The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “You misconstrue my vagaries,” returned Vance, pausing before the old oil-painting of Tobias Greene over the fire-place. “I repudiate all ambition to become the family historian of the Greenes… Not a bad head on Tobias,” he commented, adjusting his monocle and inspecting the portrait. “An interestin’ character. Dynamic forehead, with more than a suggestion of the scholar. A rugged, prying nose. Yes, Tobias no doubt fared forth on many an adventurous quest. A cruel mouth, though—rather sinister, in fact. I wish the whiskers permitted one a view of the chin. It was round, with a deep cleft, I’d say—the substance of which Chester’s chin was but the simulacrum.”

  “Very edifying,” sneered Markham. “But phrenology leaves me cold this morning.—Tell me, Vance: are you labouring under some melodramatic notion that old Mannheim may have been resurrected and returned to wreak vengeance on the Greene progeny for wrongs done him by Tobias in the dim past? I can’t see any other reason for the questions you put to Mrs. Mannheim. Don’t overlook the fact, however, that Mannheim’s dead.”

  “I didn’t attend the funeral.” Vance sank lazily again in his chair.

  “Don’t be so unutterably futile,” slapped Markham. “What’s going through your head?”

  “An excellent figure of speech! It expresses my mental state perfectly. Numberless things are ‘going through my head.’ But nothing remains there. My brain’s a veritable sieve.”

  Heath projected himself into the discussion.

  “My opinion is, sir, that the Mannheim angle of this affair is a washout. We’re dealing with the present, and the bird that did this shooting is somewheres around here right now.”

  “You’re probably right, Sergeant,” conceded Vance. “But—my word!—it strikes me that every angle of the case—and, for that matter, every cusp, arc, tangent, parabola, sine, radius, and hyperbole—is hopelessly inundated.”

  38 It is, I hope, unnecessary for me to state that I have received official permission for my task.

  39 See The Benson Murder Case.

  40 See The ‘Canary’ Murder Case.

  41 This was subsequently proved correct. Nearly a year later Maleppo was arrested in Detroit, extradited to New York, and convicted of the murder. His two companions had already been successfully prosecuted for robbery. They are now serving long terms in Sing Sing.

  42 It was Sergeant Ernest Heath, of the Homicide Bureau, who had been in charge of both the Benson and the Canary cases; and, although he had been openly antagonistic to Vance during the first of these investigations, a curious good-fellowship had later grown up between them. Vance admired the Sergeant’s dogged and straightforward qualities; and Heath had developed a keen respect—with certain reservations, however—for Vance’s abilities.

  43 Vance, after reading proof of this sentence, requested me to make mention here of that beautiful volume, Terra Cotta of the Italian Renaissance, recently published by the National Terra Cotta Society, New York.

  44 Doctor Emanuel Doremus, the Chief Medical Examiner.

  45 Sibella was here referring to Tobias Greene’s will, which stipulated not only that the Greene mansion should be maintained intact for twenty-five years, but that the legatees should live on the estate during that time or become disinherited

  46 E. Plon, Nourrit et Cie, Paris, 1893.

  47 Inspector William M. Moran, who died last summer, had been the commanding officer of the Detective Bureau for eight years. He was a man of rare and unusual qualities, and with his death the New York Police Department lost one of its most efficient and trustworthy officials. He had formerly been a well-known up-State banker who had been forced to close his doors during the 1907 panic.

  48 Captain Anthony P. Jerym was one of the shrewdest and most painstaking criminologists of the New York Police Department. Though he had begun his career as an expert in the Bertillon system of measurements, he had later specialized in footprints— a subject which he had helped to elevate to an elaborate and complicated science. He had spent several years in Vienna studying Austrian methods, and had developed a means of scientific photography for footprints which gave him rank with such men as Londe, Burias, and Reiss.

  49 I remember, back in the nineties, when I was a schoolboy, hearing my father allude to certain picturesque tales of Tobias Greene’s escapades.

