mourning at dear uncle's passing."

Markham returned to the point.

"Would you care to name any one in particular who might be pleased
with Mr. Coe's death?"

"That wouldn't be cricket," she returned.  "But I'll say this much:
there are several Chinese gentlemen whom uncle has swindled and
tricked out of rare treasures, who will be delighted to learn that
his collecting days are over.  And you probably know yourself, Mr.
Markham, that there were many unpleasant rumors after uncle's
return from China last year--gossip about his desecrating
graveyards and removing funerary urns and figures.  He received
several threatening letters."

Markham nodded.

"Yes, I remember.  He showed me one or two of them. . . .  Do you
seriously believe an outraged Oriental killed him?"

"Certainly not.  The Chinese have more sense than to kill any one
for a piece of bric-à-brac."

Vance yawned and strolled between Hilda Lake and Markham.  Again he
held out his cigarette-case.

"Oh, do have a cigarette," he pleaded.  "Sometimes they quiet the
nerves, don't y' know."

The woman looked up at him and gave a hard, questioning smile.
Then, after a moment's hesitation she took one of his Régies, and
he lighted it for her.

"What do YOU think of this affair, Mr. Vance?" she asked casually.

"Dashed if I know."  He spoke lightly.  "Your suggestion of a
Chinaman is most fascinatin'.  I wonder if there are any objets
d'art missing from the house."

"I wouldn't be surprised."  She blew a long ribbon of smoke toward
the ceiling.  "Personally, I hope they're all gone.  I'd infinitely
prefer Wedgwood and Willow ware."

Markham again took the floor.

"I'm afraid we're all talking a bit dramatically. . . .  If your
uncle's death was not suicide, Miss Lake, how do you account for
the fact that the door of this room was bolted on the inside?"

Hilda Lake rose to her feet, a puzzled look on her face.

"Bolted on the inside?" she repeated, turning toward the door.
"Ah!  So you had to break in!"  She stood still for several moments
looking at the hanging bolt.  "That's different."

"In just what way?" asked Vance.

"Maybe, after all, it was suicide!"

A bell sounded downstairs, and we could hear Gamble opening the
front door.

Markham stepped quickly to Hilda Lake's side, and put his hand on
her arm.

"The Medical Examiner is probably coming.  Will you be so good as
to go to your room and wait there?"

"Right-o."  She strode to the door, her hands still in her pockets.
Before she went out she turned.  "But please send Gamble up with my
tea and muffins.  I'm positively starving."

A minute later Doctor Emanuel Doremus was ushered into the room.
He was a wiry, nervous man, cynical, hard-bitten, and with a jaunty
manner.  He wore a brown top-coat, and a derby set far back on his
head.  He resembled a stock salesman far more than he did a doctor.

He greeted us with a wave of the hand, and glanced about the room.
Then he teetered back and forth on his toes, and pinned a baleful
eye on Heath.

"More shenanigan," he complained.  "I was in the midst of hot-cakes
and sausages when I got your message.  You always pick on me at
meal-time, Sergeant. . . .  Well, what have you got for me now?"

Heath grinned and jerked his thumb toward Coe's body.  He was used
to the Medical Examiner's grousing.

Doremus turned his head and let his indifferent eyes rest on the
dead man for several moments.

"The door was bolted on the inside, doctor," Markham volunteered.
"We had to break it in."

Doremus drew a deep sigh and turned back to Heath with a grunt of
disgust.

"Well, what about it?" he asked impatiently.  "Couldn't you have
let me finish my breakfast?  All you needed was an order to remove
the body."  He reached in his pocket and drew out a small pad of
printed blanks.  "If you'd have given me the low-down, I'd have
sent an assistant."  His voice had become peevish.

"Mr. Markham told me to call you personally, doc," Heath explained.
"It ain't MY funeral."

Doremus, holding his fountain-pen poised, cocked an eye at Markham.

"Straight case of suicide," he announced breezily.  "Nothing to
worry about.  I'll give you the approximate time of death, if you
want it.  And the routine autopsy. . . ."

Vance was lighting another cigarette leisurely.

"I say, doctor," he asked languidly; "would it be unprofessional if
you looked at the body?"

Doremus spun round.

"I'm going to look at the body," he snapped.  "I'm going to dissect
it--I'm going to give it a post mortem.  What more do you want?"

"Just why, doctor," pursued Vance, "do you jump at the conclusion
that it's suicide?"

Doremus sighed impatiently.

"The gun's in his hand; the bullet wound is in the right place; and
I know a dead man when I see one.  Furthermore, the door--"

"Was bolted on the inside," Vance finished.  "Oh, quite.  But what
about the body?"

"Well, what about it?"  Doremus began filling in the order.
"There's the body--look at it yourself."

"I have looked at it, don't y' know."

"You see, doc," Heath explained, with a grin of satisfaction, "Mr.
Vance and I made a bet.  I said you'd say suicide; and he said
you'd say murder."

"I'm a doctor, not a detective," Doremus returned acidly.  "The
guy's dead, with a bullet hole in his right temple.  He's holding a
gun in his right hand.  It's just the kind of wound that could have
been self-inflicted.  His position is natural--and the door was
locked on the inside.  The rest of it is up to you fellows in the
Homicide Bureau.  If the bullet from the gun don't fit, the
autopsy'll show it.  You'll get all the data tomorrow.  Then you
can draw your own conclusions."

Vance had sat down in a chair near the west wall and was smoking
placidly.

"Would you mind, doctor, taking a close look at that bullet hole
before you return to your hot-cakes and sausages?  And you might
also scrutinize the dead man's mouth."

Doremus stared at Vance a moment; then he approached Archer Coe's
body and bent over it.  He inspected the wound carefully, and I saw
his eyebrows go up.  He lifted the hair from the left temple, and
there was visible to all of us a dark bruised indentation on the
scalp along the hair line.  Doremus touched it with delicate
fingers, and for the first time I got a distinct impression of the
man's professional competency.  Then he lifted Coe's upper lip
slightly, and seemed to inspect his teeth, which appeared blood-
stained from where I stood.  After a close inspection of the dead
man's mouth, he again focused his attention on the bullet wound in
the right temple.

Presently he stood up straight, pushed his derby even farther back
on his head, and fixed a calculating gaze on Vance.

"What's in your mind?" he asked truculently.

"Nothing at all--the brain's a mere vacuum."  Vance took his
cigarette from his lips and yawned.  "Did you find anything
illuminatin'?"

Doremus nodded, his eyes still on Vance.

"Yeah.  Plenty!"

"Oh, really, now?"  Vance smiled ingratiatingly.  "And you still
think it's suicide?"

Doremus crammed his hands into his pockets and made a wry face.

"Hell, no! . . .  There's something queer here--something damned
queer."  His eyes shifted to Coe's body.  "There's blood in his
mouth, and he's got a slight fracture of the skull on the left
frontal.  He's had a dirty blow by a blunt instrument of some
kind. . . .  Damned queer!"

Markham, his eyes mere slits, came forward.

"What about that bullet wound in his right temple?"

Doremus looked up, took one hand from his pocket, and pointed
toward the dead man's head.

"Mr. Markham," he said with precise solemnity, "that baby had been
dead for hours when that bullet entered his head!"



CHAPTER IV

A STRANGE INTERRUPTION


(Thursday, October 11; 10 a. m.)


The only person in the room who was not staggered by this
unexpected announcement was Vance.  Heath stood staring at the
corpse as if he almost expected it to rise.  Markham slowly took
his cigar from his mouth and looked vaguely back and forth between
Doremus and Vance.  As for myself, I must admit that a cold chill
ran up my spine.  The sight of a dead man sitting with a revolver
in his hand and a bullet wound in his temple, coupled with the
knowledge that the bullet had been fired into him after death,
affected me like a piece of African sorcery.  Its unreality and
unnaturalness aroused in me those obscure primordial fears that are
hidden deep in even the most civilized organisms.

Vance, as I say, was unaffected.  He merely nodded his head
slightly and lighted another cigarette with steady fingers.

"Interestin' situation--eh, what?" he murmured.  "Really, Markham,
a man doesn't ordinarily shoot himself after death. . . .  I fear
you simply must eliminate the suicide theory."

Markham frowned deeply.

"But the bolted door--"

"A dead man doesn't ordinarily bolt doors either," Vance returned.

Markham turned, with slightly dazed eyes, to Doremus.

"Can you determine what killed him, doctor?"

"If given time."  Doremus had become sullen: he did not like the
turn of events.

"I say, doctor," drawled Vance, "what's the state of rigor mortis
in our victim?"

"It's well advanced."  Doremus, as if to verify his statement,
again leaned over Coe's body and, after attempting to move the
head, grasped the arm hanging over the chair and then kicked Coe's
outstretched feet.  "Yep, well advanced.  Dead eight to twelve
hours."

"Can't you come closer than that?" asked Heath sourly.

"Give me a chance."  The Medical Examiner was irritable.  "I'm
going to take a closer look at this guy before I go. . . .  Lend me
a hand, Sergeant, and we'll put him on the bed. . . ."

"Just a moment, doctor."  Vance spoke peremptorily.  "Take a look
at the hand on the desk.  Is it clutching the revolver tightly?"

Doremus shot the other an angry look, hesitated, and then, bending
over Coe's hand, fumbled with the dead man's fingers.

