Philo Vance 12 Novels Complete Bundle

by S. S. Van Dine

  "But I would have known if it had been Sibella I saw--"

  "Sibella? She sometimes borrowed the shawl?"

  Ada nodded reluctantly. "Once in a great while. She--she admired the shawl... Oh, why do you make me tell you this!"

  "And you have never seen anyone else with it on?"

  "No; no one ever wore it except mother and Sibella."

  Vance attempted to banish her obvious distress with a whimsical reassuring smile.

  "Just see how foolish all your fears have been," he said lightly. "You probably saw your sister in the hall that night, and, because you'd been having bad dreams about your mother, you thought it was she. As a result, you became frightened, and locked yourself up and worried. It was rather silly, what?"

  A little later we took our leave.

  "It has always been my contention," remarked Inspector Moran, as we rode down-town, "that any identification under strain or excitement is worthless. And here we have a glaring instance of it."

  "I'd like a nice quiet little chat with Sibella," mumbled Heath, busy with his own thoughts.

  "It wouldn't comfort you, Sergeant," Vance told him. "At the end of your tête-à-tête you'd know only what the young lady wanted you to know."

  "Where do we stand now?" asked Markham, after a silence.

  "Exactly where we stood before," answered Vance dejectedly, "in the midst of an impenetrable fog.-- And I'm not in the least convinced," he added, "that it was Sibella whom Ada saw in the hall."

  Markham looked amazed.

  "Then who, in Heaven's name, was it?"

  Vance sighed gloomily. "Give me the answer to that one question, and I'll complete the saga."

  That night Vance sat up until nearly two o'clock writing at his desk in the library.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE MISSING FACT

  (Saturday, December 4th; 1 p.m.)

  SATURDAY was the District Attorney's "half-day" at the office, and Markham had invited Vance and me to lunch at the Bankers Club. But when we reached the Criminal Courts Building he was swamped with an accumulation of work, and we had a tray-service meal in his private conference room. Before leaving the house that noon Vance had put several sheets of closely-written paper in his pocket, and I surmised--correctly, as it turned out--that they were what he had been working on the night before.

  When lunch was over Vance lay back in his chair languidly and lit a cigarette.

  "Markham, old dear," he said, "I accepted your invitation to-day for the sole purpose of discussing art. I trust you are in a receptive mood."

  Markham looked at him with frank annoyance.

  "Damn it, Vance, I'm too confounded busy to be bothered with your irrelevancies. If you feel artistically inclined, take Van here to the Metropolitan Museum. But leave me alone."

  Vance sighed, and wagged his head reproachfully.

  "There speaks the voice of America! 'Run along and play with your aesthetic toys if such silly things amuse you; but let me attend to my serious affairs.' It's very sad. In the present instance, however, I refuse to run along; and most certainly I shall not browse about that mausoleum of Europe's rejected corpses, known as the Metropolitan Museum. I say, it's a wonder you didn't suggest that I make the rounds of our municipal statuary."

  "I'd have suggested the Aquarium--"

  "I know. Anything to get rid of me." Vance adopted an injured tone. "And yet, don't y' know, I'm going to sit right here and deliver an edifying lecture on aesthetic composition."

  "Then don't talk too loud," said Markham, rising; "for I'll be in the next room working."

  "But my lecture has to do with the Greene case. And really you shouldn't miss it."

  Markham paused and turned.

  "Merely one of your wordy prologues, eh?" He sat down again. "Well, if you have any helpful suggestions to make, I'll listen."

  Vance smoked a moment.

  "Y' know, Markham," he began, assuming a lazy, unemotional air, "there's a fundamental difference between a good painting and a photograph. I'll admit many painters appear unaware of this fact; and when colour photography is perfected--my word! What a horde of academicians will be thrown out of employment! But none the less there's a vast chasm between the two; and it's this technical distinction that's to be the burden of my lay. How, for instance, does Michelangelo's 'Moses' differ from a camera study of a patriarchal old man with whiskers and a stone tablet? Wherein lie the points of divergence between Rubens's 'Landscape with Château de Stein' and a tourist's snapshot of a Rhine castle? Why is a Cézanne still life an improvement on a photograph of a dish of apples? Why have the Renaissance paintings of Madonnas endured for hundreds of years whereas a mere photograph of a mother and child passes into artistic oblivion at the very click of the lens shutter? ..."

