No one spoke; yet I felt that an entire tragedy was somehow being enacted, and that each actor heard and understood every word.
Markham remained standing, as if reluctant to proceed. Of all the duties of his office, I knew that the arrest of malefactors was the most distasteful to him. He was a worldly man, with the worldly man's tolerance for the misfortunes of evil. Heath and Snitkin had stepped forward and now waited with passive alertness for the district attorney's order to serve the warrant.
Spotswoode's eyes were again on Markham. "What can I do for you, sir?" His voice was calm and without the faintest quaver.
"You can accompany these officers, Mr. Spotswoode," Markham told him quietly, with a slight inclination of his head toward the two imperturbable figures at his side. "I arrest you for the murder of Margaret Odell."
"Ah!" Spotswoode's eyebrows lifted mildly. "Then you have--discovered something?"
"The Beethoven Andante."
Not a muscle of Spotswoode's face moved; but after a short pause he made a barely perceptible gesture of resignation. "I can't say that it was wholly unexpected," he said evenly, with the tragic suggestion of a smile; "especially as you thwarted every effort of mine to secure the record. But then . . . the fortunes of the game are always uncertain." His smile faded, and his manner became grave. "You have acted generously toward me, Mr. Markham, in shielding me from the canaille; and because I appreciate that courtesy I should like you to know that the game I played was one in which I had no alternative."
"Your motive, however powerful," said Markham, "cannot extenuate your crime."
"Do you think I seek extenuation?" Spotswoode dismissed the imputation with a contemptuous gesture. "I'm not a schoolboy. I calculated the consequences of my course of action and, after weighing the various factors involved, decided to risk it. It was a gamble, to be sure; but it's not my habit to complain about the misfortunes of a deliberately planned risk. Furthermore, the choice was practically forced upon me. Had I not gambled in this instance, I stood to lose heavily nevertheless."
His face grew bitter.
"This woman, Mr. Markham, had demanded the impossible of me. Not content with bleeding me financially, she demanded legal protection, position, social prestige--such things as only my name could give her. She informed me I must divorce my wife and marry her. I wonder if you apprehend the enormity of that demand? . . . You see, Mr. Markham, I love my wife, and I have children whom I love. I will not insult your intelligence by explaining how, despite my conduct, such a thing is entirely possible. . . . And yet, this woman commanded me to wreck my life and crush utterly those I held dear, solely to gratify her petty, ridiculous ambition! When I refused, she threatened to expose our relations to my wife, to send her copies of the letters I had written, to sue me publicly--in fine, to create such a scandal that, in any event, my life would be ruined, my family disgraced, my home destroyed."
He paused and drew a deep inspiration.
"I have never been partial to halfway measures," he continued impassively. "I have no talent for compromise. Perhaps I am a victim of my heritage. But my instinct is to play out a hand to the last chip--to force whatever danger threatens. And for just five minutes, a week ago, I understood how the fanatics of old could, with a calm mind and a sense of righteousness, torture their enemies who threatened them with spiritual destruction. . . . I chose the only course which might save those I love from disgrace and suffering. It meant taking a desperate risk. But the blood within me was such that I did not hesitate, and I was fired by the agony of a tremendous hate. I staked my life against a living death, on the remote chance of attaining peace. And I lost."
Again he smiled faintly.
"Yes--the fortunes of the game. . . . But don't think for a minute that I am complaining or seeking sympathy. I have lied to others perhaps, but not to myself. I detest a whiner--a self-excuser. I want you to understand that."
He reached to the table at his side and took up a small limp-leather volume. "Only last night I was reading Wilde's 'De Profundis.' Had I been gifted with words, I might have made a similar confession. Let me show you what I mean so that, at least, you won't attribute to me the final infamy of cravenness."
He opened the book, and began reading in a voice whose very fervor held us all silent:
"'I brought about my own downfall. No one, be he high or low, need be ruined by any other hand than his own. Readily as I confess this, there are many who will, at this time at least, receive the confession sceptically. And although I thus mercilessly accuse myself, bear in mind that I do so without offering any excuse. Terrible as is the punishment inflicted upon me by the world, more terrible is the ruin I have brought upon myself. . . . In the dawn of manhood I recognized my position. . . . I enjoyed an honored name, an eminent social position. . . . Then came the turning-point. I had become tired of dwelling on the heights--and descended by my own will into the depths. . . . I satisfied my desires wherever it suited me, and passed on. I forgot that every act, even the most insignificant act of daily life, in some degree, makes or unmakes the character; and every occurrence which transpires in the seclusion of the chamber will some day be proclaimed from the housetops. I lost control of myself. I was no longer at the helm, and knew it not. I had become a slave to pleasure. . . . One thing only is left to me--complete humility.'"
He tossed the book aside.
"You understand now, Mr. Markham?"
Markham did not speak for several moments.
"Do you care to tell me about Skeel?" he at length asked.
"That swine!" Spotswoode sneered his disgust. "I could murder such creatures every day and regard myself as a benefactor of society. . . . Yes, I strangled him, and I would have done it before, only the opportunity did not offer. . . . It was Skeel who was hiding in the closet when I returned to the apartment after the theater, and he must have seen me kill the woman. Had I known he was behind that locked closet door, I would have broken it down and wiped him out then. But how was I to know? It seemed natural that the closet might have been kept locked--I didn't give it a second thought. . . . And the next night he telephoned me to the club here. He had first called my home on Long Island and learned that I was staying here. I had never seen him before--didn't know of his existence. But, it seems, he had equipped himself with a knowledge of my identity--probably some of the money I gave to the woman went to him. What a muck heap I had fallen into! . . . When he phoned, he mentioned the phonograph, and I knew he had found out something. I met him in the Waldorf lobby, and he told me the truth: there was no doubting his word. When he saw I was convinced, he demanded so enormous a sum that I was staggered."
