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Title:      The Kidnap Murder Case (1936)
Author:     S. S. Van Dine
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A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title:      The Kidnap Murder Case (1936)
Author:     S. S. Van Dine




A Philo Vance Story




Non semper ea sunt, quæ videntur; decipit
Frons prima multos.

--Phædrus.




CONTENTS


I.  Kidnapped!

II.  The Purple House

III.  The Ransom Note

IV.  A Startling Declaration

V.  On the Rungs of the Ladder

VI.  $50,000

VII.  The Black Opals

VIII.  Ultimatum

IX.  Decisions Are Reached

X.  The Tree in the Park

XI.  Another Empty Room

XII.  Emerald Perfume

XIII.  The Green Coupé

XIV.  Kaspar Is Found

XV.  Alexandrite and Amethyst

XVI.  "This Year of Our Lord"

XVII.  Shots in the Dark

XVIII.  The Windowless Room

XIX.  The Final Scene




CHARACTERS OF THE BOOK


Philo Vance

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

Ernest Heath--Sergeant of the Homicide Bureau.

Kaspar Kenting--A play-boy and gambler, who mysteriously disappears
from his home.

Kenton Kenting--A broker; brother of Kaspar and technical head of
the Kenting family.

Madelaine Kenting--Kaspar Kenting's wife.

Eldridge Fleel--A lawyer; a friend of the Kenting family and their
attorney.

Mrs. Andrews Falloway--Madelaine Kenting's mother.

Fraim Falloway--Madelaine Kenting's brother.

Porter Quaggy--Another friend of the Kentings.

Weem--The Kenting butler and houseman.

Gertrude--The Kenting cook and maid; wife of Weem.

Snitkin--Detective of the Homicide Bureau.

Hennessey--Detective of the Homicide Bureau.

Burke--Detective of the Homicide Bureau.

Guilfoyle--Detective of the Homicide Bureau.

Sullivan--Detective of the Homicide Bureau.

Captain Dubois--Finger-print expert.

Detective Bellamy--Finger-print expert.

William McLaughlin--Patrolman on night duty on West 86th Street.

Currie--Vance's valet.




THE KIDNAP MURDER CASE



CHAPTER I

KIDNAPPED!


(Wednesday, July 20; 9:30 a.m.)


Philo Vance, as you may remember, took a solitary trip to Egypt
immediately after the termination of the Garden murder case.*  He
did not return to New York until the middle of July.  He was
considerably tanned, and there was a tired look in his wide-set
grey eyes.  I suspected, the moment I greeted him on the dock, that
during his absence he had thrown himself into Egyptological
research, which was an old passion of his.


* "The Garden Murder Case" (Scribners, 1935).


"I'm fagged out, Van," he complained good-naturedly, as we settled
ourselves in a taxicab and started uptown to his apartment.  "I
need a rest.  We're not leavin' New York this summer--you won't
mind, I hope.  I've brought back a couple of boxes of archæological
specimens.  See about them tomorrow, will you?--there's a good
fellow."

Even his voice sounded weary.  His words carried a curious
undertone of distraction; and the idea flashed through my mind that
he had not altogether succeeded in eliminating from his thoughts
the romantic memory of a certain young woman he had met during the
strange and fateful occurrences in the penthouse of Professor
Ephraim Garden.*  My surmise must have been correct, for it was
that very evening, when he was relaxing in his roof-garden, that
Vance remarked to me, apropos of nothing that had gone before:  "A
man's affections involve a great responsibility.  The things a man
wants most must often be sacrificed because of this exacting
responsibility."  I felt quite certain then that his sudden and
prolonged trip to Egypt had not been an unqualified success as far
as his personal objective was concerned.


* This famous case had taken place just three months earlier.


For the next few days Vance busied himself in arranging,
classifying and cataloging the rare pieces he had brought back with
him.  He threw himself into the work with more than his wonted
interest and enthusiasm.  His mental and physical condition showed
improvement immediately, and it was but a short time before I
recognized the old vital Vance that I had always known, keen for
sports, for various impersonal activities, and for the constant
milling of the undercurrents of human psychology.

It was just a week after his return from Cairo that the famous
Kidnap murder case broke.  It was an atrocious and clever crime,
and more than the usual publicity was given to it in the newspapers
because of the wave of kidnapping cases that had been sweeping over
the country at that time.  But this particular crime of which I am
writing from my voluminous notes was very different in many
respects from the familiar "snatch"; and it was illumined by many
sinister high lights.  To be sure, the motive for the crime, or, I
should say, crimes, was the sordid one of monetary gain; and
superficially the technique was similar to that of the numerous
cases in the same category.  But through Vance's determination and
fearlessness, through his keen insight into human nature, and his
amazing flair for the ramifications of human psychology, he was
able to penetrate beyond the seemingly conclusive manifestations of
the case.

In the course of this investigation Vance took no thought of any
personal risk.  At one time he was in the gravest danger, and it
was only through his boldness, his lack of physical fear, and his
deadly aim and quick action when it was a matter of his life or
another's--partly the result, perhaps, of his World-War experience
which won him the Croix de Guerre--that he saved the lives of
several innocent persons as well as his own, and eventually put his
finger on the criminal in a scene of startling tragedy.

There was a certain righteous indignation in his attitude during
this terrible episode--an attitude quite alien to his customarily
aloof and cynical and purely academic point of view--for the crime
itself was one of the type he particularly abhorred.

As I have said, it was just a week after his return to New York
that Vance was unexpectedly, and somewhat against his wishes, drawn
into the investigation.  He had resumed his habit of working late
at night and rising late; but, to my surprise, when I entered the
library at nine o'clock on that morning of July 20, he was already
up and dressed and had just finished the Turkish coffee and the
Régie cigarette that constituted his daily breakfast.  He had on
his patch-pocket grey tweed suit and a pair of heavy walking boots,
which almost invariably indicated a contemplated trip into the
country.

Before I could express my astonishment (I believe it was the first
time in the course of our relationship that he had risen and
started the day before I had) he smilingly explained to me with his
antemeridian drawl:

"Don't be shocked by my burst of energy, Van.  It really can't be
helped, don't y' know.  I'm driving out to Dumont, to the dog show.
I've a little chap entered in the puppy and American-bred classes,
and I want to take him into the ring myself.  He's a grand little
fellow, and this is his début.*  I'll return for dinner."


* As I learned later, he was referring to his Scottish terrier,
Pibroch Sandyman.  Incidentally, this dog won the puppy class that
day and received Reserve Winners as well.  Later he became a
Champion.


I was rather pleased at the prospect of being left alone for the
day, for there was much work for me to do.  I admit that, as
Vance's legal advisor, monetary steward and general overseer of his
affairs, I had allowed a great deal of routine work to accumulate
during his absence, and the assurance of an entire day, without any
immediate or current chores, was most welcome to me.

As Vance spoke he rang for Currie, his old English butler and
majordomo, and asked for his hat and chamois gloves.  Filling his
cigarette case, he waved a friendly good-bye to me and started
toward the door.  But just before he reached it, the front doorbell
sounded, and a moment later Currie ushered in John F.-X. Markham,
District Attorney of New York County.*


* Markham and Vance had been close friends for over fifteen years,
and, although Vance's unofficial connection with the District
Attorney's office had begun somewhat in the spirit of an
experimental adventure, Markham had now come to depend implicitly
upon his friend as a vital associate in his criminal investigations.

"Good heavens, Vance!" exclaimed Markham.  "Going out at such an
early hour?  Or have you just come in?"  Despite the jocularity of
his words, there was an unwonted sombreness in his face and a
worried look in his eyes, which belied the manner of his greeting.

Vance smiled with a puzzled frown.

"I don't like the expression on your Hellenic features this
morning, old dear.  It bodes ill for one who craves freedom and
surcease from earthly miseries.  I was just about to escape by
hieing me to a dog show in the country.  My little Sandy--"

"Damn your dogs and your dog shows, Vance!" Markham growled.  "I've
serious news for you."

Vance shrugged his shoulders with resignation and heaved an
exaggerated sigh.

"Markham--my very dear Markham!  How did you time your visit so
accurately?  Thirty seconds later and I would have been on my way
and free from your clutches."  Vance threw his hat and gloves
aside.  "But since you have captured me so neatly, I suppose I must
listen, although I am sure I shall not like the tidin's.  I know
I'm going to hate you and wish you had never been born.  I can tell
from the doleful look on your face that you're in for something
messy and desire spiritual support."  He stepped a little to one
side.  "Enter, and pour forth your woes."

"I haven't time--"

"Tut, tut."  Vance moved nonchalantly to the centre-table and
pointed to a large comfortable upholstered chair.  "There's always
time.  There always has been time--there always will be time.
Represented by n, don't y' know.  Quite meaningless--without
beginning and without end, and utterly indivisible.  In fact,
there's no such thing as time--unless you're dabblin' in the fourth
dimension. . . ."

He walked back to Markham, took him gently by the arm and, ignoring
his protests, led him to the chair by the table.

"Really, y' know, Markham, you need a cigar and a drink.  Let calm
be your watchword, my dear fellow,--always calm.  Serenity.
Consider the ancient oaks.  Or, better yet, the eternal hills--
or is it the everlasting hills?  It's been so long since I penned
poesy.  Anyway, Swinburne did it much better. . . .  Eheu,
eheu! . . ."

As he babbled along, with seeming aimlessness, he went to a small
side-table and, taking up a crystal decanter, poured some of its
contents into a tulip-shaped glass, and set it down before the
District Attorney.

"Try that old Amontillado."  He then moved the humidor forward.
"And these panetelas are infinitely better than the cigars you
carry around to dole out to your constituents."

Markham made a restless, annoyed gesture, lighted one of the
cigars, and sipped the old syrupy sherry.

Vance seated himself in a near-by chair and carefully lighted a
Régie.

"Now try me," he said.  "But don't make the tale too sad.  My heart
is already at the breaking-point."

"What I have to tell you is damned serious."  Markham frowned and
looked sharply at Vance.  "Do you like kidnappings?"

"Not passionately," Vance answered, his face darkening.  "Beastly
crimes, kidnappings.  Worse than poisonings.  About as low as a
criminal can sink."  His eyebrows went up.  "Why?"

"There's been a kidnapping during the night.  I learned about it
half an hour ago.  I'm on my way--"

"Who and where?"  Vance's face had now become sombre too.

"Kaspar Kenting.  Heath and a couple of his men are at the Kenting
house in 86th Street now.  They're waiting for me."

"Kaspar Kenting . . ."  Vance repeated the name several times, as
if trying to recall some former association with it.  "In 86th
Street, you say?"

He rose suddenly and went to the telephone stand in the anteroom
where he opened the directory and ran his eye down the page.

"Is it number 86 West 86th Street, perhaps?"

Markham nodded.  "That's right.  Easy to remember."

"Yes--quite."  Vance came strolling back into the library, but
instead of resuming his chair he stood leaning against the end of
the table.  "Quite," he repeated.  "I seemed to remember it when
you mentioned Kenting's name. . . .  The domicile's an interestin'
old landmark.  I've never seen it, however.  Had a fascinatin'
reputation once.  Still called the Purple House."

"Purple house?" Markham looked up.  "What do you mean?"

"My dear fellow!  Are you entirely ignorant of the history of the
city which you adorn as District Attorney?  The Purple House was
built by Karl K. Kenting back in 1880, and he had the bricks and
slabs of stone painted purple, in order to distinguish his abode
from all others in the neighborhood, and to flaunt it as a
challenge to his numerous enemies.  'With a house that color,' he
used to say, 'they won't have any trouble finding me, if they want
me.'  The place became known as the Purple House.  And every time
the house was repainted, the original color was retained.  Sort of
family tradition, don't y' know. . . .  But what about your Kaspar
Kenting?"

"He disappeared some time last night," Markham explained
impatiently.  "From his bedroom.  Open window, ladder, ransom note
thumbtacked to the window-sill.  No doubt about it."

"Details familiar--eh, what?" mused Vance.  "And I presume the
ransom note was concocted with words cut from a newspaper and
pasted on a sheet of paper?"

Markham looked astonished.

"Exactly!  How did you guess it?"

"Nothing new or original about it--what?  Highly conventional.
Bookish, in fact.  But not being done this season in the best
kidnapping circles. . . .  Curious case. . . .  How did you learn
about it?"

"Eldridge Fleel was waiting at my office when I arrived this
morning.  He's the lawyer for the Kenting family.  One of the
executors for the old man's estate.  Kaspar Kenting's wife
naturally notified him at once at his home--called him before he
was up.  He went to the house, looked over the situation, and then
came directly to me."

"Level-headed chap, this Fleel?"

"Oh, yes.  I've known the man for years.  Good lawyer.  He was
wealthy and influential once, but was badly hit by the depression.
We were both members of the Lawyers' Club, and we had offices in
the same building on lower Broadway before I was cursed with the
District Attorneyship. . . .  I got in touch with Sergeant Heath
immediately, and he went up to the house with Fleel.  I told them
I'd be there as soon as I could.  I dropped off here, thinking--"

"Sad . . . very sad," interrupted Vance with a sigh, drawing deeply
on his cigarette.  "I still wish you had made it a few minutes
later.  I'd have been safely away.  You're positively ineluctable."

"Come, come, Vance.  You know damned well I may need your help."
Markham sat up with a show of anger.  "A kidnapping isn't a
pleasant thing, and the city's not going to like it.  I'm having
enough trouble as it is.*  I can't very well pass the buck to
the federal boys.  I'd rather clean up the mess from local
headquarters. . . .  By the way, do you know this young Kaspar
Kenting?"


* There had been several recent kidnappings at this time, two of a
particularly atrocious nature, and the District Attorney's office
and the Commissioner of Police were being constantly and severely
criticized by the press for their apparent helplessness in the
situation.


"Slightly," Vance answered abstractedly.  "I've run into the
johnnie here and there, especially at old Kinkaid's Casino* and at
the race-tracks.  Kaspar's a gambler and pretty much a ne'er-do-
well.  Full of the spirit of frivolity and not much else.  Ardent
play-boy, as it were.  Always hard up.  And trusted by no one.
Can't imagine why any one would want to pay a ransom for him."


