“You tell me who did the shootings, doc,” retorted Heath pugnaciously, “and then I’ll tell you who I don’t suspect.”
“I regret that I am unable to enlighten you.” Von Blon’s tone exuded its habitual pleasantness. “But I can assure you Rex had no part in them. They’re quite out of keeping with his pathologic state.”
“That’s the defense of half the high-class killers we get the goods on,” countered Heath.
“I see I can’t argue with you.” Von Blon sighed regretfully, and turned an engaging countenance in Markham’s direction. “Rex’s absurd accusations puzzled me deeply, but, since this officer admits he practically accused the boy of having the revolver, the situation becomes perfectly clear. A common form of instinctive self-protection, this attempting to shift blame on others. You can see, of course, that Rex was merely trying to turn suspicion upon me so as to free himself. It’s unfortunate, for he and I were always good friends. Poor Rex!”
“By the by, doctor,” came Vance’s indolent voice; “that point about your being with Mr. Chester Greene on the camping-trip when he first secured the gun: was that correct? Or was it merely a fancy engendered by Rex’s self-protective instinct?”
Von Blon smiled with faultless urbanity and, putting his head a little on one side, appeared to recall the past.
“It may be correct,” he admitted. “I was once with Chester on a camping-trip. Yes, it’s quite likely—though I shouldn’t like to state it definitely. It was so long ago.”
“Fifteen years, I think, Mr. Greene said. Ah, yes—a long time ago. Eheu! fugaces, Postume, Postume, labuntur anni. It’s very depressin’. And do you recall, doctor, if Mr. Greene had a revolver along on that particular outing?”
“Since you mention it, I believe I do recall his having one, though again I should choose not to be definite on the subject.”
“Perhaps you may recollect if he used it for target practice.” Vance’s tone was dulcet and uneager. “Popping away at tree-boles and tin cans and whatnot, don’t y’ know.”
Von Blon nodded reminiscently.
“Ye-es. It’s quite possible. …”
“And you yourself may have done a bit of desult’ry popping, what?”
“To be sure, I may have.” Von Blon spoke musingly, like one recalling childish pranks. “Yes, it’s wholly possible.”
Vance lapsed into a disinterested silence, and the doctor, after a moment’s hesitation, rose.
“I must be going, I’m afraid.” And with a gracious bow he started toward the door. “Oh, by the way,” he said, pausing, “I almost forgot that Mrs. Greene told me she desired to see you gentlemen before you went. Forgive me if I suggest that it might be wise to humor her. She’s something of a dowager, you know, and her invalidism has made her rather irritable and exacting.”
“I’m glad you mentioned Mrs. Greene, doctor.” It was Vance who spoke. “I’ve been intending to ask you about her. What is the nature of her paralysis?”
Von Blon appeared surprised.
“Why, a sort of paraplegia dolorosa—that is, a paralysis of the legs and lower part of the body, accompanied by severe pains due to pressure of the indurations on the spinal cord and nerves. No spasticity of the limbs has supervened, however. Came on very suddenly without any premonitory symptoms about ten years ago—probably the result of transverse myelitis. There’s nothing really to be done but to keep her as comfortable as possible with symptomatic treatment, and to tone up the heart action. A sixtieth of strychnine three times a day takes care of the circulation.”
“Couldn’t by any chance be a hysterical akinesia?”
“Good Lord, no! There’s no hysteria.” Then his eyes widened in amazement. “Oh, I see! No; there’s no possibility of recovery, even partial. It’s organic paralysis.”
“And atrophy?”
“Oh, yes. Muscular atrophy is now pronounced.”
“Thank you very much.” Vance lay back with half-closed eyes.
“Oh, not at all.—And remember, Mr. Markham, that I always stand ready to help in any way I can. Please don’t hesitate to call on me.” He bowed again, and went out.
Markham got up and stretched his legs.
“Come; we’ve been summoned to appear.” His facetiousness was a patent effort to shake off the depressing gloom of the case.
Mrs. Greene received us with almost unctuous cordiality.
“I knew you’d grant the request of a poor old useless cripple,” she said, with an appealing smile; “though I’m used to being ignored. No one pays any attention to my wishes.”
The nurse stood at the head of the bed arranging the pillows beneath the old lady’s shoulders.
“Is that comfortable now?” she asked.
Mrs. Greene made a gesture of annoyance.
“A lot you care whether I’m comfortable or not! Why can’t you let me alone, nurse? You’re always disturbing me. There was nothing wrong with the pillows. And I don’t want you in here now anyway. Go and sit with Ada.”
The nurse drew a long, patient breath, and went silently from the room, closing the door behind her.
Mrs. Greene reverted to her former ingratiating manner.
“No one understands my needs the way Ada does, Mr. Markham. What a relief it will be when the dear child gets well enough to care for me again! But I mustn’t complain. The nurse does the best she knows how, I suppose.—Please sit down, gentlemen … yet what wouldn’t I give if I could only stand up the way you can. No one realizes what it means to be a helpless paralytic.”
Markham did not avail himself of the invitation, but waited until she had finished speaking and then said:
“Please believe that you have my deepest sympathy, madam. … You sent for me, Doctor Von Blon said.”
“Yes!” She looked at him calculatingly. “I wanted to ask you a favor.”
She paused, and Markham bowed but did not answer.
“I wanted to request you to drop this investigation. I’ve had enough worry and disturbance as it is. But I don’t count. It’s the family I’m thinking of—the good name of