  THE GREENE MURDER CASE (Part 2)

  CHAPTER XI

  A PAINFUL INTERVIEW

  (Friday, November 12th; 11 A.M.)

  Markham glanced impatiently at his watch.

  “It’s getting late,” he complained, “and I have an important appointment at noon. I think I’ll have a go at Rex Greene, and then leave matters in your hands for the time being, Sergeant. There’s nothing much to be done here now, and your routine work must be gone through with.”

  Heath got up gloomily.

  “Yes; and one of the first things to be done is to go over this house with a fine-tooth comb for that revolver. If we could find that gun we’d be on our way.”

  “I don’t want to damp your ardour, Sergeant,” drawled Vance, “but something whispers in my ear that the weapon you yearn for is going to prove dashed elusive.”

  Heath looked depressed; he was obviously of Vance’s opinion.

  “A hell of a case, this is! Not a lead—nothing to get your teeth in.”

  He went to the archway and yanked the bell-cord viciously. When Sproot appeared he almost barked his demand that Mr. Rex Greene be produced at once; and he stood looking truculently after the retreating butler as if longing for an excuse to follow up his order with violence.

  Rex came in nervously, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his lips. His eyes were sunken; his cheeks sagged, and his short splay fingers fidgeted with the hem of his smoking jacket, like those of a man under the influence of hyoscine. He gave us a resentful, half-frightened gaze, and planted himself aggressively before us, refusing to take the seat Markham indicated. Suddenly he demanded fiercely:

  “Have you found out yet who killed Julia and Chester?”

  “No,” Markham admitted; “but we’ve taken every precaution against any recurrence…”

  “Precaution? What have you done?”

  “We’ve stationed a man both front and rear—” A cackling laugh cut him short.

  “A lot of good that’ll do! The person who’s after us Greenes has a key. He has a key, I tell you! And he can get in whenever he wants to, and nobody can stop him.”

  “I think you exaggerate a little,” returned Markham mildly. “In any case, we hope to put our hands on him very soon. And that’s why I’ve asked you here again—it’s quite possible that you can help us.”

  “What do I know?” The man’s words were defiant, and he took several long inhalations on his cigarette, the ashes of which fell upon his jacket unnoticed.

  “You were asleep, I understand, when the shot was fired last night,” went on Markham’s quiet voice; “but Sergeant Heath tells me you were awake until after eleven and heard noises in the hall. Suppose you tell us just what happened.”

  “Nothing happened!” Rex blurted. “I went to bed at half-past ten, but I was too nervous to sleep. Then, some time later, the moon came out and fell across the foot of the bed; and I got up and pulled down the shade. About ten minutes later I heard a scraping sound in the hall, and directly afterward a door closed softly—”

  “Just a moment, Mr. Greene,” interrupted Vance. “Can you be a little more definite about that noise? What did it sound like?”

  “I didn’t pay any attention to it,” was the whining reply. “It might have been almost anything. It was like someone laying down a bundle, or dragging something across the floor; or it might have been old Sproot in his bedroom slippers, though it didn’t sound like him—that is, I didn’t associate him with the sound when I heard it.”

  “And after that?”

  “After that? I lay awake in bed ten or fifteen minutes longer. I was restless and-and expectant; so I turned on the lights to see what time it was, an
d smoked half a cigarette—”

  “It was twenty-five minutes past eleven, I understand.”

  “That’s right. Then a few minutes later I put out the light, and must have gone right to sleep.”

  There was a pause, and Heath drew himself up aggressively.

  “Say, Greene: know anything about fire-arms?” He shot the question out brutally.

  Rex stiffened. His lips sagged open, and his cigarette fell to the floor. The muscles of his thin jowls twitched, and he glanced menacingly at the sergeant.

  “What do you mean?” The words were like a snarl; and I noticed that his whole body was quivering.

  “Know what became of your brother’s revolver?” pursued Heath relentlessly, thrusting out his jaw.

  Rex’s mouth was working in a paroxysm of fury and fear, but he seemed unable to articulate.

