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

steps, entered the French doors, crossed Ada’s room to the hall, did his dirty work, and then—disappeared! A sweet case this is!” He clicked his tongue with disgust.

      “The man may have gone out by the front door,” suggested Markham.

      The Sergeant made a wry face and bellowed for Sproot, who entered immediately.

      “Say, which way did you go up-stairs when you heard the shot?”

      “I went up the servants’ stairs, sir.”

      “Then some one mighta gone down the front stairs at the same time without your seeing him?”

      “Yes, sir; it’s quite possible.”

      “That’s all.”

      Sproot bowed and again took up his post at the front door.

      “Well, it looks like that’s what happened, sir,” Heath commented to Markham. “Only how did he get in and out of the grounds without being seen? That’s what I want to know.”

      Vance was standing by the window gazing out upon the river.

      “There’s something dashed unconvincing about those recurrent spoors in the snow. Our eccentric culprit is altogether too careless with his feet and too careful with his hands. He doesn’t leave a finger-print or any other sign of his presence except those foot-tracks—all nice and tidy and staring us in the face. But they don’t square with the rest of this fantastic business.”

      Heath stared hopelessly at the floor. He was patently of Vance’s opinion; but the dogged thoroughness of his nature asserted itself, and presently he looked up with a forced show of energy.

      “Go and phone Captain Jerym, Snitkin, and tell him I wish he’d hustle out here to look at some carpet-tracks. Then make measurements of those footprints on the balcony steps.—And you, Burke, take up a post in the upper hall, and don’t let any one go into the two front west rooms.”

      CHAPTER XV

       THE MURDERER IN THE HOUSE

       Table of Contents

      (Tuesday, November 30; 12.30 p. m.)

      When Snitkin and Burke had gone Vance turned from the window and strolled to where the doctor was sitting.

      “I think it might be well,” he said quietly, “if the exact whereabouts of every one in the house preceding and during the shooting was determined.—We know, doctor, that you arrived here at about a quarter past ten. How long were you with Mrs. Greene?”

      Von Blon drew himself up and gave Vance a resentful stare. But quickly his manner changed and he answered courteously:

      “I sat with her for perhaps half an hour; then I went to Sibella’s room—a little before eleven, I should say—and remained there until Sproot called me.”

      “And was Miss Sibella with you in the room all the time?”

      “Yes—the entire time.”

      “Thank you.”

      Vance returned to the window, and Heath, who had been watching the doctor belligerently, took his cigar from his mouth and cocked his head at Markham.

      “You know, sir, I was just thinking over the Inspector’s suggestion about planting some one in the house to keep an eye on things. How would it be if we got rid of this nurse that’s here now, and put in one of our own women from Headquarters?”

      Von Blon looked up with eager approval.

      “An excellent plan!” he exclaimed.

      “Very well, Sergeant,” agreed Markham. “You attend to it.”

      “Your woman can begin to-night,” Von Blon told Heath. “I’ll meet you here whenever you say, and give her instructions. There’s nothing very technical for her to do.”

      Heath made a notation in a battered note-book.

      “I’ll meet you here, say, at six o’clock. How’s that?”

      “That will suit me perfectly.” Von Blon rose. “And now, if I can be of no more service . . .”

      “That’s quite all right, doctor,” said Markham. “Go right ahead.”

      But instead of immediately leaving the house Von Blon went up-stairs, and we heard him knock on Sibella’s door. A few minutes later he came down again and passed on to the front door without a glance in our direction.

      In the meantime Snitkin had come in and informed the Sergeant that Captain Jerym was leaving Police Headquarters at once and would arrive within half an hour. He had then gone outside to make his measurements of the footprints on the balcony steps.

      “And now,” suggested Markham, “I think we might see Mrs. Greene. It’s possible she heard something. . . .”

      Vance roused himself from apparent lethargy.

      “By all means. But first let us get a few facts in hand. I long to hear where the nurse was during the half-hour preceding Rex’s demise. And I could bear to know if the old lady was alone immediately following the firing of the revolver.—Why not have our Miss Nightingale on the tapis before we brave the invalid’s imprecations?”

      Markham concurred, and Heath sent Sproot to summon her.

      The nurse came in with an air of professional detachment; but her roseate cheeks had paled perceptibly since we last saw her.

      “Miss Craven”—Vance’s manner was easy and businesslike—“will you please tell us exactly what you were doing between half past ten and half past eleven this morning?”

      “I was in my room on the third floor,” she answered. “I went there when the doctor arrived a little after ten, and remained until he called me to bring Mrs. Greene’s bouillon. Then I returned to my room and stayed until the doctor again summoned me to sit with Mrs. Greene while he was with you gentlemen.”

      “When you were in your room, was the door open?”

      “Oh, yes. I always leave it open in the daytime in case Mrs. Greene calls.”

      “And her door was open, too, I take it.”

      “Yes.”

      “Did you hear the shot?”

      “No, I didn’t.”

      “That will be all, Miss Craven.” Vance accompanied her to the hall. “You’d better return to your room now, for we’re going to pay a visit to your patient.”

      Mrs. Greene eyed us vindictively when we entered after having knocked and been imperiously ordered to come in.

      “More trouble,” she complained. “Am I never to have any peace in my own house? The first day in weeks I’ve felt even moderately comfortable—and then all this had to happen to upset me!”

      “We regret, madam—more than you do apparently—that your son is dead,” said Markham. “And we are sorry for the annoyance the tragedy is causing you. But that does not relieve me from the necessity of investigating the affair. As you were awake at the time the shot was fired, it is essential that we seek what information you may be able to give us.”

      “What information can I give you—a helpless paralytic, lying here alone?” A smouldering anger flickered in her eyes. “It strikes me that you are the one to give me information.”

      Markham ignored her barbed retort.

      “The nurse tells me your door was open this morning. . . .”

      “And why shouldn’t it have been? Am I expected to be entirely excommunicated from the rest of the household?”

      “Certainly