“The old lady could tell us who had a chance to put the key back this morning after hiding the galoshes,” offered Heath.
“No one put the key back this morning, Sergeant. The person who was in the habit of visiting here wouldn’t have stolen it and returned it on each occasion when he could have had a duplicate made in fifteen minutes.”
“I guess you’re right.” The Sergeant was sorely perplexed. “But as long as we don’t know who’s got the key, we’re no better off than we were.”
“We’re not quite through yet with our scrutiny of the library,” rejoined Vance. “As I told Mr. Markham at lunch, my main object in coming here was to ascertain Tobias’s taste in literature.”
“A lot of good that’ll do you!”
“One never can tell. Tobias, remember, bequeathed his library to the Police Department. … Let’s see with what tomes the old boy whiled away his inactive hours.”
Vance took out his monocle and, polishing it carefully, fitted it to his eye. Then he turned to the nearest bookshelves. I stepped forward and looked over his shoulder; and, as my glance ran over the dusty titles, I could scarcely suppress an exclamation of amazement. Here was one of the most complete and unusual private libraries of criminology in America—and I was familiar with many of the country’s famous collections. Crime in all its phases and ramifications was represented. Rare old treatises, long out of print and now the delight of bibliophiles, shouldered one another in compact tiers on Tobias Greene’s shelves.
Nor were the subjects of these books limited to a narrow interpretation of criminology. All the various allied branches of the subject were represented. There were entire sections devoted to insanity and cretinism, social and criminal pathology, suicide, pauperism and philanthropy, prison-reform, prostitution and morphinism, capital punishment, abnormal psychology, legal codes, the argot of the underworld and code-writing, toxicology, and police methods. The volumes were in many languages—English, French, German, Italian, Spanish, Swedish, Russian, Dutch, and Latin.20
Vance’s eyes sparkled as he moved along the crowded shelves. Markham also was deeply interested; and Heath, bending here and there toward a volume, registered an expression of bewildered curiosity.
“My word!” murmured Vance. “No wonder your department, Sergeant, was chosen as the future custodian of these tomes. What a collection! Extr’ordin’ry!—Aren’t you glad, Markham, you wangled the old lady into relinquishing the key—?”
Suddenly he stiffened and jerked his head toward the door, at the same time lifting his hand for silence. I, too, had heard a slight noise in the hall, like someone brushing against the woodwork of the door, but had thought nothing of it. For a few moments we waited tensely. But no further sound came to us, and Vance stepped quickly to the door and drew it open. The hall was empty. He stood on the threshold for a while listening. Then he closed the door, and turned again to the room.
“I could have sworn someone was listening in the hall.”
“I heard a rustle of some kind,” Markham corroborated him. “I took it for granted it was Sproot or the maid passing by.”
“Why should anybody’s hanging round the hall worry us, Mr. Vance?” Heath asked.
“I really couldn’t say, don’t y’ know. But it bothers me, nevertheless. If someone was at the door listening, it shows that our presence here has produced a state of anxiety in the person privy to the fact. It’s possible, d’ ye see, that someone is desirous of ascertaining what we have found out.”
“Well, I can’t see that we’ve found out enough to make anybody lose any sleep,” mumbled Heath.
“You’re so discouraging, Sergeant.” Vance sighed and went to the bookshelves in front of the wicker reading-chair. “There may be something in this section to cheer us. Let us see if there’s a glad tiding or two written in the dust.”
He struck match after match as he carefully inspected the tops of the books, beginning at the highest shelf and systematically scrutinizing the volumes of each row. He had reached the second shelf from the floor when he bent over curiously and gave a second long look at two thick gray volumes. Then, putting out the match, he took the volumes to the window.
“The thing is quite mad,” he remarked, after a brief examination. “These are the only books within arm’s reach of the chair that have been handled recently. And what do you think they are? An old two-volume edition of Professor Hans Gross’s Handbuch für Untersuchungsrichter als System der Kriminalistik, or—to claw the title loosely into the vulgate—A Handbook on the Criminal Sciences for Examining Magistrates.” He gave Markham a look of facetious reproach. “I say, you haven’t, by any chance, been spending your nights in this library learning how to ballyrag suspects?”
Markham ignored his levity. He recognized the outward sign of Vance’s inner uneasiness.
“The apparently irrelevant theme of the book,” he returned, “might indicate a mere coincidence between the visits of some person to this room and the crimes committed in the house.”
Vance made no answer. He thoughtfully returned the books to their place and ran his eye over the remaining volumes of the bottom shelf. Suddenly he knelt down and struck another match.
“Here are several books out of place.” I detected a subdued note of eagerness in his voice. “They belong in other sections; and they’ve been crowded in here a little out of alignment. Moreover, they’re innocent of dust. … ’Pon my soul, Markham, here’s a coincidence for your sceptical legal mind! Lend an ear to
