The Greene Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine



[Frontispiece: The Greene mansion, New York, as it appeared at the
time of the notorious Greene murder case. From an old woodcut by
Lowell L. Balcom. The woodcut shows a mansion, Gothic in style, built
next to a river and surrounded by a tall stone wall. The grounds are
covered in snow and the branches of the surrounding maple trees are
leafless.]



Contents

     I. A Double Tragedy
    II. The Investigation Opens
   III. At the Greene Mansion
    IV. The Missing Revolver
     V. Homicidal Possibilities
    VI. An Accusation
   VII. Vance Argues the Case
  VIII. The Second Tragedy
    IX. The Three Bullets
     X. The Closing of a Door
    XI. A Painful Interview
   XII. A Motor Ride
  XIII. The Third Tragedy
   XIV. Footprints on the Carpet
    XV. The Murderer in the House
   XVI. The Lost Poisons
  XVII. The Two Wills
 XVIII. In the Locked Library
   XIX. Sherry and Paralysis
    XX. The Fourth Tragedy
   XXI. A Depleted Household
  XXII. The Shadowy Figure
 XXIII. The Missing Fact
  XXIV. A Mysterious Trip
   XXV. The Capture
  XXVI. The Astounding Truth



                 to
         Norbert L. Lederer
  Άγαθὴ δἑ παράφασίς έστιν έταίρου



  Murder most foul, as in the best it is;
  But this most foul, strange and unnatural.
                                  —Hamlet.



Characters of the Book

 Philo Vance
 John F.-X. Markham
   District Attorney of New York County.
 Mrs. Tobias Greene
   The mistress of the Greene mansion.
 Julia Greene
   The eldest daughter.
 Sibella Greene
   Another daughter.
 Ada Greene
   The youngest daughter.
 Chester Greene
   The elder son.
 Rex Greene
   The younger son.
 Dr. Arthur Von Blon
   The Greene family physician.
 Sproot
   The Greene butler.
 Gertrude Mannheim
   The cook.
 Hemming
   The senior maid.
 Barton
   The junior maid.
 Miss Craven
   Mrs. Greene’s nurse.
 Chief Inspector O’Brien
   Of the Police Department of New York City.
 William M. Moran
   Commanding officer of the Detective Bureau.
 Ernest Heath
   Sergeant of the Homicide Bureau.
 Snitkin
   Detective of the Homicide Bureau.
 Burke
   Detective of the Homicide Bureau.
 Captain Anthony P. Jerym
   Bertillon expert.
 Captain Dubois
   Finger-print expert.
 Dr. Emanuel Doremus
   Medical Examiner.
 Dr. Drumm
   An official police surgeon.
 Marie O’Brien
   A Police nurse.
 Swacker
   Secretary to the District Attorney.
 Currie
   Vance’s valet.



CHAPTER I.

A Double Tragedy

  (Tuesday, November 9; 10 a. m.)

It has long been a source of wonder to me why the leading
criminological writers—men like Edmund Lester Pearson, H. B. Irving,
Filson Young, Canon Brookes, William Bolitho, and Harold Eaton—have
not devoted more space to the Greene tragedy; for here, surely, is one
of the outstanding murder mysteries of modern times—a case practically
unique in the annals of latter-day crime. And yet I realize, as I read
over my own voluminous notes on the case, and inspect the various
documents relating to it, how little of its inner history ever came to
light, and how impossible it would be for even the most imaginative
chronicler to fill in the hiatuses.

The world, of course, knows the external facts. For over a month the
press of two continents was filled with accounts of this appalling
tragedy; and even the bare outline was sufficient to gratify the
public’s craving for the abnormal and the spectacular. But the inside
story of the catastrophe surpassed even the wildest flights of public
fancy; and, as I now sit down to divulge those facts for the first
time, I am oppressed with a feeling akin to unreality, although I was
a witness to most of them and hold in my possession the incontestable
records of their actuality.

Of the fiendish ingenuity which lay behind this terrible crime, of the
warped psychological motives that inspired it, and of the strange
hidden sources of its technic, the world is completely ignorant.
Moreover, no explanation has ever been given of the analytic steps
that led to its solution. Nor have the events attending the mechanism
of that solution—events in themselves highly dramatic and unusual—ever
been recounted. The public believes that the termination of the case
was a result of the usual police methods of investigation; but this is
because the public is unaware of many of the vital factors of the
crime itself, and because both the Police Department and the District
Attorney’s office have, as if by tacit agreement, refused to make
known the entire truth—whether for fear of being disbelieved or merely
because there are certain things so terrible that no man wishes to
talk of them, I do not know.

The record, therefore, which I am about to set down is the first
complete and unedited history of the Greene holocaust.* I feel that
now the truth should be known, for it is history, and one should not
shrink from historical facts. Also, I believe that the credit for the
solution of this case should go where it belongs.

  * It is, I hope, unnecessary for me to state that I have
  received official permission for my task.

The man who elucidated the mystery and brought to a close that
palimpsest of horror was, curiously enough, in no way officially
connected with the police; and in all the published accounts of the
murder his name was not once mentioned. And yet, had it not been for
him and his novel methods of criminal deduction, the heinous plot
against the Greene family would have been conclusively successful. The
police in their researches were dealing dogmatically with the
evidential appearances of the crime, whereas the operations of the
criminal were being conducted on a plane quite beyond the
comprehension of the ordinary investigator.

This man who, after weeks of sedulous and disheartening analysis,
eventually ferreted out the source of the horror, was a young social
aristocrat, an intimate friend of John F.-X. Markham, the District
Attorney. His name I am not at liberty to divulge, but for the
purposes of these chronicles I have chosen to call him Philo Vance. He
is no longer in this country, having transferred his residence several
years ago to a villa outside of Florence; and, since he has no
intention of returning to America, he has acceded to my request to
publish the history of the criminal cases in which he participated as
a sort of _amicus curiæ_. Markham also has retired to private life;
and Sergeant Ernest Heath, that doughty and honest officer of the
Homicide Bureau who officially handled the Greene case for the Police
Department, has, through an unexpected legacy, been able to gratify
his life’s ambition to breed fancy wyandottes on a model farm in the
Mohawk Valley. Thus circumstances have made it possible for me to
publish my intimate records of the Greene tragedy.

A few words are necessary to explain my own participation in the case.
(I say “participation,” though, in reality, my rôle was that of
passive spectator.) For several years I had been Vance’s personal
attorney. I had resigned from my father’s law firm—Van Dine, Davis &
Van Dine—in order to devote myself exclusively to Vance’s legal and
financial needs, which, by the way, were not many. Vance and I had
been friends from our undergraduate days at Harvard, and I found in my
new duties as his legal agent and monetary steward a sinecure combined
with many social and cultural compensations.

Vance at that time was thirty-four years old. He was just under six
feet, slender, sinewy, and graceful. His chiselled regular features
gave his face the attraction of strength and uniform modelling, but a
sardonic coldness of expression precluded the designation of handsome.
He had aloof gray eyes, a straight, slender nose, and a mouth
suggesting both cruelty and asceticism. But, despite the severity of
his lineaments—which acted like an impenetrable glass wall between him
and his fellows—, he was highly sensitive and mobile; and, though his
manner was somewhat detached and supercilious, he exerted an
undeniable fascination over those who knew him at all well.

Much of his education had been acquired in Europe, and he still
retained a slight Oxonian accent and intonation, though I happen to be
aware that this was no affectation: he cared too little for the
opinions of others to trouble about maintaining any pose. He was an
indefatigable student. His mind was ever eager for knowledge, and he
devoted much of his time to the study of ethnology and psychology. His
greatest intellectual enthusiasm was art, and he fortunately had an
income sufficient to indulge his passion for collecting. It was,
however, his interest in psychology and his application of it to
individual behaviorism that first turned his attention to the criminal
problems which came under Markham’s jurisdiction.

The first case in which he participated was, as I have recorded
elsewhere, the murder of Alvin Benson.* The second was the seemingly
insoluble strangling of the famous Broadway beauty, Margaret Odell.†
And in the late fall of the same year came the Greene tragedy. As in
the two former cases, I kept a complete record of this new
investigation. I possessed myself of every available document, making
verbatim copies of those claimed for the police archives, and even
jotted down the numerous conversations that took place in and out of
conference between Vance and the official investigators. And, in
addition, I kept a diary which, for elaborateness and completeness,
would have been the despair of Samuel Pepys.

  * “The Benson Murder Case” (Scribners, 1926).
  † “The ‘Canary’ Murder Case” (Scribners, 1927).

The Greene murder case occurred toward the end of Markham’s first year
in office. As you may remember, the winter came very early that
season. There were two severe blizzards in November, and the amount of
snowfall for that month broke all local records for eighteen years. I
mention this fact of the early snows because it played a sinister part
in the Greene affair: it was, indeed, one of the vital factors of the
murderer’s scheme. No one has yet understood, or even sensed, the
connection between the unseasonable weather of that late fall and the
fatal tragedy that fell upon the Greene household; but that is because
all of the dark secrets of the case were not made known.

Vance was projected into the Benson murder as the result of a direct
challenge from Markham; and his activities in the Canary case were due
to his own expressed desire to lend a hand. But pure coincidence was
responsible for his participation in the Greene investigation. During
the two months that had elapsed since his solution of the Canary’s
death Markham had called upon him several times regarding moot points
of criminal detection in connection with the routine work of the
District Attorney’s office; and it was during an informal discussion
of one of these problems that the Greene case was first mentioned.

Markham and Vance had long been friends. Though dissimilar in tastes
and even in ethical outlook, they nevertheless respected each other
profoundly. I have often marvelled at the friendship of these two
antipodal men; but as the years went by I came more and more to
understand it. It was as if they were drawn together by those very
qualities which each realized—perhaps with a certain repressed
regret—were lacking in his own nature. Markham was forthright,
brusque, and, on occasion, domineering, taking life with grim and
serious concern, and following the dictates of his legal conscience in
the face of every obstacle: honest, incorruptible, and untiring.
Vance, on the other hand, was volatile, debonair, and possessed of a
perpetual Juvenalian cynicism, smiling ironically at the bitterest
realities, and consistently fulfilling the rôle of a whimsically
disinterested spectator of life. But, withal, he understood people as
profoundly as he understood art, and his dissection of motives and his
shrewd readings of character were—as I had many occasions to
witness—uncannily accurate. Markham apprehended these qualities in
Vance, and sensed their true value.

It was not yet ten o’clock of the morning of November the 9th when
Vance and I, after motoring to the old Criminal Courts Building on the
corner of Franklin and Centre Streets, went directly to the District
Attorney’s office on the fourth floor. On that momentous forenoon two
gangsters, each accusing the other of firing the fatal shot in a
recent pay-roll hold-up, were to be cross-examined by Markham; and
this interview was to decide the question as to which of the men would
be charged with murder and which held as a State’s witness. Markham
and Vance had discussed the situation the night before in the
lounge-room of the Stuyvesant Club, and Vance had expressed a desire
to be present at the examination. Markham had readily assented, and so
we had risen early and driven down-town.

The interview with the two men lasted for an hour, and Vance’s
disconcerting opinion was that neither was guilty of the actual
shooting.

“Y’ know, Markham,” he drawled, when the sheriff had returned the
prisoners to the Tombs, “those two Jack Sheppards are quite sincere:
each one thinks he’s telling the truth. _Ergo_, neither of ’em fired
the shot. A distressin’ predicament. They’re obvious
gallows-birds—born for the gibbet; and it’s a beastly shame not to be
able to round out their destinies in proper fashion. . . . I say,
wasn’t there another participant in the hold-up?”

Markham nodded. “A third got away. According to these two, it was a
well-known gangster named Eddie Maleppo.”

“Then Eduardo is your man.”*

  * This was subsequently proved correct. Nearly a year later
  Maleppo was arrested in Detroit, extradited to New York, and
  convicted of the murder. His two companions had already been
  successfully prosecuted for robbery. They are now serving long
  terms in Sing Sing.

Markham did not reply, and Vance rose lazily and reached for his
ulster.

“By the by,” he said, slipping into his coat, “I note that our
upliftin’ press bedecked its front pages this morning with head-lines
about a pogrom at the old Greene mansion last night. Wherefore?”

Markham glanced quickly at the clock on the wall, and frowned.

“That reminds me. Chester Greene called up the first thing this
morning and insisted on seeing me. I told him eleven o’clock.”

“Where do _you_ fit in?” Vance had taken his hand from the door-knob,
and drew out his cigarette-case.

“I don’t!” snapped Markham. “But people think the District Attorney’s
office is a kind of clearing-house for all their troubles. It happens,
however, that I’ve known Chester Greene a long time—we’re both members
of the Marylebone Golf Club—and so I must listen to his plaint about
what was obviously an attempt to annex the famous Greene plate.”

“Burglary—eh, what?” Vance took a few puffs on his cigarette. “With
two women shot?”

“Oh, it was a miserable business! An amateur, no doubt. Got in a
panic, shot up the place, and bolted.”

“Seems a dashed curious proceeding.” Vance abstractedly reseated
himself in a large armchair near the door. “Did the antique cutlery
actually disappear?”

“Nothing was taken. The thief was evidently frightened off before he
made his haul.”

“Sounds a bit thick, don’t y’ know.—An amateur thief breaks into a
prominent home, casts a predat’ry eye on the dining-room silver, takes
alarm, goes up-stairs and shoots two women in their respective
boudoirs, and then flees. . . . Very touchin’ and all that, but
unconvincin’. Whence came this caressin’ theory?”

Markham was glowering, but when he spoke it was with an effort at
restraint.

“Feathergill was on duty last night when the call was relayed from
Headquarters, and accompanied the police to the house. He agrees with
their conclusions.”*

  * Amos Feathergill was then an Assistant District Attorney. He
  later ran on the Tammany ticket for assemblyman, and was
  elected.

“Nevertheless, I could bear to know why Chester Greene is desirous of
having polite converse with you.”

Markham compressed his lips. He was not in cordial mood that morning,
and Vance’s flippant curiosity irked him. After a moment, however, he
said grudgingly:

“Since the attempted robbery interests you so keenly, you may, if you
insist, wait and hear what Greene has to say.”

“I’ll stay,” smiled Vance, removing his coat. “I’m weak; just can’t
resist a passionate entreaty. . . . Which one of the Greenes is
Chester? And how is he related to the two deceased?”

“There was only one murder,” Markham corrected him in a tone of
forbearance. “The oldest daughter—an unmarried woman in her early
forties—was killed instantly. A younger daughter, who was also shot,
has, I believe, a chance of recovery.”

“And Chester?”

“Chester is the elder son, a man of forty or thereabouts. He was the
first person on the scene after the shots had been fired.”

“What other members of the family are there? I know old Tobias Greene
has gone to his Maker.”

“Yes, old Tobias died about twelve years ago. But his wife is still
living, though she’s a helpless paralytic. Then there are—or rather
were—five children: the oldest, Julia; next, Chester; then another
daughter, Sibella, a few years under thirty, I should say; then Rex, a
sickly, bookish boy a year or so younger than Sibella; and Ada, the
youngest—an adopted daughter twenty-two or three, perhaps.”

“And it was Julia who was killed, eh? Which of the other two girls was
shot?”

“The younger—Ada. Her room, it seems, is across the hall from Julia’s,
and the thief apparently got in it by mistake while making his escape.
As I understand it, he entered Ada’s room immediately after firing on
Julia, saw his error, fired again, and then fled, eventually going
down the stairs and out the main entrance.”

Vance smoked a while in silence.

“Your hypothetical intruder must have been deuced confused to have
mistaken Ada’s bedroom door for the staircase, what? And then there’s
the query: what was this anonymous gentleman, who had called to
collect the plate, doing above-stairs?”

“Probably looking for jewellery.” Markham was rapidly losing patience.
“_I_ am not omniscient.” There was irony in his inflection.

“Now, now, Markham!” pleaded Vance cajolingly. “Don’t be vindictive.
Your Greene burglary promises several nice points in academic
speculation. Permit me to indulge my idle whims.”

At that moment Swacker, Markham’s youthful and alert secretary,
appeared at the swinging door which communicated with a narrow chamber
between the main waiting-room and the District Attorney’s private
office.

“Mr. Chester Greene is here,” he announced.



CHAPTER II.

The Investigation Opens

  (Tuesday, November 9; 11 a. m.)

When Chester Greene entered it was obvious he was under a nervous
strain; but his nervousness evoked no sympathy in me. From the very
first I disliked the man. He was of medium height and was bordering on
corpulence. There was something soft and flabby in his contours; and,
though he was dressed with studied care, there were certain signs of
overemphasis about his clothes. His cuffs were too tight; his collar
was too snug; and the colored silk handkerchief hung too far out of
his breast pocket. He was slightly bald, and the lids of his close-set
eyes projected like those of a man with Bright’s disease. His mouth,
surmounted by a close-cropped blond moustache, was loose; and his chin
receded slightly and was deeply creased below the under lip. He
typified the pampered idler.

When he had shaken hands with Markham, and Vance and I had been
introduced, he seated himself and meticulously inserted a brown
Russian cigarette in a long amber-and-gold holder.

“I’d be tremendously obliged, Markham,” he said, lighting his
cigarette from an ivory pocket-lighter, “if you’d make a personal
investigation of the row that occurred at our diggin’s last night. The
police will never get anywhere the way they’re going about it. Good
fellows, you understand—the police. But . . . well, there’s something
about this affair—don’t know just how to put it. Anyway, I don’t like
it.”

Markham studied him closely for several moments.

“Just what’s on your mind, Greene?”

The other crushed out his cigarette, though he had taken no more than
half a dozen puffs, and drummed indecisively on the arm of his chair.

“Wish I knew. It’s a rum affair—damned rum. There’s something back of
it, too—something that’s going to raise the very devil if we don’t
stop it. Can’t explain it. It’s a feeling I’ve got.”

“Perhaps Mr. Greene is psychic,” commented Vance, with a look of bland
innocence.

The man swung about and scrutinized Vance with aggressive
condescension. “Tosh!” He brought out another Russian cigarette, and
turned again to Markham: “I do wish you’d take a peep at the
situation.”

Markham hesitated. “Surely you’ve some reason for disagreeing with the
police and appealing to me.”

“Funny thing, but I haven’t.” (It seemed to me Greene’s hand shook
slightly as he lit his second cigarette.) “I simply know that my mind
rejects the burglar story automatically.”

It was difficult to tell if he were being frank or deliberately hiding
something. I did feel, however, that some sort of fear lurked beneath
his uneasiness; and I also got the impression that he was far from
being heart-broken over the tragedy.

“It seems to me,” declared Markham, “that the theory of the burglar is
entirely consistent with the facts. There have been many other cases
of a housebreaker suddenly taking alarm, losing his head, and
needlessly shooting people.”

Greene rose abruptly and began pacing up and down.

“I can’t argue the case,” he muttered. “It’s beyond all that, if you
understand me.” He looked quickly at the District Attorney with
staring eyes. “Gad! It’s got me in a cold sweat.”

“It’s all too vague and intangible,” Markham observed kindly. “I’m
inclined to think the tragedy has upset you. Perhaps after a day or
two——”

Greene lifted a protesting hand.

“It’s no go. I’m telling you, Markham, the police will never find
their burglar. I feel it—here.” He mincingly laid a manicured hand on
his breast.

Vance had been watching him with a faint suggestion of amusement. Now
he stretched his legs before him and gazed up at the ceiling.

“I say, Mr. Greene—pardon the intrusion on your esoteric gropings—but
do you know of any one with a reason for wanting your two sisters out
of the way?”

The man looked blank for a moment.

“No,” he answered finally; “can’t say that I do. Who, in Heaven’s
name, would want to kill two harmless women?”

“I haven’t the groggiest notion. But, since you repudiate the burglar
theory, and since the two ladies were undoubtedly shot, it’s inferable
that some one sought their demise; and it occurred to me that you,
being their brother and domiciled _en famille_, might know of some one
who harbored homicidal sentiments toward them.”

Greene bristled, and thrust his head forward. “I know of no one,” he
blurted. Then, turning to Markham, he continued wheedlingly: “If I had
the slightest suspicion, don’t you think I’d come out with it? This
thing has got on my nerves. I’ve been mulling over it all night, and
it’s—it’s bothersome, frightfully bothersome.”

Markham nodded non-committally, and rising, walked to the window,
where he stood, his hands behind him, gazing down on the gray stone
masonry of the Tombs.

Vance, despite his apparent apathy, had been studying Greene closely;
and, as Markham turned to the window, he straightened up slightly in
his chair.

“Tell me,” he began, an ingratiating note in his voice; “just what
happened last night? I understand you were the first to reach the
prostrate women.”

“I was the first to reach my sister Julia,” retorted Greene, with a
hint of resentment. “It was Sproot, the butler, who found Ada
unconscious, bleeding from a nasty wound in her back.”

“Her back, eh?” Vance leaned forward, and lifted his eyebrows. “She
was shot from behind, then?”

“Yes.” Greene frowned and inspected his fingernails, as if he too
sensed something disturbing in the fact.

“And Miss Julia Greene: was she too shot from behind?”

“No—from the front.”

“Extr’ordin’ry!” Vance blew a ring of smoke toward the dusty
chandelier. “And had both women retired for the night?”

“An hour before. . . . But what has all that got to do with it?”

“One never knows, does one? However, it’s always well to be in
possession of these little details when trying to run down the elusive
source of a psychic seizure.”

“Psychic seizure be damned!” growled Greene truculently. “Can’t a man
have a feeling about something without——?”

“Quite—quite. But you’ve asked for the District Attorney’s assistance,
and I’m sure he would like a few data before making a decision.”

Markham came forward and sat down on the edge of the table. His
curiosity had been aroused, and he indicated to Greene his sympathy
with Vance’s interrogation.

Greene pursed his lips, and returned his cigarette-holder to his
pocket.

“Oh, very well. What else do you want to know?”

“You might relate for us,” dulcetly resumed Vance, “the exact order of
events after you heard the first shot. I presume you did hear the
shot.”

“Certainly I heard it—couldn’t have helped hearing it. Julia’s room is
next to mine, and I was still awake. I jumped into my slippers and
pulled on my dressing-gown; then I went out into the hall. It was
dark, and I felt my way along the wall until I reached Julia’s door. I
opened it and looked in—didn’t know who might be there waiting to pop
me—and I saw her lying in bed, the front of her nightgown covered with
blood. There was no one else in the room, and I went to her
immediately. Just then I heard another shot which sounded as if it
came from Ada’s room. I was a bit muzzy by this time—didn’t know what
I’d better do; and as I stood by Julia’s bed in something of a
funk—oh, I was in a funk all right . . .”

“Can’t say that I blame you,” Vance encouraged him.

Greene nodded. “A damned ticklish position to be in. Well, anyway, as
I stood there, I heard some one coming down the stairs from the
servants’ quarters on the third floor, and recognized old Sproot’s
tread. He fumbled along in the dark, and I heard him enter Ada’s door.
Then he called to me, and I hurried over. Ada was lying in front of
the dressing-table; and Sproot and I lifted her on the bed. I’d gone a
bit weak in the knees; was expecting any minute to hear another
shot—don’t know why. Anyway, it didn’t come; and then I heard Sproot’s
voice at the hall telephone calling up Doctor Von Blon.”

“I see nothing in your account, Greene, inconsistent with the theory
of a burglar,” observed Markham. “And furthermore, Feathergill, my
assistant, says there were two sets of confused footprints in the snow
outside the front door.”

Greene shrugged his shoulders, but did not answer.

“By the by, Mr. Greene,”—Vance had slipped down in his chair and was
staring into space—“you said that when you looked into Miss Julia’s
room you saw her in bed. How was that? Did you turn on the light?”

“Why, no!” The man appeared puzzled by the question. “The light was
on.”

There was a flutter of interest in Vance’s eyes.

“And how about Miss Ada’s room? Was the light on there also?”

“Yes.”

Vance reached into his pocket, and, drawing out his cigarette-case,
carefully and deliberately selected a cigarette. I recognized in the
action an evidence of repressed inner excitement.

“So the lights were on in both rooms. Most interestin’.”

Markham, too, recognized the eagerness beneath his apparent
indifference, and regarded him expectantly.

“And,” pursued Vance, after lighting his cigarette leisurely, “how
long a time would you say elapsed between the two shots?”

Greene was obviously annoyed by this cross-examination, but he
answered readily.

“Two or three minutes—certainly no longer.”

“Still,” ruminated Vance, “after you heard the first shot you rose
from your bed, donned slippers and robe, went into the hall, felt
along the wall to the next room, opened the door cautiously, peered
inside, and then crossed the room to the bed—all this, I gather,
before the second shot was fired. Is that correct?”

“Certainly it’s correct.”

“Well, well! As you say, two or three minutes. Yes, at least that.
Astonishin’!” Vance turned to Markham. “Really, y’ know, old man, I
don’t wish to influence your judgment, but I rather think you ought to
accede to Mr. Greene’s request to take a hand in this investigation. I
too have a psychic feeling about the case. Something tells me that
your eccentric burglar will prove an _ignis fatuus_.”

Markham eyed him with meditative curiosity. Not only had Vance’s
questioning of Greene interested him keenly, but he knew, as a result
of long experience, that Vance would not have made the suggestion had
he not had a good reason for doing so. I was in no wise surprised,
therefore, when he turned to his restive visitor and said:

“Very well, Greene, I’ll see what I can do in the matter. I’ll
probably be at your house early this afternoon. Please see that every
one is present, as I’ll want to question them.”

Greene held out a trembling hand. “The domestic roster—family and
servants—will be complete when you arrive.”

He strode pompously from the room.

Vance sighed. “Not a nice creature, Markham—not at all a nice
creature. I shall never be a politician if it involves an acquaintance
with such gentlemen.”

Markham seated himself at his desk with a disgruntled air.

“Greene is highly regarded as a social—not a political—decoration,” he
said maliciously. “He belongs to your totem, not mine.”

“Fancy that!” Vance stretched himself luxuriously. “Still, it’s you
who fascinate him. Intuition tells me he is not overfond of me.”

“You did treat him a bit cavalierly. Sarcasm is not exactly a means of
endearment.”

“But, Markham old thing, I wasn’t pining for Chester’s affection.”

“You think he knows, or suspects, something?”

Vance gazed through the long window into the bleak sky beyond.

“I wonder,” he murmured. Then: “Is Chester, by any chance, a typical
representative of the Greene family? Of recent years I’ve done so
little mingling with the élite that I’m woefully ignorant of the East
Side nabobs.”

Markham nodded reflectively.

“I’m afraid he is. The original Greene stock was sturdy, but the
present generation seems to have gone somewhat to pot. Old Tobias the
Third—Chester’s father—was a rugged and, in many ways, admirable
character. He appears, however, to have been the last heir of the
ancient Greene qualities. What’s left of the family has suffered some
sort of disintegration. They’re not exactly soft, but tainted with
patches of incipient decay, like fruit that’s lain on the ground too
long. Too much money and leisure, I imagine, and too little restraint.
On the other hand, there’s a certain intellectuality lurking in the
new Greenes. They all seem to have good minds, even if futile and
misdirected. In fact, I think you underestimate Chester. For all his
banalities and effeminate mannerisms, he’s far from being as stupid as
you regard him.”

“_I_ regard Chester as stupid! My dear Markham! You wrong me
abominably. No, no. There’s nothing of the anointed ass about our
Chester. He’s shrewder even than you think him. Those œdematous
eyelids veil a pair of particularly crafty eyes. Indeed, it was
largely his studied pose of fatuousness that led me to suggest that
you aid and abet in the investigation.”

Markham leaned back and narrowed his eyes.

“What’s in your mind, Vance?”

“I told you. A psychic seizure—same like Chester’s subliminal
visitation.”

Markham knew, by this elusive answer, that for the moment Vance had no
intention of being more definite; and after a moment of scowling
silence he turned to the telephone.

“If I’m to take on this case, I’d better find out who has charge of it
and get what preliminary information I can.”

He called up Inspector Moran, the commanding officer of the Detective
Bureau. After a brief conversation he turned to Vance with a smile.

“Your friend, Sergeant Heath, has the case in hand. He happened to be
in the office just now, and is coming here immediately.”*

  * It was Sergeant Ernest Heath, of the Homicide Bureau, who
  had been in charge of both the Benson and the Canary cases;
  and, although he had been openly antagonistic to Vance during
  the first of these investigations, a curious good-fellowship
  had later grown up between them. Vance admired the Sergeant’s
  dogged and straightforward qualities; and Heath had developed
  a keen respect—with certain reservations, however—for Vance’s
  abilities.

In less than fifteen minutes Heath arrived. Despite the fact that he
had been up most of the night, he appeared unusually alert and
energetic. His broad, pugnacious features were as imperturbable as
ever, and his pale-blue eyes held their habitual penetrating
intentness. He greeted Markham with an elaborate, though perfunctory,
handshake; and then, seeing Vance, relaxed his features into a
good-natured smile.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Vance! What have you been up to, sir?”

Vance rose and shook hands with him.

“Alas, Sergeant, I’ve been immersed in the terra-cotta ornamentation
of Renaissance façades, and other such trivialities, since I saw you
last.* But I’m happy to note that crime is picking up again. It’s a
deuced drab world without a nice murky murder now and then, don’t y’
know.”

  * Vance, after reading proof of this sentence, requested me to
  make mention here of that beautiful volume, “Terra Cotta of
  the Italian Renaissance,” recently published by the National
  Terra Cotta Society, New York.

Heath cocked an eye, and turned inquiringly to the District Attorney.
He had long since learned how to read between the lines of Vance’s
badinage.

“It’s this Greene case, Sergeant,” said Markham.

“I thought so.” Heath sat down heavily, and inserted a black cigar
between his lips. “But nothing’s broken yet. We’re rounding up all the
regulars, and looking into their alibis for last night. But it’ll take
several days before the check-up’s complete. If the bird who did the
job hadn’t got scared before he grabbed the swag, we might be able to
trace him through the pawnshops and fences. But something rattled him,
or he wouldn’t have shot up the works the way he did. And that’s what
makes me think he may be a new one at the racket. If he is, it’ll make
our job harder.” He held a match in cupped hands to his cigar, and
puffed furiously. “What did you want to know about the prowl, sir?”

Markham hesitated. The Sergeant’s matter-of-fact assumption that a
common burglar was the culprit disconcerted him.

“Chester Greene was here,” he explained presently; “and he seems
convinced that the shooting was not the work of a thief. He asked me,
as a special favor, to look into the matter.”

Heath gave a derisive grunt.

“Who but a burglar in a panic would shoot down two women?”

“Quite so, Sergeant.” It was Vance who answered. “Still, the lights
were turned on in both rooms, though the women had gone to bed an hour
before; and there was an interval of several minutes between the two
shots.”

“I know all that.” Heath spoke impatiently. “But if an amachoor did
the job, we can’t tell exactly what did happen up-stairs there last
night. When a bird loses his head——”

“Ah! There’s the rub. When a thief loses his head, d’ ye see, he isn’t
apt to go from room to room turning on the lights, even assuming he
knows where and how to turn them on. And he certainly isn’t going to
dally around for several minutes in a black hall between such
fantastic operations, especially after he has shot some one and
alarmed the house, what? It doesn’t look like panic to me; it looks
strangely like design. Moreover, why should this precious amateur of
yours be cavorting about the boudoirs up-stairs when the loot was in
the dining-room below?”

“We’ll learn all about that when we’ve got our man,” countered Heath
doggedly.

“The point is, Sergeant,” put in Markham, “I’ve given Mr. Greene my
promise to look into the matter, and I wanted to get what details I
could from you. You understand, of course,” he added mollifyingly,
“that I shall not interfere with your activities in any way. Whatever
the outcome of the case, your department will receive entire credit.”

“Oh, that’s all right, sir.” Experience had taught Heath that he had
nothing to fear in the way of lost _kudos_ when working with Markham.
“But I don’t think, in spite of Mr. Vance’s ideas, that you’ll find
much in the Greene case to warrant attention.”

“Perhaps not,” Markham admitted. “However, I’ve committed myself, and
I think I’ll run out this afternoon and look over the situation, if
you’ll give me the lie of the land.”

“There isn’t much to tell.” Heath chewed on his cigar cogitatingly. “A
Doctor Von Blon—the Greene family physician—phoned Headquarters about
midnight. I’d just got in from an up-town stick-up call, and I hopped
out to the house with a couple of the boys from the Bureau. I found
the two women, like you know, one dead and the other unconscious—both
shot. I phoned Doc Doremus,* and then looked the place over. Mr.
Feathergill came along and lent a hand; but we didn’t find much of
anything. The fellow that did the job musta got in by the front door
some way, for there was a set of footprints in the snow coming and
going, besides Doctor Von Blon’s. But the snow was too flaky to get
any good impressions. It stopped snowing along about eleven o’clock
last night; and there’s no doubt that the prints belonged to the
burglar, for no one else, except the doctor, had come or gone after
the storm.”

  * Doctor Emanuel Doremus, the Chief Medical Examiner.

“An amateur housebreaker with a front-door key to the Greene mansion,”
murmured Vance. “Extr’ordin’ry!”

“I’m not saying he had a key, sir,” protested Heath. “I’m simply
telling you what we found. The door mighta been unlatched by mistake;
or some one mighta opened it for him.”

“Go on with the story, Sergeant,” urged Markham, giving Vance a
reproving look.

“Well, after Doc Doremus got there and made an examination of the
older woman’s body and inspected the younger one’s wound, I questioned
all the family and the servants—a butler, two maids, and a cook.
Chester Greene and the butler were the only ones who had heard the
first shot, which was fired about half past eleven. But the second
shot roused old Mrs. Greene—her room adjoins the younger daughter’s.
The rest of the household had slept through all the excitement; but
this Chester fellow had woke ’em all up by the time I got there. I
talked to all of ’em, but nobody knew anything. After a coupla hours I
left a man inside and another outside, and came away. Then I set the
usual machinery going; and this morning Captain Dubois went over the
place the best he could for finger-prints. Doc Doremus has got the
body for an autopsy, and we’ll get a report to-night. But there’ll be
nothing helpful from that quarter. She was fired on from in front at
close range—almost a contact shot. And the other woman—the young
one—was all powder-marked, and her nightgown was burnt. She was shot
from behind.—That’s about all the dope.”

“Have you been able to get any sort of a statement from the younger
one?”

“Not yet. She was unconscious last night, and this morning she was too
weak to talk. But the doctor—Von Blon—said we could probably question
her this afternoon. We may get something out of her, in case she got a
look at the bird before he shot her.”

“That suggests something to me, Sergeant.” Vance had been listening
passively to the recital, but now he drew in his legs, and lifted
himself a little. “Did any member of the Greene household possess a
gun?”

Heath gave him a sharp look.

“This Chester Greene said he had an old .32 revolver he used to keep
in a desk drawer in his bedroom.”

“Oh, did he, now? And did you see the gun?”

“I asked him for it, but he couldn’t find it. Said he hadn’t seen it
for years, but that probably it was around somewheres. Promised to dig
it up for me to-day.”

“Don’t hang any fond hopes on his finding it, Sergeant.” Vance looked
at Markham musingly. “I begin to comprehend the basis of Chester’s
psychic perturbation. I fear he’s a crass materialist after all. . . .
Sad, sad.”

“You think he missed the gun, and took fright?”

“Well—something like that . . . perhaps. One can’t tell. It’s deuced
confusin’.” He turned an indolent eye on the Sergeant. “By the by,
what sort of gun did your burglar use?”

Heath gave a gruff, uneasy laugh.

“You score there, Mr. Vance. I’ve got both bullets—thirty-twos, fired
from a revolver, not an automatic. But you’re not trying to
intimate——”

“Tut, tut, Sergeant. Like Goethe, I’m merely seeking for more
illumination, if one may translate _Licht_——”

Markham interrupted this garrulous evasion.

“I’m going to the Greene house after lunch, Sergeant. Can you come
along?”

“Sure I can, sir. I was going out anyway.”

“Good.” Markham brought forth a box of cigars. “Meet me here at
two. . . . And take a couple of these _Perfectos_ before you go.”

Heath selected the cigars, and put them carefully into his breast
pocket. At the door he turned with a bantering grin.

“You coming along with us, Mr. Vance—to guide our erring footsteps, as
they say?”

“Nothing could keep me away,” declared Vance.



CHAPTER III.

At the Greene Mansion

  (Tuesday, November 9; 2.30 p. m.)

The Greene mansion—as it was commonly referred to by New Yorkers—was a
relic of the city’s _ancien régime_. It had stood for three
generations at the eastern extremity of 53d Street, two of its oriel
windows actually overhanging the murky waters of the East River. The
lot upon which the house was built extended through the entire block—a
distance of two hundred feet—and had an equal frontage on the
cross-streets. The character of the neighborhood had changed radically
since the early days; but the spirit of commercial advancement had
left the domicile of the Greenes untouched. It was an oasis of
idealism and calm in the midst of moiling commercial enterprise; and
one of the stipulations in old Tobias Greene’s last will and testament
had been that the mansion should stand intact for at least a quarter
of a century after his death, as a monument to him and his ancestors.
One of his last acts on earth was to erect a high stone wall about the
entire property, with a great double iron gateway opening on 53d
Street and a postern-gate for tradesmen giving on 52d Street.

The mansion itself was two and a half stories high, surmounted by
gabled spires and chimney clusters. It was what architects call, with
a certain intonation of contempt, a “château flamboyant”; but no
derogatory appellation could detract from the quiet dignity and the
air of feudal traditionalism that emanated from its great rectangular
blocks of gray limestone. The house was sixteenth-century Gothic in
style, with more than a suspicion of the new Italian ornament in its
parts; and the pinnacles and shelves suggested the Byzantine. But, for
all its diversity of detail, it was not flowery, and would have held
no deep attraction for the Freemason architects of the Middle Ages. It
was not “bookish” in effect; it exuded the very essence of the old.

In the front yard were maples and clipped evergreens, interspersed
with hydrangea and lilac-bushes; and at the rear was a row of weeping
willows overhanging the river. Along the herring-bone-bond brick walks
were high quickset hedges of hawthorn; and the inner sides of the
encircling wall were covered with compact espaliers. To the west of
the house an asphalt driveway led to a double garage at the rear—an
addition built by the newer generation of Greenes. But here too were
boxwood hedgerows which cloaked the driveway’s modernity.

As we entered the grounds that gray November afternoon an atmosphere
of foreboding bleakness seemed to have settled over the estate. The
trees and shrubs were all bare, except the evergreens, which were
laden with patches of snow. The trellises stood stripped along the
walls, like clinging black skeletons; and, save for the front walk,
which had been hastily and imperfectly swept, the grounds were piled
high with irregular snow-drifts. The gray of the mansion’s masonry was
almost the color of the brooding overcast sky; and I felt a
premonitory chill of eeriness pass over me as we mounted the shallow
steps that led to the high front door, with its pointed pediment above
the deeply arched entrance.

Sproot, the butler—a little old man with white hair and a heavily
seamed capriform face—admitted us with silent, funereal dignity (he
had evidently been apprised of our coming); and we were ushered at
once into the great gloomy drawing-room whose heavily curtained
windows overlooked the river. A few moments later Chester Greene came
in and greeted Markham fulsomely. Heath and Vance and me he included
in a single supercilious nod.

“Awfully good of you to come, Markham,” he said, with nervous
eagerness, seating himself on the edge of a chair and taking out his
cigarette-holder. “I suppose you’ll want to hold an inquisition first.
Whom’ll I summon as a starter?”

“We can let that go for the moment,” said Markham. “First, I’d like to
know something concerning the servants. Tell me what you can about
them.”

Greene moved restlessly in his chair, and seemed to have difficulty
lighting his cigarette.

“There’s only four. Big house and all that, but we don’t need much
help. Julia always acted as housekeeper, and Ada looked after the
Mater.—To begin with, there’s old Sproot. He’s been butler, seneschal,
and majordomo for us for thirty years. Regular family retainer—kind
you read about in English novels—devoted, loyal, humble, dictatorial,
and snooping. And a damned nuisance, I may add. Then there are two
maids—one to look after the rooms and the other for general service,
though the women monopolize her, mostly for useless fiddle-faddle.
Hemming, the older maid, has been with us ten years. Still wears
corsets and fit-easy shoes. Deep-water Baptist, I
believe—excruciatingly devout. Barton, the other maid, is young and
flighty: thinks she’s irresistible, knows a little _table-d’hôte_
French, and is the kind that’s constantly expecting the males of the
family to kiss her behind the door. Sibella picked her out—she’s just
the kind Sibella would pick out. Been adorning our house and shirking
the hard work for about two years. The cook’s a stodgy German woman, a
typical _Hausfrau_—voluminous bosoms and number-ten feet. Puts in all
her spare time writing to distant nieces and nephews in the upper
reaches of the Rhine basin somewhere; and boasts that the most
fastidious person could eat off her kitchen floor, it’s that clean;
though I’ve never tried it. The old man engaged her a year before he
died; gave orders she was to remain as long as she liked.—There you
have the personnel of the backstairs. Of course, there is a gardener
who loafs about the lawn in summer. He hibernates in a speak-easy up
Harlem way.”

“No chauffeur?”

“A nuisance we dispense with. Julia hated motor-cars, and Rex is
afraid to travel in them—squeamish lad, Rex. I drive my own racer, and
Sibella’s a regular Barney Oldfield. Ada drives, too, when the Mater
isn’t using her and Sibella’s car is idle.—So endeth.”

Markham had been making notes as Greene rambled along with his
information. At length he put out the cigar he had been smoking.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I want to look over the house.”

Greene rose with alacrity and led the way into the main lower hall—a
vaulted, oak-panelled entrance containing two large carved Flemish
tables of the Sambin school, against opposite walls, and several
Anglo-Dutch crown-back chairs. A great Daghestan rug stretched along
the parqueted floor, its faded colors repeated in the heavy draperies
of the archways.

“We have, of course, just come from the drawing-room,” explained
Greene, with a pompous air. “Back of it, down the hall”—he pointed
past the wide marble stairway—“was the governor’s library and den—what
he called his _sanctum sanctorum_. Nobody’s been in it for twelve
years. The Mater has kept it locked up ever since the old man died.
Sentiment of some kind; though I’ve often told her she ought to clean
the place out and make a billiard-room of it. But you can’t move the
Mater, once she’s got an idea in her head. Try it some time when
you’re looking for heavy exercise.”

He walked across the hall and pulled aside the draperies of the
archway opposite to the drawing-room.

“Here’s the reception-room, though we don’t use it much nowadays.
Stuffy, stiff place, and the flue doesn’t draw worth a damn. Every
time we’ve built a fire here, we’ve had to have the cleaners in to
remove the soot from the tapestries.” He waved his cigarette-holder
toward two beautiful Gobelins. “Back there, through those sliding
doors, is the dining-room; and farther on are the butler’s pantry and
the kitchen where one may eat off the floor. Care to inspect the
culinary department?”

“No, I think not,” said Markham. “And I’ll take the kitchen floor for
granted.—Now, can we look at the second floor?”

We ascended the main stairs, which led round a piece of marble
statuary—a Falguière figure, I think—, and emerged into the upper hall
facing the front of the house where three large close-set windows
looked out over the bare trees.

The arrangement of the rooms on the second floor was simple and in
keeping with the broad four-square architecture of the house; but for
the sake of clarification I am embodying in this record a rough
diagram of it; for it was the disposition of these rooms that made
possible the carrying out of the murderer’s hideous and unnatural
plot.

There were six bedrooms on the floor—three on either side of the hall,
each occupied by a member of the family. At the front of the house, on
our left, was the bedroom of Rex Greene, the younger brother. Next to
it was the room occupied by Ada Greene; and at the rear were Mrs.
Greene’s quarters, separated from Ada’s by a fair-sized dressing-room
through which the two apartments communicated. It will be seen from
the diagram that Mrs. Greene’s room projected beyond the main western
elevation of the house, and that in the L thus formed was a small
balustraded stone porch with a narrow flight of stairs, set against
the house, leading to the lawn below. French doors opened upon this
porch from both Ada’s and Mrs. Greene’s rooms.

[Illustration: Plan of second floor. (For the sake of simplification
all bathrooms, clothes-closets, fireplaces, etc., have been omitted.)
Six bedrooms are situated three on each side of a large hallway
running between them, stairs leading down to the main floor, and a
second set of stairs leading up to the top floor behind doors labelled
“swinging door to servants’ stairs.” The two bedrooms in the back
right connect to each other via a dressing room, and both also have
external doors to a stone balcony, from which stairs lead down to the
grounds.]

On the opposite side of the hall were the three rooms occupied by
Julia, Chester, and Sibella, Julia’s room being at the front of the
house, Sibella’s at the rear, and Chester’s in the centre. None of
these rooms communicated with the other. It might also be noted that
the doors to Sibella’s and Mrs. Greene’s rooms were just behind the
main staircase, whereas Chester’s and Ada’s were directly at the head
of the stairs, and Julia’s and Rex’s farther toward the front of the
house. There was a small linen closet between Ada’s room and Mrs.
Greene’s; and at the rear of the hall were the servants’ stairs.

Chester Greene explained this arrangement to us briefly, and then
walked up the hall to Julia’s room.

“You’ll want to look in here first, I imagine,” he said, throwing open
the door. “Nothing’s been touched—police orders. But I can’t see what
good all that stained bed-linen is to any one. It’s a frightful mess.”

The room was large and richly furnished with sage-green
satin-upholstered furniture of the Marie Antoinette period. Opposite
to the door was a canopied bedstead on a dais; and several dark
blotches on the embroidered linen gave mute evidence of the tragedy
that had been enacted there the night before.

Vance, after noting the disposition of the furniture, turned his gaze
upon the old-fashioned crystal chandelier.

“Were those the lights that were on when you found your sister last
night, Mr. Greene?” he asked casually.

The other nodded with surly annoyance.

“And where, may I ask, is the switch?”

“Behind the end of that cabinet.” Greene indifferently indicated a
highly elaborated _armoire_ near the door.

“Invisible—eh, what?” Vance strolled to the _armoire_ and looked
behind it. “An amazin’ burglar!” Then he went up to Markham and spoke
to him in a low voice.

After a moment Markham nodded.

“Greene,” he said, “I wish you’d go to your room and lie down on the
bed just as you were last night when you heard the shot. Then, when I
tap on the wall, get up and do everything you did last night—in just
the way you did it. I want to time you.”

[Illustration: Plan of Julia’s bedroom. The bed faces the door to the
hall, and beside the door is an armoire standing in front of the light
switch. Two other doors lead to a bathroom and a closet.]

The man stiffened, and gave Markham a look of resentful protestation.

“Oh, I say——!” he began. But almost at once he shrugged compliance and
swaggered from the room, closing the door behind him.

Vance took out his watch, and Markham, giving Greene time to reach his
room, rapped on the wall. For what seemed an interminable time we
waited. Then the door opened slightly, and Greene peered round the
casing. Slowly his eyes swept the room; he swung the door further
ajar, stepped inside hesitantly, and moved to the bed.

“Three minutes and twenty seconds,” announced Vance. “Most
disquietin’. . . . What do you imagine, Sergeant, the intruder was
doing in the interim of the two shots?”

“How do I know?” retorted Heath. “Probably groping round the hall
outside looking for the stairs.”

“If he’d groped that length of time he’d have fallen down ’em.”

Markham interrupted this discussion with a suggestion that we take a
look at the servants’ stairway down which the butler had come after
hearing the first shot.

“We needn’t inspect the other bedrooms just yet,” he added, “though
we’ll want to see Miss Ada’s room as soon as the doctor thinks it’s
advisable. When, by the way, will you know his decision, Greene?”

“He said he’d be here at three. And he’s a punctual beggar—a regular
fiend for efficiency. He sent a nurse over early this morning, and
she’s looking after Ada and the Mater now.”

“I say, Mr. Greene,” interposed Vance, “was your sister Julia in the
habit of leaving her door unlocked at night?”

Greene’s jaw dropped a little, and his eyes opened wider.

“By Jove—no! Now that you mention it . . . she always locked herself
in.”

Vance nodded absently, and we passed out into the hall. A thin,
swinging baize door hid the servants’ stair-well at the rear, and
Markham pushed it open.

“Nothing much here to deaden the sound,” he observed.

“No,” agreed Greene. “And old Sproot’s room is right at the head of
the steps. He’s got good ears, too—too damned good sometimes.”

We were about to turn back, when a high-pitched querulous voice issued
from the partly open door on our right.

“Is that you, Chester? What’s all this disturbance? Haven’t I had
enough distraction and worry——?”

Greene had gone to his mother’s door and put his head inside.

“It’s all right, Mater,” he said irritably. “It’s only the police
nosing around.”

“The police?” Her voice was contemptuous. “What do they want? Didn’t
they upset me enough last night? Why don’t they go and look for the
villain instead of congregating outside my door and annoying me?—So,
it’s the police.” Her tone became vindictive. “Bring them in here at
once, and let _me_ talk to them. The police, indeed!”

Greene looked helplessly at Markham, who merely nodded; and we entered
the invalid’s room. It was a spacious chamber, with windows on three
sides, furnished elaborately with all manner of conflicting objects.
My first glance took in an East Indian rug, a buhl cabinet, an
enormous gilded Buddha, several massive Chinese chairs of carved
teak-wood, a faded Persian tapestry, two wrought-iron standard lamps,
and a red-and-gold lacquered high-boy. I looked quickly at Vance, and
surprised an expression of puzzled interest in his eyes.

In an enormous bed, with neither head-piece nor foot-posts, reclined
the mistress of the house, propped up in a semi-recumbent attitude on
a sprawling pile of varicolored silken pillows. She must have been
between sixty-five and seventy, but her hair was almost black. Her
long, chevaline face, though yellowed and wrinkled like ancient
parchment, still radiated an amazing vigor: it reminded me of the
portraits I had seen of George Eliot. About her shoulders was drawn an
embroidered Oriental shawl; and the picture she presented in the
setting of that unusual and diversified room was exotic in the
extreme. At her side sat a rosy-cheeked imperturbable nurse in a stiff
white uniform, making a singular contrast to the woman on the bed.

Chester Greene presented Markham, and let his mother take the rest of
us for granted. At first she did not acknowledge the introduction,
but, after appraising Markham for a moment, she gave him a nod of
resentful forbearance and held out to him a long bony hand.

“I suppose there’s no way to avoid having my home overrun in this
fashion,” she said wearily, assuming an air of great toleration. “I
was just endeavoring to get a little rest. My back pains me so much
to-day, after all the excitement last night. But what do I matter—an
old paralyzed woman like me? No one considers me anyway, Mr. Markham.
But they’re perfectly right. We invalids are of no use in the world,
are we?”

Markham muttered some polite protestation, to which Mrs. Greene paid
not the slightest attention. She had turned, with seemingly great
difficulty, to the nurse.

“Fix my pillows, Miss Craven,” she ordered impatiently, and then
added, in a whining tone: “Even you don’t give a thought to my
comfort.” The nurse complied without a word. “Now, you can go in and
sit with Ada until Doctor Von Blon comes.—How is the dear child?”
Suddenly her voice had assumed a note of simulated solicitude.

“She’s much better, Mrs. Greene.” The nurse spoke in a colorless,
matter-of-fact tone, and passed quietly into the dressing-room.

The woman on the bed turned complaining eyes upon Markham.

“It’s a terrible thing to be a cripple, unable to walk or even stand
alone. Both my legs have been hopelessly paralyzed for ten years.
Think of it, Mr. Markham: I’ve spent ten years in this bed and that
chair”—she pointed to an invalid’s chair in the alcove—“and I can’t
even move from one to the other unless I’m lifted bodily. But I
console myself with the thought that I’m not long for this world; and
I try to be patient. It wouldn’t be so bad, though, if my children
were only more considerate. But I suppose I expect too much. Youth and
health give little thought to the old and feeble—it’s the way of the
world. And so I make the best of it. It’s my fate to be a burden to
every one.”

She sighed and drew the shawl more closely about her.

“You want to ask me some questions perhaps? I don’t see what I can
tell you that will be of any help, but I’m only too glad to do
whatever I can. I haven’t slept a wink, and my back has been paining
me terribly as a result of all this commotion. But I’m not
complaining.”

Markham had stood looking at the old lady sympathetically. Indeed, she
was a pitiful figure. Her long invalidism and solitude had warped what
had probably been a brilliant and generous mind; and she had now
become a kind of introspective martyr, with an exaggerated
sensitiveness to her affliction. I could see that Markham’s instinct
was to leave her immediately with a few consoling words; but his sense
of duty directed him to remain and learn what he could.

“I don’t wish to annoy you more than is absolutely necessary, madam,”
he said in a kindly voice. “But it might help considerably if you
permitted me to put one or two questions.”

“What’s a little annoyance, more or less?” she asked. “I’ve long since
become used to it. Ask me anything you choose.”

Markham bowed with Old World courtesy. “You are very kind, madam.”
Then, after a moment’s pause: “Mr. Greene tells me you did not hear
the shot that was fired in your oldest daughter’s room, but that the
shot in Miss Ada’s room wakened you.”

“That is so.” She nodded slowly. “Julia’s room is a considerable
distance away—across the hall. But Ada always leaves the doors open
between her room and mine in case I should need anything in the night.
Naturally the shot in her room wakened me. . . . Let me see. I must
have just fallen to sleep. My back was giving me a great deal of
trouble last night; I had suffered all day with it, though I of course
didn’t tell any of the children about it. Little they care how their
paralyzed old mother suffers. . . . And then, just as I had managed to
doze off, there came the report, and I was wide-awake again—lying here
helpless, unable to move, and wondering what awful thing might be
going to happen to me. And no one came to see if I was all right; no
one thought of me, alone and defenseless. But then, no one ever thinks
of me.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t any lack of consideration, Mrs. Greene,” Markham
assured her earnestly. “The situation probably drove everything
momentarily from their minds except the two victims of the
shooting.—Tell me this: did you hear any other sounds in Miss Ada’s
room after the shot awakened you?”

“I heard the poor girl fall—at least, it sounded like that.”

“But no other noises of any kind? No footsteps, for instance?”

“Footsteps?” She seemed to make an effort to recall her impressions.
“No; no footsteps.”

“Did you hear the door into the hall open or close, madam?” It was
Vance who put the question.

The woman turned her eyes sharply and glared at him.

“No, I heard no door open or close.”

“That’s rather queer, too, don’t you think?” pursued Vance. “The
intruder must have left the room.”

“I suppose he must have, if he’s not there now,” she replied acidly,
turning again to the District Attorney. “Is there anything else you’d
care to know?”

Markham evidently had perceived the impossibility of eliciting any
vital information from her.

“I think not,” he answered; then added: “You of course heard the
butler and your son here enter Miss Ada’s room?”

“Oh, yes. They made enough noise doing it—they didn’t consider my
feelings in the least. That fuss-budget, Sproot, actually cried out
for Chester like a hysterical woman; and, from the way he raised his
voice over the telephone, one would have thought Doctor Von Blon was
deaf. Then Chester had to rouse the whole house for some unknown
reason. Oh, there was no peace or rest for me last night, I can tell
you! And the police tramped around the house for hours like a drove of
wild cattle. It was positively disgraceful. And here was I—a helpless
old woman—entirely neglected and forgotten, suffering agonies with my
spine.”

After a few commiserating banalities Markham thanked her for her
assistance, and withdrew. As we passed out and walked toward the
stairs I could hear her calling out angrily: “Nurse! Nurse! Can’t you
hear me? Come at once and arrange my pillows. What do you mean by
neglecting me this way . . .?”

The voice trailed off mercifully as we descended to the main hall.



CHAPTER IV.

The Missing Revolver

  (Tuesday, November 9; 3 p. m.)

“The Mater’s a crabbed old soul,” Greene apologized offhandedly when
we were again in the drawing-room. “Always grousing about her doting
offspring.—Well, where do we go from here?”

Markham seemed lost in thought, and it was Vance who answered.

“Let us take a peep at the servants and hearken to their tale: Sproot
for a starter.”

Markham roused himself and nodded, and Greene rose and pulled a silken
bell-cord near the archway. A minute later the butler appeared and
stood at obsequious attention just inside the room. Markham had
appeared somewhat at sea and even uninterested during the
investigation, and Vance assumed command.

“Sit down, Sproot, and tell us as briefly as possible just what
occurred last night.”

Sproot came forward slowly, his eyes on the floor, but remained
standing before the centre-table.

“I was reading Martial, sir, in my room,” he began, lifting his gaze
submissively, “when I thought I heard a muffled shot. I wasn’t quite
sure, for the automobiles in the street back-fire quite loud at times;
but at last I said to myself I’d better investigate. I was in negligé,
if you understand what I mean, sir; so I slipped on my bath-robe and
came down. I didn’t know just where the noise had come from; but when
I was half-way down the steps, I heard another shot, and this time it
sounded like it came from Miss Ada’s room. So I went there at once,
and tried the door. It was unlocked, and when I looked in I saw Miss
Ada lying on the floor—a very distressing sight, sir. I called to Mr.
Chester, and we lifted the poor young lady to the bed. Then I
telephoned to Doctor Von Blon.”

Vance scrutinized him.

“You were very courageous, Sproot, to brave a dark hall looking for
the source of a shot in the middle of the night.”

“Thank you, sir,” the man answered, with great humility. “I always try
to do my duty by the Greene family. I’ve been with them——”

“We know all that, Sproot.” Vance cut him short. “The light was on in
Miss Ada’s room, I understand, when you opened the door.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you saw no one, or heard no noise? No door closing, for
instance?”

“No, sir.”

“And yet the person who fired the shot must have been somewhere in the
hall at the same time you were there.”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“And he might well have taken a shot at you, too.”

“Quite so, sir.” Sproot seemed wholly indifferent to the danger he had
escaped. “But what will be, will be, sir—if you’ll pardon my saying
so. And I’m an old man——”

“Tut, tut! You’ll probably live a considerable time yet—just how long
I can’t, of course, say.”

“No, sir.” Sproot’s eyes gazed blankly ahead. “No one understands the
mysteries of life and death.”

“You’re somewhat philosophic, I see,” drily commented Vance. Then:
“When you phoned to Doctor Von Blon, was he in?”

“No, sir; but the night nurse told me he’d be back any minute, and
that she’d send him over. He arrived in less than half an hour.”

Vance nodded. “That will be all, thank you, Sproot.—And now please
send me _die gnädige Frau Köchin_.”

“Yes, sir.” And the old butler shuffled from the room.

Vance’s eyes followed him thoughtfully.

“An inveiglin’ character,” he murmured.

Greene snorted. “_You_ don’t have to live with him. He’d have said
‘Yes, sir,’ if you’d spoken to him in Walloon or Volapük. A sweet
little playmate to have snooping round the house twenty-four hours a
day!”

The cook, a portly, phlegmatic German woman of about forty-five, named
Gertrude Mannheim, came in and seated herself on the edge of a chair
near the entrance. Vance, after a moment’s keen inspection of her,
asked:

“Were you born in this country, Frau Mannheim?”

“I was born in Baden,” she answered, in flat, rather guttural tones.
“I came to America when I was twelve.”

“You have not always been a cook, I take it.” Vance’s voice had a
slightly different intonation from that which he had used with Sproot.

At first the woman did not answer.

“No, sir,” she said finally. “Only since the death of my husband.”

“How did you happen to come to the Greenes?”

Again she hesitated. “I had met Mr. Tobias Greene: he knew my husband.
When my husband died there wasn’t any money. And I remembered Mr.
Greene, and I thought——”

“I understand.” Vance paused, his eyes in space. “You heard nothing of
what happened here last night?”

“No, sir. Not until Mr. Chester called up the stairs and said for us
to get dressed and come down.”

Vance rose and turned to the window overlooking the East River.

“That’s all, Frau Mannheim. Be so good as to tell the senior
maid—Hemming, isn’t she?—to come here.”

Without a word the cook left us, and her place was presently taken by
a tall, slatternly woman, with a sharp, prudish face and severely
combed hair. She wore a black, one-piece dress, and heelless vici-kid
shoes; and her severity of mien was emphasized by a pair of
thick-lensed spectacles.

“I understand, Hemming,” began Vance, reseating himself before the
fireplace, “that you heard neither shot last night, and learned of the
tragedy only when called by Mr. Greene.”

The woman nodded with a jerky, emphatic movement.

“I was spared,” she said, in a rasping voice. “But the tragedy, as you
call it, had to come sooner or later. It was an act of God, if you ask
_me_.”

“Well, we’re not asking you, Hemming; but we’re delighted to have your
opinion.—So God had a hand in the shooting, eh?”

“He did that!” The woman spoke with religious fervor. “The Greenes are
an ungodly, wicked family.” She leered defiantly at Chester Greene,
who laughed uneasily. “‘For I shall rise up against them, saith the
Lord of hosts—the name, the remnant, and son, and daughter, and
nephew’—only there ain’t no nephew—‘and I will sweep them with the
besom of destruction, saith the Lord.’”

Vance regarded her musingly.

