“I don’t believe there’d be any great difficulty in the present instance. Tobias Greene’s will is a matter of record, of course, though it might take some little time to look it up in the Surrogate’s files; and I happen to know old Buckway, the senior partner of Buckway & Aldine, the Greene solicitors. I see him here at the club occasionally, and I’ve done one or two small favours for him. I think I could induce him to tell me confidentially the terms of Mrs. Greene’s will. I’ll see what can be done tomorrow.”
Half an hour later the conference broke up and we went home.
“I fear those wills are not going to help much,” Vance remarked, as he sipped his high-ball before the fire late that night. “Like everything else in this harrowin’ case, they’ll possess some significance that can’t be grasped until they’re fitted into the final picture.”
He rose and, going to the bookshelves, took down a small volume.
“And now I think I’ll erase the Greenes from my mind pro tempore, and dip into the Satyricon. The fusty historians pother frightfully about the reasons for the fall of Rome, whereas the eternal answer is contained in Petronius’s imperishable classic of that city’s decadence.”
He settled himself and turned the pages of his book. But there was no concentration in his attitude, and his eyes wandered constantly from the text.
Two days later—on Tuesday, November 30th—Markham telephoned Vance shortly after ten o’clock in the morning, and asked him to come at once to the office. Vance was preparing to attend an exhibition of negro sculpture at the Modern Gallery, but this indulgence was postponed in view of the District Attorney’s urgent call; and in less than half an hour we were at the Criminal Courts Building.54
“Ada Greene called up this morning, and asked to see me without delay,” explained Markham. “I offered to send Heath out and, if necessary, to come myself later on. But she seemed particularly anxious that I shouldn’t do that, and insisted on coming here: said it was a matter she could speak of more freely away from the house. She seemed somewhat upset, so I told her to come ahead. Then I phoned you and notified Heath.”
Vance settled himself and lit a cigarette.
“I don’t wonder she’d grasp at any chance to shake the atmosphere of her surroundings. And, Markham, I’ve come to the conclusion that girl knows something that would be highly valuable to our inquiry. It’s quite possible, don’t y’ know, that she’s now reached a point where she’ll tell us what’s on her mind.”
As he spoke the sergeant was announced, and Markham briefly explained the situation to him.
“It looks to me,” said Heath gloomily, but with interest, “like it was our only chance of getting a lead. We haven’t learned anything ourselves that’s worth a damn, and unless somebody spills a few suggestions we’re up against it.”
Ten minutes later Ada Greene was ushered into the office. Though her pallor had gone and her arm was no longer in a sling, she still gave one the impression of weakness. But there was none of the tremulousness or shrinking in her bearing that had heretofore characterized her.
She sat down before Markham’s desk, and for a while frowned up at the sunlight, as if debating how to begin.
“It’s about Rex, Mr. Markham,” she said finally. “I really don’t know whether I should have come here or not—it may be very disloyal of me…” She gave him a look of appealing indecision. “Oh, tell me: if a person knows something—something bad and dangerous—about someone very close and very dear, should that person tell, when it might make terrible trouble?”
“That all depends,” Markham answered gravely. “In the present circumstances, if you know anything that might be helpful to a solution of the murder of your brother and sister, it’s your duty to speak.”
“Even if the thing were told me in confidence?” she persisted. “And the person were a member of my family?”
“Even under those conditions, I think.” Markham spoke paternally. “Two terrible crimes have been committed, and nothing should be held back that might bring the murderer to justice—whoever he may be.”
The girl averted her troubled face for a moment. Then she lifted her head with sudden resolution.
“I’ll tell you… You know you asked Rex about the shot in my room, and he told you he didn’t hear it. Well, he confided in me, Mr. Markham; and he did hear the shot. But he was afraid to admit it lest you might think it funny he didn’t get up and give the alarm.”
“Why do you think he remained in bed silent, and pretended to everyone he was asleep?” Markham attempted to suppress the keen interest the girl’s information had roused in him.