* Vance was referring to the gambling establishment which figured
so prominently in the Casino murder case.


Vance slowly exhaled his cigarette smoke, watching the long blue
ribbons rise and disperse against the ceiling.

"Queer background," he murmured, almost as if to himself.  "Can't
really blame the chappie for being such a blighter.  Old Karl K.,
the author of his being, was a bit queer himself.  Had more than
enough money, and left it all to the older son, Kenyon K., to dole
out to Kaspar as he saw fit.  I imagine he hasn't seen fit very
often or very much.  Kenyon is the solid-citizen type, in the worst
possible meaning of the phrase.  Came to the Belmont track in the
highest of dudgeons one afternoon and led Kaspar righteously home.
Probably goes to church regularly.  Marches in parades.  Applauds
the high notes of sopranos.  Feels positively nude without a badge
of some kind.  That sort of johnnie.  Enough to drive any younger
brother to hell. . . .  The old man, as you must know, wasn't a
block from which you could expect anything in the way of fancy
chips.  A rabid and fanatical Ku-Klux-Klanner. . . ."

"You mean his initials?" asked Markham.

"No.  Oh, no.  His convictions."  Vance looked at Markham
inquiringly.  "Don't you know the story?"

Markham shook his head despondently.

"Old K. K. Kenting originally came from Virginia and was a King
Kleagle in that sheeted Order.*  So rabid was he that he changed
the C in his name, Carl, to a K, and gave himself a middle initial,
another K, so that his monogram would be the symbol of his
fanatical passion.  And he went even further.  He had two sons and
a daughter, and he gave them all names beginning with K, and added
for each one a middle initial K--Kenyon K. Kenting, Kaspar K.
Kenting, and Karen K. Kenting.  The girl died shortly after Karl
himself was gathered to Abraham's bosom.  The two sons remaining,
being of a new generation and less violent, dropped the middle K--
which never stood for anything, by the by."


* Vance was mistaken about this, as Kenting belonged to the old, or
original, Klan, in which there was no such title as King Keagle.
This title did not come into existence until 1915, with the modern
Klan.  Kenting probably had been a Grand Dragon (or State head) in
the original Klan.


"But why a purple house?"

"No symbolism there," returned Vance.  "When Karl Kenting came to
New York and went into politics he became boss of his district.
And he had an idea his sub-Potomac enemies were going to persecute
him; so, as I say, he wanted to make it easy for 'em to find him.
He was an aggressive and fearless old codger."

"I seem to remember they eventually found him, and with a
vengeance," Markham mumbled impatiently.

"Quite."  Vance nodded indifferently.  "But it took two machine-
guns to translate him to the Elysian Fields.  Quite a scandal at
the time.  Anyway, the two sons, while wholly different from each
other, are both unlike their father."

Markham stood up with deliberation.

"That may all be very interesting," he grumbled; "but I've got to
get to 86th Street.  This may prove a crucial case, and I can't
afford to ignore it."  He looked somewhat appealingly at Vance.

Vance rose likewise and crushed out his cigarette.

"Oh, by all means," he drawled.  "I'll be delighted to toddle
along.  Though I can't even vaguely imagine why kidnappers should
select Kaspar Kenting.  The Kentings are no longer a reputedly
wealthy family.  True, they might be able to produce a fairly
substantial sum on short notice, but they're not, d' ye see, in the
class which professional kidnappers enter up on their list of
possible victims. . . .  By the by, do you know how much ransom was
demanded?"

"Fifty thousand.  But you'll see the note when we get there.
Nothing's been touched.  Heath knows I'm coming."

"Fifty thousand . . ."  Vance poured himself a pony of his Napoléon
cognac.  "That's most interestin'.  Not an untidy sum--eh, what?"

When he had finished his brandy he rang again for Currie.

"Really, y' know," he said to Markham--his tone had suddenly
changed to one of levity--, "I can't wear chamois gloves in a
purple house.  Most inappropriate."

He asked Currie for a pair of doeskin gloves, his wanghee cane, and
a town hat.  When they were brought in he turned to me.

"Do you mind calling MacDermott* and explainin'?" he asked.  "The
old boy himself will have to show Sandy. . . .  And do you care to
come along, Van?  It may prove more fascinatin' than it sounds."


* Robert A. MacDermott was Vance's kennel manager.


Despite my accumulated work, I was glad of the invitation.  I
caught MacDermott on the telephone just as he was packing his
crated entries into the station-wagon.  I wasted few words on him,
in true Scotch fashion, and immediately joined Vance and Markham in
the lower hallway where they were waiting for me.

We entered the District Attorney's car, and in fifteen minutes we
were at the scene of what proved to be one of the most unusual
criminal cases in Vance's career.



CHAPTER II

THE PURPLE HOUSE


(Wednesday, July 20; 10:30 a.m.)


The Kenting residence in 86th Street was not as bizarre a place as
I had expected to see after Vance's description of it.  In fact, it
differed very little from the other old brownstone residences in
the street, except that it was somewhat larger.  I might even have
passed it or driven by it any number of times without noticing it
at all.  This fact was, no doubt, owing to the dullness of its
faded color, since the house had apparently not been repainted for
several years, and sun and rain had not spared it.  Its tone was so
dingy and superficially nondescript that it blended unobtrusively
with the other houses of the neighborhood.  As we approached it
that fateful morning it appeared almost a neutral grey in the
brilliant summer sunshine.

On closer inspection I could see that the house had been built of
bricks put together in English cross bond with weathered mortar
joints, trimmed at the cornices, about the windows and door, and
below the eaves, with great rectangular slabs of brownstone.  Only
in the shadow along the eaves and beneath the projections of the
sills was there any distinguishable tint of purple remaining.  The
architecture of the house was conventional enough--a somewhat free
adaptation of combined Georgian and Colonial, such as was popular
during the middle of the last century.

The entrance, which was several feet above the street level and
reached by five or six broad sandstone steps, was a spacious one;
and there was the customary glass-enclosed vestibule.  The windows
were high, and old-fashioned shutters folded back against the walls
of the house.  Instead of the regulation four stories, the house
consisted of only three stories, not counting the sunken basement;
and I was somewhat astonished at this fact when it came to my
attention, for the structure was even higher than its neighbors.
The windows, however, were not on a line with those in the other
houses, and I realized that the ceilings of the "Purple House" must
be unusually high.

Another thing which distinguished the Kenting residence from the
neighboring buildings was the existence of a fifty-foot court to
the east.  This court was covered with a neatly kept lawn, with
hedges on all four sides.  There were two flower-beds--one star-
shaped and the other in the form of a crescent; and an old gnarled
maple tree stood at the rear, with its branches extending almost
the entire width of the yard.  Only a low iron picket fence, with a
swinging gate, divided the yard from the street.

This refreshing quadrangle was bathed with sunshine, and it seemed
a very pleasant spot, with its blooming hedges and its scattered
painted metal chairs.  But there was one sinister note--one item
which in itself was not sinister at all, but which had acquired a
malevolent aspect from the facts Markham had related to us in
Vance's apartment that morning.  It was a long, heavy ladder, such
as outdoor painters use, leaning against the house, with its upper
end just below a second-story window--the window nearest the
street.

The "Purple House" itself was set about ten feet in from the
sidewalk, and we immediately crossed the irregular flagstones and
proceeded up the steps to the front door.  But there was no need to
ring the bell.  Sergeant Ernest Heath, of the Homicide Bureau,
greeted us in the vestibule.  After saluting Markham, whom he
addressed as Chief, he turned to Vance with a grin and shook his
head ponderously.

"I didn't think you'd be here, Mr. Vance," he said good-naturedly.
"Ain't this a little out of your line?  But howdy, anyway."  And he
held out his hand.

"I myself didn't think I'd be here, Sergeant.  And everything is
out of my line today except dog shows.  Fact is, I almost missed
the present pleasure of seeing you."  Vance shook hands with him
cordially, and cocked one eye inquiringly.  "What's the exhibit I'm
supposed to view?"

"You might as well have stayed home, Mr. Vance," Heath told him.
"Hell, there's nothing to this case.  It ain't even a fancy one.  A
little routine police work is all that's needed to clear it up.
There ain't a chance for what you call psychological deduction."

"My word!" sighed Vance.  "Most encouragin', Sergeant.  I hope
you're right.  Still, since I'm here, don't y' know, I might as
well look around in my amateurish way and try to learn what it's
all about.  I promise not to complicate matters for you."

"That's a little more than O.-K. with me, Mr. Vance," the Sergeant
grinned.  And, opening the heavy glass-panelled oak door, he led us
into the dingy but spacious hallway, and then through partly-opened
sliding doors at the right, into a stuffy drawing-room.

"Cap Dubois and Bellamy* are upstairs, getting the finger-prints;
and Quackenbush** took a few shots and went away."  Heath seated
himself at a small Jacobean desk and drew out his little black
leather-bound note-book.  "Chief," he said to Markham, "I think
maybe you'd better get the whole story direct from Mrs. Kenting,
the wife of the gentleman who was kidnapped."


* Captain Dubois and Detective Bellamy were finger-print experts
attached to the New York Police Department.

** Peter Quackenbush was the official police photographer.


I now noticed three other persons in the room.  At the front window
stood a solid, slightly corpulent man of successful, professional
mien.  He turned and came forward as we entered, and Markham bowed
to him cordially and greeted him by the name Fleel.  He was the
lawyer of the Kenting family.

At his side was a somewhat aggressive middle-aged man, rather thin,
with a serious and pinched expression.  Fleel introduced him to us
cursorily, with a careless wave of the hand, as Kenyon Kenting, the
brother of the missing man.  Then the lawyer turned stiffly to the
other side of the room, and said in a suave, businesslike voice:

"But I particularly wish to present you gentlemen to Mrs. Kaspar
Kenting."

We all turned to the pale, terrified woman seated at one end of a
small davenport, in the shadows of the west wall.  She appeared at
first glance to be in her early thirties; but I soon realized that
my guess might be ten years out, one way or the other.  She seemed
exceedingly thin, even beneath the full folds of the satin dressing-
gown she wore; and although her eyes were large and frankly
appealing, there was in her features evidence of a shrewd
competency amounting almost to hardness.  It struck me that a
painter could have used her for the perfect model of the clinging,
nervous, whiny woman.  But, on the other hand, she impressed me as
being capable of assuming the role of a strong-minded and efficient
person when the occasion demanded.  Her hair was thin and stringy
and of the lustreless ashen-blond variety; and her eyelashes and
eyebrows were so sparse and pale, that she gave the impression,
sitting there in the dim light, of having none at all.

When Fleel presented us to her she nodded curtly with a frightened
air, and kept her eyes focused sharply on Markham.  Kenyon Kenting
went directly to her and, sitting down on the edge of the sofa, put
his arm half around her and patted her gently on the back.

"You must be brave, my dear," he said in a tone that was almost
endearing.  "These gentlemen have come to help us, and I'm sure
they'll be wanting to know all you can tell them about the events
of last night."

The woman drew her eyes slowly away from Markham and looked up
wistfully and trustingly at her brother-in-law.  Then she nodded
her head slowly, in complete and confiding acquiescence and again
turned her eyes to Markham.

Sergeant Heath broke gruffly into the scene.

"Don't you want to go upstairs, Chief, and see the room from where
the snatch was made?  Snitkin's on duty up there, to see that
nothing is moved around or changed."

"I say, just a moment, Sergeant."  Vance sat down on the sofa
beside Mrs. Kenting.  "I'd like to ask Mrs. Kenting a few questions
first."  He turned to the woman.  "Do you mind?" he asked in a
mild, almost deferential tone.  As she silently shook her head in
reply he continued:  "Tell me, when did you first learn of your
husband's absence?"

The woman took a deep breath, and after a barely perceptible
hesitation answered in a slightly rasping, low-pitched voice which
contrasted strangely with her colorless, semi-anæmic appearance.

"Early this morning--about six o'clock, I should say.  The sun had
just risen."*


* The official time of sunrise on that day was 4:45, local mean
time, or 4:41, Eastern standard time; but daylight saving time was
then in effect, and Mrs. Kenting's reference to sunrise in New York
at approximately six o'clock was correct.


"And how did you happen to become aware of his absence?"

"I wasn't sleeping well last night," the woman responded.  "I was
restless for some unknown reason, and the early morning sun coming
through the shutters into my room not only awakened me, but
prevented me from going back to sleep.  Then I thought I heard a
faint unfamiliar sound in my husband's room--you see, we occupy
adjoining rooms on the next floor--and it seemed to me I heard
some one moving stealthily about.  There was the unmistakable sound
of footsteps across the floor--that is, like some one walking
around in soft slippers."

She took another deep breath, and shuddered slightly.

"I was already terribly nervous, anyway, and these strange noises
frightened me, for Kaspar--Mr. Kenting--is usually sound asleep at
that hour of the morning.  I got up, put on my slippers, threw a
dressing-gown around me, and went to the door which connects our
two rooms.  I called to my husband, but got no answer.  Then I
called again, and still again, in louder tones, at the same time
knocking at the door.  But there was no response of any kind--and I
realized that everything had suddenly become quiet in the room.  By
this time I was panicky; so I pulled open the door quickly and
entered the room. . . ."

"Just a moment, Mrs. Kenting," Vance interrupted.  "You speak of
having been startled by an unfamiliar sound in your husband's room
this morning, and you say you heard some one walking about in the
room.  Just what kind of sound was it that first caught your
attention?"

"I don't know exactly.  It might have been some one moving a chair,
or dropping something, or maybe it was just a door surreptitiously
opened and shut.  I can't describe it any better than that."

"Could it have been a scuffle of some kind--I mean, did it sound
as if more than one person might have been making the noise?"

The woman shook her head vaguely.

"I don't think so.  It was over too quickly for that.  I should say
it was a sound that was not intended--something accidental--do you
see what I mean?  I can't imagine what it could have been--so many
things might have happened. . . ."

