“Fancy that. But she might have saved herself the trouble. What does the doughty sergeant opine?”
“Heath reached the house before ten o’clock, and made an investigation. But he learned nothing. No one admitted hearing any sound in the hall during the night. He researched the house himself, but without result.”
“Have you heard from Von Blon this morning?”
“No; but Heath saw him. He came to the house about ten and stayed nearly an hour. He appeared very much upset over the stolen drugs, and immediately asked if any trace of them had been found. He spent most of the hour with Sibella.”
“Ah, welladay! Let us enjoy our truffes gastronome without the intrusion of unpleasant speculations. This Madeira sauce, by the by, is very good.” Thus Vance dismissed the subject.
However, that luncheon was to prove a memorable one; for toward the end of the meal Vance made a suggestion—or, rather, insisted upon an action— that was eventually to solve and explain the terrible tragedies at the Greene mansion. We had reached our dessert when, after a long silence, he looked up at Markham and said:
“The Pandora complex has seized and mastered me. I simply must get into Tobias’s locked library. That sacred adytum has begun to infest my slumbers; and ever since you mentioned the legacy of those books I’ve had no rest. I yearn to become acquainted with Tobias’s literary taste, and to learn why he should have selected the police for his beneficiaries.”
“But, my dear Vance, what possible connection?”
“Desist! You can’t think of a question I have not already put to myself; and I’m unable to answer any of them. But the fact remains, I must inspect that library even if you have to get a judicial order to batter down the door. There are sinister undercurrents in that old house, Markham; and a hint or two may be found in that secret room.”
“It will be a difficult proceeding if Mrs. Greene stands firm on her refusal to deliver the key to us.” Markham, I could see, had already acquiesced. He was in a mood to accede to any suggestion that even remotely promised a clarification of the problem posed by the Greene murders.
It was nearly three o’clock when we reached the house. Heath had already arrived, in answer to a telephone call from Markham; and we at once presented ourselves to Mrs. Greene. Following an ocular sign from the sergeant the new nurse left the room; and Markham went directly to the point. The old lady had eyed us suspiciously as we came in, and now sat rigidly against her pile of pillows, her gaze fixed on Markham with defensive animosity.
“Madam,” he began, somewhat severely, “we regret the necessity of this call. But certain things have arisen which make it imperative that we visit Mr. Greene’s library—”
“You shan’t” she broke in, her voice rising in an infuriated crescendo. “You shan’t put your foot in that room! Not for twelve years has anyone passed the threshold, and no policeman now shall desecrate the place where my husband spent the last years of his life.”
“I appreciate the sentiment that actuates your refusal,” replied Markham; “but graver considerations have intervened. The room will have to be searched.”
“Not if you kill me!” she cried. “How dare you force your way into my house?”
Markham held up his hand authoritatively.
“I am not here to argue the matter. I came to you merely to ask for the key. Of course, if you prefer to have us break down the door…” He drew a sheaf of papers from his pocket. “I have secured a search-warrant for that room; and it would cause me deep regret to have to serve it on you.” (I was amazed at his aggressive daring, for I knew he had no warrant.)
Mrs. Greene broke forth with imprecations. Her anger became almost insensate, and she was changed into a creature at once repulsive and pitiful. Markham waited calmly for her paroxysm of fury to pass; and when, her vituperation spent, she beheld his quiet, inexorable bearing, she knew that she had lost. She sank back, white and exhausted.
“Take the key,” she capitulated bitterly, “and save me the final infamy of having my house torn down by ruffians… It’s in the ivory jewel-case in the top drawer of that cabinet.” She pointed weakly to the lacquered high-boy.
Vance crossed the room and secured the key—a long, old-fashioned instrument with a double bit and a filigreed bow.
“Have you always kept the key in this jewel-case, Mrs. Greene?” he asked, as he closed the drawer.
“For twelve years,” she whined. “And now, after all that time, it is to be taken from me by force—and by the police, the very police who should be protecting an old, helpless paralytic like me. It’s infamy! But what can I expect? Everyone takes delight in torturing me.”
