“There’s one thing you can do for me while I’m away,” he told Markham, as he slipped into his overcoat. “Please have drawn up for me a complete and detailed weather report from the day preceding Julia’s death to the day following Rex’s murder.”
He would not let either Markham or me accompany him to the station, and we were left in ignorance of even the direction in which his mysterious trip was to take him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVEThe Capture
(Monday, December 13; 4 p.m.)
IT WAS EIGHT days before Vance returned to New York. He arrived on the afternoon of Monday, December 13, and, after he had had his tub and changed his clothes, he telephoned Markham to expect him in half an hour. He then ordered his Hispano-Suiza from the garage; and by this sign I knew he was under a nervous strain. In fact, he had spoken scarcely a dozen words to me since his return, and as he picked his way down-town through the late afternoon traffic he was gloomy and preoccupied. Once I ventured to ask him if his trip had been successful, and he had merely nodded. But when we turned into Centre Street he relented a little and said:
“There was never any doubt as to the success of my trip, Van. I knew what I’d find. But I didn’t dare trust my reason; I had to see the records with my own eyes before I’d capitulate unreservedly to the conclusion I’d formed.”
Both Markham and Heath were waiting for us in the District Attorney’s office. It was just four o’clock, and the sun had already dropped below the New York Life Building which towered above the old Criminal Courts structure a block to the southwest.
“I took it for granted you had something important to tell me,” said Markham; “so I asked the Sergeant to come here.”
“Yes, I’ve much to tell.” Vance had thrown himself into a chair, and was lighting a cigarette. “But first I want to know if anything has happened in my absence.”
“Nothing. Your prognostication was quite accurate. Things have been quiet and apparently normal at the Greene mansion.”
“Anyhow,” interposed Heath, “we may have a little better chance this week of getting hold of something to work on. Sibella returned from Atlantic City yesterday, and Von Blon’s been hanging round the house ever since.”
“Sibella back?” Vance sat up, and his eyes became intent.
“At six o’clock yesterday evening,” said Markham.
“The newspaper men at the beach ferreted her out and ran a sensational story about her. After that the poor girl didn’t have an hour’s peace; so yesterday she packed up and came back. We got word of the move through the men the Sergeant had set to watch her. I ran out to see her this morning, and advised her to go away again. But she was pretty thoroughly disgusted, and stubbornly refused to quit the Greene house—said death was preferable to being hounded by reporters and scandalmongers.”
Vance had risen and moved to the window, where he stood scanning the gray sky-line.
“Sibella’s back, eh?” he murmured. Then he turned round. “Let me see that weather report I asked you to prepare for me.”
Markham reached into a drawer and handed him a typewritten sheet of paper.
After perusing it he tossed it back on the desk.
“Keep that, Markham. You’ll need it when you face your twelve good men and true.”
“What is it you have to tell us, Mr. Vance?” The Sergeant’s voice was impatient despite his effort to control it. “Mr. Markham said you had a line on the case.—For God’s sake, sir, if you’ve got any evidence against any one, slip it to me and let me make an arrest. I’m getting thin worrying over this damn business.”
Vance drew himself together.
“Yes, I know who the murderer is, Sergeant; and I have the evidence—though it wasn’t my plan to tell you just yet. However”—he went to the door with grim resolution—“we can’t delay matters any longer now. Our hand has been forced.—Get into your coat, Sergeant,—and you, too, Markham. We’d better get out to the Greene house before dark.”
“But, damn it all, Vance!” Markham expostulated, “Why don’t you tell us what’s in your mind?”
“I can’t explain now—you’ll understand why later—”
“If you know so much, Mr. Vance,” broke in Heath, “what’s keeping us from making an arrest?”
“You’re going to make your arrest, Sergeant—inside of an hour.” Though he gave the promise without enthusiasm, it acted electrically on both Heath and Markham.
Five minutes later the four of us were driving up West Broadway in Vance’s car.
Sproot as usual admitted us without the faintest show of interest, and stood aside respectfully for us to enter.
