In the Locked Library
(Wednesday, December 1; 1 p. m.)
Vance, contrary to his custom, rose early the next morning. He was
rather waspish, and I left him severely alone. He made several
desultory attempts at reading, and once, when he put his book down, I
glanced at the title,—he had chosen a life of Genghis Khan! Later in
the forenoon he attempted to busy himself with cataloguing his Chinese
prints.
We were to have lunch with Markham at the Lawyers Club at one o’clock,
and at a little after twelve Vance ordered his powerful Hispano-Suiza.
He always drove himself when engaged on a problem: the activity seemed
to steady his nerves and clarify his brain.
Markham was waiting for us, and it was only too plain from his
expression that something of a disturbing nature had occurred.
“Unburden, old dear,” invited Vance, when we were seated at our table
in a corner of the main dining-room. “You look as serious as Saint
John of Patmos. I’m sure something wholly to be expected has happened.
Have the galoshes disappeared?”
Markham looked at him with some wonder.
“Yes! The O’Brien woman called the Bureau at nine o’clock this morning
and reported that they had been removed from the linen-closet during
the night. They were there, however, when she went to bed.”
“And, of course, they have not been found.”
“No. She made a pretty careful search before phoning.”
“Fancy that. But she might have saved herself the trouble.—What does
the doughty Sergeant opine?”
“Heath reached the house before ten o’clock, and made an
investigation. But he learned nothing. No one admitted hearing any
sound in the hall during the night. He re-searched the house himself,
but without result.”
“Have you heard from Von Blon this morning?”
“No; but Heath saw him. He came to the house about ten and stayed
nearly an hour. He appeared very much upset over the stolen drugs, and
immediately asked if any trace of them had been found. He spent most
of the hour with Sibella.”
“Ah, welladay! Let us enjoy our _truffes gastronome_ without the
intrusion of unpleasant speculations. This Madeira sauce, by the by,
is very good.” Thus Vance dismissed the subject.
However, that luncheon was to prove a memorable one; for toward the
end of the meal Vance made a suggestion—or, rather, insisted upon an
action—that was eventually to solve and explain the terrible tragedies
at the Greene mansion. We had reached our dessert when, after a long
silence, he looked up at Markham and said:
“The Pandora complex has seized and mastered me. I simply must get
into Tobias’s locked library. That sacred adytum has begun to infest
my slumbers; and ever since you mentioned the legacy of those books
I’ve had no rest. I yearn to become acquainted with Tobias’s literary
taste, and to learn why he should have selected the police for his
beneficiaries.”
“But, my dear Vance, what possible connection——?”
“Desist! You can’t think of a question I have not already put to
myself; and I’m unable to answer any of them. But the fact remains, I
must inspect that library even if you have to get a judicial order to
batter down the door. There are sinister undercurrents in that old
house, Markham; and a hint or two may be found in that secret room.”
“It will be a difficult proceeding if Mrs. Greene stands firm on her
refusal to deliver the key to us.” Markham, I could see, had already
acquiesced. He was in a mood to accede to any suggestion that even
remotely promised a clarification of the problem posed by the Greene
murders.
It was nearly three o’clock when we reached the house. Heath had
already arrived, in answer to a telephone call from Markham; and we at
once presented ourselves to Mrs. Greene. Following an ocular sign from
the Sergeant the new nurse left the room; and Markham went directly to
the point. The old lady had eyed us suspiciously as we came in, and
now sat rigidly against her pile of pillows, her gaze fixed on Markham
with defensive animosity.
“Madam,” he began, somewhat severely, “we regret the necessity of this
call. But certain things have arisen which make it imperative that we
visit Mr. Greene’s library. . . .”
“You sha’n’t!” she broke in, her voice rising in an infuriated
_crescendo_. “You sha’n’t put your foot in that room! Not for twelve
years has any one passed the threshold, and no policeman now shall
desecrate the place where my husband spent the last years of his
life.”
“I appreciate the sentiment that actuates your refusal,” replied
Markham; “but graver considerations have intervened. The room will
have to be searched.”
