Chapter I
Philo
Vance at Home(Friday,
June 14; 8.30 a.m.)It
happened that, on the morning of the momentous June the fourteenth
when the discovery of the murdered body of Alvin H. Benson created a
sensation which, to this day, has not entirely died away, I had
breakfasted with Philo Vance in his apartment. It was not unusual for
me to share Vance's luncheons and dinners, but to have breakfast with
him was something of an occasion. He was a late riser, and it was his
habit to remain
incommunicado until
his midday meal.The
reason for this early meeting was a matter of business—or, rather,
of æsthetics. On the afternoon of the previous day Vance had
attended a preview of Vollard's collection of Cézanne water–colors
at the Kessler Galleries, and having seen several pictures he
particularly wanted, he had invited me to an early breakfast to give
me instructions regarding their purchase.A
word concerning my relationship with Vance is necessary to clarify my
rôle of narrator in this chronicle. The legal tradition is deeply
imbedded in my family, and when my preparatory–school days were
over, I was sent, almost as a matter of course, to Harvard to study
law. It was there I met Vance, a reserved, cynical and caustic
freshman who was the bane of his professors and the fear of his
fellow–classmen. Why he should have chosen me, of all the students
at the University, for his extra–scholastic association, I have
never been able to understand fully. My own liking for Vance was
simply explained: he fascinated and interested me, and supplied me
with a novel kind of intellectual diversion. In his liking for me,
however, no such basis of appeal was present. I was (and am now) a
commonplace fellow, possessed of a conservative and rather
conventional mind. But, at least, my mentality was not rigid, and the
ponderosity of the legal procedure did not impress me greatly—which
is why, no doubt, I had little taste for my inherited profession—;
and it is possible that these traits found certain affinities in
Vance's unconscious mind. There is, to be sure, the less consoling
explanation that I appealed to Vance as a kind of foil, or anchorage,
and that he sensed in my nature a complementary antithesis to his
own. But whatever the explanation, we were much together; and, as the
years went by, that association ripened into an inseparable
friendship.Upon
graduation I entered my father's law firm—Van Dine and Davis—and
after five years of dull apprenticeship I was taken into the firm as
the junior partner. At present I am the second Van Dine of Van Dine,
Davis and Van Dine, with offices at 120 Broadway. At about the time
my name first appeared on the letter–heads of the firm, Vance
returned from Europe, where he had been living during my legal
novitiate, and, an aunt of his having died and made him her principal
beneficiary, I was called upon to discharge the technical obligations
involved in putting him in possession of his inherited property.This
work was the beginning of a new and somewhat unusual relationship
between us. Vance had a strong distaste for any kind of business
transaction, and in time I became the custodian of all his monetary
interests and his agent at large. I found that his affairs were
various enough to occupy as much of my time as I cared to give to
legal matters, and as Vance was able to indulge the luxury of having
a personal legal factotum, so to speak, I permanently closed my desk
at the office, and devoted myself exclusively to his needs and whims.If,
up to the time when Vance summoned me to discuss the purchase of the
Cézannes, I had harbored any secret or repressed regrets for having
deprived the firm of Van Dine, Davis and Van Dine of my modest legal
talents, they were permanently banished on that eventful morning;
for, beginning with the notorious Benson murder, and extending over a
period of nearly four years, it was my privilege to be a spectator of
what I believe was the most amazing series of criminal cases that
ever passed before the eyes of a young lawyer. Indeed, the grim
dramas I witnessed during that period constitute one of the most
astonishing secret documents in the police history of this country.Of
these dramas Vance was the central character. By an analytical and
interpretative process which, as far as I know, has never before been
applied to criminal activities, he succeeded in solving many of the
important crimes on which both the police and the District Attorney's
office had hopelessly fallen down.Due
to my peculiar relations with Vance it happened that not only did I
participate in all the cases with which he was connected, but I was
also present at most of the informal discussions concerning them
which took place between him and the District Attorney; and, being of
methodical temperament, I kept a fairly complete record of them. In
addition, I noted down (as accurately as memory permitted) Vance's
unique psychological methods of determining guilt, as he explained
