Title:      The Kennel Murder Case (1933)
Author:     S. S. Van Dine
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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 had a
certain similarity of facial features.  But whereas Archer had died
with a peaceful expression on his face, and in a natural and
comfortable position, Brisbane had a shocked, almost wild, look in
his eyes, as if he had been startled and frightened at the moment
of death.

The discovery of Brisbane Coe's body affected all of us strongly.
Heath stared down with hunched shoulders.  The blood seemed to have
left his face, and he was like a man hypnotized.  Markham's jaw was
set, and his eyes were mere slits.

"Good God!" he breathed, in an awe-stricken voice, and looked
vaguely at Vance who stood beside the Sergeant gazing down
critically at the dead man.

Vance spoke, and his voice, usually so calm, sounded strained and
unnatural.

"It's worse than I thought. . . .  I had hoped he might still be
alive--a prisoner perhaps.  I didn't altogether expect this."

Heath's hand containing the flashlight dropped to his side, and he
stepped back.  Vance closed the closet door and turned.

"It's very strange," he murmured, looking at Markham yet past him.
"He is without his hat and top-coat; and yet his stick is hanging
here in the hall.  And he is DEAD IN THE CLOSET.  Why not in his
own room?--or the library?--or anywhere else but in there? . . .
Nothing fits, Markham.  The whole picture has been painted by a
crazy man."

Markham stared at him; then he said in a dazed voice:

"I can't follow any of it.  Why did Brisbane Coe return here last
night?  And who knew he was going to return?"

"If only I could answer those questions!"

Burke and Gamble were sitting on a hall bench near the drawing-room
door.  The butler's face was white and drawn.  He had not seen the
dead man in the closet, for our bodies had shielded him.  But it
was obvious that he suspected the truth.

Vance went to him.

"What kind of top-coat and hat did Mr. Brisbane wear when he went
to the station last night?"

The man made a desperate effort to pull himself together.

"A--a tweed coat, sir," he replied huskily, "--black-and-white
tweed.  And a light gray fedora hat."

Vance returned to the closet, and presently emerged with a hat and
coat.

"Are these the ones?"

Gamble swallowed hard and nodded his head.

"Yes, sir."  His eyes stared abnormally at the two articles of
attire.

Vance replaced the coat and hat in the closet, and commented to
Markham:

"They were hanging up so neatly."

"Is it not possible," asked Markham, "that just as he had hung them
up after returning to the house, he was killed?"

"Possible--yes."  Vance nodded slowly.  "But that would not explain
the other things that went on here last night.  It's more
reasonable, I think, to assume that Brisbane was killed as he was
preparing to leave the house.  But then again, there's the time
element. . . ."

Heath had already gone to the hall telephone and was dialing a
number.

"I'll soon get the time element for you," he growled.

A moment later he was speaking to Doctor Doremus in his office in
the Municipal Building.

"The doc's coming right away," he said, hanging up the receiver.

"In the meantime, Markham," suggested Vance, "I think we might have
parlance with the Chinese cook. . . .  Fetch him, will you,
Gamble."

The butler hastened through the dining-room door at the rear, and
Vance strolled into the library, the rest of us following.

The library was a fairly large room on the north front of the
house, directly opposite to the drawing-room.  Although there were
perhaps a thousand volumes in a series of book-shelves occupying
almost the entire south wall, the room did not have the general
appearance of a library.  It resembled far more a curio shop.
There were various cabinets containing carved jade and jewelry and
objets d'art of oriental design and workmanship; and on every
available flat surface stood examples of Chinese ceramic art,
ceremonial bronzes, ivory figures, and carved lacquer ornaments.
Many of the pieces of furniture were of teak-wood and camphor-wood;
and, wherever space permitted, large squares of brocaded and
embroidered silk had been hung and draped.  In the centre of the
west wall was a rococo Louis-Quinze mantelpiece which seemed
hideously out of place; and here and there were pieces of modern
furniture--a large fumed-oak Mission library table, an overstuffed
davenport, a steel commercial filing cabinet, and several pseudo-
colonial mahogany straight chairs--all of which gave to the room a
violent air of anachronistic chaos.

We had scarcely seated ourselves when a tall, slender, scholarly-
looking Chinaman of about forty stepped softly into the room
through the door between the library and the dining-room.  He was
dressed in an immaculate white duck suit, and wore black padded
slippers.  He stood beside the door with relaxed immobility, and,
after one swift glance at us, lifted his eyes uneagerly above our
heads.  Though he looked at nothing in particular, I felt that he
saw everything.

Vance regarded the man curiously, and it was several moments before
he spoke.  Then he asked:

"What is your name?"

"Liang," came the soft and almost inaudible response.

"Your whole name, please."

There was a slight pause, and the man gave Vance a fleeting glance.

"Liang Tsung Wei."

"Ah! . . .  And I understand you are the Coe cook."

The other nodded quickly.

"Me cook."

Vance sighed, and a faint smile overspread his face.

"Be so good as to forgo the pidgin-English, Mr. Liang.  It will
handicap our conversation terribly."  He slowly lighted a
cigarette.  "And please take a chair."

The Chinaman, with a faint flicker in his eyes, moved his gaze till
it rested on Vance's face.  Then he bowed and sat down in an arm-
chair between the door and the book-shelves.

"Thank you," he said in a finely modulated voice.  "I suppose you
desire to question me regarding the tragedy last night.  I deeply
regret I can throw no light upon it."

"How do you know there has been a tragedy?"  Vance inspected the
end of his cigarette.

"I was preparing the breakfast," Liang returned, "and I heard the
butler impart the information over the telephone."

"Ah, yes--of course. . . .  Have you been long in this country, Mr.
Liang?"

"Two years only."

"Interested in the culin'ry art of America?"

"Not particularly--although I am a student of occidental customs.
Western civilization is of great interest to certain of my
countrymen."

"As are, also, I imagine," added Vance, "the rare ceremonial pieces
of Chinese art that have been pilfered from your temples and
graves."

"We of course regret their loss," the man answered mildly.

Vance nodded understandingly, and was silent for a moment.  Then:

"Where were you educated, Mr. Liang?"

"At the Imperial University at Tientsin and at Oxford."

"You are a member, I presume of the Kuomin-tang."

The Chinaman inclined his head affirmatively.

"But no longer," he supplemented.  "When I realized that Russian
ideals were taking root in my countrymen's minds, and that the
ideals of the Tang and the Sung were receding further and further,
I joined the Ta Tao Huei.*  Being a Laoist by temperament among
confrères who were mostly Confucianists, I realized that my
idealism was unfitted for eras of hysteria; and I soon withdrew
from all active participation in politics.  I still have faith,
however, in the old cultural ideals of China, and I am waiting
patiently for the day when the philosophic dicta of the Tao Teh
King will re-establish the spiritual and intellectual equilibrium
of my country."


* "The Great Sword Society," an organization opposed to
extraterritoriality and foreign aggression and plunder.


Vance made no comment.  He merely asked:

"How did you happen to seek employment with Mr. Coe?"

"I had heard of his collection of Chinese antiquities and of his
great knowledge of oriental art, and I believed that the atmosphere
might prove to be congenial."

"And have you found it congenial?"

"Not altogether.  Mr. Coe was a very narrow and selfish man.  His
interest in art was purely personal.  He wished to keep his
treasures away from the world--not to share them with humanity."

"A typical collector," observed Vance.  He raised himself slightly
in his chair and yawned.  "By the by, Mr. Liang; when did you leave
the house yesterday?"

"About half-past two," came the low answer.  The Chinaman's face
was an inscrutable mask.

"And you returned at what time?"

"Shortly before midnight."

"You were not here at any time in the interim?"

"No.  I was visiting friends on Long Island."

"Chinese friends?"

"Yes.  They will be most happy to verify my statement."

Vance smiled.

"I've no doubt. . . .  Did you return by the front or the rear
door?"

"The rear door--through the tradesmen's entrance and the yard."

"Where do you sleep?"

"My quarters, such as they are, are connected with the kitchen."

"Did you go to bed immediately upon your return?"

There was a momentary hesitation on the man's part.

"Not immediately," he said.  "I cleared away the remains of Mr.
Coe's supper, and made myself some tea."

"Did you, by any chance, see Mr. Brisbane Coe after you returned
last night?"

"Mr. Brisbane Coe?"  The other repeated the name questioningly.
"The butler told me this morning not to prepare breakfast for him
as he had gone to Chicago. . . .  Was he here last night?"

Vance ignored the question.

"Did you hear any sounds in the house before you retired?" he went
on.

"Not until Miss Lake returned.  She is always vigorous and noisy.
And a quarter of an hour later Mr. Grassi came in.  But aside from
that I heard no sound whatever."

Vance, during this interrogation, had appeared casual; and his
manner had been deferential.  But now a perceptible change came
over his attitude.  His eyes hardened, and he leaned forward in his
chair.  When he spoke, his voice was cold and uncompromising.

"Mr. Liang," he said, "at what time did you first return to this
house--EARLY LAST NIGHT?"

There was a clouded, far-away look in the Chinaman's eyes; and his
long thin fingers moved with silken smoothness along the arms of
his chair.

"I did not return early last night," he answered, in a faintly sing-
song voice.  "I arrived at midnight."

Vance did not shift his steady gaze.

"Yes, you arrived at midnight--Gamble heard you come in.  But I am
speaking of your earlier visit--some time around eight o'clock, let
us say."

"You are evidently laboring under a misapprehension," Liang
returned, without change of intonation or expression.

Vance ignored the retort.

"And what did you see in this room at about eight o'clock?"

"How could I have seen anything, when I was not here?" came the
calm, unruffled reply.

"Did you see Mr. Archer Coe?" persisted Vance.

"I assure you--"

"And was any one with him?"

"I was not here."

"Perhaps you visited Mr. Coe's bedroom upstairs," Vance went on
with quiet but firm insistence.  "And then, it may be, you thought
it advisable to disappear from the house for several hours; and you
went out, returning at midnight."

Again Liang's hands moved caressingly over the arms of his chair,
and his eyes sought Vance's face.  There was a mild look of wonder
in them.

"I was not in this house"--he spoke with deliberation--"between
half-past two yesterday afternoon and midnight."  There was a
finality in both his manner and his tone.

Vance sighed wearily, and, turning to the hall door, called Gamble.

"Where was Mr. Archer Coe sitting last night when you went out?" he
asked, when the butler had appeared.

"On the davenport, sir," Gamble told him.  "In that corner near the
floor lamp.  It was Mr. Archer's favorite seat."

Vance nodded and rose.

"That will be all for the present.  Attend to your duties till we
need you."

Gamble went out, and Vance walked to the davenport and looked down
at it.  There were three down-filled cushion-seats on it, and the
one at the end nearest the lamp was depressed.  Beside the lamp,
and in front of the davenport, stood a low massive tabouret of teak-
wood; and on the floor near the hearth lay a copy of Tchou Tö-y's
"Les Bronzes antiques de la Chine."

Vance contemplated the tabouret and the book for a moment.  Then,
without turning, he said:

"Mr. Liang, did you find this tabouret upset when you returned to
the house early last night?"

For the first time the Chinaman seemed to lose his cool ivory
equanimity.  His eyelids drooped noticeably, and he made a slight
involuntary movement.  Before he could answer, Vance added:

"And perhaps you set it aright. . . .  But you overlooked the book
that had fallen from it."

"I was not here," Liang repeated.

"It will be a simple matter," said Vance, "to go over the tabouret
for finger-prints and to compare them with yours."

"It would be unnecessary, however," came the calm reply.  "You
would undoubtedly find my fingerprints on it.  I often touch the
furniture and objects in this room."

Vance smiled faintly and, I thought, admiringly.

"In that case, we sha'n't bother."

He moved round the lamp and stood for a moment beside a circular
camphor-wood table just behind the davenport.  There were various
pieces of small carved ivory figures and at least two dozen snuff-
bottles of jade, amber, quartz, crystal and modelled porcelain,
scattered about the table's surface; and in the centre, on a
slender teak-wood base, stood a white baluster-type vase about nine
inches tall.

I had noticed Vance stop and glance at this vase when he had first
entered the library; but now he studied it critically as if
something about it puzzled him.  We were all watching him; and not
the least interested person in the room was Liang.  His eyes were
fixed on Vance's face, and there was a gentle surprise in them--a
surprise which, unless my imagination was playing tricks on me, was
mingled with apprehension.

"Extr'ordin'ry!"  Vance murmured after several moments'
contemplation of the vase.  Then he lifted his eyes lethargically.
"I say, Mr. Liang; was this bit of pottery on the table early last
night?"

"How could I possibly know that?" Liang asked in a vague,
mechanical voice.

Vance picked up the vase and inspected it closely.

"Not exactly a museum piece, is it, Mr. Liang?" he mused.  "Rather
inferior.  I'm astonished that Mr. Coe would have given it a place
in his collection.  The shops along Fifth Avenue are full of them,
at most reasonable prices. . . .  I should say it was imitation
Ting yao made under Tao Kuang."  He flicked the vase with the nail
of his middle finger.  "Better material perhaps than the Sung
ceramists used, but thicker.  Inferior workmanship, too; and the
glaze is lacking in the rich lustre of Ting yao, especially Pai
ting.  This piece would never have deceived a collector as shrewd
as Archer Coe. . . .  Do you not agree with me, Mr. Liang?"

"Mr. Coe knew much about Chinese ceramics," the Chinaman answered
evasively, without taking his eyes from Vance.

"Tao Kuang, Markham," Vance elucidated, "was the most consistent
imitator of all foregoing dynastic wares in the history of China.
And he marked his imitations with no regard for veracity, although
genuine Pai ting yao and Nan ting yao were never marked."  He
turned the vase over.  "Ah!  The Wan Li signature."  He shook his
head sadly.  "No, Archer would never have been taken in by this
specimen. . . .  It's most confusin'."

He started to replace the vase on its stand, but suddenly withheld
the movement of his hand, and set the vase to one side.

Leaning over, he pushed the little teak-wood pedestal out of the
way, revealing a tiny triangle of thin white porcelain, about an
inch wide, which had been lying hidden underneath.  Carefully
adjusting his monocle he picked up the bit of porcelain and held it
between his thumb and forefinger to the light.

"Now, this is eminently different," he remarked, studying it
closely.  "Apparently a particle of genuine Sung Ting yao.  Not Nan
ting, either: it hasn't the rice-flower color, but is a dazzling
white.  A soft paté, like vellum . . . very thin and fragile . . .
and opaque, despite its fineness. . . .  Still, it might be Yuan
Shu fu yao or Yung lo. . . .  But that really doesn't matter, don't
y' know.  A vase of this delicate porcelain would do honor to any
collection."

Gently he placed the little white triangle in his pocket, and
addressed the Chinaman, who had sat immobile and unblinking during
Vance's comments.

"Did not Mr. Coe possess a Sung Ting yao vase, Mr. Liang, about the
size of this execrable Tao Kuang?"

"I believe he did."  Liang spoke in a curiously repressed voice,
without modulation or inflexion.  "Although, as you suggested, it
might have been Shu fu yao made in the Yuan dynasty.  There is, as
you know, little appreciable difference between them."

"And when did you see the Ting yao vase last?"

"I do not remember."

Vance kept his steady gaze on the man.

"When, Mr. Liang, did you last see this nineteenth-century
imitation?"  He pointed to the vase on the table.

Liang did not reply at once.  He looked thoughtfully at the vase
for a full half-minute; then his eyes returned to Vance.

"I have never seen it before," he said finally.

"Fancy that!"  Vance returned his monocle to his waistcoat pocket.
"And here it sits in a place of honor, crying out its spuriousness
to any one who enters the room. . . .  Most interestin'."

Markham, who had been chafing under Vance's apparent irrelevancies,
now spoke.

"This art discussion may be interesting to you, Vance; but it
certainly does not interest me.  What possible connection can a
vase have with the murder of Archer and Brisbane Coe?"

"That point," answered Vance dulcetly, "is what I am endeavorin' to
ascertain.  Y' see, Markham, Archer Coe would not have included
this Tao Kuang vase in his collection.  Why is it here?  I haven't
the groggiest notion.--On the other hand, that little broken piece
of Sung porcelain is of a beautiful quality.  I can imagine Coe
waxing ecstatic over a vase of such ware."

"Well?" Markham retorted irritably.  "I still can't see the
significance. . . ."

"Nor can I."  Vance became serious.  "But it has significance--and
a vital significance.  It is another absurdly irrelevant factor in
this hideous case."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because," replied Vance, "that little triangular bit of Ting yao
porcelain was on the table just back of where Archer Coe sat last
night.  And it was hidden beneath a vase which Archer would not
have tolerated in the same room with him. . . ."

He paused and looked up sombrely.

"Moreover, Markham, that broken fragment of porcelain has blood on
it."



CHAPTER IX

A THREAT OF ARREST


(Thursday, October 11; 12.45 p. m.)


Liang was dismissed with instructions to remain in the house until
further notice.

While we were waiting for the Medical Examiner, there ensued a
brief discussion concerning the blood on the piece of porcelain and
Liang's possible relationship to the events preceding the double
murder.  But Vance was evidently as much in the dark as the rest of
us; and there was little to be done until we had Doctor Doremus's
report.

Heath had taken a violent dislike to Liang, and suggested to Vance
that, if there was any possibility of Liang's having been in the
house earlier than midnight on the day before, he would take the
Chinaman to Headquarters and "let the boys shellack 'im."

Vance promptly discouraged the proposal.

"It would be a waste of time, Sergeant.  You would learn nothing by
such crude methods.  Chinamen are not like Occidentals.  When they
make up their minds to remain silent, there is no known torture
that can force them to speak.  For centuries the Chinese have been
impregnated with Buddhistic stoicism; and Liang would merely be
indifferent to your most violent third-degree methods.  We must
approach this problem from a different angle."

"Still and all, you think the Chink was here early last night and
that he knows something about what went on."

"Oh, undoubtedly," Vance admitted.

"Maybe it was him who put the bathrobe on the guy upstairs."

"That," replied Vance, "was one of the possibilities I was toying
with."

It was at this point in the discussion that Burke came to the door
and beckoned to Heath.

"Say, Sergeant," he reported from the corner of his mouth, "that
Chink just went upstairs.  Right with you?"

Heath looked sour, and shot Vance an angry look.

"Now, what's the idea?" he bawled.

Gamble entered the hall from the dining-room at this moment, and
Vance addressed him.

"What is Liang doing upstairs?"

The butler seemed perturbed at Vance's tone, and replied with
apologetic obsequiousness:

"I told him to fetch Miss Lake's tray, and tidy up her quarters. . . .
Shouldn't I have done it, sir?  You told me to proceed with my
duties. . . ."

Vance scrutinized the man closely.

"When he returns keep him downstairs," he said.  "And you'd better
stay here yourself."

Gamble bowed and returned to the dining-room; and a moment later
Doctor Doremus arrived.  He was in execrable mood and, after a
brusque nod, he glared at Heath angrily.

"First you ruin my breakfast, and now you interfere with my lunch,"
he protested.  "Don't you ever eat?"

The Sergeant grinned: years of contact had taught him not to take
the waspy Medical Examiner too seriously.

"Me, I'm dieting," he chuckled. . . .  "Want to see the body?"

"What d'ye think I'm here for?" snapped Doremus.

"Well, follow the leader."  And Heath went briskly out of the room
and down the corridor to the closet.

We were close behind him when he opened the closet door.  Doremus,
straightway assuming a professional air, knelt down and touched
Brisbane Coe's body.

"Dead," he announced.  "But even a member of the Homicide Bureau
could have guessed that."

Heath simulated astonishment.

"Honest, is he dead?  And me thinking all the time he was playing
'possum!"

Doremus snorted.

"Take hold of his shoulders."  And he and the Sergeant carried the
body into the library and placed it on the davenport.  For the
second time that day Doremus went about his gruesome task, and once
again I was forced to admire the man's deftness and competency.

"Could you tell us, doctor," Vance asked, "which of the two victims
died first?"

Doremus, who had been testing the movability of the dead man's head
and limbs, glanced at his watch.

"That's easy," he said.  "The one upstairs.  The advance of rigor
mortis in the two bodies is practically the same.  This one might
be slightly further along; but it's been nearly four hours since I
went over the other fellow.  Therefore, I'd say that this one died
anywhere from two to three hours later."

"How about nine o'clock last night?" put in Heath.

"Maybe."  Doremus again bent over the corpse.  "But I'd put it
later.  Say eight o'clock for the one upstairs and about ten
o'clock for this one. . . .  That's not certain, y'understand; but
it's my guess."

He then proceeded with his examination.  After a while he
straightened up and frowned at Markham.

"You know what killed this guy?"

Markham shook his head.

"Not yet.  What was it?"

"A stab in the back! . . .  Same like the fellow upstairs.  And
almost in the same place."

"And the weapon?"

"The same.  A sharp, narrow, four-cornered instrument.  Only, in
this case, the hemorrhage was external.  A lot of blood lost."

"Died instantly, I take it," remarked Vance.

"Yep."  The doctor nodded.  "Must have fallen in his tracks."

Vance picked up the blood-stained coat and waistcoat of the dead
man, and inspected them.

"And this time the stab was through the clothes he was wearing," he
commented.  "A minor point, but worth verifying. . . .  I say,
doctor; any indications of a struggle?"

"Nope."  Doremus put on his hat at a rakish angle.  "Not a sign.
He got it in the back when he wasn't expecting it.  Startled him
for a split second probably--look at that expression!--and then he
curled up and passed out.  Doubt if he even saw the fellow that did
him in.  Quick, smooth business."

"Devilish business," emended Markham.

"Oh, well, I'm no moralist," Doremus confessed.  "I'm a doctor.
There're too many people in the world anyway."  He began filling in
a printed blank.  "Here's your removal order, Sergeant.  And I
suppose you'll be wanting a post-mortem report today. . . .  All
right, ship him down to the morgue--and maybe you'll get the report
today, and maybe you won't."

He started for the door, but turned and fixed Heath with a leering
eye.

"Say, look here.  Got any more corpses round the house?  If you
have, bring 'em out now.  I can't be running up here all day.  I
got work to do."

"Running?" Heath retorted with good-natured sarcasm.  "With that
fancy limousine the city furnishes you?  . . ."

"So long," said Doremus.  "I want food."  And in another moment he
had slammed the front door behind him.

Heath went at once to the telephone and ordered the wagon from the
Department of Public Welfare.  Then he returned to the library.

"Now where do we stand?" he asked, spreading his hands hopelessly.

Vance gave him a commiserating smile.

"About the middle of the Gobi desert, I should say, Sergeant."

"And where might that be, Mr. Vance?"

"The Gobi desert," explained Vance, "--or, more correctly, simply
the Gobi*--is an almost unexplored territory in Mongolia, extending
from the Pamirs to the Khingan mountains, and from the Yablonoi
mountains to Altyn-tagh and the Nan-shan--which are the
northernmost ranges of the Kuenlun mountains.  The Chinese call the
Gobi desert Han-hal and Sha-mo.  The Mongolians say Sa-mak--"


* Gobi is a Mongol word meaning "desert."


"That's enough, sir," Heath interrupted.  "I understand what you
mean."  He regarded Vance shrewdly.  "And it's my opinion the Chink
cook did it.  If Mr. Markham would give me the word, I'd arrest him
now."

"Why such haste, Sergeant?" sighed Vance.  "You haven't a particle
of evidence against him--and he knows it.  That's why he will not
admit that he was here earlier last night."

Heath started to say something but Markham made a gesture for
silence.

"See here, Vance," he said, "how do you know Liang was here early
last night?"

"By the fact that Gamble heard him come in at midnight.  Gamble
said he 'sneaked' in; but I assure you, Markham, if Liang had
wanted to come in the back way without being heard, he would have
done so with no difficulty whatever.  Moreover, I imagine he always
comes in silently--it's a Chinese characteristic.  On general
principles, the Chinese never want their movements, however
innocent, to be known to foreigners.  But last night Liang was
heard returning--and Gamble had already retired to the fourth
floor.  A bit significant--eh, what?  Liang probably saw Gamble's
boudoir light ablaze, and let it be known, in a subtle way, that he
was arriving from his afternoon and evening off.  I can even
imagine Liang leaving the kitchen door and windows open while he
clattered Archer Coe's supper dishes and brewed himself a pot of
tea. . . .  Tea at midnight for a cultured Chinaman?  No, no,
Markham.  Really, it's not done in the best oriental circles.  And
Liang had probably been flooding his system with goak-fa steepings
most of the evening.  He was merely signalling to Gamble that he
had returned at midnight."

"I see what you mean."  Markham nodded dubiously.  "But, after all,
your reasoning is purely speculative."

"Oh, quite," Vance admitted.  "But the entire case is in a
speculative stage just now, what? . . .  Anyway, I have even more
definite evidence that Liang was here early last night, and I'll
present him with it later. . . .  And that being the present state
of affairs, what do you say to our having polite intercourse with
Wrede and the Signor Grassi?"

Markham waved his hand in assent.

"And we'd better go upstairs," Vance suggested.  "Brisbane is not a
pretty sight."

Heath gave orders to Burke to remain at the library door and see
that no one entered the room.  Gamble was told to stay in the front
hall and answer the door bell.

"Which one of the babies do you want first?" the Sergeant then
asked.

"The Italian, by all means," said Vance.  "He's frightfully upset,
and therefore in an admirable state of mind for questioning.  We'll
keep Wrede till later,--he's teeming with possibilities."

Heath went toward the drawing-room door as Vance and Markham and I
ascended the stairs to Archer Coe's room.  Liang, with Miss Lake's
breakfast tray, was descending from the third floor when we reached
the upper landing, and he stood deferentially aside as we entered
Coe's bedroom.

Grassi and the Sergeant joined us a few seconds later.

"Mr. Grassi," Vance began without preliminaries, "we should like to
know exactly what your social and professional status is in this
house.  A very serious situation has developed here, and we are in
need of all the information, however seemingly irrelevant, we can
obtain. . . .  We understand you have been a house guest of Mr.
Coe's for a week."

The Italian now had himself well in hand.  He walked to the easy
chair in which Archer Coe's body had been found, and sat down in
leisurely fashion.

"Yes--that is right," he returned, looking at Vance with calm
disdain.  "I came here at Mr. Coe's invitation a week ago
yesterday.  It was to have been a fortnight's visit."

"Had you any business with Mr. Coe?"

"Oh, yes.  Business, one might say, was the basis of the
invitation. . . .  I am connected, in an official capacity, with a
museum of antiquities in Milan," he explained; "and I had hoped to
be able to purchase from Mr. Coe certain specimens of Chinese
ceramic art from his remarkable collection."

"His Ting yao vase, for example?"

Grassi's dark eyes became suddenly brilliant with astonishment; but
almost at once a wary look came into them, and he smiled with cold
politeness.

"I must admit I was interested in the vase," he said.  "Such pieces
are very rare.  Perhaps you know that genuine Ting yao of the Sung
dynasty--not the Tu ting yao with its inevitable crackle--is
practically unprocurable today."

Vance was standing by the east windows regarding the other with
apparent unconcern.

"Yes, I knew that. . . .  And you are sure Mr. Coe's vase is not
Shu fu yao?"

"Quite sure--though it really does not matter whether the vase is
Imperial ware or not.  It is a magnificent specimen, of the amphora
shape. . . .  Have you examined it?"

"No," Vance told him.  "I've never seen it . . . but I think I've
had a fragment of it in my hand."

Grassi stared.

"A fragment!"

"Yes, a small triangular piece," Vance nodded.  Then he added:  "I
have grave fears, Mr. Grassi, that the Ting yao vase has been
broken."

The Italian stiffened, and his eyes clouded with suspicious anger.

"It's impossible!  I was inspecting the vase only yesterday
afternoon.  It was on the circular table in the library."

"There's only a Tao Kuang vase there now," Vance informed him.

"And where, may I be permitted to ask, did you find this fragment
of Ting yao?"  The man's tone was cold and sceptical.

"On the same table," Vance replied carelessly.  "Beneath the Tao
Kuang."

"Indeed?"  There was a sneer in the inflexion of the word.

Vance appeared to ignore it.  He made a slight gesture of the hand
as if dismissing an unimportant matter, and came closer to the
Italian.

"I understand from Gamble that you left the house at about four
o'clock yesterday afternoon."

Grassi smiled courteously, but he was patently on his guard.

"That is correct.  I had a business appointment for dinner and the
evening."

"With whom?"

"Is that information necessary?"

"Oh, very."  Vance met the other's smile with one equally arctic.

Grassi shrugged with elaborate resignation.

"Very well, then. . . .  With one of the curators of the
Metropolitan Museum of Art."

"And," continued Vance, without change of tone, "at what time last
night did you meet Miss Lake?"

The Italian rose indignantly, his sombre eyes flashing.

"I resent that question, sir!"  His voice, though dignified, was
unsteady.  "Even if I had met Miss Lake, I would not tell you."

"Really, Mr. Grassi," Vance smiled, "I would not have expected you
to.  Your conduct is quite correct. . . .  I take it for granted
you were aware that Miss Lake is engaged to Mr. Wrede."

Grassi calmed down quickly and resumed his seat.

"Yes; I knew there was some understanding.  Mr. Archer Coe informed
me of the fact.  But he also stated--"

"Yes, yes.  He also stated that he was opposed to the alliance.  He
enjoyed Mr. Wrede intellectually, but did not regard him favorably
as a husband for his ward. . . .  What is your opinion of the
situation, Mr. Grassi?"

The Italian seemed surprised at Vance's question.

"You must forgive me, sir," he said after a pause, "if I plead my
inability to express an opinion on the subject.  I may say,
however, that Mr. Brisbane Coe disagreed with his brother.  He was
very much in favor of the marriage, and stated his views most
emphatically to Mr. Archer Coe."

"And now both of them are dead," Vance remarked.

Grassi's eyelids drooped, and he turned his head slightly.

"Both?" he repeated in a low voice.  (The man's purely speculative
attitude puzzled me greatly.)

"Mr. Brisbane was stabbed in the back shortly after Mr. Archer was
killed," Vance informed him.

"Most unfortunate," the Italian murmured.

"Have you," asked Vance, "any suggestion as to who might desire to
have these two gentlemen out of the way?"

Grassi suddenly became austere and aloof.

"I have no suggestion," he replied in a flat, diplomatic voice.
"Mr. Archer Coe was the type of man who might inspire enmities; but
Mr. Brisbane Coe was quite the opposite--genial, shrewd, kindly--"

"But he had undercurrents of passion and resentment," suggested
Vance.

"Oh, yes," the other agreed.  "Also great capabilities.  But he was
clever enough not to antagonize people."

"An excellent characterization," Vance complimented him.  "And what
are your impressions of Mr. Wrede? . . .  I assure you any opinion
you express will go no further."

Grassi appeared ill at ease.  He did not answer at once but
contemplated the wall before him for some time.  Finally he spoke
in the slow, precise manner of a man carefully choosing his words.