  He held up a silencing hand as Markham was about to speak.

  "I'm not being futile. Bear with me a moment. The difference between a good painting and a photograph is this: the one is arranged, composed, organized; the other is merely the haphazard impression of a scene, or a segment of realism, just as it exists in nature. In short, the one has form; the other is chaotic. When a true artist paints a picture, d' ye see, he arranges all the masses and lines to accord with his preconceived idea of composition--that is, he bends everything in the picture to a basic design; and he also eliminates any objects or details that go contr'ry to, or detract from, that design. Thus he achieves a homogeneity of form, so to speak. Every object in the picture is put there for a definite purpose, and is set in a certain position to accord with the underlying structural pattern. There are no irrelevancies, no unrelated details, no detached objects, no arbitr'ry arrangement of values. All the forms and lines are interdependent; every object--indeed, every brush stroke--takes its exact place in the pattern and fulfils a given function. The picture, in fine, is a unity."

  "Very instructive," commented Markham, glancing ostentatiously at his watch. "And the Greene case?"

  "Now, a photograph, on the other hand," pursued Vance, ignoring the interruption, "is devoid of design or even of arrangement in the aesthetic sense. To be sure, a photographer may pose and drape a figure-- he may even saw off the limb of a tree that he intends to record on his negative; but it's quite impossible for him to compose the subject-matter of his picture to accord with a preconceived design, the way a painter does. In a photograph there are always details that have no meaning, variations of light and shade that are harmonically false, textures that create false notes, lines that are discords, masses that are out of place. The camera, d' ye see, is deucedly forthright--it records whatever is before it, irrespective of art values. The inevitable result is that a photograph lacks organization and unity; its composition is, at best, primitive and obvious. And it is full of irrelevant factors--of objects which have neither meaning nor purpose. There is no uniformity of conception in it. It is haphazard, heterogeneous, aimless, and amorphous-- just as is nature."

  "You needn't belabour the point." Markham spoke impatiently. "I have a rudimentary intelligence.--Where is this elaborate truism leading you?"

  Vance gave him an engaging smile.

  "To East 53rd Street. But before we reach our destination permit me another brief amplification.--Quite often a painting of intricate and subtle design does not at once reveal its composition to the spectator. In fact, only the designs of the simpler and more obvious paintings are immediately grasped. Generally the spectator has to study a painting carefully--trace its rhythms, compare its forms, weigh its details, and fit together all its salients--before its underlying design becomes apparent. Many well-organized and perfectly balanced paintings--such as Renoir's figure-pieces, Matisse's interiors, Cezanne's water-colours, Picasso's still lifes, and Leonardo's anatomical drawings--may at first appear meaningless from the standpoint of composition; their forms may seem to lack unity and cohesion; their masses and linear values may give the impression of having been arbitrarily put down. And it is only after the spectator has related all their integ
ers and traced all their contrapuntal activities that they take on significance and reveal their creator's motivating conception--"

  "Yes, yes," interrupted Markham. "Paintings and photographs differ; the objects in a painting possess design; the objects in a photograph are without design; one must often study a painting in order to determine the design.--That, I believe, covers the ground you have been wandering over desultorily for the past fifteen minutes."

  "I was merely trying to imitate the vast deluge of repetitive verbiage found in legal documents," explained Vance. "I hope thereby to convey my meaning to your lawyer's mind."

  "You have succeeded with a vengeance," snapped Markham. "What follows?"

  Vance became serious again.