“Not if you kill me!” she cried. “How dare you force your way into my
house——?”
Markham held up his hand authoritatively.
“I am not here to argue the matter. I came to you merely to ask for
the key. Of course, if you prefer to have us break down the
door. . . .” He drew a sheaf of papers from his pocket. “I have
secured a search-warrant for that room; and it would cause me deep
regret to have to serve it on you.” (I was amazed at his aggressive
daring, for I knew he had no warrant.)
Mrs. Greene broke forth with imprecations. Her anger became almost
insensate, and she was changed into a creature at once repulsive and
pitiful. Markham waited calmly for her paroxysm of fury to pass; and
when, her vituperation spent, she beheld his quiet, inexorable
bearing, she knew that she had lost. She sank back, white and
exhausted.
“Take the key,” she capitulated bitterly, “and save me the final
infamy of having my house torn down by ruffians. . . . It’s in the
ivory jewel-case in the top drawer of that cabinet.” She pointed
weakly to the lacquered high-boy.
Vance crossed the room and secured the key—a long, old-fashioned
instrument with a double bit and a filigreed bow.
“Have you always kept the key in this jewel-case, Mrs. Greene?” he
asked, as he closed the drawer.
“For twelve years,” she whined. “And now, after all that time, it is
to be taken from me by force—and by the police, the very people who
should be protecting an old, helpless paralytic like me. It’s infamy!
But what can I expect? Every one takes delight in torturing me.”
Markham, his object gained, became contrite, and endeavored to pacify
her by explaining the seriousness of the situation. But in this he
failed; and a few moments later he joined us in the hall.
“I don’t like this sort of thing, Vance,” he said.
“You did remarkably well, however. If I hadn’t been with you since
lunch I’d have believed you really had a search-warrant. You are a
veritable Machiavelli. _Te saluto!_”
“Get on with your business, now that you have the key,” ordered
Markham irritably. And we descended to the main hall.
Vance looked about him cautiously to make sure we were not observed,
and led the way to the library.
“The lock works rather easily, considering its twelve years of
desuetude,” he remarked, as he turned the key and gently pushed open
the massive oak door. “And the hinges don’t even creak. Astonishin’.”
Blackness confronted us, and Vance struck a match.
“Please don’t touch anything,” he admonished, and, holding the match
high before him, he crossed to the heavy velour draperies of the east
window. As he drew them apart a cloud of dust filled the air.
“These curtains, at least, have not been touched for years,” he said.
The gray light of mid-afternoon suffused the room, revealing an
astonishing retreat. The walls were lined with open book-shelves which
reached from the floor nearly to the ceiling, leaving only space
enough for a row of marble busts and squat bronze vases. At the
southern end of the room was a massive flat-topped desk, and in the
centre stood a long carved table laden with curious and outlandish
ornaments. Beneath the windows and in the corners were piles of
pamphlets and portfolios; and along the moulding of the bookcases hung
gargoyles and old prints yellow with age. Two enormous Persian lamps
of perforated brass depended from the ceiling, and beside the
centre-table stood a Chinese sconce eight feet high. The floor was
covered with overlapping Oriental rugs laid at all angles; and at each
end of the fireplace was a hideous, painted totem-pole reaching to the
beams. A thick coating of dust overlay everything.
Vance returned to the door and, striking another match, closely
examined the inner knob.
“Some one,” he announced, “has been here recently. There’s no sign of
dust on this knob.”
“We might get the finger-prints,” suggested Heath.
Vance shook his head.
“Not even worth trying. The person we’re dealing with knows better
than to leave sign manuals.”
He closed the door softly and threw the bolt. Then he looked about
him. Presently he pointed beneath a huge geographical globe beside the
desk.
“There are your galoshes, Sergeant. I thought they’d be here.”
Heath almost threw himself upon them, and carried them to the window.
“They’re the ones, all right,” he declared.
Markham gave Vance one of his annoyed, calculating stares.
