Seeking Information
(Tuesday, September 11; 9 p. m.)
Ten minutes later we were ringing the bell of a stately old brownstone
house in East 44th Street.
A resplendently caparisoned butler opened the door, and Markham
presented his card.
“Take this to the doctor at once, and say that it’s urgent.”
“The doctor is just finishing dinner,” the stately seneschal informed
him; and conducted us into a richly furnished reception-room, with
deep comfortable chairs, silken draperies, and subdued lights.
“A typical gynecologist’s seraglio,” observed Vance, looking around.
“I’m sure the pasha himself is a majestic and elegant personage.”
The prediction proved true. Doctor Lindquist entered the room a moment
later inspecting the District Attorney’s card as if it had been a
cuneiform inscription whose import he could not quite decipher. He was
a tall man in his late forties, with bushy hair and eyebrows, and a
complexion abnormally pale. His face was long, and, despite the
asymmetry of his features, he might easily have been called handsome.
He was in dinner clothes, and he carried himself with the
self-conscious precision of a man unduly impressed with his own
importance. He seated himself at a kidney-shaped desk of carved
mahogany, and lifted his eyes with polite inquiry to Markham.
“To what am I indebted for the honor of this call?” he asked in a
studiously melodious voice, lingering over each word caressingly. “You
are most fortunate to have found me in,” he added, before Markham
could speak. “I confer with patients only by appointment.” One felt
that he experienced a certain humiliation at having received us
without elaborate ceremonial preliminaries.
Markham, whose nature was opposed to all circumlocution and pretense,
came direct to the point.
“This isn’t a professional consultation, doctor; but it happens that I
want to speak to you about one of your former patients—a Miss Margaret
Odell.”
Doctor Lindquist regarded the gold paper-weight before him with
vacantly reminiscent eyes.
“Ah, yes. Miss Odell. I was just reading of her violent end. A most
unfortunate and tragic affair. . . . In just what way can I be of
service to you?—You understand, of course, that the relationship
between a physician and his patient is one of sacred confidence——”
“I understand that thoroughly,” Markham assured him abruptly. “On the
other hand, it is the sacred duty of every citizen to assist the
authorities in bringing a murderer to justice. And if there is
anything you can tell me which will help toward that end, I shall
certainly expect you to tell me.”
The doctor raised his hand slightly in polite protestation.
“I shall, of course, do all I can to assist you, if you will but
indicate your desires.”
“There’s no need to beat about the bush, doctor,” said Markham. “I
know that Miss Odell was a patient of yours for a long time; and I
realize that it is highly possible, not to say probable, that she told
you certain personal things which may have direct bearing on her
death.”
“But, my dear Mr.—”—Doctor Lindquist glanced ostentatiously at the
card—“ah—Markham, my relations with Miss Odell were of a purely
professional character.”
“I had understood, however,” ventured Markham, “that, while what you
say may be technically true, nevertheless there was an informality,
let me say, in that relationship. Perhaps I may state it better by
saying that your professional attitude transcended a merely scientific
interest in her case.”
I heard Vance chuckle softly; and I myself could hardly suppress a
smile at Markham’s verbose and orbicular accusation. But Doctor
Lindquist, it seemed, was in no wise disconcerted. Assuming an air of
beguiling pensiveness, he said:
“I will confess, in the interests of strict accuracy, that during my
somewhat protracted treatment of her case, I came to regard the young
woman with a certain—shall I say, fatherly liking? But I doubt if she
was even aware of this mild sentiment on my part.”
The corners of Vance’s mouth twitched slightly. He was sitting with
drowsy eyes, watching the doctor with a look of studious amusement.
“And she never at any time told you of any private or personal affairs
that were causing her anxiety?” persisted Markham.
Doctor Lindquist pyramided his fingers, and appeared to give the
question his undivided thought.
“No, I can’t recall a single statement of that nature.” His words were
measured and urbane. “I know, naturally, in a general way, her manner
of living; but the details, you will readily perceive, were wholly
outside my province as a medical consultant. The disorganization of
her nerves was due—so my diagnosis led me to conclude—to late hours,
excitement, irregular and rich eating—what, I believe, is referred to
vulgarly as going the pace. The modern woman, in this febrile age,
sir——”
“When did you see her last, may I ask?” Markham interrupted
impatiently.
The doctor made a pantomime of eloquent surprise.
“When did I see her last? . . . Let me see.” He could, apparently,
recall the occasion only with considerable difficulty. “A fortnight
ago, perhaps—though it may have been longer. I really can’t
recall. . . . Shall I refer to my files?”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Markham. He paused, and regarded the
doctor with a look of disarming affability. “And was this last visit a
paternal or merely a professional one?”
“Professional, of course.” Doctor Lindquist’s eyes were impassive and
only mildly interested; but his face, I felt, was by no means the
unedited reflection of his thoughts.
“Did the meeting take place here or at her apartment?”
“I believe I called on her at her home.”