“I see you have misread Isaiah. And have you any celestial information
as to who was chosen by the Lord to personify the besom?”

The woman compressed her lips. “Who knows?”

“Ah! Who, indeed? . . . But to descend to temporal things: I assume
you weren’t surprised at what happened last night?”

“I’m never surprised at the mysterious workin’s of the Almighty.”

Vance sighed. “You may return to your Scriptural perusings, Hemming.
Only, I wish you’d pause _en route_ and tell Barton we crave her
presence here.”

The woman rose stiffly and passed from the room like an animated
ramrod.

Barton came in, obviously frightened. But her fear was insufficient to
banish completely her instinctive coquetry. A certain coyness showed
through the alarmed glance she gave us, and one hand automatically
smoothed back the chestnut hair over her ear. Vance adjusted his
monocle.

“You really should wear Alice blue, Barton,” he advised her seriously.
“Much more becoming than cerise to your olive complexion.”

The girl’s apprehensiveness relaxed, and she gave Vance a puzzled,
kittenish look.

“But what I particularly wanted you to come here for,” he went on,
“was to ask you if Mr. Greene has ever kissed you.”

“Which—Mr. Greene?” she stammered, completely disconcerted.

Chester had, at Vance’s question, jerked himself erect in his chair
and started to splutter an irate objection. But articulation failed
him, and he turned to Markham with speechless indignation.

The corners of Vance’s mouth twitched. “It really doesn’t matter,
Barton,” he said quickly.

“Aren’t you going to ask me any questions about—what happened last
night?” the girl asked, with obvious disappointment.

“Oh! Do you know anything about what happened?”

“Why, no,” she admitted. “I was asleep——”

“Exactly. Therefore, I sha’n’t bother you with questions.” He
dismissed her good-naturedly.

“Damn it, Markham, I protest!” cried Greene, when Barton had left us.
“I call this—this gentleman’s levity rotten-bad taste—damme if I
don’t!”

Markham, too, was annoyed at the frivolous line of interrogation Vance
had taken.

“I can’t see what’s to be gained by such futile inquiries,” he said,
striving to control his irritation.

“That’s because you’re still holding to the burglar theory,” Vance
replied. “But if, as Mr. Greene thinks, there is another explanation
of last night’s crime, then it’s essential to acquaint ourselves with
the conditions existing here. And it’s equally essential not to rouse
the suspicions of the servants. Hence, my apparent irrelevancies. I’m
trying to size up the various human factors we have to deal with; and
I think I’ve done uncommonly well. Several rather interesting
possibilities have developed.”

Before Markham could reply Sproot passed the archway and opened the
front door to some one whom he greeted respectfully. Greene
immediately went into the hall.

“Hallo, doc,” we heard him say. “Thought you’d be along pretty soon.
The District Attorney and his _entourage_ are here, and they’d like to
talk to Ada. I told ’em you said it might be all right this
afternoon.”

“I’ll know better when I’ve seen Ada,” the doctor replied. He passed
on hurriedly, and we heard him ascending the stairs.

“It’s Von Blon,” announced Greene, returning to the drawing-room.
“He’ll let us know anon how Ada’s coming along.” There was a callous
note in his voice, which, at the time, puzzled me.

“How long have you known Doctor Von Blon?” asked Vance.

“How long?” Greene looked surprised. “Why, all my life. Went to the
old Beekman Public School with him. His father—old Doctor Veranus Von
Blon—brought all the later Greenes into the world; family physician,
spiritual adviser, and all that sort of thing, from time immemorial.
When Von Blon, senior, died we embraced the son as a matter of course.
And young Arthur’s a shrewd lad, too. Knows his pharmacopœia. Trained
by the old man, and topped off his medical education in Germany.”

Vance nodded negligently.

“While we’re waiting for Doctor Von Blon, suppose we have a chat with
Miss Sibella and Mr. Rex. Your brother first, let us say.”

Greene looked to Markham for confirmation; then rang for Sproot.

Rex Greene came immediately upon being summoned.

“Well, what do you want now?” he asked, scanning our faces with
nervous intensity. His voice was peevish, almost whining, and there
were certain overtones in it which recalled the fretful complaining
voice of Mrs. Greene.

“We merely want to question you about last night,” answered Vance
soothingly. “We thought it possible you could help us.”

“What help can I give you?” Rex asked sullenly, slumping into a chair.
He gave his brother a sneering look. “Chester’s the only one round
here who seems to have been awake.”

Rex Greene was a short, sallow youth with narrow, stooping shoulders
and an abnormally large head set on a neck which appeared almost
emaciated. A shock of straight hair hung down over his bulging
forehead, and he had a habit of tossing it back with a jerky movement
of the head. His small, shifty eyes, shielded by enormous
tortoise-rimmed glasses, seemed never to be at rest; and his thin lips
were constantly twitching as with a _tic douloureux_. His chin was
small and pointed, and he held it drawn in, emphasizing its lack of
prominence. He was not a pleasant spectacle, and yet there was
something in the man—an overdeveloped studiousness, perhaps—that gave
the impression of unusual potentialities. I once saw a juvenile chess
wizard who had the same cranial formations and general facial cast.

Vance appeared introspective, but I knew he was absorbing every detail
of the man’s appearance. At length he laid down his cigarette, and
focussed his eyes languidly on the desk-lamp.

“You say you slept throughout the tragedy last night. How do you
account for that remarkable fact, inasmuch as one of the shots was
fired in the room next to yours?”

Rex hitched himself forward to the edge of his chair, and turned his
head from side to side, carefully avoiding our eyes.

“I haven’t tried to account for it,” he returned, with angry
resentment; but withal he seemed unstrung and on the defensive. Then
he hurried on: “The walls in this house are pretty thick anyway, and
there are always noises in the street. . . . Maybe my head was buried
under the covers.”

“You’d certainly have buried your head under the covers if you’d heard
the shot,” commented Chester, with no attempt to disguise his contempt
for his brother.

Rex swung round, and would have retorted to the accusation had not
Vance put his next question immediately.

“What’s your theory of the crime, Mr. Greene? You’ve heard all the
details and you know the situation.”

“I thought the police had settled on a burglar.” The youth’s eyes
rested shrewdly on Heath. “Wasn’t that your conclusion?”

“It was, and it is,” declared the Sergeant, who, until now, had
preserved a bored silence. “But your brother here seems to think
otherwise.”

“So Chester thinks otherwise.” Rex turned to his brother with an
expression of feline dislike. “Maybe Chester knows all about it.”
There was no mistaking the implication in his words.

Vance once more stepped into the breach.

“Your brother has told us all he knows. Just at present we’re
concerned with how much _you_ know.” The severity of his manner caused
Rex to shrink back in his chair. His lips twitched more violently, and
he began fidgeting with the braided frog of his smoking-jacket. I
noticed then for the first time that he had short rachitic hands with
bowed and thickened phalanges.

“You are sure you heard no shot?” continued Vance ominously.

“I’ve told you a dozen times I didn’t!” His voice rose to a falsetto,
and he gripped the arms of his chair with both hands.

“Keep calm, Rex,” admonished Chester. “You’ll be having another of
your spells.”

“To hell with you!” the youth shouted. “How many times have I got to
tell them I don’t know anything about it?”

“We merely want to make doubly sure on all points,” Vance told him
pacifyingly. “And you certainly wouldn’t want your sister’s death to
go unavenged through any lack of perseverance on our part.”

Rex relaxed slightly, and took a deep inspiration.

“Oh, I’d tell you anything I knew,” he said, running his tongue over
his dry lips. “But I always get blamed for everything that happens in
this house—that is, Ada and I do. And as for avenging Julia’s death:
that doesn’t appeal to me nearly so much as punishing the dog that
shot Ada. She has a hard enough time of it here under normal
conditions. Mother keeps her in the house waiting on her as if she
were a servant.”

Vance nodded understandingly. Then he rose and placed his hand
sympathetically on Rex’s shoulder. This gesture was so unlike him I
was completely astonished; for, despite his deep-seated humanism,
Vance seemed always ashamed of any outward show of feeling, and sought
constantly to repress his emotions.

“Don’t let this tragedy upset you too much, Mr. Greene,” he said
reassuringly. “And you may be certain that we’ll do everything in our
power to find and punish the person who shot Miss Ada.—We won’t bother
you any more now.”

Rex got up almost eagerly and drew himself together.

“Oh, that’s all right.” And with a covertly triumphant glance at his
brother, he left the room.

“Rex is a queer bird,” Chester remarked, after a short silence. “He
spends most of his time reading and working out abstruse problems in
mathematics and astronomy. Wanted to stick a telescope through the
attic roof, but the Mater drew the line. He’s an unhealthy beggar,
too. I tell him he doesn’t get enough fresh air, but you see his
attitude toward me. Thinks I’m weak-minded because I play golf.”

“What were the spells you spoke about?” asked Vance. “Your brother
looks as if he might be epileptic.”

“Oh, no; nothing like that; though I’ve seen him have convulsive
seizures when he got in a specially violent tantrum. He gets excited
easily and flies off the handle. Von Blon says it’s
hyperneurasthenia—whatever that is. He goes ghastly pale when he’s
worked up, and has a kind of trembling fit. Says things he’s sorry for
afterward. Nothing serious, though. What he needs is exercise—a year
on a ranch roughing it, without his infernal books and compasses and
T-squares.”

“I suppose he’s more or less a favorite with your mother.” (Vance’s
remark recalled a curious similarity of temperament between the two I
had felt vaguely as Rex talked.)

“More or less.” Chester nodded ponderously. “He’s the pet in so far as
the Mater’s capable of petting any one but herself. Anyway, she’s
never ragged Rex as much as the rest of us.”

Again Vance went to the great window above the East River, and stood
looking out. Suddenly he turned.

“By the by, Mr. Greene, did you find your revolver?” His tone had
changed; his ruminative mood had gone.

Chester gave a start, and cast a swift glance at Heath, who had now
become attentive.

“No, by Gad, I haven’t,” he admitted, fumbling in his pocket for his
cigarette-holder. “Funny thing about that gun, too. Always kept it in
my desk drawer—though, as I told this gentleman when he mentioned
it”—he pointed his holder at Heath as if the other had been an
inanimate object—“I don’t remember actually having seen it for years.
But, even so, where the devil could it have gone? Damme, it’s
mysterious. Nobody round here would touch it. The maids don’t go in
the drawers when they’re cleaning the room—I’m lucky if they make the
bed and dust the top of the furniture. Damned funny what became of
it.”

“Did you take a good look for it to-day, like you said?” asked Heath,
thrusting his head forward belligerently. Why, since he held to the
burglar theory, he should assume a bulldozing manner, I couldn’t
imagine. But whenever Heath was troubled, he was aggressive; and any
loose end in an investigation troubled him deeply.

“Certainly, I looked for it,” Chester replied, haughtily indignant. “I
went through every room and closet and drawer in the house. But it’s
completely disappeared. . . . Probably got thrown out by mistake in
one of the annual house-cleanings.”

“That’s possible,” agreed Vance. “What sort of a revolver was it?”

“An old Smith & Wesson .32.” Chester appeared to be trying to refresh
his memory. “Mother-of-pearl handle: some scroll-engraving on the
barrel—I don’t recall exactly. I bought it fifteen years ago—maybe
longer—when I went camping one summer in the Adirondacks. Used it for
target practice. Then I got tired of it, and stuck it away in a drawer
behind a lot of old cancelled checks.”

“Was it in good working order then?”

“As far as I know. Fact is, it worked stiff when I got it, and I had
the sear filed down, so it was practically a hair-trigger affair. The
slightest touch sent it off. Better for shooting targets that way.”

“Do you recall if it was loaded when you put it away?”

“Couldn’t say. Might have been. It’s been so long——”

“Were there any cartridges for it in your desk?”

“Now, that I can answer you positively. There wasn’t a loose cartridge
in the place.”

Vance reseated himself.

“Well, Mr. Greene, if you happen to run across the revolver you will,
of course, let Mr. Markham or Sergeant Heath know.”

“Oh, certainly. With pleasure.” Chester’s assurance was expressed with
an air of magnanimity.

Vance glanced at his watch.

“And now, seeing that Doctor Von Blon is still with his patient, I
wonder if we could see Miss Sibella for a moment.”

Chester got up, obviously relieved that the subject of the revolver
had been disposed of, and went to the bell-cord beside the archway.
But he arrested his hand in the act of reaching for it.

“I’ll fetch her myself,” he said, and hurried from the room.

Markham turned to Vance with a smile.

“Your prophecy about the non-reappearance of the gun has, I note, been
temporarily verified.”

“And I’m afraid that fancy weapon with the hair-trigger never will
appear—at least, not until this miserable business is cleaned up.”
Vance was unwontedly sober; his customary levity had for the moment
deserted him. But before long he lifted his eyebrows mockingly, and
gave Heath a chaffing look.

“Perchance the Sergeant’s predacious neophyte made off with the
revolver—became fascinated with the scrollwork, or entranced with the
pearl handle.”

“It’s quite possible the revolver disappeared in the way Greene said
it did,” Markham submitted. “In any event, I think you unduly
emphasized the matter.”

“Sure he did, Mr. Markham,” growled Heath. “And, what’s more, I can’t
see that all this repartee with the family is getting us anywheres. I
had ’em all on the carpet last night when the shooting was hot; and
I’m telling you they don’t know nothing about it. This Ada Greene is
the only person round here I want to talk to. There’s a chance she can
give us a tip. If her lights were on when the burglar got in her room,
she maybe got a good look at him.”

“Sergeant,” said Vance, shaking his head sadly, “you’re getting
positively morbid on the subject of that mythical burglar.”

Markham inspected the end of his cigar thoughtfully.

“No, Vance. I’m inclined to agree with the Sergeant. It appears to me
that you’re the one with the morbid imagination. I let you inveigle me
into this inquiry too easily. That’s why I’ve kept in the background
and left the floor to you. Ada Greene’s our only hope of help here.”

“Oh, for your trusting, forthright mind!” Vance sighed and shifted his
position restlessly. “I say, our psychic Chester is taking a dashed
long time to fetch Sibella.”

At that moment there came a sound of footsteps on the marble stairs,
and a few seconds later Sibella Greene, accompanied by Chester,
appeared in the archway.



CHAPTER V.

Homicidal Possibilities

  (Tuesday, November 9; 3.30 p. m.)

Sibella entered with a firm, swinging gait, her head held high, her
eyes sweeping the assemblage with bold interrogation. She was tall and
of slender, athletic build, and, though she was not pretty, there was
a cold, chiselled attractiveness in her lineaments that held one’s
attention. Her face was at once vivid and intense; and there was a
hauteur in her expression amounting almost to arrogance. Her dark,
crisp hair was bobbed but not waved, and the severity of its lines
accentuated the overdecisive cast of her features. Her hazel eyes were
wide-spaced beneath heavy, almost horizontal eyebrows; her nose was
straight and slightly prominent, and her mouth was large and firm,
with a suggestion of cruelty in its thin lips. She was dressed simply,
in a dark sport suit cut extremely short, silk-wool stockings of a
heather mixture, and low-heeled mannish Oxfords.

Chester presented the District Attorney to her as an old acquaintance,
and permitted Markham to make the other introductions.

“I suppose you know, Mr. Markham, why Chet likes you,” she said, in a
peculiarly plangent voice. “You’re one of the few persons at the
Marylebone Club that he can beat at golf.”

She seated herself before the centre-table, and crossed her knees
comfortably.

“I wish you’d get me a cigarette, Chet.” Her tone made the request an
imperative.

Vance rose at once and held out his case.

“Do try one of these _Régies_, Miss Greene,” he urged in his best
drawing-room manner. “If you say you don’t like them, I shall
immediately change my brand.”

“Rash man!” Sibella took a cigarette and permitted Vance to light it
for her. Then she settled back in her chair and gave Markham a
quizzical look. “Quite a wild party we pulled here last night, wasn’t
it? We’ve never had so much commotion in the old mansion. And it was
just my luck to sleep soundly through it all.” She made an aggrieved
_moue_. “Chet didn’t call me till it was all over. Just like him—he
has a nasty disposition.”

Somehow her flippancy did not shock me as it might have done in a
different type of person. But Sibella struck me as a girl who, though
she might feel things keenly, would not permit any misfortune to get
the better of her; and I put her apparent callousness down to a
dogged, if perverted, courageousness.

Markham, however, resented her attitude.

“One cannot blame Mr. Greene for not taking the matter lightly,” he
reproved her. “The brutal murder of a defenseless woman and the
attempted murder of a young girl hardly come under the head of
diversion.”

Sibella looked at him reproachfully. “You know, Mr. Markham, you sound
exactly like the Mother Superior of the stuffy convent I was confined
in for two years.” She became suddenly grave. “Why draw a long face
over something that’s happened and can’t be helped? Anyway, Julia
never sought to brighten her little corner. She was always crabbed and
faultfinding, and her good deeds wouldn’t fill a book. It may be
unsisterly to say it, but she’s not going to be missed so dreadfully.
Chet and I are certainly not going to pine away.”

“And what about the brutal shooting of your other sister?” Markham was
with difficulty controlling his indignation.

Sibella’s eyelids narrowed perceptibly, and the lines of her face
became set. But she erased the expression almost at once.

“Well, Ada’s going to recover, isn’t she?” Despite her effort, she was
unable to keep a certain hardness out of her voice. “She’ll have a
nice long rest, and a nurse to wait on her. Am I expected to weep
copiously because of baby sister’s escape?”

Vance, who had been closely watching this clash between Sibella and
Markham, now took a hand in the conversation.

“My dear Markham, I can’t see what Miss Greene’s sentiments have to do
with the matter. Her attitude may not be strictly in accord with the
prescribed conduct for young ladies on such occasions, but I feel sure
she has excellent reasons for her point of view. Let us give over
moralizing, and seek Miss Greene’s assistance instead.”

The girl darted him an amused, appreciative glance; and Markham made a
gesture of indifferent acquiescence. It was plain that he regarded the
present inquiry as of little importance.

Vance gave the girl an engaging smile.

“It’s really my fault, Miss Greene, that we are intruding here,” he
apologized. “It was I, d’ ye see, that urged Mr. Markham to look into
the case after your brother had expressed his disbelief in the burglar
theory.”

She nodded understandingly. “Oh, Chet sometimes has excellent hunches.
It’s one of his very few merits.”

“You, too, I gather, are sceptical in regard to the burglar?”

“Sceptical?” She gave a short laugh. “I’m downright suspicious. I
don’t know any burglars, though I’d dearly love to meet one; but I
simply can’t bring my flighty brain to picture them going about their
fascinating occupation the way our little entertainer did last night.”

“You positively thrill me,” declared Vance. “Y’ see, our minority
ideas coincide perfectly.”

“Did Chet give you any intelligible explanation for his opinion?” she
asked.

“I’m afraid not. He was inclined to lay his feelings to metaphysical
causes. His conviction was due, I took it, to some kind of psychic
visitation. He knew, but could not explain: he was sure, but had no
proof. It was most indefinite—a bit esoteric, in fact.”

“I’d never suspect Chet of spiritualistic leanings.” She shot her
brother a tantalizing look. “He’s really deadly commonplace, when you
get to know him.”

“Oh, cut it, Sib,” objected Chester irritably. “You yourself had a
spasm this morning when I told you the police were hot-footing it
after a burglar.”

Sibella made no answer. With a slight toss of the head she leaned over
and threw her cigarette into the grate.

“By the by, Miss Greene”—Vance spoke casually—“there has been
considerable mystery about the disappearance of your brother’s
revolver. It has completely vanished from his desk drawer. I wonder if
you have seen it about the house anywhere.”

At his mention of the gun Sibella stiffened slightly. Her eyes took on
an expression of intentness, and the corners of her mouth lifted into
a faintly ironical smile.

“Chet’s revolver has gone, has it?” She put the question colorlessly,
as if her thoughts were elsewhere. “No . . . I haven’t seen it.” Then,
after a momentary pause: “But it was in Chet’s desk last week.”

Chester heaved himself forward angrily.

“What were you doing in my desk last week?” he demanded.

“Don’t wax apoplectic,” the girl said carelessly. “I wasn’t looking
for love missives. I simply couldn’t imagine you in love, Chet. . . .”
The idea seemed to amuse her. “I was only looking for that old emerald
stick-pin you borrowed and never returned.”

“It’s at the club,” he explained sulkily.

“Is it, really! Well, I didn’t find it anyway; but I did see the
revolver.—Are you quite sure it’s gone?”

“Don’t be absurd,” the man growled. “I’ve searched everywhere for
it. . . . Including your room,” he added vengefully.

“Oh, you would! But why did you admit having it in the first place?”
Her tone was scornful. “Why involve yourself unnecessarily?”

Chester shifted uneasily.

“This gentleman”—he again pointed impersonally to Heath—“asked me if I
owned a revolver, and I told him ‘yes.’ If I hadn’t, some of the
servants or one of my loving family would have told him. And I thought
the truth was best.”

Sibella smiled satirically.

“My older brother, you observe, is a model of all the old-fashioned
virtues,” she remarked to Vance. But she was obviously _distraite_.
The revolver episode had somewhat shaken her self-assurance.

“You say, Miss Greene, that the burglar idea does not appeal to you.”
Vance was smoking languidly with half-closed eyes. “Can you think of
any other explanation for the tragedy?”

The girl raised her head and regarded him calculatingly.

“Because I don’t happen to believe in burglars that shoot women and
sneak away without taking anything, it doesn’t mean that I can suggest
alternatives. I’m not a policewoman—though I’ve often thought it would
be jolly good sport—and I had a vague idea it was the business of the
police to run down criminals.—You don’t believe in the burglar either,
Mr. Vance, or you wouldn’t have followed up Chet’s hunch. Who do _you_
think ran amuck here last night?”

“My dear girl!” Vance raised a protesting hand. “If I had the foggiest
idea I wouldn’t be annoying you with impertinent questions. I’m
plodding with leaden feet in a veritable bog of ignorance.”

He spoke negligently, but Sibella’s eyes were clouded with suspicion.
Presently, however, she laughed gaily and held out her hand.

“Another _Régie, monsieur_. I was on the verge of becoming serious;
and I simply mustn’t become serious. It’s so frightfully boring.
Besides, it gives one wrinkles. And I’m much too young for wrinkles.”

“Like Ninon de L’Enclos, you’ll always be too young for wrinkles,”
rejoined Vance, holding a match to her cigarette. “But perhaps you can
suggest, without becoming too serious, some one who might have had a
reason for wanting to kill your two sisters.”

“Oh, as for that, I’d say we’d all come under suspicion. We’re not an
ideal home circle, by any means. In fact, the Greenes are a queer
collection. We don’t love one another the way a perfectly nice and
proper family should. We’re always at each other’s throats, bickering
and fighting about something or other. It’s rather a mess—this ménage.
It’s a wonder to me murder hasn’t been done long before. And we’ve all
got to live here until 1932, or go it on our own; and, of course, none
of us could make a decent living. A sweet paternal heritage!”*

  * Sibella was here referring to Tobias Greene’s will, which
  stipulated not only that the Greene mansion should be
  maintained intact for twenty-five years, but that the legatees
  should live on the estate during that time or become
  disinherited.

She smoked moodily for a few moments.

“Yes, any one of us had ample reason to be murderously inclined toward
all the others. Chet there would strangle me now if he didn’t think
the nervous aftermath of the act would spoil his golf—wouldn’t you,
Chet dear? Rex regards us all as inferiors, and probably considers
himself highly indulgent and altruistic not to have murdered us all
long ago. And the only reason mother hasn’t killed us is that she’s
paralyzed and can’t manage it. Julia, too, for that matter, could have
seen us all boiled in oil without turning a hair. And as for Ada”—her
brows contracted and an extraordinary ferocity crept into her
eyes—“she’d dearly love to see us all exterminated. She’s not really
one of us, and she hates us. Nor would I myself have any scruples
about doing away with the rest of my fond family. I’ve thought of it
often, but I could never decide on a nice thorough method.” She
flicked her cigarette ash on the floor. “So there you are. If you’re
looking for possibilities you have them galore. There’s no one under
this ancestral roof who couldn’t qualify.”

Though her words were meant to be satirical, I could not help feeling
that a sombre, terrible truth underlay them. Vance, though apparently
listening with amusement, had, I knew, been absorbing every inflection
of her voice and play of expression, in an effort to relate the
details of her sweeping indictment to the problem in hand.

“At any rate,” he remarked offhandedly, “you are an amazingly frank
young woman. However, I sha’n’t recommend your arrest just yet. I
haven’t a particle of evidence against you, don’t y’ know. Annoyin’,
ain’t it?”

“Oh, well,” sighed the girl, in mock disappointment, “you may pick up
a clew later on. There’ll probably be another death or two around here
before long. I’d hate to think the murderer would give up the job with
so little really accomplished.”

At this point Doctor Von Blon entered the drawing-room. Chester rose
to greet him, and the formalities of introduction were quickly over.
Von Blon bowed with reserved cordiality; but I noted that his manner
to Sibella, while pleasant, was casual in the extreme. I wondered a
little about this, but I recalled that he was an old friend of the
family and probably took many of the social amenities for granted.

“What have you to report, doctor?” asked Markham. “Will we be able to
question the young lady this afternoon?”

“I hardly think there’d be any harm in it,” Von Blon returned, seating
himself beside Chester. “Ada has only a little reaction fever now,
though she’s suffering from shock, and is pretty weak from loss of
blood.”

Doctor Von Blon was a suave, smooth-faced man of forty, with small,
almost feminine features and an air of unwavering amiability. His
urbanity struck me as too artificial—“professional” is perhaps the
word—and there was something of the ambitious egoist about him. But I
was far more attracted than repelled by him.

Vance watched him attentively as he spoke. He was more anxious even
than Heath, I think, to question the girl.

“It was not a particularly serious wound, then?” Markham asked.

“No, not serious,” the doctor assured him; “though it barely missed
being fatal. Had the shot gone an inch deeper it would have torn
across the lung. It was a very narrow escape.”

“As I understand it,” interposed Vance, “the bullet travelled
transversely over the left scapular region.”

Von Blon inclined his head in agreement.

“The shot was obviously aimed at the heart from the rear,” he
explained, in his soft, modulated voice. “But Ada must have turned
slightly to the right just as the revolver exploded; and the bullet,
instead of going directly into her body, ploughed along the
shoulder-blade at the level of the third dorsal vertebra, tore the
capsular ligament, and lodged in the deltoid.” He indicated the
location of the deltoid on his own left arm.

“She had,” suggested Vance, “apparently turned her back on her
assailant and attempted to run away; and he had followed her and
placed the revolver almost against her back.—Is that your
interpretation of it, doctor?”

“Yes, that would seem to be the situation. And, as I said, at the
crucial moment she veered a little, and thus saved her life.”

“Would she have fallen immediately to the floor, despite the actual
superficiality of the wound?”

“It’s not unlikely. Not only would the pain have been considerable,
but the shock must be taken into account. Ada—or, for that matter, any
woman—might have fainted at once.”

“And it’s a reasonable presumption,” pursued Vance, “that her
assailant would have taken it for granted that the shot had been
fatal.”

“We may readily assume that to be the case.”

Vance smoked a moment, his eyes averted.

“Yes,” he agreed, “I think we may assume that.—And another point
suggests itself. Since Miss Ada was in front of the dressing-table, a
considerable distance from the bed, and since the weapon was held
practically against her, the encounter would seem to take on the
nature of a deliberate attack, rather than a haphazard shot fired by
some one in a panic.”

Von Blon looked shrewdly at Vance, and then turned a questioning gaze
upon Heath. For a moment he was silent, as if weighing his reply, and
when he spoke it was with guarded reserve.

“Of course, one might interpret the situation that way. Indeed, the
facts would seem to indicate such a conclusion. But, on the other
hand, the intruder might have been very close to Ada; and the fact
that the bullet entered her left shoulder at a particularly vital
point may have been the purest accident.”

“Quite true,” conceded Vance. “However, if the idea of premeditation
is to be abrogated, we must account for the fact that the lights were
on in the room when the butler entered immediately after the
shooting.”

Von Blon showed the keenest astonishment at this statement.

“The lights were on? That’s most remarkable!” His brow crinkled into a
perplexed frown, and he appeared to be assimilating Vance’s
information. “Still,” he argued, “that very fact may account for the
shooting. If the intruder had entered a lighted room he may have fired
at the occupant lest his description be given to the police later.”

“Oh, quite!” murmured Vance. “Anyway, let us hope we’ll learn the
explanation when we’ve seen and spoken to Miss Ada.”

“Well, why don’t we get to it?” grumbled Heath, whose ordinarily
inexhaustible store of patience had begun to run low.

“You’re so hasty, Sergeant,” Vance chided him. “Doctor Von Blon has
just told us that Miss Ada is very weak; and anything we can learn
beforehand will spare her just so many questions.”

“All I want to find out,” expostulated Heath, “is if she got a look at
the bird that shot her and can give me a description of him.”

“That being the case, Sergeant, I fear you are doomed to have your
ardent hopes dashed to the ground.”

Heath chewed viciously on his cigar; and Vance turned again to Von
Blon.

“There’s one other question I’d like to ask, doctor. How long was it
after Miss Ada had been wounded before you examined her?”

“The butler’s already told us, Mr. Vance,” interposed Heath
impatiently. “The doctor got here in half an hour.”

“Yes, that’s about right.” Von Blon’s tone was smooth and
matter-of-fact. “I was unfortunately out on a call when Sproot phoned,
but I returned about fifteen minutes later, and hurried right over.
Luckily I live near here—in East 48th Street.”

“And was Miss Ada still unconscious when you arrived?”

“Yes. She had lost considerable blood. The cook, however, had put a
towel-compress on the wound, which of course helped.”

Vance thanked him and rose.

“And now, if you’ll be good enough to take us to your patient, we’ll
be very grateful.”

“As little excitement as possible, you understand,” admonished Von
Blon, as he got up and led the way up-stairs.

Sibella and Chester seemed undecided about accompanying us; but as I
turned into the hall I saw a look of interrogation flash between them,
and a moment later they too joined us in the upper hall.



CHAPTER VI.

An Accusation

  (Tuesday, November 9; 4 p. m.)

Ada Greene’s room was simply, almost severely, furnished; but there
was a neatness about it, combined with little touches of feminine
decoration, that reflected the care its occupant had bestowed upon it.
To the left, near the door that led into the dressing-room
communicating with Mrs. Greene’s chamber, was a single mahogany bed of
simple design; and beyond it was the door that opened upon the stone
balcony. To the right, beside the window, stood the dressing-table;
and on the amber-colored Chinese rug before it there showed a large
irregular brown stain where the wounded girl had lain. In the centre
of the right wall was an old Tudor fireplace with a high oak-panelled
mantel.

As we entered, the girl in the bed looked at us inquisitively, and a
slight flush colored her pale cheeks. She lay on her right side,
facing the door, her bandaged shoulder supported by pillows, and her
left hand, slim and white, resting upon the blue-figured coverlet. A
remnant of her fear of the night before seemed still to linger in her
blue eyes.

Doctor Von Blon went to her and, sitting down on the edge of the bed,
placed his hand on hers. His manner was at once protective and
impersonal.

“These gentlemen want to ask you a few questions, Ada,” he explained,
with a reassuring smile; “and as you were so much stronger this
afternoon I brought them up. Do you feel equal to it?”

She nodded her head wearily, her eyes on the doctor.

[Illustration: Plan of Ada’s bedroom. The bed is across from the
fireplace. Next to the fireplace is a dressing table, before which a
spot is labelled “where Ada was found wounded.” The bed sits between
two doors, one leading to a bathroom and the other leading to a
“dressing room that communicates with Mrs. Greene’s room.” A light
switch is next to the door to the hall, opposite from which are French
windows leading out to a balcony.]

Vance, who had paused by the mantel to inspect the hand-carving of the
quadræ, now turned and approached the bed.

“Sergeant,” he said, “if you don’t mind, let me talk to Miss Greene
first.”

Heath realized, I think, that the situation called for tact and
delicacy; and it was typical of the man’s fundamental bigness that he
at once stepped aside.

“Miss Greene,” said Vance, in a quiet, genial voice, drawing up a
small chair beside the bed, “we’re very anxious to clear up the
mystery about last night’s tragedy; and, as you are the only person
who is in a position to help us, we want you to recall for us, as
nearly as you can, just what happened.”

The girl took a deep breath.

“It—it was awful,” she said weakly, looking straight ahead. “After I
had gone to sleep—I don’t know just what time—something woke me up. I
can’t tell you what it was; but all of a sudden I was wide awake, and
the strangest feeling came over me. . . .” She closed her eyes, and an
involuntary shudder swept her body. “It was as though some one were in
the room, threatening me. . . .” Her voice faded away into an awed
silence.

“Was the room dark?” Vance asked gently.

“Pitch-dark.” Slowly she turned her eyes to him. “That’s why I was so
frightened. I couldn’t see anything, and I imagined there was a
ghost—or evil spirit—near me. I tried to call out, but I couldn’t make
a sound. My throat felt dry and—and stiff.”

“Typical constriction due to fright, Ada,” explained Von Blon. “Many
people can’t speak when they’re frightened.—Then what happened?”

“I lay trembling for a few minutes, but not a sound came from anywhere
in the room. Yet I knew—I _knew_—somebody, or something, that meant to
harm me was here. . . . At last I forced myself to get up—very
quietly. I wanted to turn on the lights—the darkness frightened me so.
And after a while I was standing up beside the bed here. Then, for the
first time, I could see the dim light of the windows; and it made
things seem more real somehow. So I began to grope my way toward the
electric switch there by the door. I had only gone a little way
when . . . a hand . . . touched me. . . .”

Her lips were trembling, and a look of horror came into her wide-open
eyes.

“I—I was so stunned,” she struggled on, “I hardly know what I did.
Again I tried to scream, but I couldn’t even open my lips. And then I
turned and ran away from the—the thing—toward the window. I had almost
reached it when I heard some one coming after me—a queer, shuffling
sound—and I knew it was the end. . . . There was an awful noise, and
something hot struck the back of my shoulder. I was suddenly
nauseated; the light of the window disappeared, and I felt myself
sinking down—deep. . . .”

When she ceased speaking a tense silence fell on the room. Her
account, for all its simplicity, had been tremendously graphic. Like a
great actress she had managed to convey to her listeners the very
emotional essence of her story.

Vance waited several moments before speaking.

“It was a frightful experience!” he murmured sympathetically. “I wish
it wasn’t necess’ry to worry you about details, but there are several
points I’d like to go over with you.”

She smiled faintly in appreciation of his considerateness, and waited.

“If you tried hard, do you think you could recall what wakened you?”
he asked.

“No—there wasn’t any sound that I can remember.”

“Did you leave your door unlocked last night?”

“I think so. I don’t generally lock it.”

“And you heard no door open or close—anywhere?”

“No; none. Everything in the house was perfectly still.”

“And yet you knew that some one was in the room. How was that?”
Vance’s voice, though gentle, was persistent.

“I—don’t know . . . and yet there must have been something that told
me.”

“Exactly! Now try to think.” Vance bent a little nearer to the
troubled girl. “A soft breathing, perhaps—a slight gust of air as the
person moved by your bed—a faint odor of perfume. . . ?”

She frowned painfully, as if trying to recall the elusive cause of her
dread.

“I can’t think—I can’t remember.” Her voice was scarcely audible. “I
was so terribly frightened.”

“If only we could trace the source!” Vance glanced at the doctor, who
nodded understandingly, and said:

“Obviously some association whose stimulus went unrecognized.”

“Did you feel, Miss Greene, that you knew the person who was here?”
continued Vance. “That is to say, was it a familiar presence?”

“I don’t know exactly. I only know I was afraid of it.”

“But you heard it move toward you after you had risen and fled toward
the window. Was there any familiarity in the sound?”

“No!” For the first time she spoke with emphasis. “It was just
footsteps—soft, sliding footsteps.”

“Of course, any one might have walked that way in the dark, or a
person in bedroom slippers. . . .”

“It was only a few steps—and then came the awful noise and burning.”

Vance waited a moment.

“Try very hard to recall those steps—or rather your impression of
them. Would you say they were the steps of a man or a woman?”

An added pallor overspread the girl’s face; and her frightened eyes
ran over all the occupants of the room. Her breathing, I noticed, had
quickened; and twice she parted her lips as if to speak, but checked
herself each time. At last she said in a low tremulous voice:

“I don’t know—I haven’t the slightest idea.”

A short, high-strung laugh, bitter and sneering, burst from Sibella;
and all eyes were turned in amazed attention in her direction. She
stood rigidly at the foot of the bed, her face flushed, her hands
tightly clinched at her side.

“Why don’t you tell them you recognized my footsteps?” she demanded of
her sister in biting tones. “You had every intention of doing so.
Haven’t you got courage enough left to lie—you sobbing little cat?”

Ada caught her breath and seemed to draw herself nearer to the doctor,
who gave Sibella a stern, admonitory look.

“Oh, I say, Sib! Hold your tongue.” It was Chester who broke the
startled silence that followed the outbreak.

Sibella shrugged her shoulders and walked to the window; and Vance
again turned his attention to the girl on the bed, continuing his
questioning as if nothing had happened.

“There’s one more point, Miss Greene.” His tone was even gentler than
before. “When you groped your way across the room toward the switch,
at what point did you come in contact with the unseen person?”

“About half-way to the door—just beyond that centre-table.”

“You say a hand touched you. But how did it touch you? Did it shove
you, or try to take hold of you?”

She shook her head vaguely.

“Not exactly. I don’t know how to explain it, but I seemed to walk
into the hand, as though it were outstretched—reaching for me.”

“Would you say it was a large hand or a small one? Did you, for
instance, get the impression of strength?”

There was another silence. Again the girl’s respiration quickened, and
she cast a frightened glance at Sibella, who stood staring out into
the black, swinging branches of the trees in the side yard.

“I don’t know—oh, I don’t know!” Her words were like a stifled cry of
anguish. “I didn’t notice. It was all so sudden—so horrible.”

“But try to think,” urged Vance’s low, insistent voice. “Surely you
got some impression. Was it a man’s hand, or a woman’s?”

Sibella now came swiftly to the bed, her cheeks very pale, her eyes
blazing. For a moment she glared at the stricken girl; then she turned
resolutely to Vance.

“You asked me down-stairs if I had any idea as to who might have done
the shooting. I didn’t answer you then, but I’ll answer you now. I’ll
tell you who’s guilty!” She jerked her head toward the bed, and
pointed a quivering finger at the still figure lying there. “There’s
the guilty one—that snivelling little outsider, that sweet angelic
little snake in the grass!”

So incredible, so unexpected, was this accusation that for a time no
one in the room spoke. A groan burst from Ada’s lips, and she clutched
at the doctor’s hand with a spasmodic movement of despair.

“Oh, Sibella—how could you!” she breathed.

Von Blon had stiffened, and an angry light came into his eyes. But
before he could speak Sibella was rushing on with her illogical,
astounding indictment.

“Oh, she’s the one who did it! And she’s deceiving you just as she’s
always tried to deceive the rest of us. She hates us—she’s hated us
ever since father brought her into this house. She resents us—the
things we have, the very blood in our veins. Heaven knows what blood’s
in hers. She hates us because she isn’t our equal. She’d gladly see us
all murdered. She killed Julia first, because Julia ran the house and
saw to it that she did something to earn her livelihood. She despises
us; and she planned to get rid of us.”

The girl on the bed looked piteously from one to the other of us.
There was no resentment in her eyes; she appeared stunned and
unbelieving, as if she doubted the reality of what she had heard.

“Most interestin’,” drawled Vance. It was his ironic tone, more than
the words themselves, that focussed all eyes on him. He had been
watching Sibella during her tirade, and his gaze was still on her.

“You seriously accuse your sister of doing the shooting?” He spoke now
in a pleasant, almost friendly, voice.

“I do!” she declared brazenly. “She hates us all.”

“As far as that goes,” smiled Vance, “I haven’t noticed a
superabundance of love and affection in any of the Greene family.” His
tone was without offense. “And do you base your accusation on anything
specific, Miss Greene?”

“Isn’t it specific enough that she wants us all out of the way, that
she thinks she would have everything—ease, luxury, freedom—if there
wasn’t any one else to inherit the Greene money?”

“Hardly specific enough to warrant a direct accusation of so heinous a
character.—And by the by, Miss Greene, just how would you explain the
method of the crime if called as a witness in a court of law? You
couldn’t altogether ignore the fact that Miss Ada herself was shot in
the back, don’t y’ know?”

For the first time the sheer impossibility of the accusation seemed to
strike Sibella. She became sullen; and her mouth settled into a
contour of angry bafflement.

“As I told you once before, I’m not a policewoman,” she retorted.
“Crime isn’t _my_ specialty.”

“Nor logic either apparently.” A whimsical note crept into Vance’s
voice. “But perhaps I misinterpret your accusation. Did you mean to
imply that Miss Ada shot your sister Julia, and that some one
else—party or parties unknown, I believe the phrase is—shot Miss Ada
immediately afterward—in a spirit of vengeance, perhaps? A crime _à
quatre mains_, so to speak?”

Sibella’s confusion was obvious, but her stubborn wrath had in no wise
abated.

“Well, if that was the way it happened,” she countered malevolently,
“it’s a rotten shame they didn’t do the job better.”

“The blunder may at least prove unfortunate for somebody,” suggested
Vance pointedly. “Still, I hardly think we can seriously entertain the
double-culprit theory. Both of your sisters, d’ ye see, were shot with
the same gun—a .32 revolver—within a few minutes of each other. I’m
afraid that we’ll have to be content with one guilty person.”

Sibella’s manner suddenly became sly and calculating.

“What kind of a gun was yours, Chet?” she asked her brother.

“Oh, it was a .32, all right—an old Smith & Wesson revolver.” Chester
was painfully ill at ease.

“Was it, indeed? Well, that’s that.” She turned her back on us and
went again to the window.

The tension in the room slackened, and Von Blon leaned solicitously
over the wounded girl and rearranged the pillows.

“Every one’s upset, Ada,” he said soothingly. “You mustn’t worry about
what’s happened. Sibella’ll be sorry to-morrow and make amends. This
affair has got on everybody’s nerves.”

The girl gave him a grateful glance, and seemed to relax under his
ministrations.

After a moment he straightened up and looked at Markham.

“I hope you gentlemen are through—for to-day, at least.”

Both Vance and Markham had risen, and Heath and I had followed suit;
but at that moment Sibella strode toward us again.

“Wait!” she commanded imperiously. “I’ve just thought of something.
Chet’s revolver! I know where it went.—_She_ took it.” Again she
pointed accusingly at Ada. “I saw her in Chet’s room the other day,
and I wondered then why she was snooping about there.” She gave Vance
a triumphant leer. “That’s specific, isn’t it?”

“What day was this, Miss Greene?” As before, his calmness seemed to
counteract the effect of her venom.

“What day? I don’t remember exactly. Last week some time.”

“The day you were looking for your emerald pin, perhaps?”

Sibella hesitated; then said angrily: “I don’t recall. Why should I
remember the exact time? All I know is that, as I was passing down the
hall, I glanced into Chet’s room—the door was half open—and I saw
_her_ in there . . . by the desk.”

“And was it so unusual to see Miss Ada in your brother’s room?” Vance
spoke without any particular interest.

“She never goes into any of our rooms,” declared Sibella. “Except
Rex’s, sometimes. Julia told her long ago to keep out of them.”

Ada gave her sister a look of infinite entreaty.

“Oh, Sibella,” she moaned; “what have I ever done to make you dislike
me so?”

“What have you done!” The other’s voice was harsh and strident, and a
look almost demoniacal smouldered in her levelled eyes. “Everything!
Nothing! Oh, you’re clever—with your quiet, sneaky ways, and your
patient, hangdog look, and your goody-goody manner. But you don’t pull
the wool over _my_ eyes. You’ve been hating all of us ever since you
came here. And you’ve been waiting for the chance to kill us, planning
and scheming—you vile little——”

“Sibella!” It was Von Blon’s voice that, like the lash of a whip, cut
in on this unreasoned tirade. “That will be enough!” He moved forward,
and glanced menacingly into the girl’s eyes. I was almost as
astonished at his attitude as I had been at her wild words. There was
a curious intimacy in his manner—an implication of familiarity which
struck me as unusual even for a family physician of his long and
friendly standing. Vance noticed it too, for his eyebrows went up
slightly and he watched the scene with intense interest.

“You’ve become hysterical,” Von Blon said, without lowering his
minatory gaze. “You don’t realize what you’ve been saying.”

I felt he would have expressed himself far more forcibly if strangers
had not been present. But his words had their effect. Sibella dropped
her eyes, and a sudden change came over her. She covered her face with
her hands, and her whole body shook with sobs.

“I’m—sorry. I was mad—and silly—to say such things.”

“You’d better take Sibella to her room, Chester.” Von Blon had resumed
his professional tone. “This business has been too much for her.”

The girl turned without another word and went out, followed by
Chester.

“These modern women—all nerves,” Von Blon commented laconically. Then
he placed his hand on Ada’s forehead. “Now, young lady, I’m going to
give you something to make you sleep after all this excitement.”

He had scarcely opened his medicine-case to prepare the draught when a
shrill, complaining voice drifted clearly to us from the next room;
and for the first time I noticed that the door of the little
dressing-room which communicated with Mrs. Greene’s quarters was
slightly ajar.

“What’s all the trouble now? Hasn’t there been enough disturbance
already without these noisy scenes in my very ear? But it doesn’t
matter, of course, how much _I_ suffer. . . . Nurse! Shut those doors
into Ada’s room. You had no business to leave them open when you knew
I was trying to get a little rest. You did it on purpose to annoy
me. . . . And nurse! Tell the doctor I must see him before he goes. I
have those stabbing pains in my spine again. But who thinks about me,
lying here paralyzed——?”

The doors were closed softly, and the fretful voice was cut off from
us.

“She could have had the doors closed a long time ago if she’d really
wanted them closed,” said Ada wearily, a look of distress on her drawn
white face. “Why, Doctor Von, does she always pretend that every one
deliberately makes her suffer?”

Von Blon sighed. “I’ve told you, Ada, that you mustn’t take your
mother’s tantrums too seriously. Her irritability and complaining are
part of her disease.”

We bade the girl good-by, and the doctor walked with us into the hall.

“I’m afraid you didn’t learn much,” he remarked, almost
apologetically. “It’s most unfortunate Ada didn’t get a look at her
assailant.” He addressed himself to Heath. “Did you, by the way, look
in the dining-room wall-safe to make sure nothing was missing? You
know, there’s one there behind the big niello over the mantel.”

“One of the first places we inspected.” The Sergeant’s voice was a bit
disdainful. “And that reminds me, doc: I want to send a man up in the
morning to look for finger-prints in Miss Ada’s room.”

Von Blon agreed amiably, and held out his hand to Markham.

“And if there’s any way I can be of service to you or the police,” he
added pleasantly, “please call on me. I’ll be only too glad to help. I
don’t see just what I can do, but one never knows.”

Markham thanked him, and we descended to the lower hall. Sproot was
waiting to help us with our coats, and a moment later we were in the
District Attorney’s car ploughing our way through the snow-drifts.



CHAPTER VII.

Vance Argues the Case

  (Tuesday, November 9; 5 p. m.)

It was nearly five o’clock when we reached the Criminal Courts
Building. Swacker had lit the old bronze-and-china chandelier of
Markham’s private office, and an atmosphere of eerie gloom pervaded
the room.

“Not a nice family, Markham old dear,” sighed Vance, lying back in one
of the deep leather-upholstered chairs. “Decidedly not a nice family.
A family run to seed, its old vigor vitiated. If the heredit’ry sires
of the contempor’ry Greenes could rise from their sepulchres and look
in upon their present progeny, my word! what a jolly good shock they’d
have! . . . Funny thing how these old families degenerate under the
environment of ease and idleness. There are the Wittelsbachs, and the
Romanoffs, and the Julian-Claudian house, and the Abbassid dynasty—all
examples of phyletic disintegration. . . . And it’s the same with
nations, don’t y’ know. Luxury and unrestrained indulgence are
corruptin’ influences. Look at Rome under the soldier emperors, and
Assyria under Sardanapalus, and Egypt under the later Ramessids, and
the Vandal African empire under Gelimer. It’s very distressin’.”

“Your erudite observations might be highly absorbing to the social
historian,” grumbled Markham, with an undisguised show of
irritability; “but I can’t say they’re particularly edifying, or even
relevant, in the present circumstances.”

“I wouldn’t be too positive on that point,” Vance returned easily. “In
fact, I submit, for your earnest and profound consideration, the
temperaments and internal relationships of the Greene clan, as
pointers upon the dark road of the present investigation. . . .
Really, y’ know”—he assumed a humorsome tone—“it’s most unfortunate
that you and the Sergeant are so obsessed with the idea of social
justice and that sort of thing; for society would be much better off
if such families as the Greenes were exterminated. Still, it’s a
fascinatin’ problem—most fascinatin’.”

“I regret I can’t share your enthusiasm for it.” Markham spoke with
asperity. “The crime strikes me as sordid and commonplace. And if it
hadn’t been for your interference I’d have sent Chester Greene on his
way this morning with some tactful platitudes. But you had to
intercede, with your cryptic innuendoes and mysterious head-waggings;
and I foolishly let myself be drawn into it. Well, I trust you had an
enjoyable afternoon. As for myself, I have three hours’ accumulated
work before me.”

His complaint was an obvious suggestion that we take ourselves off;
but Vance showed no intention of going.

“Oh, I sha’n’t depart just yet,” he announced, with a bantering smile.
“I couldn’t bring myself to leave you in your present state of
grievous error. You need guidance, Markham; and I’ve quite made up my
mind to pour out my flutterin’ heart to you and the Sergeant.”

Markham frowned. He understood Vance so well that he knew the other’s
levity was only superficial—that, indeed, it cloaked some particularly
serious purpose. And the experience of a long, intimate friendship had
taught him that Vance’s actions—however unreasonable they might
appear—were never the result of an idle whim.

“Very well,” he acquiesced. “But I’d be grateful for an economy of
words.”

Vance sighed mournfully.

“Your attitude is so typical of the spirit of breathless speed
existing in this restless day.” He fixed an inquisitive gaze on Heath.
“Tell me, Sergeant: you saw the body of Julia Greene, didn’t you?”

“Sure, I saw it.”

“Was her position in the bed a natural one?”

“How do I know how she generally laid in bed?” Heath was restive and
in bad humor. “She was half sitting up, with a coupla pillows under
her shoulders, and the covers pulled up.”

“Nothing unusual about her attitude?”

“Not that I could see. There hadn’t been a struggle, if that’s what
you mean.”

“And her hands: were they outside or under the covers?”

Heath looked up, mildly astonished.

“They were outside. And, now that you mention it, they had a tight
hold on the spread.”

“Clutching it, in fact?”

“Well, yes.”

Vance leaned forward quickly.

“And her face, Sergeant? Had she been shot in her sleep?”

“It didn’t look that way. Her eyes were wide open, staring straight
ahead.”

“Her eyes were open and staring,” repeated Vance, a note of eagerness
coming into his voice. “What would you say her expression indicated?
Fear? Horror? Surprise?”

Heath regarded Vance shrewdly. “Well, it mighta been any one of ’em.
Her mouth was open, like as if she was surprised at something.”

“And she was clutching the spread with both hands.” Vance’s look
drifted into space. Then slowly he rose and walked the length of the
office and back, his head down. He halted in front of the District
Attorney’s desk, and leaned over, resting both hands on the back of a
chair.

“Listen, Markham. There’s something terrible and unthinkable going on
in that house. No haphazard unknown assassin came in by the front door
last night and shot down those two women. The crime was
planned—thought out. Some one lay in wait—some one who knew his way
about, knew where the light-switches were, knew when every one was
asleep, knew when the servants had retired—knew just when and how to
strike the blow. Some deep, awful motive lies behind that crime. There
are depths beneath depths in what happened last night—obscure fetid
chambers of the human soul. Black hatreds, unnatural desires, hideous
impulses, obscene ambitions are at the bottom of it; and you are only
playing into the murderer’s hands when you sit back and refuse to see
its significance.”

His voice had a curious hushed quality, and it was difficult to
believe that this was the habitually debonair and cynical Vance.

“That house is polluted, Markham. It’s crumbling in decay—not material
decay, perhaps, but a putrefaction far more terrible. The very heart
and essence of that old house is rotting away. And all the inmates are
rotting with it, disintegrating in spirit and mind and character.
They’ve been polluted by the very atmosphere they’ve created. This
crime, which you take so lightly, was inevitable in such a setting. I
only wonder it was not more terrible, more vile. It marked one of the
tertiary stages of the general dissolution of that abnormal
establishment.”

He paused, and extended his hand in a hopeless gesture.

“Think of the situation. That old, lonely, spacious house, exuding the
musty atmosphere of dead generations, faded inside and out, run down,
dingy, filled with ghosts of another day, standing there in its
ill-kept grounds, lapped by the dirty waters of the river. . . . And
then think of those six ill-sorted, restless, unhealthy beings
compelled to live there in daily contact for a quarter of a
century—such was old Tobias Greene’s perverted idealism. And they’ve
lived there, day in and day out, in that mouldy miasma of
antiquity—unfit to meet the conditions of any alternative, too weak or
too cowardly to strike out alone; held by an undermining security and
a corrupting ease; growing to hate the very sight of one another,
becoming bitter, spiteful, jealous, vicious; wearing down each other’s
nerves to the raw; consumed with resentment, aflame with hate,
thinking evil—complaining, fighting, snarling. . . . Then, at last,
the breaking-point—the logical, ineluctable figuration of all this
self-feeding, ingrowing hatred.”

“All of that is easy to understand,” agreed Markham. “But, after all,
your conclusion is wholly theoretic, not to say literary.—By what
tangible links do you connect last night’s shooting with the
admittedly abnormal situation at the Greene mansion?”

“There are no tangible links—that’s the horror of it. But the joinders
are there, however shadowy. I began to sense them the minute I entered
the house; and all this afternoon I was reaching for them blindly. But
they eluded me at every turn. It was like a house of mazes and false
passages and trapdoors and reeking oubliettes: nothing normal, nothing
sane—a house in a nightmare, peopled by strange, abnormal creatures,
each reflecting the subtle, monstrous horror that broke forth last
night and went prowling about the old hallways. Didn’t you sense it?
Didn’t you see the vague shape of this abomination continually flash
out and disappear as we talked to these people and watched them
battling against their own hideous thoughts and suspicions?”

Markham moved uneasily and straightened a pile of papers before him.
Vance’s unwonted gravity had affected him.

“I understand perfectly what you mean,” he said. “But I don’t see that
your impressions bring us any nearer to a new theory of the crime. The
Greene mansion is unhealthy—that’s granted—and so, no doubt, are the
people in it. But I’m afraid you’ve been oversusceptible to its
atmosphere. You talk as if last night’s crime were comparable to the
poisoning orgies of the Borgias, or the Marquise de Brinvilliers
affair, or the murder of Drusus and Germanicus, or the suffocation of
the York princes in the Tower. I’ll admit the setting is consonant
with that sort of stealthy, romantic crime; but, after all,
housebreakers and bandits are shooting people senselessly every week
throughout the country, in very much the same way the two Greene women
were shot.”

“You’re shutting your eyes to the facts, Markham,” Vance declared
earnestly. “You’re overlooking several strange features of last
night’s crime—the horrified, astounded attitude of Julia at the moment
of death; the illogical interval between the two shots; the fact that
the lights were on in both rooms; Ada’s story of that hand reaching
for her; the absence of any signs of a forced entry——”

“What about those footprints in the snow?” interrupted Heath’s
matter-of-fact voice.

“What about them, indeed?” Vance wheeled about. “They’re as
incomprehensible as the rest of this hideous business. Some one walked
to and from the house within a half-hour of the crime; but it was some
one who knew he could get in quietly and without disturbing any one.”

“There’s nothing mysterious about that,” asserted the practical
Sergeant. “There are four servants in the house, and any one of ’em
could’ve been in on the job.”

Vance smiled ironically.

“And this accomplice in the house, who so generously opened the front
door at a specified hour, failed to inform the intruder where the loot
was, and omitted to acquaint him with the arrangement of the house;
with the result that, once he was inside, he went astray, overlooked
the dining-room, wandered up-stairs, went groping about the hall, got
lost in the various bedrooms, had a seizure of panic, shot two women,
turned on the lights by switches hidden behind the furniture, made his
way down-stairs without a sound when Sproot was within a few feet of
him, and walked out the front door to freedom! . . . A strange
burglar, Sergeant. And an even stranger inside accomplice.—No; your
explanation won’t do—decidedly it won’t do.” He turned back to
Markham. “And the only way you’ll ever find the true explanation for
those shootings is by understanding the unnatural situation that
exists in the house itself.”

“But we know the situation, Vance,” Markham argued patiently. “I’ll
admit it’s an unusual one. But it’s not necessarily criminal.
Antagonistic human elements are often thrown together; and a mutual
hate is generated as a result. But mere hate is rarely a motive for
murder; and it certainly does not constitute evidence of criminal
activity.”

“Perhaps not. But hatred and enforced propinquity may breed all manner
of abnormalities—outrageous passions, abominable evils, devilish
intrigues. And in the present case there are any number of curious and
sinister facts that need explaining——”

“Ah! Now you’re becoming more tangible. Just what are these facts that
call for explanation?”

Vance lit a cigarette and sat down on the edge of the table.

“For instance, why did Chester Greene come here in the first place and
solicit your help? Because of the disappearance of the gun? Maybe; but
I doubt if it is the whole explanation. And what about the gun itself?
Did it disappear? Or did Chester secrete it? Deuced queer about that
gun. And Sibella said she saw it last week. But did she see it? We’ll
know a lot more about the case when we can trace the peregrinations of
that revolver.—And why did Chester hear the first shot so readily,
when Rex, in the next room to Ada’s, says he failed to hear the second
shot?—And that long interval between the two reports will need some
explaining.—And there’s Sproot—the multilingual butler who happened to
be reading Martial—Martial, by all that’s holy!—when the grim business
took place, and came directly to the scene without meeting or hearing
any one.—And just what significance attaches to the pious Hemming’s
oracular pronouncements about the Lord of hosts smiting the Greenes as
he did the children of Babylon? She has some obscure religious notion
in her head—which, after all, may not be so obscure.—And the German
cook: there’s a woman with, as we euphemistically say, a past. Despite
her phlegmatic appearance, she’s not of the servant class; yet she’s
been feeding the Greenes dutifully for over a dozen years. You recall
her explanation of how she came to the Greenes? Her husband was a
friend of old Tobias’s; and Tobias gave orders she was to remain as
cook as long as she desired. She needs explaining, Markham—and a
dashed lot of it.—And Rex, with his projecting parietals and his
wambly body and his periodic fits. Why did he get so excited when we
questioned him? He certainly didn’t act like an innocent and
uncomprehending spectator of an attempted burglary.—And again I
mention the lights. Who turned them on, and why? And in both rooms! In
Julia’s room _before_ the shot was fired, for she evidently saw the
assassin and understood his purpose; and in Ada’s room, _after_ the
shooting! Those are facts which fairly shriek for explanation; for
without an explanation they’re mad, irrational, utterly
incredible.—And why wasn’t Von Blon at home in the middle of the night
when Sproot phoned him? And how did it happen he nevertheless arrived
so promptly? Coincidence? . . . And, by the by, Sergeant: was that
double set of footprints like the single spoor of the doctor’s?”

“There wasn’t any way of telling. The snow was too flaky.”

“It probably doesn’t matter particularly, anyhow.” Vance again faced
Markham and resumed his recapitulation. “And then there are the points
of difference in these two attacks. Julia was shot from the front when
she was in bed, whereas Ada was shot in the back after she had risen
from bed, although the murderer had ample time to go to her and take
aim while she was still lying down. Why did he wait silently until the
girl got up and approached him? How did he dare wait at all after he
had killed Julia and alarmed the house? Does that strike you as panic?
Or as cool-headedness?—And how did Julia’s door come to be unlocked at
that particular time? That’s something I especially want
clarified.—And perhaps you noticed, Markham, that Chester himself went
to summon Sibella to the interview in the drawing-room, and that he
remained with her a considerable time. Why, now, did he send Sproot
for Rex, and fetch Sibella personally? And why the delay? I yearn for
an explanation of what passed between them before they eventually
appeared.—And why was Sibella so definite that there wasn’t a burglar,
and yet so evasive when we asked her to suggest a counter-theory? What
underlay her satirical frankness when she held up each member of the
Greene household, including herself, as a possible suspect?—And then
there are the details of Ada’s story. Some of them are amazing,
incomprehensible, almost fabulous. There was no apparent sound in the
room; yet she was conscious of a menacing presence. And that
outstretched hand and the shuffling footsteps—we simply must have an
explanation of those things. And her hesitancy about saying whether
she thought it was a man or a woman; and Sibella’s evident belief that
the girl thought it was she. That wants explaining, Markham.—And
Sibella’s hysterical accusation against Ada. What lay behind that?—And
don’t forget that curious scene between Sibella and Von Blon when he
reproached her for her outburst. That was devilish odd. There’s some
intimacy there—_ça saute aux yeux_. You noticed how she obeyed him.
And you doubtless observed, too, that Ada is rather fond of the
doctor: snuggled up to him figuratively during the performance, opened
her eyes on him wistfully, looked to him for protection. Oh, our
little Ada has flutterings in his direction. And yet he adopts the
hovering professional-bedside manner of a high-priced medico toward
her, whereas he treats Sibella very much as Chester might if he had
the courage.”