“You’ve got some theory,” he asserted, in an accusing tone.
“Nothing more than I’ve already told you. The finding of the galoshes
was wholly incidental. I’m interested in other things—just what, I
don’t know.”
He stood near the centre-table and let his eyes roam over the objects
of the room. Presently his gaze came to rest on a low wicker
reading-chair the right arm of which was shaped into a book-rest. It
stood within a few feet of the wall opposite to the fireplace, facing
a narrow section of book-shelves that was surmounted by a replica of
the Capitoline Museum bust of Vespasian.
“Most untidy,” he murmured. “I’m sure that chair wasn’t left in that
position twelve years ago.”
He moved forward, and stood looking down at it musingly. Instinctively
Markham and Heath followed him; and then they saw the thing that he
had been contemplating. On the table-arm of the chair was a deep
saucer in which stood the thick stub of a candle. The saucer was
almost filled with smoky wax drippings.
“It took many candles to fill that dish,” commented Vance; “and I
doubt if the departed Tobias did his reading by candle-light.” He
touched the seat and the back of the chair, and then examined his
hand. “There’s dust, but nowhere near a decade’s accumulation. Some
one has been browsing in this library rather recently; and he was
dashed secretive about it. He didn’t dare draw the shades or turn on
the lights. He sat here with a single candle, sampling Tobias’s brand
of literature. And it apparently appealed to him, for this one saucer
contains evidence of many bookish nights. How many other saucers of
paraffin there were we don’t know.”
“The old lady could tell us who had a chance to put the key back this
morning after hiding the galoshes,” offered Heath.
“No one put the key back this morning, Sergeant. The person who was in
the habit of visiting here wouldn’t have stolen it and returned it on
each occasion when he could have had a duplicate made in fifteen
minutes.”
“I guess you’re right.” The Sergeant was sorely perplexed. “But as
long as we don’t know who’s got the key, we’re no better off than we
were.”
“We’re not quite through yet with our scrutiny of the library,”
rejoined Vance. “As I told Mr. Markham at lunch, my main object in
coming here was to ascertain Tobias’s taste in literature.”
“A lot of good that’ll do you!”
“One never can tell. Tobias, remember, bequeathed his library to the
Police Department. . . . Let’s see with what tomes the old boy whiled
away his inactive hours.”
Vance took out his monocle and, polishing it carefully, fitted it to
his eye. Then he turned to the nearest book-shelves. I stepped forward
and looked over his shoulder; and, as my glance ran over the dusty
titles, I could scarcely suppress an exclamation of amazement. Here
was one of the most complete and unusual private libraries of
criminology in America—and I was familiar with many of the country’s
famous collections. Crime in all its phases and ramifications was
represented. Rare old treatises, long out of print and now the delight
of bibliophiles, shouldered one another in compact tiers on Tobias
Greene’s shelves.
