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Title:      The Kidnap Murder Case (1936)
Author:     S. S. Van Dine
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.:  0400511.txt
Edition:    1
Language:   English
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Date first posted:          May 2004
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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.  May be
thyroid.  But it's more than possible, y' know, he needs the
suprarenal hormone."

Markham snorted.

"He simply looks like a weakling to me."

"Oh, yes.  Doubtless.  As you say, devoid of stamina.  And full of
resentment against his fellow-men and especially against his
brother-in-law.  At any rate, an unpleasant character, Markham."

"A queer and unwholesome case," Markham commented, half to himself,
and then lapsed into thoughtful silence as he descended the stairs
with Vance.  When we had reached the lower hall Vance went
immediately toward the drawing-room and stepped inside.

Mrs. Kenting, who seemed perturbed and ill at ease, sat rigidly
upright on the small sofa where we had first seen her.  Her brother-
in-law sat beside her, looking at her with a solicitous, comforting
air.  Fleel was leaning back in an easy chair near the desk,
smoking a cigar and endeavoring to maintain a judicious and
unconcerned mien.

Vance glanced about him casually and, drawing up a small, straight-
backed chair beside the sofa, sat down and addressed himself to the
obviously unhappy woman.

"I know you told us, Mrs. Kenting," he began, "that you could not
describe the men who called on your husband several nights ago.  I
wish, however, you would make an effort to give us at least a
general description of them."

"It's strange that you should ask me that," the woman said.  "I was
just speaking to Kenyon about them and trying to recall what they
looked like.  The fact is, Mr. Vance, I paid little attention to
them, but I know that one of them was a large man and seemed to me
to have a very thick neck.  And, as I recall, there was a lot of
grey in his hair; and he may have had a clipped mustache--I really
don't remember: it's all very vague.  That was the man who came
twice. . . ."

"Your description, madam," remarked Vance, nodding his head,
"corresponds to the appearance of a certain gentleman I have in
mind; and if it is the same person, your impression regarding the
clipped mustache is quite correct--"

"Oh, who was he, Mr. Vance?"  The woman leaned forward eagerly with
a show of nervous animation.  "Do you think you know who is
responsible for this terrible thing?"

Vance shook his head and smiled sadly.

"No," he said, "I'm deuced sorry I cannot offer any hope in that
particular quarter.  If this man who called on your husband is the
one I think it is, he is merely a good-natured book-maker who is at
times aroused to futile anger when his clients fail to pay their
debts.  I'm quite sure, don't y' know, that if he should pop in
here again at the present moment, you would find him inclined to
exert his efforts in your behalf.  I fear that we must dismiss him
as a possibility. . . .  But, by the by, Mrs. Kenting," Vance
continued quickly, "can you tell me anything definite about the
second man that called on your husband?"

The woman shook her head vaguely.

"Almost nothing, Mr. Vance," she returned.  "I'm very sorry, but I
caught only a glimpse of him.  However, I recall that he was much
shorter than the first man, and very dark.  And my impression is
that he was very well dressed.  I remember thinking at the time
that he seemed far less dangerous than his companion.  But I do
know that, in the fleeting glimpses I had of both the men, they
struck me as being undesirable and untrustworthy characters.  And I
admit I worried about them on Kaspar's account. . . .  Oh, I do
wish I could tell you more, but I can't."

Vance thanked her with a slight bow.

"I can understand just how you felt, and how you feel now," he said
in a kindly tone.  "But I hardly think that either of these two
objectionable visitors are in any way connected with your husband's
disappearance.  If they had really contemplated anything, I
seriously doubt that they would have come here to their proposed
victim's home and run the risk of being identified later.  The
second man--whom you describe as short, dark, and dapper--was
probably a gambling-house keeper who had an account against your
husband for overenthusiastic wagering.  I can easily understand how
he might be acquainted with the book-making gentleman who makes his
livelihood through the cupidity of persons who persist in the
belief that past-performance figures are an indication of how any
horse will run at a given time."

As Vance spoke he rose from his chair and turned to Fleel, who had
been listening intently to Vance's brief interchange with Mrs.
Kenting.

"Before we go, sir," Vance said, "we wish to speak with you for a
moment in the den.  There are one or two points with which I feel
you may be able to help us. . . .  Do you mind?"

The lawyer rose with alacrity.

"I'll be very glad to do whatever I can to be of assistance," he
said.  "But I'm of the opinion I can tell you nothing more than you
already know."



CHAPTER VII

THE BLACK OPALS


(Wednesday, July 20; 1:15 p.m.)


In the den Fleel seated himself with an easy, confident air and
waited for Vance or Markham to speak.  His manner was businesslike
and competent, despite a certain lack of energy.  I had a feeling
he could, if he wished, supply us with more accurate and reasoned
information than any of the members of the family.  But Vance did
not question him to any great extent.  He seemed uninterested in
any phase of the case on which the lawyer might have had
information or suggestions to offer.

"Mr. Kenting tells us," Vance began, "that his brother demanded a
large sum of money recently, to meet his debts, and that, when the
demand was refused, Kaspar went to you as one of the executors of
the estate."

"That is quite correct," Fleel responded, taking the cigar from his
mouth and smoothing the wrapper with a moistened forefinger.  "I,
too, refused the demand; for, to begin with, I did not entirely
believe the story Mr. Kaspar Kenting told me.  He has cried 'wolf'
so often that I have become skeptical, and did nothing about it.
Moreover, Mr. Kenyon Kenting and I had consented to give him a
large sum of money--ten thousand dollars, to be exact--only a few
weeks ago.  There were similar difficulties in which he said he had
become involved at the time.  We did it then, of course, for his
wife's sake more than for his own--as, indeed, we had often done it
before; but, unfortunately, no benefit ever accrued to her from
these advances on her husband's patrimony."

"Did Mr. Kaspar see you personally?" asked Vance.

"No, he did not.  He called me on the telephone," Fleel replied.
"Frankly, I didn't ask him for any details other than those he
volunteered, and I was rather brusque with him. . . .  I might say
that Kaspar has been a trying problem to the executors of the
estate."

"Despite which," continued Vance, "I imagine his brother, as well
as you yourself, will do everything possible to get him back, even
to meeting the terms of the ransom note.  Am I right?"

"I see nothing else to be done," the lawyer said without enthusiasm.
"Unless, of course, the situation can be satisfactorily adjusted
without payment of the ransom money.  Of course we don't know for
certain whether or not this is a bona fide kidnapping.  Kidnapping
is a damnable crime. . . ."

"Quite," agreed Vance with a sigh.  "It places every one in a most
irksome predicament.  But, of course, there is nothing to be done
until we have some further word from the supposed abductors. . . ."

Vance looked up and added quickly:

"By the by, Mrs. Kenting has informed us that Kaspar spoke to some
one on the telephone when he came home in the early hours of this
morning, and that he became angry.  I wonder if it could have been
you he called again?"

"Yes, damn it!" the lawyer returned with stern bitterness.  "It
was I.  He woke me up some time after three, and became very
vituperative when I refused to alter my previous decision.  In
fact, he said that both Kenyon and I would regret our penuriousness
in refusing to help him, as he was certain it would result in some
mischief, but did not say just what guise it might take.  As a
matter of fact, he sounded very much upset, and flew off the
handle.  But, I frankly admit, I didn't take him too seriously, for
I had been through the same sort of thing with him before. . . .
It seems now," the lawyer added a little uncomfortably, "that he
was telling the truth for once--that it wasn't just an idle
conjecture; and I am wondering if Kenyon and I shouldn't have
investigated the situation before taking a definite stand."

"No, no; I think not," murmured Vance.  "I doubt that it would have
done any good.  I have an idea the situation was not a new
development--although there are, to be sure, few enough facts in
hand at present on which to base an opinion.  I don't like the
outlook at all.  It has too many conflictin' elements. . . .  By
the by, Mr. Fleel,"--Vance looked frankly at the man--"just how
large a sum did Kaspar Kenting ask you for?"

"Too large an amount even to have been considered," returned the
lawyer.  "He asked for thirty thousand dollars."

"Thirty thousand," Vance repeated.  "That's very interestin'."  He
rose lazily to his feet and straightened his clothes.  "That will
be all, I think, for the moment, Mr. Fleel," he said.  "And many
thanks for the trouble you've taken.  There's little left to be
done at the moment, aside from the usual routine.  We will, of
course, guard the matter as best we can.  And we will get in touch
with you if there is any new development."

Fleel stood up and bowed stiffly.

"You can always reach me through my office during the day, or
through my home in the evening."  He took an engraved card from
his pocket and handed it to Vance.  "There are my phone numbers,
sir. . . .  I think I shall remain a while with Mrs. Kenting and
Kenyon." And he went from the den.

Markham, looking serious and puzzled, held Vance back.

"What do you make of that discrepancy in the amount, Vance?" he
asked in a gruff, lowered tone.

"My dear Markham!"  Vance shook his head solemnly.  "There are many
things we cannot make anything of at the present moment.  One never
knows--does one?--at this stage of the game.  Perhaps young Kaspar,
having failed with his brother, reduced the ante, as it were, in
approaching Fleel, thinking he might get better results at the
lower figure.  Curious though; the amount demanded in the ransom
note corresponds to what he told Kenyon he needed.  On the other
hand--I wonder. . . .  However, let's commune with the butler
before we toddle on."

Vance went to the door and opened it.  Just outside stood Weem,
bending slightly forward, as if he had been eavesdropping.  Instead
of showing any signs of embarrassment, the man looked up
truculently and turned away.

"See here, Weem," Vance halted him.  "Step inside a moment," he
said with an amused smile.  "You can hear better; and, anyway,
there are one or two questions we'd like to put to you."

The man turned back without a word and entered the den with an air
of sulkiness.  He looked past us all with his watery eyes and
waited.

"Weem, how long have you been the Kenting butler?" asked Vance.

"Going on three years," was the surly response.

"Three years," repeated Vance thoughtfully.  "Good. . . .  Have you
any ideas, Weem, as to what happened here last night?"  Vance
reached in his pocket for his cigarette case.

"No, sir; none whatever," the butler returned, without looking at
any of us.  "But nothing would surprise me in this house.  There
are too many people who'd like to get rid of Mr. Kaspar."

"Are you, by any chance, one of them?" asked Vance lightly,
watching the other with faint amusement.

"I'd just as soon never see him again."  The answer came readily,
in a disgruntled, morose tone.

"And who else do you think feels the same way about Mr. Kaspar
Kenting?" Vance went on.

"Mrs. Falloway and young Mr. Falloway have no love for him, sir."
There was no change in the man's tone.  "And even Mrs. Kenting
herself has had more than enough of him, I think.  She and Mr.
Kenyon are very good friends--and there was never any great love
between the two brothers. . . .  Mr. Kaspar is a very difficult man
to get along with--he is very unreasonable.  Other people have some
rights, sir; but he doesn't think so.  He's the kind of man that
strikes his wife when he has too much to drink--"

"I think that will be all," Vance broke in sharply.  "You're an
unspeakable gossip, Weem."  He turned away with a look of keen
distaste, and the butler shuffled from the room without any sign of
displeasure or offense.

"Come, Markham," said Vance.  "Let's get out into the air.  I don't
like it in this house--I don't at all like it."

"But it strikes me--" began Markham.

"Oh, don't let your conscience bother you," interrupted Vance.
"The only course we can possibly take is to wait for the next step
on the part of our dire plotters."  Although Vance spoke in a
bantering tone, it was obvious from the deliberate way he lighted a
cigarette that he was deeply troubled.  "Something will happen
soon, Markham.  The next move will be expertly engineered, I'll
wager.  The case is by no means ended with this concocted
kidnappin'.  Too many loose ends--oh, far too many."  He moved
across the room.  "Patience, my dear chap."  He threw the
admonition lightly over his shoulder to Markham.  "We're supposed
to be bustlin' with various anticipated activities.  Some one is
hopin' we'll take just the route indicated for us and thus be led
entirely off the track.  But, I say, let's not be gullible.
Patience is our watchword.  Patience and placidity.  Nonchalance.
Let the other johnnies make the next move.  Live patiently and
learn.  Imitate the mountain--Mohammed is trudgin' your way."

Markham stood still in the centre of the room, looking down at the
worn early-American art square.  He seemed to be pondering
something that bothered him.

"See here, Vance," he said after a brief silence, lifting his head
and looking squarely at the other.  "You speak of 'plotters' and
'johnnies'--both plural.  You really think, then, that this
damnable situation is the doing of more than one person?"

"Oh, yes--undoubtedly," Vance returned readily.  "Far too many
diverse activities for just one.  A certain co-ordination was
needed--and one person cannot be in two different places at the
same time, don't y' know.  Oh, undoubtedly more than one person.
One lured the gentleman away from the house; another--possibly two--
took care of the chappie at the place appointed by the first; and
I rather think it more than likely there was at least another who
arranged the elaborate setting in Kaspar's room--but this is not
necess'rily correct, as any one of the three might have returned
for the stage setting and been the person that Mrs. Kenting heard
in the bedroom."

"I see what you mean."  Markham nodded laboriously.  "You're
thinking of the two men whom McLaughlin saw in the car in the
street here this morning."

"Oh, yes.  Quite."  Vance's response was spoken casually.  "They
fit into the picture nicely.  But neither of them was a small man,
and I doubt if either of them was the ladder-climber in the
smallish Chinese sandals.  Considerable evidence against that
conclusion.  That is why I say I'm inclined to think that there may
have been still another helper who attended to the details of the
boudoir setting--makin' four in all."

"But, good heavens!" argued Markham; "if there were several persons
involved in the affair, it may be just another gang kidnapping,
after all."

"It's always possible, of course, despite the contr'ry indications,"
Vance returned.  "However, Markham, although I have said that there
were undoubtedly several persons taking part in the execution of
the plot, I am thoroughly convinced there is only a single mind at
work on the case--the main organizing culprit, so to speak--some
one who merely secured the necess'ry help--what the newspapers
amusingly designate as a master-mind.  And the person who planned
and manipulated this whole distressin' affair is some one who is
quite intimately au courant with the conditions in the Kenting
house here. The various episodes have dovetailed together far too
neatly to have been managed by an outsider.  And really, y' know,
I hardly think that the Purple House harbors, or is in any way
related to, a professional kidnapper."

Markham shook his head skeptically.

"Granting," he said, "for the sake of hypothesis, that you are
correct so far, what could have been the motive for such a
dastardly act by any one who was close to Kaspar?"

"Money--unquestionably money," Vance ventured.  "The exact amount
named in the pretty little kindergarten paste-and-paper note
attached to the window-sill. . . .  Oh, yes; that was a very
significant item.  Some one wishes the money immediately.  It is
urgently needed.  I rather think a genuine kidnapper--and
especially a gang of kidnappers operating for themselves--would not
have been so hasty in stating the exact sum, but would have let
that little detail wait until a satisfact'ry contact was
established and negotiations were definitely under way.  And of
course, if it had really been Kaspar who had abducted himself for
the sake of the gain, the note could be easily understood; but once
we eliminate Kaspar as the author of this crime, then we are
confronted with the necessity of evolving an entirely new
interpretation of the facts.  The crime then becomes one of
desperation and immediacy, with the money as an imperative
desideratum."

"I am not so sure you are right this time, Vance," said Markham
seriously.

Vance sighed.

"Neither am I, Markham old dear."  He went to the door and opened
it.  "Let's move along."  And he walked up the hall.

Vance stopped at the drawing-room door, bade the occupants a brief
farewell; and a minute later we were descending the outside steps
of the house into the noonday sunshine of the street.

We entered the District Attorney's car and drove toward Central
Park.  When we had almost reached the corner of Central Park West,
Vance leaned forward suddenly and, tapping the chauffeur on the
shoulder, requested him to stop at the entrance to the Nottingham
Hotel which we were just passing.

"Really, y' know, Markham," he said as he stepped out of the car,
"I think it might be just as well if we paid a little visit to the
as-yet-unknown Mr. Quaggy.  Queer name--what?  He was the last
person known to have been with young Kaspar.  He's a gentleman of
means and a gentleman of leisure, as well as a gentleman of
nocturnal habits.  He may be at home, don't y' know. . . .  But I
think we'd better go directly to his apartment without apprising
him of the visit by being announced."  He turned to Heath.  "I am
sure you can manage that, Sergeant,--unless you forgot to bring
your pretty gilt badge with you this morning."

Heath snorted.

"Sure, we'll go right to his rooms, if that's what you want, Mr.
Vance.  Don't you worry about that.  This ain't the first time I've
had to handle these babies in a hotel."

Heath was as good as his word.  We had no difficulty in obtaining
the number of Quaggy's apartment and being taken up in the elevator
without an announcement.

In answer to our ringing, the door was opened by a generously
proportioned colored woman, in a Hoover apron and an old stocking
tied round her head.

"We want to see Mr. Quaggy."  Heath's manner was as intimidating as
it was curt.

The negress looked frightened.

"I don't think Mr. Quaggy--" she began in a tremulous voice.

"Never mind what you think, Aunt Jemima."  Heath cut her short.
"Is your boss here, or isn't he?"  He flashed his badge.  "We're
from the police."

"Yes, sir; yes, sir.  He's here."  The woman was completely cowed
by this time.  "He's in the sittin'-room, over yonder."

The Sergeant brushed past her to the archway at the end of the
foyer, toward which she waved her arm.  Markham, Vance and I
followed him.

The room into which we stepped was comfortably and expensively
furnished, differing little from the conventional exclusive hotel-
apartment living-room.  There was a mahogany cellarette near a
built-in modern fireplace, comfortable overstuffed chairs covered
with brocaded satin that was almost colorless, a baby grand piano
in one corner, two parchment-shaded table-lamps with green pottery
bases, and a small glass-doored Tudor bookcase filled with colorful
assorted volumes.  At the front end of the room were two windows
facing on the street, hung with heavy velour drapes and topped with
scrolled-metal cornices.

As we entered, a haggard, dissipated-looking man of about forty
rose from a low lounging chair in one corner of the room.  He
seemed both surprised and resentful at our intrusion.  He was an
attractive man, with finely chiseled features, but not a man whom
one could call handsome.  He was unmistakably the gambler type--
that is, the type one sees habitually at gaming houses and the race-
track.  There was weariness and pallor in his face that morning,
and his eyelids were oedematous and drawn down at the corners, like
those of a man suffering with Bright's disease.  He was still in
evening clothes, and his linen was the worse for wear.  He wore
patent leather pumps which showed distinct traces of dried mud.
Before he could speak Vance addressed him courteously.

"Forgive our unceremonious entry.  You're Mr. Porter Quaggy, I
believe?"  The man's eyes became cold.

"What if I am?" he demanded.  "I don't understand why you--"

"You will in a moment, sir," Vance broke in ingratiatingly.  And he
introduced himself, as well as Markham and Heath and me.  "We have
just come from the Kentings' down the street," he went on.  "A
calamity took place there early this morning, and we understand
from Mrs. Kaspar Kenting that Mr. Kenting was with you last night."

Quaggy's eyes narrowed to mere slits.  "Has anything happened to
Kaspar?" he asked.  He turned to the cellarette and poured himself
a generous drink of whiskey.  He gulped it down and repeated his
question.

"We'll get to that later," Vance replied.  "Tell me, what time did
you and Mr. Kenting get home last night?"

"Who said I was with him when he came home?"  The man was obviously
on his guard.

"Mrs. Kenting informed us that you and her husband went together to
the opening of a casino in Jersey last night, and that Mr. Kenting
returned somewhere around three o'clock in the morning.  Is that
correct?"

The man hesitated.

"Even if it is true, what of it?" he asked after a moment.

"Nothing--really nothing of any importance," murmured Vance.  "Just
lookin' for information.  I note you're still bedecked in your
evenin' togs.  And your pumps are a bit muddy.  It hasn't rained
since yesterday, don't y' know.  Offhand, I'd say you'd been
sittin' up all night."

"Isn't that my privilege?" grumbled the other.

"I think you'd better do some straight talking, Mr. Quaggy," put in
Markham angrily.  "We're investigating a crime, and we haven't time
to waste.  You'll save yourself a lot of trouble, too.  Unless, of
course, you're afraid of implicating yourself.  In that event, I'll
allow you time to communicate with your attorney."

"Attorney hell!" snapped Quaggy.  "I don't need any lawyers.  I've
nothing to be afraid of, and I'll speak for myself. . . .  Yes, I
went with Kaspar last night to the new casino in Paterson, and we
got back, as Mrs. Kenting says, around three o'clock--"

"Did you go to the Kenting house with Mr. Kenting?" asked Vance.

"No; our cab came down Central Park West, and I got out here.  I
wish now I had gone with him.  He asked me to--said he was worried
as the devil about something, and wanted to put me up for the
night.  I thought he was stewed, and didn't pay any attention to
him.  But after he had gone on, I got to thinking about what he'd
said--he's always getting into trouble of one kind or another--and
I walked down there about an hour later.  But everything seemed all
right.  There was a light in Kaspar's room, and I merely figured he
hadn't gone to bed yet.  So I decided not to disturb him."

Vance nodded understandingly.

"Did you, by any chance, step into the side yard?"

"Just inside the gate," the other admitted.

"Was the side window of his room open?  And was the blind up?"

"The window might have been open or shut, but the blind was down.
I'm sure of that because the light was coming from around the
edges."

"Did you see a ladder anywhere in the court?"

"A ladder?  No, there was no ladder.  What would a ladder be doing
there?"

"Did you remain there long, Mr. Quaggy?"

"No.  I came back here and had a drink."

"But you didn't go to bed, I notice."

"It's every man's privilege to sit up if he wants to, isn't it?"
Quaggy asked coldly.  "The truth is, I began to worry about Kaspar.
He was in a hell of a mood last night--all steamed up.  I never saw
him just that way before.  To tell you the truth, I half expected
something to happen to him.  That's why I went down to the house."

"Was it only Mr. Kaspar Kenting that you were thinking about?"
Vance inquired with a shrewd, fixed look.  "I understand you're a
close friend of the family and are very highly regarded by Mrs.
Kenting."

"Glad to know it," muttered the man, meeting Vance's gaze squarely.
"Madelaine is a very fine woman, and I should hate to see anything
happen to her."

"Thanks awfully for the information," murmured Vance.  "I think I
see your point of view perfectly.  Well, your premonitions were
quite accurate.  Something did happen to the young gentleman, and
Mrs. Kenting is frightfully distressed."

"Is he all right?" asked Quaggy quickly.

"We're not sure yet.  The fact is, Mr. Quaggy, your companion of
yestereve has disappeared--superficial indications pointin' to
abduction."

"The hell you say!"  The man showed remarkable control and spoke
without change of expression.

"Oh, yes--quite," Vance said disinterestedly.

Quaggy went to the cellarette again and poured himself another
drink of whiskey.  He offered the bottle to us all in general, and
getting no response from us, replaced it on the stand.

"When did this happen?" he asked between swallows of the whiskey.

"Oh, early this morning some time," Vance informed him.  "That's
why we're here.  Thought maybe you could give us an idea or two."

Quaggy finished the remainder of his glass of whiskey.

"Sorry, I can't help you," he said as he put down the glass.  "I've
told you everything I know."

"That's frightfully good of you," said Vance indifferently.  "We
may want to talk to you later, however."

"That's all right with me."  The man turned, without looking up
from the liquor stand.  "Ask me whatever you want whenever you damn
please.  But it won't get you anywhere, for I've already told you
all I know."

"Perhaps you'll recall an additional item or two when you are
rested."

"If you mean when I'm sober, why don't you say so?" Quaggy asked
with annoyance.

"No, no, Mr. Quaggy.  Oh, no.  I think you're far too shrewd and
cautious a man to permit yourself the questionable luxury of
inebriety.  Clear head always essential, don't y' know.  Helps no
end in figuring percentages quickly."

Vance was at the archway now, and I was just behind him.  Markham
and Heath had already preceded us.  Vance paused for a moment and
looked down at a small conventional desk which stood near the
entrance.  Quickly he adjusted his monocle and scrutinized the
desk.  On it lay a crumpled piece of tissue paper in the centre of
which reposed two perfectly matched dark stones, with a remarkable
play of color in them--a pair of black opals!

When we were back in the car and headed downtown, Markham, after a
minute or two spent in getting his cigar going, said:

"Too many factors seem to counteract your original theory, Vance.
If this affair was plotted so carefully to be carried out at a
certain time, how do you account for the fact that Kaspar seemed to
have a definite premonition of something dire and unforeseen
happening to him?"

"Premonition?"  Vance smiled slightly.  "I'm afraid you're waxing
esoteric, old dear.  After Hannix's threat and after, perhaps, a
bit of pressure thrown in by the other gentleman to whom he owed
money, Kaspar was naturally in a sensitive and worried state of
mind.  He took their blustering, but harmless, talk too seriously.
Suffered from fright and craved the comfort of company.  Probably
why he went to the casino--trying to put his despondency out of
mind.  With the threats of the two creditors uppermost in his
consciousness, he used them as an argument with both his brother
and Fleel.  And his invitin' Quaggy home with him was merely part
of this perturbation.  Simple.  Very simple."

"You're still stubborn enough to believe it had nothing to do with
the facts of the case?" asked Markham irritably.

"Oh, yes, yes--quite," Vance replied cheerfully.  "I can't see that
his psychic warnings had anything whatsoever to do with what
actually befell him later. . . .  By the by, Markham,"--Vance
changed the subject--"there were two rather amazin' black opals on
the desk in Quaggy's apartment.  Noticed them as I was going out."

"What's that!"  Markham turned in surprise.  Then a look of
understanding came into his eyes.  "You think they came from the
Kenting collection?"

"It's possible."  Vance nodded slowly.  "The collection was quite
deficient in black opals when I gazed upon it.  The few remainin'
specimens were quite inferior.  No self-respectin' connoisseur
would have admitted them to his collection unless he already had
more valuable ones to offset them.  Those that Quaggy had were
undoubtedly a pair of the finest specimens from New South Wales."

"That puts a different complexion on things," said Markham
grudgingly.  "How do you think Quaggy got hold of them?"

Vance shrugged.

"Ah!  Who knows?  Pertinent question.  We might ask the gentleman
sometime. . . ."

We continued downtown in silence.



CHAPTER VIII

ULTIMATUM


(Thursday, July 21; 10 a.m.)


The next morning, shortly before ten o'clock, Markham telephoned
Vance at his apartment, and I answered.

"Tell Vance," came the District Attorney's peremptory voice, "I
think he'd better come down to my office at once.  Fleel is here,
and I'll keep him engaged till Vance arrives."

I repeated the message to Vance while I still held the receiver to
my ear, and he nodded his head in agreement.

A few minutes later, as we were about to leave the house, he became
unduly serious.

"Van, it may have happened already," he murmured, "though I really
didn't expect it so soon.  Thought we'd have at least a day or two
before the next move was made.  However, we shall soon know."

We arrived at Markham's office a half-hour later.  Vance did not go
to the secretary in the reception-room of the District Attorney's
suite in the old Criminal Courts Building, but through the private
side door which led from the corridor into Markham's spacious
sanctum.

Markham was seated at his desk, looking decidedly troubled; and in
a large upholstered chair before him sat Fleel.

After casual greetings Markham announced:  "The instructions
promised in the ransom note have been received.  A note came in Mr.
Fleel's mail this morning, and he brought it directly to me.  I
hardly know what to make of it, or how to advise him.  But you
seemed to have ideas about the case which you would not divulge.
And I think, therefore, you ought to see this note immediately, as
it is obvious something must be done about it at once."  He picked
up the small sheet of paper before him and held it out to Vance.
It was a piece of ruled note-paper, folded twice.  The quality was
of a very cheap, coarse nature, such as comes in thick tablets
which can be bought for a trifle at any stationer's.  The writing
on it was in pencil, in an obviously disguised handwriting.  Half
of the letters were printed, and whether it was the composition of
an illiterate person, or purposely designed to give the impression
of ignorance on the writer's part, I could not tell as I looked at
it over Vance's shoulder.

"I say, let's see the envelope," Vance requested.  "That's rather
important, don't y' know."

Markham shot him a shrewd look and handed him a stamped envelope,
of no better quality than the paper, which had been slit neatly
across the top.  The postmark showed that the note had passed
through the post-office the previous afternoon at five o'clock from
the Westchester Station.

"And where might the Westchester Station be?" asked Vance, sinking
lazily into a chair and taking out a cigarette.

"I had it looked up as soon as Mr. Fleel showed me the note,"
responded Markham.  "It's in the upper Bronx."

"Interestin'," murmured Vance.  "'East Side, West Side, All Around
the Town,' so to speak. . . .  And what are the bound'ries of the
district it serves?"

Markham glanced down at the yellow pad on his desk.