"When you entered the room, were the lights on?" Vance asked, with
what appeared to be almost utter indifference.

"Yes," the woman hastened to answer animatedly.  "That was the
curious thing about it.  Not only was the chandelier burning
brightly, but the light beside the bed also.  They were a ghastly
yellow in the day-light."

"Are the two fixtures controlled with the same switch?" Vance
asked, frowning down at his unlighted Régie.

"No," the woman told him.  "The switch for the chandelier is near
the hall door, while the night-lamp is connected to an outlet in
the baseboard and is worked by a switch on the lamp itself.  And
another strange thing was that the bed had not been slept in."

Vance's eyebrows rose slightly, but he did not look up from his
fixed contemplation of the cigarette between his fingers.

"Do you know what time Mr. Kenting came to his bedroom last night?"

The woman hesitated a moment and flashed a glance at Kenyon
Kenting.

"Oh, yes," she said hurriedly.  "I heard him come in.  It must have
been soon after three this morning.  He had been out for the
evening, and I happened to be awake when he got back--or else the
unlocking and closing of the front door awakened me--I really don't
know.  I heard him enter his bedroom and turn on the lights.  Then
I heard him telephoning to some one in an angry voice.  Right after
that I fell asleep again."

"You say he was out last night.  Do you know where or with whom?"

Mrs. Kenting nodded, but again she hesitated.  Finally she answered
in the same brittle, rasping voice:

"A new gambling casino was opened in Jersey yesterday, and my
husband was invited to be a guest at the opening ceremonies.  His
friend Mr. Quaggy called for him about nine o'clock--"

"Please repeat the name of your husband's friend."

"Quaggy--Porter Quaggy.  He's a very trustworthy and loyal man, and
I've never objected to my husband's going out with him.  He has
been more or less a friend of the family for several years, and he
always seems to know just how to handle my husband when he shows an
inclination to go a little too far in his--his, well, his drinking.
Mr. Quaggy was here at the house yesterday afternoon, and it was
then that he and Kaspar made arrangements to go together to the new
casino."

Vance nodded slightly, and directed his gaze to the floor as if
trying to connect something the woman had told him with something
already in his mind.

"Where does Mr. Quaggy live?" he asked.

"Just up the street, near Central Park West, at the Nottingham. . . ."
She paused, and drew a deep breath.  "Mr. Quaggy's a frequent
and welcome visitor here."

Vance threw Heath a significant coup d'oeil, and the Sergeant made a
note in the small leather-bound black book which lay before him on
the desk.

"Do you happen to know," Vance continued, still addressing the
woman, "whether Mr. Quaggy returned to the house last night with
Mr. Kenting?"

"Oh, no; I'm quite sure he did not," was the prompt reply.  "I
heard my husband come in alone and mount the stairs; and I heard
him alone in his bedroom.  As I said, I dozed off shortly
afterwards, and didn't wake up again until after the sun rose."

"May I offer you a cigarette?" said Vance, holding out his case.

The woman shook her head slightly and glanced questioningly at
Kenyon Kenting.

"No, thank you," she returned.  "I rarely smoke.  But I don't in
the least mind others smoking, so please light your own cigarette."

With a courteous bow in acknowledgment, Vance proceeded to do so,
and then asked:

"When you found that your husband was not in his room at six this
morning, and that the lights were on and the bed had not been slept
in, what did you think?--and what did you do?"

"I was naturally upset and troubled and very much puzzled," Mrs.
Kenting explained; "and just then I noticed that the big side
window overlooking the lawn was open and that the Venetian blind
had not been lowered.  This was queer, because Kaspar was always
fussy about this particular blind in the summer-time because of the
early morning sun.  I immediately ran to the window and looked down
into the yard, for a sudden fear had flashed through my mind that
perhaps Kaspar had fallen out. . . .  You see," she added
reluctantly, "my husband often has had too much to drink when he
comes home late at night. . . .  It was then I saw the ladder
against the house; and I was wondering about that vaguely, when
suddenly I noticed that horrible slip of paper pinned to the window-
sill.  Immediately I realized what had happened, and why I had
heard those peculiar noises in his room.  The realization made me
feel faint."

She paused and dabbed gently at her eyes with a lace-trimmed
handkerchief.

"When I recovered a little from the shock of this frightful thing,"
she continued, "I went to the telephone and called up Mr. Fleel.  I
also called Mr. Kenyon Kenting here--he lives on Fifth Avenue, just
across the park.  After that I simply ordered some black coffee,
and waited, frantic, until their arrival.  I said nothing about the
matter to the servants, and I didn't dare inform the police until I
had consulted with my brother-in-law and especially with Mr. Fleel,
who is not only the family's legal advisor, but also a very close
friend.  I felt that he would know the wisest course to follow."

"How many servants are there here?" Vance asked.

"Only two--Weem, our butler and houseman, and his wife, Gertrude,
who cooks and does maid service."

"They sleep where?"

"On the third floor, at the rear."

Vance had listened to the woman's account of the tragic episode
with unusual attentiveness, and while to the others he must have
seemed casual and indifferent, I had noticed that he shot the
narrator several appraising glances from under his lazily drooping
eyelids.

At last he rose and, walking to the desk, placed his half-burnt
cigarette in a large onyx ash receiver.  Turning to Mrs. Kenting
again, he asked quietly:

"Had you, or your husband, any previous warning of this event?"

Before answering, the woman looked with troubled concern at Kenyon
Kenting.

"I think, my dear," he encouraged her, in a ponderous, declamatory
tone, "that you should be perfectly frank with these gentlemen."

The woman shifted her eyes back to Vance slowly, and after a moment
of indecision said:

"Only this: several nights, recently, after I had retired, I have
heard Kaspar dialing a number and talking angrily to some one over
the telephone.  I could never distinguish any of the conversation--
it was simply a sort of muffled muttering.  And I always noticed
that the next day Kaspar was in a terrible humor and seemed worried
and agitated about something.  Twice I tried to find out what the
trouble was, and asked him to explain the phone calls; but each
time he assured me nothing whatever was wrong, and refused to tell
me anything except that he had been speaking to his brother
regarding business affairs. . . ."

"That was wholly a misleading statement on Kaspar's part," put in
Kenyon Kenting with matter-of-fact suavity.  "As I've already said
to Mrs. Kenting, I can't remember ever having had any telephone
conversation with Kaspar at night.  Whenever we had business
matters to discuss he either came to my office, or we talked them
over here at the house. . . .  I can't understand these phone
conversations--but, of course, they may have no relation whatsoever
to this present enigma."

"As you say, sir."  Vance nodded.  "No plausible connection with
this crime apparent.  But one never knows, does one? . . ."  His
eyes moved slowly back to Mrs. Kenting.  "Was there nothing else
recently which you can recall, and which might be helpful now?"

"Yes, there was."  The woman nodded with a show of vigor.  "About a
week ago a strange, rough-looking man came here to see Kaspar--he
looked to me like an underworld character.  Kaspar took him
immediately into the drawing-room here and closed the doors.  They
remained in the room a long time.  I had gone up to my boudoir, but
when the man left the house I heard him say to Kaspar in a loud
tone, 'There are ways of getting things.'  It wasn't just a
statement--the words sounded terribly unfriendly.  Almost like a
threat."

"Has there been anything further?" Vance asked.

"Yes.  Several days later, the same man came again, and an even
more sinister-looking individual was with him.  I got only the
merest glimpse of them as Kaspar led them into this room and closed
the doors.  I can't even remember what either of them looked like--
except that I'm sure they were dangerous men and I know they
frightened me.  I asked Kaspar about them the next morning, but he
evaded the question and said merely that it was a matter of
business and I wouldn't understand.  That was all I could get out
of him."

Kenyon Kenting had turned his back to the room and was looking out
of the window, his hands clasped behind him.

"I hardly think these two mysterious callers," he commented with
pompous finality, without turning, "have any connection with
Kaspar's kidnapping."

Vance frowned slightly and cast an inquisitive glance at the man's
back.

"Can you be sure of that, Mr. Kenting?" he asked coldly.

"Oh, no--oh, no," the other replied apologetically, swinging about
suddenly and extending one hand in an oratorical gesture.  "I can't
be sure.  I merely meant it isn't logical to suppose that two men
would expose themselves so openly if they contemplated a step
attended by such serious consequences as a proven kidnapping.
Besides, Kaspar had many strange acquaintances, and these men were
probably in no way connected with the present situation."

Vance kept his eyes fixed on the man, and his expression did not
change.

"It might be, of course, as you say," he remarked lightly.  "Also
it might not be--what?  Interestin' speculation.  But quite futile.
I wonder. . . ."  He drew himself up and, meditatively taking out
his cigarette case, lighted another Régie.  "And now I think we
might go above, to Mr. Kaspar Kenting's bedroom."

We all rose and went toward the sliding doors.

As we came out into the main hall, the door to a small room just
opposite was standing ajar, and through it I saw what appeared to
be a miniature museum of some kind.  There were the slanting cases
set against the walls, and a double row of larger cases down the
centre of the room.  It looked like a private exhibition, arranged
on the lines of the more extensive ones seen in any public museum.

"Ah! a collection of semiprecious stones," commented Vance.  "Do
you mind if I take a brief look?" he asked, addressing Mrs.
Kenting.  "Tremendously interested in the subject, don't y' know."*


* Although Vance never collected semiprecious stones himself, he
had become deeply interested in the subject as early as his college
days.


The woman looked a little astonished, but answered at once.

"By all means.  Go right in."

"Your own collection?" Vance inquired casually.

"Oh, no," the woman told him--somewhat bitterly, it seemed to me.
"It belonged to Mr. Kenting senior.  It was here in the house when
I first came, long after his death.  It was part of the estate he
left--residuary property, I believe they call it."

Fleel nodded, as if he considered Mrs. Kenting's explanation
correct and adequate.

Much to Markham's impatience and annoyance, Vance immediately
entered the small room and moved slowly along the cases.  He
beckoned to me to join him.

Neatly arranged in the cases were specimens, in various shapes and
sizes, of aquamarine, topaz, spinel, tourmaline, and zircon;
rubelite, amethyst, alexandrite, peridot, hessonite, pyrope,
demantoid, almandine, kinzite, andalusite, turquoise, and jadeite.
Many of these gem-stones were beautifully cut and lavishly faceted,
and I was admiring their lustrous beauty, impressed by what I
assumed to be their great value, when Vance murmured softly:

"A most amazin' and disquietin' collection.  Only one gem of real
value here, and not a rare specimen among the rest.  A schoolgirl's
assortment, really.  Very queer.  And there seem to be many blank
spaces.  Judgin' by the vacancies and general distribution, old
Kenting must have been a mere amateur. . . ."

I looked at him in amazement.  Then his voice trailed off, and he
suddenly wheeled about and returned to the hall.

"A most curious collection," he murmured again.

"Semiprecious stones were one of my father's hobbies," Kenting
returned.

"Yes, yes.  Of course."  Vance nodded abstractedly.  "Most unusual
collection.  Hardly representative, though. . . .  Was your father
an expert, Mr. Kenting?"

"Oh, yes.  He studied the subject for many years.  He was very
proud of this gem-room, as he called it."

"Ah!"

Kenting shot the other a peculiar, shrewd look but said nothing;
and Vance at once followed Heath toward the wide stairway.



CHAPTER III

THE RANSOM NOTE


(Wednesday, July 20; 11 a.m.)


As we entered Kaspar Kenting's bedroom, Captain Dubois and
Detective Bellamy were just preparing to leave it.

"I don't think there's anything for you, Sergeant," Dubois reported
to Heath after his respectful greetings to Markham.  "Just the
usual kind of marks and smudges you'd find in any bedroom--and they
all check up with the finger-prints on the silver toilet set and
the glass in the bathroom.  Can't be any one else's finger-prints
except the guy what lives here.  Nothing new anywhere."

"And the window-sill?" asked Heath with desperate hopefulness.

"Not a thing, Sarge,--absolutely not a thing," Dubois replied.
"And I sure went over it carefully.  If any one went out that
window during the night, they certainly wiped it clean, or else
wore gloves and was mighty careful.  And there's just the kind of
finish on that window-sill--that old polished ivory finish--that'll
take finger-prints like smoke-paper. . . .  Anyhow, I may have
picked up a stray print here and there that'll check with something
we've got in the files.  I'll let you know more about it, of
course, when we've developed and enlarged what we got."

The Sergeant seemed greatly disappointed.

"I'll be wanting you later for the ladder," he told Dubois,
shifting the long black cigar from one corner of his mouth to the
other.  "I'll get in touch with you when we're ready."

"All right, Sergeant."  Dubois picked up his small black case.
"That'll be a tough job though.  Don't make it too late in the
afternoon--I'll want all the light I can get."  And he waved a
friendly farewell to Heath and departed, followed by Bellamy.

Kaspar Kenting's bedroom was distinctly old-fashioned, and
conventional in the extreme.  The furniture was shabby and worn.  A
wide Colonial bed of mahogany stood against the south wall, and
there was a mahogany chest of drawers, with a hanging mirror over
it, near the entrance to the room.  Several easy chairs stood here
and there about the room, and a faded flower-patterned carpet
covered the floor.  In one corner at the front of the room was a
small writing-table on which stood a French telephone.

There were two windows in the room, one at the front of the house,
overlooking the street; the other was in the east wall, and I
recognized it at once as the window to which Mrs. Kenting said she
had run in her fright.  It was thrown wide open, with the Venetian
blind drawn up to the top, and the outside shutters were invisible
from where we stood; whereas the front window was half closed, with
its blind drawn half-way down.  At the rear of the room, to the
right of the bed, was a door, now wide open.  Beyond it another
bedroom, similar to the one in which we stood, was identifiable: it
was obviously Mrs. Kenting's boudoir.  Between Kaspar Kenting's bed
and the east wall two narrower doors led into the bathroom and a
closet respectively.

The electric lights were still burning with a sickly illumination
in the old-fashioned crystal chandelier hanging from the centre of
the ceiling, and in the standard modern fixture near the head of
the bed.