“We wish to see Miss Sibella,” said Vance. “Please tell her to come to the drawing-room—alone.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Sibella is out.”
“Then tell Miss Ada we want to see her.”
“Miss Ada is out also, sir.” The butler’s unemotional tone sounded strangely incongruous in the tense atmosphere we had brought with us.
“When do you expect them back?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. They went out motoring together. They probably won’t be gone long. Would you gentlemen care to wait?”
Vance hesitated.
“Yes, we’ll wait,” he decided, and walked toward the drawing-room.
But he had barely reached the archway when he turned suddenly and called to Sproot, who was retreating slowly toward the rear of the hall.
“You say Miss Sibella and Miss Ada went motoring together? How long ago?”
“About fifteen minutes—maybe twenty, sir.” A barely perceptible lift of the man’s eyebrows indicated that he was greatly astonished by Vance’s sudden change of manner.
“Whose car did they go in?”
“In Doctor Von Blon’s. He was here to tea—”
“And who suggested the ride, Sproot?”
“I really couldn’t say, sir. They were sort of debating about it when I came in to clear away the tea things.”
“Repeat everything you heard!” Vance spoke rapidly and with more than a trace of excitement.
“When I entered the room the doctor was saying as how he thought it would be a good thing for the young ladies to get some fresh air; and Miss Sibella said she’d had enough fresh air.”
“And Miss Ada?”
“I don’t remember her saying anything, sir.”
“And they went out to the car while you were here?”
“Yes, sir. I opened the door for them.”
“And did Doctor Von Blon go in the car with them?”
“Yes. But I believe they were to drop him at Mrs. Riglander’s, where he had a professional call to make. From what he said as he went out I gathered that the young ladies were then to take a drive, and that he was to call here for the car after dinner.”
“What!” Vance stiffened, and his eyes burned upon the old butler. “Quick, Sproot! Do you know where Mrs. Riglander lives?”
“On Madison Avenue in the Sixties, I believe.”
“Get her on the phone—find out if the doctor has arrived.”
I could not help marvelling at the impassive way in which the man went to the telephone to comply with this astonishing and seemingly incomprehensible request. When he returned his face was expressionless.
“The doctor has not arrived at Mrs. Riglander’s, sir,” he reported.
“He’s certainly had time,” Vance commented, half to himself. Then: “Who drove the car when it left here, Sproot?”
“I couldn’t say for certain, sir. I didn’t notice particularly. But it’s my impression that Miss Sibella entered the car first as though she intended to drive—”
“Come, Markham!” Vance started for the door. “I don’t like this at all. There’s a mad idea in my head... Hurry, man! If something devilish should happen...”
We had reached the car, and Vance sprang to the wheel. Heath and Markham, in a daze of incomprehension but swept along by the other’s ominous insistence, took their
places in the tonneau; and I sat beside the driver’s seat.
“We’re going to break all the traffic and speed regulations, Sergeant,” Vance announced, as he manœuvered the car in the narrow street; “so have your badge and credentials handy. I may be taking you chaps on a wild-goose chase, but we’ve got to risk it.”
We darted toward First Avenue, cut the corner short, and turned up-town. At 59th Street we swung west and went toward Columbus Circle. A surface car held us up at Lexington Avenue; and at Fifth Avenue we were stopped by a traffic officer. But Heath showed his card and spoke a few words, and we struck across Central Park. Swinging perilously round the curves of the driveways, we came out into 81st Street and headed for Riverside Drive. There was less congestion here, and we made between forty and fifty miles an hour all the way to Dyckman Street.
It was a nerve-racking ordeal, for not only had the shadows of evening fallen, but the streets were slippery in places where the melted snow had frozen in large sheets along the sloping sides of the Drive. Vance, however, was an excellent driver. For two years he had driven the same car, and he understood thoroughly how to handle it. Once we skidded drunkenly, but he managed to right the traction before the rear wheels came in contact with the high curbing. He kept the siren horn screeching constantly, and other cars drew away from us, giving us a fairly clear road.
