Chapter I
An
Anonymous Letter(Saturday,
October 15; 10 a. m.)It
was in the cold bleak autumn following the spectacular Dragon murder
case[1]
that Philo Vance was confronted with what was probably the subtlest
and most diabolical criminal problem of his career. Unlike his other
cases, this mystery was one of poisoning. But it was not an ordinary
poisoning case: it involved far too clever a technique, and was
thought out to far too many decimal points, to be ranked with even
such famous crimes as the Cordelia Botkin, Molineux, Maybrick,
Buchanan, Bowers and Carlyle Harris cases.The
designation given to it by the newspapers—namely, the Casino murder
case—was technically a misnomer, although Kinkaid’s famous
gambling Casino in West 73rd Street played a large part in it. In
fact, the first sinister episode in this notorious crime actually
occurred beside the high–stake roulette table in the “Gold Room”
of the Casino; and the final episode of the tragedy was enacted in
Kinkaid’s walnut–paneled Jacobean office, just off the main
gambling salon.Incidentally,
I may say that that last terrible scene will haunt me to my dying day
and send cold shivers racing up and down my spine whenever I let my
mind dwell on its terrifying details. I have been through many
shocking and unnerving situations with Vance during the course of his
criminal investigations, but never have I experienced one that
affected me as did that terrific and fatal dénouement that came so
suddenly, so unexpectedly, in the gaudy environment of that famous
gambling rendezvous.And
Markham, too, I know, underwent some chilling metamorphosis in those
few agonizing moments when the murderer stood before us and cackled
in triumph. To this day, the mere mention of the incident makes
Markham irritable and nervous—a fact which, considering his usual
calm, indicates clearly how deep and lasting an impression the tragic
affair made upon him.The
Casino murder case, barring that one fatal terminating event, was not
so spectacular in its details as many other criminal cases which
Vance had probed and solved. From a purely objective point of view it
might even have been considered commonplace; for in its superficial
mechanism it had many parallels in well–known cases of
criminological history. But what distinguished this case from its
many antetypes was the subtle inner processes by which the murderer
sought to divert suspicion and to create new and more devilish
situations wherein the real motive of the crime was to be found. It
was not merely one wheel within another wheel: it was an elaborate
and complicated piece of psychological machinery, the mechanism of
which led on and on, almost indefinitely, to the most amazing—and
erroneous—conclusions.Indeed,
the first move of the murderer was perhaps the most artful act of the
entire profound scheme. It was a letter addressed to Vance thirty–six
hours before the mechanism of the plot was put in direct operation.
But, curiously enough, it was this supreme subtlety that, in the end,
led to the recognition of the culprit. Perhaps this act of
letter–writing was too subtle: perhaps it defeated its own purpose
by calling mute attention to the mental processes of the murderer,
and thereby gave Vance an intellectual clue which fortunately
diverted his efforts from the more insistent and more obvious lines
of ratiocination. In any event, it achieved its superficial object;
for Vance was actually a spectator of the first thrust, so to speak,
of the villain’s rapier.And,
as an eye witness to the first episode of this famous poison murder
mystery, Vance became directly involved in the case; so that, in this
instance, he carried the problem to John F.–X. Markham, who was
then the District Attorney of New York County and Vance’s closest
friend; whereas, in all his other criminal investigations, it was
Markham who had been primarily responsible for Vance’s
participation.The
letter of which I speak arrived in the morning mail on Saturday,
October 15. It consisted of two typewritten pages, and the envelop
was postmarked Closter, New Jersey. The official post–office stamp
showed the mailing time as noon of the preceding day. Vance had
worked late Friday night, tabulating and comparing the æsthetic
designs on Sumerian pottery in an attempt to establish the cultural
influences of this ancient civilization,[2]
and did not arise till ten o’clock on Saturday. I was living in
Vance’s apartment in East 38th Street at the time; and though my
position was that of legal adviser and monetary steward I had, during
the past three years, gradually taken over a kind of general
secretaryship in his employ. “Employ” is perhaps not the correct
word, for Vance and I had been close friends since our Harvard days;
and it was this relationship that had induced me to sever my
connection with my father’s law firm of Van Dine, Davis and Van
Dine and to devote myself to the more congenial task of looking after
Vance’s affairs.On
that raw, almost wintry, morning in October I had, as usual, opened
and segregated his mail, taking care of such items as came under my
own jurisdiction, and was engaged in making out his entry blanks for
the autumn field trials,[3]
when Vance entered the library and, with a nod of greeting, sat down
in his favorite Queen–Anne chair before the open fire.That
morning he was wearing a rare old mandarin robe and Chinese sandals,
and I was somewhat astonished at his costume, for he rarely came to
breakfast (which invariably consisted of a cup of Turkish coffee and
one of his beloved
Régie cigarettes)
in such elaborate dress.