Vance inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

“Yes, Markham, there are many things that must be satisfactorily
accounted for before I can believe in your hypothetical burglar.”

Markham sat for a while, engrossed in his thoughts.

“I’ve listened to your Homeric catalogue, Vance,” he said at length,
“but I can’t say that it inflames me. You’ve suggested a number of
interesting possibilities, and raised several points that might bear
looking into. However, the only potential weight of your argument lies
in an accumulation of items which, taken separately, are not
particularly impressive. A plausible answer might be found for each
one of them. The trouble is, the integers of your summary are without
a connecting thread, and consequently must be regarded as separate
units.”

“That legal mind of yours!” Vance rose and paced up and down. “An
accumulation of queer and unexplained facts centring about a crime is
no more impressive than each separate item in the total! Well, well! I
give up. I renounce all reason. I fold up my tent like the Arabs and
as silently steal away.” He took up his coat. “I leave you to your
fantastic, delirious burglar, who walks without keys into a house and
steals nothing, who knows where electric switches are hidden but can’t
find a staircase, who shoots women and then turns up the lights. When
you find him, my dear Lycurgus, you should, in all humaneness, send
him to the psychopathic ward. He’s quite unaccountable, I assure you.”

Markham, despite his opposition, had not been unimpressed. Vance
unquestionably had undermined to some extent his belief in a
housebreaker. But I could readily understand why he was reluctant to
abandon this theory until it had been thoroughly tested. His next
words, in fact, explained his attitude.

“I’m not denying the remote possibility that this affair may go deeper
than appears. But there’s too little to go on at present to warrant an
investigation along other than routine lines. We can’t very well stir
up an ungodly scandal by raking the members of a prominent family over
the coals, when there’s not a scintilla of evidence against any one of
them. It’s too unjust and dangerous a proceeding. We must at least
wait until the police have finished their investigation. Then, if
nothing develops, we can again take inventory and decide how to
proceed. . . . How long, Sergeant, do you figure on being busy?”

Heath took his cigar from his mouth and regarded it thoughtfully.

“That’s hard to say, sir. Dubois’ll finish up his finger-printing
to-morrow, and we’re checking up on the regulars as fast as we can.
Also, I’ve got two men digging up the records of the Greene servants.
It may take a lot of time, and it may go quick. Depends on the breaks
we get.”

Vance sighed.

“And it was such a neat, fascinatin’ crime! I’ve rather been looking
forward to it, don’t y’ know, and now you talk of prying into the
early amours of serving-maids and that sort of thing. It’s most
disheartenin’.”

He buttoned his ulster about him and walked to the door.

“Ah, well, there’s nothing for me to do while you Jasons are launched
on your quaint quest. I think I’ll retire and resume my translation of
Delacroix’s ‘Journal.’”

But Vance was not destined then to finish this task he had had in mind
so long. Three days later the front pages of the country’s press
carried glaring head-lines telling of a second grim and unaccountable
tragedy at the old Greene mansion, which altered the entire character
of the case and immediately lifted it into the realm of the foremost
_causes célèbres_ of modern times. After this second blow had fallen
all ideas of a casual burglar were banished. There could no longer be
any doubt that a hidden death-dealing horror stalked through the dim
corridors of that fated house.



CHAPTER VIII.

The Second Tragedy

  (Friday, November 12; 8 a. m.)

The day after we had taken leave of Markham at his office the rigor of
the weather suddenly relaxed. The sun came out, and the thermometer
rose nearly thirty degrees. Toward night of the second day, however, a
fine, damp snow began to fall, spreading a thin white blanket over the
city; but around eleven the skies were again clear.

I mention these facts because they had a curious bearing on the second
crime at the Greene mansion. Footprints again appeared on the front
walk; and, as a result of the clinging softness of the snow, the
police also found tracks in the lower hall and on the marble stairs.

Vance had spent Wednesday and Thursday in his library reading
desultorily and checking Vollard’s catalogue of Cézanne’s
water-colors. The three-volume edition of the “Journal de Eugène
Delacroix”* lay on his writing-table; but I noticed that he did not so
much as open it. He was restless and distracted, and his long silences
at dinner (which we ate together in the living-room before the great
log fire) told me only too clearly that something was perturbing him.
Moreover, he had sent notes cancelling several social engagements, and
had given orders to Currie, his valet and domestic factotum, that he
was “out” to callers.

  * E. Plon, Nourrit et Cie., Paris, 1893.

As he sat sipping his cognac at the end of dinner on Thursday night,
his eyes idly tracing the forms in the Renoir _Beigneuse_ above the
mantel, he gave voice to his thoughts.

“’Pon my word, Van, I can’t shake the atmosphere of that damnable
house. Markham is probably right in refusing to take the matter
seriously—one can’t very well chivy a bereaved family simply because
I’m oversensitive. And yet”—he shook himself slightly—“it’s most
annoyin’. Maybe I’m becoming weak and emotional. What if I should
suddenly go in for Whistlers and Böcklins! Could you endure it?
_Miserere nostri!_ . . . No, it won’t come to that. But—dash it
all!—that Greene murder is haunting my slumbers like a lamia. And the
business isn’t over yet. There’s a horrible incompleteness about
what’s already occurred. . . .”

It was scarcely eight o’clock on the following morning when Markham
brought us the news of the second Greene tragedy. I had risen early,
and was having my coffee in the library when Markham came in, brushing
past the astonished Currie with only a curt nod.

“Get Vance out right away—will you, Van Dine?” he began, without even
a word of greeting. “Something serious has happened.”

I hastened to fetch Vance, who grumblingly slipped into a camel’s-hair
dressing-gown and came leisurely into the library.

“My dear Markham!” he reproached the District Attorney. “Why pay your
social calls in the middle of the night?”

“This isn’t a social call,” Markham told him tartly. “Chester Greene
has been murdered.”

“Ah!” Vance rang for Currie, and lighted a cigarette. “Coffee for two
and clothes for one,” he ordered, when the man appeared. Then he sank
into a chair before the fire and gave Markham a waggish look. “That
same unique burglar, I suppose. A perseverin’ lad. Did the family
plate disappear this time?”

Markham gave a mirthless laugh.

“No, the plate’s intact; and I think we can now eliminate the burglar
theory. I’m afraid your premonitions were correct—damn your uncanny
faculty!”

“Pour out your heart-breakin’ story.” Vance, for all his levity, was
extraordinarily interested. His moodiness of the past two days had
given way to an almost eager alertness.

“It was Sproot who phoned the news to Headquarters a little before
midnight. The operator in the Homicide Bureau caught Heath at home,
and the Sergeant was at the Greene house inside of half an hour. He’s
there now—phoned me at seven this morning. I told him I’d hurry out,
so I didn’t get many details over the wire. All I know is that Chester
Greene was fatally shot last night at almost the exact hour that the
former shootings occurred—a little after half past eleven.”

“Was he in his own room at the time?” Vance was pouring the coffee
which Currie had brought in.

“I believe Heath did mention he was found in his bedroom.”

“Shot from the front?”

“Yes, through the heart, at very close range.”

“Very interestin’. A duplication of Julia’s death, as it were.” Vance
became reflective. “So the old house has claimed another victim. But
why Chester? . . . Who found him, incidentally?”

“Sibella, I think Heath said. Her room, you remember, is next to
Chester’s, and the shot probably roused her. But we’d better be
going.”

“Am I invited?”

“I wish you would come.” Markham made no effort to hide his desire to
have the other accompany him.

“Oh, I had every intention of doing so, don’t y’ know.” And Vance left
the room abruptly to get dressed.

It took the District Attorney’s car but a few minutes to reach the
Greene mansion from Vance’s house in East 38th Street. A patrolman
stood guard outside the great iron gates, and a plain-clothes man
lounged on the front steps beneath the arched doorway.

Heath was in the drawing-room talking earnestly to Inspector Moran,
who had just arrived; and two men from the Homicide Bureau stood by
the window awaiting orders. The house was peculiarly silent: no member
of the family was to be seen.

The Sergeant came forward at once. His usual ruddiness of complexion
was gone and his eyes were troubled. He shook hands with Markham, and
then gave Vance a look of friendly welcome.

“You had the right dope, Mr. Vance. Somebody’s ripping things wide
open here; and it isn’t swag they’re after.”

Inspector Moran joined us, and again the hand-shaking ceremony took
place.

“This case is going to stir things up considerably,” he said. “And
we’re in for an unholy scandal if we don’t clean it up quickly.”

The worried look in Markham’s eyes deepened.

“The sooner we get to work, then, the better. Are you going to lend a
hand, Inspector?”

“There’s no need, I think,” Moran answered quietly. “I’ll leave the
police end entirely with Sergeant Heath; and now that you—and Mr.
Vance—are here, I’d be of no use.” He gave Vance a pleasant smile, and
made his adieus. “Keep in touch with me, Sergeant, and use all the men
you want.”*

  * Inspector William M. Moran, who died last summer, had been
  the commanding officer of the Detective Bureau for eight
  years. He was a man of rare and unusual qualities, and with
  his death the New York Police Department lost one of its most
  efficient and trustworthy officials. He had formerly been a
  well-known up-State banker who had been forced to close his
  doors during the 1907 panic.

When he had gone Heath gave us the details of the crime.

At about half past eleven, after the family and the servants had
retired, the shot was fired. Sibella was reading in bed at the time
and heard it distinctly. She rose immediately and, after listening for
several moments, stole up the servants’ stairs—the entrance to which
was but a few feet from her door. She wakened the butler, and the two
of them then went to Chester’s room. The door was unlocked, and the
lights in the room were burning. Chester Greene was sitting, slightly
huddled, in a chair near the desk. Sproot went to him, but saw that he
was dead, and immediately left the room, locking the door. He then
telephoned to the police and to Doctor Von Blon.

“I got here before Von Blon did,” Heath explained. “The doctor was out
again when the butler phoned, and didn’t get the message till nearly
one o’clock. I was damn glad of it, because it gave me a chance to
check up on the footprints outside. The minute I turned in at the gate
I could see that somebody had come and gone, the same as last time;
and I whistled for the man on the beat to guard the entrance until
Snitkin arrived. Then I came on in, keeping along the edge of the
walk; and the first thing I noticed when the butler opened the door
was a little puddle of water on the rug in the hall. Somebody had
recently tracked the soft snow in. I found a coupla other puddles in
the hall, and there were some wet imprints on the steps leading
up-stairs. Five minutes later Snitkin gave me the signal from the
street, and I put him to work on the footprints outside. The tracks
were plain, and Snitkin was able to get some pretty accurate
measurements.”

After Snitkin had been put to work on the footprints, the Sergeant, it
seemed, went up-stairs to Chester’s room and made an examination. But
he found nothing unusual, aside from the murdered man in the chair,
and after half an hour descended again to the dining-room, where
Sibella and Sproot were waiting. He had just begun his questioning of
them when Doctor Von Blon arrived.

“I took him up-stairs,” said Heath, “and he looked at the body. He
seemed to want to stick around, but I told him he’d be in the way. So
he talked to Miss Greene out in the hall for five or ten minutes, and
then left.”

Shortly after Doctor Von Blon’s departure two other men from the
Homicide Bureau arrived, and the next two hours were spent in
interrogating the members of the household. But nobody, except
Sibella, admitted even hearing the shot. Mrs. Greene was not
questioned. When Miss Craven, the nurse, who slept on the third floor,
was sent in to her, she reported that the old lady was sleeping
soundly; and the Sergeant decided not to disturb her. Nor was Ada
awakened: according to the nurse, the girl had been asleep since nine
o’clock.

Rex Greene, however, when interviewed, contributed one vague and, as
it seemed, contradictory bit of evidence. He had been lying awake, he
said, at the time the snowfall ceased, which was a little after
eleven. Then, about ten minutes later, he had imagined he heard a
faint shuffling noise in the hall and the sound of a door closing
softly. He had thought nothing of it, and only recalled it when
pressed by Heath. A quarter of an hour afterward he had looked at his
watch. It was then twenty-five minutes past eleven; and very soon
after that he had fallen asleep.

“The only queer thing about his story,” commented Heath, “is the time.
If he’s telling the tale straight, he heard this noise and the door
shutting twenty minutes or so before the shot was fired. And nobody in
the house was up at that time. I tried to shake him on the question of
the exact hour, but he stuck to it like a leech. I compared his watch
with mine, and it was O. K. Anyhow, there’s nothing much to the story.
The wind mighta blown a door shut, or he mighta heard a noise out in
the street and thought it was in the hall.”

“Nevertheless, Sergeant,” put in Vance, “if I were you I’d file Rex’s
story away for future meditation. Somehow it appeals to me.”

Heath looked up sharply and was about to ask a question; but he
changed his mind and said merely: “It’s filed.” Then he finished his
report to Markham.

After interrogating the occupants of the house he had gone back to the
Bureau, leaving his men on guard, and set the machinery of his office
in operation. He had returned to the Greene mansion early that
morning, and was now waiting for the Medical Examiner, the
finger-print experts, and the official photographer. He had given
orders for the servants to remain in their quarters, and had
instructed Sproot to serve breakfast to all the members of the family
in their own rooms.

“This thing’s going to take work, sir,” he concluded. “And it’s going
to be touchy going, too.”

Markham nodded gravely, and glanced toward Vance, whose eyes were
resting moodily on an old oil-painting of Tobias Greene.

“Does this new development help co-ordinate any of your former
impressions?” he asked.

“It at least substantiates the feeling I had that this old house reeks
with a deadly poison,” Vance replied. “This thing is like a witches’
sabbath.” He gave Markham a humorous smile. “I’m beginning to think
your task is going to take on the nature of exorcising devils.”

Markham grunted.

“I’ll leave the magic potions to you. . . . Sergeant, suppose we take
a look at the body before the Medical Examiner gets here.”

Heath led the way without a word. When we reached the head of the
stairs he took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door of
Chester’s room. The electric lights were still burning—sickly yellow
disks in the gray daylight which filtered in from the windows above
the river.

The room, long and narrow, contained an anachronistic assortment of
furniture. It was a typical man’s apartment, with an air of
comfortable untidiness. Newspapers and sports magazines cluttered the
table and desk; ash-trays were everywhere; an open cellaret stood in
one corner; and a collection of golf-clubs lay on the tapestried
Chesterfield. The bed, I noticed, had not been slept in.

In the centre of the room, beneath an old-fashioned cut-glass
chandelier, was a Chippendale “knee-hole” desk, beside which stood a
sleepy-hollow chair. It was in this chair that the body of Chester
Greene, clad in dressing-gown and slippers, reclined. He was slumped a
little forward, the head turned slightly back and resting against the
tufted upholstery. The light from the chandelier cast a spectral
illumination on his face; and the sight of it laid a spell of horror
on me. The eyes, normally prominent, now seemed to be protruding from
their sockets in a stare of unutterable amazement; and the sagging
chin and flabby parted lips intensified this look of terrified wonder.

Vance was studying the dead man’s features intently.

“Would you say, Sergeant,” he asked, without looking up, “that Chester
and Julia saw the same thing as they passed from this world?”

Heath coughed uneasily.

[Illustration: Chester’s bedroom. In the center of the room is a
knee-hole desk and a chair labelled “arm chair in which Chester was
shot.” The bed is against one wall, and on the opposite wall are doors
leading to a closet and a bathroom.]

“Well,” he admitted, “something surprised them, and that’s a fact.”

“Surprised them! Sergeant, you should thank your Maker that you are
not cursed with an imagination. The whole truth of this fiendish
business lies in those bulbous eyes and that gaping mouth. Unlike Ada,
both Julia and Chester saw the thing that menaced them; and it left
them stunned and aghast.”

“Well, we can’t get any information outa _them_.” Heath’s practicality
as usual was uppermost.

“Not oral information, certainly. But, as Hamlet put it, murder,
though it have no tongue, will speak with most miraculous organ.”

“Come, come, Vance. Be tangible.” Markham spoke with acerbity. “What’s
in your mind?”

“’Pon my word, I don’t know. It’s too vague.” He leaned over and
picked up a small book from the floor just beneath where the dead
man’s hand hung over the arm of the chair. “Chester apparently was
immersed in literature at the time of his taking off.” He opened the
book casually. “‘Hydrotherapy and Constipation.’ Yes, Chester was just
the kind to worry about his colon. Some one probably told him that
intestinal stasis interfered with the proper stance. He’s no doubt
clearing the asphodel from the Elysian fields at the present moment
preparat’ry to laying out a golf-course.”

He became suddenly serious.

“You see what this book means, Markham? Chester was sitting here
reading when the murderer came in. Yet he did not so much as rise or
call out. Furthermore, he let the intruder stand directly in front of
him. He did not even lay down his book, but sat back in his chair
relaxed. Why? Because the murderer was some one Chester knew—and
trusted! And when the gun was suddenly brought forth and pointed at
his heart, he was too astounded to move. And in that second of
bewilderment and unbelief the trigger was pulled and the bullet
entered his heart.”

Markham nodded slowly, in deep perplexity, and Heath studied the
attitude of the dead man more closely.

“That’s a good theory,” the Sergeant conceded finally. “Yes, he musta
let the bird get right on top of him without suspecting anything. Same
like Julia did.”

“Exactly, Sergeant. The two murders constitute a most suggestive
parallel.”

“Still and all, there’s one point you’re overlooking.” Heath’s brow
was roughened in a troubled frown. “Chester’s door mighta been
unlocked last night, seeing as he hadn’t gone to bed, and so this
person coulda walked in without any trouble. But Julia, now, was
already undressed and in bed; and she always locked her door at night.
Now, how would you say this person with the gun got into Julia’s room,
Mr. Vance?”

“There’s no difficulty about that. Let us say, as a tentative
hypothesis, that Julia had disrobed, switched off the lights, and
climbed into her queenly bed. Then came a tap on the door—perhaps a
tap she recognized. She rose, put on the lights, opened the door, and
again repaired to her bed for warmth while she held parley with her
visitor. Maybe—who knows?—the visitor sat on the edge of the bed
during the call. Then suddenly the visitor produced the revolver and
fired, and made a hurried exit, forgetting to switch the lights off.
Such a theory—though I don’t insist on the details—would square neatly
with my idea regarding Chester’s caller.”

“It may’ve been like you say,” admitted Heath dubiously. “But why all
the hocus-pocus when it came to shooting Ada? That job was done in the
dark.”

“The rationalistic philosophers tell us, Sergeant”—Vance became
puckishly pedantic—“that there’s a reason for everything, but that the
finite mind is woefully restricted. The altered technic of our elusive
culprit when dealing with Ada is one of the things that is obscure.
But you’ve touched a vital point. If we could discover the reason for
this reversal of our _inconnu’s_ homicidal tactics, I believe we’d be
a lot forrader in our investigation.”

Heath made no reply. He stood in the centre of the room running his
eye over the various objects and pieces of furniture. Presently he
stepped to the clothes-closet, pulled open the door, and turned on a
pendant electric light just inside. As he stood gloomily peering at
the closet’s contents there was a sound of heavy footsteps in the hall
and Snitkin appeared in the open door. Heath turned and, without
giving his assistant time to speak, asked gruffly:

“How did you make out with those footprints?”

“Got all the dope here.” Snitkin crossed to the Sergeant, and held out
a long Manila envelope. “There wasn’t no trouble in checking the
measurements and cutting the patterns. But they’re not going to be a
hell of a lot of good, I’m thinking. There’s ten million guys more or
less in this country who coulda made ’em.”

Heath had opened the envelope and drawn forth a thin white cardboard
pattern which looked like an inner sole of a shoe.

“It wasn’t no pigmy who made this print,” he remarked.

“That’s the catch in it,” explained Snitkin. “The size don’t mean
nothing much, for it ain’t a shoe-track. Those footprints were made by
galoshes, and there’s no telling how much bigger they were than the
guy’s foot. They mighta been worn over a shoe anywheres from a size
eight to a size ten, and with a width anywheres from an A to a D.”

Heath nodded with obvious disappointment.

“You’re sure about ’em being galoshes?” He was reluctant to let what
promised to be a valuable clew slip away.

“You can’t get around it. The rubber tread was distinct in several
places, and the shallow, scooped heel stood out plain as day. Anyhow,
I got Jerym* to check up on my findings.”

  * Captain Anthony P. Jerym was one of the shrewdest and most
  painstaking criminologists of the New York Police Department.
  Though he had begun his career as an expert in the Bertillon
  system of measurements, he had later specialized in
  footprints—a subject which he had helped to elevate to an
  elaborate and complicated science. He had spent several years
  in Vienna studying Austrian methods, and had developed a means
  of scientific photography for footprints which gave him rank
  with such men as Londe, Burais, and Reiss.

Snitkin’s gaze wandered idly to the floor of the clothes-closet.

“Those are the kind of things that made the tracks.” He pointed to a
pair of high arctics which had been thrown carelessly under a
boot-shelf. Then he leaned over and picked up one of them. As his eye
rested on it he gave a grunt. “This looks like the size, too.” He took
the pattern from the Sergeant’s hand and laid it on the sole of the
overshoe. It fitted as perfectly as if the two had been cut
simultaneously.

Heath was startled out of his depression.

“Now, what in hell does that mean!”

Markham had drawn near.

“It might indicate, of course, that Chester went out somewhere last
night late.”

“But that don’t make sense, sir,” objected Heath. “If he’d wanted
anything at that hour of the night he’d have sent the butler. And,
anyway, the shops in this neighborhood were all closed by that time,
for the tracks weren’t made till after it had stopped snowing at
eleven.”

“And,” supplemented Snitkin, “you can’t tell by the tracks whether the
guy that made ’em left the house and came back, or came to the house
and went away, for there wasn’t a single print on top of the other.”

Vance was standing at the window looking out.

“That, now, is a most interestin’ point, Sergeant,” he commented. “I’d
file it away along with Rex’s story for prayerful consideration.” He
sauntered back to the desk and looked at the dead man thoughtfully.
“No, Sergeant,” he continued; “I can’t picture Chester donning
gum-shoes and sneaking out into the night on a mysterious errand. I’m
afraid we’ll have to find another explanation for those footprints.”

“It’s damn funny, just the same, that they should be the exact size of
these galoshes.”

“If,” submitted Markham, “the footprints were not Chester’s, then
we’re driven to the assumption that the murderer made them.”

Vance slowly took out his cigarette-case.

“Yes,” he agreed, “I think we may safely assume that.”



CHAPTER IX.

The Three Bullets

  (Friday, November 12; 9 a. m.)

At this moment Doctor Doremus, the Medical Examiner, a brisk, nervous
man with a jaunty air, was ushered in by one of the detectives I had
seen in the drawing-room. He blinked at the company, threw his hat and
coat on a chair, and shook hands with every one.

“What are your friends trying to do, Sergeant?” he asked, eying the
inert body in the chair. “Wipe out the whole family?” Without waiting
for an answer to his grim pleasantry he went to the windows and threw
up the shades with a clatter. “You gentlemen all through viewing the
remains? If so, I’ll get to work.”

“Go to it,” said Heath. Chester Greene’s body was lifted to the bed
and straightened out. “And how about the bullet, doc? Any chance of
getting it before the autopsy?”

“How’m I going to get it without a probe and forceps? I ask you!”
Doctor Doremus drew back the matted dressing-gown and inspected the
wound. “But I’ll see what I can do.” Then he straightened up and
cocked his eye facetiously at the Sergeant.

“Well, I’m waiting for your usual query about the time of death.”

“We know it.”

“Hah! Wish you always did. This fixing the exact time by looking over
a body is all poppycock anyway. The best we fellows can do is to
approximate it. _Rigor mortis_ works differently in different people.
Don’t ever take me too seriously, Sergeant, when I set an exact hour
for you.—However, let’s see. . . .”

He ran his hands over the body on the bed, unflexed the fingers, moved
the head, and put his eye close to the coagulated blood about the
wound. Then he teetered on his toes, and squinted at the ceiling.

“How about ten hours? Say, between eleven-thirty and midnight. How’s
that?”

Heath laughed good-naturedly.

“You hit it, doc—right on the head.”

“Well, well! Always was a good guesser.” Doctor Doremus seemed wholly
indifferent.

Vance had followed Markham into the hall.

“An honest fellow, that archiater of yours. And to think he’s a public
servant of our beneficent government!”

“There are many honest men in public office,” Markham reproved him.

“I know,” sighed Vance. “Our democracy is still young. Give it time.”

Heath joined us, and at the same moment the nurse appeared at Mrs.
Greene’s door. A querulous dictatorial voice issued from the depths of
the room behind her.

“. . . And you tell whoever’s in charge that I want to see him—right
away, do you understand! It’s an outrage, all this commotion and
excitement, with me lying here in pain trying to get a little rest.
Nobody shows me any consideration.”

Heath made a grimace and looked toward the stairs; but Vance took
Markham’s arm.

“Come, let’s cheer up the old lady.”

As we entered the room, Mrs. Greene, propped up as usual in bed with a
prismatic assortment of pillows, drew her shawl primly about her.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” she greeted us, her expression moderating. “I
thought it was those abominable policemen making free with my house
again. . . . What’s the meaning of all this disturbance, Mr. Markham?
Nurse tells me that Chester has been shot. Dear, dear! If people must
do such things, why do they have to come to my house and annoy a poor
helpless old woman like me? There are plenty of other places they
could do their shooting in.” She appeared deeply resentful at the fact
that the murderer should have been so inconsiderate as to choose the
Greene mansion for his depredations. “But I’ve come to expect this
sort of thing. Nobody thinks of _my_ feelings. And if my own children
see fit to do everything they can to annoy me, why should I expect
total strangers to show me any consideration?”

“When one is bent on murder, Mrs. Greene,” rejoined Markham, stung by
her callousness, “one doesn’t stop to think of the mere inconvenience
his crime may cause others.”

“I suppose not,” she murmured self-pityingly. “But it’s all the fault
of my children. If they were what children ought to be, people
wouldn’t be breaking in here trying to murder them.”

“And unfortunately succeeding,” added Markham coldly.

“Well, that can’t be helped.” She suddenly became bitter. “It’s their
punishment for the way they’ve treated their poor old mother, lying
here for ten long years, hopelessly paralyzed. And do you think they
try to make it easy for me? No! Here I must stay, day after day,
suffering agonies with my spine; and they never give me a thought.” A
sly look came into her fierce old eyes. “But they think about me
sometimes. Oh, yes! They think how nice it would be if I were out of
the way. Then they’d get all my money. . . .”

“I understand, madam,” Markham put in abruptly, “that you were asleep
last night at the time your son met his death.”

“Was I? Well, maybe I was. It’s a wonder, though, that some one didn’t
leave my door open just so I’d be disturbed.”

“And you know no one who would have any reason to kill your son?”

“How should I know? Nobody tells me anything. I’m a poor neglected,
lonely old cripple. . . .”

“Well, we won’t bother you any further, Mrs. Greene.” Markham’s tone
held something both of sympathy and consternation.

As we descended the stairs the nurse reopened the door we had just
closed after us, and left it ajar, no doubt in response to an order
from her patient.

“Not at all a nice old lady,” chuckled Vance, as we entered the
drawing-room. “For a moment, Markham, I thought you were going to box
her ears.”

“I admit I felt like it. And yet I couldn’t help pitying her. However,
such utter self-concentration as hers saves one a lot of mental
anguish. She seems to regard this whole damnable business as a plot to
upset her.”

Sproot appeared obsequiously at the door.

“May I bring you gentlemen some coffee?” No emotion of any kind showed
on his graven wrinkled face. The events of the past few days seemed
not to have affected him in any degree.

“No, we don’t want coffee, Sproot,” Markham told him brusquely. “But
please be good enough to ask Miss Sibella if she will come here.”

“Very good, sir.”

The old man shuffled away, and a few minutes later Sibella strolled
in, smoking a cigarette, one hand in the pocket of her vivid-green
sweater-jacket. Despite her air of nonchalance her face was pale, its
whiteness contrasting strongly with the deep crimson rouge on her
lips. Her eyes, too, were slightly haggard; and when she spoke her
voice sounded forced, as if she were playing a rôle against which her
spirit was at odds. She greeted us blithely enough, however.

“Good morning, one and all. Beastly auspices for a social call.” She
sat down on the arm of a chair and swung one leg restlessly. “Some one
certainly has a grudge against us Greenes. Poor old Chet! He didn’t
even die with his boots on. Felt bedroom slippers! What an end for an
outdoor enthusiast!—Well, I suppose I’m invited here to tell my story.
Where do I begin?” She rose, and throwing her half-burned cigarette
into the grate, seated herself in a straight-backed chair facing
Markham, folding her sinewy, tapering hands on the table before her.

Markham studied her for several moments.

“You were awake last night, reading in bed, I understand, when the
shot was fired in your brother’s room.”

“Zola’s ‘Nana,’ to be explicit. Mother told me I shouldn’t read it; so
I got it at once. It was frightfully disappointing, though.”

“And just what did you do after you heard the report?” continued
Markham, striving to control his annoyance at the girl’s flippancy.

“I put my book down, got up, donned a kimono, and listened for several
minutes at the door. Not hearing anything further, I peeked out. The
hall was dark, and the silence felt a bit spooky. I knew I ought to go
to Chet’s room and inquire, in a sisterly fashion, about the
explosion; but, to tell you the truth, Mr. Markham, I was rather
cowardly. So I went—oh, well, let the truth prevail: I _ran_ up the
servants’ stairs and routed out our Admirable Crichton; and together
we investigated. Chet’s door was unlocked, and the fearless Sproot
opened it. There sat Chet, looking as if he’d seen a ghost; and
somehow I knew he was dead. Sproot went in and touched him, while I
waited; and then we went down to the dining-room. Sproot did some
phoning, and afterward made me some atrocious coffee. A half-hour or
so later this gentleman”—she inclined her head toward Heath—“arrived,
looking distressingly glum, and very sensibly refused a cup of
Sproot’s coffee.”

“And you heard no sound of any kind before the shot?”

“Not a thing. Everybody had gone to bed early. The last sound I heard
in this house was mother’s gentle and affectionate voice telling the
nurse she was as neglectful as the rest of us, and to bring her
morning tea at nine sharp, and not to slam the door the way she always
did. Then peace and quiet reigned until half past eleven, when I heard
the shot in Chet’s room.”

“How long was this interregnum of quietude?” asked Vance.

“Well, mother generally ends her daily criticism of the family around
ten-thirty; so I’d say the quietude lasted about an hour.”

“And during that time you do not recall hearing a slight shuffling
sound in the hall? Or a door closing softly?”

The girl shook her head indifferently, and took another cigarette from
a small amber case she carried in her sweater-pocket.

“Sorry, but I didn’t. That doesn’t mean, though, that people couldn’t
have been shuffling and shutting doors all over the place. My room’s
at the rear, and the noises on the river and in 52d Street drown out
almost anything that’s going on in the front of the house.”

Vance had gone to her and held a match to her cigarette.

“I say, you don’t seem in the least worried.”

“Oh, why worry?” She made a gesture of resignation. “If anything is to
happen to me, it’ll happen, whatever I do. But I don’t anticipate an
immediate demise. No one has the slightest reason for killing
me—unless, of course, it’s some of my former bridge partners. But
they’re all harmless persons who wouldn’t be apt to take extreme
measures.”

“Still”—Vance kept his tone inconsequential—“no one apparently had any
reason for harming your two sisters or your brother.”

“On that point I couldn’t be altogether lucid. We Greenes don’t
confide in one another. There’s a beastly spirit of distrust in this
ancestral domain. We all lie to each other on general principles. And
as for secrets! Each member of the family is a kind of Masonic Order
in himself. Surely there’s some reason for all these shootings. I
simply can’t imagine any one indulging himself in this fashion for the
mere purpose of pistol practice.”

She smoked a moment pensively, and went on:

“Yes, there must be a motive back of it all—though for the life of me
I can’t suggest one. Of course Julia was a vinegary, unpleasant
person, but she went out very little, and worked off her various
complexes on the family. And yet, she may have been leading a double
life for all I know. When these sour old maids break loose from their
inhibitions I understand they do the most utterly utter things. But I
just can’t bring my mind to picture Julia with a bevy of jealous
Romeos.” She made a comical grimace at the thought. “Ada, on the other
hand, is what we used to call in algebra an unknown quantity. No one
but dad knew where she came from, and he would never tell. To be sure,
she doesn’t get much time to run around—mother keeps her too busy. But
she’s young and good-looking in a common sort of way”—there was a
tinge of venom in this remark—“and you can’t tell what connections she
may have formed outside the sacred portals of the Greene mansion.—As
for Chet, no one seemed to love him passionately. I never heard
anybody say a good word for him but the golf pro at the club, and that
was only because Chet tipped him like a _parvenu_. He had a genius for
antagonizing people. Several motives for the shooting might be found
in his past.”

“I note that you’ve changed your ideas considerably in regard to the
culpability of Miss Ada.” Vance spoke incuriously.

Sibella looked a little shamefaced.

“I did get a bit excited, didn’t I?” Then a defiance came into her
voice. “But just the same, she doesn’t belong here. And she’s a sneaky
little cat. She’d dearly love to see us all nicely murdered. The only
person that seems to like her is cook; but then, Gertrude’s a
sentimental German who likes everybody. She feeds half the stray cats
and dogs in the neighborhood. Our rear yard is a regular pound in
summer.”

Vance was silent for a while. Suddenly he looked up.

“I gather from your remarks, Miss Greene, that you now regard the
shootings as the acts of some one from the outside.”

“Does any one think anything else?” she asked, with startled anxiety.
“I understand there were footprints in the snow both times we were
visited. Surely they would indicate an outsider.”

“Quite true,” Vance assured her, a bit overemphatically, obviously
striving to allay whatever fears his queries may have aroused in her.
“Those footprints undeniably indicate that the intruder entered each
time by the front door.”

“And you are not to have any uneasiness about the future, Miss
Greene,” added Markham. “I shall give orders to-day to have a strict
guard placed over the house, front and rear, until there is no longer
the slightest danger of a recurrence of what has taken place here.”

Heath nodded his unqualified approbation.

“I’ll arrange for that, sir. There’ll be two men guarding this place
day and night from now on.”

“How positively thrilling!” exclaimed Sibella; but I noticed a strange
reservation of apprehension in her eyes.

“We won’t detain you any longer, Miss Greene,” said Markham, rising.
“But I’d greatly appreciate it if you would remain in your room until
our inquiries here are over. You may, of course, visit your mother.”

“Thanks awf’ly, but I think I’ll indulge in a little lost beauty
sleep.” And she left us with a friendly wave of the hand.

“Who do you want to see next, Mr. Markham?” Heath was on his feet,
vigorously relighting his cigar.

But before Markham could answer Vance lifted his hand for silence, and
leaned forward in a listening attitude.

“Oh, Sproot!” he called. “Step in here a moment.”

The old butler appeared at once, calm and subservient, and waited with
a vacuously expectant expression.

“Really, y’ know,” said Vance, “there’s not the slightest need for you
to hover solicitously amid the draperies of the hallway while we’re
busy in here. Most considerate and loyal of you; but if we want you
for anything we’ll ring.”

“As you desire, sir.”

Sproot started to go, but Vance halted him.

“Now that you’re here you might answer one or two questions.”

“Very good, sir.”

“First, I want you to think back very carefully, and tell me if you
observed anything unusual when you locked up the house last night.”

“Nothing, sir,” the man answered promptly. “If I had, I would have
mentioned it to the police this morning.”

“And did you hear any noise or movement of any kind after you had gone
to your room? A door closing, for instance?”

“No, sir. Everything was very quiet.”

“And what time did you actually go to sleep?”

“I couldn’t say exactly, sir. Perhaps about twenty minutes past
eleven, if I may venture to make a guess.”

“And were you greatly surprised when Miss Sibella woke you up and told
you a shot had been fired in Mr. Chester’s room?”

“Well, sir,” Sproot admitted, “I was somewhat astonished, though I
endeavored to conceal my emotions.”

“And doubtless succeeded admirably,” said Vance dryly. “But what I
meant was this: did you not anticipate something of the kind happening
again in this house, after the other shootings?”

He watched the old butler sharply, but the man’s lineaments were as
arid as a desert and as indecipherable as an expanse of sea.

“If you will pardon me, sir, for saying so, I don’t know precisely
what you mean,” came the colorless answer. “Had I anticipated that Mr.
Chester was to be done in, so to speak, I most certainly would have
warned him. It would have been my duty, sir.”

“Don’t evade my question, Sproot.” Vance spoke sternly. “I asked you
if you had any idea that a second tragedy might follow the first.”

“Tragedies very seldom come singly, sir, if I may be permitted to say
so. One never knows what will happen next. I try not to anticipate the
workings of fate, but I strive to hold myself in readiness——”

“Oh, go away, Sproot—go quite away,” said Vance. “When I crave vague
rhetoric I’ll read Thomas Aquinas.”

“Yes, sir.” The man bowed with wooden courtesy, and left us.

His footsteps had scarcely died away when Doctor Doremus strode in
jauntily.

“There’s your bullet, Sergeant.” He tossed a tiny cylinder of
discolored lead on the drawing-room table. “Nothing but dumb luck. It
entered the fifth intercostal space and travelled diagonally across
the heart, coming out in the post-axillary fold at the anterior border
of the trapezius muscle, where I could feel it under the skin; and I
picked it out with my pen-knife.”

“All that fancy language don’t worry me,” grinned Heath, “so long’s I
got the bullet.”

He picked it up and held it in the palm of his hand, his eyes
narrowed, his mouth drawn into a straight line. Then, reaching into
his waistcoat pocket, he took out two other bullets, and laid them
beside the first. Slowly he nodded, and extended the sinister exhibits
to Markham.

“There’s the three shots that were fired in this house,” he said.
“They’re all .32-revolver bullets—just alike. You can’t get away from
it, sir: all three people here were shot with the same gun.”



CHAPTER X.

The Closing of a Door

  (Friday, November 12; 9.30 a. m.)

As Heath spoke Sproot passed down the hall and opened the front door,
admitting Doctor Von Blon.

“Good morning, Sproot,” we heard him say in his habitually pleasant
voice. “Anything new?”

“No, sir, I think not.” The reply was expressionless. “The District
Attorney and the police are here.—Let me take your coat, sir.”

Von Blon glanced into the drawing-room, and, on seeing us, halted and
bowed. Then he caught sight of Doctor Doremus, whom he had met on the
night of the first tragedy.

“Ah, good morning, doctor,” he said, coming forward. “I’m afraid I
didn’t thank you for the assistance you gave me with the young lady
the other night. Permit me to make amends.”

“No thanks needed,” Doremus assured him. “How’s the patient getting
on?”

“The wound’s filling in nicely. No sepsis. I’m going up now to have a
look at her.” He turned inquiringly to the District Attorney. “No
objection, I suppose.”

“None whatever, doctor,” said Markham. Then he rose quickly. “We’ll
come along, if you don’t mind. There are a few questions I’d like to
ask Miss Ada, and it might be as well to do it while you’re present.”

Von Blon gave his consent without hesitation.

“Well, I’ll be on my way—work to do,” announced Doremus breezily. He
lingered long enough, however, to shake hands with all of us; and then
the front door closed on him.

“We’d better ascertain if Miss Ada has been told of her brother’s
death,” suggested Vance, as we went up the stairs. “If not, I think
that task logically devolves on you, doctor.”

The nurse, whom Sproot had no doubt apprised of Von Blon’s arrival,
met us in the upper hall and informed us that, as far as she knew, Ada
was still ignorant of Chester’s murder.

We found the girl sitting up in bed, a magazine lying across her
knees. Her face was still pale, but a youthful vitality shone from her
eyes, which attested to the fact that she was much stronger. She
seemed alarmed at our sudden appearance, but the sight of the doctor
tended to reassure her.

“How do you feel this morning, Ada?” he asked with professional
geniality. “You remember these gentlemen, don’t you?”

She gave us an apprehensive look; then smiled faintly and bowed.

“Yes, I remember them. . . . Have they—found out anything
about—Julia’s death?”

“I’m afraid not.” Von Blon sat down beside her and took her hand.
“Something else has happened that you will have to know, Ada.” His
voice was studiously sympathetic. “Last night Chester met with an
accident——”

“An accident—oh!” Her eyes opened wide, and a slight tremor passed
over her. “You mean. . . .” Her voice quavered and broke. “I know what
you mean! . . . Chester’s dead!”

Von Blon cleared his throat and looked away.

“Yes, Ada. You must be brave and not let it—ah—upset you too much. You
see——”

“He was shot!” The words burst from her lips, and a look of terror
overspread her face. “Just like Julia and me.” Her eyes stared
straight ahead, as if fascinated by some horror which she alone could
see.

Von Blon was silent, and Vance stepped to the bed.

“We’re not going to lie to you, Miss Greene,” he said softly. “You
have guessed the truth.”

“And what about Rex—and Sibella?”

“They’re all right,” Vance assured her. “But why did you think your
brother had met the same fate as Miss Julia and yourself?”

She turned her gaze slowly to him.

“I don’t know—I just felt it. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve
imagined horrible things happening in this house. And the other night
I felt that the time had come—oh, I don’t know how to explain it; but
it was like having something happen that you’d been expecting.”

Vance nodded understandingly.

“It’s an unhealthy old house; it puts all sorts of weird notions in
one’s head. But, of course,” he added lightly, “there’s nothing
supernatural about it. It’s only a coincidence that you should have
felt that way and that these disasters should actually have occurred.
The police, y’ know, think it was a burglar.”

The girl did not answer, and Markham leaned forward with a reassuring
smile.

“And we are going to have two men guarding the house all the time from
now on,” he said, “so that no one can get in who hasn’t a perfect
right to be here.”

“So you see, Ada,” put in Von Blon, “you have nothing to worry about
any more. All you have to do now is to get well.”

But her eyes did not leave Markham’s face.

“How do you know,” she asked, in a tense anxious voice, “that the—the
person came in from the outside?”

“We found his footprints both times on the front walk.”

“Footprints—are you sure?” She put the question eagerly.

“No doubt about them. They were perfectly plain, and they belonged to
the person who came here and tried to shoot you.—Here, Sergeant”—he
beckoned to Heath—“show the young lady that pattern.”

Heath took the Manila envelope from his pocket and extracted the
cardboard impression Snitkin had made. Ada took it in her hand and
studied it, and a little sigh of relief parted her lips.

“And you notice,” smiled Vance, “he didn’t have very dainty feet.”

The girl returned the pattern to the Sergeant. Her fear had left her,
and her eyes cleared of the vision that had been haunting them.

“And now, Miss Greene,” went on Vance, in a matter-of-fact voice, “we
want to ask a few questions. First of all: the nurse said you went to
sleep at nine o’clock last night. Is that correct?”

“I pretended to, because nurse was tired and mother was complaining a
lot. But I really didn’t go to sleep until hours later.”

“But you didn’t hear the shot in your brother’s room?”

“No. I must have been asleep by then.”

“Did you hear anything before that?”

“Not after the family had gone to bed and Sproot had locked up.”

“Were you awake very long after Sproot retired?”

The girl pondered a moment, frowning.

“Maybe an hour,” she ventured finally. “But I don’t know.”

“It couldn’t have been much over an hour,” Vance pointed out; “for the
shot was fired shortly after half past eleven.—And you heard
nothing—no sound of any kind in the hall?”

“Why, no.” The look of fright was creeping back into her face. “Why do
you ask?”

“Your brother Rex,” explained Vance, “said he heard a faint shuffling
sound and a door closing a little after eleven.”

Her eyelids drooped, and her free hand tightened over the edge of the
magazine she was holding.

“A door closing. . . .” She repeated the words in a voice scarcely
audible. “Oh! And Rex heard it?” Suddenly she opened her eyes and her
lips fell apart. A startled memory had taken possession of her—a
memory which quickened her breathing and filled her with alarm. “I
heard that door close, too! I remember it now. . . .”

“What door was it?” asked Vance, with subdued animation. “Could you
tell where the sound came from?”

The girl shook her head.

“No—it was so soft. I’d even forgotten it until now. But I heard
it! . . . Oh, what did it mean?”

“Nothing probably.” Vance assumed an air of inconsequentiality
calculated to alleviate her fears. “The wind doubtless.”

But when we left her, after a few more questions, I noticed that her
face still held an expression of deep anxiety.

Vance was unusually thoughtful as we returned to the drawing-room.

“I’d give a good deal to know what that child knows or suspects,” he
murmured.

“She’s been through a trying experience,” returned Markham. “She’s
frightened, and she sees new dangers in everything. But she couldn’t
suspect anything, or she’d be only too eager to tell us.”

“I wish I were sure of that.”

The next hour or so was occupied with interrogating the two maids and
the cook. Markham cross-examined them thoroughly not only concerning
the immediate events touching upon the two tragedies, but in regard to
the general conditions in the Greene household. Numerous family
episodes in the past were gone over; and when his inquiries were
finished he had obtained a fairly good idea of the domestic
atmosphere. But nothing that could be even remotely connected with the
murders came to light. There had always been, it transpired, an
abundance of hatred and ill-feeling and vicious irritability in the
Greene mansion. The story that was unfolded by the servants was not a
pleasant one; it was a record—scrappy and desultory, but none the less
appalling—of daily clashes, complainings, bitter words, sullen
silences, jealousies and threats.

Most of the details of this unnatural situation were supplied by
Hemming, the older maid. She was less ecstatic than during the first
interview, although she interspersed her remarks with Biblical
quotations and references to the dire fate which the Lord had seen fit
to visit upon her sinful employers. Nevertheless, she painted an
arresting, if overcolored and prejudiced, picture of the life that had
gone on about her during the past ten years. But when it came to
explaining the methods employed by the Almighty in visiting his
vengeance upon the unholy Greenes, she became indefinite and obscure.
At length Markham let her go after she had assured him that she
intended to remain at her post of duty—to be, as she expressed it, “a
witness for the Lord” when his work of righteous devastation was
complete.

Barton, the younger maid, on the other hand, announced, in no
uncertain terms, that she was through with the Greenes forever. The
girl was genuinely frightened, and, after Sibella and Sproot had been
consulted, she was paid her wages and told she could pack her things.
In less than half an hour she had turned in her key and departed with
her luggage. Such information as she left behind her was largely a
substantiation of Hemming’s outpourings. She, though, did not regard
the two murders as the acts of an outraged God. Hers was a more
practical and mundane view.

“There’s something awful funny going on here,” she had said,
forgetting for the moment the urge of her coquettish spirits. “The
Greenes are queer people. And the servants are queer, too—what with
Mr. Sproot reading books in foreign languages, and Hemming preaching
about fire and brimstone, and cook going around in a sort of trance
muttering to herself and never answering a civil question.—And such a
family!” She rolled her eyes. “Mrs. Greene hasn’t got any heart. She’s
a regular old witch, and she looks at you sometimes as though she’d
like to strangle you. If I was Miss Ada I’d have gone crazy long ago.
But then, Miss Ada’s no better than the rest. She acts nice and
gentle-like, but I’ve seen her stamping up and down in her room
looking like a very devil; and once she used language to me what was
that bad I put my fingers in my ears. And Miss Sibella’s a regular
icicle—except when she gets mad, and then she’d kill you if she dared,
and laugh about it. And there’s been something funny about her and Mr.
Chester. Ever since Miss Julia and Miss Ada were shot they’ve been
talking to each other in the sneakiest way when they thought no one
was looking. And this Doctor Von Blon what comes here so much: he’s a
deep one. He’s been in Miss Sibella’s room with the door shut lots of
times when she wasn’t any more sick than you are. And Mr. Rex, now.
He’s a queer man, too. I get the creeps every time he comes near me.”
She shuddered by way of demonstration. “Miss Julia wasn’t as queer as
the rest. She just hated everybody and was mean.”

Barton had rambled on loquaciously with all the thoughtless
exaggeration of a gossip who felt herself outraged; and Markham had
not interrupted her. He was trying to dredge up some nugget from the
mass of her verbal silt; but when at last he sifted it all down there
remained nothing but a few shining grains of scandal.

The cook was even less enlightening. Taciturn by nature, she became
almost inarticulate when approached on the subject of the crime. Her
stolid exterior seemed to cloak a sullen resentment at the fact that
she should be questioned at all. In fact, as Markham patiently pressed
his examination, the impression grew on me that her lack of
responsiveness was deliberately defensive, as if she had steeled
herself to reticency. Vance, too, sensed this attitude in her, for,
during a pause in the interview, he moved his chair about until he
faced her directly.

“Frau Mannheim,” he said, “the last time we were here you mentioned
the fact that Mr. Tobias Greene knew your husband, and that, because
of their acquaintance, you applied for a position here when your
husband died.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” she asked stubbornly. “I was poor, and I didn’t
have any other friends.”

“Ah, friends!” Vance caught up the word. “And since you were once on
friendly terms with Mr. Greene, you doubtless know certain things
about his past, which may have some bearing on the present situation;
for it is not at all impossible, d’ ye see, that the crimes committed
here during the past few days are connected with matters that took
place years ago. We don’t know this, of course, but we’d be very much
gratified if you would try to help us in this regard.”

As he was speaking the woman had drawn herself up. Her hands had
tightened as they lay folded in her lap, and the muscles about her
mouth had stiffened.

“I don’t know anything,” was her only answer.

“How,” asked Vance evenly, “do you account for the rather remarkable
fact that Mr. Greene gave orders that you were to remain here as long
as you cared to?”

“Mr. Greene was a very kind and generous man,” she asserted, in a
flat, combative voice. “Some there were that thought him hard, and
accused him of being unjust; but he was always good to me and mine.”

“How well did he know Mr. Mannheim?”

There was a pause, and the woman’s eyes looked blankly ahead.

“He helped my husband once, when he was in trouble.”

“How did he happen to do this?”

There was another pause, and then:

“They were in some deal together—in the old country.” She frowned and
appeared uneasy.

“When was this?”

“I don’t remember. It was before I was married.”

“And where did you first meet Mr. Greene?”

“At my home in New Orleans. He was there on business—with my husband.”

“And, I take it, he befriended you also.”

The woman maintained a stubborn silence.

“A moment ago,” pursued Vance, “you used the phrase ‘me and
mine.’—Have you any children, Mrs. Mannheim?”

For the first time during the interview her face radically changed
expression. An angry gleam shone in her eyes.

“No!” The denial was like an ejaculation.

Vance smoked lethargically for several moments.

“You lived in New Orleans until the time of your employment in this
house?” he finally asked.

“Yes.”

“And your husband died there?”

“Yes.”

“That was thirteen years ago, I understand.—How long before that had
it been since you had seen Mr. Greene?”

“About a year.”

“So that would be fourteen years ago.”

An apprehension, bordering on fear, showed through the woman’s morose
calmness.

“And you came all the way to New York to seek Mr. Greene’s help,”
mused Vance. “Why were you so confident that he would give you
employment after your husband’s death?”

“Mr. Greene was a very good man,” was all she would say.

“He had perhaps,” suggested Vance, “done some other favor for you
which made you think you could count on his generosity—eh, what?”

“That’s neither here nor there.” Her mouth closed tightly.

Vance changed the subject.

“What do you think about the crimes that have been committed in this
house?”

“I don’t think about them,” she mumbled; but the anxiety in her voice
belied the assertion.

“You surely must hold some opinion, Mrs. Mannheim, having been here so
long.” Vance’s intent gaze did not leave the woman. “Who, do you
think, would have had any reason for wanting to harm these people?”

Suddenly her self-control gave way.

“_Du lieber Herr Jesus!_ I don’t know—I don’t know!” It was like a cry
of anguish. “Miss Julia and Mr. Chester maybe—_gewiss_, one could
understand. They hated everybody; they were hard, unloving. But little
Ada—_der süsse Engel!_ Why should they want to harm her!” She set her
face grimly, and slowly her expression of stolidity returned.

“Why, indeed?” A note of sympathy was evident in Vance’s voice. After
a pause he rose and went to the window. “You may return to your room
now, Frau Mannheim,” he said, without turning. “We sha’n’t let
anything further happen to little Ada.”

The woman got up heavily and, with an uneasy glance in Vance’s
direction, left the room.

As soon as she was out of hearing Markham swung about.

“What’s the use of raking up all this ancient history?” he demanded
irritably. “We’re dealing with things that have taken place within the
past few days; and you waste valuable time trying to find out why
Tobias Greene hired a cook thirteen years ago.”

“There’s such a thing as cause and effect,” offered Vance mildly. “And
frequently there’s a dashed long interval between the two.”

“Granted. But what possible connection can this German cook have with
the present murders?”

“Perhaps none.” Vance strode back across the room, his eyes on the
floor. “But, Markham old dear, nothing appears to have any connection
with this débâcle. And, on the other hand, everything seems to have a
possible relationship. The whole house is steeped in vague meanings. A
hundred shadowy hands are pointing to the culprit, and the moment you
try to determine the direction the hands disappear. It’s a nightmare.
Nothing means anything; therefore, anything may have a meaning.”

“My dear Vance! You’re not yourself.” Markham’s tone was one of
annoyance and reproach. “Your remarks are worse than the obscure
ramblings of the sibyls. What if Tobias Greene did have dealings with
one Mannheim in the past? Old Tobias indulged in numerous shady
transactions, if the gossip of twenty-five or thirty years ago can be
credited.* He was forever scurrying to the ends of the earth on some
mysterious mission, and coming home with his pockets lined. And it’s
common knowledge that he spent considerable time in Germany. If you
try to dig up his past for possible explanations for the present
business, you’ll have your hands full.”

  * I remember, back in the nineties, when I was a schoolboy,
  hearing my father allude to certain picturesque tales of
  Tobias Greene’s escapades.

“You misconstrue my vagaries,” returned Vance, pausing before the old
oil-painting of Tobias Greene over the fireplace. “I repudiate all
ambition to become the family historian of the Greenes. . . . Not a
bad head on Tobias,” he commented, adjusting his monocle and
inspecting the portrait. “An interestin’ character. Dynamic forehead,
with more than a suggestion of the scholar. A rugged, prying nose.
Yes, Tobias no doubt fared forth on many an adventurous quest. A cruel
mouth, though—rather sinister, in fact. I wish the whiskers permitted
one a view of the chin. It was round, with a deep cleft, I’d say—the
substance of which Chester’s chin was but the simulacrum.”

“Very edifying,” sneered Markham. “But phrenology leaves me cold this
morning.—Tell me, Vance: are you laboring under some melodramatic
notion that old Mannheim may have been resurrected and returned to
wreak vengeance on the Greene progeny for wrongs done him by Tobias in
the dim past? I can’t see any other reason for the questions you put
to Mrs. Mannheim. Don’t overlook the fact, however, that Mannheim’s
dead.”

“I didn’t attend the funeral.” Vance sank lazily again in his chair.

“Don’t be so unutterably futile,” snapped Markham. “What’s going
through your head?”

“An excellent figure of speech! It expresses my mental state
perfectly. Numberless things are ‘going through my head.’ But nothing
remains there. My brain’s a veritable sieve.”

Heath projected himself into the discussion.

“My opinion is, sir, that the Mannheim angle of this affair is a
washout. We’re dealing with the present, and the bird that did this
shooting is somewheres around here right now.”

“You’re probably right, Sergeant,” conceded Vance. “But—my word!—it
strikes me that every angle of the case—and, for that matter, every
cusp, arc, tangent, parabola, sine, radius, and hyperbole—is
hopelessly inundated.”



CHAPTER XI.

A Painful Interview

  (Friday, November 12; 11 a. m.)

Markham glanced impatiently at his watch.

“It’s getting late,” he complained, “and I have an important
appointment at noon. I think I’ll have a go at Rex Greene, and then
leave matters in your hands for the time being, Sergeant. There’s
nothing much to be done here now, and your routine work must be gone
through with.”

Heath got up gloomily.

“Yes; and one of the first things to be done is to go over this house
with a fine-tooth comb for that revolver. If we could find that gun
we’d be on our way.”

“I don’t want to damp your ardor, Sergeant,” drawled Vance, “but
something whispers in my ear that the weapon you yearn for is going to
prove dashed elusive.”

Heath looked depressed; he was obviously of Vance’s opinion.

“A hell of a case this is! Not a lead—nothing to get your teeth in.”

He went to the archway and yanked the bell-cord viciously. When Sproot
appeared he almost barked his demand that Mr. Rex Greene be produced
at once; and he stood looking truculently after the retreating butler
as if longing for an excuse to follow up his order with violence.

Rex came in nervously, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his lips.
His eyes were sunken; his cheeks sagged, and his short splay fingers
fidgeted with the hem of his smoking-jacket, like those of a man under
the influence of hyoscine. He gave us a resentful, half-frightened
gaze, and planted himself aggressively before us, refusing to take the
seat Markham indicated. Suddenly he demanded fiercely:

“Have you found out yet who killed Julia and Chester?”

“No,” Markham admitted; “but we’ve taken every precaution against any
recurrence. . . .”

“Precaution? What have you done?”

“We’ve stationed a man both front and rear——”

A cackling laugh cut him short.

“A lot of good that’ll do! The person who’s after us Greenes has a
key. He has a key, I tell you! And he can get in whenever he wants to,
and nobody can stop him.”

“I think you exaggerate a little,” returned Markham mildly. “In any
case, we hope to put our hands on him very soon. And that’s why I’ve
asked you here again—it’s quite possible that you can help us.”

“What do I know?” The man’s words were defiant, and he took several
long inhalations on his cigarette, the ashes of which fell upon his
jacket unnoticed.

“You were asleep, I understand, when the shot was fired last night,”
went on Markham’s quiet voice; “but Sergeant Heath tells me you were
awake until after eleven and heard noises in the hall. Suppose you
tell us just what happened.”

“Nothing happened!” Rex blurted. “I went to bed at half past ten, but
I was too nervous to sleep. Then, some time later, the moon came out
and fell across the foot of the bed; and I got up and pulled down the
shade. About ten minutes later I heard a scraping sound in the hall,
and directly afterward a door closed softly——”

“Just a moment, Mr. Greene,” interrupted Vance. “Can you be a little
more definite about that noise? What did it sound like?”

“I didn’t pay any attention to it,” was the whining reply. “It might
have been almost anything. It was like some one laying down a bundle,
or dragging something across the floor; or it might have been old
Sproot in his bedroom slippers, though it didn’t sound like him—that
is, I didn’t associate him with the sound when I heard it.”

“And after that?”

“After that? I lay awake in bed ten or fifteen minutes longer. I was
restless and—and expectant; so I turned on the lights to see what time
it was, and smoked half a cigarette——”

“It was twenty-five minutes past eleven, I understand.”

“That’s right. Then a few minutes later I put out the light, and must
have gone right to sleep.”

There was a pause, and Heath drew himself up aggressively.

“Say, Greene: know anything about fire-arms?” He shot the question out
brutally.

Rex stiffened. His lips sagged open, and his cigarette fell to the
floor. The muscles of his thin jowls twitched, and he glared
menacingly at the Sergeant.

“What do you mean?” The words were like a snarl; and I noticed that
his whole body was quivering.

“Know what became of your brother’s revolver?” pursued Heath
relentlessly, thrusting out his jaw.

Rex’s mouth was working in a paroxysm of fury and fear, but he seemed
unable to articulate.

“Where have you got it hidden?” Again Heath’s voice sounded harshly.

“Revolver? . . . Hidden? . . .” At last Rex had succeeded in
formulating his words. “You—filthy rotter! If you’ve got any idea that
I have the revolver, go up and tear my room apart and look for it—and
be damned to you!” His eyes flashed, and his upper lip lifted over his
teeth. But there was fright in his attitude as well as rage.

Heath had leaned forward and was about to say something further, when
Vance quickly rose and laid a restraining hand on the Sergeant’s arm.
He was too late, however, to avoid the thing he evidently hoped to
forestall. What Heath had already said had proved sufficient stimulus
to bring about a terrible reaction in his victim.

“What do I care what that unspeakable swine says?” he shouted,
pointing a palsied finger at the Sergeant. Oaths and vituperation
welled shrilly from his twitching lips. His insensate wrath seemed to
pass all ordinary bounds. His enormous head was thrust forward like a
python’s; and his face was cyanosed and contorted.

Vance stood poised, watching him alertly; and Markham had
instinctively moved back his chair. Even Heath was startled by Rex’s
inordinate malignity.

What might have happened I don’t know, had not Von Blon at that moment
stepped swiftly into the room and placed a restraining hand on the
youth’s shoulder.