"He's clutching the gun tight, all right."  With difficulty he bent
Coe's fingers and removed the revolver, taking great care not to
make finger-prints on it.

Heath came forward and gingerly inspected the weapon.  Then he
wrapped it in a large pocket handkerchief, and placed it on the
blotter.

"And, doctor," pursued Vance, "was Coe's finger pressed directly
against the trigger?"

"Yep," was Doremus's curt answer.

"Then we may assume that the revolver was placed in Coe's hand
before rigor mortis set in, what?"

"Assume anything you like!"

Markham's diplomacy again came to the fore.

"We can't assume anything without help from you, doctor," he said
graciously.  "The point Mr. Vance raises may prove an important
one.  We'd like your opinion."

Doremus partly curbed his irritation.

"Well, I'll tell you.  He"--pointing to Coe's body--"may have had
the gun in his hand when he died.  I wasn't present, y' understand.
And if the gun was already in his hand, then nobody put it there
later."

"In that case how could it have been fired?"

"It couldn't.  But how do YOU know it was fired?  There's no way of
telling until the post mortem whether the bullet in his head came
from the gun he was holding."

"Do the calibre of the revolver and the wound correspond?"

"Yes, I'd say so.  The gun's a .38, and the wound looks the same
size."

"And," put in Heath, "one chamber of the gun's been fired."

Markham nodded, and looked again at the Medical Examiner.

"If it should prove to be true, doctor, that the revolver in Coe's
hand fired the shot in his head, then we could assume, could we
not, as Mr. Vance suggested, that the revolver had been placed in
the dead man's hand before rigor mortis set in?"

"Sure you could."  Doremus's tone was greatly modified.  "Nobody
could have forced the gun into his hand and made it appear natural
after rigor mortis had set in."

Though Vance's eyes were moving idly about the room, he was
listening closely to this conversation.

"There is," he remarked, in a low voice, "another possibility.  Far-
fetched, I'll admit, but tenable. . . .  Men have been known to do
queer things after death."

We all looked at him with questioning astonishment.

"Don't go spiritualistic on us, Vance," Markham snapped.  "Just
what do you mean by dead men doing queer things?"

"There are recorded instances of suicides who have shot themselves
and then thrown the weapon thirty feet away.  Dr. Hans Gross in his
'Handbuch für Untersuchungsrichter'--"

"But that hardly applies here."

"No-o."  Vance drew deeply on his cigarette.  "Quite so.  Just a
fleeting thought."

Markham studied Vance a moment; then turned back to Doremus.

"Did Coe die of that blow on the head?"

The Medical Examiner once more teetered on his toes, and pursed his
lips.  Then, without a word, he made another examination of Coe's
head.  Straightening up, he looked Markham in the eye.

"There's something funny here.  There's been an internal hemorrhage--
what might be expected from a severe blow on the head.  Blood in
the mouth and all that. . . .  But, Mr. Markham,"--Doremus spoke
impressively--"that blow on the left frontal wasn't powerful enough
to kill a man.  A slight fracture, but nothing serious--just enough
to stun him. . . .  Nope, he didn't die of concussion or a
fractured skull."

"And he didn't die of the revolver shot," added Vance.  "Most
fascinatin'! . . .  Still, the johnny's dead, don't y' know."

Doremus swung jerkily about to Heath.

"Come on, Sergeant."

He and Heath lifted Coe's body and carried it to the bed.  Together
they removed the clothes from the dead man, hung them over a chair
by the bed, and Doremus began his examination.  He went over the
body carefully from head to foot for abrasions and wounds, and ran
his fingers over the bones in search of a possible fracture.  The
body was lying on its back, and as Doremus pressed his hand over
the right side we could see him pause and bend forward.

"Fifth rib broken," he announced.  "And a decided bruise."

"That's certainly not a serious injury," ventured Markham.

"Oh, no.  Nothing at all.  He might not even have known it, except
for a little soreness."

"Did it happen before or after death?"

"Before.  Otherwise there'd be no epidermal discoloration."

"And that blow on the head was also before death, I take it."

"Sure thing.  He got a little bunged up before he died, but that
isn't what killed him."

"Perhaps," suggested Vance, "the blow on the head and the broken
rib are related.  He may have been stunned and, in falling, struck
his rib against some object."

"Possibly."  Doremus nodded without looking up.  He was now
inspecting the palms of Coe's hands.

"Was the blow on the head powerful enough to have rendered him
unconscious?"  Vance was looking around the room at the various
pieces of furniture, and there was a veiled interest in his eyes.

"Oh, yes," Doremus told him.  "More than likely."

Vance's gaze came to rest on a heavy teak-wood chest near the east
windows.  Going to it he opened the lid and looked in.  Then he
closed it almost immediately.

"And," pursued Vance, turning back to the Medical Examiner, "would
Coe have regained consciousness very soon after that blow on his
head?"

"That's problematical."  Doremus straightened and screwed up his
face into a perplexed frown.  "He might have remained unconscious
for twelve hours, and he might have come to in a few minutes.  All
depends. . . .  But that's not what's bothering me.  There are a
couple of small abrasions on the inside of the right-hand fingers
and a slight cut on the knuckle--and they're all fresh.  I'd say
he'd put up a scrap with whoever cracked him over the head.  And
yet his clothes were certainly neat--no sign of having been mussed--
and his hair's combed and slicked down. . . ."

"Yeah, and there was a gun in his hand, and he was sitting restful-
like and looking peaceful," added Heath with puzzled disgust.
"Somebody musta dolled him up after the battle.  A swell
situation."

"But they didn't change his shoes," put in Markham.

"Which explains his still wearing his street shoes with his
bathrobe."  Heath addressed this remark to Vance.

Vance gazed mildly at the Sergeant for a moment.

"Why should any one re-dress a person he has just knocked
unconscious, and then comb his hair?  It's a sweet, kind-hearted
thought, Sergeant, but somehow it's not the usual procedure. . . .
No, I'm afraid we'll have to account for Coe's coiffure and
sartorial condition along other lines."

Heath studied Vance critically.

"You mean he changed his clothes himself and combed his hair after
his head was bashed in?"

"It's not impossible," said Vance.

"In that case," Markham asked, "why did he not also change his
shoes?"

"Something intervened."

During this speculation Doremus had turned Coe's body over so that
it now lay on its face.  I was watching him and I saw him suddenly
lean forward.

"Aha!  Now I've got it!"

His exclamation brought us all up short.

"Stabbed, by George!" he announced excitedly.

We all drew close to the bed and looked down at the area on the
body at which Doremus was pointing.

Just below Coe's right shoulder-blade and near the spine was a
small diamond-shaped wound about half an inch in diameter.  It was
a clean-cut wound etched with black coagulated blood.  Apparently
there had been no external bleeding.  This fact struck me as
unusual, and Markham must have received the same impression, for,
after a moment's silence, he asked Doremus about it.

"All wounds do not bleed externally," Doremus explained.  "This is
especially true of clean, quick stabs that pass through thin
membranes into the viscera: they frequently show little or no
external blood.  Like contusions.  The bleeding is internal. . . .
This stab closed immediately and the lips of the wound adhered.  An
internal hemorrhage was caused.  Very simple. . . .  Now we have an
explanation of everything."

Vance smiled cynically.

"Oh, have we, now?  We have only an explanation of the cause of
Coe's death.  And that explanation complicates the situation
horribly.  It makes the case even more insane."

Markham shot him a quick glance.

"I can't see that," he said.  "It at least clarifies one point we
have been discussing.  We now know what stopped him in the middle
of changing his clothes."

"I wonder. . . ."  Vance crushed out his cigarette in an ash-tray
on the night-table, and picked up the silk-wool dressing-gown which
Coe had been wearing when we found him.  He held it up to the light
and inspected it minutely.  There was no cut or hole of any kind in
it.  We all looked on in stupefied silence.

"No, Markham," Vance said, placing the gown over the foot of the
bed.  "Coe didn't have on his dressing-gown when he was stabbed.
That change was made later."

"Still and all," Heath argued, "the guy mighta had his hand under
the robe when he did the stabbing."

Vance shook his head ruefully.

"You forget, Sergeant, that the gown was buttoned tightly and that
the belt was neatly tied around Coe's middle. . . .  But let us see
if we can verify the matter."

He walked quickly to the clothes-closet in the west wall, whose
door was slightly ajar.  Opening the door wide, he stepped inside.
A moment later he emerged with a clothes-hanger from which depended
a coat and waistcoat of the same sombre gray material as that of
the trousers Coe had been wearing.

Vance ran his fingers over the coat in the vicinity of the right
shoulder, and there was revealed a slit in the material the exact
size of the wound in Coe's back.  There was a similar slit in the
back of the waistcoat, coinciding with the one in the coat.

Vance held the two articles of clothing close to the light and
touched the slits with his fingers.

"These holes," he said, "are slightly stiffened at the edges, as if
some substance had dried on them.  I think that substance will be
found to be blood. . . .  There's no doubt that Coe was fully
dressed when he was stabbed, and that the blood on the dagger, or
knife, soiled the edges of these two cuts when it was withdrawn."

He replaced the hanger in the closet.

After a moment Markham expressed the thought uppermost in all our
minds.