Vance looked about him with seeming indifference; but I knew that
not a single detail of the setting escaped him.  His first words
were directed to the missing man's wife.

"When you came in here this morning, Mrs. Kenting, was this hall
door locked or bolted?"

The woman looked uncertain and faltered in her answer.

"I--I--really, I can't remember.  It must have been unlocked, or
else I would probably have noticed it.  I went out through the door
when the coffee was ready, and I don't recall unlocking it."

Vance nodded understandingly.

"Yes, yes; of course," he murmured.  "A deliberate act like
unlocking a door would have made a definite mental impression on
you.  Simple psychology. . . ."

"But I really don't know, Mr. Vance. . . .  You see," she added
hurriedly, "I was so upset. . . .  I wanted to get out of this
room."

"Oh, quite.  Wholly natural.  But it really doesn't matter."  Vance
dismissed the subject.  Then he went to the open window and looked
down at the ladder.

As he did so Heath took from his pocket a knife such as boy scouts
use, and pried loose the thumbtack which held a soiled and wrinkled
sheet of paper to the broad window-sill.  He picked up the paper
gingerly and handed it to Markham.  The District Attorney took it
and looked at it, his face grim and troubled.  I glanced over his
shoulder as he read it.  The paper was of the ordinary typewriter
quality and had been trimmed irregularly at the edges to disguise
its original size.  On it were pasted words and separate characters
in different sizes and styles of type, apparently cut from a
newspaper.  The uneven lines, crudely put together, read:


If you want him back safe price will be 50 thousands $ otherwise
killed will let you no ware & when to leave money later.




This ominous communication was signed with a cabalistic signature
consisting of two interlocking uneven squares which were outlined
with black ink.  (I am herewith including a copy of the ransom note
which was found that morning at the Kenting home.)


[Copy of ransom note.]


Vance had turned back to the room, and Markham handed him the note.
Vance glanced at it, as if it were of little interest to him, and
read it through quickly, with the faint suggestion of a cynical
smile.

"Really, y' know, Markham old dear, it isn't what you could
possibly term original.  It's been done so many times before."

He was about to return the paper to Markham when he suddenly drew
his hand back and made a new examination of the note.  His eyes
grew serious and clouded, and the smile faded from his lips.

"Interestin' signature," he murmured.  He took out his monocle and,
carefully adjusting it, scrutinized the paper closely.  "Made with
a Chinese pencil," he announced, "--a Chinese brush--held
vertically--and with China ink. . . .  And those small squares . . ."
His voice trailed off.

"Sure!"  Sergeant Heath slapped his thigh and puffed vigorously at
his cigar.  "Same as the holes like I've seen in Chinese money."

"Quite so, Sergeant."  Vance was still studying the cryptic
signature.  "Not illuminatin', however.  But worth remembering."
He returned his monocle to his waistcoat pocket and gave the paper
back to Markham.  "Not an upliftin' case, old dear. . . .  Let's
stagger about a bit. . . ."

He moved to the chest of drawers and adjusted his cravat before the
mirror: then he smoothed back his hair and flicked an imaginary
speck of dust from the left lapel of his coat.  Markham glowered,
and Heath made an expressive grimace of disgust.

"By the by, Mrs. Kenting," Vance asked casually, "is your husband,
by any chance, bald?"

"Of course not," she answered indignantly.  "What makes you ask
that?"

"Queer--very queer," murmured Vance.  "All the necess'ry toilet
articles are in place on the top of this low-boy except a comb."

"I--don't understand," the woman returned in amazement.  She moved
swiftly across the room and stood beside Vance.  "Why, the comb IS
gone!" she exclaimed in a tone of bewilderment.  "Kaspar always
kept it right here."  And she pointed to a vacant place on the
faded silk covering of what had obviously served Kaspar Kenting as
a dresser.

"Most extr'ordin'ry.  Let's see whether your husband's toothbrush
is also missing.  Do you know where he kept it?"

"In the bathroom, of course,"--Mrs. Kenting seemed frightened and
breathless--"in a little rack beside the medicine cabinet.  I'll
see."  As she spoke she turned and went quickly toward the door
nearest the east wall.  She pushed it open and stepped into the
bathroom.  After a moment she rejoined us.

"It's not there," she remarked dejectedly.  "It isn't where it
should be--and I've looked in the cabinet for it too."

"That's quite all right," Vance returned.  "Do you remember what
clothes your husband was wearing last night when he went to the
opening of the casino in New Jersey with Mr. Quaggy?"

"Why, he wore evening dress, of course," the woman answered without
hesitation.  "I mean, he wore a tuxedo."

Vance walked quickly across the room and, opening the door beside
the bathroom, looked into the narrow clothes closet.  After a brief
inspection of its contents he turned and again addressed Mrs.
Kenting who now stood near the open east window, her hands clasped
on her breast, and her eyes wide with apprehension.

"But his dinner jacket is hanging here in the closet, Mrs. Kenting.
Has he more than one?  . . ."

The woman shook her head vaguely.

"And I say, I suppose that Mr. Kenting wore the appropriate evening
oxfords with his dinner coat."

"Naturally," the woman said.

"Amazin'," murmured Vance.  "There are a pair of evening oxfords
standin' neatly on the floor of the closet, and the soles are
dampish--it was rather wet out last night, don't y' know, after the
rain."

Mrs. Kenting moved slowly across the room to where Kenyon Kenting
was standing and put her arm through his, seeming to lean against
him.  Then she said in a low voice, "I really don't understand, Mr.
Vance."

Vance gave the woman and her brother-in-law a thoughtful glance and
stepped inside the closet.  But he turned back to the room in a
moment and once more addressed Mrs. Kenting.

"Are you familiar with your husband's wardrobe?" he asked.

"Of course, I am," she returned with an undertone of resentment.
"I help him select the materials for all his clothes."

"In that case," Vance said politely, "you can be of great
assistance to me if you will glance through this closet and tell me
whether anything is missing."

Mrs. Kenting withdrew her arm from that of her brother-in-law and,
with a dazed and slightly startled expression, joined Vance at the
clothes closet.  As he took a step to one side, she turned her back
to him and gave her attention to the row of hangers.  Then she
faced him with a puzzled frown.

"His Glen Urquhart suit is missing," she said.  "It's the one he
generally wears when he goes away for a week-end or a short trip."

"Very interestin'," Vance murmured.  "And is it possible for you to
tell me what shoes he may have substituted for his evening
oxfords?"

The woman's eyes narrowed, and she looked at Vance with dawning
comprehension.

"Yes!" she said, and immediately swung about to inspect the shoe
rack in the closet.  After a moment she again turned to Vance with
a look of bewilderment in her eyes.  "One pair of his heavy tan
bluchers are not here," she announced in a hollow, monotonous tone.
"That's what Kaspar generally wears with his Glen Urquhart."

Vance bowed graciously and muttered a conventional "thank-you," as
Mrs. Kenting returned slowly to Kenyon Kenting and stood rigid and
wide-eyed beside him.

Vance turned back into the closet and it was but a minute before he
came out and walked to the window.  Between his thumb and
forefinger he held a small cut gem--a ruby, I thought--which he
examined against the light.

"Not a genuine ruby," he murmured.  "Merely a balas-ruby--the two
are often confused.  A necess'ry item, to be sure, for a
representative collection of gem-stones, but of little worth in
itself. . . .  By the by, Mrs. Kenting, I found this in the outer
side-pocket of your husband's dinner jacket.  I took the liberty of
ascertaining whether he had transferred the contents of his pockets
when he changed his clothes after returning home last night.  This
bit of balas-ruby was all I found. . . ."

He looked at the stone again and placed it carefully in his
waistcoat pocket.  Then he took out another cigarette and lighted
it slowly and thoughtfully.

"Another thing that would interest me mildly," he remarked, looking
vaguely before him, "is what kind of pajamas Mr. Kenting wears."

"Shantung silk," Mrs. Kenting asserted, stepping suddenly forward.
"I just gave him a new supply on his birthday."  She was looking
directly at Vance, but now her eyes shifted quickly to the bed.

"There's a pair on--"  She left the sentence unfinished, and her
pale eyes opened still wider.  "They're not there!" she exclaimed
excitedly.

"No.  As you say.  Bed neatly turned down.  Slippers in place.
Glass of orange juice on the night-stand.  But no pajamas laid out.
I did notice the omission.  A bit curious.  But it may have been an
oversight . . ."

"No," the woman interrupted emphatically.  "It was not an
oversight.  I placed his pajamas at the foot of the bed myself, as
I always do."

"Thin Shantung?" Vance asked, without looking at her.

"Yes--the sheerest summer-weight."

"Might easily be rolled up and placed in a pocket?"

The woman nodded vaguely.  She was now staring at Vance.

"What do you mean?" she asked.  "Tell me, what is it?"

"I really don't know."  Vance spoke with kindliness.  "I'm merely
observing things.  There is no answer as yet.  It's most puzzlin'."

Markham had been standing in silence near the door, watching Vance
with grim curiosity.  Now he spoke.

"I see what you're getting at, Vance," he said.  "The situation is
damnably peculiar.  I don't know just how to take it.  But, at any
rate, if the indications are correct, I think we can safely assume
that we are not dealing with inhuman criminals.  When they came
here and took Mr. Kenting to be held for ransom, they at least
permitted him to get dressed, and to take with him two or three of
the things a man misses most when he's away from home."

"Yes, yes.  Of course."  Vance spoke without enthusiasm.  "Most
kind of them--eh, what?  If true."

"If true?" repeated Markham aggressively.  "What else have you in
mind?"

"My dear Markham!" protested Vance mildly.  "Nothing whatever.
Mind an utter blank.  Evidence points in various directions.
Whither go we?"

"Well, anyway," put in Sergeant Heath, "I don't see that there's
any reason to worry about any harm coming to the fella.  It looks
to me like the guys who did the job were only after the money."

"It could be, of course, Sergeant."  Vance nodded.  "But I think it
is a bit early to jump to conclusions."  He gave Heath a
significant look under drooped eyelids, and the Sergeant merely
shrugged his shoulders and said no more.

Fleel had been watching and listening attentively, with a shrewd,
judicial air.

"I think, Mr. Vance," he said, "I know what is in your mind.
Knowing the Kentings as well as I do, and knowing the circumstances
in this household for a great number of years, I can assure you
that it would be no shock to either of them if you were to state
exactly what you think regarding this situation."

Vance looked at the man for several seconds with the suggestion of
an amused smile.  At length he said:  "Really, y' know, Mr. Fleel,
I don't know exactly what I do think."

"I beg to differ with you, sir," the lawyer returned in a court-
room manner.  "And from my personal knowledge--the result of my
many years of association with the Kenting family--I know that it
would be heartening--I might even say, an act of mercy--if you
stated frankly that you believe, as I am convinced you do, that
Kaspar planned this coup himself for reasons that are only too
obvious."

Vance looked at the man with a slightly puzzled expression and then
said noncommittally:  "If you believe that to be the case, Mr.
Fleel, what procedure would you suggest be followed?  You have
known the young man for a long time and are possibly in a position
to know how best to handle him."

"Personally," answered Fleel, "I think it is about time Kaspar
should be taught a rigorous lesson.  And I think we shall never
have a better opportunity.  If Kenyon agrees, and is able to
provide this preposterous sum, I would be heartily in favor of
following whatever further instructions are received, and then
letting the law take its course on the ground's of extortion.
Kaspar must be taught his lesson."  He turned to Kenting.  "Don't
you agree with me, Kenyon?"

"I don't know just what to say," Kenting returned in an obvious
quandary.  "But somehow I feel that you are right.  However,
remember that we have Madelaine to consider."

Mrs. Kenting began crying softly and dabbing her eyes.

"Still," she demurred, "Kaspar may not have done this terrible
thing at all.  But if he did . . ."

Fleel swung round again to Vance.  "Don't you see what I meant when
I asked you to state frankly your belief?  It would, I am sure,
greatly relieve Mrs. Kenting's anxiety, even though she thought her
husband was guilty of having planned this whole frightful affair."

"My dear sir!" returned Vance.  "I would be glad to say anything
which might relieve Mrs. Kenting's anxiety regarding the fate of
her husband.  But I assure you that at the present moment the
evidence does not warrant extending the comfort of any such belief,
either to you or to any member of the Kenting family. . . ."

At this moment there was an interruption.  At the hall door
appeared a short, middle-aged man with a sallow moon-like face,
sullen in expression.  Scant, colorless blond hair lay in straight
long strands across his bulging pate, in an unsuccessful effort to
cover up his partial baldness.  He wore thick-lensed rimless
glasses through which one of his watery blue eyes looked somehow
different from the other, and he stared at us as if he resented our
presence.  He had on a shabby butler's livery which was too big for
him and emphasized his awkward posture.  A cringing and subservient
self-effacement marked his general attitude despite his air of
insolence.

"What is it, Weem?" Mrs. Kenting asked, with no more than a glance
in the man's direction.

"There is a gentleman--an officer--at the front door," the butler
answered in a surly tone, "who says he wants to see Sergeant
Heath."

"What's his name?" snapped Heath, eyeing the butler with
belligerent suspicion.

The man looked at Heath morosely and answered, "He says his name is
McLaughlin."

Heath nodded curtly and looked up at Markham.

"That's all right, Chief," he said.  "McLaughlin was the man on
this beat last night, and I left word at the Bureau to send him up
here as soon as they could locate him.  I thought he might know
something, or maybe he saw something, that would give us a line on
what happened here last night."  Then he turned back to the butler.
"Tell the officer to wait for me.  I'll be down in a few minutes."

"Just a moment, Weem,--have I the name right?" Vance put in.
"You're the butler here, I understand."

The man inclined his head.

"Yes, sir," he said, in a low rumbling voice.

"And your wife is the cook, I believe?"

"Yes, sir."

"What time," asked Vance, "did you and your wife go to bed last
night?"

The butler hesitated a moment, and then looked shiftily at Mrs.
Kenting, but her back was to him.

He transferred his weight from one foot to the other before he
answered Vance.

