The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Did you leave your door unlocked last night?”

  “I think so. I don’t generally lock it.”

  “And you heard no door open or close—anywhere?”

  “No; none. Everything in the house was perfectly still.”

  “And yet you knew that someone was in the room. How, was that?” Vance’s voice, though gentle, was persistent.

  “I—don’t know …and yet there must have been something that told me.”

  “Exactly! Now try to think.” Vance bent a little nearer to the troubled girl. “A soft breathing, perhaps—a slight gust of air as the person moved by your bed—a faint odour of perfume…?”

  She frowned painfully, as if trying to recall the elusive cause of her dread.

  “I can’t think—I can’t remember.” Her voice was scarcely audible. “I was so terribly frightened.”

  “If only we could trace the source!” Vance glanced at the doctor, who nodded understandingly, and said:

  “Obviously some association whose stimulus went unrecognized.”

  “Did you feel, Miss Greene, that you knew the person who was here?” continued Vance. “That is to say, was it a familiar presence?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I only know I was afraid of it.”

  “But you heard it move toward you after you had risen and fled toward the window. Was there any familiarity in the sound?”

  “No!” For the first time she spoke with emphasis. “It was just footsteps— soft, sliding footsteps.”

  “Of course, anyone might have walked that way in the dark, or a person in bedroom slippers…”

  “It was only a few steps—and then came the awful noise and burning.”

  Vance waited a moment.

  “Try very hard to recall those steps—or rather your impression of them. Would you say they were the steps of a man or a woman?”

  An added pallor overspread the girl’s face; and her frightened eyes ran over all the occupants of the room.

  Her breathing, I noticed, had quickened; and twice she parted her lips as if to speak, but checked herself each time. At last she said in a low tremulous voice:

  “I don’t know—I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  A short, high-strung laugh, bitter and sneering, burst from Sibella; and all eyes were turned in amazed attention in her direction. She stood rigidly at the foot of the bed, her face flushed, her hands tightly clenched at her side.

  “Why don’t you tell them you recognized my footsteps?” she demanded of her sister in biting tones. “You had every intention of doing so. Haven’t you got courage enough left to lie—you sobbing little cat?”

  Ada caught her breath and seemed to draw herself nearer to the doctor, who gave Sibella a stern, admonitory look.

  “Oh, I say, Sib! Hold your tongue.” It was Chester who broke the startled silence that followed the outbreak.

  Sibella shrugged her shoulders and walked to the window; and Vance again turned his attention to the girl on the bed, continuing his questioning as if nothing had happened.

  “There’s one more point, Miss Greene.” His tone was even gentler than before. “When you groped your way across the room toward the switch, at what point did you come in contact with the unseen person?”

  “About half-way to the door—just beyond that centre-table.”

  “You say a hand touched you. But how did it touch you? Did it shove you, or try to take hold of you?” She shook her head vaguely.

  “Not exactly. I don’t know how to explain it, but I seemed to walk into the hand, as though it were outstretched—reaching for me.”

  “Would you say it was a large hand or a small one? Did you, for instance, get the impression of strength?”

  There was another silence. Again the girl’s respiration quickened, and she cast a frightened glance at Sibella, who stood staring out into the black, swinging branches of the trees in the side yard.

  “I don’t know—oh, I don’t know!” Her words were like a stifled cry of anguish. “I didn’t notice. It was all so sudden—so horrible.”

  “But try to think,” urged Vance’s low, insistent voice. “Surely you got some impression. Was it a man’s hand, or a woman’s?”

  Sibella now came swiftly to the bed, her cheeks very pale, her eyes blazing. For a moment she glared at the stricken girl; then she turned resolutely to Vance.

  “You asked me downstairs if I had any idea as to who might have done the shooting. I didn’t answer you then, but I’ll answer you now. I’ll tell you who’s guilty!” She jerked her head toward the bed, and pointed a quivering finger at the still figure lying there. “There’s the guilty one—that snivelling little outsider, that sweet angelic little snake in the grass!”

