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

set it down in the hall, against the rear railing of the main stairway.”

      “And you remained in Miss Sibella’s room until Sproot called you?”

      “That is right.”

      “Then the case was unguarded in the rear of the upper hall from about eleven until you left the house?”

      “Yes. After I had taken leave of you gentlemen in the drawing-room I went up-stairs and got it.”

      “And also made your adieus to Miss Sibella,” added Vance.

      Von Blon raised his eyebrows with an air of gentle surprise.

      “Naturally.”

      “What amount of these drugs disappeared?” asked Markham.

      “The four tubes of strychnine contained in all approximately three grains—three and one-third, to be exact. And there are twenty-five tablets of morphine in a Parke-Davis tube, making six and one-quarter grains.”

      “Are those fatal doses, doctor?”

      “That’s a difficult question to answer, sir.” Von Blon adopted a professorial manner. “One may have a tolerance for morphine and be capable of assimilating astonishingly large doses. But, ceteris paribus, six grains would certainly prove fatal. Regarding strychnine, toxicology gives us a very wide range as to lethal dosage, depending on the condition and age of the patient. The average fatal dose for an adult is, I should say, two grains, though death has resulted from administrations of one grain, or even less. And, on the other hand, recovery has taken place after as much as ten grains have been swallowed. Generally speaking, however, three and one-third grains would be sufficient to produce fatal results.”

      When Von Blon had gone Markham gazed at Vance anxiously.

      “What do you make of it?” he asked.

      “I don’t like it—I don’t at all like it.” Vance shook his head despairingly. “It’s dashed queer—the whole thing. And the doctor is worried, too. There’s a panic raging beneath his elegant façade. He’s in a blue funk—and it’s not because of the loss of his pills. He fears something, Markham. There was a strained, hunted look in his eyes.”

      “Doesn’t it strike you as strange that he should be carrying such quantities of drugs about with him?”

      “Not necessarily. Some doctors do it. The Continental M.D.s especially are addicted to the practice. And don’t forget Von Blon is German-trained. . . .” Vance glanced up suddenly. “By the by, what about those two wills?”

      There was a look of astonished interrogation in Markham’s incisive stare, but he said merely:

      “I’ll have them later this afternoon. Buckway has been laid up with a cold, but he promised to send me copies to-day.”

      Vance got to his feet.

      “I’m no Chaldean,” he drawled; “but I have an idea those two wills may help us to understand the disappearance of the doctor’s pellets.” He drew on his coat and took up his hat and stick. “And now I’m going to banish this beastly affair from my thoughts.—Come, Van. There’s some good chamber-music at Æolian Hall this afternoon, and if we hurry we’ll be in time for the Mozart ‘C-major.’ ”

      CHAPTER XVII

       TWO WILLS

       Table of Contents

      (Tuesday, November 30; 8 p. m.)

      Eight o’clock that night found Inspector Moran, Sergeant Heath, Markham, Vance, and me seated about a small conference-table in one of the Stuyvesant Club’s private rooms. The evening papers had created a furore in the city with their melodramatic accounts of Rex Greene’s murder; and these early stories were, as we all knew, but the mild fore-runners of what the morning journals would publish. The situation itself, without the inevitable impending strictures of the press, was sufficient to harry and depress those in charge of the official investigation; and, as I looked round the little circle of worried faces that night, I realized the tremendous importance that attached to the outcome of our conference.

      Markham was the first to speak.

      “I have brought copies of the wills; but before we discuss them I’d like to know if there have been any new developments.”

      “Developments!” Heath snorted contemptuously. “We’ve been going round in a circle all afternoon, and the faster we went the quicker we got to where we started. Mr. Markham, not one damn thing turned up to give us a line of inquiry. If it wasn’t for the fact that no gun was found in the room, I’d turn in a report of suicide and then resign from the force.”

      “Fie on you, Sergeant!” Vance made a half-hearted attempt at levity. “It’s a bit too early to give way to such gloomy pessimism.—I take it that Captain Dubois found no finger-prints.”

      “Oh, he found finger-prints, all right—Ada’s, and Rex’s, and Sproot’s, and a couple of the doctor’s. But that don’t get us anywheres.”

      “Where were the prints?”

      “Everywhere—on the door-knobs, the centre-table, the window-panes; some were even found on the woodwork above the mantel.”

      “That last fact may prove interestin’ some day, though it doesn’t seem to mean much just now.—Anything more about the footprints?”

      “Nope. I got Jerym’s report late this afternoon; but it don’t say anything new. The galoshes you found made the tracks.”

      “That reminds me, Sergeant. What did you do with the galoshes?”

      Heath gave him a sly, exultant grin.

      “Just exactly what you’d have done with ’em, Mr. Vance. Only—I thought of it first.”

      Vance smiled back.

      “Salve! Yes, the idea entirely slipped my mind this morning. In fact, it only just occurred to me.”

      “May I know what was done with the galoshes?” interjected Markham impatiently.

      “Why, the Sergeant returned them surreptitiously to the linen-closet, and placed them under the drugget whence they came.”

      “Right!” Heath nodded with satisfaction. “And I’ve got our new nurse keeping an eye on ’em. The minute they disappear she’s to phone the Bureau.”

      “You had no trouble installing your woman?” asked Markham.

      “A cinch. Everything went like clockwork. At a quarter to six the doc shows up; then at six comes the woman from the Central Office. After the doc has put her wise to her new duties, she gets into her uniform and goes in to Mrs. Greene. The old lady tells the doc she didn’t like this Miss Craven anyway, and hopes the new nurse will show her more consideration. Things couldn’t have gone smoother. I hung around until I got a chance to tip our woman off about the galoshes; then I came away.”

      “Which of our women did you give the case to, Sergeant?” Moran asked.

      “O’Brien—the one who handled the Sitwell affair. Nothing in that house will get by O’Brien; and she’s as strong as a man.”

      “There’s another thing you’d better speak to her about as soon as possible.” And Markham related in detail the facts of Von Blon’s visit to the office after lunch. “If those drugs were stolen in the Greene mansion, your woman may be able to find some trace of them.”

      Markham’s account of the missing poisons had produced a profound effect on both Heath and the Inspector.

      “Good heavens!” exclaimed the latter. “Is this affair going to develop into a poisoning case? It would be the finishing touch.” His apprehension went much deeper than his tone