The Philo Vance Megapack. S.S. Van Dine

from the homicide bureau had joined Burke and Emery. The inspector also phoned Captain Hagedorn—he thought the case big enough to call him in on it at once—and the captain had just got here when you arrived. Mr. Dinwiddie had come in right after the inspector and phoned you at once. Chief Inspector O’Brien came along a little ahead of me. I questioned the Platz woman right off; and my men were looking the place over when you showed up.”

      “Where’s this Mrs. Platz now?” asked Markham.

      “Upstairs being watched by one of the local men. She lives in the house.”

      “Why did you mention the specific hour of twelve thirty to the doctor?”

      “Platz told me she heard a report at that time, which I thought might have been the shot. I guess now it was the shot—it checks up with a number of things.”

      “I think we’d better have another talk with Mrs. Platz,” Markham suggested. “But first: did you find anything suggestive in the room here—anything to go on?”

      Heath hesitated almost imperceptibly; then he drew from his coat pocket a woman’s handbag and a pair of long white kid gloves, and tossed them on the table in front of the district attorney.

      “Only these,” he said. “One of the local men found them on the end of the mantel over there.”

      After a casual inspection of the gloves Markham opened the handbag and turned its contents out onto the table. I came forward and looked on, but Vance remained in his chair, placidly smoking a cigarette.

      The handbag was of fine gold mesh with a catch set with small sapphires. It was unusually small and obviously designed only for evening wear. The objects which it had held, and which Markham was now inspecting, consisted of a flat watered-silk cigarette case, a small gold phial of Roger and Gallet’s Fleurs d’Amour perfume, a cloisonné vanity compact, a short delicate cigarette holder of inlaid amber, a gold-cased lipstick, a small embroidered French-linen handkerchief with “M. St.C.” monogrammed in the corner, and a Yale latchkey.

      “This ought to give us a good lead,” said Markham, indicating the handkerchief. “I suppose you went over the articles carefully, Sergeant.”

      Heath nodded. “Yes, and I imagine the bag belongs to the woman Benson was out with last night. The housekeeper told me he had an appointment and went out to dinner in his dress clothes. She didn’t hear Benson when he came back, though. Anyway, we ought to be able to run down ‘M. St.C.’ without much trouble.”

      Markham had taken up the cigarette case again, and as he held it upside down a little shower of loose dried tobacco fell onto the table.

      Heath stood up suddenly. “Maybe those cigarettes came out of that case,” he suggested. He picked up the intact butt and looked at it. “It’s a lady’s cigarette, all right. It looks as though it might have been smoked in a holder, too.”

      “I beg to differ with you, Sergeant,” drawled Vance. “You’ll forgive me, I’m sure. But there’s a bit of lip rouge on the end of the cigarette. It’s hard to see, on account of the gold tip.”

      Heath looked at Vance sharply; he was too much surprised to be resentful. After a closer inspection of the cigarette, he turned again to Vance.

      “Perhaps you could also tell us from these tobacco grains, if the cigarettes came from this case,” he suggested, with gruff irony.

      “One never knows, does one?” Vance replied, indolently rising.

      Picking up the case, he pressed it wide open and tapped it on the table. Then he looked into it closely, and a humorous smile twitched the corners of his mouth. Putting his forefinger deep into the case, he drew out a small cigarette which had evidently been wedged flat along the bottom of the pocket.

      “My olfact’ry gifts won’t be necess’ry now,” he said. “It is apparent even to the naked eye that the cigarettes are, to speak loosely, identical—eh what, Sergeant?”

      Heath grinned good-naturedly. “That’s one on us, Mr. Markham.” And he carefully put the cigarette and the stub in an envelope, which he marked and pocketed.

      “You now see, Vance,” observed Markham, “the importance of those cigarette butts.”

      “Can’t say that I do,” responded the other. “Of what possible value is a cigarette butt? You can’t smoke it, y’ know.”

      “It’s evidence, my dear fellow,” explained Markham patiently. “One knows that the owner of this bag returned with Benson last night and remained long enough to smoke two cigarettes.”

      Vance lifted his eyebrows in mock amazement. “One does, does one? Fancy that, now.”

      “It only remains to locate her,” interjected Heath.

      “She’s a rather decided brunette, at any rate—if that fact will facilitate your quest any,” said Vance easily; “though why you should desire to annoy the lady, I can’t for the life of me imagine—really I can’t, don’t y’ know.”

      “Why do you say she’s a brunette?” asked Markham.

      “Well, if she isn’t,” Vance told him, sinking listlessly back in his chair, “then she should consult a cosmetician as to the proper way to make up. I see she uses ‘Rachel’ powder and Guerlain’s dark lipstick. And it simply isn’t done among blondes, old dear.”

      “I defer, of course, to your expert opinion,” smiled Markham. Then, to Heath: “I guess we’ll have to look for a brunette, Sergeant.”

      “It’s all right with me,” agreed Heath jocularly. By this time, I think, he had entirely forgiven Vance for destroying the cigarette butt.

      CHAPTER 4

      THE HOUSEKEEPER’S STORY

      (Friday, June 14; 11 A.M.)

      “Now,” suggested Markham, “suppose we take a look over the house. I imagine you’ve done that pretty thoroughly already, Sergeant, but I’d like to see the layout. Anyway, I don’t want to question the housekeeper until the body has been removed.”

      Heath rose. “Very good, sir. I’d like another look myself.”

      The four of us went into the hall and walked down the passageway to the rear of the house. At the extreme end, on the left, was a door leading downstairs to the basement; but it was locked and bolted.

      “The basement is only used for storage now,” Heath explained; “and the door which opens from it into the street areaway is boarded up. The Platz woman sleeps upstairs—Benson lived here alone, and there’s plenty of spare room in the house—and the kitchen is on this floor.”

      He opened a door on the opposite side of the passageway, and we stepped into a small, modern kitchen. Its two high windows, which gave into the paved rear yard at a height of about eight feet from the ground, were securely guarded with iron bars, and, in addition, the sashes were closed and locked. Passing through a swinging door, we entered the dining room, which was directly behind the living room. The two windows here looked upon a small stone court, really no more than a deep airwell between Benson’s house and the adjoining one; and these also were iron-barred and locked.

      We now reentered the hallway and stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs leading above.

      “You can see, Mr. Markham,” Heath pointed out, “that whoever shot Benson must have gotten in by the front door. There’s no other way he could have entered. Living alone, I guess Benson was a little touchy on the subject of burglars. The only window that wasn’t barred was the rear one in the living room; and that was shut and locked. Anyway, it only leads into the inside court. The front windows of the living room have that ironwork over them; so they couldn’t have been used even to shoot through, for Benson was shot from the opposite direction.… It’s pretty clear the gunman got in the front door.”

      “Looks that way,” said Markham.

      “And