Vance held out his hand with a look bordering on affection.
“Make it five o’clock. I’ll be through with my perusings by then. And thanks for your tolerance.” Then he added gravely: “You’ll understand, after I’ve told you everything, why I wanted to wait a bit.”
When Markham returned that afternoon a little before five Vance was still reading in the library; but shortly afterward he joined us in the living-room.
“The picture clarifies,” he said. “The fantastic images are gradually taking on the aspect of hideous realities. I’ve substantiated several points, but a few facts still need corroboration.”
“To vindicate your hypothesis?”
“No, not that. The hypothesis is self-proving. There’s no doubt as to the truth. But—dash it all, Markham!—I refuse to accept it until every scrap of evidence has been incontestably sustained.”
“Is the evidence of such a nature that I can use it in a court of law?”
“That is something I refuse even to consider. Criminal proceedings seem utterly irrelevant in the present case. But I suppose society must have its pound of flesh, and you—the duly elected Shylock of God’s great common people—will no doubt wield the knife. However, I assure you I shall not be present at the butchery.”
Markham studied him curiously.
“Your words sound rather ominous. But if, as you say, you have discovered the perpetrator of these crimes, why shouldn’t society exact punishment?”
“If society were omniscient, Markham, it would have a right to sit in judgment. But society is ignorant and venomous, devoid of any trace of insight or understanding. It exalts knavery, and worships stupidity. It crucifies the intelligent, and puts the diseased in dungeons. And, withal, it arrogates to itself the right and ability to analyze the subtle sources of what it calls ‘crime,’ and to condemn to death all persons whose inborn and irresistible impulses it does not like. That’s your sweet society, Markham—a pack of wolves watering at the mouth for victims on whom to vent its organized lust to kill and flay.”
Markham regarded him with some astonishment and considerable concern.
“Perhaps you are preparing to let the criminal escape in the present case,” he said, with the irony of resentment.
“Oh, no,” Vance assured him. “I shall turn your victim over to you. The Greene murderer is of a particularly vicious type, and should be rendered impotent. I was merely trying to suggest that the electric chair—that touchin’ device of your beloved society—is not quite the correct method of dealing with this culprit.”
“You admit, however, that he is a menace to society.”
“Undoubtedly. And the hideous thing about it is that this tournament of crime at the Greene mansion will continue unless we can put a stop to it. That’s why I am being so careful. As the case now stands, I doubt if you could even make an arrest.”
When tea was over Vance got up and stretched himself.
“By the by, Markham,” he said offhandedly, “have you received any report on Sibella’s activities?”
“Nothing important. She’s still in Atlantic City, and evidently intends to stay there for some time. She phoned Sproot yesterday to send down another trunkful of her clothes.”
“Did she, now? That’s very gratifyin’.” Vance walked to the door with sudden resolution. “I think I’ll run out to the Greenes’ for a little while. I shan’t be gone over an hour. Wait for me here, Markham—there’s a good fellow; I don’t want my visit to have an official flavor. There’s a new Simplicissimus on the table to amuse you till I return. Con it and thank your own special gods that you have no Thöny or Gulbranssen in this country to caricature your Gladstonian features.”
As he spoke he beckoned to me, and, before Markham could question him, we passed out into the hall and down the stairs. Fifteen minutes later a taxicab set us down before the Greene mansion.
Sproot opened the door for us, and Vance, with only a curt greeting, led him into the drawing-room.
“I understand,” he said, “that Miss Sibella phoned you yesterday from Atlantic City and asked to have a trunk shipped to her.”
Sproot bowed. “Yes, sir. I sent the trunk off last night.”
“What did Miss Sibella say to you over the phone?”
“Very little, sir—the connection was not good. She said merely that she had no intention of returning to New York for a considerable time and needed more clothes than she had taken with her.”
“Did she ask how things were going at the house here?”
“Only in the most casual way, sir.”
“Then she didn’t seem apprehensive about what might happen here while she was away?”
“No, sir. In fact—if I may say so without disloyalty—her tone of voice was quite indifferent, sir.”
“Judging from her remarks about the trunk, how long would you say she intends to be away?”
Sproot considered the matter.
“That’s difficult to say, sir. But I would go so far as to venture the opinion that Miss Sibella intends to remain in Atlantic City for a month or more.”
Vance nodded with satisfaction.
“And now, Sproot,” he said, “I have a particularly important question to ask you. When you first went into Miss Ada’s room on the night she was shot and found her on the floor before the dressing-table, was the window open? Think! I want a positive answer. You know the window is just beside the dressing-table and overlooks the steps leading to the stone balcony. Was it open or shut?”
Sproot contracted his brows and appeared to be recalling the scene. Finally he spoke, and there was no doubt in his voice.
“The window was open, sir. I recall it now quite distinctly. After Mr. Chester and I had lifted Miss Ada to the bed, I closed it at once for fear she would catch cold.”
“How far open was the window?” asked Vance with eager impatience.
“Eight or nine inches, sir, I should say. Perhaps a foot.”
“Thank you, Sproot. That will be all. Now please tell the cook I want to see her.”
Mrs. Mannheim