“Rex!” he said, in a calm, authoritative voice. “Get a grip on
yourself. You’re disturbing Ada.”

The other ceased speaking abruptly; but his ferocity of manner did not
wholly abate. He shook off the doctor’s hand angrily and swung round,
facing Von Blon.

“What are you interfering for?” he cried. “You’re always meddling in
this house, coming here when you’re not sent for, and nosing into our
affairs. Mother’s paralysis is only an excuse. You’ve said yourself
she’ll never get well, and yet you keep coming, bringing her medicine
and sending bills.” He gave the doctor a crafty leer. “Oh, you don’t
deceive me. I know why you come here! It’s Sibella!” Again he thrust
out his head and grinned shrewdly. “She’d be a good catch for a
doctor, too—wouldn’t she? Plenty of money——”

Suddenly he halted. His eyes did not leave Von Blon, but he shrank
back and the twitching of his face began once more. A quivering finger
went up; and as he spoke his voice rose excitedly.

“But Sibella’s money isn’t enough. You want ours along with hers. So
you’re arranging for her to inherit all of it. That’s it—that’s it!
_You’re_ the one who’s been doing all this. . . . Oh, my God! You’ve
got Chester’s gun—you took it! And you’ve got a key to the house—easy
enough for you to have one made. That’s how you got in.”

Von Blon shook his head sadly and smiled with rueful tolerance. It was
an embarrassing moment, but he carried it off well.

“Come, Rex,” he said quietly, like a person speaking to a refractory
child. “You’ve said enough——”

“Have I!” cried the youth, his eyes gleaming unnaturally. “You knew
Chester had the revolver. You went camping with him the summer he got
it—he told me so the other day, after Julia was killed.” His beady
little eyes seemed to stare from his head; a spasm shook his emaciated
body; and his fingers again began worrying the hem of his jacket.

Von Blon stepped swiftly forward and, putting a hand on each of his
shoulders, shook him.

“That’ll do, Rex!” The words were a sharp command. “If you carry on
this way, we’ll have to lock you up in an institution.”

The threat was uttered in what I considered an unnecessarily brutal
tone; but it had the desired effect. A haunting fear showed in Rex’s
eyes. He seemed suddenly to go limp, and he docilely permitted Von
Blon to lead him from the room.

“A sweet specimen, that Rex,” commented Vance. “Not a person one would
choose for a boon companion. Aggravated macrocephalia—cortical
irritation. But I say, Sergeant; really, y’ know, you shouldn’t have
prodded the lad so.”

Heath grunted.

“You can’t tell me that guy don’t know something. And you can bet your
sweet life I’m going to search his room damn good for that gun.”

“It appears to me,” rejoined Vance, “he’s too flighty to have planned
the massacre in this house. He might blow up under pressure and hit
somebody with a handy missile; but I doubt if he’d lay any deep
schemes and bide his time.”

“He’s good and scared about something,” persisted Heath morosely.

“Hasn’t he cause to be? Maybe he thinks the elusive gunman hereabouts
will chose him as the next target.”

“If there _is_ another gunman, he showed damn bad taste not picking
Rex out first.” It was evident the Sergeant was still smarting under
the epithets that had so recently been directed at him.

Von Blon returned to the drawing-room at this moment, looking
troubled.

“I’ve got Rex quieted,” he said. “Gave him five grains of luminal.
He’ll sleep for a few hours and wake up penitent. I’ve rarely seen him
quite as violent as he was to-day. He’s supersensitive—cerebral
neurasthenia; and he’s apt to fly off the handle. But he’s never
dangerous.” He scanned our faces swiftly. “One of you gentlemen must
have said something pretty severe.”

Heath looked sheepish. “I asked him where he’d hid the gun.”

“Ah!” The doctor gave the Sergeant a look of questioning reproach.
“Too bad! We have to be careful with Rex. He’s all right so long as he
isn’t opposed too strongly. But I don’t just see, sir, what your
object could have been in questioning him about the revolver. You
surely don’t suspect him of having had a hand in these terrible
shootings.”

“You tell me who did the shootings, doc,” retorted Heath pugnaciously,
“and then I’ll tell you who I _don’t_ suspect.”

“I regret that I am unable to enlighten you.” Von Blon’s tone exuded
its habitual pleasantness. “But I can assure you Rex had no part in
them. They’re quite out of keeping with his pathologic state.”

“That’s the defense of half the high-class killers we get the goods
on,” countered Heath.

“I see I can’t argue with you.” Von Blon sighed regretfully, and
turned an engaging countenance in Markham’s direction. “Rex’s absurd
accusations puzzled me deeply, but, since this officer admits he
practically accused the boy of having the revolver, the situation
becomes perfectly clear. A common form of instinctive self-protection,
this attempting to shift blame on others. You can see, of course, that
Rex was merely trying to turn suspicion upon me so as to free himself.
It’s unfortunate, for he and I were always good friends. Poor Rex!”

“By the by, doctor,” came Vance’s indolent voice; “that point about
your being with Mr. Chester Greene on the camping-trip when he first
secured the gun: was that correct? Or was it merely a fancy engendered
by Rex’s self-protective instinct?”

Von Blon smiled with faultless urbanity and, putting his head a little
on one side, appeared to recall the past.

“It may be correct,” he admitted. “I was once with Chester on a
camping-trip. Yes, it’s quite likely—though I shouldn’t like to state
it definitely. It was so long ago.”

“Fifteen years, I think, Mr. Greene said. Ah, yes—a long time ago.
_Eheu! fugaces, Postume, Postume, labuntur anni._ It’s very
depressin’. And do you recall, doctor, if Mr. Greene had a revolver
along on that particular outing?”

“Since you mention it, I believe I do recall his having one, though
again I should choose not to be definite on the subject.”

“Perhaps you may recollect if he used it for target practice.” Vance’s
tone was dulcet and uneager. “Popping away at tree-boles and tin cans
and what not, don’t y’ know.”

Von Blon nodded reminiscently.

“Ye-es. It’s quite possible. . . .”

“And you yourself may have done a bit of desult’ry popping, what?”

“To be sure, I may have.” Von Blon spoke musingly, like one recalling
childish pranks. “Yes, it’s wholly possible.”

Vance lapsed into a disinterested silence, and the doctor, after a
moment’s hesitation, rose.

“I must be going, I’m afraid.” And with a gracious bow he started
toward the door. “Oh, by the way,” he said, pausing, “I almost forgot
that Mrs. Greene told me she desired to see you gentlemen before you
went. Forgive me if I suggest that it might be wise to humor her.
She’s something of a dowager, you know, and her invalidism has made
her rather irritable and exacting.”

“I’m glad you mentioned Mrs. Greene, doctor.” It was Vance who spoke.
“I’ve been intending to ask you about her. What is the nature of her
paralysis?”

Von Blon appeared surprised.

“Why, a sort of paraplegia dolorosa—that is, a paralysis of the legs
and lower part of the body, accompanied by severe pains due to
pressure of the indurations on the spinal cord and nerves. No
spasticity of the limbs has supervened, however. Came on very suddenly
without any premonitory symptoms about ten years ago—probably the
result of transverse myelitis. There’s nothing really to be done but
to keep her as comfortable as possible with symptomatic treatment, and
to tone up the heart action. A sixtieth of strychnine three times a
day takes care of the circulation.”

“Couldn’t by any chance be a hysterical akinesia?”

“Good Lord, no! There’s no hysteria.” Then his eyes widened in
amazement. “Oh, I see! No; there’s no possibility of recovery, even
partial. It’s organic paralysis.”

“And atrophy?”

“Oh, yes. Muscular atrophy is now pronounced.”

“Thank you very much.” Vance lay back with half-closed eyes.

“Oh, not at all.—And remember, Mr. Markham, that I always stand ready
to help in any way I can. Please don’t hesitate to call on me.” He
bowed again, and went out.

Markham got up and stretched his legs.

“Come; we’ve been summoned to appear.” His facetiousness was a patent
effort to shake off the depressing gloom of the case.

Mrs. Greene received us with almost unctuous cordiality.

“I knew you’d grant the request of a poor old useless cripple,” she
said, with an appealing smile; “though I’m used to being ignored. No
one pays any attention to my wishes.”

The nurse stood at the head of the bed arranging the pillows beneath
the old lady’s shoulders.

“Is that comfortable now?” she asked.

Mrs. Greene made a gesture of annoyance.

“A lot you care whether I’m comfortable or not! Why can’t you let me
alone, nurse? You’re always disturbing me. There was nothing wrong
with the pillows. And I don’t want you in here now anyway. Go and sit
with Ada.”

The nurse drew a long, patient breath, and went silently from the
room, closing the door behind her.

Mrs. Greene reverted to her former ingratiating manner.

“No one understands my needs the way Ada does, Mr. Markham. What a
relief it will be when the dear child gets well enough to care for me
again! But I mustn’t complain. The nurse does the best she knows how,
I suppose.—Please sit down, gentlemen . . . yet what wouldn’t I give
if I could only stand up the way you can. No one realizes what it
means to be a helpless paralytic.”

Markham did not avail himself of the invitation, but waited until she
had finished speaking and then said:

“Please believe that you have my deepest sympathy, madam. . . . You
sent for me, Doctor Von Blon said.”

“Yes!” She looked at him calculatingly. “I wanted to ask you a favor.”

She paused, and Markham bowed but did not answer.

“I wanted to request you to drop this investigation. I’ve had enough
worry and disturbance as it is. But _I_ don’t count. It’s the family
I’m thinking of—the good name of the Greenes.” A note of pride came
into her voice. “What need is there to drag us through the mire and
make us an object of scandalous gossip for the _canaille_? I want
peace and quiet, Mr. Markham. I won’t be here much longer; and why
should my house be overrun with policemen just because Julia and
Chester have suffered their just deserts for neglecting me and letting
me suffer here alone? I’m an old woman and a cripple, and I’m
deserving of a little consideration.”

Her face clouded, and her voice became harsh.

“You haven’t any right to come here and upset my house and annoy me in
this outrageous fashion! I haven’t had a minute’s rest since all this
excitement began, and my spine is paining me so I can hardly breathe.”
She took several stertorous breaths, and her eyes flashed indignantly.
“I don’t expect any better treatment from my children—they’re hard and
thoughtless. But you, Mr. Markham—an outsider, a stranger: why should
you want to torture me with all this commotion? It’s
outrageous—inhuman!”

“I am sorry if the presence of the officers of the law in your house
disturbs you,” Markham told her gravely; “but I have no alternative.
When a crime has been committed it is my duty to investigate, and to
use every means at my disposal to bring the guilty person to justice.”

“Justice!” The old lady repeated the word scornfully. “Justice has
already been done. I’ve been avenged for the treatment I’ve received
these many years, lying here helpless.”

There was something almost terrifying in the woman’s cruel and
unrelenting hatred of her children, and in the cold-blooded
satisfaction she seemed to take in the fact that two of them had been
punished by death. Markham, naturally sympathetic, revolted against
her attitude.

“However much gratification you may feel at the murder of your son and
daughter, madam,” he said coldly, “it does not release me from my duty
to find the murderer.—Was there anything else you wished to speak to
me about?”

For a while she sat silent, her face working with impotent passion.
The gaze she bent on Markham was almost ferocious. But presently the
vindictive vigilance of her eyes relaxed, and she drew a deep sigh.

“No; you may go now. I have nothing more to say. And, anyway, who
cares about an old helpless woman like me? I should have learned by
this time that nobody thinks of my comfort, lying here all alone,
unable to help myself—a nuisance to every one. . . .”

Her whining, self-pitying voice followed us as we made our escape.

“Y’ know, Markham,” said Vance, as we came into the lower hall, “the
Empress Dowager is not entirely devoid of reason. Her suggestion is
deserving of consideration. The clarion voice of duty may summon you
to this quest, but—my word!—whither shall one quest? There’s nothing
sane in this house—nothing that lends itself to ordin’ry normal
reason. Why not take her advice and chuck it? Even if you learn the
truth, it’s likely to prove a sort of Pyrrhic vict’ry. I’m afraid
it’ll be more terrible than the crimes themselves.”

Markham did not deign to answer; he was familiar with Vance’s
heresies, and he also knew that Vance himself would be the last person
to throw over an unsolved problem.

“We’ve got something to go on, Mr. Vance,” submitted Heath solemnly,
but without enthusiasm. “There’s those foot-tracks, for instance; and
we’ve got the missing gun to find. Dubois is up-stairs now taking
finger-prints. And the reports on the servants’ll be coming along
soon. There’s no telling what’ll turn up in a few days. I’ll have a
dozen men working on this case before night.”

“Such zeal, Sergeant! But it’s in the atmosphere of this old house—not
in tangible clews—that the truth lies hidden. It’s somewhere in these
old jumbled rooms; it’s peering out from dark corners and from behind
doors. It’s here—in this very hall, perhaps.”

His tone was fraught with troubled concern, and Markham looked at him
sharply.

“I think you’re right, Vance,” he muttered. “But how is one to get at
it?”

“’Pon my soul, I don’t know. How does one get at spectres, anyway?
I’ve never had much intimate intercourse with ghosts, don’t y’ know.”

“You’re talking rubbish!” Markham jerked on his overcoat, and turned
to Heath. “You go ahead, Sergeant; and keep in touch with me. If
nothing develops from your inquiries, we’ll discuss the next step.”

And he and Vance and I went out to the waiting car.



CHAPTER XII.

A Motor Ride

  (November 12–November 25)

The inquiry was pushed according to the best traditions of the Police
Department. Captain Carl Hagedorn, the firearms expert,* made a minute
scientific examination of the bullets. The same revolver, he found,
had fired all three shots: the peculiar rifling told him this; and he
was able to state that the revolver was an old Smith & Wesson of a
style whose manufacture had been discontinued. But, while these
findings offered substantiation to the theory that Chester Greene’s
missing gun was the one used by the murderer, they added nothing to
the facts already established or suspected. Deputy Inspector Conrad
Brenner, the burglar-tools expert,† had conducted an exhaustive
examination of the scene for evidential signs of a forced entrance,
but had found no traces whatever of a housebreaker.

  * Captain Hagedorn was the expert who supplied Vance with the
  technical data in the Benson murder case, which made it
  possible for him to establish the height of the murderer.
  † It was Inspector Brenner who examined and reported on the
  chiselled jewel-box in the “Canary” murder case.

Dubois and his assistant Bellamy—the two leading finger-print
authorities of the New York Police Department—went so far as to take
finger-prints of every member of the Greene household, including
Doctor Von Blon; and these were compared with the impressions found in
the hallways and in the rooms where the shootings had occurred. But
when this tedious process was over not an unidentified print remained;
and all those that had been found and photographed were logically
accounted for.

Chester Greene’s galoshes were taken to Headquarters and turned over
to Captain Jerym, who carefully compared them with the measurements
and the patterns made by Snitkin. No new fact concerning them,
however, was discovered. The tracks in the snow, Captain Jerym
reported, had been made either by the galoshes given him or by another
pair of the exact size and last. Beyond this statement he could not,
he said, conscientiously go.

It was established that no one in the Greene mansion, with the
exception of Chester and Rex, owned galoshes; and Rex’s were number
seven—three sizes smaller than those found in Chester’s
clothes-closet. Sproot used only storm-rubbers, size eight; and Doctor
Von Blon, who affected gaiters in winter, always wore rubber sandals
during stormy weather.

The search for the missing revolver occupied several days. Heath
turned the task over to men trained especially in this branch of work,
and supplied them with a search-warrant in case they should meet with
any opposition. But no obstacle was put in their way. The house was
systematically ransacked from basement to attic. Even Mrs. Greene’s
quarters were subjected to a search. The old lady had at first
objected, but finally gave her consent, and even seemed a bit
disappointed when the men had finished. The only room that was not
gone over was Tobias Greene’s library. Owing to the fact that Mrs.
Greene had never let the key go out of her possession, and had
permitted no one to enter the room since her husband’s death, Heath
decided not to force the issue when she refused pointblank to deliver
the key. Every other nook and corner of the house, however, was combed
by the Sergeant’s men. But no sign of the revolver rewarded their
efforts.

The autopsies revealed nothing at variance with Doctor Doremus’s
preliminary findings. Julia and Chester had each died instantaneously
from the effects of a bullet entering the heart, shot from a revolver
held at close range. No other possible cause of death was present in
either body; and there were no indications of a struggle.

No unknown or suspicious person had been seen near the Greene mansion
on the night of either murder, although several people were found who
had been in the neighborhood at the time; and a bootmaker, who lived
on the second floor of the Narcoss Flats in 53d Street, opposite to
the house, stated that he had been sitting at his window, smoking his
bedtime pipe, during the time of both shootings, and could swear that
no one had passed down that end of the street.

However, the guard which had been placed over the Greene mansion was
not relaxed. Men were on duty day and night at both entrances to the
estate, and every one entering or leaving the premises was closely
scrutinized. So close a watch was kept that strange tradesmen found it
inconvenient and at times difficult to make ordinary deliveries.

The reports that were turned in concerning the servants were
unsatisfactory from the standpoint of detail; but all the facts
unearthed tended to eliminate each subject from any possible
connection with the crimes. Barton, the younger maid, who had quitted
the Greene establishment the morning after the second tragedy, proved
to be the daughter of respectable working people living in Jersey
City. Her record was good, and her companions all appeared to be
harmless members of her own class.

Hemming, it turned out, was a widow who, up to the time of her
employment with the Greenes, had kept house for her husband, an
iron-worker, in Altoona, Pa. She was remembered even there among her
former neighbors as a religious fanatic who had led her husband
sternly and exultantly in the narrow path of enforced rectitude. When
he was killed by a furnace explosion she declared it was the hand of
God striking him down for some secret sin. Her associates were few:
they were in the main members of a small congregation of East Side
Anabaptists.

The summer gardener of the Greenes—a middle-aged Pole named
Krimski—was discovered in a private saloon in Harlem, well under the
benumbing influence of synthetic whiskey—a state of beatific lassitude
he had maintained, with greater or lesser steadfastness, since the end
of summer. He was at once eliminated from police consideration.

The investigation into the habits and associates of Mrs. Mannheim and
Sproot brought nothing whatever to light. Indeed, the habits of these
two were exemplary, and their contacts with the outside world so
meagre as to be regarded almost as non-existent. Sproot had no visible
friends, and his acquaintances were limited to an English valet in
Park Avenue and the tradespeople of the neighborhood. He was solitary
by nature, and what few recreations he permitted himself were indulged
in unaccompanied. Mrs. Mannheim had rarely left the premises of the
Greene house since she had taken up her duties there at the time of
her husband’s death, and apparently knew no one in New York outside of
the household.

These reports dashed whatever hopes Sergeant Heath may have harbored
of finding a solution to the Greene mystery by way of a possible
accomplice in the house itself.

“I guess we’ll have to give up the idea of an inside job,” he lamented
one morning in Markham’s office a few days after the shooting of
Chester Greene.

Vance, who was present, eyed him lazily.

“I shouldn’t say that, don’t y’ know, Sergeant. On the contr’ry, it
was indubitably an inside job, though not just the variety you have in
mind.”

“You mean you think some member of the family did it?”

“Well—perhaps: something rather along that line.” Vance drew on his
cigarette thoughtfully. “But that’s not exactly what I meant. It’s a
situation, a set of conditions—an atmosphere, let us say—that’s
guilty. A subtle and deadly poison is responsible for the crimes. And
that poison is generated in the Greene mansion.”

“A swell time I’d have trying to arrest an atmosphere—or a poison
either, for the matter of that,” snorted Heath.

“Oh, there’s a flesh-and-blood victim awaiting your manacles
somewhere, Sergeant—the agent, so to speak, of the atmosphere.”

Markham, who had been conning the various reports of the case, sighed
heavily, and settled back in his chair.

“Well, I wish to Heaven,” he interposed bitterly, “that he’d give us
some hint as to his identity. The papers are at it hammer and tongs.
There’s been another delegation of reporters here this morning.”

The fact was that rarely had there been in New York’s journalistic
history a case which had so tenaciously seized upon the public
imagination. The shooting of Julia and Ada Greene had been treated
sensationally but perfunctorily; but after Chester Greene’s murder an
entirely different spirit animated the newspaper stories. Here was
something romantically sinister—something which brought back forgotten
pages of criminal history.* Columns were devoted to accounts of the
Greene family history. Genealogical archives were delved into for
remote titbits. Old Tobias Greene’s record was raked over, and stories
of his early life became the common property of the man in the street.
Pictures of all the members of the Greene family accompanied these
spectacular tales; and the Greene mansion itself, photographed from
every possible angle, was used regularly to illustrate the flamboyant
accounts of the crimes so recently perpetrated there.

  * Among the famous cases mentioned as being in some manner
  comparable to the Greene shootings were the mass murders of
  Landru, Jean-Baptiste Troppmann, Fritz Haarmann, and Mrs.
  Belle Gunness; the tavern murders of the Benders; the Van der
  Linden poisonings in Holland; the Bela Kiss tin-cask
  stranglings; the Rugeley murders of Doctor William Palmer; and
  the beating to death of Benjamin Nathan.

The story of the Greene murders spread over the entire country, and
even the press of Europe found space for it. The tragedy, taken in
connection with the social prominence of the family and the romantic
history of its progenitors, appealed irresistibly to the morbidity and
the snobbery of the public.

It was natural that the police and the District Attorney’s office
should be hounded by the representatives of the press; and it was also
natural that both Heath and Markham should be sorely troubled by the
fact that all their efforts to lay hands on the criminal had come to
naught. Several conferences had been called in Markham’s office, at
each of which the ground had been carefully reploughed; but not one
helpful suggestion had been turned up. Two weeks after the murder of
Chester Greene the case began to take on the aspect of a stalemate.

During that fortnight, however, Vance had not been idle. The situation
had caught and held his interest, and not once had he dismissed it
from his mind since that first morning when Chester Greene had applied
to Markham for help. He said little about the case, but he had
attended each of the conferences; and from his casual comments I knew
he was both fascinated and perplexed by the problem it presented.

So convinced was he that the Greene mansion itself held the secret to
the crimes enacted there that he had made it a point to call at the
house several times without Markham. Markham, in fact, had been there
but once since the second crime. It was not that he was shirking his
task. There was, in reality, little for him to do; and the routine
duties of his office were particularly heavy at that time.*

  * The famous impure-milk scandal was then to the fore, and the
  cases were just appearing on the court calendar. Also, at that
  time, there was an anti-gambling campaign in progress in New
  York; and the District Attorney’s office had charge of all the
  prosecutions.

Sibella had insisted that the funerals of Julia and Chester be
combined in one service, which was held in the private chapel of
Malcomb’s Undertaking Parlors. Only a few intimate acquaintances were
notified (though a curious crowd gathered outside the building,
attracted by the sensational associations of the obsequies); and the
interment at Woodlawn Cemetery was strictly private. Doctor Von Blon
accompanied Sibella and Rex to the chapel, and sat with them during
the services. Ada, though improving rapidly, was still confined to the
house; and Mrs. Greene’s paralysis of course made her attendance
impossible, although I doubt if she would have gone in any case, for
when the suggestion was made that the services be held at home she had
vetoed it emphatically.

It was on the day after the funeral that Vance paid his first
unofficial visit to the Greene mansion. Sibella received him without
any show of surprise.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she greeted him, almost gaily. “I knew you
weren’t a policeman the first time I saw you. Imagine a policeman
smoking _Régie_ cigarettes! And I’m dying for some one to talk to. Of
course, all the people I know avoid me now as they would a pestilence.
I haven’t had an invitation since Julia passed from this silly life.
Respect for the dead, I believe they call it. And just when I most
need diversion!”

She rang for the butler and ordered tea.

“Sproot makes much better tea than he does coffee, thank Heaven!” she
ran on, with a kind of nervous detachment. “What a sweet day we had
yesterday! Funerals are hideous farces. I could hardly keep a straight
face when the officiating reverend doctor began extolling the glories
of the departed. And all the time—poor man—he was eaten up with morbid
curiosity. I’m sure he enjoyed it so much that he wouldn’t complain if
I entirely forgot to send him a check for his kind words. . . .”

The tea was served, but before Sproot had withdrawn Sibella turned to
him pettishly.

“I simply can’t stand any more tea. I want a Scotch high-ball.” She
lifted her eyes to Vance inquiringly, but he insisted that he
preferred tea; and the girl drank her high-ball alone.

“I crave stimulation these days,” she explained airily. “This moated
grange, so to speak, is getting on my young and fretful nerves. And
the burden of being a celebrity is quite overwhelming. I really have
become a celebrity, you know. In fact, all the Greenes are quite
famous now. I never imagined a mere murder or two could give a family
such positively irrational prominence. I’ll probably be in Hollywood
yet.”

She gave a laugh which struck me as a trifle strained.

“It’s just too jolly! Even mother is enjoying it. She gets all the
papers and reads every word that’s written about us—which is a
blessing, let me tell you. She’s almost forgotten to find fault; and I
haven’t heard a word about her spine for days. The Lord tempers the
wind—or is it something about an ill wind I’m trying to quote? I
always get my classical references confused. . . .”

She ran on in this flippant vein for half an hour or so. But whether
her callousness was genuine or merely a brave attempt to counteract
the pall of tragedy that hung over her I couldn’t make out. Vance
listened, interested and amused. He seemed to sense a certain
emotional necessity in the girl to relieve her mind; but long before
we went away he had led the conversation round to commonplace matters.
When we rose to go Sibella insisted that we come again.

“You’re so comforting, Mr. Vance,” she said. “I’m sure you’re not a
moralist; and you haven’t once condoled with me over my bereavements.
Thank Heaven, we Greenes have no relatives to swoop down on us and
bathe us in tears. I’m sure I’d commit suicide if we had.”

Vance and I called twice more within the week, and were received
cordially. Sibella’s high spirits were always the same. If she felt
the horror that had descended so suddenly and unexpectedly upon her
home, she managed to hide it well. Only in her eagerness to talk
freely and in her exaggerated efforts to avoid all sign of mourning
did I sense any effects on her of the terrible experience she had been
through.

Vance on none of his visits referred directly to the crimes; and I
became deeply puzzled by his attitude. He was trying to learn
something—of that I was positive. But I failed to see what possible
progress he could make by the casual methods he was pursuing. Had I
not known him better I might have suspected him of being personally
interested in Sibella; but such a notion I dismissed simultaneously
with its formulation. I noticed, however, that after each call he
became unaccountably pensive; and one evening, after we had had tea
with Sibella, he sat for an hour before the fire in his living-room
without turning a page of the volume of da Vinci’s “Trattato della
Pittura” which lay open before him.

On one of his visits to the Greene mansion he had met and talked with
Rex. At first the youth had been surly and resentful of our presence;
but before we went away he and Vance were discussing such subjects as
Einstein’s general-relativity theory, the Moulton-Chamberlin
planetesimal hypothesis, and Poincaré’s science of numbers, on a plane
quite beyond the grasp of a mere layman like myself. Rex had warmed up
to the discussion in an almost friendly manner, and at parting had
even offered his hand for Vance to shake.

On another occasion Vance had asked Sibella to be permitted to pay his
respects to Mrs. Greene. His apologies to her—which he gave a
semiofficial flavor—for all the annoyance caused by the police
immediately ingratiated him in the old lady’s good graces. He was most
solicitous about her health, and asked her numerous questions
regarding her paralysis—the nature of her spinal pains and the
symptoms of her restlessness. His air of sympathetic concern drew from
her an elaborate and detailed jeremiad.

Twice Vance talked to Ada, who was now up and about, but with her arm
still in a sling. For some reason, however, the girl appeared almost
_farouche_ when approached by him. One day when we were at the house
Von Blon called, and Vance seemed to go out of his way to hold him in
conversation.

As I have said, I could not fathom his motive in all this apparently
desultory social give-and-take. He never broached the subject of the
tragedies except in the most indirect way; he appeared, rather, to
avoid the topic deliberately. But I did notice that, however casual
his manner, he was closely studying every one in the house. No nuance
of tone, no subtlety of reaction, escaped him. He was, I knew, storing
away impressions, analyzing minute phases of conduct, and probing
delicately into the psychological mainsprings of each person he talked
to.

We had called perhaps four or five times at the Greene mansion when an
episode occurred which must be recounted here in order to clarify a
later development of the case. I thought little of it at the time,
but, though seemingly trivial, it was to prove of the most sinister
significance before many days had passed. In fact, had it not been for
this episode there is no telling to what awful lengths the gruesome
tragedy of the Greenes might have gone; for Vance—in one of those
strange mental flashes of his which always seemed wholly intuitive but
were, in reality, the result of long, subtle reasoning—remembered the
incident at a crucial moment, and related it swiftly to other
incidents which in themselves appeared trifling, but which, when
co-ordinated, took on a tremendous and terrible importance.

During the second week following Chester Greene’s death the weather
moderated markedly. We had several beautiful clear days, crisp,
sunshiny, and invigorating. The snow had almost entirely disappeared,
and the ground was firm, without any of the slush that usually follows
a winter thaw. On Thursday Vance and I called at the Greene mansion
earlier than on any previous visit, and we saw Doctor Von Blon’s car
parked before the gate.

“Ah!” Vance observed. “I do hope the family Paracelsus is not
departing immediately. The man lures me; and his exact relationship to
the Greene family irks my curiosity.”

Von Blon, as a matter of fact, was preparing to go as we entered the
hallway. Sibella and Ada, bundled in their furs, stood just behind
him; and it was evident that they were accompanying him.

“It was such a pleasant day,” explained Von Blon, somewhat
disconcertedly, “I thought I’d take the girls for a drive.”

“And you and Mr. Van Dine must come with us,” chimed in Sibella,
smiling hospitably at Vance. “If the doctor’s temperamental driving
affects your heart action, I promise to take the wheel myself. I’m
really an expert chauffeur.”

I surprised a look of displeasure on Von Blon’s face; but Vance
accepted the invitation without demur; and in a few moments we were
riding across town, comfortably installed in the doctor’s big Daimler,
with Sibella in front, next to the driver’s seat, and Ada between
Vance and me in the tonneau.

We went north on Fifth Avenue, entered Central Park, and, emerging at
the 72d Street entrance, headed for Riverside Drive. The Hudson River
lay like a sheet of blue-grass below us, and the Jersey palisades in
the still clear air of early afternoon were as plainly etched as a
Degas drawing. At Dyckman Street we went up Broadway, and turned west
on the Spuyten Duyvil Road to Palisade Avenue overlooking the old
wooded estates along the water. We passed through a private roadway
lined with hedges, turned inland again to Sycamore Avenue, and came
out on the Riverdale Road. We drove through Yonkers, up North Broadway
into Hastings, and then skirted the Longue Vue Hill. Beyond Dobbs
Ferry we entered the Hudson Road, and at Ardsley again turned west
beside the Country Club golf-links, and came out on the river level.
Beyond the Ardsley Station a narrow dirt road ran up the hill along
the water; and, instead of following the main highway to the east, we
continued up this little-used road, emerging on a kind of plateau of
wild pasture-land.

A mile or so farther on—about midway between Ardsley and Tarrytown—a
small dun hill, like a boulder, loomed directly in our path. When we
came to the foot of it, the road swung sharply to the west along a
curved promontory. The turn was narrow and dangerous, with the steep
upward slope of the hill on one side and the precipitous, rocky
descent into the river on the other. A flimsy wooden fence had been
built along the edge of the drop, though what possible protection it
could be to a reckless or even careless driver I could not see.

As we came to the outermost arc of the little detour Von Blon brought
the car to a stop, the front wheels pointing directly toward the
precipice. A magnificent vista stretched before us. We could look up
and down the Hudson for miles. And there was a sense of isolation
about the spot, for the hill behind us completely shut off the country
inland.

We sat for several moments taking in the unusual view. Then Sibella
spoke. Her voice was whimsical, but a curious note of defiance
informed it.

“What a perfectly ripping spot for a murder!” she exclaimed, leaning
over and looking down the steep slope of the bluff. “Why run the risk
of shooting people when all you have to do is to take them for a ride
to this snug little shelf, jump from the car, and let them
topple—machine and all—over the precipice? Just another unfortunate
auto accident—and no one the wiser! . . . Really, I think I’ll take up
crime in a serious way.”

I felt a shudder pass over Ada’s body, and I noticed that her face
paled. Sibella’s comments struck me as particularly heartless and
unthinking in view of the terrible experience through which her sister
had so recently passed. The cruelty of her words evidently struck the
doctor also, for he turned toward her with a look of consternation.

Vance glanced quickly at Ada, and then attempted to banish the
embarrassment of the tense silence by remarking lightly:

“We refuse to take alarm, however, Miss Greene; for no one, d’ ye see,
could seriously consider a criminal career on a day as perfect as
this. Taine’s theory of climatic influences is most comfortin’ in
moments like this.”

Von Blon said nothing, but his reproachful eyes did not leave
Sibella’s face.

“Oh, let us go back!” cried Ada pitifully, nestling closer under the
lap-robe, as if the air had suddenly become chill.

Without a word Von Blon reversed the machine; and a moment later we
were on our way back to the city.



CHAPTER XIII.

The Third Tragedy

  (November 28 and November 30)

The following Sunday evening, November 28, Markham invited Inspector
Moran and Heath to the Stuyvesant Club for an informal conference.
Vance and I had dined with him and were present when the two police
officials arrived. We retired to Markham’s favorite corner of the
club’s lounge-room; and soon a general discussion of the Greene
murders was under way.

“I’m rather amazed,” said the Inspector, his voice even quieter than
usual, “that nothing has turned up to focus the inquiry. In the
average murder case there are numerous lines to be explored, even if
the right one is not hit upon immediately. But in this affair there
appears to be nothing whatever on which to concentrate.”

“That fact in itself, I should say,” rejoined Vance, “constitutes a
distinguishing characteristic of the case which shouldn’t be
overlooked, don’t y’ know. It’s a clew of vital importance, and if
only we could probe its significance I think we’d be on our way toward
a solution.”

“A fine clew that is!” grumbled Heath. “‘What clew have you got,
Sergeant?’ asks the Inspector. ‘Oh, a bully clew,’ says I. ‘And what
is it?’ asks the Inspector. ‘The fact that there ain’t _nothing_ to go
on!’ says I.”

Vance smiled.

“You’re so literal, Sergeant! What I was endeavoring to express, in my
purely laic capacity, was this: when there are no clews in a case—no
_points de départ_, no tell-tale indications—one is justified in
regarding everything as a clew—or, rather, as a factor in the puzzle.
To be sure, the great difficulty lies in fitting together these
apparently inconsequential pieces. I rather think we’ve at least a
hundred clews in our possession; but none of them has any meaning so
long as it’s unrelated to the others. This affair is like one of those
silly word-puzzles where all the letters are redistributed into a
meaningless jumble. The task for the solver is to rearrange them into
an intelligible word or sentence.”

“Could you name just eight or ten of those hundred clews for me?”
Heath requested ironically. “I sure would like to get busy on
something definite.”

“You know ’em all, Sergeant.” Vance refused to fall in with the
other’s bantering manner. “I’d say that practically everything that
has happened since the first alarm reached you might be regarded as a
clew.”

“Sure!” The Sergeant had lapsed again into sullen gloom. “The
footprints, the disappearance of the revolver, that noise Rex heard in
the hall. But we’ve run all those leads up against a blank wall.”

“Oh, those things!” Vance sent a ribbon of blue smoke upward. “Yes,
they’re clews of a kind. But I was referring more specifically to the
conditions existing at the Greene mansion—the organisms of the
environment there—the psychological elements of the situation.”

“Don’t get off again on your metaphysical theories and esoteric
hypotheses,” Markham interjected tartly. “We’ve either got to find a
practical _modus operandi_, or admit ourselves beaten.”

“But, Markham old man, you’re beaten on the face of it unless you can
put your chaotic facts into some kind of order. And the only way
you’ll be able to do that is by a process of prayerful analysis.”

“You give me some facts that’ve got some sense to ’em,” challenged
Heath, “and I’ll put ’em together soon enough.”

“The Sergeant’s right,” was Markham’s comment. “You’ll admit that as
yet we haven’t any significant facts to work with.”

“Oh, there’ll be more.”

Inspector Moran sat up, and his eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean by that, Mr. Vance?” It was obvious that the remark
had struck some chord of agreement in him.

“The thing isn’t over yet.” Vance spoke with unwonted sombreness. “The
picture’s unfinished. There’s more tragedy to come before the
monstrous canvas is rounded out. And the hideous thing about it is
that there’s no way of stopping it. Nothing now can halt the horror
that’s at work. It’s got to go on.”

“You feel that, too!” The Inspector’s voice was off its normal pitch.
“By God! This is the first case I’ve ever had that frightened me.”

“Don’t forget, sir,” argued Heath, but without conviction, “that we
got men watching the house day and night.”

“There’s no security in that, Sergeant,” asserted Vance. “The killer
is already in the house. He’s part of the deadly atmosphere of the
place. He’s been there for years, nourished by the toxins that seep
from the very stones of the walls.”

Heath looked up.

“A member of the family? You said that once before.”

“Not necessarily. But some one who has been tainted by the perverted
situation that grew out of old Tobias’s patriarchal ideas.”

“We might manage to put some one in the house to keep an eye on
things,” suggested the Inspector. “Or, there’s a possibility of
prevailing upon the members of the family to separate and move to
other quarters.”

Vance shook his head slowly.

“A spy in the house would be useless. Isn’t every one there a spy now,
watching all the others, and watching them with fear and suspicion?
And as for dispersing the family: not only would you find old Mrs.
Greene, who holds the purse-strings, an adamantine obstacle, but you’d
meet all manner of legal complications as a result of Tobias’s will.
No one gets a dollar, I understand, who doesn’t remain in the mansion
until the worms have ravaged his carcass for a full quarter of a
century. And even if you succeeded in scattering the remnants of the
Greene line, and locked up the house, you wouldn’t have stamped out
the killer. And there’ll be no end of this thing until a purifying
stake has been driven through his heart.”

“Are you going in now for vampirism, Vance?” The case had exacerbated
Markham’s nerves. “Shall we draw an enchanted ring around the house
and hang garlic on the door?”

Markham’s extravagant comment of harassed discouragement seemed to
express the hopeless state of mind of all of us, and there was a long
silence. It was Heath who first came back to a practical consideration
of the matter in hand.

“You spoke, Mr. Vance, about old man Greene’s will. And I’ve been
thinking that, if we knew all the terms of that will, we might find
something to help us. There’s millions in the estate, all of it left,
I hear, to the old lady. What I’d like to know is, has she a full
right to dispose of it any way she likes? And I’d also like to know
what kind of a will the old lady herself has made. With all that money
at stake, we might get on to a motive of some kind.”

“Quite—quite!” Vance looked at Heath with undisguised admiration.
“That’s the most sensible suggestion that’s been made thus far. I
salute you, Sergeant. Yes, old Tobias’s money may have some bearing on
the case. Not a direct bearing, perhaps; but the influence of that
money—the subterranean power it exerts—is undoubtedly tangled up in
these crimes.—How about it, Markham? How does one go about finding out
about other people’s wills?”

Markham pondered the point.

“I don’t believe there’d be any great difficulty in the present
instance. Tobias Greene’s will is a matter of record, of course,
though it might take some little time to look it up in the Surrogate’s
files; and I happen to know old Buckway, the senior partner of Buckway
& Aldine, the Greene solicitors. I see him here at the club
occasionally, and I’ve done one or two small favors for him. I think I
could induce him to tell me confidentially the terms of Mrs. Greene’s
will. I’ll see what can be done to-morrow.”

Half an hour later the conference broke up and we went home.

“I fear those wills are not going to help much,” Vance remarked, as he
sipped his high-ball before the fire late that night. “Like everything
else in this harrowin’ case, they’ll possess some significance that
can’t be grasped until they’re fitted into the final picture.”

He rose and, going to the book-shelves, took down a small volume.

“And now I think I’ll erase the Greenes from my mind _pro tempore_,
and dip into the ‘Satyricon.’ The fusty historians pother frightfully
about the reasons for the fall of Rome, whereas the eternal answer is
contained in Petronius’s imperishable classic of that city’s
decadence.”

He settled himself and turned the pages of his book. But there was no
concentration in his attitude, and his eyes wandered constantly from
the text.

Two days later—on Tuesday, November 30—Markham telephoned Vance
shortly after ten o’clock in the morning, and asked him to come at
once to the office. Vance was preparing to attend an exhibition of
negro sculpture at the Modern Gallery,* but this indulgence was
postponed in view of the District Attorney’s urgent call; and in less
than half an hour we were at the Criminal Courts Building.

  * The Modern Gallery was then under the direction of Marius de
  Zayas, whose collection of African statuette-fetiches was
  perhaps the finest in America.

“Ada Greene called up this morning, and asked to see me without
delay,” explained Markham. “I offered to send Heath out and, if
necessary, to come myself later on. But she seemed particularly
anxious that I shouldn’t do that, and insisted on coming here: said it
was a matter she could speak of more freely away from the house. She
seemed somewhat upset, so I told her to come ahead. Then I phoned you
and notified Heath.”

Vance settled himself and lit a cigarette.

“I don’t wonder she’d grasp at any chance to shake the atmosphere of
her surroundings. And, Markham, I’ve come to the conclusion that girl
knows something that would be highly valuable to our inquiry. It’s
quite possible, don’t y’ know, that she’s now reached a point where
she’ll tell us what’s on her mind.”

As he spoke the Sergeant was announced, and Markham briefly explained
the situation to him.

“It looks to me,” said Heath gloomily, but with interest, “like it was
our only chance of getting a lead. We haven’t learned anything
ourselves that’s worth a damn, and unless somebody spills a few
suggestions we’re up against it.”

Ten minutes later Ada Greene was ushered into the office. Though her
pallor had gone and her arm was no longer in a sling, she still gave
one the impression of weakness. But there was none of the
tremulousness or shrinking in her bearing that had heretofore
characterized her.

She sat down before Markham’s desk, and for a while frowned up at the
sunlight, as if debating how to begin.

“It’s about Rex, Mr. Markham,” she said finally. “I really don’t know
whether I should have come here or not—it may be very disloyal of
me. . . .” She gave him a look of appealing indecision. “Oh, tell me:
if a person knows something—something bad and dangerous—about some one
very close and very dear, should that person tell, when it might make
terrible trouble?”

“That all depends,” Markham answered gravely. “In the present
circumstances, if you know anything that might be helpful to a
solution of the murder of your brother and sister, it’s your duty to
speak.”

“Even if the thing were told me in confidence?” she persisted. “And
the person were a member of my family?”

“Even under those conditions, I think.” Markham spoke paternally. “Two
terrible crimes have been committed, and nothing should be held back
that might bring the murderer to justice—whoever he may be.”

The girl averted her troubled face for a moment. Then she lifted her
head with sudden resolution.

“I’ll tell you. . . . You know you asked Rex about the shot in my
room, and he told you he didn’t hear it. Well, he confided in me, Mr.
Markham; and he _did_ hear the shot. But he was afraid to admit it
lest you might think it funny he didn’t get up and give the alarm.”

“Why do you think he remained in bed silent, and pretended to every
one he was asleep?” Markham attempted to suppress the keen interest
the girl’s information had roused in him.

“That’s what I don’t understand. He wouldn’t tell me. But he had some
reason—I know he did!—some reason that terrified him. I begged him to
tell me, but the only explanation he gave was that the shot was not
all he heard. . . .”

“Not all!” Markham spoke with ill-concealed excitement. “He heard
something else that, you say, terrified him? But why shouldn’t he have
told us about it?”

“That’s the strange part of it. He got angry when I asked him. But
there’s something he knows—some awful secret; I feel sure of it. . . .
Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have told you. Maybe it will get Rex into
trouble. But I felt that you ought to know because of the frightful
things that have happened. I thought perhaps you could talk to Rex and
make him tell you what’s on his mind.”

Again she looked beseechingly at Markham, and there was the anxiety of
a vague fear in her eyes.

“Oh, I do wish you’d ask him—and try to find out,” she went on, in a
pleading tone. “I’d feel—safer if—if . . .”

Markham nodded and patted her hand.

“We’ll try to make him talk.”

“But don’t try at the house,” she said quickly. “There are
people—things—around; and Rex would be too frightened. Ask him to come
here, Mr. Markham. Get him away from that awful place, where he can
talk without being afraid that some one’s listening. Rex is home now.
Ask him to come here. Tell him I’m here, too. Maybe I can help you
reason with him. . . . Oh, do this for me, Mr. Markham!”

Markham glanced at the clock and ran his eye over his appointment-pad.
He was, I knew, as anxious as Ada to have Rex on the carpet for a
questioning; and, after a momentary hesitation, he picked up the
telephone-receiver and had Swacker put him through to the Greene
mansion. From what I heard of the conversation that ensued, it was
plain that he experienced considerable difficulty in urging Rex to
come to the office, for he had to resort to a veiled threat of summary
legal action before he finally succeeded.

“He evidently fears some trap,” commented Markham thoughtfully,
replacing the receiver. “But he has promised to get dressed
immediately and come.”

A look of relief passed over the girl’s face.

“There’s one other thing I ought to tell you,” she said hurriedly;
“though it may not mean anything. The other night, in the rear of the
lower hall by the stairs, I picked up a piece of paper—like a leaf
torn from a note-book. And there was a drawing on it of all our
bedrooms up-stairs with four little crosses marked in ink—one at
Julia’s room, one at Chester’s, one at Rex’s, and one at mine. And
down in the corner were several of the queerest signs, or pictures.
One was a heart with three nails in it; and one looked like a parrot.
Then there was a picture of what seemed to be three little stones with
a line under them. . . .”

Heath suddenly jerked himself forward, his cigar half-way to his lips.

“A parrot, and three stones! . . . And say, Miss Greene, was there an
arrow with numbers on it?”

“Yes!” she answered eagerly. “That was there, too.”

Heath put his cigar in his mouth and chewed on it with vicious
satisfaction.

“That means something, Mr. Markham,” he proclaimed, trying to keep the
agitation out of his voice. “Those are all symbols—graphic signs,
they’re called—of Continental crooks, German or Austrian mostly.”

“The stones, I happen to know,” put in Vance, “represent the idea of
the martyrdom of Saint Stephen, who was stoned to death. They’re the
emblem of Saint Stephen, according to the calendar of the Styrian
peasantry.”

“I don’t know anything about that, sir,” answered Heath. “But I know
that European crooks use those signs.”

“Oh, doubtless. I ran across a number of ’em when I was looking up the
emblematic language of the gypsies. A fascinatin’ study.” Vance seemed
uninterested in Ada’s discovery.

“Have you this paper with you, Miss Greene?” asked Markham.

The girl was embarrassed and shook her head.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t think it was important.
Should I have brought it?”

“Did you destroy it?” Heath put the question excitedly.

“Oh, I have it safely. I put it away. . . .”

“We gotta have that paper, Mr. Markham.” The Sergeant had risen and
come toward the District Attorney’s desk. “It may be just the lead
we’re looking for.”

“If you really want it so badly,” said Ada, “I can phone Rex to bring
it with him. He’ll know where to find it if I explain.”

“Right! That’ll save me a trip.” Heath nodded to Markham. “Try to
catch him before he leaves, sir.”

Taking up the telephone, Markham again directed Swacker to get Rex on
the wire. After a brief delay the connection was made and he handed
the instrument to Ada.

“Hello, Rex dear,” she said. “Don’t scold me, for there’s nothing to
worry about. . . . What I wanted of you is this:—in our private
mail-box you’ll find a sealed envelope of my personal blue stationery.
Please get it and bring it with you to Mr. Markham’s office. And don’t
let any one see you take it. . . . That’s all, Rex. Now, hurry, and
we’ll have lunch together down-town.”

“It will be at least half an hour before Mr. Greene can get here,”
said Markham, turning to Vance; “and as I’ve a waiting-room full of
people, why don’t you and Van Dine take the young lady to the Stock
Exchange and show her how the mad brokers disport themselves.—How
would you like that, Miss Greene?”

“I’d love it!” exclaimed the girl.

“Why not go along too, Sergeant?”

“Me!” Heath snorted. “I got excitement enough. I’ll run over and talk
to the Colonel* for a while.”

  * Colonel Benjamin Hanlon, one of the Department’s greatest
  authorities on extradition, was then the commanding officer of
  the Detective Division attached to the District Attorney’s
  office, with quarters in the Criminal Courts Building.

Vance and Ada and I motored the few blocks to 18 Broad Street, and,
taking the elevator, passed through the reception-room (where
uniformed attendants peremptorily relieved us of our wraps), and came
out upon the visitors’ gallery overlooking the floor of the Exchange.
There was an unusually active market that day. The pandemonium was
almost deafening, and the feverish activity about the trading-posts
resembled the riots of an excited mob. I was too familiar with the
sight to be particularly impressed; and Vance, who detested noise and
disorder, looked on with an air of bored annoyance. But Ada’s face
lighted up at once. Her eyes sparkled and the blood rushed to her
cheeks. She gazed over the railing in a thrall of fascination.

“And now you see, Miss Greene, how foolish men can be,” said Vance.

“Oh, but it’s wonderful!” she answered. “They’re alive. They feel
things. They have something to fight for.”

“You think you’d like it?” smiled Vance.

“I’d adore it. I’ve always longed to do something exciting—something
. . . like that. . . .” She extended her hand toward the milling
crowds below.

It was easy to understand her reaction after her years of monotonous
service to an invalid in the dreary Greene mansion.

At that moment I happened to look up, and, to my surprise, Heath was
standing in the doorway scanning the groups of visitors. He appeared
troubled and unusually grim, and there was a nervous intentness in the
way he moved his head. I raised my hand to attract his attention, and
he immediately came to where we stood.

“The Chief wants you at the office right away, Mr. Vance.” There was
an ominousness in his tone. “He sent me over to get you.”

Ada looked at him steadily, and a pallor of fear overspread her face.

“Well, well!” Vance shrugged in mock resignation. “Just when we were
getting interested in the sights. But we must obey the Chief—eh, what,
Miss Greene?”

But, despite his attempt to make light of Markham’s unexpected
summons, Ada was strangely silent; and as we rode back to the office
she did not speak but sat tensely, her unseeing eyes staring straight
ahead.

It seemed an interminable time before we reached the Criminal Courts
Building. The traffic was congested; and there was even a long delay
at the elevator. Vance appeared to take the situation calmly; but
Heath’s lips were compressed, and he breathed heavily through his
nose, like a man laboring under tense excitement.

As we entered the District Attorney’s office Markham rose and looked
at the girl with a great tenderness.

“You must be brave, Miss Greene,” he said, in a quiet, sympathetic
voice. “Something tragic and unforeseen has happened. And as you will
have to be told of it sooner or later——”

“It’s Rex!” She sank limply into a chair facing Markham’s desk.

“Yes,” he said softly; “it’s Rex. Sproot called up a few minutes after
you had gone. . . .”

“And he’s been shot—like Julia and Chester!” Her words were scarcely
audible, but they brought a sense of horror into the dingy old office.

Markham inclined his head.

“Not five minutes after you telephoned to him some one entered his
room and shot him.”

A dry sob shook the girl, and she buried her face in her arms.

Markham stepped round the desk and placed his hand gently on her
shoulder.

“We’ve got to face it, my child,” he said. “We’re going to the house
at once to see what can be done and you’d better come in the car with
us.”

“Oh, I don’t want to go back,” she moaned. “I’m afraid—_I’m
afraid!_ . . .”



CHAPTER XIV.

Footprints on the Carpet

  (Tuesday, November 30; noon)

Markham had considerable difficulty in persuading Ada to accompany us.
The girl seemed almost in a panic of fright. Moreover, she held
herself indirectly responsible for Rex’s death. But at last she
permitted us to lead her down to the car.

Heath had already telephoned to the Homicide Bureau, and his
arrangements for the investigation were complete when we started up
Centre Street. At Police Headquarters Snitkin and another Central
Office man named Burke were waiting for us, and crowded into the
tonneau of Markham’s car. We made excellent time to the Greene
mansion, arriving there in less than twenty minutes.

A plain-clothes man lounged against the iron railing at the end of the
street a few yards beyond the gate of the Greene grounds, and at a
sign from Heath came forward at once.

“What about it, Santos?” the Sergeant demanded gruffly. “Who’s been in
and out of here this morning?”

“What’s the big idea?” the man retorted indignantly. “That old bimbo
of a butler came out about nine and returned in less than half an hour
with a package. Said he’d been to Third Avenue to get some
dog-biscuits. The family sawbones drove up at quarter past ten—that’s
his car across the street.” He pointed to Von Blon’s Daimler, which
was parked diagonally opposite. “He’s still inside.—Then, about ten
minutes after the doc arrived, this young lady”—he indicated Ada—“came
out and walked toward Avenue A, where she hopped a taxi. And that’s
every man, woman, or child that’s passed in or out of these gates
since I relieved Cameron at eight o’clock this morning.”

“And Cameron’s report?”

“Nobody all night.”

“Well, some one got in some way,” growled Heath. “Run along the west
wall there and tell Donnelly to come here _pronto_.”

Santos disappeared through the gate, and a moment later we could see
him hurrying through the side yard toward the garage. In a few minutes
Donnelly—the man set to watch the postern gate—came hurrying up.

“Who got in the back way this morning?” barked Heath.

“Nobody, Sergeant. The cook went marketing about ten o’clock, and two
regular deliverymen left packages. That’s every one who’s been through
the rear gate since yesterday.”

“Is that so!” Heath was viciously sarcastic.

“I’m telling you——”

“Oh, all right, all right.” The Sergeant turned to Burke. “You get up
on this wall and make the rounds. See if you can find where any one
has climbed over.—And you, Snitkin, look over the yard for footprints.
When you guys finish, report to me. I’m going inside.”

We went up the front walk, which had been swept clean, and Sproot
admitted us to the house. His face was as blank as ever, and he took
our coats with his usual obsequious formality.

“You’d better go to your room now, Miss Greene,” said Markham, placing
his hand kindly on Ada’s arm. “Lie down, and try to get a little rest.
You look tired. I’ll be in to see you before I go.”

The girl obeyed submissively without a word.

“And you, Sproot,” he ordered; “come in the living-room.”

The old butler followed us and stood humbly before the centre-table,
where Markham seated himself.

“Now, let’s hear your story.”

Sproot cleared his throat and stared out of the window.

“There’s very little to tell, sir. I was in the butler’s pantry,
polishing the glassware, when I heard the shot——”

“Go back a little further,” interrupted Markham. “I understand you
made a trip to Third Avenue at nine this morning.”

“Yes, sir. Miss Sibella bought a Pomeranian yesterday, and she asked
me to get some dog-biscuits after breakfast.”

“Who called at the house this morning?”

“No one, sir—that is, no one but Doctor Von Blon.”

“All right. Now tell us everything that happened.”

“Nothing happened, sir—nothing unusual, that is—until poor Mr. Rex was
shot. Miss Ada went out a few minutes after Doctor Von Blon arrived;
and a little past eleven o’clock you telephoned to Mr. Rex. Then
shortly afterward you telephoned a second time to Mr. Rex; and I
returned to the pantry. I had only been there a few minutes when I
heard the shot——”

“What time would you say that was?”

“About twenty minutes after eleven, sir.”

“Then what?”

“I dried my hands on my apron and stepped into the dining-room to
listen. I was not quite sure that the shot had been fired inside the
house, but I thought I’d better investigate. So I went up-stairs and,
as Mr. Rex’s door was open, I looked in his room first. There I saw
the poor young man lying on the floor with the blood running from a
small wound in his forehead. I called Doctor Von Blon——”

“Where was the doctor?” Vance put the question.

Sproot hesitated, and appeared to think.

“He was up-stairs, sir; and he came at once——”

“Oh—up-stairs! Roaming about vaguely, I presume—a little here, a
little there, what?” Vance’s eyes bored into the butler. “Come, come,
Sproot. Where was the doctor?”

“I think, sir, he was in Miss Sibella’s room.”

“_Cogito, cogito_. . . . Well, drum your encephalon a bit and try to
reach a conclusion. From what sector of space did the corporeal body
of Doctor Von Blon emerge after you had called him?”

“The fact is, sir, he came out of Miss Sibella’s door.”

“Well, well. Fancy that! And, such being the case, one might
conclude—without too great a curfuffling of one’s brains—that,
preceding his issuing from that particular door, he was actually in
Miss Sibella’s room?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“Dash it all, Sproot! You know deuced well he was there.”

“Well—yes, sir.”

“And now suppose you continue with your odyssey.”

“It was more like the Iliad, if I may say so. More tragic-like, if you
understand what I mean; although Mr. Rex was not exactly a Hector.
However that may be, sir, Doctor Von Blon came immediately——”

“He had not heard the shot, then?”

“Apparently not, for he seemed very much startled when he saw Mr. Rex.
And Miss Sibella, who followed him into Mr. Rex’s room, was startled,
too.”

“Did they make any comment?”

“As to that I couldn’t say. I came down-stairs at once and telephoned
to Mr. Markham.”

As he spoke Ada appeared at the archway, her eyes wide.

“Some one’s been in my room,” she announced, in a frightened voice.
“The French doors to the balcony were partly open when I went
up-stairs just now, and there were dirty snow-tracks across the
floor. . . . Oh, what does it mean? Do you think——?”

Markham had jerked himself forward.

“You left the French doors shut when you went out?”

“Yes—of course,” she answered. “I rarely open them in winter.”

“And were they locked?”

“I’m not sure, but I think so. They must have been locked—though how
could any one have got in unless I’d forgotten to turn the key?”

Heath had risen and stood listening to the girl’s story with grim
bewilderment.

“Probably the bird with those galoshes again,” he mumbled. “I’ll get
Jerym himself up here this time.”

Markham nodded and turned back to Ada.

“Thank you for telling us, Miss Greene. Suppose you go to some other
room and wait for us. We want your room left just as you found it
until we’ve had time to examine it.”

“I’ll go to the kitchen and stay with cook. I—I don’t want to be
alone.” And with a catch of her breath she left us.

“Where’s Doctor Von Blon now?” Markham asked Sproot.

“With Mrs. Greene, sir.”

“Tell him we’re here and would like to see him at once.”

The butler bowed and went out.

Vance was pacing up and down, his eyes almost closed.

“It grows madder every minute,” he said. “It was insane enough without
those foot-tracks and that open door. There’s something devilish going
on here, Markham. There’s demonology and witchcraft afoot, or
something strangely close to it. I say, is there anything in the
Pandects or the Justinian Code relating to the proper legal procedure
against diabolic possession or spiritism?”

Before Markham could rebuke him Von Blon entered. His usual suavity
had disappeared. He bowed jerkily without speaking, and smoothed his
moustache nervously with an unsteady hand.

“Sproot tells me, doctor,” said Markham, “that you did not hear the
shot fired in Rex’s room.”

“No!” The fact seemed both to puzzle and disturb him. “I can’t make it
out either, for Rex’s door into the hall was open.”

“You were in Miss Sibella’s room, were you not?” Vance had halted, and
stood studying the doctor.

Von Blon lifted his eyebrows.

“I was. Sibella had been complaining about——”

“A sore throat or something of the kind, no doubt,” finished Vance.
“But that’s immaterial. The fact is that neither you nor Miss Sibella
heard the shot. Is that correct?”

The doctor inclined his head. “I knew nothing of it till Sproot
knocked on the door and beckoned me across the hall.”

“And Miss Sibella accompanied you into Rex’s room?”

“She came in just behind me, I believe. But I told her not to touch
anything, and sent her immediately back to her room. When I came out
into the hall again I heard Sproot phoning the District Attorney’s
office, and thought I’d better wait till the police arrived. After
talking over the situation with Sibella I informed Mrs. Greene of the
tragedy, and remained with her until Sproot told me of your arrival.”

“You saw no one else up-stairs, or heard no suspicious noise?”

“No one—nothing. The house, in fact, was unusually quiet.”

“Do you recall if Miss Ada’s door was open?”

The doctor pondered a moment. “I don’t recall—which means it was
probably closed. Otherwise I would have noticed it.”

“And how is Mrs. Greene this morning?” Vance’s question, put
negligently, sounded curiously irrelevant.

Von Blon gave a start.

“She seemed somewhat more comfortable when I first saw her, but the
news of Rex’s death disturbed her considerably. When I left her just
now she was complaining about the shooting pains in her spine.”

Markham had got up and now moved restlessly toward the archway.

“The Medical Examiner will be here any minute,” he said; “and I want
to look over Rex’s room before he arrives. You might come with us,
doctor.—And you, Sproot, had better remain at the front door.”

We went up-stairs quietly: I think it was in all our minds that we
should not advertise our presence to Mrs. Greene. Rex’s room, like all
those in the Greene mansion, was spacious. It had a large window at
the front and another at the side. There were no draperies to shut out
the light, and the slanting midday sun of winter poured in. The walls,
as Chester had once told us, were lined with books; and pamphlets and
papers were piled in every available nook. The chamber resembled a
student’s workshop more than a bedroom.