"I have not been particularly impressed by Mr. Wrede.  On the
surface he is most charming.  He has a pleasing manner, and is an
excellent conversationalist.  He has delved into many things; but I
have a feeling he is inclined toward superficiality.  Withal, he is
very clever. . . ."

"Cleverness is our national curse," Vance remarked.

Grassi gave him an appreciative glance.

"I have felt that, since being in this country.  England, however,
has neither cleverness nor profundity."

"Which," supplemented Vance, "gives her a great advantage. . . .
But forgive my interruption.  You were speaking of Mr. Wrede."

Grassi readjusted his thoughts.

"Mr. Wrede, as I have said, impresses me as being very clever.  But
I have sensed another side to him.  He is capable, I should say, of
unexpected things.  I have a feeling he would stop at nothing to
gain his own ends.  Beneath his gracious exterior is a sublimated
hardness--a cruelty such as the Aztecs--"

"Thank you!"  Vance cut in on the other's remark with unwonted
harshness.  "I perfectly understand your feelings."  He looked down
at Grassi contemptuously.  "And now, sir, we should like to know
exactly what you did yesterday between four o'clock in the
afternoon and one o'clock in the morning."  His tone was almost
menacing.

The Italian made a valiant effort to meet Vance's stern gaze.

"I have said all I intend to say," he announced.

Vance faced the man threateningly.

"In that case," he said, "I shall have to order your arrest on
suspicion of having murdered Archer and Brisbane Coe!"

A look of abject fear came over Grassi's pallid face.

"No--you can't--do that," he stammered.  "I didn't do it--I assure
you I didn't do it!"  His voice rose.  "I'll tell you anything you
want to know--anything at all. . . ."

"That's much better," Vance remarked coldly.  "Explain where you
were yesterday."

Grassi leaned forward, grasping the arms of the chair with frantic
force.

"I went to Doctor Montrose's for tea," he began in a high-pitched,
nervous voice.  "We discussed ceramics; and I stayed to dinner.
At eight o'clock I excused myself and went to the railway station
to take the train for Mount Vernon--to the Crestview Country
Club. . . ."

"Your appointment with Miss Lake was at what time?"

"Nine o'clock."  The man looked appealingly at Vance.  "There was
to be a dance . . . but--but I took the wrong train,--I'm not
familiar--"

"Quite--quite."  Vance spoke encouragingly.  "And what time was it
when you arrived at the Club?"

"It was after eleven."  Grassi fell back into the chair, as if
exhausted.  "I had to make several transportation changes," he
continued in a forced tone.  "It was most unfortunate. . . ."

"Yes, very."  Vance studied the other icily.  "Did the lady forgive
your tardiness?"

"Yes!  Miss Lake accepted my explanation," the man returned, with a
show of heat.  "The fact is, she did not arrive until several
minutes after I did.  She had motored to the Arrowhead Inn with
friends for dinner, and had an accident of some kind on her return
to the Club."

"Very distressing'," murmured Vance.  "Were her friends with her at
the time of the accident?"

Grassi hesitated and moved uneasily.

"I do not believe they were," he answered.  "Miss Lake told me she
had motored back alone."

At this point Detective Burke stepped into the room.

"That Chink downstairs wants to speak to Mr. Vance," he said.
"He's all hot and bothered."

Vance nodded to Heath.

"Send him up, Burke," the Sergeant ordered.

Burke turned and called down the stairs.

"Step on it, Wun Lung."  He beckoned sweepingly with his whole arm.

Liang appeared at the door and waited till Vance came to him.  He
said something in a low voice which the rest of us in the room
could not distinguish, and held out a crudely twisted paper parcel.

"Thank you, Mr. Liang," said Vance; and the Chinaman, with a bow,
returned downstairs.

Vance took the parcel to the desk and began opening it.

"The cook," he said, speaking directly to the Italian, "has just
found this package tucked away in the garbage-pail on the rear
porch.  It may interest you, Mr. Grassi."

As he spoke, he smoothed out the corners of the paper; and there
were revealed to all of us many fragments of beautiful, delicate
porcelain with a pure-white lustre.

"Here," he went on, still addressing the Italian, "are the remains
of Mr. Coe's Ting yao vase. . . .  And, if you will notice, several
of these pieces of fragile Sung porcelain are stained with blood."

Grassi rose and stared at the fragments, stupefied.



CHAPTER X

"NEEDLES AND PINS"


(Thursday, October 11; 1.15 p. m.)


There was a long silence.  Finally Grassi looked up.

"It's an outrage!" he exclaimed.  "I don't comprehend it in the
least. . . .  And the blood!  Do you think, sir, that this vase had
anything to do with the death of Mr. Coe?"

"Without doubt."  Vance was watching the Italian with a puzzled
look.  "But pray sit down again, Mr. Grassi.  There are one or two
more questions I should like to ask you."

The other resumed his seat reluctantly.

"If you were with Miss Lake at the Country Club late last night,"
Vance proceeded, "how did it happen that you and she returned to
the house at different hours?  I presume, of course, that you
accompanied her back to the city."

Grassi appeared embarrassed.

"It was Miss Lake's suggestion," he said, "that we should not be
heard entering the house at the same time.  So I waited in Central
Park for a quarter of an hour after she had gone in."

Vance nodded.

"I thought as much.  It was the proximity of your two returns that
made me conclude that possibly you had been together last night.
And furthermore, business appointments with curators of the
Metropolitan Museum are not apt to extend into the early hours of
the morning. . . .  But what reason did Miss Lake give for the
deception?"

"No particular reason.  Miss Lake merely said she thought it would
be better if Mr. Brisbane Coe did not hear us coming in together."

"She specifically mentioned Mr. Brisbane Coe?"

"Yes."

"And she did not mention Mr. Archer Coe?"

"Not that I remember."

"That is quite understandable," Vance remarked.  "Uncle Brisbane
was her ally in her engagement to Mr. Wrede; and she may have
feared that he would not have approved of her being out so late
with another man. . . .  The older generation, Mr. Grassi, is
inclined to be strait-laced about these little matters.  The modern
girl is quite different."

The Italian was manifestly grateful for Vance's attitude, and bowed
his appreciation.

Vance strolled to the window.

"By the by, Mr. Grassi, your quarters here are the suite of rooms
at the front of the house on this floor, are they not?"

"Why, yes," the man replied, lifting his eyebrows.  "They are
directly over the drawing-room and den."

"When you came in last night--or rather, this morning--where did
you hang your hat and coat?"

Again a cautious look came into the Italian's eyes.

"I did not wear an outer coat.  But I carried my hat and stick to
my own room."

"Why?  There is a coat closet in the lower hall."

Grassi moved uneasily, and I could have sworn the pallor of his
face increased.

"I did not care to make a noise opening and shutting the closet
door," he explained.

Vance made no comment, and there was a short silence.  Presently he
turned from the window and walked back to the desk.

"That will be all for the present," he said pleasantly.  "And thank
you for your help. . . .  Would you mind waiting in your room?  We
shall probably want to question you again before the afternoon is
over.  I shall see that Gamble serves you luncheon."

The man rose and started to say something.  But, evidently thinking
better of it, he merely bowed and went down the passageway of the
hall toward the front of the house.

Markham was immediately on his feet.

"What about that broken vase?" he demanded, pointing at the parcel
of porcelain fragments on the desk.  "Was that the thing with which
Archer Coe was struck over the head?"

"Oh, no."  Vance picked up one of the larger pieces and snapped it
easily between his fingers.  "This delicate Ting yao china would
crack under the least pressure.  If a man were struck with such a
vase he would hardly feel it.  The vase would simply break into
pieces."

"But the blood. . . ."

"There was no blood on Archer's head."  Vance selected one of the
fragments and held it up.  "Moreover, please note that the blood is
not on the outer glaze, BUT ON THE INSIDE OF THE VASE.  The same is
true of the little piece I found on the table downstairs."

Markham looked at Vance in amazement.

"How, in the name of Heaven, do you account for that?"

Vance shrugged.

"I'm not accounting for it at present--not altogether.  And yet,
it's a most fascinatin' point.  The only noticeable blood in this
affair is that which trickled from Brisbane's wound and from the
Scottie's head.  But I can't possibly connect this broken vase with
Brisbane's death or with the Scottie."

"And how do you connect it with Archer's death?"

Vance became evasive.

"Wasn't it standing on the table directly behind the seat that
Archer was occupying when Gamble left the house last night to
indulge his taste for the art of the cinema?"

"What of it?" queried Markham, with no attempt to curb his
exasperation.

Vance took out his cigarette-case and sighed.

"What of it, indeed? . . .  Give me a little more time," he said.
"I have a fairly definite idea about this broken vase with the
bloodstains on the inside; but it's too fantastic--too incredible.
I want to verify my suspicions. . . ."  His voice trailed off, and
he lighted his cigarette meditatively.

Markham regarded him a while and then said:

"The whole affair strikes me as fantastic and incredible."

Vance exhaled a blue ribbon of smoke.

"Suppose we talk to Wrede," he suggested.  "We may know more when
he has unburdened his heart to us.  He has ideas--otherwise he
would not have had Gamble phone direct to you."

Markham gave an order to Heath, but at that moment Burke announced
the arrival of the wagon from the Department of Public Welfare.
The Sergeant went into the hall and was half-way down the stairs
when Vance turned quickly from his contemplation of a Ch'ien Lung
gourd-shaped vase in mille-fleur pattern, and hastened after him.

"Just a moment, Sergeant!"

So impetuous was Vance's manner that Markham and I followed him
into the hall.

"I could bear," Vance called down to Heath, "to snoop in the
pockets of Brisbane's suit before it's taken away. . . .  Would you
mind?"

"Certainly not, Mr. Vance."  Heath, for some reason, was in good
humor.  "Come along."

We all went to the library.  The Sergeant closed the door.

"I had the same idea," he said.  "I've been figuring right along
that maybe that slick butler was lying to us about the ticket to
Chicago."

It took but a short time to empty the pockets of Brisbane Coe's
suit to the library table.  But there was nothing of interest among
the contents, only the usual items to be found in a man's pockets--
a wallet, handkerchiefs, keys, a fountain-pen, a watch, and the
like.  There were, however, the ticket and berth reservations to
Chicago, and also the parcel-room check for the suit-case.

Heath was crestfallen, and expressed himself in violent terms.

"The ticket's here all right," he added; "so I guess he intended to
go, after all."

Vance, too, was disappointed.

"Oh, yes, Sergeant, he intended to go.  But it was not the ticket
that was worrying me.  I was hoping to find something else."

"What?" asked Markham.

Vance gave him a vague look.

"Really, don't y' know, I haven't the slightest idea."  He would
say no more.

Heath summoned the two men waiting in the hall with their basket,
and the body of Brisbane Coe was taken away to join that of his
brother at the mortuary.

As the men went out to the car, Snitkin came in with the dead man's
suit-case.

"I had a hell of a time getting it," he complained apologetically.
"Those crabs at the station wouldn't turn it over, and I had to go
to Headquarters and get an order from the Inspector."

"There wasn't any hurry."  The Sergeant tried to smooth the
detective's ruffled feelings.

Then, at Vance's suggestion, he opened the suitcase and examined
the contents.  They consisted merely of the items which would
ordinarily be taken by a man making a short trip.

"Here, you."  Heath jerked his head at Gamble.  "Look in here and
see if these are the things you packed."

Gamble obeyed fearfully.  After a moment's inspection he nodded
with obvious relief.

"Yes, sir.  There's nothing there except what I put in."

Vance nodded to Heath, and the Sergeant ordered Gamble to put the
bag away.

"And you, Snitkin," he added, "wait upstairs."

Both men disappeared, and the Sergeant went to the drawing-room
doors and pulled them apart.

"Mr. Wrede," he called.  "You're wanted."

Wrede came into the library with a haggard, questioning look in his
eyes.

"Have you learned anything, Mr. Markham?"  His voice seemed to
quaver slightly, and as he spoke, his eyes roved over the room.
"Where's Mr. Grassi?"

"Mr. Grassi's upstairs."  Markham motioned to a chair.  "And I'm
sorry to say that thus far we have learned very little. . . .  We
are hoping that you may be able to help us out of our quandary."

"Good Lord!  I wish I could."  Wrede was like a man on the verge of
collapse.  "It's horrible!"

Vance had been watching him from under half-closed eyelids.

"It's more horrible than you perhaps realize," he said.  "Brisbane
Coe has also been murdered."

Wrede looked around him in a dazed way and sank heavily into the
nearest chair.

"Brisbane?"  His voice seemed to come from afar.  "But why--
why. . . ?"

"Why, indeed?"  Vance spoke harshly: there was none of the detached
suavity in his manner that had been so noticeable during his
interrogation of Grassi.  "Nevertheless, he's dead.  He, too, was
stabbed in the back with a curiously shaped instrument."

Wrede stared straight ahead.  His lips moved, but no sound came
from them.

"Tell us what you know about this double murder, Mr. Wrede," Vance
went on with grim relentlessness.

A shiver ran over Wrede's body.

"I know nothing about it," he replied after a painful pause.
"Gamble told me this morning that Brisbane was in Chicago."

"He started for the station yesterday afternoon, but returned here
last night--to meet his death."

"Why--should he return?" stammered Wrede.

"Have YOU any ideas on the subject?"

"I?"  The man's eyes opened wide.  "Not the slightest idea."

"What do you know of the conditions here at the Coe house
yesterday?  I would like as full a description as you can give; and
I would also like a detailed account of your own movements
yesterday."

"Why MY movements?"  Wrede's tone was weak and frightened.

"If you don't care to explain them . . ." began Vance pointedly,
and stopped.

"I have no reason for secrecy," the other answered quickly.  "I was
here talking to Archer Coe from ten to twelve yesterday morning--"

"About ceramics--or Miss Lake?"

Wrede caught his breath.

"Both," he answered weakly.  "The fact is, Archer and I had a
somewhat bitter session regarding my coming marriage with Miss
Lake.  But it was nothing unusual.  He was, as you may know,
violently opposed to the marriage.  Brisbane took part in the
discussion, and called Archer some rather harsh names. . . ."

"And after twelve?"

"I lunched in my apartment.  Then I went to an auction at the
American Art Galleries.  But there was nothing there that
interested me particularly; and, besides, I had a bad headache.
So I came home around three, and lay down.  I did not leave my
apartment again until this morning, when Gamble phoned me."

"You live next door, do you not?"

"The first house to the east, across the double vacant lot.  It's
an old residence that has been converted into an apartment house.
I occupy the second floor."

"Who owns the vacant lot?"

"It is part of the Coe estate.  Archer put it to lawn, and erected
the iron fence on the street.  He said he wanted the light and
space, and refused to sell."

Vance nodded indifferently.

"So I understood. . . .  And you remained in your apartment from
three o'clock yesterday afternoon until this morning?"

"That's right.  I had a beastly headache. . . ."

"Did you see Miss Lake yesterday?"

"Yes, in the morning, when I was here.  The fact is, I made an
appointment with her for last night--at the Country Club.  But when
I got home yesterday afternoon, I called her by phone and excused
myself.  I was in no condition for dancing."

"Mr. Grassi substituted for you," said Vance.

Wrede's eyes clouded, and he set his jaws.

"So she told me this morning."  (I could not determine whether the
man was telling the truth or merely being gallant.)

"When Gamble phoned you this morning," Vance asked, "what was your
mental reaction to the news?"

Wrede frowned, and it was a considerable time before he answered.

"That would be difficult to analyze. . . .  I was not overfond of
Archer," he admitted; "and I was not personally distressed by the
report of his death.  But I was extremely puzzled.  It was not like
Archer to take his own life; and--frankly--I had very grave doubts.
That is why I hastened over here,--I wanted to see for myself.
Even when I had looked through the keyhole I could scarcely believe
the evidence of my vision, knowing Archer as well as I did.  For
that reason I advised Gamble to get in immediate touch with Mr.
Markham."

Vance's stony contemplation of Wrede did not relax.

"You acted wisely," he observed, with a tinge of sarcasm.  "But if
you did not believe that Archer Coe had committed suicide, there
must have been in your mind another possibility--to wit: that of
murder.--Who, Mr. Wrede, do you think would have had sufficient
motive to commit the crime?"

Wrede did not answer at once.  He appeared sorely troubled and ran
his fingers several times through his hair.

"That is a question I have been trying to answer all morning," he
replied without looking at Vance.  "One may speculate, of course,
but it would not be fair to voice those speculations without
definite evidence of some kind. . . ."

"Mr. Grassi?"

Again a black cloud passed over Wrede's face.

"I--I--really, Mr. Vance, I'm not well acquainted with the man.  He
was after Coe's collection of Chinese ceramics; but that would
hardly constitute a motive for murder."

"No-o."  Vance smiled frigidly.  "What about Miss Lake?"

Wrede almost leaped from his seat.

"That suggestion is outrageous!" he cried, glowering at Vance.
"How dare you--?"

"Spare me the drama," Vance cut in, with a contemptuous smile.
"I'm deuced difficult to impress. . . .  We're merely discussing
possibilities, and we can do far better without a display of
histrionic talent, however noteworthy."

Wrede sat back, with a mumbled remark which we could not make out.

"What do you think of Liang, the cook?" Vance asked next.

The man glanced up with a swift, shrewd look.

"Liang, eh?  That's quite different.  There's something secretive
and underhand about that Chinaman.  I've never wholly understood
his being here.  He's certainly not a cook by profession; and from
my apartment window I've often seen him sitting on the rear porch
writing for hours.  My impression is he's a spy of some kind.  And
he knows Chinese art.  Several times I've caught him in this very
room inspecting the vases, and studying the signatures on their
bases, and running the tips of his yellow fingers over their glazes
with the air of a connoisseur. . . .  And I've never liked his
manner round this house,--he's sly and over-polite.  I distrusted
him from the first."  Wrede nodded his head sagely.  "If you knew
more of what was back of his presence here, you might know more of
Archer Coe's death. . . .  At least," he hastened to add, "that is
my impression."

Vance stifled a mild yawn.

"The oriental temperament is full of mystic potentialities," he
commented.  "And my own impression is that Liang knows something
about what happened here last night.  But, as you suggest, a motive
in that direction is still lacking."  He leaned against the mantel
and let his gaze drift into space.  "On the other hand, you
yourself had abundant motive for doing away with Archer Coe."

Wrede, to my surprise, did not appear to be offended by this
remark.

"Archer was admittedly opposed to your marriage with his niece,"
Vance went on.  "He might even have brought sufficient influence to
bear to stop it altogether.  And until he died Miss Lake was
limited to a small allowance.  She would have received her
patrimony at Archer's decease.  Thus, if you had successfully put
Archer out of the way, you would have at once gained a fairly
wealthy bride--with no obstacles.  Is it not so, Mr. Wrede?"

The man gave a harsh laugh.

"Yes, I suppose so.  As you point out, I had ample motive for
murdering Archer.  But, on the other hand, I would have had no
reason whatever for murdering Brisbane."

"Ah, yes--Brisbane.  Quite--quite.  That second corpse complicates
the whole matter."

"Where was Brisbane's body found, may I ask?"

"In the coat closet at the end of the lower hall. . . .  You
didn't, perchance, open the coat closet this morning?"

"No!"  Wrede shuddered.  "But I came very near it.  Instead, I
threw my hat on a chair in the drawing-room."

Vance shook his head in satirical sadness.

"My word!  How consistently every one seems to have avoided that
closet since Brisbane's occupation of it!"

"Perhaps," suggested Wrede significantly, "Liang was not ignorant
of its contents."

"Who knows?" sighed Vance.  "And Liang certainly would not tell us.
Sad . . . sad. . . ."

Wrede lapsed into introspection.  Presently he spoke.

"What I can't understand is that bolted door upstairs."

"Neither can we," said Vance, in a matter-of-fact tone.  "It's most
confusin'.  But don't let that point disturb your slumbers tonight,
Mr. Wrede.  I'm thoroughly convinced YOU didn't bolt it."

The man jerked his head up in a queer way.

"Oh, thanks."  His attempt at pleasantry was unsuccessful.  "Have
you found the weapon?" he asked lamely.  "That might give you a
clue."

"I'm sure it would," agreed Vance.

Heath, who had been standing by the front windows, stepped forward.

"That reminds me."  He gave Vance a disgruntled look: obviously he
did not like the other's method of interviewing Wrede.  "The boys
and I are going to give this house a swell looking-over. . . .  All
right with you, Mr. Markham?"

Markham nodded.

"Go to it, Sergeant.  The sooner the better."

Heath went from the room, and Vance resumed his interrogation.

"By the by, Mr. Wrede, are you interested in Chinese ceramics?"

"Not particularly."  The man was obviously puzzled by the question.
"I have a few pieces, but I'm no expert.  However, I couldn't help
learning something about the subject during my long association
with Archer."

Vance walked to the circular teak-wood table behind the davenport,
and pointed at the Tao Kuang vase.

"What's your opinion of this Ting yao?"

Wrede rose and came forward.

"Ting yao?"  There was a perplexed look in his eyes.  "That's not a
Ting yao, is it?"

"I don't believe it is."  Vance pretended to study it.  "But I was
under the impression Archer Coe kept a Ting yao vase of the same
shape on this table."

Wrede stood, his hands behind him, looking down at the vase.
Suddenly he said:

"By Gad, he did, Mr. Vance!  But this isn't the vase."

"When did you last see the original vase?"

"I couldn't say.  I was in this room yesterday morning--but I
didn't notice.  There were other things on my mind."  He looked at
Vance questioningly.  "Has this vase anything to do with--with--?"

"It's difficult to say," Vance replied.  "It merely struck me as
peculiar that Archer would have a vase like this in his
collection."

"It IS peculiar."  Wrede turned his attention again to the table.
"This vase might have been substituted for the other."

"It was," said Vance laconically.

"Aha!"  Wrede, for some reason I could not understand, seemed
pleased; and I asked myself if he were thinking of Grassi.

Vance apparently had not noticed his exclamation.  He glanced at
his watch.

"That will be all, Mr. Wrede.  You'd better run along and get some
lunch.  But we may want you tomorrow.  Will you be at your
apartment?"

"Yes, all day."  He hesitated.  "May I see Miss Lake before I go?"

"By all means.  And you might break the news to her of Brisbane's
death."

Wrede went out, and we could hear him mounting the stairs.

Markham rose nervously.

"What do you make of the fellow?" he asked.

Vance smoked a moment thoughtfully.

"Peculiar character--far from appealin'.  I wouldn't choose him for
a boon companion."

"You certainly didn't handle him with gloves."

"He's too clever a talker to be allowed any advantage.  My only
hope of learning what he might possibly know was to upset his
equanimity."

"It occurred to me," said Markham, "that he might have opened the
hall closet this morning, and, because of what he saw, told Gamble
to phone me."

"It's possible," Vance nodded.  "The same thought flitted through
my mind.  But if that were so, why shouldn't he have told us the
moment we arrived?"

"Anyway, it's safe to conclude he doesn't care a great deal for
Grassi.  It struck me he was jealous of the Italian."

"Oh, quite.  And it was news to him that Grassi and Miss Lake were
together last night.  Curious situation, that."  Vance frowned
musingly.  "But Wrede's real passion of hatred is directed toward
the cook.  He has sized up Liang pretty accurately. . . .  It's
strange that Archer, with his Sinological knowledge, didn't suspect
Liang's true status."

"Maybe he did," Markham suggested, without interest.

Vance looked up quickly and took his cigarette from his lips.

"My aunt!  Maybe he did! . . ."

There came a pounding of heavy footsteps on the hall stairs, and
the next moment Heath was standing in the door, beaming
triumphantly.  He held something in his hand, and, crossing to the
table, he threw the object down for our inspection.

It was one of the most beautiful and interesting Chinese daggers I
have ever seen.*  The blade, which was square with concave sides,
was of steel, delicately and minutely incised and perhaps six
inches long.  It tapered from a thickness of about half an inch at
the guard to a stiletto-like point, and was partly encrusted with
dried blood.  The guard was oval-shaped, of polished gold, and
engraved with the original owner's seal.  The cylindrical handle
was wound with vermilion silk, with the usual row of knots running
down one side; and it was surmounted by a tiny figure of Kuan Ti,
the Chinese God of War, carved in brown jade.  That this dagger was
the murder weapon was obvious at one glance.


* I learned later that the dagger dated from the Hsüan Tê reign of
the Ming dynasty.


"Good work, Sergeant," said Vance.  "Where did you find it?"

"Under the cushion-seat of the easy chair where we found the dead
guy this morning."

"Oh, I say!  Really?  In Archer Coe's bedroom?"  Vance seemed
astonished at Heath's announcement.  "Most amazin'. . . ."

He went swiftly to the dining-room door and called Liang.  When the
Chinaman appeared Vance beckoned him to the table and pointed at
the dagger.

"Ever see that before, Mr. Liang?"

The man regarded the weapon with a look devoid of all expression.

"Yes, I have seen it many times," he responded in a flat voice.
"It was always kept in that cabinet near the window, with other
similar weapons of my country."

Vance dismissed him, and walked up and down the room several times.
Something disturbing was on his mind.

Heath watched him a moment and then looked back at the dagger.

"And not a chance to pick up a finger-print," he complained with
disgust.  "A silk handle."  He chewed viciously on his burnt-out
cigar.

"No--no finger-prints," murmured Vance without lifting his eyes
from the floor.  "But that isn't the chief difficulty, Sergeant.
Brisbane Coe was stabbed hours after Archer Coe was stabbed.  And
yet the dagger is found in Archer Coe's chair upstairs.  The whole
thing is mad. . . ."

He continued pacing in a brown study.  Suddenly he drew up short.

"Sergeant!  Bring me Brisbane Coe's top-coat--the black-and-white
tweed one--from the hall closet."  His voice held a tinge of
excitement.

Heath left the room and returned shortly with the garment.

Vance began turning the pockets inside out.  A gray silk
handkerchief and a pair of gloves fell to the table.  Then from the
left-hand outside pocket Vance drew forth two pieces of fine, waxed
linen string about four feet long.  He was about to throw these to
one side, when he suddenly bent forward and inspected them.  One
end of each piece of string was tied securely to a large bent pin.

Heath was looking on with rapt fascination.

"And what might that be, Mr. Vance?" he asked.

Vance did not answer, but put his hand again into the left-hand
pocket of the top-coat.  When he withdrew it he was holding a long
slender piece of steel.

"Ah!" he exclaimed with satisfaction.

We all looked down at it wonderingly.  It was perhaps the last
thing in the world we expected to see.

The object which Vance had taken from the pocket of Brisbane Coe's
coat was a darning-needle!



CHAPTER XI

MORE BLOODSTAINS


(Thursday, October 11; 1.45 p. m.)


Markham looked from the needle back to the little pile of string,
and then at Vance.

"Well, what does that mean--if anything?" he asked.

Vance slowly picked up the needle and the two pieces of string and
put them in his own coat pocket.

"It means deviltry, Markham.  And it means that we are dealing with
a shrewd, subtle, and tricky brain.  The technique of this crime
had been thought out to several decimal points--and then everything
went wrong.  The murderer was forced to add complications to his
plot in order to cover himself.  And he has confused the issue out
of all recognizability. . . ."

"But what about the string and that darning-needle?" interrupted
Markham.

"That was where the plot went wrong--"

"But who used this string and needle?  And for what purpose?"

Vance looked up gravely.

"If I knew who used them, I'd have an important key to the entire
situation.  The fact that they were in Brisbane's top-coat means
little.  That is the logical place that any one would have put them
after having used them.  It's always safe, don't y' know, to throw
suspicion on a dead man."

Markham stiffened and his eyes became hard.  "You think there's a
possibility that Brisbane killed Archer?"

"My word, no!"  Vance spoke wearily but with emphasis.  "I doubt if
Brisbane even returned to the house until Archer was dead."

"You believe the same person killed both Brisbane and Archer?"

Vance nodded, but the puzzled frown did not leave his face.

"Undoubtedly.  The technique of both murders was the same; and the
same weapon was used in both killings."

"But," argued Markham, "the dagger was found in Archer's bolted
bedroom."

"That's another incredible complication," Vance returned.  "Really,
y' know, the dagger shouldn't have been there.  It should have been
here in the library."

"Here?"  Markham uttered the word with astonishment.  "But why in
the library?  Neither man was killed here."

"I wonder. . . ."  Vance leaned over the table, deep in thought.
"It would have been the logical place . . . and yet neither body
was found here. . . ."

"Why was this room the logical place?" Markham asked sharply.

"Because of this substituted Tao Kuang vase and the broken piece of
Ting yao porcelain with the blood on it--"  He stopped abruptly and
his eyes drifted into space.  "That blood-stained Ting yao! . . .
Ah!  What happened after that Sung vase was broken?--what would the
stabber have done then?  Would he have gone out, taking the blood
with him? . . .  No!  He wouldn't have dared--it wouldn't have
fitted in with his sinister purpose.  He would have been afraid.
He was hiding something, Markham. . . ."  Vance looked about the
room.  "That's it: HE WAS HIDING SOMETHING! . . .  Twice he hid
it . . . and then something unexpected happened--something startling
and upsetting.  The corpse should have been here in the library,
d'ye see; and therefore the dagger had to be here."

"Will you get down to something definite?" snapped Markham.  "If
you have a workable theory, state it in comprehensible terms."

"I have a theory, Markham," Vance replied quietly, "--a theory to
account for certain contradict'ry phases of this case--but I
wouldn't dare express it--yet.  It's too outlandish.  And moreover,
it doesn't fit two-thirds of the facts. . . .  But give me a few
minutes.  Let me see if I can verify one important item in my
theory.  If I'm able to find what I'm looking for, we'll be a
little farther along."

He walked to the mantelpiece and stood before a large blue-green
vase.

"A beautiful example of Tsui se," he said, running his fingers over
the glaze.  "Turquoise blue, as we would say, but the Chinese
designated it by the color of the kingfisher's feathers.  Its
manufacture began some time in the Ming dynasty and continued till
the Chia Ch'ing era.  And there is no crackle in this piece; and
there are phoenixes incised in the paté. . . ."  He put his finger
in the neck.  "Too small," he commented, and moved to another vase--
a bottle-shaped, dark-red specimen--at the further end of the
mantel.

"One of the most perfect examples of Lang yao I've ever seen,--ox-
blood, or sang de boeuf, as we call it.  It's as fine as the one
in the Schiller collection."  He lifted it up, and looked at it
closely inside and out.  "Watered-green crackle on the base, and
signed by the empty double ring in blue, identifying it as K'ang
Hsi."  He set it back on its standard, and strolled to a cabinet
against the west wall.  On it stood a vase of brilliant black.

"Mirror-black, Markham," he said, touching it delicately.  "And one
of the rarest varieties,--note the golden speckles floating in the
glaze.  For pure beauty, however, I prefer the earlier examples of
this ware--the Chien yao, for instance, with its green iridescence.
Chien yao was not made after the Yuan dynasty.  The Ming dynasty
did not know it; but it came in favor again during the K'ang Hsi
era."

