The Capture
(Monday, December 13; 4 p. m.)
It was eight days before Vance returned to New York. He arrived on the
afternoon of Monday, December 13, and, after he had had his tub and
changed his clothes, he telephoned Markham to expect him in half an
hour. He then ordered his Hispano-Suiza from the garage; and by this
sign I knew he was under a nervous strain. In fact, he had spoken
scarcely a dozen words to me since his return, and as he picked his
way down-town through the late afternoon traffic he was gloomy and
preoccupied. Once I ventured to ask him if his trip had been
successful, and he had merely nodded. But when we turned into Centre
Street he relented a little, and said:
“There was never any doubt as to the success of my trip, Van. I knew
what I’d find. But I didn’t dare trust my reason; I had to see the
records with my own eyes before I’d capitulate unreservedly to the
conclusion I’d formed.”
Both Markham and Heath were waiting for us in the District Attorney’s
office. It was just four o’clock, and the sun had already dropped
below the New York Life Building which towered above the old Criminal
Courts structure a block to the southwest.
“I took it for granted you had something important to tell me,” said
Markham; “so I asked the Sergeant to come here.”
“Yes, I’ve much to tell.” Vance had thrown himself into a chair, and
was lighting a cigarette. “But first I want to know if anything has
happened in my absence.”
“Nothing. Your prognostication was quite accurate. Things have been
quiet and apparently normal at the Greene mansion.”
“Anyhow,” interposed Heath, “we may have a little better chance this
week of getting hold of something to work on. Sibella returned from
Atlantic City yesterday, and Von Blon’s been hanging round the house
ever since.”
“Sibella back?” Vance sat up, and his eyes became intent.
“At six o’clock yesterday evening,” said Markham. “The newspaper men
at the beach ferreted her out and ran a sensational story about her.
After that the poor girl didn’t have an hour’s peace; so yesterday she
packed up and came back. We got word of the move through the men the
Sergeant had set to watch her. I ran out to see her this morning, and
advised her to go away again. But she was pretty thoroughly disgusted,
and stubbornly refused to quit the Greene house—said death was
preferable to being hounded by reporters and scandal-mongers.”
Vance had risen and moved to the window, where he stood scanning the
gray sky-line.
“Sibella’s back, eh?” he murmured. Then he turned round. “Let me see
that weather report I asked you to prepare for me.”
Markham reached into a drawer and handed him a typewritten sheet of
paper.
After perusing it he tossed it back on the desk.
“Keep that, Markham. You’ll need it when you face your twelve good men
and true.”
“What is it you have to tell us, Mr. Vance?” The Sergeant’s voice was
impatient despite his effort to control it. “Mr. Markham said you had
a line on the case.—For God’s sake, sir, if you’ve got any evidence
against any one, slip it to me and let me make an arrest. I’m getting
thin worrying over this damn business.”
Vance drew himself together.
“Yes, I know who the murderer is, Sergeant; and I have the
evidence—though it wasn’t my plan to tell you just yet. However”—he
went to the door with grim resolution—“we can’t delay matters any
longer now. Our hand has been forced.—Get into your coat, Sergeant—and
you, too, Markham. We’d better get out to the Greene house before
dark.”
“But, damn it all, Vance!” Markham expostulated. “Why don’t you tell
us what’s in your mind?”
“I can’t explain now—you’ll understand why later——”
“If you know so much, Mr. Vance,” broke in Heath, “what’s keeping us
from making an arrest?”
“You’re going to make your arrest, Sergeant—inside of an hour.” Though
he gave the promise without enthusiasm, it acted electrically on both
Heath and Markham.
Five minutes later the four of us were driving up West Broadway in
Vance’s car.
Sproot as usual admitted us without the faintest show of interest, and
stood aside respectfully for us to enter.
“We wish to see Miss Sibella,” said Vance. “Please tell her to come to
the drawing-room—alone.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Sibella is out.”
“Then tell Miss Ada we want to see her.”