In front of the Tudor fireplace in the centre of the left wall—a
duplication of the fireplace in Ada’s room—sprawled the body of Rex
Greene. His left arm was extended, but his right arm was crooked, and
the fingers were tightened, as if holding some object. His domelike
head was turned a little to one side; and a thin stream of blood ran
down his temple to the floor from a tiny aperture over the right eye.

[Illustration: Rex’s bedroom. A fireplace is located along one wall
across from a day bed. In front of the fireplace is the silhouette of
a fallen body, labelled “position in which body was found.”]

Heath studied the body for several minutes.

“He was shot standing still, Mr. Markham. He collapsed in a heap and
then straightened out a little after he’d hit the floor.”

Vance was bending over the dead man with a puzzled expression.

“Markham, there’s something curious and inconsistent here,” he said.
“It was broad daylight when this thing happened, and the lad was shot
from the front—there are even powder marks on the face. But his
expression is perfectly natural. No sign of fear or
astonishment—rather peaceful and unconcerned, in fact. . . . It’s
incredible. The murderer and the pistol certainly weren’t invisible.”

Heath nodded slowly.

“I noticed that too, sir. It’s damn peculiar.” He bent more closely
over the body. “That wound looks to me like a thirty-two,” he
commented, turning to the doctor for confirmation.

“Yes,” said Von Blon. “It appears to have been made with the same
weapon that was used against the others.”

“It was the same weapon,” Vance pronounced sombrely, taking out his
cigarette-case with thoughtful deliberation. “And it was the same
killer who used it.” He smoked a moment, his troubled gaze resting on
Rex’s face. “But why was it done at just this time—in the daylight,
with the door open, and when there were people close at hand? Why
didn’t the murderer wait until night? Why did he run such a needless
risk?”

“Don’t forget,” Markham reminded him, “that Rex was on the point of
coming to my office to tell me something.”

“But who knew he was about to indulge in revelations? He was shot
within ten minutes of your call——” He broke off and turned quickly to
the doctor. “What telephone extensions are there in the house?”

“There are three, I believe.” Von Blon spoke easily. “There’s one in
Mrs. Greene’s room, one in Sibella’s room, and, I think, one in the
kitchen. The main phone is, of course, in the lower front hall.”

“A regular central office,” growled Heath. “Almost anybody coulda
listened in.” Suddenly he fell on his knees beside the body and
unflexed the fingers of the right hand.

“I’m afraid you won’t find that cryptic drawing, Sergeant,” murmured
Vance. “If the murderer shot Rex in order to seal his mouth the paper
will surely be gone. Any one overhearing the phone calls, d’ ye see,
would have learned of the envelope he was to fetch along.”

“I guess you’re right, sir. But I’m going to have a look.”

He felt under the body and then systematically went through the dead
man’s pockets. But he found nothing even resembling the blue envelope
mentioned by Ada. At last he rose to his feet.

“It’s gone, all right.”

Then another idea occurred to him. Going hurriedly into the hall, he
called down the stairs to Sproot. When the butler appeared Heath swung
on him savagely.

“Where’s the private mail-box?”

“I don’t know that I exactly understand you.” Sproot’s answer was
placid and unruffled. “There is a mail-box just outside the front
door. Do you refer to that, sir?”

“No! You know damn well I don’t. I want to know where the private—get
me?—_private_ mail-box is, _in the house_.”

“Perhaps you are referring to the little silver pyx for outgoing mail
on the table in the lower hall.”

“‘Pyx,’ is it!” The Sergeant’s sarcasm was stupendous. “Well, go down
and bring me everything that’s in this here pyx.—No! Wait a
minute—I’ll keep you company. . . . _Pyx!_” He took Sproot by the arm
and fairly dragged him from the room.

A few moments later he returned, crestfallen.

“Empty!” was his laconic announcement.

“But don’t give up hope entirely just because your cabalistic diagram
has disappeared,” Vance exhorted him. “I doubt if it would have helped
you much. This case isn’t a rebus. It’s a complex mathematical
formula, filled with moduli, infinitesimals, quantics, faciends,
derivatives, and coefficients. Rex himself might have solved it if he
hadn’t been shoved off the earth so soon.” His eyes wandered over the
room. “And I’m not at all sure he hadn’t solved it.”

Markham was growing impatient.

“We’d better go down to the drawing-room and wait for Doctor Doremus
and the men from Headquarters,” he suggested. “We can’t learn anything
here.”

We went out into the hall, and as we passed Ada’s door Heath threw it
open and stood on the threshold surveying the room. The French doors
leading to the balcony were slightly ajar, and the wind from the west
was flapping their green chintz curtains. On the light beige rug were
several damp discolored tracks leading round the foot of the bed to
the hall-door where we stood. Heath studied the marks for a moment,
and then drew the door shut again.

“They’re footprints, all right,” he remarked. “Some one tracked in the
dirty snow from the balcony and forgot to shut the glass doors.”

We were scarcely seated in the drawing-room when there came a knocking
on the front door; and Sproot admitted Snitkin and Burke.

“You first, Burke,” ordered the Sergeant, as the two officers
appeared. “Any signs of an entry over the wall?”

“Not a one.” The man’s overcoat and trousers were smudged from top to
bottom. “I crawled all round the top of the wall, and I’m here to tell
you that nobody left any traces anywheres. If any guy got over that
wall, he vaulted.”

“Fair enough.—And now you, Snitkin.”

“_I_ got news for you.” The detective spoke with overt triumph.
“Somebody’s walked up those outside steps to the stone balcony on the
west side of the house. And he walked up ’em this morning after the
snowfall at nine o’clock, for the tracks are fresh. Furthermore,
they’re the same size as the ones we found last time on the front
walk.”

“Where do these new tracks come from?” Heath leaned forward eagerly.

“That’s the hell of it, Sergeant. They come from the front walk right
below the steps to the front door; and there’s no tracing ’em farther
back because the front walk’s been swept clean.”

“I mighta known it,” grumbled Heath. “And the tracks are only going
one way?”

“That’s all. They leave the walk a few feet below the front door,
swing round the corner of the house, and go up the steps to the
balcony. The guy who made ’em didn’t come down that way.”

The Sergeant puffed disappointedly on his cigar.

“So he went up the balcony steps, entered the French doors, crossed
Ada’s room to the hall, did his dirty work, and then—disappeared! A
sweet case this is!” He clicked his tongue with disgust.

“The man may have gone out by the front door,” suggested Markham.

The Sergeant made a wry face and bellowed for Sproot, who entered
immediately.

“Say, which way did you go up-stairs when you heard the shot?”

“I went up the servants’ stairs, sir.”

“Then some one mighta gone down the front stairs at the same time
without your seeing him?”

“Yes, sir; it’s quite possible.”

“That’s all.”

Sproot bowed and again took up his post at the front door.

“Well, it looks like that’s what happened, sir,” Heath commented to
Markham. “Only how did he get in and out of the grounds without being
seen? That’s what I want to know.”

Vance was standing by the window gazing out upon the river.

“There’s something dashed unconvincing about those recurrent spoors in
the snow. Our eccentric culprit is altogether too careless with his
feet and too careful with his hands. He doesn’t leave a finger-print
or any other sign of his presence except those foot-tracks—all nice
and tidy and staring us in the face. But they don’t square with the
rest of this fantastic business.”

Heath stared hopelessly at the floor. He was patently of Vance’s
opinion; but the dogged thoroughness of his nature asserted itself,
and presently he looked up with a forced show of energy.

“Go and phone Captain Jerym, Snitkin, and tell him I wish he’d hustle
out here to look at some carpet-tracks. Then make measurements of
those footprints on the balcony steps.—And you, Burke, take up a post
in the upper hall, and don’t let any one go into the two front west
rooms.”



CHAPTER XV.

The Murderer in the House

  (Tuesday, November 30; 12.30 p. m.)

When Snitkin and Burke had gone Vance turned from the window and
strolled to where the doctor was sitting.

“I think it might be well,” he said quietly, “if the exact whereabouts
of every one in the house preceding and during the shooting was
determined.—We know, doctor, that you arrived here at about a quarter
past ten. How long were you with Mrs. Greene?”

Von Blon drew himself up and gave Vance a resentful stare. But quickly
his manner changed and he answered courteously:

“I sat with her for perhaps half an hour; then I went to Sibella’s
room—a little before eleven, I should say—and remained there until
Sproot called me.”

“And was Miss Sibella with you in the room all the time?”

“Yes—the entire time.”

“Thank you.”

Vance returned to the window, and Heath, who had been watching the
doctor belligerently, took his cigar from his mouth and cocked his
head at Markham.

“You know, sir, I was just thinking over the Inspector’s suggestion
about planting some one in the house to keep an eye on things. How
would it be if we got rid of this nurse that’s here now, and put in
one of our own women from Headquarters?”

Von Blon looked up with eager approval.

“An excellent plan!” he exclaimed.

“Very well, Sergeant,” agreed Markham. “You attend to it.”

“Your woman can begin to-night,” Von Blon told Heath. “I’ll meet you
here whenever you say, and give her instructions. There’s nothing very
technical for her to do.”

Heath made a notation in a battered note-book.

“I’ll meet you here, say, at six o’clock. How’s that?”

“That will suit me perfectly.” Von Blon rose. “And now, if I can be of
no more service . . .”

“That’s quite all right, doctor,” said Markham. “Go right ahead.”

But instead of immediately leaving the house Von Blon went up-stairs,
and we heard him knock on Sibella’s door. A few minutes later he came
down again and passed on to the front door without a glance in our
direction.

In the meantime Snitkin had come in and informed the Sergeant that
Captain Jerym was leaving Police Headquarters at once and would arrive
within half an hour. He had then gone outside to make his measurements
of the footprints on the balcony steps.

“And now,” suggested Markham, “I think we might see Mrs. Greene. It’s
possible she heard something. . . .”

Vance roused himself from apparent lethargy.

“By all means. But first let us get a few facts in hand. I long to
hear where the nurse was during the half-hour preceding Rex’s demise.
And I could bear to know if the old lady was alone immediately
following the firing of the revolver.—Why not have our Miss
Nightingale on the tapis before we brave the invalid’s imprecations?”

Markham concurred, and Heath sent Sproot to summon her.

The nurse came in with an air of professional detachment; but her
roseate cheeks had paled perceptibly since we last saw her.

“Miss Craven”—Vance’s manner was easy and businesslike—“will you
please tell us exactly what you were doing between half past ten and
half past eleven this morning?”

“I was in my room on the third floor,” she answered. “I went there
when the doctor arrived a little after ten, and remained until he
called me to bring Mrs. Greene’s bouillon. Then I returned to my room
and stayed until the doctor again summoned me to sit with Mrs. Greene
while he was with you gentlemen.”

“When you were in your room, was the door open?”

“Oh, yes. I always leave it open in the daytime in case Mrs. Greene
calls.”

“And her door was open, too, I take it.”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear the shot?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“That will be all, Miss Craven.” Vance accompanied her to the hall.
“You’d better return to your room now, for we’re going to pay a visit
to your patient.”

Mrs. Greene eyed us vindictively when we entered after having knocked
and been imperiously ordered to come in.

“More trouble,” she complained. “Am I never to have any peace in my
own house? The first day in weeks I’ve felt even moderately
comfortable—and then all this had to happen to upset me!”

“We regret, madam—more than you do apparently—that your son is dead,”
said Markham. “And we are sorry for the annoyance the tragedy is
causing you. But that does not relieve me from the necessity of
investigating the affair. As you were awake at the time the shot was
fired, it is essential that we seek what information you may be able
to give us.”

“What information can I give you—a helpless paralytic, lying here
alone?” A smouldering anger flickered in her eyes. “It strikes me that
you are the one to give _me_ information.”

Markham ignored her barbed retort.

“The nurse tells me your door was open this morning. . . .”

“And why shouldn’t it have been? Am I expected to be entirely
excommunicated from the rest of the household?”

“Certainly not. I was merely trying to find out if, by any chance, you
were in a position to hear anything that went on in the hall.”

“Well, I heard nothing—if that’s all you want to know.”

Markham persisted patiently.

“You heard no one, for instance, cross Miss Ada’s room, or open Miss
Ada’s door?”

“I’ve already told you I heard nothing.” The old lady’s denial was
viciously emphatic.

“Nor any one walking in the hall, or descending the stairs?”

“No one but that incompetent doctor and the impossible Sproot. Were we
supposed to have had visitors this morning?”

“Some one shot your son,” Markham reminded her coolly.

“It was probably his own fault,” she snapped. Then she seemed to
relent a bit. “Still, Rex was not as hard and thoughtless as the rest
of the children. But even he neglected me shamefully.” She appeared to
weigh the matter. “Yes,” she decided, “he received just punishment for
the way he treated me.”

Markham struggled with a hot resentment. At last he managed to ask,
with apparent calmness:

“Did you hear the shot with which your son was punished?”

“I did not.” Her tone was again irate. “I knew nothing of the
disturbance until the doctor saw fit to tell me.”

“And yet Mr. Rex’s door, as well as yours, was open,” said Markham. “I
can hardly understand your not having heard the shot.”

The old lady gave him a look of scathing irony.

“Am I to sympathize with your lack of understanding?”

“Lest you be tempted to, madam, I shall leave you.” Markham bowed
stiffly and turned on his heel.

As we reached the lower hall Doctor Doremus arrived.

“Your friends are still at it, I hear, Sergeant,” he greeted Heath,
with his usual breezy manner. Handing his coat and hat to Sproot, he
came forward and shook hands with all of us. “When you fellows don’t
spoil my breakfast you interfere with my lunch,” he repined. “Where’s
the body?”

Heath led him up-stairs, and after a few minutes returned to the
drawing-room. Taking out another cigar he bit the end of it savagely.
“Well, sir, I guess you’ll want to see this Miss Sibella next, won’t
you?”

“We might as well,” sighed Markham. “Then I’ll tackle the servants and
leave things to you. The reporters will be along pretty soon.”

“Don’t I know it! And what they’re going to do to us in the papers’ll
be a-plenty!”

“And you can’t even tell them ‘it is confidently expected that an
arrest will be made in the immediate future,’ don’t y’ know,” grinned
Vance. “It’s most distressin’.”

Heath made an inarticulate noise of exasperation and, calling Sproot,
sent him for Sibella.

A moment later she came in carrying a small Pomeranian. She was paler
than I had ever seen her, and there was unmistakable fright in her
eyes. When she greeted us it was without her habitual gaiety.

“This thing is getting rather ghastly, isn’t it?” she remarked when
she had taken a seat.

“It is indeed dreadful,” returned Markham soberly. “You have our very
deepest sympathy. . . .”

“Oh, thanks awf’ly.” She accepted the cigarette Vance offered her.
“But I’m beginning to wonder how long I’ll be here to receive
condolences.” She spoke with forced lightness, but a strained quality
in her voice told of her suppressed emotion.

Markham regarded her sympathetically.

“I do not think it would be a bad idea if you went away for a while—to
some friend’s house, let us say—preferably out of the city.”

“Oh, no.” She tossed her head with defiance. “I sha’n’t run away. If
there’s any one really bent on killing me, he’ll manage it somehow,
wherever I am. Anyway, I’d have to come back sooner or later. I
couldn’t board with out-of-town friends indefinitely—could I?” She
looked at Markham with a kind of anxious despair. “You haven’t any
idea, I suppose, who it is that’s obsessed with the idea of
exterminating us Greenes?”

Markham was reluctant to admit to her the utter hopelessness of the
official outlook; and she turned appealingly to Vance.

“You needn’t treat me like a child,” she said spiritedly. “You, at
least, Mr. Vance, can tell me if there is any one under suspicion.”

“No, dash it all, Miss Greene!—there isn’t,” he answered promptly.
“It’s an amazin’ confession to have to make; but it’s true. That’s
why, I think, Mr. Markham suggested that you go away for a while.”

“It’s very thoughtful of him and all that,” she returned. “But I think
I’ll stay and see it through.”

“You’re a very brave girl,” said Markham, with troubled admiration.
“And I assure you everything humanly possible will be done to
safeguard you.”

“Well, so much for that.” She tossed her cigarette into a receiver,
and began abstractedly to pet the dog in her lap. “And now, I suppose,
you want to know if I heard the shot. Well, I didn’t. So you may
continue the inquisition from that point.”

“You were in your room, though, at the time of your brother’s death?”

“I was in my room all morning,” she said. “My first appearance beyond
the threshold was when Sproot brought the sad tidings of Rex’s
passing. But Doctor Von shooed me back again; and there I’ve remained
until now. Model behavior, don’t you think, for a member of this new
and wicked generation?”

“What time did Doctor Von Blon come to your room?” asked Vance.

Sibella gave him a faint whimsical smile.

“I’m so glad it was you who asked that question. I’m sure Mr. Markham
would have used a disapproving tone—though it’s quite _au fait_ to
receive one’s doctor in one’s boudoir.—Let me see. I’m sure you asked
Doctor Von the same question, so I must be careful. . . . A little
before eleven, I should say.”

“The doc’s exact words,” chimed in Heath suspiciously.

Sibella turned a look of amused surprise upon him.

“Isn’t that wonderful! But then, I’ve always been told that honesty is
the best policy.”

“And did Doctor Von Blon remain in your room until called by Sproot?”
pursued Vance.

“Oh, yes. He was smoking his pipe. Mother detests pipes, and he often
sneaks into my room to enjoy a quiet smoke.”

“And what were you doing during the doctor’s visit?”

“I was bathing this ferocious animal.” She held up the Pomeranian for
Vance’s inspection. “Doesn’t he look nice?”

“In the bathroom?”

“Naturally. I’d hardly bathe him in the _poudrière_.”

“And was the bathroom door closed?”

“As to that I couldn’t say. But it’s quite likely. Doctor Von is like
a member of the family, and I’m terribly rude to him sometimes.”

Vance got up.

“Thank you very much, Miss Greene. We’re sorry we had to trouble you.
Do you mind remaining in your room for a while?”

“Mind? On the contrary. It’s about the only place I feel safe.” She
walked to the archway. “If you do find out anything you’ll let me
know—won’t you? There’s no use pretending any longer. I’m dreadfully
scared.” Then, as if ashamed of her admission, she went quickly down
the hall.

Just then Sproot admitted the two finger-print experts—Dubois and
Bellamy—and the official photographer. Heath joined them in the hall
and took them up-stairs, returning immediately.

“And now what, sir?”

Markham seemed lost in gloomy speculation, and it was Vance who
answered the Sergeant’s query.

“I rather think,” he said, “that another verbal bout with the pious
Hemming and the taciturn Frau Mannheim might dispose of a loose end or
two.”

Hemming was sent for. She came in laboring under intense excitement.
Her eyes fairly glittered with the triumph of the prophetess whose
auguries have come to pass. But she had no information whatever to
impart. She had spent most of the forenoon in the laundry, and had
been unaware of the tragedy until Sproot had mentioned it to her
shortly before our arrival. She was voluble, however, on the subject
of divine punishment, and it was with difficulty that Vance stemmed
her oracular stream of words.

Nor could the cook throw any light on Rex’s murder. She had been in
the kitchen, she said, the entire morning except for the hour she had
gone marketing. She had not heard the shot and, like Hemming, knew of
the tragedy only through Sproot. A marked change, however, had come
over the woman. When she had entered the drawing-room fright and
resentment animated her usually stolid features, and as she sat before
us her fingers worked nervously in her lap.

Vance watched her critically during the interview. At the end he asked
suddenly:

“Miss Ada has been with you in the kitchen this past half-hour?”

At the mention of Ada’s name her fear was perceptibly intensified. She
drew a deep breath.

“Yes, little Ada has been with me. And thank the good God she was away
this morning when Mr. Rex was killed, or it might have been her and
not Mr. Rex. They tried once to shoot her, and maybe they’ll try
again. She oughtn’t to be allowed to stay in this house.”

“I think it only fair to tell you, Frau Mannheim,” said Vance, “that
some one will be watching closely over Miss Ada from now on.”

The woman looked at him gratefully.

“Why should any one want to harm little Ada?” she asked, in an
anguished tone. “I also shall watch over her.”

When she had left us Vance said:

“Something tells me, Markham, that Ada could have no better protector
in this house than that motherly German.—And yet,” he added, “there’ll
be no end of this grim carnage until we have the murderer safely
gyved.” His face darkened: his mouth was as cruel as Pietro de’
Medici’s. “This hellish business isn’t ended. The final picture is
only just emerging. And it’s damnable—worse than any of the horrors of
Rops or Doré.”

Markham nodded with dismal depression.

“Yes, there appears to be an inevitability about these tragedies
that’s beyond mere human power to combat.” He got up wearily and
addressed himself to Heath. “There’s nothing more I can do here at
present, Sergeant. Carry on, and phone me at the office before five.”

We were about to take our departure when Captain Jerym arrived. He was
a quiet, heavy-set man, with a gray, scraggly moustache and small,
deep-set eyes. One might easily have mistaken him for a shrewd,
efficient merchant. After a brief hand-shaking ceremony Heath piloted
him up-stairs.

Vance had already donned his ulster, but now he removed it.

“I think I’ll tarry a bit and hear what the Captain has to say
regarding those footprints. Y’ know, Markham, I’ve been evolving a
rather fantastic theory about ’em; and I want to test it.”

Markham looked at him a moment with questioning curiosity. Then he
glanced at his watch.

“I’ll wait with you,” he said.

Ten minutes later Doctor Doremus came down, and paused long enough on
his way out to tell us that Rex had been shot with a .32 revolver held
at a distance of about a foot from the forehead, the bullet having
entered directly from the front and embedded itself, in all
probability, in the midbrain.

A quarter of an hour after Doremus had gone Heath re-entered the
drawing-room. He expressed uneasy surprise at seeing us still there.

“Mr. Vance wanted to hear Jerym’s report,” Markham explained.

“The Captain’ll be through any minute now.” The Sergeant sank into a
chair. “He’s checking Snitkin’s measurements. He couldn’t make much of
the tracks on the carpet, though.”

“And finger-prints?” asked Markham.

“Nothing yet.”

“And there won’t be,” added Vance. “There wouldn’t be footprints if
they weren’t deliberately intended for us.”

Heath shot him a sharp look, but before he could speak Captain Jerym
and Snitkin came down-stairs.

“What’s the verdict, Cap?” asked the Sergeant.

“Those footprints on the balcony steps,” said Jerym, “were made with
galoshes of the same size and markings as the pattern turned over to
me by Snitkin a fortnight or so ago. As for the prints in the room,
I’m not so sure. They appear to be the same, however; and the dirt on
them is sooty, like the dirt on the snow outside the French doors.
I’ve several photographs of them; and I’ll know definitely when I get
my enlargements under the microscope.”

Vance rose and sauntered to the archway.

“May I have your permission to go up-stairs a moment, Sergeant?”

Heath looked mystified. His instinct was to ask a reason for this
unexpected request, but all he said was: “Sure. Go ahead.”

Something in Vance’s manner—an air of satisfaction combined with a
suppressed eagerness—told me that he had verified his theory.

He was gone less than five minutes. When he returned he carried a pair
of galoshes similar to those that had been found in Chester’s closet.
He handed them to Captain Jerym.

“You’ll probably find that these made the tracks.”

Both Jerym and Snitkin examined them carefully, comparing the
measurements and fitting the rough patterns to the soles. Finally, the
Captain took one of them to the window, and affixing a jeweller’s
glass to his eye, studied the riser of the heel.

“I think you’re right,” he agreed. “There’s a worn place here which
corresponds to an indentation on the cast I made.”

Heath had sprung to his feet and stood eyeing Vance.

“Where did you find ’em?” he demanded.

“Tucked away in the rear of the little linen-closet at the head of the
stairs.”

The Sergeant’s excitement got the better of him. He swung about to
Markham, fairly spluttering with consternation.

“Those two guys from the Bureau that went over this house looking for
the gun told me there wasn’t a pair of galoshes in the place; and I
specially told ’em to keep their eyes pealed for galoshes. And now Mr.
Vance finds ’em in the linen-closet off the main hall up-stairs!”

“But, Sergeant,” said Vance mildly, “the galoshes weren’t there when
your sleuths were looking for the revolver. On both former occasions
the johnny who wore ’em had plenty of time to put ’em away safely. But
to-day, d’ ye see, he had no chance to sequester them; so he left ’em
in the linen-closet for the time being.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” Heath growled vaguely. “Well, what’s the rest
of the story, Mr. Vance?”

“That’s all there is to date. If I knew the rest I’d know who fired
the shots. But I might remind you that neither of your
_sergents-de-ville_ saw any suspicious person leave here.”

“Good God, Vance!” Markham was on his feet. “That means that the
murderer is in the house this minute.”

“At any rate,” returned Vance lazily, “I think we are justified in
assuming that the murderer was here when we arrived.”

“But nobody’s left the place but Von Blon,” blurted Heath.

Vance nodded. “Oh, it’s wholly possible the murderer is still in the
house, Sergeant.”



CHAPTER XVI.

The Lost Poisons

  (Tuesday, November 30; 2 p. m.)

Markham and Vance and I had a late lunch at the Stuyvesant Club.
During the meal the subject of the murder was avoided as if by tacit
agreement; but when we sat smoking over our coffee Markham settled
back in his chair and surveyed Vance sternly.

“Now,” he said, “I want to hear how you came to find those galoshes in
the linen-closet. And, damn it! I don’t want any garrulous evasions or
quotations out of Bartlett.”

“I’m quite willing to unburden my soul,” smiled Vance. “It was all so
dashed simple. I never put any stock in the burglar theory, and so was
able to approach the problem with a virgin mind, as it were.”

He lit a fresh cigarette and poured himself another cup of coffee.

“Perpend, Markham. On the night that Julia and Ada were shot a double
set of footprints was found. It had stopped snowing at about eleven
o’clock, and the tracks had been made between that hour and midnight,
when the Sergeant arrived on the scene. On the night of Chester’s
murder there was another set of footprints similar to the others; and
they too had been made shortly after the weather had cleared. Here,
then, were tracks in the snow, approaching and retreating from the
front door, preceding each crime; and both sets had been made after
the snow had stopped falling _when they would be distinctly visible
and determinable_. This was not a particularly striking coincidence,
but it was sufficiently arresting to create a slight strain on my
_cortex cerebri_. And the strain increased perceptibly this morning
when Snitkin reported his discovery of fresh footprints on the balcony
steps; for once again the same meteorological conditions had
accompanied our culprit’s passion for leaving spoors. I was therefore
driven to the irresistible inference, as you learned Solons put it,
that the murderer, so careful and calculating about everything else,
had deliberately made all these footprints for our special
edification. In each instance, d’ ye see, he had chosen the only hour
of the day when his tracks would not be obliterated by falling snow or
confused with other tracks. . . . Are you there?”

“Go ahead,” said Markham. “I’m listening.”

“To proceed, then. Another coincidence attached to these three sets of
footprints. It was impossible, because of the dry, flaky nature of the
snow, to determine whether the first set had originated in the house
and returned there, or had first approached the house from the street
and then retreated. Again, on the night of Chester’s demise, when the
snow was damp and susceptible to clear impressions, the same doubt
arose. The tracks to and from the house were on opposite sides of the
front walk: not a single footstep overlapped! Accidental? Perhaps. But
not wholly reasonable. A person walking to and from a door along a
comparatively narrow pathway would almost certainly have doubled on
some of his tracks. And even if he had failed to superimpose any of
his footprints, the parallel spoors would have been close together.
But these two lines of prints were far apart: each clung to the
extreme edge of the walk, as if the person who made them was
positively afraid of overlapping. Now, consider the footprints made
this morning. There was a single line of them entering the house, but
none coming out. We concluded that the murderer had made his escape
_via_ the front door and down the neatly swept walk; but this, after
all, was only an assumption.”

Vance sipped his coffee and inhaled a moment on his cigarette.

“The point I’m trying to bring out is this: there is no proof whatever
that all these footprints were not made by some one in the house who
first went out and then returned for the express purpose of leading
the police to believe that an outsider was guilty. And, on the other
hand, there is evidence that the footprints actually did originate in
the house; because if an outsider had made them he would have been at
no pains to confuse the issue of their origin, since, in any event,
they could not have been traced back farther than the street.
Therefore, as a tentative starting-point, I assumed that the tracks
had, in reality, been made by some one in the house.—I can’t say, of
course, whether or not my layman’s logic adds lustre to the gladsome
light of jurisprudence——”

“Your reasoning is consistent as far as it goes,” cut in Markham
tartly. “But it is hardly complete enough to have led you directly to
the linen-closet this morning.”

“True. But there were various contribut’ry factors. For instance, the
galoshes which Snitkin found in Chester’s clothes-closet were the
exact size of the prints. At first I toyed with the idea that they
were the actual instruments of our unknown’s vestigial deception. But
when, after they had been taken to Headquarters, another set of
similar tracks appeared—to wit, the ones found this morning—I amended
my theory slightly, and concluded that Chester had owned two pairs of
galoshes—one that had perhaps been discarded but not thrown away. That
was why I wanted to wait for Captain Jerym’s report: I was anxious to
learn if the new tracks were exactly like the old ones.”

“But even so,” interrupted Markham, “your theory that the footprints
emanated from the house strikes me as being erected on pretty weak
scaffolding. Were there any other indicants?”

“I was coming to them,” replied Vance reproachfully. “But you _will_
rush me so. Pretend that I’m a lawyer, and my summation will sound
positively breathless.”

“I’m more likely to pretend that I’m a presiding judge, and give you
_sus. per coll._”

“Ah, well.” Vance sighed and continued. “Let us consider the
hypothetical intruder’s means of escape after the shooting of Julia
and Ada. Sproot came into the upper hall immediately after the shot
had been fired in Ada’s room; yet he heard nothing—neither footsteps
in the hall nor the front door closing. And, Markham old thing, a
person in galoshes going down marble steps in the dark is no midsummer
zephyr for silence. In the circumstances Sproot would have been
certain to hear him making his escape. Therefore, the explanation that
suggested itself to me was that _he did not make his escape_.”

“And the footprints outside?”

“Were made beforehand by some one walking to the front gate and
back.—And that brings me to the night of Chester’s murder. You
remember Rex’s tale of hearing a dragging noise in the hall and a door
closing about fifteen minutes before the shot was fired, and Ada’s
corroboration of the door-shutting part of the story? The noise,
please note, was heard after it had stopped snowing—in fact, after the
moon had come out. Could the noise not easily have been a person
walking in galoshes, or even taking them off, after having returned
from making those separated tracks to and from the gate? And might not
that closing door have been the door of the linen-closet where the
galoshes were being temporarily cached?”

Markham nodded. “Yes, the sounds Rex and Ada heard might be explained
that way.”

“And this morning’s business was even plainer. There were footprints
on the balcony steps, made between nine o’clock and noon. But neither
of the guards saw any one enter the grounds. Moreover, Sproot waited a
few moments in the dining-room after the shot had been fired in Rex’s
room; and if any one had come down the stairs and gone out the front
door Sproot would certainly have heard him. It’s true that the
murderer might have descended the front stairs as Sproot went up the
servants’ stairs. But is that likely? Would he have waited in the
upper hall after killing Rex, knowing that some one was likely to step
out and discover him? I think not. And anyway, the guards saw no one
leave the estate. _Ergo_, I concluded that _no one came down the front
stairs after Rex’s death_. I assumed again that the footprints had
been made at some earlier hour. This time, however, the murderer did
not go to the gate and return, for a guard was there who would have
seen him; and, furthermore, the front steps and the walk had been
swept. So our track-maker, after having donned the galoshes, stepped
out of the front door, walked round the corner of the house, mounted
the balcony steps, and re-entered the upper hall by way of Ada’s
room.”

“I see.” Markham leaned over and knocked the ashes from his cigar.
“Therefore, you inferred that the galoshes were still in the house.”

“Exactly. But I’ll admit I didn’t think of the linen-closet at once.
First I tried Chester’s room. Then I took a look round Julia’s
chamber; and I was about to go up to the servants’ quarters when I
recalled Rex’s story of the closing door. I ran my eye over all the
second-story doors, and straightway tried the linen-closet—which was,
after all, the most likely place for a transient occultation. And lo!
there were the galoshes tucked under an old drugget. The murderer had
probably hidden them there both times before, pending an opportunity
of secreting them more thoroughly.”

“But where could they have been concealed so that our searchers didn’t
run across them?”

“As to that, now, I couldn’t say. They may have been taken out of the
house altogether.”

There was a silence for several minutes. Then Markham spoke.

“The finding of the galoshes pretty well proves your theory, Vance.
But do you realize what confronts us now? If your reasoning is
correct, the guilty person is some one with whom we’ve been talking
this morning. It’s an appalling thought. I’ve gone over in my mind
every member of that household; and I simply can’t regard any one of
them as a potential mass-murderer.”

“Sheer moral prejudice, old dear.” Vance’s voice assumed a note of
raillery. “I’m a bit cynical myself, and the only person at the Greene
mansion I’d eliminate as a possibility would be Frau Mannheim. She’s
not sufficiently imaginative to have planned this accumulative
massacre. But as regards the others, I could picture any one of ’em as
being at the bottom of this diabolical slaughter. It’s a mistaken
idea, don’t y’ know, to imagine that a murderer looks like a murderer.
No murderer ever does. The only people who really look like murderers
are quite harmless. Do you recall the mild and handsome features of
the Reverend Richeson of Cambridge? Yet he gave his inamorata cyanide
of potassium. The fact that Major Armstrong was a meek and gentlemanly
looking chap did not deter him from feeding arsenic to his wife.
Professor Webster of Harvard was not a criminal type; but the
dismembered spirit of Doctor Parkman doubtless regards him as a brutal
slayer. Doctor Lamson, with his philanthropic eyes and his benevolent
beard, was highly regarded as a humanitarian; but he administered
aconitine rather cold-bloodedly to his crippled brother-in-law. Then
there was Doctor Neil Cream, who might easily have been mistaken for
the deacon of a fashionable church; and the soft-spoken and amiable
Doctor Waite. . . . And the women! Edith Thompson admitted putting
powdered glass in her husband’s gruel, though she looked like a pious
Sunday-school teacher. Madeleine Smith certainly had a most
respectable countenance. And Constance Kent was rather a beauty—a nice
girl with an engaging air; yet she cut her little brother’s throat in
a thoroughly brutal manner. Gabrielle Bompard and Marie Boyer were
anything but typical of the _donna delinquente_; but the one strangled
her lover with the cord of her dressing-gown, and the other killed her
mother with a cheese-knife. And what of Madame Fenayrou——?”

“Enough!” protested Markham. “Your lecture on criminal physiognomy can
go over a while. Just now I’m trying to adjust my mind to the
staggering inferences to be drawn from your finding of those
galoshes.” A sense of horror seemed to weigh him down. “Good God,
Vance! There must be some way out of this nightmare you’ve propounded.
What member of that household could possibly have walked in on Rex
Greene and shot him down in broad daylight?”

“’Pon my soul, I don’t know.” Vance himself was deeply affected by the
sinister aspects of the case. “But some one in that house did it—some
one the others don’t suspect.”

“That look on Julia’s face, and Chester’s amazed expression—that’s
what you mean, isn’t it? They didn’t suspect either. And they were
horrified at the revelation—when it was too late. Yes, all those
things fit in with your theory.”

“But there’s one thing that doesn’t fit, old man.” Vance gazed at the
table perplexedly. “Rex died peacefully, apparently unaware of his
murderer. Why wasn’t there also a look of horror on his face? His eyes
couldn’t have been shut when the revolver was levelled at him, for he
was standing, facing the intruder. It’s inexplicable—mad!”

He beat a nervous tattoo on the table, his brows contracted.

“And there’s another thing, Markham, that’s incomprehensible about
Rex’s death. His door into the hall was open; but nobody up-stairs
heard the shot—nobody _up-stairs_. And yet Sproot—who was down-stairs,
in the butler’s pantry behind the dining-room—heard it distinctly.”

“It probably just happened that way,” Markham argued, almost
automatically. “Sound acts fantastically sometimes.”

Vance shook his head.

“Nothing has ‘just happened’ in this case. There’s a terrible logic
about everything—a carefully planned reason behind each detail.
Nothing has been left to chance. Still, this very systematization of
the crime will eventually prove the murderer’s downfall. When we can
find a key to any one of the anterooms, we’ll know our way into the
main chamber of horrors.”

At that moment Markham was summoned to the telephone. When he returned
his expression was puzzled and uneasy.

“It was Swacker. Von Blon is at my office now—he has something to tell
me.”

“Ah! Very interestin’,” commented Vance.

We drove to the District Attorney’s office, and Von Blon was shown in
at once.

“I may be stirring up a mare’s nest,” he began apologetically, after
he had seated himself on the edge of a chair. “But I felt I ought to
inform you of a curious thing that happened to me this morning. At
first I thought I would tell the police, but it occurred to me they
might misunderstand; and I decided to place the matter before you to
act upon as you saw fit.”

Plainly he was uncertain as to how the subject should be broached, and
Markham waited patiently with an air of polite indulgence.

“I phoned the Greene house as soon as I made the—ah—discovery,” Von
Blon went on hesitantly. “But I was informed you had left for the
office; so, as soon as I had lunched, I came directly here.”

“Very good of you, doctor,” murmured Markham.

Again Von Blon hesitated, and his manner became exaggeratedly
ingratiating.

“The fact is, Mr. Markham, I am in the habit of carrying a rather full
supply of emergency drugs in my medicine-case. . . .”

“Emergency drugs?”

“Strychnine, morphine, caffeine, and a variety of hypnotics and
stimulants. I find it often convenient——”

“And it was in connection with these drugs you wished to see me?”

“Indirectly—yes.” Von Blon paused momentarily to arrange his words.
“To-day it happened that I had in my case a fresh tube of soluble
quarter-grain morphine tablets, and a Parke-Davis carton of four tubes
of strychnine—thirtieths. . . .”

“And what about this supply of drugs, doctor?”

“The fact is, the morphine and the strychnine have disappeared.”

Markham bent forward, his eyes curiously animated.

“They were in my case this morning when I left my office,” Von Blon
explained; “and I made only two brief calls before I went to the
Greenes’. I missed the tubes when I returned to my office.”

Markham studied the doctor a moment.

“And you think it improbable that the drugs were taken from your case
during either of your other calls?”

“That’s just it. At neither place was the case out of my sight for a
moment.”

“And at the Greenes’?” Markham’s agitation was growing rapidly.

“I went directly to Mrs. Greene’s room, taking the case with me. I
remained there for perhaps half an hour. When I came out——”

“You did not leave the room during that half-hour?”

“No. . . .”

“Pardon me, doctor,” came Vance’s indolent voice; “but the nurse
mentioned that you called to her to bring Mrs. Greene’s bouillon. From
where did you call?”

Von Blon nodded. “Ah, yes. I did speak to Miss Craven. I stepped to
the door and called up the servants’ stairs.”

“Quite so. And then?”

“I waited with Mrs. Greene until the nurse came. Then I went across
the hall to Sibella’s room.”

“And your case?” interjected Markham.

“I set it down in the hall, against the rear railing of the main
stairway.”

“And you remained in Miss Sibella’s room until Sproot called you?”

“That is right.”

“Then the case was unguarded in the rear of the upper hall from about
eleven until you left the house?”

“Yes. After I had taken leave of you gentlemen in the drawing-room I
went up-stairs and got it.”

“And also made your adieus to Miss Sibella,” added Vance.

Von Blon raised his eyebrows with an air of gentle surprise.

“Naturally.”

“What amount of these drugs disappeared?” asked Markham.

“The four tubes of strychnine contained in all approximately three
grains—three and one-third, to be exact. And there are twenty-five
tablets of morphine in a Parke-Davis tube, making six and one-quarter
grains.”

“Are those fatal doses, doctor?”

“That’s a difficult question to answer, sir.” Von Blon adopted a
professorial manner. “One may have a tolerance for morphine and be
capable of assimilating astonishingly large doses. But, _ceteris
paribus_, six grains would certainly prove fatal. Regarding
strychnine, toxicology gives us a very wide range as to lethal dosage,
depending on the condition and age of the patient. The average fatal
dose for an adult is, I should say, two grains, though death has
resulted from administrations of one grain, or even less. And, on the
other hand, recovery has taken place after as much as ten grains have
been swallowed. Generally speaking, however, three and one-third
grains would be sufficient to produce fatal results.”

When Von Blon had gone Markham gazed at Vance anxiously.

“What do you make of it?” he asked.

“I don’t like it—I don’t at all like it.” Vance shook his head
despairingly. “It’s dashed queer—the whole thing. And the doctor is
worried, too. There’s a panic raging beneath his elegant façade. He’s
in a blue funk—and it’s not because of the loss of his pills. He fears
something, Markham. There was a strained, hunted look in his eyes.”

“Doesn’t it strike you as strange that he should be carrying such
quantities of drugs about with him?”

“Not necessarily. Some doctors do it. The Continental M.D.s especially
are addicted to the practice. And don’t forget Von Blon is
German-trained. . . .” Vance glanced up suddenly. “By the by, what
about those two wills?”

There was a look of astonished interrogation in Markham’s incisive
stare, but he said merely:

“I’ll have them later this afternoon. Buckway has been laid up with a
cold, but he promised to send me copies to-day.”

Vance got to his feet.

“I’m no Chaldean,” he drawled; “but I have an idea those two wills may
help us to understand the disappearance of the doctor’s pellets.” He
drew on his coat and took up his hat and stick. “And now I’m going to
banish this beastly affair from my thoughts.—Come, Van. There’s some
good chamber-music at Æolian Hall this afternoon, and if we hurry
we’ll be in time for the Mozart ‘_C-major_.’”



CHAPTER XVII.

Two Wills

  (Tuesday, November 30; 8 p. m.)

Eight o’clock that night found Inspector Moran, Sergeant Heath,
Markham, Vance, and me seated about a small conference-table in one of
the Stuyvesant Club’s private rooms. The evening papers had created a
furore in the city with their melodramatic accounts of Rex Greene’s
murder; and these early stories were, as we all knew, but the mild
forerunners of what the morning journals would publish. The situation
itself, without the inevitable impending strictures of the press, was
sufficient to harry and depress those in charge of the official
investigation; and, as I looked round the little circle of worried
faces that night, I realized the tremendous importance that attached
to the outcome of our conference.

Markham was the first to speak.

“I have brought copies of the wills; but before we discuss them I’d
like to know if there have been any new developments.”

“Developments!” Heath snorted contemptuously. “We’ve been going round
in a circle all afternoon, and the faster we went the quicker we got
to where we started. Mr. Markham, not one damn thing turned up to give
us a line of inquiry. If it wasn’t for the fact that no gun was found
in the room, I’d turn in a report of suicide and then resign from the
force.”

“Fie on you, Sergeant!” Vance made a half-hearted attempt at levity.
“It’s a bit too early to give way to such gloomy pessimism.—I take it
that Captain Dubois found no finger-prints.”

“Oh, he found finger-prints, all right—Ada’s, and Rex’s, and Sproot’s,
and a couple of the doctor’s. But that don’t get us anywheres.”

“Where were the prints?”

“Everywhere—on the door-knobs, the centre-table, the window-panes;
some were even found on the woodwork above the mantel.”

“That last fact may prove interestin’ some day, though it doesn’t seem
to mean much just now.—Anything more about the footprints?”

“Nope. I got Jerym’s report late this afternoon; but it don’t say
anything new. The galoshes you found made the tracks.”

“That reminds me, Sergeant. What did you do with the galoshes?”

Heath gave him a sly, exultant grin.

“Just exactly what you’d have done with ’em, Mr. Vance. Only—I thought
of it first.”

Vance smiled back.

“_Salve!_ Yes, the idea entirely slipped my mind this morning. In
fact, it only just occurred to me.”

“May I know what was done with the galoshes?” interjected Markham
impatiently.

“Why, the Sergeant returned them surreptitiously to the linen-closet,
and placed them under the drugget whence they came.”

“Right!” Heath nodded with satisfaction. “And I’ve got our new nurse
keeping an eye on ’em. The minute they disappear she’s to phone the
Bureau.”

“You had no trouble installing your woman?” asked Markham.

“A cinch. Everything went like clockwork. At a quarter to six the doc
shows up; then at six comes the woman from the Central Office. After
the doc has put her wise to her new duties, she gets into her uniform
and goes in to Mrs. Greene. The old lady tells the doc she didn’t like
this Miss Craven anyway, and hopes the new nurse will show her more
consideration. Things couldn’t have gone smoother. I hung around until
I got a chance to tip our woman off about the galoshes; then I came
away.”

“Which of our women did you give the case to, Sergeant?” Moran asked.

“O’Brien—the one who handled the Sitwell affair. Nothing in that house
will get by O’Brien; and she’s as strong as a man.”

“There’s another thing you’d better speak to her about as soon as
possible.” And Markham related in detail the facts of Von Blon’s visit
to the office after lunch. “If those drugs were stolen in the Greene
mansion, your woman may be able to find some trace of them.”

Markham’s account of the missing poisons had produced a profound
effect on both Heath and the Inspector.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the latter. “Is this affair going to develop
into a poisoning case? It would be the finishing touch.” His
apprehension went much deeper than his tone implied.

Heath sat staring at the polished table-top with futile consternation.

“Morphine and strychnine! There’s no use looking for the stuff.
There’s a hundred places in the house where it could be hid; and we
might search a month and not find it. Anyway, I’ll go out there
to-night and tell O’Brien to watch for it. If she’s on the lookout she
maybe can spot any attempt to use it.”

“What astounds me,” remarked the Inspector, “is the security felt by
the thief. Within an hour of the time Rex Greene is shot the poison
disappears from the upper hall. Good Gad! That’s cold-bloodedness for
you! And nerve, too!”

“There’s plenty of cold-bloodedness and nerve in this case,” answered
Vance. “A relentless determination is back of these murders—and
calculation no end. I wouldn’t be surprised if the doctor’s satchel
had been searched a score of times before. Perhaps there’s been a
patient accumulation of the drugs. This morning’s theft may have been
the final raid. I see in this whole affair a carefully worked-out plot
that’s been in preparation perhaps for years. We’re dealing with the
persistency of an _idée fixe_, and with the demoniacal logic of
insanity. And—what is even more hideous—we’re confronted with the
perverted imagination of a fantastically romantic mind. We’re pitted
against a fiery, egocentric, hallucinated optimism. And this type of
optimism has tremendous stamina and power. The history of nations has
been convulsed by it. Mohammed, Bruno, and Jeanne d’Arc—as well as
Torquemada, Agrippina, and Robespierre—all had it. It operates in
different degrees, and to different ends; but the spirit of individual
revolution is at the bottom of it.”

“Hell, Mr. Vance!” Heath was uneasy. “You’re trying to make this case
something that ain’t—well, natural.”

“Can you make it anything else, Sergeant? Already there have been
three murders and an attempted murder. And now comes the theft of the
poisons from Von Blon.”

Inspector Moran drew himself up and rested his elbows on the table.

“Well, what’s to be done? That, I believe, is the business of
to-night’s conclave.” He forced himself to speak with
matter-of-factness. “We can’t break up the establishment; and we can’t
assign a separate bodyguard for each remaining member of the
household.”

“No; and we can’t give ’em the works at the police station, either,”
grumbled Heath.

“It wouldn’t help you if you could, Sergeant,” said Vance. “There’s no
third degree known that could unseal the lips of the person who is
executing this particular _opus_. There’s too much fanaticism and
martyrdom in it.”

“Suppose we hear those wills, Mr. Markham,” suggested Moran. “We may
then be able to figure out a motive.—You’ll admit, won’t you, Mr.
Vance, that there’s a pretty strong motive back of these killings?”

“There can be no doubt as to that. But I don’t believe it’s money.
Money may enter into it—and probably does—but only as a contribut’ry
factor. I’d say the motive was more fundamental—that it had its matrix
in some powerful but suppressed human passion. However, the financial
conditions may lead us to those depths.”

Markham had taken from his pocket several legal-sized sheets of
closely typed paper, and smoothed them on the table before him.

“There’s no necessity to read these _verbatim_,” he said. “I’ve gone
over them thoroughly and can tell you briefly what they contain.” He
took up the top sheet and held it nearer to the light. “Tobias
Greene’s last will, drawn up less than a year before his death, makes
the entire family, as you know, the residuary devisees, with the
stipulation that they live on the estate and maintain it intact for
twenty-five years. At the end of that time the property may be sold or
otherwise disposed of. I might mention that the domiciliary
stipulation was particularly strict: the legatees must live in the
Greene mansion _in esse_—no technicality will suffice. They are
permitted to travel and make visits; but such absences may not exceed
three months in each respective year. . . .”

“What provision was made in case one of them should marry?” asked the
Inspector.

“None. Even marriage on the part of any of the legatees did not
vitiate the restrictions of the will. If a Greene married, he or she
had to live out the twenty-five years on the estate just the same. The
husband or wife could share the residence, of course. In event of
children the will provided for the erection of two other small
dwellings on the 52d Street side of the lot. Only one exception was
made to these stipulations. If Ada should marry, she could live
elsewhere without losing her inheritance, as she apparently was not
Tobias’s own child and could not, therefore, carry on the blood line
of the Greenes.”

“What penalties attached to a breaking of the domiciliary terms of the
will?” Again the Inspector put the question.

“Only one penalty—disinheritance, complete and absolute.”

“A rigid old bird,” murmured Vance. “But the important thing about the
will is, I should say, the manner in which he left the money. How was
this distributed?”

“It wasn’t distributed. With the exception of a few minor bequests, it
was left in its entirety to the widow. She was to have the use of it
during her lifetime, and could, at her death, dispose of it to the
children—and grandchildren, if any—as she saw fit. It was imperative,
however, that it all remain in the family.”

“Where do the present generation of Greenes get their living expenses?
Are they dependent on the old lady’s bounty?”

“Not exactly. A provision was made for them in this way: each of the
five children was to receive from the executors a stipulated amount
from Mrs. Greene’s income, sufficient for personal needs.” Markham
folded up the paper. “And that about covers Tobias’s will.”

“You spoke of a few minor bequests,” said Vance. “What were they?”

“Sproot was left a competency, for instance—enough to take care of him
comfortably whenever he wished to retire from service. Mrs. Mannheim,
also, was to receive an income for life beginning at the end of the
twenty-five years.”

“Ah! Now, that’s most interestin’. And in the meantime she could, if
she chose, remain as cook at a liberal salary.”

“Yes, that was the arrangement.”

“The status of Frau Mannheim fascinates me. I have a feeling that some
day ere long she and I will have a heart-to-heart talk.—Any other
minor bequests?”

“A hospital, where Tobias recovered from typhus fever contracted in
the tropics; and a donation to the chair of criminology at the
University of Prague. I might mention too, as a curious item, that
Tobias left his library to the New York Police Department, to be
turned over to them at the expiration of the twenty-five years.”

Vance drew himself up with puzzled interest.

“Amazin’!”

Heath had turned to the Inspector.

“Did you know anything about this, sir?”

“It seems to me I’ve heard of it. But a gift of books a quarter of a
century in the future isn’t apt to excite the officials of the force.”

Vance, to all appearances, was smoking with indolent unconcern; but
the precise way he held his cigarette told me that some unusual
speculation was absorbing his mind.

“The will of Mrs. Greene,” Markham went on, “touches more definitely
on present conditions, though personally I see nothing helpful in it.
She has been mathematically impartial in doling out the estate. The
five children—Julia, Chester, Sibella, Rex, and Ada—receive equal
amounts under its terms—that is, each gets a fifth of the entire
estate.”

“That part of it don’t interest me,” put in the Sergeant. “What I want
to know is, who gets all this money in case the others pass outa the
picture?”

“The provision covering that point is quite simple,” explained
Markham. “Should any of the children die before a new will is drawn,
their share of the inheritance is distributed equally among the
remaining beneficiaries.”

“Then when any one of ’em passes out, all the others benefit. And if
all of ’em, except one, should die, that one would get
everything—huh?”

“Yes.”

“So, as it stands now, Sibella and Ada would get
everything—fifty-fifty—provided the old lady croaked.”

“That’s correct, Sergeant.”

“But suppose both Sibella and Ada, as well as the old lady, should
die: what would become of the money?”

“If either of the girls had a husband, the estate would pass to him.
But, in event of Sibella and Ada dying single, everything would go to
the State. That is to say, the State would get it provided there were
no relatives alive—which I believe is the case.”

Heath pondered these possibilities for several minutes.

“I can’t see anything in the situation to give us a lead,” he
lamented. “Everybody benefits equally by what’s already happened. And
there’s three of the family still left—the old lady and the two
girls.”

“Two from three leaves one, Sergeant,” suggested Vance quietly.

“What do you mean by that, sir?”

“The morphine and the strychnine.”

Heath gave a start and made an ugly face.

“By God!” He struck the table with his fist. “It ain’t coming to that
if I can stop it!” Then a sense of helplessness tempered his outraged
resolution, and he became sullen.

“I know how you feel.” Vance spoke with troubled discouragement. “But
I’m afraid we’ll all have to wait. If the Greene millions are an
actuating force in this affair, there’s no way on earth to avert at
least one more tragedy.”

“We might put the matter up to the two girls and perhaps induce them
to separate and go away,” ventured the Inspector.

“That would only postpone the inevitable,” Vance returned. “And
besides, it would rob them of their patrimony.”

“A court ruling might be obtained upsetting the provisions of the
will,” submitted Markham dubiously.

Vance gave him an ironical smile.

“By the time you could get one of your beloved courts to act the
murderer would have had time to wipe out the entire local judiciary.”

For nearly two hours ways and means of dealing with the case were
discussed; but obstacles confronted nearly every line of activity
advocated. Finally it was agreed that the only practicable tactics to
be pursued were those of the routine police procedure. However, before
the conference broke up, certain specific decisions had been taken.
The guard about the Greene estate was to be increased, and a man was
to be placed on the upper floor of the Narcoss Flats to keep a close
watch on the front door and windows. On some pretext or other a
detective was to be kept inside of the house as many hours as possible
during the day; and the telephone-line of the Greenes was to be
tapped.

Vance insisted, somewhat against Markham’s inclination, that every one
in the house and every person who called there—however seemingly
remote his connection with the case—should be regarded as a suspect
and watched vigilantly; and Heath was ordered by the Inspector to
convey this decision to O’Brien, lest her instinctive partiality
should result in the relaxation of her scrutiny of certain persons.
The Sergeant, it seemed, had already instituted a thorough
investigation into the private affairs of Julia, Chester, and Rex; and
a dozen men were at work on their associates and activities outside of
the Greene mansion, with special instructions to gather reports of
conversations which might have contained some hint or reference
indicating a foreknowledge or suspicion of the crimes.

Just as Markham rose to terminate the discussion Vance again leaned
forward and spoke.

“In case there is to be a poisoning we should, I think, be prepared.
Where overdoses of either morphine or strychnine are administered
immediate action will sometimes save the victim. I would suggest that
an official physician be placed in the Narcoss Flats with the man set
to watch the Greene windows; and he should have at hand all the
necess’ry apparatus and antidotes used in combating morphine and
strychnine poisoning. Furthermore, I would suggest that we arrange
some sort of signal with Sproot and the new nurse, so that, should
anything happen, our doctor can be summoned without a moment’s delay.
If the victim of the attempted poisoning were saved, we might be able
to ascertain who administered the drug.”

The plan was readily agreed to. The Inspector took it upon himself to
arrange the matter that night with one of the official police
surgeons; and Heath went at once to the Narcoss Flats to secure a room
facing the Greene mansion.



CHAPTER XVIII.

In the Locked Library

  (Wednesday, December 1; 1 p. m.)

Vance, contrary to his custom, rose early the next morning. He was
rather waspish, and I left him severely alone. He made several
desultory attempts at reading, and once, when he put his book down, I
glanced at the title,—he had chosen a life of Genghis Khan! Later in
the forenoon he attempted to busy himself with cataloguing his Chinese
prints.

We were to have lunch with Markham at the Lawyers Club at one o’clock,
and at a little after twelve Vance ordered his powerful Hispano-Suiza.
He always drove himself when engaged on a problem: the activity seemed
to steady his nerves and clarify his brain.

Markham was waiting for us, and it was only too plain from his
expression that something of a disturbing nature had occurred.

“Unburden, old dear,” invited Vance, when we were seated at our table
in a corner of the main dining-room. “You look as serious as Saint
John of Patmos. I’m sure something wholly to be expected has happened.
Have the galoshes disappeared?”

Markham looked at him with some wonder.

“Yes! The O’Brien woman called the Bureau at nine o’clock this morning
and reported that they had been removed from the linen-closet during
the night. They were there, however, when she went to bed.”

“And, of course, they have not been found.”

“No. She made a pretty careful search before phoning.”

“Fancy that. But she might have saved herself the trouble.—What does
the doughty Sergeant opine?”

“Heath reached the house before ten o’clock, and made an
investigation. But he learned nothing. No one admitted hearing any
sound in the hall during the night. He re-searched the house himself,
but without result.”

“Have you heard from Von Blon this morning?”

“No; but Heath saw him. He came to the house about ten and stayed
nearly an hour. He appeared very much upset over the stolen drugs, and
immediately asked if any trace of them had been found. He spent most
of the hour with Sibella.”

“Ah, welladay! Let us enjoy our _truffes gastronome_ without the
intrusion of unpleasant speculations. This Madeira sauce, by the by,
is very good.” Thus Vance dismissed the subject.

However, that luncheon was to prove a memorable one; for toward the
end of the meal Vance made a suggestion—or, rather, insisted upon an
action—that was eventually to solve and explain the terrible tragedies
at the Greene mansion. We had reached our dessert when, after a long
silence, he looked up at Markham and said:

“The Pandora complex has seized and mastered me. I simply must get
into Tobias’s locked library. That sacred adytum has begun to infest
my slumbers; and ever since you mentioned the legacy of those books
I’ve had no rest. I yearn to become acquainted with Tobias’s literary
taste, and to learn why he should have selected the police for his
beneficiaries.”

“But, my dear Vance, what possible connection——?”

“Desist! You can’t think of a question I have not already put to
myself; and I’m unable to answer any of them. But the fact remains, I
must inspect that library even if you have to get a judicial order to
batter down the door. There are sinister undercurrents in that old
house, Markham; and a hint or two may be found in that secret room.”

“It will be a difficult proceeding if Mrs. Greene stands firm on her
refusal to deliver the key to us.” Markham, I could see, had already
acquiesced. He was in a mood to accede to any suggestion that even
remotely promised a clarification of the problem posed by the Greene
murders.

It was nearly three o’clock when we reached the house. Heath had
already arrived, in answer to a telephone call from Markham; and we at
once presented ourselves to Mrs. Greene. Following an ocular sign from
the Sergeant the new nurse left the room; and Markham went directly to
the point. The old lady had eyed us suspiciously as we came in, and
now sat rigidly against her pile of pillows, her gaze fixed on Markham
with defensive animosity.

“Madam,” he began, somewhat severely, “we regret the necessity of this
call. But certain things have arisen which make it imperative that we
visit Mr. Greene’s library. . . .”

“You sha’n’t!” she broke in, her voice rising in an infuriated
_crescendo_. “You sha’n’t put your foot in that room! Not for twelve
years has any one passed the threshold, and no policeman now shall
desecrate the place where my husband spent the last years of his
life.”

“I appreciate the sentiment that actuates your refusal,” replied
Markham; “but graver considerations have intervened. The room will
have to be searched.”

“Not if you kill me!” she cried. “How dare you force your way into my
house——?”

Markham held up his hand authoritatively.

“I am not here to argue the matter. I came to you merely to ask for
the key. Of course, if you prefer to have us break down the
door. . . .” He drew a sheaf of papers from his pocket. “I have
secured a search-warrant for that room; and it would cause me deep
regret to have to serve it on you.” (I was amazed at his aggressive
daring, for I knew he had no warrant.)

Mrs. Greene broke forth with imprecations. Her anger became almost
insensate, and she was changed into a creature at once repulsive and
pitiful. Markham waited calmly for her paroxysm of fury to pass; and
when, her vituperation spent, she beheld his quiet, inexorable
bearing, she knew that she had lost. She sank back, white and
exhausted.

“Take the key,” she capitulated bitterly, “and save me the final
infamy of having my house torn down by ruffians. . . . It’s in the
ivory jewel-case in the top drawer of that cabinet.” She pointed
weakly to the lacquered high-boy.

Vance crossed the room and secured the key—a long, old-fashioned
instrument with a double bit and a filigreed bow.

“Have you always kept the key in this jewel-case, Mrs. Greene?” he
asked, as he closed the drawer.

“For twelve years,” she whined. “And now, after all that time, it is
to be taken from me by force—and by the police, the very people who
should be protecting an old, helpless paralytic like me. It’s infamy!
But what can I expect? Every one takes delight in torturing me.”

Markham, his object gained, became contrite, and endeavored to pacify
her by explaining the seriousness of the situation. But in this he
failed; and a few moments later he joined us in the hall.

“I don’t like this sort of thing, Vance,” he said.