“You called on her a great deal, doctor—so I am informed—and at rather
unconventional hours. . . . Is this entirely in accord with your
practice of seeing patients only by appointment?”
Markham’s tone was pleasant, but from the nature of his question I
knew that he was decidedly irritated by the man’s bland hypocrisy, and
felt that he was deliberately withholding relevant information.
Before Doctor Lindquist could reply, however, the butler appeared at
the door, and silently indicated an extension telephone on a taboret
beside the desk. With an unctuously murmured apology, the doctor
turned and lifted the receiver.
Vance took advantage of this opportunity to scribble something on a
piece of paper and pass it surreptitiously to Markham.
His call completed, Doctor Lindquist drew himself up haughtily, and
faced Markham with chilling scorn.
“Is it the function of the District Attorney,” he asked distantly, “to
harass respectable physicians with insulting questions? I did not know
that it was illegal—or even original, for that matter—for a doctor to
visit his patients.”
“I am not discussing _now_”—Markham emphasized the adverb—“your
infractions of the law; but since you suggest a possibility which, I
assure you, was not in my mind, would you be good enough to tell
me—merely as a matter of form—where you were last night between eleven
and twelve?”
The question produced a startling effect. Doctor Lindquist became
suddenly like a tautly drawn rope, and, rising slowly and stiffly, he
glared, with cold intense venom, at the District Attorney. His velvety
mask had fallen off; and I detected another emotion beneath his
repressed anger: his expression cloaked a fear, and his wrath but
partly veiled a passionate uncertainty.
“My whereabouts last night is no concern of yours.” He spoke with
great effort, his breath coming and going noisily.
Markham waited, apparently unmoved, his eyes riveted on the trembling
man before him. This calm scrutiny completely broken down the other’s
self-control.
“What do you mean by forcing yourself in here with your contemptible
insinuations?” he shouted. His face, now livid and mottled, was
hideously contorted; his hands made spasmodic movements; and his whole
body shook as with a tremor. “Get out of here—you and your two
myrmidons! Get out, before I have you thrown out!”
Markham, himself enraged now, was about to reply, when Vance took him
by the arm.
“The doctor is gently hinting that we go,” he said. And with amazing
swiftness he spun Markham round, and led him firmly out of the room.
When we were again in the taxicab on our way back to the club, Vance
sniggered gaily.
“A sweet specimen, that! Paranoia. Or, more likely, manic-depressive
insanity—the _folie circulaire_ type: recurring periods of maniacal
excitement alternating with periods of the clearest sanity, don’t y’
know. Anyway, the doctor’s disorder belongs in the category of
psychoses—associated with the maturation or waning of the sexual
instinct. He’s just the right age, too. Neurotic degenerate—that’s
what this oily Hippocrates is. In another minute he would have
attacked you. . . . My word! It’s a good thing I came to the rescue.
Such chaps are about as safe as rattlesnakes.”
He shook his head in a mock discouragement.
“Really, y’ know, Markham, old thing,” he added, “you should study the
cranial indications of your fellow man more carefully—_vultus est
index animi_. Did you, by any chance, note the gentleman’s wide
rectangular forehead, his irregular eyebrows, and pale luminous eyes,
and his outstanding ears with their thin upper rims, their pointed
tragi and split lobes? . . . A clever devil, this Ambroise—but a moral
imbecile. Beware of those pseudo-pyriform faces, Markham; leave their
Apollonian Greek suggestiveness to misunderstood women.”
“I wonder what he really knows?” grumbled Markham irritably.
“Oh, he knows something—rest assured of that! And if only we knew it,
too, we’d be considerably further along in the investigation.
Furthermore, the information he is hiding is somewhat unpleasantly
connected with himself. His euphoria is a bit shaken. He frightfully
overdid the grand manner; his valedict’ry fulmination was the true
expression of his feeling toward us.”
“Yes,” agreed Markham. “That question about last night acted like a
petard. What prompted you to suggest my asking it?”
“A number of things—his gratuitous and obviously mendacious statement
that he had just read of the murder; his wholly insincere homily on
the sacredness of professional confidences; the cautious and
Pecksniffian confession of his fatherly regard for the girl; his
elaborate struggle to remember when he had last seen her—this
particularly, I think, made me suspicious; and then, the psychopathic
indicants of his physiognomy.”
“Well,” admitted Markham, “the question had its effect. . . . I feel
that I shall see this fashionable M.D. again.”
“You will,” iterated Vance. “We took him unawares. But when he has had
time to ponder the matter and concoct an appealin’ tale, he’ll become
downright garrulous. . . . Anyhow, the evening is over, and you can
meditate on buttercups till the morrow.”
But the evening was not quite over as far as the Odell case was
concerned. We had been back in the lounge-room of the club but a short
time when a man walked by the corner in which we sat, and bowed with
formal courtesy to Markham. Markham, to my surprise, rose and greeted
him, at the same time indicating a chair.
“There’s something further I wanted to ask you, Mr. Spotswoode,” he
said, “if you can spare a moment.”
