Homicidal Possibilities
(Tuesday, November 9; 3.30 p. m.)
Sibella entered with a firm, swinging gait, her head held high, her
eyes sweeping the assemblage with bold interrogation. She was tall and
of slender, athletic build, and, though she was not pretty, there was
a cold, chiselled attractiveness in her lineaments that held one’s
attention. Her face was at once vivid and intense; and there was a
hauteur in her expression amounting almost to arrogance. Her dark,
crisp hair was bobbed but not waved, and the severity of its lines
accentuated the overdecisive cast of her features. Her hazel eyes were
wide-spaced beneath heavy, almost horizontal eyebrows; her nose was
straight and slightly prominent, and her mouth was large and firm,
with a suggestion of cruelty in its thin lips. She was dressed simply,
in a dark sport suit cut extremely short, silk-wool stockings of a
heather mixture, and low-heeled mannish Oxfords.
Chester presented the District Attorney to her as an old acquaintance,
and permitted Markham to make the other introductions.
“I suppose you know, Mr. Markham, why Chet likes you,” she said, in a
peculiarly plangent voice. “You’re one of the few persons at the
Marylebone Club that he can beat at golf.”
She seated herself before the centre-table, and crossed her knees
comfortably.
“I wish you’d get me a cigarette, Chet.” Her tone made the request an
imperative.
Vance rose at once and held out his case.
“Do try one of these _Régies_, Miss Greene,” he urged in his best
drawing-room manner. “If you say you don’t like them, I shall
immediately change my brand.”
“Rash man!” Sibella took a cigarette and permitted Vance to light it
for her. Then she settled back in her chair and gave Markham a
quizzical look. “Quite a wild party we pulled here last night, wasn’t
it? We’ve never had so much commotion in the old mansion. And it was
just my luck to sleep soundly through it all.” She made an aggrieved
_moue_. “Chet didn’t call me till it was all over. Just like him—he
has a nasty disposition.”
Somehow her flippancy did not shock me as it might have done in a
different type of person. But Sibella struck me as a girl who, though
she might feel things keenly, would not permit any misfortune to get
the better of her; and I put her apparent callousness down to a
dogged, if perverted, courageousness.
Markham, however, resented her attitude.
“One cannot blame Mr. Greene for not taking the matter lightly,” he
reproved her. “The brutal murder of a defenseless woman and the
attempted murder of a young girl hardly come under the head of
diversion.”
Sibella looked at him reproachfully. “You know, Mr. Markham, you sound
exactly like the Mother Superior of the stuffy convent I was confined
in for two years.” She became suddenly grave. “Why draw a long face
over something that’s happened and can’t be helped? Anyway, Julia
never sought to brighten her little corner. She was always crabbed and
faultfinding, and her good deeds wouldn’t fill a book. It may be
unsisterly to say it, but she’s not going to be missed so dreadfully.
Chet and I are certainly not going to pine away.”
“And what about the brutal shooting of your other sister?” Markham was
with difficulty controlling his indignation.
Sibella’s eyelids narrowed perceptibly, and the lines of her face
became set. But she erased the expression almost at once.
“Well, Ada’s going to recover, isn’t she?” Despite her effort, she was
unable to keep a certain hardness out of her voice. “She’ll have a
nice long rest, and a nurse to wait on her. Am I expected to weep
copiously because of baby sister’s escape?”
Vance, who had been closely watching this clash between Sibella and
Markham, now took a hand in the conversation.
“My dear Markham, I can’t see what Miss Greene’s sentiments have to do
with the matter. Her attitude may not be strictly in accord with the
prescribed conduct for young ladies on such occasions, but I feel sure
she has excellent reasons for her point of view. Let us give over
moralizing, and seek Miss Greene’s assistance instead.”
The girl darted him an amused, appreciative glance; and Markham made a
gesture of indifferent acquiescence. It was plain that he regarded the
present inquiry as of little importance.
Vance gave the girl an engaging smile.
“It’s really my fault, Miss Greene, that we are intruding here,” he
apologized. “It was I, d’ ye see, that urged Mr. Markham to look into
the case after your brother had expressed his disbelief in the burglar
theory.”
