An Erstwhile Gallant
(Wednesday, September 12; 10.30 a. m.)
Swacker was evidently waiting for an opportunity to interrupt, for,
when Sergeant Heath had passed through the door, he at once stepped
into the room.
“The reporters are here, sir,” he announced, with a wry face. “You
said you’d see them at ten-thirty.”
In response to a nod from his Chief, he held open the door, and a
dozen or more newspaper men came trooping in.
“No questions, please, this morning,” Markham begged pleasantly. “It’s
too early in the game. But I’ll tell you all I know. . . . I agree
with Sergeant Heath that the Odell murder was the work of a
professional criminal—the same who broke into Arnheim’s house on Park
Avenue last summer.”
Briefly he told of Inspector Brenner’s findings in connection with the
chisel.
“We’ve made no arrests, but one may be expected in the very near
future. In fact, the police have the case well in hand, but are going
carefully in order to avoid any chance of an acquittal. We’ve already
recovered some of the missing jewellery. . . .”
He talked to the reporters for five minutes or so, but he made no
mention of the testimony of the maid or the phone operators, and
carefully avoided the mention of any names.
When we were again alone, Vance chuckled admiringly.
“A masterly evasion, my dear Markham! Legal training has its
advantages—decidedly it has its advantages. . . . ‘We’ve recovered
some of the missing jewellery!’ Sweet wingèd words! Not an untruth—oh,
no!—but how deceivin’! Really, y’ know, I must devote more time to the
caressin’ art of _suggestio falsi_ and _suppressio veri_. You should
be crowned with an anadem of myrtle.”
“Leaving all that to one side,” Markham rejoined impatiently, “suppose
you tell me, now that Heath’s gone, what was in your mind when you
applied your verbal voodooism to Skeel. What was all the conjurer-talk
about dark closets, and alarums, and pressing thumbs, and peering
through keyholes?”
“Well, now, I didn’t think my little chit-chat was so cryptic,”
answered Vance. “The recherché Tony was undoubtedly ambuscaded à la
sourdine in the clothes-press at some time during the fatal evening;
and I was merely striving, in my amateurish way, to ascertain the
exact hour of his concealment.”
“And did you?”
“Not conclusively.” Vance shook his head sadly. “Y’ know, Markham, I’m
the proud possessor of a theory—it’s vague and obscure and
unsubstantial; and it’s downright unintelligible. And even if it were
verified, I can’t see how it would help us any, for it would leave the
situation even more incomprehensible than it already is. . . . I
almost wish I hadn’t questioned Heath’s Beau Nash. He upset my ideas
frightfully.”
“From what I could gather, you seem to think it possible that Skeel
witnessed the murder. That couldn’t, by any stretch of the
imagination, be your precious theory?”
“That’s part of it, anyway.”
“My dear Vance, you do astonish me!” Markham laughed outright. “Skeel,
then, according to you, is innocent; but he keeps his knowledge to
himself, invents an alibi, and doesn’t even tattle when he’s
arrested. . . . It won’t hold water.”
“I know,” sighed Vance. “It’s a veritable sieve. And yet, the notion
haunts me—it rides me like a hag—it eats into my vitals.”
“Do you realize that this mad theory of yours presupposes that, when
Spotswoode and Miss Odell returned from the theatre, there were two
men hidden in the apartment—two men _unknown to each other_—namely
Skeel and your hypothetical murderer?”
“Of course I realize it; and the thought of it is breaking down my
reason.”
“Furthermore, they must have entered the apartment separately, and
hidden separately. . . . How, may I ask, did they get in? And how did
they get out? And which one caused the girl to scream after Spotswoode
had left? And what was the other one doing in the meantime? And if
Skeel was a passive spectator, horrified and mute, how do you account
for his breaking open the jewel-case and securing the ring——?”
“Stop! Stop! Don’t torture me so,” Vance pleaded. “I know I’m insane.
Been given to hallucinations since birth; but—Merciful Heaven!—I’ve
never before had one as crazy as this.”
“On that point at least, my dear Vance, we are in complete and
harmonious agreement,” smiled Markham.
Just then Swacker came in and handed Markham a letter.
“Brought by messenger, and marked ‘immediate,’” he explained.
The letter, written on heavy engraved stationery, was from Doctor
Lindquist, and explained that between the hours of 11 P. M. and 1 A.
