92. During the questioning of Ada regarding the shawl Mrs. Mannheim suggests that it was she herself whom Ada saw in the hall.
93. When Julia and Ada were shot there were, or could have been, present in the house: Chester, Sibella, Rex, Mrs. Greene, Von Blon, Barton, Hemming, Sproot, and Mrs. Mannheim.
94. When Chester was shot there were, or could have been, present in the house: Sibella, Rex, Mrs. Greene, Ada, Von Blon, Barton, Hemming, Sproot, and Mrs. Mannheim.
95. When Rex was shot there were, or could have been, present in the house: Sibella, Mrs. Greene, Von Blon, Hemming, Sproot, and Mrs. Mannheim.
96. When Ada was poisoned there were, or could have been, present in the house: Sibella, Mrs. Greene, Von Blon, Hemming, Sproot, and Mrs. Mannheim.
97. When Mrs. Greene was poisoned there were, or could have been, present in the house: Sibella, Von Blon, Ada, Hemming, Sproot, and Mrs. Mannheim.
When Markham had finished reading the summary, he went through it a second time. Then he laid it on the table.
"Yes, Vance," he said, "you've covered the main points pretty thoroughly." But I can't see any coherence in them. In fact, they seem only to emphasize the confusion of the case."
"And yet, Markham, I'm convinced that they only need rearrangement and interpretation to be perfectly clear. Properly analyzed, they'll tell us everything we want to know."
Markham glanced again through the pages.
"If it wasn't for certain items, we could make out a case against several people. But no matter what person in the list we may assume to be guilty, we are at once confronted by a group of contradictory, and insurmountable facts. This précis could be used effectively to prove that everyone concerned is innocent."
"Superficially it appears that way," agreed Vance. "But we first must find the generating line of the design, and then relate the subsidi'ry forms of the pattern to it."
Markham made a hopeless gesture.
"If only life were as simple as your aesthetic theories!"
"It's dashed simpler," Vance asserted. "The mere mechanism of a camera can record life; but only a highly developed creative intelligence, with a profound philosophic insight, can produce a work of art."
"Can you make any sense—aesthetic or otherwise—out of this?" Markham petulantly tapped the sheets of paper.
"I can see certain traceries, so to speak—certain suggestions of a pattern; but I'll admit the main design has thus far eluded me. The fact is, Markham, I have a feeling that some important factor in this case— some balancing line of the pattern, perhaps—is still hidden from us. I don't say that my resume is insusceptible of interpretation in its present state; but our task would be greatly simplified if we were in possession of the missing integer."
Fifteen minutes later, when we had returned to Markham's main office, Swacker came in and laid a letter on the desk.
"There's a funny one, Chief," he said.
Markham took up the letter and read it with a deepening frown. When he had finished, he handed it to Vance. The letter-head read, "Rectory, Third Presbyterian Church, Stamford, Connecticut"; the date was the preceding day; and the signature was that of the Reverend Anthony Seymour. The contents of the letter, written in a small, precise hand, were as follows:
THE HONOURABLE JOHN F.-X. MARKHAM,
Dear Sir,—As far as I am aware, I have never betrayed a confidence. But there can arise, I believe, unforeseen circumstances to modify the strictness of one's adherence to a given promise, and indeed impose upon one a greater duty than that of keeping silent.
I have read in the papers of the wicked and abominable things that have happened at the Greene residence in New York; and I have therefore come to the conclusion, after much heart-searching and prayer, that it is my bounden duty to put you in possession of a fact which, as the result of a promise, I have kept to myself for over a year. I would not now betray this trust did I not believe that some good might possibly come of it, and that you, my dear sir, would also treat the matter in the most sacred confidence. It may not help you—indeed, I do not see how it can possibly lead to a solution of the terrible curse that has fallen upon the Greene family—but since the fact is connected intimately with one of the members of that family, I will feel better when I have communicated it to you.