Nor were the subjects of these books limited to a narrow
interpretation of criminology. All the various allied branches of the
subject were represented. There were entire sections devoted to
insanity and cretinism, social and criminal pathology, suicide,
pauperism and philanthropy, prison-reform, prostitution and
morphinism, capital punishment, abnormal psychology, legal codes, the
argot of the underworld and code-writing, toxicology, and police
methods. The volumes were in many languages—English, French, German,
Italian, Spanish, Swedish, Russian, Dutch, and Latin.*
* Among the volumes of Tobias Greene’s library I may mention
the following as typical of the entire collection: Heinroth’s
“De morborum animi et pathematum animi differentia,” Hoh’s “De
maniæ pathologia,” P. S. Knight’s “Observations on the Causes,
Symptoms, and Treatment of Derangement of the Mind,”
Krafft-Ebing’s “Grundzüge der Kriminal-Psychologie,” Bailey’s
“Diary of a Resurrectionist,” Lange’s “Om Arvelighedens
Inflydelse i Sindssygedommene,” Leuret’s “Fragments
psychologiques sur la folie,” D’Aguanno’s “Recensioni di
antropologia giuridica,” Amos’s “Crime and Civilization,”
Andronico’s “Studi clinici sul delitto,” Lombroso’s “Uomo
Delinquente,” de Aramburu’s “La nueva ciencia penal,”
Bleakley’s “Some Distinguished Victims of the Scaffold,”
Arenal’s “Psychologie comparée du criminel,” Aubry’s “De
l’homicide commis par la femme,” Beccaria’s “Crimes and
Punishments,” Benedikt’s “Anatomical Studies upon the Brains
of Criminals,” Bittinger’s “Crimes of Passion and of
Reflection,” Bosselli’s “Nuovi studi sul tatuaggio nei
criminali,” Favalli’s “La delinquenza in rapporto alla
civiltà,” de Feyfer’s “Verhandeling over den Kindermoord,”
Fuld’s “Der Realismus und das Strafrecht,” Hamilton’s
“Scientific Detection of Crime,” von Holtzendorff’s “Das
Irische Gefängnissystem insbesondere die Zwischenanstalten vor
der Entlassung der Sträflinge,” Jardine’s “Criminal Trials,”
Lacassagne’s “L’homme criminel comparé à l’homme primitif,”
Llanos y Torriglia’s “Ferri y su escuela,” Owen Luke’s
“History of Crime in England,” MacFarlane’s “Lives and
Exploits of Banditti,” M’Levy’s “Curiosities of Crime in
Edinburgh,” the “Complete Newgate Calendar,” Pomeroy’s “German
and French Criminal Procedure,” Rizzone’s “Delinquenza e
punibilità,” Rosenblatt’s “Skizzen aus der Verbrecherwelt,”
Soury’s “Le crime et les criminels,” Wey’s “Criminal
Anthropology,” Amadei’s “Crani d’assassini,” Benedikt’s “Der
Raubthiertypus am menschlichen Gehirne,” Fasini’s “Studi su
delinquenti femmine,” Mills’s “Arrested and Aberrant
Development and Gyres in the Brain of Paranoiacs and
Criminals,” de Paoli’s “Quattro crani di delinquenti,”
Zuckerkandl’s “Morphologie des Gesichtsschädels,”
Bergonzoli’s “Sui pazzi criminali in Italia,” Brierre de
Boismont’s “Rapports de la folie suicide avec la folie
homicide,” Buchnet’s “The Relation of Madness to Crime,”
Calucci’s “Il jure penale e la freniatria,” Davey’s “Insanity
and Crime,” Morel’s “Le procès Chorinski,” Parrot’s “Sur la
monomanie homicide,” Savage’s “Moral Insanity,” Teed’s “On
Mind, Insanity, and Criminality,” Worckmann’s “On Crime and
Insanity,” Vaucher’s “Système préventif des délits et des
crimes,” Thacker’s “Psychology of Vice and Crime,” Tarde’s
“La Criminalité Comparée,” Tamassia’s “Gli ultimi studi sulla
criminalità,” Sikes’s “Studies of Assassination,” Senior’s
“Remarkable Crimes and Trials in Germany,” Savarini’s “Vexata
Quæstio,” Sampson’s “Rationale of Crime,” Noellner’s
“Kriminal-psychologische Denkwürdigkeiten,” Sighele’s “La
foule criminelle,” and Korsakoff’s “Kurs psichiatrii.”
Vance’s eyes sparkled as he moved along the crowded shelves. Markham
also was deeply interested; and Heath, bending here and there toward a
volume, registered an expression of bewildered curiosity.
“My word!” murmured Vance. “No wonder your department, Sergeant, was
chosen as the future custodian of these tomes. What a collection!
Extr’ordin’ry!—Aren’t you glad, Markham, you wangled the old lady into
relinquishing the key——?”
Suddenly he stiffened and jerked his head toward the door, at the same
time lifting his hand for silence. I, too, had heard a slight noise in
the hall, like some one brushing against the woodwork of the door, but
had thought nothing of it. For a few moments we waited tensely. But no
further sound came to us, and Vance stepped quickly to the door and
drew it open. The hall was empty. He stood on the threshold for a
while listening. Then he closed the door, and turned again to the
room.