Markham, his object gained, became contrite, and endeavoured to pacify her by explaining the seriousness of the situation. But in this he failed; and a few moments later he joined us in the hall.
“I don’t like this sort of thing, Vance,” he said.
“You did remarkably well, however. If I hadn’t been with you since lunch I’d have believed you really had a search-warrant. You are a veritable Machiavelli. Te saluto!”
“Get on with your business, now that you have the key,” ordered Markham irritably. And we descended to the main hall.
Vance looked about him cautiously to make sure we were not observed, and led the way to the library.
“The lock works rather easily, considering its twelve years of desuetude,” he remarked, as he turned the key and gently pushed open the massive oak door. “And the hinges don’t even creak. Astonishin’.”
Blackness confronted us, and Vance struck a match.
“Please don’t touch anything,” he admonished, and, holding the match high before him, he crossed to the heavy velour draperies of the east window. As he drew them apart a cloud of dust filled the air.
“These curtains, at least, have not been touched for years,” he said.
The grey light of mid-afternoon suffused the room, revealing an astonishing retreat. The walls were lined with open book-shelves which reached from the floor nearly to the ceiling, leaving only space enough for a row of marble busts and squat bronze vases. At the southern end of the room was a massive flat-topped desk, and in the centre stood a long carved table laden with curious and outlandish ornaments. Beneath the windows and in the corners were piles of pamphlets and portfolios; and along the moulding of the bookcases hung gargoyles and old prints yellow with age. Two enormous Persian lamps of perforated brass depended from the ceiling, and beside the centre-table stood a Chinese sconce eight feet high. The floor was covered with overlapping Oriental rugs laid at all angles; and at each end of the fire-place was a hideous painted totem-pole reaching to the beams. A thick coating of dust overlay everything.
Vance returned to the door and, striking another match, closely examined the inner knob.
“Someone,” he announced, “has been here recently. There’s no sign of dust on this knob.”
“We might get the finger-prints,” suggested Heath.
Vance shook his head.
“Not even worth trying. The person we’re dealing with knows better than to leave sign manuals.”
He closed the door softly and threw the bolt. Then he looked about him. Presently he pointed beneath a huge geographical globe beside the desk.
“There are your galoshes, Sergeant. I thought they’d be here.”
Heath almost threw himself upon them, and carried them to the window.
“They’re the ones, all right,” he declared.
Markham gave Vance one of his annoyed, calculating stares.
“You’ve got some theory,” he asserted, in an accusing tone.
“Nothing more than I’ve already told you. The finding of the galoshes was wholly incidental. I’m interested in other things—just what, I don’t know.”
He stood near the centre-table and let his eyes roam over the objects of the room. Presently his gaze came to rest on a low wicker reading-chair, the right arm of which was shaped into a book-rest. It stood within a
few feet of the wall opposite to the fire-place, facing a narrow section of book-shelves that was surmounted by a replica of the Capitoline Museum bust of Vespasian.
“Most untidy,” he murmured. “I’m sure that chair wasn’t left in that position twelve years ago.”
He moved forward, and stood looking down at it musingly. Instinctively Markham and Heath followed him; and then saw the thing that he had been contemplating. On the table-arm of the chair was a deep saucer in which stood the thick stub of a candle. The saucer was almost filled with smoky wax drippings.
“It took many candles to fill that dish,” commented Vance; “and I doubt if the departed Tobias did his reading by candle-light.” He touched the seat and the back of the chair, and then examined his hand. “There’s dust, but nowhere near a decade’s accumulation. Someone has been browsing in this library rather recently; and he was dashed secretive about it. He didn’t dare draw the shades or turn on the lights. He sat here with a single candle, sampling Tobias’s brand of literature. And it apparently appealed to him, for this one saucer contains evidence of many bookish nights. How many other saucers of paraffin there were we don’t know.”
“The old lady could tell us who had a chance to put the key back this morning after hiding the galoshes,” offered Heath.
