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

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      “Not oral information, certainly. But, as Hamlet put it, murder, though it have no tongue, will speak with most miraculous organ.”

      “Come, come, Vance. Be tangible.” Markham spoke with acerbity. “What’s in your mind?”

      “’Pon my word, I don’t know. It’s too vague.” He leaned over and picked up a small book from the floor just beneath where the dead man’s hand hung over the arm of the chair. “Chester apparently was immersed in literature at the time of his taking off.” He opened the book casually. “ ‘Hydrotherapy and Constipation.’ Yes, Chester was just the kind to worry about his colon. Some one probably told him that intestinal stasis interfered with the proper stance. He’s no doubt clearing the asphodel from the Elysian fields at the present moment preparat’ry to laying out a golf-course.”

      He became suddenly serious.

      “You see what this book means, Markham? Chester was sitting here reading when the murderer came in. Yet he did not so much as rise or call out. Furthermore, he let the intruder stand directly in front of him. He did not even lay down his book, but sat back in his chair relaxed. Why? Because the murderer was some one Chester knew—and trusted! And when the gun was suddenly brought forth and pointed at his heart, he was too astounded to move. And in that second of bewilderment and unbelief the trigger was pulled and the bullet entered his heart.”

      Markham nodded slowly, in deep perplexity, and Heath studied the attitude of the dead man more closely.

      “That’s a good theory,” the Sergeant conceded finally. “Yes, he musta let the bird get right on top of him without suspecting anything. Same like Julia did.”

      “Exactly, Sergeant. The two murders constitute a most suggestive parallel.”

      “Still and all, there’s one point you’re overlooking.” Heath’s brow was roughened in a troubled frown. “Chester’s door mighta been unlocked last night, seeing as he hadn’t gone to bed, and so this person coulda walked in without any trouble. But Julia, now, was already undressed and in bed; and she always locked her door at night. Now, how would you say this person with the gun got into Julia’s room, Mr. Vance?”

      “There’s no difficulty about that. Let us say, as a tentative hypothesis, that Julia had disrobed, switched off the lights, and climbed into her queenly bed. Then came a tap on the door—perhaps a tap she recognized. She rose, put on the lights, opened the door, and again repaired to her bed for warmth while she held parley with her visitor. Maybe—who knows?—the visitor sat on the edge of the bed during the call. Then suddenly the visitor produced the revolver and fired, and made a hurried exit, forgetting to switch the lights off. Such a theory—though I don’t insist on the details—would square neatly with my idea regarding Chester’s caller.”

      “It may’ve been like you say,” admitted Heath dubiously. “But why all the hocus-pocus when it came to shooting Ada? That job was done in the dark.”

      “The rationalistic philosophers tell us, Sergeant”—Vance became puckishly pedantic—“that there’s a reason for everything, but that the finite mind is woefully restricted. The altered technic of our elusive culprit when dealing with Ada is one of the things that is obscure. But you’ve touched a vital point. If we could discover the reason for this reversal of our inconnu’s homicidal tactics, I believe we’d be a lot forrader in our investigation.”

      Heath made no reply. He stood in the centre of the room running his eye over the various objects and pieces of furniture. Presently he stepped to the clothes-closet, pulled open the door, and turned on a pendant electric light just inside. As he stood gloomily peering at the closet’s contents there was a sound of heavy footsteps in the hall and Snitkin appeared in the open door. Heath turned and, without giving his assistant time to speak, asked gruffly:

      “How did you make out with those footprints?”

      “Got all the dope here.” Snitkin crossed to the Sergeant, and held out a long Manila envelope. “There wasn’t no trouble in checking the measurements and cutting the patterns. But they’re not going to be a hell of a lot of good, I’m thinking. There’s ten million guys more or less in this country who coulda made ’em.”

      Heath had opened the envelope and drawn forth a thin white cardboard pattern which looked like an inner sole of a shoe.

      “It wasn’t no pigmy who made this print,” he remarked.

      “That’s the catch in it,” explained Snitkin. “The size don’t mean nothing much, for it ain’t a shoetrack. Those footprints were made by galoshes, and there’s no telling how much bigger they were than the guy’s foot. They mighta been worn over a shoe anywheres from a size eight to a size ten, and with a width anywheres from an A to a D.”

      Heath nodded with obvious disappointment.

      “You’re sure about ’em being galoshes?” He was reluctant to let what promised to be a valuable clew slip away.

“You can’t get around it. The rubber tread was distinct in several places, and the shallow, scooped heel stood out plain as day. Anyhow, I got Jerym¹² to check up on my findings.”

      Snitkin’s gaze wandered idly to the floor of the clothes-closet.

      “Those are the kind of things that made the tracks.” He pointed to a pair of high arctics which had been thrown carelessly under a boot-shelf. Then he leaned over and picked up one of them. As his eye rested on it he gave a grunt. “This looks like the size, too.” He took the pattern from the Sergeant’s hand and laid it on the sole of the overshoe. It fitted as perfectly as if the two had been cut simultaneously.

      Heath was startled out of his depression.

      “Now, what in hell does that mean!”

      Markham had drawn near.

      “It might indicate, of course, that Chester went out somewhere last night late.”

      “But that don’t make sense, sir,” objected Heath. “If he’d wanted anything at that hour of the night he’d have sent the butler. And, anyway, the shops in this neighborhood were all closed by that time, for the tracks weren’t made till after it had stopped snowing at eleven.”

      “And,” supplemented Snitkin, “you can’t tell by the tracks whether the guy that made ’em left the house and came back, or came to the house and went away, for there wasn’t a single print on top of the other.”

      Vance was standing at the window looking out.

      “That, now, is a most interestin’ point, Sergeant,” he commented. “I’d file it away along with Rex’s story for prayerful consideration.” He sauntered back to the desk and looked at the dead man thoughtfully. “No, Sergeant,” he continued; “I can’t picture Chester donning gum-shoes and sneaking out into the night on a mysterious errand. I’m afraid we’ll have to find another explanation for those footprints.”

      “It’s damn funny, just the same, that they should be the exact size of these galoshes.”

      “If,” submitted Markham, “the footprints were not Chester’s, then we’re driven to the assumption that the murderer made them.”

      Vance slowly took СКАЧАТЬ