# The Greene Murder Case (1928)/Chapter 19

(Wednesday, December 1; 4.30 p. m.)
When we returned to Mrs. Greene's room the old lady was apparently sleeping peacefully and we did not disturb her. Heath gave the key to Nurse O'Brien with instructions to replace it in the jewel-case, and we went down-stairs.
Although it was but a little past four o'clock, the early winter twilight had already descended. Sproot had not yet lighted the lamps, and the lower hall was in semidarkness. A ghostly atmosphere pervaded the house. Even the silence was oppressive, and seemed fraught with the spirit of commination. We went straight to the hall table where we had thrown our coats, eager to get out into the open air.
But we were not to shake the depressing influence of the old mansion so quickly. We had scarcely reached the table when there came a slight stirring of the portières of the archway opposite to the drawing-room, and a tense, whispered voice said:
"Mr. Vance—please!"
We turned, startled. There, just inside of the reception-room, hiding behind the heavy draperies, stood Ada, her face a patch of ghastly white in the gathering gloom. With one finger placed on her lips for silence, she beckoned to us; and we stepped softly into the chill, unused room.
"There's something I must tell you," she said, in a half-whisper, "—something terrible! I was going ​to telephone you to-day, but I was afraid. . . ." A fit of trembling seized her.
"Don't be frightened, Ada," Vance encouraged her soothingly. "In a few days all these awful things will be over.—What have you to tell us?"
She made an effort to draw herself together, and when the tremor had passed she went on hesitantly.
"Last night—it was long after midnight—I woke, and felt hungry. So I got up, slipped on a wrap, and stole down-stairs. Cook always leaves something in the pantry for me. . . ." Again she stopped, and her haunted eyes searched our faces. "But when I reached the lower landing of the stairs I heard a soft, shuffling sound in the hall—far back, near the library door. My heart was in my mouth, but I made myself look over the banister. And just then—some one struck a match. . . ."
Her trembling began afresh, and she clutched Vance's arm with both hands. I was afraid the girl was going to faint, and I moved closer to her; but Vance's voice seemed to steady her.
"Who was it, Ada?"
She caught her breath and looked about her, her face the picture of deadly fear. Then she leaned forward.
"It was mother! . . . And she was walking!"
The dread significance of this revelation chilled us all into silence. After a moment a choked whistle escaped Heath; and Markham threw back his head like a man shaking himself out of an encroaching spell of hypnosis. It was Vance who first recovered himself sufficiently to speak.
"Your mother was near the library door?"
​"Yes; and it seemed as though she held a key in her hand."
"Was she carrying anything else?" Vance's effort at calmness was only half successful.
"I didn't notice—I was too terrified."
"Could she, for instance, have been carrying a pair of galoshes?" he persisted.
"She might have been. I don't know. She had on her long Oriental shawl, and it fell down about her in folds. Maybe under the shawl. . . . Or she might have put them down when she struck the match. I only know I saw her—moving slowly . . . there in the darkness."
The memory of that unbelievable vision completely took possession of the girl. Her eyes stared, trance-like, into the deepening shadows.
Markham cleared his throat nervously.
"You say yourself it was dark in the hall last night, Miss Greene. Perhaps your fears got the better of you. Are you sure it might not have been Hemming or the cook?"
She brought her eyes back to Markham with sudden resentment.
"No!" Then her voice took on its former note of terror. "It was mother. The match was burning close to her face, and there was a terrible look in her eyes. I was only a few feet from her—looking straight down on her."
Her hold on Vance's arm tightened, and once more her agonized gaze turned to him.
"Oh, what does it mean? I thought—I thought mother could never walk again."
Vance ignored her anguished appeal.
​"Tell me this, for it's very important: did your mother see you?"
"I—don't know." Her words were scarcely audible. "I drew back and ran softly up the stairs. Then I locked myself in my room."
Vance did not speak at once. He regarded the girl for a moment, and then gave her a slow, comforting smile.
"And I think your room is the best place for you now," he said. "Don't worry over what you saw; and keep what you have told us to yourself. There's nothing to be afraid of. Certain types of paralytics have been known to walk in their sleep under the stress of shock or excitement. Anyway, we'll arrange for the new nurse to sleep in your room to-night." And with a friendly pat on her arm he sent her up-stairs.
After Heath had given Miss O'Brien the necessary instructions we left the house and walked toward First Avenue.
"Good God, Vance!" said Markham huskily. "We've got to move quickly. That child's story opens up new and frightful possibilities."
"Couldn't you get a commitment for the old woman to some sanitarium to-morrow, sir?" asked Heath.
"On what grounds? It's a pathological case, pure and simple. We haven't a scrap of evidence."