"That being the case, Vance, the murderer must have taken Coe's
coat and vest off, hung them in the closet, and then put the
dressing-gown on the stabbed man."

"Why the murderer?" Vance parried.  "The indications are that some
one else came here after Coe was dead and sent a bullet through his
head.  Couldn't this other hypothetical person have made the change
in the corpse's habiliments?"

"Does that theory help us any?" Markham asked gruffly.

"Not a bit," Vance cheerfully admitted, "even if it were true--
which, of course, we don't know.  And  I'll admit it sounds
incredible.  I merely made the suggestion by way of indicating
that, at this stage of the game, we should not jump at conclusions.
And the more obvious the conclusion, the more cautious we should
be.  This is not, my dear Markham, an obvious case."

Doremus was becoming bored.  Criminal technicalities were not in
his line: his entire interest was medical; and with the finding of
the wound in Coe's back, he felt that he had discharged his duties
for the time being.  He gave a cavernous yawn, stretched himself,
and reached for his hat which he had placed on the floor beside the
bed.

"Well, that lets me out."  He squinted at Heath.  "I suppose you
want a quick autopsy."

"I'll say we do."  The Sergeant's head was enveloped in a cloud of
cigar smoke.  "When can we get it?"

"Tonight--if you must have it."  Doremus drew a sheet over the
prone figure on the bed, and made out an order for the removal of
the body.  "Get him down to the morgue as soon as possible."  He
shook hands cordially with every one and walked briskly toward the
door.

"Just a moment, doctor."  Markham's voice halted him.  "Any remote
possibility of suicide here?"

"What!"  Doremus wheeled in surprise.  "Not a chance.  That bird
was stabbed in the back--couldn't possibly have done it himself.
He died of internal hemorrhage caused by the stab.  He's been dead
eight or ten hours--maybe longer.  The broken rib and the blow on
the left frontal are minor affairs--didn't do any particular
damage.  The bullet in his right temple don't mean a thing--he was
already dead. . . .  Suicide?  Huh!"  And with a wave of the hand
he went out.

Markham stood for a time looking unhappily at the floor.  Finally
he made a commanding gesture to Heath.

"You'd better notify the boys, Sergeant.  Get the finger-print men
and the photographer.  We're in for it. . . .  And you'll take
charge, of course."

Before Markham had finished speaking, Heath was on his way to the
extension telephone which stood on a tabouret beside the desk.  A
moment later he was in touch with the Police Headquarters Telegraph
Bureau.  After turning in a brief report to be relayed to the
various departments, he ordered the Bureau to notify the Department
of Public Welfare to send a wagon immediately for Coe's body.

"I hope, sir," he said a bit pleadingly to Markham, turning from
the phone, "that you are not going to step out on this case.  I
don't like the way things stack up.  Almost anything mighta
happened here last night."  (I had rarely seen the Sergeant so
perturbed; and I could not blame him, for every phase of the crime
seemed utterly contradictory and incomprehensible.)

"No, Sergeant," Markham assured him; "I shall remain and do all I
can.  There must be some simple explanation, and we're sure to find
it sooner or later. . . .  Don't be discouraged," he added, in a
kindly tone.  "We haven't begun the investigation yet."

Vance had seated himself in a low-backed chair near the windows and
was smoking placidly, his eyes on the ceiling.

"Yes, Markham,"--he spoke languidly, yet withal thoughtfully--
"there's some explanation, but I doubt if it will prove to be a
simple one.  There are too many conflicting elements in this
equation; and each one seems to eliminate all the others. . . ."

He took a deep inhalation on his cigarette.

"Let us summarize, for the sake of clarity, before we proceed with
our interviews of the family and guests. . . .  First, Coe was
struck over the head and perhaps rendered unconscious.  Then he
probably tumbled against some hard object and broke a rib.  All
this was evidently preceded by some sort of physical contretemps.
Coe was, we may assume, in his street clothes at the time.  Later
on--how much later we don't know--he was stabbed in the back
through his coat and waistcoat with a small, peculiarly shaped
instrument, and he died of internal hemorrhage.  At some time
subsequent to the stabbing, his coat and waistcoat were removed and
carefully hung up in the clothes-closet.  His dressing-gown was put
on, buttoned, and the belt neatly tied about him.  Moreover, his
hair was correctly combed.  BUT HIS STREET SHOES WERE NOT CHANGED
TO BEDROOM SLIPPERS.  Furthermore, we found him sitting in a
comfortable attitude in an easy chair--in a position he could not
possibly have been in when he was stabbed.  And his broken rib
indicates clearly that he was at one time prostrate over some hard
object. . . .  Then, as if all this were not incongruous enough, we
know that after he was killed by the stab in his back and before
rigor mortis had set in, a bullet crashed into his right temple.
The gun from which the bullet was presumably fired was clutched
tightly in his right hand, so tightly that the official Æsculapius
had difficulty in removing it.  And we must not forget the serene
expression on Coe's face: it was not the expression of a man who
had been struggling with an antagonist and been knocked unconscious
by a blow on the head.  And this fact, Markham, is one of the
strangest phases of the case.  Coe was in a peaceful, or at least a
satisfied, state of mind when he departed this life. . . ."

Vance puffed again on his cigarette, and his eyes became dreamy.

"So much for the present situation as it relates to Coe's dead body
and to the hypothetical events leading up to his demise.  Now,
there are other elements in the situation that must be taken into
consideration.  For instance, we found him in a room securely and
powerfully bolted on the inside, and with no other means of ingress
or egress.  All the windows are closed, and all the shades drawn.
The electric lights are burning, and the bed has not been slept in.
What took place here last night, therefore, must have happened
before Coe's usual time for retiring.  Furthermore, I am inclined
to think that we must also consider the implied fact that, just
before his death, he had been reading about peach-bloom vases and
that he had started to write a letter or make a memorandum of some
kind.  That dated piece of stationery and that fountain-pen on the
floor must be added to the problem. . . ."

At this point we could hear hurried footsteps mounting the stairs,
and the next moment Gamble stood at the door with a startled look
in his eyes.

"Mr. Markham," he stammered, "excuse the interruption, sir, but--
but there's something queer--very queer, sir--down in the front
hall."



CHAPTER V

THE WOUNDED SCOTTIE


(Thursday, October 11; 10.30 a. m.)


The butler's attitude was one of amazement rather than fear; and we
all regarded him with misgivings.

"Well, what's in the hall?" barked Markham.  Vance's recapitulation
had produced an irritating effect on him.

"A dog, sir!" Gamble announced.

Markham gave a start of exasperation.

"What of it?"

"A wounded dog, sir," the butler explained.

Before Markham could answer, Vance had leaped to his feet.

"That's the thing I've been waiting for!"  There was a suppressed
note of excitement in his voice.  "A wounded dog!  My word!  . . ."
He went swiftly to the door.  "Come along, Gamble," he called, as
he passed quickly down the stairs.

We all followed in silent amazement.  The situation up to this
point had been topsy-turvy enough, but this new element seemed to
shunt the case still further off the track of rationality.

"Where is it?" Vance demanded when he had reached the lower
hallway.

Gamble stepped to the heavy portières at the right of the entrance
door, and drew one of them aside.

"I heard a strange sound just now," he explained.  "Like a whine,
sir.  It startled me terribly.  When I looked back of this curtain,
there I saw the dog."

"Does it belong to any one in the house?" Markham asked.

"Oh, no, sir!" the man assured him.  "That's why I was so startled.
There's never been a dog in this house since I've been here--and
that's going on ten years."

As he held back the portière, we could see the small, prone shape
of a slightly brindled Scottish terrier, lying on its side with its
four short legs stretched out.  Over the left eye was a clotted
wound; and on the floor was a black stain of dried blood.  The eye
beneath the wound was swollen shut, but the other eye, dark hazel
and oval, looked up at us with an expression of tragic appeal.

Vance was already on his knees beside the dog.

"It's all right, lassie," he was murmuring.  "Everything's all
right."

He took the dog tenderly in his arms, and stood up.

"What street's this?" he asked of no one in particular.  "Seventy-
first? . . .  Good! . . .  Open that door, Gamble."

The butler, apparently as much surprised as any of the rest of us,
hurried to obey.

Vance stepped into the vestibule, the dog held gently against his
breast.

"I'm going to Doctor Blamey,"* he announced.  "He's just up the
street.  I'll be back presently."  And he hurried down the stone
steps.


* Edwin Reginald Blamey, M.R.C.V.S., the official veterinarian of
the American Kennel Club, whose offices and surgery are at 17 West
71st Street.


This new development left us all even more puzzled than before.
Vance's animated response to Gamble's announcement regarding the
dog, and his cryptic remark as he hurried downstairs, added another
element of almost outlandish mystery to a situation already
incredibly complicated.

When Vance had disappeared with the wounded Scottie in his arms,
Heath, frowning perplexedly, turned to Markham and crammed his
hands into his trousers' pockets.

"This case is beginning to get to me, sir," he complained.  "Now,
what do you suppose is the meaning of this dog business?  And why
was Mr. Vance so excited?  And anyhow, what could a dog have to do
with the stabbing?"

Markham did not answer.  He was staring at the front door through
which Vance had just passed, chewing his cigar nervously.
Presently he fixed Gamble with an angry look.

"You never saw that dog before?"

