A Depleted Household
(Friday, December 3; forenoon)
Markham brought us the news of Mrs. Greene’s death before ten o’clock
the next morning. The tragedy had not been discovered until nine, when
the nurse brought up her patient’s morning tea. Heath had notified
Markham, and Markham had stopped on his way to the Greene mansion to
apprise Vance of the new development. Vance and I had already
breakfasted, and we accompanied him to the house.
“This knocks out our only prop,” Markham said despondently, as we sped
up Madison Avenue. “The possibility that the old lady was guilty was
frightful to contemplate; though all along I’ve been trying to console
myself with the thought that she was insane. Now, however, I almost
wish our suspicions had proved true, for the possibilities that are
left seem even more terrible. We’re dealing now with a cold-blooded
calculating rationality.”
Vance nodded.
“Yes, we’re confronted with something far worse than mania. I can’t
say, though, that I’m deeply shocked by Mrs. Greene’s death. She was a
detestable woman, Markham—a most detestable woman. The world will not
bemoan her loss.”
Vance’s comment expressed exactly the sentiment I had felt when
Markham informed us of Mrs. Greene’s death. The news had of course
shaken me, but I had no pity for the victim. She had been vicious and
unnatural; she had thriven on hatred, and had made life a hell for
every one about her. It was better that her existence was over.
Both Heath and Drumm were waiting for us in the drawing-room.
Excitement and depression were mingled in the Sergeant’s countenance,
and the desperation of despair shone in his china-blue eyes. Drumm
revealed only a look of professional disappointment: his chief concern
apparently was that he had been deprived of an opportunity to display
his medical skill.
Heath, after shaking hands absently, briefly explained the situation.
“O’Brien found the old dame dead at nine this morning, and told Sproot
to wigwag to Doc Drumm. Then she phoned the Bureau, and I notified you
and Doc Doremus. I got here fifteen or twenty minutes ago, and locked
up the room.”
“Did you inform Von Blon?” Markham asked.
“I phoned him to call off the examination he’d arranged for ten
o’clock. Said I’d communicate with him later, and hung up before he
had time to ask any questions.”
Markham indicated his approval and turned toward Drumm.
“Give us your story, doctor.”
Drumm drew himself up, cleared his throat, and assumed an attitude
calculated to be impressive.
“I was down-stairs in the Narcoss dining-room eating breakfast when
Hennessey came in and told me the curtains had gone down in the
reception-room here. So I snatched my outfit and came over on the run.
The butler took me to the old lady’s room, where the nurse was
waiting. But right away I saw I was too late to be of any good. She
was dead—contorted, blue, and cold—and _rigor mortis_ had set in. Died
of a big dose of strychnine. Probably didn’t suffer much—exhaustion
and coma came inside of half an hour, I’d say. Too old, you
understand, to throw it off. Old people succumb to strychnine pretty
swiftly. . . .”
“What about her ability to cry out and give the alarm?”
“You can’t tell. The spasm may have rendered her mute. Anyway, no one
heard her. Probably passed into unconsciousness after the first
seizure. My experience with such cases has taught me——”
“What time would you say the strychnine was taken?”
“Well, now, you can’t tell exactly.” Drumm became oracular. “The
convulsions may have been prolonged before death supervened, or death
may have supervened very shortly after the poison was swallowed.”
“At what hour, then, would you fix the time of death?”
“There again you can’t say definitely. Confusion between _rigor
mortis_ and the phenomenon of cadaveric spasm is a pitfall into which
many doctors fall. There are, however, distinct points of
dissimilarity——”
“No doubt.” Markham was growing impatient with Drumm’s sophomoric
pedantries. “But leaving all explanation to one side, what time do you
think Mrs. Greene died?”
Drumm pondered the point.
“Roughly, let us say, at two this morning.”
“And the strychnine might have been taken as early as eleven or
twelve?”
“It’s possible.”
“Anyhow, we’ll know about it when Doc Doremus gets here,” asserted
Heath with brutal frankness. He was in vicious mood that morning.
“Did you find any glass or cup by which the drug might have been
administered, doctor?” Markham hastened to ask, by way of covering up
Heath’s remark.
“There was a glass near the bed with what appeared to be sulphate
crystals adhering to the sides of it.”
“But wouldn’t a fatal dose of strychnine make an ordin’ry drink
noticeably bitter?” Vance had suddenly become alert.
“Undoubtedly. But there was a bottle of citrocarbonate—a well-known
antacid—on the night-table; and if the drug had been taken with this,
the taste would not have been detected. Citrocarbonate is slightly
saline and highly effervescing.”
“Could Mrs. Greene have taken the citrocarbonate alone?”
“It’s not likely. It has to be carefully mixed with water, and the
operation would be highly awkward for any one in bed.”
