“There’s such a thing as cause and effect,” offered Vance mildly. “And frequently there’s a dashed long interval between the two.”
“Granted. But what possible connection can this German cook have with the present murders?”
“Perhaps none.” Vance strode back across the room, his eyes on the floor. “But, Markham old dear, nothing appears to have any connection with this débâcle. And, on the other hand, everything seems to have a possible relationship. The whole house is steeped in vague meanings. A hundred shadowy hands are pointing to the culprit, and the moment you try to determine the direction the hands disappear. It’s a nightmare. Nothing means anything; therefore, anything may have a meaning.”
“My dear Vance! You’re not yourself.” Markham’s tone was one of annoyance and reproach. “Your remarks are worse than the obscure ramblings of the sibyls. What if Tobias Greene did have dealings with one Mannheim in the past? Old Tobias indulged in numerous shady transactions, if the gossip of twenty-five or thirty years ago can be credited.[13] He was forever scurrying to the ends of the earth on some mysterious mission, and coming home with his pockets lined. And it’s common knowledge that he spent considerable time in Germany. If you try to dig up his past for possible explanations for the present business, you’ll have your hands full.”
“You misconstrue my vagaries,” returned Vance, pausing before the old oil-painting of Tobias Greene over the fireplace. “I repudiate all ambition to become the family historian of the Greenes. . . . Not a bad head on Tobias,” he commented, adjusting his monocle and inspecting the portrait. “An interestin’ character. Dynamic forehead, with more than a suggestion of the scholar. A rugged, prying nose. Yes, Tobias no doubt fared forth on many an adventurous quest. A cruel mouth, though—rather sinister, in fact. I wish the whiskers permitted one a view of the chin. It was round, with a deep cleft, I’d say—the substance of which Chester’s chin was but the simulacrum.”
“Very edifying,” sneered Markham. “But phrenology leaves me cold this morning.—Tell me, Vance: are you laboring under some melodramatic notion that old Mannheim may have been resurrected and returned to wreak vengeance on the Greene progeny for wrongs done him by Tobias in the dim past? I can’t see any other reason for the questions you put to Mrs. Mannheim. Don’t overlook the fact, however, that Mannheim’s dead.”
“I didn’t attend the funeral.” Vance sank lazily again in his chair.
“Don’t be so unutterably futile,” snapped Markham. “What’s going through your head?”
“An excellent figure of speech! It expresses my mental state perfectly. Numberless things are ‘going through my head.’ But nothing remains there. My brain’s a veritable sieve.”
Heath projected himself into the discussion.