A dry sob shook the girl, and she buried her face in her arms.
Markham stepped round the desk and placed his hand gently on her shoulder.
“We’ve got to face it, my child,” he said. “We’re going to the house at once to see what can be done and you’d better come in the car with us.”
“Oh, I don’t want to go back,” she moaned. “I’m afraid—I’m afraid! …”
XIV
Footprints on the Carpet
(Tuesday, November 30; noon)
Markham had considerable difficulty in persuading Ada to accompany us. The girl seemed almost in a panic of fright. Moreover, she held herself indirectly responsible for Rex’s death. But at last she permitted us to lead her down to the car.
Heath had already telephoned to the Homicide Bureau, and his arrangements for the investigation were complete when we started up Centre Street. At Police Headquarters Snitkin and another Central Office man named Burke were waiting for us, and crowded into the tonneau of Markham’s car. We made excellent time to the Greene mansion, arriving there in less than twenty minutes.
A plain-clothes man lounged against the iron railing at the end of the street a few yards beyond the gate of the Greene grounds, and at a sign from Heath came forward at once.
“What about it, Santos?” the Sergeant demanded gruffly. “Who’s been in and out of here this morning?”
“What’s the big idea?” the man retorted indignantly. “That old bimbo of a butler came out about nine and returned in less than half an hour with a package. Said he’d been to Third Avenue to get some dog-biscuits. The family sawbones drove up at quarter past ten—that’s his car across the street.” He pointed to Von Blon’s Daimler, which was parked diagonally opposite. “He’s still inside.—Then, about ten minutes after the doc arrived, this young lady”—he indicated Ada—“came out and walked toward Avenue A, where she hopped a taxi. And that’s every man, woman, or child that’s passed in or out of these gates since I relieved Cameron at eight o’clock this morning.”
“And Cameron’s report?”
“Nobody all night.”
“Well, someone got in some way,” growled Heath. “Run along the west wall there and tell Donnelly to come here pronto.”
Santos disappeared through the gate, and a moment later we could see him hurrying through the side yard toward the garage. In a few minutes Donnelly—the man set to watch the postern gate—came hurrying up.
“Who got in the back way this morning?” barked Heath.
“Nobody, Sergeant. The cook went marketing about ten o’clock, and two regular deliverymen left packages. That’s everyone who’s been through the rear gate since yesterday.”
“Is that so!” Heath was viciously sarcastic.
“I’m telling you—”
“Oh, all right, all right.” The Sergeant turned to Burke. “You get up on this wall and make the rounds. See if you can find where anyone has climbed over.—And you, Snitkin, look over the yard for footprints. When you guys finish, report to me. I’m going inside.”
We went up the front walk, which had been swept clean, and Sproot admitted us to the house. His face was as blank as ever, and he took our coats with his usual obsequious formality.
“You’d better go to your room now, Miss Greene,” said Markham, placing his hand kindly on Ada’s arm. “Lie down, and try to get a little rest. You look tired. I’ll be in to see you before I go.”
The girl obeyed submissively without a word.
“And you, Sproot,” he ordered; “come in the living-room.”
The old butler followed us and stood humbly before the centre-table, where Markham seated himself.
“Now, let’s hear your story.”
Sproot cleared his throat and stared out of the window.
“There’s very little to tell, sir. I was in the butler’s pantry, polishing the glassware, when I heard the shot—”
“Go back a little further,” interrupted Markham. “I understand you made a trip to Third Avenue at nine this morning.”
“Yes, sir. Miss Sibella bought a Pomeranian yesterday, and she asked me to get some dog-biscuits after breakfast.”
“Who called at the house this morning?”
“No one, sir—that is, no one but Doctor Von Blon.”
“All right. Now tell us everything that happened.”
“Nothing happened, sir—nothing unusual, that is—until poor Mr. Rex was shot. Miss Ada went out a few minutes after Doctor Von Blon arrived; and a little past eleven o’clock you telephoned to Mr. Rex. Then shortly afterward you telephoned a second time to Mr. Rex; and I returned to the pantry. I had only been there a few minutes when I heard the shot—”
“What time would you say that was?”
“About twenty minutes after eleven, sir.”
“Then what?”
“I dried my hands on my apron and stepped into the dining-room to listen. I was not quite sure that the shot had been fired inside the house, but I thought I’d better investigate. So I went upstairs and, as Mr. Rex’s door was open, I looked in his room first. There I saw the poor young man lying on the floor with the blood running from a small wound in his forehead. I called Doctor Von Blon—”
“Where was the doctor?” Vance put the question.
Sproot hesitated, and appeared to think.
“He was upstairs, sir; and he came at once—”
“Oh—upstairs! Roaming about vaguely, I presume—a little here, a little there, what?” Vance’s eyes bored into the butler. “Come, come, Sproot. Where was the doctor?”
“I think, sir, he was in Miss Sibella’s room.”
“Cogito, cogito. … Well, drum your encephalon a bit and try to reach a conclusion. From what sector of space did the corporeal body of Doctor Von Blon emerge after you had called him?”
“The fact is, sir, he came out of Miss Sibella’s door.”
“Well, well. Fancy that! And, such being the case, one might conclude—without too great a curfuffling of one’s brains—that, preceding his issuing from that particular door, he was actually in Miss Sibella’s room?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“Dash it all, Sproot! You know deuced well he was there.”
“Well—yes, sir.”
“And now suppose you continue with your odyssey.”
“It was more like the Iliad, if I may say so. More tragic-like, if you understand what I mean; although