“No one put the key back this morning, Sergeant. The person who was in the habit of visiting here wouldn’t have stolen it and returned it on each occasion when he could have had a duplicate made in fifteen minutes.”
“I guess you’re right.” The sergeant was sorely perplexed. “But as long as we don’t know who’s got the key, we’re no better off than we were.”
“We’re not quite through yet with our scrutiny of the library,” rejoined Vance. “As I told Mr. Markham at lunch, my main object in coming here was to ascertain Tobias’s taste in literature.”
“A lot of good that’ll do you!”
“One can never tell. Tobias, remember, bequeathed his library to the Police Department… Let’s see with what tomes the old boy whiled away his inactive hours.”
Vance took out his monocle and, polishing it carefully, fitted it to his eye. Then he turned to the nearest bookshelves. I stepped forward and looked over his shoulder; and, as my glance ran over the dusty titles, I could scarcely suppress an exclamation of amazement. Here was one of the most complete and unusual private libraries of criminology in America— and I was familiar with many of the country’s famous collections. Crime in all its phases and ramifications was represented. Rare old treatises, long out of print and now the delight of bibliophiles, shouldered one another in compact tiers on Tobias Greene’s shelves.
Nor were the subjects of these books limited to a narrow interpretation of criminology. All the various allied branches of the subject were represented. There were entire sections devoted to insanity and cretinism, social and criminal pathology, suicide, pauperism and philanthropy, prison reform, prostitution and morphinism, capital punishment, abnormal psychology, legal codes, the argot of the underworld and code writing, toxicology, and police methods. The volumes were in many languages—English, French, German, Italian, Spanish, Swedish, Russian, Dutch, and Latin.56
Vance’s eyes sparkled as he moved along the crowded shelves. Markham also was deeply interested; and Heath, bending here and there towards a volume, registered an expression of bewildered curiosity.
“My word!” murmured Vance. “No wonder your department, Sergeant, was chosen as the future custodian of these tomes. What a collection! Extr’ordin’ry! Aren’t you glad, Markham, you wangled the old lady into relinquishing the key?”
Suddenly he stiffened and jerked his head toward the door, at the same time lifting his hand for silence. I, too, had heard a slight noise in the hall, like someone brushing against the woodwork of the door, but had thought nothing of it. For a few moments we waited tensely. But no further sound came to us, and Vance stepped quickly to the door and drew it open. The hall was empty. He stood on the threshold for a while listening. Then he closed the door, and turned again to the room.
“I could have sworn someone was listening in the hall.”
“I heard a rustle of some kind,” Markham corroborated him. “I took it for granted it was Sproot or the maid passing by.”
“Why should anybody’s hanging round the hall worry us, Mr. Vance?” Heath asked.
“I really couldn’t say, don’t y’ know. But it bothers me, nevertheless. If someone was at the door listening, it shows that our presence here has produced a state of anxiety in the person privy to the fact. It’s possible, d’ ye see, that someone is desirous of ascertaining what we have found out.”
“Well, I can’t see that we’ve found out enough to make anybody lose any sleep,” mumbled Heath.
“You’re so discouraging, Sergeant.” Vance sighed and went to the book- shelves in front of the wicker reading-chair. “There may be something in this section to cheer us. Let us see if there’s a glad tiding or two written in the dust.”
He struck match after match as he carefully inspected the tops of the books, beginning at the highest shelf and systematically scrutinizing the volumes of each row. He had reached the second shelf from the floor when he bent over curiously and gave a second long look at two thick grey volumes. Then, putting out the match, he took the volumes to the window.
“The thing is quite mad,” he remarked, after a brief examination. “These are the only books within arm’s reach of the chair that have been handled recently. And what do you think they are? An old two-volume edition of Professor Hans Gross’s Handbuch für Untersuchungsrichter als System der Kriminalistik, or—to claw the title loosely into the vulgate—A Handbook on the Criminal Sciences for Examining Magistrates.” He gave Markham a look of facetious reproach. “I say, you haven’t, by any chance, been spending your nights in this library learning how to ballyrag suspects?”