At the mention of the name I regarded the man closely, for, I confess,
I was not a little curious about the anonymous escort who had taken
the girl to dinner and the theatre the night before. Spotswoode was a
typical New England aristocrat, inflexible, slow in his movements,
reserved, and quietly but modishly dressed. His hair and moustache
were slightly gray—which, no doubt, enhanced the pinkness of his
complexion. He was just under six feet tall, and well proportioned,
but a trifle angular.
Markham introduced him to Vance and me, and briefly explained that we
were working with him on the case, and that he had thought it best to
take us fully into his confidence.
Spotswoode gave him a dubious look, but immediately bowed his
acceptance of the decision.
“I’m in your hands, Mr. Markham,” he replied, in a well-bred but
somewhat high-pitched voice, “and I concur, of course, with whatever
you think advisable.” He turned to Vance with an apologetic smile.
“I’m in a rather unpleasant position, and naturally feel a little
sensitive about it.”
“I’m something of an antinomian,” Vance pleasantly informed him. “At
any rate, I’m not a moralist; so my attitude in the matter is quite
academic.”
Spotswoode laughed softly.
“I wish my family held a similar point of view; but I’m afraid they
would not be so tolerant of my foibles.”
“It’s only fair to tell you, Mr. Spotswoode,” interposed Markham,
“that there is a bare possibility I may have to call you as a
witness.”
The man looked up quickly, his face clouding over, but he made no
comment.
“The fact is,” continued Markham, “we are about to make an arrest, and
your testimony may be needed to establish the time of Miss Odell’s
return to her apartment, and also to substantiate the fact that there
was presumably some one in her rooms after you had left. Her screams
and calls for help, which you heard, may prove vital evidence in
obtaining a conviction.”
Spotswoode seemed rather appalled at the thought of his relations with
the girl becoming public, and for several minutes he sat with averted
eyes.
“I see your point,” he acknowledged at length. “But it would be a
terrible thing for me if the fact of my delinquencies became known.”
“That contingency may be entirely avoided,” Markham encouraged him. “I
promise you that you will not be called upon unless it is absolutely
necessary. . . . And now, what I especially wanted to ask you is this:
do you happen to know a Doctor Lindquist who, I understand, was Miss
Odell’s personal physician?”
Spotswoode was frankly puzzled. “I never heard the name,” he answered.
“In fact, Miss Odell never mentioned any doctor to me.”
“And did you ever hear her mention the name of Skeel . . . or refer to
any one as Tony?”
“Never.” His answer was emphatic.
Markham lapsed into a disappointed silence. Spotswoode, too, was
silent: he sat as if in a revery.
“You know, Mr. Markham,” he said, after several minutes, “I ought to
be ashamed to admit it, but the truth is I cared a good deal for the
girl. I suppose you’ve kept her apartment intact. . . .” He hesitated,
and a look almost of appeal came into his eyes. “I’d like to see it
again if I could.”
Markham regarded him sympathetically, but finally shook his head.
“It wouldn’t do. You’d be sure to be recognized by the operator—or
there might be a reporter about—and then I’d be unable to keep you out
of the case.”
The man appeared disappointed, but did not protest; and for several
minutes no one spoke. Then Vance raised himself slightly in his chair.
“I say, Mr. Spotswoode, do you happen to remember anything unusual
occurring last night during the half-hour you remained with Miss Odell
after the theatre?”
“Unusual?” The man’s manner was eloquent of his astonishment. “To the
contrary. We chatted a while, and then, as she seemed tired, I said
good night and came away, making a luncheon appointment with her for
to-day.”
“And yet, it now seems fairly certain that some other man was hiding
in the apartment when you were there.”
“There’s little doubt on that point,” agreed Spotswoode, with the
suggestion of a shudder. “And her screams would seem to indicate that
he came forth from hiding a few minutes after I went.”
“And you had no suspicion of the fact when you heard her call for
help?”
“I did at first—naturally. But when she assured me that nothing was
the matter, and told me to go home, I attributed her screams to a
nightmare. I knew she had been tired, and I had left her in the wicker
chair near the door, from where her screams seemed to come; so I
naturally concluded she had dozed off and called out in her
sleep. . . . If only I hadn’t taken so much for granted!”
“It’s a harrowin’ situation.” Vance was silent for a while; then he
asked: “Did you, by any chance, notice the door of the living-room
closet? Was it open or closed?”
Spotswoode frowned, as if attempting to visualize the picture; but the
result was a failure.
“I suppose it was closed. I probably would have noticed it if it had
been open.”
“Then you couldn’t say if the key was in the lock or not?”
“Good Lord, no! I don’t even know if it ever had a key.”
The case was discussed for another half-hour; then Spotswoode excused
himself and left us.
“Funny thing,” ruminated Markham, “how a man of his upbringing could
be so attracted by the empty-headed, butterfly type.”
“I’d say it was quite natural,” returned Vance. . . . “You’re such an
incorrigible moralist, Markham.”