"It takes in a section of nine or ten square miles on the upper
east side of the Bronx, between the Hutchinson and Bronx Rivers and
a zigzag line on the west boundary.*  A lot of it is pretty
desolate territory, and can probably be eliminated without
consideration.  As a matter of fact, it's the toughest district in
New York in which to trace any one by a postmark."


* The Westchester Station of the Post-Office Department, situated
at 1436 Williamsbridge Road, at the intersection of East Tremont
Avenue, collects and delivers mail in the following territory,
starting from Paulding Avenue and Pelham Parkway: South side of
Pelham Parkway to Kingsland Avenue; to Mace Avenue; to Wickham
Avenue; to Gunhill Road; to Bushnell Avenue; to Hutchinson River;
west side of Hutchinson River to Givans Creek; to Eastchester Bay;
to Long Island Sound; to Bronx River; to Ludlow Avenue (now known
as Eastern Boulevard); to Pugsley Avenue; to McGraw Avenue; to
Storrow Street; to Unionport Road; to East Tremont Avenue; to
Bronxdale Avenue; to Van Nest Avenue; to Paulding Avenue; to Pelham
Parkway.


Vance nodded casually and, opening the note, adjusted his monocle
and read the pencil-scrawled communication carefully.  It ran:


Sir: I no you and famly have money and unless 50 thousand $ is
placed in hole of oke tree 200 foot west of Southeast corner of old
resivore in central park thursday at leven oclock at nite we will
kill Casper Kenton.  This is finel.  If you tell police deel is off
and we will no it.  We are watching every move you make.


The ominous message was signed with interlocking squares made with
brush strokes, like those we had already seen on the ransom note
found pinned to the window-sill of the Kenting house.

"No more original than the first communication," commented Vance
dryly.  "And it strikes me, offhand, that the person who worded
this threatening epistle is not as unschooled as he would have us
believe. . . ."

He looked up at the lawyer, who was watching him intently.

"Just what are your ideas on the situation, Mr. Fleel?" he asked.

"Personally," the man said, "I am willing to leave the whole matter
to Mr. Markham here, and his advisors.  I--I don't know exactly
what to say--I'd rather not offer any suggestions.  The ransom
demands can't possibly be met out of the estate, as what funds were
entrusted to me are largely in long-term bonds.  However, I feel
sure that Mr. Kenyon Kenting will be able to get the necessary
amount together and take care of the situation--if that is his
wish.  The decision, naturally, must be left entirely up to him."

"Does he know of this note?" asked Vance.

Fleel shook his head in negation.

"Not yet," he said, "unless he, too, received a copy.  I brought
this one immediately to Mr. Markham.  But my opinion is that Kenyon
should know about it, and it was my intention to go to the Kenting
house from here and inform Kenyon of this new development.  He is
not at his office this morning, and I imagine he is spending the
day with Mrs. Kenting.  I'll do nothing, however, without the
consent of Mr. Markham."  He looked toward the District Attorney as
if he expected an answer to his remark.

Markham had risen, and now moved toward one of the windows which
looked out into Franklin Street and over the grey walls of the
Tombs.  His hands were clasped behind him, and an unlighted cigar
hung listlessly from his lips.  It was Markham's characteristic
attitude when he was making an important decision.  After a while
he turned, came back to the desk, and reseated himself.

"Mr. Fleel," he said slowly, "I think you should go to Kenyon
Kenting at once, and tell him the exact circumstances."  There was
a hesitant note in his words, as if he had reached a decision but
was uncertain as to the feasibility of its logical application.

"I'm glad you feel that way, Mr. Markham," the lawyer said, "for I
certainly believe that he is entitled to know.  After all, if a
decision is to be made regarding the money, he must be the one to
make it."  He rose as he spoke, taking his hat from the floor
beside him.  With ponderous steps he moved toward the door.

"I quite agree with you both," murmured Vance, who was drawing
vigorously on his cigarette and looking straight before him into
space.  "Only, I would ask you, Mr. Fleel, to remain at the Kenting
house until Mr. Markham and I arrive there.  We will be joining you
very soon."

"I'll wait," mumbled Fleel as he passed through the swinging
leather door out to the reception-room.

Vance settled back in his chair, stretched out his long legs, and
gazed dreamily through the window.  Markham watched him expectantly
for some time without speaking.  At last it seemed that he could
bear the silence no longer, and he asked anxiously:

"Well, Vance, what do you think?"

"So many things," Vance told him, "that I couldn't begin to
enumerate them.  All probably frivolous and worthless."

"Well, to be more specific," Markham went on, endeavoring to
control his rising anger, "what do you think of that note you have
there?"

"Quite authentic--oh, quite," Vance returned without hesitation.
"As I said, the money is passionately desired.  Hasty business is
afoot.  A bit too precipitate for my liking, however.  But there's
no overlooking the earnestness of the request.  I've a feelin'
something must be done without loss of time."

"The instructions seem somewhat vague."

"No.  Oh, no, Markham.  On the contr'ry.  Quite explicit.  I know
the tree well.  Romantic lovers leave billets-doux there.  No
difficulties in that quarter.  Quiet spot.  All approaches visible.
As good a crossroads as any for the transaction of dirty work.
However, it could be adequately covered by the police.  I
wonder. . . ."

Markham was silent for a long time, smoking intently, his brow
deeply corrugated.

"This situation upsets me," he rumbled at length.  "The newspapers
were full of it this morning, as you may have noticed.  The police
are being condemned for refusing information to the federal boys.
Maybe it would have been best if I had washed my hands of it all in
the first place.  I don't like it--it's poison.  And there's
nothing to go on.  I was trusting, as usual, to your impressions."

"Let us not repine, Markham old dear," Vance encouraged him.  "It
was only yesterday the bally thing happened."

"But I must get some action," Markham asserted, striking his
clenched fist on the desk.  "This new note changes the whole
complexion of things."

"Tut, tut."  Vance's admonition was almost frivolous.  "Really, y'
know, it changes nothing.  IT WAS PRECISELY WHAT I WAS WAITIN'
FOR."

"Well," snapped Markham, "now that you have it, what do you intend
to do?"

Vance looked at the District Attorney in mock surprise.

"Why, I intend to go to the Purple House," he said calmly.  "I'm
not psychic, but something tells me we shall find a hand pointin'
to our future activities when we arrive there."

"Well, if that's your idea," demanded Markham, "why didn't you go
with Fleel?"

"Merely wished to give him sufficient time to break the news to the
others and to discuss the matter with brother Kenyon."  Vance
expelled a series of smoke rings toward the chandelier.  "Nothing
like letting every one know the details of the case.  We'll get
forrader that way."

Markham half closed his eyes and regarded Vance appraisingly.

"You think, perhaps," he asked, "that Kenyon Kenting is going to
try to raise the money and meet the demands of that outrageous
note?"

"It's quite possible, don't y' know.  And I rather think he'll want
the police to give him a free hand.  Anyway, it's time we were
toddlin' out and ascertainin'."  Vance struggled to his feet and
adjusted his Bangkok hat carefully.  "Could you bear to come along,
Markham?"

Markham pressed a buzzer under the ledge of his desk and gave
various instructions to the secretary who answered his call.

"This thing is too important," he said as he turned back to Vance.
"I'm joining you."  He glanced at his watch.  "My car is
downstairs."

And we went out through the private office and judges' chambers and
descended in the special elevator.



CHAPTER IX

DECISIONS ARE REACHED


(Thursday, July 21; 11:15 a.m.)


At the Kenting residence we found Kenyon Kenting, Fleel, young
Falloway, and Porter Quaggy assembled in the drawing-room.  They
all seemed solemn and tense, and greeted us with grave restraint
that suited the occasion.

"Did you bring the note with you, gentlemen?" Kenting asked
immediately, with frightened eagerness.  "Fleel told me just what's
in it, but I'd like to see the message itself."

Vance nodded and took the note from his pocket, placing it on the
small desk near him.

"It's the usual thing," he said.  "I doubt if you'll find any more
in it than Mr. Fleel has reported to you."

Kenting, without a word, bustled across the room, took the folded
piece of paper from its envelope, and read it carefully as he
smoothed it out on the green blotting pad.

"What do you think should be done about it?" Markham asked him.
"Personally, I'm not inclined to have you meet that demand just
yet."

Kenting shook his head in perturbed silence.  At last he said:

"I'd always feel guilty and selfish if I did anything else.  If I
didn't comply with this request and anything should really happen
to Kaspar--"

He left the sentence unfinished as he turned and rested against the
edge of the desk, looking dolefully down at the floor.

"But I've no idea exactly how I'm going to raise that much money--
and at such short notice.  It'll pretty well break me, even if I
can manage to get it together."

"I can help contribute to the fund," offered Quaggy, in a hard
tone, looking up from his chair in the shadows of the room.

"And I'd like to do something, too," put in Fleel, "but, as you
know, my personal funds are pretty well depleted at this time.  As
a trustee of the Kenting estate I couldn't use that money for such
a purpose without a court order.  And I couldn't get one in such a
limited time."

Fraim Falloway stood back against the wall, listening intently.  A
half-smoked cigarette drooped limply between his thick, colorless
lips.

"Why don't you let it go?" he suggested, with malicious
querulousness.  "Kaspar's not worth that much money to any one, if
you ask me.  And how do you know you're going to save his life,
anyway?"

"Shut up, Fraim!" snapped Kenting.  "Your opinion hasn't been asked
for."

Young Falloway shrugged indifferently and said nothing.  The ashes
from his cigarette fell over his shiny black suit, but he did not
take the trouble to brush them off.

"I say, Mr. Fleel," put in Vance, "just what would be the financial
standing of Mrs. Kenting in the hypothetical case that Kaspar
Kenting should die?  Would she benefit by his demise--that is, to
whom would Kaspar Kenting's share in the estate go?"

"To his wife," answered Fleel.  "It was so stipulated in Karl
Kenting's will, although he did not know Mrs. Kenting at the time,
as Kaspar was not yet married.  But the will clearly states that
his share of the inheritance should go to his wife if he were
married and she survived him."

"Sure," said Fraim Falloway sulkily, "my sister gets everything,
and there are no strings attached to it.  Kaspar has never done the
right thing by Sis, anyway, and it's about time she was coming in
for something.  That's why I say it's rank nonsense to give up all
this money to get Kaspar back.  Nobody here thinks he's worth fifty
cents, if they'll be frank."

"A sweet and lovable point of view," murmured Vance.  "I suppose
your sister is very lenient with you whenever possible?"

It was Kenyon Kenting who answered.

"That's it exactly, Mr. Vance.  She's the kind that would sacrifice
everything for her brother and her mother.  That's natural,
perhaps.  But, after all, Kaspar is my brother, and _I_ think
something ought to be done about it, even on the mere chance it may
save him, if it DOES take practically every cent I've got in the
world.  But I'm willing to go through with it, if you gentlemen and
the police will agree to keep entirely out of it, until I have
found out what I can do without any official assistance which might
frighten off the kidnappers."

He looked at Markham apologetically and then added:

"You see, I discussed the point with Mr. Fleel just before you
gentlemen arrived.  We are agreed that the police should allow me a
clear field in handling this matter in exact accordance with the
instructions in the note; for if it is true, don't you see, that
the kidnappers are watching my moves, and if they so much as
suspect that the police are waiting for them, they may not act at
all, and Kaspar would still remain in jeopardy."

Markham nodded thoughtfully.

"I can understand your attitude in the matter, Mr. Kenting," he
said reassuringly.  "And therefore,"--he made a suave gesture--"the
decision on that point must rest solely with you.  The police will
turn their backs, as it were, for the time being, if that is what
you wish."

Fleel nodded his approval of Markham's words.

"If Kenyon is financially able to go through with it," he said, "I
feel that that course is the wisest one to follow.  Even if it
means shutting our eyes momentarily to the legal issues of the
situation, he may have a better chance of having his brother safely
returned.  And that, after all, I am sure you will all agree, is
the prime consideration in the present instance."

Vance had, to all appearances, been ignoring this brief discussion,
but I knew, from the slow and deliberate movement of his hand as he
smoked, that he was absorbing with interest every word spoken.  At
this point he rose to his feet and entered the conversation with a
curious finality.

"I think," he began, "both of you gentlemen are in error, and I am
definitely opposed to the withdrawal of the authorities, even
temporarily, at this time in such a vital situation.  It would
amount to the compounding of a felony.  Moreover, the reference in
the note regarding the police is, I believe, merely an attempt at
intimidation.  I can see no valid reason why the police should not
be permitted a certain discreet activity in the matter."  His voice
was firm and bitter and carried a stinging rebuke to both Kenting
and Fleel.

Markham remained silent when Vance had finished, for I am convinced
he felt, as I did, that Vance's remarks were based on a subtle and
definite motivation.  They had their effect on Kenting as well, for
it was obvious that he was definitely wavering.  And even Fleel
seemed to be considering the point anew.

"You may be right, Mr. Vance," Kenting admitted finally in a
hesitant tone.  "On second thought, I am inclined to follow your
suggestion."

"You're all stupid," mumbled Falloway.  Then he leaned forward.
His eyes opened wide, his jowls sagged and he burst forth
hysterically:  "It's Kaspar, Kaspar, KASPAR!  He's no good anyway,
and he's the only one that gets a break around here.  Nobody thinks
of any one else but Kaspar. . . ."  His voice was high-pitched and
ended in a scream.

"Shut up, you ninny," ordered Kenting.  "What are you doing down
here, anyway?  Go on up to your room."

Falloway sneered without replying, walked across the room, and
threw himself into a large upholstered chair by the window.

"Well, what's the decision, gentlemen?" asked Markham, in a calm,
quiet tone.  "Are we to go ahead on the basis of your paying the
ransom alone, or shall I turn the case over to the Police
Department to handle as they see fit?"

Kenting stood up and took a deep breath.

"I think I'll go down to my office now," he said wearily, "and try
to raise the cash."  Then he added to Markham, "And I think the
police had better go ahead with the case."  He turned quickly to
Fleel with an interrogative look.

"I'm sorry I can't advise you, Kenyon," the lawyer said in answer
to Kenting's unstated question.  "It's a damned difficult problem
on which to offer positive advice.  But if you decide to take this
step, I think I should leave the details in the hands of Mr.
Markham.  If I can be of any help--"

"Oh, don't worry, Fleel, I'll get in touch with you."  Kenting
turned to the dark corner of the room.  "And thank you, Quaggy, for
your kindness; but I think I can handle the situation without your
assistance, though we all appreciate your generous offer."

Markham was evidently becoming impatient.

"I will be at my office," he said, "until five o'clock this
afternoon.  I'll expect you to communicate with me before that
time, Mr. Kenting."

"Oh, I will--without fail," returned Kenting, with a mirthless
laugh.  "I'll be there in person, if I can possibly manage it."
With a listless wave of the hand, he went from the room and out the
front door.

Fleel followed a few moments later, but Fraim Falloway still sat
brooding sneeringly by the window.

Quaggy rose from his chair and confronted Markham.

"I think I'll remain a while," he said, "and speak to Mrs.
Kenting."

"Oh, by all means," agreed Vance.  "I'm sure the young woman needs
cheering up."  He went to the desk, refolded the note carefully,
and, placing it in its envelope, slipped it into an inside pocket.
Then he motioned to Markham, and we went out into the sultry summer
noon.

When we were back at the District Attorney's office, Markham sent
immediately for Heath.  As soon as the Sergeant arrived from Centre
Street, a short time later, the situation was outlined to him, and
he was shown the letter which Fleel had received.  He read the note
hastily and looked up.

"If you ask me, I wouldn't give those babies a nickel," he
commented gruffly.  "But if this fellow Kenyon Kenting insists, I
suppose we'll have to let him do it.  Too much responsibility in
tryin' to stop him."

"Exactly," assented Markham emphatically.  "Do you know where this
particular tree is in Central Park, Sergeant?"

"Hah!" Heath said explosively.  "I've seen it so often, I'm sick of
lookin' at it.  But it's not a bad location, at that.  It's near
the traffic lanes, and you can see in all directions from there."

"Could you and the boys cover it," asked Markham, "in case Mr.
Kenting does go through with this and we decide it would be best to
have the spot under surveillance?"

"Leave that to me, Chief," the Sergeant returned confidently.
"There's lots of ways of doing it.  Searchlights from the houses
along Fifth Avenue could light up the place like daytime when we're
ready.  And some of the boys hiding in taxicabs, or even up the
tree itself, could catch the baby who takes the money and tie him
up in bow-knots."

"On the other hand, Sergeant," Markham demurred, "it might be
better to let the ransom money go, so we can get young Kenting back--
that is, if the abductors are playing straight."

"Playing straight!" Heath repeated with contempt.  "Say, Chief, did
you ever know any of these palookas to be on the level?  I says,
let's catch the guy who comes after the money, and we'll give him
the works at Headquarters and turn him inside out.  There won't be
nothing we won't know when the boys get through shellackin' him.
Then we can save the money and get this no-good Kaspar back for
'em, and round up the sweet little darlings who done it--all at the
same time."

Vance was smiling musingly during this optimistic prophecy of
future events.  In the pause that followed Heath's last words he
spoke.

"Really, y' know, Sergeant, I think you're going to be disappointed.
This case isn't as simple as you and Mr. Markham think. . . ."
The Sergeant started to protest, but Vance continued.  "Oh, yes.
Quite. You may round up somebody, but I doubt if you will ever be
able to connect your victim with the kidnapping.  Somehow, don't y'
know, I can't take this illiterate note too seriously.  I have an
idea it is designed to throw us off the track.  Still, the
experiment may be interestin'.  Fact is, I'd be overjoyed to
participate in it myself."

Heath looked at Vance humorously.

"You like to climb trees, maybe, Mr. Vance?" he asked.

"I adore it, Sergeant," Vance told him.  "But I simply must change
my clothes."

Heath chuckled and then became more serious.

"That's all right with me, Mr. Vance," he said.  "There'll be
plenty of time for that."

(I knew that the Sergeant wished Vance to take this strategic
position in the tree, for despite Vance's constant good-natured
spoofing and his undisguised contempt for Heath's routine
procedure, the Sergeant had a great admiration and fondness for,
not to say a profound faith in, the debonair man before him.)

"That's bully, Sergeant," commented Vance.  "What would you suggest
as an appropriate costume?"

"Try rompers!" retorted Heath.  "But make 'em a dark color."  With
a snort he turned to Markham.  "When will we know about the final
decision, Chief?"

"Kenting is going to communicate with me sometime before I leave
the office today."

"Swell," said Heath heartily.  "That'll give us plenty of time to
make our arrangements."

It was four o'clock that afternoon when Kenyon Kenting arrived.
Vance, eager to be on hand for anything new that might develop, had
waited in Markham's office, and I stayed with him.  Kenting had a
large bundle of $100 bills with him, and threw it down on Markham's
desk with a disgruntled air of finality.

"There's the money, Mr. Markham," he said.  "Fifty thousand good
American dollars.  It has completely impoverished me.  It took
everything I owned. . . .  How do you suggest we go about it?"

Markham took the money and placed it in one of the drawers of his
steel filing cabinet.

"I'll give the matter careful consideration," he answered.  "And
I'll get in touch with you later."

"I'm willing to leave everything to you," Kenting said with relief.

There was little more talk of any importance, and finally Kenting
left the office with Markham's promise to communicate with him
within two or three hours.

Heath, who had gone out earlier in the afternoon, came in shortly,
and the matter was discussed pro and con.  The plan eventually
agreed on was that Heath should have his searchlights focused on
the tree and ready to be flashed on at a given signal; and that
three or four men of the Homicide Bureau should be on the ground
and available at a moment's notice.  Vance and I, fully armed, were
to perch in the upper branches of the tree.

Vance remained silent during the discussion, but at length he said
in his lazy drawl:

"I think your plans are admirable, Sergeant, but I really see no
necessity of actually plantin' the money.  Any package of the same
size would answer the purpose just as well, don't y' know.  And
notify Fleel: I think he would be the best man to place the package
in the tree for us."

Heath nodded.

"That's the idea, sir.  Exactly what I was thinking. . . .  And now
I think I'd better be running along--or toddlin', as you would say--
and get busy."



CHAPTER X

THE TREE IN THE PARK


(Thursday, July 21; 9:45 p.m.)


Vance and Markham and I had dinner at the Stuyvesant Club that
night.  I had accompanied Vance home where he changed to a rough
tweed suit.  He had had little to say after we had left Markham's
office at five o'clock.  All the details for the night's project
had been arranged.

Vance was in a peculiar mood.  I felt he ought to be taking the
matter more seriously, but he appeared only a little puzzled, as if
the situation was not clear in his mind.  He did not exhibit the
slightest apprehension, however, although as we were about to leave
the apartment he handed me a .45-automatic.  When I put it in my
outside coat pocket, where it would be handy, he shook his head
whimsically and smiled.

"No call for so much precaution, Van.  Put it in your trousers
pocket and forget it.  As a matter of fact, I'm not even sure it's
loaded.  I'm taking one myself, but only to humor the Sergeant.  I
haven't the groggiest notion what's goin' to happen, but I can
assure you there will be no necessity for a display of fireworks.
The doughty Sergeant's pre-arranged melodrama is bally nonsense."

I protested that kidnappers were dangerous people, and that ransom
notes with orders of the kind that Fleel had brought to the
District Attorney's office were not to be taken too lightly.

Vance smiled cryptically.

"Oh, I'm not takin' it lightly," he said.  "But I'm quite sure that
note need not be taken at its face value.  And sittin' on the limb
of a tree indefinitely is not what I should call a jolly evening's
sport. . . .  However," he added, "we may learn something
enlightenin', even if we don't have the opportunity to embrace the
person accountable for Kaspar's disappearance."

He slipped the gun in his pocket, buttoned the flap, and arranged
his clothes more comfortably.  Then he donned a soft, black Homburg
hat and went to the door.

"Allons-y!"

At eight o'clock we found Markham waiting at the Stuyvesant Club.
He seemed perturbed and nervous, and Vance attempted to cheer him.
In the dining-room Vance had some difficulties with his order.  He
asked for the most exotic dishes, none of which was available, and
finally compromised on tournedos de boeuf and pommes de terre
soufflées.  He had a long discussion with the sommelier regarding
the wine, and he lingered over his crêpes suzettes after having
explained elaborately to the waiter just how he wished them made.
During the meal he was in a gay humor and refused to react to
Markham's sombre mood.  As a matter of fact, his conversation was
limited almost entirely to the types and qualities of the two-year-
old horses that year had produced and of their chances in the
Hopeful Stakes.

We had finished our dinner and were having our coffee in the
lounge, shortly before ten o'clock, when Sergeant Heath joined us
and reported the arrangements he had made.

"Well, everything's been fixed, Chief," he announced proudly.  "I
got four powerful searchlights in the apartment house on Fifth
Avenue, just opposite the tree.  They'll all go on when I give the
signal."

"What signal, Sergeant?" asked Markham anxiously.

"That was easy, Chief," Heath explained with satisfaction.  "I had
a red electric flood-light put on a traffic-light post on the north-
bound road near the tree, and when I switch that on, with a
traveling switch I'll have in my pocket, that will be the signal."

"What else, Sergeant?"

"Well, sir, I got three guys in taxicabs stationed along Fifth
Avenue, all dressed up like chauffeurs, and they'll swing into the
park at the same time the searchlights go on.  I got a couple of
taxicabs at every entrance on the east side of the park that'll
plug up the place good and tight; and I also got a bunch of
innocent-looking family cars running along the east and west roads
every two or three minutes.  On top of that, you can't stop people
strolling in the park--there's always a bunch of lovers moving
around in the evening--but this time it ain't gonna be only lovers
on the path by that tree--there's gonna be some tough babies too.
We'll stroll back and forth down the east lane ourselves where we
can see the tree; and Mr. Vance and Mr. Van Dine will be up in the
branches--which are pretty thick at this time of year, and will
make good cover. . . .  I don't see how the guys can get away from
us, unless they're mighty slick."  He chuckled and turned to Vance.
"I don't think there'll be much for you two to do, sir, except
lookin' on from a ringside seat."

"I'm sure we won't be annoyed," answered Vance good-naturedly.
"You're so thorough, Sergeant--and so trustin'."

"What about the package?" Markham asked of Heath.

"Don't worry about that, sir.  I got that all fixed too."  The
Sergeant's voice, though serious and earnest, exuded pride.  "I had
a talk with Fleel, like Mr. Vance suggested, and he's gonna put it
in the tree a little while before eleven.  And it's a swell
package.  Exactly the size and weight of that bunch of greenbacks
Kenting brought to your office this afternoon."

"What about Kenting himself?"

"He's meeting us at half-past ten, and so is Fleel, in the
superintendent's room at the new yellow brick apartment house on
Fifth Avenue.  I gave 'em both the number, and you can bet your
sweet life they'll be there. . . .  Don't you think Mr. Vance and
Mr. Van Dine had better be gettin' themselves fixed in the tree
pretty pronto?"

"Oh, quite, Sergeant.  Bully idea.  I think we'll be staggerin'
along now."  Vance rose and stretched himself in mock weariness.
"Good luck, and cheerio."

It seemed to me that he was still treating the matter like an
unnecessary farce.

Vance dismissed our taxicab at the corner of 83rd Street and Fifth
Avenue, and we continued northward on foot to the pedestrians'
entrance to the park.  As we walked along without undue haste, a
chauffeur from a near-by taxi jumped to the sidewalk with alacrity
and, overtaking us, stepped leisurely in front of us across our
path.  I immediately recognized Snitkin in the old tan duster and
chauffeur's cap.  He apparently took no notice of us but must have
recognized Vance, for he turned back, and when I looked over my
shoulder a moment later, he had returned to the cab and taken his
place again at the wheel.

It was a warm, sultry night, and I confess I felt a certain tinge
of excitement as we walked slowly down the winding flagged pathway
southward.  There were several couples seated in the dark benches
along the pathway, and an occasional shambling pedestrian.  I
looked at all of them closely, trying to determine their status,
and wondering if they were sinister figures who might have some
connection with the kidnapping.  Vance paid no attention to them.
His eyebrows were lifted cynically, and his surroundings seemed not
to interest him at all.

"What a silly adventure," he murmured as he took my arm and led me
due west into a narrow footpath toward a clump of oak trees,
silhouetted against the silvered waters of the reservoir beyond.
"Still, who can prophesy?  One can never tell what may happen in
this fickle world.  One never knows, y' know.  Maybe when you get
atop your favorite limb in the tree you'd better shift your
automatic.  And I think I'll unbutton the flap on my hip pocket."

This was the first indication Vance had given that he attached any
importance to the matter.

Far across the park the gaunt structures on Central Park West
loomed against the dark blue western sky, and the lights in the
windows suddenly seemed unusually friendly to me.

Vance led the way across a wide stretch of lawn to a large oak tree
whose size set it apart from the others.  It stood in comparative
darkness, at least fifty feet from the nearest dimly flickering
electric light.

"Well, here we are, Van," he announced in a low voice.  "Now for
the fun--if you regard emulating the sparrow as fun. . . .  I'll go
up first.  Find yourself a limb where you won't be exposed, but
where you can see pretty well all around you through the leaves."

He paused a moment, and then reaching upward to one of the lower
branches of the tree, he pulled himself up easily.  I saw him stand
up on the branch, reach over his head to the next one, and draw
himself up again.  In a moment he had disappeared among the black
foliage.

I followed at once, although I had not the skill he displayed--in
fact, I had to sit down astride the lower limb for a moment or two
before I could work myself upward into the outspreading branches.
It was very dark, and I had difficulty keeping a sure foothold
while I gave my attention to climbing higher.  At last I found a
fork-shaped limb on which I could establish myself with more or
less comfort, and from which I could see, through various narrow
openings in the leaves, in nearly all directions.  After a few
moments I heard Vance's voice at my left--he was evidently on the
other side of the broad trunk.

"Well, well," he drawled.  "What an experience!  I thought my
boyhood days were over.  And there's not an apple on the tree.  No,
not so much as a cherry.  A pillow would be most comfortin'."

We had been sitting in silence in our precarious seclusion for
about ten minutes when a corpulent figure, which I recognized as
Fleel, came into sight on the pathway to the left.  He stood
irresolutely opposite the tree for several moments and looked about
him.  Then he strolled along the footpath, across the greensward,
and approached the tree.  If any one had been watching, Fleel must
certainly have been observed, for he chose a moment when there was
no other person visible within a considerable radius of him.

He paused beneath where I sat twelve or fourteen feet above him,
and ran his hand around the trunk of the tree until he found the
large irregular hole on the east side; then he took a package from
under his coat.  The package was about ten inches long and four
inches square, and he inserted it slowly and carefully into the
hole.  Backing away, he ostentatiously relighted his cigar, tossed
the burnt match-end aside, and walked slowly toward the west, to
another pathway at least a hundred yards away.