  So incredible, so unexpected, was this accusation that for a time no one in the room spoke. A groan burst from Ada’s lips, and she clutched at the doctor’s hand with a spasmodic movement of despair.

  “Oh, Sibella—how could you!” she breathed.

  Von Blon had stiffened, and an angry light came into his eyes. But before he could speak Sibella was rushing on with her illogical, astounding indictment.

  “Oh, she’s the one who did it! And she’s deceiving you just as she’s always tried to deceive the rest of us. She hates us—she’s hated us ever since father brought her into this house. She resents us—the things we have, the very blood in our veins. Heaven knows what blood’s in hers. She hates us because she isn’t our equal. She’d gladly see us all murdered. She killed Julia first, because Julia ran the house and saw to it that she did something to earn her livelihood. She despises us; and she planned to get rid of us.”

  The girl on the bed looked piteously from one to the other of us. There was no resentment in her eyes; she appeared stunned and unbelieving, as if she doubted the reality of what she had heard.

  “Most interestin’,” drawled Vance. It was his ironic tone, more than the words themselves, that focused all eyes on him. He had been watching Sibella during her tirade, and his gaze was still on her.

  “You seriously accuse your sister of doing the shooting?” He spoke now in a pleasant, almost friendly, voice.

  “I do!” she declared brazenly. “She hates us all.”

  “As far as that goes,” smiled Vance, “I haven’t noticed a superabundance of love and affection in any of the Greene family.” His tone was without offence. “And do you base your accusation on anything specific, Miss Greene?”

  Isn’t it specific enough that she wants us all out of the way, that she thinks she would have everything—ease, luxury, freedom—if there wasn’t anyone else to inherit the Greene money?”

  “Hardly specific enough to warrant a direct accusation of so heinous a character.—And by the by, Miss Greene, just how would you explain the method of the crime if called as a witness in a court of law? You couldn’t altogether ignore the fact that Miss Ada herself was shot in the back, don’t y’ know?”

  For the first time the sheer impossibility of the accusation seemed to strike Sibella. She became sullen; and her mouth settled into a contour of angry bafflement.

  “As I told you once before, I’m not a policewoman,” she retorted. “Crime isn’t my speciality.”

  “Nor logic either apparently.” A whimsical note crept into Vance’s voice. “But perhaps I misinterpret your accusation. Did you mean to imply that Miss Ada shot your sister Julia, and that someone else—party or parties unknown, I believe the phrase is—shot Miss Ada immediately afterward—in a spirit of vengeance, perhaps? A crime à quatre mains, so to speak?”

  Sibella’s confusion was obvious, but her stubborn wrath had in no wise abated.

  “Well, if that was the way it happened,” she countered malevolently, “it’s a rotten shame they didn’t do the job better.”

  “The blunder may at least prove unfortunate for somebody,” suggested Vance pointedly. “Still, I hardly think we can seriously entertain the double-culprit theory. Both of your sisters, d’ye see, were shot with
the same gun—a .32 revolver—within a few minutes of each other. I’m afraid that we’ll have to be content with one guilty person.”

  Sibella’s manner suddenly became sly and calculating. “What kind of a gun was yours, Chet?” she asked her brother.

  “Oh, it was a .32, all right—an old Smith and Wesson revolver.” Chester was painfully ill at ease.

  “Was it, indeed? Well, that’s that.” She turned her back on us and went again to the window.

  The tension in the room slackened, and Von Blon leaned solicitously over the wounded girl and rearranged the pillows.

  “Everyone’s upset, Ada,” he said soothingly. “You mustn’t worry about what’s happened. Sibella’ll be sorry tomorrow and make amends. This affair has got on everybody’s nerves.”

  The girl gave him a grateful glance, and seemed to relax under his administrations.

  After a moment he straightened up and looked at Markham.

  “I hope you gentlemen are through—for today, at least.”

  Both Vance and Markham had risen, and Heath and I had followed suit; but at that moment Sibella strode toward us again.