“I
say, Van,” he remarked, when he had pushed the table–button for
Currie, his aged English butler and majordomo; “don’t look so
naïvely amazed. I felt depressed when I awoke. I couldn’t trace
the designs on some of the jolly old stelæ and cylinder seals
they’ve dug up at Ur, and in consequence had a restless night.
Therefore, I bedecked myself in this Chinese attire in an effort to
counteract my feelin’s, and in the hope, I may add, that I would,
through a process of psychic osmosis, acquire a bit of that Oriental
calm that is so highly spoken of by the Sinologists.”At
this moment Currie brought in the coffee. Vance, after lighting a
Régie and taking a
few sips of the thick black liquid, looked toward me lazily and
drawled: “Any cheerin’ mail?”So
interested had I been in the strange anonymous letter which had just
arrived—although I had as yet no idea of its tragic
significance—that I handed it to him without a word. He glanced at
it with slightly raised eyebrows, let his gaze rest for a moment on
the enigmatic signature, and then, placing his coffee cup on the
table, read it through slowly. I watched him closely during the
process, and noted a curiously veiled expression in his eyes, which
deepened and became unusually serious as he came to the end.The
letter is still in Vance’s files, and I am quoting it here
verbatim, for in it Vance found one of his most valuable clues—a
clue which, though it did not actually lead to the murderer at the
beginning, at least shunted Vance from the obvious line of research
intended by the plotter. As I have just said, the letter was
typewritten; but the work was inexpertly done—that is, there was
evidence of the writer’s unfamiliarity with the mechanism of a
typewriter. The letter read:Dear
Mr. Vance: I am appealing to you for help in my distress. And I am
also appealing to you in the name of humanity and justice. I know you
by reputation—and you are the one man in New York who may be able
to prevent a terrible catastrophe—or at least to see that
punishment is meted out to the perpetrator of an impending crime.
Horrible black clouds are hovering over a certain household in New
York—they have been gathering for years—and I
know that the storm
is about to break. There is danger and tragedy in the air.
Please do not fail
me at this time, although I admit I am a stranger to you.I
do not know exactly what is going to happen. If I did I could go to
the police. But any official interference now would put the plotter
on guard and merely postpone the tragedy. I wish I could tell you
more—but I do not know any more. The thing is all frightfully
vague—it is like an atmosphere rather than a specific situation.
But it is going to happen—something
is going to happen—and whatever does happen will be deceptive and
untrue. So please don’t let appearances deceive you.
Look—look—beneath
the thing for the truth. All those involved are abnormal and tricky.
Don’t under–estimate them.Here
is all I can tell you——You
have met young Lynn Llewellyn—that much I know—and you probably
know of his marriage three years ago to the beautiful musical–comedy
star, Virginia Vale. She gave up her career and she and Lynn have
been living with his family. But the marriage was a terrible mistake,
and for three years a tragedy has been brewing. And now things have
come to a climax. I
have seen the terrible forms taking shape.
And there are others besides the Llewellyns in the picture.There
is danger—awful
danger—for some
one—I don’t know just who.