At several street intersections we had to slow down; and twice we were halted by traffic officers, but were permitted to proceed the moment the occupants of the tonneau were recognized. On North Broadway we were forced to the curb by a motorcycle policeman, who showered us with a stream of picturesque abuse. But when Heath had cut him short with still more colorful vituperation, and he had made out Markham’s features in the shadows, he became ludicrously humble, and acted as an advance-guard for us all the way to Yonkers, clearing the road and holding up traffic at every cross-street.
At the railroad tracks near Yonkers Ferry we were obliged to wait several minutes for the shunting of some freight-cars, and Markham took this opportunity of venting his emotions.
“I presume you have a good reason for this insane ride, Vance,” he said angrily. “But since I’m taking my life in my hands by accompanying you, I’d like to know what your objective is.”
“There’s no time now for explanations,” Vance replied brusquely. “Either I’m on a fool’s errand, or there’s an abominable tragedy ahead of us.” His face was set and white, and he looked anxiously at his watch. “We’re twenty minutes ahead of the usual running time from the Plaza to Yonkers. Furthermore, we’re taking the direct route to our destination—another ten minutes’ saving. If the thing I fear is scheduled for to-night, the other car will go by the Spuyten Duyvil Road and through the back lanes along the river—”
At this moment the crossing-bars were lifted, and our car jerked forward, picking up speed with breathless rapidity.
Vance’s words had set a train of thought going in my mind. The Spuyten Duyvil Road—the black lanes along the river... Suddenly there flashed on my brain a memory of that other ride we had taken weeks before with Sibella and Ada and Von Blon; and a sense of something inimical and indescribably horrifying took possession of me. I tried to recall the details of that ride—how we had turned off the main road at Dyckman Street, skirted the palisades through old wooded estates, traversed private hedge-lined roadways, entered Yonkers from the Riverdale Road, turned again from the main highway past the Ardsley Country Club, taken the little-used road along the river toward Tarrytown, and stopped on the high cliff to get a panoramic view of the Hudson... That cliff overlooking the waters of the river!—Ah, now I remembered Sibella’s cruel jest—her supposedly satirical suggestion of how a perfect murder might be committed there. And on the instant of that recollection I knew where Vance was heading—I understood the thing he feared! He believed that another car was also heading for that lonely precipice beyond Ardsley—a car that had nearly half an hour start...
We were now below the Longue Vue hill, and a few moments later we swung into the Hudson Road. At Dobbs Ferry another officer stepped in our path and waved frantically; but Heath, leaning over the running-board, shouted some unintelligible words, and Vance, without slackening speed, skirted the officer and plunged ahead toward Ardsley.
Ever since we had passed Yonkers, Vance had been inspecting every large car along the way. He was, I knew, looking for Von Blon’s low-hung yellow Daimler. But there had been no sign of it, and, as he threw on the brakes preparatory to turning into the narrow road by the Country Club golf-links, I heard him mutter half aloud:
“God help us if we’re too late!”*
We made the turn at the Ardsley station at such a rate of speed that I held my breath for fear we would upset; and I had to grip the seat with both hands to keep my balance as we jolted over the rough road along the river level. We took the hill before us in high gear, and climbed swiftly to the dirt roadway along the edge of the bluff beyond.
Scarcely had we rounded the hill’s crest when an exclamation broke from Vance, and simultaneously I noticed a flickering red light bobbing in the distance. A new spurt of speed brought us perceptibly nearer to the car before us, and it was but a few moments before we could make out its lines and color. There was no mistaking Von Blon’s great Daimler.
“Hide your faces,” Vance shouted over his shoulder to Markham and Heath. “Don’t let any one see you as we pass the car ahead.”
I leaned over below the panel of the front door, and a few seconds later a sudden swerve told me that we were circling about the Daimler. The next moment we were back in the road, rushing forward in the lead.
