An Accusation
(Tuesday, November 9; 4 p. m.)
Ada Greene’s room was simply, almost severely, furnished; but there
was a neatness about it, combined with little touches of feminine
decoration, that reflected the care its occupant had bestowed upon it.
To the left, near the door that led into the dressing-room
communicating with Mrs. Greene’s chamber, was a single mahogany bed of
simple design; and beyond it was the door that opened upon the stone
balcony. To the right, beside the window, stood the dressing-table;
and on the amber-colored Chinese rug before it there showed a large
irregular brown stain where the wounded girl had lain. In the centre
of the right wall was an old Tudor fireplace with a high oak-panelled
mantel.
As we entered, the girl in the bed looked at us inquisitively, and a
slight flush colored her pale cheeks. She lay on her right side,
facing the door, her bandaged shoulder supported by pillows, and her
left hand, slim and white, resting upon the blue-figured coverlet. A
remnant of her fear of the night before seemed still to linger in her
blue eyes.
Doctor Von Blon went to her and, sitting down on the edge of the bed,
placed his hand on hers. His manner was at once protective and
impersonal.
“These gentlemen want to ask you a few questions, Ada,” he explained,
with a reassuring smile; “and as you were so much stronger this
afternoon I brought them up. Do you feel equal to it?”
She nodded her head wearily, her eyes on the doctor.
[Illustration: Plan of Ada’s bedroom. The bed is across from the
fireplace. Next to the fireplace is a dressing table, before which a
spot is labelled “where Ada was found wounded.” The bed sits between
two doors, one leading to a bathroom and the other leading to a
“dressing room that communicates with Mrs. Greene’s room.” A light
switch is next to the door to the hall, opposite from which are French
windows leading out to a balcony.]
Vance, who had paused by the mantel to inspect the hand-carving of the
quadræ, now turned and approached the bed.
“Sergeant,” he said, “if you don’t mind, let me talk to Miss Greene
first.”
Heath realized, I think, that the situation called for tact and
delicacy; and it was typical of the man’s fundamental bigness that he
at once stepped aside.
“Miss Greene,” said Vance, in a quiet, genial voice, drawing up a
small chair beside the bed, “we’re very anxious to clear up the
mystery about last night’s tragedy; and, as you are the only person
who is in a position to help us, we want you to recall for us, as
nearly as you can, just what happened.”
The girl took a deep breath.
“It—it was awful,” she said weakly, looking straight ahead. “After I
had gone to sleep—I don’t know just what time—something woke me up. I
can’t tell you what it was; but all of a sudden I was wide awake, and
the strangest feeling came over me. . . .” She closed her eyes, and an
involuntary shudder swept her body. “It was as though some one were in
the room, threatening me. . . .” Her voice faded away into an awed
silence.
“Was the room dark?” Vance asked gently.
“Pitch-dark.” Slowly she turned her eyes to him. “That’s why I was so
frightened. I couldn’t see anything, and I imagined there was a
ghost—or evil spirit—near me. I tried to call out, but I couldn’t make
a sound. My throat felt dry and—and stiff.”
“Typical constriction due to fright, Ada,” explained Von Blon. “Many
people can’t speak when they’re frightened.—Then what happened?”
“I lay trembling for a few minutes, but not a sound came from anywhere
in the room. Yet I knew—I _knew_—somebody, or something, that meant to
harm me was here. . . . At last I forced myself to get up—very
quietly. I wanted to turn on the lights—the darkness frightened me so.
And after a while I was standing up beside the bed here. Then, for the
first time, I could see the dim light of the windows; and it made
things seem more real somehow. So I began to grope my way toward the
electric switch there by the door. I had only gone a little way
when . . . a hand . . . touched me. . . .”
Her lips were trembling, and a look of horror came into her wide-open
eyes.
“I—I was so stunned,” she struggled on, “I hardly know what I did.
Again I tried to scream, but I couldn’t even open my lips. And then I
turned and ran away from the—the thing—toward the window. I had almost
reached it when I heard some one coming after me—a queer, shuffling
sound—and I knew it was the end. . . . There was an awful noise, and
something hot struck the back of my shoulder. I was suddenly
nauseated; the light of the window disappeared, and I felt myself
sinking down—deep. . . .”
When she ceased speaking a tense silence fell on the room. Her
account, for all its simplicity, had been tremendously graphic. Like a
great actress she had managed to convey to her listeners the very
emotional essence of her story.
Vance waited several moments before speaking.