"About eleven o'clock.  Mr. Kenting had gone out, and Mrs. Kenting
said she would not need me any more after ten o'clock."

"Your quarters are at the rear of the third floor, I believe?"

"Yes," the man returned with an abrupt, stiff nod.

"I say, Weem," Vance went on, "did either you or your wife hear
anything unusual in the house, after you had gone to your
quarters?"

The man again shifted his weight.

"No," he answered.  "Everything was quiet until I went to sleep--
and I didn't wake up till Mrs. Kenting rang for coffee around six."

"Then you didn't hear Mr. Kenting return to the house--or any one
else moving about the house between eleven o'clock last night and
six this morning?"

"No, nobody--I was asleep."

"That's all, Weem."  Vance nodded curtly and turned away.  "You'd
better take the Sergeant's message to Officer McLaughlin."

The butler shuffled away lackadaisically.

"I think," Vance said to Heath, "it was a good idea to get
McLaughlin. . . .  There's really nothing more to be done up here
just now.  Suppose we go down and find out what he can tell us."

"Right!"  And the Sergeant started toward the door, followed by
Vance, Markham, and myself.

Vance paused leisurely just before reaching the door and turned to
the small writing-table at the front of the room, on which the
telephone stood.  He regarded it contemplatively as he approached
it.  Opening the two shallow drawers, he peered into them.  He took
up the bottle of ink which stood at the rear of the table, just
under the low stationery rack, and read the label.  Setting the ink-
bottle back in its place, he turned to the small wastepaper basket
beside the table and bent over it.

When he rose he asked Mrs. Kenting:

"Does your husband do his writing at this table?"

"Yes, always," the woman answered, staring at Vance with a puzzled
frown.

"And never anywhere else?"

The woman shook her head slowly.

"Never," she told him.  "You see, he has very little
correspondence, and that writing-table was always more than
adequate for his needs."

"But did he never need any paste or mucilage?" Vance asked.  "I
don't see any here."

"Paste?"  Mrs. Kenting appeared still more puzzled.  "Why, no.  As
a matter of fact, I don't believe there's any in the house. . . .
But why--why do you ask?"

Vance looked up at the woman and smiled at her somewhat
sympathetically.

"I'm merely trying to learn the truth about everything, and I beg
that you forgive any questions which seem irrelevant."

The woman made no reply, and Vance again went toward the door where
Markham and Heath and I were waiting, and we all went out into the
hall.

As we reached the narrow landing half-way down the stairs, Markham
suddenly stopped, letting Heath proceed on his way.  He took Vance
by the arm, detaining him.

"See here, Vance," he said aggressively, but in a subdued tone, so
that no one in the room from which we had just come should overhear
him.  "This kidnapping doesn't strike me as being entirely on the
level.  And I don't believe you yourself think that it is."

"Oh, my Markham!" deplored Vance.  "Art thou a mind-reader?"

"Drop that," continued Markham angrily.  "Either the kidnappers
have no intention of harming young Kenting, or else--as Fleel
suggests--Kenting staged the whole affair and kidnapped himself."

"I am waiting patiently for the question I fear is en route,"
sighed Vance with resignation.

"What I want to know," Markham went on doggedly, "is why you
refused to offer any hope, or to admit the possibility of either of
these hypotheses, when you know damn well that the mere expression
of such an opinion by you would have mitigated the apprehensions of
both Mrs. Kenting and the young fellow's brother."

Vance heaved a deep sigh and gazed at Markham a moment with a look
of mock commiseration.

"Really, y' know, Markham," he said lightly, but with a certain
seriousness, "you're a most admirable character, but you're far too
naive for this unscrupulous world.  Both you and your legal friend,
Fleel, are quite wrong in your suppositions.  I assure you, don't
y' know, that I am not sufficiently cruel to extend false hopes to
any one."

"What do you mean by that, Vance?" Markham demanded.

"My word, Markham!  I can mean only one thing."

Vance continued to gaze at the District Attorney with sympathetic
affection and lowered his voice.

"The chappie, I fear, is already dead."



CHAPTER IV

A STARTLING DECLARATION


(Wednesday, July 20; 11:45 a.m.)


There was something as startling as it was ominous about Vance's
astonishing words.  However, even in the dim light of the stairway
I could see the serious expression on his face, and the finality of
his tone convinced me that there was little or no doubt in his mind
as to the truth of his words regarding Kaspar Kenting's fate.

Markham was stunned for a moment, but he was, I could see, frankly
skeptical.  The various bits of evidence uncovered in Kaspar
Kenting's room seemed to point indisputably toward a very definite
conclusion, which was quite the reverse of the conclusion which
Vance had evidently reached.  And I was sure that Markham felt as I
did about it, and that he was as much surprised and confused as I
at Vance's amazing statement.  Markham did not relinquish his hold
on Vance's arm.  He apparently recovered his poise almost
immediately and spoke in a hoarse undertone.

"You have a reason for saying that, Vance?"

"Tut, tut, my dear fellow," Vance returned lightly "This is neither
the place nor the time to discuss the matter.  I'll be quite
willin' to point out all the obvious evidence to you later on.  We
are not dealing here with surface indications--those are quite
consistent with the pattern which has been so neatly cut out for
us.  We are dealing with falsifications and subtleties; and I abhor
them. . . .  We'd better wait a while, don't y' know.  At the
moment I am most anxious to hear what McLaughlin has to say to the
Sergeant.  Let's descend and listen, what?"

Markham shrugged, gave Vance a nettled look, and relaxed his grip
on the other's arm.

"Have it your own way," he grumbled.  "Anyway," he added
stubbornly, "I think you're wrong."

"It could be, of course," returned Vance with a nod.  "Really, I'd
like to believe it."

Slowly he went down the remaining steps to the lower hallway.
Markham and I followed in silence.

McLaughlin, a heavy-footed Irishman, was just entering the drawing-
room in answer to a peremptory beckoning finger from the Sergeant,
who had preceded him.  The officer looked overgrown and abnormally
muscular in his tight civilian suit of blue serge.  I caught a
whimsical look in Vance's eyes as his glance followed the man
through the open sliding doors.

Weem was just closing the street door, with his sullen, indifferent
manner.  A moment after we had reached the lower hallway, he turned
and, without a glance in our direction as he passed us, went
swiftly but awkwardly toward the rear of the house.  Vance watched
him pass from our line of vision, shook his head musingly, and then
went toward the drawing-room.

McLaughlin (whom I remembered from the famous case of Alvin
Benson,* when he came to that fateful house on West 48th Street, to
report the presence of a mysterious grey Cadillac) was just about
to speak to the Sergeant when he heard us enter the drawing-room.
Recognizing Markham, he saluted respectfully and stepped to one
side, facing us and waiting for orders.


* "The Benson Murder Case" (Scribners, 1926).


"McLaughlin," Heath began--his tone carried that official gruffness
he always displayed to his inferior officers, much to Vance's
amusement--"something damn wrong happened in this house last night--
or maybe it was early this morning, to be more exact.  What time
are you relieved from your beat here?"

"Regular time--eight o'clock," answered the man.  "I was just
fixing to go to bed an hour ago when the Inspector--"

"All right, all right," snapped Heath.  "I ordered the Department
to send you up.  We need a report.--Listen: where were you around
six o'clock this morning?"

"Doing my duty, sir," the officer assured Heath earnestly; "walking
down the other side of the street opposite here, makin' my regular
rounds."

"Did you see anybody, or anything, that looked suspicious?"
demanded the Sergeant, thrusting his jaw forward belligerently.

The man started slightly and squinted as if trying to recall
something.

"I did, at that, Sergeant!" he said.  "Only I wouldn't say as how
it was suspicious at the time, although the idea passed through my
mind.  But there wasn't any cause to take action."

"What was it, McLaughlin?  Shoot everything, whether you think it's
important or not."

"Well, Sergeant, a coupé--it was a dirty green color--pulled up on
this side of the street along about that time.  There were two men
in it, and one of the guys got out and opened the hood and took a
look at the engine.  I came across the street and gave the car the
once-over.  But everything seemed on the up-and-up, and I didn't
bother 'em.  Anyhow, I stood there and watched, and pretty soon the
driver got in and the coupé drove away.  When it went down the
block toward Columbus Avenue, the exhaust was open. . . .  Well,
Sergeant, there was nothing I could do about it then, so I went
back across the street and walked on up to Broadway."

"That all you noticed?"

"No, it ain't, Sergeant."  McLaughlin was looking a little
uncomfortable.  "I was just coming round the corner from Central
Park West, back into 86th Street again, about twenty minutes later,
when the same coupé went by me like hell--only, this time it was
headed east instead of west--and it turned into the park--"

"How do you know it was the same coupé, McLaughlin?"

"Well, I ain't takin' no oath on it, Sergeant," the officer
answered; "but it was the same kinda car, and the same dirty-green
color, and the exhaust was still open.  And there was two guys in
it, just like before, and the driver looked to me like the same
big, smooth-faced guy who had his head stuck in the hood when I
first crossed the street to look the situation over."  McLaughlin
took a deep breath and gave the Sergeant an apprehensive look, as
if he expected a reprimand.

"You didn't see or hear anything else?" growled Heath.  "It musta
been pretty light at that time of the morning, with the sun up."

"Not another thing, Sergeant," the officer asserted, with obvious
relief.  "When I first seen the car I was headed toward Columbus;
and I went on down to Broadway, and then swung round through 87th
Street to Central Park West and over again on 86th.  As I says, it
took me about twenty minutes."

"Exactly where was that coupé when you first got a squint at it?"

"Right along the curb, about a hundred feet up the street from
here, toward the park."

"Why didn't you ask some questions of them guys in the car?"

"I told you before, there was nothing suspicious about 'em--not
until they went by me, going in the other direction.  When I first
seen 'em I thought they was just a couple of bums goin' home from a
joy-ride.  They was quiet and polite enough, and didn't act like
trouble.  These guys was plenty sober, and they was total strangers
to me.  There wasn't no reason to interfere with 'em--honest to
God!"

Heath thought for a moment and puffed on his cigar.

"Which way did the car go when it entered the park?"

"Well, Sergeant, it went into the transverse, as if it was headed
for the east side.  Even if I'd wanted to grab the gorillas I
wouldn'ta had time.  Before I coulda got the call-box on the Avenue
and talked to the fella over there, the car woulda been to hell and
gone.  And there was no car or taxi anywhere round that I coulda
chased 'em in.  Anyway, I figured they was on the level."

Heath turned with annoyance and paced impatiently up and down the
room.

"I say, officer," put in Vance, "were both occupants of the coupé
white men?"

"Sure they was, sir."  The officer answered emphatically, but with
an air of deference which he had not shown to the Sergeant.  Vance
was standing beside Markham, and McLaughlin must have assumed that
Vance was speaking for the District Attorney, as it were.

"And couldn't there have been a third man in the coupé?" Vance
proceeded.  "A smaller man, let us say, whom you didn't see--on his
knees, and hidden from view, perhaps?"

"Well, there mighta been, sir,--I ain't swearin' there wasn't.  I
didn't open either one of the doors and look in.  But there was
plenty of room in the car for him to be sittin' up.  Why should he
be lying on the floor?"

"I haven't the remotest idea--except that he might have been hiding
because he didn't wish to be seen," Vance returned apathetically.

"Gosh!" muttered McLaughlin.  "You think there was three men in
that car?"

"Really, McLaughlin, I don't know," Vance drawled.  "It would
simplify matters if we knew there had been three men in the car.  I
crave a small pussy-footed fellow."

The Sergeant had stopped his pacing across the room and now stood
near the desk, listening to Vance with an amused interest.

"I don't getcha at all, Mr. Vance," he muttered respectfully.  "Two
tough guys is enough for any snatch."

"Oh, quite, Sergeant.  As you say.  Two are quite sufficient,"
Vance returned somewhat cryptically.  Again he addressed himself to
McLaughlin.  "By the by, officer, did you, by any chance, stumble
upon a ladder during your nocturnal circuit in these parts last
night?"

"I seen a ladder, if that's what you mean," the man admitted.  "It
was leanin' up against that maple tree in the garden out here.  I
noticed it when it began to get light.  But I figured it was only
being used to prune the tree, or something.  There certainly wasn't
any use in reportin' a ladder in a gent's yard, was there?"

"Oh, no," Vance assured him indifferently.  "Silly idea, going
about reportin' ladders--eh, what? . . .  That ladder's still in
the yard, officer; only, this morning it was restin' up against the
house, under an open window."

"Honest to God?"  McLaughlin's eyes grew bigger.  "I hope it was
O.-K. not to report it."

"Oh, quite," Vance encouraged him.  "It wouldn't have done a
particle of good, anyway.  Some one, don't y' know, moved it from
the tree and placed it against the house while you were strollin'
up Broadway and round 87th Street.  Probably doesn't mean anything
of any particular importance, however. . . .  I say, did you ever
notice a ladder in this yard before?"

The man shook his head ponderously.

"No, sir," he said, with a certain vague emphasis.  "Can't say that
I ever have.  They generally keep that yard looking pretty neat and
nice."

"Thanks awfully."  Vance sauntered to the sofa and sat down lazily,
stretching his legs out before him.  It was obvious he had no other
questions to put to the officer.

Heath straightened up and took the cigar from his mouth.

"That's all, McLaughlin.  Much obliged for coming down.  Go on home
and hit the hay.  I may, and may not, want to see you again later."

The officer saluted half-heartedly and went toward the door.

"Look here, Sergeant," he said, halting and turning around.  "Do
you mind telling me what happened here last night?  You got me
worryin' about that coupé."

"Oh, nothing much happened, I guess.  A phony snatch of some kind.
It don't look serious, but we have to check up.  Young fella named
Kaspar Kenting ain't anywhere abouts.  And there was a cockeyed
ransom note."

The officer seemed speechless for a moment.  Then he half gasped.

"Honest?  Jeez!"

"Do you know him, McLaughlin?"

"Sure I know him.  I see him lots of times coming home at all hours
of the mornin'.  Half the time he's pie-eyed."

Heath showed no further inclination to talk, and McLaughlin went
lumbering from the room.  A moment later the front door shut
noisily after him.

