The Greene Murder Case. S.S. Van Dine
Читать онлайн книгу.
source of a shot in the middle of the night.”
“Thank you, sir,” the man answered, with great humility. “I always try to do my duty by the Greene family. I’ve been with them——”
“We know all that, Sproot.” Vance cut him short. “The light was on in Miss Ada’s room, I understand, when you opened the door.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you saw no one, or heard no noise? No door closing, for instance?”
“No, sir.”
“And yet the person who fired the shot must have been somewhere in the hall at the same time you were there.”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“And he might well have taken a shot at you, too.”
“Quite so, sir.” Sproot seemed wholly indifferent to the danger he had escaped. “But what will be, will be, sir—if you’ll pardon my saying so. And I’m an old man——”
“Tut, tut! You’ll probably live a considerable time yet—just how long I can’t, of course, say.”
“No, sir.” Sproot’s eyes gazed blankly ahead. “No one understands the mysteries of life and death.”
“You’re somewhat philosophic, I see,” drily commented Vance. Then: “When you phoned to Doctor Von Blon, was he in?”
“No, sir; but the night nurse told me he’d be back any minute, and that she’d send him over. He arrived in less than half an hour.”
Vance nodded. “That will be all, thank you, Sproot.—And now please send me die gnädige Frau Köchin.”
“Yes, sir.” And the old butler shuffled from the room.
Vance’s eyes followed him thoughtfully.
“An inveiglin’ character,” he murmured.
Greene snorted. “You don’t have to live with him. He’d have said ‘Yes, sir,’ if you’d spoken to him in Walloon or Volapük. A sweet little playmate to have snooping round the house twenty-four hours a day!”
The cook, a portly, phlegmatic German woman of about forty-five, named Gertrude Mannheim, came in and seated herself on the edge of a chair near the entrance. Vance, after a moment’s keen inspection of her, asked:
“Were you born in this country, Frau Mannheim?”
“I was born in Baden,” she answered, in flat, rather guttural tones. “I came to America when I was twelve.”
“You have not always been a cook, I take it.” Vance’s voice had a slightly different intonation from that which he had used with Sproot.
At first the woman did not answer.
“No, sir,” she said finally. “Only since the death of my husband.”
“How did you happen to come to the Greenes?”
Again she hesitated. “I had met Mr. Tobias Greene: he knew my husband. When my husband died there wasn’t any money. And I remembered Mr. Greene, and I thought——”
“I 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