The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
forward to the edge of his chair, and turned his head from side to side, carefully avoiding our eyes.
“I haven’t tried to account for it,” he returned, with angry resentment; but withal he seemed unstrung and on the defensive. Then he hurried on: “The walls in this house are pretty thick anyway, and there are always noises in the street. . . . Maybe my head was buried under the covers.”
“You’d certainly have buried your head under the covers if you’d heard the shot,” commented Chester, with no attempt to disguise his contempt for his brother.
Rex swung round, and would have retorted to the accusation had not Vance put his next question immediately.
“What’s your theory of the crime, Mr. Greene? You’ve heard all the details and you know the situation.”
“I thought the police had settled on a burglar.” The youth’s eyes rested shrewdly on Heath. “Wasn’t that your conclusion?”
“It was, and it is,” declared the Sergeant, who, until now, had preserved a bored silence. “But your brother here seems to think otherwise.”
“So Chester thinks otherwise.” Rex turned to his brother with an expression of feline dislike. “Maybe Chester knows all about it.” There was no mistaking the implication in his words.
Vance once more stepped into the breach.
“Your brother has told us all he knows. Just at present we’re concerned with how much you know.” The severity of his manner caused Rex to shrink back in his chair. His lips twitched more violently, and he began fidgeting with the braided frog of his smoking-jacket. I noticed then for the first time that he had short rachitic hands with bowed and thickened phalanges.
“You are sure you heard no shot?” continued Vance ominously.
“I’ve told you a dozen times I didn’t!” His voice rose to a falsetto, and he gripped the arms of his chair with both hands.
“Keep calm, Rex,” admonished Chester. “You’ll be having another of your spells.”
“To hell with you!” the youth shouted. “How many times have I got to tell them I don’t know anything about it?”
“We merely want to make doubly sure on all points,” Vance told him pacifyingly. “And you certainly wouldn’t want your sister’s death to go unavenged through any lack of perseverance on our part.”
Rex relaxed slightly, and took a deep inspiration.
“Oh, I’d tell you anything I knew,” he said, running his tongue over his dry lips. “But I always get blamed for everything that happens in this house—that is, Ada and I do. And as for avenging Julia’s death: that doesn’t appeal to me nearly so much as punishing the dog that shot Ada. She has a hard enough time of it here under normal conditions. Mother keeps her in the house waiting on her as if she were a servant.”
Vance nodded understandingly. Then he rose and placed his hand sympathetically on Rex’s shoulder. This gesture was so unlike him I was completely astonished; for, despite his deep-seated humanism, Vance seemed always ashamed of any outward show of feeling, and sought constantly to repress his emotions.
“Don’t let this tragedy upset you too much, Mr. Greene,” he said reassuringly. “And you may be certain that we’ll do everything in our power to find and punish the person who shot Miss Ada.—We won’t bother you any more now.”
Rex got up almost eagerly and drew himself together.
“Oh, that’s all right.” And with a covertly triumphant glance at his brother, he left the room.
“Rex is a queer bird,” Chester remarked, after a short silence. “He spends most of his time reading and working out abstruse problems in mathematics and astronomy. Wanted to stick a telescope through the attic roof, but the Mater drew the line. He’s an unhealthy beggar, too. I tell him he doesn’t get enough fresh air, but you see his attitude toward me. Thinks I’m weak-minded because I play golf.”
“What were the spells you spoke about?” asked Vance. “Your brother looks as if he might be epileptic.”
“Oh, no; nothing like that; though I’ve seen him have convulsive seizures when he got in a specially violent tantrum. He gets excited easily and flies off the handle. Von Blon says it’s hyperneurasthenia—whatever that is. He goes ghastly pale when he’s worked up, and has a kind of trembling fit. Says things he’s sorry for afterward. Nothing serious, though. What he needs is exercise—a year on a ranch roughing it, without his infernal books and compasses and T-squares.”
“I suppose he’s more or less a favorite with your mother.” (Vance’s remark recalled a curious similarity of temperament betwen the two I had felt vaguely as Rex talked.)
“More or less.” Chester nodded ponderously. “He’s the pet in so far as the Mater’s capable of petting any one but herself. Anyway, she’s never ragged Rex as much as the rest of us.”
Again Vance went to the great window above the East River, and stood looking out. Suddenly he turned.
“By the by, Mr. Greene, did you find your revolver?” His tone had changed; his ruminative mood had gone.
Chester gave a start, and cast a swift glance at Heath, who had now become attentive.
“No, by Gad, I haven’t,” he admitted, fumbling in his pocket for his cigarette-holder. “Funny thing about that gun, too. Always kept it in my desk drawer—though, as I told this gentleman when he mentioned it”—he pointed his holder at Heath as if the other had been an inanimate object—“I don’t remember actually having seen it for years. But, even so, where the devil could it have gone? Damme, it’s mysterious. Nobody round here would touch it. The maids don’t go in the drawers when they’re cleaning the room—I’m lucky if they make the bed and dust the top of the furniture. Damned funny what became of it.”
“Did you take a good look for it to-day, like you said?” asked Heath, thrusting his head forward belligerently. Why, since he held to the burglar theory, he should assume a bulldozing manner, I couldn’t imagine. But whenever Heath was troubled, he was aggressive; and any loose end in an investigation troubled him deeply.
“Certainly, I looked for it,” Chester replied, haughtily indignant. “I went through every room and closet and drawer in the house. But it’s completely disappeared. . . . Probably got thrown out by mistake in one of the annual house-cleanings.”
“That’s possible,” agreed Vance. “What sort of a revolver was it?”
“An old Smith & Wesson .32.” Chester appeared to be trying to refresh his memory. “Mother-of-pearl handle: some scroll-engraving on the barrel—I don’t recall exactly. I bought it fifteen years ago—maybe longer—when I went camping one summer in the Adirondacks. Used it for target practice. Then I got tired of it, and stuck it away in a drawer behind a lot of old cancelled checks.”
“Was it in good working order then?”
“As far as I know. Fact is, it worked stiff when I got it, and I had the sear filed down, so it was practically a hair-trigger affair. The slightest touch sent it off. Better for shooting targets that way.”
“Do you recall if it was loaded when you put it away?”
“Couldn’t say. Might have been. It’s been so long——”
“Were there any cartridges for it in your desk?”
“Now, that I can answer you positively. There wasn’t a loose cartridge in the place.”
Vance reseated himself.
“Well, Mr. Greene, if you happen to run across the revolver you will, of course, let Mr. Markham or Sergeant Heath know.”
“Oh, certainly. With pleasure.” Chester’s assurance was expressed with an air of magnanimity.
Vance