"What now, Mr. Vance?"  Heath was again resting his weight against
the desk, puffing vigorously on his cigar.

Vance drew in his legs, as if with great effort, and sighed.

"Oh, much more, Sergeant," he yawned in answer.  "You haven't the
faintest idea of how much I'd really like to learn about a number
of things. . . ."

"But see here, Vance," interrupted Markham, "I first want to know
what you meant by that statement you made as we were coming down
the stairs.  I can't see it at all, and I'd bet money that fellow
Kaspar is as safe as you or I."

"I'm afraid you'd lose your wager, old dear."

"But all the evidence points--" began Markham.

"Please, oh, please, Markham," implored Vance.  "Must we
necessarily lean wherever a finger points?  I say, let's get the
completed picture first.  Then we can speak with more or less
certainty about the indications.  Can't a johnnie hazard a guess
without being quizzed by the great Prosecutor for the Common
People?"

"Damn it, Vance!" Markham returned angrily; "drop the persiflage
and get down to business.  I want to know why you said what you did
on the stairs, in the face of all the evidence to the contrary.
Are you in possession of any facts to which I have not had access?"

"Oh, no--no," replied Vance mildly, stretching out still further in
the chair.  "You've seen and heard everything I have.  Only, we
interpret the findin's in different ways."

"All right."  Markham made an effort to curb his impatience.
"Let's hear how you interpret these facts."

"Pardon me, Chief," put in Heath; "I didn't hear what Mr. Vance
said to you on the stairs.  I don't know what his ideas on the case
are."

Markham took the cigar from his mouth and looked at the Sergeant.

"Mr. Vance doesn't believe that Kaspar Kenting was kidnapped merely
for money or that he may have walked out and staged the kidnapping
himself.  He said he thinks that the fellow is already dead."

Heath spun round abruptly to Vance.

"The hell you say!" he exclaimed.  "How in the name of God did you
get such an idea, Mr. Vance?"

Vance smoked a moment before replying.  Then he spoke as if the
explanation were of no importance:

"My word, Sergeant!  It seems sufficiently indicated."

He paused again and looked back meditatively to the District
Attorney, who was standing before him, teetering impatiently on his
toes.

"Do you really think, Markham, that your plotting Kaspar would have
gone to the Jersey casino to indulge in a bit of gamblin' on his
big night--that is to say, on the night he intended to carry out
his grand coup involvin' fifty thousand dollars?"

"And why not?" Markham wanted to know.

"It's quite obvious this criminal undertaking was carefully
prepared in advance.  The note itself is sufficient evidence of
this, with its letters and words painstakingly cut out and all
neatly pasted on a piece of disguised paper."

"The criminal undertaking, as you call it, need not necessarily
have been prepared very far in advance," objected Markham.  "Kaspar
would have had time to do his cutting and pasting when he returned
from the casino."

"Oh, no, I don't think so," Vance returned at once.  "I took a good
look at the desk and the wastepaper basket.  No evidence whatever
of such activity.  Moreover, the johnnie's phone call in the wee
hours of the morning shows a certain amount of expectation on his
part of getting the matter of his financial difficulties settled."

"Go on," said Markham, as Vance paused once more.

"Very good," continued Vance.  "Why should Kaspar Kenting have
taken three hours to change to street clothes after he had returned
from his pleasant evening of desult'ry gambling?  A few minutes
would have sufficed.  And another question:  Why should he wait
until bright daylight before going forth?  The darkness would have
been infinitely safer and better suited to his purpose."

"How do you know he didn't go much earlier--before it was
daylight?" demanded Markham.

"But, my dear fellow," explained Vance, "the ladder was still
leanin' against the tree around dawn, when McLaughlin saw it, and
therefore was not placed against the window until after sun-up.
I'm quite sure that, had Kaspar planned a disappearance, he would
have placed the ladder at the window ere he departed--eh, what?"

"I see what you mean, Mr. Vance," Heath threw in eagerly.  "And
Mrs. Kenting herself told us that she heard some one in the room at
six o'clock this morning."

"True, Sergeant; but that's not the important thing," Vance
answered casually.  "As a matter of fact, I don't think it was
Kaspar at all whom Mrs. Kenting says she heard in her husband's
room at that hour this morning. . . .  And, by the by, Markham,
here's still another question to be considered:  Why was the
communicatin' door between Kaspar's room and his wife's left
unlocked, if the gentleman contemplated carrying out a desperate
and important plot that night?  He would certainly not have left
that door unlocked if he planned any such action.  He would have
guarded against any unwelcome intrusion on the part of his wife,
who had merely to turn the knob and walk in and spoil all the fun,
as it were. . . .  And, speakin' of the door, you remember the lady
opened it at six, right after hearin' some one walkin' in the room
in what she described as soft slippers.  But when she went into the
room there was no one there.  Ergo:  Whoever it was she heard must
have left the room hurriedly when she first knocked and called to
her husband.  And don't forget that it is his heavy blucher shoes
that are gone--not his slippers.  If it had been Kaspar she heard,
imitatin' a slipper-shod gentleman, and if Kaspar had quickly gone
out the hall door and down the front stairs, she would certainly
have heard him, as she was very much on the alert at that moment.
And, also, if he'd scrambled through the window and down the ladder
with his heavy shoes on, he could hardly have done so without a
sound.  But the tellin' question in this connection is:  Why, if
the soft-footed person in the master bedroom was Kaspar, did he
wait till his wife knocked on the door and called to him before he
made a precipitate getaway?  He could have left at any time during
the three hours after he had come home from his highballs and
roulette-playin'.  All of which, I rather think, substantiates the
assumption that it was another person that the lady heard at six
o'clock this morning."

Markham's head moved slowly up and down.  His cigar had gone out,
but he paid no attention to it.

"I'm beginning to see what you mean, Vance; and I can't say your
conclusions leave me happy.  But what I want to know is--"

"Just a moment, Markham old dear.  Just a wee moment."  Vance
raised his hand to indicate that he had something further to say.
"If it had been Kaspar that Mrs. Kenting heard at six o'clock, he
would hardly have had time, before he scooted off at his wife's
knock, to collect his comb and toothbrush and pajamas.  Why should
the chappie have bothered to take them, in the first place?  True,
they are things he could well make use of on his hypothetical jaunt
for the purpose of getting hold of brother Kenyon's lucre, but he
would hardly go to that trouble on so vital and all-important a
venture,--the toilet articles would be far too trivial and could
easily be bought wherever he was going, if he was finicky about
such details.  Furthermore, if so silly a plot had been planned by
him he would have equipped himself surreptitiously beforehand and
would have had the beautifyin' accessories waitin' for him wherever
he had decided to go, rather than grabbin' them up at the last
minute."

Markham made no comment, and after a moment or two Vance resumed.

"Carryin' the supposition a bit forrader, he would have realized
that the absence of these necess'ry articles would be highly
suspicious and would point too obviously to the impression he would
have wished to avoid--namely, his own wilful participation in the
attempt to extort the fifty thousand dollars.  I'd say, y' know,
that these items for the gentleman's toilet were collected and
taken away--IN ORDER TO GIVE JUST THIS IMPRESSION--by the soft-
footed person heard by Mrs. Kenting. . . .  No, no, Markham.  The
comb and the toothbrush and the pajamas and the shoes are only
textural details--like the cat, the shawl-fringe, the posies, the
ribbon, and the bandanna in Manet's Olympia. . . ."

"Manufactured evidence--that's your theory, is it?"  Markham spoke
without any show of aggressiveness or antagonism.

"Exactly," nodded Vance.  "Far too many leadin' clues.  Really, the
culprit overdid it.  An embarras de richesses.  Whole structure
does a bit of topplin' of its own weight.  Very thorough.  Too
dashed thorough.  Nothing left to the imagination."

Markham took a few steps up the room, turned, and then walked back.

"You think it's a real kidnapping then?"

"It could be," murmured Vance.  "But that doesn't strike me as
wholly consistent either.  Too many counter-indications.  But I'm
only advancin' a theory.  For instance, if Kaspar was allowed time
to change his suit and shoes--as we know he did--he had time to
call out, or to make a disturbance of some kind which would have
upset all the kind-hearted villain's plans.  Hanging up his dinner
jacket so carefully, transferring things from his pockets, and
putting away his oxfords in the closet, all indicate leisure in the
process--a leisure which the kidnappers would hardly have
permitted.  Kidnappers are not benevolent persons, Markham."

"Well, what DO you think happened?" Markham asked in a subdued,
worried tone.

"Really, I don't know."  Vance studied the tip of his cigarette
with concern.  "We do know, however, that Kaspar had an engagement
last night which kept him out until three this morning; and that
upon his return here he telephoned to some one and then changed to
street clothes.  It might therefore be assumed that he made some
appointment to be kept between three and six and saw no necessity
of going to bed in the interval.  This would also account for the
leisurely changing of his attire; and it is highly possible he went
quietly out through the front door when he fared forth to keep his
early-morning rendezvous.  Assumin' that this theory is correct,
I'd say further that he expected to return anon, for he left all
the lights on.  And one more thing:  I think it safe to assume that
the door from his bedroom into the hall was unlocked this morning--
otherwise, Mrs. Kenting would have remembered unlocking it when she
ordered coffee and went downstairs."

"And even if everything you say is true," argued Markham, "what
could have happened to him?"

Vance sighed deeply.

"All we actually know at the moment, my dear Markham," he answered,
"is that the johnnie did not come back.  He seems to have
disappeared.  At any rate, he isn't here."

"Even so,"--Markham drew himself up with a slight show of annoyance--
"why do you take it for granted that Kaspar Kenting is already
dead?"

"I don't take it for granted."  Vance, too, drew himself up and
spoke somewhat vigorously.  "I said merely that I FEARED the
johnnie is already dead.  If he did not, as it were, kidnap
himself, d' ye see, and if he wasn't actually kidnapped as the term
is commonly understood, then the chances are he was murdered when
he went forth to keep his appointment.  His disappearance and the
elaborate clues arranged hereabouts to make it appear like a
deliberate self-abduction, imply a connection between his
appointment and the evidence we observed in his room.  Therefore,
it's more than likely, don't y' know, that if he were held alive
and later released, he could relate enough--whom he had the
appointment with, for instance--to lead us to the guilty person or
persons.  His immediate death would have been the only safe
course."

As Vance spoke Heath had come forward and stood close to Markham.

"Your theory, Mr. Vance, sounds reasonable enough the way you tell
it," the Sergeant commented doggedly.  "But still and all--"

Vance had risen and was breaking his cigarette in an ash tray.

"Why argue about the case, Sergeant," he interrupted, "when, as
yet, there is so little evidence to go on? . . .  Let's dawdle
about a bit longer and learn more about things."

"Learn what, and about what things?" Markham almost barked.

Vance was in one of his most dulcet moods.

"Really, if we knew, Markham, we wouldn't have to learn, would we?
But Kenyon Kenting, I ween, harbors a number of fruitful items:--
I'm sure a bit of social intercourse with the gentleman would be
most illuminatin'.  And then there's your friend, Mr. Fleel, the
trusted Justinian of the Kenting household: I've a feelin' he might
be prevailed upon to suggest a few details here and there and
elsewhere.  And Mrs. Kenting herself might cast a few more rays
of light into the darkness.  And let's not overlook old Mrs.
Falloway--Mrs. Kenting's mother, y' know--who I think lives here.
Exceptional old dowager.  I met her once or twice before she became
an invalid.  Fascinatin' creature, Markham; bulgin' with original
ideas, and shrewd no end.  And it could be that even the butler
Weem would be willin' to spin a yarn or two--he appears displeased
and restive enough to give vent to some unflatterin' family
confidences. . . .  Really, y' know, I think all these seemingly
trivial matters should be attended to ere we depart."

"Don't worry about such things, Vance," Markham advised him
gravely.  "They are all routine matters, and they'll be taken care
of at the proper time."

"Oh, Markham--my dear Markham!"  Vance was lighting another
cigarette.  "The present time is always the proper time."  He took
a few inhalations and blew the smoke forth indolently.  "Really,
I'm rather interested in the case, don't y' know.  It has most
amazin' possibilities.  And as long as you've deprived me of
attendin' the dog show today, I think I'll do a bit of snoopin'
here and about."

"All right," Markham acquiesced.  "What is it you wish to focus
your prodigious powers on first?"

"My word, such flattery!" exclaimed Vance.  "I haven't a single
prodigious power--I'm a mere broken reed.  But I simply can't bear
not to inspect that ladder."

Heath chuckled.

"Well, that's easy, Mr. Vance.  Come on round to the yard.  No
trouble getting in from the street."

And he started energetically toward the front door.



CHAPTER V

ON THE RUNGS OF THE LADDER


(Wednesday, July 20; 12:30 p.m.)


We followed the Sergeant through the ponderous front door, down the
stone steps, and across the flagstones.  The sun was still shining
brightly, and there was hardly a cloud in the sky.  The light was
so brilliant that for a moment it almost blinded me after the
dimness of the Kenting interior.  The Sergeant led the way thirty
or forty feet east, along the sidewalk, until he came to the small
gate in the low iron fence which divided the attractively sodded
court of the Kenting house from the street.  The gate was not on
the latch, but stood slightly ajar, and the Sergeant pushed it wide
open with his foot.

Heath was first to enter the enclosure, and he walked ahead with
arms outstretched, holding us back from a too precipitate
intrusion, like a prudent brood-hen guiding her recalcitrant and
over-ambitious chicks.

"Don't come too close," he admonished us with a solemn air.  "There
are footprints at the bottom of the ladder and we gotta save 'em
for Cap Jerym's* plaster casts."


* Captain Anthony P. Jerym, Bertillon expert of the New York Police
Department.


"Well, well," smiled Vance.  "Maybe you'll permit me to come as
near as Captain Jerym will have to go to perform his sculpture?"

"Sure."  Heath grinned.  "But I don't want them footprints
interfered with.  They may be the best clue we'll get."

"Dear me!" sighed Vance.  "As important as all that, Sergeant?"