  "Markham, we've been looking at the various occurrences in the Greene case as though they were the unrelated objects of a photograph. We've inspected each fact as it came up; but we have failed to analyze sufficiently its connection with all the other known facts. We've regarded this whole affair as though it were a series, or collection, of isolated integers. And we've missed the significance of everything because we haven't yet determined the shape of the basic pattern of which each of these incidents is but a part.--Do you follow me?"

  "My dear fellow!"

  "Very well.--Now, it goes without saying that there is a design at the bottom of this whole amazin' business. Nothing has happened haphazardly. There has been premeditation behind each act--a subtly and carefully concocted composition, as it were. And everything has emanated from that central shape. Everything has been fashioned by a fundamental structural idea. Therefore, nothing important that has occurred since the first double shooting has been unrelated to the predetermined pattern of the crime. All the aspects and events of the case, taken together, form a unity--a co-ordinated, interactive whole. In short, the Greene case is a painting, not a photograph. And when we have studied it in that light-- when we have determined the inter-relationship of all the external factors, and have traced the visual forms to their generating lines-then, Markham, we will know the composition of the picture; we will see the design on which the perverted painter has erected his document'ry material. And once we have discovered the underlying shape of this hideous picture's pattern, we'll know its creator."

  "I see your point," said Markham slowly. "But how does it help us? We know all the external facts; and they certainly don't fit into any intelligible conception of a unified whole."

  "Not yet, perhaps," agreed Vance. "But that's because we haven't gone about it systematically. We've done too much investigating and too little thinking. We've been side-tracked by what the modern painters call documentation--that is, by the objective appeal of the picture's recognizable parts. We haven't sought for the abstract content. We've overlooked the 'significant form'--a loose phrase; but blame Clive Bell for it."* (*Vance was here referring to the chapter called "The Aesthetic Hypothesis" in Clive Bell's "Art." But, despite the somewhat slighting character of his remark, Vance was an admirer of Bell's criticisms, and had spoken to me with considerable enthusiasm of his "Since Cezanne.")

  "And how would you suggest that we set about determining the compositional design of this bloody canvas? We might dub the picture, by the way, 'Nepotism Gone Wrong.'" By this facetious remark, he was, I knew, attempting to counteract the serious impression the other's disquisition had made on him; for, though he realized Vance would not have drawn his voluminous parallel without a definite hope of applying it successfully to the problem in hand, he was chary of indulging any expectations lest they result in further disappointments.

  In answer to Markham's question, Vance drew out the sheaf of papers he had brought with him.

  "Last night," he explained, "I set down briefly and chronologically all the outstanding facts of the Greene case--that is, I noted each important external factor of the ghastly picture we've been contemplating for the past few weeks. The principal forms are all here, though I may have left out many details. But I think I have tabulated a sufficient number of items to serve as a working basis."

  He held out the papers to Markham.

  "The truth lies somewhere in that list. If we could put the facts together--relate them to one another with their correct values--we'd know who was at the bottom of this orgy of crime; for, once we determined the pattern, each of the items would take on a vital significance, and we could read clearly the message they had to tell us."

  Markham took the summary and, moving his chair nearer to the light, read through it without a word.

  I preserved the original copy of the document; and, of all the records I possess, it was the most important and far-reaching in its effects. Indeed, it was the instrument by means of which the Greene case was solved. Had it not been for this recapitulation, prepared by Vance and later analyzed by him, the famous mass murder at the Greene mansion would doubtless have been relegated to the category of unsolved crimes.

  Herewith is a verbatim reproduction of it:

  GENERAL FACTS

  1. An atmosphere of mutual hatred pervades the Greene mansion.

  2. Mrs. Greene is a nagging, complaining paralytic, making life miserable for the whole household.

  3. There are five children--two daughters, two sons, and one adopted daughter--who have nothing in common, and live in a state of constant antagonism and bitterness toward one another.

  4. Though Mrs. Mannheim, the cook, was acquainted with Tobias Greene years ago and was remembered in his will, she refuses to reveal any of the facts in her past.