She nodded understandingly. “Oh, Chet sometimes has excellent hunches.
It’s one of his very few merits.”
“You, too, I gather, are sceptical in regard to the burglar?”
“Sceptical?” She gave a short laugh. “I’m downright suspicious. I
don’t know any burglars, though I’d dearly love to meet one; but I
simply can’t bring my flighty brain to picture them going about their
fascinating occupation the way our little entertainer did last night.”
“You positively thrill me,” declared Vance. “Y’ see, our minority
ideas coincide perfectly.”
“Did Chet give you any intelligible explanation for his opinion?” she
asked.
“I’m afraid not. He was inclined to lay his feelings to metaphysical
causes. His conviction was due, I took it, to some kind of psychic
visitation. He knew, but could not explain: he was sure, but had no
proof. It was most indefinite—a bit esoteric, in fact.”
“I’d never suspect Chet of spiritualistic leanings.” She shot her
brother a tantalizing look. “He’s really deadly commonplace, when you
get to know him.”
“Oh, cut it, Sib,” objected Chester irritably. “You yourself had a
spasm this morning when I told you the police were hot-footing it
after a burglar.”
Sibella made no answer. With a slight toss of the head she leaned over
and threw her cigarette into the grate.
“By the by, Miss Greene”—Vance spoke casually—“there has been
considerable mystery about the disappearance of your brother’s
revolver. It has completely vanished from his desk drawer. I wonder if
you have seen it about the house anywhere.”
At his mention of the gun Sibella stiffened slightly. Her eyes took on
an expression of intentness, and the corners of her mouth lifted into
a faintly ironical smile.
“Chet’s revolver has gone, has it?” She put the question colorlessly,
as if her thoughts were elsewhere. “No . . . I haven’t seen it.” Then,
after a momentary pause: “But it was in Chet’s desk last week.”
Chester heaved himself forward angrily.
“What were you doing in my desk last week?” he demanded.
“Don’t wax apoplectic,” the girl said carelessly. “I wasn’t looking
for love missives. I simply couldn’t imagine you in love, Chet. . . .”
The idea seemed to amuse her. “I was only looking for that old emerald
stick-pin you borrowed and never returned.”
“It’s at the club,” he explained sulkily.
“Is it, really! Well, I didn’t find it anyway; but I did see the
revolver.—Are you quite sure it’s gone?”
“Don’t be absurd,” the man growled. “I’ve searched everywhere for
it. . . . Including your room,” he added vengefully.
“Oh, you would! But why did you admit having it in the first place?”
Her tone was scornful. “Why involve yourself unnecessarily?”
Chester shifted uneasily.
“This gentleman”—he again pointed impersonally to Heath—“asked me if I
owned a revolver, and I told him ‘yes.’ If I hadn’t, some of the
servants or one of my loving family would have told him. And I thought
the truth was best.”
Sibella smiled satirically.
“My older brother, you observe, is a model of all the old-fashioned
virtues,” she remarked to Vance. But she was obviously _distraite_.
The revolver episode had somewhat shaken her self-assurance.
“You say, Miss Greene, that the burglar idea does not appeal to you.”
Vance was smoking languidly with half-closed eyes. “Can you think of
any other explanation for the tragedy?”
The girl raised her head and regarded him calculatingly.
“Because I don’t happen to believe in burglars that shoot women and
sneak away without taking anything, it doesn’t mean that I can suggest
alternatives. I’m not a policewoman—though I’ve often thought it would
be jolly good sport—and I had a vague idea it was the business of the
police to run down criminals.—You don’t believe in the burglar either,
Mr. Vance, or you wouldn’t have followed up Chet’s hunch. Who do _you_
think ran amuck here last night?”
“My dear girl!” Vance raised a protesting hand. “If I had the foggiest
idea I wouldn’t be annoying you with impertinent questions. I’m
plodding with leaden feet in a veritable bog of ignorance.”
He spoke negligently, but Sibella’s eyes were clouded with suspicion.
Presently, however, she laughed gaily and held out her hand.
“Another _Régie, monsieur_. I was on the verge of becoming serious;
and I simply mustn’t become serious. It’s so frightfully boring.
