“This knocks out our only prop,” Markham said despondently, as we sped up Madison Avenue. “The possibility that the old lady was guilty was frightful to contemplate; though all along I’ve been trying to console myself with the thought that she was insane. Now, however, I almost wish our suspicions had proved true, for the possibilities that are left seem even more terrible. We’re dealing now with a cold-blooded calculating rationality.”
Vance nodded.
“Yes, we’re confronted with something far worse than mania. I can’t say, though, that I’m deeply shocked by Mrs. Greene’s death. She was a detestable woman, Markham—a most detestable woman. The world will not bemoan her loss.”
Vance’s comment expressed exactly the sentiment I had felt when Markham informed us of Mrs. Greene’s death. The news had of course shaken me, but I had no pity for the victim. She had been vicious and unnatural; she had thriven on hatred, and had made life a hell for every one about her. It was better that her existence was over.
Both Heath and Drumm were waiting for us in the drawing-room. Excitement and depression were mingled in the Sergeant’s countenance, and the desperation of despair shone in his china-blue eyes. Drumm revealed only a look of professional disappointment: his chief concern apparently was that he had been deprived of an opportunity to display his medical skill.
Heath, after shaking hands absently, briefly explained the situation.
“O’Brien found the old dame dead at nine this morning, and told Sproot to wigwag to Doc Drumm. Then she phoned the Bureau, and I notified you and Doc Doremus. I got here fifteen or twenty minutes ago, and locked up the room.”
“Did you inform Von Blon?” Markham asked.
“I phoned him to call off the examination he’d arranged for ten o’clock. Said I’d communicate with him later, and hung up before he had time to ask any questions.”
Markham indicated his approval and turned toward Drumm.