As he talked, he fingered the vase lovingly and held its lips
toward the light.

"My own mirror-black is K'ang Hsi, with brown reflections; and it's
considerably larger than the one in the Allen collection."*


* Vance's mirror-black vase, which I had often seen and admired,
was fifteen inches tall, whereas the C. P. Allen vase is only seven
inches tall.


Markham and Heath were watching Vance closely.  Both of them knew
that he was not talking at random, but that, beneath his apparently
aimless chatter about Chinese ceramics, there lurked some definite
and serious purpose.

Vance set the K'ang Hsi mirror-black vase back on the cabinet, and
let his eyes run over the other ceramic specimens in the room.
There was a vase of dead-white glassy porcelain painted in enamel
colors in the style of Ku Yüeh-hsüan; a pair of rouleau-form vases
decorated with famille-vert enamels, with panel designs in a ground
of floral brocade; a Lung-ch'üan celadon, copied from an ancient
bronze with designs in relief, on fine white ware with a red-brown
base; a Sung flower-pot of gray porcelainous ware with a purple,
opalescent glaze; a bluish vase of "soft chun" with red markings; a
Ju-type vase, pale blue, with carved floral designs; an early Ming
turquoise wine-jar incised and bordered; a K'ang Hsi "apple green"
vase with a lustrous, transparent glaze; several beautifully
incised Kuan Yins of blanc-de-chine, or Fukien, ware; and various
ginger-jars, ewers, bottles, water pots, bulb-bowls, plates,
libation cups, incense tripods, goblets, wine-jars, Shon Lao
figures, fish-bowls, beakers, cups, and the like, ranging from the
Han dynasty to the Ch'ing.

But Vance did not linger over any one of them.  He gave them merely
a casual inspection.  He seemed to be searching for some particular
type of vase, for he would hesitate here and there, shake his head
as if in rejection, and pass on to other pieces.  At last he
completed his rounds and halted.  There was a distinct look of
disappointment on his face as he turned back to us.

"I'm afraid my theory is a mere broken reed," he sighed.

"I certainly haven't been leaning on it," retorted Markham.  He was
annoyed at Vance's secretive manner.

"Neither have I, for that matter," said Vance a little sadly.  "But
it furnished a starting-point to reason from--provided, of course,
I could verify it."

He came back slowly toward the centre of the room where we were
grouped about the davenport and the circular table.  As he reached
the end of the library table, he halted and looked down at a small
low teak-wood stand on which stood a cornucopia-shaped white vase.
The stand was directly behind the end of the davenport farthest
from the lamp and against the end of the library table.  A set of
books piled high on the end of the table almost obscured the vase.
Vance approached it.

"That's dashed interestin'," he murmured.  "A piece of later Ting
yao--from the Yung Chêng era, I should say.  During the Ming
dynasty, y' know, Markham, and the K'ang Hsi, Yung Cheng, and
Ch'ien Lung eras of the Ch'ing dynasty, the Chinese ceramists made
many facsimiles of Sung Ting yao, in every way as beautiful as the
earlier pieces.  In fact, the Ming and Ch'ing artificers developed
and improved on the Sung."

He picked up the vase and began inspecting it.

"A rather thick biscuit, and decorated in relief: copied from an
ancient bronze. . . .  Angular crackling in the glaze, which is
brittle and glossy. . . .  A very beautiful and perfect specimen."

As he talked, he moved toward the window and held the vase to the
light in such a manner that he could look inside it.  He peered
closely into its broad volute mouth.  He then adjusted his monocle
and looked again into the interior of the vase.

"I believe there is something here," he said.  Moistening his
finger on his tongue, he put his hand deep into the vase.  When he
withdrew it there was a red smear on the end of his finger.

"Yes, quite so," he said, looking closely at his finger.

"What have you found?" demanded Markham.

Vance held out his finger.

"Blood!" he said.

He replaced the vase on its stand and rubbed off the stain on his
finger with his handkerchief.  Then he fixed a grim gaze upon
Markham, who was waiting for some explanation of this new
discovery.

"And that vase was also near the davenport, only a few feet from
where the Sung Ting yao stood.  Both vases were used in this
devilish plot. . . .  A subtle conception--but the plan fell to
pieces--"

"See here, Vance,"--Markham spoke quietly, trying to curb his
annoyance--"just how were those vases used?  And where did the
blood on them come from?"

"As I see it, Markham, those two Ting yao vases were used to divert
suspicion from the real murderer and to focus it on another person;
and they were employed as symbols in order to create a false
motive.  That is to say, the first delicate Ting yao--the one which
originally stood on that circular table, and which has been
supplanted by that execrable Tao Kuang--was to have been the
signature of the crime, and to have put ideas in our heads.  But it
broke, and therefore made the selection of the second Vase
necess'ry--"

"You mean we were to regard the crime as being connected with
Archer's collection of Chinese ceramics?"

Vance nodded.

"I feel sure of it.  But in just what way I don't know.  It would
probably have been perfectly clear if there had not been a gross
miscalculation on the murderer's part."

"We were, you think, supposed to find the blood in the vase?"

Vance frowned.

"No--not the blood exactly.  That is where the plot went awry."

"Just a minute, Vance!"  Markham's voice was commanding.  "Where
did that blood come from?"

"From Archer Coe's body!"  Vance's answer sent a chill up my spine.

"But there was no external bleeding," Markham reminded him.

"True."  Vance leaned against the back of the davenport and lighted
a cigarette.  "But there was blood on the dagger when it was
withdrawn from between Archer's ribs. . . ."

"The dagger?"

"Exactly. . . .  As I see it, Markham, the bloody dagger that
killed Archer was thrown into the fragile Ting yao vase that was on
the table there, in order to indicate--by a subtle and devious
symbolism--the motive for the crime.  But the steel and gold of the
dagger broke the vase--it was of almost eggshell delicacy--and so
the dagger was then placed in this other Ting yao.  In clearing up
the broken pieces of the first vase, the murderer overlooked one
small fragment."

"But why the substituted vase?"

"In order that no attention would be attracted by the glaring
absence of the original one.  If a valuable Ting yao were missing,
it might indicate another motive for the crime, and that motive
would have confused the issue and diverted attention from the
person the murderer wanted us to think was behind the crime.  The
substitution of the Tao Kuang vase was in the nature of a
precaution."

"That's all very well, perhaps," Markham returned dubiously; "but
we did not find the dagger in the other vase--"

"It was taken out and used to kill Brisbane."

"By the murderer of Archer?"

"Unquestionably.  No one else would have known where the dagger
was."

"But, Vance, that theory doesn't fit the facts.  The Sergeant found
the dagger upstairs in Archer's room--with the door bolted on the
inside.  And Archer died hours before Brisbane was stabbed.  Why,
if the same person killed both of them, didn't he replace the
dagger in this vase?  Archer was already dead, and Brisbane was
killed downstairs.  Why should the dagger have been in Archer's
bedroom chair?"

Vance smoked unhappily for some time before replying.

"That's what I can't make out," he admitted.

"I got it!" exclaimed Heath.  "The guy croaked Archer downstairs
and put the dagger in the vase.  Just then Brisbane came back from
the station and caught him.  So he grabbed the dagger and did
Brisbane in to protect himself.  After that he dragged Archer
upstairs, still carrying the dagger, got excited, and left it in
the chair where he'd put Archer."

Vance smiled ruefully and shook his head.  "There are too many
loopholes in that theory, Sergeant.  Brisbane was not stabbed until
hours after Archer.  The murderer could have been in Philadelphia
by the time Brisbane was stabbed.  He certainly wouldn't have
tarried here for several hours after disposing of Archer--"

"But, Mr. Vance, you yourself said the same person croaked both
guys."

"And I still believe it," returned Vance.  "The only explanation I
have is that the murderer, after killing Archer and placing the
dagger in the vase, returned to the house and killed Brisbane,
too."

"Then, I ask you,"--the Sergeant became petulant--"how did the
dagger get in the bolted room?--and who put the bullet through
Archer's head, and why?"

"If I could answer those questions, Sergeant," Vance told him, "I
could solve this whole insane problem."

At this moment Wrede came down the stairs and walked past the
library to the front door.

"Oh, I say, Mr. Wrede," Vance called out.  "Could we speak to you a
moment before you go?"  The man turned and came into the library.
His face was flushed, and there was a sullen, angry look in his
eyes--a look almost murderous.  He stood just inside the door, his
hands tightly flexed at his sides, looking at Vance with defiant
anger.

"Here I am," he announced curtly through set jaws.

"So I observe," Vance murmured mildly.  "And you seem rather upset,
don't y' know."

Wrede's tense attitude did not relax; and he said nothing.

"You saw Miss Lake?" Vance asked pleasantly.

The man gave a jerky nod.

"And since speaking to her," Vance pursued languidly, "do you still
feel that you have no suggestion to make as to a possible
perpetrator of this double crime?"

A shrewd light came into the other's eyes, and he hesitated for
several seconds.  Then he said:

"Not at the moment.  But it might be well if you temporarily
concentrated your investigation on Mr. Grassi.  I have just learned
that Archer Coe had agreed to sell him a considerable section of
his collection."

"Indeed?"  Vance's eyebrows went up.  "Did Miss Lake inform you of
the fact?"

Again Wrede hesitated.  "Miss Lake and I discussed other matters,"
he returned at length.  Then he added:  "It may interest you to
know, Mr. Vance, that my engagement to Miss Lake has been broken."

"Most distressin'."  Vance gave his attention to his cigarette.
"But what could Archer's willingness to dispose of part of his
collection have to do with his death?"

"I couldn't say."  Wrede had become uneasy.  "But it strikes me as
very peculiar that Archer should consent to sell."

"I'll admit," agreed Vance, "that it doesn't sound altogether
reasonable.  Maybe, however, he took a great fancy to Mr. Grassi."

Wrede narrowed his eyes, but made no reply, and Vance continued:

"But even had Archer consented to dispose of certain pieces in the
hope, let us say, of acquiring others, I still can't see what Mr.
Grassi would have gained by his death."

"Archer may have regretted his decision after he had committed
himself. . . ."

"I see your point, Mr. Wrede," Vance interrupted coldly.  "But what
of Brisbane?"

"Could not Brisbane's death have been an accident?"

"Yes--quite."  Vance smiled thoughtfully.  "I'm sure it was an
accident--a most unfortunate accident.  Last night was filled with
the most amazin' accidents. . . .  But I sha'n't keep you from your
lunch any longer.  I merely wanted to ask you how you felt about
the matter after having spoken to Miss Lake; and you have answered
me quite frankly."

Wrede bowed stiffly.

"I'll be in my apartment all day tomorrow, in case you care to see
me again," he said.

He had no sooner closed the front door behind him than Vance called
Gamble from the hall.

"Run upstairs," he said, "and, not saying anything, find out where
Mr. Grassi is."

The butler left the room, returning shortly.

"Mr. Grassi, sir," he reported, "is in conversation with Miss Lake
in her sitting-room on the third floor."

Vance gave a faint satisfied smile.

"And now, Gamble, will you ask Mr. Grassi to come here."

Gamble went out, and Vance turned to Markham.

"I suspected from Wrede's manner that he had found his Latin rival
with the young woman.  There was probably a most painful scene, and
poor Wrede was given his congé.  It's very sad.  He doesn't like
Grassi--he doesn't at all like him.  But I doubt if he really
suspects him of killing Archer--though I'm sure Wrede doesn't put
it beyond him--"

"Then why the insinuations?"

"More subtlety, Markham.  Wrede is no fool--he's deuced clever, in
fact.  And he thinks that, if we turn our attention to Grassi, we
will push past the straw man, so to speak, and find somebody else."

"Whom, in the name of Heaven?"

"Miss Lake, of course."  Before Markham could answer, Vance went
on.  "Wrede has become vindictive and bitter.  My asking him about
Miss Lake as a possible suspect put ideas in his head,--he knows of
the acute antagonism that has always existed between her and
Archer, and he knows, too, that she is a capable, strong-minded
woman.  Therefore, when he was humiliated a moment ago in front of
Grassi, he turned her over to us, as it were, with Grassi as a
smoke-screen."

Grassi entered the library a moment later.

"I understand, sir," Vance addressed him, "that Mr. Archer Coe had
consented to sell you certain items from his collection."

The Italian was nervous, and declined the chair Vance offered him.

"Yes," he replied; "that is true.  I informed Mr. Wrede of the
fact a moment ago.  My reason for so doing was that Mr. Wrede
practically ordered me out of the house--on the strength of his
engagement to Miss Lake, I presume--and I informed him that my
business here was not completed inasmuch as a considerable part of
Mr. Coe's collection belonged technically to me.  It was necessary
for me to remain to arrange for packing and shipment."

"And what did Miss Lake say?"

The Italian seemed loath to answer, but at length he said:

"Miss Lake broke off her engagement with Mr. Wrede.  And then she
asked him to leave the house and remain away."

"Most impulsive!"  Vance sighed.  "Was she violent about it?"

"She was not over-polite," Grassi admitted; and there was a faint
timbre of satisfaction in his tone.

"I say, Mr. Grassi";--Vance spoke suddenly--"do you think that Miss
Lake killed her uncle?"

The Italian took a deep, audible breath and stared at Vance.

"I--I--really, sir, I--"

"Thanks awfully for the effort," Vance remarked.  "I can quite
understand your feelings.  We'll let the matter drop.  But I should
like to know why you didn't tell us before of Mr. Archer Coe's
agreement to dispose of some of his collection to you."

Grassi had recovered from his apparent shock at Vance's question
concerning the possibility of Hilda Lake's guilt.

"It did not occur to me that the matter was relevant to the present
unfortunate situation."

"Was the agreement written or verbal?" Vance asked.

"Written."  The man reached in his pocket and handed Vance a folded
paper.  "At my request Mr. Coe wrote that letter to me yesterday,"
he explained.  "I wished to cable the news to Milan."

Vance unfolded the letter and read it, with Markham, Heath and me
looking over his shoulder.  It was a holograph letter on personal
note-paper, and ran:


Signor Eduàrdo Grassi.

Dear Sir,

In confirmation of our recent conversation, I hereby agree to sell
to you, as a representative of the Museum of Antiquities at Milan,
the following pieces in my private collection: . . .


Then came a detailed list of forty or fifty items, including many
of Archer Coe's most famous and valuable specimens of Chinese art.
The price of these items, which followed in a separate paragraph,
caused Heath to suck in his breath; and I must admit that even I
was astonished at the high figure.  At the end of the letter was
Archer Coe's sprawling signature.  The date at the head of the
document was October 10.

Vance refolded the letter and put it in his pocket.

"We shall keep this for the present," he told Grassi.  "It will be
perfectly safe, and it will be returned to you anon.  It may have
some bearing on the case, and the authorities may wish to refer to
it."

I had expected Grassi to protest, but instead he bowed in polite
acquiescence.

"And now," Vance concluded, "I shall again ask you to wait in your
own quarters until we send for you."

Grassi went out, with obvious relief.

"Sergeant," Vance said, "could you get me a sheet of that note-
paper on Archer Coe's desk?  And his fountain-pen?"

The Sergeant went upstairs and returned shortly with the paper and
the pen.

Vance compared the paper with the letter he had taken from Grassi,
and made several marks on the paper with Archer Coe's pen.  After
an inspection of both he said:

"It is certainly Coe's note-paper; and Archer's pen wrote the
letter. . . .  Most significant."

He returned Grassi's letter to his pocket, and ordered Gamble to
take lunch to Miss Lake and Grassi.

"And now, Markham," he said, "we have chivied all the inmates.
What do you say to emulating the voracious Doremus and seeking
food?  Eggs Bénédict are in order, with an asparagus-tip salad,
and a soufflé au Cacao.  I know a French restaurant in the
neighborhood--"

Heath, with a grimace, interrupted him.

"I'm sticking here," he announced.  "I got work to do, and the
reporters'll be swarming around like flies before long.  I'll get
my victuals later."

Markham had risen.

"I'll either be back or phone you later," he told the Sergeant.

Vance went toward the front door.

"Cheer up, old dear," he exhorted Markham.  "It's not nearly so
black as it seems.  The clouds are beginning to disperse.  We have
all the data now, and it's simply a matter of arranging them and
interpreting them correctly."

"I wish I could feel so optimistic," grumbled Markham, following
Vance into the vestibule.

Vance halted and, turning, regarded the perplexed Heath.

"Oh, by the by, Sergeant," he said; "one or two little favors,--
there's a good fellow.  Will you check up at once--this afternoon,
if possible--on the--shall I say alibis?--of Miss Lake and Signor
Grassi.  Grassi says he dined last night with Doctor Montrose of
the Metropolitan Museum, took a wrong train, and ended at the
Crestview Country Club at eleven.--Miss Lake, according to her tale
as reported by Grassi, dined at Arrowhead Inn with friends, drove
to the Country Club alone, had an accident, and arrived shortly
after the lost Signor had found his missin' trail."

"That's easy," snorted Heath.  "Two good men can check all that in
a few hours. . . ."

"And," added Vance, "you might give this house another search.  I'm
dashed interested in a blunt instrument that might have been used
for striking Archer and the wee Scottie."

Heath screwed up his face shrewdly.

"Anything definite in mind, sir?" he asked.

"Oh, yes--quite.  I noticed that in the fire set in the living-room
everything was intact in the rack but the poker."

Heath nodded.  "I get you, sir.  If there's a poker in this house,
I'll lay hands on it."

"Stout fella!"  Vance continued toward the front door.

"And speaking of dogs, sir," Heath added, "that guy Wrede told me
he was very fond of the animals.  Owned one before he moved."

"Ah!"  Vance paused.  "Did he mention the breed?"

"He did.  But it wasn't any dog I'd ever heard of."

"It was a Doberman Pinscher," Markham informed him.

"Now that's deuced interesting y' know," Vance murmured.

"Anything else, Mr. Vance?" Heath asked.

"Well, yes," Vance drawled, turning at the door.  "Be so good,
Sergeant, as to have the bolt on Archer's bedroom door fixed while
we're lunching.  I'll want it in perfect working order when I
return."

The Sergeant grinned broadly.

"So that's on your mind, is it? . . .  Sure, I'll have it fixed."



CHAPTER XII

THE CHINESE CHEST


(Thursday, October 11; 2.15 p. m.)


We walked through the invigorating autumn air to a small French
restaurant in West 72nd Street near the Drive.  Vance, who knew the
patron, ordered our lunch.  We had a glass of Dubonnet, a young
Chambertin with our eggs, and a few sips of Grand Marnier after our
coffee.  Vance talked of dogs in general and of Scottish terriers
in particular.  He told us of the famous blood lines--the Ems,
Barlae, Abertay, Laindon, Albourne, Laurieston, Merlewood, Taybank,
Ornsay, and Heather--and described their characteristics.  He went
into the obscure origin of the Scottie, the West Highland and the
Cairn; and discussed the status of the Scottie in Great Britain and
America.  He described the type of dog he preferred, and criticised
the tendency among certain Scottish terrier breeders to produce
"freaks."

"Proportion in all things," he said.  "One must approach a Scottie
as one approaches a work of art.  The fundamental principles are
the same.  A dog, like a painting or a piece of sculpture, must
have free movement in three dimensions, balance, organization,
rhythm--a perfect plastic ensemble.  If the head is too long and
the body too short, both balance and proportion are lost.  Some of
our breeders, with no appreciation of co-ordinated ensemble, are
ruining the conformation and workability of the Scottie by faddish
distortions.  They are endeavoring to make clowns of a breed of
dogs that are fundamentally serious and dignified.  The Scottie is
at heart a gentleman--deep-natured, reserved, honorable, patient,
tolerant, and courageous.  He never whines or complains: he meets
life as he finds it, with an instinctive philosophy of stoical
intrepidity, and a mellow understanding.  He is calm and firm--and
stubborn.  He minds his own business--and minds it well.  He is
independent, and incapable of an underhand act.  He is loyal--and
he remembers.  He's a Spartan and can suffer pain without
whimpering.  He will attack a lion or a tiger if his rights are
invaded.  And he may die in the struggle; but he never shows the
white feather or runs away.  He is the grandest and most admirable
of all sports--forthright and brave.  You know exactly where you
stand with a Scottie; and if you are a friend, he is gentle and
loving and protective. . . .  And this is the dog, Markham, that
certain breeders would turn into a grotesque zany--a butt for
humor, an object for snickering--by taking away his beautiful
proportions, lengthening his foreface, shortening his body and
tail, and making of him a monstrosity fit only for gibes. . . ."

Vance paused, sipped his Chambertin, and went on.

"Then there's the question of size.  A tendency has developed among
a class of breeders and judges recently to give preference to
large, coarse dogs.  But there is no reason whatever for Scotties
to be large.  They are terriers--ground dogs (the very name comes
from the Low Latin terrarius)--and they are supposed to go to earth
for foxes, otters, and other burrowing vermin.  Obviously size is a
handicap--unless, of course, we desire to turn the breed into freak
show dogs.  There have, of course, been many heavy champions of
undeniable merit; but why any one should favor heavy Scotties in
general is a mystery.  McCandlish, one of the greatest breeders of
Scottish terriers and a man who knows the breed as few others now
living, puts the correct weight at sixteen to eighteen pounds for
bitches, and eighteen to twenty pounds for dogs.  And he is
perfectly right.  Even the Standard of Points, as adopted by the
Scottish Terrier Club of England, says specifically that specimens
of over twenty pounds should be discouraged. . . .  But does this
deter the breeders of 'freaks'?  Alas, no!  They want baby
elephants.  And if they are called on to judge a show, they'll put
down a small dog that meets the Standard, and elevate large,
overweight huskies that couldn't get down a fox-hole. . . ."*


* There is little doubt that Vance had been much impressed and
helped, especially in the early days of his dog-breeding, by Doctor
Fayette C. Ewing's weekly column on Scottish terriers in Popular
Dogs; and Doctor Ewing's book, "The Book of the Scottish Terrier,"
(for which I, by the way, wrote an appreciative introduction) was
one of Vance's "bibles."


Again Vance sipped his wine.

"There is alas! a tendency here and there to breed show dogs rather
than natural terriers.  Some breeders, by their intensification of
certain ring traits, have robbed Scotties of their natural
heritage.  With the recent mania in certain quarters for lowness
and short legs, many of the breed can't move as freely as they
should--they lack mobility and speed and agility--and it is
impossible for them to defend themselves adequately against their
enemies.  I think it is this loss of terrier power and its
resultant loss of confidence that accounts for the increasing
number of shy Scotties today.  A real Scottie, in his natural state
and bred for workability rather than ribbons, possesses an
indefinable character of derring-do.  This true Scottie character
combines keenness and eagerness, a desire to be busy all the time,
a readiness to play or fight or raise what-for at any hour of the
day: it has in it a deep-seated inquisitiveness, an instinct to
investigate whatever turns up--a complete and eager responsiveness
to any manifestation, however trivial, of the world about it--a
SEEKING quality which keeps the dog's mind and muscles constantly
on the qui vive. . . .  That is the real terrier character; and
there are no keener terriers than Scotties.  It's a quality hard to
analyze, as are all colorful personalities; and I suppose the best
way to describe it is to call it an ever-blazing internal fire,
both physical and temperamental, that shines forth from the dog's
eyes, vitalizes his expression, invigorates his body, and animates
his every activity. . . ."

Vance smiled waggishly at Markham.

"I know I'm boring you.  But you've been thinking much too
strenuously all the forenoon.  Your brain needs a little
relaxation,--and what could be more soporific than my cackle about
dogs? . . .  And while I'm on the subject, I want to tell you,
Markham, that the little wounded Scottie Gamble discovered behind
the library portières is a beautiful specimen of what a Scottie
should be.  She has her faults--every dog has--but she's the type
I'd like to have in my own kennels.  She's small, compact,
beautifully balanced--and doesn't weigh an ounce over seventeen
pounds. . . .  Poor little devil.  She can probably never be shown
now, even if she recovers.  There'll be a bad scar over her eye.
She certainly didn't deserve that wound, and I hope she'll have her
revenge by helping us find the murderer."

He got up.

"I think I'll phone and see how she's getting along."

He went out and returned shortly to the table.  He looked more
cheerful.

"The doctor says she's not as badly hurt as he thought at first.  A
simple fracture, and he had to take only three stitches in her
scalp.  She's eating.  No fever.  Had an intravenous injection of
calcium-gluconate, and, aside from being bandaged, she'll be pretty
normal by tomorrow."

He took another sip of wine.

"And that means that I'll be pretty busy tomorrow.  I'll have to
visit the American Kennel Club and perhaps interview a few Scottie
judges."

"I can't see the connection--" Markham began.

"But there is a connection," insisted Vance.  "It is no coincidence
that a wounded dog is in a strange hostile house at the exact time
of a murder.  And it's reasonable to assume that it was admitted to
the house by the murderer, either accidentally or for a purpose.
In either case it will be a definite clue.  The ownership of the
dog--and especially the address of the owner--will give us
something pretty definite to work from.  The migrations of the dog
last night will throw much light on the movements of the person who
came to the Coe house. . . .  And there is another point to be
considered.  Neither Brisbane nor Archer saw the dog, for either
one of them--with their dislike for dogs--would have put her out of
the house immediately."

"But where does that deduction lead us?"

"Not far, I'll admit.  But it helps considerably.  From the dog's
presence in the house last night we may argue several very
interestin' and illuminatin' possibilities.  First, that the dog
did not arrive before the murderer, because Archer would have
thrown her out--"

"But Archer might have been the person who injured her."

"Oh, I wouldn't put it past him; but if he had kicked her or struck
her, he would not have left her behind the curtain beside the
library door: he would have thrown her down the front steps to the
street. . . ."

"But Brisbane?"

"Ah!  That's just the point I'm coming to.  If it had been
Brisbane, then the dog was already in the house, or else she
followed him in.  If she was in the house and it was he who injured
her, he was killed at almost the same instant; for if he had been
able, he, like Archer, would have put the dog outside.  Therefore,
in case the dog was there and Brisbane injured her, then it follows
that the murderer didn't see her or left her there with some
definite purpose in mind.  As for the dog having followed Brisbane
in, I think it highly unlikely.  He would have noticed her coming
in the front door, and she wouldn't have got further than the
vestibule.  Moreover, dogs do not sneak in front doors between
strangers' legs--"

"But she followed some one in, obviously," Markham argued,
"--unless, of course, she was deliberately brought there."

"That is true," Vance admitted, "and that is a point that puzzles
me.  She might have followed some one--even a stranger--into the
house, provided he had left the door open; but the murderer would
scarcely have left the front door open,--in fact, I imagine he
would have taken pains to shut it securely.  And Brisbane would
certainly not have left the door open.  And both of them--if they
had shut the front door immediately--would have noticed the dog and
pushed her back. . . .  On the other hand, the vicious injury given
the dog seems to indicate that her presence in the house was not
deliberate--that, in fact, the person who found her was surprised
and, perhaps, frightened.  Being afraid he would be seen if he
turned her out, he acted impulsively and sought to kill her lest
she should start barking and attract attention.  In that event, we
might conclude that the murderer struck the dog as a sort of self-
protective measure; and the second and most important conclusion is
that the dog's presence was not discovered until after the murder."

"Your reasoning is clear enough," Markham told him, "but I don't
see in what way it is helpful to us."

"Oh, but it IS helpful," Vance returned cheerfully.

"It eliminates certain possibilities: it narrows down certain
movements of the murderer; and it leads to a specific interpretation
of the two crimes--the murder of Archer and the murder of Brisbane."

"Forgive me if, as a mere lawyer unversed in logic, I cannot follow
your esoteric ratiocinations."

"Perpend, Markham."  Vance was genially patient.  "It is highly
unlikely--not to say impossible--that the dog could have followed
any one in the front door without being seen.  Remember, there is a
double door and a vestibule; and the murderer would not have left
the front door open behind him.  Moreover, if the dog had been
deliberately admitted, she would probably not have been injured and
left behind the portières.  Therefore, in view of the various
factors of the situation, I believe the dog entered the house
through an open door.  And as the murderer would not have left the
front door open, we may, as a hypothesis, assume that he entered by
the rear door.  And this would be in keeping with the nature of the
crime.  He could have entered the tradesmen's gate with far less
danger of being seen than if he had mounted the front steps; and he
would have had the advantage of taking his victim unawares by an
approach from the rear of the house.  Furthermore, it is not at all
unlikely that he would have left both the gate and the rear door
open so that he could make his escape without unnecess'ry noise.
In that case the dog could easily have followed him in through the
open gate and door, without being seen or heard.  And the place
where the dog was found--just outside the library door--was a
logical spot, for the dog would have come in through the kitchen
and dining-room and into the library."

Markham nodded slowly.

"Yes.  All that is quite reasonable.  But, after all, we now merely
have the plausible supposition that the murderer entered by the
rear door.  It doesn't get us any nearer our victim."

"You're so discouragin'," sighed Vance.  "It's not impossible,
don't y' know, that this one bit of knowledge--or, shall I say
conjecture?--may go a long way toward identifyin' the culprit."

"Any one could have come in the rear door."

"Provided he knew the lie of the land, was familiar with all the
domestic arrangements--and could have obtained a key.  Also,
provided he knew that all the servants would be away that night."

Vance looked up thoughtfully.

"Yes, Markham, already that little Scottie has narrowed down our
investigation.  Unwittingly she has pointed out several valuable
clues to us.  She has helped us, no end.  And I have a feelin'
she's going to tell us a lot more."

It was about half-past three when we returned to the Coe house.
The Sergeant was bustling about, giving orders; and as we entered
Gamble was descending from the second floor with a small tool-box,
accompanied by Burke.

"All set?" demanded Heath, planting himself in front of Burke.

"Right, Sergeant," the detective replied proudly.  "That door and
lock are as good as they ever were."

Heath turned to Vance.

"And I've got something for you, sir."  He swaggered a little as he
led us into the library and pointed to the large centre-table.
"There's the poker--and it's got blood on it."

Vance went up to it and examined it closely.  He picked something
from it between his thumb and forefinger, and went to the window.

"Yes, there's dried blood on it--and also a coarse brindle hair."
He turned and nodded.  "It was this poker, Markham, which wounded
the Scottie.  And undoubtedly, too, Archer Coe was struck with this
poker.  The shape of its blunt end coincides perfectly with the
wound on Archer's head."

He frowned and looked at the vase in which he had found the
bloodstains.

"And, Markham, that poker belongs in this room--in that rack beside
the fireplace, just in front of the place on this divan where
Archer Coe was sitting when Gamble went out last night.  More
evidence that something sinister and horrible preceded the crime
upstairs.  AND IT TOOK PLACE IN THIS ROOM."

"The poker mighta been carried upstairs, sir," suggested Heath.