M. on Monday night he had been in attendance on a patient at his
sanitarium. It also apologized for his actions when asked regarding
his whereabouts, and offered a wordy, but not particularly convincing,
explanation of his conduct. He had had an unusually trying day, it
seemed—neurotic cases were trying, at best—and the suddenness of our
visit, together with the apparently hostile nature of Markham’s
questions, had completely upset him. He was more than sorry for his
outburst, he said, and stood ready to assist in any way he could. It
was unfortunate for all concerned, he added, that he had lost his
temper, for it would have been a simple matter for him to explain
about Monday night.
“He has thought the situation over calmly,” said Vance, “and hereby
offers you a neat little alibi which, I think, you will have
difficulty in shaking. . . . An artful beggar—like all these
unbalanced pseudo-psychiatrists. Observe: he was with a patient. To be
sure! What patient? Why, one too ill to be questioned. . . . There you
are. A _cul-de-sac_ masquerading as an alibi. Not bad, what?”
“It doesn’t interest me overmuch.” Markham put the letter away. “That
pompous professional ass could never have got into the Odell apartment
without having been seen; and I can’t picture him sneaking in by
devious means.” He reached for some papers. . . . “And now, if you
don’t object, I’ll make an effort to earn my $15,000 salary.”
But Vance, instead of making a move to go, sauntered to the table and
opened a telephone directory.
“Permit me a suggestion, Markham,” he said, after a moment’s search.
“Put off your daily grind for a bit, and let’s hold polite converse
with Mr. Louis Mannix. Y’ know, he’s the only presumptive swain of the
inconstant Margaret, so far mentioned, who hasn’t been given an
audience. I hanker to gaze upon him and hearken to his rune. He’d make
the family circle complete, so to speak. . . . He still holds forth in
Maiden Lane, I see; and it wouldn’t take long to fetch him here.”
Markham had swung half round in his chair at the mention of Mannix’s
name. He started to protest, but he knew from experience that Vance’s
suggestions were not the results of idle whims; and he was silent for
several moments weighing the matter. With practically every other
avenue of inquiry closed for the moment, I think the idea of
questioning Mannix rather appealed to him.
“All right,” he consented, ringing for Swacker; “though I don’t see
how he can help. According to Heath, the Odell girl gave him his
_congé_ a year ago.”
“He may still have hay on his horns, or, like Hotspur, be drunk with
choler. You can’t tell.” Vance resumed his chair. “With such a name,
he’d bear investigation _ipso facto_.”
Markham sent Swacker for Tracy; and when the latter arrived, suave and
beaming, he was given instructions to take the District Attorney’s car
and bring Mannix to the office.
“Get a subpœna,” said Markham; “and use it if necessary.”
Half an hour or so later Tracy returned.
“Mr. Mannix made no difficulty about coming,” he reported. “Was quite
agreeable, in fact. He’s in the waiting-room now.”
Tracy was dismissed, and Mannix was ushered in.
He was a large man, and he walked with the forced elasticity of gait
which epitomizes the silent struggle of incipiently corpulent middle
age to deny the on-rush of the years and cling to the semblance of
youth. He carried a slender wanghee cane; and his checkered suit,
brocaded waistcoat, pearl-gray gaiters, and gaily beribboned Homburg
hat gave him an almost foppish appearance. But these various
indications of sportiveness were at once forgotten when one inspected
his features. His small eyes were bright and crafty; his nose was
bibative, and appeared disproportionately small above his thick
sensual lips and prognathous jaw. There was an oiliness and shrewdness
in the man’s manner which were at once repulsive and arresting.
At a gesture from Markham he sat down on the edge of a chair, placing
a podgy hand on each knee. His attitude was one of alert suspicion.
“Mr. Mannix,” said Markham, an engaging note of apology in his voice,
“I am sorry to have discommoded you; but the matter in hand is both
serious and urgent. . . . A Miss Margaret Odell was murdered night
before last, and in the course of our inquiries we learned that you
had at one time known her quite well. It occurred to me that you might
be in possession of some facts about her that would assist us in our
investigation.”
A saponaceous smile, meant to be genial, parted the man’s heavy lips.
“Sure, I knew the Canary—a long time ago, y’ understand.” He permitted
himself a sigh. “A fine, high-class girl, if I do say so. A good
looker and a good dresser. Too damn bad she didn’t go on with the show
business. But”—he made a repudiative motion with his hand—“I haven’t
seen the lady, y’ understand, for over a year—not to speak to, if you
know what I mean.”
Mannix clearly was on his guard, and his beady little eyes did not
once leave the District Attorney’s face.
“You had a quarrel with her perhaps?” Markham asked the question
incuriously.
“Well, now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say we quarrelled. No.” Mannix
paused, seeking the correct word. “You might say we disagreed—got
tired of the arrangement and decided to separate; kind of drifted
apart. Last thing I told her was, if she ever needed a friend she’d
know where to find me.”
