When Rex was shot there were, or could have been, present in the house: Sibella, Mrs. Greene, Von Blon, Hemming, Sproot, and Mrs. Mannheim.
When Ada was poisoned there were, or could have been, present in the house: Sibella, Mrs. Greene, Von Blon, Hemming, Sproot, and Mrs. Mannheim.
When Mrs. Greene was poisoned there were, or could have been, present in the house: Sibella, Von Blon, Ada, Hemming, Sproot, and Mrs. Mannheim.
When Markham had finished reading the summary, he went through it a second time. Then he laid it on the table.
“Yes, Vance,” he said, “you’ve covered the main points pretty thoroughly. But I can’t see any coherence in them. In fact, they seem only to emphasize the confusion of the case.”
“And yet, Markham, I’m convinced that they only need rearrangement and interpretation to be perfectly clear. Properly analyzed, they’ll tell us everything we want to know.”
Markham glanced again through the pages.
“If it wasn’t for certain items, we could make out a case against several people. But no matter what person in the list we may assume to be guilty, we are at once confronted by a group of contradictory and insurmountable facts. This précis could be used effectively to prove that everyone concerned is innocent.”
“Superficially it appears that way,” agreed Vance. “But we first must find the generating line of the design, and then relate the subsidi’ry forms of the pattern to it.”
Markham made a hopeless gesture.
“If only life were as simple as your aesthetic theories!”
“It’s dashed simpler,” Vance asserted. “The mere mechanism of a camera can record life; but only a highly developed creative intelligence, with a profound philosophic insight, can produce a work of art.”
“Can you make any sense—aesthetic or otherwise—out of this?” Markham petulantly tapped the sheets of paper.
“I can see certain traceries, so to speak—certain suggestions of a pattern; but I’ll admit the main design has thus far eluded me. The fact is, Markham, I have a feeling that some important factor in this case—some balancing line of the pattern, perhaps—is still hidden from us. I don’t say that my résumé is insusceptible of interpretation in its present state; but our task would be greatly simplified if we were in possession of the missing integer.”
Fifteen minutes later, when we had returned to Markham’s main office, Swacker came in and laid a letter on the desk.
“There’s a funny one, Chief,” he said.
Markham took up the letter and read it with a deepening frown. When he had finished, he handed it to Vance. The letterhead read, “Rectory, Third Presbyterian Church, Stamford, Connecticut”; the date was the preceding day; and the signature was that of the Reverend Anthony Seymour. The contents of the letter, written in a small, precise hand, were as follows:
The Honorable John F.-X. Markham,
Dear Sir: As far as I am aware, I have never betrayed a confidence. But there can arise, I believe, unforeseen circumstances to modify the strictness of one’s adherence to a given promise, and indeed impose upon one a greater duty than that of keeping silent.
I have read in the papers of the wicked and abominable things that have happened at the Greene residence in New York; and I have therefore come to the conclusion, after much heart-searching and prayer, that it is my bounden duty to put you in possession of a fact which, as the result of a promise, I have kept to myself for over a year. I would not now betray this trust did I not believe that some good might possibly come of it, and that you, my dear sir, would also treat the matter in the most sacred confidence. It may not help you—indeed, I do not see how it can possibly lead to a solution of the terrible curse that has fallen upon the Greene family—but since the fact is connected intimately with one of the members of that family, I will feel better when I have communicated it to you.
On the night of August 29, of last year, a machine drove up to my door, and a man and a woman asked that I secretly marry them. I may say that I am frequently receiving such requests from runaway couples. This particular couple appeared to be well-bred dependable people, and I concurred with their wishes, giving them my assurances that the ceremony would, as they desired, be kept confidential.
The names that appeared on the license—which had been secured in New Haven late that afternoon—were Sibella Greene, of New York City, and Arthur Von Blon, also of New York City.
Vance read the letter and handed it back.
“Really, y’ know, I can’t say that I’m astonished—”
Suddenly he broke off, his eyes fixed thoughtfully before him. Then he rose nervously and paced up and down.
“That tears it!” he exclaimed.
Markham threw him a look of puzzled interrogation.
“What’s the point?”
“Don’t you see?” Vance came quickly to the District Attorney’s desk. “My word! That’s the one fact that’s missing from my tabulation.” He then unfolded the last sheet and wrote:
Sibella and Von Blon were secretly married a year ago.
“But I don’t see how that helps,” protested Markham.
“Neither do I at this moment,” Vance replied. “But I’m going to spend this evening in erudite meditation.”
XXIV
A Mysterious Trip
(Sunday, December 5)
The Boston Symphony Orchestra was scheduled that afternoon to play a Bach Concerto and Beethoven’s C-Minor Symphony; and Vance, on leaving the District Attorney’s office, rode direct to Carnegie Hall. He sat through the concert in a state of relaxed receptivity, and afterward insisted on walking the two miles back to his quarters—an almost unheard-of thing for him.
Shortly after dinner Vance bade me good night and, donning his slippers and house-robe, went into the library. I had considerable work to do that night, and it was long past midnight when I finished. On the way to my room I passed the library door, which had been left slightly ajar, and I saw Vance sitting at his desk—his head in his hands,