"Oh, quite, Sergeant," Vance agreed.  "But the broken Sung Ting yao
vase on the table here, with the blood on it; and that other Yung
Cheng Ting yao vase with the smear of blood inside; and the wounded
Scottie outside the door--what of them?  They were not all carried
upstairs. . . .  No.  It seems as if every sign-post were pointing
toward this library."

"And yet," argued Markham doggedly, "Archer Coe's body was found
upstairs, with his clothes changed, and the lights on, and the door
bolted on the inside."

"Yeah," supplemented Heath, "and with a gun in his hand and a
bullet in his head."

Vance nodded despondently.

"I know all that, Sergeant.  That's the terrible and baffling thing
about the crime.  The Sign-posts of death all indicate this
library, yet death itself was elsewhere.  And there's no clear road
leading between the two places."

He shrugged as if trying to shake off an unpleasant thought.

"By the by, Sergeant, where did you find the poker?"

Heath cocked an eye at Vance and gave a one-sided grin.

"That's one on you, sir.  You looked at it this morning and didn't
see it."

"What's that!" Markham ejaculated.

"Sure, Chief.  Mr. Vance opened that Chinese chest in the bedroom
and looked inside."

Vance stiffened.

"Well, what of it, Sergeant?"

"Nothing, sir," the other returned, "except that I found the poker
in that chest--"

"The teak-wood chest beneath the east windows?"

"It's the only chest in the bedroom, ain't it, Mr. Vance?"

"You found the poker in that chest?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you."

Vance sat down and drew deeply on his cigarette.

"Who has been in the bedroom, Sergeant, since we went to lunch?" he
asked presently.

"No one, sir!"  Heath was emphatic.  "Burke's guarded it every
minute while you've been away.  The butler helped him fix the door,
but didn't get three feet in the room.  And it was me, and no one
else, that searched the room."

Markham came forward.

"What's the idea, Vance?  Why should the Sergeant's finding the
poker upstairs bother you?"

Vance exhaled a long ribbon of smoke, and looked directly at
Markham.

"Because, old dear, that chest was empty when I looked in it this
morning!"



CHAPTER XIII

THE SCENTED LIP-STICK


(Thursday, October 11; 3.30 p. m.)


Vance's declaration left us both perturbed and mystified.  A new
and more intimate element seemed to have entered into the case,
although, for the life of me, I could not have analyzed the
syllogism leading to such a conclusion.  Markham was the first to
speak.

"Are you certain, Vance?" he asked, in a rather dazed tone.  "Maybe
you overlooked--"

"Oh, no."  Vance made a gesture of finality.  "It wasn't there--oh,
quite.  Some one put it there after I'd examined the chest."

"But who, in Heaven's name?"

"Come, come, Markham."  Vance smiled grimly.  "One doesn't know, y'
know.  A bit mysterious and disconcertin'--eh, what?  But I'd say
it was the same person who tucked the dagger under the cushion of
the chair in which Archer passed away."

"The dagger?"

"Yes, yes--the dagger.  That mystery is at least cleared up--the
poker explained that incongruity.  The dagger didn't belong in
Archer's boudoir.  Quite the contr'ry.  Its presence there confused
me abominably.  Both the poker and the dagger belonged in the
library here.  And they weren't here, d' ye see--they were where
they shouldn't have been, where they couldn't possibly have
been. . . .  A gap--a mishap--a bit of superficial thinkin' on some
one's part.  Panic?  Yes, that's what it was.  Movin' things from
one place to another.  Silly idea.  People always think that by
movin' things they can confuse an issue.  More often they merely
clarify it."

"I'm glad you see some clarity in this damnable situation," Markham
grumbled.  "I'm getting more bogged every minute."

"Oh, but I'm not blinded by any dazzlin' illumination yet."  Vance
stretched himself comfortably in his chair.  "I wonder. . . ."

The practical Sergeant projected himself irascibly into the
discussion.

"If some one did cache the dagger and the poker upstairs, who'd
have had the opportunity?  That's what I'd like to figure out."

"Almost any one might have done it, Sergeant," returned Vance
lazily.  "Both Wrede and Grassi have passed back and forth before
the room while we were downstairs."

Heath thought a moment.

"That's right.  And then do you remember how that Miss Lake rushed
to the chair when she first came in the room and put her arm back
of the corpse?  She coulda stuck the dagger under the seat with all
of us looking at her."

"Oh, quite.  And she could also have come downstairs from the third
floor, while we were in the library here, and hidden the dagger
when we were NOT looking at her."

Heath nodded.

"Yeah, I guess they all coulda done it. . . .  And that cagy
butler, he coulda done it."

"And don't overlook the Chinaman.  Gamble sent him to fetch Miss
Lake's breakfast tray while we were all downstairs."

Heath grasped at this remark.

"That's the guy!" he declared.

"Just a minute, Sergeant!"  Markham suppressed him with a gesture,
and turned to Vance.  "If, as you believe, the dagger and poker
were taken from this room and hidden in Coe's bedroom this morning,
the inevitable conclusion is that the murderer is one of the
persons who have been in the house this morning."

"Not necessarily."  Vance shook his head mildly.  "Even if the
poker and dagger were secretly transferred upstairs, it doesn't
follow that the murderer made the transfer.  Some one may have done
it to shield another, or to divert suspicion from himself.  It
might have been an act of fear, or even chivalry, by an innocent
person."

"Even so," pursued Markham, "the transfer of the weapons would
indicate that some one in the house knows more than he has told
us."

"There are several persons here who know more than they've
admitted. . . .  No, no, it was a stupid act.  The murderer
couldn't have done it.  It was some one else--SOME ONE WHO DIDN'T
KNOW ALL THE FACTS."  Vance stood up and walked the length of the
room and back.  "Yes, Markham, the murderer was too clever to do a
foolish thing like that--to hide weapons where they never could
have been. . . .  The murderer wanted the weapons found in this
library.  That's why he tried to hide the dagger twice--once in the
egg-shell Ting yao vase, and the second time in that Yung Cheng
Ting yao.  And he wanted the poker to be found on the hearth--with
the bloodstains on it.  He wanted the weapons IN THIS ROOM where
Archer Coe was sitting when Gamble left the house last night.  He
figured on this library being the murder room.  And then something
went wrong,--the murder room shifted.  Something strange and
diabolical happened.  The corpse, with a bullet wound in his head
and a revolver in his hand, decided on the bedroom upstairs.  And
when the murderer came back, it was too late to re-arrange the
setting--"

"Came back?  Too late?" repeated Markham.  "What do you mean?"

"Just that."  Vance halted and looked down at the District
Attorney.  "Oh, he came back--he had to come back.  Brisbane was
killed hours after Archer.--And the reason he was too late to
transfer the scene of the crime was that Archer's door was bolted
on the inside.  The scene of his murder had shifted--and he, the
murderer, was locked out.  He knew last night that neither the
dagger nor the poker could be found in the bedroom.  Therefore it
was not the murderer who placed them there this morning. . . ."

At this moment Gamble appeared at the door leading to the butler's
pantry.  He was worried and apologetic.

"Give us the tidings, Gamble," said Vance encouragingly, as the man
hesitated.  "I'm sure you have a tale to unfold."

"I'm very sorry, sir, to interrupt," the butler began, "but an item--
if you know what I mean--has just occurred to me.  Ordinarily I
would have thought little or nothing of it, but in view--"

"What's the item?" Markham snapped.

"It--it's this little gadget, sir," Gamble stuttered, laying a
small cylindrical metal lip-stick holder on the table.  "I found it
in the waste-paper basket in this room this morning before I
discovered the masters body upstairs, and I threw it out.  But a
few minutes ago I began thinking about this terrible affair--"

Vance glanced at the lip-stick holder.

"What else did you find in the basket, Gamble?" he interrupted.

"That was all, sir--except the evening paper."

"What evening paper?"

"The one that is delivered here regularly.  I placed it on the
table here for Mr. Coe before I went out yesterday."

Vance picked up the holder and removed the top.

"Practically empty," he mused.  "Not a gold case--therefore thrown
away."  He smeared a little of the rouge on his finger and smelled
it.  "Duplaix's Carmine.  Made for blondes. . . .  Most interestin'."
He looked again at Gamble.

"Just where in the basket did you find this?--under the paper or on
top of it?"

"On top of it, sir," the man answered with mild surprise.  "The
paper was crumpled in the bottom of the basket.  Mr. Coe always
threw the paper there when he had finished reading it.  No one else
in the house ever read the evening paper, sir."

"And what time does the paper arrive?"

"At half-past five always."

Vance nodded.  "And you left the house when?"

"Between half-past five and six, sir.  I couldn't say exactly."

"And you are quite sure Mr. Archer Coe had no visitor at the time?"

"Oh, quite, sir."  Gamble was again becoming worried.  "As I told
you--"

"Yes, yes.  So you told me."  Vance was watching the man from under
lazy eyelids.  "But a lady seems to have been here. . . .  Do you
know of any appointment Mr. Coe may have had with the possible
owner of that lip-stick?"

"An appointment with a lady?"  The butler, for some reason, seemed
shocked.  "Oh, no, sir.  I'm sure Mr. Coe had no such appointment.
He was--if you understand me, sir,--a most abstemious man."

Vance dismissed him brusquely.

"That will be all, Gamble."

When the man had gone, Vance looked waggishly at Markham.

"I fear, old dear, despite Gamble's assurances, that Archer did
entertain a lady yesterday afternoon between, let us say, six
o'clock and eight--which is probably about the time he was killed."

Markham hesitated and pursed his lips.

"Isn't that leaping at conclusions?  Archer may have thrown the lip-
stick there himself.  Miss Lake may have left it here. . . ."

"My dear fellow--oh, my dear fellow!  Really, now.  Miss Lake, I'm
sure, doesn't use a lip-stick; and even if she did it wouldn't be
this highly scented and gaudily colored variety. . . ."  Heath was
again growing impatient.

"I can't see that it makes any difference anyway.  Suppose the old
boy did have a dame in for a visit--that's not explaining the cock-
eyed things that happened here last night."  He thrust an unlighted
cigar in his mouth, and gave Vance a curious and rather aggressive
look.  "What about that bolted door upstairs?  You had something in
mind, Mr. Vance, when you asked me to get that bolt fixed, didn't
you?"

"My notion was a bit vague, Sergeant."  Vance crushed out his
cigarette.  "Of course, people don't get murdered in bolted rooms
except in detective novels; and something Miss Lake said to me
suggested that I might find a solution to that peculiar and
illogical circumstance."

"What was that?" Markham curtly demanded.

"When she was talkin' about Brisbane, don't y' know.  You remember
she mentioned that he was interested in criminology and was
sufficiently clever to cover his tracks if he'd decided to go in
for murder.  A significant remark, Markham."

"But I don't see the connection."  Markham was puzzled.  "Brisbane
was the victim--not the murderer."

"Oh, I wasn't regardin' him as the culprit.  I was thinkin' of Miss
Lake's comment in terms of tangents."

"It occurs to me you're always thinking in terms of tangents,"
Markham growled.  "Suppose you elucidate--if possible."

"I live in 'opes," Vance grinned.  "Let me question Miss Lake a bit
further.  I could bear a bit of amplification as to Brisbane's
delvings into criminological lore."  He sobered and went toward the
door.  "What do you say to using Archer's bedroom as the scene of
the interrogation?"

Markham gave a resigned sigh, and we went upstairs.  Heath sent
Gamble to ask Miss Lake to join us there; and a few minutes later
she came in, swaggering but chilly and, I thought, suspicious.

"Haven't you found the dastard yet?" she asked with a half sneer.
"What a pity!"

Vance pushed a chair forward for her, ignoring her taunt.

"We wanted to ask you, Miss Lake," he began gravely, "just what you
meant when you spoke of your Uncle Brisbane's having 'dabbled in
criminology'--I believe that was your phrase."

"Oh, that!"  Her tone was symptomatic of relief.  "He was always
interested in the subject, along with other fads.  Intricate
problems worried him immensely.  He'd have made an excellent chess
player, if he'd had the time and patience. . . ."

"What form did his interest in criminology take?"  Vance spoke
casually.

"Only reading."  The woman made a slight outward gesture of the
hands.  "To my knowledge he never practised the criminal arts.  At
heart he was quite respectable, though inclined at times toward
fanaticism."

"What did he read mostly?"  Vance's tone was even and uneager.

"Criminal cases, court records, detective stories--the usual thing.
There are hundreds of volumes in his room.  Why not look at them?
They'll tell you the whole sad story."

"I'm inclined to follow your suggestion."  Vance bowed.  "Were you,
too, interested in your Uncle Brisbane's books?"

"Oh, yes.  There's nothing else interesting in the house.  I
certainly wouldn't read those dry tomes on ceramics in the
library."

"Then you, too, have 'dabbled in criminology'?"

She shot Vance a quick look and gave a forced laugh.

"You might call it that."

"Ah!  Then perhaps you can help us."  Vance's air became jocular.
"We crave to know how this door could have been bolted on the
inside.  Obviously Archer couldn't have done it with a bullet in
his head."

"Or a dagger through his lungs," she supplemented, and became
suddenly serious.  "But he might have done it before the bullet
entered his head."

"But he was dead at that time."  Vance, too, had become serious and
was watching the woman closely.

"Have you never heard of cadaveric spasm, or rigor mortis?" she
asked contemptuously.  "Men, with revolvers in their hands at
death, have been known to fire them hours after they were dead, as
a result of muscular contraction."

Vance nodded, without changing his expression or shifting his gaze.

"Quite true.  There was the famous case in Prague of the suicide
who later shot the police inspector.*  And there was a more recent
case in Pennsylvania.** . . .  But I hardly think that condition
applies here.  Archer, d' ye see, died of a stab in the back.  And
the position of his hand holding the revolver was not such as would
indicate that he himself pulled the trigger."


* Vance was referring to the case of Wenzel Kokoschka, a
cooperative-society cashier, who shot himself, and who hours later
seriously wounded Joseph Marcs, an inspector of gendarmes, with the
same revolver--the result of rigor mortis acting on the trigger of
the gun still held in the dead man's hand.

** Joseph D. Trego, a war veteran of Reading, Pennsylvania, came
very near shooting the coroner, hours after his own death, by the
muscular contraction of his hand.  It took the coroner half an hour
to wrest the revolver from the dead man's hand.


"Perhaps you're right."  I was surprised at her ready acceptance of
Vance's dismissal of her suggestion.  "Some one else must have
bolted the door."  She spoke with cynical lightness.  "It's quite a
problem, isn't it?"

"Are you sure you can't help us?"  Vance gazed at her steadily.

"You're trying to flatter me."  She gave Vance a hard, straight-
lipped smile.  "I, of course, know all the usual methods.  The
string under the door, for instance, tied to a nail thrust through
the bow of the key.*  But then, there's not a bit of space under
this door--it scrapes the sill, in fact--and there's no key--hasn't
been one for years.--Then there's the old turn-bolt system which
any child can operate with a hairpin and a piece of thread.**  But,
alas! there's no turn-bolt.--And naturally I know of the melted
candle method of bolting a door from the outside;# but this bolt
isn't a drop-bolt.--And the piece of ice that will melt and let the
bolt fall down.@  But that's out, too, for this bolt is the kind
that slips over into a groove and turns down."


* A modification of this old method was employed by Tony Skeel in
"The 'Canary' Murder Case."

** This method consists merely of putting a hairpin around the
handle of the turn-bolt, and then pulling the hairpin out through
the keyhole or under the door.

# This device was used by Edgar Wallace in his "The Clue of the
Twisted Candle," and consists of resting the drop-bolt on a candle
which, as it burns down or softens, permits the bolt to fall into
place.

@ A modification of, and an improvement on, the melted candle
device.


She quickly became thoughtful: a curious change came over her, and
she looked at Vance with a questioning steady stare.

"I've been thinking about that door for several hours," she said
tensely; "and I can't find an answer to it.  Uncle Brisbane and Mr.
Wrede and I often talked about these tricky criminal devices.  We
worked out various ways and means of doing seemingly impossible
things; but bolting this door from the outside was something we
never could figure out."

Vance took his cigarette from his mouth with slow deliberation.

"You mean to tell me that you and Brisbane and Mr. Wrede actually
discussed the possibilities of bolting this particular door from
the outside?"

"Oh, yes."  She appeared quite frank.  "Many times.  But we decided
it couldn't be successfully done."

Vance hesitated, and a strange kind of chill ran over me.  I felt
as if we were approaching something particularly pertinent and, at
the same time, sinister.

"Did any one else"--Vance's cool voice brought me back to reality--
"ever hear these discussions?"

"No one but Uncle Archer."  Hilda Lake had become frigid and
indifferent again.  "He always ridiculed our speculations."

"What of Liang?" Vance asked casually.

"The cook?  Oh, I suppose he heard our idle chatter.  I believe we
talked over our dire plots at dinner occasionally."

"And now the problem that troubled all of you has been solved."
Vance rose and strolled meditatively toward the door.  "Very
sad. . . ."  He opened the door and held it ajar.  "Thank you,
Miss Lake. We'll try not to disturb you more than is absolutely
necess'ry.  I say, you won't mind remaining in your room till
dinner time, will you?"

"If I did mind, it wouldn't do me any good, I suppose."  She spoke
with obvious resentment as she walked toward Vance.  When she
reached the threshold she swung half-way round and asked
aggressively:  "May I be permitted to get a book from Uncle
Brisbane's room to while away my hours of detention?"  Her eyes
were narrowed, and her lip curled in an ugly arc.

Vance's calm gaze did not alter.

"I'm dashed sorry, and all that sort of thing," he said politely,
"but I'll send you up any book you'd like--later.  I've a bit of
browsing to do first."

The woman turned on her heel and walked away without a word.

Vance waited until he heard her door close with a bang; then he
turned and came back into the room.

"Not a sweet, Victorian clinging vine," he lamented; "but a lady of
parts, none the less. . . .  Curious, her telling us of her
discussions with Brisbane about the possibilities of bolting this
door from the outside.  There was something back of that, Markham.
The young woman had ideas.  Now, why should she have tried to be
so helpful?  And that suggestion about rigor mortis and the
revolver. . . .  Amazin'."

"If you want my candid opinion," Markham commented, "she knows, or
suspects, more than she's telling; and she's trying to throw us off
the track."

Vance considered this for a time.

"Yes--it's possible," he agreed at length.  "On the other hand . . ."

Markham was patently puzzled.

"Any suggestion?" he asked.  "What's our next move?"

"Oh, that's indicated."  Vance sighed deeply.  "Painful as it may
prove, I simply must run my eye over Brisbane's books."

Markham also sighed deeply, and rose.



CHAPTER XIV

VANCE EXPERIMENTS


(Thursday, October 11; 4 p. m.)


We went into Brisbane Coe's room, which was at the front of the
house on the west side.  It was a long narrow room, somewhat the
shape of Archer's, with a large bay window on the street.  It was
simply furnished, but a series of large oak cabinets about the
walls gave it an overcrowded, massive appearance.  On the north
wall beside the window was a series of simple built-in book-shelves
extending to the ceiling.  There were, I estimated, between three
and four hundred volumes on them, all neatly and meticulously
arranged.

Vance went to the window and threw up the shades.  Then he drew a
chair to the book-shelves, mounted it, and began running his eye
systematically over the volumes.  I stood behind him and glanced
over the titles.  Markham and Heath sat down on a long davenport
before the fireplace and watched Vance with an air of boredom.

For so small a number of criminological volumes Brisbane Coe's
collection was unusually complete.  He had Hargrave L. Adam's
complete "Police Encyclopædia" of Scotland Yard; the Complete
Newgate Calendar; the Notable British Trials Series; Doctor Hans
Gross's great handbook for examining magistrates; Dumas'
"Celebrated Crimes"; Gayot de Pitaval's "Causes Célèbres et
Intéressantes, avec les Jugemens qui les ont décidées"; Maurice
Méjan's "Recueil des Causes Célèbres"; and many works in German
including Kurt Langenscheidt's "Encyklopädie der Kriminalistik," a
set of Der Wiener Pitaval, Friedlaender's "Kriminal-Prozesse," a
set of Doctor Ludwig Altmann's "Aus dem Archiv des Grauen Hauses,"
and Leonhard's library of "Aussenseiter der Gesellschaft."  In
addition, there were various miscellaneous volumes dealing with
criminals and their methods, but very little on the psychology of
crime or its medico-legal aspects.

In surveying the titles one got the impression that, had Brisbane
gone in for crime, he would have been highly practical rather than
subtle.  The three lower shelves were devoted almost entirely to
the classics of detective fiction, from Gaboriau and Poe to A.
Conan Doyle and Austin Freeman.

Vance glanced over the books rapidly but carefully.  There were but
few that were not in his own library, and he was familiar not only
with their titles but with their appearance.  He gave little
attention, however, to the fiction.  Just what he was looking for
none of us knew; but we did know that he had some definite object
in mind, and we suspected, from what he had said to us, that the
object of his search related to the bolted door of Archer's
bedroom.

After scanning the backs of the books for perhaps fifteen minutes,
he sat down and slowly lighted one of his Régies.

"It should be here, y' know," he murmured, as if to himself,
"--unless it's been taken away. . . ."

He got up leisurely, and again standing on the chair, began to
check the volume numbers of the various sets of books.  When he
came to the red-and-gold set of the "Aussenseiter der Gesellschaft"
he gave a nod and stepped down to the floor.

"A volume missing," he announced.  He scanned the upper book-
shelves carefully.  "I wonder. . . ."  Then he dropped on his knees
and began going more thoroughly over the section of fiction.

When he had come to the lowest shelf he reached forward and took
out a thin red-and-gold volume.  He glanced at it and leant forward
again to inspect the books on either side of the space from which
he had extracted the missing volume of the "Aussenseiter der
Gesellschaft" series.

"Oh, I say!" he exclaimed.  "That's deuced interestin'."  He pulled
out a small red book.  "'The Clue of the New Pin,' by Edgar
Wallace," he read aloud.*  "Only, we have two pins and a darning-
needle--eh, what? . . .  Still, Markham, it's significant that the
missing volume of the 'Aussenseiter der Gesellschaft' should be
found cheek by jowl with a book dealing with a pin."


* It was a Hodder and Stoughton reprint.


Markham took his cigar from his mouth, stood up, and faced Vance
with a serious face.

"I see what you mean," he said.  "You think that Brisbane, by the
help of these books on criminology, worked out some way of bolting
Archer's door from the outside, by the use of those pins and
string."

Vance gave an affirmative nod.

"Either Brisbane or some one else.  It was quite a technical
operation."  He picked up the "Aussenseiter der Gesellschaft"
volume and glanced at the title page.  "'Der Merkwürdige Fall
Konrad,'" he read.  "By Kurt Bernstein. . . .  That doesn't tell us
much.  I wonder who Konrad might have been and what subtleties he
engaged in. . . .  I think I'll do a bit of pryin' into Konrad's
criminal past.  And I'll glance through Wallace--if you could bear
to wait for me a short while."

Markham made a gesture of acquiescence.

"The Sergeant and I will wait downstairs--I've some telephoning to
do."

The three of us left Vance alone in Brisbane's room, and as I
closed the door I saw Vance stretch himself out on the davenport
with the two books.

An hour later he came to the head of the stairs and called down to
us.  We joined him in Archer's bedroom.  He had both books with
him, and I noticed that there were pages marked in each.

"I think I've found a solution to one phase of our problem," he
announced seriously, when we were seated.  "But it may take a bit
of working out."  He opened the novel.  "Wallace has a clever idea
here--I found the passage without too long a search.  The tale, as
I gather at a hasty reading, relates of a dead man found locked in
a vault with the key to the door on the table before him.  The
vault door was locked from the outside, of course. . . .  Here's
the explanat'ry passage:  'No other word he spoke, but took
something from his pocket: it was a reel of stout cotton.  Then
from his waistcoat he produced a new pin, and with great care and
solemnity tied the thread to the end of the pin, Tab watching him
intently.  And all the time he was working, Rex Lander was humming
a little tune, as though he were engaged in the most innocent
occupation.  Presently he stuck the point of the pin in the centre
of the table, and pulled at it by the thread he had fastened.
Apparently he was satisfied.  He unwound a further length of
cotton, and when he had sufficient he threaded the key upon it,
carrying it well outside the door.  The end he brought back into
the vault, and then pushed it out again from the inside through one
of the air-holes.  Then he closed the door carefully.  He had left
plenty of slack for his purpose and Tab heard the click of the lock
as it was fastened, and his heart sank.  He watched the door
fascinated, and saw that Lander was pulling the slack of the cotton
through the air-hole.  Presently the key came in sight under the
door.  Higher and higher came the sagging line of cotton and the
key rose until it was at the table's level, slid down the taut
cotton, and came to rest on the table.  Tighter drew the strain of
the thread, and presently the pin came out, passed through the hole
in the key, leaving it in the exact centre of the table.  Tab
watched the bright pin as it was pulled across the floor and
through the ventilator.'* . . . That's the way Wallace worked his
locked door."


* Wallace, "The Clue of the New Pin," pp. 274-275.


"But," objected Markham.  "There was an open ventilator in the
door, and space beneath the door.  Those conditions are not true
here."

"Yes--of course," Vance returned.  "But don't overlook the fact
that there was a string and a bent pin.  At least they are common
integers in the two problems. . . .  Now, let's see if we can
combine those integers with certain common integers of the Konrad
case."  He opened the other book.  "Konrad," Vance explained, "was
a truck-driver in Berlin nearly fifty years ago.  His wife and five
children were found dead in their cellar room; and the door--a
ponderous affair without even a keyhole or space around the
moulding--was securely bolted on the inside.  The case was at once
pronounced one of murder and suicide on the part of the mother; and
Konrad would have been free to marry his inamorata (whom he had in
the offing) had it not been for an examining magistrate of the
criminal court, named Hollmann.  Hollmann, for no tangible reason,
did not believe in the suicide theory, and set to work to figure
out how Konrad could have bolted the door from without. . . .
Here's the revelat'ry passage--if you'll forgive my rather sketchy
sight translation of the German:  'Hollmann, urged on by his
conviction that Frau Konrad had not murdered her children and
committed suicide, determined, as a last resort, to give the entire
door, both inside and outside, a microscopic examination.  But
there was not the slightest aperture anywhere, and the door fitted
so tightly around the frame that a piece of paper could not have
been passed through any crevice.  Hollmann examined the door
minutely with a powerful lens.  It required hours of labor, but in
the end he was rewarded.  Just above the bolt he found on the
inside, close to the edge of the door, a very small hole which was
barely discernible.  Opening the door he inspected the outside
surface directly opposite to the hole on the inside.  But there was
no corresponding hole visible.  Hollmann did find on the outside of
the door, however, a small spot on which the paint seemed fresher
than that on the rest of the door.  The spot was solid, but this
did not deter Hollmann's investigation.  He borrowed a hatpin from
one of the tenants in the building, and heating it, ran it through
the hole on the inside.  With but little pressure the heated hatpin
penetrated the door, coming out on the outside exactly in the
centre of the newly painted spot.  Moreover, when Hollmann withdrew
the hatpin a piece of tough horsehair adhered to the pin; and on
the pin was also discernible a slight film of wax. . . .  It was
obvious then how Konrad had bolted the door from without.  He had
first bored a tiny hole through the door above the bolt, looped a
piece of horsehair over the bolt's knob, and slipped the two ends
through the hole.  He had then pulled the bolt-knob upward until
the horsehair loop was disengaged, withdrawing the horsehair
through the hole.  A piece of the horsehair had, however, caught in
the hole and remained there.  Konrad had then filled up the hole
with wax and painted it on the outside, thereby eliminating
practically every trace of his criminal device.  He was later
convicted of the murder of his family, sentenced to death, and
hanged.' . . ."*


* "Überzeugt, dass Frau Konrad ihre Kinder nicht ermordet und dann
Selbstmord begangen hatte, entschloss sich Hollmann, einen letzten
Versuch zu machen, und die ganze Tür inwendig und auswendig
mikroskopisch genau zu untersuchen.  Aber nirgends war die
geringste Öffnung zu finden, ja die Tür passte so genau in ihren
Rahmen, dass man nicht einmal einen Papierstreifen durch irgend
einen Riss hätte ziehen können.  In stundenlanger Arbeit
untersuchte Hollmann die Tür mit einer starken Lupe, um endlich
seine Mühe belohnt zu sehen.  Genau über dem Riegel, an der
Innenseite, fast an der Kante der Tür, fand er ein ganz kleines,
kaum bemerkbares Loch.  Als er aber an der Aussenseite der Tür die
dem Loch direkt gegenüberliegende Fläche untersuchte, war kein
entsprechendes Loch zu entdecken.  Er fand jedoch an dieser Stelle
einen kleinen Fleck, wo der Anstrich frischer war, als an der
übrigen Tür.  Der Fleck war fest, was trotzdem Hollmann in seiner
Forschungsarbeit nicht entmutigte.  Von einem Mieter im Hause
borgte er eine gewöhnliche Hutnadel, heizte sie und führte sie von
der Innenseite in das Loch.  Mit ganz geringem Druck durchbohrte
die geheizte Hutnadel die Tür, und kam genau in der Mitte des
frischgestrichenen Flecks an der Aussenseite zum Vorschein.  Als
Hollmann die Hutnadel wieder herauszog, klebte ein Stück zähes
Rosshaar daran fest, während die Nadel mit einer dünnen
Wachsschicht überzogen war. . . .  Nun war es klar, durch welches
Verfahren es Konrad gelungen war, die Tür von aussen zu verriegeln.
Zuerst hatte er ein winzig kleines Loch über dem Riegel durch die
Tür gebohrt, hatte dann eine Schlinge von Rosshaar um den Knopf am
Riegel gelegt und die beiden Enden durch das Loch gezogen.  Dann
hatte er den Riegelknopf aufwärts gezogen, bis die Schlinge sich
vom Knopf abgelöst, und darauf das Rosshaar wieder aus dem Loch
herausgezogen.  Ein Stück des Rosshaars war jedoch im Loch
hängengeblieben.  Sodann hatte Konrad das Loch mit Wachs verstopft
und es an der Aussenseite mit Farbe überstrichen, und damit
sozusagen jede Spur seines verbrecherischen Verfahrens getilgt.
Später wurde er des Mordes seiner Familie überführt, zum Tode
verurteilt, und gehängt."--K. Bernstein, "Der Merkwürdige Fall
Konrad," pp. 222-224.


Heath, as Vance finished reading, leapt to his feet.

"That's a new one on me."  He went swiftly to the door and bent
over.

Vance smiled.

"There's no hole in the door above the bolt, Sergeant," he said.
"No need, don't y' know.  There's a keyhole."

Heath squared off and looked at the door.

"Still and all, the keyhole's only half-way over the bolt, and
eight inches below it.  No string fastened to the bolt and run
through that keyhole would lock the room from the outside."

"True, Sergeant," Vance nodded.  "But that's where the modification
of the trick comes in.  The person who planned bolting this door
carried the idea to a few more decimal points.  Don't forget we
have TWO pieces of string and TWO pins."

