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

or two.”

      Hemming was sent for. She came in laboring under intense excitement. Her eyes fairly glittered with the triumph of the prophetess whose auguries have come to pass. But she had no information whatever to impart. She had spent most of the forenoon in the laundry, and had been unaware of the tragedy until Sproot had mentioned it to her shortly before our arrival. She was voluble, however, on the subject of divine punishment, and it was with difficulty that Vance stemmed her oracular stream of words.

      Nor could the cook throw any light on Rex’s murder. She had been in the kitchen, she said, the entire morning except for the hour she had gone marketing. She had not heard the shot and, like Hemming, knew of the tragedy only through Sproot. A marked change, however, had come over the woman. When she had entered the drawing-room fright and resentment animated her usually stolid features, and as she sat before us her fingers worked nervously in her lap.

      Vance watched her critically during the interview. At the end he asked suddenly:

      “Miss Ada has been with you in the kitchen this past half-hour?”

      At the mention of Ada’s name her fear was perceptibly intensified. She drew a deep breath.

      “Yes, little Ada has been with me. And thank the good God she was away this morning when Mr. Rex was killed, or it might have been her and not Mr. Rex. They tried once to shoot her, and maybe they’ll try again. She oughtn’t to be allowed to stay in this house.”

      “I think it only fair to tell you, Frau Mannheim,” said Vance, “that some one will be watching closely over Miss Ada from now on.”

      The woman looked at him gratefully.

      “Why should any one want to harm little Ada?” she asked, in an anguished tone. “I also shall watch over her.”

      When she had left us Vance said:

      “Something tells me, Markham, that Ada could have no better protector in this house than that motherly German.—And yet,” he added, “there’ll be no end of this grim carnage until we have the murderer safely gyved.” His face darkened: his mouth was as cruel as Pietro de’ Medici’s. “This hellish business isn’t ended. The final picture is only just emerging. And it’s damnable—worse than any of the horrors of Rops or Doré.”

      Markham nodded with dismal depression.

      “Yes, there appears to be an inevitability about these tragedies that’s beyond mere human power to combat.” He got up wearily and addressed himself to Heath. “There’s nothing more I can do here at present, Sergeant. Carry on, and phone me at the office before five.”

      We were about to take our departure when Captain Jerym arrived. He was a quiet, heavy-set man, with a gray, scraggly moustache and small, deep-set eyes. One might easily have mistaken him for a shrewd, efficient merchant. After a brief hand-shaking ceremony Heath piloted him up-stairs.

      Vance had already donned his ulster, but now he removed it.

      “I think I’ll tarry a bit and hear what the Captain has to say regarding those footprints. Y’ know, Markham, I’ve been evolving a rather fantastic theory about ’em; and I want to test it.”

      Markham looked at him a moment with questioning curiosity. Then he glanced at his watch.

      “I’ll wait with you,” he said.

      Ten minutes later Doctor Doremus came down, and paused long enough on his way out to tell us that Rex had been shot with a .32 revolver held at a distance of about a foot from the forehead, the bullet having entered directly from the front and embedded itself, in all probability, in the midbrain.

      A quarter of an hour after Doremus had gone Heath re-entered the drawing-room. He expressed uneasy surprise at seeing us still there.

      “Mr. Vance wanted to hear Jerym’s report,” Markham explained.

      “The Captain’ll be through any minute now.” The Sergeant sank into a chair. “He’s checking Snitkin’s measurements. He couldn’t make much of the tracks on the carpet, though.”

      “And finger-prints?” asked Markham.

      “Nothing yet.”

      “And there won’t be,” added Vance. “There wouldn’t be footprints if they weren’t deliberately intended for us.”

      Heath shot him a sharp look, but before he could speak Captain Jerym and Snitkin came down-stairs.

      “What’s the verdict, Cap?” asked the Sergeant.

      “Those footprints on the balcony steps,” said Jerym, “were made with galoshes of the same size and markings as the pattern turned over to me by Snitkin a fortnight or so ago. As for the prints in the room, I’m not so sure. They appear to be the same, however; and the dirt on them is sooty, like the dirt on the snow outside the French doors. I’ve several photographs of them; and I’ll know definitely when I get my enlargements under the microscope.”

      Vance rose and sauntered to the archway.

      “May I have your permission to go up-stairs a moment, Sergeant?”

      Heath looked mystified. His instinct was to ask a reason for this unexpected request, but all he said was: “Sure. Go ahead.”

      Something in Vance’s manner—an air of satisfaction combined with a suppressed eagerness—told me that he had verified his theory.

      He was gone less than five minutes. When he returned he carried a pair of galoshes similar to those that had been found in Chester’s closet. He handed them to Captain Jerym.

      “You’ll probably find that these made the tracks.”

      Both Jerym and Snitkin examined them carefully, comparing the measurements and fitting the rough patterns to the soles. Finally, the Captain took one of them to the window, and affixing a jeweller’s glass to his eye, studied the riser of the heel.

      “I think you’re right,” he agreed. “There’s a worn place here which corresponds to an indentation on the cast I made.”

      Heath had sprung to his feet and stood eyeing Vance.

      “Where did you find ’em?” he demanded.

      “Tucked away in the rear of the little linen-closet at the head of the stairs.”

      The Sergeant’s excitement got the better of him. He swung about to Markham, fairly spluttering with consternation.

      “Those two guys from the Bureau that went over this house looking for the gun told me there wasn’t a pair of galoshes in the place; and I specially told ’em to keep their eyes pealed for galoshes. And now Mr. Vance finds ’em in the linen-closet off the main hall up-stairs!”

      “But, Sergeant,” said Vance mildly, “the galoshes weren’t there when your sleuths were looking for the revolver. On both former occasions the johnny who wore ’em had plenty of time to put ’em away safely. But to-day, d’ ye see, he had no chance to sequester them; so he left ’em in the linen-closet for the time being.”

      “Oh, that’s it, is it?” Heath growled vaguely. “Well, what’s the rest of the story, Mr. Vance?”

      “That’s all there is to date. If I knew the rest I’d know who fired the shots. But I might remind you that neither of your sergents-de-ville saw any suspicious person leave here.”

      “Good God, Vance!” Markham was on his feet. “That means that the murderer is in the house this minute.”

      “At any rate,” returned Vance lazily, “I think we are justified in assuming that the murderer was here when we arrived.”

      “But nobody’s left the place but Von Blon,” blurted Heath.

      Vance nodded. “Oh, it’s wholly possible the murderer is still in the house, Sergeant.”

      CHAPTER