At that moment I happened to glance toward the narrow path by which
we had entered the park and, by the light from a passing car, I
suddenly noticed a shabbily dressed man leaning lazily against a
bench in the shadows and evidently watching Fleel as he moved away
in the distance.  After a few moments I saw the same man step out
from the darkness, stretch his arms, and move along the pathway to
the north.

"My word!" muttered Vance in the darkness, in a low, guarded tone,
"the assiduous Fleel has been observed--which is probably what the
Sergeant wished.  If everything moves according to schedule we
shouldn't have to cling here precariously for more than fifteen
minutes longer.  I do hope the abductor or his agent is a prompt
chappie.  I'm gettin' jolly well worn out."

It was, in fact, less than ten minutes later that I saw a figure
moving toward us from the north.  No one had passed along that
little-known, illy-lighted pathway since we had taken our places in
the tree.  At each succeeding light I picked out an additional
detail of the approaching figure: a long dark cape which seemed to
trail on the ground; a curious toque-shaped, dark hat, with a
turned-down visor extending far over the eyes; and a slim walking-
stick.

I felt an involuntary tightening of my muscles: I was not only
expectant, but half frightened.  Holding tightly with my left hand
to the branch on which I was sitting, I reached into my coat pocket
and fingered the butt of the automatic, to make sure that it was
handy.

"How positively thrillin'!" I heard Vance whisper, though his voice
did not sound in the least excited.  "This may be the culprit we're
waitin' for.  But what in the world will we do with him when we
catch him?  If only he wouldn't walk so deuced slowly."

As a matter of fact, the dark-caped figure was moving at a most
deliberate gait, pausing frequently to look right and left, as if
sizing up the situation in all directions.  It was impossible to
tell whether the figure was stout or thin, because of the flowing
cape.  It was a sinister-looking form, moving along in the
semidarkness, and cast a grotesque shadow on the path as it
proceeded toward us.  Its gait was so dilatory and cautious that a
chill ran over me as I watched--it was like a mysterious nemesis,
imperceptibly but inevitably creeping up on us.

"A purely fictional character," murmured Vance.  "Only Eugène Sue
could have thought of it.  I do hope this tree is its destination.
That would be most fittin'--eh, what?"

The shapeless form was now opposite us and, halting ominously,
looked in our direction.  Then it peered forward up the narrow
winding path and backward along the route it had come.  After a few
moments the black form turned and approached the cluster of oak
trees.  Its progress over the lawn was even slower than on the
cement walk.  It seemed an interminable time before the dim shape
reached the tree in which Vance and I were perched, and I could
feel cold chills running up and down my spine.  The figure was
there beneath the branches, and stood several feet from the trunk,
turning and gazing in all directions.

Then, as if with a burst of vigor, the cloaked form stepped toward
the natural cache on the east side of the trunk and, fumbling round
a moment or two, withdrew the package that Fleel had placed there a
quarter of an hour earlier.

I glanced apprehensively at the red flood-light on the lamppost
Heath had described to us, and saw it flash on and off like a
grotesquely winking monster.  Suddenly there were wide shafts of
white light from the direction of Fifth Avenue splitting the gloom;
and the whole tree and its immediate environs were flooded with
brilliant illumination.  For a moment I was blinded by the glare,
but I could hear a bustle of activity all about us.  Then came
Vance's startled and awestruck voice somewhere at my left.

"Oh, my word!" he exclaimed over and over again; and there was the
sound of his scrambling down the tree.  At length I saw him swing
from the lower limb and drop gracefully to the ground, like a well
balanced pole-vaulter.

Everything seemed to happen simultaneously.  Markham and Fleel and
Kenyon Kenting came rushing across the eastern lawn, preceded by
Heath and Sullivan.*  The two detectives were the first to reach
the spot, and they grasped the black-clad figure just as it
straightened up to move away from the tree.  Each man had an arm
tight in his clasp, and escape was impossible.


* A detective of the Homicide Bureau who participated in nearly all
of Vance's criminal investigations.


"Pretty nice work," Heath sang out with satisfaction, just as I
reached the ground and took a tighter hold on my automatic.  Vance
brushed by me from around the tree and stood directly in front of
Heath.

"My dear fellow--oh, my dear fellow!" he said with quick sternness.
"Don't be too precipitate."

As he spoke, two taxicabs swung crazily along the pedestrian walk
on the left with a continuous shrill blowing of horns.  They came
to a jerky stop with a tremendous clatter and squeaking of brakes.
Then the two chauffeurs leaped out of the cabs and came rushing to
the scene with sub-machine guns poised ominously before them.

Heath and Sullivan looked at Vance in angry amazement.

"Step back, Sergeant," Vance commanded.  "You're far too rough.
I'll handle this situation."  Something in his voice overrode
Heath's zeal--there was no ignoring the authority his words
carried.  Both Heath and Sullivan released their hold on the silent
figure between them and took a backward step, bumping unseeingly
into the startled group formed by Markham, Fleel and Kenting behind
them.

The apprehended culprit did not move, except to reach up and push
back the visor of the toque cap, revealing the face in the glare of
the searchlights.

There before us, leaning weakly and shakily on a straight snakewood
stick, the package of false bank notes still clutched tightly in
the left hand, was the benign, yet cynical, Mrs. Andrews Falloway.
Her face showed no trace of fear or of agitation.  In fact, there
was an air of calm satisfaction in her somewhat triumphant gaze.

In her deep, cultured voice she said, as if exchanging pleasantries
with some one at an afternoon tea:

"How are you, Mr. Vance?"  A slight smile played over her features.

"I am quite well, thank you, Mrs. Falloway," Vance returned
suavely, with a courteous bow; "although I must admit the rough
limb which I chose in the dark was a bit sharp and uncomfortable."

"Truly I am desolated, Mr. Vance."  The woman was still smiling.

Just then a slender form skulked swiftly across the lawn from the
near-by path and, without a word, joined the group directly behind
the woman.  It was Fraim Falloway.  His expression was both puzzled
and downcast.  Vance threw him a quick glance, but took no more
notice of him.  His mother must have seen him out of the corner of
her eye, but she showed no indication that she was aware of her
son's presence.

"You're out late tonight, Mrs. Falloway," Vance was saying
graciously.  "Did you enjoy your evening stroll?"

"I at least found it very profitable," the woman answered with a
hardening voice.  As she spoke she held out the package.  "Here's
the bundle--containing money, I believe--which I found in the hole
of the tree.  You know," she added lightly, "I'm getting rather old
for lovers' trysts.  Don't you think so?"

Vance took the package and threw it to Heath who caught it with
automatic dexterity.  The Sergeant, as well as the rest of the
group, was looking on in stupefied astonishment at the strange and
unexpected little drama.

"I am sure you will never be too old for lovers' trysts," murmured
Vance gallantly.

"You're an outrageous flatterer, Mr. Vance," smiled the woman.
"Tell me, what do you really think of me after this little--what
shall we call it?--escapade tonight?"

Vance looked at her, and his light cynical expression quickly
changed to one of solemnity.

"I think you're a very loyal mother," he said in a low voice, his
eyes fixed on the woman.  Quickly his mood changed again.  "But,
really, y' know, it's dampish, and far too late for you to walk
home."  Then he looked at the gaping Heath.  "Sergeant, can either
of your pseudo-chauffeurs drive his taxi with a modicum of safety?"

"Sure they can," stammered Heath.  "Snitkin was a private chauffeur
for years before he took up police work."  (I now noticed that one
of the two men who had dashed across the lawn with the sub-machine
guns, which they had now lowered in utter astonishment, was the
same driver who had crossed in front of us as we entered the park.)

"That's bully--what?" said Vance.  He moved to Mrs. Falloway's side
and offered her his arm.  "May I have the pleasure of taking you
home?"

The woman took his arm without hesitation.

"You're very chivalrous, Mr. Vance, and I would appreciate the
courtesy."

Vance started across the lawn with the woman.

"Come, Snitkin," he called peremptorily, and the detective walked
swiftly to his cab and opened the door.  A moment later they were
headed toward the main traffic artery which leads to Central Park
West.



CHAPTER XI

ANOTHER EMPTY ROOM


(Thursday, July 21; 11:10 p.m.)


It was but a short time before the rest of us started for the
Kenting house.  As soon as Snitkin had driven off with Vance and
Mrs. Falloway, Heath began to dash around excitedly, giving
innumerable brusque orders to Burke,* who came ambling toward us
across the narrow path from the east.  When he had made all his
arrangements, he walked to the wide lane where the second taxicab
still stood.  This cab, I noticed, was manned by the diminutive
Guilfoyle,** one of the two "chauffeurs" who came to the tree with
sub-machine guns, ready for action.


* Burke was a detective from the Homicide Bureau, who, as a rule,
acted as Sergeant Heath's right-hand man.

** Guilfoyle was another detective from the Homicide Bureau, and
had helped with the investigation of the "Canary" murder case.


"I guess we'd better follow Mr. Vance," Heath growled.  "There's
something mighty phony about this whole business."

Markham, Fleel and young Falloway got into the back seat of the
cab; Kenting and I took our places on the two small folding seats
forward in the tonneau; and the Sergeant crowded into the front of
the cab with Guilfoyle.  When the doors were shut Guilfoyle drove
off rapidly toward the main roadway on the west side of the park.
Nothing was said on that short ride.  Every one, it seemed, was too
dumbfounded to make any comment on the unexpected outcome of the
night's adventure.

Markham sat stiffly upright, looking out of the window, a dark
frown on his face.  Fleel leaned back more comfortably against the
cushions in silence, staring straight ahead but apparently seeing
nothing.  Fraim Falloway crouched morosely in the corner of the
seat, with his hat pulled far down over his eyes, his face a
puzzled mask; and when I offered him a cigarette he seemed utterly
oblivious to my gesture.  Once or twice on the way to his home he
uttered a cackling, breathless chuckle, as if at some thought that
had flashed through his mind.  Kenyon Kenting, sitting at my left,
seemed weary and distressed, and bent forward with his elbows on
his knees, his head bowed in his hands.

Through the plate-glass panel in front of me, I could see the
Sergeant bobbing up and down with the motion of the cab, and
shifting his cigar angrily from one side of his mouth to the other.
Occasionally he turned to Guilfoyle, and I could see his lips move,
but I could hear nothing over the hum of the motor; then he would
resume his dour and bitter silence.  It was obvious he was deeply
disappointed and believed all his plans had gone awry for some
reason he could not figure out.

After all, the whole incident that night had been unexpected and
amazing.  I tried to reason out what had happened, but could not
fit any of the known factors together, and finally gave the matter
up.  The climax of the episode was the last thing I could possibly
have dreamed of, and I am sure the others felt the same way about
it.  If no one had come to the tree for the package of supposed
bank notes, it would have been easily understandable, but the fact
that a crippled old woman had turned out to be the collector of the
money was as astonishing as it was incredible.  And, to add to
every one's perplexity, there was Vance's attitude toward her--
which was perhaps the most astounding thing of all.

Where had been the person who sent the note?  And then I suddenly
remembered the shabby man who had been leaning against the bench on
the pathway, watching Fleel.  Could this have been the person?--had
he seen us at the tree and known that the spot was under
observation?--had he lost his courage and gone off without
attempting to secure the package of bills?--or was my imagination
keyed up to a pitch where I was ready to suspect every stray
figure?  The problem was far too confusing, and I could not arrive
at even a tentative solution.

When we pulled up in front of the Kenting house, which suddenly
seemed black and sinister in the semi-dark, we all quickly jumped
to the sidewalk and hastened in a body to the front door.  Only
Guilfoyle did not move; he relaxed a little in his narrow seat and
remained there, his hands still at the wheel.

Weem, in a dark pongee dressing-robe, opened the door for us and
made a superfluous gesture toward the drawing-room.  Through the
wide-open sliding doors we could see Vance and Mrs. Falloway
seated.  Vance, without rising, greeted us whimsically as we
entered.

"Mrs. Falloway," he explained to us, "wished to remain here a short
while to rest before going upstairs.  Beastly ascent, y' know."

"I really feel exhausted," the woman supplemented in her low,
cultured voice, looking at Markham and ignoring the rest of us.  "I
simply had to rest a while before climbing those long flights of
stairs.  I do wish old Karl Kenting hadn't put such unnecessarily
high ceilings in this old house, or else that he had added a lift.
It's very tiring, you know, to walk from one floor to another.  And
I'm so fatigued just now, after my long walk in the park."  She
smiled cryptically and adjusted the pillow behind her back.

At that moment there was a ring at the front door, and Heath went
out quickly to answer it.  As he swung the ponderous door back, I
could easily see, from where I stood, the figure of Porter Quaggy
outside.

"What do you want?" Heath demanded bluntly, barring the way with
his thick body.

"I don't want anything," Quaggy returned in a cold, unfriendly
voice; "--if that answer will benefit you in any way--except to ask
how Mrs. Kenting is and if you know anything more about Kaspar.  I
saw you drive past my hotel just now and get off here. . . .  Do
you want to tell me, or don't you?"

"Let the johnnie come in, Sergeant," Vance called out in a low,
commanding voice.  "I'll tell him what he wants to know.  And I
also desire to ask him a question or two."

"All right," Heath grumbled in a modified tone to the man waiting
on the threshold.  "Come on in and get an earful."

Quaggy stepped inside briskly and joined us in the drawing-room.
He glanced round the room with narrowed eyes and then asked of no
one in particular:

"Well, what happened tonight?"

"Nothing--really nothing," Vance answered casually, without looking
up.  "Positively nothing.  Quite a fizzle, don't y' know.  Very
sad. . . .  But I am rather glad you decided to pay us this
impromptu visit, Mr. Quaggy.  Would you mind telling us where you
were tonight?"

The man's eyelids drooped still lower, till they were almost
entirely shut, and he looked down at Vance for several moments with
a passive and expressionless face.

"I was at home," he said finally, in an arctic, aggressive tone,
"fretting about Kaspar."  Then he suddenly shot forth, "Where were
YOU?"

Vance smiled and sighed.

"Not that it should concern you in the slightest, sir," he said in
his most dulcet voice, "but--since you ask--I was climbing a tree.
Silly pastime--what?"

Quaggy swung about to Kenting.

"You raised the money, Kenyon, and complied with the instructions
in the follow-up note?" he asked.

Kenting inclined his head: he was still solemn and perturbed.

"Yes," he said in a low voice, "but it did no good."

"A swell bunch of cheap dicks," Quaggy sneered, flashing Heath a
contemptuous glance.  "Didn't any one show up to collect?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Quaggy."  It was Vance who answered.  "Some one
called for the money at the appointed hour, and actually took it."

"And I suppose he got away from the police--as usual.  Is that it?"
Quaggy had turned again and was contemplating Vance's bland
features.

"Oh, no.  No.  We saw to that."  Vance took a long puff on his
cigarette.  "The culprit is here with us in this room."

Quaggy straightened with a start.

"The fact is," went on Vance, "I escorted the guilty person home
myself.  It was Mrs. Falloway."

Quaggy's expression did not change--he was as unemotional and
noncommittal as a veteran poker player; but I had a feeling the
news had shocked him considerably.  Before the man had time to say
anything Vance continued lackadaisically.

"By the by, Mr. Quaggy, are you particularly interested in black
opals?  I noticed a jolly good pair of them on your desk
yesterday."

Quaggy hesitated for several moments.

"And if I am, what then?"  His lips barely moved as he spoke, and
there was no change in the intonation of his voice.

"Queer, don't y' know," Vance went on, "that there are no
representative black opals in Karl Kenting's collection.  Blank
spaces in the case where they should be.  I can't imagine, really,
how an expert collector of semiprecious stones should have
overlooked so important an item as the rarer black opal."

"I get the implication.  Anything else?"  Quaggy was standing
relaxed but motionless in front of Vance.  Slowly he moved one foot
forward, as if shifting the burden of his weight from an overtired
leg.  By an almost imperceptible movement his foot came to within a
few inches of Vance's shoe.

"Really, y' know," Vance said with a cold smile, lifting his eyes
to the man, "I shouldn't try that if I were you--unless, of course,
you wish to have me break your leg and dislocate your hip.  I'm
quite familiar with the trick.  Picked it up in Japan."

Quaggy abruptly withdrew his foot, but said nothing.

"I found a balas-ruby in Kaspar Kenting's dinner jacket yesterday
morning," Vance proceeded calmly.  "A balas-ruby is also missing
from the collection across the hall.  Interestin' mathematical
item--eh?"

"What the hell's interesting about it?" retorted the other with a
sneer.

Vance looked at him mildly.

"I was only wonderin'," he said, "if there might be some
connection between that imitation ruby and the black opals in
your apartment. . . .  By the by, do you care to mention where you
obtained such valuable gem specimens?"

Quaggy made a noise in his throat which sounded to me like a
contemptuous laugh, but the expression on his face did not change.
He did not answer, and Vance turned to the District Attorney.

"I think, in view of the gentleman's attitude, Markham, and the
fact that he is the last person known to have been with the missing
Kaspar, it would be advisable to hold him as a material witness."

Quaggy drew himself erect with a jerk.

"I came by those opals legitimately," he said quickly.  "I bought
them from Kaspar last night, as he said he needed some immediate
cash for the evening."

"You knew, perhaps, that the stones were part of the Kenting
collection?" asked Vance coldly.

"I didn't inquire where they came from," the man returned sullenly.
"I naturally trusted him."

"'Naturally,'" murmured Vance.

Mrs. Falloway struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on her stick.

"I've suspected for a long time," she said, "that Kaspar had been
resorting to that collection of gems for gambling money.  I've come
down occasionally and gone over the exhibits, and it seemed to me
each time there were a few more missing. . . .  But I'm very tired,
and I'm sufficiently rested now to return to my room. . . ."

"But, Mrs. Falloway," blurted Kenting--I had noticed that he had
been staring at the woman incredulously ever since we had returned
to the house, and he could not, apparently, restrain his curiosity
any longer; "I--I don't understand your being in the park tonight.
Why--why--?"

The woman gave him a withering look.

"Mr. Vance understands," she answered curtly.  "That, I think,
is quite sufficient."  Her gaze shifted from Kenting and she
seemed to take us all in with a gracious glance.  "Good night,
gentlemen. . . ."

She started unsteadily toward the door, and Vance sprang to her
side.

"Permit me, madam, to accompany you.  It's a long climb to your
room."

The woman bowed a courteous acknowledgment and, for the second time
that evening, took his arm.  Fraim Falloway did not rise to assist
his mother; he seemed oblivious to everything that was going on.
Markham, with a significant look at the Sergeant, left his chair
and took the woman's free arm.  Heath moved closer to Quaggy who
remained standing.  Mrs. Falloway, with her two escorts, went
slowly from the drawing-room, and I followed them.

It was with considerable effort that the woman mounted the stairs.
She found it necessary to pause momentarily at each step, and when
we reached her room she sank into the large wicker armchair with
the air of a person wholly exhausted.

Vance took her stick and placed it on the floor beside the chair.
Then he said in a kindly voice:

"I should like to ask one or two questions, if you are not too
weary."

The woman nodded and smiled faintly.

"A question or two won't do any harm, Mr. Vance," she said.
"Please go ahead."

"Why did you make the tremendous effort," Vance began, "of walking
in the park tonight?"

"Why, to get all that money, of course," the old woman answered in
mock surprise.  "Anyway, I didn't attempt to walk all the way: I
took a cab to within a few hundred feet of the tree.  Think how
rich I would have been had I not been caught in the disgraceful
act.  And," she added with a sigh, "you have spoiled everything for
me."

"I'm frightfully sorry," said Vance in a bantering manner.  "But
really, there wasn't a dollar in that package."  He paused and
looked down earnestly at the woman.  "Tell me, Mrs. Falloway, how
you knew your son intended to go to the tree for that ransom
package."

For a moment Mrs. Falloway's face was a mask.  Then she said in a
deep, clear voice:

"It is very difficult to fool a mother, Mr. Vance.  Fraim knew of
the ransom note and the instructions in it.  He knew also that
Kenyon would raise the money somehow.  The boy came upstairs and
told me about it after you had left the house this afternoon.
Then, when he came to my room a little before ten o'clock tonight,
after having spent the evening with his sister and Kenyon, and said
he was going out, I knew what was in his mind--although he very
often does go out late of an evening.  He invented an important
engagement--I always know when Fraim isn't telling the truth,
although he doesn't realize that I do.  I knew well enough where he
was going and what he was going for.  I could read it in his eyes.
And I--I wished to save him from that infamy."*


* Vance's immediate knowledge regarding the exact truth of the
situation, when he recognized Mrs. Falloway beneath the tree that
night, was another instance of his uncanny ability to read human
nature.  I myself was startled by the simplicity and accuracy of
his logic as the woman confessed the facts; for Vance had reasoned,
almost in a flash, that the crippled old woman, who obviously was
not guilty of the crime of kidnapping, could not have summoned
sufficient strength for so heroic an act, unless it was on behalf
of some one very dear to her and whose welfare and protection were
foremost in her mind.


Vance was silent for a moment as he regarded the weary old woman
with pity and admiration, and Markham nodded sympathetically.

"But Fraim is a good boy at heart--please believe that," the woman
added.  "He merely lacks something--strength of body and spirit,
perhaps."

Vance bowed.

"Quite.  He's not well, Mrs. Falloway.  He needs medical attention.
Have you ever had a basal metabolism test made on him?"

The woman shook her head.

"A blood sugar?" proceeded Vance.

"No."  Mrs. Falloway's voice was barely audible.

"A blood count?"

Again the woman shook her head.

"A Wassermann?"

"The truth is, Mr. Vance," the woman said, "he has never been
examined."  Then she asked quickly:  "What do you think it is?"

"I wouldn't dare to venture an opinion, don't y' know," Vance
returned, "though I'd say there was an endocrine insufficiency
somewhere--an inadequacy of some internal secretion, a definite and
prolonged hormone disturbance.  It may be thyroid, parathyroid, or
pituitary, or adrenal.  Or maybe neurocirculatory asthenia.  It is
deplorable how little science knows as yet about the ductless
glands.  A great work, however, is being done along those lines,
and progress is constantly being made.  I think you should have
your son checked up.  It may be something that can be remedied."

He scribbled something on a page from a small note-book and,
tearing it out, handed it to Mrs. Falloway.

"Here is the name and address of one of the country's greatest
endocrinologists.  Look him up, for your son's sake."

The woman took the slip of paper, folded it, and put it in one of
the large pockets of her skirt.

"You are very good--and very understanding, Mr. Vance," she said.
"The moment I saw you in the park tonight, I knew you would
understand.  A mother's love--"

"Yes, yes--of course," murmured Vance.  "And now I think we'll
return to the drawing-room.  And may you have a well-earned night's
rest."

The woman looked at him gratefully and held out her hand.  He took
it and, bowing, raised it to his lips.

"My eternal admiration, madam," he said.

When we re-entered the drawing-room we found the group just as we
had left it.  Fleel and Kenyon Kenting still sat stiffly in their
chairs near the front window, like awed wooden figures.  Quaggy
stood smoking thoughtfully before the chair where Vance had sat;
and Heath, his sturdy legs spread, was at his side, glowering at
him morosely.  On the sofa, his head drooping forward, his mouth
slightly open, and his arms hanging listlessly, lounged Fraim
Falloway.  He did not even look up as we entered; and the thought
flashed through my mind that he might not be a glandular case at
all, but that he was merely suffering from the early stages of
encephalitis lethargica.

Vance glanced about him sharply and then strolled to his chair.
Reseating himself with unconcern, he lighted a fresh cigarette.
Markham and I remained standing in the doorway.

"There are one or two matters--" drawled Vance and stopped
abruptly.  Then he said:  "But I think Mrs. Kenting should be here
with us for this discussion.  After all, it is her husband who has
disappeared, and her suggestions might be dashed helpful."

Kenyon Kenting stood up, nodding his head vigorously in approval.

"I think you're right, Mr. Vance," he said, going toward the door.
"I'll get Madelaine myself."

"I trust it is not too late to disturb her," said Vance.

"Oh, no, no," Kenting assured him.  "She almost never retires so
early.  She has not been able to sleep well for a long time, and
reads far into the night.  And tonight I was with her till after
half-past nine, and she was terribly keyed up; I know she wouldn't
think of retiring till she heard the outcome of our plans tonight."

He bustled from the room as he finished speaking, and we heard him
going up the stairs.  A few moments later we could hear his sharp,
repeated knocking on a door.  Then there was a long silence, and
the sound of a door being opened hurriedly.  Vance leaned forward
in his chair and seemed to be waiting expectantly.

A few minutes later Kenting came rushing down the stairs.  He
stopped in the doorway, glaring at us with wide-open eyes.  He
looked breathless and horror-stricken as he leaned for support
against the door-frame.

"She's not there!" he exclaimed in an awed voice.  He took a deep
breath.  "I knocked on her door several times, but I got no answer--
and a chill went through me.  I tried the door, but it was locked.
So I went through Kaspar's room, into Madelaine's.  The lights are
all on, but she isn't there. . . ."

He sucked in his breath again excitedly and stammered as if with
tremendous effort:

"The window--over the yard--is wide open, and--and the ladder is
standing against it!"



CHAPTER XII

EMERALD PERFUME


(Thursday, July 21; 11:30 p.m.)


Kenyon Kenting's announcement that his sister-in-law was gone from
her room and that the portentous ladder was standing below the open
window had an instantaneous effect upon the gathering in the
drawing-room.  Markham and I had stepped into the room, and
instinctively both of us turned to Heath who was, after all,
technically in charge of the routine end of the Kenting kidnapping
case.  The wordless feud which had been going on between Heath and
Porter Quaggy was immediately forgotten, and Heath was now
directing his fierce glance to Kenting as he stood dejectedly in
the doorway.

Quaggy's cigarette fell from his lips to the rug, where he stepped
on it with automatic quickness, without even looking down.

"Good God, Kenyon!" he exclaimed, half under his breath.  The man
seemed deeply moved.

Fleel rose to his feet and, as he jerked down his waistcoat with
both hands, appeared dazed and inarticulate.  Even Fraim Falloway
raised himself suddenly out of his stupor and, glowering at
Kenting, began babbling hysterically.

"The hell you say!  The hell you say!" he cried out in a high-
pitched voice.  "That's some more of Kaspar's dirty work.  He's
playing a game to get money, I tell you.  I don't believe he was
kidnapped at all--"

The Sergeant swung about and grabbed the youth roughly by the
shoulder.

"Pipe down, young fella," he ordered.  "Makin' fool statements like
that ain't gonna help anything."

Falloway subsided and made a nervous search through his pockets
till he found a crumpled cigarette.

I myself was shocked and dumbfounded by this startling turn of
events.  As a matter of fact, I hadn't yet recovered from the
strange adventure in the park, and I was totally unprepared for
this new blow.

Only Vance seemed unruffled and composed.  He always had astounding
control of his nerves, and it was difficult to judge just what was
his reaction to the news of Mrs. Kenting's disappearance.

Markham, I noticed, was watching Vance closely, and as Vance slowly
crushed out his cigarette and got indolently to his feet, Markham
blurted out angrily:

"This doesn't seem to surprise you, Vance.  You're taking it too
damned calmly to suit me.  Had you any idea of this--this new
outrage when you suggested that Mrs. Kenting be called?"

"Oh, I rather expected something of the kind, but, frankly, I
didn't think it would happen so soon."

"If you expected this thing," Markham snapped, "why didn't you let
me know, so that we could do something about it?"

"My dear Markham!"  Vance spoke with pacifying coolness.  "There
was nothing any one could do.  The predicament was far from simple;
and it's still a difficult one."

Heath had gone to the telephone, and I could hear him, with one
ear, as it were, calling the Homicide Bureau and giving officious
instructions.  Then he slammed down the receiver and stalked toward
the stairs.

"I want to look at that room," he announced.  "Two of the boys
from the Bureau are coming up right away.  This is a hell of a
night. . . ."  His voice trailed off as he went up the steps two at
a time. Vance and Markham and I had left the drawing-room and were
immediately behind him.

Heath first tried the door-knob of Mrs. Kenting's room, but, as
Kenting had informed us, the door was locked.  He went up the hall
to Kaspar Kenting's room.  The door here was standing ajar, and at
the far end of the room we could see into Mrs. Kenting's brightly
lighted boudoir.  Stepping through the first chamber, we entered
the lighted bedroom.  As Kenting had said, the window facing on the
court was wide open, and not only was the Venetian blind raised to
the top, but the heavy drapes were drawn apart.  Cautiously
avoiding any contact with the window-sill, Heath leaned out at the
window, and then turned quickly back.

"The ladder's there, all right," he asserted.  "The same like it
was at the other window yesterday."