"Well, I don't get it."  Heath still stood scowling at the door.
"The cases in those two books are easy enough to understand, but
neither of 'em will work here."

"Maybe the two together will work," suggested Vance.  "Look at the
wall just to the right of the jamb and opposite to the bolt.  Do
you see anything?"

Heath looked closely, using his pocket magnifying glass and his
flashlight.

"I don't see much," he grumbled.  "Right in the crack of the jamb
and wall there's what might be a pinhole."

"That's it, Sergeant!"  Vance rose and went to the door; and
Markham and I followed him.  "I think I'll try the experiment I
have in mind."

We all watched him with fascinated interest.  First he reached in
his pocket and drew forth the two pieces of string and bent pins
and the darning-needle he had found in the pocket of Brisbane Coe's
overcoat.  By means of his pocket knife he straightened one of the
pins and inserted it in the hole Heath had found in the wall at the
edge of the jamb, giving it several taps with the handle of his
knife to drive it in rather securely.  He then threaded the other
end of the string in the darning-needle and passed it through the
keyhole into the hall, removing the needle and letting the string
fall to the hall floor.  After this operation, he bent the other
pin securely round the upright knob of the bolt, passed the string
over the pin he had driven into the wall, and, threading this
second string into the darning-needle, passed it also through the
keyhole to the hall.  He then opened the door about eighteen
inches, drawing the two strings partly back through the keyhole in
a loop to permit the door to swing inward without disturbing his
mechanism.

"Let us see if the device works," he said, with an undercurrent of
suppressed excitement.  "You stay in the room while I go outside
and manipulate the strings."

He bent down and passed under the two strings into the hall.  Then
he closed the door gently, while we remained inside, our eyes
riveted to the two strings and the two pins.

Presently we saw the string which was attached to the bolt-knob go
taut, as Vance drew it slowly through the keyhole.  Passing over
the pin in the wall, which acted as a pulley, the string described
a sharp angle, with the pin in the wall as the apex.  Slowly Vance
drew the string from outside, and the bolt, getting a straight pull
around the pin, began to move into its socket on the jamb.  The
door was bolted!

The next thing we saw was the tightening of the other string--the
one attached to the head of the pin in the wall.  There came
several jerks on the string--the pin in the wall resisted several
times and bent toward the source of the pull.  Finally, it was
disengaged from the wall; and it was then drawn upward from its
depending position, disappearing through the keyhole.

The other string, still hooked about the bolt-knob, was then drawn
taut through the keyhole, describing a straight line from the bolt-
knob to the keyhole which was almost directly below it.  Another
slight pull by Vance on the string, and the knob fell downward into
its groove.  Another pull, and the bent pin was disengaged from the
knob and pulled through the keyhole into the hall.

Markham, Heath, and I had been bolted in the room from the hall as
neatly as if we ourselves had shot the bolt and locked it.  And
there was no evidence of any kind--save the indiscernible pin-point
hole in the crack of the wall--to show that it had not actually
been bolted from the inside!

Vance's demonstration had been fascinating and, at the same time,
sinister; for it had brought up vague and unplumbed possibilities
and revealed to us that we were battling against a shrewd and
resourceful antagonist.

The Sergeant, after a moment's stupefaction, threw back the bolt
and opened the door.

"It worked?" asked Vance, coming into the room.

"It worked," mumbled Heath laconically, lighting the cigar he had
been chewing on viciously for the past half-hour.



CHAPTER XV

THE DAGGER STRIKES


(Thursday, October 11; 5.30 p. m.)


Markham sat for several minutes in a brown study.

"As you say, Vance," he remarked without looking up, "the technique
of the bolting of the door from the hall explains one phase of the
problem, but I can't see that we're any further along toward a
solution of the double murder.  Brisbane, after all, was a victim.
Why should he have been interested in bolting Archer in this room?"

"Really, I couldn't say."  Vance appeared as puzzled as Markham.
"It might not have been Brisbane at all.  The fact that the pins
and the string were in his overcoat pocket means little . . . and
yet . . ."

"If you want my opinion," put in Heath, "it was that Chink.
Chinamen are full of tricks.  Look at the puzzles those yellow
babies think up."

At this moment the front door opened and slammed, and Burke called
to the Sergeant from the lower hall.  One of the detectives that
had been sent out earlier that afternoon to check Miss Lake's and
Grassi's alibis had returned to report.  He was Emery, from the
Homicide Bureau, who had worked on several other cases in which
Vance had been interested.*  He had been assigned to the Grassi
alibi; and his report was brief and efficient.


* Notably "The Bishop Murder Case."


"I interviewed Doctor Montrose at the Metropolitan.  This fellow
Grassi arrived there a little after four, and then the two of 'em
went to the doc's apartment in East 86th Street.  Grassi stayed
there for dinner and went out at eight, saying he had an
appointment in Mount Vernon at nine.  He asked the doc directions
for getting to Grand Central station."

Emery took out his note-book and opened it.

"I then hopped out to the Crestview Country Club and talked to the
steward.  He was for being cagy, but he finally came through and
dug up the head waiter and the porter.  They both remembered the
Italian--on account of Miss Lake, I guess--and as far as they
recollected he didn't show up till late--round eleven.  Miss Lake
had a table reserved for the dance, but didn't get there till after
Grassi did.  The party broke up about twelve-thirty.--And that's
all I got."

Heath made a grimace at Markham.

"That checks with his story.  But what I wanta know is where he was
between eight and eleven.  And there's no way of finding out unless
we get a freak break."

"He was shuttling to and fro over our complicated transportation
system--according to his tale," smiled Vance.  Then he turned to
Emery.  "I say, did Doctor Montrose give you any titbits of gossip
regarding Grassi's call aside from his request for information
regarding Grand Central station?"

"Nothing, sir."  Emery shook his head with ponderous discouragement.
"Except that the Italian was called up on the phone during dinner."

When the detective had gone Vance went to the telephone and called
Doctor Montrose at his home.  After a few minutes' conversation he
hung up the receiver and paced up and down.

"That phone call to Grassi," he murmured, "--very strange.  Doctor
Montrose says it upset Grassi terribly.  Hardly finished his
dinner, and seemed in a hurry to get away.  The phone was in the
hall just outside the dining-room door and Montrose couldn't help
hearing some of Grassi's end of the conversation.  Montrose says he
protested bitterly against the message he received--called it an
outrage, and intimated strongly that he would take steps. . . .
Steps--now what could that mean?  And who could have called him and
upset him?  Who knew he was going to Montrose's for dinner? . . .
It couldn't have been Miss Lake--he wouldn't have threatened her
and then joined her at a country-club dance.  And Wrede could
have had no dealings with him. . . .  Perhaps Brisbane . . . or
Archer. . . ."

It was growing dark and Vance switched on the electric lights.
Then he sat down and inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

"Archer--yes, it could have been. . . .  Sergeant, suppose you
fetch the signor."

Heath went from the room, and Vance said to Markham:

"Ceramics, I opine.  Nothing would be so likely to stir up Grassi
as a disappointment along that line. . . ."

The Italian was ushered in by the Sergeant; and Vance went straight
to the point.

"Who telephoned to you, Mr. Grassi, at Doctor Montrose's yesterday
during dinner?"

Grassi gave a slight start; then looked defiantly at Vance.

"It was a personal matter--my own affair."

Vance sighed and with slow deliberation drew from his pocket the
agreement that Archer Coe had written to Grassi regarding the sale
of his collection.  As Vance opened the letter and laid it on his
knee, he watched Grassi.  I, too, was watching the man, and I saw a
peculiar change come over him.  His eyes widened and stared; his
face became almost blanched; and he stood with breathless rigidity
as if suddenly transfixed by hypnosis.

"It was Mr. Archer Coe who phoned you, was it not, Mr. Grassi?"
came Vance's flat and unemotional voice.

Grassi neither moved nor spoke.

"Perhaps he regretted the bargain he had made with you for the sale
of so many of his beloved pieces," Vance continued.  "Perhaps he
decided to call the deal off, after thinking it over alone with his
treasures. . . .  Perhaps he thought it best to inform you
immediately of his decision so you would not talk of the
transaction to Doctor Montrose. . . ."

Still Grassi did not move, but the inevitable impression he gave
was that Vance had guessed the import of the telephone call he had
received at the Curator's home the night before.

"I can well imagine how you felt, Mr. Grassi," Vance went on,
without alteration of tone.  "After all, the bargain had been made
and you held Mr. Coe's letter of confirmation.  But really, y'
know, you shouldn't have threatened him--"

Suddenly the Italian's pent-up emotion broke forth.

"I had every right to threaten him!" he burst forth, the blood
rushing back to his face.  "For a week I have been negotiating--
meeting his constantly increasing prices.  Finally, yesterday, we
reach an understanding.  He puts it in writing, and I cable to
Italy announcing my success.  Then he rejects the agreement; he
tells me he will not sell--that he has changed his mind.  He
insults me over the telephone: he says I have swindled him.  He
dares me to do anything about it!  He even says to me that he will
swear I forced him to sign that letter by pointing a revolver at
him. . . ."  Grassi raised his clenched hands in a gesture of
outrage.  "What could I do?" he almost shouted.  "I threatened him
as he had threatened me.  I told him I would use any means at my
disposal to hold him to his agreement.  I was justified!"

"Oh, doubtless--in such circumstances."  Vance nodded vaguely.
"What did Mr. Coe say then?"

"What did he say?"  Grassi took a step toward Vance and bent
forward.  He spoke in a curious, hushed tone.  "He said he would
break every vase he owned before he would let me have them."

Vance gave a mirthless smile.

"No wonder you were a bit disconcerted at the sight of those Ting
yao fragments! . . .  But Mr. Coe didn't smash the vase, Mr.
Grassi.  That desecration was achieved--inadvertently--by the
person who killed him.  Most unfortunate, what?"

Vance got to his feet wearily, folded Archer Coe's letter, and held
it out to Grassi.

"If this document will comfort you, you may have it back.  I
believe I've finished with it. . . .  That will be all for the
present."

Grassi hesitated.  He studied Vance suspiciously for a moment.
Then he took the letter, made a low bow, and left the room.

Markham, who had been following the interview intently, addressed
Vance as soon as Grassi was out of hearing.

"A curious and ominous situation.  Grassi is refused the
collection, on which he has obviously set his heart and staked his
honor; and he threatens Coe.  Then he disappears for three hours,
saying he took the wrong train; and this morning Coe is found dead,
with all the superficial indications of suicide."

"Exactly."

"And what's more," added Heath aggressively, "Coe was stabbed in
the back with a dagger.  These Italians are mighty handy with the
stiletto."

"But why should he also stab Brisbane?" Vance asked dispiritedly.
"And why the revolver?  And why the bolted door?  And especially
why the Scottie? . . .  We now have nearly all the parts of the
puzzle, but none of them seems to fit."

"You were counting a great deal on the dog this morning," Markham
observed.

"Yes, yes--the dog."  Vance lapsed into silence for a while, his
eyes gazing out of the east window into the gathering dusk of the
October twilight.  "And no one here liked dogs--no one but Wrede.
Funny he should give his pet away. . . ."  Vance's voice was
scarcely audible: it was as though he were thinking out loud.  "A
Doberman Pinscher . . . too big, of course, to keep in a small
apartment.  And I wouldn't take Wrede for a dog lover.  Too
unsympathetic. . . .  I think I'll have converse with him. . . ."

He stepped to the telephone.  A moment later he was talking with
Wrede.  The conversation was very brief, but during it Vance jotted
down some notes on the phone pad.  When he had replaced the
receiver Markham gave an exasperated grunt.

"Why should you be concerned with Wrede's former pets?" he asked.

"I'm sure I don't know," Vance admitted frankly.  "Some vague
association perhaps.  The unknown Scottie was found downstairs; and
the only other dog that has been mentioned in this case is Wrede's.
I'll confess the connection is far-fetched.  But Wrede and dogs
don't go together--the combination is almost as incongruous as was
the presence of the wounded Scottie in the hall.  And I hate
incongruities."

Markham strove to control his irritation.

"Well, what did you learn about Wrede's dog?"

"Nothing staggerin'.  He had the Doberman only a few months--bought
him at a show in Westchester.  Then when he moved from his house in
Greenwich Village to his present apartment he gave the dog to some
friends of his."  He pointed to the phone pad.  "I have their name--
they live on Central Park West, in the eighties. . . .  I think
I'll drop by and see them.  Y' know, Markham, I'm dashed interested
in Doberman Pinschers.  They're beautiful dogs.  And they were the
original police dogs in Germany.  'Police dog' is a misnomer,
however, when applied to any one breed.  Almost any dog may be a
police dog.  We have the erroneous idea in this country that the
German shepherd dog is the only police dog--in fact, he is called a
Police Dog, as if the two names were synonymous.  In England he is
known as an Alsatian.  The Doberman Pinscher is a cross between a
shepherd dog and a Pinscher--the name given Continental terriers.
He's a comparatively new breed, but has become very popular, for,
aside from his beautiful conformation, he is strong, muscular,
vigorous, intelligent, extremely alert, and, when incensed, vicious
and savage.  He's an excellent dog for police work, for, once fully
trained, he retains his knowledge better than any other dog. . . ."

Markham got up and yawned.

"Thanks awfully.  Your dissertation is most edifying.  But I hardly
think I'll call in a Doberman to solve the present case.  It might
make the Sergeant jealous."

Heath grinned good-naturedly.

"I'm for anything that'll solve this case, Chief.  But I'm thinking
that Mr. Vance may have something in his mind."

"Sergeant," said Vance, going toward the door, "you flatter me
abominably."

It was decided to discontinue the investigation for the day.  We
were all tired and confused, and there were no leads to follow.
The case was teeming with possibilities, but the contradictions of
the various details made logical speculation well-nigh impossible.
Vance suggested a complete cessation until he could make an inquiry
into the ownership of the wounded Scottie.  His sanguine attitude
toward the presence of the dog in the house struck me as
extravagant; and I knew Markham felt the same way about it.  But
since there was little more that could be done at the moment, he
gave in hopefully to Vance's suggestions.

"It's quite safe," Vance told him, when he had reached the lower
hall, "to let the various members of the household go about their
business.  Only, they should be on hand tomorrow for interrogation.
I can assure you, Markham, no one will run away."

A short conference in the drawing-room settled the matter.  Gamble
was told to proceed with his duties, as usual; and Miss Lake and
Grassi were informed that they were free to go and come as they
chose, provided they were available for questioning.

"Keep a man in Coe's bedroom, however," Vance admonished the
Sergeant; "and it would also be well to have a man outside to check
on any one entering or leaving the house."

As we approached the front door Guilfoyle, the detective from the
Homicide Bureau whom the Sergeant had sent to check Hilda Lake's
alibi, came in and reported.  But he had unearthed nothing helpful.
Miss Lake had dined at Arrowhead Inn with friends, and had departed
alone by motor, arriving at the Crestview Country Club about eleven
o'clock.  Guilfoyle had been unable to verify the motor accident
which ostensibly had delayed her arrival at the Club.

Vance, Markham and I went out into the chill air.  It had been a
day of horror, and the cool breeze from the park was invigorating.
When we were entering the District Attorney's car, Markham asked:
"Were you serious, Vance, about seeing those people to whom Wrede
gave the Doberman Pinscher?"

"Oh, quite. . . .  It will take only a few minutes."

The name of the people was Enright; and they lived in a penthouse
in one of the new apartment buildings on Central Park West, almost
opposite the reservoir.  The butler informed us that Mrs. Enright
was out of the city, and that Mr. Enright was at that moment
walking the dog in the park.  He suggested that we might find him
on the circular path around the reservoir.

Entering the park at 85th Street, we traversed the gardens on the
west, crossed the main motor road, and cut across the lawn to the
reservoir path.  Few people were in the park at this hour and the
figures about the reservoir were not many.  We sat down on a bench
by the path entrance and waited.  Presently there appeared round
the Fifth Avenue turn a very large man with a dog on a leash.

"That will be Enright," said Vance.  "Suppose we stroll toward
him."

Enright proved to be a genial, easy-going type of man of great
bulk.  (I learned later that he was an importer of food-stuffs from
out-of-the-way places in the South Seas.)  Vance introduced himself
and presented Markham and me.  Enright was cordial and talkative;
and when Vance mentioned Wrede's name he became voluble regarding
his long friendship with the man.  As he chatted I had a good look
at the dog.  I was not familiar with the breed, but I was
nevertheless struck with his qualities.  He was lean and muscular,
with beautiful lines, his coat a shiny black with rust-red, sharply
defined markings.  The dominating impression he gave was that of
compact, muscular power, combined with great speed and intelligence--
a dog that would make a loyal and protective friend and a
dangerous enemy.

"Oh, yes," Enright said, in answer to a question from Vance.
"Wrede gave me and the missus Ruprecht last spring.  Said he
couldn't keep him in a small apartment.  We've got a penthouse--
plenty of roof for the fellow to run around.  But I always take him
out at night and give 'im a to-and-fro in the park.  Good for him.
Dogs get fed up with tiles and brickwork--need to feel the sod
under their paws and to get their noses in the good earth now and
then.  Like human beings.  I take a trip to the country every year--
into the wilderness.--Rough it--get back to nature--"

"Oh, quite," agreed Vance pleasantly.  "But one does miss the
conveniences when in the wilderness--doesn't one?"

He went toward the Doberman and bent over, making a friendly
clicking sound with his tongue and calling the dog gently by name.
He extended the back of his hand slowly toward the dog's muzzle and
ran his hand over his occiput and down his slightly arched neck.
But the dog would not respond.  He shrank back, gave a frightened
whine, and crouched down on his haunches, trembling.

"That don't mean he don't like you, Mr. Vance," Enright explained,
patting the dog on the head.  "He's shy as the devil.  Distrustful
of strangers.  Gad!  You should have seen him when I first got him.
He crawled under a big settee in the den and wouldn't come out for
two days--not even to eat.  Had to drag him out twice a day and put
him on the roof.  Then back he'd go under the settee. . . .  Queer
ideas dogs get.  Neither me nor the missus are formidable, and we
love dogs.  Wouldn't be without one.  But Ruprecht is lots better
now than he used to be.  Getting a little confidence.  He's pretty
near all right when he's alone with me."

"He'll probably get over it," Vance told him encouragingly.  "The
right treatment, don't y' know. . . .  He's a beautiful specimen--
not a Sieger Kanzler von Sigalsburg,* but he has a clean head, no
lippiness, a long arched neck, a deep chest, muscular body and
sloping back; and he's correct size--around seventy pounds, I'd
say. . . .  Ever show him?"


* This great Doberman, who won his Sieger title when less than
fifteen months old, being the youngest dog ever to receive this
award, has recently been imported to this country by F. R. Kingman,
and made his American championship without difficulty.


"Oh, I entered him once--Cornwall.  But he wouldn't show.  Lay down
in the ring and whimpered.  Damn shame, too, for the two fellows
that went over him lacked quality,--one had a loose shoulder, and
the other was cow-hocked and had prominent light eyes."

"It's all in the game," Vance murmured sympathetically.

We walked with the garrulous Enright back to his apartment house
and took leave of him.  When we were in the District Attorney's
car, headed down-town, Vance spoke, and his voice was troubled.

"Something queer about that dog, Markham--something deuced queer.
Why should he be timid?  Why should he distrust and fear strangers?
It's not like a Doberman to act that way.  By nature they are alert
and shrewd and fearless, with energetic natures.  They're among the
best watch dogs of all the larger breeds. . . .  Shy--lying down in
the ring. . . .  Yes, something has happened to him.  He's had a
blighting experience of some kind. . . ."

Markham beat an annoyed tattoo on the window ledge of the car.

"Yes, yes; it's very sad, I suppose.  But what possible connection
can there be between a shy Doberman in Central Park West and the
murder of Archer Coe?"

"I haven't the vaguest notion," Vance returned cheerfully.  "But
there are only two dogs in this case, and one of them is browbeaten
and timid, and the other is viciously wounded."

"Pretty far-fetched," Markham grumbled.

Vance sighed.

"I dare say.  But so are the circumstances surrounding the murders
themselves."  He lighted a fresh cigarette and glanced at his
watch.  "It's drawing on toward dinner time.  Currie has promised
me filet of sole Marguéry and Chatouillard potatoes, and hot-house
strawberries Parisienne.  Does that tempt you? . . .  And I'll open
a bottle of that '95 Château-Yquem you're so fond of."

"You cheer me, old man."  Markham gave an order to the chauffeur.
"But first I'll take two double ponies of your Napoléon brandy.
I'm in vile humor."

"Ah, a bit of forgetfulness--eh, what?  Quite right you are.
There'll be nothing to irk us till tomorrow."

But Vance was mistaken.  That night the Coe case entered a new and
more sinister phase.  Markham dined with us and remained until
nearly eleven chatting about various subjects from the drawings of
George Grosz to Griffith Taylor's new theory of the migration and
status of races.  He departed with the understanding that he was to
pick us up at ten the next day.

It was exactly half-past two in the morning when Vance's private
phone rang.  It woke me from a deep sleep, and it was several
minutes before I could answer it.  Markham's voice came over the
wire demanding Vance.  I carried the portable phone set to his room
and handed it to him in bed.  He listened a brief minute; then he
set the instrument on the floor, yawned, stretched, and threw back
the bedclothes.

"Dash it all, Van!" he complained, as he rang for Currie.  "Grassi
has been stabbed!"



CHAPTER XVI

THE DEN WINDOW


(Friday, October 12; 3 a. m.)


When Vance and I arrived at the Coe house, Markham and Sergeant
Heath were already there.  There was a detective from the Homicide
Bureau sitting glumly on the front steps.  He gave one look at us
and turned his head away--we seemed to spell trouble for him.  I
did not understand his attitude until later.

Gamble, white and trembling, in bedroom slippers and a long flannel
robe, opened the door for us and led the way upstairs.  We went to
the second floor, walked back toward the front of the house, and
entered Grassi's quarters.  The curtains were drawn and all the
lights were on.

Heath and Markham stood at the foot of Grassi's bed, looking at the
prostrate figure lying there.  Sitting in a straight chair, on the
opposite side of the bed, was a capable-looking man of about forty,
short and slightly bald, who reminded me somewhat of Doctor Alexis
Carrel.

"This is Doctor Lobsenz," Markham informed Vance.  "He has his
office in 71st Street, near here, and Gamble called him in."

Doctor Lobsenz looked up, nodded, and went on about his work with
swift efficiency.*


* It might be interesting to note here that Jacob Munter Lobsenz,
M.D., later became Vance's personal physician.


Grassi lay on his back, clad in white silk pajamas.  He was ghastly
pale, and the arm nearest us moved restlessly on the sheets, like
that of a person under the influence of hyoscin.  There was an area
of blood, perhaps twelve inches in diameter, on the sheet at his
left side nearest the doctor.  His pajama coat was also stained
with blood.

Grassi's eyes were closed, but his lips were moving incoherently.
The left sleeve of his pajama coat had been ripped up to the
shoulder, and there was a pad and a close-fitting dressing around
the elbow of his left arm.  A stain of blood could be seen through
the dressing where the hemorrhage was still oozing.  Presently the
doctor rose.

"I think that's all I can do for him at the minute, Mr. Markham,"
he said.  "I'll send for the ambulance immediately."

Markham nodded.  "Thank you, doctor."  Then he turned to Vance.

"Grassi was stabbed through the left arm.  Doctor Lobsenz says it
is not a dangerous wound."

Vance's eyes were on Grassi's face.  Without looking up he spoke.
"Just what is the nature of the wound, doctor?"

"He was stabbed at the outer border of the biceps tendon, where it
crosses the dimple of the anti-cubital fossa.  The thrust punctured
the median basilic vein and caused a profuse hemorrhage.  But it
luckily missed the basilic artery."

"What shaped weapon would you say was used?" asked Vance.

The doctor hesitated.

"The wound was a bit ragged, and of a rather peculiar conformation;
it was not made with a knife, but with some instrument like a very
thick awl."

"Could it have been a small dagger with a diamond-shaped blade?"

"Yes, very easily.  The wound was jagged and there was too much
bleeding to determine exactly the contours; but I can let you know
later, when I've washed and sterilized it."

Vance nodded.  "You needn't bother."  Then he added:  "You're
taking him to the hospital?"

"Yes; immediately," the doctor told him.  "I have merely put on a
temporary dressing--a gauze compress held by a bandage.  I'll have
to have him in the hospital in order to enlarge and disinfect the
wound and to tie up the severed ends of the bleeding vessel.  He
should be all right by tomorrow."

"Have you given him any medication?"

"He was pretty nervous and upset, and I gave him three grains of
sodium-amytal by mouth.  It'll quiet him tonight and he'll be able
to return here tomorrow.  His arm will be in a sling for a few
days, but unless there is an infection there's no danger."

Vance still had his eyes on Grassi.

"Is he in shape to be questioned for a while before you take him to
the hospital?" he asked.

The doctor bent over Grassi, felt his pulse, and looked at his
pupils.

"Oh, yes."  He walked toward the door.  "The ambulance won't be
here for half an hour."  He went into the hall where Gamble was
standing.

"Where's the phone?" we heard him ask the butler.

Doctor Lobsenz was no sooner out of the room than Grassi opened his
eyes and looked up at us, shifting in the bed and trying to assume
a more upright position.  Vance arranged the pillows under his
shoulders and drew up the sheet.  Grassi stared from one to the
other of us as if he were surprised to see us there.

"Thank God you've come!" he said, his eyes resting on Vance.
"After all that has occurred today--then to have this happen.  It's
terrible!  I hope I never see this house again."  He gave a shudder
and his eyes closed.  "It's an outrage!" he went on.  "An
unspeakable outrage!  I have heard many strange tales of American
lawlessness, but this surpasses anything I could have imagined."

"Well, anyway, you weren't killed," Vance murmured.

He was now walking round the room.  He seemed suddenly to have
forgotten the presence of the man on the bed and to have taken an
interest in the various objects on the floor and about the walls.
He looked carefully at the door, tried the knob; studied the
arrangement of Grassi's shoes near the foot of the bed; opened the
closet door and looked inside; moved to the east window, opened the
shade and drew it again; took the lid off a small ivoried clothes
hamper, scrutinized the contents and replaced the lid; studied the
arrangement of the furniture; and finally switched the lights off
and on again.

Grassi's lids were half-closed, but I could see that his eyes
followed every move Vance made.  When Vance had switched the lights
back on, Grassi lifted himself on one elbow.

"What are you searching for?" he demanded.  "What right have you to
come in here and take advantage of my helplessness?  If you will
inform me of what you want I will tell you where to find it--if
that is the usual police procedure in this barbarous country."

Despite the venomous sarcasm in his voice there was a marked
undercurrent of excitement.

Vance sat down in a chair beside the bed and calmly took out a
cigarette, lighting it with leisurely deliberation.

"Is it not," he asked, "the custom in your country also, Mr.
Grassi, to glance over a room in which a crime--or an attempted
crime--has been committed?"

"Well, what did you find?" demanded the man on the bed.

"Nothing really excitin'," Vance replied.  "Suppose you tell us
what happened."

"That will not take long."  Grassi turned to Markham.  "But I want
justice.  I want revenge."

"You'll have it," Markham assured him.  "But we'll want your help
and co-operation.  Do you feel equal to going into this matter
now?"

Grassi settled back on the pillows.

"Certainly.--I went to bed early.  I was fatigued--the excitement
today . . . I am sure you will understand.  It was before eleven
o'clock--and I went to sleep immediately.  I was exhausted--"

"You turned out the lights?" Vance asked casually.

"Naturally.  And I also drew down the shades.  The street lights
are often annoying. . . .  I was awakened by some slight noise--I
cannot say exactly what it was.  But I lay quiet for a moment,
listening, and hearing nothing further, started to doze off again
when I suddenly became aware--I do not know exactly how to explain
it--of the presence of somebody in the room.  There was no noise or
movement--I had a sort of sixth sense. . . ."

"Perhaps you are psychic," suggested Vance, with a slight yawn.

"It may be," Grassi agreed.  "At any rate, I kept perfectly still
and let my eyes move about the room.  But it was very dark--there
was only a faint nimbus of light filtering through the drawn
shades.  But as I looked at the window I saw a vague shape pass in
front of me, and I instinctively threw my left arm across my
breast, as if to ward off something which I felt was endangering
me, but which I did not understand.  Almost simultaneously I felt a
sharp stinging pain in my left arm, just above the elbow--and a
curious sort of pressure.  Whether it was the pain or whether it
was from being startled and frightened I do not know, but I lost
consciousness for a moment.  I probably fainted. . . .

"When I regained consciousness I felt a warm, sticky wetness under
my left side, and the pain in my arm had increased and was
throbbing."

Grassi looked at Markham appealingly.  Then his eyes moved to
Heath, and finally to Vance.  Both Markham and the Sergeant were
standing close to the bed, listening intently; but Vance had
settled down in his chair lethargically and was placidly smoking,
as if the man's recital had little or no interest for him.  But I
knew Vance well enough to realize that he was at this moment
intensely absorbed in the recital.

"What did you do then?" Vance asked.

Grassi took a deep breath and again closed his eyes.

"I called out several times and waited; but as no one answered, I
arose and pressed the electric switch by the door--"

"On which side of the bed did you arise?" Vance interrupted.

"On the side on which you are sitting," Grassi informed him.  "And
as soon as I had turned on the lights, I opened the door--"

Vance's eyebrows went up.

"Ah, the door was closed?"

"Not quite.  It was, as you say, unlatched. . . .  Then I called
again--into the hall; and the butler--upstairs--answered me.  I sat
down on the edge of the bed and waited until he arrived. . . ."

"Did any one else answer your summons?"

"No.  The butler went immediately to the telephone in the hall,
downstairs, and I could hear him summoning medical assistance."

"He called me also," Markham put in.  "That's why we happen to be
here."

"And I am most grateful," said Grassi graciously.

Vance rose slowly and walked to a beautiful old Boule cabinet
between the two east windows, and ran his fingers over the inlay.

"I say, Mr. Grassi"--he spoke without turning round--"what about
that blood-stained bath towel in the hamper?"

Grassi glanced up with more alertness than he had shown at any time
during the conversation.

"There was a bath towel on this little stand beside the bed," he
explained.  "You see, I have no private bath and the butler always
leaves me my bath towel at night.  When I arose I wrapped it around
my arm--"

"Ah, yes--quite so."  Vance turned from the Boule cabinet and
walked toward the door.  "That accounts for the fact that there are
no bloodstains on the floor."

Vance was now inspecting the lock of the door.

"How did it happen, Mr. Grassi," he asked in an offhand manner,
"that you didn't lock your door before you said your prayers and
went to bed last night?"

"The lock does not work," Grassi returned in a tone of injured
defiance.

Gamble stepped up to the threshold at this moment.

