“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 out his cigarette-case.
“Yes,” he agreed, “I think we may safely assume that.”
10. E. Plon, Nourrit et Cie., Paris, 1893.
11. Inspector William M. Moran, who died last summer, had been the commanding officer of the Detective Bureau for eight years. He was a man of rare and unusual qualities, and with his death the New York Police Department lost one of its most efficient and trustworthy officials. He had formerly been a well-known up-State banker who had been forced to close his doors during the 1907 panic.
12. Captain Anthony P. Jerym was one of the shrewdest and most painstaking criminologists of the New York Police Department. Though he had begun his career as an expert in the Bertillon system of measurements, he had later specialized in footprints—a subject which he had helped to elevate to an elaborate and complicated science. He had spent several years in Vienna studying Austrian methods, and had developed a means of scientific photography for footprints which gave him rank with such men as Londe, Burais, and Reiss.
CHAPTER IX
THE THREE BULLETS
(Friday, November 12; 9 a. m.)
At this moment Doctor Doremus, the Medical Examiner, a brisk, nervous man with a jaunty air, was ushered in by one of the detectives I had seen in the drawing-room. He blinked at the company, threw his hat and coat on a chair, and shook hands with every one.
“What are your friends trying to do, Sergeant?” he asked, eying the inert body in the chair. “Wipe out the whole family?” Without waiting for an answer to his grim pleasantry he went to the windows and threw up the shades with a clatter. “You gentlemen all through viewing the remains? If so, I’ll get to work.”
“Go to it,” said Heath. Chester Greene’s body was lifted to the bed and straightened out. “And how about the bullet, doc? Any chance of getting it before the autopsy?”
“How’m I going to get it without a probe and forceps? I ask you!” Doctor Doremus drew back the matted dressing-gown and inspected the wound. “But I’ll see what I can do.” Then he straightened up and cocked his eye facetiously at the Sergeant. “Well, I’m waiting for your usual query about the time of death.”
“We know it.”
“Hah! Wish you always did. This fixing the exact time by looking over a body is all poppycock anyway. The best we fellows can do is to approximate it. Rigor mortis works differently in different people. Don’t ever take me too seriously, Sergeant, when I set an exact hour for you.—However, let’s see. . . .”
He ran his hands over the body on the bed, unflexed the fingers, moved the head, and put his eye close to the coagulated blood about the wound. Then he teetered on his toes, and squinted at the ceiling.
“How about ten hours? Say, between eleven-thirty and midnight. How’s that?”
Heath laughed good-naturedly.
“You hit it, doc—right on the head.”
“Well, well! Always was a good guesser.” Doctor Doremus seemed wholly indifferent.
Vance had followed Markham into the hall.
“An honest fellow, that archiater of yours. And to think he’s a public servant of our beneficent government!”
“There are many honest men in public office,” Markham reproved him.
“I know,” sighed Vance. “Our democracy is still young. Give it time.”
Heath joined us, and at the same moment the nurse appeared at Mrs. Greene’s door. A querulous dictatorial voice issued from the depths of the room behind her.
“. . . And you tell whoever’s in charge that I want to see him—right away, do you understand! It’s an outrage, all this commotion and excitement, with me lying here in pain trying to get a little rest. Nobody shows me any consideration.”
Heath made a grimace and looked toward the stairs; but Vance took Markham’s arm.
“Come, let’s cheer up the old lady.”
As we entered the room, Mrs. Greene, propped up as usual in bed with a prismatic assortment of pillows, drew her shawl primly about her.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” she greeted us, her expression moderating. “I thought it was those abominable policemen making free with my house again. . . . What’s the meaning of all this disturbance, Mr. Markham? Nurse tells me that Chester has been shot. Dear, dear! If people must do such things, why do they have to come to my house and annoy a poor helpless old woman like me? There are plenty of other places they could do their shooting in.” She appeared deeply resentful at the fact that the murderer should have been so inconsiderate as to choose the Greene mansion for his depredations. “But I’ve come to expect this sort of thing. Nobody thinks of my feelings. And if my own children see fit to do everything they can to annoy me, why should I expect total strangers to show me any consideration?”
“When one is bent on murder, Mrs. Greene,” rejoined Markham, stung by her callousness, “one doesn’t stop to think of the mere inconvenience his crime may cause others.”
“I suppose not,” she murmured self-pityingly. “But it’s all the fault of my children. If they were what children ought to be, people wouldn’t be breaking in here trying to murder them.”
“And unfortunately succeeding,” added Markham coldly.
“Well, that can’t be helped.” She suddenly became bitter. “It’s their punishment for the way they’ve treated their poor old mother, lying here for ten long years, hopelessly paralyzed. And do you think they try to make it easy for me? No! Here I must stay, day after day, suffering agonies with my spine; and they never give me a thought.” A sly look came into her fierce old eyes. “But they think about me sometimes. Oh, yes! They think how nice it would be if I were out of the way. Then they’d get all my money. . . .”
“I understand, madam,” Markham put in abruptly, “that you were asleep last night at the time your son met his death.”
“Was I? Well, maybe I was. It’s a wonder, though, that some one didn’t leave my door open just so I’d be disturbed.”
“And you know no one who would have any reason to kill your son?”
“How should I know? Nobody tells me anything. I’m a poor neglected, lonely old cripple. . . .”
“Well, we won’t bother you any further, Mrs. Greene.” Markham’s tone held something both of sympathy and consternation.
As we descended the stairs the nurse reopened the door we had just closed after us, and left it ajar, no doubt in response to an order from her patient.
“Not at all a nice old lady,” chuckled Vance, as we entered the drawing-room. “For a moment, Markham, I thought you were going to box her ears.”
“I admit I felt like it. And yet I couldn’t help pitying her. However, such utter self-concentration as hers saves one a lot of mental anguish. She seems to regard this whole damnable business as a plot to upset her.”
Sproot appeared obsequiously