  “Where have you got it hidden?” Again Heath’s voice sounded harshly.

  “Revolver?… Hidden?…” At last Rex had succeeded in formulating his words. “You—filthy rotter! If you’ve got any idea that I have the revolver, go up and tear my room apart and look for it—and be damned to you!” His eyes flashed, and his upper lip lifted over his teeth. But there was fright in his attitude as well as rage.

  Heath had leaned forward and was about to say something further, when Vance quickly rose and laid a restraining hand on the sergeant’s arm. He was too late, however, to avoid the thing he evidently hoped to forestall. What Heath had already said had sufficient stimulus to bring about a terrible reaction in his victim.

  “What do I care what that unspeakable swine says?” he shouted, pointing a palsied finger at the sergeant. Oaths and vituperation welled shrilly from the twitching lips. His insensate wrath seemed to pass all ordinary bounds. His enormous head was thrust forward like a python’s; and his face was cyanosed and contorted.

  Vance stood poised, watching him alertly; and Markham had instinctively moved back his chair. Even Heath was startled by Rex’s inordinate malignity.

  What might have happened I don’t know, had not Von Blon at that moment stepped swiftly into the room and placed a restraining hand on the youth’s shoulder.

  “Rex!” he said, in a calm, authoritative voice. “Get a grip on yourself. You’re disturbing Ada.”

  The other ceased speaking abruptly; but his ferocity of manner did not wholly abate. He shook off the doctor’s hand angrily and swung round, facing Von Blon.

  “What are you interfering for?” he cried. “You’re always meddling in this house, coming here when you’re not sent for, and nosing into our affairs. Mother’s paralysis is only an excuse. You’ve said yourself she’ll never get well, and yet you keep coming, bringing her medicine and sending bills.” He gave the doctor a crafty leer. “Oh, you don’t deceive me. I know why you come here! It’s Sibella!” Again he thrust out his head and grinned shrewdly. “She’d be a good catch for a doctor, too—wouldn’t she? Plenty of money—”

  Suddenly he halted. His eyes did not leave Von Blon, but he shrank back and the twitching of his face began once more. A quivering finger went up; and as he spoke his voice rose excitedly.

  “But Sibella’s money isn’t enough. You want ours along with hers. So you’re arranging for her to inherit all of it. That’s it—that’s it! You’re the one who’s been doing all this… Oh, my God! You’ve got Chester’s gun—you took it! And you’ve got a key to the house—easy enough for you to have one made. That’s how you got in.”

  Von Blon shook his head sadly and smiled with rueful tolerance. It was an embarrassing moment, but he carried it off well.

  “Come, Rex,” he said quietly, like a person speaking to a refractory child. “You’ve said enough—”

  “Have I!” cried the youth, his eyes gleaming unnaturally. “You knew Chester had the revolver. You went camping with him the summer he got it— he told me so the other day, after Julia was killed.” His beady little eyes seemed to stare from his head; a spasm shook his emaciated body; and his fingers again began worrying the hem of his jacket.

  Von Blon stepped swiftly forward and, putting a hand on each of his shoulders, shook him.

  “That’ll do, Rex!” The words were a sharp command. “If you carry on this way, we’ll have to lock you up in an institution.”

  The threat was uttered in what I considered an unnecessarily brutal tone; but it had the desired effect. A haunting fear showed in Rex’s eyes. He seemed suddenly to go limp, and he docilely permitted Von Blon to lead him from the room.

  “A sweet specimen, that Rex,” commented Vance. “Not a person one would choose for a boon companion. Aggravated macrocephalia—cortical irritation. But I say, Sergeant; really, y’ know, you shouldn’t have prodded the lad so.”

  Heath grunted.

  “You can’t tell me that guy don’t know something. And you can bet your sweet life I’m going to search his room damn’ good for that gun.”

  “It appears to me,” rejoined Vance, “he’s too flighty to have planned the massacre in this house. He might blow up under pressure and hit somebody with a handy missile; but I doubt if he’d lay any deep schemes and bide his time.”

