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Title: The Greene Murder Case
Author: S. S. Van Dine
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Title: The Greene Murder Case
Author: S. S. Van Dine



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



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

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 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
curiae_. 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 role 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 grey 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 behaviourism 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 Benson Murder Case"). The
second was the seemingly insoluble strangling of the famous Broadway
beauty, Margaret Odell* (*"The 'Canary' Murder Case"). 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 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 snow-fall
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 role 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 arm-chair 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 upstairs 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 Head-
quarters, 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 shot 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 9th; 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 coloured 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 his 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 anyone 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 someone sought their demise; and it occurred to me that you, being
their brother and domiciled _en famille_, might know of someone who
harboured homicidal sentiments towards 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 grey 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 finger-nails, 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 night-gown 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 cane 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 someone 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
dressingtable; 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 everyone 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 elite 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--my very 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 oedematous
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 facades, 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 favour, 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 upstairs 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 someone 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 upstairs 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 die 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,* (*Doctor Emanuel Doremus, the Chief Medical
Examiner) 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."

"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 someone
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 night-gown 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-two's, 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 9th; 2.30 p.m.)

THE Greene Mansion--as it was commonly referred to by New Yorkers--was a
relic of the city's _ancien regime_. It had stood for three generations
at the eastern extremity of 53rd 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 neighbourhood 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 53rd Street and a postern-gate for tradesmen
giving on 52nd 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 grey
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 walls were high
quick-set hedges of hawthorn; and the inner sides of the encircling wall
were covered with compact escaliers. 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 grey 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 grey of the mansion's masonry was almost the colour 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 major-
domo 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 motorcars, 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 colours 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,
silly 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
(refer to html version of this ebook); 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.

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 anyone. 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
elaborate _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."

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 farther 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' stairwell 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 tak-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 varicoloured 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 vigour: 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 endeavouring 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 colourless,
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 any 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 awakened 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
defenceless. 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 9th; 3 p.m.)

"THE Mater's a crabbed old soul," Greene apologized off-handedly 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 disinterested 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 _négligé_,
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," dryly 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 Volapuk. 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 as 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 fire-
place, "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 fervour. "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 shan'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 actors 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 someone 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 pharmacopoeia. 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 focused
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 favourite 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 anyone 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 and 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 cheques."

"Was it in good working order then?"

"As far as I know. Fact is, it worked stiff when I got it, and 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 9th; 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 over-decisive 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 defenceless 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 fault-finding,
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 colourlessly, 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, someone 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 menage. 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 off-handedly, "you are an amazingly frank
young woman. However, I shan'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
clue 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 someone 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 upstairs.

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 9th; 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-coloured 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
fire-place with a high oak-panelled mantel.

As we entered, the girl in the bed looked at us inquisitively, and a
slight flush coloured 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.

Vance, who had paused by the mantel to inspect the hand-carving of the
quadrae, 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 someone 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 someone 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 necessary 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 someone 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 odour 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, anyone 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
clenched 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 downstairs 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 focused 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
offence. "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
anyone 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_ speciality."

"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 someone 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 and 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.

"Everyone'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
administrations.

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 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, hang-dog 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 everyone
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-bye, 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 snowdrifts.


CHAPTER VII

VANCE ARGUES THE CASE

(Tuesday, November 9th; 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 vigour 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 Abbasside 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 humoursome 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 shan'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 humour. "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.
Someone lay in wait--someone who knew his way about, knew where the
light-switches were, knew when everyone 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..