Heath leaned forward and scowled as Vance stood beside him.

"Look at this one, Mr. Vance,"--and the Sergeant pointed to an
impression in the border of the hedge within a foot of where the
ladder stood.

"My word!" exclaimed Vance.  "I'm abominably flattered by even such
consideration as letting me come within viewing distance of the
bally footprints."  Again taking out his monocle he adjusted it
carefully and, kneeling down on the lawn, inspected the imprint.
He took several moments doing so, and a puzzled frown slowly spread
over his face as he carefully scrutinized the mark in the neatly
raked soil of the hedge.

"You know, sir, we was lucky," Heath asserted.  "It drizzled most
of yesterday afternoon, and around about eight o'clock last night
it got to raining pretty hard, though it did clear up before
midnight."

"Really, Sergeant!  I knew it only too well!"  Vance did not look
up.  "I planned to go to the tennis matches at Forest Hills
yesterday afternoon, to see young Henshaw* play, but I simply
couldn't bear the inclement weather."  He said nothing more for
several moments--his entire interest seemed to be centred on the
footprint he was inspecting.  At length he murmured without
turning:  "Rather small footprint here--eh, what?"


* The sensational Davis cup winner and America's first seeded
player at the time.


"I'll say it is," agreed Heath.  "Mighta been a dame.  And it looks
like it was made with flat slippers of some kind.  There's no heel
mark."

"No, no heel mark," agreed Vance abstractedly.  "As you say,
no heel mark.  Quite right.  Obvious, in fact.  Curious.  I
wonder. . . ."

He leaned closer to the impression in the sod of the hedge, and
went on:

"But really, y' know, I shouldn't say the print was made by a
slipper--unless, of course, you wish to call a sandal a slipper."

"Is that it, Mr. Vance?"  The Sergeant was half contemptuous and
half interested.

"Yes, yes; rather plain," Vance returned in a low voice.  "Not an
ordin'ry sandal, either.  A Chinese sandal I'd say.  Slightly
turned-up tip."

"A Chinese sandal?"  Heath's tone was almost one of ridicule now.

"More than likely, don't y' know."  Vance rose and brushed the soil
from his trousers.

"I suppose you'll be telling us next that this whole case is just
another Tong war."  Heath evidently did not deem Vance's conclusion
worthy of serious consideration.

Vance was still leaning forward, rubbing vigorously at a spot on
one knee.  He stopped suddenly and, ignoring the Sergeant's
raillery, leaned still farther forward.

"And, by Jove! here's another imprint."  He pointed with his
cigarette to a slight depression in the lawn just at the foot of
the ladder.

The Sergeant leaned over curiously.

"So it is, sir!" he exclaimed, and his tone had become respectful.
"I didn't see that one before."

"It really doesn't matter, y' know.  Similar to the other one."
Vance stepped past Heath and grasped the ladder with both hands.

"Look out, sir!" cautioned Heath angrily.  "You'll make finger-
prints on that ladder."

Vance relaxed his hold on the ladder momentarily, and turned to
Heath with an amused smile.

"I'll at least give Dubois and Bellamy something to work on," he
said lightly.  "I fear there won't be any other finger-prints on
this irrelevant exhibit.  And it will be rather difficult to pin
the crime on me.  I've an unimpeachable alibi.  Sittin' at home
with Van Dine here, and readin' a bedtime story from Boccaccio."

Heath was spluttering.  Before he could answer, Vance turned,
grasped the ladder again, and lifted it so that its base was clear
of the ground.  Then he set it down several inches to the right.

"Really, Sergeant, you have nothing whatever to be squeamish about.
Cheer up, and be more trustin'.  Consider the lilies, and don't
forget that the snail's on the thorn."

"What's lilies and snails gotta do with it?" demanded Heath
irritably.  "I'm tryin' to tell you--"

Before the Sergeant could protest Vance had thrown his cigarette
carelessly away and was moving quickly up the ladder, rung by rung.
When he was about three-quarters of the way up he stopped and made
his way down.  When he had descended and stood again on the lawn,
he carefully and deliberately lighted another cigarette.

"I'm rather afraid to look and see just what happened.  It would be
most humiliatin' if I were wrong.  However. . . ."

Again he lifted the ladder and moved it still farther to the right.
Then he went a second time on his knees and inspected the new
imprints which the two uprights of the ladder had made in the
ground.  After a moment he looked studiously at the original
imprints of the ladder; and I could see that he was comparing the
two sets.

"Very interestin'," he murmured as he rose and turned to Heath.

"What's interesting?" demanded the Sergeant.  He again seemed to be
nettled by Vance's complete disregard of the risk of making finger-
prints on the ladder.

"Sergeant," Vance told him seriously, "the imprints I just made
when I mounted the ladder are of practically the same depth as the
imprints made by the ladder last night."  Vance took a deep puff on
his cigarette.  "Do you see the significance of the results of that
little test of mine?"

Heath corrugated his forehead, pursed his lips, and looked at Vance
questioningly.

"Well, Mr. Vance, to tell you the truth--"  He hesitated.  "I can't
say as I do see what it means--except that you've maybe spoiled a
lot of good finger-prints."

"It means several other things.  And don't stew so horribly about
your beloved hypothetical fingerprints."  Vance broke the ashes
from his cigarette against the ladder, and sat down lazily on the
second rung.  "Imprimis, it means that two men were not on the
ladder at the same time last night--or, rather, this morning.
Secondly, it means that whoever was on that ladder was a very
slight person who could not have weighed over 120 or 130 pounds.
Thirdly, it means that Mr. Kaspar Kenting was not kidnapped via yon
open window at all. . . .  Does any of that help?"

"I still can't see it."  Heath was holding his cigar meditatively
between thumb and forefinger.

"My dear Sergeant!" sighed Vance.  "Let us reflect and analyze for
a moment.  When the ladder was placed against this window between
dawn and six o'clock, before the sun had come up, the ground was
much softer than it is now, and any weight or pressure on the
ladder would have created imprints of a certain depth in the moist
sod.  At the present time the soil is obviously drier and harder,
for the sun has been shining on it for several hours.  However, you
noted--did you not?--that the ladder sank into the ground--or,
rather, made impressions in the ground--when I mounted it, of equal
depth with that of the earlier imprints.  I have a feelin' that if
I had mounted the ladder when the ground was considerably damper
the ladder would have gone in deeper--eh, what?"

"I getcha now," blurted Heath.  "The guy who went up that ladder
early this morning musta been a damn sight lighter than you, Mr.
Vance."

"Right-o, Sergeant."  Vance smiled musingly.  "It was a very small
person.  And if TWO persons had been on that ladder--that is, Mr.
Kaspar Kenting and his supposed abductor--I rather think the
original impressions made by the ladder would have been far
deeper."

"Sure they would."  Heath was gazing down at the two sets of
impressions as if hypnotized.

"Therefore," Vance went on casually, "aren't we justified in
assuming that only one person stepped on this ladder early this
morning, and that that person was a very slight and fragile human
being?"

Heath looked up at Vance with puzzled admiration.

"Yes, sir.  But where does that get us?"

"The findings, as it were," continued Vance, "taken in connection
with the footprints, seem to tell us that a Chinese gentleman of
small stature was the only person who used this ladder.  Pure
supposition, of course, Sergeant; but I rather opine that--"

"Yes, yes," Markham interrupted.  He had been drawing vigorously on
his cigar, giving his earnest attention to the demonstration and
Vance's subsequent conversation with Heath.  He now nodded
comprehendingly.  "Yes," he repeated.  "You see some connection
between these footprints and the more-or-less Chinese signature on
that ransom note."

"Oh, quite--quite," agreed Vance.  "You show amazin' perspicacity.
That's precisely what I was thinkin'."

Markham was silent for a moment.

"Any other ideas, Vance?" he demanded somewhat peevishly.

"Oh, no--not a thing, old dear."  Vance blew a ribbon of smoke into
the air, and rose lackadaisically.

He cast a meditative glance back at the ladder and at the trimmed
privet hedge behind it, which ran the full length of the house.  He
stood motionless for a moment and squinted.

"I say, Markham," he commented in a low voice; "there's something
shining there in the hedge.  I don't think it's a leaf that's
reflecting the light at that one spot."

As he spoke he moved quickly to a point just at the left of where
the ladder now stood.  He looked down at the small green leaves of
the privet for a moment, and then, reaching forward with both
hands, he separated the dense foliage and leaned over, as if
seeking something.

"Ah! . . .  My word!"

As Vance separated the foliage still farther, I saw a silver-backed
dressing comb wedged between two closely forked branches of the
privet.

Markham, who was standing at an angle to Vance, started forward.

"What is it, Vance?" he demanded.

Vance, without answering him, reached down and retrieving the comb,
turned and held it out in the palm of his hand.

"It's just a comb, as you see, old dear," he said.  "An ordin'ry
comb from a gentleman's dressing set.  Ordin'ry, except for the
somewhat elaborate scrollwork of the silver back."  He glanced at
the astonished Heath.  "Oh, no need to be upset, Sergeant.  The
scrolled silver wouldn't take any clear finger-prints, anyway.  And
I'm quite certain you wouldn't find any, in any event."

"You think that's Kaspar Kenting's missing comb?" asked Markham
quickly.

"It could be, of course," nodded Vance.  "I rather surmise as much.
It was just beneath the open window of the chappie's boudoir."

Heath was shaking his head somewhat shamefacedly.

"How the hell did Snitkin and I miss that?"  His tone carried a
tinge of regret and self-criticism.

"Oh, cheer up, Sergeant," Vance encouraged him good-naturedly.
"You see, it was caught in the hedge before reaching the ground,
and was jolly well hidden by the density of the leaves.  I happened
to be standing at just the right angle to get a glimpse of it
through the leaves with the sun on it. . . .  I imagine that
whoever dropped it couldn't find it either, and, as time was
pressin', the curs'ry search was abandoned.  Interestin' item--
what?"  He tucked the comb into his upper waistcoat pocket.

Markham was still scowling, his eyes fixed inquiringly on Vance.

"What do you think about it?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm not thinkin', Markham."  Vance started toward the gate.
"I'm utterly exhausted.  Let's stagger back into the Kenting
domicile."

As we entered the front door, Mrs. Kenting, Kenyon Kenting, and
Fleel were just descending the stairs.

Vance approached them and asked, "Do any of you happen to know
anything about that ladder in the yard?"

"I never saw it before this morning," Mrs. Kenting answered slowly,
in a deadened voice.

"Nor I," added her brother-in-law.  "I can't imagine where it came
from, unless it was brought here last night by the kidnappers."

"And I, of course," said Fleel, "would have no way of knowing
anything about any ladders here.  I haven't been here for a long
time, and I never remember seeing a ladder around the premises
before."

"You're quite sure, Mrs. Kenting," pursued Vance, "the ladder
doesn't belong here?  Might it, perhaps, have been kept somewhere
at the rear of the house without your having seen it?"  He looked
at the woman with a slight frown.

"I'm quite sure it doesn't belong here," she said in the same
muffled tone of voice.  "Had it ever been here, I should have known
about it.  And, anyway, we have no need of such a ladder."

"Most curious," murmured Vance.  "The ladder was resting against
the maple tree in your courtyard early this morning when Officer
McLaughlin passed the house."

"The maple tree?"  Kenyon Kenting spoke with noticeable
astonishment.  "Then it was moved from the maple tree to the side
of the house later?"

"Exactly.  Obviously the people concerned in this affair made two
trips here last night.  Very confusin'--what?"

Vance dismissed the subject, and, reaching in his pocket, brought
out the comb he had found in the privet hedge, and held it out to
the woman.

"By the by, Mrs. Kenting, is this, by any chance, your husband's
comb?"

The woman stared at it with frightened eyes.

"Yes, yes!" she exclaimed almost inaudibly.  "That's Kaspar's comb.
Where did you find it, Mr. Vance,--and what does it mean?"

"I found it in the privet hedge just beneath his window," Vance
told her.  "But I don't know yet what it means, Mrs. Kenting."

Before the woman could ask further questions Vance turned quickly
to Kenyon Kenting and said:

"We should like to have a little chat with you, Mr. Kenting.  Where
can we go?"

The man looked around as if slightly dazed and undecided.

"I think the den might be the best place," he said.  He walked down
the hall to a room just beyond the still open entrance to the gem-
room, and, throwing the door wide, stepped to one side for us to
enter.  Mrs. Kenting and Fleel proceeded through the sliding doors
into the drawing-room on the opposite side of the hall.



CHAPTER VI

$50,000


(Wednesday, July 20; 12:45 p.m.)


Kenyon Kenting followed us into the den and, closing the door,
stepped to a large leather armchair, and sat down uneasily on the
edge of it.

"I will be very glad to tell you anything I know," he assured us.
Then he added, "But I'm afraid I can be of little help."

"That, of course, remains to be seen," murmured Vance.  He had gone
to the small bay window and stood looking out with his hands deep
in his coat pockets.  "First of all, we wish to know just what the
financial arrangement is between you and your brother.  I
understand that when your father died the estate was all left at
your disposal, and that whatever money Kaspar Kenting should
receive would be subject to your discretion."

Kenting nodded his head repeatedly, as if agreeing; but it was
evident that he was thinking the matter over.  Finally he said:

"That is quite right.  Fleel, however, was appointed the custodian,
so to speak, of the estate.  And I wish to assure you that not only
have I maintained this house for Kaspar, but have given him even
more money than I thought was good for him."

"Your brother is a bit of a spendthrift--eh, what?"

"He is very wasteful--and very fond of gambling."  Kenting spoke in
a guarded semi-resentful tone.  "He is constantly making demands on
me for his gambling debts.  I've paid a great many of them, but I
had to draw the line somewhere.  He has a remarkable facility for
getting into trouble.  He drinks far too much.  He has always been
a very difficult problem--especially in view of the fact that
Madelaine, his wife, has to be considered."

"Did you always decide these monet'ry matters entirely by
yourself?" Vance asked the man casually.  "Or did you confer with
Mr. Fleel about them?"

