“At any rate,” returned Vance lazily, “I think we are justified in assuming that the murderer was here when we arrived.”
“But nobody’s left the place but Von Blon,” blurted Heath.
Vance nodded. “Oh, it’s wholly possible the murderer is still in the house, Sergeant.”
CHAPTER XVI.
The Lost Poisons
(Tuesday, November 30; 2 p. m.)
Markham and Vance and I had a late lunch at the Stuyvesant Club. During the meal the subject of the murder was avoided as if by tacit agreement; but when we sat smoking over our coffee Markham settled back in his chair and surveyed Vance sternly.
“Now,” he said, “I want to hear how you came to find those galoshes in the linen-closet. And, damn it! I don’t want any garrulous evasions or quotations out of Bartlett.”
“I’m quite willing to unburden my soul,” smiled Vance. “It was all so dashed simple. I never put any stock in the burglar theory, and so was able to approach the problem with a virgin mind, as it were.”
He lit a fresh cigarette and poured himself another cup of coffee.
“Perpend, Markham. On the night that Julia and Ada were shot a double set of footprints was found. It had stopped snowing at about eleven o’clock, and the tracks had been made between that hour and midnight, when the Sergeant arrived on the scene. On the night of Chester’s murder there was another set of footprints similar to the others; and they too had been made shortly after the weather had cleared. Here, then, were tracks in the snow, approaching and retreating from the front door, preceding each crime; and both sets had been made after the snow had stopped falling when they would be distinctly visible and determinable. This was not a particularly striking coincidence, but it was sufficiently arresting to create a slight strain on my cortex cerebri. And the strain increased perceptibly this morning when Snitkin reported his discovery of fresh footprints on the balcony steps; for once again the same meteorological conditions had accompanied our culprit’s passion for leaving spoors. I was therefore driven to the irresistible inference, as you learned Solons put it, that the murderer, so careful and calculating about everything else, had deliberately made all these footprints for our special edification. In each instance, d’ ye see, he had chosen the only hour of the day when his tracks would not be obliterated by falling snow or confused with other tracks. . . . Are you there?”