Vance was apparently not listening.  He had adjusted his monocle
and was looking round the room without any apparent show of
interest.  Leisurely he walked to the dressing-table opposite the
window and looked down at it for a moment.  A round cut-glass
powder jar stood uncovered at one side; the tinted glass top was
resting on its side several inches away.  A large powder puff lay
on the floor beneath the table.  Vance reached down, picked it up,
fitted it back into the jar, and replaced the cover.

Then he lifted up a small perfume atomizer which was resting
perilously near the edge of the dressing-table, and pressed the
bulb slightly.  He sniffed at the spray, and set the bottle down at
the rear of the table, on the crystal tray where it evidently
belonged.

"Courtet's emerald," he murmured.  "I'm sure this was not the
lady's personal preference in perfumes.  Blondes know better, don't
y' know.  Emerald is suitable only for brunettes, especially those
with olive complexions and abundant hair. . . .  Very interestin'."

Heath was eyeing Vance with obvious annoyance.  He could not
understand Vance's actions.  But he said nothing and merely watched
impatiently.

Vance then went to the door and inspected it briefly.

"The night latch isn't on," he murmured, as if to himself.  "And
the turn-bolt hasn't been thrown.  Door locked with a key.  And no
key in the keyhole."

"What are you getting at, Vance?" demanded Markham.  "What if there
is no key there?  The door could have been locked and the key
removed."

"Quite so--theoretically," returned Vance.  "But rather an unusual
procedure just the same--eh, what?  When one locks oneself in a
bedroom with a key, one usually leaves the key in the lock.  Just
what would be the object in removing it?  Dashed if I know. . . .
It could be, however. . . ."

He went across the room and into the bathroom.  This room too was
brightly lit.  He glanced at the long metal cord hanging from the
electric fixture, and with his hand tested the weight of the
painted glass cylindrical ornament attached to the end of the
chain.  He released it and watched it swing back and forth.  He
looked into the tumbler which stood on the wide rim of the washbowl
and, setting it down again, examined the washbowl itself, and
around the edges.  He then bent over the soap dish.  Markham,
standing in the bathroom doorway, followed his movements with a
puzzled frown.

"What in the name of God--" he began irritably.

"Tut, tut, my dear fellow," Vance interrupted, turning to him with
a contemplative look.  "I was merely attemptin' to ascertain at
just what time the lady departed. . . .  I would surmise, don't y'
know, that it was round ten o'clock this evening."

Markham still looked perplexed.

"How do you figure that out?" he asked skeptically.

"Indications may be entirely misleadin'."  Vance sighed slightly.
"Nothing certain, nothing accurate in this world.  One may only
venture an opinion.  I'm no oracle, Delphic or otherwise.  Merely
strugglin' toward the light."  He pointed with his cigarette to the
pull-chain of the electric fixture overhead.  It was still swinging
back and forth like a pendulum, but with a slight rotary motion,
and its to-and-fro movement had not perceptibly abated.

"When I came into the bathroom," Vance explained, "yon polished
brass chain was at rest--oh, quite--and I opined that its movement,
with that heavy and abominable solid glass cylinder to control it,
would discernibly continue, once it was pulled and released, for at
least an hour.  And it's just half-past eleven now. . . .
Moreover, the glass here is quite dry, showing that it has not been
used for an hour or two.  Also, there's not a drop of water, either
in the washbowl or on the edge; and a certain number of drops and a
little dampness always remain after the washbowl has been used.
And, by the by, the rubber stopper is dry.  That process, I
believe, would take in the neighborhood of an hour and a half.
Even the small amount of lather left on the cake of soap is dry and
crumbly, which would point to the fact that it had not been used
for at least an hour or so."

He took several puffs on his cigarette.

"And I cannot imagine Mrs. Kenting, with her habit of remaining up
late, performing her nightly toilet as early as these matters would
indicate.  And yet the light was on in the bathroom, and there is a
certain amount of evidence that she had been powdering her nose and
spraying herself with perfume some time during the evening.
Moreover, my dear Markham, there are indications of haste in the
performance of these feminine rites, for she did not put the
perfume atomizer back where it belongs, nor did she stop to
retrieve the powder puff from where it had fallen on the floor."

Markham nodded glumly.

"I begin to see what you are trying to get at, Vance," he mumbled.

"And all these little details, taken in connection with the open
latch and the unthrown bolt and the missing key in the hall door,
lead me--rather vaguely and shakily, I admit--to the theory that
she had a rendezvous elsewhere, for which she was a wee bit late,
at some time around the far-from-witching hour of ten o'clock."

Markham thought a moment.  Then he said slowly:

"But that's only a theory, Vance.  It might have been at any time
earlier in the evening after the dusk was sufficiently advanced to
make artificial light necessary."

"Quite true," agreed Vance, "on the mere visible evidence
hereabouts.  But don't you recall that Kenting informed us only a
few minutes ago that he was here at the house with Mrs. Kaspar
Kenting until half-past nine this evening?  And have you forgot
already, my dear Markham, that Mrs. Falloway mentioned that young
Fraim had been with his sister until a short time before he had his
important engagement at ten o'clock?--which may have accounted for
the lady's flustered state in preparing herself for the rendezvous,
provided the assignation was made for ten o'clock.  You see how
nicely it all dovetails."

Markham nodded comprehendingly.

"All right," he said.  "But what follows from all that?"

Without answering the question, Vance turned to Heath.

"What time, Sergeant," he asked, "did you notify Fleel and Kenyon
Kenting about the arrangements for tonight?"

"Oh,--I should say--" Heath thought a moment.  "Round six o'clock.
Maybe a little after."

"And where did you find these gentlemen?"

"Well, I called Fleel at his home and he wasn't there yet.  But I
left word for him and he called me back in a little while.  But I
didn't think to ask him where he was.  And Kenting was here."

Vance smoked a moment and said nothing, but he seemed satisfied
with the answer.  He glanced about him and again addressed Heath.

"I'm afraid, Sergeant, your finger-print men and your photographers
and your busy boys from the Homicide Bureau are going to draw a
blank here.  But I'm sure you'd be horribly disappointed if they
didn't clutter this room up with insufflators and tripods and what
not."

"I still want to know," persisted Markham, "what all this time-
table hocus-pocus means."

Vance looked at him with unwonted seriousness.

"It means deviltry, Markham."  His voice was unusually low and
resonant.  "It means something damnable.  I don't like this case.--
I don't at all like it.  It infuriates me because it leaves us so
helpless.  Again, I fear, we must wait."

"But we can't just sit back," said Markham in a dispirited voice.
"Isn't there some step you can suggest?"

"Well, yes.  But it won't help much.  I propose that first we ask
one or two questions of the gentlemen downstairs.  And then I
propose that we go into the yard and take a look at the ladder."
Vance turned to Heath.  "Have you your flashlight, Sergeant?"

"Sure I have," the other answered.

"And after that," Vance went on, resuming his reply to Markham, "I
propose that we go home and bide our time.  The Sergeant will carry
on with his prescribed but futile activities while we slumber."

Heath grunted and started toward Kaspar Kenting's room, headed for
the hallway.

When we reached the drawing-room we found all four of its occupants
anxious and alert.  Even Fraim Falloway seemed excited and
expectant.  They were all standing in a small group, talking to
each other in short jerky sentences the gist of which I did not
catch, for the conversation stopped abruptly, and they turned to us
eagerly the moment we entered the room.

"Have you learned anything?" asked Fraim Falloway, in a semi-
hysterical falsetto.

"We're not through looking round yet," Vance returned placatingly.
"We hope to know something definite very soon.  Just now, however,
I wish to ask each of you gentlemen a question."

He did not seem particularly concerned and sat down as he spoke,
crossing his knees leisurely.  When he had selected a cigarette
from his platinum-and-jet case he turned suddenly to the lawyer.

"What is your favorite perfume, Mr. Fleel?" he asked unexpectedly.

The man stared at him in blank astonishment, and I am sure that had
he been in a courtroom, he would have appealed instantly to the
judge with the usual incompetent-irrelevant-and-immaterial
objection.  However, he managed a condescending smile and replied:

"I have no favorite perfume--I know nothing about such things.
It's true, I send bottles of perfume to my women clients at
Christmas, instead of the conventional flower-baskets, but I always
leave the selection to my secretary."

"Do you regard Mrs. Kenting as one of your women clients?" Vance
continued.

"Naturally," answered the lawyer.

"By the by, Mr. Fleel, is your secret'ry blond or brunette?"

The man seemed more disconcerted than ever, but answered
immediately.

"I don't know.  I suppose you'd call her brunette.  Her hair
certainly doesn't look anything like Jean Harlow's or like Peggy
Hopkins Joyce's--if that's what you mean."

"Many thanks," said Vance curtly, and shifted his gaze to Fraim
Falloway who stood a few feet away, gaping before him with unseeing
eyes.

"What is YOUR favorite scent, Mr. Falloway?" Vance asked, watching
the youth closely and appraisingly.

"I--I don't know," Falloway stammered.  "I'm not familiar with such
feminine matters.  But I think emerald is wonderful--so mysterious--
so exotic--so subtle."  He raised his eyes almost rapturously,
like a young poet reciting his own verses.

"You're quite right," murmured Vance; and then he focused his gaze
on Kenyon Kenting.

"All perfumes smell alike to me," was the man's annoyed assertion
before Vance could frame the question again.  "I can't tell one
from another--except gardenia.  Whenever I give any woman perfume,
I give her gardenia."

A faint smile appeared at the corners of Vance's mouth.

"Really, y' know," he said, "I shouldn't do it, if I were you."

As he spoke he turned his head to Porter Quaggy.

"And how about you, Mr. Quaggy?" he asked lightly.  "If you were
giving a lady perfume, what scent would you select?"

Quaggy gave a mirthless chuckle.

"I haven't yet been guilty of such foolishness," he replied.  "I
stick to flowers.  They're easier.  But if I were compelled to
present a fair creature with perfume, I'd first find out what she
liked."

"Quite a sensible point of view," murmured Vance, rising as if with
great effort and turning.  "And now, I say, Sergeant, let's have a
curs'ry look at that ladder."

As we walked down the front steps I saw Guilfoyle still sitting at
the wheel of his cab, with the motor humming gently.

Heath flashed on his powerful pocket light, and for the second time
we went through the street gate leading into the yard, and
approached the ladder leaning against the side of the house.

The short grass was entirely dry, and the ground had completely
hardened since the rain two nights ago.  Vance again bent over at
the foot of the ladder while Heath held the flashlight.

"There's no need to fear my spoiling your adored footprints
tonight, Sergeant,--the ground is much too hard.  Not even Sweet
Alice Cherry* could have made an impression on this sod."  Vance
straightened up after a moment and moved the ladder slightly to the
right, as he had done the previous morning.  "And don't get jittery
about finger-prints, Sergeant," he went on.  "I'm quite convinced
you'll find none.  This ladder, I opine, is merely a stage-prop, as
it were; and the person who set it here was clever enough to have
used gloves."


*A famous side-show "fat woman" of the time.


He bent over again and inspected the lawn, but rose almost
immediately.

"Not the slightest depression--only a few blades of grass
crushed. . . .  I say, sergente mio, it's your turn to step on the
ladder--I'm frightfully tired."

Heath immediately clambered up five or six rungs and then
descended; and Vance again moved the ladder a few inches.  Both he
and Heath now knelt down and scrutinized the ground.

"Observe," said Vance as he rose to his feet, "that the uprights
make a slight depression in the soil, even with the weight of only
one person pressing upon the ladder. . . .  Let's go inside again
and dispense our adieux."

On re-entering the house Vance immediately joined Kenting at the
entrance to the drawing-room and announced to him, as well as to
the others inside, that we were going, and that the house would be
taken over very shortly by the police.  There was a general silent
acquiescence to his announcement.

"I might as well be going along myself," said Kenting despondently.
"There is obviously nothing I can do here.  But I hope you
gentlemen will let me know the moment you learn anything.  I'll be
at home all night, and in my office tomorrow."

"Oh, quite," returned Vance, without looking at the man.  "Go home,
by all means.  This has been a trying night, and you can help us
better tomorrow if you are able to get any rest now."

The man seemed grateful: it was obvious he was much discouraged by
the shock he had just received.  Taking his hat from the hall
bench, he hurried out the front door.

Quaggy's eyes followed the departing man.  Then he rose and began
pacing up and down the drawing-room.

"I guess I'll be getting along too," he said finally, with a note
of interrogation in his voice.  "I may go, I suppose?"  There was a
suggestion of sneering belligerence in his tone.

"That's quite all right," Vance told him pleasantly.  "You probably
need a bit of extra sleep, don't y' know, after your recent all-
night vigil."

"Thanks," muttered Quaggy sarcastically, keeping his eyes down.
And he too left the house.

When the front door had closed after him, Fleel looked up rather
apologetically.

"I trust you gentlemen will not misunderstand my seeming right-
about-face this morning regarding the assistance of the Police
Department.  The fact is, I was entirely sincere in telling you in
the District Attorney's office that I was inclined to leave
everything in your hands regarding the payment of the fifty
thousand dollars.  But on my way to the house here to see Kenting,
I weighed the matter more carefully, and when I saw how eager
Kenting was to follow the thing through alone, I decided it might
be better, after all, to agree with him regarding the elimination
of the police tonight.  I see now that I was mistaken, and that my
first instinct was correct.  I feel, after what happened in the
park tonight--"

"Pray don't worry on that score, Mr. Fleel," Vance returned
negligently.  "We quite understand your advis'ry attitude in the
matter.  Difficult position--eh, what?  After all, one can only
make guesses, subject to change."

Fleel was now on his feet, looking down meditatively at his half-
smoked cigar.

"Yes," he muttered; "it is, as you say, a most difficult
situation. . . ."  He glanced up swiftly.  "What do you make of
this second terrible episode tonight?"

"Really, y' know,"--Vance was covertly watching the man--"it is
far too early to arrive at any definite conclusions.  Perhaps
tomorrow. . . ."  His voice faded away.

Fleel shook himself slightly, as with an involuntary tremor.

"I feel that we have not reached the end of this atrocious business
yet.  There appears to be a malicious desperation back of these
happenings. . . .  I wish I had never been brought into the case--
I'm actually beginning to harbor fears for my own safety."

"We appreciate just how you feel," Vance returned.

Fleel straightened up with an effort and moved forward resolutely.

"I think I too will be going."  He spoke in a weary tone, and I
noticed that his hand trembled slightly as he picked up his hat and
adjusted it.

"Cheerio," said Vance as the lawyer turned at the front door and
bowed stiffly to us.

Meanwhile Fraim Falloway had risen from his place on the davenport.
He now moved silently past us, with a drawn look on his face, and
trudged heavily up the stairs.

Falloway had barely time to reach the first landing when the
telephone resting on a small wobbly stand in the hall began
ringing.  Weem suddenly appeared from the dimness of the rear hall
and picked up the receiver with a blunt "hello."  He listened for a
moment; then laying down the receiver, turned sullenly in our
direction.

"It's a call for Sergeant Heath," he announced, as if his privacy
had been needlessly invaded.

The Sergeant went quickly to the telephone and put the receiver to
his ear.

"Well, what is it?" he started belligerently.  ". . . .  Sure it's
the Sarge--shoot! . . .  Well, for the love of--Hold it a minute."
He clapped his hand over the mouthpiece and swung about quickly.

"Where'll we be in half an hour, Chief?"

"We'll be at Mr. Vance's apartment," Markham answered after one
glance at Heath's expression.

"Oh, my word!" sighed Vance.  "I had hoped to be reposing. . . ."

The Sergeant turned back to the instrument.

"Listen, you," he fairly bawled; "we'll be at Mr. Vance's apartment
in East 38th Street.  Know where it is? . . .  That's right--and
make it snappy."  He banged down the receiver.

"Important, is it, Sergeant?" asked Markham.

"I'll say it is."  Heath stepped quickly away from the telephone
table.  "Let's get going, sir.  I'll tell you about it on the way
down.  Snitkin's meeting us at Mr. Vance's apartment.  And Sullivan
and Hennessey will be here any minute to take over."

The butler was still in the hall, half standing and half leaning
against one of the large newel posts at the foot of the stairs, and
Heath now addressed him peremptorily.

"Some of my men will be here pretty soon, Weem.  And then you can
go to bed.  This house is in the hands of the police from now on--
understand?"

The butler nodded his head dourly, and shuffled away toward the
rear of the house.

"Just a moment, Weem," called Vance.

The man turned and approached us again, sulky and antagonistic.

"Weem, did you or your wife hear any one go out or enter this house
around ten o'clock tonight?" Vance asked.

"No, I didn't hear anything.  Neither did Gertrude.  Mrs. Kenting
told both of us that we wouldn't be needed and could do as we
pleased after dinner.  We had a long day and were tired, and we
were both asleep from nine o'clock till you and Mrs. Falloway rang
and I had to let you in.  After the others came I got dressed and
came down to see if there was anything I could do."

"Most admirable of you, Weem," Vance commended him, turning to the
front door.  "That's all I wanted to ask just now."



CHAPTER XIII

THE GREEN COUPÉ


(Thursday, July 21; midnight.)


Just as Markham and Heath and I turned to follow Vance, there came,
from somewhere outside, a startling and ominous rattle that sounded
like the staccato and rapid sputtering of a machine-gun.  So keyed
up were my nerves that the reports went through me with a sickening
horror, almost as if it had been the bullets themselves.

"God Almighty!" came the explosive exclamation of the Sergeant, who
was at my side; and he stopped abruptly, as if he, too, had been
struck by a bombardment of bullets.  Then he suddenly sprang
forward past Vance and, jerking the front door open, hurried out
into the warm summer night without a word to any one.  The rest of
us followed close behind him.  The Sergeant had halted at the edge
of the stone pathway to the sidewalk and was looking confusedly up
and down the street, uncertain which way to turn.  Guilfoyle had
jumped down from his seat in the cab as we came out of the
vestibule, and was gesticulating excitedly in front of Heath.

"The shots came from up that way," he told Heath, waving his arm
toward Central Park West.  "What do you want me to do, Sarge?"

"Stay here and keep your eyes open," Heath ordered in clipped
accents, "until Sullivan and Hennessey arrive. . . .  And," he
added as he started off toward the park, "stick around after that,
in case of any emergency."

"I'm wise," Guilfoyle called after him.

Guilfoyle saluted half-heartedly, as Markham and Vance appeared on
the sidewalk, and again he waved his arm to indicate, I presume,
which way Heath had gone.  He leaned reluctantly against his cab as
we followed the Sergeant up the street.

"No," murmured Vance as we hurried along, "not a pleasant case. . . .
And if my intuition is correct, these shots are another manifestation
of its complexity."

Heath was now breaking into a run ahead of us; and Markham and I
had difficulty keeping pace with Vance as he, too, lengthened his
stride.

Just this side of the Nottingham Hotel at the corner, a small group
of excited men were gathered under the bright light of the lamppost
set between two trees along the curb.  As Heath came abreast of the
cluster of onlookers we could hear his gruff voice ordering them to
disperse, and one by one they reluctantly moved off.  Some
continued on whatever business they had been about, while others
remained to look on from the opposite side of the street.  In the
few moments it took us to reach the lamppost, the Sergeant had
succeeded in clearing the scene.

There, leaning in a crouching attitude against the iron lamppost,
was Fleel.  His face was deathly pale.  I have yet to see so
unmistakable a picture of collapse from fright as he presented.
His nerves were completely shattered.  He was as pitiful a figure
as I have ever looked at, huddled beneath the unflattering glare of
the large electric light overhead, as he leaned weakly for support
against the lamppost.  In front of the lawyer stood Quaggy, looking
at him with a curious hard-faced serenity.

Heath was staring at Fleel with a startled, inquisitive look in his
eyes; but before he could speak to Fleel, Vance took the man under
the arms and, knocking his feet from under him, set him down gently
on the narrow strip of lawn which bordered the sidewalk, with his
back against the lamppost.

"Breathe deeply," Vance advised the lawyer, when he had settled him
on the ground.  "And pull yourself together.  Then see if you can
tell us what happened."

Fleel looked up, his chest rising and falling as he sucked in the
stagnant air of that humid July night.  Slowly he struggled to his
feet again and leaned heavily against the post, his eyes fixed
before him.

Quaggy put a hand on the man's shoulder, as if to steady him, and
shook him gently as he did so.

Fleel managed a sickly grimace intended for a smile, and turned his
head weakly back and forth, blinking his eyes as if to clear his
vision.

"That was a close call," he muttered.  "They almost got me."

"Who almost got you, Mr. Fleel?" asked Vance.

"Why--why--" the man stammered, and paused for breath.  "The men in
the car, of course.  I--didn't see--who they were--"

"Try to tell us, Mr. Fleel," came Vance's steadying voice, "just
what happened."

Fleel took another deep breath and, with an obvious effort,
straightened up a little more.

"Didn't you see it all?" he asked, his voice high and unnatural.
"I was on my way to the corner, to get a taxicab, when a car drove
up from behind me.  I naturally paid no attention to it until it
suddenly swerved toward the curb and stopped with a screeching of
brakes, just as I reached this street light.  As I turned round to
see what it was, a small machine-gun was thrust over the ledge of
the open window of the car and the firing began.  I instinctively
grasped this iron post and crouched down.  After a number of shots
the car jerked forward.  I admit I was too frightened to notice
which way it turned."

"But at least you were not hit, Mr. Fleel."

The man moved his hands over his body.

"No, thank Heaven for that," he muttered.

"And," Vance continued, "the car couldn't have been over ten feet
away from you.  A very poor shot, I should say.  You were lucky,
sir, this time."  He spun round quickly to Quaggy, who had taken a
step or two backward from the frightened man.  "I don't quite
understand your being here, Mr. Quaggy.  Surely, you've had more
than ample time to ensconce yourself safely in your boudoir."

Quaggy stepped forward resentfully.

"I WAS in my apartment.  As you can see,"--he pointed indignantly
to his two open front windows in the near-by hotel--"my lights are
on.  When I got to my rooms I didn't go directly to bed--I hope it
wasn't a crime.  I went to the front window and stood there for a
few minutes, trying to get a breath of fresh air.  Then I caught
sight of Mr. Fleel coming up the street--he had apparently just
left the Kenting house--and behind him came a car.  Not that I paid
any particular attention to it, but I did notice it.  Only, when it
turned in to the curb and stopped directly opposite Mr. Fleel as he
reached the light post my curiosity was naturally aroused.  And
when I heard the machine-gun and saw the spits of fire coming
through the window, and also saw Mr. Fleel grasp the lamppost and
sink down, I thought he had been shot.  I naturally dashed down--so
here I am. . . .  Anything illegal in that procedure?" he asked
with cold sarcasm.

"No--oh, no," smiled Vance.  "Quite normal.  Far more normal, in
fact, than if you had gone immediately to bed without a bit of
airin' by the open window."  He glanced at Quaggy with an
enigmatical smile.  "By the by," he went on, "did you, by any
chance, note what type of car it was that attacked Mr. Fleel?"

"No, I didn't get a very good look at it," Quaggy returned in a
chilly tone.  "At first I didn't pay much attention to it, as I
said; and when the shooting began I was too excited to get any
vivid impression.  But I think it was a coupé of some kind--not a
very large car, and certainly not a new model."

"And the color?" prompted Vance.

"It was a dingy, nondescript color."  Quaggy narrowed his eyes, as
if trying to recall a definite picture.  "It might have been a
faded green--it was hard to be certain from the window.  In fact, I
think it WAS green."

Heath was watching Quaggy shrewdly.

"Yeah?" he said skeptically.  "Which way did it go?"

Quaggy turned to the Sergeant.

"I really didn't notice," he replied none too cordially.  "I caught
only a glimpse of it as it started toward the park."

"A fine bunch of spectators," Heath snorted.  "I'll see about that
car myself."  And he started running toward Central Park West.

As he neared the corner, a burly figure in uniform turned suddenly
into 86th Street from the south, and almost collided with the
Sergeant.  By the bright corner light I could see that the newcomer
was McLaughlin, the night officer on duty in that section, who had
reported to us the morning of Kaspar Kenting's disappearance.  He
drew up quickly and saluted with a jerk.

"What was it, Sergeant?"  His breathless, excited query carried
down to us.  "I heard the shots, and been trying to locate 'em.
Did they come outa this street?"

"You're damn tootin', McLaughlin," replied Heath, and, grasping the
officer by the arm, he swung him about, and the two started off
again.

"Did you see any car come out of this street, into Central Park
West?" demanded Heath.

I could not now hear what the officer answered, but when the two
had reached the curb at the corner McLaughlin was waving his arm
uptown, and I assumed that he was pointing in the direction that
the green coupé had taken.

Heath looked up and down the avenue for a moment, no doubt trying
to find a car he could requisition for the chase; but there was
apparently none in sight, and he started diagonally across the
street uptown, with McLaughlin at his heels.  In the middle of the
crossing the Sergeant turned his head and called out over his
shoulder to us:

"Wait here at the corner for me."  Then he and McLaughlin
disappeared past the building on the north corner of Central Park
West.

"My word, such energy!" sighed Vance when Heath and the officer
were out of sight.  "The coupé could be at 110th Street by this
time--and thus the mad search would end.  Heath is all action and
no mentation.  Sad, sad. . . .  Vital ingredient of the police
routine, I imagine--eh, what, Markham?"

Markham was in a solemn mood, and took no offense at Vance's
levity.

"There's a taxicab stand just a block up on Central Park West," he
explained patiently.  "The Sergeant is probably headed for that in
order to commandeer a cab for the chase."

"Marvellous," murmured Vance.  "But I imagine even the green coupé
could outrun a nocturnal taxi-cab if they both started from
scratch."

"Not if the Sergeant were to puncture one of its rear tires with a
bullet or two," retorted Markham angrily.

"I doubt if the Sergeant will have the opportunity, by this time."
Vance smiled despondently.  Then he turned to Fleel.  "Feeling
better?" he asked pleasantly.

"I'm all right now," the lawyer returned, taking a wobbly step or
two forward and biting the end from a cigar he took from his
pocket.

"That's bully," Vance said consolingly.  "Do you want an escort
home?"

"No, thanks," said Fleel, in a voice that was still dazed.  "I'll
make it all right."  And when he had his cigar going he turned
shakily toward Central Park West.  "I'll pick up a taxicab."  He
held out his hand to Quaggy, who took it with surprising
cordiality.  "Many thanks, Mr. Quaggy," he said weakly and, I
thought, a little shamefacedly.  Then he bowed somewhat stiffly and
haughtily to us and moved away out of the ring of light.

"Queer episode," commented Vance, as if to himself.  "Fits in
rather nicely, though.  Lucky for your lawyer friend, Markham, that
the gentleman in the green coupé wasn't a better shot. . . .  Ah,
well, we might as well toddle to the corner and await the energetic
Sergeant.  Really, y' know, Markham, there's no use gazing at the
lamppost any longer."

Markham silently followed Vance toward the park.

Quaggy turned too and walked with us the short distance to the
entrance of his apartment-hotel, where he took leave of us.  At the
great iron-grilled door he turned and said tauntingly:  "Many
thanks for not arresting me."

"Oh, that's quite all right, Mr. Quaggy," Vance returned, halting
momentarily and smiling.  "The case isn't over yet, don't y'
know. . . .  Cheerio."

At the corner Vance very deliberately lighted a cigarette and
seated himself indolently on the wide stone balustrade extending
along the east wall of the Nottingham Hotel.

"I'm not bloodthirsty at all, Markham," he said, looking
quizzically at the District Attorney; "but I rather wish the
gentleman with the machine-gun had potted Mr. Fleel.  And he was at
such short range.  I've never wielded a machine-gun myself, but I'm
quite sure I could have done better than that. . . .  And the poor
Sergeant, dashing madly around at this hour.  My heart goes out to
him.  The whole explanation of this evening's little contretemps
lies elsewhere than with the mysterious green coupé."

Markham was annoyed.  He was standing at the curb, straining his
eyes up the avenue to the north.  "Sometimes, Vance," he said,
without taking his eyes from the wide macadamized roadway, "you
infuriate me with your babble.  A lot of good it would have done us
to have Fleel shot a few feet away from myself and the police."

Vance joined Markham at the edge of the sidewalk and followed his
intense gaze northward to the quiet blocks in the distance.

"Lovely night," murmured Vance tantalizingly.  "So quiet and
lonely.  But much too warm."

"I'll warrant the Sergeant and McLaughlin overhaul that car
somewhere."  Markham was apparently following his own trend of
thought.

"Oh, I dare say," sighed Vance.  "But I doubt if it will get us
forrader.  One can't send a green coupé to the electric chair.
Silly notion--what?"

There were several moments of silence, and then a taxicab came at a
perilous rate out of the transverse in the park, swung south, and
drew up directly in front of us.

Simultaneously with the car's abrupt stop the door swung open, and
Heath and McLaughlin stepped down.