  “Wait” she commanded imperiously. “I’ve just thought of something. Chet’s revolver! I know where it went.—She took it.” Again she pointed accusingly at Ada. “I saw her in Chet’s room the other day, and I wondered then why she was snooping about there.” She gave Vance a triumphant leer. That’s specific, isn’t it?”

  “What day was this, Miss Greene?” As before, his calmness seemed to counteract the effect of her venom.

  “What day? I don’t remember exactly. Last week some time.”

  “The day you were looking for your emerald pin, perhaps?”

  Sibella hesitated; then said angrily: “I don’t recall. Why should I remember the exact time? All I know is that, as I was passing down the hall, I glanced into Chet’s room—the door was half open—and I saw her in there …by the desk.”

  “And was it unusual to see Miss Ada in your brother’s room?” Vance spoke without any particular interest.

  “She never goes into any of our rooms,” declared Sibella. “Except Rex’s, sometimes. Julia told her long ago to keep out of them.”

  Ada gave her sister a look of infinite entreaty.

  “Oh, Sibella,” she moaned; “what have I ever done to make you dislike me so?”

  “What have you done!” The other’s voice was harsh and strident, and a look almost demoniacal smouldered in her levelled eyes. “Everything! Nothing! Oh, you’re clever—with your quiet, sneaky ways, and your patient, hang-dog look, and your goody-goody manner. But you don’t pull the wool over my eyes. You’ve been hating all of us ever since you came here. And you’ve been waiting for the chance to kill us, planning and scheming—you vile little—”

  “Sibella!” It was Von Blon’s voice that, like the lash of a whip, cut in on this unreasoned tirade. “That will be enough!” He moved forward, and glanced menacingly into the girl’s eyes. I was almost as astonished at his attitude as I had been at her wild words. There was a curious intimacy in his manner—an implication of familiarity which struck me as unusual even for a family physician of his long and friendly standing. Vance noticed it too, for his eyebrows went up slightly and he watched the scene with intense interest.

  “You’ve become hysterical,” Von Blon said, without lowering his minatory gaze. “You don’t realize what you’ve been saying.”

  I felt he would have expressed himself far more forcibly if strangers had not been present. But his words had their effect. Sibella dropped her eyes, and a sudden change came over her. She covered her face with her hands, and her whole body shook with sobs.

  “I’m—sorry. I was mad—and silly—to say such things.”

  “You’d better take Sibella to her room, Chester.” Von Blon had resumed his professional tone. “This business has been too much for her.”

  The girl turned without another word and went out, followed by Chester.

  “These modern women—all nerves,” Von Blon commented laconically. Then he placed his hand on Ada’s forehead. “Now, young lady, I’m going to give you something to make you sleep after all this excitement.”

  He had scarcely opened his medicine-case to prepare the draught when a shrill, complaining voice drifted clearly to us from the next room; and for the first time I noticed that the door of the little dressing-room which communicated with Mrs. Greene’s quarters was slightly ajar.

  “What’s all the trouble now? Hasn’t there been enough disturbance already without these noisy scenes in my very ear? But it doesn’t matter, of course, how much I suffer… Nurse! Shut those doors into Ada’s room. You had no business to leave them open when you knew I was trying to get a little rest. You did it on purpose to annoy me… And, nurse! Tell the doctor I must see him before he goes. I have those stabbing pains in my spine again. But who thinks about me, lying here paralyzed—?”

  The doors were closed softly, and the fretful voice was cut off from us.

  “She could have had the doors closed a long time ago if she’d really wanted them closed,” said Ada wearily, a look of distress on her drawn white face. “Why, Doctor Von, does she always pretend that everyone deliberately makes her suffer?”

  Von Blon sighed. “I’ve told you, Ada, that you mustn’t take your mother’s tantrums too seriously. Her irritability and complaining are part of her disease.”

  We bade the girl good-bye, and the doctor walked with us into the hall.

  “I’m afraid you didn’t learn much,” he remarked, almost apologetically. “It’s most unfortunate Ada didn’t get a look at her assailant.” He addressed himself to Heath. “Did you, by the way, look in the dining-room wall-safe to make sure nothing was missing? You know, there’s one there behind the big niello over the mantel.”