On the night of August 29th, of last year, a machine drove up to my door, and a man and a woman asked that I secretly marry them. I may say that I am frequently receiving such requests from runaway couples. This particular couple appeared to be well-bred dependable people, and I concurred with their wishes, giving them my assurances that the ceremony would, as they desired, be kept confidential.
The names that appeared on the licence—which had been secured in New Haven late that afternoon—were Sibella Greene, of New York City, and Arthur Von Blon, also of New York City.
Vance read the letter and handed it back.
"Really, y' know, I can't say that I'm astonished—"
Suddenly he broke off, his eyes fixed thoughtfully before him. Then he rose nervously and paced up and down.
"That tears it!" he exclaimed.
Markham threw him a look of puzzled interrogation. "What's the point?"
"Don't you see?" Vance came quickly to the District Attorney's desk. "My word! That's the one fact that's missing from my tabulation." He then unfolded the last sheet and wrote:
98. Sibella and Von Blon were secretly married a year ago.
"But I don't see how that helps," protested Markham. "Neither do I at this moment," Vance replied. "But I'm going to spend this evening in erudite meditation."
24. A MYSTERIOUS TRIP
(Sunday, December 5th)
THE Boston Symphony Orchestra was scheduled that afternoon to play a Bach Concerto and Beethoven's C-Minor Symphony; and Vance, on leaving the District Attorney's office, rode direct to Carnegie Hall. He sat through the concert in a state of relaxed receptivity, and afterward insisted on walking the two miles back to his quarters—an almost unheard-of thing for him.
Shortly after dinner Vance bade me good night and, donning his slippers and house-robe, went into the library. I had considerable work to do that night, and it was long past midnight when I finished. On the way to my room I passed the library door, which had been left slightly ajar, and I saw Vance sitting at his desk—his head in his hands, the summary lying before him—in an attitude of oblivious concentration. He was smoking, as was habitual with him during any sort of mental activity; and the ash- receiver at his elbow was filled with cigarette-stubs. I moved on quietly, marvelling at the way this new problem had taken hold of him.
It was half-past three in the morning when I suddenly awoke, conscious of footsteps somewhere in the house. Rising quietly, I went into the hall, drawn by a vague curiosity mingled with uneasiness. At the end of the corridor a panel of light fell on the wall, and as I moved forward in the semi-darkness I saw that the light issued from the partly-open library door. At the same time I became aware that the footsteps, too, came from that room. I could not resist looking inside; and there I saw Vance walking up and down, his chin sunk on his breast, his hands crammed into the deep pockets of his dressing-gown. The room was dense with cigarette- smoke, and his figure appeared misty in the blue haze. I went back to bed and lay awake for an hour. When finally I dozed off it was to the accompaniment of those rhythmic footfalls in the library.
I rose at eight o'clock. It was a dark, dismal Sunday, and I had my coffee in the living-room by electric light. When I glanced into the library at nine Vance was still there, sitting at his desk. The reading- lamp was burning, but the fire on the hearth had died out. Returning to the living-room, I tried to interest myself in the Sunday newspapers; but after scanning the accounts of the Greene case I lit my pipe and drew up my chair before the grate.
It was nearly ten o'clock when Vance appeared at the door. All night he had been up, wrestling with his self-imposed problem; and the devitalizing effects of this long, sleepless concentration showed on him
only too plainly. There were shadowed circles around his eyes; his mouth was drawn; and even his shoulders sagged wearily. But, despite the shock his appearance gave me, my dominant emotion was one of avid curiosity. I wanted to know the outcome of this all-night vigil; and as he came into the room I gave him a look of questioning expectancy.
When his eyes met mine he nodded slowly.
"I've traced the design," he said, holding out his hands to the warmth of the fire. "And it's more horrible than I even imagined." He was silent for some minutes. "Telephone Markham for me, will you, Van? Tell him I must see him at once. Ask him to come to breakfast. Explain that I'm a bit fagged."
He went out, and I heard him calling to Currie to prepare his bath.