“You did remarkably well, however. If I hadn’t been with you since
lunch I’d have believed you really had a search-warrant. You are a
veritable Machiavelli. _Te saluto!_”

“Get on with your business, now that you have the key,” ordered
Markham irritably. And we descended to the main hall.

Vance looked about him cautiously to make sure we were not observed,
and led the way to the library.

“The lock works rather easily, considering its twelve years of
desuetude,” he remarked, as he turned the key and gently pushed open
the massive oak door. “And the hinges don’t even creak. Astonishin’.”

Blackness confronted us, and Vance struck a match.

“Please don’t touch anything,” he admonished, and, holding the match
high before him, he crossed to the heavy velour draperies of the east
window. As he drew them apart a cloud of dust filled the air.

“These curtains, at least, have not been touched for years,” he said.

The gray light of mid-afternoon suffused the room, revealing an
astonishing retreat. The walls were lined with open book-shelves which
reached from the floor nearly to the ceiling, leaving only space
enough for a row of marble busts and squat bronze vases. At the
southern end of the room was a massive flat-topped desk, and in the
centre stood a long carved table laden with curious and outlandish
ornaments. Beneath the windows and in the corners were piles of
pamphlets and portfolios; and along the moulding of the bookcases hung
gargoyles and old prints yellow with age. Two enormous Persian lamps
of perforated brass depended from the ceiling, and beside the
centre-table stood a Chinese sconce eight feet high. The floor was
covered with overlapping Oriental rugs laid at all angles; and at each
end of the fireplace was a hideous, painted totem-pole reaching to the
beams. A thick coating of dust overlay everything.

Vance returned to the door and, striking another match, closely
examined the inner knob.

“Some one,” he announced, “has been here recently. There’s no sign of
dust on this knob.”

“We might get the finger-prints,” suggested Heath.

Vance shook his head.

“Not even worth trying. The person we’re dealing with knows better
than to leave sign manuals.”

He closed the door softly and threw the bolt. Then he looked about
him. Presently he pointed beneath a huge geographical globe beside the
desk.

“There are your galoshes, Sergeant. I thought they’d be here.”

Heath almost threw himself upon them, and carried them to the window.

“They’re the ones, all right,” he declared.

Markham gave Vance one of his annoyed, calculating stares.

“You’ve got some theory,” he asserted, in an accusing tone.

“Nothing more than I’ve already told you. The finding of the galoshes
was wholly incidental. I’m interested in other things—just what, I
don’t know.”

He stood near the centre-table and let his eyes roam over the objects
of the room. Presently his gaze came to rest on a low wicker
reading-chair the right arm of which was shaped into a book-rest. It
stood within a few feet of the wall opposite to the fireplace, facing
a narrow section of book-shelves that was surmounted by a replica of
the Capitoline Museum bust of Vespasian.

“Most untidy,” he murmured. “I’m sure that chair wasn’t left in that
position twelve years ago.”

He moved forward, and stood looking down at it musingly. Instinctively
Markham and Heath followed him; and then they saw the thing that he
had been contemplating. On the table-arm of the chair was a deep
saucer in which stood the thick stub of a candle. The saucer was
almost filled with smoky wax drippings.

“It took many candles to fill that dish,” commented Vance; “and I
doubt if the departed Tobias did his reading by candle-light.” He
touched the seat and the back of the chair, and then examined his
hand. “There’s dust, but nowhere near a decade’s accumulation. Some
one has been browsing in this library rather recently; and he was
dashed secretive about it. He didn’t dare draw the shades or turn on
the lights. He sat here with a single candle, sampling Tobias’s brand
of literature. And it apparently appealed to him, for this one saucer
contains evidence of many bookish nights. How many other saucers of
paraffin there were we don’t know.”

“The old lady could tell us who had a chance to put the key back this
morning after hiding the galoshes,” offered Heath.

“No one put the key back this morning, Sergeant. The person who was in
the habit of visiting here wouldn’t have stolen it and returned it on
each occasion when he could have had a duplicate made in fifteen
minutes.”

“I guess you’re right.” The Sergeant was sorely perplexed. “But as
long as we don’t know who’s got the key, we’re no better off than we
were.”

“We’re not quite through yet with our scrutiny of the library,”
rejoined Vance. “As I told Mr. Markham at lunch, my main object in
coming here was to ascertain Tobias’s taste in literature.”

“A lot of good that’ll do you!”

“One never can tell. Tobias, remember, bequeathed his library to the
Police Department. . . . Let’s see with what tomes the old boy whiled
away his inactive hours.”

Vance took out his monocle and, polishing it carefully, fitted it to
his eye. Then he turned to the nearest book-shelves. I stepped forward
and looked over his shoulder; and, as my glance ran over the dusty
titles, I could scarcely suppress an exclamation of amazement. Here
was one of the most complete and unusual private libraries of
criminology in America—and I was familiar with many of the country’s
famous collections. Crime in all its phases and ramifications was
represented. Rare old treatises, long out of print and now the delight
of bibliophiles, shouldered one another in compact tiers on Tobias
Greene’s shelves.

Nor were the subjects of these books limited to a narrow
interpretation of criminology. All the various allied branches of the
subject were represented. There were entire sections devoted to
insanity and cretinism, social and criminal pathology, suicide,
pauperism and philanthropy, prison-reform, prostitution and
morphinism, capital punishment, abnormal psychology, legal codes, the
argot of the underworld and code-writing, toxicology, and police
methods. The volumes were in many languages—English, French, German,
Italian, Spanish, Swedish, Russian, Dutch, and Latin.*

  * Among the volumes of Tobias Greene’s library I may mention
  the following as typical of the entire collection: Heinroth’s
  “De morborum animi et pathematum animi differentia,” Hoh’s “De
  maniæ pathologia,” P. S. Knight’s “Observations on the Causes,
  Symptoms, and Treatment of Derangement of the Mind,”
  Krafft-Ebing’s “Grundzüge der Kriminal-Psychologie,” Bailey’s
  “Diary of a Resurrectionist,” Lange’s “Om Arvelighedens
  Inflydelse i Sindssygedommene,” Leuret’s “Fragments
  psychologiques sur la folie,” D’Aguanno’s “Recensioni di
  antropologia giuridica,” Amos’s “Crime and Civilization,”
  Andronico’s “Studi clinici sul delitto,” Lombroso’s “Uomo
  Delinquente,” de Aramburu’s “La nueva ciencia penal,”
  Bleakley’s “Some Distinguished Victims of the Scaffold,”
  Arenal’s “Psychologie comparée du criminel,” Aubry’s “De
  l’homicide commis par la femme,” Beccaria’s “Crimes and
  Punishments,” Benedikt’s “Anatomical Studies upon the Brains
  of Criminals,” Bittinger’s “Crimes of Passion and of
  Reflection,” Bosselli’s “Nuovi studi sul tatuaggio nei
  criminali,” Favalli’s “La delinquenza in rapporto alla
  civiltà,” de Feyfer’s “Verhandeling over den Kindermoord,”
  Fuld’s “Der Realismus und das Strafrecht,” Hamilton’s
  “Scientific Detection of Crime,” von Holtzendorff’s “Das
  Irische Gefängnissystem insbesondere die Zwischenanstalten vor
  der Entlassung der Sträflinge,” Jardine’s “Criminal Trials,”
  Lacassagne’s “L’homme criminel comparé à l’homme primitif,”
  Llanos y Torriglia’s “Ferri y su escuela,” Owen Luke’s
  “History of Crime in England,” MacFarlane’s “Lives and
  Exploits of Banditti,” M’Levy’s “Curiosities of Crime in
  Edinburgh,” the “Complete Newgate Calendar,” Pomeroy’s “German
  and French Criminal Procedure,” Rizzone’s “Delinquenza e
  punibilità,” Rosenblatt’s “Skizzen aus der Verbrecherwelt,”
  Soury’s “Le crime et les criminels,” Wey’s “Criminal
  Anthropology,” Amadei’s “Crani d’assassini,” Benedikt’s “Der
  Raubthiertypus am menschlichen Gehirne,” Fasini’s “Studi su
  delinquenti femmine,” Mills’s “Arrested and Aberrant
  Development and Gyres in the Brain of Paranoiacs and
  Criminals,” de Paoli’s “Quattro crani di delinquenti,”
  Zuckerkandl’s “Morphologie des Gesichtsschädels,”
  Bergonzoli’s “Sui pazzi criminali in Italia,” Brierre de
  Boismont’s “Rapports de la folie suicide avec la folie
  homicide,” Buchnet’s “The Relation of Madness to Crime,”
  Calucci’s “Il jure penale e la freniatria,” Davey’s “Insanity
  and Crime,” Morel’s “Le procès Chorinski,” Parrot’s “Sur la
  monomanie homicide,” Savage’s “Moral Insanity,” Teed’s “On
  Mind, Insanity, and Criminality,” Worckmann’s “On Crime and
  Insanity,” Vaucher’s “Système préventif des délits et des
  crimes,” Thacker’s “Psychology of Vice and Crime,” Tarde’s
  “La Criminalité Comparée,” Tamassia’s “Gli ultimi studi sulla
  criminalità,” Sikes’s “Studies of Assassination,” Senior’s
  “Remarkable Crimes and Trials in Germany,” Savarini’s “Vexata
  Quæstio,” Sampson’s “Rationale of Crime,” Noellner’s
  “Kriminal-psychologische Denkwürdigkeiten,” Sighele’s “La
  foule criminelle,” and Korsakoff’s “Kurs psichiatrii.”

Vance’s eyes sparkled as he moved along the crowded shelves. Markham
also was deeply interested; and Heath, bending here and there toward a
volume, registered an expression of bewildered curiosity.

“My word!” murmured Vance. “No wonder your department, Sergeant, was
chosen as the future custodian of these tomes. What a collection!
Extr’ordin’ry!—Aren’t you glad, Markham, you wangled the old lady into
relinquishing the key——?”

Suddenly he stiffened and jerked his head toward the door, at the same
time lifting his hand for silence. I, too, had heard a slight noise in
the hall, like some one brushing against the woodwork of the door, but
had thought nothing of it. For a few moments we waited tensely. But no
further sound came to us, and Vance stepped quickly to the door and
drew it open. The hall was empty. He stood on the threshold for a
while listening. Then he closed the door, and turned again to the
room.

“I could have sworn some one was listening in the hall.”

“I heard a rustle of some kind,” Markham corroborated him. “I took it
for granted it was Sproot or the maid passing by.”

“Why should anybody’s hanging round the hall worry us, Mr. Vance?”
Heath asked.

“I really couldn’t say, don’t y’ know. But it bothers me,
nevertheless. If some one was at the door listening, it shows that our
presence here has produced a state of anxiety in the person privy to
the fact. It’s possible, d’ ye see, that some one is desirous of
ascertaining what we have found out.”

“Well, I can’t see that we’ve found out enough to make anybody lose
any sleep,” mumbled Heath.

“You’re so discouraging, Sergeant.” Vance sighed and went to the
book-shelves in front of the wicker reading-chair. “There may be
something in this section to cheer us. Let us see if there’s a glad
tiding or two written in the dust.”

He struck match after match as he carefully inspected the tops of the
books, beginning at the highest shelf and systematically scrutinizing
the volumes of each row. He had reached the second shelf from the
floor when he bent over curiously and gave a second long look at two
thick gray volumes. Then, putting out the match, he took the volumes
to the window.

“The thing is quite mad,” he remarked, after a brief examination.
“These are the only books within arm’s reach of the chair that have
been handled recently. And what do you think they are? An old
two-volume edition of Professor Hans Gross’s ‘Handbuch für
Untersuchungsrichter als System der Kriminalistik,’ or—to claw the
title loosely into the vulgate—‘A Handbook on the Criminal Sciences
for Examining Magistrates.’” He gave Markham a look of facetious
reproach. “I say, you haven’t, by any chance, been spending your
nights in this library learning how to ballyrag suspects?”

Markham ignored his levity. He recognized the outward sign of Vance’s
inner uneasiness.

“The apparently irrelevant theme of the book,” he returned, “might
indicate a mere coincidence between the visits of some person to this
room and the crimes committed in the house.”

Vance made no answer. He thoughtfully returned the books to their
place and ran his eye over the remaining volumes of the bottom shelf.
Suddenly he knelt down and struck another match.

“Here are several books out of place.” I detected a subdued note of
eagerness in his voice. “They belong in other sections; and they’ve
been crowded in here a little out of alignment. Moreover, they’re
innocent of dust. . . . ’Pon my soul, Markham, here’s a coincidence
for your sceptical legal mind! Lend an ear to these titles: ‘Poisons:
Their Effects and Detection,’ by Alexander Wynter Blyth,* and
‘Textbook of Medical Jurisprudence, Toxicology, and Public Health,’ by
John Glaister, professor of Forensic Medicine at the University of
Glasgow. And here we have Friedrich Brügelmann’s ‘Über hysterische
Dämmerzustände,’ and Schwarzwald’s ‘Über Hystero-Paralyse und
Somnambulismus.’—I say! That’s deuced queer. . . .”

  * Doctor Blyth was one of the defense witnesses in the Crippen
  trial.

He rose and walked up and down agitatedly.

“No—no; absolutely not,” he muttered. “It simply can’t be. . . . Why
should Von Blon lie to us about her?”

We all knew what was in his mind. Even Heath sensed it at once, for,
though he did not speak German, the titles of the two German
books—especially the latter—needed no translation to be understood.
Hysteria and twilight sleep! Hysterical paralysis and somnambulism!
The gruesome and terrible implication in these two titles, and their
possible relation to the sinister tragedies of the Greene mansion,
sent a chill of horror over me.

Vance stopped his restless pacing and fixed a grave gaze on Markham.

“This thing gets deeper and deeper. Something unthinkable is going on
here.—Come, let us get out of this polluted room. It has told us its
gibbering, nightmarish story. And now we will have to interpret
it—find some glimmer of sanity in its black suggestions.—Sergeant,
will you draw the curtains while I straighten these books? We’d best
leave no evidence of our visit.”



CHAPTER XIX.

Sherry and Paralysis

  (Wednesday, December 1; 4.30 p. m.)

When we returned to Mrs. Greene’s room the old lady was apparently
sleeping peacefully and we did not disturb her. Heath gave the key to
Nurse O’Brien with instructions to replace it in the jewel-case, and
we went down-stairs.

Although it was but a little past four o’clock, the early winter
twilight had already descended. Sproot had not yet lighted the lamps,
and the lower hall was in semidarkness. A ghostly atmosphere pervaded
the house. Even the silence was oppressive, and seemed fraught with
the spirit of commination. We went straight to the hall table where we
had thrown our coats, eager to get out into the open air.

But we were not to shake the depressing influence of the old mansion
so quickly. We had scarcely reached the table when there came a slight
stirring of the portières of the archway opposite to the drawing-room,
and a tense, whispered voice said:

“Mr. Vance—please!”

We turned, startled. There, just inside of the reception-room, hiding
behind the heavy draperies, stood Ada, her face a patch of ghastly
white in the gathering gloom. With one finger placed on her lips for
silence, she beckoned to us; and we stepped softly into the chill,
unused room.

“There’s something I must tell you,” she said, in a half-whisper,
“—something terrible! I was going to telephone you to-day, but I was
afraid. . . .” A fit of trembling seized her.

“Don’t be frightened, Ada,” Vance encouraged her soothingly. “In a few
days all these awful things will be over.—What have you to tell us?”

She made an effort to draw herself together, and when the tremor had
passed she went on hesitantly.

“Last night—it was long after midnight—I woke, and felt hungry. So I
got up, slipped on a wrap, and stole down-stairs. Cook always leaves
something in the pantry for me. . . .” Again she stopped, and her
haunted eyes searched our faces. “But when I reached the lower landing
of the stairs I heard a soft, shuffling sound in the hall—far back,
near the library door. My heart was in my mouth, but I made myself
look over the banister. And just then—some one struck a match. . . .”

Her trembling began afresh, and she clutched Vance’s arm with both
hands. I was afraid the girl was going to faint, and I moved closer to
her; but Vance’s voice seemed to steady her.

“Who was it, Ada?”

She caught her breath and looked about her, her face the picture of
deadly fear. Then she leaned forward.

“It was mother! . . . _And she was walking!_”

The dread significance of this revelation chilled us all into silence.
After a moment a choked whistle escaped Heath; and Markham threw back
his head like a man shaking himself out of an encroaching spell of
hypnosis. It was Vance who first recovered himself sufficiently to
speak.

“Your mother was near the library door?”

“Yes; and it seemed as though she held a key in her hand.”

“Was she carrying anything else?” Vance’s effort at calmness was only
half successful.

“I didn’t notice—I was too terrified.”

“Could she, for instance, have been carrying a pair of galoshes?” he
persisted.

“She might have been. I don’t know. She had on her long Oriental
shawl, and it fell down about her in folds. Maybe under the
shawl. . . . Or she might have put them down when she struck the
match. I only know I saw her—moving slowly . . . there in the
darkness.”

The memory of that unbelievable vision completely took possession of
the girl. Her eyes stared, trance-like, into the deepening shadows.

Markham cleared his throat nervously.

“You say yourself it was dark in the hall last night, Miss Greene.
Perhaps your fears got the better of you. Are you sure it might not
have been Hemming or the cook?”

She brought her eyes back to Markham with sudden resentment.

“No!” Then her voice took on its former note of terror. “It was
mother. The match was burning close to her face, and there was a
terrible look in her eyes. I was only a few feet from her—looking
straight down on her.”

Her hold on Vance’s arm tightened, and once more her agonized gaze
turned to him.

“Oh, what does it mean? I thought—I thought mother could never walk
again.”

Vance ignored her anguished appeal.

“Tell me this, for it’s very important: did your mother see you?”

“I—don’t know.” Her words were scarcely audible. “I drew back and ran
softly up the stairs. Then I locked myself in my room.”

Vance did not speak at once. He regarded the girl for a moment, and
then gave her a slow, comforting smile.

“And I think your room is the best place for you now,” he said. “Don’t
worry over what you saw; and keep what you have told us to yourself.
There’s nothing to be afraid of. Certain types of paralytics have been
known to walk in their sleep under the stress of shock or excitement.
Anyway, we’ll arrange for the new nurse to sleep in your room
to-night.” And with a friendly pat on her arm he sent her up-stairs.

After Heath had given Miss O’Brien the necessary instructions we left
the house and walked toward First Avenue.

“Good God, Vance!” said Markham huskily. “We’ve got to move quickly.
That child’s story opens up new and frightful possibilities.”

“Couldn’t you get a commitment for the old woman to some sanitarium
to-morrow, sir?” asked Heath.

“On what grounds? It’s a pathological case, pure and simple. We
haven’t a scrap of evidence.”

“I shouldn’t attempt it, in any event,” interposed Vance. “We mustn’t
be hasty. There are several conclusions to be drawn from Ada’s story;
and if the thing that all of us is thinking should be wrong, we’d only
make matters worse by a false move. We might delay the slaughter for
the time being; but we’d learn nothing. And our only hope is to find
out—some way—what’s at the bottom of this atrocious business.”

“Yeh? And how are we going to do that, Mr. Vance?” Heath spoke with
despair.

“I don’t know now. But the Greene household is safe for to-night
anyway; and that gives us a little time. I think I’ll have another
talk with Von Blon. Doctors—especially the younger ones—are apt to
give snap diagnoses.”

Heath had hailed a taxicab, and we were headed down-town along Third
Avenue.

“It can certainly do no harm,” agreed Markham. “And it might bring
forth something suggestive. When will you tackle him?”

Vance was gazing out of the window.

“Why not at once?” Suddenly his mood had changed. “Here we are in the
Forties. And tea-time! What could be more opportune?”

He leaned over and gave the chauffeur an order. In a few minutes the
taxicab drew up to the curb before Von Blon’s brownstone residence.

The doctor received us apprehensively.

“Nothing wrong, I hope?” he asked, trying to read our faces.

“Oh, no,” Vance answered easily. “We were passing and thought we’d
drop in for a dish of tea and a medical chat.”

Von Blon studied him with a slight suspicion.

“Very well. You gentlemen shall have both.” He rang for his man. “But
I can do even better. I’ve some old Amontillado sherry——”

“My word!” Vance bowed ceremoniously and turned to Markham. “You see
how fortune favors her punctual children?”

The wine was brought and carefully decanted.

Vance took up his glass and sipped it. One would have thought, from
his manner, that nothing in the world at that moment was as important
as the quality of the wine.

“Ah, my dear doctor,” he remarked, with some ostentation, “the blender
on the sunny Andalusian slopes unquestionably had many rare and
valuable butts with which to glorify this vintage. There was little
need for the addition of _vino dulce_ that year; but then, the
Spaniards always sweeten their wine, probably because the English
object to the slightest dryness. And it’s the English, you know, who
buy all the best sherries. They have always loved their
‘sherris-sack’; and many a British bard has immortalized it in song.
Ben Jonson sang its praises, and so did Tom Moore and Byron. But it
was Shakespeare—an ardent lover of sherry himself—who penned the
greatest and most passionate panegyric to it. You remember Falstaff’s
apostrophe?—‘It ascends me into the brain; dries me there all the
foolish and dull and crudy vapors which environ it; makes it
apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery and delectable
shapes. . . .’ Sherry, you probably know, doctor, was once regarded as
a cure for gout and other malaises of faulty metabolism.”

He paused and put down his glass.

“I wonder that you haven’t prescribed this delicious sherry for Mrs.
Greene long ago. I’m sure she would serve you with a writ of
confiscation if she knew you had it.”

“The fact is,” Von Blon returned, “I once took her a bottle, and she
gave it to Chester. She doesn’t care for wine. I remember my father’s
telling me she objected violently to her husband’s well-stocked
cellar.”

“Your father died, did he not, before Mrs. Greene became paralyzed?”
Vance asked incuriously.

“Yes—about a year.”

“And was yours the only diagnosis made of her case?”

Von Blon looked at him with an air of gentle surprise.

“Yes. I saw no necessity of calling in any of the bigwigs. The
symptoms were clear-cut and conformed with the anamnesis. Furthermore,
everything since then has confirmed my diagnosis.”

“And yet, doctor”—Vance spoke with great deference—“something has
occurred which, from the layman’s point of view, tends to cast doubt
on the accuracy of that diagnosis. Therefore, I feel sure you will
forgive me when I ask you quite frankly if it would not be possible to
place another, and perhaps less serious, interpretation on Mrs.
Greene’s invalidism.”

Von Blon appeared greatly puzzled.

“There is,” he said, “not the slightest possibility that Mrs. Greene
is suffering from any disease other than an organic paralysis of both
legs—a paraplegia, in fact, of the entire lower part of the body.”

“If you were to see Mrs. Greene move her legs, what would be your
mental reaction?”

Von Blon stared at him incredulously. Then he forced a laugh.

“My mental reaction? I’d know my liver was out of order, and that I
was having hallucinations.”

“And if you knew your liver was functioning perfectly—then what?”

“I’d immediately become a devout believer in miracles.”

Vance smiled pleasantly.

“I sincerely hope it won’t come to that. And yet so-called therapeutic
miracles have happened.”

“I’ll admit that medical history is filled with what the uninitiated
call miraculous cures. But there is sound pathology beneath all of
them. In Mrs. Greene’s case, however, I can see no loophole for error.
If she should move her legs, it would contravert all the known laws of
physiology.”

“By the by, doctor”—Vance put the question abruptly—“are you familiar
with Brügelmann’s ‘Über hysterische Dämmerzustände’?”

“No—I can’t say that I am.”

“Or with Schwarzwald’s ‘Über Hystero-Paralyse und Somnambulismus’?”

Von Blon hesitated, and his eyes were focussed intently like those of
a man who is thinking rapidly.

“I know Schwarzwald, of course,” he answered. “But I’m ignorant of the
particular work you mention. . . .” Slowly a look of amazement dawned
on his face. “Good heavens! You’re not trying to connect the subjects
of these books with Mrs. Greene’s condition, are you?”

“If I were to tell you that both of these books are in the Greene
mansion, what would you say?”

“I’d say their presence is no more relevant to the situation there
than would be a copy of ‘Die Leiden des jungen Werther’ or Heine’s
‘Romanzero.’”

“I’m sorry I can’t agree with you,” returned Vance politely. “They are
certainly relevant to our investigation, and I had hoped you might be
able to explain the connection.”

Von Blon appeared to ponder the matter, his face the picture of
perplexity.

“I wish I could help you,” he said, after several moments. Then he
glanced up quickly: a new light had come into his eyes. “Permit me to
suggest, sir, that you are laboring under a misapprehension as to the
correct scientific connotation of the words in the titles of these two
books. I have had occasion to do considerable reading along
psychoanalytic lines; and both Freud and Jung use the terms
‘_Somnambulismus_’ and ‘_Dämmerzustände_’ in an entirely different
sense from our common use of the terms ‘somnambulism’ and ‘twilight
sleep.’ ‘_Somnambulismus_,’ in the terminology of psychopathology and
abnormal psychology, is employed in connection with ambivalence and
dual personality: it designates the actions of the submerged, or
subconscious, self in cases of aphasia, amnesia, and the like. It does
not refer to one’s walking in one’s sleep. For instance, in psychic
hysteria where one loses one’s memory and adopts a new personality,
the subject is called a ‘_Somnambule_.’ It is the same as what the
newspapers commonly refer to as an ‘amnesia victim.’”

He rose and went to a bookcase. After a few moments’ search he took
down several volumes.

“Here we have, for example, an old monograph by Freud and Breuer,
written in 1893 and entitled ‘Über den psychischen Mechanismus der
hysterischen Phenomene.’ If you care to take the trouble to read it,
you will see that it is an exposition of the application of the term
‘_Somnambulismus_’ to certain temporary neurotic derangements.—And
here also is Freud’s ‘Traumdeutung,’ published in 1894, in which this
terminology is explained and amplified.—In addition to these, I have
here ‘Nervöse Angstzustände,’ by Stekel, who, though he leads one of
the most important schisms in the Freudian school, uses the same
nomenclature in referring to split personality.” He laid the three
books on the table before Vance. “You may take them along if you like.
They may throw some light on the quandary you are in.”

“You are inclined to believe, then, that both Schwarzwald and
Brügelmann refer to waking psychic states rather than the more common
type of somnambulism?”

“Yes, I am inclined to that belief. I know Schwarzwald was a former
lecturer at the Psychopatisches Institut, in constant contact with
Freud and his teachings. But, as I told you, I am not familiar with
either of the books.”

“How would you account for the term ‘hysteria’ in both titles?”

“Its presence there is in no way contradictory. Aphasia, amnesia,
aphonia—and often anosmia and apnœa—are symptoms of hysteria. And
hysterical paralysis is quite common. There are many cases of
paralytics who have been unable to move a muscle for years, as a
result of sheer hysteria.”

“Ah, exactly!” Vance picked up his glass and drained it. “That brings
me to a rather unusual request I desire to make.—As you know, the
papers are waxing severe in their criticism of the police and the
District Attorney’s office, and are accusing of negligence every one
connected with the investigation of the Greene case. Therefore Mr.
Markham has decided that it might be advisable for him to possess a
report of Mrs. Greene’s physical condition that would carry the very
highest expert authority. And I was going to suggest that, merely as a
matter of formal routine, we get such a report from, let us say,
Doctor Felix Oppenheimer.”*

  * Doctor Felix Oppenheimer was then the leading authority on
  paralysis in America. He has since returned to Germany, where
  he now holds the chair of neurology at the University of
  Freiburg.

Von Blon did not speak for several minutes. He sat toying nervously
with his glass, his eyes fixed with intent calculation on Vance.

“It might be well for you to have the report,” he acceded at last, “if
only to dispel your own doubts on the subject.—No, I have no objection
to the plan. I will be very glad to make the arrangements.”

Vance rose.

“That’s very generous of you, doctor. But I must urge you to attend to
it without delay.”

“I understand perfectly. I will get in touch with Doctor Oppenheimer
in the morning and explain to him the official character of the
situation. I’m sure he will expedite matters.”

When we were again in the taxicab Markham gave voice to his
perplexity.

“Von Blon strikes me as a particularly able and trustworthy man. And
yet he has obviously gone woefully astray in regard to Mrs. Greene’s
illness. I fear he’s in for a shock when he hears what Oppenheimer has
to say after the examination.”

“Y’ know, Markham,” said Vance sombrely, “I’ll feel infinitely bucked
if we succeed in getting that report from Oppenheimer.”

“Succeed! What do you mean?”

“’Pon my word, I don’t know what I mean. I only know that there’s a
black terrible intrigue of some kind going on at the Greene house. And
we don’t yet know who’s back of it. But it’s some one who’s watching
us, who knows every move we make, and is thwarting us at every turn.”



CHAPTER XX.

The Fourth Tragedy

  (Thursday, December 2; forenoon)

The following day was one that will ever remain in my memory. Despite
the fact that what happened had been foreseen by all of us,
nevertheless when it actually came it left us as completely stunned as
if it had been wholly unexpected. Indeed, the very horror that
informed our anticipation tended to intensify the enormity of the
event.

The day broke dark and threatening. A damp chill was in the air; and
the leaden skies clung close to the earth with suffocating menace. The
weather was like a symbol of our gloomy spirits.

Vance rose early, and, though he said little, I knew the case was
preying on his mind. After breakfast he sat before the fire for over
an hour sipping his coffee and smoking. Then he made an attempt to
interest himself in an old French edition of “Till Ulenspiegel,” but,
failing, took down Volume VII of Osler’s “Modern Medicine” and turned
to Buzzard’s article on myelitis. For an hour he read with despairing
concentration. At last he returned the book to the shelf.

At half past eleven Markham telephoned to inform us that he was
leaving the office immediately for the Greene mansion and would stop
_en route_ to pick us up. He refused to say more, and hung up the
receiver abruptly.

It wanted ten minutes of being noon when he arrived; and his
expression of grim discouragement told us more plainly than words that
another tragedy had occurred. We had on our coats in readiness and
accompanied him at once to the car.

“And who is it this time?” asked Vance, as we swung into Park Avenue.

“Ada.” Markham spoke bitterly through his teeth.

“I was afraid of that, after what she told us yesterday.—With poison,
I suppose.”

“Yes—the morphine.”

“Still, it’s an easier death than strychnine-poisoning.”

“She’s not dead, thank God!” said Markham. “That is, she was still
alive when Heath phoned.”

“Heath? Was he at the house?”

“No. The nurse notified him at the Homicide Bureau, and he phoned me
from there. He’ll probably be at the Greenes’ when we arrive.”

“You say she isn’t dead?”

“Drumm—he’s the official police surgeon Moran stationed in the Narcoss
Flats—got there immediately, and had managed to keep her alive up to
the time the nurse phoned.”

“Sproot’s signal worked all right, then?”

“Apparently. And I want to say, Vance, that I’m damned grateful to you
for that suggestion to have a doctor on hand.”

When we arrived at the Greene mansion Heath, who had been watching for
us, opened the door.

“She ain’t dead,” he greeted us in a stage whisper; and then drew us
into the reception-room to explain his secretive manner. “Nobody in
the house except Sproot and O’Brien knows about this poisoning yet.
Sproot found her, and then pulled down all the front curtains in this
room—which was the signal agreed on. When Doc Drumm hopped across
Sproot was waiting with the door open, and took him up-stairs without
anybody seeing him. The doc sent for O’Brien, and after they’d worked
on the girl for a while he told her to notify the Bureau. They’re both
up in the room now with the doors locked.”

“You did right in keeping the thing quiet,” Markham told him. “If Ada
recovers we can hush it up and perhaps learn something from her.”

“That’s what I was thinking, sir. I told Sproot I’d wring his scrawny
neck if he spilled anything to anybody.”

“And,” added Vance, “he bowed politely and said ‘Yes, sir.’”

“You bet your life he did!”

“Where is the rest of the household at present?” Markham asked.

“Miss Sibella’s in her room. She had breakfast in bed at half past ten
and told the maid she was going back to sleep. The old lady’s also
asleep. The maid and the cook are in the back of the house somewhere.”

“Has Von Blon been here this morning?” put in Vance.

“Sure he’s been here—he comes regular. O’Brien said he called at ten,
sat with the old lady about an hour, and then went away.”

“And he hasn’t been notified about the morphine?”

“What’s the use? Drumm’s a good doctor, and Von Blon might blab about
it to Sibella or somebody.”

“Quite right.” Vance nodded his approval.

We re-entered the hall and divested ourselves of our wraps.

“While we’re waiting for Doctor Drumm,” said Markham, “we might as
well find out what Sproot knows.”

We went into the drawing-room, and Heath yanked the bell-cord. The old
butler came directly and stood before us without the slightest trace
of emotion. His imperturbability struck me as inhuman.

Markham beckoned him to come nearer.

“Now, Sproot, tell us exactly what took place.”

“I was in the kitchen resting, sir”—the man’s voice was as wooden as
usual—“and I was just looking at the clock and thinking I would resume
my duties, when the bell of Miss Ada’s room rang. Each bell, you
understand, sir——”

“Never mind that! What time was it?”

“It was exactly eleven o’clock. And, as I said, Miss Ada’s bell rang.
I went right up-stairs and knocked on her door; but, as there was no
answer, I took the liberty of opening it and looking into the room.
Miss Ada was lying on the bed; but it was not a natural attitude—if
you understand what I mean. And then I noticed a very peculiar thing,
sir. Miss Sibella’s little dog was on the bed——”

“Was there a chair or stool by the bed?” interrupted Vance.

“Yes, sir, I believe there was. An ottoman.”

“So the dog could have climbed on the bed unassisted?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Very good. Continue.”

“Well, the dog was on the bed, and he looked like he was standing on
his hind legs playing with the bell-cord. But the peculiar thing was
that his hind legs were on Miss Ada’s face, and she didn’t seem to
even notice it. Inwardly I was a bit startled; and I went to the bed
and picked up the dog. Then I discovered that several threads of the
silk tassel on the end of the cord had got caught between his teeth;
and—would you believe it, sir?—it was him who had really rung Miss
Ada’s bell. . . .”

“Amazin’,” murmured Vance. “What then, Sproot?”

“I shook the young lady, although I had little hope of waking her
after Miss Sibella’s dog had been trampling over her face without her
knowing it. Then I came down-stairs and drew the curtains in the
reception-room as I had been instructed to do in case of an emergency.
When the doctor arrived I showed him to Miss Ada’s room.”

“And that’s all you know?”

“Everything, sir.”

“Thank you, Sproot.” Markham rose impatiently. “And now you might let
Doctor Drumm know that we are here.”

It was the nurse, however, who came to the drawing-room a few minutes
later. She was a medium-sized well-built woman of thirty-five, with
shrewd brown eyes, a thin mouth and a firm chin, and a general air of
competency. She greeted Heath with a companionable wave of the hand
and bowed to the rest of us with aloof formality.

“Doc Drumm can’t leave his patient just now,” she informed us, seating
herself. “So he sent me along. He’ll be down presently.”

“And what’s the report?” Markham was still standing.

“She’ll live, I guess. We’ve been giving her passive exercise and
artificial breathing for half an hour, and the doc hopes to have her
walking before long.”

Markham, his nervousness somewhat abated, sat down again.

“Tell us all you can, Miss O’Brien. Was there any evidence as to how
the poison was administered?”

“Nothing but an empty bouillon cup.” The woman was ill at ease. “I
guess you’ll find remains of morphine in it, all right.”

“Why do you think the drug was given by means of the bouillon?”

She hesitated and shot Heath an uneasy look.

“It’s this way. I always bring a cup of bouillon to Mrs. Greene a
little before eleven in the morning; and if Miss Ada’s around I bring
two cups—that’s the old lady’s orders. This morning the girl was in
the room when I went down to the kitchen, so I brought up two cups.
But Mrs. Greene was alone when I returned, so I gave the old lady hers
and put the other cup in Miss Ada’s room on the table by the bed. Then
I went into the hall to call her. She was down-stairs—in the
living-room, I guess. Anyhow, she came up right away, and, as I had
some mending to do for Mrs. Greene, I went to my room on the third
floor. . . .”

“Therefore,” interpolated Markham, “the bouillon was on Miss Ada’s
table unprotected for a minute or so after you had left the room and
before Miss Ada came up from the lower hall.”

“It wasn’t over twenty seconds. And I was right outside the door all
the time. Furthermore, the door was open, and I’d have heard any one
in the room.” The woman was obviously defending herself desperately
against the imputation of negligence in Markham’s remark.

Vance put the next question.

“Did you see any one else in the hall besides Miss Ada?”

“No one except Doctor Von Blon. He was in the lower hall getting into
his coat when I called down.”

“Did he leave the house at once?”

“Why—yes.”

“You actually saw him pass through the door?”

“No-o. But he was putting on his coat, and he had said good-by to Mrs.
Greene and me. . . .”

“When?”

“Not two minutes before. I’d met him coming out of Mrs. Greene’s door
just as I brought in the bouillon.”

“And Miss Sibella’s dog—did you notice it in the hall anywhere?”

“No; it wasn’t around when I was there.”

Vance lay back drowsily in his chair, and Markham again took up the
interrogation.

“How long did you remain in your room, Miss O’Brien, after you had
called Miss Ada?”

“Until the butler came and told me that Doctor Drumm wanted me.”

“And how much later would you say that was?”

“About twenty minutes—maybe a little longer.”

Markham smoked pensively a while.

“Yes,” he commented at length; “it plainly appears that the morphine
was somehow added to the bouillon.—You’d better return to Doctor Drumm
now, Miss O’Brien. We’ll wait here for him.”

“Hell!” growled Heath, after the nurse had gone up-stairs. “She’s the
best woman for this sort of a job that we’ve got. And now she goes and
falls down on it.”

“I wouldn’t say she’d fallen down exactly, Sergeant,” dissented Vance,
his eyes fixed dreamily on the ceiling. “After all, she only stepped
into the hall for a few seconds to summon the young lady to her
matutinal broth. And if the morphine hadn’t found its way into the
bouillon this morning it would have done so to-morrow, or the day
after, or some time in the future. In fact, the propitious gods may
actually have favored us this morning as they did the Grecian host
before the walls of Troy.”

“They will have favored us,” observed Markham, “if Ada recovers and
can tell us who visited her room before she drank the bouillon.”

The silence that ensued was terminated by the entrance of Doctor
Drumm, a youthful, earnest man with an aggressive bearing. He sank
heavily into a chair and wiped his face with a large silk
handkerchief.

“She’s pulled through,” he announced. “I happened to be standing by
the window looking out—sheer chance—when I saw the curtains go
down—saw ’em before Hennessey* did. I grabbed up my bag and the
pulmotor, and was over here in a jiffy. The butler was waiting at the
door, and took me up-stairs. Queer crab, that butler. The girl was
lying across the bed, and it didn’t take but one look to see that I
wasn’t dealing with strychnine. No spasms or sweating or _risus
sardonicus_, you understand. Quiet and peaceful; shallow breathing;
cyanosis. Morphine evidently. Then I looked at her pupils. Pin-points.
No doubt now. So I sent for the nurse and got busy.”

  * Hennessey was the detective stationed in the Narcoss Flats
  to watch the Greene mansion.

“A close call?” asked Markham.

“Close enough.” The doctor nodded importantly. “You can’t tell what
would have happened if somebody hadn’t got to her in a hurry. I
figured she’d got all six grains that were lost, and gave her a good
stiff hypo of atropine—a fiftieth. It reacted like a shot. Then I
washed her stomach out with potassium permanganate. After that I gave
her artificial respiration—she didn’t seem to need it, but I wasn’t
taking any chances. Then the nurse and I got busy exercising her arms
and legs, trying to keep her awake. Tough work, that. Hope I don’t get
pneumonia sweating there with the windows all open. . . . Well, so it
went. Her breathing kept getting better, and I gave her another
hundredth of atropine for good measure. At last I managed to get her
on her feet. The nurse is walking her up and down now.” He mopped his
face again with a triumphant flourish of the handkerchief.

“We’re greatly indebted to you, doctor,” said Markham. “It’s quite
possible you have been the means of solving this case.—When will we be
able to question your patient?”

“She’ll be loggy and nauseated all day—kind of general collapse, you
understand, with painful breathing, drowsiness, headache, and that
sort of thing—no fit condition to answer questions. But to-morrow
morning you’ll be able to talk to her as much as you like.”

“That will be satisfactory. And what of the bouillon cup the nurse
mentioned?”

“It tasted bitter—morphine, all right.”

As Drumm finished speaking Sproot passed down the hall to the front
door. A moment later Von Blon paused at the archway and looked into
the drawing-room. The strained silence which followed the exchange of
greetings caused him to study us with growing alarm.

“Has anything happened?” he finally asked.

It was Vance who rose and, with quick decision, assumed the rôle of
spokesman.

“Yes, doctor. Ada has been poisoned with morphine. Doctor Drumm here
happened to be in the Narcoss Flats opposite and was called in.”

“And Sibella—is she all right?” Von Blon spoke excitedly.

“Oh, quite.”

A relieved sigh escaped him, and he sank into a chair.

“Tell me about it. When was the—the murder discovered?”

Drumm was about to correct him when Vance said quickly:

“Immediately after you left the house this morning. The poison was
administered in the bouillon the nurse brought from the kitchen.”

“But . . . how could that be?” Von Blon appeared unbelieving. “I was
just going when she brought the bouillon. I saw her enter with it. How
could the poison——?”

“That reminds me, doctor.” Vance’s tone was almost dulcet. “Did you,
by any hap, go up-stairs again after you had donned your coat?”

Von Blon looked at him with outraged astonishment.

“Certainly not! I left the house immediately.”

“That would have been just after the nurse called down to Ada.”

“Why—yes. I believe the nurse did call down; and Ada went up-stairs at
once—if I recall correctly.”

Vance smoked a moment, his gaze resting curiously on the doctor’s
troubled face.

“I would suggest, without any intention of being impertinent, that
your present visit follows rather closely upon your former one.”

Von Blon’s face clouded over, but I failed to detect any resentment in
his expression.

“Quite true,” he rejoined, and shifted his eyes. “The fact is, sir,
that ever since those drugs disappeared from my case I’ve felt that
something tragic was impending, and that I was in some way to blame.
Whenever I’m in this neighborhood I can’t resist the impulse to call
here and—and see how things are going.”

“Your anxiety is wholly understandable.” Vance’s tone was
non-committal. Then he added negligently: “I suppose you will have no
objection to Doctor Drumm continuing with Ada’s case.”

“Continuing?” Von Blon brought himself up straight in his chair. “I
don’t understand. You said a moment ago——”

“That Ada had been poisoned,” finished Vance. “Quite. But d’ ye see,
she didn’t die.”

The other looked dumbfounded.

“Thank God for that!” he exclaimed, rising nervously.

“And,” added Markham, “we are making no mention whatever of the
episode. You will, therefore, be guided by our decision.”

“Of course.—And is it permitted that I see Ada?”

Markham hesitated, and Vance answered.

“If you care to—certainly.” He turned to Drumm. “Will you be so good
as to accompany Doctor Von Blon?”

Drumm and Von Blon left the room together.

“I don’t wonder he’s on edge,” commented Markham. “It’s not pleasant
to learn of people being poisoned with drugs lost through one’s own
carelessness.”

“He wasn’t worrying as much over Ada as he was over Sibella,” remarked
Heath.

“Observin’ fella!” smiled Vance. “No, Sergeant; Ada’s demise
apparently bothered him far less than Sibella’s possible state of
health. . . . Now, I wonder what that means. It’s an inveiglin’ point.
But—dash it all!—it everts my pet theory.”

“So you have a theory.” Markham spoke rebukingly.

“Oh, any number of ’em. And, I might add, they’re all pets.” Vance’s
lightness of tone meant merely that he was not ready to outline his
suspicions; and Markham did not push the matter.

“We won’t need any theories,” declared Heath, “after we’ve heard what
Ada’s got to tell us. As soon as she talks to us to-morrow we’ll be
able to figure out who poisoned her.”

“Perhaps,” murmured Vance.

Drumm returned alone a few minutes later.

“Doctor Von Blon has stepped into the other girl’s room. Said he’d be
down right away.”

“What did he have to say about your patient?” asked Vance.

“Nothing much. She put new energy into her walking the minute she saw
him, though. Smiled at him, too, by Jove! A good sign, that. She’ll
come through fast. Lot of resistance in her.”

Drumm had hardly ceased speaking when we heard Sibella’s door close
and the sound of descending footsteps on the stairs.

“By the by, doctor,” said Vance to Von Blon as the latter re-entered
the drawing-room, “have you seen Oppenheimer yet?”

“I saw him at eleven. The fact is, I went direct to him after leaving
here this morning. He has agreed to make an examination to-morrow at
ten o’clock.”

“And was Mrs. Greene agreeable?”

“Oh, yes. I spoke to her about it this morning; and she made no
objection whatever.”

A short while later we took our departure. Von Blon accompanied us to
the gate, and we saw him drive off in his car.

“We’ll know more by this time to-morrow, I hope,” said Markham on the
way down-town. He was unwontedly depressed, and his eyes were greatly
troubled. “You know, Vance, I’m almost appalled by the thought of what
Oppenheimer’s report may be.”

No report was ever made by Doctor Oppenheimer, however. At some time
between one and two the next morning Mrs. Greene died in convulsions
as a result of strychnine-poisoning.



CHAPTER XXI.

A Depleted Household

  (Friday, December 3; forenoon)

Markham brought us the news of Mrs. Greene’s death before ten o’clock
the next morning. The tragedy had not been discovered until nine, when
the nurse brought up her patient’s morning tea. Heath had notified
Markham, and Markham had stopped on his way to the Greene mansion to
apprise Vance of the new development. Vance and I had already
breakfasted, and we accompanied him to the house.

“This knocks out our only prop,” Markham said despondently, as we sped
up Madison Avenue. “The possibility that the old lady was guilty was
frightful to contemplate; though all along I’ve been trying to console
myself with the thought that she was insane. Now, however, I almost
wish our suspicions had proved true, for the possibilities that are
left seem even more terrible. We’re dealing now with a cold-blooded
calculating rationality.”

Vance nodded.

“Yes, we’re confronted with something far worse than mania. I can’t
say, though, that I’m deeply shocked by Mrs. Greene’s death. She was a
detestable woman, Markham—a most detestable woman. The world will not
bemoan her loss.”

Vance’s comment expressed exactly the sentiment I had felt when
Markham informed us of Mrs. Greene’s death. The news had of course
shaken me, but I had no pity for the victim. She had been vicious and
unnatural; she had thriven on hatred, and had made life a hell for
every one about her. It was better that her existence was over.

Both Heath and Drumm were waiting for us in the drawing-room.
Excitement and depression were mingled in the Sergeant’s countenance,
and the desperation of despair shone in his china-blue eyes. Drumm
revealed only a look of professional disappointment: his chief concern
apparently was that he had been deprived of an opportunity to display
his medical skill.

Heath, after shaking hands absently, briefly explained the situation.

“O’Brien found the old dame dead at nine this morning, and told Sproot
to wigwag to Doc Drumm. Then she phoned the Bureau, and I notified you
and Doc Doremus. I got here fifteen or twenty minutes ago, and locked
up the room.”

“Did you inform Von Blon?” Markham asked.

“I phoned him to call off the examination he’d arranged for ten
o’clock. Said I’d communicate with him later, and hung up before he
had time to ask any questions.”

Markham indicated his approval and turned toward Drumm.

“Give us your story, doctor.”

Drumm drew himself up, cleared his throat, and assumed an attitude
calculated to be impressive.

“I was down-stairs in the Narcoss dining-room eating breakfast when
Hennessey came in and told me the curtains had gone down in the
reception-room here. So I snatched my outfit and came over on the run.
The butler took me to the old lady’s room, where the nurse was
waiting. But right away I saw I was too late to be of any good. She
was dead—contorted, blue, and cold—and _rigor mortis_ had set in. Died
of a big dose of strychnine. Probably didn’t suffer much—exhaustion
and coma came inside of half an hour, I’d say. Too old, you
understand, to throw it off. Old people succumb to strychnine pretty
swiftly. . . .”

“What about her ability to cry out and give the alarm?”

“You can’t tell. The spasm may have rendered her mute. Anyway, no one
heard her. Probably passed into unconsciousness after the first
seizure. My experience with such cases has taught me——”

“What time would you say the strychnine was taken?”

“Well, now, you can’t tell exactly.” Drumm became oracular. “The
convulsions may have been prolonged before death supervened, or death
may have supervened very shortly after the poison was swallowed.”

“At what hour, then, would you fix the time of death?”

“There again you can’t say definitely. Confusion between _rigor
mortis_ and the phenomenon of cadaveric spasm is a pitfall into which
many doctors fall. There are, however, distinct points of
dissimilarity——”

“No doubt.” Markham was growing impatient with Drumm’s sophomoric
pedantries. “But leaving all explanation to one side, what time do you
think Mrs. Greene died?”

Drumm pondered the point.

“Roughly, let us say, at two this morning.”

“And the strychnine might have been taken as early as eleven or
twelve?”

“It’s possible.”

“Anyhow, we’ll know about it when Doc Doremus gets here,” asserted
Heath with brutal frankness. He was in vicious mood that morning.

“Did you find any glass or cup by which the drug might have been
administered, doctor?” Markham hastened to ask, by way of covering up
Heath’s remark.

“There was a glass near the bed with what appeared to be sulphate
crystals adhering to the sides of it.”

“But wouldn’t a fatal dose of strychnine make an ordin’ry drink
noticeably bitter?” Vance had suddenly become alert.

“Undoubtedly. But there was a bottle of citrocarbonate—a well-known
antacid—on the night-table; and if the drug had been taken with this,
the taste would not have been detected. Citrocarbonate is slightly
saline and highly effervescing.”

“Could Mrs. Greene have taken the citrocarbonate alone?”

“It’s not likely. It has to be carefully mixed with water, and the
operation would be highly awkward for any one in bed.”

“Now, that’s most interestin’.” Vance listlessly lighted a cigarette.
“We may presume, therefore, that the person who gave Mrs. Greene the
citrocarbonate also administered the strychnine.” He turned to
Markham. “I think Miss O’Brien might be able to help us.”

Heath went at once and summoned the nurse.

But her evidence was unilluminating. She had left Mrs. Greene reading
about eleven o’clock, had gone to her own room to make her toilet for
the night, and had returned to Ada’s room half an hour later, where
she had slept all night, according to Heath’s instructions. She had
risen at eight, dressed, and gone to the kitchen to fetch Mrs.
Greene’s tea. As far as she knew, Mrs. Greene had drunk nothing before
retiring—certainly she had taken no citrocarbonate up to eleven
o’clock. Furthermore, Mrs. Greene never attempted to take it alone.

“You think, then,” asked Vance, “that it was given to her by some one
else?”

“You can bank on it,” the nurse assured him bluntly. “If she’d wanted
it, she’d have raised the house before mixing it herself.”

“It’s quite obvious,” Vance observed to Markham, “that some one
entered her room after eleven o’clock and prepared the
citrocarbonate.”

Markham got up and walked anxiously about the room.

“Our immediate problem boils down to finding out who had the
opportunity to do it,” he said. “You, Miss O’Brien, may return to your
room. . . .” Then he went to the bell-cord and rang for Sproot.

During a brief interrogation of the butler the following facts were
brought out:

  The house had been locked up, and Sproot had retired, at about half
  past ten.

  Sibella had gone to her room immediately after dinner, and had
  remained there.

  Hemming and the cook had lingered in the kitchen until shortly after
  eleven, at which time Sproot had heard them ascend to their rooms.

  The first intimation Sproot had of Mrs. Greene’s death was when the
  nurse sent him to draw the reception-room shades at nine that
  morning.

Markham dismissed him and sent for the cook. She was, it appeared,
unaware of Mrs. Greene’s death and of Ada’s poisoning as well; and
what evidence she had to give was of no importance. She had, she said,
been in the kitchen or in her own room practically all of the
preceding day.

Hemming was interviewed next. From the nature of the questions put to
her she became suspicious almost at once. Her piercing eyes narrowed,
and she gave us a look of shrewd triumph.

“You can’t hoodwink me,” she burst out. “The Lord’s been busy with his
besom again. And a good thing, too! ‘The Lord preserveth all them that
love him: but all the wicked shall he destroy.’”

“‘Will,’” corrected Vance. “And seeing that you have been so tenderly
preserved, perhaps we had better inform you that both Miss Ada and
Mrs. Greene have been poisoned.”

He was watching the woman closely, but it took no scrutiny to see her
cheeks go pale and her jaw sag. The Lord had evidently been too
precipitously devastating even for this devout disciple; and her faith
was insufficient to counteract her fear.

“I’m going to leave this house,” she declared faintly. “I’ve seen
enough to bear witness for the Lord.”

“An excellent idea,” nodded Vance. “And the sooner you go the more
time you’ll have to give apocryphal testimony.”

Hemming rose, a bit dazed, and started for the archway. Then she
quickly turned back and glared at Markham maliciously.

“But let me tell you something before I pass from this den of
iniquity. That Miss Sibella is the worst of the lot, and the Lord is
going to strike her down next—mark my words! There’s no use to try and
save her. She’s—_doomed_!”

Vance lifted his eyebrows languidly.

“I say, Hemming, what unrighteousness has Miss Sibella been up to
now?”

“The usual thing.” The woman spoke with relish. “She’s nothing but a
hussy, if you ask me. Her carryings-on with this Doctor Von Blon have
been scandalous. They’re together, as thick as thieves, at all hours.”
She nodded her head significantly. “He came here again last night and
went to her room. There’s no telling what time he left.”

“Fancy that, now. And how do you happen to know about it?”

“Didn’t I let him in?”

“Oh, you did?—What time was this? And where was Sproot?”

“Mr. Sproot was eating his dinner, and I’d gone to the front door to
take a look at the weather when the doctor walks up. ‘Howdy-do,
Hemming?’ he says with his oily smile. And he brushes past me,
nervous-like, and goes straight to Miss Sibella’s room.”

“Perhaps Miss Sibella was indisposed, and sent for him,” suggested
Vance indifferently.

“Huh!” Hemming tossed her head contemptuously, and strode from the
room.

Vance rose at once and rang again for Sproot.

“Did you know Doctor Von Blon was here last night?” he asked when the
butler appeared.

The man shook his head.

“No, sir. I was quite unaware of the fact.”

“That’s all, Sproot. And now please tell Miss Sibella we’d like to see
her.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was fifteen minutes before Sibella put in an appearance.

“I’m beastly lazy these days,” she explained, settling herself in a
large chair. “What’s the party for this morning?”

Vance offered her a cigarette with an air half quizzical and half
deferential.

“Before we explain our presence,” he said, “please be good enough to
tell us what time Doctor Von Blon left here last night?”

“At a quarter of eleven,” she answered, a hostile challenge coming
into her eyes.

“Thank you. And now I may tell you that both your mother and Ada have
been poisoned.”

“Mother and Ada poisoned?” She echoed the words vaguely, as if they
were only half intelligible to her; and for several moments she sat
motionless, staring stonily out of flintlike eyes. Slowly her gaze
became fixed on Markham.

“I think I’ll take your advice,” she said. “I have a girl chum in
Atlantic City. . . . This place is really becoming too, too creepy.”
She forced a faint smile. “I’m off for the seashore this afternoon.”
For the first time the girl’s nerve seemed to have deserted her.

“Your decision is very wise,” observed Vance. “Go, by all means; and
arrange to stay until we have settled this affair.”

She looked at him in a spirit of indulgent irony.

“I’m afraid I can’t stay so long,” she said; then added: “I suppose
mother and Ada are both dead.”

“Only your mother,” Vance told her. “Ada recovered.”

“She would!” Every curve of her features expressed a fine arrogant
contempt. “Common clay has great resistance, I’ve heard. You know, I’m
the only one standing between her and the Greene millions now.”

“Your sister had a very close call,” Markham reprimanded her. “If we
had not had a doctor on guard, you might now be the sole remaining
heir to those millions.”

“And that would look frightfully suspicious, wouldn’t it?” Her
question was disconcertingly frank. “But you may rest assured that if
_I_ had planned this affair, little Ada would not have recovered.”

Before Markham could answer she switched herself out of the chair.

“Now, I’m going to pack. Enough is enough.”

When she had left the room, Heath looked with doubtful inquisitiveness
at Markham.

“What about it, sir? Are you going to let her leave the city? She’s
the only one of the Greenes who hasn’t been touched.”

We knew what he meant; and this spoken suggestion of the thought that
had been passing through all our minds left us silent for a moment.

“We can’t take the chance of forcing her to stay here,” Markham
returned finally. “If anything should happen . . .”

“I get you, sir.” Heath was on his feet. “But I’m going to see that
she’s tailed—believe me! I’ll get two good men up here who’ll stick to
her from the time she goes out that front door till we know where we
stand.” He went into the hall, and we heard him giving orders to
Snitkin over the telephone.

Five minutes later Doctor Doremus arrived. He was no longer jaunty,
and his greeting was almost sombre. Accompanied by Drumm and Heath he
went at once to Mrs. Greene’s room, while Markham and Vance and I
waited down-stairs. When he returned at the end of fifteen minutes he
was markedly subdued, and I noticed he did not put on his hat at its
usual rakish angle.

“What’s the report?” Markham asked him.

“Same as Drumm’s. The old girl passed out, I’d say, between one and
two.”

“And the strychnine was taken when?”

“Midnight, or thereabouts. But that’s only a guess. Anyway, she got it
along with the citrocarbonate. I tasted it on the glass.”*

  * It will be remembered that in the famous Molineux poisoning
  case the cyanide of mercury was administered by way of a
  similar drug—to wit: Bromo-Seltzer.

“By the by, doctor,” said Vance, “when you do the autopsy can you let
us have a report on the state of atrophy of the leg muscles?”

“Sure thing.” Doremus was somewhat surprised by the request.

When he had gone, Markham addressed himself to Drumm.

“We’d like to talk to Ada now. How is she this morning?”

“Oh, fine!” Drumm spoke with pride. “I saw her right after I’d looked
at the old lady. She’s weak and a bit dried up with all the atropine I
gave her, but otherwise practically normal.”

“And she has not been told of her mother’s death?”

“Not a word.”

“She will have to know,” interposed Vance; “and there’s no point in
keeping the fact from her any longer. It’s just as well that the shock
should come when we’re all present.”

Ada was sitting by the window when we came in, her elbows on the sill,
chin in hands, gazing out into the snow-covered yard. She was startled
by our entry, and the pupils of her eyes dilated, as if with sudden
fright. It was plain that the experiences she had been through had
created in her a state of nervous fear.

After a brief exchange of amenities, during which both Vance and
Markham strove to allay her nervousness, Markham broached the subject
of the bouillon.

“We’d give a great deal,” he said, “not to have to recall so painful
an episode, but much depends on what you can tell us regarding
yesterday morning.—You were in the drawing-room, weren’t you, when the
nurse called down to you?”

The girl’s lips and tongue were dry, and she spoke with some
difficulty.

“Yes. Mother had asked me to bring her a copy of a magazine, and I had
just gone down-stairs to look for it when the nurse called.”

“You saw the nurse when you came up-stairs?”

“Yes; she was just going toward the servants’ stairway.”

“There was no one in your room here when you entered?”

She shook her head. “Who could have been here?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Miss Greene,” replied Markham
gravely. “Some one certainly put the drug in your bouillon.”

She shuddered, but made no reply.

“Did any one come in to see you later?” Markham continued.

“Not a soul.”

Heath impatiently projected himself into the interrogation.

“And say; did you drink your soup right away?”

“No—not right away. I felt a little chilly, and I went across the hall
to Julia’s room to get an old Spanish shawl to put round me.”

Heath made a disgusted face, and sighed noisily.

“Every time we get going on this case,” he complained, “something
comes along and sinks us.—If Miss Ada left the soup in here, Mr.
Markham, while she went to get a shawl, then almost anybody coulda
sneaked in and poisoned the stuff.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ada apologized, almost as though she had taken Heath’s
words as a criticism of her actions.

“It’s not your fault, Ada,” Vance assured her. “The Sergeant is unduly
depressed.—But tell me this: when you went into the hall did you see
Miss Sibella’s dog anywhere around?”

She shook her head wonderingly.

“Why, no. What has Sibella’s dog to do with it?”

“He probably saved your life.” And Vance explained to her how Sproot
had happened to find her.

She gave a half-breathless murmur of amazement and incredulity, and
fell into abstracted revery.

“When you returned from your sister’s room, did you drink your
bouillon at once?” Vance asked her next.

With difficulty she brought her mind back to the question.

“Yes.”

“And didn’t you notice a peculiar taste?”

“Not particularly. Mother always likes a lot of salt in her bouillon.”

“And then what happened?”

“Nothing happened. Only, I began to feel funny. The back of my neck
tightened up, and I got very warm and drowsy. My skin tingled all
over, and my arms and legs seemed to get numb. I was terribly sleepy,
and I lay back on the bed.—That’s all I remember.”

“Another washout,” grumbled Heath.