Markham ignored his levity. He recognised the outward sign of Vance’s inner uneasiness.
“The apparently irrelevant theme of the book,” he returned, “might indicate a mere coincidence between the visits of some person to this room and the crimes committed in the house.”
Vance made no answer. He thoughtfully returned the books to their place and ran his eyes over the remaining volumes of the bottom shelf. Suddenly he knelt down and struck another match.
“Here are several books out of place.” I detected a subdued note of eagerness in his voice. “They belong in other sections; and they’ve been crowded in here a little out of alignment. Moreover, they’re innocent of dust… ’Pon my soul, Markham, here’s a coincidence for your sceptical legal mind! Lend an ear to these titles: Poisons: Their Effects and Detection, by Alexander Wynter Blyth,57 and Textbook of Medical Jurisprudence, Toxicology, and Public Health, by John Glaister, Professor of Forensic Medicine at the University of Glasgow. And here we have Friedrich Brügelmann’s Ueber hysterische Dammerzustande, and Schwarzwald’s Ueber Hystero-Paralyse and Somnambulismus. I say! That’s deuced queer…”
He rose and walked up and down, agitated.
“No—no; absolutely not,” he muttered. “It simply can’t be… Why should Von Blon lie to us about her?”
We all knew what was in his mind. Even Heath sensed it at once, for, though he did not speak German, the titles of the two German books— especially the latter —needed no translation to be understood. Hysteria and twilight sleep! Hysterical paralysis and somnambulism! The gruesome and terrible implication in these two titles, and their possible relation to the sinister tragedies of the Greene mansion, sent a chill of horror over me.
Vance stopped his restless pacing and fixed a grave gaze on Markham.
“This thing gets deeper and deeper.—Something unthinkable is going on here.—Come, let us get out of this polluted room. It has told us its gibbering, nightmarish story. And now we will have to interpret it—find some glimmer of sanity in its black suggestions.—Sergeant, will you draw the curtains while I straighten these books? We’d be
st leave no evidence of our visit.”
CHAPTER XIX
SHERRY AND PARALYSIS
(Wednesday, December 1st; 4.30 P.M.)
When we returned to Mrs. Greene’s room the old lady was apparently sleeping peacefully and we did not disturb her. Heath gave the key to Nurse O’Brien with instructions to replace it in the jewel-case, and we went downstairs.
Although it was but a little past four o’clock, the early winter twilight had already descended. Sproot had not yet lighted the lamps, and the lower hall was in semidarkness. A ghostly atmosphere pervaded the house. Even the silence was oppressive, and seemed fraught with the spirit of commination. We went straight to the hall-table where we had thrown our coats, eager to get out into the open air.
But we were not to shake the depressing influence of the old mansion so quickly. We had scarcely reached the table when there came a slight stirring of the portières of the archway opposite to the drawing-room, and a tense, whispered voice said:
“Mr. Vance—please!”
We turned, startled. There, just inside of the reception-room, hiding behind the heavy draperies, stood Ada, her face a patch of ghastly white in the gathering gloom. With one finger placed on her lips for silence, she beckoned to us; and we stepped softly into the chill, unused room.
“There’s something I must tell you,” she said, in a half-whisper— “something terrible! I was going to telephone you today, but I was afraid…” A fit of trembling seized her.
“Don’t be frightened, Ada,” Vance encouraged her soothingly. “In a few days all these awful things will be over.—What have you to tell us?”
She made an effort to draw herself together, and when the tremor had passed she went on hesitantly.
“Last night—it was long after midnight—I woke, and felt hungry. So I got up, slipped on a wrap, and stole downstairs. Cook always leaves something in the pantry for me…” Again she stopped, and her haunted eyes searched our faces. “But when I reached the lower landing of the stairs I heard a soft, shuffling sound in the hall—far back, near the library door. My heart was in my mouth, but I made myself look over the banister. And just then-someone struck a match…”!
The Philo Vance Megapack Page 73
