“We’re not quite through yet with our scrutiny of the library,” rejoined Vance. “As I told Mr. Markham at lunch, my main object in coming here was to ascertain Tobias’s taste in literature.”
“A lot of good that’ll do you!”
“One never can tell. Tobias, remember, bequeathed his library to the Police Department. . . . Let’s see with what tomes the old boy whiled away his inactive hours.”
Vance took out his monocle and, polishing it carefully, fitted it to his eye. Then he turned to the nearest book-shelves. I stepped forward and looked over his shoulder; and, as my glance ran over the dusty titles, I could scarcely suppress an exclamation of amazement. Here was one of the most complete and unusual private libraries of criminology in America—and I was familiar with many of the country’s famous collections. Crime in all its phases and ramifications was represented. Rare old treatises, long out of print and now the delight of bibliophiles, shouldered one another in compact tiers on Tobias Greene’s shelves.
Nor were the subjects of these books limited to a narrow interpretation of criminology. All the various allied branches of the subject were represented. There were entire sections devoted to insanity and cretinism, social and criminal pathology, suicide, pauperism and philanthropy, prison-reform, prostitution and morphinism, capital punishment, abnormal psychology, legal codes, the argot of the underworld and code-writing, toxicology, and police methods. The volumes were in many languages—English, French, German, Italian, Spanish, Swedish, Russian, Dutch, and Latin.[20]
Vance’s eyes sparkled as he moved along the crowded shelves. Markham also was deeply interested; and Heath, bending here and there toward a volume, registered an expression of bewildered curiosity.
“My word!” murmured Vance. “No wonder your department, Sergeant, was chosen as the future custodian of these tomes. What a collection! Extr’ordin’ry!—Aren’t you glad, Markham, you wangled the old lady into relinquishing the key——?”
Suddenly he stiffened and jerked his head toward the door, at the same time lifting his hand for silence. I, too, had heard a slight noise in the hall, like some one brushing against the woodwork of the door, but had thought nothing of it. For a few moments we waited tensely. But no further sound came to us, and Vance stepped quickly to the door and drew it open. The hall was empty. He stood on the threshold for a while listening. Then he closed the door, and turned again to the room.
“I could have sworn some one was listening in the hall.”
“I heard a rustle of some kind,” Markham corroborated him. “I took it for granted it was Sproot or the maid passing by.”