"We got the car all right," announced Heath triumphantly.  "The
same dirty-green coupé McLaughlin here saw outside the Kenting
house Wednesday morning."

The officer nodded his head enthusiastically.

"It's the same, all right," he asserted.  "I'd swear to it.  Jeez,
what a break!"

"Where did you find it, Sergeant?" asked Markham.  (Vance was
unimpressed and was blowing smoke-rings playfully into the still
summer air.)

"Right up there in the transverse leading through the park."  The
Sergeant waved his arm with an impatient backward flourish, and
barely missed striking McLaughlin who stood beside him.  "It was
half-way up on the curb.  Abandoned.  After the guys in it ditched
the car they musta come out and hopped a taxicab up the street,
because shortly after the green coupé turned into the transverse
two guys walked out and, according to the driver here, took the cab
in front of his."

Without waiting for a reply from either Markham or Vance, Heath
swung about and beckoned imperiously to the chauffeur of the cab
from which he had just alighted.  A short rotund man of perhaps
thirty, with a flat cap and a duster too long for him, struggled
out of the front seat and joined us.

"Look here, you," bawled Heath, "do you know the name of the man
who was running the cab ahead of you on the stand tonight who took
the two guys what come out of the transverse?"

"Sure I know him," returned the chauffeur.  "He's a buddy of mine."

"Know where he lives?"

"Sure I know where he lives.  Up on Kelly Street, in the Bronx.
He's got a wife and three kids."

"The hell with his family!" snapped Heath.  "Get hold of that baby
as soon as you can, and tell him to beat it down to the Homicide
Bureau pronto.  I wanta know where he took those two guys that came
out of the transverse."

"I can tell ya that right now, officer," came the chauffeur's
respectful answer.  "I was standin' talkin' to Abe when the fares
came over from the park.  I opened the door for 'em myself.  An'
they told Abe to drive like hell to the uptown station of the
Lexington Avenue subway at 86th Street."

"Ah!"  It was Vance who spoke.  "That's very interestin'.  Uptown--
eh, what?"

"Anyway, I wanta see this buddy of yours," Heath went on to the
chauffeur, ignoring Vance's interpolated comment.  "Get me, fella?"

"Sure I getcha, officer," the chauffeur returned subserviently.
"Abe ought to be back on the stand in half an hour."

"That's O.-K.," growled Heath, turning to Markham.  "Gosh, Chief, I
gotta get to a telephone quick and get the boys lookin' for these
guys."

"Why rush the matter, Sergeant?"  Vance spoke casually.  "We really
ought not to keep Snitkin waiting too long at the apartment, don't
y' know.  I say, let's take this taxi and we'll be home in a few
minutes.  You can then use my phone to your heart's content.  And
this gentleman here"--indicating the chauffeur--"can return at once
to his stand and await the arrival of his friend, Mr. Abraham."

Heath hesitated, and Markham nodded after a quick look at Vance.

"I think that will be the best course, Sergeant," the District
Attorney said, and opened the door of the taxicab.

We all got inside, leaving McLaughlin standing on the curb, and
Heath gave Vance's address to the driver.  As we pulled away, Heath
put his head out of the window.

"Report that empty car," he called out to McLaughlin.  "And then
keep your eye on it till the boys come up for it.  Also watch for
Abie till this fellow gets back--then get to the Kenting house and
stand by with Guilfoyle."



CHAPTER XIV

KASPAR IS FOUND


(Friday, July 22; 12:30 a.m.)


As we drove rapidly down Central Park West, Markham nervously
lighted a cigar and asked Heath, who was sitting on the seat in
front of him:

"Well, what about that telephone call you got at the Kenting house,
Sergeant?"

Heath turned his head and spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

"Kaspar Kenting's body has been found in the East River, around
150th Street.  The report came in right after Snitkin got back to
Headquarters.  He's got all the details. . . .  I thought I'd
better not say anything about it up at the Kentings' place with
that snoopy butler hanging around."

Markham did not speak for a few seconds.  Then he asked:

"Is that all you know, Sergeant?"

"My God, Chief!" Heath exclaimed.  "Ain't that enough?"  And he
settled down in the narrow, cramped quarters of his seat.

Again there was silence in the cab.  Though I could not see
Markham's face, I could well imagine his mixed reactions to this
disturbing piece of news.

"Then you were right, Vance," he commented at length, in a
strained, barely audible tone.

"The East River--eh?"  Vance spoke quietly and without emotion.
"Yes, it could easily be.  Very distressin'. . . ."  He said no
more; nor was there any further talk until we reached Vance's
apartment.

Snitkin was already waiting in the upper hallway, just outside the
library.  Heath merely grunted to him as he brushed by and picked
up the telephone.  He talked for five minutes or more, making
innumerable reports relating to the night's happenings and giving
various instructions.  When he had the routine police ball rolling
he beckoned to Snitkin, and entered the library where Vance,
Markham, and I were waiting.

"Go ahead, Snitkin," ordered Heath, before the man was barely in
the room.  "Tell us what you know."

"Oh, I say, Sergeant," put in Vance, "let Snitkin have a bit of
this brandy first."  And he poured a copious drink of his rare
Napoléon into a whiskey glass on the end of the library table.
"The gruesome particulars will keep a moment."

Snitkin hesitated and glanced sheepishly at the District Attorney.
Markham merely nodded his head, and the detective gulped down the
cognac.  "Much obliged, Mr. Vance," he said.  "And here's all I
know about it:"--It is interesting to note that Snitkin addressed
himself to Vance and not to either Markham or Heath, although Vance
had no official standing in the Police Department.--"There's a
small inlet up there in the river, which isn't over three feet
deep, and the fellow on the beat--Nelson, I think it was--saw this
baby lying on the bank, with his legs sticking out of the water,
along about nine o'clock tonight.  So he called in and reported it
right away, and they sent over a buggy from the local station.  The
Medical Examiner of the Bronx gave the body the once-over, and it
seems the fellow didn't even die from drowning.  He was already
dead when he was dumped into the water.  His head was bashed in
with--"

"With the usual blunt instrument," broke in Vance, finishing the
sentence.  "That's what the medicos always call it when they are
not sure just how a johnnie was laid low by violence."

"That's right, Mr. Vance," resumed Snitkin with a grin.  "The
fellow's head was bashed in with a blunt instrument--that's just
what the report said. . . .  Well, the doc guessed the guy had been
dead twelve hours maybe.  There's no telling how long he'd been
lying there in the inlet.  It's not a place that's likely to be
seen by anybody, and it was only by accident that Nelson ran across
the body."

"What about identification?" asked Heath officiously.

"Oh, there was plenty identification, Sarge," Snitkin answered.
"The guy not only fit the description like a glove, but his clothes
and his pockets was full of identification.  Looked almost like
whoever threw him there wanted him to be identified quick.  He had
his name on a label on the inside of his coat pocket, and another
one under the strap of his vest, and still another one sewed into
the watch pocket of his pants.  And that ain't all: his name was
written on the inside of his shoes--though I don't get that
exactly. . . ."

"That's quite correct, Snitkin," remarked Vance.  "It's the
practice of all custom boot-makers.  And the three labels in his
clothes merely mean that they were made to order by a custom
tailor.  Quite custom'ry and understandable."

"Anyhow," Snitkin went on, "I'm simply tellin' you how we know the
body is Kenting's.  There was a wallet with initials in his inside
coat pocket, with a couple of letters addressed to him, and a bunch
of callin' cards. . . ."

"I do wish you'd call them visitin' cards," murmured Vance.

"Hell, I'll call 'em anything you want," grinned Snitkin.  "Anyhow,
they was there.  And there was a fancy pocket comb with his
initials on it--"

"A pocket comb--eh?"  Vance nodded with satisfaction.  "Very
interestin', Markham.  When a gentleman carries a pocket comb--not
a particularly popular practice these days, since beards went out
of fashion--he would certainly not add a toilet comb to his
equipment. . . .  Forgive the interruption, Snitkin.  Go ahead."

"Well, there was monograms on damn-near everything else he had in
his pockets, like his cigarette case and lighter and knife and key-
ring and handkerchiefs; and there was even monograms on his
underwear.  According to the boys at the local station, he was
either the Kaspar Kenting we're looking for, or he wasn't nobody.
And that was a pretty complete description of him we sent out this
morning to all the local precincts."

"No pajamas and no toothbrush in his pocket, Snitkin?" Vance asked.

"Pajamas--a toothbrush?"  Snitkin was as much surprised as he was
puzzled.  "Nothing was said about 'em, Mr. Vance, so I guess they
wasn't there.  Are they needed for identification?"

"Oh, no--no," Vance returned quickly.  "Just a bit of curiosity on
my part.  Oh, I don't question the identification for a moment,
Snitkin.  It needs far less proof than you've given us."

"Who gave you all this dope, Snitkin?" asked the Sergeant in a
somewhat mollified tone.

"The desk sergeant uptown," Snitkin told him.  "He telephoned the
Bureau as soon as he got the report from the doc.  I had just come
in, and took the call myself.  Then I phoned you."

Heath nodded as if satisfied.

"That's all right, Snitkin.  You'd better go home now and hit the
hay,--you been wearin' out your dogs all day.  But get down to the
Bureau early tomorrow--I'll be needin' you.  I'll see about getting
some members of the family for official indentification of the body
in the morning--probably the fellow's brother will be enough.  This
is a hell of a case."

"But ain't you gonna tear off some rest yourself, Sergeant?"
Snitkin asked solicitously.

"I'm a YOUNG fellow," retorted Heath with good-natured contempt.
"I can take it.  You old guys need a lot of beauty sleep."

Snitkin grinned again and looked at the Sergeant admiringly.

"Have another little spot, Snitkin, before you go," suggested
Vance.  And, without waiting for a response, he refilled the
whiskey glass.

As before, Snitkin hesitated.

"You know, I'm not officially on duty now, Chief," he said, looking
toward Markham almost coyly.

Markham did not glance up--he seemed depressed and worried.

"Go ahead," he barked, but not without a certain kindliness.  "And
don't talk so much.  We all need a little support right now."

Snitkin picked up the whiskey glass and emptied it with alacrity.
As he set the glass down he drew his coat sleeve across his mouth.

"Chief, you're a swell--" he began.  But Heath cut him short.

"Get the hell out of here," he bawled at his subordinate.  The
Sergeant knew only too well Markham's aversion for any compliments
and the curious reticence of the District Attorney's nature.*


* It is interesting to note that in the entire association between
Markham and Vance I had never heard either of them pay the other a
compliment of any kind.  When one of them so much as bordered on a
compliment, the other always broke in sharply with a remark which
made any further outward display of sentiment impossible.  To me it
seemed as if both of them had a deep-rooted instinct to keep the
intimate and personal side of their affection for each other
disguised and unspoken.


Snitkin went out--somewhat meekly and wonderingly, but, withal,
gratefully--and ten minutes later Heath followed.  When we were
alone Markham asked:

"What do you think of it, Vance?"

"Thinkin' is an awful bore, Markham," Vance answered with irritating
nonchalance.  "And it's growing frightfully late, especially
considerin' how early I dragged myself into consciousness this
morning."

"Never mind all that." Markham spoke with exasperation.  "How did
you know Kaspar Kenting was dead when I spoke to you on the
stairway yesterday morning?"

"You flatter me," said Vance.  "I didn't really know.  I merely
surmised it--basin' my conclusion on the indications."

"So that's your mood," snorted Markham hopelessly.  "I'm telling
you, you outrageous fop, that this is a damned serious situation--
what happened to Fleel tonight ought to prove that."

Vance smoked a moment in silence, and his brow clouded: his whole
expression, in fact, changed.

"I know only too well, Markham, how serious the situation is," he
said in a grave and curiously subdued voice.  "But there's really
nothing we can do.  We must wait--please believe me.  Our hands and
feet are tied."  He looked at Markham and continued with unwonted
earnestness.  "The most serious part of the whole affair is that
this is not a kidnapping case at all, in the conventional sense.
It goes deeper than that.  It's cold-blooded, diabolical murder.
But I can't quite see my way yet to proving it.  I'm far more
worried than you, Markham.  The whole thing is unspeakably
horrible.  There are subtle and abnormal elements mixed up in the
situation.  It's an abominable affair, but as we sit here tonight,
I want to tell you that I don't know--I don't know. . . .  I'm
afraid to make a move until we learn more."

I had rarely heard Vance speak in this tone, and a curious
sensation of fear, so potent as to be almost a physical reaction,
ran through me.

I am certain that Vance's words had a similar effect on Markham,
who made no comment: he sat silent for several minutes.  Then he
took his leave, without again referring to the case.  Vance bade
him good night absent-mindedly and remained in his chair, gazing
before him into the empty grate.

I myself went immediately to bed and--I am a little loath to admit
it--slept fairly well: I was somewhat exhausted, and a physical
relaxation had come over me, despite my mental tension.  But had I
known what terrible and heart-paralyzing events the following day
held in store, I doubt if I could have slept a wink that night.



CHAPTER XV

ALEXANDRITE AND AMETHYST


(Friday, July 22; 8:40 a.m.)


I shall never forget the following day.  It will ever remain in my
memory as one of the great horrors of my life.  It was the day when
Vance and Heath and I came nearer to death than ever before or
since.  I still remember the scene in the private office of the now
closed Kinkaid Casino;* and the report of Vance's hideous death in
the course of the Garden murder case will never be erased from my
mind.  But as I look back upon these and other frightful episodes
which froze my blood and filled my heart with cold fear, not one of
them looms as appalling as do the events of that memorable Friday
in the blistering heat of this particular summer.


* "The Casino Murder Case" (Scribners, 1934).


It was, in a way, the outcome of Vance's own decision.  He
deliberately sought it as the result of some strange and unusual
emotional reaction.  He staked his own life in the attempt to
prevent something which he considered diabolical.  Vance was a man
whose cold mental processes generally governed his every action;
but in this emergency he impulsively followed his instincts.  I
frankly admit that it was, to me, a new phase of the man's many-
sided character--a phase with which I was unfamiliar, and which I
would not have believed was actually part of his make-up.

The day began conventionally enough, except that Vance rose at
eight.  I did not know how much sleep he actually got after Markham
departed the night before.  I know only that I myself woke up for a
brief interval, hours after I had retired, and could hear his
footsteps as if he were pacing up and down in the library.  But
when I joined him for breakfast at half-past eight that morning,
there was no indication either in his eyes or in his manner--which
was as nonchalant and disinterested as ever--that he had been
deprived of his rest.

He was dressed in a dark grey herring-bone suit, a pair of soft
black leather oxfords, and a dark green cravat with white polka-
dots.  He greeted me with his customarily cynical but pleasant
ease.  But he made no comment to explain his early (for him)
rising.  He seemed altogether natural and unconcerned about the
happenings of the day before.  When he had finished his Turkish
coffee and lighted a second Régie he settled back in his chair and
spoke, quite casually, about the Kenting case.

"An amazin' and complicated affair--eh, what, Van?  There are far
too many facets to it--same like those stones in old Karl Kenting's
collection--to leave one entirely comfortable.  Dashed elusive--and
deuced tangled.  I naturally have certain suspicions, but I am by
no means sure of my ground.  I don't like those missin' gems--they
tie up too consistently with the rest of the incidents.  I don't
like that unused ladder--so subtly and uselessly moved from one
window to another.  I don't like that abortive attempt on Fleel's
life last night, or Quaggy's fortuitous appearance on the scene--
Fleel was undoubtedly in a jittery state when we found him and
actually incredulous at finding himself still alive.  And I don't
at all like the general situation in that old high-ceilinged purple
house--it's not a wholesome place and has too many sinister
possibilities. . . .  There has already been one murder that we
know of, and there may be another which we haven't yet heard
about."

He looked up with a troubled glance and drew in a deep breath.

"No--oh, no; it's not a nice case," he went on as if to himself.
"But what are we to do about it?  Today may bring an answer.  Haste
on our part might spoil everything.  But haste--oh, tremendous
haste--is now of the utmost importance to the killer.  That is why
I think something will happen before very long.  I'm hopin', Van.
I'm also countin' on the anxiety of the person who has plotted and
carried out this beastly affair to this point. . . ."

He smoked a while in silence.  I offered no comment or opinion, for
I knew he had been thinking aloud rather than addressing me
personally.  When the lighted tip of his cigarette had almost
reached the platinum rim of his slender ivory holder he got up
slowly, moved to the front window, and stood gazing out at the
sunlit street.  Despite the sunshine, a humid mist fell over the
city and presaged a stagnant, airless day.  When Vance turned back
to me he seemed to have made a decision.

"I think we'll take a spin down to Markham's office, Van," he said.
"There's nothing to do here, and there may be some news which
Markham naively regards as too trivial to telephone me about.  But
it's the little obscure things that are goin' to solve this case."*


* Vance was greatly mistaken on this point, as I now have reason to
know.  It turned out to be no less than a matter of life and death.


Vance walked energetically across the room and, ringing for Currie,
ordered his car.

Vance drove swiftly down Madison Avenue in a curiously abstracted
mood.  We arrived at Markham's office a few minutes before ten
o'clock.

"Glad you came, Vance," was Markham's greeting.  "I was about to
call you on the phone."

"Ah!"  Vance sat down lazily.  "Any tidin's, glad or otherwise?"

"I'm afraid not," Markham returned dispiritedly, "although things
have been going ahead.  A great deal of the necessary police work
has been done, but we haven't come upon any promising lead as yet."

"Oh, yes.  Of course."  Vance smiled mildly.  "Jolly old Police
Department simply must imitate the whirling dervish before they
feel entitled to settle down to the serious business in hand.  I
suppose you mean finger-prints, photographs, and the futile search
for possible lookers-on, and the grilling--as you call it--of
perfectly innocent and harmless people, and a careful search of the
spot where Kaspar was found, as well as a thorough overhauling of
the abandoned car."

Markham responded with a contemptuous snort.

"Those things simply have to be done.  Very often they lead us to
vital facts in the case.  All criminals are not super-geniuses--
they make mistakes occasionally."

"Oh, to be sure," Vance sighed.  "Concatenation of circumstances
impossible of duplication.  Reconstruction from two points of view--
and so on ad infinitum.  I think I know all the catch phrases by
this time. . . .  However, proceed to unburden thyself."

"Well," said Markham in a hard, practical voice, ignoring Vance's
frivolous interlude, "Kenyon Kenting was taken to the uptown morgue
this morning and he identified his brother's body beyond a doubt.
And I saw no need to put any other members of the family through
the harrowing experience."

"Most considerate of you," murmured Vance--and it was difficult to
know whether his remark was intended to convey a tinge of sarcasm
or was merely a conventional retort.  In any event, Markham's
statement left him utterly indifferent.

"Mrs. Kenting's room," continued Markham, "as well as the window-
sill and the ladder, was gone over thoroughly for finger-prints--"

"And none was found, of course, except the Sergeant's and mine."

"You're right," conceded Markham.  "The person, or persons, must
have worn gloves."

"Assumin' there was a person--or persons."

"All right, all right."  Markham was beginning to be annoyed.
"You're so damned cryptic about everything, and so reticent, that I
have no way of knowing what prompted that last remark of yours.
But, whatever you think, there must have been some one somewhere,
or Mrs. Kenting could not have disappeared as she did."

"Quite true," returned Vance.  "We can quite safely eliminate a
capella accidents or amnesia or such things, in view of all the
circumstances.  I suppose all the hospitals have been checked as
part of the pirouetting activities of Centre Street's master
minds?"

"Naturally.  And we drew a blank at every step.  But if we failed
in that respect we have, at least, disposed of the possibility."

"Amazin' progress," commented Vance.  "There'll be finger-prints
somewhere, so don't be downcast, old dear.  But the signs-manual
will be found, if at all, somewhere far removed from the Kenting
house.  Personally, I'd say you wouldn't find them till you have
located the car in which Mrs. Kenting was probably driven away last
night."

"What do you mean--what car?" demanded Markham.

"I haven't the slightest idea," said Vance laconically.  "But I
hardly think the lady walked out of sight. . . .  And, by the by,
Markham, speakin' of cars, what enormous array of information did
you marshal about the green coupé that the energetic Sergeant found
so conveniently waiting for him in the transverse? . . .  Doubtless
stolen--eh, what?"

Markham nodded glumly.

"Yes, Vance, that's just it.  Belongs to a perfectly respectable
spinster on upper West End Avenue.  And a careful search of the car
itself produced only the fact that there was a small sub-machine
gun thrown into the tool chest under the seat."

"And the license plates?" asked Vance casually.

"Oh, those were stolen too."  Markham spoke disgustedly.

"Plates didn't belong to the car, eh?"  Vance smoked meditatively
without stirring.  "Very interestin'.  Stolen car and stolen
license plates.  A car that doesn't belong to the fleeing
occupants, and plates that don't belong to the car--well, well.
Implies two cars, don't you know.  Maybe it was the second car in
which Mrs. Kenting was spirited away.  Merely hazardin' a guess,
don't y' know."  He now uncrossed his knees and drew himself up
slightly in his chair.  "I rather imagine the dirty-green coupé was
following Fleel around last night when Mrs. Kenting sallied forth
to her assignation, and it was left to the other car to take care
of the lady, as it were.  Fairly well equipped gang."

"I don't follow you, Vance," Markham returned; "although I have a
vague notion of the theory you're working out.  But many other
things might have happened last night."

"Oh, quite," agreed Vance.  "As I said, I was merely hazardin' a
guess. . . .  What about Abe, the buddy of the chauffeur who drove
us home last night?  I suppose Heath or some of the Torquemadas in
Centre Street put the poor devil through the requisite torture?"

"You read too many trashy books, Vance."  Markham was indignant.
"Heath talked to the driver of the number one cab at Headquarters
within an hour of the time he left here last night.  He merely
corroborated what our chauffeur told us--namely, that he dropped
the two men who came out of the transverse at the uptown entrance
of the Lexington Avenue subway.  Incidentally, they didn't wait for
change but hurried down the stairs--they were probably just in time
to catch the last express."

Vance again sighed lightly.  "Most helpful. . . .  Any other
coruscatin' discoveries?"

"I spoke to the doctor who went over Kaspar's body," Markham went
on.  "And there's little or nothing to add to Snitkin's report of
last night.  The exact location of the spot where he was found was
determined, and the ground was gone over carefully.  But there were
no footprints or suggestive indications of any kind.  McLaughlin
heard and saw nothing last night around the Kenting house; Weem and
the cook both stick to the story that they were asleep during that
whole time; and two taxicab drivers who were at the Columbus Avenue
corner did not remember seeing Mrs. Kenting, whom they know by
sight, come down that way."

"Well, your information seems to be typically thorough and
typically useless," said Vance.  "Did any one do a bit of checkin'
up to ascertain whether there were any unaccounted-for semiprecious
stones round town?"

Markham gave him a look of mild surprise and mock pity.

"Good heavens, no!  What have your semiprecious stones to do with a
case of kidnapping?"

"My dear Markham!" protested Vance.  "I have told you--and I
thought, in my naive way, that it had even been demonstrated to you--
that this is NOT a case of kidnapping.  Won't you even permit a
subtle killer to set the stage for himself--to indulge in a bit of
spectacular décor, so to speak?  That collection of old Karl
Kenting's gems has a dashed lot to do with the case. . . ."

"Well, suppose those pieces of colored glass do have something to
do with the disappearances, what of it?" Markham interrupted
aggressively.  "I'm not worried as much about such vague factors in
the case as I am about that attack on Fleel."

"Oh, that."  Vance shrugged.  "A mere bit of technique.  And the
operator of the sub-machine gun was kind enough to miss his target.
As I told Fleel, he was very lucky."

"But whether Fleel survived or not," muttered Markham, "it was a
dastardly affair."

"I quite agree with you there, Markham," said Vance approvingly.

At this moment Markham's secretary, coming swiftly through the
swinging leather door, interrupted the conversation.

"Chief," he announced, "there's a young fellow outside who's
terribly excited and insists on seeing you at once.  Says it's
about the Kenting case.  Gives his name as Falloway."

"Oh, send him in, by all means," said Vance, before Markham had
time to answer.

The secretary looked interrogatingly at the District Attorney.
Markham hesitated only a moment and then nodded.  A few moments
later Fraim Falloway was shown into the office.  He came into the
room with a frightened air, and bade Markham good morning.  His
eyes seemed larger and his face paler than when I had last seen
him.

"Tell us what's on your mind, Mr. Falloway."  Vance spoke softly.

The youth turned and noticed him for the first time.

"I'll tell you, all right," he said in quick, tremulous accents.
"That--that beautiful alexandrite stone is gone from the
collection.  I'm sure it's been stolen."

"Stolen?"  Vance looked at the youth closely.  "Why do you say
stolen?"

"I--I don't know," was the flustered reply.  "All I know is that it
is gone--how else could it have disappeared unless it was stolen?
It was there two days ago."

Even I remembered the stone--an unusually large and beautifully cut
octagonal stone of perhaps forty carats, which was in a place of
honor, in the most conspicuous case, surrounded by other specimens
of chrysoberyl.  I had taken particular notice of it the morning of
Kaspar Kenting's disappearance when Vance and I had looked over the
various glass cases before ascending the stairs to Kaspar's room.

"I don't know anything about those stones in the collection,"
Falloway went on excitedly, "but I do know about this magnificent
alexandrite.  It always fascinated me--it was the only gem in the
collection I cared anything about.  It was a wonderful and
beautiful thing.  I used to go into the room often just to look at
that stone.  I could lose myself before it for an hour at a time.
In the daytime it was the most marvellous green, like dark jade,
with only touches of red in it; but at night, in the artificial
light, it changed its color completely and became a thrilling red,
like wine."

As Markham threw him a look of incredulity, Falloway hastened on.

"Oh, it was no miracle.--I looked it up in a book; I read about it.
It had some strange and mystic quality which made it absorb and
refract and reflect the light upon it in different ways.  But I
haven't feasted my eyes on it for two days--we've all been so upset--
until last night--but that was in the yellow artificial light--and
it was a beautiful red then."

Falloway paused and then hurried on ecstatically.

"But I like it most in the daylight when it turns green and
mysterious--that's when it recalls to me Swinburne's great poem,
The Triumph of Time:  'I will go back to the great sweet mother,
mother and lover of men, the sea.'--Oh, I hope you see what I
mean. . . ."  He looked at each of us in turn.  "So this morning--
a little while ago--I went downstairs to look at it: I needed
something--something . . .  But it wasn't green at all.  It was
still red, almost purple.  And after I had looked at it a while in
amazement, I realized that even the cutting was different.  It was
the same size and shape--but that was all.  Oh, I know every facet
of that alexandrite.  It was not the same stone.  It had been taken
away and another stone left in its place! . . ."

He fumbled nervously in his outside pocket and finally drew out a
large deep-colored gem, which can best be described as deep red but
with a very decided purple cast.  He held it out to Vance on the
palm of his shaking hand.

"That's what was left in the place of my beloved alexandrite!"

Vance took the stone and looked at it a moment.  Still holding the
gem he let his hand fall to his lap, and looked up at Falloway with
a comprehending nod.

"Yes, I see what you mean--quite," he said.  "As good a substitution
as possible.  This is merely amethyst.  Of comparatively little
value.  Similar to alexandrite, however, and often mistaken for it
by amateurs.  Any one would trade an amethyst for an alexandrite,
the price of which has recently begun to soar. Can you say with any
accuracy when the exchange was made?"

Falloway shook his head vaguely and sat down heavily.

"No," he said phlegmatically.  "As I told you, I haven't seen it in
daylight for two days, and last night I looked at it for just a
second and didn't realize that it wasn't the alexandrite.  I
discovered the truth this morning.  The exchange might have been
made at any time since I last saw the real stone in daylight."

Vance again looked at the stone and handed it back to Falloway.

"Return it to the case as soon as you reach home.  And say nothing
about it to any one till I speak to you again."  He turned to the
District Attorney.  "Y' know, Markham, fine alexandrite is a very
rare and valuable variety of chrysoberyl.  It was discovered less
than a hundred years ago, in the Urals, and it was named after the
czarevitch who later became the conservative and reformative
Alexander II, Czar of Russia, for it first came to light on his
birthday.  As Mr. Falloway rightly says, it is a curious dichroic
gem.  The light of the spectrum is reflected, absorbed and
refracted in such a way that in the daylight it is quite green, and
in artificial light, especially gas-light, it is a pronounced deep
and scintillating red, slightly on the blue, or short wavelength
end of the spectrum.  A fine specimen of alexandrite the size of
that stone would now be worth a small fortune.  Such a specimen is
the dream of every collector.  I saw the stone when I glanced
through the cases Wednesday morning and marvelled at old Karl's
good luck.  The other indifferent items in the collection were
anything but consistent with that alexandrite; and when I spoke to
Kenyon Kenting that morning, I entirely omitted any mention of that
particular stone, for it takes more than one exceptional piece of
chrysoberyl, no matter how beautiful, to constitute a well-rounded
collection."

