Читать книгу The Gracie Allen Murder Case - Willard Huntington Wright - Страница 3

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(Friday, May 17; 8 p.m.)

Philo Vance, curiously enough, always liked the Gracie Allen murder case more than any of the others in which he participated.

The case was, perhaps, not as serious as some of the others—although, on second thought, I am not so sure that this is strictly true. Indeed, it was fraught with many ominous potentialities; and its basic elements (as I look back now) were, in fact, intensely dramatic and sinister, despite its almost constant leaven of humor.

I have often asked Vance why he felt so keen a fondness for this case, and he has always airily retorted with a brief explanation that it constituted his one patent failure as an investigator of the many crimes presented to him by District Attorney John F.-X. Markham.

“No—oh, no, Van; it was not my case at all, don’t y’ know,” Vance drawled, as we sat before his grate fire one wintry evening, long after the events. “Really, y’ know, I deserve none of the credit. I would have been utterly baffled and helpless had it not been for the charming Gracie Allen who always popped up at just the crucial moment to save me from disaster. . . . If ever you should embalm the case in print, please place the credit where it rightfully belongs. . . . My word, what an astonishing girl! The goddesses of Zeus’ Olympian ménage never harassed old Priam and Agamemnon with the éclat exhibited by Gracie Allen in harassing the recidivists of that highly scented affair. Amazin’! . . .”

It was an almost unbelievable case from many angles, exceedingly unorthodox and unpredictable. The mystery and enchantment of perfume permeated the entire picture. The magic of fortune-telling and commercial haruspicy in general were intimately involved in its deciphering. And there was a human romantic element which lent it an unusual roseate color.

To start with, it was spring—the 17th day of May—and the weather was unusually mild. Vance and Markham and I had dined on the spacious veranda of the Bellwood Country Club, overlooking the Hudson. The three of us had chatted in desultory fashion, for this was to be an hour of sheer relaxation and pleasure, without any intrusion of the jarring criminal interludes which had, in recent years, marked so many of our talks.

However, even at this moment of serenity, ugly criminal angles were beginning to protrude, though unsuspected by any of us; and their shadow was creeping silently toward us.

We had finished our coffee and were sipping our chartreuse when Sergeant Heath,^[1] looking grim and bewildered, appeared at the door leading from the main dining-room to the veranda, and strode quickly to our table.

“Hello, Mr. Vance.” His tone was hurried. “. . . Howdy, Chief. Sorry to bother you, but this came into the office half an hour after you left and, knowing where you were, I thought it best to bring it to you pronto.” He drew a folded yellow paper from his pocket and, opening it out, placed it emphatically before the District Attorney.

Markham read it carefully, shrugged his shoulders, and handed the paper back to Heath.

“I can’t see,” he said without emotion, “why this routine information should necessitate a trip up here.”

Heath’s cheeks inflated with exasperation.

“Why, that’s the guy, Chief, that threatened to get you.”

“I’m quite aware of that fact,” said Markham coldly; then he added in a somewhat softened tone: “Sit down, Sergeant. Consider yourself off duty for the moment, and have a drink of your favorite whisky.”

When Heath had adjusted himself in a chair, Markham went on.

“Surely you don’t expect me, at this late date, to begin taking seriously the hysterical mouthings of criminals I have convicted in the course of my duties.”

“But, Chief, this guy’s a tough hombre, and he ain’t the forgetting or the forgiving kind.”

“Anyway,”—Markham laughed without concern—“it would be tomorrow, at the earliest, before he could reach New York.”

As Heath and Markham were speaking, Vance’s eyebrows rose in mild curiosity.

“I say, Markham, all I’ve been able to glean is that your tutel’ry Sergeant has fears for your curtailed existence, and that you yourself are rather annoyed by his zealous worries.”

“Hell, Mr. Vance, I’m not worryin’,” Heath blurted. “I’m just considering the possibilities, as you might say.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” smiled Vance. “Always careful. Sewin’ up seams that haven’t even ripped. Doughty and admirable, as always, Sergeant. But whence springeth your qualm?”