“Miss Ada is out also, sir.” The butler’s unemotional tone sounded
strangely incongruous in the tense atmosphere we had brought with us.
“When do you expect them back?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. They went out motoring together. They probably
won’t be gone long. Would you gentlemen care to wait?”
Vance hesitated.
“Yes, we’ll wait,” he decided, and walked toward the drawing-room.
But he had barely reached the archway when he turned suddenly and
called to Sproot, who was retreating slowly toward the rear of the
hall.
“You say Miss Sibella and Miss Ada went motoring together? How long
ago?”
“About fifteen minutes—maybe twenty, sir.” A barely perceptible lift
of the man’s eyebrows indicated that he was greatly astonished by
Vance’s sudden change of manner.
“Whose car did they go in?”
“In Doctor Von Blon’s. He was here to tea——”
“And who suggested the ride, Sproot?”
“I really couldn’t say, sir. They were sort of debating about it when
I came in to clear away the tea things.”
“Repeat everything you heard!” Vance spoke rapidly and with more than
a trace of excitement.
“When I entered the room the doctor was saying as how he thought it
would be a good thing for the young ladies to get some fresh air; and
Miss Sibella said she’d had enough fresh air.”
“And Miss Ada?”
“I don’t remember her saying anything, sir.”
“And they went out to the car while you were here?”
“Yes, sir. I opened the door for them.”
“And did Doctor Von Blon go in the car with them?”
“Yes. But I believe they were to drop him at Mrs. Riglander’s, where
he had a professional call to make. From what he said as he went out I
gathered that the young ladies were then to take a drive, and that he
was to call here for the car after dinner.”
“What!” Vance stiffened, and his eyes burned upon the old butler.
“Quick, Sproot! Do you know where Mrs. Riglander lives?”
“On Madison Avenue in the Sixties, I believe.”
“Get her on the phone—find out if the doctor has arrived.”
I could not help marvelling at the impassive way in which the man went
to the telephone to comply with this astonishing and seemingly
incomprehensible request. When he returned his face was
expressionless.
“The doctor has not arrived at Mrs. Riglander’s, sir,” he reported.
“He’s certainly had time,” Vance commented, half to himself. Then:
“Who drove the car when it left here, Sproot?”
“I couldn’t say for certain, sir. I didn’t notice particularly. But
it’s my impression that Miss Sibella entered the car first as though
she intended to drive——”
“Come, Markham!” Vance started for the door. “I don’t like this at
all. There’s a mad idea in my head. . . . Hurry, man! If something
devilish should happen . . .”
We had reached the car, and Vance sprang to the wheel. Heath and
Markham, in a daze of incomprehension but swept along by the other’s
ominous insistence, took their places in the tonneau; and I sat beside
the driver’s seat.
“We’re going to break all the traffic and speed regulations,
Sergeant,” Vance announced, as he manœuvred the car in the narrow
street; “so have your badge and credentials handy. I may be taking you
chaps on a wild-goose chase, but we’ve got to risk it.”
We darted toward First Avenue, cut the corner short, and turned
up-town. At 59th Street we swung west and went toward Columbus Circle.
A surface car held us up at Lexington Avenue; and at Fifth Avenue we
were stopped by a traffic officer. But Heath showed his card and spoke
a few words, and we struck across Central Park. Swinging perilously
round the curves of the driveways, we came out into 81st Street and
headed for Riverside Drive. There was less congestion here, and we
made between forty and fifty miles an hour all the way to Dyckman
Street.
It was a nerve-racking ordeal, for not only had the shadows of evening
fallen, but the streets were slippery in places where the melted snow
had frozen in large sheets along the sloping sides of the Drive.
Vance, however, was an excellent driver. For two years he had driven
the same car, and he understood thoroughly how to handle it. Once we
skidded drunkenly, but he managed to right the traction before the
rear wheels came in contact with the high curbing. He kept the siren
horn screeching constantly, and other cars drew away from us, giving
us a fairly clear road.
