“We’re greatly indebted to you, doctor,” said Markham. “It’s quite possible you have been the means of solving this case.—When will we be able to question your patient?”
“She’ll be loggy and nauseated all day—kind of general collapse, you understand, with painful breathing, drowsiness, headache, and that sort of thing—no fit condition to answer questions. But tomorrow morning you’ll be able to talk to her as much as you like.”
“That will be satisfactory. And what of the bouillon cup the nurse mentioned?”
“It tasted bitter—morphine, all right.”
As Drumm finished speaking Sproot passed down the hall to the front door. A moment later Von Blon paused at the archway and looked into the drawing-room. The strained silence which followed the exchange of greetings caused him to study us with growing alarm.
“Has anything happened?” he finally asked.
It was Vance who rose and, with quick decision, assumed the role of spokesman.
“Yes, doctor. Ada has been poisoned with morphine. Doctor Drumm here happened to be in the Narcoss Flats opposite and was called in.”
“And Sibella—is she all right?” Von Blon spoke excitedly.
“Oh, quite.”
A relieved sigh escaped him, and he sank into a chair.
“Tell me about it. When was the—the murder discovered?”
Drumm was about to correct him when Vance said quickly:
“Immediately after you left the house this morning. The poison was administered in the bouillon the nurse brought from the kitchen.”
“But … how could that be?” Von Blon appeared unbelieving. “I was just going when she brought the bouillon. I saw her enter with it. How could the poison—?”
“That reminds me, doctor.” Vance’s tone was almost dulcet. “Did you, by any hap, go upstairs again after you had donned your coat?”
Von Blon looked at him with outraged astonishment.
“Certainly not! I left the house immediately.”
“That would have been just after the nurse called down to Ada.”
“Why—yes. I believe the nurse did call down; and Ada went upstairs at once—if I recall correctly.”
Vance smoked a moment, his gaze resting curiously on the doctor’s troubled face.
“I would suggest, without any intention of being impertinent, that your present visit follows rather closely upon your former one.”
Von Blon’s face clouded over, but I failed to detect any resentment in his expression.
“Quite true,” he rejoined, and shifted his eyes. “The fact is, sir, that ever since those drugs disappeared from my case I’ve felt that something tragic was impending, and that I was in some way to blame. Whenever I’m in this neighborhood I can’t resist the impulse to call here and—and see how things are going.”
“Your anxiety is wholly understandable.” Vance’s tone was noncommittal. Then he added negligently: “I suppose you will have no objection to Doctor Drumm continuing with Ada’s case.”
“Continuing?” Von Blon brought himself up straight in his chair. “I don’t understand. You said a moment ago—”
“That Ada had been poisoned,” finished Vance. “Quite. But d’ ye see, she didn’t die.”
The other looked dumbfounded.
“Thank God for that!” he exclaimed, rising nervously.
“And,” added Markham, “we are making no mention whatever of the episode. You will, therefore, be guided by our decision.”
“Of course.—And is it permitted that I see Ada?”
Markham hesitated, and Vance answered.
“If you care to—certainly.” He turned to Drumm. “Will you be so good as to accompany Doctor Von Blon?”
Drumm and Von Blon left the room together.
“I don’t wonder he’s on edge,” commented Markham. “It’s not pleasant to learn of people being poisoned with drugs lost through one’s own carelessness.”
“He wasn’t worrying as much over Ada as he was over Sibella,” remarked Heath.
“Observin’ fella!” smiled Vance. “No, Sergeant; Ada’s demise apparently bothered him far less than Sibella’s possible state of health. … Now, I wonder what that means. It’s an inveiglin’ point. But—dash it all!—it everts my pet theory.”
“So you have a theory.” Markham spoke rebukingly.
“Oh, any number of ’em. And, I might add, they’re all pets.” Vance’s lightness of tone meant merely that he was not ready to outline his suspicions; and Markham did not push the matter.
“We won’t need any theories,” declared Heath, “after we’ve heard what Ada’s got to tell us. As soon as she talks to us tomorrow we’ll be able to figure out who poisoned her.”
“Perhaps,” murmured Vance.
Drumm returned alone a few minutes later.
“Doctor Von Blon has stepped into the other girl’s room. Said he’d be down right away.”
“What did he have to say about your patient?” asked Vance.
“Nothing much. She put new energy into her walking the minute she saw him, though. Smiled at him, too, by Jove! A good sign, that. She’ll come through fast. Lot of resistance in her.”
Drumm had hardly ceased speaking when we heard Sibella’s door close and the sound of descending footsteps on the stairs.
“By the by, doctor,” said Vance to Von Blon as the latter re-entered the drawing-room, “have you seen Oppenheimer yet?”
“I saw him at eleven. The fact is, I went direct to him after leaving here this morning. He has agreed to make an examination tomorrow at ten o’clock.”
“And was Mrs. Greene agreeable?”
“Oh, yes. I spoke to her about it this morning; and she made no objection whatever.”
A short while later we took our departure. Von Blon accompanied us to the gate, and we saw him drive off in his car.
“We’ll know more by this time tomorrow, I hope,” said Markham on the way downtown. He was unwontedly depressed, and his eyes were greatly troubled. “You know, Vance, I’m almost appalled by the thought of what Oppenheimer’s report may be.”
No report was ever made by Doctor Oppenheimer, however. At some time between one and two the next morning Mrs. Greene died in convulsions as a result of strychnine-poisoning.
XXI
A Depleted Household
(Friday, December 3; forenoon)
Markham brought us the news of Mrs. Greene’s death before ten