  “One of the first places we inspected.” The sergeant’s voice was a bit disdainful. “And that reminds me, doc: I want to send a man up in the morning to look for finger-prints in Miss Ada’s room.”

  Von Blon agreed amiably, and held out his hand to Markham.

  “And if there’s any way I can be of service to you or the police,” he added pleasantly, “please call on me. I’ll be only too glad to help. I don’t see just what I can do, but one never knows.”

  Markham thanked him, and we descended to the lower hall. Sproot was waiting to help us with our coats, and a moment later we were in the District Attorney’s car ploughing our way through the snowdrifts.

  CHAPTER VII

  VANCE ARGUES THE CASE

  (Tuesday, November 9th; 5 P.M.)

  It was nearly five o’clock when we reached the Criminal Courts Building. Swacker had lit the old bronze-and-china chandelier of Markham’s private office, and an atmosphere of eerie gloom pervaded the room.

  “Not a nice family, Markham, old dear,” sighed Vance, lying back in one of the deep leather-upholstered chairs. “Decidedly not a nice family. A family run to seed, its old vigour vitiated. If the heredit’ry sires of the contempor’ry Greenes could rise from their sepulchres and look in upon their present progeny, my word! what a jolly good shock they’d have!… Funny thing how these old families degenerate under the environment of ease and idleness. There are the Wittelsbachs, and the Romanoffs, and the Julian-Claudian house, and the Abbasside dynasty—all examples of phyletic disintegration… And it’s the same with nations, don’t y’ know. Luxury and unrestrained indulgence are corruptin’ influences. Look at Rome under the soldier emperors, and Assyria under Sardanapalus, and Egypt under the later Ramessids, and the Vandal African empire under Gelimer. It’s very distressin’.”

  “Your erudite observations might be highly absorbing to the social historian,” grumbled Markham, with an undisguised show of irritability; “but I can’t say they’re particularly edifying, or even relevant, in the present circumstances.”

  “I wouldn’t be too positive on that point,” Vance returned easily. “In fact, I submit, for your earnest and profound
consideration, the temperaments and internal relationships of the Greene clan, as pointers upon the dark road of the present investigation… Really, y’ know”—he assumed a humoursome tone—“it’s most unfortunate that you and the sergeant are so obsessed with the idea of social justice and that sort of thing; for society would be much better off if such families as the Greenes were exterminated. Still, it’s a fascinatin’ problem—most fascinatin’.”

  “I regret I can’t share your enthusiasm for it.” Markham spoke with asperity. “The crime strikes me as sordid and commonplace. And if it hadn’t been for your interference I’d have sent Chester Greene on his way this morning with some tactful platitudes. But you had to intercede, with your cryptic innuendoes and mysterious head-waggings; and I foolishly let myself be drawn into it. Well, I trust you had an enjoyable afternoon. As for myself, I have three hours’ accumulated work before me.”

  His complaint was an obvious suggestion that we take ourselves off; but Vance showed no intention of going.

  “Oh, I shan’t depart just yet,” he announced, with a bantering smile. “I couldn’t bring myself to leave you in your present state of grievous error. You need guidance, Markham; and I’ve quite made up my mind to pour out my flutterin’ heart to you and the sergeant.”

  Markham frowned. He understood Vance so well that he knew the other’s levity was only superficial—that, indeed, it cloaked some particularly serious purpose. And the experience of a long, intimate friendship had taught him that Vance’s actions—however unreasonable they might appear— were never the result of an idle whim.

  “Very well,” he acquiesced. “But I’d be grateful for an economy of words.”

  Vance sighed mournfully.

  “Your attitude is so typical of the spirit of breathless speed existing in this restless day.” He fixed an inquisitive gaze on Heath. “Tell me, Sergeant: you saw the body of Julia Greene, didn’t you?”

  “Sure, I saw it.”

  “Was her position in the bed a natural one?”

  “How do I know how she generally laid in bed?” Heath was restive and in bad humour. “She was half sitting up, with a coupla pillows under her shoulders, and the covers pulled up.”