"No, sir."  The butler had become oily again.  "Never, sir.  No dog
at all has ever been in this house--"

"No one here was interested in dogs?"

"No one, sir. . . .  It's most mysterious.  I can't imagine how it
got in the house."

Wrede and Grassi had come to the drawing-room door, and stood
looking out curiously into the hall.

Markham, seeing them, addressed himself to Wrede.

"Do you, Mr. Wrede, know anything about a small black shaggy dog
that might have found access to this house?"

Wrede looked puzzled.

"Why, no," he answered, after a slight hesitation.  "No one here
cared for dogs.  I happen to know that both Archer and Brisbane
detested pets."

"What about Miss Lake?"

"She has no use for dogs.  She likes cats.  She had a blue Persian
at one time, but Archer made her get rid of it.  That was years
ago."

Markham frowned.

"Well, a dog has just been found here in the hall--back of those
curtains."

"That's most remarkable."  Wrede seemed genuinely astonished.  "I
can't imagine where it came from.  It must have followed some one
in, without being seen."

Markham did not answer, and Heath, taking his cigar from his mouth,
stepped forward belligerently, and thrust out his jaw.

"But YOU like dogs, don't you?" he shot forth, in his best third-
degree manner.

Wrede was taken aback by the Sergeant's sudden aggressiveness.

"Why, yes," he said.  "I'm very fond of them.  I've always kept one
till I moved into the apartment next door. . . ."

"What kind of a dog?" demanded Heath, without relaxing his
bellicose manner.

"A Doberman Pinscher," Wrede told him, and turned to Markham.  "I
don't exactly understand this man's questions."

"We're all a little on edge," Markham apologized.  "Some very
peculiar things went on in this house last night.  Coe did not
commit suicide--he was murdered."

Wrede did not appear surprised.

"Ah!" he murmured.  "I was afraid of that."

Grassi now gave a guttural exclamation, and stepped into the hall.

"Murdered?" he repeated.  "Mr. Coe was murdered?"  His face was
abnormally pale, and his dark eyes stared at Markham in frightened
wonderment.  "I understood he had taken his own life with a
revolver."

"He was stabbed in the back," Markham informed him.  "The bullet
did not enter his head till after death."

Again the Italian gave a curious guttural exclamation and leaned
heavily against the casing of the drawing-room door.  So white was
his face that for a moment I thought he was going to faint.  Heath
was watching him like a tiger, and at this point he moved
deliberately forward until his face was within six inches of
Grassi's.

"Stabbed with a dagger!" he spat out.  "IN THE BACK.  Wop stuff.
What d'ye know about it?"

As quickly as he had gone pale, the Italian drew himself together,
and stood erect with great dignity, looking Heath steadily in the
eyes.  A slow sneering smile curled the corners of his heavy lips.

"I know nothing about it, sir," he said with quiet suavity.  "I am
not of the police.  Perhaps YOU know a great deal about it."  His
tone, though on the surface polite, was an insult.

Heath was piqued.

"We know plenty," he boasted truculently.  "And when we get going,
it won't be so damn pleasant for you."

Markham stepped forward and placed his hand on Heath's shoulder.

"This can wait, Sergeant," he said placatingly.  "We've
considerable preliminary investigating to do before we question Mr.
Grassi."

Heath snorted and walked reluctantly toward the stairs.

"You gentlemen will have to wait in the drawing-room for a while,"
Markham said to Grassi and Wrede.  "And please be so good as to
keep the door closed until we want you."

At these words, Hennessey waved the two men back into the drawing-
room and drew the sliding doors shut.

"Come, Sergeant," Markham said.  "We'd better make a once-over of
Coe's room before the boys get here."

Heath sullenly led the way upstairs.

During the next five minutes or so, Markham and the Sergeant walked
about Coe's quarters giving them a cursory inspection.  As I have
said, the room was at the rear with windows in the east and south
walls.  Heath went to each window and raised the shades.  When he
had completed his rounds he went up to Markham, who was standing
before the clothes-closet door, looking inside.

"Here's a funny one, sir.  The windows are all shut tight--but that
ain't all.  Every one of 'em is locked.  And this room is on the
second story, so that no one could get in from the outside.  Why
all the precaution?"

"Archer Coe was a peculiar man, Sergeant," Markham replied.  "He
was always afraid burglars would break in and steal his treasures."

The answer did not satisfy Heath.

"Who'd want this junk?" he grumbled sceptically, and moved to the
desk.

Markham, after casually inspecting the closet, walked across the
room to the teak-wood chest beneath one of the east windows.  I
then remembered that Vance had regarded this chest curiously during
his conversation with Doctor Doremus about Coe's broken rib.

Heath was now standing in the middle of the room, gazing about him
disgustedly.

"It's a cinch," he said, "that nobody could get in or out of this
joss-house except by the door.  It beats me."

The fact was that the only door in the room other than the main
door which we had found bolted on the inside, was the one leading
into the small clothes-closet.  There was no private bathroom: the
house had been built in an era when one common bathroom on the
second floor was considered the height of sanitary luxury.  We
learned later, however, that Miss Lake had installed another
bathroom on the third floor.  Archer Coe, and his brother Brisbane,
whose bedroom was at the front of the house on the same floor as
Archer's, had shared the main bathroom which led off the hall
between their quarters.

"I've seen nothing of the weapon that killed Coe," Markham
remarked.

"It's not here," Heath asserted dogmatically.  "It was withdrawn
from Coe's body, and I'll bet the guy cached it where it wouldn't
be found."

"That's possible," Markham agreed.  "Anyway, I think you'd better
open the windows--it's close in here.  And you might turn off the
electric lights."

"Nothing doing."  The Sergeant was indignant.  "You see, sir," he
hastened to explain apologetically, "somebody pressed those window
catches and also pushed the light switch.  And I want to know who
it was.  I'm going to have Cap Dubois* get me the finger-prints."


* Captain Dubois was the finger-print expert of the New York Police
Department; and Heath had asked especially that he be sent to the
house.


A few minutes later Vance returned to the house.  As he entered the
room his face was troubled, and anger smouldered in his gray eyes.

"There's a good chance she'll live," he reported; "but that was a
vicious blow some one dealt her.  A blunt instrument of some kind.
Doctor Blarney is fixing her up, and I'll know more about her
condition tonight."  (I had rarely seen Vance so upset.)

"What does it all mean?" Markham asked him.  "Where does that dog
fit in?"

"I don't know yet."  Vance sank into a chair and took out his case
of Régies.  "But I have a feelin' it's our opening wedge.  That
little dog is the one totally irrelevant item in this whole bloody
affair--she's our one contact with the world outside.  She doesn't
belong here, and therefore will have something important to say to
us.  Furthermore, she was wounded in this house."

Markham's eyes suddenly narrowed.

"And the wound was similar to the one on Coe's head, and in the
same place."

Vance nodded dubiously.

"But that may be merely a coincidence," he returned after a moment.
"In any event, no one in this house cared for dogs.  There's never
been one here, and I've often heard both Coe and his brother
express themselves on the subject.  I once had to sit for half an
hour listening to Brisbane read aloud Ambrose Bierce's libelous
attack on dogs.*  No member of this household brought that dog in,
Markham.  But had the dog got in by mistake, no member of the
family would have hesitated to strike it."


* Vance was referring to "Concerning Dogs" in "The Shadow on the
Dial," a collection of Bierce's essays published posthumously by
Robertson in San Francisco.


"You think an outsider brought it in?"

"No, that wouldn't be reasonable either."  Vance frowned
meditatively.  "That's the strange thing about the dog's presence
here.  It was probably a terrible accident--a fatal miscalculation.
That's why I'm so deuced interested.  And then there's this point
to be considered: the person who found the dog here WAS AFRAID TO
LET HER OUT.  Instead--for his own safety--he tried to kill her and
then hid her behind the portières downstairs.  And he almost
succeeded in killing her."

"Could the doctor tell at what time she was hurt?"

"Not exactly.  But from the condition of the swelling about the eye
and the dried blood in the wound, he said it might have been as
long as twelve hours ago."

"That coincides."

"Oh, yes--quite.  The dog either witnessed the stabbing or was
present in the house shortly afterward."

"It's a curious situation," Markham murmured.

"Yes, it's curious," Vance agreed.  "And damnable.  But once we
trace the dog's ownership, we may know something pertinent."

Markham looked doubtful.

"How, in Heaven's name, are we going to trace a stray dog?" he
asked dispiritedly.  "The city is full of them.  And if it
belonged to the person who entered here last night, the owner is
certainly not going to advertise for it or even answer a 'found'
advertisement."

"True."  Vance nodded.  "But the matter isn't as obscure and
difficult as that.  That little Scottie is no mere pet-shop
companion.  Far from it.  She'd make trouble in the ring for some
of our leading winners.  I went over her as carefully as I could
when she lay on Blamey's operating table.  She has a short back, a
fine spring of ribs, and a perfect tail; and she's low to the
ground, with well bent stifles and sturdy hind-quarters.  Also she
has amazin' bone and substance.  I know a little about Scotties,
Markham, and I have an idea she's got both Laurieston and Ornsay
blood in her.  Her sturdiness and substance, coupled with her
somewhat bold and slightly light eye, indicates the Laurieston
strain--a great strain, by the by, but not sufficiently sensitive
for my taste.  On the other hand, she has certain very definite
refinements--a lean, clean head and a sensitive muzzle, small ears,
and a slightly receding occiput--all of which spells Ornsay."