  5. The will of Tobias Greene stipulated that the family must live in the Greene mansion for twenty-five years on pain of disinheritance, with the one exception that, if Ada should marry, she could establish a residence elsewhere, as she was not of the Greene blood. By the will Mrs. Greene has the handling and disposition of the money.

  6. Mrs. Greene's will makes the five children equal beneficiaries. In event of death of any of them the survivors share alike; and if all should die the estate goes to their families.

  7. The sleeping-rooms of the Greenes are arranged thus: Julia's and Rex's face each other at the front of the house; Chester's and Ada's face each other in the centre of the house; and Sibella's and Mrs. Greene's face each other at the rear. No two rooms intercommunicate, with the exception of Ada's and Mrs. Greene's; and these two rooms also give on to the same balcony.

  8. The library of Tobias Greene, which Mrs. Greene believes she has kept locked for twelve years, contains a remarkably complete collection of books on criminology and allied subjects.

  9. Tobias Greene's past was somewhat mysterious, and there were many rumours concerning shady transactions carried on by him in foreign lands.

  FIRST CRIME

  10. Julia is killed by a contact shot, fired from the front, at 11.30 p.m.

  11. Ada is shot from behind, also by a contact shot. She recovers.

  12. Julia is found in bed, with a look of horror and amazement on her face.

  13. Ada is found on the floor before the dressing-table.

  14. The lights have been turned on in both rooms.

  15. Over three minutes elapse between the two shots.

  16. Von Blon, summoned immediately, arrives within half an hour.

  17. A set of footprints, other than Von Blon's, leaving and approaching the house, is found; but the character of the snow renders them indecipherable.

  18. The tracks have been made during the half-hour preceding the crime.

  19. Both shootings are done with a .32 revolver.

  20. Chester reports that an old .32 revolver of his is missing.

  21. Chester is not satisfied with the police theory of a burglar, and insists that the District Attorney's office investigate the case.

  22. Mrs. Greene is aroused by the shot fired in Ada's room, and hears Ada fall. But she hears no footsteps or sound of a door closing.

  23. Sproot is half-way down the servants' stairs when the second shot is fired, yet he encounters no one in the hall. Nor does he
hear any noise.

  24. Rex, in the next room to Ada's, says he heard no shot.

  25. Rex intimates that Chester knows more about the tragedy than he admits.

  26. There is some secret between Chester and Sibella.

  27. Sibella, like Chester, repudiates the burglar theory, but refuses to suggest an alternative, and says frankly that any member of the Greene family may be guilty.

  28. Ada says she was awakened by a menacing presence in her room, which was in darkness; that she attempted to run from the intruder, but was pursued by shuffling footsteps.

  29. Ada says a hand touched her when she first arose from bed, but refuses to make any attempt to identify the hand.

  30. Sibella challenges Ada to say that it was she (Sibella) who was in the room, and then deliberately accuses Ada of having shot Julia. She also accuses Ada of having stolen the revolver from Chester's room.

  31. Von Blon, by his attitude and manner, reveals a curious intimacy between Sibella and himself.

  32. Ada is frankly fond of Von Blon.

  SECOND CRIME

  33. Four days after Julia and Ada are shot, at 11.30 p.m., Chester is murdered by a contact shot fired from a .32 revolver.

  34. There is a look of amazement and horror on his face.

  35. Sibella hears the shot and summons Sproot.

  36. Sibella says she listened at her door immediately after the shot was fired, but heard no other sound.

  37. The lights are on in Chester's room. He was apparently reading when the murderer entered.

  38. A clear double set of footprints is found on the front walk. The tracks have been made within half an hour of the crime.

  39. A pair of galoshes, exactly corresponding to the footprints, is found in Chester's clothes-closet.

  40. Ada had a premonition of Chester's death, and, when informed of it, guesses he has been shot in the same manner as Julia. But she is greatly relieved when shown the footprint patterns indicating that the murderer is an outsider.

  41. Rex says he heard a noise in the hall and the sound of a door closing twenty minutes before the shot was fired.