Chapter I
A
Double Tragedy(Tuesday,
November 9; 10 a. m.)It
has long been a source of wonder to me why the leading criminological
writers—men like Edmund Lester Pearson, H. B. Irving, Filson Young,
Canon Brookes, William Bolitho, and Harold Eaton—have not devoted
more space to the Greene tragedy; for here, surely, is one of the
outstanding murder mysteries of modern times—a case practically
unique in the annals of latter–day crime. And yet I realize, as I
read over my own voluminous notes on the case, and inspect the
various documents relating to it, how little of its inner history
ever came to light, and how impossible it would be for even the most
imaginative chronicler to fill in the hiatuses.The
world, of course, knows the external facts. For over a month the
press of two continents was filled with accounts of this appalling
tragedy; and even the bare outline was sufficient to gratify the
public’s craving for the abnormal and the spectacular. But the
inside story of the catastrophe surpassed even the wildest flights of
public fancy; and, as I now sit down to divulge those facts for the
first time, I am oppressed with a feeling akin to unreality, although
I was a witness to most of them and hold in my possession the
incontestable records of their actuality.Of
the fiendish ingenuity which lay behind this terrible crime, of the
warped psychological motives that inspired it, and of the strange
hidden sources of its technic, the world is completely ignorant.
Moreover, no explanation has ever been given of the analytic steps
that led to its solution. Nor have the events attending the mechanism
of that solution—events in themselves highly dramatic and
unusual—ever been recounted. The public believes that the
termination of the case was a result of the usual police methods of
investigation; but this is because the public is unaware of many of
the vital factors of the crime itself, and because both the Police
Department and the District Attorney’s office have, as if by tacit
agreement, refused to make known the entire truth—whether for fear
of being disbelieved or merely because there are certain things so
terrible that no man wishes to talk of them, I do not know.The
record, therefore, which I am about to set down is the first complete
and unedited history of the Greene holocaust.[1]
I feel that now the truth should be known, for it is history, and one
should not shrink from historical facts. Also, I believe that the
credit for the solution of this case should go where it belongs.The
man who elucidated the mystery and brought to a close that palimpsest
of horror was, curiously enough, in no way officially connected with
the police; and in all the published accounts of the murder his name
was not once mentioned. And yet, had it not been for him and his
novel methods of criminal deduction, the heinous plot against the
Greene family would have been conclusively successful. The police in
their researches were dealing dogmatically with the evidential
appearances of the crime, whereas the operations of the criminal were
being conducted on a plane quite beyond the comprehension of the
ordinary investigator.This
man who, after weeks of sedulous and disheartening analysis,
eventually ferreted out the source of the horror, was a young social
aristocrat, an intimate friend of John F.–X. Markham, the District
Attorney. His name I am not at liberty to divulge, but for the
purposes of these chronicles I have chosen to call him Philo Vance.
He is no longer in this country, having transferred his residence
several years ago to a villa outside of Florence; and, since he has
no intention of returning to America, he has acceded to my request to
publish the history of the criminal cases in which he participated as
a sort of amicus
curiæ. Markham
also has retired to private life; and Sergeant Ernest Heath, that
doughty and honest officer of the Homicide Bureau who officially
handled the Greene case for the Police Department, has, through an
unexpected legacy, been able to gratify his life’s ambition to
breed fancy wyandottes on a model farm in the Mohawk Valley. Thus
circumstances have made it possible for me to publish my intimate
records of the Greene tragedy.A
few words are necessary to explain my own participation in the case.