Kenting shot Vance a quick look and then glanced down again.

"I naturally consulted Mr. Fleel on any matters of importance
regarding the estate.  He is co-executor, appointed by my father.
In minor matters this is not necessary, of course; but I do not
have a free hand, as the distribution of the money is a matter of
joint responsibility; and, as I say, Mr. Fleel has, in a way,
complete legal charge of it.  But I can assure you that there were
never any clashes of opinion on the subject,--Fleel is wholly
reasonable and understands the situation thoroughly.  I find it an
ideal arrangement."

Vance smoked for several moments in silence, while the other man
looked vaguely before him.  Then Vance turned from the window and
sat down in the swivel chair before the old-fashioned roll-top desk
of oak at one side of the window.

"When was the last time you saw your brother?" he asked, busying
himself with his cigarette.

"The day before yesterday," the man answered promptly.  "I
generally see him at least three times a week--either here or at my
office downtown--there are always minor matters of one kind or
another to decide on, and he naturally depends a great deal on my
judgment.  In fact, the situation is such that even the ordinary
household expenses have always been referred to me."

Vance nodded without looking up.

"And did your brother bring up the subject of finances on Monday?"

Kenyon Kenting fidgeted a bit and shifted his position in the
chair.  He did not answer at once.  But at length he said, in a
half-hearted tone, "I would prefer not to go into that, inasmuch as
I regard it as a personal matter, and I cannot see that it has any
bearing on the present situation."

Vance studied the man for a moment.

"That is a point for us to decide, I believe," he said in a
peculiarly hard voice.  "We should like you to answer the
question."

Kenting looked again at Vance and then fixed his eyes on the wall
ahead of him.

"If you deem it necessary, of course--" he began.  "But I would
much prefer to say nothing about it."

"I'm afraid, sir," put in Markham, in his most aggressive official
manner, "we must insist that you answer the question."

Kenting shrugged reluctantly and settled back in his chair, joining
the tips of his fingers.

"Very well," he said resignedly.  "If you insist.  On Monday my
brother asked me for a large sum of money--in fact, he was
persistent about it, and became somewhat hysterical when I refused
him."

"Did he state what he required this money for?" asked Vance.

"Oh, yes," the man said angrily.  "The usual thing--gambling and
unwarranted debts connected with some woman."

"Would you be more specific as to the gambling debts?" pursued
Vance.

"Well, you know the sort of thing."  Kenting again shifted in his
chair.  "Roulette, black-jack, the bird-cage, cards--but
principally horses.  He owed several book-makers some preposterous
amount."

"Do you happen to know the names of any of these book-makers?"

"No, I don't."  Once more the man glanced momentarily at Vance then
lowered his eyes.  "Wait--I think one of them had a name something
like Hannix."*


* This was the same Mr. Hannix whom Vance had already met both at
Bowie and at Empire, and who had acted as Floyd Garden's book-maker
before that young man lost his interest in racing as a result of
the tragic events related in "The Garden Murder Case."


"Ah!  Hannix, eh?"  Vance contemplated his cigarette for a few
moments.  "What was so urgent about this as to produce hysterics?"

"The fact is," the other went on, "Kaspar told me the men were
unscrupulous and dangerous, and that he feared for himself if he
did not pay them off immediately.  He said he had already been
threatened."

"That doesn't sound like Hannix," mused Vance.  "Hannix looks
pretty hard, I know, but he's really a babe at heart.  He's a
shrewd gentleman, but hardly a vicious one. . . .  And I say, Mr.
Kenting, what was the nature of your brother's debts in connection
with the mysterious lady you mentioned?  Jewelry, perhaps?"

The man nodded vigorously.

"Yes, that's just it," he said emphatically.

"Well, well.  Everything seems to be running true to form.  Your
brother's position was not in the least original--what?  Gamblin'
debts, liquor, and ladies cravin' precious gems.  Most conventional,
don't y' know."  A faint smile played over Vance's lips.  "And you
denied your brother the money?"

"I had to," asserted Kenting.  "The amount would almost have
beggared the estate, what with so much tied up in what we've come
to call 'frozen assets.'  It was far more than I could readily get
together at the time, and anyway, I would have had to take the
matter up with Fleel, even if I had been inclined to comply with
Kaspar's demands.  And I knew perfectly well that Fleel would not
approve my doing so.  He has a moral as well as legal responsibility,
you understand."

Vance took several deep inhalations on his Régie and sent a
succession of ribbons of blue smoke toward the old discolored Queen-
Anne ceiling.

"Did your brother approach Mr. Fleel about the matter?"

"Yes, he did," the other returned.  "Whenever I refuse him anything
he goes immediately to Fleel.  As a matter of fact, Fleel has
always been more sympathetic with Kaspar than I have.  But Kaspar's
demand this time was too utterly outrageous, and Fleel turned him
down as definitely as I did.  And--although I don't like to say so--
I really think Kaspar was grossly exaggerating his needs.  Fleel
got the same impression, and mentioned to me over the phone the
next morning that he was very angry with Kaspar.  He told me, too,
that legally he was quite helpless in the matter and could not
accommodate Kaspar, even if he had personally wanted to."

"Has Mrs. Kenting any money of her own?" Vance asked unexpectedly.

"Nothing--absolutely nothing!" the man assured him.  "She is
entirely dependent upon what Kaspar gives her--which, of course,
means some part of what I allow him from the estate.  Often I think
that he does not do the right thing by her and deprives her of many
of the things she should have, so that he himself can fritter the
money away."  A scowl came over the man's face.  "But there's
nothing I can do about it.  I have tried to remonstrate with him,
but it's worse than useless."

"In view of this morning's occurrence," suggested Vance, "it may be
that your brother was not unduly exaggerating about the necessity
for this money."

Kenting became suddenly serious, and his eyes wandered unhappily
about the room.

"That is a horrible thought, sir," he said, half under his breath.
"But it is one that occurred to me immediately when I arrived here
early this morning.  And you can be sure it left me uncomfortable."

Vance regarded the man dubiously as he addressed him again.

"When you receive further instructions regarding the ransom money,
what do you intend to do about it--that is to say, just what is
your feeling in the matter?"

Kenting rose from his chair and stood looking down at the floor.
He appeared deeply troubled.

"As a brother," he said slowly, "what can I do?  I suppose I must
manage somehow to get the money and pay it.  I can't let Kaspar be
murdered. . . .  It's a frightful situation."

"Yes--quite," agreed Vance.

"And then there's Madelaine.  I could never forgive myself. . . .
I say again, it's a frightful situation."

"Nasty mess.  Rather.  Still, I have a groggy notion," Vance went
on, "that you won't be called upon to pay the ransom money at
all. . . .  And, by the by, Mr. Kenting, you didn't mention the
amount that your brother asked for when you last saw him.  Tell me:
how much did he want to get him out of his imagin'ry difficulties?"

Kenting raised his head sharply and looked at Vance with a
shrewdness he had not hitherto displayed during the interview.
Withal, he seemed ill at ease and took a few nervous steps back and
forth before replying.

"I was hoping you wouldn't ask me that question," he said
regretfully.  "I avoided it purposely, for I am afraid it might
create an erroneous impression."

"How much was it?" snapped Markham.  "We must get on with this."

"Well, the truth is," Kenting stammered with evident reluctance,
"Kaspar wanted fifty thousand dollars.  Sounds incredible, doesn't
it?" he added apologetically.

Vance leaned back in the swivel chair and looked unseeingly at one
of the old etchings over the desk.

"I imagined that was the figure," he murmured.  "Thanks awfully,
Mr. Kenting.  We sha'n't bother you any more just now, except that
I should like to know whether Mrs. Kenting's mother, Mrs. Falloway,
still lives here in the Purple House."

Kenting seemed surprised at the question.

"Oh, yes," he said with disgruntled emphasis.  "She still occupies
the front suite on the third floor with her son, Mrs. Kenting's
brother.  But the woman is crippled now and can get about only with
a cane.  She rarely is able to come downstairs, and she almost
never goes outdoors."

"What about the son?" asked Vance.

"He's the most incompetent young whippersnapper I've ever known.
He always seems to be sickly and has never earned so much as a
penny.  He's perfectly content to live here with his mother at the
expense of the Kenting estate."  The man's manner now had something
of resentment and venom in it.

"Most unpleasant and annoyin' situation--what?"  Vance rose and put
out his cigarette.  "Does Mrs. Falloway or her son know about what
happened here last night?"

"Oh, yes," the man told him.  "Both Madelaine and I spoke to them
about it this morning, as we saw no point in keeping the matter a
secret."

"And we, too, should like to speak to them," said Vance.  "Would
you be so good as to take us upstairs?"

Kenting seemed greatly relieved.

"I'll be glad to," he said, and started for the door.  We followed
him upstairs.

Mrs. Falloway was a woman between sixty and sixty-five years old.
She was of heavy build and seemed to possess a corresponding
aggressiveness.  Her skin was somewhat wrinkled, but her thick hair
was almost black, despite her years.  There was an unmistakable
masculinity about her, and her hands were large and bony, like
those of a man.  She had an intelligent and canny expression, and
her features were large and striking.  Withal, there was a wistful
feminine look in her eyes.  She impressed me as a woman with an
iron will, but also with an innate sense of loyalty and sympathy.

When we entered her room that morning Mrs. Falloway was sitting
placidly in a wicker armchair in front of the large bay window.
She wore an antiquated black alpaca dress which fell in voluminous
folds about her and completely hid her feet.  An old-fashioned hand-
crocheted afghan was thrown over her shoulders.  On the floor
beside her chair lay a long heavy Malakka cane with a shepherd's-
crook gold handle.

At an old and somewhat dilapidated walnut secretary sat a thin,
sickly youth, with straight dark hair which fell forward over his
forehead, and large, prominent features.  There was no mistaking
mother and son.  The pale youth held a magnifying glass in one hand
and was moving it back and forth over a page of exhibits in a stamp
album which was propped up at an angle facing the light.

"These gentlemen wish to speak to you, Mrs. Falloway," Kenyon
Kenting said in an unfriendly tone.  (It was obvious that an
antagonism of some kind existed between the woman and this man on
whose bounty she depended.)  "I won't remain," Kenting added.  "I
think I'd better join Madelaine."  He went to the door and opened
it.  "I'll be downstairs if you should need me."  This last remark
was addressed to Vance.

When he had gone, Vance took a few steps toward the woman with an
air of solicitation.

"Perhaps you remember me, Mrs. Falloway--" he began.

"Oh, very well, Mr. Vance.  It is very pleasant to see you again.
Do sit down in that armchair there, and try to imagine that this
meager room is a Louis-Seize salon."  There was a note of apology
in her voice, accompanied by an unmistakable undertone of rancor.

Vance bowed formally.

"Any room you grace, Mrs. Falloway," he said, "becomes the most
charming of salons."  He did not accept her invitation to sit down,
however, but remained standing deferentially.

"What do you make of this situation?" she went on.  "And do you
really think anything has happened to my son-in-law?"  Her voice
was hard and low-pitched.

"I really cannot say just yet," Vance answered.  "We were hopin'
you might be able to help us."  He casually presented the others of
us, and the woman acknowledged the introductions with dignified
graciousness.

"This is my son, Fraim," she said, waving with a bony hand toward
the anæmic young man at the secretary.

Fraim Falloway rose awkwardly and inclined his head without a word;
then he sank back listlessly into his chair.

"Philatelist?" asked Vance, studying the youth.

"I collect American stamps."  There was no enthusiasm in the
lethargic voice, and Vance did not pursue the subject.

"Did you hear anything in the house early this morning?" Vance went
on.  "That is, did you hear Mr. Kaspar Kenting come in--or any kind
of a noise between three and six o'clock?"

Fraim Falloway shook his head without any show of interest.

"I didn't hear anything," he said.  "I was asleep."

Vance turned to the mother.

"Did you hear anything, Mrs. Falloway?"

"I heard Kaspar come in--he woke me up banging the front door
shut."  She spoke with bitterness.  "But that's nothing new.  I
went to sleep again, however, and didn't know anything had happened
until Madelaine and Mr. Kenyon Kenting informed me of it this
morning, after my breakfast."

"Could you suggest any reason," asked Vance, "why any one should
wish to kidnap Kaspar Kenting?"

The woman uttered a harsh, mirthless chuckle.

"No.  But I can give you many reasons why any one should NOT wish
to kidnap him," she returned with a hard, intolerant look.  "He is
not an admirable character," she went on, "nor a pleasant person to
have around.  And I regret the day my daughter married him.
However," she added--and it seemed to me grudgingly--"I wouldn't
wish to see any harm come to the scamp."

"And why not, mater?" asked Fraim Falloway with a whine.  "You know
perfectly well he has made us all miserable, including Sis.
Personally, I think it's good riddance."  The last words were
barely audible.

"Don't be vindictive, son," the woman reproved him with a sudden
softening in her tone, as the youth turned back to his stamps.

Vance sighed as if this interchange between mother and son bored
him.

"Then you are not able, Mrs. Falloway, to suggest any reason for
Mr. Kenting's sudden disappearance, or tell us anything that might
be at all helpful?"

"No.  I know nothing, and have nothing to tell you."  Mrs. Falloway
closed her lips with an audible sound.

"In that case," Vance returned politely, "I think we had better be
going downstairs."

The woman picked up her cane and struggled to her feet, despite
Vance's protestations.

"I wish I could help you," she said with sudden kindliness.  "But I
am so well isolated these days with my infirmity.  Walking, you
know, is quite a painful process for me.  I'm afraid I'm growing
old."

She limped beside us slowly to the door, her son, who had risen,
holding her tightly by one arm and casting reproachful glances at
us.

In the hall Vance waited till the door was shut.

"An amusing old girl," he remarked.  "Her mind is as young and
shrewd as it ever was. . . .  Unpleasant young citizen, Fraim.
He's as ill as the old lady, but he doesn't know it.  Endocrine
imbalance," Vance continued as we went downstairs.  "Needs medical
attention.  I wonder when he had a basal metabolism taken last.
I'd say his chart would read in the minus thirties