“How long was this interregnum of quietude?” asked Vance.
“Well, mother generally ends her daily criticism of the family around ten-thirty; so I’d say the quietude lasted about an hour.”
“And during that time you do not recall hearing a slight shuffling sound in the hall? Or a door closing softly?”
The girl shook her head indifferently, and took another cigarette from a small amber case she carried in her sweater-pocket.
“Sorry, but I didn’t. That doesn’t mean, though, that people couldn’t have been shuffling and shutting doors all over the place. My room’s at the rear, and the noises on the river and in 52d Street drown out almost anything that’s going on in the front of the house.”
Vance had gone to her and held a match to her cigarette.
“I say, you don’t seem in the least worried.”
“Oh, why worry?” She made a gesture of resignation. “If anything is to happen to me, it’ll happen, whatever I do. But I don’t anticipate an immediate demise. No one has the slightest reason for killing me—unless, of course, it’s some of my former bridge partners. But they’re all harmless persons who wouldn’t be apt to take extreme measures.”
“Still”—Vance kept his tone inconsequential—“no one apparently had any reason for harming your two sisters or your brother.”
“On that point I couldn’t be altogether lucid. We Greenes don’t confide in one another. There’s a beastly spirit of distrust in this ancestral domain. We all lie to each other on general principles. And as for secrets! Each member of the family is a kind of Masonic Order in himself. Surely there’s some reason for all these shootings. I simply can’t imagine any one indulging himself in this fashion for the mere purpose of pistol practice.”