"That's quite true, sir," he said.  "I owe Mr. Grassi an apology.
I should have had it mended long ago, but it escaped my memory."

Vance waved the butler away.

"That's quite all right, Gamble.  You've explained matters
perfectly."

At this moment a siren was heard in the street, and Vance went to
the front window and looked out.

"The ambulance is here," he announced.  "We hope, Mr. Grassi, that
you have a quiet night, and that we will see you tomorrow feeling
quite yourself again."

Doctor Lobsenz appeared at the door with Gamble.

"Through with my patient?" he asked.  "If so, I'll get some clothes
on him and take him along."

Vance nodded.

"Thank you, doctor, and good luck. . . .  And now, Markham, suppose
we go downstairs to the library and do a bit of thinking--although
it's a beastly hour for mentation. . . ."

After Grassi, accompanied by Doctor Lobsenz, had departed, Vance
closed the library doors and walked to the large centre table.

"There it is, Markham, old dear," he said with a grim smile,
pointing to the Chinese dagger before him.

The dagger lay on the library table in almost exactly the same spot
where we had left it the afternoon before; but now there was
undried blood upon it and its condition told us, only too plainly,
that it was the weapon which had been used to strike through
Grassi's arm.

"But why," asked Markham with a puzzled frown, "should the man who
attempted to kill Grassi bring the weapon back here to the
library?"

"Probably," replied Vance, "for the same reason that the person who
stabbed Archer and Brisbane Coe put the dagger in the vase in this
same room."

"I don't understand it."

"Neither do I--altogether.  But at least there's a certain
consistency in the actions of our stabber."

"You think," asked Markham, "that the same person who stabbed the
Coes attempted Grassi's life also?"

"Why leap at conclusions?" sighed Vance.  "There are so many other
things to be ascertained before we can reach any intelligent
conclusion."

"For instance?"

Vance arranged himself comfortably in a large chair.

"Well," he said, inhaling deeply on his Régie, "I could endure to
hear the various persons inside and outside the house chant their
runes as to what they know of tonight's happenings. . . .  And
there are other things which might bear casual scrutiny--to wit:
Why did Grassi's call for help not arouse Miss Lake on the third
floor ere it penetrated to Gamble's ears?  And what hath yon
Cerberus on the front stone steps to say about those who may have
come and gone tonight?  And where, and doing what, was the subtle
Mr. Liang during the upheaval?  And also what of the doughty guard
which I asked to have stationed in Archer Coe's bedroom tonight?"

Heath, who during the entire time we had been at the Coe house had
been in a state of silent but aggressive indecision, stood up and
squared his shoulders.

"Well, Mr. Vance, we'll get all of your questions answered pronto."

He went resolutely to the front door.  Before he opened it he
turned back to the library.

"And I'm telling the world I'd like to get the answers to those
questions myself.  I asked that detective out front who'd been in
here tonight, and he said nobody.  But we'll ask him again."

He threw the door open.

"Come here, Sullivan," he bawled; and the dejected figure we had
passed on the front steps came into the library.

"A guy's been stabbed here," Heath blustered.  "You told me no one
had come in or gone out the front door.  But this is serious
business, and we want you to rack your brain, if any, and tell us
what you know."

Detective Sullivan was both abashed and defiant.

"I told you, Sergeant," he insisted, "that I've been sitting on
those steps since seven o'clock tonight and nothing or nobody, so
much as a cockroach, has passed me, goin' or comin'."

"Maybe you went to sleep and just dreamed it all," the Sergeant
suggested sarcastically.

Detective Sullivan became indignant.

"Me sleep?  Honest, Sergeant, there's enough noise in this two-way
traffic street to wake up a dead man, let alone allow anybody to
pound his ear."

"That's enough, Sergeant," said Vance mildly.  "I think Sullivan is
telling the truth.  I have a feeling that no one came in the front
door tonight."

Sullivan was sent back to the front steps and Heath went into the
hall.

"I'll find out about Burke in Coe's room," he offered.

We could hear him going up the steps two at a time and opening
Archer's bedroom door.  A moment later he appeared with Detective
Burke in tow.

"Tell Mr. Markham and Mr. Vance," he ordered gruffly, "what you've
been doing all night."

"I been sleeping," Burke admitted frankly.  "I pulled up a chair
against the door and forgot my troubles.  Was there anything the
matter with that, Sergeant?"

Heath hesitated.

"Well, I guess not.  You been working all day--and I didn't tell
you to keep awake.  But a guy's been stabbed right down the hall
from you, and he called for help--and now you know nothin' about
it."  The Sergeant shook his head with disgust.  "Well, go on back
and see if you can keep awake for a while."

Burke went out.

"My fault," the Sergeant explained.  "After all, you can't blame
him, Mr. Vance."

"Burke wouldn't have been able to help us anyway, I'm afraid,"
Vance consoled him. . . .  "Suppose we commune with Gamble."

The butler was brought in.  He was a pitiful figure as he stood
before us in questioning fear.

"How do you account for the fact," Vance asked him, "that you could
hear Mr. Grassi's call from the second floor and that his appeal
for help should entirely have missed the ears of Miss Lake who is
on the floor between Mr. Grassi's room and yours?"

Gamble swallowed twice and braced himself against the door.

"That is quite simple, sir," he said.  "Miss Lake's boudoir is at
the rear of the house and there's a large parlor between her
boudoir and the door leading into the hall.  I, sir, leave my door
open on the fourth floor, in case the front door bell should ring
or I should be called."

When Gamble had been sent back to the upper hall, Vance sighed and
crushed out his cigarette.

"Well, that explains that. . . .  Really, y' know, Markham, we
don't seem to be moving with what might be called precipitate
rapidity."

He lit a fresh cigarette and stood up.

"I think I'll take a look at the rear of the house.  Would you care
to stagger along?"

The Sergeant nodded sagely.

"You think the guy that stabbed the Italian got in the back way, do
you, Mr. Vance?"

"I have come to the conclusion, Sergeant," Vance returned sadly, as
he went toward the door leading into the dining-room, "that
thinking at this hour of the morning is a frightful waste of
effort."

Vance switched on the dining-room lights, and we followed him
toward the kitchen.  As he opened the door leading into the
butler's pantry I was surprised to see a rectangular line of light
around the kitchen door.

Vance halted momentarily.

"I wonder . . ." he murmured, as if to himself.  And then:  "No,
no; Gamble wouldn't have dared come near the rear of the house--
he's in a blue funk."

He proceeded across the pantry and pushed open the swinging door
into the kitchen.

Under the central light, seated at a large kitchen table of white
pine, was Liang, fully dressed, and with a green eye-shade pulled
down to the bridge of his nose.  Before him on the table were a
pile of books and many sheets of scattered paper.  As we entered he
rose and faced us, removing his eye-shade.  He did not seem at all
astonished at seeing us there at such an unusual hour; he smiled
pleasantly and made a stiff bow.

"Good evening, Mr. Liang," Vance greeted him amiably.  "You're
working rather late."

"I had many things to do tonight--my work had accumulated.  My
monthly report to the Ta Tao Huei is overdue. . . .  I trust I have
not discommoded the household."

"You have been working all night--here in the kitchen?" Vance
asked, going to the porch door and trying it.  (It was locked.)

"Since eight o'clock," the Chinaman returned.  "May I be of any
service to you?"

"Oh, no end."  Vance sauntered back and perched himself on a high
stool.  "Have you been aware of anything unusual in the house
tonight, Mr. Liang?"

The man looked mildly surprised.

"Quite the contrary.  It seemed very peaceful after the excitement
today."

"Restful--eh, what?  Astonishin'!  And yet, Mr. Liang, while you
were engaged in your liter'ry labors, Signor Grassi was stabbed."

There was no change of expression on the Chinaman's face as he
answered:  "That is most unfortunate."

"Yes, yes, quite."  Vance's tone was slightly irritable.  "But did
you, by any chance, hear any one or see any one enter the rear door
this evening?"

Liang shook his head slightly in a slow and indifferent negative.

"No," he said.  "No one, to my knowledge, entered by the rear
door. . . .  Perhaps the front door--"

"Many thanks for the suggestion," Vance interrupted with a shrug;
"but there's been some one guarding it."

"Ah!"  The Chinaman moved his eyes a little until they rested
on a point somewhere above Vance's head.  "That is indeed
interesting. . . .  Perhaps the den window--"

"An excellent suggestion!"  Vance stepped down from the stool.
"The den window, eh, Mr. Liang?"

"It would be a logical choice," the man answered.  "It cannot be
seen either from the street or from the house, and there is a
cement walk immediately beneath it, so that there would be no
footprints."

"Our gratitude, and all that, Mr. Liang," Vance murmured.  "I'll
have a look at the window. . . .  Pray continue with your work."
And he led the way back through the dining-room into the library.

"Well, what about it?" grumbled Heath.  "A swell lot you learned
from that Chink."

"Still, Sergeant," Vance returned, "it was kind of Mr. Liang to
suggest the den window.  Why not take a peep at it?"

Heath hesitated, squinted, and then went swiftly across the hall
into the drawing-room.  We could hear him open the den door and
walk heavily across the small room.  A few moments later he
returned to the library.

"There's something damn queer about this," he announced.  "Maybe
the Chink was right, after all.  The den window was open--and the
sofa that was in front of it was pulled out at a cock-eyed angle."
He glanced at Markham helplessly.  "Maybe somebody did get in and
out of that window, Chief. . . .  Anyhow, where do we go from
here?"

"Home and to bed, my dear Pepys," said Vance.  "This is no hour for
respectable people to be up.  There's nothing more to be done
here."



CHAPTER XVII

THE SIX JUDGES


(Friday, October 12; 9 a. m.)


Vance rose early that morning.  I myself was around at nine o'clock
and was surprised to find him in street clothes and on the point of
leaving the house.

"I'll be back in half an hour, Van," he said, as he went out, but
gave no further explanation.

Fifteen minutes later Markham arrived, and he had waited but ten
minutes when Vance came in.  He was carrying the Scottish terrier
bitch in his arms.  There was a dressing on her head held in place
by adhesive tape, but otherwise she seemed alert and well.

"Morning, Markham," Vance greeted the District Attorney.  "Really,
y' know, I didn't expect you so early.  I've just toddled over to
Doctor Blamey's to see how the little Scotch lassie was getting
along--and here she is."

He put the dog down and rang for Currie.  When the man came he
ordered Melba toast and a dish of warm milk.

"A little breakfast for the lass," he explained.  "I've a feelin'
she's going to do a bit of travellin' to-day."

Markham looked at him sceptically.

"You still think you can trace the person we want through that
dog?"

"It's about our only hope," Vance told him seriously.  "The case
is far too complicated as it stands--there are too many 
contradictions. I am sure that you, as a prosecuting attorney,
could pin the various crimes on any one of three or four people.
But until I have traced the ownership and peregrinations of this
Scottie, I sha'n't be satisfied."

Markham frowned.  "Just how do you intend to go about it?"

Vance studied the terrier for a few moments as he crumbled the
Melba toast into the dish of milk.  He ran his hands over her
contours; he looked at her teeth; he felt her coat; put his fist
under her brisket; and took one of her forelegs in his hand.

"As I told you, Markham, this little bitch is in perfect show
condition.  She's been trimmed and conditioned by an expert, and it
seems pretty certain that she's been entered in some show recently.
She's a show dog, and her stripping is that of a professional
handler; it is no pet-shop or hospital assistant's job; and owners
of dogs do not go to the professional type of trimmer unless they
have the ring in mind.  My guess is, from her condition, that she's
been shown within the last month.  And it's simple enough to find
what shows have been held within a reasonable radius of New York
during that period."

"But why couldn't she have been shown before?" Markham asked.

"Because," explained Vance, "her coat wouldn't have been ready.
She's just in full coat now--it's only beginning to go 'bye.'  Over
a month ago her coat would have been too short. . . .  But never
mind the technicalities."

He went into the library and returned with his file of Popular
Dogs.  Sitting down in his easy chair he placed the file across his
knees and began running his finger down the calendar of official
dog shows.

"Now, let's see," he murmured.  "During the past month there has
been held around New York the show at Syracuse--make a note of
these, will you, Van?  Then came the Cornwall show; and after that,
Tuxedo.  And a week later was the Camden show, which was followed
by Westbury, and also the Englewood show. . . .  That brings us
pretty well up to date, and they are all possibilities.  Moreover,
if she was on exhibition at any of these shows, she was in either
the puppy or the novice class--and perhaps in the American-bred,
although I doubt it."

"And how do you figure that?"  Markham was still sceptical.

"That's not so difficult," Vance elucidated.  "She's about a year
old, I should say--perhaps a month or two either way. . . ."

"You mean to tell me," asked Markham, "that you can look at a dog
and tell how old it is?"

"Approximately--yes.  But one looks at the teeth for one's
information.  Both the temporary and the permanent teeth of a dog
appear at certain ages.  The third molar, for instance, appears
when the dog is between six and nine months old.  And as this
Scottie's molars are well formed, I know she is at least nine or
ten months old.  But that is not the real test.  Age is judged
largely by the appearance of the incisors and the wearing-away of
the cusps.  The incisors are crowned with three lobes--a central
and two lateral--resembling a fleur-de-lis.  During the first year
these three cusps are all present and show very little wear; but
during the second year the middle cusp begins to wear level with
the laterals, and the fleur-de-lis disappears from the central
incisors of the lower jaw. . . .  Now, if we assume that this
Scottie has had a normal diet, has not had too many bones to gnaw,
and has not come in contact with stones, it may fairly accurately
be deduced, from the condition of her teeth, that she is about a
year old--perhaps just entering her second year. . . ."

"Very well."  Markham was becoming bored.  "Go on from there."

"Up to twelve months," Vance continued, "dogs are eligible for the
puppy class.  Moreover, any dog which hasn't won a blue ribbon,
except in the puppy class, is eligible for the novice class.  This
dog is too young to have won any important blue ribbons, and
therefore my guess would be that her entries would have been in the
puppy and novice classes. . . .  It's not an important matter,
although it limits and facilitates my investigation somewhat."

"It sounds like shooting into the dark."  Markham was far from
convinced.

"You're right, to a certain extent," Vance agreed.  "But there's a
simpler way of determining the dog's ownership--and I shall try
that first."

Vance stood looking down at the bandaged Scottie as she ate her
milk and toast.

"The more I see of her, Markham, the more I'm convinced that there
are only about five men in this part of the country who could have
done such a perfect job of trimming.  It takes a profound knowledge
of the Scottish terrier and long years of experience to produce a
contour and a balance of coat like this one.  William Prentice
could have done it; and George Wimberly, and Jimmy McNab, and
Ellery Burke, and Steve Parton."

Vance walked round the dog several times, studying her.

"Wimberly is in Boston, so we may eliminate him on the grounds of
distance.  McNab is working in a private capacity for a kennel on
Long Island, and I hardly think he would qualify.  Both Burke and
Parton are fairly distant from New York, although they are
certainly possibilities."

He knelt down and ran his hand over the contour of the dog's neck
and lifted the hair along the spine.  Then he stood up.

"William Prentice!  That's the chap.  That outline of the neck and
the back has been achieved by a master hand, and there's no greater
master at that in this country than Prentice.  Furthermore, he's
only a short distance from New York. . . .  I think I'll try him
first.  If he did trim this dog he may be able to give us some
information as to her ownership."

As soon as Markham had left us that morning, we drove to Mr.
Prentice's famous Barlae Kennels at Haworth, New Jersey.  Mr.
Prentice, a middle-aged Scotsman with a dour demeanor but a twinkle
in his blue eyes, stepped out of the main kennel as we alighted
from the car.  He took one look at the dog in Vance's arms.

"How d' ye do, Mr. Vance," was his greeting.  (Vance had known him
for years: Prentice had handled many of his dogs in the ring.)  "A
good one, yon bitch."

"You know her then?" asked Vance eagerly.

"Ay."

"And you trimmed her?"

"Ay."

"And about how long ago might that be?"

"I couldna say exactly, but it was after the first of September."

"Whose bitch is it?"

"That I couldna say.  A lady and a gentleman drove up one afternoon
and asked me if I could trim the dog at once.  I said 'ay,' and I
trimmed it."

Vance seemed disappointed.

"Was anything else said?" he asked.

"The gentleman said he wanted the bitch put in show condition."

"Ah!  And have you seen her at any of the shows since then?"

Prentice shook his head thoughtfully.  "I've been showing mostly
Cairns this fall."

"What sort of man brought the dog to you?  Could you describe him?"

"Ay.  He was a large man, around fifty, and he had little enough to
say."

"And the woman?"

"She was young and not difficult to look at."

"A blonde?"

"Ay."

"His daughter, perhaps?"

A shrewd twinkle came into the Scotsman's eyes.

"I hae me doots," was all he vouchsafed.  Vance remained at the
Barlae Kennels for perhaps half an hour, discussing dogs.  On the
way home he seemed in better spirits.

"In any event, Van," he said, "we can now go ahead with a certain
assurance of success.  If only Prentice had taken the owner's name
and address, how simple everything would have been."

Returning to his apartment, he telephoned to the American Kennel
Club and obtained the names of the Scottish terrier judges in the
six shows he had selected as the most likely ones where the bitch
might have been exhibited.

The six judges turned out to be Marguerite Kirmse, Karl B. Smith,
Edwin Megargee, William MacBain, Morgan Stinemetz, and Robert D.
Hartshorne.

Vance glanced down the list of names he had made.  "Now, let us
see. . . .  I can probably find most of these judges in the city.
Mr. Hartshorne and Mr. Smith may be at their offices, although it
is Columbus Day.  And at this time of year Mrs. Cole is generally
in New York.*  I may find Mr. Megargee in his studio.  Mr. MacBain
is somewhere in Wall Street, I believe; and Mr. Stinemetz surely
must have an office in New York. . . .  Let's see what we can find
out."


* Marguerite Kirmse, the etcher and also a breeder and judge of
Scottish terriers, is in private life Mrs. George W. Cole.


He turned to the telephone and kept it busy for the best part of
half an hour.  Then he rose and took the dog in his arms.

"Come, Van, our itiner'ry begins."

A few minutes later we were in Vance's car, headed for the
financial district.

We had to wait some time before Mr. Hartshorne returned to his
office from the floor of the Exchange.  He showed a keen interest
in the dog and went over her carefully.  But he could not remember
having judged her in the show at which he had officiated.  He said
he would have been sure to have remembered her because of her
outstanding qualities; but he was unable to give us any help.

Mr. MacBain was not in his office that day, because of the holiday.
But we found Mr. Karl Smith at the New Cosmopolite Club.  Mr.
Smith, however, was unable to help us.  He was quite sure that the
dog had not been shown under him; so we went south again to Union
Square to call on Mr. Megargee.

Mr. Megargee was in his studio, working on a large canvas of twelve
of the famous Tapscot Cairn champions.  But here again we met with
disappointment, for he was not able to identify the dog as having
been entered in the show at which he judged.

"Although there was a good entry," Mr. Megargee explained to Vance,
"I know practically every dog and bitch that got in the ribbons
that day, and this one was certainly not among them, or she would
have taken the blue in either the puppy or the novice class."

Things began to appear discouraging, and Vance was not in the best
humor as we drove to the east-side winter studio of Mrs. Marguerite
Kirmse Cole.

Mr. and Mrs. Cole, owners of the Tobermory Kennels, greeted us
graciously and did everything they could to help Vance out of his
quandary.  But to no avail.  Mrs. Cole was positive the dog had not
been an entry under her judgeship.

We stayed for a short time, looking at her lovely paintings and
etchings of dogs,* and then returned to Vance's apartment for a
belated luncheon.


* Vance owned three of Marguerite Kirmse's Scottie etchings--"My
Scotties," "Safety First," and "Gangway!"


It was past four in the afternoon when we arrived at Mr. William
MacBain's Diehard Kennels in Closter, New Jersey.  Mr. MacBain, who
was then vice-president of the Scottish Terrier Club of America,
was busily engaged with some of his young stock.  He was most
gracious when Vance asked for his assistance.  He showed an intense
interest in the dog that Vance had brought to him, but was unable
to identify her.

"But there's unquestionably Ornsay blood in her," he said, running
his hand over her skull.

Mr. MacBain was too old a breeder in the Scottish terrier fancy not
to have remembered the dog at once if he had judged her, and when
he shook his head in answer to Vance's query there was no doubt
whatever that Vance had drawn another blank in his investigation of
the wounded dog's ownership.

Vance had succeeded in locating the New York office of Mr.
Stinemetz, but, on phoning, learned that he was not in the city
that day but could undoubtedly be found at his country home.

Mr. Stinemetz's estate in Orangeburg was only a few miles from the
Diehard Kennels and we headed for it somewhat despondently.  The
sun was setting over the Jersey hills and a cool breeze came up
from the southwest.

"This is almost our last chance," Vance observed dejectedly,
"--unless the dog has been shown in New England or the south.
But if that were the case, why is she here in New York now?"

Vance was downcast: I realized for the first time how much he had
counted on this stray Scottish terrier to help him in the solution
of the crime which was perplexing him.  But it was just at the
moment when things seemed darkest that a ray of light was
introduced into the situation.  It was Mr. Stinemetz--the last of
the judges we consulted--who gave Vance the information he was
seeking.

Mr. Stinemetz was in his kennel, feeding his dogs, when we arrived.
Vance showed him the little lost bitch and asked him if he had ever
judged her.  Mr. Stinemetz looked at her closely for a moment, took
her in his arms and stood her on the show table in his main kennel.

"Yes," he said slowly, after a minute's inspection; "I not only
judged her, but I put her up, three weeks ago at Englewood.  She
won the puppy bitch class, and I would have given her a first
instead of a second in the novice class, if she had shown properly.
For she has the quality, and if correctly handled should go over
the top.  But, as I remember, some young woman with little or no
experience brought her into the ring.  Naturally, she could get no
response from the dog.  I tried to help her out, but it was
hopeless; and I had to give the blue to a bitch that had the
style and the ring manners, but who wasn't this one's equal in
anatomy. . . .  There was one slight fault in the mouth, however."

Mr. Stinemetz held back the dog's lips, exposing her teeth.

"You see this upper incisor: it's out of place.  But it's not a
serious fault.  There's many a champion with a much worse mouth."

Vance thanked him for his help and added:  "Do you happen to know
what bitch this is, or who owns her?"

Mr. Stinemetz shook his head.

"No, I never saw her before--she must be a newcomer.  I didn't see
a catalogue of the show and there were no post mortems at the
judge's table after the show."*


* It is considered unethical for any judge to acquaint himself,
either by catalogue or otherwise, with any of the names of the
entries in a show at which he is to officiate, and every reputable
judge abides by this unwritten law.  After the distribution of
awards, he may, of course, acquaint himself with the names and
ownership of any dog in the entry.


Vance left Mr. Stinemetz's Quince Hill Kennels in a much happier
frame of mind.

"Tomorrow," he said, as we drove home through the gathering dusk,
"we will know the owner's name."

Immediately upon our arrival in New York, Vance telephoned to
Markham at his home, and learned that there had been no
developments in the case during the day.  Grassi had returned to
the Coe house at eleven o'clock that morning, evidently very little
the worse for his experience of the previous night.  He had wished
to go to a hotel, but Markham had prevailed upon him to remain at
the Coe residence until some light had filtered into the case, and
Grassi had reluctantly agreed to do so.

Wrede had remained indoors all day and had telephoned to Markham
twice and offered to give whatever assistance he could.

Hilda Lake had gone out about ten o'clock in the morning, dressed
in sport clothes.  When Heath had asked her where she was going,
she had told him nonchalantly that she was going to take a drive in
the country.

Sergeant Heath had remained on duty most of the day, but his labors
had consisted in the main of answering phone calls and trying to
pacify a small army of reporters with news of purely imaginary
"developments."  The den window-sill had been gone over carefully
for finger-prints, but without results.  A general routine
investigation had been put in operation by the Sergeant, but, aside
from this, nothing had been done.

"The case has me bogged," Markham complained sadly at dinner that
night.  (We had joined him, at his request, at the Stuyvesant
Club.)  "I see no way out of the situation.  Even if we knew who
committed the crimes, we couldn't show how they were accomplished--
unless the guilty person himself chose to tell us. . . .  And that
attack on Grassi: instead of helping us, it has only put us deeper
into the well.  And there's nothing to take hold of.  All the
ordinary avenues of investigation are closed.  Heaven knows there
are enough people who might have done it--and there are enough
motives for a dozen murders."

"Sad . . . sad," sighed Vance.  "My heart bleeds for you, don't y'
know.  Still, there's some simple explanation.  It's a deucedly
complicated puzzle--a cryptogram with apparently meaningless words.
But once we have the key letter, the rest of it will fall into
place.  And the key letter may be the Scottie.  I'm hopin' for the
best."

He applied himself for a moment to his salad.

"A bit of Beluga caviar," he drawled, "would improve this Russian
dressing."

"Shall I report the oversight to the Club's board of governors,
Monsieur Brillat-Savarin?"

"Oh, don't bother," Vance returned dulcetly.  "They'd probably add
salted caviar and ruin the dressing completely. . . .  You might,
however, confide in me the exact condition of the Coe domicile
tonight."

"There's little to confide," Markham told him acerbitously.  "Heath
has done the usual things and gone home.  However, he's left two
men on guard, one in the street and one at the rear of the house.
Grassi has remained in his room all day,--Heath's last report to me
was that the gentleman had gone to bed.  The lock on his door, by
the way, has been fixed; so he'll probably live the night through.
Miss Lake came in just as the Sergeant was going. . . .  By the
way, she took the news of Grassi's stabbing rather hard--"

Vance looked up quickly.

"I say, that's most interestin'."

"The Chinaman did not leave the house," Markham continued, "and
told Heath he preferred to remain until the guilty person had been
brought to justice."

"I do hope he hasn't too long to wait," Vance sighed.  "But it's
just as well if Liang stays with us.  I feel that he's going to be
most helpful to us anon. . . .  And you, Markham, old dear: what
have you been doing?  Milk investigations, I suppose--and
committees of eminent citizens who wish to uplift the drama--and
interviews with aldermen."

"That's about all," Markham confessed.  "What would you have
suggested?"

"Really, Markham, I hadn't a suggestion today."  Vance leaned back
in his chair.  "But tomorrow--"

"You're so helpful and satisfying," Markham snapped.  "'Morgen,
morgen, nur nicht heute; sagen immer träge Leute.'"

"Markham--my very dear Markham!" Vance protested reprovingly.
"Really, don't y' know, I'm not lazy.  I give you Cicero:  'Aliquod
crastinus dies ad cogitandum dabit.'"



CHAPTER XVIII

THE SCOTTIE'S TRAIL


(Saturday, October 13; 9 a. m.)


At nine o'clock the following morning Vance called at the offices
of the American Kennel Club, at 221 Fourth Avenue, and explained to
the genial and accommodating secretary, Mr. Perry B. Rice, the
nature of the information he sought.  Mr. Rice was sympathetic and
offered to do everything he could to help with the investigation.

"The officially marked catalogue of the Englewood show would give
you what data you desire," he said.

He led us down the corridor and into a large room, and introduced
us to Mrs. Del Campo, the head of the show department.  The room
was over forty feet long, with windows across the entire west wall.
Great rows of steel filing cabinets lined the side walls, and near
the windows was an enormous bookcase with glass doors, lined with
red morocco-bound catalogues of all the official shows during
nearly half a century.  Beside the door was a large tier of open
shelves holding all of the judges' books and entry blanks.*  Near
these open shelves was a series of filing cabinets containing the
cards of every registered dog of every breed, showing all the wins
each dog had made.  A score of silent and efficient girls were at
work in this room, filing cards, adding to the records, and
checking the innumerable items that arise after every official
show.  About the walls were framed pictures of famous dogs of the
various breeds.


* Mr. Rice explained to us that the judges' books and entry blanks
were kept for six or seven months, until they had been thoroughly
checked with the records and found correct.


Mrs. Del Campo, when Mr. Rice explained to her what Vance wanted,
found the marked Englewood catalogue on which one of the girls was
working.  Turning to the Scottish terrier section, she ran her
finger down the list of Puppy Bitch entries until she came to the
winner of the class.  The owner's name was given as Julius
Higginbottom, and the name of the dog itself as Miss MacTavish.
Then followed the A.K.C. Stud Book number and the date of birth--
November 20 of the preceding year.  The sire of the bitch was given
as Champion Ornsay Autocrat, and the dam as Laurieston Lovelace.
The breeder was Henry D. Bixby.

Vance made a note of these data, and while he was jotting them
down, Mrs. Del Campo said:

"This catalogue hasn't yet been checked with the judges' book. . . .
Just a minute and I'll compare them."

She procured the Scottish terrier judges' book from one of the
desks and, opening it to the page headed Puppy Bitches, looked
beside the printed numeral 1.  There was a pencilled numeral--258.
She compared this with the printed numeral in the catalogue in
front of Miss MacTavish's name; and it was the same.

"And that's final?" asked Vance.

"No, not final," Mr. Rice told him.  "Those data in the catalogue
should be checked with the official pedigree card."  And he made a
note of the A.K.C. number which appeared after Miss MacTavish's
name in the catalogue.

He then took us into the room next door--a room similar to the one
we had just left.  In this room there was also a great series of
steel filing cases filled with cards bearing the official pedigrees
and all information concerning every dog registered with the A.K.C,
as well as a complete file of nearly five thousand registered
kennel names.

Miss Dora Makin, the head of the registration department, took the
number that Mr. Rice gave her and, going to a large steel cabinet
at the left of the door, pulled out a drawer containing a double
row of small cards.  These cards were arranged in numerical order
under each of the separate breeds.  There were white cards for dogs
and salmon-colored cards for bitches.

After a moment's search, Miss Makin drew forth Miss MacTavish's
card.  At the top of it appeared the bitch's name and breed and
A.K.C. number.  Then came the names of her sire and dam, the date
she was whelped, the name of the breeder, and the name and address
of the owner.  All this information tallied accurately with the
data contained in the official catalogue; but there was one added
item, namely, the address of Julius Higginbottom, which was Mount
Vernon, New York.

"Now, that's final, Mr. Vance," Mr. Rice said.  "You may rest
assured that the information is correct.  We go through that
process with every entry in every show.  Dog people don't realize
the enormous amount of detail work which goes on at the A.K.C. in
order to keep the hundreds of thousands of records correct and to
insure every one in the dog game an almost absolute protection."

After dropping into an office across the hall to pay his respects
to Mr. Louis de Casanova, the editor of The American Kennel
Gazette, Vance took his departure, and instructed his chauffeur to
drive immediately to the Criminal Courts Building on the corner of
Franklin and Centre Streets.

On our way downtown Vance expressed his admiration for the A.K.C.
system.

"It's amazin', Van.  An entire institution based on the ideal of
accuracy.  It has no commodity to sell: it's purely managerial in
essence.  It sells only accuracy and protection to the many
thousands of sportsmen and dog lovers throughout the country.  A
unique and astonishin' institution."