them from time to time. It is fortunate that I performed this
gratuitous labor of accumulation and transcription, for now that
circumstances have unexpectedly rendered possible my making the cases
public, I am able to present them in full detail and with all their
various side–lights and succeeding steps—a task that would be
impossible were it not for my numerous clippings and
adversaria.Fortunately,
too, the first case to draw Vance into its ramifications was that of
Alvin Benson's murder. Not only did it prove one of the most famous
of New York's causes
célèbres, but it
gave Vance an excellent opportunity of displaying his rare talents of
deductive reasoning, and, by its nature and magnitude, aroused his
interest in a branch of activity which heretofore had been alien to
his temperamental promptings and habitual predilections.The
case intruded upon Vance's life suddenly and unexpectedly, although
he himself had, by a casual request made to the District Attorney
over a month before, been the involuntary agent of this destruction
of his normal routine. The thing, in fact, burst upon us before we
had quite finished our breakfast on that mid–June morning, and put
an end temporarily to all business connected with the purchase of the
Cézanne paintings. When, later in the day, I visited the Kessler
Galleries, two of the water–colors that Vance had particularly
desired had been sold; and I am convinced that, despite his success
in the unravelling of the Benson murder mystery and his saving of at
least one innocent person from arrest, he has never to this day felt
entirely compensated for the loss of those two little sketches on
which he had set his heart.As
I was ushered into the living–room that morning by Currie, a rare
old English servant who acted as Vance's butler, valet, major–domo
and, on occasions, specialty cook, Vance was sitting in a large
armchair, attired in a surah silk dressing–gown and grey suède
slippers, with Vollard's book on Cézanne open across his knees."Forgive
my not rising, Van," he greeted me casually. "I have the
whole weight of the modern evolution in art resting on my legs.
Furthermore, this plebeian early rising fatigues me, y' know."He
riffled the pages of the volume, pausing here and there at a
reproduction."This
chap Vollard," he remarked at length, "has been rather
liberal with our art–fearing country. He has sent a really goodish
collection of his Cézannes here. I viewed 'em yesterday with the
proper reverence and, I might add, unconcern, for Kessler was
watching me; and I've marked the ones I want you to buy for me as
soon as the Gallery opens this morning."He
handed me a small catalogue he had been using as a book–mark."A
beastly assignment, I know," he added, with an indolent smile.
"These delicate little smudges with all their blank paper will
prob'bly be meaningless to your legal mind—they're so unlike a
neatly–typed brief, don't y' know. And you'll no doubt think some
of 'em are hung upside–down,—one of 'em is, in fact, and even
Kessler doesn't know it. But don't fret, Van old dear. They're very
beautiful and valuable little knickknacks, and rather inexpensive
when one considers what they'll be bringing in a few years. Really an
excellent investment for some money–loving soul, y' know—inf'nitely
better than that Lawyer's Equity Stock over which you grew so
eloquent at the time of my dear Aunt Agatha's death."[1]Vance's
one passion (if a purely intellectual enthusiasm may be called a
passion) was art—not art in its narrow, personal aspects, but in
its broader, more universal significance. And art was not only his
dominating interest, but his chief diversion. He was something of an
authority on Japanese and Chinese prints; he knew tapestries and
ceramics; and once I heard him give an impromptu
causerie to a few
guests on Tanagra figurines, which, had it been transcribed, would
have made a most delightful and instructive monograph.Vance
had sufficient means to indulge his instinct for collecting, and
possessed a fine assortment of pictures and
objets d'art. His
collection was heterogeneous only in its superficial characteristics:
every piece he owned embodied some principle of form or line that
related it to all the others. One who knew art could feel the unity
and consistency in all the items with which he surrounded himself,
however widely separated they were in point of time or
métier or surface
appeal. Vance, I have always felt, was one of those rare human
beings, a collector with a definite philosophic point of view.His
apartment in East Thirty–eighth Street—actually the two top
floors of an old mansion, beautifully remodelled and in part rebuilt
to secure spacious rooms and lofty ceilings—was filled, but not
crowded, with rare specimens of oriental and occidental, ancient and
modern, art. His paintings ranged from the Italian primitives to
Cézanne and Matisse; and among his collection of original drawings
were works as widely separated as those of Michelangelo and Picasso.