There was a short silence, and Vance drew his chair nearer.

“Now, Ada,” he said, “you must brace yourself for more bad news. . . .
Your mother died during the night.”

The girl sat motionless for a moment, and then turned to him eyes of a
despairing clearness.

“Died?” she repeated. “How did she die?”

“She was poisoned—she took an overdose of strychnine.”

“You mean . . . she committed suicide?”

This query startled us all. It expressed a possibility that had not
occurred to us. After a momentary hesitation, however, Vance slowly
shook his head.

“No, I hardly think so. I’m afraid the person who poisoned you also
poisoned your mother.”

Vance’s reply seemed to stun her. Her face grew pale, and her eyes
were set in a glassy stare of terror. Then presently she sighed
deeply, as if from a kind of mental depletion.

“Oh, what’s going to happen next? . . . I’m—afraid!”

“Nothing more is going to happen,” said Vance with emphasis. “Nothing
more _can_ happen. You are going to be guarded every minute. And
Sibella is going this afternoon to Atlantic City for a long visit.”

“I wish I could go away,” she breathed pathetically.

“There will be no need of that,” put in Markham. “You’ll be safer in
New York. We are going to keep the nurse here to look after you, and
also put a man in the house day and night until everything is
straightened out. Hemming is leaving to-day, but Sproot and the cook
will take care of you.” He rose and patted her shoulder comfortingly.
“There’s no possible way any one can harm you now.”

As we descended into the lower hall Sproot was just admitting Doctor
Von Blon.

“Good God!” he exclaimed, hastening toward us. “Sibella just phoned me
about Mrs. Greene.” He looked truculently at Markham, his suavity for
the moment forgotten. “Why wasn’t I informed, sir?”

“I saw no necessity of bothering you, doctor,” Markham returned
equably. “Mrs. Greene had been dead several hours when she was found.
And we had our own doctor at hand.”

A quick flame leaped in Von Blon’s eyes.

“And am I to be forcibly kept from seeing Sibella?” he asked coldly.
“She tells me she is leaving the city to-day, and has asked me to
assist with her arrangements.”

Markham stepped aside.

“You are free, doctor, to do whatever you desire,” he said, a
perceptible chill in his voice.

Von Blon bowed stiffly, and went up the stairs.

“He’s sore,” grinned Heath.

“No, Sergeant,” Vance corrected. “He’s worried—oh, deuced worried.”

Shortly after noon that day Hemming departed forever from the Greene
mansion; and Sibella took the three-fifteen o’clock train for Atlantic
City. Of the original household, only Ada and Sproot and Mrs. Mannheim
were left. However, Heath gave orders for Miss O’Brien to remain on
duty indefinitely and keep an eye on everything that happened; and, in
addition to this protection, a detective was stationed in the house to
augment the nurse’s watch.



CHAPTER XXII.

The Shadowy Figure

  (Friday, December 3; 6 p. m.)

At six o’clock that evening Markham called another informal conference
at the Stuyvesant Club. Not only were Inspector Moran and Heath
present, but Chief Inspector O’Brien* dropped in on his way home from
the office.

  * Chief Inspector O’Brien, who was in command of the entire
  Police Department, was, I learned later, an uncle of the Miss
  O’Brien who was acting officially as nurse at the Greene
  mansion.

The afternoon papers had been merciless in their criticism of the
police for its unsuccessful handling of the investigation. Markham,
after consulting with Heath and Doremus, had explained the death of
Mrs. Greene to the reporters as “the result of an overdose of
strychnine—a stimulant she had been taking regularly under her
physician’s orders.” Swacker had typed copies of the item so there
would be no mistake as to its exact wording; and the announcement
ended by saying: “There is no evidence to show that the drug was not
self-administered as the result of error.” But although the reporters
composed their news stories in strict accord with Markham’s report,
they interpolated subtle intimations of deliberate murder, so that the
reader was left with little doubt as to the true state of affairs. The
unsuccessful attempt to poison Ada had been kept a strict official
secret. But this suppressed item had not been needed to inflame the
public’s morbid imagination to an almost unprecedented degree.

Both Markham and Heath had begun to show the strain of their futile
efforts to solve the affair; and one glance at Inspector Moran, as he
sank heavily into a chair beside the District Attorney, was enough to
make one realize that a corroding worry had undermined his habitual
equanimity. Even Vance revealed signs of tensity and uneasiness; but
with him it was an eager alertness, rather than worry, that marked any
deviation from normality in his attitude.

As soon as we were assembled that evening Heath briefly epitomized the
case. He went over the various lines of investigation, and enumerated
the precautions that had been taken. When he had finished, and before
any one could make a comment, he turned to Chief Inspector O’Brien and
said:

“There’s plenty of things, sir, we might’ve done in any ordinary case.
We could’ve searched the house for the gun and the poison like the
narcotic squad goes through a single room or small apartment—punching
the mattresses, tearing up the carpets, and sounding the woodwork—but
in the Greene house it would’ve taken a coupla months. And even if
we’d found the stuff, what good would it have done us? The guy that’s
tearing things wide open in that dump isn’t going to stop just because
we take his dinky thirty-two away from him, or grab his poison.—After
Chester or Rex was shot we could’ve arrested all the rest of the
family and put ’em through a third degree. But there’s too much noise
in the papers now every time we give anybody the works; and it ain’t
exactly healthy for us to grill a family like the Greenes. They’ve got
too much money and pull; they’d have had a whole battalion of
high-class lawyers smearing us with suits and injunctions and God
knows what. And if we’d just held ’em as material witnesses, they’d
have got out in forty-eight hours on _habeas-corpus_ actions.—Then,
again, we might’ve planted a bunch of huskies in the house. But we
couldn’t keep a garrison there indefinitely, and the minute they’d
have been called off, the dirty work would’ve begun.—Believe me,
Inspector, we’ve been up against it good and plenty.”

O’Brien grunted and tugged at his white cropped moustache.

“What the Sergeant says is perfectly true,” Moran remarked. “Most of
the ordinary methods of action and investigation have been denied us.
We’re obviously dealing with an inside family affair.”

“Moreover,” added Vance, “we’re dealing with an extr’ordin’rily clever
plot—something that has been thought out and planned down to the
minutest detail, and elaborately covered up at every point. Everything
has been staked—even life itself—on the outcome. Only a supreme hatred
and an exalted hope could have inspired the crimes. And against such
attributes, d’ ye see, the ordin’ry means of prevention are utterly
useless.”

“A family affair!” repeated O’Brien heavily, who apparently was still
pondering over Inspector Moran’s statement. “It don’t look to me as
though there’s much of the family left. I’d say, on the evidence, that
some outsider was trying to wipe the family out.” He gave Heath a
glowering look. “What have you done about the servants? You’re not
scared to monkey with _them_, are you? You could have arrested one of
’em a long time ago and stopped the yapping of the newspapers for a
time, anyway.”

Markham came immediately to Heath’s defense.

“I’m wholly responsible for any seeming negligence on the Sergeant’s
part in that regard,” he said with a noticeable accent of cold
reproach. “As long as I have anything to say about this case no
arrests are going to be made for the mere purpose of quieting
unpleasant criticism.” Then his manner relaxed slightly. “There isn’t
the remotest indication of guilt in connection with any of the
servants. The maid Hemming is a harmless fanatic, and is quite
incapable mentally of having planned the murders. I permitted her to
leave the Greenes’ to-day. . . .”

“We know where to find her, Inspector,” Heath hastened to add by way
of forestalling the other’s inevitable question.

“As to the cook,” Markham went on; “she, too, is wholly outside of any
serious consideration. She’s temperamentally unfitted to be cast in
the rôle of murderer.”

“And what about the butler?” asked O’Brien acrimoniously.

“He’s been with the family thirty years, and was even remembered
liberally in Tobias Greene’s will. He’s a bit queer, but I think if he
had had any reason for destroying the Greenes he wouldn’t have waited
till old age came on him.” Markham looked troubled for a moment. “I
must admit, however, that there’s an atmosphere of mysterious reserve
about the old fellow. He always gives me the impression of knowing far
more than he admits.”

“What you say, Markham, is true enough,” remarked Vance. “But Sproot
certainly doesn’t fit this particular saturnalia of crime. He reasons
too carefully; there’s an immense cautiousness about the man, and his
mental outlook is highly conservative. He might stab an enemy if there
was no remote chance of detection. But he lacks the courage and the
imaginative resiliency that have made possible this present gory
debauch. He’s too old—much too old. . . . _By Jove!_”

Vance leaned over and tapped the table with an incisive gesture.

“That’s the thing that’s been evading me! Vitality! That’s what is at
the bottom of this business—a tremendous, elastic, self-confident
vitality: a supreme ruthlessness mingled with audacity and
impudence—an intrepid and reckless egoism—an undaunted belief in one’s
own ability. And they’re not the components of age. There’s youth in
all this—youth with its ambition and venturesomeness—that doesn’t
count the cost, that takes no thought of risk. . . . No. Sproot could
never qualify.”

Moran shifted his chair uneasily, and turned to Heath.

“Whom did you send to Atlantic City to watch Sibella?”

“Guilfoyle and Mallory—the two best men we’ve got.”* The Sergeant
smiled with a kind of cruel satisfaction. “She won’t get away. And she
won’t pull anything, either.”

  * I recalled that Guilfoyle and Mallory were the two men who
  had been set to watch Tony Skeel in the Canary murder case.

“And have you extended your attention to Doctor Von Blon, by any
chance?” negligently asked Vance.

Again Heath’s canny smile appeared.

“He’s been tailed ever since Rex was shot.”

Vance regarded him admiringly.

“I’m becoming positively fond of you, Sergeant,” he said; and beneath
his chaffing note was the ring of sincerity.

O’Brien leaned ponderously over the table and, brushing the ashes from
his cigar, fixed a sullen look on the District Attorney.

“What was this story you gave out to the papers, Mr. Markham? You
seemed to want to imply that the old woman took the strychnine
herself. Was that hogwash, or was there something in it?”

“I’m afraid there was nothing in it, Inspector.” Markham spoke with a
sense of genuine regret. “Such a theory doesn’t square with the
poisoning of Ada—or with any of the rest of it, for that matter.”

“I’m not so sure,” retorted O’Brien. “Moran here has told me that you
fellows had an idea the old woman was faking her paralysis.” He
rearranged his arms on the table and pointed a short thick finger at
Markham. “Supposing she shot three of the children, using up all the
cartridges in the revolver, and then stole the two doses of poison—one
for each of the two girls left; and then supposing she gave the
morphine to the younger one, and had only one dose left. . . .” He
paused and squinted significantly.

“I see what you mean,” said Markham. “Your theory is that she didn’t
count on our having a doctor handy to save Ada’s life, and that,
having failed to put Ada out of the way, she figured the game was up,
and took the strychnine.”

“That’s it!” O’Brien struck the table with his fist. “And it makes
sense. Furthermore, it means we’ve cleared up the case—see?”

“Yes, it unquestionably makes sense.” It was Vance’s quiet, drawling
voice that answered. “But forgive me if I suggest that it fits the
facts much too tidily. It’s a perfect theory, don’t y’ know; it leaps
to the brain, almost as though some one had planned it for our
benefit. I rather fancy that we’re intended to adopt that very logical
and sensible point of view. But really now, Inspector, Mrs. Greene was
not the suicidal type, however murderous she may have been.”

While Vance had been speaking, Heath had left the room. A few minutes
later he returned and interrupted O’Brien in a long, ill-natured
defense of his suicide theory.

“We haven’t got to argue any more along that line,” he announced.
“I’ve just had Doc Doremus on the phone. He’s finished the autopsy;
and he says that the old lady’s leg muscles had wasted away—gone plumb
flabby—and that there wasn’t a chance in the world of her moving her
legs, let alone walking on ’em.”

“Good God!” Moran was the first to recover from the amazement this
news had caused us. “Who was it, then, that Ada saw in the hall?”

“That’s just it!” Vance spoke hurriedly, trying to stem his rising
sense of excitation. “If only we knew! That’s the answer to the whole
problem. It may not have been the murderer; but the person who sat in
that library night after night and read strange books by candlelight
is the key to everything. . . .”

“But Ada was so positive in her identification,” objected Markham, in
a bewildered tone.

“She’s hardly to be blamed in the circumstances,” Vance returned. “The
child had been through a frightful experience and was scarcely normal.
And it is not at all unlikely that she, too, suspected her mother. If
she did, what would have been more natural than for her to imagine
that this shadowy figure she saw in the hall long after midnight was
the actual object of her dread? It is not unusual for a person under
the stress of fright to distort an object by the projection of a
dominating mental image.”

“You mean,” said Heath, “that she saw somebody else, and imagined it
was her mother because she was thinking so hard of the old woman?”

“It’s by no means improbable.”

“Still, there was that detail of the Oriental shawl,” objected
Markham. “Ada might easily have mistaken the person’s features, but
her insistence on having seen that particular shawl was fairly
definite.”

Vance gave a perplexed nod.

“The point is well taken. And it may prove the Ariadne’s clew that
will lead us out of this Cretan labyrinth. We must find out more about
that shawl.”

Heath had taken out his note-book and was turning the pages with
scowling concentration.

“And don’t forget, Mr. Vance,” he said, without looking up, “about
that diagram Ada found in the rear of the hall near the library door.
Maybe this person in the shawl was the one who’d dropped it, and was
going to the library to look for it, but got scared off when she saw
Ada.”

“But whoever shot Rex,” said Markham, “evidently stole the paper from
him, and therefore wouldn’t be worrying about it.”

“I guess that’s right,” Heath admitted reluctantly.

“Such speculation is futile,” commented Vance. “This affair is too
complicated to be untangled by the unravelling of details. We must
determine, if possible, who it was that Ada saw that night. Then we’ll
have opened a main artery of inquiry.”

“How are we going to find that out,” demanded O’Brien, “when Ada was
the only person who saw this woman in Mrs. Greene’s shawl?”

“Your question contains the answer, Inspector. We must see Ada again
and try to counteract the suggestion of her own fears. When we explain
that it couldn’t have been her mother, she may recall some other point
that will put us on the right track.”

And this was the course taken. When the conference ended, O’Brien
departed, and the rest of us dined at the club. At half past eight we
were on our way to the Greene mansion.

We found Ada and the cook alone in the drawing-room. The girl sat
before the fire, a copy of Grimm’s “Fairy-Tales” turned face down on
her knees; and Mrs. Mannheim, busy with a lapful of mending, occupied
a straight chair near the door. It was a curious sight, in view of the
formal correctness of the house, and it brought forcibly to my mind
how fear and adversity inevitably level all social standards.

When we entered the room Mrs. Mannheim rose and, gathering up her
mending, started to go. But Vance indicated that she was to remain,
and without a word she resumed her seat.

“We’re here to annoy you again, Ada,” said Vance, assuming the rôle of
interrogator. “But you’re about the only person we can come to for
help.” His smile put the girl at ease, and he continued gently: “We
want to talk to you about what you told us the other afternoon. . . .”

Her eyes opened wide, and she waited in a kind of awed silence.

“You told us you thought you had seen your mother——”

“I did see her—I did!”

Vance shook his head. “No; it was not your mother. She was unable to
walk, Ada. She was truly and helplessly paralyzed. It was impossible
for her even to make the slightest movement with either leg.”

“But—I don’t understand.” There was more than bewilderment in her
voice: there was terror and alarm such as one might experience at the
thought of supernatural malignancy. “I heard Doctor Von tell mother he
was bringing a specialist to see her this morning. But she died last
night—so how could you know? Oh, you must be mistaken. I saw her—I
_know_ I saw her.”

She seemed to be battling desperately for the preservation of her
sanity. But Vance again shook his head.

“Doctor Oppenheimer did not examine your mother,” he said. “But Doctor
Doremus did—to-day. And he found that she had been unable to move for
many years.”

“Oh!” The exclamation was only breathed. The girl seemed incapable of
speech.

“And what we’ve come for,” continued Vance, “is to ask you to recall
that night, and see if you cannot remember something—some little
thing—that will help us. You saw this person only by the flickering
light of a match. You might easily have made a mistake.”

“But how could I? I was so close to her.”

“Before you woke up that night and felt hungry, had you been dreaming
of your mother?”

She hesitated, and shuddered slightly.

“I don’t know, but I’ve dreamed of mother constantly—awful, scary
dreams—ever since that first night when somebody came into my
room. . . .”

“That may account for the mistake you made.” Vance paused a moment and
then asked: “Do you distinctly remember seeing your mother’s Oriental
shawl on the person in the hall that night?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, after a slight hesitation. “It was the first
thing I noticed. Then I saw her face. . . .”

A trivial but startling thing happened at this moment. We had our back
to Mrs. Mannheim and, for the time being, had forgotten her presence
in the room. Suddenly what sounded like a dry sob broke from her, and
the sewing-basket on her knees fell to the floor. Instinctively we
turned. The woman was staring at us glassily.

“What difference does it make who she saw?” she asked in a dead,
monotonous voice. “She maybe saw me.”

“Nonsense, Gertrude,” Ada said quickly. “It wasn’t you.”

Vance was watching the woman with a puzzled expression.

“Do you ever wear Mrs. Greene’s shawl, Frau Mannheim?”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Ada cut in.

“And do you ever steal into the library and read after the household
is asleep?” pursued Vance.

The woman picked up her sewing morosely, and again lapsed into sullen
silence. Vance studied her a moment and then turned back to Ada.

“Do you know of any one who might have been wearing your mother’s
shawl that night?”

“I—don’t know,” the girl stammered, her lips trembling.

“Come; that won’t do.” Vance spoke with some asperity. “This isn’t the
time to shield any one. Who was in the habit of using the shawl?”

“No one was in the habit. . . .” She stopped and gave Vance a pleading
look; but he was obdurate.

“Who, then, besides your mother ever wore it?”

“But I would have known if it had been Sibella I saw——”

“Sibella? She sometimes borrowed the shawl?”

Ada nodded reluctantly. “Once in a great while. She—she admired the
shawl. . . . Oh, why do you make me tell you this!”

“And you have never seen any one else with it on?”

“No; no one ever wore it except mother and Sibella.”

Vance attempted to banish her obvious distress with a whimsical
reassuring smile.

“Just see how foolish all your fears have been,” he said lightly. “You
probably saw your sister in the hall that night, and, because you’d
been having bad dreams about your mother, you thought it was she. As a
result, you became frightened, and locked yourself up and worried. It
was rather silly, what?”

A little later we took our leave.

“It has always been my contention,” remarked Inspector Moran, as we
rode down-town, “that any identification under strain or excitement is
worthless. And here we have a glaring instance of it.”

“I’d like a nice quiet little chat with Sibella,” mumbled Heath, busy
with his own thoughts.

“It wouldn’t comfort you, Sergeant,” Vance told him. “At the end of
your _tête-à-tête_ you’d know only what the young lady wanted you to
know.”

“Where do we stand now?” asked Markham, after a silence.

“Exactly where we stood before,” answered Vance dejectedly, “—in the
midst of an impenetrable fog.—And I’m not in the least convinced,” he
added, “that it was Sibella whom Ada saw in the hall.”

Markham looked amazed.

“Then who, in Heaven’s name, was it?”

Vance sighed gloomily. “Give me the answer to that one question, and
I’ll complete the saga.”

That night Vance sat up until nearly two o’clock writing at his desk
in the library.



CHAPTER XXIII.

The Missing Fact

  (Saturday, December 4; 1 p. m.)

Saturday was the District Attorney’s “half-day” at the office, and
Markham had invited Vance and me to lunch at the Bankers Club. But
when we reached the Criminal Courts Building he was swamped with an
accumulation of work, and we had a tray-service meal in his private
conference room. Before leaving the house that noon Vance had put
several sheets of closely written paper in his pocket, and I
surmised—correctly, as it turned out—that they were what he had been
working on the night before.

When lunch was over Vance lay back in his chair languidly and lit a
cigarette.

“Markham old dear,” he said, “I accepted your invitation to-day for
the sole purpose of discussing art. I trust you are in a receptive
mood.”

Markham looked at him with frank annoyance.

“Damn it, Vance, I’m too confounded busy to be bothered with your
irrelevancies. If you feel artistically inclined, take Van here to the
Metropolitan Museum. But leave me alone.”

Vance sighed, and wagged his head reproachfully.

“There speaks the voice of America! ‘Run along and play with your
æsthetic toys if such silly things amuse you; but let me attend to my
serious affairs.’ It’s very sad. In the present instance, however, I
refuse to run along; and most certainly I shall not browse about that
mausoleum of Europe’s rejected corpses, known as the Metropolitan
Museum. I say, it’s a wonder you didn’t suggest that I make the rounds
of our municipal statuary.”

“I’d have suggested the Aquarium——”

“I know. Anything to get rid of me.” Vance adopted an injured tone.
“And yet, don’t y’ know, I’m going to sit right here and deliver an
edifying lecture on æsthetic composition.”

“Then don’t talk too loud,” said Markham, rising; “for I’ll be in the
next room working.”

“But my lecture has to do with the Greene case. And really you
shouldn’t miss it.”

Markham paused and turned.

“Merely one of your wordy prologues, eh?” He sat down again. “Well, if
you have any helpful suggestions to make, I’ll listen.”

Vance smoked a moment.

“Y’ know, Markham,” he began, assuming a lazy, unemotional air,
“there’s a fundamental difference between a good painting and a
photograph. I’ll admit many painters appear unaware of this fact; and
when color photography is perfected—my word! what a horde of
academicians will be thrown out of employment! But none the less
there’s a vast chasm between the two; and it’s this technical
distinction that’s to be the burden of my lay. How, for instance, does
Michelangelo’s ‘Moses’ differ from a camera study of a patriarchal old
man with whiskers and a stone tablet? Wherein lie the points of
divergence between Rubens’s ‘Landscape with Château de Stein’ and a
tourist’s snap-shot of a Rhine castle? Why is a Cézanne still-life an
improvement on a photograph of a dish of apples? Why have the
Renaissance paintings of Madonnas endured for hundreds of years
whereas a mere photograph of a mother and child passes into artistic
oblivion at the very click of the lens shutter? . . .”

He held up a silencing hand as Markham was about to speak.

“I’m not being futile. Bear with me a moment.—The difference between a
good painting and a photograph is this: the one is arranged, composed,
organized; the other is merely the haphazard impression of a scene, or
a segment of realism, just as it exists in nature. In short, the one
has form; the other is chaotic. When a true artist paints a picture,
d’ ye see, he arranges all the masses and lines to accord with his
preconceived idea of composition—that is, he bends everything in the
picture to a basic design; and he also eliminates any objects or
details that go contr’ry to, or detract from, that design. Thus he
achieves a homogeneity of form, so to speak. Every object in the
picture is put there for a definite purpose, and is set in a certain
position to accord with the underlying structural pattern. There are
no irrelevancies, no unrelated details, no detached objects, no
arbitr’ry arrangement of values. All the forms and lines are
interdependent; every object—indeed, every brush stroke—takes its
exact place in the pattern and fulfils a given function. The picture,
in fine, is a unity.”

“Very instructive,” commented Markham, glancing ostentatiously at his
watch. “And the Greene case?”

“Now, a photograph, on the other hand,” pursued Vance, ignoring the
interruption, “is devoid of design or even of arrangement in the
æsthetic sense. To be sure, a photographer may pose and drape a
figure—he may even saw off the limb of a tree that he intends to
record on his negative; but it’s quite impossible for him to compose
the subject-matter of his picture to accord with a preconceived
design, the way a painter does. In a photograph there are always
details that have no meaning, variations of light and shade that are
harmonically false, textures that create false notes, lines that are
discords, masses that are out of place. The camera, d’ ye see, is
deucedly forthright—it records whatever is before it, irrespective of
art values. The inevitable result is that a photograph lacks
organization and unity; its composition is, at best, primitive and
obvious. And it is full of irrelevant factors—of objects which have
neither meaning nor purpose. There is no uniformity of conception in
it. It is haphazard, heterogeneous, aimless, and amorphous—just as is
nature.”

“You needn’t belabor the point.” Markham spoke impatiently. “I have a
rudimentary intelligence.—Where is this elaborate truism leading you?”

Vance gave him an engaging smile.

“To East 53d Street. But before we reach our destination permit me
another brief amplification.—Quite often a painting of intricate and
subtle design does not at once reveal its composition to the
spectator. In fact, only the designs of the simpler and more obvious
paintings are immediately grasped. Generally the spectator has to
study a painting carefully—trace its rhythms, compare its forms, weigh
its details, and fit together all its salients—before its underlying
design becomes apparent. Many well-organized and perfectly balanced
paintings—such as Renoir’s figure-pieces, Matisse’s interiors,
Cézanne’s water-colors, Picasso’s still-lives, and Leonardo’s
anatomical drawings—may at first appear meaningless from the
standpoint of composition; their forms may seem to lack unity and
cohesion; their masses and linear values may give the impression of
having been arbitrarily put down. And it is only after the spectator
has related all their integers and traced all their contrapuntal
activities that they take on significance and reveal their creator’s
motivating conception. . . .”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Markham. “Paintings and photographs differ;
the objects in a painting possess design; the objects in a photograph
are without design; one must often study a painting in order to
determine the design.—That, I believe, covers the ground you have been
wandering over desultorily for the past fifteen minutes.”

“I was merely trying to imitate the vast deluge of repetitive verbiage
found in legal documents,” explained Vance. “I hoped thereby to convey
my meaning to your lawyer’s mind.”

“You succeeded with a vengeance,” snapped Markham. “What follows?”

Vance became serious again.

“Markham, we’ve been looking at the various occurrences in the Greene
case as though they were the unrelated objects of a photograph. We’ve
inspected each fact as it came up; but we have failed to analyze
sufficiently its connection with all the other known facts. We’ve
regarded this whole affair as though it were a series, or collection,
of isolated integers. And we’ve missed the significance of everything
because we haven’t yet determined the shape of the basic pattern of
which each of these incidents is but a part.—Do you follow me?”

“My dear fellow!”

“Very well.—Now, it goes without saying that there is a design at the
bottom of this whole amazin’ business. Nothing has happened
haphazardly. There has been premeditation behind each act—a subtly and
carefully concocted composition, as it were. And everything has
emanated from that central shape. Everything has been fashioned by a
fundamental structural idea. Therefore, nothing important that has
occurred since the first double shooting has been unrelated to the
predetermined pattern of the crime. All the aspects and events of the
case, taken together, form a unity—a co-ordinated, interactive whole.
In short, the Greene case is a painting, not a photograph. And when we
have studied it in that light—when we have determined the
interrelationship of all the external factors, and have traced the
visual forms to their generating lines—then, Markham, we will know the
composition of the picture; we will see the design on which the
perverted painter has erected his document’ry material. And once we
have discovered the underlying shape of this hideous picture’s
pattern, we’ll know its creator.”

“I see your point,” said Markham slowly. “But how does it help us? We
know all the external facts; and they certainly don’t fit into any
intelligible conception of a unified whole.”

“Not yet, perhaps,” agreed Vance. “But that’s because we haven’t gone
about it systematically. We’ve done too much investigating and too
little thinking. We’ve been sidetracked by what the modern painters
call documentation—that is, by the objective appeal of the picture’s
recognizable parts. We haven’t sought for the abstract content. We’ve
overlooked the ‘significant form’—a loose phrase; but blame Clive Bell
for it.”*

  * Vance was here referring to the chapter called “The Æsthetic
  Hypothesis” in Clive Bell’s “Art.” But, despite the somewhat
  slighting character of his remark, Vance was an admirer of
  Bell’s criticisms, and had spoken to me with considerable
  enthusiasm of his “Since Cézanne.”

“And how would you suggest that we set about determining the
compositional design of this bloody canvas? We might dub the picture,
by the way, ‘Nepotism Gone Wrong.’” By this facetious remark, he was,
I knew, attempting to counteract the serious impression the other’s
disquisition had made on him; for, though he realized Vance would not
have drawn his voluminous parallel without a definite hope of applying
it successfully to the problem in hand, he was chary of indulging any
expectations lest they result in further disappointments.

In answer to Markham’s question Vance drew out the sheaf of papers he
had brought with him.

“Last night,” he explained, “I set down briefly and chronologically
all the outstanding facts of the Greene case—that is, I noted each
important external factor of the ghastly picture we’ve been
contemplating for the past few weeks. The principal forms are all
here, though I may have left out many details. But I think I have
tabulated a sufficient number of items to serve as a working basis.”

He held out the papers to Markham.

“The truth lies somewhere in that list. If we could put the facts
together—relate them to one another with their correct values—we’d
know who was at the bottom of this orgy of crime; for, once we
determined the pattern, each of the items would take on a vital
significance, and we could read clearly the message they had to tell
us.”

Markham took the summary and, moving his chair nearer to the light,
read through it without a word.

I preserved the original copy of the document; and, of all the records
I possess, it was the most important and far-reaching in its effects.
Indeed, it was the instrument by means of which the Greene case was
solved. Had it not been for this recapitulation, prepared by Vance and
later analyzed by him, the famous mass murder at the Greene mansion
would doubtless have been relegated to the category of unsolved
crimes.

Herewith is a verbatim reproduction of it:

    General Facts

  1. An atmosphere of mutual hatred pervades the Greene mansion.

  2. Mrs. Greene is a nagging, complaining paralytic, making life
  miserable for the whole household.

  3. There are five children—two daughters, two sons, and one adopted
  daughter—who have nothing in common, and live in a state of constant
  antagonism and bitterness toward one another.

  4. Though Mrs. Mannheim, the cook, was acquainted with Tobias Greene
  years ago and was remembered in his will, she refuses to reveal any
  of the facts in her past.

  5. The will of Tobias Greene stipulated that the family must live in
  the Greene mansion for twenty-five years on pain of disinheritance,
  with the one exception that, if Ada should marry, she could
  establish a residence elsewhere, as she was not of the Greene blood.
  By the will Mrs. Greene has the handling and disposition of the
  money.

  6. Mrs. Greene’s will makes the five children equal beneficiaries.
  In event of death of any of them the survivors share alike; and if
  all should die the estate goes to their families, if any.

  7. The sleeping-rooms of the Greenes are arranged thus: Julia’s and
  Rex’s face each other at the front of the house; Chester’s and Ada’s
  face each other in the centre of the house; and Sibella’s and Mrs.
  Greene’s face each other at the rear. No two rooms intercommunicate,
  with the exception of Ada’s and Mrs. Greene’s; and these two rooms
  also give on the same balcony.

  8. The library of Tobias Greene, which Mrs. Greene believes she had
  kept locked for twelve years, contains a remarkably complete
  collection of books on criminology and allied subjects.

  9. Tobias Greene’s past was somewhat mysterious, and there were many
  rumors concerning shady transactions carried on by him in foreign
  lands.

    First Crime

  10. Julia is killed by a contact shot, fired from the front, at
  11.30 P. M.

  11. Ada is shot from behind, also by a contact shot. She recovers.

  12. Julia is found in bed, with a look of horror and amazement on
  her face.

  13. Ada is found on the floor before the dressing-table.

  14. The lights have been turned on in both rooms.

  15. Over three minutes elapse between the two shots.

  16. Von Blon, summoned immediately, arrives within half an hour.

  17. A set of footprints, other than Von Blon’s, leaving and
  approaching the house, is found; but the character of the snow
  renders them indecipherable.

  18. The tracks have been made during the half-hour preceding the
  crime.

  19. Both shootings are done with a .32 revolver.

  20. Chester reports that an old .32 revolver of his is missing.

  21. Chester is not satisfied with the police theory of a burglar,
  and insists that the District Attorney’s office investigate the
  case.

  22. Mrs. Greene is aroused by the shot fired in Ada’s room, and
  hears Ada fall. But she hears no footsteps or sound of a door
  closing.

  23. Sproot is half-way down the servants’ stairs when the second
  shot is fired, yet he encounters no one in the hall. Nor does he
  hear any noise.

  24. Rex, in the room next to Ada’s, says he heard no shot.

  25. Rex intimates that Chester knows more about the tragedy than he
  admits.

  26. There is some secret between Chester and Sibella.

  27. Sibella, like Chester, repudiates the burglar theory, but
  refuses to suggest an alternative, and says frankly that any member
  of the Greene family may be guilty.

  28. Ada says she was awakened by a menacing presence in her room,
  which was in darkness; that she attempted to run from the intruder,
  but was pursued by shuffling footsteps.

  29. Ada says a hand touched her when she first arose from bed, but
  refuses to make any attempt to identify the hand.

  30. Sibella challenges Ada to say that it was she (Sibella) who was
  in the room, and then deliberately accuses Ada of having shot Julia.
  She also accuses Ada of having stolen the revolver from Chester’s
  room.

  31. Von Blon, by his attitude and manner, reveals a curious intimacy
  between Sibella and himself.

  32. Ada is frankly fond of Von Blon.

    Second Crime

  33. Four days after Julia and Ada are shot, at 11.30 P. M., Chester
  is murdered by a contact shot fired from a .32 revolver.

  34. There is a look of amazement and horror on his face.

  35. Sibella hears the shot and summons Sproot.

  36. Sibella says she listened at her door immediately after the shot
  was fired, but heard no other sound.

  37. The lights are on in Chester’s room. He was apparently reading
  when the murderer entered.

  38. A clear double set of footprints is found on the front walk. The
  tracks have been made within a half-hour of the crime.

  39. A pair of galoshes, exactly corresponding to the footprints, is
  found in Chester’s clothes-closet.

  40. Ada had a premonition of Chester’s death, and, when informed of
  it, guesses he has been shot in the same manner as Julia. But she is
  greatly relieved when shown the footprint patterns indicating that
  the murderer is an outsider.

  41. Rex says he heard a noise in the hall and the sound of a door
  closing twenty minutes before the shot was fired.

  42. Ada, when told of Rex’s story, recalls also having heard a door
  close at some time after eleven.

  43. It is obvious that Ada knows or suspects something.

  44. The cook becomes emotional at the thought of any one wanting to
  harm Ada, but says she can understand a person having a reason to
  shoot Julia and Chester.

  45. Rex, when interviewed, shows clearly that he thinks some one in
  the house is guilty.

  46. Rex accuses Von Blon of being the murderer.

  47. Mrs. Greene makes a request that the investigation be dropped.

    Third Crime

  48. Rex is shot in the forehead with a .32 revolver, at 11.20 A. M.,
  twenty days after Chester has been killed and within five minutes of
  the time Ada phones him from the District Attorney’s office.

  49. There is no look of horror or surprise on Rex’s face, as was the
  case with Julia and Chester.

  50. His body is found on the floor before the mantel.

  51. A diagram which Ada asked him to bring with him to the District
  Attorney’s office has disappeared.

  52. No one up-stairs hears the shot, though the doors are open; but
  Sproot, down-stairs in the butler’s pantry, hears it distinctly.

  53. Von Blon is visiting Sibella that morning; but she says she was
  in the bathroom bathing her dog at the time Rex was shot.

  54. Footprints are found in Ada’s room coming from the balcony door,
  which is ajar.

  55. A single set of footprints is found leading from the front walk
  to the balcony.

  56. The tracks could have been made at any time after nine o’clock
  that morning.

  57. Sibella refuses to go away on a visit.

  58. The galoshes that made all three sets of footprints are found in
  the linen-closet, although they were not there when the house was
  searched for the revolver.

  59. The galoshes are returned to the linen-closet, but disappear
  that night.

    Fourth Crime

  60. Two days after Rex’s death Ada and Mrs. Greene are poisoned
  within twelve hours of each other—Ada with morphine, Mrs. Greene
  with strychnine.

  61. Ada is treated at once, and recovers.

  62. Von Blon is seen leaving the house just before Ada swallows the
  poison.

  63. Ada is discovered by Sproot as a result of Sibella’s dog
  catching his teeth in the bell-cord.

  64. The morphine was taken in the bouillon which Ada habitually
  drank in the mornings.

  65. Ada states that no one visited her in her room after the nurse
  had called her to come and drink the bouillon; but that she went to
  Julia’s room to get a shawl, leaving the bouillon unguarded for
  several moments.

  66. Neither Ada nor the nurse remembers having seen Sibella’s dog in
  the hall before the poisoned bouillon was taken.

  67. Mrs. Greene is found dead of strychnine-poisoning the morning
  after Ada swallowed the morphine.

  68. The strychnine could have been administered only after 11 P. M.
  the previous night.

  69. The nurse was in her room on the third floor between 11 and
  11.30 P. M.

  70. Von Blon was calling on Sibella that night, but Sibella says he
  left her at 10.45.

  71. The strychnine was administered in a dose of citrocarbonate,
  which, presumably, Mrs. Greene would not have taken without
  assistance.

  72. Sibella decides to visit a girl chum in Atlantic City, and
  leaves New York on the afternoon train.

    Distributable Facts

  73. The same revolver is used on Julia, Ada, Chester, and Rex.

  74. All three sets of footprints have obviously been made by some
  one in the house for the purpose of casting suspicion on an
  outsider.

  75. The murderer is some one whom both Julia and Chester would
  receive in their rooms, in negligé, late at night.

  76. The murderer does not make himself known to Ada, but enters her
  room surreptitiously.

  77. Nearly three weeks after Chester’s death Ada comes to the
  District Attorney’s office, stating she has important news to
  impart.

  78. Ada says that Rex has confessed to her that he heard the shot in
  her room and also heard other things, but was afraid to admit them;
  and she asks that Rex be questioned.

  79. Ada tells of having found a cryptic diagram, marked with
  symbols, in the lower hall near the library door.

  80. On the day of Rex’s murder Von Blon reports that his
  medicine-case has been rifled of three grains of strychnine and six
  grains of morphine—presumably at the Greene mansion.

  81. The library reveals the fact that some one has been in the habit
  of going there and reading by candle-light. The books that show
  signs of having been read are: a handbook of the criminal sciences,
  two works on toxicology, and two treatises on hysterical paralysis
  and sleep-walking.

  82. The visitor to the library is some one who understands German
  well, for three of the books that have been read are in German.

  83. The galoshes that disappeared from the linen-closet on the night
  of Rex’s murder are found in the library.

  84. Some one listens at the door while the library is being
  inspected.

  85. Ada reports that she saw Mrs. Greene walking in the lower hall
  the night before.

  86. Von Blon asserts that Mrs. Greene’s paralysis is of a nature
  that makes movement a physical impossibility.

  87. Arrangements are made with Von Blon to have Doctor Oppenheimer
  examine Mrs. Greene.

  88. Von Blon informs Mrs. Greene of the proposed examination, which
  he has scheduled for the following day.

  89. Mrs. Greene is poisoned before Doctor Oppenheimer’s examination
  can be made.

  90. The _post mortem_ reveals conclusively that Mrs. Greene’s leg
  muscles were so atrophied that she could not have walked.

  91. Ada, when told of the autopsy, insists that she saw her mother’s
  shawl about the figure in the hall, and, on being pressed, admits
  that Sibella sometimes wore it.

  92. During the questioning of Ada regarding the shawl Mrs. Mannheim
  suggests that it was she herself whom Ada saw in the hall.

  93. When Julia and Ada were shot there were, or could have been,
  present in the house: Chester, Sibella, Rex, Mrs. Greene, Von Blon,
  Barton, Hemming, Sproot, and Mrs. Mannheim.

  94. When Chester was shot there were, or could have been, present in
  the house: Sibella, Rex, Mrs. Greene, Ada, Von Blon, Barton,
  Hemming, Sproot, and Mrs. Mannheim.

  95. When Rex was shot there were, or could have been, present in the
  house: Sibella, Mrs. Greene, Von Blon, Hemming, Sproot, and Mrs.
  Mannheim.

  96. When Ada was poisoned there were, or could have been, present in
  the house: Sibella, Mrs. Greene, Von Blon, Hemming, Sproot, and Mrs.
  Mannheim.

  97. When Mrs. Greene was poisoned there were, or could have been,
  present in the house: Sibella, Von Blon, Ada, Hemming, Sproot, and
  Mrs. Mannheim.

When Markham had finished reading the summary, he went through it a
second time. Then he laid it on the table.

“Yes, Vance,” he said, “you’ve covered the main points pretty
thoroughly. But I can’t see any coherence in them. In fact, they seem
only to emphasize the confusion of the case.”

“And yet, Markham, I’m convinced that they only need rearrangement and
interpretation to be perfectly clear. Properly analyzed, they’ll tell
us everything we want to know.”

Markham glanced again through the pages.

“If it wasn’t for certain items, we could make out a case against
several people. But no matter what person in the list we may assume to
be guilty, we are at once confronted by a group of contradictory and
insurmountable facts. This _précis_ could be used effectively to prove
that every one concerned is innocent.”

“Superficially it appears that way,” agreed Vance. “But we first must
find the generating line of the design, and then relate the subsidi’ry
forms of the pattern to it.”

Markham made a hopeless gesture.

“If only life were as simple as your æsthetic theories!”

“It’s dashed simpler,” Vance asserted. “The mere mechanism of a camera
can record life; but only a highly developed creative intelligence,
with a profound philosophic insight, can produce a work of art.”

“Can _you_ make any sense—æsthetic or otherwise—out of this?” Markham
petulantly tapped the sheets of paper.

“I can see certain traceries, so to speak—certain suggestions of a
pattern; but I’ll admit the main design has thus far eluded me. The
fact is, Markham, I have a feeling that some important factor in this
case—some balancing line of the pattern, perhaps—is still hidden from
us. I don’t say that my résumé is insusceptible of interpretation in
its present state; but our task would be greatly simplified if we were
in possession of the missing integer.”

Fifteen minutes later, when we had returned to Markham’s main office,
Swacker came in and laid a letter on the desk.

“There’s a funny one, Chief,” he said.

Markham took up the letter and read it with a deepening frown. When he
had finished, he handed it to Vance. The letter-head read, “Rectory,
Third Presbyterian Church, Stamford, Connecticut”; the date was the
preceding day; and the signature was that of the Reverend Anthony
Seymour. The contents of the letter, written in a small, precise hand,
were as follows:

  The Honorable John F.-X. Markham,

  _Dear Sir:_ As far as I am aware, I have never betrayed a
  confidence. But there can arise, I believe, unforeseen circumstances
  to modify the strictness of one’s adherence to a given promise, and
  indeed impose upon one a greater duty than that of keeping silent.

  I have read in the papers of the wicked and abominable things that
  have happened at the Greene residence in New York; and I have
  therefore come to the conclusion, after much heart-searching and
  prayer, that it is my bounden duty to put you in possession of a
  fact which, as the result of a promise, I have kept to myself for
  over a year. I would not now betray this trust did I not believe
  that some good might possibly come of it, and that you, my dear sir,
  would also treat the matter in the most sacred confidence. It may
  not help you—indeed, I do not see how it can possibly lead to a
  solution of the terrible curse that has fallen upon the Greene
  family—but since the fact is connected intimately with one of the
  members of that family, I will feel better when I have communicated
  it to you.

  On the night of August 29, of last year, a machine drove up to my
  door, and a man and a woman asked that I secretly marry them. I may
  say that I am frequently receiving such requests from runaway
  couples. This particular couple appeared to be well-bred dependable
  people, and I concurred with their wishes, giving them my assurances
  that the ceremony would, as they desired, be kept confidential.

  The names that appeared on the license—which had been secured in New
  Haven late that afternoon—were Sibella Greene, of New York City, and
  Arthur Von Blon, also of New York City.

Vance read the letter and handed it back.

“Really, y’ know, I can’t say that I’m astonished——”

Suddenly he broke off, his eyes fixed thoughtfully before him. Then he
rose nervously and paced up and down.

“That tears it!” he exclaimed.

Markham threw him a look of puzzled interrogation.

“What’s the point?”

“Don’t you see?” Vance came quickly to the District Attorney’s desk.
“My word! That’s the one fact that’s missing from my tabulation.” He
then unfolded the last sheet and wrote:

  98. Sibella and Von Blon were secretly married a year ago.

“But I don’t see how that helps,” protested Markham.

“Neither do I at this moment,” Vance replied. “But I’m going to spend
this evening in erudite meditation.”



CHAPTER XXIV.

A Mysterious Trip

  (Sunday, December 5)

The Boston Symphony Orchestra was scheduled that afternoon to play a
Bach Concerto and Beethoven’s C-Minor Symphony; and Vance, on leaving
the District Attorney’s office, rode direct to Carnegie Hall. He sat
through the concert in a state of relaxed receptivity, and afterward
insisted on walking the two miles back to his quarters—an almost
unheard-of thing for him.

Shortly after dinner Vance bade me good night and, donning his
slippers and house-robe, went into the library. I had considerable
work to do that night, and it was long past midnight when I finished.
On the way to my room I passed the library door, which had been left
slightly ajar, and I saw Vance sitting at his desk—his head in his
hands, the summary lying before him—in an attitude of oblivious
concentration. He was smoking, as was habitual with him during any
sort of mental activity; and the ash-receiver at his elbow was filled
with cigarette-stubs. I moved on quietly, marvelling at the way this
new problem had taken hold of him.

It was half past three in the morning when I suddenly awoke, conscious
of footsteps somewhere in the house. Rising quietly, I went into the
hall, drawn by a vague curiosity mingled with uneasiness. At the end
of the corridor a panel of light fell on the wall, and as I moved
forward in the semidarkness I saw that the light issued from the
partly open library door. At the same time I became aware that the
footsteps, too, came from that room. I could not resist looking
inside; and there I saw Vance walking up and down, his chin sunk on
his breast, his hands crammed into the deep pockets of his
dressing-gown. The room was dense with cigarette-smoke, and his figure
appeared misty in the blue haze. I went back to bed and lay awake for
an hour. When finally I dozed off it was to the accompaniment of those
rhythmic footfalls in the library.

I rose at eight o’clock. It was a dark, dismal Sunday, and I had my
coffee in the living-room by electric light. When I glanced into the
library at nine Vance was still there, sitting at his desk. The
reading-lamp was burning, but the fire on the hearth had died out.
Returning to the living-room, I tried to interest myself in the Sunday
newspapers; but after scanning the accounts of the Greene case I lit
my pipe and drew up my chair before the grate.

It was nearly ten o’clock when Vance appeared at the door. All night
he had been up, wrestling with his self-imposed problem; and the
devitalizing effects of this long, sleepless concentration showed on
him only too plainly. There were shadowed circles round his eyes; his
mouth was drawn; and even his shoulders sagged wearily. But, despite
the shock his appearance gave me, my dominant emotion was one of avid
curiosity. I wanted to know the outcome of his all-night vigil; and as
he came into the room I gave him a look of questioning expectancy.

When his eyes met mine he nodded slowly.

“I’ve traced the design,” he said, holding out his hands to the warmth
of the fire. “And it’s more horrible than I even imagined.” He was
silent for some minutes. “Telephone Markham for me, will you, Van?
Tell him I must see him at once. Ask him to come to breakfast. Explain
that I’m a bit fagged.”

He went out, and I heard him calling to Currie to prepare his bath.

I had no difficulty in inducing Markham to breakfast with us after I
had explained the situation; and in less than an hour he arrived.
Vance was dressed and shaved, and looked considerably fresher than
when I had first seen him that morning; but he was still pale, and his
eyes were fatigued.

No mention was made of the Greene case during breakfast, but when we
had sought easy chairs in the library, Markham could withhold his
impatience no longer.

“Van intimated over the phone that you had made something out of the
summary.”

“Yes.” Vance spoke dispiritedly. “I’ve fitted all the items together.
And it’s damnable! No wonder the truth escaped us.”

Markham leaned forward, his face tense, unbelieving.

“You know the truth?”

“Yes, I know,” came the quiet answer. “That is, my brain has told me
conclusively who’s at the bottom of this fiendish affair; but even
now—in the daylight—I can’t credit it. Everything in me revolts
against the acceptance of the truth. The fact is, I’m almost afraid to
accept it. . . . Dash it all, I’m getting mellow. Middle-age has crept
upon me.” He attempted to smile, but failed.

Markham waited in silence.

“No, old man,” continued Vance; “I’m not going to tell you now. I
can’t tell you until I’ve looked into one or two matters. You see, the
pattern is plain enough, but the recognizable objects, set in their
new relationships, are grotesque—like the shapes in an awful dream. I
must first touch them and measure them to make sure that they’re not,
after all, mere abortive vagaries.”

“And how long will this verification take?” Markham knew there was no
use to try to force the issue. He realized that Vance was fully
conscious of the seriousness of the situation, and respected his
decision to investigate certain points before revealing his
conclusions.

“Not long, I hope.” Vance went to his desk and wrote something on a
piece of paper, which he handed to Markham. “Here’s a list of the five
books in Tobias’s library that showed signs of having been read by the
nocturnal visitor. I want those books, Markham—immediately. But I
don’t want any one to know about their being taken away. Therefore,
I’m going to ask you to phone Nurse O’Brien to get Mrs. Greene’s key
and secure them when no one is looking. Tell her to wrap them up and
give them to the detective on guard in the house with instructions to
bring them here. You can explain to her what section of the
book-shelves they’re in.”

Markham took the paper and rose without a word. At the door of the
den, however, he paused.

“Do you think it wise for the man to leave the house?”

“It won’t matter,” Vance told him. “Nothing more can happen there at
present.”

Markham went on into the den. In a few minutes he returned.

“The books will be here in half an hour.”

When the detective arrived with the package Vance unwrapped it and
laid the volumes beside his chair.

“Now, Markham, I’m going to do some reading. You won’t mind, what?”
Despite his casual tone, it was evident that an urgent seriousness
underlay his words.

Markham got up immediately; and again I marvelled at the complete
understanding that existed between these two disparate men.

“I have a number of personal letters to write,” he said, “so I’ll run
along. Currie’s omelet was excellent.—When shall I see you again? I
could drop round at tea-time.”

Vance held out his hand with a look bordering on affection.

“Make it five o’clock. I’ll be through with my perusings by then. And
thanks for your tolerance.” Then he added gravely: “You’ll understand,
after I’ve told you everything, why I wanted to wait a bit.”

When Markham returned that afternoon a little before five Vance was
still reading in the library; but shortly afterward he joined us in
the living-room.

“The picture clarifies,” he said. “The fantastic images are gradually
taking on the aspect of hideous realities. I’ve substantiated several
points, but a few facts still need corroboration.”

“To vindicate your hypothesis?”

“No, not that. The hypothesis is self-proving. There’s no doubt as to
the truth. But—dash it all, Markham!—I refuse to accept it until every
scrap of evidence has been incontestably sustained.”

“Is the evidence of such a nature that I can use it in a court of
law?”

“That is something I refuse even to consider. Criminal proceedings
seem utterly irrelevant in the present case. But I suppose society
must have its pound of flesh, and you—the duly elected Shylock of
God’s great common people—will no doubt wield the knife. However, I
assure you I shall not be present at the butchery.”

Markham studied him curiously.

“Your words sound rather ominous. But if, as you say, you have
discovered the perpetrator of these crimes, why shouldn’t society
exact punishment?”

“If society were omniscient, Markham, it would have a right to sit in
judgment. But society is ignorant and venomous, devoid of any trace of
insight or understanding. It exalts knavery, and worships stupidity.
It crucifies the intelligent, and puts the diseased in dungeons. And,
withal, it arrogates to itself the right and ability to analyze the
subtle sources of what it calls ‘crime,’ and to condemn to death all
persons whose inborn and irresistible impulses it does not like.
That’s your sweet society, Markham—a pack of wolves watering at the
mouth for victims on whom to vent its organized lust to kill and
flay.”

Markham regarded him with some astonishment and considerable concern.

“Perhaps you are preparing to let the criminal escape in the present
case,” he said, with the irony of resentment.

“Oh, no,” Vance assured him. “I shall turn your victim over to you.
The Greene murderer is of a particularly vicious type, and should be
rendered impotent. I was merely trying to suggest that the electric
chair—that touchin’ device of your beloved society—is not quite the
correct method of dealing with this culprit.”

“You admit, however, that he is a menace to society.”

“Undoubtedly. And the hideous thing about it is that this tournament
of crime at the Greene mansion will continue unless we can put a stop
to it. That’s why I am being so careful. As the case now stands, I
doubt if you could even make an arrest.”

When tea was over Vance got up and stretched himself.

“By the by, Markham,” he said offhandedly, “have you received any
report on Sibella’s activities?”

“Nothing important. She’s still in Atlantic City, and evidently
intends to stay there for some time. She phoned Sproot yesterday to
send down another trunkful of her clothes.”

“Did she, now? That’s very gratifyin’.” Vance walked to the door with
sudden resolution. “I think I’ll run out to the Greenes’ for a little
while. I sha’n’t be gone over an hour. Wait for me here,
Markham—there’s a good fellow; I don’t want my visit to have an
official flavor. There’s a new _Simplicissimus_ on the table to amuse
you till I return. Con it and thank your own special gods that you
have no Thöny or Gulbranssen in this country to caricature your
Gladstonian features.”

As he spoke he beckoned to me, and, before Markham could question him,
we passed out into the hall and down the stairs. Fifteen minutes later
a taxicab set us down before the Greene mansion.

Sproot opened the door for us, and Vance, with only a curt greeting,
led him into the drawing-room.

“I understand,” he said, “that Miss Sibella phoned you yesterday from
Atlantic City and asked to have a trunk shipped to her.”

Sproot bowed. “Yes, sir. I sent the trunk off last night.”

“What did Miss Sibella say to you over the phone?”

“Very little, sir—the connection was not good. She said merely that
she had no intention of returning to New York for a considerable time
and needed more clothes than she had taken with her.”

“Did she ask how things were going at the house here?”

“Only in the most casual way, sir.”

“Then she didn’t seem apprehensive about what might happen here while
she was away?”

“No, sir. In fact—if I may say so without disloyalty—her tone of voice
was quite indifferent, sir.”

“Judging from her remarks about the trunk, how long would you say she
intends to be away?”

Sproot considered the matter.

“That’s difficult to say, sir. But I would go so far as to venture the
opinion that Miss Sibella intends to remain in Atlantic City for a
month or more.”

Vance nodded with satisfaction.

“And now, Sproot,” he said, “I have a particularly important question
to ask you. When you first went into Miss Ada’s room on the night she
was shot and found her on the floor before the dressing-table, was the
window open? Think! I want a positive answer. You know the window is
just beside the dressing-table and overlooks the steps leading to the
stone balcony. _Was it open or shut?_”

Sproot contracted his brows and appeared to be recalling the scene.
Finally he spoke, and there was no doubt in his voice.

“The window was open, sir. I recall it now quite distinctly. After Mr.
Chester and I had lifted Miss Ada to the bed, I closed it at once for
fear she would catch cold.”

“How far open was the window?” asked Vance with eager impatience.

“Eight or nine inches, sir, I should say. Perhaps a foot.”

“Thank you, Sproot. That will be all. Now please tell the cook I want
to see her.”

Mrs. Mannheim came in a few minutes later, and Vance indicated a chair
near the desk-light. When the woman had seated herself he stood before
her and fixed her with a stern, implacable gaze.

“Frau Mannheim, the time for truth-telling has come. I am here to ask
you a few questions, and unless I receive a straight answer to them I
shall report you to the police. You will, I assure you, receive no
consideration at their hands.”

The woman tightened her lips stubbornly and shifted her eyes, unable
to meet Vance’s penetrating stare.

“You told me once that your husband died in New Orleans thirteen years
ago. Is that correct?”

Vance’s question seemed to relieve her mind, and she answered readily.

“Yes, yes. Thirteen years ago.”

“What month?”

“In October.”

“Had he been ill long?”

“About a year.”

“What was the nature of his illness?”

Now a look of fright came into her eyes.

“I—don’t know—exactly,” she stammered. “The doctors didn’t let me see
him.”

“He was in a hospital?”

She nodded several times rapidly. “Yes—a hospital.”

“And I believe you told me, Frau Mannheim, that you saw Mr. Tobias
Greene a year before your husband’s death. That would have been about
the time your husband entered the hospital—fourteen years ago.”

She looked vaguely at Vance, but made no reply.

“And it was exactly fourteen years ago that Mr. Greene adopted Ada.”

The woman caught her breath sharply. A look of panic contorted her
face.

“So when your husband died,” continued Vance, “you came to Mr. Greene,
knowing he would give you a position.”

He went up to her and touched her filially on the shoulder.

“I have suspected for some time, Frau Mannheim,” he said kindly, “that
Ada is your daughter. It’s true, isn’t it?”

With a convulsive sob the woman hid her face in her apron.

“I gave Mr. Greene my word,” she confessed brokenly, “that I wouldn’t
tell any one—not even Ada—if he let me stay here—to be near her.”

“You haven’t told any one,” Vance consoled her. “It was not your fault
that I guessed it. But why didn’t Ada recognize you?”

“She had been away—to school—since she was five.”

When Mrs. Mannheim left us a little later Vance had succeeded in
allaying her apprehension and distress. He then sent for Ada.

As she entered the drawing-room the troubled look in her eyes and the
pallor of her cheeks told clearly of the strain she was under. Her
first question voiced the fear uppermost in her mind.

“Have you found out anything, Mr. Vance?” She spoke with an air of
pitiful discouragement. “It’s terrible alone here in this big
house—especially at night. Every sound I hear . . .”

“You mustn’t let your imagination get the better of you, Ada,” Vance
counselled her. Then he added: “We know a lot more now than we did,
and before long, I hope, all your fears will be done away with. In
fact, it’s in regard to what we’ve found out that I’ve come here
to-day. I thought perhaps you could help me again.”

“If only I could! But I’ve thought and thought. . . .”

Vance smiled.

“Let us do the thinking, Ada.—What I wanted to ask you is this: do you
know if Sibella speaks German well?”

The girl appeared surprised.

“Why, yes. And so did Julia and Chester and Rex. Father insisted on
their learning it. And he spoke it too—almost as well as he spoke
English. As for Sibella, I’ve often heard her and Doctor Von talking
in German.”

“But she spoke with an accent, I suppose.”

“A slight accent—she’d never been long in Germany. But she spoke very
well German.”

“That’s what I wanted to be sure of.”

“Then you do know something!” Her voice quavered with eagerness. “Oh,
how long before this awful suspense will be over? Every night for
weeks I’ve been afraid to turn out my lights and go to sleep.”

“You needn’t be afraid to turn out your lights now,” Vance assured
her. “There won’t be any more attempts on your life, Ada.”

She looked at him for a moment searchingly, and something in his
manner seemed to hearten her. When we took our leave the color had
come back to her cheeks.

Markham was pacing the library restlessly when we arrived home.

“I’ve checked several more points,” Vance announced. “But I’ve missed
the important one—the one that would explain the unbelievable
hideousness of the thing I’ve unearthed.”

He went directly into the den, and we could hear him telephoning.
Returning a few minutes later, he looked anxiously at his watch. Then
he rang for Currie and ordered his bag packed for a week’s trip.

“I’m going away, Markham,” he said. “I’m going to travel—they say it
broadens the mind. My train departs in less than an hour; and I’ll be
away a week. Can you bear to be without me for so long? However,
nothing will happen in connection with the Greene case during my
absence. In fact, I’d advise you to shelve it temporarily.”

He would say no more, and in half an hour he was ready to go.

“There’s one thing you can do for me while I’m away,” he told Markham,
as he slipped into his overcoat. “Please have drawn up for me a
complete and detailed weather report from the day preceding Julia’s
death to the day following Rex’s murder.”

He would not let either Markham or me accompany him to the station,
and we were left in ignorance of even the direction in which his
mysterious trip was to take him.



CHAPTER XXV.

The Capture

  (Monday, December 13; 4 p. m.)

It was eight days before Vance returned to New York. He arrived on the
afternoon of Monday, December 13, and, after he had had his tub and
changed his clothes, he telephoned Markham to expect him in half an
hour. He then ordered his Hispano-Suiza from the garage; and by this
sign I knew he was under a nervous strain. In fact, he had spoken
scarcely a dozen words to me since his return, and as he picked his
way down-town through the late afternoon traffic he was gloomy and
preoccupied. Once I ventured to ask him if his trip had been
successful, and he had merely nodded. But when we turned into Centre
Street he relented a little, and said:

“There was never any doubt as to the success of my trip, Van. I knew
what I’d find. But I didn’t dare trust my reason; I had to see the
records with my own eyes before I’d capitulate unreservedly to the
conclusion I’d formed.”

Both Markham and Heath were waiting for us in the District Attorney’s
office. It was just four o’clock, and the sun had already dropped
below the New York Life Building which towered above the old Criminal
Courts structure a block to the southwest.

“I took it for granted you had something important to tell me,” said
Markham; “so I asked the Sergeant to come here.”

“Yes, I’ve much to tell.” Vance had thrown himself into a chair, and
was lighting a cigarette. “But first I want to know if anything has
happened in my absence.”

“Nothing. Your prognostication was quite accurate. Things have been
quiet and apparently normal at the Greene mansion.”

“Anyhow,” interposed Heath, “we may have a little better chance this
week of getting hold of something to work on. Sibella returned from
Atlantic City yesterday, and Von Blon’s been hanging round the house
ever since.”

“Sibella back?” Vance sat up, and his eyes became intent.