At several street intersections we had to slow down; and twice we were
halted by traffic officers, but were permitted to proceed the moment
the occupants of the tonneau were recognized. On North Broadway we
were forced to the curb by a motorcycle policeman, who showered us
with a stream of picturesque abuse. But when Heath had cut him short
with still more colorful vituperation, and he had made out Markham’s
features in the shadows, he became ludicrously humble, and acted as an
advance-guard for us all the way to Yonkers, clearing the road and
holding up traffic at every cross-street.
At the railroad tracks near Yonkers Ferry we were obliged to wait
several minutes for the shunting of some freight-cars, and Markham
took this opportunity of venting his emotions.
“I presume you have a good reason for this insane ride, Vance,” he
said angrily. “But since I’m taking my life in my hands by
accompanying you, I’d like to know what your objective is.”
“There’s no time now for explanations,” Vance replied brusquely.
“Either I’m on a fool’s errand, or there’s an abominable tragedy ahead
of us.” His face was set and white, and he looked anxiously at his
watch. “We’re twenty minutes ahead of the usual running time from the
Plaza to Yonkers. Furthermore, we’re taking the direct route to our
destination—another ten minutes’ saving. If the thing I fear is
scheduled for to-night, the other car will go by the Spuyten Duyvil
Road and through the back lanes along the river——”
At this moment the crossing-bars were lifted, and our car jerked
forward, picking up speed with breathless rapidity.
Vance’s words had set a train of thought going in my mind. The Spuyten
Duyvil Road—the back lanes along the river. . . . Suddenly there
flashed on my brain a memory of that other ride we had taken weeks
before with Sibella and Ada and Von Blon; and a sense of something
inimical and indescribably horrifying took possession of me. I tried
to recall the details of that ride—how we had turned off the main road
at Dyckman Street, skirted the palisades through old wooded estates,
traversed private hedge-lined roadways, entered Yonkers from the
Riverdale Road, turned again from the main highway past the Ardsley
Country Club, taken the little-used road along the river toward
Tarrytown, and stopped on the high cliff to get a panoramic view of
the Hudson. . . . That cliff overlooking the waters of the river!—Ah,
now I remembered Sibella’s cruel jest—her supposedly satirical
suggestion of how a perfect murder might be committed there. And on
the instant of that recollection I knew where Vance was heading—I
understood the thing he feared! He believed that another car was also
heading for that lonely precipice beyond Ardsley—a car that had nearly
half an hour start. . . .
We were now below the Longue Vue hill, and a few moments later we
swung into the Hudson Road. At Dobbs Ferry another officer stepped in
our path and waved frantically; but Heath, leaning over the
running-board, shouted some unintelligible words, and Vance, without
slackening speed, skirted the officer and plunged ahead toward
Ardsley.
Ever since we had passed Yonkers, Vance had been inspecting every
large car along the way. He was, I knew, looking for Von Blon’s
low-hung yellow Daimler. But there had been no sign of it, and, as he
threw on the brakes preparatory to turning into the narrow road by the
Country Club golf-links, I heard him mutter half aloud:
“God help us if we’re too late!”*
* This was the first and only time during my entire friendship
with Vance that I ever heard him use a Scriptural expletive.
We made the turn at the Ardsley station at such a rate of speed that I
held my breath for fear we would upset; and I had to grip the seat
with both hands to keep my balance as we jolted over the rough road
along the river level. We took the hill before us in high gear, and
climbed swiftly to the dirt roadway along the edge of the bluff
beyond.
Scarcely had we rounded the hill’s crest when an exclamation broke
from Vance, and simultaneously I noticed a flickering red light
bobbing in the distance. A new spurt of speed brought us perceptibly
nearer to the car before us, and it was but a few moments before we
could make out its lines and color. There was no mistaking Von Blon’s
great Daimler.
“Hide your faces,” Vance shouted over his shoulder to Markham and
Heath. “Don’t let any one see you as we pass the car ahead.”
I leaned over below the panel of the front door, and a few seconds
later a sudden swerve told me that we were circling about the Daimler.