"I shouldn't attempt it, in any event," interposed Vance. "We mustn't be hasty. There are several conclusions to be drawn from Ada's story; and if the thing that all of us is thinking should be wrong, we'd only make matters worse by a false move. We ​might delay the slaughter for the time being; but we'd learn nothing. And our only hope is to find out—some way—what's at the bottom of this atrocious business."
"Yeh? And how are we going to do that, Mr. Vance?" Heath spoke with despair.
"I don't know now. But the Greene household is safe for to-night anyway; and that gives us a little time. I think I'll have another talk with Von Blon. Doctors—especially the younger ones—are apt to give snap diagnoses."
Heath had hailed a taxicab, and we were headed down-town along Third Avenue.
"It can certainly do no harm," agreed Markham. "And it might bring forth something suggestive. When will you tackle him?"
Vance was gazing out of the window.
"Why not at once?" Suddenly his mood had changed. "Here we are in the Forties. And tea-time! What could be more opportune?"
He leaned over and gave the chauffeur an order. In a few minutes the taxicab drew up to the curb before Von Blon's brownstone residence.
The doctor received us apprehensively.
"Nothing wrong, I hope?" he asked, trying to read our faces.
"Oh, no," Vance answered easily. "We were passing and thought we'd drop in for a dish of tea and a medical chat."
Von Blon studied him with a slight suspicion.
"Very well. You gentlemen shall have both." He rang for his man. "But I can do even better. I've some old Amontillado sherry——"
​"My word!" Vance bowed ceremoniously and turned to Markham. "You see how fortune favors her punctual children?"
The wine was brought and carefully decanted.
Vance took up his glass and sipped it. One would have thought, from his manner, that nothing in the world at that moment was as important as the quality of the wine.
"Ah, my dear doctor," he remarked, with some ostentation, "the blender on the sunny Andalusian slopes unquestionably had many rare and valuable butts with which to glorify this vintage. There was little need for the addition of vino dulce that year; but then, the Spaniards always sweeten their wine, probably because the English object to the slightest dryness. And it's the English, you know, who buy all the best sherries. They have always loved their 'sherris-sack'; and many a British bard has immortalized it in song. Ben Jonson sang its praises, and so did Tom Moore and Byron. But it was Shakespeare—an ardent lover of sherry himself—who penned the greatest and most passionate panegyric to it. You remember Falstaff's apostrophe?—'It ascends me into the brain; dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapors which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery and delectable shapes. . . .' Sherry, you probably know, doctor, was once regarded as a cure for gout and other malaises of faulty metabolism."
He paused and put down his glass.
"I wonder that you haven't prescribed this delicious sherry for Mrs. Greene long ago. I'm sure ​she would serve you with a writ of confiscation if she knew you had it."
"The fact is," Von Blon returned, "I once took her a bottle, and she gave it to Chester. She doesn't care for wine. I remember my father's telling me she objected violently to her husband's well-stocked cellar."
"Your father died, did he not, before Mrs. Greene became paralyzed?" Vance asked incuriously.
"Yes—about a year."
"And was yours the only diagnosis made of her case?"
Von Blon looked at him with an air of gentle surprise.
"Yes. I saw no necessity of calling in any of the bigwigs. The symptoms were clear-cut and conformed with the anamnesis. Furthermore, everything since then has confirmed my diagnosis."
"And yet, doctor"—Vance spoke with great deference—"something has occurred which, from the layman's point of view, tends to cast doubt on the accuracy of that diagnosis. Therefore, I feel sure you will forgive me when I ask you quite frankly if it would not be possible to place another, and perhaps less serious, interpretation on Mrs. Greene's invalidism."
Von Blon appeared greatly puzzled.
"There is," he said, "not the slightest possibility that Mrs. Greene is suffering from any disease other than an organic paralysis of both legs—a paraplegia, in fact, of the entire lower part of the body."
"If you were to see Mrs. Greene move her legs, what would be your mental reaction?"
​Von Blon stared at him incredulously. Then he forced a laugh.
"My mental reaction? I'd know my liver was out of order, and that I was having hallucinations."
"And if you knew your liver was functioning perfectly—then what?"
"I'd immediately become a devout believer in miracles."
Vance smiled pleasantly.
"I sincerely hope it won't come to that. And yet so-called therapeutic miracles have happened."
"I'll admit that medical history is filled with what the uninitiated call miraculous cures. But there is sound pathology beneath all of them. In Mrs. Greene's case, however, I can see no loophole for error. If she should move her legs, it would contravert all the known laws of physiology."
"By the by, doctor"—Vance put the question abruptly—"are you familiar with Brügelmann's 'Über hysterische Dämmerzustände'?"
"No—I can't say that I am."
"Or with Schwarzwald's 'Über Hystero-Paralyse und Somnambulismus'?"