“Now, that’s most interestin’.” Vance listlessly lighted a cigarette.
“We may presume, therefore, that the person who gave Mrs. Greene the
citrocarbonate also administered the strychnine.” He turned to
Markham. “I think Miss O’Brien might be able to help us.”
Heath went at once and summoned the nurse.
But her evidence was unilluminating. She had left Mrs. Greene reading
about eleven o’clock, had gone to her own room to make her toilet for
the night, and had returned to Ada’s room half an hour later, where
she had slept all night, according to Heath’s instructions. She had
risen at eight, dressed, and gone to the kitchen to fetch Mrs.
Greene’s tea. As far as she knew, Mrs. Greene had drunk nothing before
retiring—certainly she had taken no citrocarbonate up to eleven
o’clock. Furthermore, Mrs. Greene never attempted to take it alone.
“You think, then,” asked Vance, “that it was given to her by some one
else?”
“You can bank on it,” the nurse assured him bluntly. “If she’d wanted
it, she’d have raised the house before mixing it herself.”
“It’s quite obvious,” Vance observed to Markham, “that some one
entered her room after eleven o’clock and prepared the
citrocarbonate.”
Markham got up and walked anxiously about the room.
“Our immediate problem boils down to finding out who had the
opportunity to do it,” he said. “You, Miss O’Brien, may return to your
room. . . .” Then he went to the bell-cord and rang for Sproot.
During a brief interrogation of the butler the following facts were
brought out:
The house had been locked up, and Sproot had retired, at about half
past ten.
Sibella had gone to her room immediately after dinner, and had
remained there.
Hemming and the cook had lingered in the kitchen until shortly after
eleven, at which time Sproot had heard them ascend to their rooms.
The first intimation Sproot had of Mrs. Greene’s death was when the
nurse sent him to draw the reception-room shades at nine that
morning.
Markham dismissed him and sent for the cook. She was, it appeared,
unaware of Mrs. Greene’s death and of Ada’s poisoning as well; and
what evidence she had to give was of no importance. She had, she said,
been in the kitchen or in her own room practically all of the
preceding day.
Hemming was interviewed next. From the nature of the questions put to
her she became suspicious almost at once. Her piercing eyes narrowed,
and she gave us a look of shrewd triumph.
“You can’t hoodwink me,” she burst out. “The Lord’s been busy with his
besom again. And a good thing, too! ‘The Lord preserveth all them that
love him: but all the wicked shall he destroy.’”
“‘Will,’” corrected Vance. “And seeing that you have been so tenderly
preserved, perhaps we had better inform you that both Miss Ada and
Mrs. Greene have been poisoned.”
He was watching the woman closely, but it took no scrutiny to see her
cheeks go pale and her jaw sag. The Lord had evidently been too
precipitously devastating even for this devout disciple; and her faith
was insufficient to counteract her fear.
“I’m going to leave this house,” she declared faintly. “I’ve seen
enough to bear witness for the Lord.”
“An excellent idea,” nodded Vance. “And the sooner you go the more
time you’ll have to give apocryphal testimony.”
Hemming rose, a bit dazed, and started for the archway. Then she
quickly turned back and glared at Markham maliciously.
“But let me tell you something before I pass from this den of
iniquity. That Miss Sibella is the worst of the lot, and the Lord is
going to strike her down next—mark my words! There’s no use to try and
save her. She’s—_doomed_!”
Vance lifted his eyebrows languidly.
“I say, Hemming, what unrighteousness has Miss Sibella been up to
now?”
“The usual thing.” The woman spoke with relish. “She’s nothing but a
hussy, if you ask me. Her carryings-on with this Doctor Von Blon have
been scandalous. They’re together, as thick as thieves, at all hours.”
She nodded her head significantly. “He came here again last night and
went to her room. There’s no telling what time he left.”
“Fancy that, now. And how do you happen to know about it?”
“Didn’t I let him in?”
“Oh, you did?—What time was this? And where was Sproot?”
“Mr. Sproot was eating his dinner, and I’d gone to the front door to
take a look at the weather when the doctor walks up. ‘Howdy-do,
Hemming?’ he says with his oily smile. And he brushes past me,
nervous-like, and goes straight to Miss Sibella’s room.”
“Perhaps Miss Sibella was indisposed, and sent for him,” suggested
Vance indifferently.
“Huh!” Hemming tossed her head contemptuously, and strode from the
room.
Vance rose at once and rang again for Sproot.
“Did you know Doctor Von Blon was here last night?” he asked when the
butler appeared.
The man shook his head.
“No, sir. I was quite unaware of the fact.”
“That’s all, Sproot. And now please tell Miss Sibella we’d like to see
her.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was fifteen minutes before Sibella put in an appearance.