(I say “participation,” though, in reality, my rôle was that of
passive spectator.) For several years I had been Vance’s personal
attorney. I had resigned from my father’s law firm—Van Dine,
Davis & Van Dine—in order to devote myself exclusively to
Vance’s legal and financial needs, which, by the way, were not
many. Vance and I had been friends from our undergraduate days at
Harvard, and I found in my new duties as his legal agent and monetary
steward a sinecure combined with many social and cultural
compensations.Vance
at that time was thirty–four years old. He was just under six feet,
slender, sinewy, and graceful. His chiselled regular features gave
his face the attraction of strength and uniform modelling, but a
sardonic coldness of expression precluded the designation of
handsome. He had aloof gray eyes, a straight, slender nose, and a
mouth suggesting both cruelty and asceticism. But, despite the
severity of his lineaments—which acted like an impenetrable glass
wall between him and his fellows—, he was highly sensitive and
mobile; and, though his manner was somewhat detached and
supercilious, he exerted an undeniable fascination over those who
knew him at all well.Much
of his education had been acquired in Europe, and he still retained a
slight Oxonian accent and intonation, though I happen to be aware
that this was no affectation: he cared too little for the opinions of
others to trouble about maintaining any pose. He was an indefatigable
student. His mind was ever eager for knowledge, and he devoted much
of his time to the study of ethnology and psychology. His greatest
intellectual enthusiasm was art, and he fortunately had an income
sufficient to indulge his passion for collecting. It was, however,
his interest in psychology and his application of it to individual
behaviorism that first turned his attention to the criminal problems
which came under Markham’s jurisdiction.The
first case in which he participated was, as I have recorded
elsewhere, the murder of Alvin Benson.[2]
The second was the seemingly insoluble strangling of the famous
Broadway beauty, Margaret Odell.[3]
And in the late fall of the same year came the Greene tragedy. As in
the two former cases, I kept a complete record of this new
investigation. I possessed myself of every available document, making
verbatim copies of those claimed for the police archives, and even
jotted down the numerous conversations that took place in and out of
conference between Vance and the official investigators. And, in
addition, I kept a diary which, for elaborateness and completeness,
would have been the despair of Samuel Pepys.The
Greene murder case occurred toward the end of Markham’s first year
in office. As you may remember, the winter came very early that
season. There were two severe blizzards in November, and the amount
of snowfall for that month broke all local records for eighteen
years. I mention this fact of the early snows because it played a
sinister part in the Greene affair: it was, indeed, one of the vital
factors of the murderer’s scheme. No one has yet understood, or
even sensed, the connection between the unseasonable weather of that
late fall and the fatal tragedy that fell upon the Greene household;
but that is because all of the dark secrets of the case were not made
known.Vance
was projected into the Benson murder as the result of a direct
challenge from Markham; and his activities in the Canary case were
due to his own expressed desire to lend a hand. But pure coincidence
was responsible for his participation in the Greene investigation.
During the two months that had elapsed since his solution of the
Canary’s death Markham had called upon him several times regarding
moot points of criminal detection in connection with the routine work
of the District Attorney’s office; and it was during an informal
discussion of one of these problems that the Greene case was first
mentioned.Markham
and Vance had long been friends. Though dissimilar in tastes and even
in ethical outlook, they nevertheless respected each other
profoundly. I have often marvelled at the friendship of these two
antipodal men; but as the years went by I came more and more to
understand it. It was as if they were drawn together by those very
qualities which each realized—perhaps with a certain repressed
regret—were lacking in his own nature. Markham was forthright,
brusque, and, on occasion, domineering, taking life with grim and
serious concern, and following the dictates of his legal conscience
in the face of every obstacle: honest, incorruptible, and untiring.
Vance, on the other hand, was volatile, debonair, and possessed of a
perpetual Juvenalian cynicism, smiling ironically at the bitterest
realities, and consistently fulfilling the rôle of a whimsically
disinterested spectator of life. But, withal, he understood people as
profoundly as he understood art, and his dissection of motives and
his shrewd readings of character were—as I had many occasions to
witness—uncannily accurate. Markham apprehended these qualities in
Vance, and sensed their true value.It
was not yet ten o’clock of the morning of November the 9th when
Vance and I, after motoring to the old Criminal Courts Building on
the corner of Franklin and Centre Streets, went directly to the
District Attorney’s office on the fourth floor. On that momentous
forenoon two gangsters, each accusing the other of firing the fatal
shot in a recent pay–roll hold–up, were to be cross–examined by
Markham; and this interview was to decide the question as to which of
the men would be charged with murder and which held as a State’s
witness. Markham and Vance had discussed the situation the night
before in the lounge–room of the Stuyvesant Club, and Vance had
expressed a desire to be present at the examination. Markham had
readily assented, and so we had risen early and driven down–town.The
interview with the two men lasted for an hour, and Vance’s
disconcerting opinion was that neither was guilty of the actual
shooting.