"That's all very well"--Markham was annoyed by Vance's
technicalities--"but what do those things mean to any one but a
breeder?  I can't see that they get us anywhere."

"Oh, but they do," smiled Vance.  "They get us much forrader.  The
breeding of certain blood-lines in this country is known to every
serious dog fancier.  And a bitch like this one is the result of
years of intensive breeding.  There are such things as pedigrees
and stud books and A. K. C. records and professional handlers and
licensed judges; and it is not altogether impossible to trace a
blue-blooded dog once you have a few clues as to its blood-lines
and cross-strains.  Furthermore, she's in perfect show condition
now; and the chances are that a dog as good as this one has been
shown.  And whenever a dog is shown, another set of facts is put on
record."

Heath had been listening to Vance with bored scepticism.  Now he
asked a question.

"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Vance, that you can find the owner of
any good dog you run across?"

"Oh, no, Sergeant," Vance hastened to assure him.  "I only say
that, provided a dog has been put on record and shown, and also
provided one has a definite idea of the dog's progenitors, there is
a good chance that, with patience, the owner may be found."

"Huh!"  Heath was unimpressed.  "But even if you did find the owner
of this mut, where would you be?  The owner might simply say, 'Oh,
thank you, kind sir.  The little devil ran away last Thursday.'"

Vance smiled.

"So he might, Sergeant.  But well-bred dogs don't follow strangers
into unknown houses.  Moreover, dogs as good as this one are not
generally permitted to roam the streets unattended."  He lay back
in his chair and partly closed his eyes.  "There's something
particularly strange about that dog's presence in this house last
night.  If I had the explanation, I'd know infinitely more about
the murderer."

Heath gave Vance a shrewd look.

"Maybe the murderer was somebody who was fond of dogs," he
suggested through his teeth.  (It was obvious that he had Wrede in
mind.)

"Oh, quite the contr'ry, Sergeant."  Vance looked at Heath
quizzically.  "Until we have further data, we must assume that
the murderer viciously injured the Scottie--probably to keep her
quiet--"

What Vance was going to say further was interrupted by a noise of
footsteps and voices in the lower front hall.  A moment later,
three plain-clothes men and two uniformed officers from the local
precinct station clattered into the room.  On seeing the District
Attorney they hesitated.

"I have taken charge of the case," Markham told them.  "We're
handling it from Headquarters, but we'll want two men to guard the
house."

"Certainly, sir."  A heavy-set, gray-haired man saluted, and turned
to the uniformed officers.  "You, Hanlon and Riordan, stay here.
Mr. Markham'll give you orders."  He turned back to the District
Attorney.  "If there's anything else, Chief, let me know.  I'm
Lieutenant Smith."

"Thank you, Lieutenant."



CHAPTER VI

THE IVORY-HEADED STICK


(Thursday, October 11; 11 a. m.)


The three plain-clothes men went out--reluctantly, I thought; but
in important criminal cases handled by Headquarters, the men from
the local station are automatically eliminated.

They had scarcely departed when the finger-print experts--Captain
Dubois and Detective Bellamy--arrived, with the official
photographer, Peter Quackenbush.  Under Heath's orders, they went
systematically about their work.

"What I want most," the Sergeant told them, "are the prints on
those window-catches, the push-button of the electric-light switch,
and the door-knob.  We'll get the finger-prints of the people in
the house later for comparison. . . .  What I want to know is who
locked those windows and turned on the lights in this room.  And I
want to know who went outa this room last."

Vance beckoned Heath to one side.

"I can throw some light into the gloom of your uncertainties,
Sergeant," he said.  "Coe himself locked the windows and pulled
down the shades; and he also switched on the lights.  But I'll
admit I'm in a Stygian darkness as to who was the last person to
handle the door-knob.  And I'm frightfully afraid that we won't be
able to ascertain that important fact by sign-manuals."

Heath blinked and looked up questioningly.  He was about to answer,
but instead he called to Captain Dubois.

"Say, Cap; take the right thumb-print of the body on the bed, and
see if you can check it with the prints on the window-catches and
the light switch."

Dubois turned from one of the east windows, where he was sprinkling
a light saffron powder over the flat surface of the lever of the
catch, and, picking up his small black satchel, went to the bed.  A
few minutes later he returned with a piece of cardboard on which
was an ink impression of Coe's thumb.  Holding it under the light,
he inspected it with a jeweller's-glass.  Then he laid it on the
desk and, going back to the window, closely inspected the flat
surface of the catch.  After a moment he gave a grunt.

"You had the right dope, Sergeant," he said, taking the glass from
his eye.  "It looks like the guy on the bed locked this window."

He then went through the same process of minute comparison with the
catches on the other windows.  When he was through he came to
Heath.

"All the same--as far as I can see.  Two of the lock-plates are
blurred, but they seem to match."

The Sergeant shot Vance a sidelong look, but Vance had again
relaxed in his chair and was smoking dreamily with closed eyes.

"Now, Cap," said Heath, "try the switch and the door-knob."

Dubois went to the switch and, after sprinkling the powder over it,
blew upon it gently and studied it through his jeweller's-glass.

"Same here," he nodded.  "I can't be sure, you understand, until I
get the photographic enlargements and compare 'em.  But the prints
look the same--the whorl type with a pronounced ridge dot and
several distinctive bifurcations."

"Never mind the enlargements," Heath told him.  "Try the knob."

Again Dubois used his insufflator to puff the powder over the door-
knob, and inspected the result closely with the aid of a flash-
light.

"I'd say the same person handled the knob," he told the Sergeant.
"But it's not as clear as it might be."

Heath grunted.

"No use trying the outside knob," he said.  "Too many people have
handled it this morning."

He smoked a while in silence.

"Try that gun on the desk, wrapped in my handkerchief."

Dubois obeyed.

"Nothing here," he told the Sergeant after a few minutes.  "The
trigger's incised and wouldn't take a print.  And on the left side
of the butt there's a blur on the ivory which may or may not be the
dead bird's thumb-print."

"Nothing else on the gun?" Heath asked with obvious disappointment.

"Nope."  Dubois inserted the glass in his eye and again leaned over
the revolver.  "Looks to me as if it had been wiped clean before
the fellow picked it up."

"It had."  Vance spoke lethargically.  "It's a waste of time to
inspect the gun.  If there are any marks on it, they're Coe's."

The Sergeant stood glaring at Vance.  Finally he shrugged, and
waved his hand in dismissal to Dubois.

"Thanks, Cap.  I guess that'll be all."

"Want me to have photographs made and verify the findings?"

Vance had risen and was crushing out his cigarette.

"Really, y' know, Sergeant," he remarked, "it's not necess'ry."

Heath hesitated; then he shook his head at Dubois.

"Don't bother."

Dubois and Bellamy and the photographer had scarcely quitted the
room when Commanding Officer Moran of the Detective Bureau,
followed closely by Detectives Burke and Snitkin of the Homicide
Bureau, came in.

Moran greeted us pleasantly and asked Markham several questions
concerning the case.  News of it had been relayed to him from the
Telegraph Division after Heath's report over the telephone.  He
seemed relieved to find Markham on the scene, and, at the District
Attorney's request, officially assigned Heath to the case.  He left
us almost immediately, manifestly glad to get away.

Burke and Snitkin had come at Heath's specific request, and, after
greeting the Sergeant, stood by the mantelpiece awaiting orders.

Markham had sat down in the Windsor chair at the desk, and after
telephoning his office that he would be delayed, he lighted a fresh
cigar and made a peremptory gesture to Heath.

"Let's see what we can find out from the people in the house,
Sergeant."  He deferred to Vance.  "What do you say to beginning
with Gamble?"

Vance nodded.

"Quite.  A bit of domestic gossip to start with.  And don't fail to
pry into the movements and whereabouts of brother Brisbane last
night."

There was, however, another interruption before the examinations
took place.  The front door-bell rang, and Hennessey called up the
stairs.

"Hey, Sergeant!  The Public Welfare chariot is here."

Heath bawled out an order, and presently two men bearing a coffin-
shaped basket entered the room.  They lifted Coe's body into it,
and, without a word, carried their gruesome burden out.

"And now let's have the windows open," ordered Markham.  "And turn
out those ghastly electric lights."

Snitkin and Burke leaped to obey him; and a moment later the fresh
October air was drifting into the room.

Markham drew a deep breath and looked at his watch.

"Get Gamble up here, Sergeant," he said, leaning back in his chair.

Heath sent one of the uniformed officers to the street with
instructions to keep all strangers away from the house.  The other
he stationed in the hall outside of Coe's room.  He ordered Burke
to the lower hall to answer the front door.  Then he disappeared
down the stairs.

Presently he returned with the butler in tow.

Markham beckoned Gamble to the desk.  The man came boldly forward,
but, despite his effort, he could not disguise his nervous fear.
His face was a bluish white, and his eyes shifted constantly.

"We want some information about the conditions in this house last
night," Markham began gruffly.  "And we want the truth--
understand?"

"Certainly, sir--anything I know, sir."  The man tried to meet
Markham's stern gaze, but his eyes fell almost immediately.

"First, take a look at that revolver."  Markham pointed to the
ivory-inlaid weapon on the desk before him.  "Ever seen it before?"