The next moment we were back in the road, rushing forward in the lead.
Half a mile further on the road narrowed. There was a deep ditch on
one side and dense shrubbery on the other. Vance quickly threw on the
brakes, and our rear wheels skidded on the hard frozen earth, bringing
us to a halt with our car turned almost at right angles with the road,
completely blocking the way.
“Out, you chaps!” called Vance.
We had no more than alighted when the other car drove up and, with a
grinding of brakes, came to a lurching halt within a few feet of our
machine. Vance had run back, and as the car reached a standstill he
threw open the front door. The rest of us had instinctively crowded
after him, urged forward by some undefined sense of excitement and
dread foreboding. The Daimler was of the sedan type with small high
windows, and even with the lingering radiance of the western sky and
the dashboard illumination I could barely make out the figures inside.
But at that moment Heath’s pocket flash-light blazed in the
semidarkness.
The sight that met my straining eyes was paralyzing. During the drive
I had speculated on the outcome of our tragic adventure, and I had
pictured several hateful possibilities. But I was wholly unprepared
for the revelation that confronted me.
The tonneau of the car was empty; and, contrary to my suspicions,
there was no sign of Von Blon. In the front seat were the two girls.
Sibella was on the further side, slumped down in the corner, her head
hanging forward. On her temple was an ugly cut, and a stream of blood
ran down her cheek. At the wheel sat Ada, glowering at us with cold
ferocity. Heath’s flash-light fell directly on her face, and at first
she did not recognize us. But as her pupils became adjusted to the
glare her gaze concentrated on Vance, and a foul epithet burst from
her.
Simultaneously her right hand dropped from the wheel to the seat
beside her, and when she raised it again it held a small glittering
revolver. There was a flash of flame and a sharp report, followed by a
shattering of glass where the bullet had struck the wind-shield. Vance
had been standing with one foot on the running-board leaning into the
car, and, as Ada’s arm came up with the revolver, he had snatched her
wrist and held it.
“No, my dear,” came his drawling voice, strangely calm and without
animosity; “you sha’n’t add me to your list. I was rather expecting
that move, don’t y’ know.”
Ada, frustrated in her attempt to shoot him, hurled herself upon him
with savage fury. Vile abuse and unbelievable blasphemies poured from
her snarling lips. Her wrath, feral and rampant, utterly possessed
her. She was like a wild animal, cornered and conscious of defeat, yet
fighting with a last instinct of hopeless desperation. Vance, however,
had secured both her wrists, and could have broken her arms with a
single twist of his hands; but he treated her almost tenderly, like a
father subduing an infuriated child. Stepping back quickly he drew her
into the roadway, where she continued her struggles with renewed
violence.
“Come, Sergeant!” Vance spoke with weary exasperation. “You’d better
put handcuffs on her. I don’t want to hurt her.”
Heath had stood watching the amazing drama in a state of bewilderment,
apparently too nonplussed to move. But Vance’s voice awakened him to
sharp activity. There were two metallic clicks, and Ada suddenly
relaxed into a listless attitude of sullen tractability. She leaned
panting against the side of the car as if too weak to stand alone.
Vance bent over and picked up the revolver which had fallen to the
road. With a cursory glance at it he handed it to Markham.
“There’s Chester’s gun,” he said. Then he indicated Ada with a pitying
movement of the head. “Take her to your office, Markham—Van will drive
the car. I’ll join you there as soon as I can. I must get Sibella to a
hospital.”
He stepped briskly into the Daimler. There was a shifting of gears,
and with a few deft manipulations he reversed the car in the narrow
road.
“And watch her, Sergeant!” he flung back, as the car darted away
toward Ardsley.
I drove Vance’s car back to the city. Markham and Heath sat in the
rear seat with the girl between them. Hardly a word was spoken during
the entire hour-and-a-half’s ride. Several times I glanced behind me
at the silent trio. Markham and the Sergeant appeared completely
stunned by the surprising truth that had just been revealed to them.