“Y’
know, Markham,” he drawled, when the sheriff had returned the
prisoners to the Tombs, “those two Jack Sheppards are quite
sincere: each one thinks he’s telling the truth.
Ergo, neither of
’em fired the shot. A distressin’ predicament. They’re obvious
gallows–birds—born for the gibbet; and it’s a beastly shame not
to be able to round out their destinies in proper fashion…. I say,
wasn’t there another participant in the hold–up?”Markham
nodded. “A third got away. According to these two, it was a
well–known gangster named Eddie Maleppo.”
“Then
Eduardo is your man.”[4]Markham
did not reply, and Vance rose lazily and reached for his ulster.
“By
the by,” he said, slipping into his coat, “I note that our
upliftin’ press bedecked its front pages this morning with
head–lines about a pogrom at the old Greene mansion last night.
Wherefore?”Markham
glanced quickly at the clock on the wall, and frowned.
“That
reminds me. Chester Greene called up the first thing this morning and
insisted on seeing me. I told him eleven o’clock.”
“Where
do you
fit in?” Vance had taken his hand from the door–knob, and drew
out his cigarette–case.
“I
don’t!” snapped Markham. “But people think the District
Attorney’s office is a kind of clearing–house for all their
troubles. It happens, however, that I’ve known Chester Greene a
long time—we’re both members of the Marylebone Golf Club—and so
I must listen to his plaint about what was obviously an attempt to
annex the famous Greene plate.”
“Burglary—eh,
what?” Vance took a few puffs on his cigarette. “With two women
shot?”
“Oh,
it was a miserable business! An amateur, no doubt. Got in a panic,
shot up the place, and bolted.”
“Seems
a dashed curious proceeding.” Vance abstractedly reseated himself
in a large armchair near the door. “Did the antique cutlery
actually disappear?”
“Nothing
was taken. The thief was evidently frightened off before he made his
haul.”
“Sounds
a bit thick, don’t y’ know.—An amateur thief breaks into a
prominent home, casts a predat’ry eye on the dining–room silver,
takes alarm, goes up–stairs and shoots two women in their
respective boudoirs, and then flees…. Very touchin’ and all that,
but unconvincin’. Whence came this caressin’ theory?”Markham
was glowering, but when he spoke it was with an effort at restraint.
“Feathergill
was on duty last night when the call was relayed from Headquarters,
and accompanied the police to the house. He agrees with their
conclusions.”[5]
“Nevertheless,
I could bear to know why Chester Greene is desirous of having polite
converse with you.”Markham
compressed his lips. He was not in cordial mood that morning, and
Vance’s flippant curiosity irked him. After a moment, however, he
said grudgingly:
“Since
the attempted robbery interests you so keenly, you may, if you
insist, wait and hear what Greene has to say.”
“I’ll
stay,” smiled Vance, removing his coat. “I’m weak; just can’t
resist a passionate entreaty…. Which one of the Greenes is Chester?
And how is he related to the two deceased?”
“There
was only one murder,” Markham corrected him in a tone of
forbearance. “The oldest daughter—an unmarried woman in her early
forties—was killed instantly. A younger daughter, who was also
shot, has, I believe, a chance of recovery.”
“And
Chester?”
“Chester
is the elder son, a man of forty or thereabouts. He was the first
person on the scene after the shots had been fired.”
“What
other members of the family are there? I know old Tobias Greene has
gone to his Maker.”
“Yes,
old Tobias died about twelve years ago. But his wife is still living,
though she’s a helpless paralytic. Then there are—or rather
were—five children: the oldest, Julia; next, Chester; then another
daughter, Sibella, a few years under thirty, I should say; then Rex,
a sickly, bookish boy a year or so younger than Sibella; and Ada, the
youngest—an adopted daughter twenty–two or three, perhaps.”
“And
it was Julia who was killed, eh? Which of the other two girls was
shot?”