“At six o’clock yesterday evening,” said Markham. “The newspaper men
at the beach ferreted her out and ran a sensational story about her.
After that the poor girl didn’t have an hour’s peace; so yesterday she
packed up and came back. We got word of the move through the men the
Sergeant had set to watch her. I ran out to see her this morning, and
advised her to go away again. But she was pretty thoroughly disgusted,
and stubbornly refused to quit the Greene house—said death was
preferable to being hounded by reporters and scandal-mongers.”

Vance had risen and moved to the window, where he stood scanning the
gray sky-line.

“Sibella’s back, eh?” he murmured. Then he turned round. “Let me see
that weather report I asked you to prepare for me.”

Markham reached into a drawer and handed him a typewritten sheet of
paper.

After perusing it he tossed it back on the desk.

“Keep that, Markham. You’ll need it when you face your twelve good men
and true.”

“What is it you have to tell us, Mr. Vance?” The Sergeant’s voice was
impatient despite his effort to control it. “Mr. Markham said you had
a line on the case.—For God’s sake, sir, if you’ve got any evidence
against any one, slip it to me and let me make an arrest. I’m getting
thin worrying over this damn business.”

Vance drew himself together.

“Yes, I know who the murderer is, Sergeant; and I have the
evidence—though it wasn’t my plan to tell you just yet. However”—he
went to the door with grim resolution—“we can’t delay matters any
longer now. Our hand has been forced.—Get into your coat, Sergeant—and
you, too, Markham. We’d better get out to the Greene house before
dark.”

“But, damn it all, Vance!” Markham expostulated. “Why don’t you tell
us what’s in your mind?”

“I can’t explain now—you’ll understand why later——”

“If you know so much, Mr. Vance,” broke in Heath, “what’s keeping us
from making an arrest?”

“You’re going to make your arrest, Sergeant—inside of an hour.” Though
he gave the promise without enthusiasm, it acted electrically on both
Heath and Markham.

Five minutes later the four of us were driving up West Broadway in
Vance’s car.

Sproot as usual admitted us without the faintest show of interest, and
stood aside respectfully for us to enter.

“We wish to see Miss Sibella,” said Vance. “Please tell her to come to
the drawing-room—alone.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Sibella is out.”

“Then tell Miss Ada we want to see her.”

“Miss Ada is out also, sir.” The butler’s unemotional tone sounded
strangely incongruous in the tense atmosphere we had brought with us.

“When do you expect them back?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. They went out motoring together. They probably
won’t be gone long. Would you gentlemen care to wait?”

Vance hesitated.

“Yes, we’ll wait,” he decided, and walked toward the drawing-room.

But he had barely reached the archway when he turned suddenly and
called to Sproot, who was retreating slowly toward the rear of the
hall.

“You say Miss Sibella and Miss Ada went motoring together? How long
ago?”

“About fifteen minutes—maybe twenty, sir.” A barely perceptible lift
of the man’s eyebrows indicated that he was greatly astonished by
Vance’s sudden change of manner.

“Whose car did they go in?”

“In Doctor Von Blon’s. He was here to tea——”

“And who suggested the ride, Sproot?”

“I really couldn’t say, sir. They were sort of debating about it when
I came in to clear away the tea things.”

“Repeat everything you heard!” Vance spoke rapidly and with more than
a trace of excitement.

“When I entered the room the doctor was saying as how he thought it
would be a good thing for the young ladies to get some fresh air; and
Miss Sibella said she’d had enough fresh air.”

“And Miss Ada?”

“I don’t remember her saying anything, sir.”

“And they went out to the car while you were here?”

“Yes, sir. I opened the door for them.”

“And did Doctor Von Blon go in the car with them?”

“Yes. But I believe they were to drop him at Mrs. Riglander’s, where
he had a professional call to make. From what he said as he went out I
gathered that the young ladies were then to take a drive, and that he
was to call here for the car after dinner.”

“What!” Vance stiffened, and his eyes burned upon the old butler.
“Quick, Sproot! Do you know where Mrs. Riglander lives?”

“On Madison Avenue in the Sixties, I believe.”

“Get her on the phone—find out if the doctor has arrived.”

I could not help marvelling at the impassive way in which the man went
to the telephone to comply with this astonishing and seemingly
incomprehensible request. When he returned his face was
expressionless.

“The doctor has not arrived at Mrs. Riglander’s, sir,” he reported.

“He’s certainly had time,” Vance commented, half to himself. Then:
“Who drove the car when it left here, Sproot?”

“I couldn’t say for certain, sir. I didn’t notice particularly. But
it’s my impression that Miss Sibella entered the car first as though
she intended to drive——”

“Come, Markham!” Vance started for the door. “I don’t like this at
all. There’s a mad idea in my head. . . . Hurry, man! If something
devilish should happen . . .”

We had reached the car, and Vance sprang to the wheel. Heath and
Markham, in a daze of incomprehension but swept along by the other’s
ominous insistence, took their places in the tonneau; and I sat beside
the driver’s seat.

“We’re going to break all the traffic and speed regulations,
Sergeant,” Vance announced, as he manœuvred the car in the narrow
street; “so have your badge and credentials handy. I may be taking you
chaps on a wild-goose chase, but we’ve got to risk it.”

We darted toward First Avenue, cut the corner short, and turned
up-town. At 59th Street we swung west and went toward Columbus Circle.
A surface car held us up at Lexington Avenue; and at Fifth Avenue we
were stopped by a traffic officer. But Heath showed his card and spoke
a few words, and we struck across Central Park. Swinging perilously
round the curves of the driveways, we came out into 81st Street and
headed for Riverside Drive. There was less congestion here, and we
made between forty and fifty miles an hour all the way to Dyckman
Street.

It was a nerve-racking ordeal, for not only had the shadows of evening
fallen, but the streets were slippery in places where the melted snow
had frozen in large sheets along the sloping sides of the Drive.
Vance, however, was an excellent driver. For two years he had driven
the same car, and he understood thoroughly how to handle it. Once we
skidded drunkenly, but he managed to right the traction before the
rear wheels came in contact with the high curbing. He kept the siren
horn screeching constantly, and other cars drew away from us, giving
us a fairly clear road.

At several street intersections we had to slow down; and twice we were
halted by traffic officers, but were permitted to proceed the moment
the occupants of the tonneau were recognized. On North Broadway we
were forced to the curb by a motorcycle policeman, who showered us
with a stream of picturesque abuse. But when Heath had cut him short
with still more colorful vituperation, and he had made out Markham’s
features in the shadows, he became ludicrously humble, and acted as an
advance-guard for us all the way to Yonkers, clearing the road and
holding up traffic at every cross-street.

At the railroad tracks near Yonkers Ferry we were obliged to wait
several minutes for the shunting of some freight-cars, and Markham
took this opportunity of venting his emotions.

“I presume you have a good reason for this insane ride, Vance,” he
said angrily. “But since I’m taking my life in my hands by
accompanying you, I’d like to know what your objective is.”

“There’s no time now for explanations,” Vance replied brusquely.
“Either I’m on a fool’s errand, or there’s an abominable tragedy ahead
of us.” His face was set and white, and he looked anxiously at his
watch. “We’re twenty minutes ahead of the usual running time from the
Plaza to Yonkers. Furthermore, we’re taking the direct route to our
destination—another ten minutes’ saving. If the thing I fear is
scheduled for to-night, the other car will go by the Spuyten Duyvil
Road and through the back lanes along the river——”

At this moment the crossing-bars were lifted, and our car jerked
forward, picking up speed with breathless rapidity.

Vance’s words had set a train of thought going in my mind. The Spuyten
Duyvil Road—the back lanes along the river. . . . Suddenly there
flashed on my brain a memory of that other ride we had taken weeks
before with Sibella and Ada and Von Blon; and a sense of something
inimical and indescribably horrifying took possession of me. I tried
to recall the details of that ride—how we had turned off the main road
at Dyckman Street, skirted the palisades through old wooded estates,
traversed private hedge-lined roadways, entered Yonkers from the
Riverdale Road, turned again from the main highway past the Ardsley
Country Club, taken the little-used road along the river toward
Tarrytown, and stopped on the high cliff to get a panoramic view of
the Hudson. . . . That cliff overlooking the waters of the river!—Ah,
now I remembered Sibella’s cruel jest—her supposedly satirical
suggestion of how a perfect murder might be committed there. And on
the instant of that recollection I knew where Vance was heading—I
understood the thing he feared! He believed that another car was also
heading for that lonely precipice beyond Ardsley—a car that had nearly
half an hour start. . . .

We were now below the Longue Vue hill, and a few moments later we
swung into the Hudson Road. At Dobbs Ferry another officer stepped in
our path and waved frantically; but Heath, leaning over the
running-board, shouted some unintelligible words, and Vance, without
slackening speed, skirted the officer and plunged ahead toward
Ardsley.

Ever since we had passed Yonkers, Vance had been inspecting every
large car along the way. He was, I knew, looking for Von Blon’s
low-hung yellow Daimler. But there had been no sign of it, and, as he
threw on the brakes preparatory to turning into the narrow road by the
Country Club golf-links, I heard him mutter half aloud:

“God help us if we’re too late!”*

  * This was the first and only time during my entire friendship
  with Vance that I ever heard him use a Scriptural expletive.

We made the turn at the Ardsley station at such a rate of speed that I
held my breath for fear we would upset; and I had to grip the seat
with both hands to keep my balance as we jolted over the rough road
along the river level. We took the hill before us in high gear, and
climbed swiftly to the dirt roadway along the edge of the bluff
beyond.

Scarcely had we rounded the hill’s crest when an exclamation broke
from Vance, and simultaneously I noticed a flickering red light
bobbing in the distance. A new spurt of speed brought us perceptibly
nearer to the car before us, and it was but a few moments before we
could make out its lines and color. There was no mistaking Von Blon’s
great Daimler.

“Hide your faces,” Vance shouted over his shoulder to Markham and
Heath. “Don’t let any one see you as we pass the car ahead.”

I leaned over below the panel of the front door, and a few seconds
later a sudden swerve told me that we were circling about the Daimler.
The next moment we were back in the road, rushing forward in the lead.

Half a mile further on the road narrowed. There was a deep ditch on
one side and dense shrubbery on the other. Vance quickly threw on the
brakes, and our rear wheels skidded on the hard frozen earth, bringing
us to a halt with our car turned almost at right angles with the road,
completely blocking the way.

“Out, you chaps!” called Vance.

We had no more than alighted when the other car drove up and, with a
grinding of brakes, came to a lurching halt within a few feet of our
machine. Vance had run back, and as the car reached a standstill he
threw open the front door. The rest of us had instinctively crowded
after him, urged forward by some undefined sense of excitement and
dread foreboding. The Daimler was of the sedan type with small high
windows, and even with the lingering radiance of the western sky and
the dashboard illumination I could barely make out the figures inside.
But at that moment Heath’s pocket flash-light blazed in the
semidarkness.

The sight that met my straining eyes was paralyzing. During the drive
I had speculated on the outcome of our tragic adventure, and I had
pictured several hateful possibilities. But I was wholly unprepared
for the revelation that confronted me.

The tonneau of the car was empty; and, contrary to my suspicions,
there was no sign of Von Blon. In the front seat were the two girls.
Sibella was on the further side, slumped down in the corner, her head
hanging forward. On her temple was an ugly cut, and a stream of blood
ran down her cheek. At the wheel sat Ada, glowering at us with cold
ferocity. Heath’s flash-light fell directly on her face, and at first
she did not recognize us. But as her pupils became adjusted to the
glare her gaze concentrated on Vance, and a foul epithet burst from
her.

Simultaneously her right hand dropped from the wheel to the seat
beside her, and when she raised it again it held a small glittering
revolver. There was a flash of flame and a sharp report, followed by a
shattering of glass where the bullet had struck the wind-shield. Vance
had been standing with one foot on the running-board leaning into the
car, and, as Ada’s arm came up with the revolver, he had snatched her
wrist and held it.

“No, my dear,” came his drawling voice, strangely calm and without
animosity; “you sha’n’t add me to your list. I was rather expecting
that move, don’t y’ know.”

Ada, frustrated in her attempt to shoot him, hurled herself upon him
with savage fury. Vile abuse and unbelievable blasphemies poured from
her snarling lips. Her wrath, feral and rampant, utterly possessed
her. She was like a wild animal, cornered and conscious of defeat, yet
fighting with a last instinct of hopeless desperation. Vance, however,
had secured both her wrists, and could have broken her arms with a
single twist of his hands; but he treated her almost tenderly, like a
father subduing an infuriated child. Stepping back quickly he drew her
into the roadway, where she continued her struggles with renewed
violence.

“Come, Sergeant!” Vance spoke with weary exasperation. “You’d better
put handcuffs on her. I don’t want to hurt her.”

Heath had stood watching the amazing drama in a state of bewilderment,
apparently too nonplussed to move. But Vance’s voice awakened him to
sharp activity. There were two metallic clicks, and Ada suddenly
relaxed into a listless attitude of sullen tractability. She leaned
panting against the side of the car as if too weak to stand alone.

Vance bent over and picked up the revolver which had fallen to the
road. With a cursory glance at it he handed it to Markham.

“There’s Chester’s gun,” he said. Then he indicated Ada with a pitying
movement of the head. “Take her to your office, Markham—Van will drive
the car. I’ll join you there as soon as I can. I must get Sibella to a
hospital.”

He stepped briskly into the Daimler. There was a shifting of gears,
and with a few deft manipulations he reversed the car in the narrow
road.

“And watch her, Sergeant!” he flung back, as the car darted away
toward Ardsley.

I drove Vance’s car back to the city. Markham and Heath sat in the
rear seat with the girl between them. Hardly a word was spoken during
the entire hour-and-a-half’s ride. Several times I glanced behind me
at the silent trio. Markham and the Sergeant appeared completely
stunned by the surprising truth that had just been revealed to them.
Ada, huddled between them, sat apathetically with closed eyes, her
head forward. Once I noticed that she pressed a handkerchief to her
face with her manacled hands; and I thought I heard the sound of
smothered sobbing. But I was too nervous to pay any attention. It took
every effort of my will to keep my mind on my driving.

As I drew up before the Franklin Street entrance of the Criminal
Courts Building and was about to shut off the engine, a startled
exclamation from Heath caused me to release the switch.

“Holy Mother o’ God!” I heard him say in a hoarse voice. Then he
thumped me on the back. “Get to the Beekman Street Hospital—as quick
as hell, Mr. Van Dine. Damn the traffic lights! Step on it!”

Without looking round I knew what had happened. I swung the car into
Centre Street again, and fairly raced for the hospital. We carried Ada
into the emergency ward, Heath bawling loudly for the doctor as we
passed through the door.

It was more than an hour later when Vance entered the District
Attorney’s office, where Markham and Heath and I were waiting. He
glanced quickly round the room and then looked at our faces.

“I told you to watch her, Sergeant,” he said, sinking into a chair;
but there was neither reproach nor regret in his voice.

None of us spoke. Despite the effect Ada’s suicide had had on us, we
were waiting, with a kind of conscience-stricken anxiety, for news of
the other girl whom all of us, I think, had vaguely suspected.

Vance understood our silence, and nodded reassuringly.

“Sibella’s all right. I took her to the Trinity Hospital in Yonkers. A
slight concussion—Ada had struck her with a box-wrench which was
always kept under the front seat. She’ll be out in a few days. I
registered her at the hospital as Mrs. Von Blon, and then phoned her
husband. I caught him at home, and he hurried out. He’s with her now.
Incidentally, the reason we didn’t reach him at Mrs. Riglander’s is
because he stopped at the office for his medicine-case. That delay
saved Sibella’s life. Otherwise, I doubt if we’d have reached her
before Ada had run her over the precipice in the machine.”

He drew deeply on his cigarette for a moment. Then he lifted his
eyebrows to Markham.

“Cyanide of potassium?”

Markham gave a slight start.

“Yes—or so the doctor thinks. There was a bitter-almond odor on her
lips.” He shot his head forward angrily. “But if you knew——”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have stopped it in any case,” interrupted Vance. “I
discharged my wholly mythical duty to the State when I warned the
Sergeant. However, I didn’t know at the time. Von Blon just gave me
the information. When I told him what had happened I asked him if he
had ever lost any other poisons—you see, I couldn’t imagine any one
planning so devilish and hazardous an exploit as the Greene murders
without preparing for the eventuality of failure. He told me he’d
missed a tablet of cyanide from his dark-room about three months ago.
And when I jogged his memory he recalled that Ada had been poking
round there and asking questions a few days before. The one cyanide
tablet was probably all she dared take at the time; so she kept it for
herself in case of an emergency.”*

  * As I learned later, Doctor Von Blon, who was an ardent
  amateur photographer, often used half-gramme tablets of
  cyanide of potassium; and there had been three of them in his
  dark-room when Ada had called. Several days later, when
  preparing to redevelop a plate, he could find only two, but
  had thought little of the loss until questioned by Vance.

“What I want to know, Mr. Vance,” said Heath, “is how she worked this
scheme. Was there any one else in on the deal?”

“No, Sergeant. Ada planned and executed every part of it.”

“But how, in God’s name——?”

Vance held up his hand.

“It’s all very simple, Sergeant—once you have the key. What misled us
was the fiendish cleverness and audacity of the plot. But there’s no
longer any need to speculate about it. I have a printed and bound
explanation of everything that happened. And it’s not a fictional or
speculative explanation. It’s actual criminal history, garnered and
recorded by the greatest expert on the subject the world has yet
known—Doctor Hans Gross, of Vienna.”

He rose and took up his coat.

“I phoned Currie from the hospital, and he has a belated dinner
waiting for all of us. When we have eaten, I’ll present you with a
reconstruction and exposition of the entire case.”



CHAPTER XXVI.

The Astounding Truth

  (Monday, December 13; 11 p. m.)

“As you know, Markham,” Vance began, when we were seated about the
library fire late that night, “I finally succeeded in putting together
the items of my summary in such a way that I could see plainly who the
murderer was.* Once I had found the basic pattern, every detail fitted
perfectly into a plastic whole. The technic of the crimes, however,
remained obscure; so I asked you to send for the books in Tobias’s
library—I was sure they would tell me what I wanted to know. First, I
went through Gross’s ‘Handbuch für Untersuchungsrichter,’ which I
regarded as the most likely source of information. It is an amazing
treatise, Markham. It covers the entire field of the history and
science of crime; and, in addition, is a compendium of criminal
technic, citing specific cases and containing detailed explanations
and diagrams. Small wonder it is the world’s standard cyclopædia on
its subject. As I read it, I found what I was looking for. Ada had
copied every act of hers, every method, every device, every detail,
from its pages—_from actual criminal history_! We are hardly to be
blamed for our inability to combat her schemes; for it was not she
alone who was deceiving us; it was the accumulated experience of
hundreds of shrewd criminals before her, plus the analytic science of
the world’s greatest criminologist—Doctor Hans Gross.”

  * I later asked Vance to rearrange the items for me in the
  order of his final sequence. The distribution, which told him
  the truth, was as follows: 3, 4, 44, 92, 9, 6, 2, 47, 1, 5,
  32, 31, 98, 8, 81, 84, 82, 7, 10, 11, 61, 15, 16, 93, 33, 94,
  76, 75, 48, 17, 38, 55, 54, 18, 39, 56, 41, 42, 28, 43, 58,
  59, 83, 74, 40, 12, 34, 13, 14, 37, 22, 23, 35, 36, 19, 73,
  26, 20, 21, 45, 25, 46, 27, 29, 30, 57, 77, 24, 78, 79, 51,
  50, 52, 53, 49, 95, 80, 85, 86, 87, 88, 60, 62, 64, 63, 66,
  65, 96, 89, 67, 71, 69, 68, 70, 97, 90, 91, 72.

He paused to light another cigarette.

“But even when I had found the explanation of her crimes,” he
continued, “I felt that there was something lacking, some fundamental
_penchant_—the thing that made this orgy of horror possible and gave
viability, so to speak, to her operations. We knew nothing of Ada’s
early life or of her progenitors and inherited instincts; and without
that knowledge the crimes, despite their clear logic, were incredible.
Consequently, my next step was to verify Ada’s psychological and
environmental sources. I had had a suspicion from the first that she
was Frau Mannheim’s daughter. But even when I verified this fact I
couldn’t see its bearing on the case. It was obvious, from our
interview with Frau Mannheim, that Tobias and her husband had been in
shady deals together in the old days; and she later admitted to me
that her husband had died thirteen years ago, in October, at New
Orleans after a year’s illness in a hospital. She also said, as you
may recall, that she had seen Tobias a year prior to her husband’s
death. This would have been fourteen years ago—just the time Ada was
adopted by Tobias.* I thought there might be some connection between
Mannheim and the crimes, and I even toyed with the idea that Sproot
was Mannheim, and that a dirty thread of blackmail ran through the
situation. So I decided to investigate. My mysterious trip last week
was to New Orleans; and there I had no difficulty in learning the
truth. By looking up the death records for October thirteen years ago,
I discovered that Mannheim had been in an asylum for the criminally
insane for a year preceding his death. And from the police I
ascertained something of his record. Adolph Mannheim—Ada’s father—was,
it seems, a famous German criminal and murderer, who had been
sentenced to death, but had escaped from the penitentiary at Stuttgart
and come to America. I have a suspicion that the departed Tobias was,
in some way, mixed up in that escape. But whether or not I wrong him,
the fact remains that Ada’s father was homicidal and a professional
criminal. And therein lies the explanat’ry background of her
actions. . . .”

  * We later learned from Mrs. Mannheim that Mannheim had once
  saved Tobias from criminal prosecution by taking upon himself
  the entire blame of one of Tobias’s shadiest extra-legal
  transactions, and had exacted from Tobias the promise that, in
  event of his own death or incarceration, he would adopt and
  care for Ada, whom Mrs. Mannheim had placed in a private
  institution at the age of five, to protect her from Mannheim’s
  influence.

“You mean she was crazy like her old man?” asked Heath.

“No, Sergeant. I merely mean that the potentialities of criminality
had been handed down to her in her blood. When the motive for the
crimes became powerful, her inherited instincts asserted themselves.”

“But mere money,” put in Markham, “seems hardly a strong enough motive
to inspire such atrocities as hers.”

“It wasn’t money alone that inspired her. The real motive went much
deeper. Indeed, it was perhaps the most powerful of all human
motives—a strange, terrible combination of hate and love and jealousy
and a desire for freedom. To begin with, she was the Cinderella in
that abnormal Greene family, looked down upon, treated like a servant,
made to spend her time caring for a nagging invalid, and forced—as
Sibella put it—to earn her livelihood. Can you not see her for
fourteen years brooding over this treatment, nourishing her
resentment, absorbing the poison about her, and coming at length to
despise every one in that household? That alone would have been enough
to awaken her congenital instincts. One almost wonders that she did
not break forth long before. But another equally potent element
entered the situation. She fell in love with Von Blon—a natural thing
for a girl in her position to do—and then learned that Sibella had won
his affections. She either knew or strongly suspected that they were
married; and her normal hatred of her sister was augmented by a
vicious and eroding jealousy. . . .

“Now, Ada was the only member of the family who, according to the
terms of old Tobias’s will, was not compelled to live on the estate in
event of marriage; and in this fact she saw a chance to snatch all the
things she craved and at the same time to rid herself of the persons
against whom her whole passionate nature cried out in deadly hatred.
She calculated to get rid of the family, inherit the Greene millions,
and set her cap for Von Blon. There was vengeance, too, as a
motivating factor in all this; but I’m inclined to think the amatory
phase of the affair was the prim’ry actuating force in the series of
horrors she later perpetrated. It gave her strength and courage; it
lifted her into that ecstatic realm where anything seemed possible,
and where she was willing to pay any price for the desired end. And
there is one point I might recall parenthetically—you remember that
Barton, the younger maid, told us how Ada sometimes acted like a devil
and used vile language. That fact should have given me a hint; but who
could have taken Barton seriously at that stage of the game? . . .

“To trace the origin of her diabolical scheme we must first consider
the locked library. Alone in the house, bored, resentful, tied down—it
was inevitable that this pervertedly romantic child should play
Pandora. She had every opportunity of securing the key and having a
duplicate made; and so the library became her retreat, her escape from
the gruelling, monotonous routine of her existence. There she ran
across those books on criminology. They appealed to her, not only as a
vicious outlet for her smouldering, repressed hatred, but because they
struck a responsive chord in her tainted nature. Eventually she came
upon Gross’s great manual, and thus found the entire technic of crime
laid out before her, with diagrams and examples—not a handbook for
examining magistrates, but a guide for a potential murderer! Slowly
the idea of her gory orgy took shape. At first perhaps she only
imagined, as a means of self-gratification, the application of this
technic of murder to those she hated. But after a time, no doubt, the
conception became real. She saw its practical possibilities; and the
terrible plot was formulated. She created this horror, and then, with
her diseased imagination, she came to believe in it. Her plausible
stories to us, her superb acting, her clever deceptions—all were part
of this horrible fantasy she had engendered. That book of Grimm’s
‘Fairy-Tales’!—I should have understood. Y’ see, it wasn’t histrionism
altogether on her part; it was a kind of demoniac possession. She
lived her dream. Many young girls are like that under the stress of
ambition and hatred. Constance Kent completely deceived the whole of
Scotland Yard into believing in her innocence.”

Vance smoked a moment thoughtfully.

“It’s curious how we instinctively close our eyes to the truth when
history is filled with substantiating examples of the very thing we
are contemplating. The annals of crime contain numerous instances of
girls in Ada’s position who have been guilty of atrocious crimes.
Besides the famous case of Constance Kent, there were, for example,
Marie Boyer, and Madeleine Smith, and Grete Beyer.* I wonder if we’d
have suspected them——”

  * An account of the cases of Madeleine Smith and Constance
  Kent may be found in Edmund Lester Pearson’s “Murder at Smutty
  Nose”; and a record of Marie Boyer’s case is included in H. B.
  Irving’s “A Book of Remarkable Criminals.” Grete Beyer was the
  last woman to be publicly executed in Germany.

“Keep to the present, Vance,” interposed Markham impatiently. “You say
Ada took all her ideas from Gross. But Gross’s handbook is written in
German. How did you know she spoke German well enough——?”

“That Sunday when I went to the house with Van I inquired of Ada if
Sibella spoke German. I put my questions in such a way that she could
not answer without telling me whether or not she, too, knew German
well; and she even used a typical German locution—‘Sibella speaks very
well German’—showing that that language was almost instinctive with
her. Incidentally, I wanted her to think that I suspected Sibella, so
that she would not hasten matters until I returned from New Orleans. I
knew that as long as Sibella was in Atlantic City she was safe from
Ada.”

“But what I want to know,” put in Heath, “is how she killed Rex when
she was sitting in Mr. Markham’s office.”

“Let us take things in order, Sergeant,” answered Vance. “Julia was
killed first because she was the manager of the establishment. With
her out of the way, Ada would have a free hand. And, another thing,
the death of Julia at the start fitted best into the scheme she had
outlined; it gave her the most plausible setting for staging the
attempted murder on herself. Ada had undoubtedly heard some mention of
Chester’s revolver, and after she had secured it she waited for the
opportunity to strike the first blow. The propitious circumstances
fell on the night of November 8; and at half past eleven, when the
house was asleep, she knocked on Julia’s door. She was admitted, and
doubtless sat on the edge of Julia’s bed telling some story to explain
her late visit. Then she drew the gun from under her dressing-gown and
shot Julia through the heart. Back in her own bedroom, with the lights
on, she stood before the large mirror of the dressing-table, and,
holding the gun in her right hand, placed it against her left
shoulder-blade at an oblique angle. The mirror and the lights were
essential, for she could thus see exactly where to point the muzzle of
the revolver. All this occupied the three-minute interval between the
shots. Then she pulled the trigger——”

“But a girl shooting herself as a fake!” objected Heath. “It ain’t
natural.”

“But Ada wasn’t natural, Sergeant. None of the plot was natural. That
was why I was so anxious to look up her family history. But as to
shooting herself; that was quite logical when one considers her true
character. And, as a matter of fact, there was little or no danger
attaching to it. The gun was on a hair-trigger, and little pressure
was needed to discharge it. A slight flesh wound was the worst she had
to fear. Moreover, history is full of cases of self-mutilation where
the object to be gained was far smaller than what Ada was after. Gross
is full of them. . . .”

He took up Volume I of the “Handbuch für Untersuchungsrichter,” which
lay on the table beside him, and opened it at a marked page.

“Listen to this, Sergeant. I’ll translate the passage roughly as I
read: ‘_It is not uncommon to find people who inflict wounds on
themselves; such are, besides persons pretending to be the victims of
assaults with deadly weapons, those who try to extort damages or
blackmail. Thus it often happens that, after an insignificant scuffle,
one of the combatants shows wounds which he pretends to have received.
It is characteristic of these voluntary mutilations that most
frequently those who perform them do not quite complete the operation,
and that they are for the most part people who manifest excessive
piety, or lead a solitary life._’* . . . And surely, Sergeant, you are
familiar with the self-mutilation of soldiers to escape service. The
most common method used by them is to place their hand over the muzzle
of the gun and blow their fingers off.”

  * “Selbstverletzungen kommen nicht selten vor; abgesehen von
  solchen bei fingierten Raubanfällen, stösst man auf sie dann,
  wenn Entschädigungen erpresst werden sollen; so geschieht es,
  dass nach einer harmlosen Balgerei einer der Kämpfenden mit
  Verletzungen auftritt, die er damals erlitten haben will.
  Kenntlich sind solche Selbstverstümmelungen daran, dass die
  Betreffenden meistens die Operation wegen der grossen
  Schmerzen nicht ganz zu Ende führen, und dass es meistens
  Leute mit übertrieben pietistischer Färbung und mehr einsamen
  Lebenswandels sind.”—H. Gross, “Handbuch für
  Untersuchungsrichter als System der Kriminalistik,” I,
  pp. 32–34.

Vance closed the book.

“And don’t forget that the girl was hopeless, desperate, and unhappy,
with everything to win and nothing to lose. She would probably have
committed suicide if she had not worked out the plan of the murders. A
superficial wound in the shoulder meant little to her in view of what
she was to gain by it. And women have an almost infinite capacity for
self-immolation. With Ada, it was part of her abnormal condition.—No,
Sergeant; the self-shooting was perfectly consistent in the
circumstances. . . .”

“But in the back!” Heath looked dumbfounded. “That’s what gets me.
Whoever heard——?”

“Just a moment.” Vance took up Volume II of the “Handbuch” and opened
it to a marked page. “Gross, for instance, has heard of many such
cases—in fact, they’re quite common on the Continent. And his record
of them indubitably gave Ada the idea for shooting herself in the
back. Here’s a single paragraph culled from many pages of similar
cases: ‘_That you should not be deceived by the seat of the wound is
proved by the following two cases. In the Vienna Prater a man killed
himself in the presence of several people by shooting himself in the
back of the head with a revolver. Without the testimony of several
witnesses nobody would have accepted the theory of suicide. A soldier
killed himself by a shot with his military rifle through the back, by
fixing the rifle in a certain position and then lying down over it.
Here again the position of the wound seemed to exclude the theory of
suicide_.’”*

  * “Dass man sich durch den Sitz der Wunde niemals täuschen
  lassen darf, beweisen zwei Fälle. Im Wiener Prater hatte sich
  ein Mann in Gegenwart mehrerer Personen getötet, indem er sich
  mit einem Revolver in den Hinterkopf schoss. Wären nicht die
  Aussagen der Zeugen vorgelegen, hätte wohl kaum jemand an
  einen Selbstmord geglaubt. Ein Soldat tötete sich durch einen
  in den Rücken gehenden Schuss aus einem Militärgewehr, über
  das er nach entsprechender Fixierung sich gelegt hatte; auch
  hier wäre aus dem Sitz der Wunde wohl kaum auf Selbstmord
  geschlossen worden.”—_Ibid._, II, p. 843.

“Wait a minute!” Heath heaved himself forward and shook his cigar at
Vance. “What about the gun? Sproot entered Ada’s room right after the
shot was fired, and there wasn’t no sign of a gun!”

Vance, without answering, merely turned the pages of Gross’s
“Handbuch” to where another marker protruded, and began translating:

“‘_Early one morning the authorities were informed that the corpse of
a murdered man had been found. At the spot indicated the body was
discovered of a grain merchant, A. M., supposed to be a well-to-do
man, face downward with a gunshot wound behind the ear. The bullet,
after passing through the brain, had lodged in the frontal bone above
the left eye. The place where the corpse was found was in the middle
of a bridge over a deep stream. Just when the inquiry was concluding
and the corpse was about to be removed for the post mortem, the
investigating officer observed quite by chance that on the decayed
wooden parapet of the bridge, almost opposite to the spot where the
corpse lay, there was a small but perfectly fresh dent which appeared
to have been caused by a violent blow on the upper edge of the parapet
of a hard and angular object. He immediately suspected that the dent
had some connection with the murder. Accordingly he determined to drag
the bed of the stream below the bridge, when almost immediately there
was picked up a strong cord about fourteen feet long with a large
stone at one end and at the other a discharged pistol, the barrel of
which fitted exactly the bullet extracted from the head of A. M. The
case was thus evidently one of suicide. A. M. had hung the stone over
the parapet of the bridge and discharged the pistol behind his ear.
The moment he fired he let go the pistol, which the weight of the
stone dragged over the parapet into the water._’* . . . Does that
answer your question, Sergeant?”

  * “Es wurde zeitlich morgens dem UR. die Meldung von der
  Auffindung eines ‘Ermordeten’ überbracht. An Ort und Stelle
  fand sich der Leichnam eines für wohlhabend geltenden
  Getreidehändlers M., auf dem Gesichte liegend, mit einer
  Schusswunde hinter dem rechten Ohre. Die Kugel war über dem
  linken Auge im Stirnknochen stecken geblieben, nachdem sie das
  Gehirn durchdrungen hatte. Die Fundstelle der Leiche befand
  sich etwa in der Mitte einer über einen ziemlich tiefen Fluss
  führenden Brücke. Am Schlusse der Lokalerhebungen und als die
  Leiche eben zur Obduktion fortgebracht werden sollte, fiel es
  dem UR. zufällig auf, dass das (hölzerne und wettergraue)
  Brückengeländer an der Stelle, wo auf dem Boden der Leichnam
  lag, eine kleine und sichtlich ganz frische Beschädigung
  aufwies, so als ob man dort (am oberen Rande) mit einem
  harten, kantigen Körper heftig angestossen wäre. Der Gedanke,
  dass dieser Umstand mit dem Morde in Zusammenhang stehe, war
  nicht gut von der Hand zu weisen. Ein Kahn war bald zur Stelle
  und am Brückenjoche befestigt; nun wurde vom Kahne aus (unter
  der fraglichen Stelle) der Flussgrund mit Rechen an langen
  Stielen sorgfältig abgesucht. Nach kurzer Arbeit kam wirklich
  etwas Seltsames zutage: eine etwa 4 _m_ lange starke Schnur,
  an deren einem Ende ein grosser Feldstein, an deren anderem
  Ende eine abgeschossene Pistole befestigt war, in deren Lauf
  die später aus dem Kopfe des M. genommene Kugel genau passte.
  Nun war die Sache klarer Selbstmord; der Mann hatte sich mit
  der aufgefundenen Vorrichtung auf die Brücke begeben, den
  Stein über das Brückengeländer gehängt und sich die Kugel
  hinter dem rechten Ohre ins Hirn gejagt. Als er getroffen war,
  liess er die Pistole infolge des durch den Stein bewirkten
  Zuges aus und diese wurde von dem schweren Steine an der
  Schnur über das Geländer und in das Wasser gezogen. Hierbei
  hatte die Pistole, als sie das Geländer passierte, heftig an
  dieses angeschlagen und die betreffende Verletzung
  erzeugt.”—_Ibid._, II, pp. 834–836.

Heath stared at him with gaping eyes.

“You mean her gun went outa the window the same like that guy’s gun
went over the bridge?”

“There can be no doubt about it. There was no other place for the gun
to go. The window, I learned from Sproot, was open a foot, and Ada
stood before the window when she shot herself. Returning from Julia’s
room she attached a cord to the revolver with a weight of some kind on
the other end, and hung the weight out of the window. When her hand
released the weapon it was simply drawn over the sill and disappeared
in the drift of soft snow on the balcony steps. And there is where the
importance of the weather came in. Ada’s plan needed an unusual amount
of snow; and the night of November 8 was ideal for her grisly
purpose.”

“My God, Vance!” Markham’s tone was strained and unnatural. “This
thing begins to sound more like a fantastic nightmare than a reality.”

“Not only was it a reality, Markham,” said Vance gravely, “but it was
an actual duplication of reality. It had all been done before and duly
recorded in Gross’s treatise, with names, dates, and details.”

“Hell! No wonder we couldn’t find the gun.” Heath spoke with awed
disgust. “And what about the footprints, Mr. Vance? I suppose she
faked ’em all.”

“Yes, Sergeant—with Gross’s minute instructions and the footprint
forgeries of many famous criminals to guide her, she faked them. As
soon as it had stopped snowing that night, she slipped down-stairs,
put on a pair of Chester’s discarded galoshes, and walked to the front
gate and back. Then she hid the galoshes in the library.”

Vance turned once more to Gross’s manual.

“There’s everything here that one could possibly want to know about
the making and detection of footprints, and—what is more to the
point—about the manufacturing of footprints in shoes too large for
one’s feet.—Let me translate a short passage: ‘_The criminal may
intend to cast suspicion upon another person, especially if he
foresees that suspicion may fall upon himself. In this case he
produces clear footprints which, so to speak, leap to the eyes, by
wearing shoes which differ essentially from his own. One may often in
this way, as has been proved by numerous experiments, produce
footprints which deceive perfectly._’* . . . And here at the end of
the paragraph Gross refers specifically to galoshes†—a fact which very
likely gave Ada her inspiration to use Chester’s overshoes. She was
shrewd enough to profit by the suggestions in this passage.”

  * “Die Absicht kann dahin gehen, den Verdacht von sich auf
  jemand anderen zu wälzen, was namentlich dann Sinn hat, wenn
  der Täter schon im voraus annehmen durfte, dass sich der
  Verdacht auf ihn lenken werde. In diesem Falle erzeugt er
  recht auffallende, deutliche Spuren und zwar mit angezogenen
  Schuhen, die von den seinigen sich wesentlich unterscheiden.
  Man kann, wie angestellte Versuche beweisen, in dieser Weise
  recht gute Spuren erzeugen.”—_Ibid._, II, p. 667.
  † “Über Gummiüberschuhe und Galoschen s. Loock; Chem. u. Phot.
  bei Krim. Forschungen: Düsseldorf, II, p. 56.”—_Ibid._, II,
  p. 668.

“And she was shrewd enough to hoodwink all of us when we questioned
her,” commented Markham bitterly.

“True. But that was because she had a _folie de grandeur_, and lived
the story. Moreover, it was all based on fact; its details were
grounded in reality. Even the shuffling sound she said she heard in
her room was an imaginative projection of the actual shuffling sound
she made when she walked in Chester’s huge galoshes. Also, her own
shuffling, no doubt, suggested to her how Mrs. Greene’s footsteps
would have sounded had the old lady regained the use of her legs. And
I imagine it was Ada’s original purpose to cast a certain amount of
suspicion on Mrs. Greene from the very beginning. But Sibella’s
attitude during that first interview caused her to change her tactics.
As I see it, Sibella was suspicious of little sister, and talked the
situation over with Chester, who may also have had vague misgivings
about Ada. You remember his _sub-rosa_ chat with Sibella when he went
to summon her to the drawing-room. He was probably informing her that
he hadn’t yet made up his mind about Ada, and was advising her to go
easy until there was some specific proof. Sibella evidently agreed,
and refrained from any direct charge until Ada, in telling her
grotesque fairy-tale about the intruder, rather implied it was a
woman’s hand that had touched her in the dark. That was too much for
Sibella, who thought Ada was referring to her; and she burst forth
with her accusation, despite its seeming absurdity. The amazing thing
about it was that it happened to be the truth. She named the murderer
and stated a large part of the motive before any of us remotely
guessed the truth, even though she did back down and change her mind
when the inconsistency of it was pointed out to her. And she really
did see Ada in Chester’s room looking for the revolver.”

Markham nodded.

“It’s astonishing. But after the accusation, when Ada knew that
Sibella suspected her, why didn’t she kill Sibella next?”

“She was too canny. It would have tended to give weight to Sibella’s
accusation. Oh, Ada played her hand perfectly.”

“Go on with the story, sir,” urged Heath, intolerant of these side
issues.

“Very well, Sergeant.” Vance shifted more comfortably into his chair.
“But first we must revert to the weather; for the weather ran like a
sinister motif through all that followed. The second night after
Julia’s death it was quite warm, and the snow had melted considerably.
That was the night chosen by Ada to retrieve the gun. A wound like
hers rarely keeps one in bed over forty-eight hours; and Ada was well
enough on Wednesday night to slip into a coat, step out on the
balcony, and walk down the few steps to where the gun lay hidden. She
merely brought it back and took it to bed with her—the last place any
one would have thought to look for it. Then she waited patiently for
the snow to fall again—which it did the next night, stopping, as you
may remember, about eleven o’clock. The stage was set. The second act
of the tragedy was about to begin. . . .

“Ada rose quietly, put on her coat, and went down to the library.
Getting into the galoshes, she again walked to the front gate and
back. Then she went directly up-stairs so that her tracks would show
on the marble steps, and hid the galoshes temporarily in the
linen-closet. That was the shuffling sound and the closing door that
Rex heard a few minutes before Chester was shot. Ada, you recall, told
us afterward she had heard nothing; but when we repeated Rex’s story
to her she became frightened and conveniently remembered having heard
a door close. My word! That was a ticklish moment for her. But she
certainly carried it off well. And I can now understand her obvious
relief when we showed her the pattern of the footprints and let her
think we believed the murderer came from outside. . . . Well, after
she had removed the galoshes and put them in the linen-closet, she
took off her coat, donned a dressing-gown, and went to Chester’s
room—probably opened the door without knocking, and went in with a
friendly greeting. I picture her as sitting on the arm of Chester’s
chair, or the edge of the desk, and then, in the midst of some trivial
remark, drawing the revolver, placing it against his breast, and
pulling the trigger before he had time to recover from his horrified
astonishment. He moved instinctively, though, just as the weapon
exploded—which would account for the diagonal course of the bullet.
Then Ada returned quickly to her own room and got into bed. Thus was
another chapter written in the Greene tragedy.”

“Did it strike you as strange,” asked Markham, “that Von Blon was not
at his office during the commission of either of the crimes?”

“At first—yes. But, after all, there was nothing unusual in the fact
that a doctor should have been out at that time of night.”

“It’s easy enough to see how Ada got rid of Julia and Chester,”
grumbled Heath. “But what stops me is how she murdered Rex.”

“Really, y’ know, Sergeant,” returned Vance, “that trick of hers
shouldn’t cause you any perplexity. I’ll never forgive myself for not
having guessed it long ago,—Ada certainly gave us enough clews to work
on. But, before I describe it to you, let me recall a certain
architectural detail of the Greene mansion. There is a Tudor
fireplace, with carved wooden panels, in Ada’s room, and another
fireplace—a duplicate of Ada’s—in Rex’s room; and these two fireplaces
are back to back on the same wall. The Greene house, as you know, is
very old, and at some time in the past—perhaps when the fireplaces
were built—an aperture was made between the two rooms, running from
one of the panels in Ada’s mantel to the corresponding panel in Rex’s
mantel. This miniature tunnel is about six inches square—the exact
size of the panels—and a little over two feet long, or the depth of
the two mantels and the wall. It was originally used, I imagine, for
private communication between the two rooms. But that point is
immaterial. The fact remains that such a shaft exists—I verified it
to-night on my way down-town from the hospital. I might also add that
the panel at either end of the shaft is on a spring hinge, so that
when it is opened and released it closes automatically, snapping back
into place without giving any indication that it is anything more than
a solid part of the woodwork——”

“I get you!” exclaimed Heath, with the excitement of satisfaction.
“Rex was shot by the old man-killing safe idea: the burglar opens the
safe door and gets a bullet in his head from a stationary gun.”

“Exactly. And the same device has been used in scores of murders. In
the early days out West an enemy would go to a rancher’s cabin during
the tenant’s absence, hang a shotgun from the ceiling over the door,
and tie one end of a string to the trigger and the other end to the
latch. When the rancher returned—perhaps days later—his brains would
be blown out as he entered his cabin; and the murderer would, at the
time, be in another part of the country.”

“Sure!” The Sergeant’s eyes sparkled. “There was a shooting like that
in Atlanta two years ago—Boscomb was the name of the murdered man. And
in Richmond, Virginia——”

“There have been many instances of it, Sergeant. Gross quotes two
famous Austrian cases, and also has something to say about this method
in general.”

Again he opened the “Handbuch.”

“On page 943 Gross remarks: ‘_The latest American safety devices have
nothing to do with the safe itself, and can in fact be used with any
receptacle. They act through chemicals or automatic firing devices,
and their object is to make the presence of a human being who
illegally opens the safe impossible on physical grounds. The judicial
question would have to be decided whether one is legally entitled to
kill a burglar without further ado or damage his health. However, a
burglar in Berlin in 1902 was shot through the forehead by a
self-shooter attached to a safe in an exporting house. This style of
self-shooter has also been used by murderers. A mechanic, G. Z.,
attached a pistol in a china-closet, fastening the trigger to the
catch, and thus shot his wife when he himself was in another city. R.
C., a merchant of Budapest, fastened a revolver in a humidor belonging
to his brother, which, when the lid was opened, fired and sent a
bullet into his brother’s abdomen. The explosion jerked the box from
the table, and thus exposed the mechanism before the merchant had a
chance to remove it._’* . . . In both these latter cases Gross gives a
detailed description of the mechanisms employed. And it will interest
you, Sergeant—in view of what I am about to tell you—to know that the
revolver in the china-closet was held in place by a _Stiefelknecht_,
or bootjack.”

  * “Die neuesten amerikanischen Schutzvorrichtungen haben
  direkt mit der Kasse selbst nichts zu tun und können
  eigentlich an jedem Behältnisse angebracht werden. Sie
  bestehen aus chemisehen Schutzmitteln oder Selbstschüssen, und
  wollen die Anwesenheit eines Menschen, der den Schrank
  unbefugt geöffnet hat, aus sanitären oder sonst physischen
  Gründen unmöglich machen. Auch die juristische Seite der Frage
  ist zu erwägen, da man den Einbrecher doch nicht ohne weiteres
  töten oder an der Gesundheit schädigen darf.
  Nichtsdestoweniger wurde im Jahre 1902 ein Einbrecher in
  Berlin durch einen solchen Selbstschuss in die Stirne getötet,
  der an die Panzertüre einer Kasse befestigt war. Derartige
  Selbstschüsse wurden auch zu Morden verwendet; der Mechaniker
  G. Z. stellte einen Revolver in einer Kredenz auf, verband den
  Drücker mit der Türe durch eine Schnur und erschoss auf diese
  Art seine Frau, während er tatsächlich von seinem Wohnorte
  abwesend war. R. C., ein Budapester Kaufmann, befestigte in
  einem, seinem Bruder gehörigen Zigarrenkasten, eine Pistole,
  die beim Öffnen des Deckels seinen Bruder durch einen
  Unterleibsschuss tötlich verletzte. Der Rückschlag warf die
  Kiste von ihrem Standort, sodass der Mördermechanismus zu
  Tage trat, ehe R. C. denselben bei Seite schaffen
  konnte.”—_Ibid._, II, p. 943.

He closed the volume but held it on his lap.

“There, unquestionably, is where Ada got the suggestion for Rex’s
murder. She and Rex had probably discovered the hidden passageway
between their rooms years ago. I imagine that as children—they were
about the same age, don’t y’ know—they used it as a secret means of
correspondence. This would account for the name by which they both
knew it—‘our private mail-box.’ And, given this knowledge between Ada
and Rex, the method of the murder becomes perfectly clear. To-night I
found an old-fashioned bootjack in Ada’s clothes-closet—probably taken
from Tobias’s library. Its width, overall, was just six inches, and it
was a little less than two feet long—it fitted perfectly into the
communicating cupboard. Ada, following Gross’s diagram, pressed the
handle of the gun tightly between the tapering claws of the bootjack,
which would have held it like a vise; then tied a string to the
trigger, and attached the other end to the inside of Rex’s panel, so
that when the panel was opened wide the revolver, being on a
hair-trigger, would discharge straight along the shaft and inevitably
kill any one looking into the opening. When Rex fell with a bullet in
his forehead the panel flapped back into place on its spring hinge;
and a second later there was no visible evidence whatever pointing to
the origin of the shot. And here we also have the explanation for
Rex’s calm expression of unawareness. When Ada returned with us from
the District Attorney’s office, she went directly to her room, removed
the gun and the bootjack, hid them in her closet, and came down to the
drawing-room to report the foot-tracks on her carpet—foot-tracks she
herself had made before leaving the house. It was just before she came
down-stairs, by the way, that she stole the morphine and strychnine
from Von Blon’s case.”

“But, my God, Vance!” said Markham. “Suppose her mechanism had failed
to work. She would have been in for it then.”

“I hardly think so. If, by any remote chance, the trap had not
operated or Rex had recovered, she could easily have put the blame on
some one else. She had merely to say she had secreted the diagram in
the chute and that this other person had prepared the trap later on.
There would have been no proof of her having set the gun.”

“What about that diagram, sir?” asked Heath.

For answer Vance again took up the second volume of Gross and, opening
it, extended it toward us. On the right-hand page were a number of
curious line-drawings, which I reproduce here.

[Illustration: A set of six figures, labelled “Fig. 23” through “Fig.
28,” showing a variety of arcane drawings. Fig. 24, for example, is a
drawing of a parrot, a pile of three stones, a church, a key and a
swaddled infant. Fig. 25 shows two variants of a drawing of a heart
pierced by arrows and/or nails. The other figures include drawings of
things such as a knot, numbered arrows, a hand, and a book.]

“There are the three stones, and the parrot, and the heart, and even
your arrow, Sergeant. They’re all criminal graphic symbols; and Ada
simply utilized them in her description. The story of her finding the
paper in the hall was a pure fabrication, but she knew it would pique
our curiosity. The truth is, I suspected the paper of being faked by
some one, for it evidently contained the signs of several types of
criminal, and the symbols were meaninglessly jumbled. I rather
imagined it was a false clew deliberately placed in the hall for us to
find—like the footprints; but I certainly didn’t suspect Ada of having
made up the tale. Now, however, as I look back at the episode it
strikes me as deuced queer that she shouldn’t have brought so
apparently significant a paper to the office. Her failure to do so was
neither logical nor reasonable; and I ought to have been suspicious.
But—my word!—what was one illogical item more or less in such a
mélange of inconsistencies? As it happened, her decoy worked
beautifully, and gave her the opportunity to telephone Rex to look
into the chute. But it didn’t really matter. If the scheme had fallen
through that morning, it would have been successful later on. Ada was
highly persevering.”

“You think then,” put in Markham, “that Rex really heard the shot in
Ada’s room that first night, and confided in her?”

“Undoubtedly. That part of her story was true enough. I’m inclined to
think that Rex heard the shot and had a vague idea Mrs. Greene had
fired it. Being rather close to his mother temperamentally, he said
nothing. Later he voiced his suspicions to Ada; and that confession
gave her the idea for killing him—or, rather, for perfecting the
technic she had already decided on; for Rex would have been shot
through the secret cupboard in any event. But Ada now saw a way of
establishing a perfect alibi for the occasion; although even her idea
of being actually with the police when the shot was fired was not
original. In Gross’s chapter on alibis there is much suggestive
material along that line.”

Heath sucked his teeth wonderingly.

“I’m glad I don’t run across many of her kind,” he remarked.

“She was her father’s daughter,” said Vance. “But too much credit
should not be given her, Sergeant. She had a printed and diagrammed
guide for everything. There was little for her to do but follow
instructions and keep her head. And as for Rex’s murder, don’t forget
that, although she was actually in Mr. Markham’s office at the time of
the shooting, she personally engineered the entire _coup_. Think back.
She refused to let either you or Mr. Markham come to the house, and
insisted upon visiting the office. Once there, she told her story and
suggested that Rex be summoned immediately. She even went so far as to
plead with us to call him by phone. Then, when we had complied, she
quickly informed us of the mysterious diagram, and offered to tell Rex
exactly where she had hidden it, so he could bring it with him. And we
sat there calmly, listening to her send Rex to his death! Her actions
at the Stock Exchange should have given me a hint; but I confess I was
particularly blind that morning. She was in a state of high nervous
excitement; and when she broke down and sobbed on Mr. Markham’s desk
after he had told her of Rex’s death, her tears were quite real—only,
they were not for Rex; they were the reaction from that hour of
terrific tension.”

“I begin to understand why no one up-stairs heard the shot,” said
Markham. “The revolver detonating in the wall, as it were, would have
been almost completely muffled. But why should Sproot have heard it so
distinctly down-stairs?”

“You remember there was a fireplace in the living-room directly
beneath Ada’s—Chester once told us it was rarely lighted because it
wouldn’t draw properly—and Sproot was in the butler’s pantry just
beyond. The sound of the report went downward through the flue and, as
a result, was heard plainly on the lower floor.”

“You said a minute ago, Mr. Vance,” argued Heath, “that Rex maybe
suspected the old lady. Then why should he have accused Von Blon the
way he did that day he had a fit?”

“The accusation primarily, I think, was a sort of instinctive effort
to drive the idea of Mrs. Greene’s guilt from his own mind. Then
again, as Von Blon explained, Rex was frightened after you had
questioned him about the revolver, and wanted to divert suspicion from
himself.”

“Get on with the story of Ada’s plot, Vance.” This time it was Markham
who was impatient.

“The rest seems pretty obvious, don’t y’ know. It was unquestionably
Ada who was listening at the library door the afternoon we were there.
She realized we had found the books and galoshes; and she had to think
fast. So, when we came out, she told us the dramatic yarn of having
seen her mother walking, which was sheer moonshine. She had run across
those books on paralysis, d’ ye see, and they had suggested to her the
possibility of focussing suspicion on Mrs. Greene—the chief object of
her hate. It is probably true, as Von Blon said, that the two books do
not deal with actual hysterical paralysis and somnambulism, but they
no doubt contain references to these types of paralysis. I rather
think Ada had intended all along to kill the old lady last and have it
appear as the suicide of the murderer. But the proposed examination by
Oppenheimer changed all that. She learned of the examination when she
heard Von Blon apprise Mrs. Greene of it on his morning visit; and,
having told us of that mythical midnight promenade, she couldn’t delay
matters any longer. The old lady had to die—_before Oppenheimer
arrived_. And half an hour later Ada took the morphine. She feared to
give Mrs. Greene the strychnine at once lest it appear
suspicious. . . .”

“That’s where those books on poisons come in, isn’t it, Mr. Vance?”
interjected Heath. “When Ada had decided to use poison on some of the
family, she got all the dope she needed on the subject outa the
library.”

“Precisely. She herself took just enough morphine to render her
unconscious—probably about two grains. And to make sure she would get
immediate assistance she devised the simple trick of having Sibella’s
dog appear to give the alarm. Incidentally, this trick cast suspicion
on Sibella. After Ada had swallowed the morphine, she merely waited
until she began to feel drowsy, pulled the bell-cord, caught the
tassel in the dog’s teeth, and lay back. She counterfeited a good deal
of her illness; but Drumm couldn’t have detected her malingering even
if he had been as great a doctor as he wanted us to believe; for the
symptoms for all doses of morphine taken by mouth are practically the
same during the first half-hour. And, once she was on her feet, she
had only to watch for an opportunity of giving the strychnine to Mrs.
Greene. . . .”

“It all seems too cold-blooded to be real,” murmured Markham.

“And yet there has been any number of precedents for Ada’s actions. Do
you recall the mass murders of those three nurses, Madame Jegado, Frau
Zwanzigger, and Vrouw Van der Linden? And there was Mrs. Belle
Gunness, the female Bluebeard; and Amelia Elizabeth Dyer, the Reading
baby-farmer; and Mrs. Pearcey. Cold-blooded? Yes! But in Ada’s case
there was passion too. I’m inclined to believe that it takes a
particularly hot flame—a fire at white heat, in fact—to carry the
human heart through such a Gethsemane. However that may be, Ada
watched for her chance to poison Mrs. Greene, and found it that night.
The nurse went to the third floor to prepare for bed between eleven
and eleven-thirty; and during that half-hour Ada visited her mother’s
room. Whether she suggested the citrocarbonate or Mrs. Greene herself
asked for it, we’ll never know. Probably the former, for Ada had
always given it to her at night. When the nurse came down-stairs again
Ada was already back in bed, apparently asleep, and Mrs. Greene was on
the verge of her first—and, let us hope, her only—convulsion.”

“Doremus’s _post-mortem_ report must have given her a terrific shock,”
commented Markham.

“It did. It upset all her calculations. Imagine her feelings when we
informed her that Mrs. Greene couldn’t have walked! She backed out of
the danger nicely, though. The detail of the Oriental shawl, however,
nearly entangled her. But even that point she turned to her own
advantage by using it as a clew against Sibella.”

“How do you account for Mrs. Mannheim’s actions during that
interview?” asked Markham. “You remember her saying it might have been
she whom Ada saw in the hall.”

A cloud came over Vance’s face.

“I think,” he said sadly, “that Frau Mannheim began to suspect her
little Ada at that point. She knew the terrible history of the girl’s
father, and perhaps had lived in fear of some criminal outcropping in
the child.”

There was a silence for several moments. Each of us was busy with his
own thoughts. Then Vance continued:

“After Mrs. Greene’s death, only Sibella stood between Ada and her
blazing goal; and it was Sibella herself who gave her the idea for a
supposedly safe way to commit the final murder. Weeks ago, on a ride
Van and I took with the two girls and Von Blon, Sibella’s venomous
pique led her to make a foolish remark about running one’s victim over
a precipice in a machine; and it no doubt appealed to Ada’s sense of
the fitness of things that Sibella should thus suggest the means of
her own demise. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Ada intended, after
having killed her sister, to say that Sibella had tried to murder
_her_, but that she had suspected the other’s purpose and jumped from
the car in time to save herself; and that Sibella had miscalculated
the car’s speed and been carried over the precipice. The fact that Von
Blon and Van and I had heard Sibella speculate on just such a method
of murder would have given weight to Ada’s story. And what a neat
ending it would have made—Sibella, the murderer, dead; the case
closed; Ada, the inheritor of the Greene millions, free to do as she
chose! And—’pon my soul, Markham!—it came very near succeeding.”

Vance sighed, and reached for the decanter. After refilling our
glasses he settled back and smoked moodily.

“I wonder how long this terrible plot had been in preparation. We’ll
never know. Maybe years. There was no haste in Ada’s preparations.
Everything was worked out carefully; and she let circumstances—or,
rather, opportunity—guide her. Once she had secured the revolver, it
was only a question of waiting for a chance when she could make the
footprints and be sure the gun would sink out of sight in the
snow-drift on the balcony steps. Yes, the most essential condition of
her scheme was the snow. . . . Amazin’!”


There is little more to add to this record. The truth was not given
out, and the case was “shelved.” The following year Tobias’s will was
upset by the Supreme Court in Equity—that is, the twenty-five-year
domiciliary clause was abrogated in view of all that had happened at
the house; and Sibella came into the entire Greene fortune. How much
Markham had to do with the decision, through his influence with the
Administration judge who rendered it, I don’t know; and naturally I
have never asked. But the old Greene mansion was, as you remember,
torn down shortly afterward, and the estate sold to a realty
corporation.

Mrs. Mannheim, broken-hearted over Ada’s death, claimed her
inheritance—which Sibella generously doubled—and returned to Germany
to seek what comfort she might among the nieces and nephews with whom,
according to Chester, she was constantly corresponding. Sproot went
back to England. He told Vance before departing that he had long
planned a cottage retreat in Surrey where he could loaf and invite his
soul. I picture him now, sitting on an ivied porch overlooking the
Downs, reading his beloved Martial.

Doctor and Mrs. Von Blon, immediately after the court’s decision
relating to the will, sailed for the Riviera and spent a belated
honeymoon there. They are now settled in Vienna, where the doctor has
become a _Privatdocent_ at the University—his father’s Alma Mater. He
is, I understand, making quite a name for himself in the field of
neurology.



Transcriber Notes

This transcription follows the text of the first edition published by
Charles Scribner’s Sons in 1928. However, the following alterations
have been made to correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors
in the text:

  * Two occurrences of missing quotation marks have been restored;
  * “betwen” has been corrected to “between” (Chapter IV);
  * “aways be” has been corrected to “always be” (Chapter V);
  * “Departmen” has been corrected to “Department” (Chapter VIII);
  * “te panels” has been corrected to “the panels” (Chapter XXVI).