Vance's Chinese prints constituted one of the finest private
collections in this country. They included beautiful examples of the
work of Ririomin, Rianchu, Jinkomin, Kakei and Mokkei."The
Chinese," Vance once said to me, "are the truly great
artists of the East. They were the men whose work expressed most
intensely a broad philosophic spirit. By contrast the Japanese were
superficial. It's a long step between the little more than decorative
souci of a Hokusai
and the profoundly thoughtful and conscious artistry of a Ririomin.
Even when Chinese art degenerated under the Manchus, we find in it a
deep philosophic quality—a spiritual
sensibilité, so to
speak. And in the modern copies of copies—what is called the
bunjinga style—we
still have pictures of profound meaning."Vance's
catholicity of taste in art was remarkable. His collection was as
varied as that of a museum. It embraced a black–figured amphora by
Amasis, a proto–Corinthian vase in the Ægean style, Koubatcha and
Rhodian plates, Athenian pottery, a sixteenth–century Italian
holy–water stoup of rock crystal, pewter of the Tudor period
(several pieces bearing the double–rose hall–mark), a bronze
plaque by Cellini, a triptych of Limoges enamel, a Spanish retable of
an altar–piece by Vallfogona, several Etruscan bronzes, an Indian
Greco Buddhist, a statuette of the Goddess Kuan Yin from the Ming
Dynasty, a number of very fine Renaissance wood–cuts, and several
specimens of Byzantine, Carolingian and early French ivory carvings.His
Egyptian treasures included a gold jug from Zakazik, a statuette of
the Lady Nai (as lovely as the one in the Louvre), two beautifully
carved steles of the First Theban Age, various small sculptures
comprising rare representations of Hapi and Amset, and several
Arrentine bowls carved with Kalathiskos dancers. On top of one of his
embayed Jacobean book cases in the library, where most of his modern
paintings and drawings were hung, was a fascinating group of African
sculpture—ceremonial masks and statuette–fetishes from French
Guinea, the Sudan, Nigeria, the Ivory Coast, and the Congo.A
definite purpose has animated me in speaking at such length about
Vance's art instinct, for, in order to understand fully the
melodramatic adventures which began for him on that June morning, one
must have a general idea of the man's
penchants and inner
promptings. His interest in art was an important—one might almost
say the dominant—factor in his personality. I have never met a man
quite like him—a man so apparently diversified, and yet so
fundamentally consistent.Vance
was what many would call a dilettante. But the designation does him
injustice. He was a man of unusual culture and brilliance. An
aristocrat by birth and instinct, he held himself severely aloof from
the common world of men. In his manner there was an indefinable
contempt for inferiority of all kinds. The great majority of those
with whom he came in contact regarded him as a snob. Yet there was in
his condescension and disdain no trace of spuriousness. His
snobbishness was intellectual as well as social. He detested
stupidity even more, I believe, than he did vulgarity or bad taste. I
have heard him on several occasions quote Fouché's famous line:
C'est plus qu'un crime; c'est une faute.