“The
younger—Ada. Her room, it seems, is across the hall from Julia’s,
and the thief apparently got in it by mistake while making his
escape. As I understand it, he entered Ada’s room immediately after
firing on Julia, saw his error, fired again, and then fled,
eventually going down the stairs and out the main entrance.”Vance
smoked a while in silence.
“Your
hypothetical intruder must have been deuced confused to have mistaken
Ada’s bedroom door for the staircase, what? And then there’s the
query: what was this anonymous gentleman, who had called to collect
the plate, doing above–stairs?”
“Probably
looking for jewellery.” Markham was rapidly losing patience. “I
am not omniscient.” There was irony in his inflection.
“Now,
now, Markham!” pleaded Vance cajolingly. “Don’t be vindictive.
Your Greene burglary promises several nice points in academic
speculation. Permit me to indulge my idle whims.”At
that moment Swacker, Markham’s youthful and alert secretary,
appeared at the swinging door which communicated with a narrow
chamber between the main waiting–room and the District Attorney’s
private office.
“Mr.
Chester Greene is here,” he announced.[1]
It is, I hope, unnecessary for me to state that I have received
official permission for my task.[2]
“The Benson Murder Case” (Scribners, 1926).[3]
“The ‘Canary’ Murder Case” (Scribners, 1927).[4]
This was subsequently proved correct. Nearly a year later Maleppo was
arrested in Detroit, extradited to New York, and convicted of the
murder. His two companions had already been successfully prosecuted
for robbery. They are now serving long terms in Sing Sing.[5]
Amos Feathergill was then an Assistant District Attorney. He later
ran on the Tammany ticket for assemblyman, and was elected.
Chapter II
The
Investigation Opens
(Tuesday,
November 9; 11 a. m.)
When
Chester Greene entered it was obvious he was under a nervous strain;
but his nervousness evoked no sympathy in me. From the very first I
disliked the man. He was of medium height and was bordering on
corpulence. There was something soft and flabby in his contours; and,
though he was dressed with studied care, there were certain signs of
overemphasis about his clothes. His cuffs were too tight; his collar
was too snug; and the colored silk handkerchief hung too far out of
his breast pocket. He was slightly bald, and the lids of his
close–set eyes projected like those of a man with Bright’s
disease. His mouth, surmounted by a close–cropped blond moustache,
was loose; and his chin receded slightly and was deeply creased below
the under lip. He typified the pampered idler.
When
he had shaken hands with Markham, and Vance and I had been
introduced, he seated himself and meticulously inserted a brown
Russian cigarette in a long amber–and–gold holder.
“I’d
be tremendously obliged, Markham,” he said, lighting his cigarette
from an ivory pocket–lighter, “if you’d make a personal
investigation of the row that occurred at our diggin’s last night.
The police will never get anywhere the way they’re going about it.
Good fellows, you understand—the police. But … well, there’s
something about this affair—don’t know just how to put it.
Anyway, I don’t like it.”
Markham
studied him closely for several moments.
“Just
what’s on your mind, Greene?”
The
other crushed out his cigarette, though he had taken no more than
half a dozen puffs, and drummed indecisively on the arm of his chair.
“Wish
I knew. It’s a rum affair—damned rum. There’s something back of
it, too—something that’s going to raise the very devil if we
don’t stop it. Can’t explain it. It’s a feeling I’ve got.”
“Perhaps
Mr. Greene is psychic,” commented Vance, with a look of bland
innocence.
The
man swung about and scrutinized Vance with aggressive condescension.
“Tosh!” He brought out another Russian cigarette, and turned
again to Markham: “I do wish you’d take a peep at the situation.”
Markham
hesitated. “Surely you’ve some reason for disagreeing with the
police and appealing to me.”
“Funny
thing, but I haven’t.” (It seemed to me Greene’s hand shook
slightly as he lit his second cigarette.) “I simply know that my
mind rejects the burglar story automatically.”
It
was difficult to tell if he were being frank or deliberately hiding
something. I did feel, however, that some sort of fear lurked beneath
his uneasiness; and I also got the impression that he was far from
being heart–broken over the tragedy.