And the time is tomorrow night,
Saturday.Lynn
Llewellyn must be
watched. And
watched carefully.There
is to be a dinner at the Llewellyn home tomorrow night—and every
principal in this impending tragedy will be present—Richard
Kinkaid, Morgan Bloodgood, young Lynn and his unhappy wife, and
Lynn’s sister Amelia, and his mother. The occasion is the mother’s
birthday.Although
I know that there will be a rumpus of some kind at that dinner, I
realize that you can do nothing about it. It will not matter anyway.
The dinner will be only the beginning of things. But something
momentous will happen
later.
I know it will
happen. The time has
now come.After
dinner Lynn Llewellyn will go to Kinkaid’s Casino to play. He goes
every Saturday night. I know that you yourself often visit the
Casino. And what I beg of you to do is to go there tomorrow night.
You must
go. And you must watch Lynn Llewellyn—every minute of the time.
Also watch Kinkaid and Bloodgood.You
may wonder why I do not take some action in the matter myself; but I
assure you my position and the circumstances make it utterly
impossible.I
wish I could be more definite. But I do not know any more to tell
you. You
must find out.The
signature, also typewritten, was “One Deeply Concerned.”When
Vance had perused the letter a second time he settled deep in his
chair and stretched his legs out lazily.
“An
amazin’ document, Van,” he drawled, after several meditative
puffs on his cigarette. “And quite insincere, don’t y’ know. A
literary touch here and there—a bit of melodrama—a few samples of
gaudy rhetoric—and, occasionally, a deep concern…. Quite, oh,
quite: the signature, though vague, is genuine. Yes … yes—that’s
quite obvious. It’s more heavily typed than the rest of the
letter—more pressure on the keys…. Passion at work. And not a
pleasant passion: a bit of vindictiveness, as it were, coupled with
anxiety….” His voice trailed off. “Anxiety!” he continued, as
if to himself. “That’s exactly what exudes from between the
lines. But anxiety about what? about whom? … The gambling Lynn? It
might be, of course. And yet …” Again his voice trailed off, and
once more he inspected the letter, adjusting his monocle carefully
and scrutinizing both sides of the paper. “The ordin’ry
commercial bond,” he observed. “Available at any stationer’s….
And a plain envelop with a pointed flap. My anxious and garrulous
correspondent was most careful to avoid the possibility of being
traced through his stationer…. Very sad…. But I do wish the
epistler had gone to business school at some time. The typing is
atrocious: bad spacings, wrong keys struck, no sense of margin or
indentation—all indicative of too little familiarity with the
endless silly gadgets of the typewriter.”He
lighted another cigarette and finished his coffee. Then he settled
back in his chair and read the letter for the third time. I had
seldom seen him so interested. At length he said:
“Why
all the domestic details of the Llewellyns, Van? Any one who reads
the newspapers knows of the situation in the Llewellyn home. The
pretty blond actress marrying into the Social Register over the
protests of mama and then ending up under mama’s roof: Lynn
Llewellyn a young gadabout and the darling of the night–clubs:
serious little sister turning from the frivolities of the social
whirl to study art:—who in this fair bailiwick could have failed to
hear of these things? And mama herself is a noisy philanthropist and
a committee member of every social and economic organization she can
find. And certainly Kinkaid, the old lady’s brother, is not an
inconnu. There are
few characters in the city more notorious than he—much to old Mrs.
Llewellyn’s chagrin and humiliation. The wealth of the family alone
would make its doings common gossip.” Vance made a wry face. “And
yet my correspondent reminds me of these various matters. Why? Why
the letter at all? Why am I chosen as the recipient? Why the flowery
language? Why the abominable typing? Why this paper and the secrecy?
Why everything? … I wonder … I wonder….”He
rose and paced up and down. I was surprised at his perturbation: it
was altogether unlike him. The letter had not impressed me very much,
aside from its unusualness; and my first inclination was to regard it
as the act of a crank or of some one who had a grudge against the
Llewellyns and was taking this circuitous means of causing them
annoyance. But Vance evidently had sensed something in the letter
that had completely escaped me.Suddenly
he ceased his contemplative to–and–fro, and walked to the
telephone. A few moments later he was speaking with District Attorney
Markham, urging him to stop in at the apartment that afternoon.