Vance paused a moment with a reflective look, and then continued.

"Amethyst, a variety of quartz, which likewise comes from Russia,
although somewhat similar in shade to alexandrite, does not have
that peculiar dichroic characteristic.  Amethyst, d' ye see, has a
structural dissimilarity from alexandrite.  At times we find in the
crystals a right-angular formation to the edge of the prism, shaped
in sectoral triangles.  This accounts for its bicoloration--the so-
called white and purple tints, making it resemble two separate,
fused stones.  The fractural ripples and the feather-like effects--
so apparent in amethyst--result from this peculiar laterality of
structure.  On the other hand, Markham, alexandrite--"

"Thanks for the lecture, but forgive me if I am not interested."
Markham was irritated.  "What I'd like to know is whether you see
anything significant in the disappearance of the alexandrite and
the substitution of the amethyst."

"Oh, yes--decidedly.  You'd be amazed if you knew how highly
significant it is."  He turned quickly to Fraim Falloway, who had
been listening with an eagerness of interest I had not seen him
display at any previous time.  "I think, Mr. Falloway, you would
better return to your home at once and do exactly as I told you.
We are grateful no end for your coming here and telling us about
the missin' stone."

Falloway rose heavily.

"I'll put the stone back in place right away."

"Oh, by the by, Mr. Falloway."  Vance drew himself up sharply.
"If, as you have intimated, your favorite cutting of alexandrite
was stolen, could you suggest the possible thief?  Could it, for
instance, have been any one you know?"

"You mean some one in the house?--or Mr. Quaggy or Mr. Fleel?"
retorted Falloway with a show of indignation.  "What would they
want with my alexandrite?"  He shook his head shrewdly.  "But I
have an idea who did take it."

"Ah!"

"Yes!  I know more than you think I do."  Falloway made a pitiful
effort to thrust forward his narrow chest.  "It was Kaspar--that's
who it was!"

Vance nodded indulgently.

"But Kaspar is dead.  His body was found last night."

"A damned good riddance!"  Vance's announcement left Falloway
unruffled.  "I was hoping he wouldn't come back."

"He won't," interjected Markham laconically, staring at the youth
with unmistakable disgust.

I doubt if Falloway even heard the District Attorney's remark: his
attention was concentrated on Vance.

"But do you think you can ever find my beautiful alexandrite?" he
asked.  He seemed to regard the disappearance of the alexandrite as
a personal loss.

"Oh, yes--I'm quite sanguine we shall recover it," Vance assured
him.

The youth, greatly relieved, went toward the door with heavy,
dragging feet.

Markham's secretary came again through the leather door, just
before Falloway reached it, and announced Kenyon Kenting.

"Send him in," said Markham.

Kenting and Falloway passed each other on the threshold.  I was
forcibly struck by the wordless exchange of hostility which passed
between the elder and the younger man.  Kenting bowed stiffly and
muttered a word of greeting as he passed the other, with a stiff,
elderly dignity in his manner.  But Falloway did not respond as he
went through to the outer office.



CHAPTER XVI

"THIS YEAR OF OUR LORD"


(Friday, July 22; 11 a.m.)


As Kenting stepped into the office it was obvious that he was in a
perturbed state of mind.  He nodded to Vance and to me, and, going
to Markham's desk, dejectedly placed an envelope before the
District Attorney.

"That came in the second mail this morning, to my office," Kenting
said, controlling his excitement with considerable effort.  "It's
another one of those damn notes."

Markham had already picked up the envelope and was carefully
extracting the folded sheet of paper from inside.

"And Fleel," added Kenting, "got a similar one in the same mail--at
his office.  He phoned me about it, just as I was leaving to come
here.  He sounded very much upset and asked me if I also had
received a note from the kidnappers.  I told him I had, and I read
it to him over the phone.  I added I was bringing it immediately to
you; and Fleel said he would meet me here shortly and bring his own
note with him.  He hasn't, by any chance, come already?"

"Not yet," Markham answered, glancing up from the note.  His face
was unusually grave, and there was a deep, hopeless frown round his
eyes.  When he had finished his perusal of the note he picked up
the envelope and handed them both to Vance.

"I suppose you'll want to see these, Vance," the District Attorney
muttered distractedly.

"Oh, quite--by all means."

Vance, with his monocle already adjusted, took the note and the
envelope with suppressed eagerness, glancing first at the envelope
and then at the single sheet of paper.  I had risen and was
standing behind him, leaning over his chair.

The paper on which the note was written in lead pencil was exactly
like that of the first note Fleel had received in the mail the day
before.  The disguised, deliberately clumsy chirography was also
similar, but there was a distinct difference in the way it was
worded.  The spelling was correct, and the sentences grammatically
constructed.  Nor was there any pretense here in the means of
expression.  It was as if whoever wrote it had purposely abandoned
such tactics so that there might be no mistake or misunderstanding
of any kind regarding the import of the message.  Vance merely read
it through once--he did not seem greatly interested in it.  But it
was obvious that something about it annoyed and puzzled him.

The note read:


You did not obey instructions.  You called in the police.  We saw
everything.  That is why we took his wife.  If you fail us again,
the same thing will happen to her that happened to him.  This is
your last warning.  Have the $50,000 ready at five o'clock today
(Friday).  You will get instructions at that time.  And if you
notify the police this time it is no dice.  We mean business.
Beware!


For signature there was the interlocking-squares symbol that had
come to have such a sinister portent for us all.

"Very interestin' and illuminatin'," murmured Vance, as he
carefully refolded the note, replaced it in the envelope, and
tossed it back on Markham's desk.  "The money is quite obviously
wanted immediately.  But I am not at all convinced that it was only
the presence of the police that turned last night's episode in the
park into a fiasco.  However . . ."

"What shall I do--what shall I do?" Kenting asked, glancing
distractedly from Vance to the District Attorney and back again.

"Really, y' know," said Vance in a kindly tone, "you can't do
anything at present.  You must wait for the forthcoming
instructions.  And then there's Mr. Fleel's billet-doux which we
hope to see anon."

"I know, I know," mumbled Kenting hopelessly.  "But it would be
horrible if anything should happen to Madelaine."

Vance was silent a moment, and his eyes clouded.  He showed more
concern than he had since he had entered the Kenting case.

"One never knows, of course," he murmured.  "But we can hope for
the best.  I realize that this waiting is abominable.  But we are
at a loss at present even as to where to begin. . . .  By the by,
Mr. Kenting, I don't suppose you heard the shots that were fired at
Mr. Fleel shortly after you left your brother's house last night?"

"No, I didn't."  Kenting seemed greatly perturbed.  "I was
frightfully shocked on hearing about it this morning.  When I left
you last night I was lucky enough to catch a taxicab just as I
reached the corner, and I went directly home.  How long after I
left the house did Fleel go?"

"Just a few minutes," Vance returned.  "But no doubt you had time
to have got a taxi and have been well on your way."

Kenting considered the matter for a minute; then he looked up
sharply with a frightened expression.

"Perhaps--perhaps--" he began in an awed voice which seemed to
tremble with a sudden and uncontrollable emotion.  "Perhaps those
shots were intended for me! . . ."

"Oh, no, no--nothing like that," Vance assured him.  "I'm quite
sure the shots were not intended for you, sir.  The fact is, I am
not convinced that the shots were intended even for Mr. Fleel."

"What's that you say!"  Kenting sat up quickly.  "What do you mean
by that? . . ."

Before Vance could answer, a buzzer sounded on Markham's desk.  As
the District Attorney pressed a key on the inter-communicating call-
box a voice from the outer office announced that Fleel had just
arrived.  Markham had barely given instructions that Fleel be sent
in when the lawyer came impatiently through the swinging door and
joined us.  He, too, looked pale and drawn and showed unmistakable
traces of lack of rest,--he appeared to have lost much of his
earlier self-confidence.  He greeted all of us formally with the
exception of Kenyon Kenting, with whom he shook hands with a
silent, expressive grasp.

"A difficult situation," he said with a formal effort at
condolence.  "My deepest sympathy goes to you, Kenyon."

Kenting shrugged despondently.

"You yourself had a pretty close call last night."

"Oh, well," the other muttered, "at least I'm safe and sound enough
now.  But I can't understand that attack.  Can't imagine who would
want to shoot me, or what good it would do any one.  It's the most
incredible thing."

Kenting threw a sharp look at Vance, but Vance was busying himself
with a fresh cigarette and seemed oblivious to the conventional
interchange between the two men.

Fleel moved toward the District Attorney's desk.

"I brought the note I received in the mail this morning," he said,
fumbling in his pocket.  "There's no reason whatever why I should
be getting anything like this--unless the kidnappers imagine that I
control all the Kenting money and have it on deposit. . . .  You
can understand that I am greatly disturbed by this communication,
and I thought it would be best to show it to you without delay, at
the same time explaining to you that there's absolutely nothing I
can do in the matter."

"There's no need for an explanation," said Markham abruptly.  "We
are wholly cognizant of that phase of the situation.  Let's see the
note."

Fleel had drawn an envelope from his inside coat pocket and held it
out to Markham.  As he did so his eyes fell on the note that
Kenting had brought and which lay on the District Attorney's desk.

"Do you mind if I take a look at this?" he asked.

"Go right ahead," answered Markham as he opened the envelope Fleel
had given him.

The note that Fleel turned over to Markham was not as long as the
one received by Kenting.  It was, however, written on the same kind
of paper; and it was written in pencil and in the same handwriting.

The few brief sentences struck me as highly ominous:


You have double-crossed us.  You have control of the money.  Get
busy.  And don't try any more foolishness again.  You are a good
lawyer and can handle everything if you want to.  And you had
better want to.  We expect to see you according to instructions in
our letter to Kenting today in this year of our Lord, 1936, or else
it will be too bad.*


* I have made one small and wholly immaterial change in
transcribing this note.  I have used the year in which I am
actually writing the record of that memorable case, instead of
stating the exact year in which it occurred (which, naturally, was
the year given in the note); for I regard it as both unimportant
and unnecessary to identify specifically the time at which the
events herewith enumerated occurred.  If that date has been
forgotten, or if it is of any particular interest to the reader of
this chronicle, it will not be difficult to find the year by
referring to the back files of newspapers, for what has come to be
known as the Kenting kidnap case received nation-wide publicity at
the time.


The interlocking, ink-brushed squares completed the message.

When Markham had finished reading it and handed it to Vance, Vance
went through it quickly but carefully and, sliding it into the
envelope, laid it on Markham's desk beside the note which Kenting
had brought in, and which Fleel had read and replaced without
comment.

"I can say to you, Mr. Fleel," Vance told him, "only what I have
already said to Mr. Kenting--that there is nothing to be done at
the present moment.  A rational decision is quite impossible just
now.  You must wait for the next communication--by whatever method
it may come--before you can decide on a course of action."

He rose and confronted the two unstrung men.

"There is much to be done yet," he said.  "And we are most
sympathetic and eager to be helpful.  Please believe that we are
doing everything possible.  I would advise that you both remain in
your offices until you have heard something further.  We will
certainly communicate with you later, and we appreciate the
cooperation you are giving us. . . .  By the by,"--he spoke
somewhat offhand to Kenting--"has your money been returned to you?"

"Yes, yes, Vance."  It was Markham's impatient voice that answered.
"Mr. Kenting received the money the first thing this morning.  Two
of the men in the Detective Division across the hall delivered it
to him."

Kenting nodded in confirmation of the District Attorney's
statement.

"Most efficient," sighed Vance.  "After all, y' know, Markham, Mr.
Kenting couldn't give the money out unless he had it again in his
possession. . . .  Most grateful for the information."

Vance addressed Fleel and Kenting again.

"We will, of course, expect to hear immediately when you receive
any further communication, or if any new angle develops."  His tone
was one of polite dismissal.

"Don't worry on that score, Mr. Vance."  Kenting was reaching for
his hat.  "As soon as either one of us gets the instructions
promised in my note, you'll hear all about it."

A few moments later he and Fleel left the office together.

As the door closed behind them Vance swung swiftly about and went
to Markham's desk.

"That note to Fleel!" he exclaimed.  "I don't like it, Markham.  I
don't at all like it.  It is the most curious concoction.  I must
see it again."

As he spoke he picked up the note once more and, resuming his
chair, studied the paper with far more interest and care than he
had shown when the lawyer and Kenting had been present.

"You notice, of course, that both notes were cancelled in the same
post-office station as was yesterday's communication--the
Westchester Station."

"Certainly I noticed it," Markham returned almost angrily.  "But
what is there significant about the postmark?"

"I don't know, Markham,--I really don't know.  It's probably a
minor point."

Vance did not look up: he was earnestly engaged with the note.  He
read it through several times, lingering with a troubled frown at
the last two or three lines.

"I cannot understand the reference to 'this year of our Lord.'  It
doesn't belong here.  It's out of key.  My eyes go back to it every
time I finish reading the note.  It bothers me frightfully.
Something was in the writer's mind--he had a strange thought at
that time.  It may be entirely meaningless, or it may have been
written down inadvertently, like an instinctive or submerged
thought which had struggled through in expression, or it could have
been written into the note with some very subtle significance for
some one who was expected to see it."

"I noticed that phrase, too," said Markham.  "It IS curious; but,
in my opinion, it means nothing at all."

"I wonder. . . ."  Vance raised his hand and brushed it lightly
over his forehead.  Then he got to his feet.  "I'd like to be alone
a while with this note.  Where can I go--are the judges' chambers
unoccupied?"

Markham looked at him in puzzled amazement.

"I don't know."  His perturbed, questioning scrutiny of Vance
continued.  "By the way, Sergeant Heath should be here any minute
now."

"Stout fella, Heath," Vance murmured.  "I may want to see him. . . .
But where can I go?"

"You can go into my private office, you damned prima donna."
Markham pointed to a narrow door in the west wall of the room.
"You'll be alone in there.  Shall I let you know when Heath gets
here?"

"No--no."  Vance shook his head as he crossed the room.  "Just tell
him to wait for me."  And, carrying the note before him, he opened
the side door and went out of the room.

Markham looked after him in bewildered silence.  Then he turned
half-heartedly to a pile of papers and documents neatly arranged at
one side of his desk blotter.  He worked for some time on
extraneous matters.

It was fully ten minutes before Vance emerged from the private
office.  In the meantime Heath had arrived and was waiting
impatiently in one of the leather lounging chairs near the steel
letter files in one corner of the room.  When the Sergeant had
stepped into the office Markham greeted him with simulated
annoyance.

"Our pet orchid is communing with his soul in my private office,"
he explained.  "He said he may want to see you; so you'd better
take a chair in the corner and wait to see what his profound
contemplation will produce.  Meanwhile, you might look at the note
Kenting received this morning."  Markham handed it to the Sergeant.
"Another note, received by Fleel, is being submitted to the
searching monocle, as it were."

Heath had grinned at Markham's sarcastic, but good-natured,
comments and sat down as the District Attorney returned to his
work.

When Vance re-entered the room he threw a quick glance in Heath's
direction.  It was obvious he was in an unusually serious mood and
seemed unmindful of his surroundings.

"Cheerio, Sergeant," he greeted Heath as he became fully aware of
his presence.  "I'm glad you came in.  Thanks awfully for waitin',
and all that. . . .  I'm sure you've already read the note Kenting
received.  Here's the one Fleel brought in."

And he tossed it negligently to me with a nod of his head toward
Heath.  His eyes, a little strained and with an unwonted intensity
in them, were still on Markham as I stepped across the room to
Heath with the paper.

Vance now stood in the centre of the room, gazing down at the
floor, deep in thought as he smoked.  After a moment he raised his
head slowly and let his eyes rest meditatively on Markham again.

"It could be--it could be," he murmured.  And I felt that he was
making an effort to control himself.  "I want to see a detailed map
of New York right away."

"On that wall--over there."  Markham was watching him closely.  "In
the wooden frame.  Just pull it down--it's on a roller."

Vance unrolled the black-and-white chart, with its red lines, and
smoothed it against the wall.  After a few minutes' search of the
intersecting lines he turned back to Markham with a curious look on
his face and heaved a sigh of relief.

"Let me see that yellow slip you had yesterday, with the official
bound'ries of the Westchester Station post-office district."

Markham, still patiently silent, handed him the paper.  Vance took
it back to the map with him, glanced from the slip of paper to the
chart and back again, and began to trace an imaginary zigzag line
with his finger.  I heard him enumerating, half to himself:
"Pelham, Kingsland, Mace, Gunhill, Bushnell, Hutchinson River . . ."

Then his finger came to a stop, and he turned triumphantly.

"That's it!  That's it!"  His voice had a peculiar pitch.  "I think
I have found the meaning of that phrase."

"What in the name of Heaven do you mean?"  Markham had half risen
from his chair and was leaning forward with his hands on the desk.

"'This year of our Lord,' and the numerals.  There's a Lord Street
in that outlined section--up near Givans Basin--a section of open
spaces and undeveloped highways.  And the year 19--" and he gave
the other two digits.  "That's the house number--they run in the
nineteen-hundreds over near the water on Lord Street.  And,
incidentally, I note that the only logical way to reach there is to
take the Lexington Avenue subway uptown."

Markham sank slowly back into his chair without taking his eyes
from Vance.

"I see what you mean," he said.  "But--"  He hesitated a moment.
"That's merely a wild guess.  A groundless assumption.  It's too
specious, too vague.  It may not be an address at all. . . ."  Then
he added:  "You may merely have stumbled on a coincidence--"  He
stopped abruptly.  "Do you think we ought to send some men out
there--on a chance?"

"My word, no!" Vance returned emphatically.  "That might wreck
everything, providin' we've really got something here.  Your
myrmidons would be sure to give warning and bungle things; and only
a moment would be needed for a strategic move fatal to our plans.
This matter must be handled differently."

His face darkened; his eyelids drooped menacingly; and I knew that
some new and overpowering emotion had taken hold of him.

"I'm going myself," he said.  "It may be a wild-goose chase, but it
must be done, don't y' know.  We can't leave any possible avenue of
approach untried just now.  There's something frightful and
sinister going on.  And I'm not at all certain as to what will be
found there.  I'm a helpless babe, cryin' for the light."

Markham was impressed and, I believe, a little concerned at his
manner.

"I don't like it, Vance.  I think you should have protection, in
case of an emergency--"

Heath had come forward and stood solemnly at one end of the desk.

"I'm going with you, Mr. Vance," he said, in a voice that was both
stolid and final.  "I got a feeling you may be needin' me.  An' I
sorta like the idea of that address you figured out.  Anyhow, I'll
have something to tell my grandchildren about learnin' how wrong
you were."

Vance looked at the man a while seriously, and then slowly nodded.

"That will be quite all right, Sergeant," he said calmly.  "I may
need your help.  And as for finding me wrong: I'm willin', don't y'
know--like Barkis.  But how are you going to have grandchildren
when you're not even a benedick?* . . .  In the meantime,
Sergeant," he went on, dropping his jocular manner, and jotting
down something on a small piece of yellow paper he had torn from
the scratch-pad on Markham's desk, "have this carefully attended
to--constant observation.  You understand?"


* Sergeant Ernest Heath was what is popularly known as a confirmed
bachelor.  Even when he retired from the Homicide Bureau at fifty,
he devoted himself not to a wife, but to raising wyandottes on his
farm in the Mohawk valley.


Heath took the yellow slip, looked at it in utter amazement, and
then stuffed it into his pocket.  His eyes were wide and a look of
skepticism and incredulity came into them.

"I don't like to say so, Mr. Vance, but I think you're daffy, sir."

"I don't in the least mind, Sergeant."  Vance spoke almost
affectionately.  "But I want you to see to it, nevertheless."  And
he met the other's gaze coldly and steadily.

Heath moved his head up and down, his lips hanging open in
disbelief.

"If you say so, sir," he mumbled.  "But I still think--"

"Never mind making the effort, Sergeant."  There was an
irresistibly imperious note in Vance's tone.  "But if you disobey
that order--which, incidentally, is the first I've ever given you--
I cannot proceed with the case."

Heath tried to grin but failed.

"I'll take care of it," he said.  Though he was still awestricken,
his tone was subdued.  "When do we go?"

"After dark, of course," Vance replied, relaxing perceptibly.
"It's misty and somewhat overcast today. . . .  Be at my apartment
at half-past eight.  We'll drive up in my car."

Again the Sergeant moved his head up and down slowly.

"God Almighty!" he said.  "I can't believe it: it don't make sense.
Anyway," he added, "I'll string along with you, Mr. Vance.  I'll be
there at eight-thirty--heeled plenty."

"So you really believe I may be right," said Vance with a smile.

"Well, I ain't taking any chances--come what may."



CHAPTER XVII

SHOTS IN THE DARK


(Friday, July 22; noon.)


Vance remained in Markham's office only a short time after his
enigmatic talk with Heath.  (I did not regard that brief
conversation as particularly momentous at the time, but within a
few hours I learned that it was actually one of the most important
conversations that had ever passed between these two widely
disparate, but mutually sympathetic, men.)

Markham attempted repeatedly, with both cajolery and brusqueness,
to draw Vance out.  The District Attorney wished particularly to
hear what significance Vance attached to the missing alexandrite,
and what import he had sensed in the two notes which Kenting and
Fleel had brought in.  Vance, however, was unusually grave and
adamant.  He would give no excuse for not expressing freely his
theory regarding the case; but his manner was such that Markham
realized, as did I, that Vance had an excellent reason for
temporarily withholding his suspicions from the District Attorney--
and, I might add, from me as well.

In the end Markham was highly annoyed and, I think, somewhat
resentful.

"I trust you know, Vance," he said in a tone intended to be coldly
formal, but which did not entirely disguise his deep-rooted respect
for the peculiar methods Vance followed in his investigation of a
case, "that, as official head of the Police Department, I can
compel Sergeant Heath here to show me that slip of paper you handed
him."

"I fully appreciate that fact," Vance replied in a tone equally as
frigid as Markham's.  "But I also know you will not do it."  Only
once, during the investigation of the Bishop murder case, had I
seen so serious an expression in Vance's eyes.  "I know I can trust
you to do nothing of the kind, and to forgo your technical rights
in this instance."  His voice suddenly softened and a look of
genuine affection overspread his face as he added:  "I want your
confidence until tonight--I want you to believe that I have good
and specific reasons for my seemingly boorish obstinacy."

Markham kept his eyes on Vance for several moments and then glanced
away as he busied himself a little ostentatiously with a cigar.

"You're a damned nuisance," he mumbled, with simulated anger.  "I
wish I had never seen you."

"Do you flatter yourself, for one minute, Markham," retorted Vance,
"that I have particularly enjoyed your acquaintance during the past
fifteen years?"

And then Vance did something I had never seen him do before.  He
took a step toward Markham and held out his hand.  Markham turned
to him without any show of surprise and grasped his hand with
sincere cordiality.

"After all," said Vance lightly, "you're only a District Attorney,
don't y' know.  I'll make due allowances."  And he went from the
room without another word, leaving the Sergeant and Markham in the
room together.

Vance and I had luncheon at the Caviar Restaurant, and he lingered
unconscionably long over his favorite brandy, which they always
kept for him and brought out ceremoniously when he appeared at that
restaurant.  During the meal he spoke but infrequently--and then
about subjects far removed from the Kenting case.

We went directly home after he had finished sipping his cognac, and
Vance spent the entire afternoon in desultory reading in the
library.  I went into the room for some papers around four o'clock
and noticed that he was engrossed in Erasmus' Encomium Moriæ.

As I stood for a moment behind him, looking discreetly over his
shoulder, he looked up with a serious expression: he had settled
into a studious mood.

"After all, Van," he commented, "what would the world be without
folly?  Nothing matters vitally--does it?  Listen to this
comfortin' thought:"--he ran his finger along the Erasmus passage
before him and translated the words slowly--"'So likewise all
this life of mortal man, what is it but a certain kind of stage
play?' . . .  Same like Shakespeare wrote in As You Like It, which
came a century later--what?"

Vance was in a peculiar humor, and I knew he was endeavoring to
cover up what was actually in his mind; and for some reason, which
I could not understand, I was prompted to quote to him, in answer,
the famous line from Horace's Epistles: Nec lusisse pudet, sed non
incidere ludum.  However, I refrained, and went on about my work as
Vance took up his book again.

A little before six o'clock Markham came in unexpectedly.

"Well, Vance," he said banteringly, "I suppose you're still
indulging your flair for melodramatic reticence, and are still
playing the part of l'homme de mystère.  However, I'll respect your
idiosyncrasies--with tongue in cheek, of course."

"Most generous of you," murmured Vance.  "I'm overwhelmed. . . .
What do you wish to tell me?  I know full well you didn't come all
the way to my humble diggin's without some sad message for me."

Markham sobered and sat down near Vance.

"I haven't heard yet from either Fleel or Kenting. . . ." he began.

"I rather expected that bit of news."  Vance rose and, ringing for
Currie, ordered Dubonnet.  Then, as he resumed his seat, he went
on.  "Really, there's nothing to worry about.  They have probably
decided to proceed without the bunglin' assistance of the police
this time--those last notes were pretty insistent on that point.
Kenting undoubtedly has received his instructions. . . .  By the
by, have you tried to communicate with him?"

Markham nodded gravely.

"I tried to reach him at his office an hour ago, and was told he
had gone home.  I called him there, but the butler told me he had
come in and had just gone out without leaving any instructions
except that he would not be home for dinner."

"Not what you'd call a highly cooperative johnnie--what?"

The Dubonnet was served, and Vance sipped the wine placidly.

"Of course, you tried to reach him at the Purple House?"

"Of course I did," Markham answered.  "But he wasn't there either
and wasn't expected there."

"Very interestin'," murmured Vance.  "Elusive chap.  Food for
thought, Markham.  Think it over."

"I also tried to get in touch with Fleel," Markham continued
doggedly.  "But he, like Kenting it seems, had left his office
earlier than usual today; nor was I able to reach him at his home."

"Two missin' men," commented Vance.  "Very sad.  But no need to be
upset.  Just a private matter being handled privately, I fear.
District Attorney's office and the police not bein' trusted.  Not
entirely unintelligent."  He set down his Dubonnet glass.  "But
there's business afoot, or else I'm horribly mistaken.  And what
can you do?  The actors in the tragic drama refuse to make an
appearance.  Most disconcertin', from the official point of view.
The only thing left for you is to ring down the curtain temporarily,
and bide your time.  C'est la fin de la pauvre Manon--or words to
that effect.  Abominable opera.  Incidentally, what are your plans
for the evening?"

"I have to get dressed and attend a damned silly banquet tonight,"
grumbled Markham.

"It'll probably do you good," said Vance.  "And when you make your
speech, you can solemnly assure your bored listeners that the
situation is under control, and that developments are expected very
soon--or golden words to that effect."

Markham remained a short time longer and then went out.  Vance
resumed his interrupted reading.

Shortly after seven we had a simple home dinner which Currie served
to us in the library, consisting of gigot, rissoulées potatoes,
fresh mint jelly, asparagus hollandaise, and savarins à la Medicis.

Promptly at half-past eight the Sergeant arrived.

"I still think you're daffy, Mr. Vance," he said good-naturedly, as
he took a long drink of Bourbon.  "However, everything is being
attended to."

"If I'm wrong, Sergeant," said Vance with pretended entreaty, "you
must never divulge our little secret.  The humiliation would be far
too great.  And I'm waxin' old and sensitive."

Heath chuckled and poured himself another glass of Bourbon.  As he
did so Vance went to the centre-table and, opening the drawer,
brought out an automatic.  He inspected it carefully, made sure the
magazine was full, and then slipped it into his pocket.

I had risen and was now standing beside him.  I reached out my hand
for the other automatic in the drawer--the one I had carried in
Central Park the night before--but Vance quickly closed the drawer
and, turning to me, shook his head in negation.

"Sorry, Van," he said, "but I think you'd better bide at home
tonight.  This may be a very dangerous mission--or it may be an
erroneous guess on my part.  However, I rather anticipate trouble,
and you'll be safer in your boudoir. . . ."

I became indignant and insisted that I go with him and share
whatever danger the night might hold.

Again Vance shook his head.

"I think not, Van."  He spoke in a strangely gentle tone.  "No need
whatever for you to take the risk.  I'll tell you all about it when
the Sergeant and I return."

He smiled with finality, but I became more insistent and more
indignant, and told him frankly that, whether he gave me the gun or
not, I intended to go along with him and Heath.

Vance studied me for several moments.