I had no difficulty in inducing Markham to breakfast with us after I had explained the situation; and in less than an hour he arrived. Vance was dressed and shaved, and looked considerably fresher than when I had first seen him that morning; but he was still pale, and his eyes were fatigued.
No mention was made of the Greene case during breakfast, but when we had sought easy chairs in the library, Markham could withhold his impatience no longer.
"Van intimated over the phone that you had made something out of the summary."
"Yes." Vance spoke dispiritedly. "I've fitted all the items together. And it's damnable! No wonder the truth escaped us."
Markham leaned forward, his face tense, unbelieving. "You know the truth?"
"Yes, I know," came the quiet answer. "That is, my brain has told me conclusively who's at the bottom of this fiendish affair; but even now— in the daylight—I can't credit it. Everything in me revolts against the acceptance of the truth. The fact is, I'm almost afraid to accept it... Dash it all, I'm getting mellow. Middle-age has crept upon me." He attempted to smile, but failed.
Markham waited in silence.
"No, old man," continued Vance; "I'm not going to tell you now. I can't tell you until I've looked into one or two matters. You see, the pattern is plain enough, but the recognizable objects, set in their new relationships, are grotesque—like the shapes in an awful dream. I must first touch them and measure them to make sure that they're not, after all, mere abortive vagaries."
"And how long will this verification take?" Markham knew there was no use to try to force the issue. He realized that Vance was fully conscious of the seriousness of the situation, and respected his decision to investigate certain points before revealing his conclusions.
"Not long, I hope." Vance went to his desk and wrote something on a piece of paper, which he handed to Markham. "Here's a list of the five books in Tobias's library that showed signs of having been read by the nocturnal visitor. I want those books, Markham—immediately. But I don't want anyone to know about their being taken away. Therefore, I'm going to ask you to phone Nurse O'Brien to get Mrs. Greene's key and secure them when no one is looking. Tell her to wrap them up and give them to the detective on guard in the house with instructions to bring them here. You can explain to her what section of the book-shelves they're in."
Markham took the paper and rose without a word. At the door of the den, however, he paused.
"Do you think it wise for the man to leave the house?"
"It won't matter," Vance told him. "Nothing more can happen there at present."
Markham went on into the den. In a few minutes he returned.
"The books will be here in half an hour."
When the detective arrived with the package Vance unwrapped it and laid the volumes beside his chair.
"Now, Markham, I'm going to do some reading. You won't mind, what?" Despite his casual tone, it was evident that an urgent seriousness underlay his words.
Markham got up immediately; and again I marvelled at the complete understanding that existed between these two desperate men.
"I have a number of personal letters to write," he said, "so I'll run along. Currie's omelette was excellent.—When shall I see you again? I could drop round at tea-time."
Vance held out his hand with a look bordering on affection.
"Make it five o'clock. I'll be through with my perusings by then. And thanks for your tolerance." Then he added gravely: "You'll understand, after I've told you everything, why I wanted to wait a bit."
When Markham returned that afternoon a little before five Vance was still reading in the library; but shortly afterward he joined us in the living- room.
"The picture clarifies," he said. "The fantastic images are gradually taking on the aspect of hideous realities. I've substantiated several points, but a few facts still need corroboration."
"To vindicate your hypothesis?"
"No, not that. The hypothesis is self-proving. There's no doubt as to the truth. But—dash it all, Markham! I refuse to accept it until every scrap of evidence has been incontestably sustained."
"Is the evidence of such a nature that I can use it in a court of law?"
"That is something I refuse even to consider. Criminal proceedings seem utterly irrelevant in the present case. But I suppose society must have its pound of flesh, and you—the duly elected Shylock of God's great common people—will no doubt wield the knife. However, I assure you I shall not be present at the butchery."
Markham studied him curiously.
"Your words sound rather ominous. But if, as you say, you have discovered the perpetrator of these crimes, why shouldn't society exact punishment?"
