"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.
6. 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."
"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, sl
iding 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 to-morrow 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 to-day, 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."
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