“That’s what I don’t understand. He wouldn’t tell me. But he had some reason—I know he did!—some reason that terrified him. I begged him to tell me, but the only explanation he gave was that the shot was not all he heard…”
“Not all!” Markham spoke with ill-concealed excitement. “He heard something else that, you say, terrified him? But why shouldn’t he have told us about it?”
“That’s the strange part of it. He got angry when I asked him. But there’s something he knows—some awful secret; I feel sure of it… Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have told you. Maybe it will get Rex into trouble. But I felt that you ought to know because of the frightful things that have happened. I thought perhaps you could talk to Rex and make him tell you what’s on his mind.”
Again she looked beseechingly at Markham, and there was the anxiety of a vague fear in her eyes.
“Oh, I do wish you’d ask him—and try to find out,” she went on, in a pleading tone. “I’d feel—safer if—if…”
Markham nodded and patted her hand.
“We’ll try to make him talk.”
“But don’t try at the house,” she said quickly. “There are people— things—around; and Rex would be too frightened. Ask him to come here, Mr. Markham. Get him away from that awful place, where he can talk without being afraid that someone’s listening. Rex is home now. Ask him to come here. Tell him I’m here, too. Maybe I can help you reason with him… Oh, do this for me, Mr. Markham!”
Markham glanced at the clock and ran his eye over his appointment-pad. He was, I knew, as anxious as Ada to have Rex on the carpet for a questioning; and, after a momentary hesitation, he picked up the telephone-receiver and had Swacker put him through to the Greene mansion. From what I heard of the conversation that ensued, it was plain that he experienced considerable difficulty in urging Rex to come to the office, for he had to resort to a veiled threat of summary legal action before he finally succeeded.
“He evidently fears some trap,” commented Markham thoughtfully, replacing the receiver. “But he has promised to get dressed immediately and come.”
A look of relief passed over the girl’s face.
“There’s one other thing I ought to tell you,” she said hurriedly: “though it may not mean anything. The other night, in the rear of the lower hall by the stairs, I picked up a piece of paper—like a leaf torn from a notebook. And there was a drawing on it of all our bedrooms upstairs with four little crosses marked in ink-one at Julia’s room, one at Chester’s, one at Rex’s, and one at mine. And down in the corner were several of the queerest signs, or pictures. One was a heart with three nails in it; and one looked like a parrot. Then there was a picture of what seemed to be three little stones with a line under them…”
Heath suddenly jerked himself forward, his cigar halfway to his lips.
“A parrot, and three stones! … And say, Miss Greene, was there an arrow with numbers on it?”
“Yes!” she answered eagerly. “That was there, too.”
Heath put the cigar in his mouth and chewed on it with vicious satisfaction.
“That means something, Mr. Markham,” he proclaimed, trying to keep the agitation out of his voice. “Those are all symbols—graphic signs, they’re called—of Continental crooks, German or Austrian mostly.”
“The stones, I happen to know,” put in Vance, represent the idea of th
e martyrdom of Saint Stephen, who was stoned to death. They’re the emblem of Saint Stephen, according to the calendar of the Styrian peasantry.”
“I don’t know anything about that, sir,” answered Heath. “But I know that European crooks use those signs.”
“Oh, doubtless. I ran across a number of ’em when I was looking up the emblematic language of the gipsies. A fascinatin’ study.” Vance seemed uninterested in Ada’s discovery.
“Have you this paper with you, Miss Greene?” asked Markham.
The girl was embarrassed and shook her head.
“I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t think it was important. Should I have brought it?”
“Did you destroy it?” Heath put the question excitedly.
“Oh, I have it safely. I put it away…”
“We gotta have that paper, Mr. Markham.” The sergeant had risen and come toward the district attorney’s desk. “It may be just the lead we’re looking for.”
“If you really want it so badly,” said Ada, “I can ’phone Rex to bring it with him. He’ll know where to find it if I explain.”