Spotswoode lit a cigarette with steady fingers.
"Mr. Markham, I am no longer a rich man. The truth is, I am on the verge of bankruptcy. The business my father left me has been in a receiver's hands for nearly a year. The Long Island estate on which I live belongs to my wife. Few people know these things, but unfortunately they are true. It would have been utterly impossible for me to raise the amount Skeel demanded, even had I been inclined to play the coward. I did, however, give him a small sum to keep him quiet for a few days, promising him all he asked as soon as I could convert some of my holdings. I hoped in the interim to get possession of the record and thus spike his guns. But in that I failed; and so, when he threatened to tell you everything, I agreed to bring the money to his home late Saturday night. I kept the appointment, with the full intention of killing him. I was careful about entering, but he had helped me by explaining when and how I could get in without being seen. Once there, I wasted no time. The first moment he was off his guard I seized him--and gloried in the act. Then, locking the door and taking the key, I walked out of the house quite openly, and returned here to the club.--That's all, I think."
Vance was watching him musingly.
"So when you raised my bet last night," he said, "the amount represented a highly important item in your exchequer."
Spotswoode smiled faintly. "It
represented practically every cent I had in the world."
"Astonishin'! And would you mind if I asked you why you selected the label of Beethoven's Andante for your record?"
"Another miscalculation," the man said wearily. "It occurred to me that if anyone should, by any chance, open the phonograph before I could return and destroy the record, he wouldn't be as likely to want to hear the classics as he would a more popular selection."
"And one who detests popular music had to find it! I fear, Mr. Spotswoode, that an unkind fate sat in at your game."
"Yes. . . . If I were religiously inclined, I might talk poppycock about retribution and divine punishment."
"I'd like to ask you about the jewelry," said Markham. "It's not sportsmanlike to do it, and I wouldn't suggest it, except that you've already confessed voluntarily to the main points at issue."
"I shall take no offense at any question you desire to ask, sir," Spotswoode answered. "After I had recovered my letters from the document box, I turned the rooms upside down to give the impression of a burglary--being careful to use gloves, of course. And I took the woman's jewelry for the same reason. Parenthetically, I had paid for most of it. I offered it as a sop to Skeel, but he was afraid to accept it; and finally I decided to rid myself of it. I wrapped it in one of the club newspapers and threw it in a wastebin near the Flatiron Building."
"You wrapped it in the morning Herald," put in Heath. "Did you know that Pop Cleaver reads nothing but the Herald?"
"Sergeant!" Vance's voice was a cutting reprimand. "Certainly Mr. Spotswoode was not aware of that fact--else he would not have selected the Herald."
Spotswoode smiled at Heath with pitying contempt. Then, with an appreciative glance at Vance, he turned back to Markham.
"An hour or so after I had disposed of the jewels, I was assailed by the fear that the package might be found and the paper traced. So I bought another Herald and put it on the rack." He paused. "Is that all?"
Markham nodded.
"Thank you--that's all; except that I must now ask you to go with these officers."
"In that case," said Spotswoode quietly, "there's a small favor I have to ask of you, Mr. Markham. Now that the blow has fallen, I wish to write a certain note--to my wife. But I want to be alone when I write it. Surely you understand that desire. It will take but a few moments. Your men may stand at the door--I can't very well escape. . . . The victor can afford to be generous to that extent."
Before Markham had time to reply, Vance stepped forward and touched his arm.
"I trust," he interposed, "that you won't deem it necess'ry to refuse Mr. Spotswoode's request."
Markham looked at him hesitantly.
"I guess you've pretty well earned the right to dictate, Vance," he acquiesced.
Then he ordered Heath and Snitkin to wait outside in the hall, and he and Vance and I went into the adjoining room. Markham stood, as if on guard, near the door; but Vance, with an ironical smile, sauntered to the window and gazed out into Madison Square.
"My word, Markham!" he declared. "There's something rather colossal about that chap. Y' know, one can't help admiring him. He's so eminently sane and logical."
Markham made no response. The drone of the city's midafternoon noises, muffled by the closed windows, seemed to intensify the ominous silence of the little bedchamber where we waited.
Then came a sharp report from the other room.
Markham flung open the door. Heath and Snitkin were already rushing toward Spotswoode's prostrate body, and were bending over it when Markham entered. Immediately he wheeled about and glared at Vance, who now appeared in the doorway.
"He's shot himself!"
"Fancy that," said Vance.
"You--you knew he was going to do that?" Markham spluttered.
"It was rather obvious, don't y' know."
Markham's eyes flashed angrily.
"And you deliberately interceded for him--to give him the opportunity?"
"Tut, tut, my dear fellow!" Vance reproached him. "Pray don't give way to conventional moral indignation. However unethical--theoretically--it may be to take another's life, a man's own life is certainly his to do with as he chooses. Suicide is his inalienable right. And under the paternal tyranny of our modern democracy, I'm rather inclined to think it's about the only right he has left, what?"
He glanced at his watch and frowned.
"D' ye know, I've missed my concert, bothering with your beastly affairs," he complained amiably, giving Markham an engaging smile; "and now you're actually scolding me. 'Pon my word, old fellow, you're deuced ungrateful!"
THE END
THE GREENE MURDER CASE
A PHILO VANCE STORY
by
S. S. VAN DINE
1928
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.
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