“I’m sorry, Vance.” Markham apologized for his failure to explain. “It’s really of no importance—just a routine telegraphic announcement of a rather commonplace jail-break at Nomenica.^[2] Three men under long sentences staged the exodus, and two of them were shot by the guards. . . .”

“I’m not botherin’ about the guys who was shot,” Heath cut in. “It’s the other one—the guy that got away safe—that’s set me to thinkin’——”

“And who might this stimulator of thought be, Sergeant?” Vance asked.

“Benny the Buzzard!” whispered Heath, with melodramatic emphasis.

“Ah!” Vance smiled. “An ornithological specimen—Buteo borealis. Maybe he flew away to freedom . . .”

“It’s no laughing matter, Mr. Vance.” Heath became even more serious. “Benny the Buzzard—or Benny Pellinzi, to give him his honest monicker—is plenty tough, in spite of looking like a bloodless, pretty-faced boy. Only a few years back, he was strutting around telling anybody who’d listen that he was Public Enemy Number One. That type of guy. But he was only small change, except for his toughness and meanness—actually nothing but a dumb, stupid rat——”

“Rat? Buzzard? . . . My word, Sergeant, aren’t you confusin’ your natural history?”

“And only three years ago,” continued Heath doggedly, “Mr. Markham got him sent up for a twenty-year stretch. And he pulls a jail-break just this afternoon and gets away with it. Sweet, ain’t it?”

“Still,” submitted Vance, “such A.W.O.L.’s have been taken ere this.”

“Sure they have.” Heath extended his off-duty respite and took another whisky. “But you must’ve read what this guy pulled in court when he was sentenced. The judge hadn’t hardly finished slipping him the twenty years when he blew off his gauge. He pointed at Mr. Markham and, at the top of his voice, swore some kind of cockeyed oath that he’d come back and get him if it was the last thing he ever did. And he sounded like he meant it. He was so sore and steamed up that it took two man-eating bailiffs to drag him out of the courtroom. Generally it’s the judge who gets the threats; but this guy elected to take it out on the D. A. And that somehow made more sense.”

Vance nodded slowly.

“Yes, quite—quite. I see your point, Sergeant. Different and therefore dangerous.”

“And why I really came here tonight,” Heath went on, “was to tell Mr. Markham what I intended doing. Naturally, we’ll be on the lookout for the Buzzard. He might come here direct, all right; and he might head west and try to reach the Dakotas—the Bad Lands for him, if he’s got a brain.”

“Exactly,” Markham interpolated. “You’re probably right when you suggest he’ll head west. And I’m certainly planning no immediate jaunt to the Black Hills.”

“Anyhow, Chief,” the Sergeant persisted stubbornly, “I’m not taking any chances on him—especially since we’ve got a pretty good line on his old cronies in this burg.”

“Just what line do you refer to, Sergeant?”

“Mirche, and the Domdaniel café, and Benny’s old sweetie that sings there—the Del Marr jane.”

“Whether Mirche and Pellinzi are cronies,” said Markham, “is a moot question in my mind.”

“It ain’t in mine, Chief. And if the Buzzard should sneak back to New York, I’ve got a hunch he’d go straight to Mirche for help.”

Markham did not argue the possibilities further. Instead, he merely asked: “What course do you intend to pursue, Sergeant?”

Heath leaned across the table.

“I figure it this way, Chief. If the Buzzard does plan to return to his old hunting-grounds, he’ll be smart about it. He’ll do it quick and sudden-like, figurin’ we haven’t got set. If he don’t show up in the next few days I’ll simply drop the idea, and the boys’ll keep their eyes open in the routine way. But—beginning tomorrow morning, I plan to have Hennessey in that old rooming-house across from the Domdaniel, covering the little door leading into Mirche’s private office. An’ Burke and Snitkin will be with Hennessey in case the bird does show up.”

“Aren’t you a bit optimistic, Sergeant?” asked Vance. “Three years in prison can work many changes in a man’s appearance, especially if the victim is still young and not too robust.”