And he meant it literally.Vance
was frankly a cynic, but he was rarely bitter: his was a flippant,
Juvenalian cynicism. Perhaps he may best be described as a bored and
supercilious, but highly conscious and penetrating, spectator of
life. He was keenly interested in all human reactions; but it was the
interest of the scientist, not the humanitarian. Withal he was a man
of rare personal charm. Even people who found it difficult to admire
him, found it equally difficult not to like him. His somewhat
quixotic mannerisms and his slightly English accent and inflection—a
heritage of his post–graduate days at Oxford—impressed those who
did not know him well, as affectations. But the truth is, there was
very little of the
poseur about him.He
was unusually good–looking, although his mouth was ascetic and
cruel, like the mouths on some of the Medici portraits[2];
moreover, there was a slightly derisive hauteur in the lift of his
eyebrows. Despite the aquiline severity of his lineaments his face
was highly sensitive. His forehead was full and sloping—it was the
artist's, rather than the scholar's, brow. His cold grey eyes were
widely spaced. His nose was straight and slender, and his chin narrow
but prominent, with an unusually deep cleft. When I saw John
Barrymore recently in
Hamlet I was
somehow reminded of Vance; and once before, in a scene of
Cæsar and Cleopatra
played by Forbes–Robertson, I received a similar impression.[3]Vance
was slightly under six feet, graceful, and giving the impression of
sinewy strength and nervous endurance. He was an expert fencer, and
had been the Captain of the University's fencing team. He was mildly
fond of outdoor sports, and had a knack of doings things well without
any extensive practice. His golf handicap was only three; and one
season he had played on our championship polo team against England.
Nevertheless, he had a positive antipathy to walking, and would not
go a hundred yards on foot if there was any possible means of riding.In
his dress he was always fashionable—scrupulously correct to the
smallest detail—yet unobtrusive. He spent considerable time at his
clubs: his favorite was the Stuyvesant, because, as he explained to
me, its membership was drawn largely from the political and
commercial ranks, and he was never drawn into a discussion which
required any mental effort. He went occasionally to the more modern
operas, and was a regular subscriber to the symphony concerts and
chamber–music recitals.Incidentally,
he was one of the most unerring poker players I have ever seen. I
mention this fact not merely because it was unusual and significant
that a man of Vance's type should have preferred so democratic a game
to bridge or chess, for instance, but because his knowledge of the
science of human psychology involved in poker had an intimate bearing
on the chronicles I am about to set down.Vance's
knowledge of psychology was indeed uncanny. He was gifted with an
instinctively accurate judgment of people, and his study and reading
had co–ordinated and rationalized this gift to an amazing extent.
He was well grounded in the academic principles of psychology, and
all his courses at college had either centered about this subject or
been subordinated to it. While I was confining myself to a restricted
area of torts and contracts, constitutional and common law, equity,
evidence and pleading, Vance was reconnoitring the whole field of
cultural endeavor. He had courses in the history of religions, the
Greek classics, biology, civics and political economy, philosophy,
anthropology, literature, theoretical and experimental psychology,
and ancient and modern languages.[4]
But it was, I think, his courses under Münsterberg and William James
that interested him the most.Vance's
mind was basically philosophical—that is, philosophical in the more
general sense. Being singularly free from the conventional
sentimentalities and current superstitions, he could look beneath the
surface of human acts into actuating impulses and motives. Moreover,
he was resolute both in his avoidance of any attitude that savored of
credulousness, and in his adherence to cold, logical exactness in his
mental processes."Until
we can approach all human problems," he once remarked, "with
the clinical aloofness and cynical contempt of a doctor examining a
guinea–pig strapped to a board, we have little chance of getting at
the truth."Vance
led an active, but by no means animated, social life—a concession
to various family ties. But he was not a social animal.—I can not
remember ever having met a man with so undeveloped a gregarious
instinct,—and when he went forth into the social world it was
generally under compulsion. In fact, one of his "duty"
affairs had occupied him on the night before that memorable June
breakfast; otherwise, we would have consulted about the Cézannes the
evening before; and Vance groused a good deal about it while Currie
was serving our strawberries and eggs
Bénédictine.