Gamble glanced at it quickly and nodded his head.

"Yes, sir.  I've seen it often.  It was Mr. Archer Coe's revolver."

"Where did he keep it?"

"In the drawer of the library table, downstairs."

"When did you see it last?"

"Yesterday morning, sir, when I was straightening up the library.
Mr. Coe had left a record-book on the table, and when I put it away
in the drawer, I saw the revolver."

Markham nodded, as if satisfied.

"Now sit down over there."  He pointed to a straight chair by the
door.  When Gamble had seated himself, Markham continued.  "Who was
in the house last night after dinner?"

"Yesterday was Wednesday, sir," the man answered.  "There is no
dinner here on Wednesdays.  It's the servants' night off.  Every
one dines out--except Mr. Archer Coe occasionally.  I fix a cold
supper for him sometimes before I go."

"And last night?"

"Yes, sir.  I prepared a salad and cold cuts for him.  The rest of
the family had engagements outside."

"What time did you go?"

"About six-thirty, sir."

"And there was no one but Mr. Archer Coe in the house at that
time?"

"No, sir--no one.  Miss Lake telephoned from the Country Club early
in the afternoon that she would not be home till late.  And Mr.
Grassi, Mr. Coe's guest, went out shortly before four."

"Do you know where he went?"

"I understood he had an appointment with the Curator of Oriental
Antiquities of the Metropolitan Museum."

"And Mr. Brisbane Coe, you said over the phone, was in Chicago."
Markham's statement was actually a question.

"He wasn't in Chicago at that time, sir," Gamble explained.  "He
was en route, so to speak.  He took the five-thirty train from the
Grand Central last evening."

Vance lifted his eyebrows and shifted forward in his chair.

"The Lake Shore Limited, eh?" he remarked.  "Why the slow train?
Why not the Twentieth Century?  He would have saved three hours'
travel."

"Mr. Brisbane is very conservative, sir," Gamble explained.  "And
very cautious.  He dislikes travelling on fast trains, and always
took the slower ones."

"Well, well."  Vance sank back in his chair, and Markham resumed
the interrogation.

"How do you know Mr. Coe took the five-thirty train?"

Gamble looked perplexed.

"I didn't exactly see him off, sir," he replied, after blinking
several times.  "But I phoned for the reservations, and packed his
suit-case, and got him a taxi."

"What time did he leave the house?"

"A little before five, sir."

Vance again roused himself from apparent lethargy.

"I say, Gamble,"--he spoke without looking up--"when did the
cautious Mr. Brisbane decide on his jaunt to Chicago?"

The butler turned his head toward Vance in mild surprise.

"Why, not until after four o'clock.  It was a rather sudden
decision, sir--or so it seemed to me."

"Does he usually make these sudden decisions?"

"Never, sir.  This was the first time.  And I must say it struck me
as most unusual.  He generally plans on his Chicago trips the day
before."

"Ah!"  Vance raised his eyes languidly.  "Does he make many trips
to Chicago?"

"About one a month, I should say, sir."

"And does he tarry long on these visits?"

"Only a day or so."

"Do you know what the attraction is in Chicago?"

"Not exactly, sir."  Gamble was growing restless.  He clasped his
hands tightly together and gazed straight ahead.  "But several
times I have heard him discussing the meetings there of some
learned society.  My impression is that he goes to Chicago to
attend them."

"Yes, quite reasonable. . . .  Queer chap, Brisbane," Vance mused.
"He's interested in all sorts of out-of-the-way subjects. . . .  So
he made a sudden decision to migrate west after four o'clock
yesterday, and departed before five. . . .  Most interestin'. . . .
And, by the by, Gamble, did he tell any one but you of his
decision?"

"I hardly think so, sir--except Mr. Archer, of course.  The fact
is, there was no one else in the house."

"Did he speak to any one over the phone between four o'clock and
his departure?"

"No one, sir."

"And there were no visitors to whom he might have confided his
intentions?"

"No, sir.  No one called."

"Most interestin'," Vance repeated.  "And now, Gamble, think
carefully before you answer.  Did you notice anything unusual in
Mr. Brisbane Coe's manner last evening?"

The man gave a slight start, and I noticed that the pupils of his
eyes expanded.  His gaze turned quickly to Vance, and he swallowed
twice before answering.

"I did, sir--so help me God, I did!  He was not altogether himself.
He's usually very calm and even-going.  But before he left here he
seemed distracted and--and fidgety.  And he did a most peculiar
thing, sir, before he left the house:--he shook hands with Mr.
Archer.  I've never seen him shake hands with Mr. Archer before.
And he said 'Good-bye, brother.'  It was most peculiar, for he has
never, to my knowledge, called Mr. Archer by anything but his first
name."

"Oh really now!"  Vance was studying the butler closely.  "And how
did Mr. Archer take this unwonted burst of fraternal affection?"

"I doubt if he even noticed it, sir.  He was studying a piece of
egg-shell china under an electric bulb; and he scarcely answered
Mr. Brisbane."

"That would be like Archer," Vance commented to Markham.  "When he
was absorbed in an example of Chinese ceramic art, the roof could
have toppled in, and he wouldn't have been aware of it. . . .  Do
you mind if I continue with Gamble?"

Markham nodded his assent, and Vance turned again to the butler.

"As I understand it, when Mr. Brisbane had gone you and Mr. Archer
were left alone in the house."

"Why, yes, sir."  The man was breathing heavily: all of his
obsequiousness had departed.  "But I only stayed long enough to
prepare Mr. Archer's supper. . . ."

"And left Mr. Archer alone?"

"Yes!  He was sitting in the library downstairs reading."

"And where did you go and how disport yourself?"

Gamble leaned forward earnestly.

"I had dinner in Childs, and then I went to a motion picture."

"Not an exciting evening, was it, Gamble? . . .  And what other
servants are there in the house?"

For some reason the man breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"There's only two, sir, besides myself."  His voice was steadier
now.  "The Chinese cook--"

"Ah, a Chinese cook, eh?  How long has he been here?"

"Only a few months."

"Go on."

"Then there's Miss Lake's personal maid.  And that's all, sir--
except the woman that comes twice a week to clean house."

"When did the cook and Miss Lake's maid leave the house yesterday?"

"Right after lunch.  That's the usual order on Wednesdays, sir."

"And when did they return?"

"Late last night.  I myself came in at eleven; and it was about
half-past eleven when Myrtle--that's the maid's name--returned.  I
was just retiring--about midnight, I should say, sir--when I heard
the cook sneak in."

Vance's eyebrows went up.

"Sneak?"

"He always sneaks, sir."  There was a note of animosity in Gamble's
voice.  "He's very sly and tricky and--and devious, sir--if you
know what I mean."

"Probably his oriental upbringing," remarked Vance casually, with a
faint smile.  "So the cook sneaked in about midnight, eh? . . .
Tell me, is it usual for the servants to stay out late Wednesdays?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, if any one were familiar with the domestic arrangements
here, he would know that he could count on the house being free
from servants Wednesday nights."

"That's right, sir."

Vance smoked thoughtfully a moment.  Then:

"Do you know at what hour Miss Lake and Mr. Grassi came in last
night?"

"I couldn't say, sir."  Gamble shot Vance a curious look from the
corner of his eye.  "But it must have been very late.  It was after
one o'clock before I went to sleep, and neither of them had
returned at that time."

"Mr. Grassi has a key to the house?"

"Yes, sir.  I had an extra one made for him at Mr. Coe's request."

"How long has Mr. Grassi been Mr. Coe's guest?"

"It was a week yesterday."

Vance was silent for a moment.  His eyes, as they looked out of the
east windows, were placid, but there was the suggestion of a frown
on his forehead; and I knew that something was troubling him.
Without change of expression he put an apparently irrelevant
question to Gamble.

"Did you, by any chance, see Mr. Archer Coe after you returned to
the house last night?"

"No--I didn't see him, sir."  There was a slight hesitancy in the
reply, and Vance looked toward the man quickly.

"Come, come, Gamble," he admonished severely.  "What's on your
mind?"

"Well, sir--it's really nothing; but when I went up to bed I
noticed that the library doors were open and that the lights were
on.  I thought, of course, that Mr. Archer was still in the
library.  And then I noticed the light in Mr. Archer's bedroom
here, through the keyhole--it's quite noticeable in a dark hall as
you come up the stairs, sir--and I took it for granted that he had
retired.  So I went back to the library and turned out the lights
and shut the doors."

"You heard no sound in here?"

"No, sir."  Gamble leaned forward and regarded Vance with staring
eyes.  "Do you think he was dead then?"

"Oh, undoubtedly.  If you'd taken the trouble to glance through the
keyhole last night, you'd have seen him just as you saw him this
morning."

Gamble appeared stunned.

"Good God, sir!  And I never knew!" he exclaimed in a hoarse
whisper.

Vance yawned mildly.

"Really, y' know," he said, "we sha'n't hold it against you. . . .
And, by the by, there's a question I forgot to ask.  Did Mr.
Brisbane Coe take a walking-stick with him when he set forth for
Chicago?"

Gamble drew himself together, and gave a puzzled nod.

"Yes, sir.  He never goes anywhere without a stick.  He's subject
to rheumatism--"

"So he's told me a score of times. . . .  And what kind of stick
did he take with him?"