“Very generous of you,” murmured Markham. “And you never renewed your
little affair?”
“Never—never. Don’t remember ever speaking to her from that day to
this.”
“In view of certain things I’ve learned, Mr. Mannix”—Markham’s tone
was regretful—“I must ask you a somewhat personal question. Did she
ever make an attempt to blackmail you?”
Mannix hesitated, and his eyes seemed to grow even smaller, like those
of a man thinking rapidly.
“Certainly not!” he replied, with belated emphasis. “Not at all.
Nothing of the kind.” He raised both hands in protest against the
thought. Then he asked furtively: “What gave you such an idea?”
“I have been told,” explained Markham, “that she had extorted money
from one or two of her admirers.”
Mannix made a wholly unconvincing grimace of astonishment.
“Well, well! You don’t tell me! Can it be possible?” He peered
shrewdly at the District Attorney. “Maybe it was Charlie Cleaver she
blackmailed—yes?”
Markham picked him up quickly.
“Why do you say Cleaver?”
Again Mannix waved his thick hand, this time deprecatingly.
“No special reason, y’ understand. Just thought it might be him. . . .
No special reason.”
“Did Cleaver ever tell you he’d been blackmailed?”
“Cleaver tell me? . . . Now, I ask you, Mr. Markham: why should
Cleaver tell me such a story—why should he?”
“And you never told Cleaver that the Odell girl had blackmailed you?”
“Positively not!” Mannix gave a scornful laugh which was far too
theatrical to have been genuine. “Me tell Cleaver I’d been
blackmailed? Now, that’s funny, that is.”
“Then why did you mention Cleaver a moment ago?”
“No reason at all—like I told you. . . . He knew the Canary; but that
ain’t no secret.”
Markham dropped the subject.
“What do you know about Miss Odell’s relations with a Doctor Ambroise
Lindquist?”
Mannix was now obviously perplexed.
“Never heard of him—no, never. She didn’t know him when I was taking
her around.”
“Whom else besides Cleaver did she know well?”
Mannix shook his head ponderously.
“Now, that I couldn’t say—positively I couldn’t say. Seen her with
this man and that, same as everybody saw her; but who they were I
don’t know—absolutely.”
“Ever hear of Tony Skeel?” Markham quickly leaned over and met the
other’s gaze inquiringly.
Once more Mannix hesitated, and his eyes glittered calculatingly.
“Well, now that you ask me, I believe I did hear of the fellow. But I
couldn’t swear to it, y’ understand. . . . What makes you think I
heard of this Skeel fellow?”
Markham ignored the question.
“Can you think of no one who might have borne Miss Odell a grudge, or
had cause to fear her?”
Mannix was volubly emphatic on the subject of his complete ignorance
of any such person; and after a few more questions, which elicited
only denials, Markham let him go.
“Not bad at all, Markham old thing—eh, what?” Vance seemed pleased
with the conference. “Wonder why he’s so coy? Not a nice person, this
Mannix. And he’s so fearful lest he be informative. Again, I wonder
why. He was so careful—oh, so careful.”
“He was sufficiently careful, at any rate, not to tell us anything,”
declared Markham gloomily.
“I shouldn’t say that, don’t y’ know.” Vance lay back and smoked
placidly. “A ray of light filtered through here and there. Our
fur-importing philogynist denied he’d been blackmailed—which was
obviously untrue—and tried to make us believe that he and the lovely
Margaret cooed like turtle-doves at parting.—Tosh! . . . And then,
that mention of Cleaver. That wasn’t spontaneous—dear me, no. Brother
Mannix and spontaneity are as the poles apart. He had a reason for
bringing Cleaver in; and I fancy that if you knew what that reason
was, you’d feel like flinging roses riotously, and that sort of thing.
Why Cleaver? That _secret-de-Polichinelle_ explanation was a bit weak.
The orbits of these two paramours cross somewhere. On that point, at
least, Mannix inadvertently enlightened us. . . . Moreover, it’s plain
that he doesn’t know our fashionable healer with the satyr ears. But,
on the other hand, he’s aware of the existence of Mr. Skeel, and would
rather like to deny the acquaintance. . . . So—_voilà l’affaire_.
Plenty of information; but—my word!—what to do with it?”
“I give it up,” acknowledged Markham hopelessly.
“I know: it’s a sad, sad world,” Vance commiserated him. “But you must
face the olla podrida with a bright eye. It’s time for lunch, and a
fillet of sole _Marguéry_ will cheer you no end.”
Markham glanced at the clock, and permitted himself to be led to the
Lawyers Club.