  “He’s good and scared about something,” persisted Heath morosely.

  “Hasn’t he cause to be? Maybe he thinks the elusive gunman hereabouts will choose him as the next target.”

  “If there is another gunman, he showed damn bad taste not picking Rex out first.” It was evident the sergeant was still smarting under the epithets that had so recently been directed at him.

  Von Blon returned to the drawing-room at this moment, looking troubled.

  “I’ve got Rex quieted,” he said. “Gave him five grains of luminal. He’ll sleep for a few hours and wake up penitent. I’ve rarely seen him quite so violent as he was today. He’s supersensitive—cerebral neurasthenia; and he’s apt to fly off the handle. But he’s never dangerous.” He scanned our faces swiftly. “One of you gentlemen must have said something pretty severe.”

  Heath looked sheepish. “I asked him where he’d hid the gun.”

  “Ah!” The doctor gave the sergeant a look of questioning reproach. “Too bad! We have to be careful with Rex. He’s all right so long as he isn’t opposed too strongly. But I don’t just see, sir, what your object could have been in questioning him about the revolver. You surely don’t suspect him of having had a hand in these terrible shootings.”

  “You tell me who did the shootings, doc,” retorted Heath pugnaciously, “and then I’ll tell you who I don’t suspect.”

  “I regret that I am unable to enlighten you.” Von Blon’s tone exuded its habitual pleasantness. “But I assure you Rex had no part in them. They’re quite out of keeping with his pathologic state.”

  “That’s the defence of half the high-class killers we get the goods on,” countered Heath.

  “I see I can’t argue with you.” Von Blon sighed regretfully, and turned an engaging countenance in Markham’s direction. “Rex’s absurd accusations puzzled me deeply, but, since this officer admits he practically accused the boy of having the revolver, the situation becomes perfectly clear. A common form of instinctive self-protection, this attempting to shift blame on others. You can see, of course, that Rex was merely trying to turn suspicion upon me so as to free himself. It’s unfortunate, for he and I were always good friends. Poor Rex!”

  “By the by, doctor,” came Vance’s indolent voice; “that point about your being with Mr. Chester Greene on the camping-trip when he first secured the gun: was that correct? Or was it merely a fancy engendered by Rex’s self-protective instinct?”

  Von Blon smiled with faultless urbanity and, putting his head a little on one side, appeared to recall the past.

  “It may be correct,” he admitted. “I was once with Chester on a camping- trip. Yes, it’s quite likely—though I shouldn’t like to state it definitely. It was so long ago.”

  “Fifteen years, I think, Mr. Greene said. Ah, yes—a long time ago. Eheu! fugaces, Postume, P
ostume, labuntur anni. It’s very depressin’. And do you recall, doctor, if Mr. Greene had a revolver along on that particular outing?”

  “Since you mention it, I believe I do recall his having one, though again I should choose not to be definite on the subject.”

  “Perhaps you may recollect if he used it for target practice.” Vance’s tone was dulcet and uneager. “Popping away at tree-boles and tin cans and what not, don’t y’ know.”

  Von Blon nodded reminiscently.

  “Ye—es. It’s quite possible…”

  “And you yourself may have done a bit of desult’ry popping, what?”

  “To be sure, I may have.” Von Blon spoke musingly, like one recalling childish pranks. “Yes, it’s wholly possible.”

  Vance lapsed into a disinterested silence, and the doctor, after a moment’s hesitation, rose.

  “I must be going, I’m afraid.” And with a gracious bow he started toward the door. “Oh, by the way,” he said, pausing, “I almost forgot that Mrs. Greene told me she desired to see you gentlemen before you went. Forgive me if I suggest that it might be wise to humour her. She’s something of a dowager, and her invalidism has made her rather irritable and exacting.”

  “I’m glad you mentioned Mrs. Greene, doctor.” It was Vance who spoke. “I’ve been intending to ask you about her. What is the nature of her paralysis?”