“Right That’ll save me a trip.” Heath nodded to Markham. “Try to catch him before he leaves, sir.”
Taking up the telephone, Markham again directed Swacker to get Rex on the wire. After a brief delay the connection was made and he handed the instrument to Ada.
“Hallo, Rex dear,” she said. “Don’t scold me, for there’s nothing to worry about… What I wanted of you is this: in our private mail-box you’ll find a sealed envelope of my personal blue stationery. Please get it and bring it with you to Mr. Markham’s office. And don’t let anyone see you take it… That’s all, Rex. Now, hurry, and we’ll have lunch together downtown.”
“It will be at least half an hour before Mr. Greene can get here,” said Markham, turning to Vance; “and as I’ve a waiting-room full of people, why don’t you and Van Dine take the young lady to the Stock Exchange and show her how the mad brokers disport themselves. How would you like that, Miss Greene?”
“I’d love it!” exclaimed the girl.
“Why not go along too, Sergeant?”
“Me!” Heath snorted. “I get excitement enough. I’ll run over and talk to the Colonel for a while.”55
Vance and Ada and I motored the few blocks to 18, Broad Street, and, taking the elevator, passed through the reception-room (where uniformed attendants peremptorily relieved us of our wraps), and came out upon the visitors’ gallery overlooking the floor of the Exchange. There was an unusually active market that day. The pandemonium was almost deafening, and the feverish activity about the trading-posts resembled the riots of an excited mob. I was too familiar with the sight to be particularly impressed; and Vance, who detested noise and disorder, looked on with an air of bored annoyance. But Ada’s face lighted up at once. Her eyes sparkled and the blood rushed to her cheeks. She gazed over the railing in a thrall of fascination.
“And now you see, Miss Greene, how foolish men can be,” said Vance.
“Oh, but it’s wonderful!” she answered. “They’re alive. They feel things. They have something to fight for.”
“You think you’d like it?” smiled Vance.
“I’d adore it. I’ve always longed for something exciting—something… like that…” She extended her hand toward the milling crowds below.
It was easy to understand her reaction after her years of monotonous service to an invalid in the dreary Greene mansion.
At the moment I happened to look up, and, to my surprise, Heath was standing in the doorway scanning the group of visitors. He appeared troubled and unusually grim, and there was a nervous intentness in the way he moved his head. I raised my hand to attract his attention, and he immediately came to where we stood.
“The Chief wants you at the office right away, Mr. Vance.” There was an ominousness in his tone. “He sent me over to get you.”
Ada looked at him steadily, and a pallor of fear overspread her face.
“Well, well!” Vance shrugged in mock resignation.
“Just when we were getting interested in the sights. But we must obey the Chief—eh, what, Miss Greene?”
But, despite his attempt to make light of Markham’s unexpected summons, Ada was strangely silent; and as we rode back to the office she did not speak but sat tensely, her unseeing eyes staring straight ahead.
It seemed an interminable time before we reached the Criminal Courts Building. The traffic was congested; and there was even a long delay at the elevator. Vance appeared to take the situation calmly; but Heath’s lips were compressed, and he breathed heavily through his nose, like a man labouring under tense excitement.
As we entered the District Attorney’s office Markham rose and looked at the girl with a great tenderness.
“You must be brave, Miss Greene,” he said, in a quiet, sympathetic voice. “Something tragic and unforeseen has happened. And as you will have to be told it sooner or later—”
“It’s Rex!” She sank limply into a chair facing Markham’s desk.
“Yes,” he said softly; “it’s Rex. Sproot called up a few minutes after you had gone…”
“And he’s been shot—like Julia and Chester!” Her words were scarcely audible, but they brought a sense of horror into the dingy old office.
Markham inclined his head.
“Not five minutes after you telephoned to him someone entered his room and shot him.”
A dry sob shook the girl, and she buried her face in her arms.
Markham stepped round the desk and placed his hand gently on her shoulder.
