The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
astounding indictment.
“Oh, she’s the one who did it! And she’s deceiving you just as she’s always tried to deceive the rest of us. She hates us—she’s hated us ever since father brought her into this house. She resents us—the things we have, the very blood in our veins. Heaven knows what blood’s in hers. She hates us because she isn’t our equal. She’d gladly see us all murdered. She killed Julia first, because Julia ran the house and saw to it that she did something to earn her livelihood. She despises us; and she planned to get rid of us.”
The girl on the bed looked piteously from one to the other of us. There was no resentment in her eyes; she appeared stunned and unbelieving, as if she doubted the reality of what she had heard.
“Most interestin’,” drawled Vance. It was his ironic tone, more than the words themselves, that focussed all eyes on him. He had been watching Sibella during her tirade, and his gaze was still on her.
“You seriously accuse your sister of doing the shooting?” He spoke now in a pleasant, almost friendly, voice.
“I do!” she declared brazenly. “She hates us all.”
“As far as that goes,” smiled Vance, “I haven’t noticed a superabundance of love and affection in any of the Greene family.” His tone was without offense. “And do you base your accusation on anything specific, Miss Greene?”
“Isn’t it specific enough that she wants us all out of the way, that she thinks she would have everything—ease, luxury, freedom—if there wasn’t any one else to inherit the Greene money?”
“Hardly specific enough to warrant a direct accusation of so heinous a character.—And by the by, Miss Greene, just how would you explain the method of the crime if called as a witness in a court of law? You couldn’t altogether ignore the fact that Miss Ada herself was shot in the back, don’t y’ know?”
For the first time the sheer impossibility of the accusation seemed to strike Sibella. She became sullen; and her mouth settled into a contour of angry bafflement.
“As I told you once before, I’m not a policewoman,” she retorted. “Crime isn’t my specialty.”
“Nor logic either apparently.” A whimsical note crept into Vance’s voice. “But perhaps I misinterpret your accusation. Did you mean to imply that Miss Ada shot your sister Julia, and that some one else—party or parties unknown, I believe the phrase is—shot Miss Ada immediately afterward—in a spirit of vengeance, perhaps? A crime à quatre mains, so to speak?”
Sibella’s confusion was obvious, but her stubborn wrath had in no wise abated.
“Well, if that was the way it happened,” she countered malevolently, “it’s a rotten shame they didn’t do the job better.”
“The blunder may at least prove unfortunate for somebody,” suggested Vance pointedly. “Still, I hardly think we can seriously entertain the double-culprit theory. Both of your sisters, d’ ye see, were shot with the same gun—a .32 revolver—within a few minutes of each other. I’m afraid that we’ll have to be content with one guilty person.”
Sibella’s manner suddenly became sly and calculating.
“What kind of a gun was yours, Chet?” she asked her brother.
“Oh, it was a .32, all right—an old Smith & Wesson revolver.” Chester was painfully ill at ease.
“Was it, indeed? Well, that’s that.” She turned her back on us and went again to the window.
The tension in the room slackened, and Von Blon leaned solicitously over the wounded girl and rearranged the pillows.
“Every one’s upset, Ada,” he said soothingly. “You mustn’t worry about what’s happened. Sibella’ll be sorry to-morrow and make amends. This affair has got on everybody’s nerves.”
The girl gave him a grateful glance, and seemed to relax under his ministrations.
After a moment he straightened up and looked at Markham.
“I hope you gentlemen are through—for to-day, at least.”
Both Vance and Markham had risen, and Heath and I had followed suit; but at that moment Sibella strode toward us again.
“Wait!” she commanded imperiously. “I’ve just thought of something. Chet’s revolver! I know where it went.—She took it.” Again she pointed accusingly at Ada. “I saw her in Chet’s room the other day, and I wondered then why she was snooping about there.” She gave Vance a triumphant leer. “That’s specific, isn’t it?”
“What day was this, Miss Greene?” As before, his calmness seemed to counteract the effect of her venom.
“What day? I don’t remember exactly. Last week some time.”
“The day you were looking for your emerald pin, perhaps?”
Sibella hesitated; then said angrily: “I don’t recall. Why should I remember the exact time? All I know is that, as I was passing down the hall, I glanced into Chet’s room—the door was half open—and I saw her in there . . . by the desk.”
“And was it so unusual to see Miss Ada in your brother’s room?” Vance spoke without any particular interest.
“She never goes into any of our rooms,” declared Sibella. “Except Rex’s, sometimes. Julia told her long ago to keep out of them.”
Ada gave her sister a look of infinite entreaty.
“Oh, Sibella,” she moaned; “what have I ever done to make you dislike me so?”
“What have you done!” The other’s voice was harsh and strident, and a look almost demoniacal smouldered in her levelled eyes. “Everything! Nothing! Oh, you’re clever—with your quiet, sneaky ways, and your patient, hangdog look, and your goody-goody manner. But you don’t pull the wool over my eyes. You’ve been hating all of us ever since you came here. And you’ve been waiting for the chance to kill us, planning and scheming—you vile little——”
“Sibella!” It was Von Blon’s voice that, like the lash of a whip, cut in on this unreasoned tirade. “That will be enough!” He moved forward, and glanced menacingly into the girl’s eyes. I was almost as astonished at his attitude as I had been at her wild words. There was a curious intimacy in his manner—an implication of familiarity which struck me as unusual even for a family physician of his long and friendly standing. Vance noticed it too, for his eyebrows went up slightly and he watched the scene with intense interest.
“You’ve become hysterical,” Von Blon said, without lowering his minatory gaze. “You don’t realize what you’ve been saying.”
I felt he would have expressed himself far more forcibly if strangers had not been present. But his words had their effect. Sibella dropped her eyes, and a sudden change came over her. She covered her face with her hands, and her whole body shook with sobs.
“I’m—sorry. I was mad—and silly—to say such things.”
“You’d better take Sibella to her room, Chester.” Von Blon had resumed his professional tone. “This business has been too much for her.”
The girl turned without another word and went out, followed by Chester.
“These modern women—all nerves,” Von Blon commented laconically. Then he placed his hand on Ada’s forehead. “Now, young lady, I’m going to give you something to make you sleep after all this excitement.”
He had scarcely opened his medicine-case to prepare the draught when a shrill, complaining voice drifted clearly to us from the next room; and for the first time I noticed that the door of the little dressing-room which communicated with Mrs. Greene’s quarters was slightly ajar.
“What’s all the trouble now? Hasn’t there been enough disturbance already without these noisy scenes in