The Greatest Works of S. S. Van Dine (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine

over and talk to the Colonel¹⁹ for a while.”

      Vance and Ada and I motored the few blocks to 18 Broad Street, and, taking the elevator, passed through the reception-room (where uniformed attendants peremptorily relieved us of our wraps), and came out upon the visitors’ gallery overlooking the floor of the Exchange. There was an unusually active market that day. The pandemonium was almost deafening, and the feverish activity about the trading-posts resembled the riots of an excited mob. I was too familiar with the sight to be particularly impressed; and Vance, who detested noise and disorder, looked on with an air of bored annoyance. But Ada’s face lighted up at once. Her eyes sparkled and the blood rushed to her cheeks. She gazed over the railing in a thrall of fascination.

      “And now you see, Miss Greene, how foolish men can be,” said Vance.

      “Oh, but it’s wonderful!” she answered. “They’re alive. They feel things. They have something to fight for.”

      “You think you’d like it?” smiled Vance.

      “I’d adore it. I’ve always longed to do something exciting—something . . . like that. . . .” She extended her hand toward the milling crowds below.

      It was easy to understand her reaction after her years of monotonous service to an invalid in the dreary Greene mansion.

      At that moment I happened to look up, and, to my surprise, Heath was standing in the doorway scanning the groups of visitors. He appeared troubled and unusually grim, and there was a nervous intentness in the way he moved his head. I raised my hand to attract his attention, and he immediately came to where we stood.

      “The Chief wants you at the office right away, Mr. Vance.” There was an ominousness in his tone. “He sent me over to get you.”

      Ada looked at him steadily, and a pallor of fear overspread her face.

      “Well, well!” Vance shrugged in mock resignation. “Just when we were getting interested in the sights. But we must obey the Chief—eh, what, Miss Greene?”

      But, despite his attempt to make light of Markham’s unexpected summons, Ada was strangely silent; and as we rode back to the office she did not speak but sat tensely, her unseeing eyes staring straight ahead.

      It seemed an interminable time before we reached the Criminal Courts Building. The traffic was congested; and there was even a long delay at the elevator. Vance appeared to take the situation calmly; but Heath’s lips were compressed, and he breathed heavily through his nose, like a man laboring under tense excitement.

      As we entered the District Attorney’s office Markham rose and looked at the girl with a great tenderness.

      “You must be brave, Miss Greene,” he said, in a quiet, sympathetic voice. “Something tragic and unforeseen has happened. And as you will have to be told of it sooner or later——”

      “It’s Rex!” She sank limply into a chair facing Markham’s desk.

      “Yes,” he said softly; “it’s Rex. Sproot called up a few minutes after you had gone....”

      “And he’s been shot—like Julia and Chester!” Her words were scarcely audible, but they brought a sense of horror into the dingy old office.

      Markham inclined his head.

      “Not five minutes after you telephoned to him some one entered his room and shot him.”

      A dry sob shook the girl, and she buried her face in her arms.

      Markham stepped round the desk and placed his hand gently on her shoulder.

      “We’ve got to face it, my child,” he said. “We’re going to the house at once to see what can be done and you’d better come in the car with us.”

      “Oh, I don’t want to go back,” she moaned. “I’m afraid—I’m afraid! . . .”

18. The Modern Gallery was then under the direction of Marius de Zayas, whose collection of African statuette-fetiches was perhaps the finest in America.

19. Colonel Benjamin Hanlon, one of the Department’s greatest authorities on extradition, was then the commanding officer of the Detective Division attached to the District Attorney’s office, with quarters in the Criminal Courts Building.

      CHAPTER XIV

       FOOTPRINTS ON THE CARPET

       Table of Contents

      (Tuesday, November 30; noon)

      Markham had considerable difficulty in persuading Ada to accompany us. The girl seemed almost in a panic of fright. Moreover, she held herself indirectly responsible for Rex’s death. But at last she permitted us to lead her down to the car.

      Heath had already telephoned to the Homicide Bureau, and his arrangements for the investigation were complete when we started up Centre Street. At Police Headquarters Snitkin and another Central Office man named Burke were waiting for us, and crowded into the tonneau of Markham’s car. We made excellent time to the Greene mansion, arriving there in less than twenty minutes.

      A plain-clothes man lounged against the iron railing at the end of the street a few yards beyond the gate of the Greene grounds, and at a sign from Heath came forward at once.

      “What about it, Santos?” the Sergeant demanded gruffly. “Who’s been in and out of here this morning?”

      “What’s the big idea?” the man retorted indignantly. “That old bimbo of a butler came out about nine and returned in less than half an hour with a package. Said he’d been to Third Avenue to get some dog-biscuits. The family sawbones drove up at quarter past ten—that’s his car across the street.” He pointed to Von Blon’s Daimler, which was parked diagonally opposite. “He’s still inside.—Then, about ten minutes after the doc arrived, this young lady”—he indicated Ada—“came out and walked toward Avenue A, where she hopped a taxi. And that’s every man, woman, or child that’s passed in or out of these gates since I relieved Cameron at eight o’clock this morning.”

      “And Cameron’s report?”

      “Nobody all night.”

      “Well, some one got in some way,” growled Heath. “Run along the west wall there and tell Donnelly to come here pronto.”

      Santos disappeared through the gate, and a moment later we could see him hurrying through the side yard toward the garage. In a few minutes Donnelly—the man set to watch the postern gate—came hurrying up.

      “Who got in the back way this morning?” barked Heath.

      “Nobody, Sergeant. The cook went marketing about ten o’clock, and two regular deliverymen left packages. That’s every one who’s been through the rear gate since yesterday.”

      “Is that so!” Heath was viciously sarcastic.

      “I’m telling you——”

      “Oh, all right, all right.” The Sergeant turned to Burke. “You get up on this wall and make the rounds. See if you can find where any one has climbed over.—And you, Snitkin, look over the yard for footprints. When you guys finish, report to me. I’m going inside.”

      We went up the front walk, which had been swept clean, and Sproot admitted us to the house. His face was as blank as ever, and he took our coats with his usual obsequious formality.

      “You’d better go to your room now, Miss Greene,” said Markham, placing his hand kindly on Ada’s arm. “Lie down, and try to get a little rest. You look tired. I’ll be in to see