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

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СКАЧАТЬ can’t tell me that guy don’t know something. And you can bet your sweet life I’m going to search his room damn good for that gun.”

      “It appears to me,” rejoined Vance, “he’s too flighty to have planned the massacre in this house. He might blow up under pressure and hit somebody with a handy missile; but I doubt if he’d lay any deep schemes and bide his time.”

      “He’s good and scared about something,” persisted Heath morosely.

      “Hasn’t he cause to be? Maybe he thinks the elusive gunman hereabouts will chose him as the next target.”

      “If there is another gunman, he showed damn bad taste not picking Rex out first.” It was evident the Sergeant was still smarting under the epithets that had so recently been directed at him.

      Von Blon returned to the drawing-room at this moment, looking troubled.

      “I’ve got Rex quieted,” he said. “Gave him five grains of luminal. He’ll sleep for a few hours and wake up penitent. I’ve rarely seen him quite as violent as he was to-day. He’s supersensitive—cerebral neurasthenia; and he’s apt to fly off the handle. But he’s never dangerous.” He scanned our faces swiftly. “One of you gentlemen must have said something pretty severe.”

      Heath looked sheepish. “I asked him where he’d hid the gun.”

      “Ah!” The doctor gave the Sergeant a look of questioning reproach. “Too bad! We have to be careful with Rex. He’s all right so long as he isn’t opposed too strongly. But I don’t just see, sir, what your object could have been in questioning him about the revolver. You surely don’t suspect him of having had a hand in these terrible shootings.”

      “You tell me who did the shootings, doc,” retorted Heath pugnaciously, “and then I’ll tell you who I don’t suspect.”

      “I regret that I am unable to enlighten you.” Von Blon’s tone exuded its habitual pleasantness. “But I can assure you Rex had no part in them. They’re quite out of keeping with his pathologic state.”

      “That’s the defense of half the high-class killers we get the goods on,” countered Heath.

      “I see I can’t argue with you.” Von Blon sighed regretfully, and turned an engaging countenance in Markham’s direction. “Rex’s absurd accusations puzzled me deeply, but, since this officer admits he practically accused the boy of having the revolver, the situation becomes perfectly clear. A common form of instinctive self-protection, this attempting to shift blame on others. You can see, of course, that Rex was merely trying to turn suspicion upon me so as to free himself. It’s unfortunate, for he and I were always good friends. Poor Rex!”

      “By the by, doctor,” came Vance’s indolent voice; “that point about your being with Mr. Chester Greene on the camping-trip when he first secured the gun: was that correct? Or was it merely a fancy engendered by Rex’s self-protective instinct?”

      Von Blon smiled with faultless urbanity and, putting his head a little on one side, appeared to recall the past.

      “It may be correct,” he admitted. “I was once with Chester on a camping-trip. Yes, it’s quite likely—though I shouldn’t like to state it definitely. It was so long ago.”

      “Fifteen years, I think, Mr. Greene said. Ah, yes—a long time ago. Eheu! fugaces, Postume, Postume, labuntur anni. It’s very depressin’. And do you recall, doctor, if Mr. Greene had a revolver along on that particular outing?”

      “Since you mention it, I believe I do recall his having one, though again I should choose not to be definite on the subject.”

      “Perhaps you may recollect if he used it for target practice.” Vance’s tone was dulcet and uneager. “Popping away at tree-boles and tin cans and what not, don’t y’ know.”

      Von Blon nodded reminiscently.

      “Ye-es. It’s quite possible. . . .”

      “And you yourself may have done a bit of desult’ry popping, what?”

      “To be sure, I may have.” Von Blon spoke musingly, like one recalling childish pranks. “Yes, it’s wholly possible.”

      Vance lapsed into a disinterested silence, and the doctor, after a moment’s hesitation, rose.

      “I must be going, I’m afraid.” And with a gracious bow he started toward the door. “Oh, by the way,” he said, pausing, “I almost forgot that Mrs. Greene told me she desired to see you gentlemen before you went. Forgive me if I suggest that it might be wise to humor her. She’s something of a dowager, you know, and her invalidism has made her rather irritable and exacting.”

      “I’m glad you mentioned Mrs. Greene, doctor.” It was Vance who spoke. “I’ve been intending to ask you about her. What is the nature of her paralysis?”

      Von Blon appeared surprised.

      “Why, a sort of paraplegia dolorosa—that is, a paralysis of the legs and lower part of the body, accompanied by severe pains due to pressure of the indurations on the spinal cord and nerves. No spasticity of the limbs has supervened, however. Came on very suddenly without any premonitory symptoms about ten years ago—probably the result of transverse myelitis. There’s nothing really to be done but to keep her as comfortable as possible with symptomatic treatment, and to tone up the heart action. A sixtieth of strychnine three times a day takes care of the circulation.”

      “Couldn’t by any chance be a hysterical akinesia?”

      “Good Lord, no! There’s no hysteria.” Then his eyes widened in amazement. “Oh, I see! No; there’s no possibility of recovery, even partial. It’s organic paralysis.”

      “And atrophy?”

      “Oh, yes. Muscular atrophy is now pronounced.”

      “Thank you very much.” Vance lay back with half-closed eyes.

      “Oh, not at all.—And remember, Mr. Markham, that I always stand ready to help in any way I can. Please don’t hesitate to call on me.” He bowed again, and went out.

      Markham got up and stretched his legs.

      “Come; we’ve been summoned to appear.” His facetiousness was a patent effort to shake off the depressing gloom of the case.

      Mrs. Greene received us with almost unctuous cordiality.

      “I knew you’d grant the request of a poor old useless cripple,” she said, with an appealing smile; “though I’m used to being ignored. No one pays any attention to my wishes.”

      The nurse stood at the head of the bed arranging the pillows beneath the old lady’s shoulders.

      “Is that comfortable now?” she asked.

      Mrs. Greene made a gesture of annoyance.

      “A lot you care whether I’m comfortable or not! Why can’t you let me alone, nurse? You’re always disturbing me. There was nothing wrong with the pillows. And I don’t want you in here now anyway. Go and sit with Ada.”

      The nurse drew a long, СКАЧАТЬ