Von Blon hesitated, and his eyes were focussed intently like those of a man who is thinking rapidly.
"I know Schwarzwald, of course," he answered. "But I'm ignorant of the particular work you mention. . . ." Slowly a look of amazement dawned on his face. "Good heavens! You're not trying to connect the subjects of these books with Mrs. Greene's condition, are you?"
"If I were to tell you that both of these books are in the Greene mansion, what would you say?"
​"I'd say their presence is no more relevant to the situation there than would be a copy of 'Die Leiden des jungen Werther' or Heine's 'Romanzero.'"
"I'm sorry I can't agree with you," returned Vance politely. "They are certainly relevant to our investigation, and I had hoped you might be able to explain the connection."
Von Blon appeared to ponder the matter, his face the picture of perplexity.
"I wish I could help you," he said, after several moments. Then he glanced up quickly: a new light had come into his eyes. "Permit me to suggest, sir, that you are laboring under a misapprehension as to the correct scientific connotation of the words in the titles of these two books. I have had occasion to do considerable reading along psychoanalytic lines; and both Freud and Jung use the terms 'Somnambulismus' and 'Dämmerzustände' in an entirely different sense from our common use of the terms 'somnambulism' and 'twilight sleep.' 'Somnambulismus,' in the terminology of psychopathology and abnormal psychology, is employed in connection with ambivalence and dual personality: it designates the actions of the submerged, or subconscious, self in cases of aphasia, amnesia, and the like. It does not refer to one's walking in one's sleep. For instance, in psychic hysteria where one loses one's memory and adopts a new personality, the subject is called a 'Somnambule.' It is the same as what the newspapers commonly refer to as an 'amnesia victim.'"
He rose and went to a bookcase. After a few moments' search he took down several volumes.
"Here we have, for example, an old monograph ​by Freud and Breuer, written in 1893 and entitled 'Über den psychischen Mechanismus der hysterischen Phenomene.' If you care to take the trouble to read it, you will see that it is an exposition of the application of the term 'Somnambulismus' to certain temporary neurotic derangements.—And here also is Freud's 'Traumdeutung,' published in 1894, in which this terminology is explained and amplified.—In addition to these, I have here 'Nervöse Angstzustände,' by Stekel, who, though he leads one of the most important schisms in the Freudian school, uses the same nomenclature in referring to split personality." He laid the three books on the table before Vance. "You may take them along if you like. They may throw some light on the quandary you are in."
"You are inclined to believe, then, that both Schwarzwald and Brügelmann refer to waking psychic states rather than the more common type of somnambulism?"
"Yes, I am inclined to that belief. I know Schwarzwald was a former lecturer at the Psychopatisches Institut, in constant contact with Freud and his teachings. But, as I told you, I am not familiar with either of the books."
"How would you account for the term 'hysteria' in both titles?"
"Its presence there is in no way contradictory. Aphasia, amnesia, aphonia—and often anosmia and apnœa—are symptoms of hysteria. And hysterical paralysis is quite common. There are many cases of paralytics who have been unable to move a muscle for years, as a result of sheer hysteria."
​"Ah, exactly!" Vance picked up his glass and drained it. "That brings me to a rather unusual request I desire to make.—As you know, the papers are waxing severe in their criticism of the police and the District Attorney's office, and are accusing of negligence every one connected with the investigation of the Greene case. Therefore Mr. Markham has decided that it might be advisable for him to possess a report of Mrs. Greene's physical condition that would carry the very highest expert authority. And I was going to suggest that, merely as a matter of formal routine, we get such a report from, let us say, Doctor Felix Oppenheimer."
Von Blon did not speak for several minutes. He sat toying nervously with his glass, his eyes fixed with intent calculation on Vance.
"It might be well for you to have the report," he acceded at last, "if only to dispel your own doubts on the subject.—No, I have no objection to the plan. I will be very glad to make the arrangements."
Vance rose.
"That's very generous of you, doctor. But I must urge you to attend to it without delay."
"I understand perfectly. I will get in touch with Doctor Oppenheimer in the morning and explain to him the official character of the situation. I'm sure he will expedite matters."
When we were again in the taxicab Markham gave voice to his perplexity.
"Von Blon strikes me as a particularly able and ​trustworthy man. And yet he has obviously gone woefully astray in regard to Mrs. Greene's illness. I fear he's in for a shock when he hears what Oppenheimer has to say after the examination."
"Y' know, Markham," said Vance sombrely, "I'll feel infinitely bucked if we succeed in getting that report from Oppenheimer."
"Succeed! What do you mean?"
"'Pon my word, I don't know what I mean. I only know that there's a black terrible intrigue of some kind going on at the Greene house. And we don't yet know who's back of it. But it's some one who's watching us, who knows every move we make, and is thwarting us at every turn."