“I’m beastly lazy these days,” she explained, settling herself in a
large chair. “What’s the party for this morning?”
Vance offered her a cigarette with an air half quizzical and half
deferential.
“Before we explain our presence,” he said, “please be good enough to
tell us what time Doctor Von Blon left here last night?”
“At a quarter of eleven,” she answered, a hostile challenge coming
into her eyes.
“Thank you. And now I may tell you that both your mother and Ada have
been poisoned.”
“Mother and Ada poisoned?” She echoed the words vaguely, as if they
were only half intelligible to her; and for several moments she sat
motionless, staring stonily out of flintlike eyes. Slowly her gaze
became fixed on Markham.
“I think I’ll take your advice,” she said. “I have a girl chum in
Atlantic City. . . . This place is really becoming too, too creepy.”
She forced a faint smile. “I’m off for the seashore this afternoon.”
For the first time the girl’s nerve seemed to have deserted her.
“Your decision is very wise,” observed Vance. “Go, by all means; and
arrange to stay until we have settled this affair.”
She looked at him in a spirit of indulgent irony.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay so long,” she said; then added: “I suppose
mother and Ada are both dead.”
“Only your mother,” Vance told her. “Ada recovered.”
“She would!” Every curve of her features expressed a fine arrogant
contempt. “Common clay has great resistance, I’ve heard. You know, I’m
the only one standing between her and the Greene millions now.”
“Your sister had a very close call,” Markham reprimanded her. “If we
had not had a doctor on guard, you might now be the sole remaining
heir to those millions.”
“And that would look frightfully suspicious, wouldn’t it?” Her
question was disconcertingly frank. “But you may rest assured that if
_I_ had planned this affair, little Ada would not have recovered.”
Before Markham could answer she switched herself out of the chair.
“Now, I’m going to pack. Enough is enough.”
When she had left the room, Heath looked with doubtful inquisitiveness
at Markham.
“What about it, sir? Are you going to let her leave the city? She’s
the only one of the Greenes who hasn’t been touched.”
We knew what he meant; and this spoken suggestion of the thought that
had been passing through all our minds left us silent for a moment.
“We can’t take the chance of forcing her to stay here,” Markham
returned finally. “If anything should happen . . .”
“I get you, sir.” Heath was on his feet. “But I’m going to see that
she’s tailed—believe me! I’ll get two good men up here who’ll stick to
her from the time she goes out that front door till we know where we
stand.” He went into the hall, and we heard him giving orders to
Snitkin over the telephone.
Five minutes later Doctor Doremus arrived. He was no longer jaunty,
and his greeting was almost sombre. Accompanied by Drumm and Heath he
went at once to Mrs. Greene’s room, while Markham and Vance and I
waited down-stairs. When he returned at the end of fifteen minutes he
was markedly subdued, and I noticed he did not put on his hat at its
usual rakish angle.
“What’s the report?” Markham asked him.
“Same as Drumm’s. The old girl passed out, I’d say, between one and
two.”
“And the strychnine was taken when?”
“Midnight, or thereabouts. But that’s only a guess. Anyway, she got it
along with the citrocarbonate. I tasted it on the glass.”*
* It will be remembered that in the famous Molineux poisoning
case the cyanide of mercury was administered by way of a
similar drug—to wit: Bromo-Seltzer.
“By the by, doctor,” said Vance, “when you do the autopsy can you let
us have a report on the state of atrophy of the leg muscles?”
“Sure thing.” Doremus was somewhat surprised by the request.
When he had gone, Markham addressed himself to Drumm.
“We’d like to talk to Ada now. How is she this morning?”
“Oh, fine!” Drumm spoke with pride. “I saw her right after I’d looked
at the old lady. She’s weak and a bit dried up with all the atropine I
gave her, but otherwise practically normal.”
“And she has not been told of her mother’s death?”
“Not a word.”
“She will have to know,” interposed Vance; “and there’s no point in
keeping the fact from her any longer. It’s just as well that the shock
should come when we’re all present.”
Ada was sitting by the window when we came in, her elbows on the sill,
chin in hands, gazing out into the snow-covered yard. She was startled
by our entry, and the pupils of her eyes dilated, as if with sudden
fright. It was plain that the experiences she had been through had
created in her a state of nervous fear.
After a brief exchange of amenities, during which both Vance and
Markham strove to allay her nervousness, Markham broached the subject
of the bouillon.
“We’d give a great deal,” he said, “not to have to recall so painful
an episode, but much depends on what you can tell us regarding
yesterday morning.—You were in the drawing-room, weren’t you, when the
nurse called down to you?”
The girl’s lips and tongue were dry, and she spoke with some
difficulty.
“Yes. Mother had asked me to bring her a copy of a magazine, and I had
just gone down-stairs to look for it when the nurse called.”