Heath dismissed Vance’s skepticism with an impatient gesture.

“I’ll trust Hennessey—he’s got a good eye.”

“Oh, I’m not questioning Hennessey’s vision,” Vance assured him, “—provided your liberty-lovin’ Buzzard should be so foolish as to choose the front door for his entry into Mirche’s office. But really, my dear Sergeant, Maestro Pellinzi may deem it wiser to steal in by the rear door, don’t y’ know.”

“There ain’t no rear door,” explained Heath. “And there ain’t no side door, either. A strictly private room with only one entrance facing the street. That’s the wide-open and aboveboard set-up of this guy Mirche—everything on the up-and-up. Slick as they come.”

“Is this sanctum a separate structure?” asked Vance. “Or is it an annex to the café? I don’t seem to recall it.”

“No. And you wouldn’t notice it, if you weren’t looking for it. It’s like an end room that’s been cut off in the corner of the building—the way they cut off a doctor’s office, or a small shop, in a big apartment-house. But if you wanta see Mirche that’s where you’ll most likely find him. The place looks as innocent as an old ladies’ home.”

Heath glanced round at us significantly as he continued.

“And yet, plenty goes on in that little room. If I could ever get a dictograph planted there, the D. A.’s office would have enough underworld trials on its hands to keep it busy from now on.”

He paused and cocked an eye at Markham.

“How do you feel about my idea for tomorrow?”

“It can’t do any harm, Sergeant,” answered Markham without enthusiasm. “But I still think it would be a waste of time and energy.”

“Maybe so.” Heath finished his whisky. “But I feel I gotta follow my hunch, just the same.”

Vance set down his liqueur glass, and a whimsical expression came into his eyes.

“But I say, Markham,” he drawled, “it would be a waste of time and energy, no matter what the outcome. Ah, your precious law, and its prissy procedure! How you Solons complicate the simple things of life! Even if this red-tailed hawk with the operatic name should appear among his olden haunts and be snared in the Sergeant’s seine, you would still treat him kindly and caressingly under the euphemistic phrase, ‘due process of law.’ You’d coddle him no end. You’d take all possible precautions to bring him in alive, although he himself might blow the brains out of a couple of the Sergeant’s confrères. Then you’d lodge and nourish him well; you’d drive him through town in a high-powered limousine; you’d give him a pleasant scenic trip back to Nomenica. And all for what, old dear? For the highly questionable privilege of supportin’ him elegantly for life.”

Markham was obviously nettled.

“I suppose you could settle the whole situation with a lirp.”

“It could be, don’t y’ know.” Vance was in one of his tantalizing moods. “Here’s a worthless johnnie who has long been a thorn in the side of the law; who has, as you jolly well know, killed a man and been convicted accordingly; who has engineered a lawless prison break costing two more lives; who has promised to murder you in cold blood; and who is even now deprivin’ the Sergeant of his slumber. Not a nice person, Markham. And all these irregularities might be so easily and expeditiously adjusted by shooting the johnnie on sight, or otherwise disposing of him quickly, without ado or chinoiserie.”

“And I suppose”—Markham spoke almost angrily—“that you yourself would be willing to undertake this illegal purge.”

“Willing?” There was a teasing tone in Vance’s voice. “I’d be positively delighted. My good deed for that day.”

Markham puffed vigorously at his cigar. He was always irritated when Vance’s persiflage took this line.

“Deliberately taking a human life, Vance——”

“Please spare me the logion, Reverend Doctor. I know the answer. With Society and Law and Order singing the Greek chorus a capella. But you must admit my suggested solution is logical, practical, and just.”

“We’ve gone into that sophistry before,” snapped Markham. “And furthermore, I’m not going to let you spoil my dinner with such nonsensical chatter.”

[1]	Sergeant Ernest Heath, of the Homicide Bureau, who had been in charge of other cases which Vance had investigated.

[2]	Nomenica, southwest of Buffalo, was the westernmost State prison in New York.