When we arrived at the District Attorney's office on the fourth
floor of the Criminal Courts Building, Markham was in conference
with Sergeant Heath.  Swacker, the District Attorney's secretary,
ushered us immediately into Markham's private office.

"Things are moving."  Vance sat down and took out his cigarette
case.  "I have just come from the American Kennel Club and have
discovered a bit of most interestin' information.  The wounded
Scottie, Markham, belongs to none other than Julius Higginbottom."

"And who might he be, Vance?  And why does the fact interest you?"

Vance lighted his cigarette leisurely.

"I have met Higginbottom.  He's a member of the Crestview Country
Club, and he has a large country estate at Mount Vernon, where he
spends his entire time living what he imagines to be the life of a
country gentleman--"

Heath sat forward in his chair.

"It was the Crestview Country Club at Mount Vernon," he
interjected, "where Miss Lake and Grassi went to a dance Wednesday
night."

"And that's not all, Sergeant."  Vance sprawled luxuriously in his
chair and took a deep inhalation on his Régie.  "Higginbottom knew
Archer Coe pretty well.  Several years ago Higginbottom inherited,
from an aunt, a very fine collection of early Chinese paintings,
many of which Coe bought from him at a preposterously low price.
Higginbottom is something of a gay bird--the sporting type of man--
and knew nothing of the value of the paintings.  After he had sold
them to Coe he learned from a dealer that they were very valuable,
and there was consequent talk, in certain New York art circles, to
the effect that Coe had put over a shrewd and somewhat unethical
deal on Higginbottom.  Higginbottom, as I know, took the matter up
with Coe, but without any success, and there has been a certain
amount of bad blood between them ever since.  Higginbottom was a
major in the World War and is a hot-headed sort of a chap."

Markham beat a nervous tattoo on the desk.

"Well, where does that get us?" he asked.  "Are you implying that
Higginbottom came down from Mount Vernon with his dog and murdered
Coe?"

"Good Lord, no!"  Vance made a slight gesture of annoyance.  "I'm
not implyin' anything.  I am merely reportin' my findings.  But I
must confess that I find the relationship between the Scottie and
Major Higginbottom and Archer Coe a bit satisfyin'."

"It appears to me," grumbled Markham, "that it merely adds a new
and more complicated angle to the situation."

"Don't be discouragin'," sighed Vance.  "At least there's food for
thought in the combination."

"My mind is already glutted."  Markham rose irritably and walked to
the window overlooking the Tombs.  "What do you propose to do now?"

Vance also rose.

"I'm taking a bit of a jaunt into the country.  I am motoring
immediately to Mount Vernon, where I hope to have polite and
serious--and, I trust, illuminatin'--intercourse with the major
concerning Miss MacTavish. . . .  Would you care to hear the result
of my social endeavors?"

Markham turned from the window and sank heavily into his chair.

"I'll be here all afternoon," he answered glumly.

It was a pleasant drive to Mount Vernon, in the brisk October air.
We had little difficulty in finding the Higginbottom estate, and we
were lucky enough to find the major sitting on the big colonial
front porch.

He was a rotund man of medium height, with a partly bald head and a
florid complexion.  There was a look of dissipation about his
small, beady gray eyes, which no amount of outdoor country living
could disguise.  But there was a likable joviality about him.

He welcomed Vance effusively and invited us to sit down and have a
highball.

"To what do I owe the honor of this call, sir?"  He spoke with
hospitable good-nature.  "I am really delighted.  You should come
oftener."

"I'd be charmed."  Vance sat down beside a small glass table.
"But today, Major, d' ye see, I hopped out here on a little matter
of business. . . .  The truth is, I'm dashed interested in a
Scottie bitch belonging to you--Miss MacTavish--who was shown at
Englewood. . . ."

At the mention of the dog's name Higginbottom gave a loud cough,
pushed his chair back with a scraping sound, and glanced over his
shoulder to the open window leading into the house.  The man seemed
deeply perturbed, and his tone of voice and his manner, when he
answered, struck me as most peculiar.

"Yes, yes; of course," he blustered, rising and walking toward the
front steps.  "I rarely go to dog shows any more.  By the way, Mr.
Vance, I want to show you my roses. . . ."  And he walked down the
stairs toward a small rose garden at the right.

Vance lifted his eyebrows in mild astonishment and followed his
host.  When we were out of hearing of the house, the major placed
his hand on Vance's shoulder and spoke confidentially:

"By gad, sir!  I hope my wife didn't hear that question of yours.
She's generally in the drawing-room during the mornings, and the
windows were open."  He appeared troubled.  "Yes, sir, it would be
most annoying if she heard it.  I didn't mean to be impolite, sir--
no, sir, by gad!--but you startled me for a moment. . . .  A most
trying and delicate situation."  He put his head a little closer to
Vance.  "Where did you hear of that little bitch of mine?--were you
at the Englewood show?--and why should you be interested?"  He
glanced again over his shoulder toward the porch.  "George!  I hope
your question didn't reach my wife's ears."

Vance looked at the man quizzically.

"Come, come, Major," he said pleasantly.  "It really can't be so
serious.  I was not at Englewood, and I never saw Miss MacTavish
till the day before yesterday.  The fact of the matter is, Major,
your little bitch is now in my apartment in New York."

"You don't say!--In your apartment?"  Higginbottom seemed vastly
astonished.  "How did she get there?--I don't understand at all.
This is most peculiar, Mr. Vance.  Pray enlighten me."

"But she IS your dog, is she not, Major?" Vance asked quietly.

"Well . . . well--the fact is--that is to say--"

Higginbottom was spluttering with embarrassment.  "Yes--yes, I
suppose you would say that I am the technical owner of her.  But I
haven't had her at my kennels here for over six months. . . .  You
see, Mr. Vance, it's this way--I gave Miss MacTavish away to a
friend of mine--a very dear friend, y' understand--in New York."

"Ah," breathed Vance, looking up at the cerulean sky.  "And who,
Major, might this friend be?"

Higginbottom began to splutter again, with an added show of
indignation.

"By gad, Mr. Vance!  I can't see--really, I can't see--what
possible concern that is of any one but myself--and, of course, the
recipient. . . .  It was a purely private transaction--I might say
a personal transaction."  He cleared his throat pompously.  "Even
though you may have the dog in your possession now, I can hardly
see--that is, I fail to understand--"

"Major," Vance interrupted brusquely, "I am not prying into your
private affairs.  But a rather serious matter has arisen, and it
will be much better for you to confide in me than to have the
District Attorney summon you to his office."

Higginbottom's little eyes opened very wide and he fumbled with the
ashes in his pipe.

"Well, well, of course, if the matter is as serious as that, I
suppose I can trust you. . . .  But, for Heaven's sake, man," he
added appealingly, "don't let this go any further."

Again he glanced around to make sure that no one was listening.

"The fact is, Mr. Vance, I have a very dear friend in New York--a
young woman--a very charming young woman, I might say--"

"A blonde?" asked Vance casually.

"Yes, yes, the young woman is a blonde.  Do you know her by any
chance?"

Vance shook his head regretfully.

"No, I haven't had the pleasure.  But pray continue, Major."

"Well, you see, it's like this, Mr. Vance.  I come to the city
quite often--on business, y' understand--and I enjoy a night-club
and the theatre now and then, and--you know how it is--I don't care
to go alone, and Mrs. Higginbottom has no interest in such
frivolous things--"

"Pray don't make apologies, Major," Vance put in.  "What did you
say the young lady's name was?"

"Miss Doris Delafield--and a very fine young woman she is.  Comes
of an excellent family--"

"And it was Miss Delafield to whom you gave the dog six months
ago?"

"That's right.  But I'm most anxious to keep the matter a secret.
You see, Mr. Vance, I wouldn't care to have Mrs. Higginbottom know
of it, as she might not understand exactly."

"I'm sure she wouldn't," Vance murmured.  "And I quite sympathize
with your predicament. . . .  And where does Miss Delafield live,
Major?"

"At the Belle Maison apartments at 90 West 71st Street."

Vance's eyes flickered very slightly as he took out a cigarette and
lighted it slowly.

"That's the small apartment house just across the vacant lot from
Archer Coe's residence, isn't it?"

"That's right."  The major nodded vindictively.  "Coe--the old
swindler!  It served him right, what happened to him the other
night.  I'll warrant he was killed by somebody he bilked. . . .
But, after all," he added more tolerantly, "I couldn't dislike the
old chap altogether.  And of course we shouldn't say anything but
good about the dead.  That's the sporting attitude, isn't it?"

"So I understand," nodded Vance. . . .  "You've been reading the
newspapers, eh, Major?"

"Naturally, sir."  Higginbottom seemed a little surprised at the
question.  "I was interested.  The fact is, Mr. Vance, I was
calling on Miss Delafield the very night he was murdered."

"Indeed, Major!  That's most interestin'."  Vance leaned over and
snapped off a dead leaf from one of the Talisman bushes.  "By the
by, Major," he went on in an offhand tone, "little Miss MacTavish
was found in the Coe house the next morning, with a rather vicious
wound across her head."

The major's pipe fell from his mouth to the lawn, and was ignored.
He stared at Vance like a man transfixed, and the blood went from
his face.

"I--I--really. . . .  Are you--sure?" he stammered.

"Oh, quite.  Quite.  As I told you, I have Miss MacTavish in my
apartment now.  I found her in the house--in the lower hall.  I
took her to Doctor Blamey,--she's coming round in first-class
shape. . . .  But how do you account for the fact, Major,"--Vance
looked at the man squarely--"that your dog was in the murder house
at the time the crime was committed?"

"Account for it!" the man blustered excitedly.  "I can't account
for it. . . .  Good gad!  This is incredible!  I'm completely
bowled over--"

"But how does it happen, Major," Vance cut in placidly, "that
you haven't heard of the dog's absence from Miss Delafield's
apartment--?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," said the major, and hesitated.

"Ah, what did you forget to tell me?"

The major shifted his eyes.

"I omitted to mention the fact that Miss Delafield sailed for
Europe on Wednesday night."

"The night Mr. Archer Coe was murdered," Vance said slowly.

"Just so," the major returned aggressively.  "The reason I happened
to be at her apartment that night was because we were having a
farewell dinner, and I was to see her off on the boat."

"And how does it happen, Major, that your dog was not returned to
your kennels here when Miss Delafield sailed for Europe?"

"The fact of the matter is"--Higginbottom became apologetic--
"Doris--that is, Miss Delafield--on my advice, left the dog in the
care of her maid, who was to look after the apartment during her
absence."

"On your advice? . . .  Why?"

"I thought it best," the major explained weakly.  "You see, sir, if
I brought the dog here it might involve the situation a bit, as I
would have to give explanations to my wife when Doris--Miss
Delafield--returned from Europe and wished to have the dog back.
And, of course--"

"Ah, yes.  I quite understand," nodded Vance.

"You see," Higginbottom continued, "I had expected my wife to go to
Europe this fall, but she decided to remain here, and one or two
matters of a--ah--confidential nature arose, which made it
advisable for me to let Miss Delafield sail to Europe for a short
while--until certain little gossip blew over. . . .  I'm sure, Mr.
Vance, you can comprehend the situation."

"Oh, quite.  And what time did Miss Delafield sail Wednesday
night?"

"On the Olympic--at midnight."

"And you were in the apartment at what time?"

"I called about six o'clock and we went out immediately.  We had
dinner--let me see--at a little restaurant--I suppose you might
call it a speakeasy--and we remained there until it was time to go
to the boat."

"What little restaurant was it?"

Higginbottom knit his brow.

"Really, Mr. Vance, I can't remember."  He hesitated.  "You know,
I'm not certain that it even had a name.  It was a small place in
the West Fifties--or was it the Forties?  It was a place that had
been recommended to Miss Delafield by a friend."

"A bit vague--eh, what?"  Vance let his eyes come to rest mildly on
the major.  "But thank you just the same.  I think I'll stagger
back to New York and have a chat with Miss Delafield's maid.  I'm
sure you won't mind.  What, by the by, is her name?"

The major looked a bit startled.

"Annie Cochrane," he said, and then hurried on:  "But I say, Mr.
Vance, this thing sounds rather serious.  Would you mind if I
accompanied you to the city?  I myself would like to know why Annie
didn't report to me the absence of the dog."

"I'd be delighted," Vance told him.

We drove back to New York with Major Higginbottom, stopping at the
Riviera for a hurried luncheon, and went direct to the Belle
Maison.

Annie Cochrane was a young dark-haired woman in her early thirties,
obviously of Irish descent, and when, on opening the door to our
ring, she saw Major Higginbottom, she appeared frightened and
flustered.

"Listen here, Annie," the major began aggressively.  "Why didn't
you let me know that Miss Delafield's dog had disappeared?"

Annie explained stumblingly that she had been afraid to say
anything about the dog's disappearance, as she considered it her
fault that the dog was gone, and that she had hoped from day to day
that it would return.  The woman was patently frightened.

"Just when did the dog disappear, Annie?" asked Vance in a
consoling tone.

The woman looked up at him gratefully.  "I missed her, sir," she
said, "just after Major Higginbottom and Miss Doris went out
Wednesday night, at about nine o'clock, sir."

Vance turned to Higginbottom with a faint smile.  "Didn't I
understand you to say that you went out at six o'clock, Major?"

Before Higginbottom could answer, the maid blurted:  "Oh, no; it
wasn't six o'clock.  It wasn't until nine o'clock.  I got dinner
for them here a little after eight."

The major looked down and stroked his chin cogitatingly.

"Yes, yes."  He nodded.  "That's right.  I'd thought it was six
o'clock, but now I remember.  And an excellent dinner you prepared
that night, Annie."  He looked up at Vance with a smile of
nonchalant frankness.  "Sorry to have misinformed you, Mr. Vance.
The--ah--incident rather slipped my memory. . . .  I had intended
to take Miss Delafield out to dinner.  But when I arrived Annie had
prepared everything for us, so we changed our plans."

Vance appeared to accept his explanation without question.

"And what time did you arrive here that evening, Major?"

Higginbottom seemed to ponder the question; but before he could
speak Annie supplied the information.

"You arrived about six o'clock, sir," she informed him with a
respectful naïveté.  "And Miss Doris came in at half-past seven."

"Ah, yes.  Quite right, Annie."  The major pretended to be grateful
for having this moot point recalled to his memory.  "Miss
Delafield," he explained blandly to Vance, "said she had been
shopping."

"Well, well," murmured Vance.  "I didn't know the shops were open
so late. . . .  Astonishin'."

The major squinted his small eyes and glanced quickly in Vance's
direction.

"Oh, I'm quite sure," he supplied, "that a number of the smaller
Madison Avenue shops are open late."

Vance apparently did not hear this explanation.  He had already
turned to the maid.

"By the by, Annie," he asked, "was the dog here during dinner?"

"Oh, yes, sir," the woman assured him.  "She always gets under my
feet when I'm serving."

"And how do you account for the fact that she disappeared
immediately after Major Higginbottom and Miss Delafield had gone?"

"I don't know, sir--honest I don't.  I looked for her everywhere.
I looked out in the back yard and in the court, and I went through
every rear hallway in the house.  But she wasn't anywhere."

"Why didn't you look in the street?" Vance asked.

"Oh, she couldn't have got into the street," the maid explained.
"She was in the kitchen and the dining-room here, sir; and only the
front door of the living-room leads into the main hall.  But that
was closed and locked after Miss Doris and Mr. Higginbottom went
out."

"Then, as I understand it, the dog could only have gone into the
rear yard?"

"Yes, sir; that's all.  And that's the strange thing about it, sir;
for if she had been in the rear yard, I would have found her."

"Did you look in the vacant lot next door, between this house and
Mr. Coe's residence?"

"I looked there too, sir, though I knew it wouldn't do any good.
There's no way she could have gotten through the gate, for it's
always kept locked."

"Miss MacTavish was allowed, however, to run in the rear yard,
wasn't she?"

"Oh, yes, sir.  Being as we are on the first floor, it was most
convenient, and I always left the kitchen door open so she could
come and go when she wanted to."

Vance did not speak for a moment; then he asked with unwonted
seriousness:

"At just what time, Annie, did you start your search for the dog?
It is quite important that you be accurate."

"I can tell you almost exactly, sir," the woman answered, without
hesitation.  "It was when I was through with my dishes and the
housework.  Miss Doris and Mr. Higginbottom went out at nine
o'clock, and when I had straightened everything up, it was exactly
half-past ten."

Vance nodded.  "How do you account for the dog's disappearance,
Annie?"

"I can't account for it, sir.  At first, when I couldn't find her,
I thought that maybe some delivery boy, or one of the expressmen,
had stolen her.  She's a sly little devil, she is.  And very sweet.
And she has a lovable nature.  Almost any one could get her to
follow them.  But no one had been here after seven o'clock that
evening."

She turned to the major beseechingly.

"I'm terrible sorry, sir, honest I am.  I loved little Miss
MacTavish--"

"That's quite all right, Annie," Vance said in a kindly tone.
"Miss MacTavish is well and happy."  He turned to Higginbottom.

"By the by," he asked, "where did you get Miss MacTavish, Major?"

"I bought her from Mr. Henry Bixby, when she was five months old,
and I turned her over immediately to Miss Delafield," the major
said regretfully.  "Doris became attached to her and insisted upon
showing her.  I tried to discourage her--"

"She was quite worthy of being shown," said Vance. . . .  "So you
drove out to Mr. William Prentice's and had him trim her for the
ring--eh, what? . . .  But why did you enter her under your own
name at Englewood?"

"By gad, I don't know."  The major seemed thoroughly disgusted with
himself.  "One of those foolish things we all do."  He looked
appealingly at Vance, who nodded sympathetically.  "Mr. Bixby made
out the papers in my name," the major continued, "and I never took
the trouble to have the dog re-transferred.  It never occurred to
me that Doris would want to show her.  So I filled out the blank--
and there you are.  Trouble, trouble, trouble. . . .  Is there
anything else, Mr. Vance?"

"No, I think not. . . .  Only, I'd like to ask Annie another
question."  He turned to the maid.  "Annie," he said, "what kind of
lip-stick does Miss Delafield use?"

The maid seemed greatly surprised at this question and stared at
Vance.  Then she shot a quick glance at Higginbottom.

"Well, do you know, or don't you, Annie?" the major asked her
severely.

"Yes, sir, I know.  Miss Doris sent me to Broadway to the drug-
store only Wednesday morning to buy her a lip-stick."

"Well, tell Mr. Vance what kind it was."

"It was a Duplex Carmine--or something like that; Miss Doris wrote
it out for me," she said.

"Thanks awfully, Annie.  That will be all."

As we emerged into 71st Street, the major expressed his curiosity
in a question:  "What about that lip-stick, sir?"

"Nothing serious--I hope," Vance returned casually.  "I just wanted
to clear up a little point.  An empty holder of Duplaix's Carmine
lip-stick was found in the waste-paper basket in Mr. Coe's library
Thursday morning."

"By gad!  You don't say!"  The major, however, did not seem
particularly perturbed.  "Doris must have dropped in on Archer Coe
to say good-bye."

"Oh, she knew him, then?"

The major nodded sourly.

"I introduced him to her about a year ago.  She visited him
occasionally, I understand--though, I might add, I didn't encourage
these little visits.  Fact is, I told her quite frankly I'd prefer
she didn't see him."

"Did Miss Delafield know of the way Coe had treated you in
connection with your Chinese paintings?"

"Oh, yes."  The major was candor itself.  "I told her about it.
But she didn't see how that could make any difference.  You know
how women are.  No sense of business ethics."

"No doubt--no doubt," Vance returned vaguely.

Then he held out his hand.

"Well, Major, I want to thank you for your help.  I'll let you know
of any developments in connection with the little Scottie.  In the
meantime you may rest assured she is being taken good care of."

"What should I do now?" asked the major.

"Well," returned Vance cheerfully, "if I were you, I'd go home and
get a good night's rest."

"Not me," declared the major.  "I'm going to the club and dive into
my locker--I never needed Scotch as I do at this minute."

When he had gone, Vance entered his car, which was waiting outside
the Belle Maison, and gave orders to be driven at once to the
Criminal Courts Building.  As soon as we were shown into Markham's
office, Vance threw himself into a chair and, lying back, closed
his eyes.

"I have a bit of news, Markham, old dear," he announced.

"I'm most grateful."  Markham reached into a drawer for a fresh
cigar.  "What might it be?"

Vance sank even deeper into his chair.

"I think I know who killed the Coe brothers."



CHAPTER XIX

DEATH AND REVELATIONS


(Saturday, October 13; 4.30 p. m.)


Markham leaned forward in his chair, and gave Vance a quizzical
look.

"You positively stagger me," he said.  "What name shall I write in
on the warrant?"

"Too much haste, Markham," Vance reproved him.  "Far too much
haste.  There are various little things to be done--little knots to
be tied--before the arm of the law can pounce upon the culprit--
only, arms don't pounce, do they?"

"In that case, perhaps you could bring yourself to confide in me."
Markham still spoke ironically.

"Really, I'd rather not, old dear.  Let me have my little secret
for a brief period."  Then Vance became serious.  "After all, my
conclusion is, to a certain extent, only a guess.  It hangs on a
somewhat slender clue--a clue which any good criminal lawyer could
tear to shreds.  And the fact that my conclusion satisfies me does
not mean that it would satisfy a jury--or even a lawyer.  But I
believe I can add a little substantiation to it. . . .  You don't
mind biding a wee, do you, Markham?"

"Since you seem to have gone Scotch," retorted Markham, "I'll
merely say that I'll make an effort to dree my weird. . . .  I
assume, however, that you know how the crimes were committed."

"Alas, no!"  Vance shook his head lugubriously.  "That's the chief
reason why I shall hoard my theory as to who perpetrated them.
Really, y' know, Markham, one shouldn't accuse a person of
committing a crime when one has no idea how it was committed, and
especially when the person could prove conclusively that he
couldn't have committed it."

"You sound extremely vague," Markham commented.

"I feel vague," said Vance.  "I could make out an excellent case
against the murderer for the doing-in of Archer.  My great
difficulty, however, would be that there was no point whatever in
the murderer's killing Brisbane.  Motive is lacking--in fact, that
particular murder is meaningless from a logical point of view.  But
I'm sure the murderer most passionately desired the death of
Archer.  And yet, it would be utterly unreasonable to accuse him of
killing Archer--he apparently couldn't possibly have done it. . . .
And there you are.  Do you not sympathize with me in my
predicament?"

"I'm on the point of bursting into tears," returned Markham.  "But
just what do you propose doing to extricate yourself from your
embarrassing situation?"

Vance drew himself together and stood up.  He was now alert and
serious.

"I propose to go to the Coe house and ask many questions of its
inmates.  Will you accompany me?"

Markham glanced at the clock on the wall and rang for Swacker.

"I'm leaving for the day," he told his secretary.

And, taking his hat and coat from the stand in the corner, he went
toward the private-entrance door.  "I'm interested," he said, "--in
a mild way. . . .  But what about Heath?"

"Oh, the Sergeant, by all means," Vance replied.  "He's definitely
indicated."

Markham returned to his desk and phoned the Homicide Bureau.  When
he had replaced the receiver he walked back to the door.

"Heath will be waiting for us in front of Police Headquarters."

We got into Vance's car, picked up the Sergeant, who seemed
unusually surly, and drove uptown.  At 59th Street and Fifth Avenue
we entered Central Park and took the winding roads toward the 72nd
Street west-side entrance.

It was still light as we passed the lake, although there was a
sunset haze in the air.  The thermometer had been rising all
afternoon, and there was a muggy, warm atmosphere over the city.
I remember that the thought passed through my mind that we were
probably entering upon Indian summer.  The leaves had begun to
turn, and the vista of the park, spread out before us in its hazy
and speckled coloring, recalled a Monet painting I had seen in the
Salle Commandeau, in the Louvre.

As we approached the western entrance to the park, I noticed a
familiar figure seated on one of the benches just beyond the cut
privet hedge, a little distance from the roadway; and at that
moment Vance leaned over and gave an order to the chauffeur to halt
the car.

"Wrede is communing with his soul on yon bench," he said.  "And he
was one of the persons with whom I wished to have parley.  I think
I'll toddle over and put a few questions to him."

He opened the door of the car.  We followed him into the roadway
and turned east toward a small opening in the hedge.

Wrede was sitting with his back to us, perhaps a hundred feet away,
gazing over the lake.  Just as we came opposite him along the
hedge, I noticed the rotund figure of Enright walking down the path
toward the bench on which Wrede sat.  He had the Doberman Pinscher
on a leash.

"Well, well," Vance remarked; "the talkative Mr. Enright is
invading new territory.  Perhaps Ruprecht tired of the vista over
the reservoir. . . ."

Just then an amazing thing happened.  The Doberman suddenly halted
in his tracks, drew back a foot or two, and crouched down as if in
terror.  Then, with a curious whine, he bounded forward, dragging
his leash from the astonished Enright's hand.  He leapt straight
toward Wrede.

Wrede turned his head toward the dog, drew back, and started to
rise.  But he was too late.  The Doberman sprang at him with
unerring aim and fastened his powerful fangs in the man's neck.
Wrede was bowled over backwards, with the dog on top of him
growling throatily.  It was a terrible sight.

Sergeant Heath yelled at the top of his voice in a futile effort to
distract the dog, and jumped over the hedge with an alacrity that
amazed me.  As he ran toward the struggling Wrede, he drew his
revolver.  Vance looked on with a coldness that I could not
understand.

"There's justice in that, Markham," he commented, lighting a
cigarette with steady fingers.

Heath had now reached the dog and placed the revolver against its
head.  There were two sharp reports.  The Doberman staggered
forward on its side and went limp, lying very still.

When we reached Wrede, there was no movement in his body.  He lay
on his back, his eyes staring, his arms drawn up, as motionless as
death.  His throat was red, and a great pool of blood had formed
under his head.  It was a sight I wish I had never seen.

Enright came lumbering up, his mouth open, his face the color of
chalk.

"My God!--oh, my God!" he muttered over and over.

Vance stood looking down at Wrede, smoking complacently.  He turned
to Enright.

"It's quite all right, don't y' know," he said in a hard voice.
"It serves him jolly well right.  He'd beaten and misused the
animal in some outrageous fashion; and this is the dog's revenge."

Vance knelt down and felt the prostrate man's pulse.  Then he
leaned over and inspected the wound in Wrede's neck, nodding
slowly.  He stood up and shrugged.

"He's quite dead, Markham," he said without the slightest emotion.
"The dog's fangs severed the jugular vein and the carotid artery.
Wrede died almost at once from the profuse hemorrhage and,
possibly, an air embolism. . . .  No use rushing him to a
doctor's."

At this moment a uniformed officer came running up.  He recognized
Markham and saluted.

"Anything I can do, sir?"

"You might call an ambulance, officer," Markham answered in a
strained, husky voice.  "This is Sergeant Heath of the Homicide
Bureau," he added.

The officer hurried away toward his call-box on 72nd Street.

"And what do you want me to do?" wailed the frightened Enright.

Vance answered him.

"Go home and take a stiff drink and try to forget the episode.  If
we need you, we'll call on you."

Enright made an attempt to answer, but failing, he turned and
waddled away into the gathering mist.

"Let's be going, Markham," suggested Vance.  "Wrede's appearance
doesn't charm me, and the Sergeant will look after things."  He
turned to Heath.  "By the by, Sergeant, we'll be at the Coe house.
Join us there after the ambulance comes."

Heath nodded without looking up.  He still stood, revolver in hand,
gazing down at the dead body of Wrede, like a man hypnotized.

"Who'd have thought a dog could do it!" he mumbled.

"Personally I feel rather grateful to the Doberman," Vance said in
a low voice, as he walked away toward his parked car.

It was only two blocks to the Coe residence and nothing was said en
route; but when we were seated in the library, Markham broke the
silence by trying to put into words his baffled state of mind.

"There's something queer about all this, Vance--your interest in
that Doberman Pinscher, and then to have him attack Wrede in that
brutal fashion.  And I can't see that we're getting anywhere.
There's just one tragedy after another, without any light on the
case.  I suppose you see some connection between the Scottish
terrier and the Doberman.  Would you mind telling me what was in
your mind when you looked up Enright?"

"There was nothing cryptic about it, my dear Markham."  Vance was
moving about the room aimlessly, looking at the various vases and
objets d'art.  "When the Sergeant told me that Wrede owned a dog, I
was particularly interested, for he wasn't the type of man that
could love any animal.  He was an enforced egoist, with a somewhat
violent inferiority complex--his egoism, in fact, had been
automatically built up to cover his complete lack of confidence in
himself.  He had a shrewd, unscrupulous brain which he was unable
to use in any practical way.  And he was constantly in need of
substitutes for his sense of inferiority.  It is not uncommon for
persons of his nature to go in for dumb animals.  They do not do so
because of any instinctive liking for the animals, but because,
having failed to impress themselves upon their equals, they can
bully and torment and torture an animal, and thus give themselves a
feeling of heroism and superiority.  The animal is merely an outlet
for their lack of self-confidence; and, at the same time, the
animal gratifies their profound instinct for domination.  The
moment I heard that Wrede had owned a dog, I wanted to see the dog,
for I was sure he had mistreated it.  And when I saw the Doberman's
frightened and timid demeanor, I knew that he had suffered horribly
at Wrede's hands.  Markham, that Doberman showed all the signs of
having been beaten and abused--and that fitted perfectly with my
estimate of Wrede's character."

"But," objected Markham, "the Doberman certainly showed no timidity
at the sight of Wrede.  He was aggressive and vicious--ugh!"

"He had regained his confidence in himself," Vance explained.
"Enright's kindness and benevolent treatment after the dog's
terrible experiences at Wrede's hands, was what, in the end,
revived the Doberman's courage sufficiently to kill Wrede."

He sat down and lighted another cigarette.

"Almost any man may be a murderer, but only a certain type of man
can injure a dog the way that Scottie was injured here the other
night.  By striking that little bitch over the head, the murderer
left his signature on the crime. . . .  Now do you understand why I
was so interested in Wrede's Doberman Pinscher?"

Markham leaned forward.

"Do you mean to say that Wrede--?"

Vance held up his hand.

"Just a moment.  I want to talk to Liang.  There are certain things
to be explained.  Perhaps Liang will tell us--now."

Before Gamble had brought in the Chinaman, Heath arrived.  He was
pale and upset.  He nodded abstractedly and sat down.

"He was dead all right. . . .  This case don't look right to me."
He appealed helplessly to Markham.  "What next, Chief?"

"Mr. Vance wants to talk to the Chinese cook," Markham returned
listlessly.

"Where'll that get you, Mr. Vance?" Heath asked with solemn
hopelessness.

Before Vance could reply, Liang entered the library from the dining-
room and stood respectfully at the door, without looking at any of
us.

Vance rose and went to him, holding out his cigarette-case.