“It was a frightful experience!” he murmured sympathetically. “I wish
it wasn’t necess’ry to worry you about details, but there are several
points I’d like to go over with you.”
She smiled faintly in appreciation of his considerateness, and waited.
“If you tried hard, do you think you could recall what wakened you?”
he asked.
“No—there wasn’t any sound that I can remember.”
“Did you leave your door unlocked last night?”
“I think so. I don’t generally lock it.”
“And you heard no door open or close—anywhere?”
“No; none. Everything in the house was perfectly still.”
“And yet you knew that some one was in the room. How was that?”
Vance’s voice, though gentle, was persistent.
“I—don’t know . . . and yet there must have been something that told
me.”
“Exactly! Now try to think.” Vance bent a little nearer to the
troubled girl. “A soft breathing, perhaps—a slight gust of air as the
person moved by your bed—a faint odor of perfume. . . ?”
She frowned painfully, as if trying to recall the elusive cause of her
dread.
“I can’t think—I can’t remember.” Her voice was scarcely audible. “I
was so terribly frightened.”
“If only we could trace the source!” Vance glanced at the doctor, who
nodded understandingly, and said:
“Obviously some association whose stimulus went unrecognized.”
“Did you feel, Miss Greene, that you knew the person who was here?”
continued Vance. “That is to say, was it a familiar presence?”
“I don’t know exactly. I only know I was afraid of it.”
“But you heard it move toward you after you had risen and fled toward
the window. Was there any familiarity in the sound?”
“No!” For the first time she spoke with emphasis. “It was just
footsteps—soft, sliding footsteps.”
“Of course, any one might have walked that way in the dark, or a
person in bedroom slippers. . . .”
“It was only a few steps—and then came the awful noise and burning.”
Vance waited a moment.
“Try very hard to recall those steps—or rather your impression of
them. Would you say they were the steps of a man or a woman?”
An added pallor overspread the girl’s face; and her frightened eyes
ran over all the occupants of the room. Her breathing, I noticed, had
quickened; and twice she parted her lips as if to speak, but checked
herself each time. At last she said in a low tremulous voice:
“I don’t know—I haven’t the slightest idea.”
A short, high-strung laugh, bitter and sneering, burst from Sibella;
and all eyes were turned in amazed attention in her direction. She
stood rigidly at the foot of the bed, her face flushed, her hands
tightly clinched at her side.
“Why don’t you tell them you recognized my footsteps?” she demanded of
her sister in biting tones. “You had every intention of doing so.
Haven’t you got courage enough left to lie—you sobbing little cat?”
Ada caught her breath and seemed to draw herself nearer to the doctor,
who gave Sibella a stern, admonitory look.
“Oh, I say, Sib! Hold your tongue.” It was Chester who broke the
startled silence that followed the outbreak.
Sibella shrugged her shoulders and walked to the window; and Vance
again turned his attention to the girl on the bed, continuing his
questioning as if nothing had happened.
“There’s one more point, Miss Greene.” His tone was even gentler than
before. “When you groped your way across the room toward the switch,
at what point did you come in contact with the unseen person?”
“About half-way to the door—just beyond that centre-table.”
“You say a hand touched you. But how did it touch you? Did it shove
you, or try to take hold of you?”
She shook her head vaguely.
“Not exactly. I don’t know how to explain it, but I seemed to walk
into the hand, as though it were outstretched—reaching for me.”
“Would you say it was a large hand or a small one? Did you, for
instance, get the impression of strength?”
There was another silence. Again the girl’s respiration quickened, and
she cast a frightened glance at Sibella, who stood staring out into
the black, swinging branches of the trees in the side yard.
“I don’t know—oh, I don’t know!” Her words were like a stifled cry of
anguish. “I didn’t notice. It was all so sudden—so horrible.”
“But try to think,” urged Vance’s low, insistent voice. “Surely you
got some impression. Was it a man’s hand, or a woman’s?”
Sibella now came swiftly to the bed, her cheeks very pale, her eyes
blazing. For a moment she glared at the stricken girl; then she turned
resolutely to Vance.
“You asked me down-stairs if I had any idea as to who might have done
the shooting. I didn’t answer you then, but I’ll answer you now. I’ll
tell you who’s guilty!” She jerked her head toward the bed, and
pointed a quivering finger at the still figure lying there. “There’s
the guilty one—that snivelling little outsider, that sweet angelic
little snake in the grass!”