“It’s
really quite important,” he said, with but a trace of the usual
jocular manner he assumed when speaking to Markham. “I have a
fascinatin’ document to show you…. Toddle up—there’s a good
fellow.”For
some time after he had replaced the receiver Vance sat in silence.
Finally he rose and turned to the section of his library devoted to
psychoanalysis and abnormal psychology. He ran through the indices of
several books by Freud, Jung, Stekel and Ferenczi; and, marking
several pages, he sat down again to peruse the volumes. After an hour
or so he replaced the books on the shelves, and spent another thirty
minutes consulting various reference books, such as “Who’s Who,”
the New York “Social Register” and “The American Biographical
Dictionary.” Finally he shrugged his shoulders slightly, yawned
mildly and settled himself at his desk, on which were spread numerous
reproductions of the art works unearthed in Doctor Woolley’s seven
years’ excavations at Ur.Saturday
being a half–day at the District Attorney’s office, Markham
arrived shortly after two o’clock. Vance meanwhile had dressed and
had his luncheon, and he received Markham in the library.
“A
sear and yellow day,” he complained, leading Markham to a chair
before the fireplace. “Not good for man to be alone. Depression
rides me like a hag. I missed the field trial on Long Island today.
Preferred to stay in and hover over the glowin’ embers. Maybe I’m
getting old and full of dreams…. Distressin’…. But I’m
awfully grateful and all that for your comin’. How about a pony of
1811 Napoléon
to counteract your autumnal sorrows?”
“I’ve
no sorrows today, autumnal or otherwise,” Markham returned,
studying Vance closely. “And when you babble most you’re thinking
hardest—the unmistakable symptom.” (He still scrutinized Vance.)
“I’ll take the cognac, however. But why the air of mystery over
the phone?”
“My
dear Markham—oh, my dear Markham! Really, now, was it an air of
mystery? The melancholy days——”
“Come,
come, Vance.” Markham was beginning to grow restless. “Where’s
that interesting paper you wished me to see?”
“Ah,
yes—quite.” Vance reached into his pocket, and, taking out the
anonymous letter he had received that morning, handed it to Markham.
“It really should not have come on a depressin’ day like this.”Markham
read the letter through casually and then tossed it on the table with
a slight gesture of irritation.
“Well,
what of it?” he asked, attempting, without success, to hide his
annoyance. “I sincerely hope you’re not taking this seriously.”
“Neither
seriously nor frivolously,” Vance sighed; “but with an open mind,
old dear. The epistle has possibilities, don’t y’ know.”
“For
Heaven’s sake, Vance!” Markham protested. “We get letters like
that every day. Scores of them. If we paid any attention to them we’d
have time for nothing else. The letter–writing habit of
professional trouble–makers——But I don’t have to go into that
with you: you’re too good a psychologist.”Vance
nodded with unwonted seriousness.
“Yes,
yes—of course. The epistol’ry complex. A combination of futile
egomania, cowardice and Sadism—I’m familiar with the formula.
But, really, y’ know, I’m not convinced that this particular
letter falls in that categ’ry.”Markham
glanced up.
“You
really think it’s an honest expression of concern based on inside
knowledge?”
“Oh,
no. On the contr’ry.” Vance regarded his cigarette meditatively.
“It goes deeper than that. If it were a sincere letter it would be
less verbose and more to the point. Its very verbosity and its
stilted phraseology indicate an ulterior motive: there’s too much
thought behind it…. And there are sinister implications in it—an
atmosphere of abnormal reasoning—a genuine note of cruel tragedy,
as if a fiend of some kind were plotting and chuckling at the same
time…. I don’t like it, Markham—I don’t at all like it.”Markham
regarded Vance with considerable surprise. He started to say
something, but, instead, picked up the letter and read it again, more
carefully this time. When he had finished he shook his head slowly.
“No,
Vance,” he protested mildly. “The saddest days of the year have
affected your imagination. This letter is merely the outburst of some
hysterical woman similarly affected.”
