The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
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understand.” Vance paused, his eyes in space. “You heard nothing of what happened here last night?”
“No, sir. Not until Mr. Chester called up the stairs and said for us to get dressed and come down.”
Vance rose and turned to the window overlooking the East River.
“That’s all, Frau Mannheim. Be so good as to tell the senior maid—Hemming, isn’t she?—to come here.”
Without a word the cook left us, and her place was presently taken by a tall, slatternly woman, with a sharp, prudish face and severely combed hair. She wore a black, one-piece dress, and heelless vici-kid shoes; and her severity of mien was emphasized by a pair of thick-lensed spectacles.
“I understand, Hemming,” began Vance, reseating himself before the fireplace, “that you heard neither shot last night, and learned of the tragedy only when called by Mr. Greene.”
The woman nodded with a jerky, emphatic movement.
“I was spared,” she said, in a rasping voice. “But the tragedy, as you call it, had to come sooner or later. It was an act of God, if you ask me.”
“Well, we’re not asking you, Hemming; but we’re delighted to have your opinion.—So God had a hand in the shooting, eh?”
“He did that!” The woman spoke with religious fervor. “The Greenes are an ungodly, wicked family.” She leered defiantly at Chester Greene, who laughed uneasily. “ ‘For I shall rise up against them, saith the Lord of hosts—the name, the remnant, and son, and daughter, and nephew’—only there ain’t no nephew—‘and I will sweep them with the besom of destruction, saith the Lord.’ ”
Vance regarded her musingly.
“I see you have misread Isaiah. And have you any celestial information as to who was chosen by the Lord to personify the besom?”
The woman compressed her lips. “Who knows?”
“Ah! Who, indeed? . . . But to descend to temporal things: I assume you weren’t surprised at what happened last night?”
“I’m never surprised at the mysterious workin’s of the Almighty.”
Vance sighed. “You may return to your Scriptural perusings, Hemming. Only, I wish you’d pause en route and tell Barton we crave her presence here.”
The woman rose stiffly and passed from the room like an animated ramrod.
Barton came in, obviously frightened. But her fear was insufficient to banish completely her instinctive coquetry. A certain coyness showed through the alarmed glance she gave us, and one hand automatically smoothed back the chestnut hair over her ear. Vance adjusted his monocle.
“You really should wear Alice blue, Barton,” he advised her seriously. “Much more becoming than cerise to your olive complexion.”
The girl’s apprehensiveness relaxed, and she gave Vance a puzzled, kittenish look.
“But what I particularly wanted you to come here for,” he went on, “was to ask you if Mr. Greene has ever kissed you.”
“Which—Mr. Greene?” she stammered, completely disconcerted.
Chester had, at Vance’s question, jerked himself erect in his chair and started to splutter an irate objection. But articulation failed him, and he turned to Markham with speechless indignation.
The corners of Vance’s mouth twitched. “It really doesn’t matter, Barton,” he said quickly.
“Aren’t you going to ask me any questions about—what happened last night?” the girl asked, with obvious disappointment.
“Oh! Do you know anything about what happened?”
“Why, no,” she admitted. “I was asleep——”
“Exactly. Therefore, I sha’n’t bother you with questions.” He dismissed her good-naturedly.
“Damn it, Markham, I protest!” cried Greene, when Barton had left us. “I call this—this gentleman’s levity rotten-bad taste—damme if I don’t!”
Markham, too, was annoyed at the frivolous line of interrogation Vance had taken.
“I can’t see what’s to be gained by such futile inquiries,” he said, striving to control his irritation.
“That’s because you’re still holding to the burglar theory,” Vance replied. “But if, as Mr. Greene thinks, there is another explanation of last night’s crime, then it’s essential to acquaint ourselves with the conditions existing here. And it’s equally essential not to rouse the suspicions of the servants. Hence, my apparent irrelevancies. I’m trying to size up the various human factors we have to deal with; and I think I’ve done uncommonly well. Several rather interesting possibilities have developed.”
Before Markham could reply Sproot passed the archway and opened the front door to some one whom he greeted respectfully. Greene immediately went into the hall.
“Hallo, doc,” we heard him say. “Thought you’d be along pretty soon. The District Attorney and his entourage are here, and they’d like to talk to Ada. I told ’em you said it might be all right this afternoon.”
“I’ll know better when I’ve seen Ada,” the doctor replied. He passed on hurriedly, and we heard him ascending the stairs.
“It’s Von Blon,” announced Greene, returning to the drawing-room. “He’ll let us know anon how Ada’s coming along.” There was a callous note in his voice, which, at the time, puzzled me.
“How long have you known Doctor Von Blon?” asked Vance.
“How long?” Greene looked surprised. “Why, all my life. Went to the old Beekman Public School with him. His father—old Doctor Veranus Von Blon—brought all the later Greenes into the world; family physician, spiritual adviser, and all that sort of thing, from time immemorial. When Von Blon, senior, died we embraced the son as a matter of course. And young Arthur’s a shrewd lad, too. Knows his pharmacopœia. Trained by the old man, and topped off his medical education in Germany.”
Vance nodded negligently.
“While we’re waiting for Doctor Von Blon, suppose we have a chat with Miss Sibella and Mr. Rex. Your brother first, let us say.”
Greene looked to Markham for confirmation; then rang for Sproot.
Rex Greene came immediately upon being summoned.
“Well, what do you want now?” he asked, scanning our faces with nervous intensity. His voice was peevish, almost whining, and there were certain overtones in it which recalled the fretful complaining voice of Mrs. Greene.
“We merely want to question you about last night,” answered Vance soothingly. “We thought it possible you could help us.”
“What help can I give you?” Rex asked sullenly, slumping into a chair. He gave his brother a sneering look. “Chester’s the only one round here who seems to have been awake.”
Rex Greene was a short, sallow youth with narrow, stooping shoulders and an abnormally large head set on a neck which appeared almost emaciated. A shock of straight hair hung down over his bulging forehead, and he had a habit of tossing it back with a jerky movement of the head. His small, shifty eyes, shielded by enormous tortoise-rimmed glasses, seemed never to be at rest; and his thin lips were constantly twitching as with a tic douloureux. His chin was small and pointed, and he held it drawn in, emphasizing its lack of prominence. He was not a pleasant spectacle, and yet there was something in the man—an overdeveloped studiousness, perhaps—that gave the impression of unusual potentialities. I once saw a juvenile chess wizard who had the same cranial formations and general facial cast.
Vance appeared introspective, but I knew he was absorbing every detail of the man’s appearance. At length he laid down his cigarette,