The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “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.”45

  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.”