“I could have sworn some one was listening in the hall.”
“I heard a rustle of some kind,” Markham corroborated him. “I took it
for granted it was Sproot or the maid passing by.”
“Why should anybody’s hanging round the hall worry us, Mr. Vance?”
Heath asked.
“I really couldn’t say, don’t y’ know. But it bothers me,
nevertheless. If some one was at the door listening, it shows that our
presence here has produced a state of anxiety in the person privy to
the fact. It’s possible, d’ ye see, that some one is desirous of
ascertaining what we have found out.”
“Well, I can’t see that we’ve found out enough to make anybody lose
any sleep,” mumbled Heath.
“You’re so discouraging, Sergeant.” Vance sighed and went to the
book-shelves in front of the wicker reading-chair. “There may be
something in this section to cheer us. Let us see if there’s a glad
tiding or two written in the dust.”
He struck match after match as he carefully inspected the tops of the
books, beginning at the highest shelf and systematically scrutinizing
the volumes of each row. He had reached the second shelf from the
floor when he bent over curiously and gave a second long look at two
thick gray volumes. Then, putting out the match, he took the volumes
to the window.
“The thing is quite mad,” he remarked, after a brief examination.
“These are the only books within arm’s reach of the chair that have
been handled recently. And what do you think they are? An old
two-volume edition of Professor Hans Gross’s ‘Handbuch für
Untersuchungsrichter als System der Kriminalistik,’ or—to claw the
title loosely into the vulgate—‘A Handbook on the Criminal Sciences
for Examining Magistrates.’” He gave Markham a look of facetious
reproach. “I say, you haven’t, by any chance, been spending your
nights in this library learning how to ballyrag suspects?”
Markham ignored his levity. He recognized the outward sign of Vance’s
inner uneasiness.
“The apparently irrelevant theme of the book,” he returned, “might
indicate a mere coincidence between the visits of some person to this
room and the crimes committed in the house.”
Vance made no answer. He thoughtfully returned the books to their
place and ran his eye over the remaining volumes of the bottom shelf.
Suddenly he knelt down and struck another match.
“Here are several books out of place.” I detected a subdued note of
eagerness in his voice. “They belong in other sections; and they’ve
been crowded in here a little out of alignment. Moreover, they’re
innocent of dust. . . . ’Pon my soul, Markham, here’s a coincidence
for your sceptical legal mind! Lend an ear to these titles: ‘Poisons:
Their Effects and Detection,’ by Alexander Wynter Blyth,* and
‘Textbook of Medical Jurisprudence, Toxicology, and Public Health,’ by
John Glaister, professor of Forensic Medicine at the University of
Glasgow. And here we have Friedrich Brügelmann’s ‘Über hysterische
Dämmerzustände,’ and Schwarzwald’s ‘Über Hystero-Paralyse und
Somnambulismus.’—I say! That’s deuced queer. . . .”
* Doctor Blyth was one of the defense witnesses in the Crippen
trial.
He rose and walked up and down agitatedly.
“No—no; absolutely not,” he muttered. “It simply can’t be. . . . Why
should Von Blon lie to us about her?”
We all knew what was in his mind. Even Heath sensed it at once, for,
though he did not speak German, the titles of the two German
books—especially the latter—needed no translation to be understood.
Hysteria and twilight sleep! Hysterical paralysis and somnambulism!
The gruesome and terrible implication in these two titles, and their
possible relation to the sinister tragedies of the Greene mansion,
sent a chill of horror over me.
Vance stopped his restless pacing and fixed a grave gaze on Markham.
“This thing gets deeper and deeper. Something unthinkable is going on
here.—Come, let us get out of this polluted room. It has told us its
gibbering, nightmarish story. And now we will have to interpret
it—find some glimmer of sanity in its black suggestions.—Sergeant,
will you draw the curtains while I straighten these books? We’d best
leave no evidence of our visit.”