Half a mile further on the road narrowed. There was a deep ditch on one side and dense shrubbery on the other. Vance quickly threw on the brakes, and our rear wheels skidded on the hard frozen earth, bringing up to a halt with our car turned almost at right angles with the road, completely blocking the way.
“Out, you chaps!” called Vance.
We had no more than alighted when the other car drove up and, with a grinding of brakes, came to a lurching halt within a few feet of our machine. Vance had run back, and as the car reached a standstill he threw open the front door. The rest of us had instinctively crowded after him, urged forward by some undefined sense of excitement and dread foreboding. The Daimler was of the sedan type with small high windows, and even with the lingering radiance of the western sky and the dashboard illumination I could barely make out the figures inside. But at that moment Heath’s pocket flash-light blazed in the semidarkness.
The sight that met my straining eyes was paralyzing. During the drive I had speculated on the outcome of our tragic adventure, and I had pictured several hateful possibilities. But I was wholly unprepared for the revelation that confronted me.
The tonneau of the car was empty; and, contrary to my suspicions, there was no sign of Von Blon. In the front seat were the two girls. Sibella was on the further side, slumped down in the corner, her head hanging forward. On her temple was an ugly cut, and a stream of blood ran down her cheek. At the wheel sat Ada, glowering at us with cold ferocity. Heath’s flashlight fell directly on her face, and at first she did not recognize us. But as her pupils became adjusted to the glare her gaze concentrated on Vance, and a foul epithet burst from her.
Simultaneously her right hand dropped from the wheel to the seat beside her, and when she raised it again it held a small glittering revolver. There was a flash of flame and a sharp report, followed by a shattering of glass where the bullet had struck the wind-shield. Vance had been standing with one foot on the running-board leaning into the car, and, as Ada’s arm came up with the revolver, he had snatched her wrist and held it.
“No, my dear,” came his drawling voice, strangely calm and without animosity; “you sha’n’t add me to your list. I was rather expecting that move, don’t y’ know.”
Ada, frustrated in her attempt to shoot him, hurled herself upon him with savage fury. Vile abuse and unbelievable blasphemies
poured from her snarling lips. Her wrath, feral and rampant, utterly possessed her. She was like a wild animal, cornered and conscious of defeat, yet fighting with a last instinct of hopeless desperation. Vance, however, had secured both her wrists, and could have broken her arms with a single twist of his hands; but he treated her almost tenderly, like a father subduing an infuriated child. Stepping back quickly he drew her into the roadway, where she continued her struggles with renewed violence.
“Come, Sergeant!” Vance spoke with weary exasperation. “You’d better put handcuffs on her. I don’t want to hurt her.”
Heath had stood watching the amazing drama in a state of bewilderment, apparently too nonplussed to move. But Vance’s voice awakened him to sharp activity. There were two metallic clicks, and Ada suddenly relaxed into a listless attitude of sullen tractability. She leaned panting against the side of the car as if too weak to stand alone.
Vance bent over and picked up the revolver which had fallen to the road. With a cursory glance at it he handed it to Markham.
“There’s Chester’s gun,” he said. Then he indicated Ada with a pitying movement of the head. “Take her to your office, Markham—Van will drive the car. I’ll join you there as soon as I can. I must get Sibella to a hospital.”
He stepped briskly into the Daimler. There was a shifting of gears, and with a few deft manipulations he reversed the car in the narrow road.
“And watch her, Sergeant!” he flung back, as the car darted away toward Ardsley.
I drove Vance’s car back to the city. Markham and Heath sat in the rear seat with the girl between them. Hardly a word was spoken during the entire hour-and-a-half’s ride. Several times I glanced behind me at the silent trio. Markham and the Sergeant appeared completely stunned by the surprising truth that had just been revealed to them. Ada, huddled between them, sat apathetically with closed eyes, her head forward. Once I noticed that she pressed a handkerchief to her face with her manacled hands; and I thought I heard the sound of smothered sobbing. But I was too nervous to pay any attention. It took every effort of my will to keep my mind on my driving.
The Greene Murder Case Page 28
