The Greatest Works of S. S. Van Dine (Illustrated Edition) - S.S. Van Dine

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Sibella’s room with the door shut lots of times when she wasn’t any more sick than you are. And Mr. Rex, now. He’s a queer man, too. I get the creeps every time he comes near me.” She shuddered by way of demonstration. “Miss Julia wasn’t as queer as the rest. She just hated everybody and was mean.”

      Barton had rambled on loquaciously with all the thoughtless exaggeration of a gossip who felt herself outraged; and Markham had not interrupted her. He was trying to dredge up some nugget from the mass of her verbal silt; but when at last he sifted it all down there remained nothing but a few shining grains of scandal.

      The cook was even less enlightening. Taciturn by nature, she became almost inarticulate when approached on the subject of the crime. Her stolid exterior seemed to cloak a sullen resentment at the fact that she should be questioned at all. In fact, as Markham patiently pressed his examination, the impression grew on me that her lack of responsiveness was deliberately defensive, as if she had steeled herself to reticency. Vance, too, sensed this attitude in her, for, during a pause in the interview, he moved his chair about until he faced her directly.

      “Frau Mannheim,” he said, “the last time we were here you mentioned the fact that Mr. Tobias Greene knew your husband, and that, because of their acquaintance, you applied for a position here when your husband died.”

      “And why shouldn’t I?” she asked stubbornly. “I was poor, and I didn’t have any other friends.”

      “Ah, friends!” Vance caught up the word. “And since you were once on friendly terms with Mr. Greene, you doubtless know certain things about his past, which may have some bearing on the present situation; for it is not at all impossible, d’ ye see, that the crimes committed here during the past few days are connected with matters that took place years ago. We don’t know this, of course, but we’d be very much gratified if you would try to help us in this regard.”

      As he was speaking the woman had drawn herself up. Her hands had tightened as they lay folded in her lap, and the muscles about her mouth had stiffened.

      “I don’t know anything,” was her only answer.

      “How,” asked Vance evenly, “do you account for the rather remarkable fact that Mr. Greene gave orders that you were to remain here as long as you cared to?”

      “Mr. Greene was a very kind and generous man,” she asserted, in a flat, combative voice. “Some there were that thought him hard, and accused him of being unjust; but he was always good to me and mine.”

      “How well did he know Mr. Mannheim?”

      There was a pause, and the woman’s eyes looked blankly ahead.

      “He helped my husband once, when he was in trouble.”

      “How did he happen to do this?”

      There was another pause, and then:

      “They were in some deal together—in the old country.” She frowned and appeared uneasy.

      “When was this?”

      “I don’t remember. It was before I was married.”

      “And where did you first meet Mr. Greene?”

      “At my home in New Orleans. He was there on business—with my husband.”

      “And, I take it, he befriended you also.”

      The woman maintained a stubborn silence.

      “A moment ago,” pursued Vance, “you used the phrase ‘me and mine.’—Have you any children, Mrs. Mannheim?”

      For the first time during the interview her face radically changed expression. An angry gleam shone in her eyes.

      “No!” The denial was like an ejaculation.

      Vance smoked lethargically for several moments.

      “You lived in New Orleans until the time of your employment in this house?” he finally asked.

      “Yes.”

      “And your husband died there?”

      “Yes.”

      “That was thirteen years ago, I understand.—How long before that had it been since you had seen Mr. Greene?”

      “About a year.”

      “So that would be fourteen years ago.”

      An apprehension, bordering on fear, showed through the woman’s morose calmness.

      “And you came all the way to New York to seek Mr. Greene’s help,” mused Vance. “Why were you so confident that he would give you employment after your husband’s death?”

      “Mr. Greene was a very good man,” was all she would say.

      “He had perhaps,” suggested Vance, “done some other favor for you which made you think you could count on his generosity—eh, what?”

      “That’s neither here nor there.” Her mouth closed tightly.

      Vance changed the subject.

      “What do you think about the crimes that have been committed in this house?”

      “I don’t think about them,” she mumbled; but the anxiety in her voice belied the assertion.

      “You surely must hold some opinion, Mrs. Mannheim, having been here so long.” Vance’s intent gaze did not leave the woman. “Who, do you think, would have had any reason for wanting to harm these people?”

      Suddenly her self-control gave way.

      “Du lieber Herr Jesus! I don’t know—I don’t know!” It was like a cry of anguish. “Miss Julia and Mr. Chester maybe—gewiss, one could understand. They hated everybody; they were hard, unloving. But little Ada—der süsse Engel! Why should they want to harm her!” She set her face grimly, and slowly her expression of stolidity returned.

      “Why, indeed?” A note of sympathy was evident in Vance’s voice. After a pause he rose and went to the window. “You may return to your room now, Frau Mannheim,” he said, without turning. “We sha’n’t let anything further happen to little Ada.”

      The woman got up heavily and, with an uneasy glance in Vance’s direction, left the room.

      As soon as she was out of hearing Markham swung about.

      “What’s the use of raking up all this ancient history?” he demanded irritably. “We’re dealing with things that have taken place within the past few days; and you waste valuable time trying to find out why Tobias Greene hired a cook thirteen years ago.”

      “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.”

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