“We’ve got to face it, my child,” he said. “We’re going to the house at once to see what can be done; and you’d better come in the car with us.”
“Oh, I don’t want to go back,” she moaned. “I’m afraid—I’m afraid! …”
CHAPTER XIV
FOOTPRINTS ON THE CARPET
(Tuesday, November 30th; noon)
Markham had considerable difficulty in persuading Ada to accompany us. The girl seemed almost in a panic of fright. Moreover, she held herself indirectly responsible for Rex’s death. But at last she permitted us to lead her down to the car.
Heath had already telephoned to the Homicide Bureau, and his arrangements for the investigation were complete when we started up Centre Street. At Police Headquarters Snitkin and another Central Office man named Burke were waiting for us, and crowded into the tonneau of Markham’s car. We made excellent time to the Greene mansion, arriving there in less than twenty minutes.
A plain-clothes man lounged against the iron railing at the end of the street a few yards beyond the gate of the Greene grounds, and at a sign from Heath came forward at once.
“What about it, Santos?” the sergeant demanded gruffly. “Who’s been in and out of here this morning?”
“What’s the big idea?” the man retorted indignantly. “That old bimbo of a butler came out about nine and returned in less than half an hour with a package. Said he’d been to Third Avenue to get some dog-biscuits. The family sawbones drove up at quarter past ten—that’s his car across the street.” He pointed to Von Blon’s Daimler, which was parked diagonally opposite. “He’s still inside. Then, about ten minutes after the doc arrived, this young lady”—he indicated Ada—“came out and walked toward Avenue A, where she hopped a taxi. And that’s every man, woman, or child that’s passed in or out of these gates since I relieved Cameron at eight o’clock this morning.”
“And Cameron’s report?”
“Nobody all night.”
“Well, someone got in some way,” growled Heath. “Run along the west wall there and tell Donnelly to come here pronto.”
Santos disappeared through the gate, and a moment later we could see him hurrying through the side yard toward the garage. In a few minutes Donnelly—the man set to watch the postern gate—came hurrying up.
“Who got in the backway this morning?” barked Heath.
“Nobody, Serg
eant. The cook went marketing about ten o’clock, and two regular deliverymen left packages. That’s every one who’s been through the rear gate since yesterday.”
“Is that so!” Heath was viciously sarcastic. “I’m telling you—”
“Oh, all right, all right.” The sergeant turned to Burke. “You get up on this wall and make the rounds. See if you can find where anyone has climbed over. And you, Snitkin, look over the yard for footprints. When you guys finish, report to me. I’m going inside.”
We went up the front walk, which had been swept clean, and Sproot admitted us to the house. His face was as blank as ever, and he took our coats with his usual obsequious formality.
“You’d better go to your room now, Miss Greene,” said Markham, placing his hand kindly on Ada’s arm. “Lie down, and try to get a little rest. You look tired. I’ll be in to see you before I go.”
The girl obeyed submissively without a word.
“And you, Sproot,” he ordered; “come in the living-room.”
The old butler followed us and stood humbly before the centre-table, where Markham seated himself.
“Now, let’s hear your story.”
Sproot cleared his throat and stared out of the window.
“There’s very little to tell, sir. I was in the butler’s pantry, polishing the glass-ware, when I heard the shot—”
“Go back a little further,” interrupted Markham. “I understand you made a trip to Third Avenue at nine this morning.”
“Yes, sir: Miss Sibella bought a Pomeranian yesterday, and she asked me to get some dog-biscuits after breakfast.”
“Who called at the house this morning?”
“No one, sir—that is, no one but Doctor Von Blon.”
“All right. Now tell us everything that happened.”
“Nothing happened, sir—nothing unusual, that is—until poor Mr. Rex was shot. Miss Ada went out a few minutes after Doctor Von Blon arrived; and a little past eleven o’clock you telephoned to Mr. Rex. Then shortly afterward you telephoned a second time to Mr. Rex; and I returned to the pantry. I had only been there a few minutes when I heard the shot—”
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