“There
are a few somewhat
feminine touches in it—eh, what?” Vance spoke languidly. “I
noticed that. But the general tone of the letter is not one that
points to hallucinations.”Markham
waved his hand in a deprecatory gesture and drew on his cigar a while
in silence. At length he asked:
“You
know the Llewellyns personally?”
“I’ve
met Lynn Llewellyn once—just a curs’ry introduction—and I’ve
seen him at the Casino a number of times. The usual wild type of
pampered darling whose mater holds the purse strings. And, of course,
I know Kinkaid. Every one knows Richard Kinkaid but the police and
the District Attorney’s office.” Vance shot Markham a waggish
look. “But you’re quite right in ignoring his existence and
refusing to close his gilded den of sin. It’s really run pretty
straight, and only people who can afford it go there. My word!
Imagine the naïveté of a mind that thinks gambling can be stopped
by laws and raids! … The Casino is a delightful place,
Markham—quite correct and all that sort of thing. You’d enjoy it
immensely.” Vance sighed dolefully. “If only you weren’t the D.
A.! Sad … sad….”Markham
shifted uneasily in his chair, and gave Vance a withering look
followed by an indulgent smile.
“I
may go there some time—after the next election perhaps,” he
returned. “Do you know any of the others mentioned in the letter?”
“Only
Morgan Bloodgood,” Vance told him. “He’s Kinkaid’s chief
croupier—his right hand, so to speak. I know him only
professionally, however, though I’ve heard he’s a friend of the
Llewellyns and knew Lynn’s wife when she was in musical comedy.
He’s a college man, a genius at figures: he majored in mathematics
at Princeton, Kinkaid told me once. Held an instructorship for a year
or two, and then threw in his lot with Kinkaid. Probably needed
excitement—anything’s preferable to the quantum theory…. The
other prospective
dramatis personæ
are unknown to me. I never even saw Virginia Vale—I was abroad
during her brief triumph on the stage. And old Mrs. Llewellyn’s
path has never crossed mine. Nor have I ever met the art–aspiring
daughter, Amelia.”
“What
of the relations between Kinkaid and old Mrs. Llewellyn? Do they get
along as brother and sister should?”Vance
looked up at Markham languidly.
“I’d
thought of that angle, too.” He mused for a moment. “Of course,
the old lady is ashamed of her wayward brother—it’s quite
annoyin’ for a fanatical social worker to harbor a brother who’s
a professional gambler; and while they’re outwardly civil to each
other, I imagine there’s internal friction, especially as the
Park–Avenue house belongs to them jointly and they both live under
its protectin’ roof. But I don’t think the old girl would carry
her animosity so far as to do any plotting against Kinkaid…. No,
no. We can’t find an explanation for the letter along that line….”At
this moment Currie entered the library.
“Pardon
me, sir,” he said to Vance in a troubled tone; “but there’s a
person on the telephone who wishes me to ask you if you intend to be
at the Casino tonight——”
“Is
it a man or a woman?” Vance interrupted.
“I—really,
sir——” Currie stammered, “I couldn’t say. The voice was
very faint and indistinct—disguised, you might say. But the person
asked me to tell you that he—or she, sir—would not say another
word, but would wait on the wire for your answer.”Vance
did not speak for several moments.
“I’ve
rather been expecting something of the sort,” he murmured finally.
Then he turned to Currie. “Tell my ambiguously sexed caller that I
will be there at ten o’clock.”Markham
took his cigar slowly from his mouth and looked at Vance with
troubled concern.
“You
actually intend to go to the Casino because of that letter?”Vance
nodded seriously.
“Oh,
yes—quite.”[1]
“The Dragon Murder Case” (Scribners, 1933).[2]
The records of the Joint Expedition to Mesopotamia, undertaken by the
University of Pennsylvania and the British Museum, under the
directorship of Doctor C. Leonard Woolley, had recently appeared.[3]
Vance owned some exceptionally fine pointers and setters which had
made many notable wins for him in the various trials in the East.
They had been trained by one of the country’s leading experts, and
returned to Vance perfectly broken to field work. Vance took great
pleasure in handling the dogs himself.