Heath looked mystified. His instinct was to ask a reason for this unexpected request, but all he said was: “Sure. Go ahead.”
Something in Vance’s manner—an air of satisfaction combined with a suppressed eagerness—told me that he had verified his theory.
He was gone less than five minutes. When he returned he carried a pair of galoshes similar to those that had been found in Chester’s closet. He handed them to Captain Jerym.
“You’ll probably find that these made the tracks.”
Both Jerym and Snitkin examined them carefully, comparing the measurements and fitting the rough patterns to the soles. Finally, the Captain took one of them to the window, and affixing a jeweller’s glass to his eye, studied the riser of the heel.
“I think you’re right,” he agreed. “There’s a worn place here which corresponds to an indentation on the cast I made.”
Heath had sprung to his feet and stood eyeing Vance.
“Where did you find ’em?” he demanded.
“Tucked away in the rear of the little linen-closet at the head of the stairs.”
The Sergeant’s excitement got the better of him. He swung about to Markham, fairly spluttering with consternation.
“Those two guys from the Bureau that went over this house looking for the gun told me there wasn’t a pair of galoshes in the place; and I specially told ’em to keep their eyes pealed for galoshes. And now Mr. Vance finds ’em in the linen-closet off the main hall upstairs!”
“But, Sergeant,” said Vance mildly, “the galoshes weren’t there when your sleuths were looking for the revolver. On both former occasions the johnny who wore ’em had plenty of time to put ’em away safely. But today, d’ ye see, he had no chance to sequester them; so he left ’em in the linen-closet for the time being.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” Heath growled vaguely. “Well, what’s the rest of the story, Mr. Vance?”
“That’s all there is to date. If I knew the rest I’d know who fired the shots. But I might remind you that neither of your sergents-de-ville saw any suspicious person leave here.”
“Good God, Vance!” Markham was on his feet. “That means that the murderer is in the house this minute.”
“At any rate,” returned Vance lazily, “I think we are justified in assuming that the murderer was here when we arrived.”
“But nobody’s left the place but Von Blon,” blurted Heath.
Vance nodded. “Oh, it’s wholly possible the murderer is still in the house, Sergeant.”
XVI
The Lost Poisons
(Tuesday, November 30; 2 p.m.)
Markham and Vance and I had a late lunch at the Stuyvesant Club. During the meal the subject of the murder was avoided as if by tacit agreement; but when we sat smoking over our coffee Markham settled back in his chair and surveyed Vance sternly.
“Now,” he said, “I want to hear how you came to find those galoshes in the linen-closet. And, damn it! I don’t want any garrulous evasions or quotations out of Bartlett.”
“I’m quite willing to unburden my soul,” smiled Vance. “It was all so dashed simple. I never put any stock in the burglar theory, and so was able to approach the problem with a virgin mind, as it were.”
He lit a fresh cigarette and poured himself another cup of coffee.
“Perpend, Markham. On the night that Julia and Ada were shot a double set of footprints was found. It had stopped snowing at about eleven o’clock, and the tracks had been made between that hour and midnight, when the Sergeant arrived on the scene. On the night of Chester’s murder there was another set of footprints similar to the others; and they too had been made shortly after the weather had cleared. Here, then, were tracks in the snow, approaching and retreating from the front door, preceding each crime; and both sets had been made after the snow had stopped falling when they would be distinctly visible and determinable. This was not a particularly striking coincidence, but it was sufficiently arresting to create a slight strain on my cortex cerebri. And the strain increased perceptibly this morning when Snitkin reported his discovery of fresh footprints on the balcony steps; for once again the same meteorological conditions had accompanied our culprit’s passion for leaving spoors. I was therefore driven to the irresistible inference, as you learned Solons put it, that the murderer, so careful and calculating about everything else, had deliberately made all these footprints for our special edification. In each instance, d’ ye see, he had chosen the only hour of the day when his tracks would not be obliterated by falling snow or confused with other tracks. … Are you there?”
“Go ahead,” said Markham. “I’m listening.”
“To proceed, then. Another coincidence attached to these three sets of footprints. It was impossible, because of the dry, flaky nature of the snow, to determine whether the first set had originated in the house and returned there, or had first approached the house from the street and then retreated. Again, on the night of Chester’s demise, when the snow was damp and susceptible to clear impressions, the same doubt arose. The tracks to and from the house were on opposite sides of the front walk: not a single footstep overlapped! Accidental? Perhaps. But not wholly reasonable. A person walking to and from a door along a comparatively narrow pathway would almost certainly have doubled on some of his tracks. And even if he had failed to superimpose any of his footprints, the parallel spoors would have been close together. But these two lines of prints were far apart: each clung to the extreme edge of the walk, as if the person who made them was positively afraid of overlapping. Now, consider the footprints made this morning. There was a single line of them entering the house, but none coming out. We concluded that the murderer had made his escape via the front door and down the neatly swept walk; but this, after all, was only