"All right, Van," he said at length.  "But don't forget that I
warned you."  Without saying any more he swung about to the table,
opened the drawer, and brought out the other automatic.  "I suggest
you keep it in your outside pocket this time," he advised, as he
handed me the gun.  "It's rather difficult to prophesy, don't y'
know--though I'm hopin' you won't need the bally thing."  Then,
going to the window, he looked out for a moment.  "It'll be dark by
the time we get there."  He turned slowly from the window and
crossed the room to ring for Currie.

When the butler came into the room Vance looked at him for a while
in silence, with a kindly smile.

"If you don't hear from me by eleven," he said, "go to bed.  And
schlafen Sie wohl!  If I am not back in the morning, you will find
some interesting legal documents in a blue envelope with your name
on it, in the upper right-hand drawer of the secret'ry.  And notify
Mr. Markham."  He turned round to Heath with an air of exaggerated
nonchalance.  "Come along, Sergeant," he said.  "Let's be on our
way.  Duty calls, as the sayin' goes.  Ich dien, and all that sort
of twaddle."

We went down to the street in silence--Vance's instructions to
Currie had struck me as curiously portentous.  We got into Vance's
car, which was waiting outside, Heath and I in the tonneau and
Vance at the wheel.

Vance was an expert driver, and he handled the Hispano-Suiza with a
quiet efficiency and care that made the long, low-slung car seem
almost something animate.  There was never the slightest sound of
enmeshing gears, never the slightest jerk, as he stopped and
started the car in the flow of traffic.

We drove up Fifth Avenue to its northern end, and there crossed the
Harlem River into the Bronx.  At the far side of the bridge Vance
stopped the car and drew a folded map from his pocket.

"No need to lose ourselves in this maze of crisscrossing avenues,"
he remarked to us over his shoulder.  "Since we know where we're
going, we might as well mark the route."  He had unfolded the map
and was tracing an itinerary at one side of it.  "Westchester
Avenue will take us at least half of the way to our destination;
and then if I can work my way through to Bassett Avenue we should
have no further difficulties."

He placed the map on the seat beside him and drove on.  At the
intersection of East 177th Street he made a sharp turn to the left,
and we skirted the grounds of the New York Catholic Protectory.
After a few more turns a street sign showed that we were on Bassett
Avenue, and Vance continued to the north.  At its upper end we
found ourselves at a small stretch of water,* and Vance again
stopped the car to consult his map.


* This, I later learned, was Givans Basin.


"I've gone a little too far," he informed us, as he took the wheel
again and turned the car sharply to the left, at right angles with
Bassett Avenue.  "But I'll go through to the next avenue--Waring, I
think it is--turn south there, and park the car just round the
corner from Lord Street.  The number we're looking for should be
there or thereabouts."

It took a few minutes to make the detour, for the roadway was
unsuitable for automobile traffic.  Vance shut off all his lights
as we approached the corner, and we drove the last half block in
complete darkness, as the nearest street light was far down Waring
Avenue.  The gliding Hispano-Suiza made no sound under Vance's
efficient handling; even the closing of the doors, as we got out,
could not be heard more than a few feet away.

We proceeded on foot into Lord Street, a narrow thoroughfare and
sparsely inhabited.  Here and there was an old wooden shack,
standing out, in the darkness of the night, as a black patch
against the overcast sky.

"It would be on this side of the street," Vance said, in a low,
vibrant voice.  "This is the even-number side.  My guess is it's
that next two-story structure, just beyond this vacant lot."

"I think you're right at that," Heath returned, sotto voce.

When we stood in front of the small frame dwelling, it seemed
particularly black.  There was no light showing at any of the
windows.  Until we accustomed our eyes to the darkness it looked as
if the place had no windows at all.

Heath tiptoed up the three sagging wooden steps that led to the
narrow front porch and flashed his light close to the door.
Crudely painted on the lintel was the number we sought.  The
Sergeant beckoned to us with a sweeping gesture of his arm, and
Vance and I joined him silently before the wooden-panelled front
door with its nondescript peeling paint.  At one side of the door
was an old-fashioned bell-pull with a white knob, and Vance gave it
a tentative jerk.

There was a faint tinkle inside, and we stood waiting, filled with
misgivings and not knowing what to expect.  I saw Heath slip his
hand into the pocket where he carried his gun; and I too--by
instinct or imitation--dropped my hand into my right outside coat
pocket and, grasping my automatic, shifted the safety release.

After a long delay, during which we remained there without a sound,
we heard a leisurely shifting of the bolts.  The door then opened a
few inches, and the pinched yellow face of an undersized Chinaman
peered out cautiously at us.

As I stood there, straining my eyes through the partly open door at
the yellow face that looked inquisitively out at us, the
significance of the imprint of the Chinese sandals at the foot of
the ladder, as well as of the Sinological nature of the signatures
of the various ransom notes, flashed through my mind.  I knew in
that brief moment that Vance had interpreted the address correctly,
and that we had come to the right house.  Although I had not
doubted the accuracy of Vance's prognostication, a chill swept over
me as I stared at the flat yellow features of the small man on the
other side of the door.

Vance immediately wedged his foot in the slight aperture and forced
the door inward with his shoulder.  Before us, in the dingy light
of a gas jet which hung from the ceiling far back in the hall, was
a Chinaman, clad in black pajamas and a pair of sandals.  He was
barely five feet tall.

"What you want?" he asked, in an antagonistic, falsetto voice,
backing away quickly against the wall to the right of the door.

"We want to speak to Mrs. Kenting," said Vance, scarcely above a
whisper.

"She not here," the Chinaman answered.  "Me no know Missy Kenting.
Nobody here.  You have wrong house.  Go away."

Vance had already stepped inside, and in a flash he drew a large
handkerchief from his outer breast pocket and crushed it against
the Chinaman's mouth, pinioning him against the wall.  Then I
noticed the reason for Vance's act:--only a foot or so away was an
old-fashioned push-bell toward which the Chinaman had been slyly
reaching.  The man stood back against the wall under Vance's firm
pressure, as if he felt that any effort to escape would be futile.

Then, with the most amazing quickness and dexterity, he forced his
head upward and leaped on Vance, like a wrestler executing a flying
tackle, and twined his legs about Vance's waist, at the same time
throwing his arms round Vance's neck.  It was an astonishing feat
of nimble accuracy.

But, with a movement almost as quick as the Chinaman's, Heath, who
was standing close to Vance, brought the butt of his revolver down
on the yellow man's head with terrific force.  The Chinaman's legs
disentangled themselves; his arms relaxed; his head fell back; and
he began slipping limply to the floor.  Vance caught him and eased
him down noiselessly.  Leaning over for a moment, he looked at the
Chinaman by the flame of his cigarette lighter, and then
straightened up.

"He's good for an hour, at least, Sergeant," he said in a hoarse
whisper.  "My word!  You're so brutal. . . .  He was trying to
reach that bell signal.  The others must be upstairs."  He moved
silently toward the narrow carpeted stairway that led above.  "This
is a damnable situation.  Keep your guns handy, both of you, and
don't touch the banister--it may creak."

As we filed noiselessly up the dimly-lit stairs, Vance leading the
way, Heath just behind him, and I bringing up the rear, I was
assailed by a terrifying premonition of disaster.  There was
something sinister in the atmosphere of that house; and I imagined
that grave danger lurked in the deep shadows above us.  I grasped
my automatic more firmly, and a sensation of alertness seized me as
if my brain had suddenly been swept clear of everything but the
apprehension of what might lie ahead. . . .

It seemed an unreasonably long time before we reached the upper
landing--a sensation like a crazy hasheesh distortion--and I felt
myself struggling to regain a sense of reality.

As Vance stepped into the hallway above, which was narrower and
dingier than the one downstairs, he stood tensely still for a
moment, looking about him.  There was only one small lighted gas
jet at the rear of the hall.  Luckily, the floor was covered with
an old worn runner which deadened our footsteps as we followed
Vance up the hall.  Suddenly the muffled sound of voices came to
us, but we could not distinguish any words.  Vance moved stealthily
toward the front of the house and stood before the only door on the
left of the corridor.  A line of faint light outlined the
threshold, and it was now evident that the voices came from within
that room.

After listening a moment Vance tried the doorknob with extreme
care.  To our surprise the door was not locked, but swung back
easily into a long, narrow, squalid room in the centre of which
stood a plain deal table.  At one end of the table, by the light of
an oil lamp, two illy dressed men sat playing casino, judging by
the distribution of the cards.

Though the room was filled with cigarette smoke, I immediately
recognized one of the men as the shabby figure I had seen leaning
against the bench in Central Park the night before.  The lamp
furnished the only illumination in the room, and dark grey
blankets, hanging in full folds from over the window-frames, let no
ray of light escape either at the front or side window.

The two men sprang to their feet instantaneously, turning in our
direction.

"Down, Van!" ordered Vance; and his call was submerged under two
deafening detonations accompanied by two flashes from a revolver in
the hand of the man nearest us.  The bullets must have gone over
us, for both Heath and I had dropped quickly to the floor at
Vance's order.  Almost immediately--so quickly as to be practically
simultaneous--there came two reports from Vance's automatic, and I
saw the man who had shot at us pitch forward.  The thud of his body
on the floor coincided with the crash of the lamp, knocked over by
the second man.  The room was plunged in complete darkness.

"Stay down, Van!" came the commanding voice of Vance.

Almost as he spoke there was a staccato exchange of shots.  All I
could see were the brilliant flashes from the automatics.  To this
day I cannot determine the number of shots fired that night, for
they overlapped each other in such rapid succession that it was
impossible to make an accurate count.  I lay flat on my stomach
across the door-sill, my head spinning dizzily, my muscles
paralyzed with fear for Vance.

There was a brief respite of black silence, so poignant as to be
almost palpable, and then came the crash of an upset chair and the
dull heavy sound of a human body striking the floor.  I was afraid
to move.  Heath's labored breathing made a welcome noise at my
side.  I could not tell, in the blackness of the room, who had
fallen.  A terrifying dread assailed me.

Then I heard Vance's voice--the cynical, nonchalant voice I knew so
well--and my intensity of fright gave way to a feeling of relief
and overpowering weakness.  I felt like a drowning man, who, coming
up for the third time, suddenly feels strong arms beneath his
shoulders.

"Really, y' know," his voice came from somewhere in the darkness,
"there should be electric lights in this house.  I saw the wires as
we entered."

He was fumbling around somewhere above me, and suddenly the
Sergeant's flashlight swept over the room.  I staggered to my feet
and leaned limply against the casing of the door.

"The idiot!" Vance was murmuring.  "He kept his lighted cigarette
in his mouth, and I was able to follow every move he made. . . .
There must be a switch or a fixture somewhere.  The lamp and the
blankets at the window were only to give the house the appearance
of being untenanted."

The ray from Heath's pocket flash moved about the walls and
ceiling, but I could see neither him nor Vance.  Then the light
came to a halt, and Heath's triumphant voice rang out.

"Here it is, sir,--a socket beside the window."  And as he spoke a
weak, yellowed bulb dimly lit up the room.

Heath was at the front window, his hand still on the switch of a
small electric light socket; and Vance stood near-by, to all
appearances cool and unconcerned.  On the floor lay two motionless
bodies.

"Pleasant evening, Sergeant."  Vance spoke in his usual steady,
whimsical voice.  "My sincerest apologies, and all that."  Then he
caught sight of me, and his face sobered.  "Are you all right,
Van?" he asked.

I assured him I had escaped the mêlée unscathed, and added that I
had not used my automatic because I was afraid I might have hit him
in the dark.

"I quite understand," he murmured and, nodding his head, he went
quickly to the two prostrate bodies.  After a momentary inspection,
he stood up and said:

"Quite dead, Sergeant.  Really, y' know, I seem to be a fairly
accurate shot."

"I'll say!" breathed Heath with admiration.  "I wasn't a hell of a
lot of help, was I, Mr. Vance?" he added a bit shamefacedly.

"Really nothing for you to do, Sergeant."

Vance looked about him.  Through a wide alcove at the far end of
the room a white iron bed was clearly visible.  This adjoining
chamber was like a small bedroom, with only dirty red rep curtains
dividing it from the main room.  Vance stepped quickly between the
curtains, and switched on a light just over the wooden mantel near
the bed.  At the rear of the room, near the foot of the bed, was a
door standing half ajar.  Between the mantel and the bed with its
uncovered mattress, was a small bureau with a large mirror swung
between two supports rising from the bureau itself.

Heath had followed Vance into the room, and I trailed weakly after
them.  Vance stood before the bureau for a moment or so, looking
down at the few cigarette-burnt toilet articles scattered about it.
He opened the top drawer and looked into it.  Then he opened the
second drawer.

"Ah!" he murmured half aloud, and reached inside.

When he withdrew his hand he was holding a neatly rolled pair of
thin Shantung-silk pajamas.  He inspected them for a moment and
smiled slightly.

"The missin' pajamas," he said as if to himself, though both Heath
and I heard every word he spoke.  "Never been worn.  Very
interestin'."  He unrolled them on the top of the bureau and drew
forth a small green-handled toothbrush.  "And the missin'
toothbrush," he added.  He ran his thumb over the bristles.  "And
quite dry. . . .  The pajamas, I opine, were rolled quickly round
the toothbrush and the comb, brought here, and thrown into the
drawer.  The comb, of course, slipped out into the hedge as the
Chinaman now prostrate below descended the ladder from Kaspar
Kenting's room."  He re-rolled the pajamas, placed them back into
the drawer, and resumed his inspection of the toilet articles on
the bureau top.

Heath and I were both near the archway, our eyes on Vance, when he
suddenly called out, "Look out, Sergeant!"

The last word had been only half completed when there came two
shots from the rear door.  The slim, crouching figure of a man,
somewhat scholarly looking and well dressed, had suddenly appeared
there.

Vance had swung about simultaneously with his warning to Heath, and
there were two more shots in rapid succession, this time from
Vance's gun.

I saw the poised revolver of blue steel drop from the raised hand
of the man at the rear door: he looked round him, dazed, and both
his hands went to his abdomen.  He remained upright for a moment;
then he doubled up and sank to the floor where he lay in an awkward
crumpled heap.

Heath's revolver too dropped from his grip.  When the first shot
had been fired, he had pivoted round as if some powerful unseen
hand had pushed him: he staggered backward a few feet and slid
heavily into a chair.  Vance looked a moment at the contorted
figure of the man on the floor, and then hastened to Heath.

"The baby winged me," Heath said with an effort.  "My gun jammed."

Vance gave him a cursory examination and then smiled encouragingly.

"Frightfully sorry, Sergeant,--it was all the fault of my trustin'
nature.  McLaughlin told us there were only two men in that green
car, and I foolishly concluded that two gentlemen and the Chinaman
would be all we should have to contend with.  I should have been
more far-seein'.  Most humiliatin'. . . .  You'll have a sore arm
for a couple of weeks," he added.  "Lucky it's only a flesh wound.
You'll probably lose a lot of gore; but really, y' know, you're far
too full of blood as it is."  And he expertly bound up Heath's
right arm, using a handkerchief for a bandage.

The Sergeant struggled to his feet.

"You're treating me like a damn baby."  He stepped to the mantel
and leaned against it.  "There's nothing the matter with me.  Where
do we go from here?"  His face was unusually white, and I could see
that the mantel behind him was a most welcome prop.

"Glad I had that mirror in front of me," murmured Vance.  "Very
useful devices, mirrors."

He had barely finished speaking when we heard a repeated ringing
near us.

"By Jove, a telephone!" commented Vance.  "Now we'll have to find
the instrument."

Heath straightened up.

"The thing's right here on the mantel," he said.  "I've been
standing in front of it."

Vance made a sudden move forward, but Heath stood in the way.

"You'd better let me answer it, Mr. Vance.  You're too refined."
He picked up the receiver with his left hand.

"What d' you want?" he asked, in a gruff, officious tone.  There
was a short pause.  "Oh, yeah?  O.-K., go ahead."  A longer pause
followed, as Heath listened.  "Don't know nothing about it," he
shot back, in a heavy, resentful voice.  Then he added:  "You got
the wrong number."  And he slammed down the receiver.

"Who was it, do you know, Sergeant?"  Vance spoke quietly as he
lighted a cigarette.

Heath turned slowly and looked at Vance.  His eyes were narrowed,
and there was an expression of awe on his face as he answered.

"Sure I know," he said significantly.  He shook his head as if he
did not trust himself to speak.  "There ain't no mistaking THAT
voice."

"Well, who was it, Sergeant?" asked Vance mildly, without looking
up from his cigarette.

The Sergeant seemed stronger: he stood away from the mantelpiece,
his legs wide apart and firmly planted.  Rivulets of blood were
running down over his right hand which hung limply at his side.

"It was--" he began, and then he was suddenly aware of my presence
in the room.  "Mother o' God!" he breathed.  "I don't have to tell
YOU, Mr. Vance.  You knew this morning."



CHAPTER XVIII

THE WINDOWLESS ROOM


(Friday, July 22; 10:30 p.m.)


Vance looked at the Sergeant a moment and shook his head.

"Y' know," he said, in a curiously repressed voice, "I was almost
hoping I was wrong.  I hate to think--"  He came suddenly forward
to Heath who had fallen back weakly against the mantel and was
blindly reaching for the wall, in an effort to hold himself
upright.  Vance put his arm around Heath and led him to a chair.

"Here, Sergeant," he said in a kindly tone, handing him an etched
silver flask, "take a drink of this--and don't be a sissy."

"Go to hell," grumbled Heath, and inverted the flask to his lips.
Then he handed it back to Vance.  "That's potent juice," he said,
standing up and pushing Vance away from him.  "Let's get going."

"Right-o, Sergeant.  We've only begun."  As he spoke he walked
toward the rear door and stepped over the dead man, into the next
room.  Heath and I were at his heels.

The room was in darkness, but with the aid of his flashlight the
Sergeant quickly found the electric light.  We were in a small box-
like room, without windows.  Opposite us, against the wall, stood a
narrow army cot.  Vance rushed forward and leaned over the cot.
The motionless form of a woman lay stretched out on it.  Despite
her disheveled hair and her deathlike pallor, I recognized
Madelaine Kenting.  Strips of adhesive tape bound her lips
together, and both her arms were tied securely with pieces of heavy
clothes-line to the iron rods at either side of the cot.

Vance dexterously removed the tape from her mouth, and the woman
sucked in a deep breath, as if she had been partly suffocated.
There was a low rumbling in her throat, expressive of agony and
fear, like that of a person coming out of an anæsthetic after a
serious operation.

Vance busied himself with the cruel cords binding her wrists.  When
he had released them he laid his ear against her heart for a
moment, and poured a little of the cognac from his flask between
her lips.  She swallowed automatically and coughed.  Then Vance
lifted her in his arms and started from the room.

Just as he reached the door the telephone rang again, and Heath
went toward it.

"Don't bother to answer it, Sergeant," said Vance.  "It's probably
the same person calling back."  And he continued on his way, with
the woman in his arms.

I preceded him as he carried his inert burden down the dingy
stairway.

"We must get her to a hospital at once, Van," he said when we had
reached the lower hallway.

I held the front door open for him, my automatic extended before
me, ready for instant use, should the occasion arise.  Vance went
down the shaky steps without a word, just as Heath joined me at the
door.  The Chinaman still lay where we had left him, on the floor
against the wall.

"Drag him up to that pipe in the corner, Mr. Van Dine," the
Sergeant told me in a strained voice.  "My arm is sorta numb."

For the first time I noticed that a two-inch water pipe, corroding
for lack of paint, rose through the front hall, behind the door, a
few inches from the wall.  I moved the limp form of the Chinaman
until his head came in contact with the pipe; and Heath, with one
hand, drew out a pair of handcuffs.  Clamping one of the manacles
on the unconscious man's right wrist, he pulled it around the pipe
and with his foot manipulated the Chinaman's left arm upward till
he could close the second iron around it.  Then he reached into his
pocket and drew out a piece of clothes-line which he had obviously
brought from the windowless room upstairs.

"Tie his ankles together, will you, Mr. Van Dine?" he said.  "I
can't quite make it."

I slipped my gun back into my coat pocket and did as Heath
directed.

Then we both went out into the murky night, Heath slamming the door
behind him.  Vance, with his burden, was perhaps a hundred yards
ahead of us, and we came up with him just as he reached the car.
He placed Mrs. Kenting on the rear seat of the tonneau and arranged
the cushions under her head.

"You can both sit in front with me," he suggested over his
shoulder, as he took his place at the wheel; and before Heath and I
were actually seated he had started the engine, shifted the gear,
and got the car in motion with a sudden but smooth roll.  He
continued straight down Waring Avenue.

As we approached a lone patrolman after two or three blocks, Heath
requested that we stop.  Vance threw on his brakes, and honked his
horn to attract the patrolman's attention.

"Have I got a minute, Mr. Vance?" asked Heath.

"Certainly, Sergeant," Vance told him, as he drew up to the curb
beside the officer.  "Mrs. Kenting is fairly comfortable and in no
immediate danger.  A few minutes more or less in arrivin' at a
hospital will make no material difference."

Heath spoke to the officer through the open window, identified
himself, and then asked the man, "Where's your call-box?"

"On the next corner, Sergeant, at Gunhill Road," answered the
officer, saluting.

"All right," returned Heath brusquely.  "Hop on the running-board."
He leaned back in the seat again and we went on for another block,
stopping at the direction of the officer.

The Sergeant slid out of the car, and the patrolman unlocked the
box for him.  Heath's back was to us, and I could not hear what he
was saying over the telephone, but when he turned he addressed the
officer peremptorily:

"Get up to Lord Street"--he gave the number, and added:  "The
second house from the corner of Waring--and stay on duty.  Some of
the boys from the 47th Precinct station will join you in a few
minutes, and a couple of men from the Homicide Bureau will be
coming up a little later--as soon as they can get here.  I'll be
returning myself inside of an hour or so.  You'll find three stiffs
in the joint and a Chink chained up to a water pipe in the front
hall.  There'll be an ambulance up before long."

"Right, sir," the officer answered, and started on the run up
Waring Avenue.

Heath had climbed into the car as he spoke, and Vance drove off
without delay.

"I'm heading for the Doran Hospital, just this side of Bronx Park,
Sergeant," Vance said, as we sped along.  In about fifteen minutes,
ignoring all traffic lights and driving at a rate far exceeding the
city speed limit, we drew up in front of the hospital.

Vance jumped from the car, took Mrs. Kenting in his arms again, and
carried her up the wide marble steps.  He returned to the car in
less than ten minutes.

"Everything's all right, Sergeant," he said as he approached the
car.  "The lady has regained consciousness.  Fresh air did it.  Her
mind is a bit misty.  Nothing fundamentally wrong, however."

Heath had stepped out of the car and was standing on the sidewalk.

"So long, Mr. Vance," he said.  "I'm getting in that taxi up ahead.
I gotta get back to that damn house.  I got work to do."  He moved
away as he spoke.

But Vance rushed forward and took him by the arm.

"Stay right here, Sergeant, and get that arm properly dressed
first."

He led Heath back, and accompanied him up the hospital steps.

A few minutes later Vance came out alone.

"The noble Sergeant is all right, Van," he said, as he took his
place at the wheel again.  "He'll be out before long.  But he
insists on going back to Lord Street."  And Vance started the car
once more, and headed downtown.

When we reached Vance's apartment Currie opened the door for us.
There was relief written in every line of the old butler's face.

"Good heavens, Currie!" said Vance, as we stepped inside.  "I told
you, you might tuck yourself in at eleven o'clock if you hadn't
heard from me--and here it is nearing midnight, and you're still
up."

The old man looked away with embarrassment as he closed the door.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said in a voice which, for all its formality,
had an emotional tremolo in it.  "I--I couldn't go to bed, sir,
until you returned.  I understood, sir,--if you will pardon my
saying so--your reference to the documents in the drawer of the
secretary.  And I've taken the liberty this evening of worrying
about you.  I'm very glad you have come home, sir."

"You're a sentimental old fossil, Currie," Vance complained,
handing the butler his hat.

"Mr. Markham is waiting in the library," said Currie, like an old
faithful soldier reporting to his superior officer.

"I rather imagined he would be," murmured Vance as he went up the
stairs.  "Good old Markham.  Always fretting about me."

As we entered the library, we found Markham pacing up and down.  He
stopped suddenly at sight of Vance.

"Well, thank God!" he said.  And, though he attempted to sound
trivial, his relief was as evident as old Currie's had been.  He
crossed the room and sank into a chair; and I got the impression,
from the way he relaxed, that he had been on his feet for a long
time.

"Greetings, old dear," said Vance.  "Why this unexpected pleasure
of your presence at such an hour?"

"I was merely interested, officially, in what you might have found
on Lord Street," returned Markham.  "I suppose you found a vast
vacant space with a real estate sign saying 'Suitable for factory
site.'"

Vance smiled.

"Not exactly that, don't y' know.  I had a jolly good time--which
will probably make you very angry and envious."

He turned round and came to where I had seated myself.  I felt weak
and shaky.  I was only then beginning to feel the reaction from the
excitement of the evening.  I realized now that in the brief space
of time we had spent on Lord Street, I had become too keyed up
physically to apprehend completely the dread possibilities of the
situation.  In the quiet and safety of familiar surroundings, the
flood of reality suddenly overwhelmed me, and it was only with
great effort that I managed to maintain a normal attitude.

"Let's have your gun, Van," said Vance, in his cool, steadying
voice, holding out his hand.  "Glad you didn't have to use it. . . .
Horrible mess--what?  Sorry I let you come along.  But really,
y' know, I myself was rather surprised and shocked by the turn of
affairs."

A little abashed, I took the unused automatic from my pocket and
handed it over to him: it was he who had assumed the entire brunt
of the danger, and I had been unable to be of any assistance.  He
stepped to the centre-table and pulled open the drawer.  Then he
tossed my automatic into it, laid his own beside it, and, closing
the drawer meditatively, rang the bell for Currie.

Markham was watching him closely but restrained his curiosity as
the old butler entered with a service of brandy.  Currie had sensed
Vance's wish and had not waited for an order.  When he had set down
the tray and left the room, Markham leaned forward in his chair.

"Well, what the hell DID happen?" he demanded irritably.

Vance sipped his cognac slowly, lighted a Régie, took several deep
inhalations, and sat down leisurely in his favorite chair.

"I'm frightfully sorry, Markham," he said, "but I fear I have made
you a bit of trouble. . . .  The fact is," he added carelessly, "I
killed three men."

Markham leaped to his feet as if he had been shot upward by the
sudden release of a powerful steel spring.  He glared at Vance, in
doubt whether the other was jesting or in earnest.  Simultaneously
he exploded:

"What do you mean, Vance?"

Vance drew deeply again on his cigarette before answering.  Then he
said with a tantalizing smile:

"J'ai tué trois hommes--Ich habe drei Männer getötet--Ho ucciso tre
uomini--He matado tres hombres--Három embert megöltem--Haragti
sheloshah anashim.  Meanin', I killed three men."

"Are you serious?" blurted Markham.

"Oh, quite," answered Vance.  "Do you think you can save me from
the dire consequences? . . .  Incidentally, I found Mrs. Kenting.
I took her to the Doran Hospital.  Not a matter of life and death,
but she required immediate and competent attention.  Rather upset,
I should imagine, by her detention.  A bit out of her mind, in
fact.  Frightful experience she went through.  Doin' nicely,
however.  Under excellent care.  Should be quite herself in a few
days.  Can't co-ordinate just yet. . . .  Oh, I say, Markham, do
sit down again and take your cognac.  You look positively
perturbed."

Markham obeyed automatically, like a frightened child submitting to
his parent.  He swallowed the brandy in one gulp.

"For the love of God, Vance," he pleaded, "drop this silly ring-
around-the-rosy stuff and talk to me like a sane human being."

"Sorry, Markham, and all that sort of thing," murmured Vance
contritely.  And then he told Markham in detail everything that had
happened that night.  But I thought he too greatly minimized his
own part in the tragic drama.  When he had finished his recital he
asked somewhat coyly:

"Am I a doomed culprit, or were there what you would call
extenuatin' circumstances?--I'm horribly weak on the intricacies of
the law, don't y' know."

"Damn it! forget everything," said Markham.  "If you're really
worried, I'll get you a brass medal as big as Columbus Circle."

"My word, what a fate!" sighed Vance.

"Have you any idea who these three men were?" Markham went on, in
tense seriousness.

"Not the groggiest notion," admitted Vance sadly.  "One of them,
Van Dine tells me, was watchin' us from the footpath in the park
last night.  Two of the three were probably the lads McLaughlin saw
in the green coupé outside the Kenting domicile Wednesday morning.
The other one I have never had the exquisite pleasure of meetin'
before.  I'd say, however, he had a gift for tradin' in doubtful
securities on the sly: I've seen bucket-shop operators who
resembled him.  Anyhow, Markham old dear, why fret about it
tonight?  They were not nice persons, not nice at all.  The
geniuses at Headquarters will check up on their identities. . . ."

