The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine

how did Julia’s door come to be unlocked at that particular time? That’s something I especially want clarified.—And perhaps you noticed, Markham, that Chester himself went to summon Sibella to the interview in the drawing-room, and that he remained with her a considerable time. Why, now, did he send Sproot for Rex, and fetch Sibella personally? And why the delay? I yearn for an explanation of what passed between them before they eventually appeared.—And why was Sibella so definite that there wasn’t a burglar, and yet so evasive when we asked her to suggest a counter-theory? What underlay her satirical frankness when she held up each member of the Greene household, including herself, as a possible suspect?—And then there are the details of Ada’s story. Some of them are amazing, incomprehensible, almost fabulous. There was no apparent sound in the room; yet she was conscious of a menacing presence. And that outstretched hand and the shuffling footsteps—we simply must have an explanation of those things. And her hesitancy about saying whether she thought it was a man or a woman; and Sibella’s evident belief that the girl thought it was she. That wants explaining, Markham.—And Sibella’s hysterical accusation against Ada. What lay behind that?—And don’t forget that curious scene between Sibella and Von Blon when he reproached her for her outburst. That was devilish odd. There’s some intimacy there—ça saute aux yeux. You noticed how she obeyed him. And you doubtless observed, too, that Ada is rather fond of the doctor: snuggled up to him figuratively during the performance, opened her eyes on him wistfully, looked to him for protection. Oh, our little Ada has flutterings in his direction. And yet he adopts the hovering professional-bedside manner of a high-priced medico toward her, whereas he treats Sibella very much as Chester might if he had the courage.”

      Vance inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

      “Yes, Markham, there are many things that must be satisfactorily accounted for before I can believe in your hypothetical burglar.”

      Markham sat for a while, engrossed in his thoughts.

      “I’ve listened to your Homeric catalogue, Vance,” he said at length, “but I can’t say that it inflames me. You’ve suggested a number of interesting possibilities, and raised several points that might bear looking into. However, the only potential weight of your argument lies in an accumulation of items which, taken separately, are not particularly impressive. A plausible answer might be found for each one of them. The trouble is, the integers of your summary are without a connecting thread, and consequently must be regarded as separate units.”

      “That legal mind of yours!” Vance rose and paced up and down. “An accumulation of queer and unexplained facts centring about a crime is no more impressive than each separate item in the total! Well, well! I give up. I renounce all reason. I fold up my tent like the Arabs and as silently steal away.” He took up his coat. “I leave you to your fantastic, delirious burglar, who walks without keys into a house and steals nothing, who knows where electric switches are hidden but can’t find a staircase, who shoots women and then turns up the lights. When you find him, my dear Lycurgus, you should, in all humaneness, send him to the psychopathic ward. He’s quite unaccountable, I assure you.”

      Markham, despite his opposition, had not been unimpressed. Vance unquestionably had undermined to some extent his belief in a housebreaker. But I could readily understand why he was reluctant to abandon this theory until it had been thoroughly tested. His next words, in fact, explained his attitude.

      “I’m not denying the remote possibility that this affair may go deeper than appears. But there’s too little to go on at present to warrant an investigation along other than routine lines. We can’t very well stir up an ungodly scandal by raking the members of a prominent family over the coals, when there’s not a scintilla of evidence against any one of them. It’s too unjust and dangerous a proceeding. We must at least wait until the police have finished their investigation. Then, if nothing develops, we can again take inventory and decide how to proceed. . . . How long, Sergeant, do you figure on being busy?”

      Heath took his cigar from his mouth and regarded it thoughtfully.

      “That’s hard to say, sir. Dubois’ll finish up his finger-printing to-morrow, and we’re checking up on the regulars as fast as we can. Also, I’ve got two men digging up the records of the Greene servants. It may take a lot of time, and it may go quick. Depends on the breaks we get.”

      Vance sighed.

      “And it was such a neat, fascinatin’ crime! I’ve rather been looking forward to it, don’t y’ know, and now you talk of prying into the early amours of serving-maids and that sort of thing. It’s most disheartenin’.”

      He buttoned his ulster about him and walked to the door.

      “Ah, well, there’s nothing for me to do while you Jasons are launched on your quaint quest. I think I’ll retire and resume my translation of Delacroix’s ‘Journal.’ ”

      But Vance was not destined then to finish this task he had had in mind so long. Three days later the front pages of the country’s press carried glaring head-lines telling of a second grim and unaccountable tragedy at the old Greene mansion, which altered the entire character of the case and immediately lifted it into the realm of the foremost causes célèbres of modern times. After this second blow had fallen all ideas of a casual burglar were banished. There could no longer be any doubt that a hidden death-dealing horror stalked through the dim corridors of that fated house.