Besides, it gives one wrinkles. And I’m much too young for wrinkles.”
“Like Ninon de L’Enclos, you’ll always be too young for wrinkles,”
rejoined Vance, holding a match to her cigarette. “But perhaps you can
suggest, without becoming too serious, some one who might have had a
reason for wanting to kill your two sisters.”
“Oh, as for that, I’d say we’d all come under suspicion. We’re not an
ideal home circle, by any means. In fact, the Greenes are a queer
collection. We don’t love one another the way a perfectly nice and
proper family should. We’re always at each other’s throats, bickering
and fighting about something or other. It’s rather a mess—this ménage.
It’s a wonder to me murder hasn’t been done long before. And we’ve all
got to live here until 1932, or go it on our own; and, of course, none
of us could make a decent living. A sweet paternal heritage!”*
* Sibella was here referring to Tobias Greene’s will, which
stipulated not only that the Greene mansion should be
maintained intact for twenty-five years, but that the legatees
should live on the estate during that time or become
disinherited.
She smoked moodily for a few moments.
“Yes, any one of us had ample reason to be murderously inclined toward
all the others. Chet there would strangle me now if he didn’t think
the nervous aftermath of the act would spoil his golf—wouldn’t you,
Chet dear? Rex regards us all as inferiors, and probably considers
himself highly indulgent and altruistic not to have murdered us all
long ago. And the only reason mother hasn’t killed us is that she’s
paralyzed and can’t manage it. Julia, too, for that matter, could have
seen us all boiled in oil without turning a hair. And as for Ada”—her
brows contracted and an extraordinary ferocity crept into her
eyes—“she’d dearly love to see us all exterminated. She’s not really
one of us, and she hates us. Nor would I myself have any scruples
about doing away with the rest of my fond family. I’ve thought of it
often, but I could never decide on a nice thorough method.” She
flicked her cigarette ash on the floor. “So there you are. If you’re
looking for possibilities you have them galore. There’s no one under
this ancestral roof who couldn’t qualify.”
Though her words were meant to be satirical, I could not help feeling
that a sombre, terrible truth underlay them. Vance, though apparently
listening with amusement, had, I knew, been absorbing every inflection
of her voice and play of expression, in an effort to relate the
details of her sweeping indictment to the problem in hand.
“At any rate,” he remarked offhandedly, “you are an amazingly frank
young woman. However, I sha’n’t recommend your arrest just yet. I
haven’t a particle of evidence against you, don’t y’ know. Annoyin’,
ain’t it?”
“Oh, well,” sighed the girl, in mock disappointment, “you may pick up
a clew later on. There’ll probably be another death or two around here
before long. I’d hate to think the murderer would give up the job with
so little really accomplished.”
At this point Doctor Von Blon entered the drawing-room. Chester rose
to greet him, and the formalities of introduction were quickly over.
Von Blon bowed with reserved cordiality; but I noted that his manner
to Sibella, while pleasant, was casual in the extreme. I wondered a
little about this, but I recalled that he was an old friend of the
family and probably took many of the social amenities for granted.
“What have you to report, doctor?” asked Markham. “Will we be able to
question the young lady this afternoon?”
“I hardly think there’d be any harm in it,” Von Blon returned, seating
himself beside Chester. “Ada has only a little reaction fever now,
though she’s suffering from shock, and is pretty weak from loss of
blood.”
Doctor Von Blon was a suave, smooth-faced man of forty, with small,
almost feminine features and an air of unwavering amiability. His
urbanity struck me as too artificial—“professional” is perhaps the
word—and there was something of the ambitious egoist about him. But I
was far more attracted than repelled by him.
Vance watched him attentively as he spoke. He was more anxious even
than Heath, I think, to question the girl.
“It was not a particularly serious wound, then?” Markham asked.
“No, not serious,” the doctor assured him; “though it barely missed
being fatal. Had the shot gone an inch deeper it would have torn
across the lung. It was a very narrow escape.”
“As I understand it,” interposed Vance, “the bullet travelled
transversely over the left scapular region.”
Von Blon inclined his head in agreement.
