The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  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 th
e 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 today, 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 sough
t 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?”