"His ivory-headed stick, sir.  It's his favorite. . . .

"The one with the crooked handle and the carvings?"

"Yes, sir.  It's a most unusual stick, sir.  Mr. Brisbane bought it
in Borneo years ago. . . ."

"I know the stick well, Gamble.  I've seen him carrying it on
various occasions. . . .  You're quite sure, are you, that he took
this particular stick with him to Chicago?"

"Positive.  I handed it to him myself at the door of the taxicab."

"You'd swear to that?"

Gamble was as mystified as the rest of us at Vance's insistence.

"Yes, sir!" he returned resolutely.

Vance kept his eyes on the man, and stood up.  He walked very
deliberately to where Gamble sat, and looked down at him
searchingly.

"Gamble,"--he spoke pointedly--"did you see Mr. BRISBANE Coe in
this house after you returned last night?"

The butler went white, and his lips began to tremble.  The question
was so unexpected that even I received a distinct shock from it.
Markham half rose in his chair, and Heath froze into a startled
attitude, his cigar half raised to his lips.  Gamble cringed
beneath Vance's steady gaze.

"No, sir--no, sir!" he cried.  "Honest to God, I didn't!  I would
have told you if I had."

Vance shrugged and turned away.

"Still, he was here last night."

Markham struck the desk noisily with his fist.

"What's back of that remark?" he demanded.  "How do you know
Brisbane Coe was here last night?"

Vance looked up blandly, and said in a mild tone:

"Very simple: his ivory-headed stick is hanging over the back of
one of the chairs in the lower hall."



CHAPTER VII

THE MISSING MAN


(Thursday, October 11; 11.45 a. m.)


There was a momentary tense silence.  Vance's statement, with the
possibilities it suggested, threw a pall of vague horror over all
of us.  I was watching Gamble, and again I saw the pupils of his
eyes dilate.  Unsteadily he rose, and bracing himself with one hand
on the back of his chair, glared at Vance like a man who had seen a
malignant spectre.

"You--are sure you saw the stick, sir?" he stammered, with a
hideous contortion of the face.  "I didn't see it.  And Mr.
Brisbane never hangs his stick over the hall chair.  He always puts
it in the umbrella-stand.  Maybe some one else--"

"Don't be hysterical, Gamble," Vance interrupted curtly.  "Who but
Mr. Brisbane himself would bring that precious stick back to the
house and hang it over a chair in the hall?"

"But, Mr. Vance, sir," the man persisted in an awed tone, "he once
reprimanded me for hanging it over a chair--he said it might fall
and get broken.  Why, sir, should he hang it over the chair?"

"Less noisy, perhaps, than chucking it into a brass umbrella-
holder."

Markham was leaning over the desk scowling at Vance.

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded.

Vance lifted his eyes slowly and let them rest on the District
Attorney.

"I opine, my dear Markham," he said slowly, "that brother Brisbane
didn't want any one to hear him when he returned here last night."

"And why do you 'opine' any such thing?"  Markham's irritation was
bordering on anger.

"There may have been sinister business afoot," Vance returned
evasively.  "Brisbane started for Chicago on a night when he knew
no one but Archer would be home.  And then he missed his train--to
speak euphemistically.  He returned to the house--with his stick.
And here's his stick hanging over the back of a tufted chair . . .
but no Brisbane.  And Archer--the sole occupant of this cluttered
domicile last night--has gone to his Maker in most outlandish
fashion."

"Good God, Vance!"  Markham sank back in his chair.  "You don't
mean that Brisbane--?"

"Tut, tut!  There you go jumping at conclusions again. . . ."
Vance spoke in an offhand manner, but he could not entirely
disguise his deep concern over the situation.  He began walking up
and down, his hands sunk deep in his coat pockets.  "I can
understand Brisbane's presence here last night," he murmured as if
to himself, "but I can't understand the presence of his stick here
this morning.  It's very curious--it doesn't fit into the picture.
Even if he had not taken the Lake Shore Limited to Chicago, there
were other trains later on.  The Iroquois goes about midnight, and
there's another slow train around twelve-thirty. . . ."

Heath took his cigar from his mouth.

"How do you know the bird didn't take one of those trains--that is,
supposing he'd missed the Lake Shore Limited?"

"By the stick in the lower hall, Sergeant."

"Couldn't a guy forget his stick?"

"Not Brisbane Coe--and certainly not in the circumstances. . . ."

"What circumstances?" cut in Markham.

"That's what I don't know exactly."  Vance made a wry face.  "But I
begin to see a method in all this seeming madness; and that stick
downstairs stands out like some terrible and accusing error. . . ."

He stopped abruptly, and suddenly swinging about, went toward the
door.

"I'll be back in a minute.  There's a possibility. . . ."  He
passed swiftly into the hall.

Heath looked disgustedly at Markham.

"What's he got on his mind, sir?"

"I couldn't tell you, Sergeant."  Markham was even more puzzled
than Heath.

"Well, sir, if you ask me," the Sergeant submitted surlily, "I
think Mr. Vance is leaning too heavily on that stick.  We've only
got this guy's word"--he jerked his thumb toward Gamble--"that he
took it with him in the first place.  And until we know definitely
that he didn't go to Chicago, we're stirring up a lot of trouble
for nothing."

Markham, I felt, was inclined to agree, but he made no comment.

Presently Vance returned to the room, smoking abstractedly.  His
face was crestfallen.

"He's not there," he announced.  "I thought Brisbane might be in
his room.  But the shades are up; and the bed hasn't been slept in;
and the lights are out."  He sat down wearily.  "His room's empty."

The Sergeant planted himself in front of Vance.

"Look here, Mr. Vance, even if he did miss the Lake Shore Limited,
he's probably on his way to Chicago.  Anybody might forget a stick.
His suit-case ain't here--"

Vance leaped to his feet.

"The suit-case--that's it!  What would he have done with the suit-
case if he had not taken the early train and had intended to go on
to Chicago later. . . ?"

"He'd have checked it in the station, wouldn't he?" asked Heath
contemptuously.

"Exactly!"  Vance wheeled to Gamble.  "Describe that suit-case."

"It was quite an ordinary case, sir," the man replied in a dazed
tone.  "Black seal-skin, leather lined, with rounded corners, and
the initials 'B. C' in gold letters on one end."

Vance turned back to Heath.

"Can you check on that in the parcel room at the station, Sergeant?
It's important."

Heath looked interrogatively toward Markham, and received a
significant nod.

"Sure I can," he said.  He beckoned Snitkin with a jerk of the
head.  "Got the dope?"

The detective grinned.

"Hell, yes," he rumbled.  "A cinch."

"Then hop to it," ordered Heath.  "And phone me pronto. . . .  Make
it snappy."

Snitkin disappeared from the room with an alacrity that seemed out
of all keeping with his bulk.

Markham drummed nervously on the desk and fixed a sombre,
inquisitive gaze on Vance who was now standing by one of the east
windows looking meditatively out into the October sunshine.

"Where do you think Brisbane Coe fits into this affair?" he asked.

"I don't know--I'm not sure."  Vance spoke quietly, without
turning.  "But many strange things happened here last night.
Certain plans went awry.  Events overlapped one another.  Nothing
happened on schedule.  And until we know more of the preliminaries,
we'll merely go on plunging around in the dark."

"But Brisbane Coe," persisted Markham.

Vance turned slowly back to the room.

"There has always been bad blood between Archer and Brisbane, for
some reason.  I've never understood it.  It wasn't merely the
antagonism of similar temperaments.  It went deeper than that. . . .
By the by, maybe Miss Lake could enlighten us while we're waiting
for Snitkin's call. . . .  I say, Gamble; ask the young lady to be
good enough to join us here."

The butler went out, and we could hear him mounting the stairs to
the third floor.

Five minutes later Hilda Lake came swinging into the room, dressed
in a dazzling yellow bouclé sport suit.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting and all the usual amenities," she
said, sitting down and crossing her knees; "but I hadn't quite
finished doffing my golf togs when the far-from-admirable Crichton
summoned me.  Anyway, I should be furious with you.  Why was I
denied my muffins and tea?"

Vance apologized.

"We've been using Gamble a bit intensively."

"Oh, he's full of the family's scandals.  I sincerely hope he
never takes it into his head to turn blackmailer.  He'd impoverish
us. . . .  Did you get many racy items from him?"

"Alas, no!"  Vance sighed with simulated lugubriousness.  "The fact
is, Gamble has been passionately upholding the honor of the Coes."

Hilda Lake looked at Gamble with comical amazement.

"You positively stagger me, Gamble.  I'll speak to Uncle Brisbane
today and have your wages raised."

"In the meantime," said Vance, "I'm sure you're hungry. . . .
Gamble, take tea and muffins to Miss Lake's quarters."  The man,
who had been standing in the door, bowed and disappeared; and Vance
turned pleasantly back to Miss Lake.  "By the time your breakfast
is ready we will let you return to your rooms."  Then he added with
a serious mien.  "There are a few questions we'd like you to
answer."

She gave Vance a cold look, and waited with imperturbable calm.

"What was the cause," he asked, "of the animosity between Archer
and Brisbane Coe?"