So incredible, so unexpected, was this accusation that for a time no
one in the room spoke. A groan burst from Ada’s lips, and she clutched
at the doctor’s hand with a spasmodic movement of despair.
“Oh, Sibella—how could you!” she breathed.
Von Blon had stiffened, and an angry light came into his eyes. But
before he could speak Sibella was rushing on with her illogical,
astounding indictment.
“Oh, she’s the one who did it! And she’s deceiving you just as she’s
always tried to deceive the rest of us. She hates us—she’s hated us
ever since father brought her into this house. She resents us—the
things we have, the very blood in our veins. Heaven knows what blood’s
in hers. She hates us because she isn’t our equal. She’d gladly see us
all murdered. She killed Julia first, because Julia ran the house and
saw to it that she did something to earn her livelihood. She despises
us; and she planned to get rid of us.”
The girl on the bed looked piteously from one to the other of us.
There was no resentment in her eyes; she appeared stunned and
unbelieving, as if she doubted the reality of what she had heard.
“Most interestin’,” drawled Vance. It was his ironic tone, more than
the words themselves, that focussed all eyes on him. He had been
watching Sibella during her tirade, and his gaze was still on her.
“You seriously accuse your sister of doing the shooting?” He spoke now
in a pleasant, almost friendly, voice.
“I do!” she declared brazenly. “She hates us all.”
“As far as that goes,” smiled Vance, “I haven’t noticed a
superabundance of love and affection in any of the Greene family.” His
tone was without offense. “And do you base your accusation on anything
specific, Miss Greene?”
“Isn’t it specific enough that she wants us all out of the way, that
she thinks she would have everything—ease, luxury, freedom—if there
wasn’t any one else to inherit the Greene money?”
“Hardly specific enough to warrant a direct accusation of so heinous a
character.—And by the by, Miss Greene, just how would you explain the
method of the crime if called as a witness in a court of law? You
couldn’t altogether ignore the fact that Miss Ada herself was shot in
the back, don’t y’ know?”
For the first time the sheer impossibility of the accusation seemed to
strike Sibella. She became sullen; and her mouth settled into a
contour of angry bafflement.
“As I told you once before, I’m not a policewoman,” she retorted.
“Crime isn’t _my_ specialty.”
“Nor logic either apparently.” A whimsical note crept into Vance’s
voice. “But perhaps I misinterpret your accusation. Did you mean to
imply that Miss Ada shot your sister Julia, and that some one
else—party or parties unknown, I believe the phrase is—shot Miss Ada
immediately afterward—in a spirit of vengeance, perhaps? A crime _à
quatre mains_, so to speak?”
Sibella’s confusion was obvious, but her stubborn wrath had in no wise
abated.
“Well, if that was the way it happened,” she countered malevolently,
“it’s a rotten shame they didn’t do the job better.”
“The blunder may at least prove unfortunate for somebody,” suggested
Vance pointedly. “Still, I hardly think we can seriously entertain the
double-culprit theory. Both of your sisters, d’ ye see, were shot with
the same gun—a .32 revolver—within a few minutes of each other. I’m
afraid that we’ll have to be content with one guilty person.”
Sibella’s manner suddenly became sly and calculating.
“What kind of a gun was yours, Chet?” she asked her brother.
“Oh, it was a .32, all right—an old Smith & Wesson revolver.” Chester
was painfully ill at ease.
“Was it, indeed? Well, that’s that.” She turned her back on us and
went again to the window.
The tension in the room slackened, and Von Blon leaned solicitously
over the wounded girl and rearranged the pillows.
“Every one’s upset, Ada,” he said soothingly. “You mustn’t worry about
what’s happened. Sibella’ll be sorry to-morrow and make amends. This
affair has got on everybody’s nerves.”
The girl gave him a grateful glance, and seemed to relax under his
ministrations.
After a moment he straightened up and looked at Markham.
“I hope you gentlemen are through—for to-day, at least.”
Both Vance and Markham had risen, and Heath and I had followed suit;
but at that moment Sibella strode toward us again.
“Wait!” she commanded imperiously. “I’ve just thought of something.
Chet’s revolver! I know where it went.—_She_ took it.” Again she
pointed accusingly at Ada. “I saw her in Chet’s room the other day,
and I wondered then why she was snooping about there.” She gave Vance
a triumphant leer. “That’s specific, isn’t it?”
“What day was this, Miss Greene?” As before, his calmness seemed to
counteract the effect of her venom.
“What day? I don’t remember exactly. Last week some time.”
