The Greene Murder Case. S.S. Van Dine
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the dressing-table; and Sproot and I lifted her on the bed. I’d gone a bit weak in the knees; was expecting any minute to hear another shot—don’t know why. Anyway, it didn’t come; and then I heard Sproot’s voice at the hall telephone calling up Doctor Von Blon.”
“I see nothing in your account, Greene, inconsistent with the theory of a burglar,” observed Markham. “And furthermore, Feathergill, my assistant, says there were two sets of confused footprints in the snow outside the front door.”
Greene shrugged his shoulders, but did not answer.
“By the by, Mr. Greene,”—Vance had slipped down in his chair and was staring into space—“you said that when you looked into Miss Julia’s room you saw her in bed. How was that? Did you turn on the light?”
“Why, no!” The man appeared puzzled by the question. “The light was on.”
There was a flutter of interest in Vance’s eyes.
“And how about Miss Ada’s room? Was the light on there also?”
“Yes.”
Vance reached into his pocket, and, drawing out his cigarette-case, carefully and deliberately selected a cigarette. I recognized in the action an evidence of repressed inner excitement.
“So the lights were on in both rooms. Most interestin’.”
Markham, too, recognized the eagerness beneath his apparent indifference, and regarded him expectantly.
“And,” pursued Vance, after lighting his cigarette leisurely, “how long a time would you say elapsed between the two shots?”
Greene was obviously annoyed by this cross-examination, but he answered readily.
“Two or three minutes—certainly no longer.”
“Still,” ruminated Vance, “after you heard the first shot you rose from your bed, donned slippers and robe, went into the hall, felt along the wall to the next room, opened the door cautiously, peered inside, and then crossed the room to the bed—all this, I gather, before the second shot was fired. Is that correct?”
“Certainly it’s correct.”
“Well, well! As you say, two or three minutes. Yes, at least that. Astonishin’!” Vance turned to Markham. “Really, y’ know, old man, I don’t wish to influence your judgment, but I rather think you ought to accede to Mr. Greene’s request to take a hand in this investigation. I too have a psychic feeling about the case. Something tells me that your eccentric burglar will prove an ignis fatuus.”
Markham eyed him with meditative curiosity. Not only had Vance’s questioning of Greene interested him keenly, but he knew, as a result of long experience, that Vance would not have made the suggestion had he not had a good reason for doing so. I was in no wise surprised, therefore, when he turned to his restive visitor and said:
“Very well, Greene, I’ll see what I can do in the matter. I’ll probably be at your house early this afternoon. Please see that every one is present, as I’ll want to question them.”
Greene held out a trembling hand. “The domestic roster—family and servants—will be complete when you arrive.”
He strode pompously from the room.
Vance sighed. “Not a nice creature, Markham—not at all a nice creature. I shall never be a politician if it involves an acquaintance with such gentlemen.”
Markham seated himself at his desk with a disgruntled air.
“Greene is highly regarded as a social—not a political—decoration,” he said maliciously. “He belongs to your totem, not mine.”
“Fancy that!” Vance stretched himself luxuriously. “Still, it’s you who fascinate him. Intuition tells me he is not overfond of me.”
“You did treat him a bit cavalierly. Sarcasm is not exactly a means of endearment.”
“But, Markham old thing, I wasn’t pining for Chester’s affection.”
“You think he knows, or suspects, something?”
Vance gazed through the long window into the bleak sky beyond.
“I wonder,” he murmured. Then: “Is Chester, by any chance, a typical representative of the Greene family? Of recent years I’ve done so little mingling with the élite that I’m woefully ignorant of the East Side nabobs.”
Markham nodded reflectively.
“I’m afraid he is. The original Greene stock was sturdy, but the present generation seems to have gone somewhat to pot. Old Tobias the Third—Chester’s father—was a rugged and, in many ways, admirable character. He appears, however, to have been the last heir of the ancient Greene qualities. What’s left of the family has suffered some sort of disintegration. They’re not exactly soft, but tainted with patches of incipient decay, like fruit that’s lain on the ground too long. Too much money and leisure, I imagine, and too little restraint. On the other hand, there’s a certain intellectuality lurking in the new Greenes. They all seem to have good minds, even if futile and misdirected. In fact, I think you underestimate Chester. For all his banalities and effeminate mannerisms, he’s far from being as stupid as you regard him.”
“I regard Chester as stupid! My dear Markham! You wrong me abominably. No, no. There’s nothing of the anointed ass about our Chester. He’s shrewder even than you think him. Those œdematous eyelids veil a pair of particularly crafty eyes. Indeed, it was largely his studied pose of fatuousness that led me to suggest that you aid and abet in the investigation.”
Markham leaned back and narrowed his eyes.
“What’s in your mind, Vance?”
“I told you. A psychic seizure—same like Chester’s subliminal visitation.”
Markham knew, by this elusive answer, that for the moment Vance had no intention of being more definite; and after a moment of scowling silence he turned to the telephone.
“If I’m to take on this case, I’d better find out who has charge of it and get what preliminary information I can.”
He called up Inspector Moran, the commanding officer of the Detective Bureau. After a brief conversation he turned to Vance with a smile.
“Your friend, Sergeant Heath, has the case in hand. He happened to be in the office just now, and is coming here immediately.”6
In less than fifteen minutes Heath arrived. Despite the fact that he had been up most of the night, he appeared unusually alert and energetic. His broad, pugnacious features were as imperturbable as ever, and his pale-blue eyes held their habitual penetrating intentness. He greeted Markham with an elaborate, though perfunctory, handshake; and then, seeing Vance, relaxed his features into a good-natured smile.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Vance! What have you been up to, sir?”
Vance rose and shook hands with him.
“Alas, Sergeant, I’ve been immersed in the terra-cotta ornamentation of Renaissance façades, and other such trivialities, since I saw you last.7 But I’m happy to note that crime is picking up again. It’s a deuced drab world without a nice murky murder now and then, don’t y’ know.”
Heath cocked an eye, and turned inquiringly to the District Attorney. He had long since learned how to read between the lines of Vance’s badinage.
“It’s this Greene case, Sergeant,” said Markham.
“I thought so.” Heath sat down heavily, and inserted a black cigar between his lips. “But nothing’s broken yet. We’re rounding up all the regulars, and looking into their alibis for last night. But it’ll take several days before the check-up’s