The front door-bell rang, and a minute later Heath entered the
library.  His ordinarily ruddy face was a little pale and drawn,
and his right arm was in a sling.  He saluted Markham and turned
sheepishly to Vance.

"Your old saw-bones at the hospital told me I had to go home," he
complained.  "And there's nothing in God's world the matter with
me," he added disgustedly.  "Imagine him puttin' this arm in a
sling!--said I had to take the weight offen it, that it would heal
quicker that way.  And then had to go and make my other arm sore by
stickin' a needle in it! . . .  What was the needle for, Mr.
Vance?"

"Tetanus antitoxin, Sergeant," Vance told him, smiling.  "Simply
has to be done, don't y' know, with all gun-shot wounds.  Nothing
to cause you any discomfort, though.  Reaction in a week--that's
all."

Heath snorted.  "Hell!  If my gun hadn't jammed--"

"Yes, that was a bad break, Sergeant," nodded Markham.

"The doc wouldn't even let me go back to the house," grumbled
Heath.  "Anyway, I got the report from the local station up there.
They took the three stiffs over to the morgue.  The Chink'll live.
Maybe we can--"

"You'll never wangle anything out of him," put in Vance quietly.
"Your beloved hose-pipes and water-cures and telephone directories
will get you nowhere.  I know Chinamen.  But Mrs. Kenting will have
an interestin' story to tell as soon as she's rational again. . . .
Cheer up, Sergeant, and have some more medicine."  He poured Heath
a liberal drink of his rare brandy.

"I'll be on the job tomorrow all right, Chief," the Sergeant
asserted as he put down the glass on a small table at his side.
"Just imagine that young whipper-snapper of an intern at the Doran
Hospital tryin' to make a Little Lord Fauntleroy outa me!  A
sling!"

Vance and Markham and Heath discussed the case from various angles
for perhaps a half hour longer.  Markham was getting impatient.

"I'm going home," he said finally, as he rose.  "We'll get this
thing straightened out in the morning."

Vance left his chair reluctantly.

"I sincerely hope so, Markham," he said.  "It's not at all a
particularly nice case, and the sooner you're free of it, the
better."

"Is there anything you want me to do, Mr. Vance?"  Heath's tone was
respectful, but a little weary.

Vance looked at him with commiseration.

"I want you to go home and have a good sleep. . . .  And, by the
by, Sergeant, how about rounding everybody up and invitin' them to
the Purple House tomorrow, around noon?" he asked.  "I'm speakin'
of Fleel, Kenyon Kenting, and Quaggy.  Mrs. Falloway and her son
will, I'm sure, be there, in any event."

Heath got to his feet and grinned confidently.

"Don't you worry, Mr. Vance," he said.  "I'll have 'em there for
you."  He went toward the door, then suddenly turned round and held
out his left hand to Vance.  "Much obliged, sir, for tonight--"

"Oh, please ignore it, my good Sergeant,--it was merely a slight
nuisance, after all," returned Vance, though he grasped the
Sergeant's hand warmly.

Markham and Heath departed together, and Vance again pressed the
bell for Currie.

When the old man had entered the room Vance said:

"I'm turning in, Currie.  That will be all for tonight."

The butler bowed, and picked up the tray and the empty cognac
glasses.

"Very good, sir.  Thank you, sir.  Good night, sir."



CHAPTER XIX

THE FINAL SCENE


(Saturday, July 23; 9 a.m.)


Vance was up and dressed in good season the next morning.  He
seemed fairly cheerful but somewhat distrait.  Before he sat down
to his typical meager breakfast he went into the anteroom and
telephoned to Heath.  It was rather a long conversation, but no
word of it reached me where I sat at the desk in the library.

As he returned to the room he said to me:  "I think, Van, we're in
a position now to get somewhere with this case.  The poor Sergeant!--
he's practically a ravin' maniac this morning, with the reporters
houndin' him every minute.  The news of last night's altercation
did not break soon enough for the morning editions of the papers.
But the mere thought of reading of our escapade in the noon
editions fills me with horror."  He sipped his Turkish coffee.  "I
had hoped we could clear up the beastly matter before the news
venders began giving tongue.  The best place to conclude the case
is in the Purple House.  It's a family gathering-place, as it were.
Every one connected with the family, don't y' know, is rather
intimately concerned, and hopin' for illumination. . . ."

Late in the forenoon Markham, haggard and drawn, joined us at the
apartment.  He did not ask Vance any questions, for he knew it
would be futile in the mood Vance was in.  He did, however, greet
him cordially.

"I think you're going to get that medal, whether you like it or
not," he said, lighting a cigar and leaning against the mantel.
"All three men have been definitely identified, and they have all
been on the police books for years.  They've been urgently wanted
at Headquarters for a long time.  Two of them have served terms:
one for extortion, and the other for manslaughter.  They're Goodley
Franks and Austria Rentwick--no, he didn't come from Austria.  The
third man was none other than our old elusive friend, Gilt-Edge
Lamarne, with a dozen aliases--a very shrewd crook.  He's been
arrested nine times, but we've never been able to make the charges
stick.  He's kept the local boys, as well as the federal men, awake
nights for years.  We've had the goods on him for eight months now,
but we couldn't find him."

Markham smiled at Vance with solemn satisfaction.

"It was a very fortunate affair last night, from every point of
view.  Everybody's happy; only, I fear you're about to become a
hero and will have ticker-tape rained on you from the windows
whenever you go down Broadway."

"Oh, my Markham, my Markham!" wailed Vance.  "I won't have it.
I'm about to sail to South America, or Alaska, or the Malay
Peninsula. . . ."  He got to his feet and went to the table where
he finished his old port.  "Come along, Markham," he said as he put
his glass down.  "Let's get uptown and conclude this bally case
before I sail for foreign parts where ticker-tape is unknown."

He went toward the door, with Markham and me following him.

"You think we can finish the case today?"  Markham looked
skeptical.

"Oh, quite.  It was, in fact, finished long ago."  Vance stopped
with his hand on the knob and smiled cheerfully.  "But, knowin'
your passionate adoration for legal evidence, I have waited till
now."

Markham studied Vance for a moment, and said nothing.  In silence
we went out and descended the stairs to the street.

We arrived at the Kenting residence, Vance driving us there in his
car, fifteen minutes before noon.  Weem took our hats and made a
surly gesture toward the drawing-room.  Sergeant Heath and Snitkin
were already there.

A little later Fleel and Kenyon Kenting arrived together, followed
almost immediately by Porter Quaggy.  They had barely seated
themselves when old Mrs. Falloway, supported by her son Fraim, came
down the front stairs and joined us.

"I'm so anxious about Madelaine," Mrs. Falloway said.  "How is she,
Mr. Vance?"

"I received a telephone call from the hospital shortly before I
came here," he replied, addressing himself to the others in the
room, as well as to the old woman who, with Fraim's help, had now
seated herself comfortably at one end of the small sofa.  "Mrs.
Kenting is doing even better today than I would have expected.  She
is still somewhat irrational--which is quite natural, considering
the frightful experience she has been through--but I can assure you
that she will be home in two or three days, fully recovered and in
her normal mind."

He sat down by the window leisurely, and lighted a cigarette.

"And I imagine she will have a most interestin' tale to unfold," he
went on.  "Y' know, it was not intended that she return."

He moved slightly in his chair.

"The truth is, this was not a kidnapping case at all.  The
authorities were expected to accept it in that light, but the
murderer made too many errors--his fault lay in trying to be
excessively clever.  I think I can reconstruct most of the events
in their chronological order.  Some one wanted money--wanted it
rather desperately, in fact,--and all the means for an easy
acquisition were at hand.  The plot was as simple as it was
cowardly.  But the plotter met a snag when some of the early steps
failed rather dismally, and a new and bolder procedure and
technique became necess'ry.  A damnable new technique, but one that
was equally encumbered by the grave possibility of error.  The
errors developed almost inevitably, for the human brain, however
clever, has its limitations.  But the person who mapped out the
plot was blinded and confused by a passionate desire for the money.
Everything was sordid. . . ."

Again Vance shifted his position slightly and drew deeply on his
cigarette, expelling the smoke in curling ribbons, as he went on.

"There is no doubt whatever that Kaspar Kenting made an appointment
for the early morning hours, after he had returned from his
evening's entertainment at the casino with Mr. Quaggy.  He came in
and went to his room, changed his suit and his shoes, and kept that
appointment.  It was a vital matter to him, as he was deeply in
debt and undoubtedly expected some sort of practical solution of
his problem to result from this meeting.  The two mysterious and
objectionable gentlemen whom Mrs. Kenting described to us as
callers here earlier in the week, were quite harmless creatures,
but avid for the money Kaspar owed them.  One of them was a book-
maker, the other a shady fellow who ran a sub-rosa gambling house--
I rather suspected their identity from the first, and verified it
this morning: I happened to recognize one of the men through Mrs.
Kenting's description.

"When Kaspar left this house early Wednesday morning, he was met at
the appointed place not by the person with whom he had made his
appointment, but by others whom he had never seen before.  They
struck him over the head before he so much as realized that
anything was amiss, threw him into a coupé, and then drove off with
him to the East River and disposed of him, hoping he would not be
found too soon.  It was straight, brutal murder.  And the persons
who committed that murder had been hired for that purpose and had
been instructed accordingly.  You will understand that the plotter
at the source never intended anything less than murder for the
victim--since there was grave risk in letting him live to point an
accusing finger later. . . .  The slender Chinaman--the lobby-gow
of the gang, who now has concussion of the brain from the
Sergeant's blow last night--then returned to the house here, placed
the ladder against the window--it had been left here previously for
just that purpose--entered the room through the window, and set the
stage according to instructions, taking the toothbrush, the comb,
and the pajamas, and pinning the note to the window-sill, generally
leaving mute but spurious indications that Kaspar Kenting had
kidnapped himself in order to collect the money he needed to
straighten out his debts.  Kaspar's keeping of the appointment at
such an hour naturally implied that the rendezvous was with some
one he thought could help him.  I found the pajamas and toothbrush,
unused, in the Lord-Street house last night.  It was the Chinaman
that Mrs. Kenting heard moving about in her husband's room at dawn
Wednesday.  He was arranging the details in which he had been
instructed."

Vance continued in a matter-of-fact voice.

"So far the plot was working nicely.  The first set-back occurred
after the arrival in the mail of the ransom note with the
instructions to take the money to the tree.  The scheme of the
murderer to collect the money from the tree was thwarted, makin'
necess'ry further steps.  The same day Mrs. Kenting was approached
for an appointment, perhaps with a promise of news of her husband--
obviously by some one she trusted, for she went out alone at ten
o'clock that night to keep the appointment.  She was awaited--
possibly just inside Central Park--by the same hard gentlemen who
had done away with her husband.  But instead of meeting with the
same fate as Kaspar Kenting, she was taken to the house on Lord
Street I visited last night, and held there as a sort of hostage.
I rather imagine, don't y' know, that the perpetrator of this
fiendish scheme had not yet been able to pay the price demanded for
the neat performance of Kaspar's killing, thereby irking the hired
assassins.  The lady still alive was a very definite menace to the
schemer, since she would be able, if released, to tell with whom
she had made the appointment.  She was, so to speak, a threat held
over one criminal by another criminal who was a bit more clever.

"Mrs. Kenting undoubtedly used, that evening, a certain kind of
perfume--emerald--because it had been given to her by the person
with whom she had the rendezvous.  Surely, being a blonde, she knew
better than to use it as her personal choice.  That will explain to
you gentlemen why I asked you so seemingly irrelevant a question
the night before last. . . .  Incidentally," he added calmly, "I
happen to know who gave Mrs. Kenting that Courtet's emerald."

There was a slight stir, but Vance went on without a pause:

"Poor Kaspar!  He was a weak chappie, and the price for his own
murder was being wangled out of him without his realizing it.
Through the gem collection of old Karl Kenting, of course.  He was
depleting that collection regularly at the subtle instigation of
some one else, some one who took the gems and gave him practically
nothing compared to what they were actually worth, hopin' to turn
them over at an outrageous profit.  But semiprecious stones are not
so easy to dispose of through illegitimate channels.  They really
need a collector to appreciate them--and collectors have grown
rather exactin' regarding the origin of their purchases.  A shady
transaction of this nature would naturally require time, and the
now-defunct henchmen who were waiting for settlement were becoming
annoyed.  Most of the really valuable stones, which I am sure the
collection contained originally, were no longer there when I
glanced over the cases the other morning.  I am quite certain that
the balas-ruby I found in the poor fellow's dinner coat was brought
back because the purchaser would not give him what he thought it
was worth--Kaspar probably mistook the stone for a real ruby.
There were black opals missing from the collection, also exhibits
of jade, which Karl Kenting must undoubtedly have included in the
collection; and yesterday morning the absence of a large piece of
alexandrite was discovered--"

Fraim Falloway suddenly leaped to his feet, glaring at Vance with
the eyes of a maniac.  There was an abnormal color in the young
man's face, and he was shaking from head to foot.

"I didn't do it!" he screamed hysterically.  "I didn't have Kaspar
killed!  I tell you I didn't--I DIDN'T!  And you think I'd hurt
Madelaine!  You're a devil.  I didn't do it, I say!  You have no
right to accuse me."  He reached down quickly and picked up a
small, but heavy, bronze statue of Antinoüs on the table beside
him.  But Heath, who was standing at his side, was even quicker
than Falloway.  He grasped the youth's shoulder with his free arm,
just as the other lifted the statue to hurl at Vance.  The figurine
fell harmlessly to the floor, and Heath forced young Falloway back
into his chair.

"Put your pulse-warmers on him, Snitkin," he ordered.

Snitkin, standing just behind Fraim Falloway's chair, leaned over
and deftly manacled the youth, who sank back limply in his chair,
breathing heavily.

Mrs. Falloway, who had sat stoically throughout the entire
unexpected scene in the drawing-room, now looked up quickly as
Snitkin placed the handcuffs on her son.  She leaned forward with
horror in her eyes.  I thought for a moment she was going to speak,
but she made no comment.

"Really, Mr. Falloway," Vance admonished in a soothing voice, "you
shouldn't handle heavy objects when you're in that frame of mind.
Frightfully sorry.  But just sit still and relax."  He drew on his
cigarette again and, apparently ignoring the incident, went on in
his unemotional drawl:

"As I was sayin', the disappearance of the stones from the
collection was an indication of the identity of the murderer, for
the simple reason that the hirin' of thugs and the underground
disposal of these gems quite obviously suggested that the same type
of person was involved in both endeavors: to wit, both procedures
implied a connection with undercover characters--fences and
assassins.  Not that the reasonin' was final, you understand, but
most suggestive.  The two notes yesterday were highly enlightenin'.
One of them was obviously concocted for effect; the other was quite
genuine.  But boldness--usually a good technique--was, in this
case, seen through."

"But who," asked Quaggy, "could possibly have fulfilled the
requirements, so to speak, of your vague and amusing theory?"
The smile on his lips was without mirth--it was cold and self-
satisfied.  "Just because you saw two black opals in my
possession--"

"My theory, Mr. Quaggy, is not nearly so vague as you may think,"
Vance interrupted quickly.  "And if it amuses you, I am delighted."
Vance looked at the man with steady, indifferent eyes.  "But, to
answer your question, I should say that it was some one with an
opportunity to render legal service, with legal protection, to
members of the underworld. . . ."

Fleel, who was sitting at the small desk at the front of the room,
quickly addressed Vance.

"There is a definite implication in your words, sir," he said, with
his customary judicial air.  (I could not resist the impression
that he was pleading for a client in a court of law.)  "I'm a
lawyer," he went on, with ostentatious bitterness, "and I naturally
have certain contacts with the type of men you imply were at the
bottom of this outrage."  Then he chuckled sarcastically.
"However," he added, "I shall not hold the insult against you.  The
fact is, your amateurish ratiocinations are highly amusing."  And,
leaning back in his chair, he smirked.

Vance barely glanced at the man, and continued speaking as if there
had been no interruption.

"Referrin' again to the various ransom notes, they were dictated by
the plotter of Kaspar's murder--that is, all but the one received
by Mr. Fleel yesterday--, and they were couched in such language
that they could be shown to the authorities in order to side-track
suspicion from the actual culprit and at the same time impress Mr.
Kenyon Kenting with the urgent necessity of raising the fifty
thousand dollars.  I had two statements as to the amount of money
which Kaspar himself was demanding for his debts--one, an honest
report of fifty thousand dollars; the other, no doubt a stupidly
concocted tale of thirty thousand dollars--again obviously for the
purpose of diverting suspicion from the person connected with the
crime."

Vance looked thoughtfully at Fleel and continued.

"Of course, it is possible that Kaspar asked you for only thirty
thousand dollars, whereas he had just asked his brother for fifty
thousand.  But it is highly significant that he first asked his
brother for fifty thousand dollars and then asked you for a
different amount, whereas the ransom note called for the fifty
thousand.  This discrepancy between Mr. Kenting's report and your
report of the amount would certainly have a tendency to point
toward the brother and not toward you--which could easily be
interpreted, in view of everything, as another clever means of your
pointing suspicion away from yourself in case you were suspected.
Certainly Mr. Kenyon Kenting was not lying about the amount, and
there could be little or no reason to think that Kaspar's brother
was guilty of the crime, for in such a case the money would have
had to come from him--and people, don't y' know, do not ordinarily
commit crimes in order to impoverish themselves--eh, what?  Summing
it up, there was no reason for Mr. Kenyon Kenting to lie about the
amount demanded by Kaspar, whereas there was a definite reason for
you to lie about it."

Vance moved his eyes slowly round the startled group.

"The second note received by Mr. Fleel, was not, as I have already
intimated, one of the series written at the instructions of the
guilty man--it was a genuine document addressed TO him; and the
recipient felt that he not only could use it to have the ransom
money paid over to him, but to disarm once more any suspicion that
might be springing up in the minds of the authorities.  It did not
occur to him that the address, cryptically written in for his eyes
alone, could be interpreted by another.  Oh, yes, it was a genuine
message from the unpaid minions, demanding the money they had
earned by disposing of Kaspar."

He turned slowly to Fleel again and met the other's smirk with a
cold smile.

"When I suspected you, Mr. Fleel," he said, "I sent you from the
District Attorney's office Thursday before Mr. Markham and I came
here, in order to verify my expectation that you would urge Mr.
Kenyon Kenting to request that all police interference be
eliminated.  This you did, and when I learned of it, after arriving
here with Mr. Markham, I definitely objected to the proposal and
counteracted your influence on Mr. Kenting so that you could not
get the money safely that night.  Seeing that part of your plan
hopelessly failing, you cleverly changed your attitude and agreed
to act for us--at my request through Sergeant Heath--as the person
to place the money in the tree, and went through with the farce in
order to prove that no connection existed between you and the
demand for money.  One of your henchmen had come to Central Park
to pick up the package if everything went according to your
prearranged schedule.  Mr. Van Dine and I both saw the man.  When
he learned that you had not been successful with your plans, he
undoubtedly reported your failure, thereby throwing fear into your
hirelings that they might not be paid--which accounts for their
keeping Mrs. Kenting alive as an effective threat to hold over you
till payment was forthcoming."

Fleel looked up slowly with a patronizing grin.

"Aren't you overlooking the possibility, Mr. Vance, that young
Kaspar kidnapped himself--as I maintained from the beginning--and
was murdered by thugs later, for reasons and under circumstances
unknown to us?  Certainly all the evidence points to his self-
abduction for the purpose of acquiring the money he needed."

"Ah!  I've been expecting that observation," Vance returned,
meeting the other's cynical stare.  "The self-kidnapping setup was
very clever.  Much too clever.  Overdone, in fact.  As I see it, it
was to have been your--what shall we call it?--your emergency
escape, let us say, if your innocence in the matter should at any
time be in doubt.  In that event how easy it would have been for
you to say just what you have said regarding the implications of a
self-motivated pseudo-crime.  And I am not overlooking the
significant fact that you have consistently advised Mr. Kenyon
Kenting to pay over the money in spite of the glaring evidence that
Kaspar had planned the kidnapping himself."

Fleel's expression did not change.  His grin became even more
marked; in fact, when Vance paused and looked at him keenly, Fleel
began to shake with mirth.

"A very pretty theory, Mr. Vance," he commented.  "It shows
remarkable ingenuity, but it entirely fails to take into
consideration the fact that I myself was attacked by a sub-machine
gunner on the very night of Mrs. Kenting's disappearance.  You have
conveniently forgotten that little episode since it would knock the
entire foundation from under your amusing little house of cards."

Vance shook his head slowly, and though his smile seemed to
broaden, it grew even chillier.

"No.  Oh, no, Mr. Fleel.  Not conveniently forgot--conveniently
remembered.  Most vivid recollection, don't y' know.  And you were
jolly well frightened by the attack.  Surely, you don't believe
your escape from any casualty was the result of a miracle.  All
quite simple, really.  The gentleman with the machine-gun had no
intention whatever of perforating you.  His only object was to
frighten you and warn you of exactly what to expect if you did not
raise the money instanter to pay for the dastardly services
rendered you.  You were never safer in your life than when that
machine-gun was sputtering away in your general direction."

The smirk slowly faded from Fleel's lips; his face flushed, and he
stood up, glowering resentfully at Vance.

"Your theory, Mr. Vance," he said angrily, "no longer has even the
merit of humor.  Up to this point I have been amused by it and have
been able to laugh at it.  But you are carrying a joke too far,
sir.  And I wish you to know that I greatly resent your remarks."
He remained standing.

"I don't regard that fact as disconcertin' in the least," Vance
returned with a cold smile.  "The fact is, Mr. Fleel, you will be
infinitely more resentful when I inform you that at this very
minute certified public accountants are at work on your books and
that the police are scrutinizing most carefully the contents of
your safe."  Vance glanced indifferently at the cigarette in his
hand.

For two seconds Fleel looked at him with a serious frown.  Then he
took a swift backward step and, thrusting his hand into his pocket,
drew forth a large, ugly looking automatic.  Both Heath and Snitkin
had been watching him steadily, and as Fleel made this movement
Heath, with lightning-like speed, produced an automatic from
beneath the black sling of his wounded arm.  The movements of the
two men were almost concurrent.

But there was no need for Heath to fire his gun, for in that
fraction of a second Fleel raised his automatic to his own temple
and pulled the trigger.  The weapon fell from his hand immediately,
and his body slumped down against the edge of the desk and fell to
the floor out of sight.

Vance, apparently, was little moved by the tragedy.  However, after
a deep sigh, he rose listlessly and stepped behind the desk.  The
others in the room were, I think, like myself, too paralyzed at the
sudden termination of the case to make any move.  Vance bent down.

"Dead, Markham,--quite," he announced as he rose, a moment or so
later.  "Consid'rate chappie--what?  Has saved you legal worry no
end.  Most gratifyin'."  He was leaning now against the corner of
the desk, and, nodding to Snitkin, who had rushed forward with an
automatic in his hand, jerked his head significantly toward Fraim
Falloway.

Snitkin hesitated but a moment.  He slipped the gun back into his
pocket and unlocked the handcuffs on young Falloway.

"Sorry, Mr. Falloway," murmured Vance.  "But you lost your self-
control and became a bit annoyin'. . . .  Feelin' better?"

The youth stammered:  "I'm all right."  He was alert and apparently
his normal self now.  "And Sis will be home in a couple of days!"
He found a cigarette, after much effort, and lighted it nervously.

"By the by, Mr. Kenting," Vance resumed, without moving from the
desk, "there's a little point I want cleared up.  I know that the
District Attorney is aching to ask you a few questions about what
happened yesterday evening.  He had not heard from you and was
unable to reach you.  Did you, by any chance, give that fifty
thousand dollars to Fleel?"

"Yes!"  Kenting stood up excitedly.  "I gave it to him a little
after nine o'clock last night.  We got the final instructions all
right--that is, Fleel got them.  He called me up right away and we
arranged to meet.  He said some one had telephoned to him and told
him that the money had to be at a certain place--far up in the
Bronx somewhere--at ten o'clock that night.  He convinced me that
this person on the telephone had said he would not deal with any
one but Fleel."

He hesitated a moment.

"I was afraid to act through the police again, after that night in
the park.  So I took Fleel's urgent advice to leave the police out
of it, and let him handle the matter.  I was desperate!  And I
trusted him--God help me!  I didn't telephone to Mr. Markham, and I
wouldn't speak to him when he called.  I was afraid.  I wanted
Madelaine back safe.  And I gave the money to Fleel--and thought he
could arrange everything. . . ."*


* The practice of turning over ransom money to outsiders, in the
hopes of settling kidnap cases, is not an unusual one.  There have
been several famous instances of this in recent years.


"I quite understand, Mr. Kenting."  Vance spoke softly, in a tone
which was not without pity.  "I was pretty sure you had given him
the money last night, for he telephoned to the Lord-Street house
while we were there, obviously to make immediate arrangements to
pay off his commissions, as it were.  Sergeant Heath here
recognized his voice over the wire. . . .  But, really, y' know,
Mr. Kenting, you should have trusted the police.  Of course, Fleel
received no message of instructions last night.  It was part of his
stupid technique, however, to tell you he had, for he needed the
money and was at his wit's end.  He too was desperate, I think.
When Mr. Markham told me he was unable to get in touch with you, I
rather thought, don't y' know, you had done just what you have
stated. . . .  Fleel was far too bold in showing us that note
yesterday.  Really, y' know, he shouldn't have done it.  There were
references in it which he thought only he himself could understand.
Luckily, I saw through them.  That note, in fact, verified my
theory regarding him.  But he showed it to us because he wished to
make an impression on you.  He needed that money.  I rather think
he had gambled away, in one way or another, the money he held in
trust for the Kenting estate.  We sha'n't know definitely till we
get the report from Stitt and McCoy,* the accountants who are goin'
over Fleel's books.  It is quite immaterial, however."


* This was the same firm of certified public accountants whom
Markham had called in to inspect the books of the firm of Benson
and Benson in the investigation of the Benson murder case.


Vance suddenly yawned and glanced at his watch.

"My word, Markham!" he exclaimed, turning to the District Attorney,
who had sat stolidly and nonplused through the amazing drama.
"It's still rather early, don't y' know.  If I hasten, old dear,
I'll be able to catch the second act of Tristan and Isolde."

Vance went swiftly across the room to Mrs. Falloway and bowed over
her hand solicitously with a murmured adieu.  Then he hurried out
to his car waiting at the curb.

                  *     *     *     *     *

When the reports from the accountants and the police came in at the
end of the day on which Fleel had shot himself, Vance's theory and
suppositions were wholly substantiated.  The accountants found that
Fleel had been speculating heavily on his own behalf with the funds
he held in trust for the Kenting estate.  His bank had already
called upon him to cover the legitimate investments permitted him
by law as the trustee of the estate.  The amount he had embezzled
was approximately fifty thousand dollars, and as he had long since
lost his own money in the same kind of precarious bucket-shop
transactions, it would have been but a matter of days before the
shortage caused by his extra-legal operations would have been
discovered.

In his safe were found practically all the gem-stones missing from
the Kenting collection, including the large and valuable
alexandrite.  (How or when he had acquired this last item was never
definitely determined.)  The package of bills which Kenyon Kenting
had so trustingly given him was also found in the safe.

All this happened years before the actual account of the case was
set down here.  Since then, Kenyon Kenting has married his sister-
in-law, Madelaine, who returned to the Purple House the second day
after Fleel's suicide.

Less than a year later Vance and I had tea with Mrs. Falloway.
Vance had a genuine affection for the crippled old woman.  As we
were about to go, Fraim Falloway entered the room.  He was a
different man from the one we had known during the investigation of
what the papers persisted in calling the Kenting kidnap case
(perhaps the alliteration of the nomenclature was largely the
reason for it).  Fraim Falloway's face had noticeably filled in,
and his color was healthy and normal; there was a vitality in his
eyes, and he moved with ease and determined alacrity.  His whole
manner had changed.  I learned later that old Mrs. Falloway had
called in the endocrinologist whose name Vance had given her, and
that the youth had been under observation and treatment for many
months.

After our greetings that day Vance asked Falloway casually how his
stamp collecting was going.  The youth seemed almost scornful and
replied he had no time for such matters any more--that he was too
busy with his new work at the Museum of Natural History to devote
any of his time to so futile a pursuit as philately.

It might be interesting to note, in closing, that Kenyon Kenting's
first act, after his marriage to Madelaine Kenting, was to have the
exterior of the Purple House thoroughly scraped and sand-blasted,
so that the natural color of the bricks and stones was restored.
It ceased to be the "purple house," and took on a more domestic and
gemütlich appearance, and has so remained to the present day.



THE END




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