The Kidnap Murder Case Read online

  “I haven’t time—”

  “Tut, tut.” Vance moved nonchalantly to the center 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 nearby 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 sometime last night,” Markham explained impatiently. “From his bedroom. Open window, ladder, ransom note thumbtacked to the windowsill. 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?”

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

  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.”

  “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.”

  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.

  Footnotes

  * “The Garden Murder Case” (Scribners, 1935).

  * 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.

  † 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.

  * 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.

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

  * Vance was mistaken about this, as Kenting belonged to the old, or original, Klan, in which there was no such title as King Kleagle. 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.

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

  CHAPTER TWO

  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 flowerbeds—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 mo
re 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 fingerprints; 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 notebook. “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.”

  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-blonde 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.