"If society were omniscient, Markham, it would have a right to sit in judgment. But society is ignorant and venomous, devoid of any trace of insight or understanding. It exalts knavery, and worships stupidity. It crucifies the intelligent, and puts the diseased in dungeons. And, withal, it arrogates to itself the right and ability to analyze the subtle sources of what it calls 'crime,' and to condemn to death all persons whose inborn and irresistible impulses it does not like. That's your sweet society, Markham—a pack of wolves watering at the mouth for victims on whom to vent its organized lust to kill and flay."
Markham regarded him with some astonishment and considerable concern.
"Perhaps you are preparing to let the criminal escape in the present case," he said with the irony of resentment.
"Oh, no," Vance assured him. "I shall turn your victim over to you. The Greene murderer is of a particularly vicious type, and should be rendered impotent. I was merely trying to suggest that the electric chair—that touchin' device of your beloved society—is not quite the correct method of dealing with this culprit."
"You admit, however, that he is a menace to society."
"Undoubtedly. And the hideous thing about it is that this tournament of crime at the Greene mansion will continue unless we can put a stop to it. That's why I am being so careful. As the case now stands, I doubt if you could even make an arrest."
When tea was over Vance got up and stretched himself.
"By the by, Markham," he said off-handedly, "have you received any report on Sibella's activities?"
"Nothing important. She's still in Atlantic City, and evidently intends to stay there for some time. She phoned Sproot yesterday to send down another trunkful of her clothes."
"Did she, now? That's very gratifyin'." Vance walked to the door with sudden resolution. "I think I'll run out to the Greenes' for a little while. I shan't be gone over an hour: Wait for me here, Markham—there's a good fellow; I don't want my visit to have an official flavour. There's a new Simplicissimus on the table to amuse you till I return. Con it and thank your own special gods that you have no Thony or Gulbranssen in this country to caricature your Gladstonian features."
As he spoke he beckoned to me, and, before Markham could question him, we passed out into the hall and down the stairs. Fifteen minutes later a taxicab set us down before the Greene mansion.
Sproot opened the door for us, and Vance, with only a curt greeting, led him into the drawing-room.
"I understand," he said, "that Miss Sibella phoned you yesterday from Atlantic City and asked to have a trunk shipped to her
."
Sproot bowed. "Yes, sir. I sent the trunk off last night."
"What did Miss Sibella say to you over the phone?" "Very little, sir—the connection was not good. She said merely that she had no intention of returning to New York for a considerable time and needed more clothes than she had taken with her."
"Did she ask how things were going at the house here?"
"Only in the most casual way, sir."
"Then she didn't seem apprehensive about what might happen here while she was away?"
"No, sir. In fact—if I may say so without disloyalty—her tone of voice was quite indifferent, sir."
"Judging from her remarks about the trunk, how long would you say she intends to be away?"
Sproot considered the matter.
"That's difficult to say, sir. But I would go so far as to venture the opinion that Miss Sibella intends to remain in Atlantic City for a month or more."
Vance nodded with satisfaction.
"And now, Sproot," he said, "I have a particularly important question to ask you. When you first went into Miss Ada's room on the night she was shot and found her on the floor before the dressing-table, was the window open? Think! I want a positive answer. You know the window is just beside the dressing-table and overlooks the steps leading to the stone balcony. Was it open or shut?"
Sproot contracted his brows and appeared to be recalling the scene. Finally he spoke, and there was no doubt in his voice.
"The window was open, sir. I recall it now quite distinctly. After Mr. Chester and I had lifted Miss Ada to the bed, I closed it at once for fear she would catch cold."
"How far open was the window?" asked Vance with eager impatience.
"Eight or nine inches, sir, I should say. Perhaps a foot." "Thank you, Sproot. That will be all. Now please tell the cook I want to see her."
Mrs. Mannheim came in a few minutes later, and Vance indicated a chair near the desk-light. When the woman had seated herself he stood before her and fixed her with a stern, implacable gaze.
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