"Please have a Régie, Mr. Liang."  His tone was that of an equal.
"This is not to be an interrogation.  It's a conference in which we
need your help."

Liang looked at Vance with studious calm.  (I shall probably never
know what sudden unspoken understanding passed between them in that
moment of silent mutual scrutiny.)  Liang inclined his head with a
murmured "Thank you," and took one of the Régies, which Vance
lighted for him.

Vance returned to his chair and Liang sat down.

"Mr. Liang," Vance began, "I think I apprehend the position in
which you have been placed by the unfortunate events which have
taken place in this house, and I also think you realize that I have
not been entirely ignorant of your predicament.  You have acted, I
might say, in very much the same way I myself might have acted, had
our positions been reversed.  But the time has come when frankness
is wisdom--and I hope you trust me sufficiently to believe me when
I tell you that no possible danger can come to you.  You are no
longer in jeopardy.  There is now no possibility of misunderstanding.
As a matter of fact, I have not misunderstood you from the first."

Liang again bowed his head, and said:

"I should be most happy to help you, if I might be assured that the
truth would prevail in this unhappy house, and that I would not be
accused of things of which some one desired I should be accused."

"I can assure you of that, Mr. Liang," Vance returned quietly.
Then he added significantly:  "Mr. Wrede is dead."

"Ah!" the man murmured.  "That puts a different aspect on matters."

"Oh, quite.  Mr. Wrede was killed by a dog he had abused."

"Lao-Tzu has said," returned Liang, "that he who abuses the weak is
eventually destroyed by his own weakness."

Vance inclined his head in polite agreement.

"Some day," he said, "I hope the wisdom of the Tâo Teh King will
penetrate to our western civilization. . . .  But, handicapped as
we are by lack of knowledge of the profound wisdom of the Orient, I
can only ask you to help us in our present dilemma. . . .  Will you
tell us what happened--or, rather, what you saw--when you returned
to this house between eight and nine Wednesday night?"

Liang moved slightly in his chair and let his eyes rest searchingly
on Vance.  He hesitated before he spoke, drawing deeply on the
cigarette Vance had given him.

"It was exactly eight," he began in an even voice.  "When I entered
the kitchen I heard voices here in the library.  Mr. Wrede and Mr.
Archer Coe were talking.  They were angry.  I tried not to listen,
but their voices rose until they penetrated even to my bedroom.
Mr. Coe was protesting violently, and Mr. Wrede was becoming more
angry every second.  I heard a scuffle, a startled ejaculation, and
a noise as if something heavy had fallen to the floor.  A brief
silence ensued--and I thought I detected a tinkling sound like
broken china.  Then another silence.  A few moments later I heard
some one pass stealthily through the kitchen, and go out the rear
door.  I waited in my bedroom for perhaps fifteen minutes, asking
myself if I should interfere with matters which did not concern me;
and then I decided that, in loyalty to my employer, I should
investigate the situation.

"So I came forth and looked in the library here.  The room was
empty, but the small table in front of the davenport was upset.  I
put it on its feet; then returned to the kitchen and read for
perhaps an hour.  But something seemed to trouble me--I did not
like the fact that Mr. Wrede had not gone out the front door, but
went out so stealthily through the kitchen.  I went upstairs to Mr.
Coe's bedroom and knocked on the door.  There was no answer.  I
knocked again.  Still there was no answer.  I tried the door.  It
was unbolted; and when I opened it, I saw Mr. Coe seated in his
chair, apparently asleep.  But I did not like the color of his
face.  I went to him and touched him, but he did not move--and I
knew he was dead. . . .  I came out of the room, closed the door,
and returned to the kitchen.

"I asked myself what was best for me to do, and decided that since
no one knew I had returned to the house I would go away and come
back much later that night.  So I went--to some friends of mine.
When I returned at about midnight, I made unnecessary noise, so
that any one in the house would hear me returning.  After a while I
came again into this library and looked round very carefully, for I
could not understand what had happened that night.  I found the
poker lying on the hearth, and there was blood on it.  I also found
the dagger in the large Yung Chêng Ting yao vase on the table
there.  I had a definite feeling that both of these articles were
left here for some special purpose, and it occurred to me that if a
murder had been committed that night, it was I who was supposed to
take the blame. . . ."

"You are quite right, Mr. Liang.  I think that both weapons were
left here in order to involve you."

"I did not quite understand the situation," the Chinaman continued.
"But I felt that it might be safer for me if I took the poker and
the dagger and hid them.  I could see the possibilities of a case
being built up against me, if the weapons were found in the
library, especially as it might be proved that I had been here at
the time.  Moreover, the dagger is Chinese, and it could be easily
ascertained that I was not in sympathy with the means Mr. Archer
Coe used in depriving my country of its rightful antiques."

"Yes," nodded Vance.  "That was no doubt the intention of the
murderer. . . .  And so, when you had the opportunity, you placed
both weapons in the room upstairs?"

"That is true," Liang admitted.  "I placed them there when the
butler sent me to Miss Lake's room the next morning.  Perhaps if
I had realized how serious the situation was and had understood
all of its complications, I might have acted differently.  I do
not yet understand the mechanism of the crime.  The physical
misunderstanding, so to speak, between Mr. Wrede and Mr. Archer Coe
took place in this library, and yet his dead body was in his
bedroom upstairs."

"There was no possibility," inquired Vance, "that Mr. Wrede could
have assisted Mr. Coe upstairs, after the mêlée?"

"Oh, no."  Liang was quite emphatic.  "Within a few moments of the
encounter here in the library, Mr. Wrede came out through the
kitchen, surreptitiously, and departed through the rear door."

"How can you be sure it was Wrede, Mr. Liang, if you did not see
him?" Vance asked.

The Chinaman gave a slow smile.

"In my country the senses are more acute than in the Occident.  I
had heard Mr. Wrede move about this house too often not to know his
step and sense his presence."  Liang paused and looked at Vance.
"And may I be permitted now to ask a question of you?"

Vance bowed acquiescence.

"Ask me any question you care to, Mr. Liang, and I will try to be
as frank as you have been."

"How, then, did you know that I was aware of the crime on the night
it was committed?"

"There were several indications, Mr. Liang," Vance replied; "but it
was you yourself who told me as much--by a slip of the tongue.
When I first spoke to you, the next morning, you mentioned a
tragedy; and when I asked you how you knew there had been a
tragedy, you replied you had heard Gamble telephoning--while you
were preparing breakfast."

Liang looked at Vance for a moment, a puzzled expression in his
eyes.  Then a faint smile appeared slowly on his mouth.

"I understand now," he said.  "I had already prepared the breakfast
when the butler telephoned, for he discovered the crime when he was
taking Mr. Coe's breakfast to him. . . .  Yes, I gave myself away,
but it took a clever man to grasp the error."

Vance acknowledged the compliment.

"And now I shall ask you another question, Mr. Liang.  Why were you
pretending to work in the kitchen at three o'clock yesterday
morning, after the attack on Mr. Grassi?"

The Chinaman looked up shrewdly.  "Pretending?"

"The ink was quite dry on the papers you had so neatly arranged on
the kitchen table."

A slow smile again spread over Liang's ascetic mouth.

"I was afraid, afterwards," he said, "that you might have noticed
that. . . .  The fact is, Mr. Vance, I was standing guard.  At
about half-past two that morning, I was awakened by a slight sound.
It was a key being inserted softly into the rear door.  I sleep
lightly--and I am sensitive to sounds.  I listened, and some one
opened the door and passed through the kitchen into the butler's
pantry and the dining-room, and on into the library--"

"You recognized the footsteps?"

"Oh, yes.  The person who came in so softly was Mr. Wrede. . . .  I
naturally did not trust him, knowing what I did, and I hoped that I
could trap him in some way.  So I rose, dressed, turned on all the
lights in the kitchen, and took my post at the table--as if I were
working.  Fifteen minutes later, I heard Mr. Wrede come back softly
into the butler's pantry and then retreat again toward this room.
I knew that he had seen the lights in the kitchen and was afraid to
enter.  I did not hear the front door open--which is the only other
means of egress except the windows--and I decided to stand my
ground.

"A little later I heard Mr. Grassi call out, and then I heard the
butler telephoning.  Even so, I thought it best to remain in the
kitchen, for it occurred to me that Mr. Wrede might still be hiding
in the house, waiting for a chance to escape through the rear door.
When you came into the kitchen and informed me of the attack on Mr.
Grassi, I suggested the den window.  I could not see how else Mr.
Wrede could have gone out of the house."

Liang looked up sadly.

"I am sorry my efforts were not more successful, but at least I
made it difficult for Mr. Wrede."

Vance got up and put out his cigarette.

"You've helped us no end," he said.  "You've clarified many things.
We are most grateful."

He walked to Liang and held out his hand.  The Chinaman took it and
bowed.



CHAPTER XX

THE STARTLING TRUTH


(Saturday, October 13; 6.30 p. m.)


When Liang had gone out, Vance sent Gamble for Hilda Lake.  As soon
as she entered the library, Vance informed her that Wrede was dead.

She looked at him a moment, lifted her eyebrows, shrugged slightly,
and said:  "It is no great loss to the world."

"Furthermore," Vance went on, "I believe that Mr. Wrede murdered
your uncles and attempted the life of Mr. Grassi."

"I would not be in the least surprised," the young woman commented
coldly.  "I have suspected all along that he murdered Uncle Archer--
but I could not quite see how he accomplished it.  Have you
learned his modus operandi?"

Vance shook his head.

"No, Miss Lake," he admitted.  "That's a part of the problem still
to be solved."

"But why," she asked, "should he kill Uncle Brisbane?  Uncle
Brisbane was his ally."

"That's another phase of the problem that must be worked out.
There was an error--a miscalculation--somewhere."

"I can understand," Hilda Lake remarked, "why he should attempt Mr.
Grassi's life.  Mr. Wrede was intensely jealous of Mr. Grassi."

"All clever, scheming men with a sense of their own inferiority,"
said Vance, "are inclined toward intense jealousy. . . .  But
there's a particular thought that has entered my mind this evening,
and I shall ask you about it.--Tell me, Miss Lake, what reason
would Brisbane have had for killing Archer?"

Vance's question amazed me, and when I glanced at Markham and
Heath, I saw that they, too, were startled.  But Hilda Lake
accepted it as if it had been the most casual and conventional of
queries.

"Oh, various reasons," she answered calmly.  "There was a deep
antagonism between the two.  Uncle Brisbane had many ideas and many
ambitions, but he was always handicapped by the fact that Uncle
Archer controlled all the money.  There was, therefore, the money
motive.  Again, Uncle Brisbane did not feel that Uncle Archer had
treated me fairly, and he was quite anxious for me to marry Mr.
Wrede.  Uncle Archer, as you know, was violently opposed to the
marriage."

"And you, Miss Lake?"

"Oh," she returned offhandedly, "I thought the marriage might be
rather a good thing.  Mr. Wrede was a comforting kind of soul who
wouldn't have bothered me in the slightest--and I was tremendously
desirous of escaping from this queer household.  I knew all his
faults, but as long as they didn't interfere with me--"

"Perhaps," suggested Vance, "the arrival of Mr. Grassi changed your
mind a bit?"

For the first time during my acquaintance with Hilda Lake, I
noticed a soft, feminine expression come into her eyes.  She
glanced down as if embarrassed.

"Perhaps, as you say," she replied in a low voice, "the arrival of
Mr. Grassi changed my mind."

Vance stood up.

"I hope, Miss Lake," he said, "that you will both be very happy."

We dined at Vance's apartment that night.  Both Vance and Markham
were troubled, for the case had not had a satisfactory ending,--
there were many things that had been left unexplained; there were
many links in the chain of evidence which had not been found.  But
before the night was over there were no longer any mysteries: each
step in this monstrous crime, and each perplexing and contradictory
factor, had been clarified.

The final elucidation came in a most unexpected manner.  We were
sitting in Vance's library talking, after dinner.

"I'm not satisfied," grumbled Markham.  "There are too many factors
in this case which I cannot understand and which have not been
satisfactorily explained.  Why should Wrede have murdered Brisbane?
How did that revolver get in Archer's hand--and why the bullet in
his head, long after he was dead?  Why the carefully bolted door
and all the technical thought that went into the bolting of the
door? . . ."

Vance smoked in doleful silence for a while.

"It's dashed mystifyin'," he muttered.  "What I can't understand is
how Archer got upstairs after he had been stabbed in the library.
There's little doubt, after Liang's story, that the bloody work was
done downstairs."

"I'm not so sure you're right about that, Vance," submitted
Markham.  "If your theory is correct, you must logically admit the
proposition that a dead man walked upstairs."

Vance inclined his head.

"I realize that," he said thoughtfully.  Then he leapt to his feet
and stood before Markham, tense and animated.  "A dead man walked
upstairs," he repeated in a strained, hushed voice.  "That's it!
That's the answer to everything. . . .  Yes, Markham,"--he nodded
with curious significance--"A DEAD MAN WALKED UPSTAIRS!"

Markham looked up at him with benevolent concern.

"Come, come, Vance," he said, in a kindly, paternal tone.  "This
case has upset you.  Take a good stiff nightcap and go to bed--"

"No, no, Markham," Vance cut in, his eyes staring straight ahead.
"That's just what happened the other night.  Archer Coe--already a
dead man--walked upstairs.  And--what is even more terrible,
Markham--HE DIDN'T KNOW HE WAS DEAD!"

Vance turned quickly and went to a set of thick quarto volumes on
the lower shelf of one of his bookcases.  He ran his finger along
the books until he came to volume "E."  He turned the pages and
found what he was looking for.  Then he glanced down the column of
fine type.

"Listen, Markham," he said.  "Here's a historical case of a dead
person walking."  He read from the encyclopædia:  "'Elizabeth
(Amélie Eugénie), 1837-1898, consort of Francis Joseph, emperor of
Austria, a daughter of Duke Maximilian Joseph of Bavaria and Louisa
Wilhelmina, was born on the 24th of December, 1837, at Lake
Starnberg. . . .'"  He turned the page.  "But here's the passage
regarding her death:  'Elizabeth spent much of her time traveling
through Europe and at the palace she had built in Corfu.  On the
10th of September, 1898, she was walking through the streets of
Geneva with her entourage, from her hotel to the steamer, when an
anarchist, named Luigi Luccheni, ran suddenly into the roadway and
stabbed her in the back, with a shoemaker's awl.  The police
immediately pounced upon the man and were about to drag him away,
when the Empress stayed them and gave the order that they should
release him.  "He has not injured me," she said, "and I wish, on
this occasion, to forgive him."  She continued her walk to the
steamer, which was more than half a mile distant, and made a
farewell speech to her subjects from the deck.  She then retired to
her cabin and lay down.  Several hours later she was found dead.
Luccheni had actually stabbed her without her being aware of it,
and she had died hours later of an internal hemorrhage.  This crime
was the final misfortune which came to the Austrian emperor, and
all Europe was aroused to a state of intense indignation.'"

Vance closed the book and threw it to one side.

"Now do you see what I mean, Markham?" he asked.  "A dead person
often does strange things without knowing he is dead. . . .  But
wait a minute.  I have another book here--"

He went to another bookcase, and, after a moment's search, pulled
out a black, gold-lettered volume.

"Here's a rare book, Markham,--'An Old Gate of England,' by A. G.
Bradley.* . . . There's a passage in it I want to read to you.  As
I remember, it was in the chapter on Rye."  He turned the pages.
"The passage relates, as I recall, to the Duke of Cumberland's
visit to Rye when he made an inspection of the defenses of the
neighborhood and was entertained by Mr. Lamb who was still
mayor. . . .  Ah, here it is--I hope I don't bore you:  'These
particulars have been kindly given me by almost the only living
representative of the Lamb-Grebell families--which have otherwise
died out in Rye.  In regard to the Grebell murder, which took place
from this house, my informant gives some particulars, unknown to
the local chroniclers, in part at least, that are physiologically
interesting.  Mr. Grebell had been supping with his brother-in-law
Lamb, and having some business in the town borrowed his scarlet
overcoat.  On returning late through the church-yard, he felt some
one push heavily as he thought against him, and merely remarking
"Get away, you drunken hound," passed on to Lamb House, quite
unconcerned.  He duly reported the incident, but as the family were
going to bed, said he felt so tired that, instead of going home, he
would have a sleep in the arm-chair by the fire.  In the morning he
was found dead, with a stab in the back, which had caused internal
bleeding.** . . .'  Do you see, Markham?  Do you recall what Doctor
Doremus said?  'An internal hemorrhage'!  That's the whole story--
that's the key to everything.  That's how Archer could have been
killed in the library and still have walked upstairs."


*A. G. Bradley:  "An Old Gate of England" ("The English Countryside
Series"), published by Robert Scott, London, 1917.

** Bradley, "An Old Gate of England," p. 64.


Markham stood up and walked back and forth across the room.

"Good God!"  His words were scarcely audible.  "So that's the
explanation!  No wonder we couldn't understand the things that
happened there that night.  Unbelievable!"

Vance had sunk back into his chair, relaxed.  He took a deep
inspiration, like a man who had suddenly found a friendly
settlement in the midst of a hostile jungle.

"Really, Markham," he said with a slight upward glance, taking out
his case of beloved Régies, "I'll never forgive you for this--
never!  It was YOU who guessed the solution.  And I knew it all the
time, but I couldn't correlate my knowledge."

Markham came to a sudden halt.

"What do you mean by saying that _I_ guessed the solution?"

"Didn't you say," asked Vance mildly, "that the only way one could
explain the circumstances was by the assumption that a dead man
walked upstairs? . . .  No, Markham, I am sure I shall never
forgive you."

Markham sat down and muttered a disgusted oath.  He smoked a while
in silence.

"The internal hemorrhage explains many things," he admitted
finally.  "But I still don't understand Brisbane's death, and the
bolted door."

"And yet, d' ye see," returned Vance, "it all fits in perfectly,
now that we have the key."

He lay back in his chair and stretched his legs.  He took several
puffs on his cigarette and half closed his eyes.

"I think, Markham, I can reconstruct the amazin' and contradict'ry
occurrences that took place in the Coe domicile last Wednesday
night. . . .  I doubt if Wrede actually planned to murder Archer
Coe that night.  The idea had no doubt been in his mind for a long
time, for he had obviously taken the precaution of securing a
duplicate key to the spring lock on the rear door.  But I have a
feelin' that he wished only to argue various matters out with
Archer last Wednesday night before actually resorting to murder.
It's obvious that he called on Archer that night and tried to
convince him that he would be the perfect mate for Hilda Lake.
Archer disagreed--and disagreed violently.  That was no doubt the
argument that Liang overheard.  I imagine that the debate reached
the point where blows were struck.  The poker was quite handy,
don't y' know, and Wrede, with his tremendous sense of personal
inferiority, would naturally reach for some outside agent to help
him over the top.  He snatched the poker and struck Archer over the
head.

"Archer fell forward against the table, upsetting it and fracturing
his rib.  Wrede was in a quand'ry.  But again his sense of
inferiority invaded him.  He looked round the room quickly, saw the
dagger in the cabinet, took it out and, as Archer lay on the floor,
drove it into his back. . . .  The deed was done.  He had
vindicated himself in a physical way, and had removed all obstacles
from his path.  He believed he was alone in the house with Archer;
but still there was the question of a suspect.  Into his shrewd
brain flashed the thought of Liang, whom he had always suspected of
being more than a servant.  He figured that if he left the Chinese
dagger where it would be found in the library, Liang would be the
logical suspect.  He threw the dagger into the Ting yao vase.  But
he threw it in too hard.  It broke the vase--and again Wrede was in
a quand'ry.  He picked up the dagger and placed it in the other
vase on the table.  Then he gathered up the fragments of the Ting
yao, carried them through the kitchen and placed them in the
garbage pail on the rear porch.  The poker he had thrown back on
the hearth.  And he left the house through the rear entrance,
passed behind the hedge in the vacant lot, unlatched the gate at
the rear of his apartment house, and went to his rooms."

"So far, so good," said Markham.  "But what of Brisbane?"

"Brisbane?  Ah, yes.  HE was an unexpected element.  But Wrede knew
nothing about it. . . .  As I see it, Markham, Brisbane had planned
to get rid of Archer that same night.  His trip to Chicago was
merely a blind.  With his knowledge of criminology and his shrewd
technical brain, he had worked out a perfectly logical means of
doing away with his brother and having the crime appear a suicide.
Naturally he chose Wednesday night when he knew Archer would be
alone in the house.  He established his alibi by having Gamble make
reservations on the 5.15 train to Chicago.  His plan was to go back
to the house and take a later train.  It was an excellent idea, and
it was almost detection-proof.  And he did come back to the house,
Markham, with the definite intention of killing Archer. . . ."

"Still, I don't see--"

"Oh, it's all quite simple," Vance went on.  "But before Brisbane
returned that night, strange and uncanny things happened.  The plot
became cluttered with complications, and Brisbane, instead of
creating a perfect crime, walked into a plot more diabolical than
the one he himself had conceived. . . ."

Vance moved in his chair.

"This is what had happened in the meantime: Archer, recovering from
the blow of the poker, and not realizing that he had also been
stabbed, went upstairs to his bedroom.  The shades were up, and
Wrede, from his own apartment, could see him across the vacant
lot. . . .  No one will ever know what thoughts went on in Coe's
mind at this time.  But obviously he was incensed at Wrede, and he
probably sat down to write him a letter forbidding him ever to put
foot in the house again.  He began to feel tired--perhaps the blood
had commenced to choke his lungs.  The pen fell from his fingers.
He made an effort to prepare himself for bed.  He took off his coat
and waistcoat and hung them carefully in the closet.  Then he put on
his dressing-gown, buttoned it, and tied the belt about him.  He
walked to the windows and pulled down the shades.  That act took
practically all of his remaining vitality.  He started to get his
bedroom slippers, but the black mist of death was drifting in upon
him.  He thought it fatigue--the result, perhaps, of the blow Wrede
had struck him over the head.  He sat down in his easy chair.  BUT
HE NEVER GOT UP, Markham.  He never changed his shoes.  As he sat
there the final inevitable fog stifled him! . . ."

"Good God, Vance!  I see the horror of it," breathed Markham.

"All these steps in that sinister situation," Vance continued, "are
clearly indicated. . . .  But think what must have gone on in
Wrede's mind when he looked out of his window and saw the man he
had murdered moving about the room upstairs, arranging the papers
on his desk, changing his clothes, going about his affairs as if
nothing whatever had happened!"

Vance inhaled several times on his cigarette and broke the ashes
into a small tray beside him.

"My word, Markham!  Can you imagine Wrede's emotions?  He had
killed a man; and yet he could look across a vacant lot and see
this dead man acting as if nothing had happened.  Wrede had to
start all over again.  It was a delicate and terrible situation.
He knew that he had thrust a deadly dagger into Archer Coe's body.
But Archer was still alive--and retribution must inevitably follow.
And don't forget that the lights did not go out in Archer Coe's
room.  Wrede, no doubt, frantically asked himself a thousand times
what was going on behind those drawn shades.  He not only feared
the incalculable mystery of the situation, but, I am inclined to
think, he was perturbed most by his speculation concerning the
things he could not see. . . .  I wouldn't care to put in the two
hours that Wrede spent between eight o'clock and ten that night.
He realized that some decision must be made--that some action must
be taken.  But he had nothing whatever to go on: his imagination
was his only guide. . . ."

"And he came back!" said Markham huskily.

"Yes," nodded Vance, "he came back.  He had to come back!  But in
that interim of his indecision something unforeseen and horrible
had taken place.  Brisbane had returned to the house--he had
returned stealthily, letting himself in with his own key.  He had
returned to kill his brother!  He looked into the library: the
lights were on, but Archer was not there.  He went to the drawer of
the table and took out the revolver.  Then he went upstairs.
Perhaps he saw the light through Archer's bedroom door.  He opened
the door. . . ."

Vance paused.

"Y' know, Markham, I am inclined to think that Brisbane was
prepared for any emergency.  He had worked out a scheme for killing
Archer, placing him in his bedroom with the revolver in his hand,
and then bolting the door from the hall, so as to make it appear as
suicide.  And when he saw Archer sitting in his easy chair,
apparently asleep, he no doubt felt that the fates were with him,
that his road had been made easy.  I can see him tiptoeing across
the room to the easy chair where the other sat.  I can see him
place the revolver against Archer's right temple and pull the
trigger,--the impact of the bullet drove Archer's head to the left.
Then I can see Brisbane place the revolver in Archer's hand and
return to the door, where he carefully put in operation the
mechanism he had worked out for bolting the door from the hall. . . .
My word, Markham, what a situation!--Brisbane shooting a dead
man, and then elaborately setting the stage to prove that it was
suicide!"

"Good God!" breathed Markham.

"But during this tragic farce," Vance went on, "Wrede had arrived
at a decision.  He had decided to come back to Archer Coe and
finish, for all time, the crime which apparently he had only
started.  He bethought himself of the Ting yao vase he had broken,
and perhaps fearing its absence would be noted, he picked out a
superficially similar vase from his own small collection and
carried it back to the Coe house.  The hour, I should say, was
around ten o'clock. . . .  Wrede opened the gate of the rear yard,
and left it ajar; and it was then that the Scottie followed him on
his dark errand.  He went in the rear door of the Coe house,
leaving it open--and the Scottie followed.  Everything was black
and still.  He went through the dining-room into the library, and
placed his own inferior vase on the teak-wood base where the Ting
yao vase had stood.  He took the dagger from the vase in which he
had hidden it, and moved toward the hall. . . ."

Vance raised himself a little in his chair.

"And when he reached the door, Markham, he saw a figure coming down
the stairs from the second floor.  There was a light in the
library, but it was not sufficient to make possible an absolute
recognition of the figure on the stairs.  To Wrede that figure was
Archer.  (Archer and Brisbane, you'll recall, were of the same
height and general build, and they did not look dissimilar.)  Wrede
stood behind the portières at the library door, the dagger grasped
in his hand, and waited till his opportunity came.  The shadowy
figure came down the stairs and walked toward the closet door at
the end of the hall,--Brisbane was no doubt going back for the
overcoat and hat which he had left there on coming in.  But Wrede,
with his inflamed imagination, assumed that Archer was preparing
to leave the house to tell some one of the attack--to report him
to the police, perhaps.  He couldn't be sure: he only knew that it
spelled danger for himself.  And he was more thoroughly determined
than ever to put an end to Archer. . . .

"Brisbane, as I now see it, had just placed the strings, which he
had used for bolting Archer's door, in the pocket of his top-coat,
when Wrede came silently upon him from behind and thrust the dagger
into his back.  He collapsed immediately, and Wrede pushed the
body, which he thought was Archer's, entirely into the closet and
closed the door.  He went back to the library; and it was at this
time that he probably stumbled over the Scottie, which had followed
him in.  He decided that it was safest to get rid of her
immediately.  She may even have barked, or made some sound when he
stumbled over her; and he was in no frame of mind at that moment to
meet new emergencies logically.  He dropped the dagger back into
the vase and picked up the poker.  Then he struck the Scottie over
the head,--it was the simplest and most direct way of dealing with
an unexpected circumstance when there was no time for thought.  The
presence of the dog was unexpected, incalculable. . . .

"There can be little doubt that the man was in a panic--and with
sufficient reason.  He did not even switch off the lights in the
library.  The whole thing was amazin'.  He went home through the
rear door, thinking that he had left Archer's dead body in the coat
closet.  Then, when Gamble summoned him the following morning, he
found that Archer was still in his bedroom, behind a bolted door!
The man must have felt that the whole world had gone insane.  I
imagine he rushed to the hall closet, when Gamble wasn't looking,
to check his sanity, so to speak; and then he saw the dead body of
Brisbane.  Some of the truth, at least, must have dawned upon him.
He had killed his friend--his ally--by accident!  What mental
torture he must have suffered!  And there was also in his mind the
terrible problem of Archer's death. . . .  I wonder the man stood
up so well when we arrived.  The cold desperation of a final
necessity, I suppose. . . ."

Markham moved about the room restlessly.

"I see it all," he muttered, as if to himself.  He stopped and
swung round.  "But what of Wrede's attempted murder of Grassi?"

"That was logical and in keeping with his character," said Vance.
"Miss Lake explained it--intense jealousy of his lucky rival.
Wrede thought he had successfully pulled the wool over our eyes,
and the fact gave him confidence.  He knew exactly where the dagger
was; he knew the domestic arrangements of the Coe house; he had a
key to the rear door; and he doubtless knew of the broken lock on
Grassi's door.  He had probably brooded over his loss of a wealthy
bride until he could no longer resist the urge to follow up his--as
he thought--successful murder of Archer by the murder of Grassi.
He would thus have won a complete victory over the forces that had
temporarily defeated him.  His frustrated ego again.  And had it
not been for Liang's perspicacity--which Wrede underestimated--and
the shift of Grassi's arm, he would have succeeded."

"But what," asked Markham, "first gave you the idea that Wrede had
committed the murders?"

"The Scottie, Markham," answered Vance.  "After having found she
belonged to Higginbottom, I ascertained that he had given her to
his inamorata who lived in the Belle Maison.  And once I had
followed the Scottie's trail and knew that she belonged next door,
I made a bit of an investigation.  I learned from a perfectly
honest Irish maid that both Higginbottom and his lady fair--a Miss
Delafield--had been having a farewell dinner at the time Coe was
murdered.  Y' see, I had thought perhaps that some blond lady with
a Duplaix lip-stick had admitted the Scottie into the Coe house
earlier in the evening.  But although Miss Delafield used Duplaix
lip-stick and had undoubtedly called on Archer Coe before half-past
seven, it was not she who had let the Scottie in; for the little
dog was in the Delafield apartment after nine o'clock that night,
and had disappeared some time between then and half-past ten, at
which hour the maid instituted a search for her.  Moreover, I
learned that the Scottie could have entered the Coe house only if
some one had unlocked the gate between the Belle Maison and the
vacant lot next to the Coe residence.  And I further learned that
there was no way for the Scottie to escape from the Belle Maison,
except into the rear yard.  Only some one who had unlocked the gate
and opened the rear door of the Coe residence would have given her
the opportunity of entering the house.  And Wrede was the only
person who could have done this."

                    *    *    *    *    *

The following year Hilda Lake and Grassi were married, and the
alliance seems to have been highly successful.  Vance became the
owner of Miss MacTavish.  He had become attached to her during the
days he had nursed her back to health, and the romance (if one may
call it that) between Higginbottom and Doris Delafield ran on the
rocks shortly after the lady's return from Europe.  After her break
with the major she showed little interest in the dog; and
Higginbottom, in appreciation of some nebulous favor which he
considered Vance had done him, made him a present of the bitch.
Vance placed her in his kennels, but she did not seem to be happy
there; and he finally took her into his apartment.  He still has
her, and she has been "pensioned" for life.  Sometimes I think that
Vance would rather part with one of his treasured Cézannes than
with little Miss MacTavish.




THE END

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