“The day you were looking for your emerald pin, perhaps?”
Sibella hesitated; then said angrily: “I don’t recall. Why should I
remember the exact time? All I know is that, as I was passing down the
hall, I glanced into Chet’s room—the door was half open—and I saw
_her_ in there . . . by the desk.”
“And was it so unusual to see Miss Ada in your brother’s room?” Vance
spoke without any particular interest.
“She never goes into any of our rooms,” declared Sibella. “Except
Rex’s, sometimes. Julia told her long ago to keep out of them.”
Ada gave her sister a look of infinite entreaty.
“Oh, Sibella,” she moaned; “what have I ever done to make you dislike
me so?”
“What have you done!” The other’s voice was harsh and strident, and a
look almost demoniacal smouldered in her levelled eyes. “Everything!
Nothing! Oh, you’re clever—with your quiet, sneaky ways, and your
patient, hangdog look, and your goody-goody manner. But you don’t pull
the wool over _my_ eyes. You’ve been hating all of us ever since you
came here. And you’ve been waiting for the chance to kill us, planning
and scheming—you vile little——”
“Sibella!” It was Von Blon’s voice that, like the lash of a whip, cut
in on this unreasoned tirade. “That will be enough!” He moved forward,
and glanced menacingly into the girl’s eyes. I was almost as
astonished at his attitude as I had been at her wild words. There was
a curious intimacy in his manner—an implication of familiarity which
struck me as unusual even for a family physician of his long and
friendly standing. Vance noticed it too, for his eyebrows went up
slightly and he watched the scene with intense interest.
“You’ve become hysterical,” Von Blon said, without lowering his
minatory gaze. “You don’t realize what you’ve been saying.”
I felt he would have expressed himself far more forcibly if strangers
had not been present. But his words had their effect. Sibella dropped
her eyes, and a sudden change came over her. She covered her face with
her hands, and her whole body shook with sobs.
“I’m—sorry. I was mad—and silly—to say such things.”
“You’d better take Sibella to her room, Chester.” Von Blon had resumed
his professional tone. “This business has been too much for her.”
The girl turned without another word and went out, followed by
Chester.
“These modern women—all nerves,” Von Blon commented laconically. Then
he placed his hand on Ada’s forehead. “Now, young lady, I’m going to
give you something to make you sleep after all this excitement.”
He had scarcely opened his medicine-case to prepare the draught when a
shrill, complaining voice drifted clearly to us from the next room;
and for the first time I noticed that the door of the little
dressing-room which communicated with Mrs. Greene’s quarters was
slightly ajar.
“What’s all the trouble now? Hasn’t there been enough disturbance
already without these noisy scenes in my very ear? But it doesn’t
matter, of course, how much _I_ suffer. . . . Nurse! Shut those doors
into Ada’s room. You had no business to leave them open when you knew
I was trying to get a little rest. You did it on purpose to annoy
me. . . . And nurse! Tell the doctor I must see him before he goes. I
have those stabbing pains in my spine again. But who thinks about me,
lying here paralyzed——?”
The doors were closed softly, and the fretful voice was cut off from
us.
“She could have had the doors closed a long time ago if she’d really
wanted them closed,” said Ada wearily, a look of distress on her drawn
white face. “Why, Doctor Von, does she always pretend that every one
deliberately makes her suffer?”
Von Blon sighed. “I’ve told you, Ada, that you mustn’t take your
mother’s tantrums too seriously. Her irritability and complaining are
part of her disease.”
We bade the girl good-by, and the doctor walked with us into the hall.
“I’m afraid you didn’t learn much,” he remarked, almost
apologetically. “It’s most unfortunate Ada didn’t get a look at her
assailant.” He addressed himself to Heath. “Did you, by the way, look
in the dining-room wall-safe to make sure nothing was missing? You
know, there’s one there behind the big niello over the mantel.”
“One of the first places we inspected.” The Sergeant’s voice was a bit
disdainful. “And that reminds me, doc: I want to send a man up in the
morning to look for finger-prints in Miss Ada’s room.”
Von Blon agreed amiably, and held out his hand to Markham.
“And if there’s any way I can be of service to you or the police,” he
added pleasantly, “please call on me. I’ll be only too glad to help. I
don’t see just what I can do, but one never knows.”
Markham thanked him, and we descended to the lower hall. Sproot was
waiting to help us with our coats, and a moment later we were in the
District Attorney’s car ploughing our way through the snow-drifts.