Ada, huddled between them, sat apathetically with closed eyes, her
head forward. Once I noticed that she pressed a handkerchief to her
face with her manacled hands; and I thought I heard the sound of
smothered sobbing. But I was too nervous to pay any attention. It took
every effort of my will to keep my mind on my driving.
As I drew up before the Franklin Street entrance of the Criminal
Courts Building and was about to shut off the engine, a startled
exclamation from Heath caused me to release the switch.
“Holy Mother o’ God!” I heard him say in a hoarse voice. Then he
thumped me on the back. “Get to the Beekman Street Hospital—as quick
as hell, Mr. Van Dine. Damn the traffic lights! Step on it!”
Without looking round I knew what had happened. I swung the car into
Centre Street again, and fairly raced for the hospital. We carried Ada
into the emergency ward, Heath bawling loudly for the doctor as we
passed through the door.
It was more than an hour later when Vance entered the District
Attorney’s office, where Markham and Heath and I were waiting. He
glanced quickly round the room and then looked at our faces.
“I told you to watch her, Sergeant,” he said, sinking into a chair;
but there was neither reproach nor regret in his voice.
None of us spoke. Despite the effect Ada’s suicide had had on us, we
were waiting, with a kind of conscience-stricken anxiety, for news of
the other girl whom all of us, I think, had vaguely suspected.
Vance understood our silence, and nodded reassuringly.
“Sibella’s all right. I took her to the Trinity Hospital in Yonkers. A
slight concussion—Ada had struck her with a box-wrench which was
always kept under the front seat. She’ll be out in a few days. I
registered her at the hospital as Mrs. Von Blon, and then phoned her
husband. I caught him at home, and he hurried out. He’s with her now.
Incidentally, the reason we didn’t reach him at Mrs. Riglander’s is
because he stopped at the office for his medicine-case. That delay
saved Sibella’s life. Otherwise, I doubt if we’d have reached her
before Ada had run her over the precipice in the machine.”
He drew deeply on his cigarette for a moment. Then he lifted his
eyebrows to Markham.
“Cyanide of potassium?”
Markham gave a slight start.
“Yes—or so the doctor thinks. There was a bitter-almond odor on her
lips.” He shot his head forward angrily. “But if you knew——”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have stopped it in any case,” interrupted Vance. “I
discharged my wholly mythical duty to the State when I warned the
Sergeant. However, I didn’t know at the time. Von Blon just gave me
the information. When I told him what had happened I asked him if he
had ever lost any other poisons—you see, I couldn’t imagine any one
planning so devilish and hazardous an exploit as the Greene murders
without preparing for the eventuality of failure. He told me he’d
missed a tablet of cyanide from his dark-room about three months ago.
And when I jogged his memory he recalled that Ada had been poking
round there and asking questions a few days before. The one cyanide
tablet was probably all she dared take at the time; so she kept it for
herself in case of an emergency.”*
* As I learned later, Doctor Von Blon, who was an ardent
amateur photographer, often used half-gramme tablets of
cyanide of potassium; and there had been three of them in his
dark-room when Ada had called. Several days later, when
preparing to redevelop a plate, he could find only two, but
had thought little of the loss until questioned by Vance.
“What I want to know, Mr. Vance,” said Heath, “is how she worked this
scheme. Was there any one else in on the deal?”
“No, Sergeant. Ada planned and executed every part of it.”
“But how, in God’s name——?”
Vance held up his hand.
“It’s all very simple, Sergeant—once you have the key. What misled us
was the fiendish cleverness and audacity of the plot. But there’s no
longer any need to speculate about it. I have a printed and bound
explanation of everything that happened. And it’s not a fictional or
speculative explanation. It’s actual criminal history, garnered and
recorded by the greatest expert on the subject the world has yet
known—Doctor Hans Gross, of Vienna.”
He rose and took up his coat.
“I phoned Currie from the hospital, and he has a belated dinner
waiting for all of us. When we have eaten, I’ll present you with a
reconstruction and exposition of the entire case.”