Later on I was to give profound thanks to the God of Coincidence that
the blocks had been arranged in just that pattern; for had Vance been
slumbering peacefully at nine o'clock when the District Attorney
called, I would probably have missed four of the most interesting and
exciting years of my life; and many of New York's shrewdest and most
desperate criminals might still be at large.Vance
and I had just settled back in our chairs for our second cup of
coffee and a cigarette when Currie, answering an impetuous ringing of
the front–door bell, ushered the District Attorney into the
living–room."By
all that's holy!" he exclaimed, raising his hands in mock
astonishment. "New York's leading
flâneur and art
connoisseur is up and about!""And
I am suffused with blushes at the disgrace of it," Vance
replied.It
was evident, however, that the District Attorney was not in a jovial
mood. His face suddenly sobered."Vance,
a serious thing has brought me here. I'm in a great hurry, and merely
dropped by to keep my promise…. The fact is, Alvin Benson has been
murdered."Vance
lifted his eyebrows languidly."Really,
now," he drawled. "How messy! But he no doubt deserved it.
In any event, that's no reason why you should repine. Take a chair
and have a cup of Currie's incomp'rable coffee." And before the
other could protest, he rose and pushed a bell–button.Markham
hesitated a second or two."Oh,
well. A couple of minutes won't make any difference. But only a
gulp." And he sank into a chair facing us.
―–Footnote
1:As
a matter of fact, the same water–colors that Vance obtained for
$250 and $300, were bringing three times as much four years later.Footnote
2:I
am thinking particularly of Bronzino's portraits of Pietro de' Medici
and Cosimo de' Medici, in the National Gallery, and of Vasari's
medallion portrait of Lorenzo de' Medici in the Vecchio Palazzo,
Florence.Footnote
3:Once
when Vance was suffering from sinusitis, he had an X–ray photograph
of his head made; and the accompanying chart described him as a
"marked dolichocephalic" and a "disharmonious Nordic."
It also contained the following data:—cephalic index 75; nose,
leptorhine, with an index of 48; facial angle, 85°; vertical index,
72; upper facial index, 54; interpupilary width, 67; chin,
masognathous, with an index of 103; sella turcica, abnormally large.Footnote
4:"Culture,"
Vance said to me shortly after I had met him, "is polyglot; and
the knowledge of many tongues is essential to an understanding of the
world's intellectual and æsthetic achievements. Especially are the
Greek and Latin classics vitiated by translation." I quote the
remark here because his omnivorous reading in languages other than
English, coupled with his amazingly retentive memory, had a tendency
to affect his own speech. And while it may appear to some that his
speech was at times pedantic, I have tried, throughout these
chronicles to quote him literally, in the hope of presenting a
portrait of the man as he was.[1]
As a matter of fact, the same water–colors that Vance obtained for
$250 and $300, were bringing three times as much four years later.[2]
I am thinking particularly of Bronzino's portraits of Pietro de'
Medici and Cosimo de' Medici, in the National Gallery, and of
Vasari's medallion portrait of Lorenzo de' Medici in the Vecchio
Palazzo, Florence.[3]
Once when Vance was suffering from sinusitis, he had an X–ray
photograph of his head made; and the accompanying chart described him
as a "marked dolichocephalic" and a "disharmonious
Nordic." It also contained the following data:—cephalic index
75; nose, leptorhine, with an index of 48; facial angle, 85°;
vertical index, 72; upper facial index, 54; interpupilary width, 67;
chin, masognathous, with an index of 103; sella turcica, abnormally
large.[4]
"Culture," Vance said to me shortly after I had met him,
"is polyglot; and the knowledge of many tongues is essential to
an understanding of the world's intellectual and æsthetic
achievements. Especially are the Greek and Latin classics vitiated by
translation." I quote the remark here because his omnivorous
reading in languages other than English, coupled with his amazingly
retentive memory, had a tendency to affect his own speech. And while
it may appear to some that his speech was at times pedantic, I have
tried, throughout these chronicles to quote him literally, in the
hope of presenting a portrait of the man as he was.