“You saw the nurse when you came up-stairs?”
“Yes; she was just going toward the servants’ stairway.”
“There was no one in your room here when you entered?”
She shook her head. “Who could have been here?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Miss Greene,” replied Markham
gravely. “Some one certainly put the drug in your bouillon.”
She shuddered, but made no reply.
“Did any one come in to see you later?” Markham continued.
“Not a soul.”
Heath impatiently projected himself into the interrogation.
“And say; did you drink your soup right away?”
“No—not right away. I felt a little chilly, and I went across the hall
to Julia’s room to get an old Spanish shawl to put round me.”
Heath made a disgusted face, and sighed noisily.
“Every time we get going on this case,” he complained, “something
comes along and sinks us.—If Miss Ada left the soup in here, Mr.
Markham, while she went to get a shawl, then almost anybody coulda
sneaked in and poisoned the stuff.”
“I’m so sorry,” Ada apologized, almost as though she had taken Heath’s
words as a criticism of her actions.
“It’s not your fault, Ada,” Vance assured her. “The Sergeant is unduly
depressed.—But tell me this: when you went into the hall did you see
Miss Sibella’s dog anywhere around?”
She shook her head wonderingly.
“Why, no. What has Sibella’s dog to do with it?”
“He probably saved your life.” And Vance explained to her how Sproot
had happened to find her.
She gave a half-breathless murmur of amazement and incredulity, and
fell into abstracted revery.
“When you returned from your sister’s room, did you drink your
bouillon at once?” Vance asked her next.
With difficulty she brought her mind back to the question.
“Yes.”
“And didn’t you notice a peculiar taste?”
“Not particularly. Mother always likes a lot of salt in her bouillon.”
“And then what happened?”
“Nothing happened. Only, I began to feel funny. The back of my neck
tightened up, and I got very warm and drowsy. My skin tingled all
over, and my arms and legs seemed to get numb. I was terribly sleepy,
and I lay back on the bed.—That’s all I remember.”
“Another washout,” grumbled Heath.
There was a short silence, and Vance drew his chair nearer.
“Now, Ada,” he said, “you must brace yourself for more bad news. . . .
Your mother died during the night.”
The girl sat motionless for a moment, and then turned to him eyes of a
despairing clearness.
“Died?” she repeated. “How did she die?”
“She was poisoned—she took an overdose of strychnine.”
“You mean . . . she committed suicide?”
This query startled us all. It expressed a possibility that had not
occurred to us. After a momentary hesitation, however, Vance slowly
shook his head.
“No, I hardly think so. I’m afraid the person who poisoned you also
poisoned your mother.”
Vance’s reply seemed to stun her. Her face grew pale, and her eyes
were set in a glassy stare of terror. Then presently she sighed
deeply, as if from a kind of mental depletion.
“Oh, what’s going to happen next? . . . I’m—afraid!”
“Nothing more is going to happen,” said Vance with emphasis. “Nothing
more _can_ happen. You are going to be guarded every minute. And
Sibella is going this afternoon to Atlantic City for a long visit.”
“I wish I could go away,” she breathed pathetically.
“There will be no need of that,” put in Markham. “You’ll be safer in
New York. We are going to keep the nurse here to look after you, and
also put a man in the house day and night until everything is
straightened out. Hemming is leaving to-day, but Sproot and the cook
will take care of you.” He rose and patted her shoulder comfortingly.
“There’s no possible way any one can harm you now.”
As we descended into the lower hall Sproot was just admitting Doctor
Von Blon.
“Good God!” he exclaimed, hastening toward us. “Sibella just phoned me
about Mrs. Greene.” He looked truculently at Markham, his suavity for
the moment forgotten. “Why wasn’t I informed, sir?”
“I saw no necessity of bothering you, doctor,” Markham returned
equably. “Mrs. Greene had been dead several hours when she was found.
And we had our own doctor at hand.”
A quick flame leaped in Von Blon’s eyes.
“And am I to be forcibly kept from seeing Sibella?” he asked coldly.
“She tells me she is leaving the city to-day, and has asked me to
assist with her arrangements.”
Markham stepped aside.
“You are free, doctor, to do whatever you desire,” he said, a
perceptible chill in his voice.
Von Blon bowed stiffly, and went up the stairs.
“He’s sore,” grinned Heath.
“No, Sergeant,” Vance corrected. “He’s worried—oh, deuced worried.”
Shortly after noon that day Hemming departed forever from the Greene
mansion; and Sibella took the three-fifteen o’clock train for Atlantic
City. Of the original household, only Ada and Sproot and Mrs. Mannheim
were left. However, Heath gave orders for Miss O’Brien to remain on
duty indefinitely and keep an eye on everything that happened; and, in
addition to this protection, a detective was stationed in the house to
augment the nurse’s watch.