"Oh, that!"  A cynical smile curled her lips.  "Money--nothing
else.  Old Major Coe left everything to Uncle Archer.  Uncle
Brisbane had only an allowance--until Uncle Archer should die.
Then the money was to go to him.  The situation naturally irked
him, and he got pretty nasty about it at times.  It amused me no
end,--I was in the same predicament.  The fact is, I've often been
tempted to make an alliance with Uncle Brisbane for the purpose of
murdering Uncle Archer.  Together we could have got away with it,
don't you think?"

"I'm sure you could--even alone," Vance returned lightly.  "What
held you back?"

"My unspeakable golf score.  I've needed all my time and energy to
improve my game."

"Most distressin'," sighed Vance.  "And now some one has killed
Uncle Archer for you."

"I'm sure it's my reward for virtue."  Though her tone was hard,
there was an undercurrent of bitter passion in it.  "Or perhaps,"
she added, "Uncle Brisbane went ahead on his own."

"That might bear looking into," smiled Vance.  "The only difficulty
is that Gamble tells us Mr. Brisbane hopped to Chicago at five-
thirty last evening."

The woman's eyes flickered--there was little doubt that Vance's
statement had been unexpected; but she replied almost at once.

"That doesn't mean anything.  Uncle Brisbane has dabbled enough in
criminology to prepare a perfect alibi in the event he himself
contemplated a flutter in crime."

Vance regarded her amiably before speaking again.

"What takes him on those periodical trips to Chicago?" he asked
with sudden seriousness.

Hilda Lake shrugged.

"Heaven knows.  He never mentioned the matter to me and I never
asked."  She leaned forward.  "Perhaps it's a lady!" she exclaimed
in a taunting tone.  "If he told any one, that person was Uncle
Archer.  And I'm afraid it's too late to get any information from
that quarter now."

"Yes, a bit too late," agreed Vance.  He sat down on the edge of
the desk and clasped his hands around one knee.  "But let us
suppose that after Mr. Brisbane announced his intention of going to
Chicago last evening, he remained in New York all night.  What
would you say to that?"

Hilda Lake scrutinized Vance shrewdly for a time before replying.
Then she answered gravely:

"In that case you may eliminate Uncle Brisbane as a suspect.  He's
much too smooth and canny to leave any such loopholes.  He has a
very tricky and clever mind--too many persons underestimate him--
and if he planned a murder, I'm sure he'd arrange it so as to
escape detection."  She paused momentarily.  "Did Uncle Brisbane
remain in New York last night?"

"I don't know," Vance responded candidly.  "I was merely indulging
in suppositions."

"How clever of you!"  There was a steely look in her eyes, and her
forehead puckered with a slight frown.

At this moment Gamble passed the door on his way upstairs, with a
small covered serving-tray in his hands.

Vance stood up.

"Ah!  There are your muffins, Miss Lake.  I sha'n't keep you any
longer."

"Thanks awfully."  She rose and went quickly from the room.

Vance stood at the door until Gamble returned from the third floor,
and ordered him to wait in the lower hall.  When the man had gone
below, he glanced at his watch and strolled back into the room.

"I'd rather not go on till we hear from Snitkin.  Do you mind
waiting, Markham?"

Markham got up and paced to the bed and back.

"Have it your own way," he grumbled.  "But I can't see the
importance of the suit-case.  There's small probability, it seems
to me, of its being at the station.  And in the event it isn't
there, we will be no better off than we are now."

"On the other hand," Vance returned, "if it IS at the station, we
may conclude that Brisbane did not go to Chicago last night."

Markham studied Vance gloweringly.

"And if he didn't go, what then?"

"Oh, I say--really!  My word, Markham, I'm no Delphic oracle.
We've only started this--what do the yellow journals call it?--
probe. . . .  But I'm quite sure Brisbane intended to go to Chicago
at some time last night.  And if he didn't go, something unexpected
kept him here."

"But his being in New York doesn't connect him with Archer Coe's
murder."

"Certainly not. . . .  But I crave enlightenment."  He suddenly
sobered.  "Markham, that last-minute decision of Brisbane's to get
out of town had some connection with Archer's death--I'm sure of
that.  He knew something--or feared something.  Or perhaps . . .
But, anyway, he intended to go to Chicago last night.  And maybe he
did go . . . but I want to be sure."

He strolled to the mantel and looked critically at a small, three-
legged bowl of delicate green, with a carved teak-wood cover
surmounted by a handle of white jade.

"Ming celadon," he said, running his fingers over the lustrous
glaze.  "A perfect velvety texture, and an unusual shape.  A very
rare piece.  Celadon, Markham, has baffled occidental artificers;
even the Chinese can no longer produce it.  It's very old--some
experts have placed its origin as far back as the Sui dynasty in
the sixth and seventh centuries, naming Ho Chou as its inventor.
But the most beautiful celadons, I think, are Ming--those that came
from the hands of the Ching-tê-chên experts.  I rather imagine,
don't y' know, that this is such a piece."  He inspected it
closely, particularly studying the down-flow of the glaze about the
base.  "There's a great similarity between the Kuan-yao of the Sung
dynasty and the Imperial celadons made in the province of Kiang-si;
but, as a rule, the Lung-chuan factories used a reddish paté.  And
this piece has a white paté--a characteristic of Ching-tê-chên
celadons. . . ."

"Vance," interrupted Markham irritably, "you're boring me to
tears."

"My word!"  Vance put down the celadon bowl and sighed.  "And I was
trying to entertain you until Snitkin reported. . . ."

As he spoke, the phone rang.  Heath answered it, and after
listening for several minutes, replaced the receiver on the hook.

"The suit-case is there, all right," he announced.  "Snitkin picked
it out at once--it was on the 'hurry' shelf.  The bird at the
window says a middle-aged, nervous guy checked it around six last
night, saying he'd missed his train--and he was shaking so he could
hardly lift the bag to the counter."

Vance nodded slowly.

"I was afraid of that--and yet I was hoping it wasn't so."  He took
out a cigarette and lighted it with slow and deliberate precision--
a sign of his tense perturbation.  "Markham, I don't like this
situation; I don't at all like it.  Something unforeseen has
happened: unforeseen--and sinister.  It wasn't on the cards.
Brisbane Coe intended to go to Chicago last night--AND HE DIDN'T
GO.  Some terrible thing stopped him. . . .  And something stopped
Archer Coe before he could change his shoes. . . ."  He leaned over
the desk and looked straight at Markham.  "Don't you see what I
mean?  Those shoes of Archer's--and that stick of Brisbane's. . . .
THAT STICK!--IN THE FRONT HALL!  It shouldn't have been there. . . .
Oh, my precious aunt!  . . ."  He threw his cigarette into a tray,
and hurried toward the door.

"Come, Markham. . . .  Come, Sergeant.  There's something hideous
in this house . . . and I don't want to go alone."

As he spoke, he ran down the stairs, Markham and Heath and I
following.  When he had reached the lower hall, he pulled the
portières aside and opened the library door.  He looked round him,
and then passed into the dining-room.

After several minutes' search, he returned to the hall.

"Maybe the den," he said; and hurrying through the drawing-room,
where Wrede and Grassi sat near the window, he went into the small
room at the rear.  But he came back at once, a bewildered look in
his eyes.

"Not there."  His tone was unnatural.  "But he's somewhere--
somewhere. . . ."

He came again into the front hall.

"He wouldn't be on the third floor, and he's not on the second
floor."  Vance stood staring at the ivory-headed stick which, for
the first time, I noticed hanging over the back of a chair beside
the library door.  "There's his stick," he said; "but his hat and
top-coat. . . .  Oh, what a fool I've been!"

He brushed Gamble out of his way, and walked swiftly down the
narrow corridor along the stairs until he came to the closet door
at the rear of the hall.

"Your flashlight, Sergeant," he called over his shoulder, as he
placed his hand on the door-knob.

He pulled the door open, revealing only a great rectangle of
blackness.  Almost simultaneously, the circle of yellow light from
Heath's pocket flashlight penetrated the gloom.

Markham and I were behind him, straining our eyes into the closet.
There were various overcoats and hats hanging from the hooks.

"Lower, Sergeant!" came Vance's dictatorial voice.  "The floor--the
floor! . . ."

The light descended; and then we saw the thing that Vance, through
some process of obscure logic, had been searching for.

There, in a huddled heap, his glassy eyes staring up at us, lay the
dead body of Brisbane Coe.



CHAPTER VIII

THE TING YAO VASE


(Thursday, October 11; 12.15 p. m.)


Though the sight was not altogether unexpected, in view of Vance's
strange actions and even stranger comments, I received a tremendous
shock as I gazed down into the closet.  A large irregular pool of
blood, perhaps a foot in diameter, had spread over the hardwood
floor just beneath Coe's shoulder.  It had dried and darkened, and
looked sinisterly black against the yellow boarding.

Even to an amateur like myself the fact that Brisbane Coe was dead
was apparent.  The stiff, unnatural pose of the body, and the
hideous fixety of his gaze, together with the drawn bloodless lips
and the waxen pallor of his skin, attested to violent and
unexpected death.  I had rarely seen a corpse as lifeless as Coe's,
as irremediably beyond all human possibility of resuscitation.

And as I looked at it, temporarily petrified by the horror of this
new development, I could not help comparing the dead body of
Brisbane with that of Archer.  They were both tall and cadaverous;
and, although Archer was the older by five years, they