“The shot was obviously aimed at the heart from the rear,” he
explained, in his soft, modulated voice. “But Ada must have turned
slightly to the right just as the revolver exploded; and the bullet,
instead of going directly into her body, ploughed along the
shoulder-blade at the level of the third dorsal vertebra, tore the
capsular ligament, and lodged in the deltoid.” He indicated the
location of the deltoid on his own left arm.
“She had,” suggested Vance, “apparently turned her back on her
assailant and attempted to run away; and he had followed her and
placed the revolver almost against her back.—Is that your
interpretation of it, doctor?”
“Yes, that would seem to be the situation. And, as I said, at the
crucial moment she veered a little, and thus saved her life.”
“Would she have fallen immediately to the floor, despite the actual
superficiality of the wound?”
“It’s not unlikely. Not only would the pain have been considerable,
but the shock must be taken into account. Ada—or, for that matter, any
woman—might have fainted at once.”
“And it’s a reasonable presumption,” pursued Vance, “that her
assailant would have taken it for granted that the shot had been
fatal.”
“We may readily assume that to be the case.”
Vance smoked a moment, his eyes averted.
“Yes,” he agreed, “I think we may assume that.—And another point
suggests itself. Since Miss Ada was in front of the dressing-table, a
considerable distance from the bed, and since the weapon was held
practically against her, the encounter would seem to take on the
nature of a deliberate attack, rather than a haphazard shot fired by
some one in a panic.”
Von Blon looked shrewdly at Vance, and then turned a questioning gaze
upon Heath. For a moment he was silent, as if weighing his reply, and
when he spoke it was with guarded reserve.
“Of course, one might interpret the situation that way. Indeed, the
facts would seem to indicate such a conclusion. But, on the other
hand, the intruder might have been very close to Ada; and the fact
that the bullet entered her left shoulder at a particularly vital
point may have been the purest accident.”
“Quite true,” conceded Vance. “However, if the idea of premeditation
is to be abrogated, we must account for the fact that the lights were
on in the room when the butler entered immediately after the
shooting.”
Von Blon showed the keenest astonishment at this statement.
“The lights were on? That’s most remarkable!” His brow crinkled into a
perplexed frown, and he appeared to be assimilating Vance’s
information. “Still,” he argued, “that very fact may account for the
shooting. If the intruder had entered a lighted room he may have fired
at the occupant lest his description be given to the police later.”
“Oh, quite!” murmured Vance. “Anyway, let us hope we’ll learn the
explanation when we’ve seen and spoken to Miss Ada.”
“Well, why don’t we get to it?” grumbled Heath, whose ordinarily
inexhaustible store of patience had begun to run low.
“You’re so hasty, Sergeant,” Vance chided him. “Doctor Von Blon has
just told us that Miss Ada is very weak; and anything we can learn
beforehand will spare her just so many questions.”
“All I want to find out,” expostulated Heath, “is if she got a look at
the bird that shot her and can give me a description of him.”
“That being the case, Sergeant, I fear you are doomed to have your
ardent hopes dashed to the ground.”
Heath chewed viciously on his cigar; and Vance turned again to Von
Blon.
“There’s one other question I’d like to ask, doctor. How long was it
after Miss Ada had been wounded before you examined her?”
“The butler’s already told us, Mr. Vance,” interposed Heath
impatiently. “The doctor got here in half an hour.”
“Yes, that’s about right.” Von Blon’s tone was smooth and
matter-of-fact. “I was unfortunately out on a call when Sproot phoned,
but I returned about fifteen minutes later, and hurried right over.
Luckily I live near here—in East 48th Street.”
“And was Miss Ada still unconscious when you arrived?”
“Yes. She had lost considerable blood. The cook, however, had put a
towel-compress on the wound, which of course helped.”
Vance thanked him and rose.
“And now, if you’ll be good enough to take us to your patient, we’ll
be very grateful.”
“As little excitement as possible, you understand,” admonished Von
Blon, as he got up and led the way up-stairs.
Sibella and Chester seemed undecided about accompanying us; but as I
turned into the hall I saw a look of interrogation flash between them,
and a moment later they too joined us in the upper hall.