Checking an Alibi
(Thursday, September 13; afternoon)
“My sleuthing goes better,” exulted Vance, when we were again in the
street. “Fair Alys was a veritable mine of information—eh, what? Only,
you should have controlled yourself better when she mentioned her
beloved’s name—really, you should, Van old thing. I saw you jump and
heard you heave. Such emotion is most unbecoming in a lawyer.”
From a booth in a drug-store near the hotel he telephoned Markham: “I
am taking you to lunch. I have numerous confidences I would pour into
your ear.” A debate ensued, but in the end Vance emerged triumphant;
and a moment later a taxicab was driving us down-town.
“Alys is clever—there are brains in that fluffy head,” he ruminated.
“She’s much smarter than Heath; she knew at once that Skeel wasn’t
guilty. Her characterization of the immaculate Tony was inelegant but
how accurate—oh, how accurate! And you noticed, of course, how she
trusted me. Touchin’, wasn’t it? . . . It’s a knotty problem, Van.
Something’s amiss somewhere.”
He was silent, smoking, for several blocks.
“Mannix. . . . Curious he should crop up again. And he issued orders
to Alys to keep mum. Now, why? Maybe the reason he gave her was the
real one. Who knows?—On the other hand, was he with his _chère amie_
from half past ten till early morning? Well, well. Again, who knows?
Something queer about that business discussion. . . . Then Cleaver. He
called up just ten minutes before midnight—oh, yes, he called up. That
wasn’t a fairy-tale. But how could he telephone from a speeding car?
He couldn’t. Maybe he really wanted to have a party with his
recalcitrant Canary, don’t y’ know. But then, why the brummagem alibi?
Funk? Maybe. But why the circuitousness?—why didn’t he call his lost
love direct? Ah, perhaps he did! Some one certainly called her by
phone at twenty minutes to twelve. We must look into that, Van. . . .
Yes, he may have called her, and then when a man answered—who the
deuce was that man, anyway?—he may have appealed to Alys. Quite
natural, y’ know. Anyway, he wasn’t in Boonton.—Poor Markham! How
upset he’ll be when he finds out! . . . But what really worries me is
that story of the doctor. Jealous mania: it squares with Ambroise’s
character perfectly. He’s the kind that does go off his head. I knew
his confession of paternalism was a red herring. My word! So the
doctor was making threats and flourishing pistols, eh? Bad, bad. I
don’t like it. With those ears of his, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull
the trigger. Paranoia—that’s it. Delusions of persecution. Probably
thought the girl and Pop—or maybe the girl and Spotswoode—were
plotting his misery and laughing at him. You can’t tell about those
chaps. They’re deep—and they’re dangerous. The canny Alys had him
sized up—warned the Canary against him. . . . Taken by and large, it’s
a devilish tangle. Anyway, I feel rather bucked. We’re moving—oh,
undoubtedly we’re moving—though in what direction I can’t even guess.
It’s beastly annoyin’.”
Markham was waiting for us at the Bankers’ Club. He greeted Vance
irritably.
“What have you got to tell me that’s so damned important?”
“Now, don’t get ratty.” Vance was beaming. “How’s your lode-star,
Skeel, behaving?”
“So far he’s done everything that’s pure and refined except join the
Christian Endeavor Society.”
“Sunday’s coming. Give him time. . . . So you’re not happy, Markham
dear?”
“Was I dragged away from another engagement to report on my state of
mind?”
“No need. Your state of mind’s execrable. . . . Cheerio! I’ve brought
you something to think about.”
“Damn it! I’ve got too much to think about now.”
“Here, have some brioche.” Vance gave the order for lunch without
consulting either of us. “And now for my revelations. _Imprimis_: Pop
Cleaver wasn’t in Boonton last Monday night. He was very much in the
midst of our modern Gomorrah, trying to arrange a midnight party.”
“Wonderful!” snorted Markham. “I lave in the font of your wisdom. His
_alter ego_, I take it, was on the road to Hopatcong. The supernatural
leaves me cold.”
“You may be as pancosmic as you choose. Cleaver was in New York at
midnight Monday, craving excitement.”
“What about the summons for speeding?”
“That’s for you to explain. But if you’ll take my advice you’ll send
for this Boonton catchpole, and let him have a look at Pop. If he says
Cleaver is the man he ticketed, I’ll humbly do away with myself.”
“Well! That makes it worth trying. I’ll have the officer at the
Stuyvesant Club this afternoon, and I’ll point out Cleaver to
him. . . . What other staggering revelations have you in store?”
“Mannix will bear looking into.”
Markham put down his knife and fork and leaned back.
“I’m overcome! Such Himalayan sagacity! With that evidence against
him, he should be arrested at once. . . . Vance, my dear old friend,
are you feeling quite normal? No dizzy spells lately? No shooting
pains in the head? Knee-jerks all right?”
“Furthermore, Doctor Lindquist was wildly infatuated with the Canary,
and insanely jealous. Recently threatened to take a pistol and hold a
little pogrom of his own.”
“That’s better.” Markham sat up. “Where did you get this information?”
“Ah! That’s my secret.”
Markham was annoyed.
“Why so mysterious?”
“Needs must, old chap. Gave my word, and all that sort of thing. And
I’m a bit quixotic, don’t y’ know—too much Cervantes in my youth.” He
spoke lightly, but Markham knew him too well to push the question.
In less than five minutes after we had returned to the District
Attorney’s office Heath came in.
“I got something else on Mannix, sir; thought you might want to add it
to the report I turned in yesterday. Burke secured a picture of him,
and showed it to the phone operators at Odell’s house. Both of ’em
recognized it. He’s been there several times, but it wasn’t the Canary
he called on. It was the woman in Apartment 2. She’s named Frisbee,
and used to be one of Mannix’s fur models. He’s been to see her
several times during the past six months, and has taken her out once
or twice; but he hasn’t called on her for a month or more. . . . Any
good?”
“Can’t tell.” Markham shot Vance an inquisitive look. “But thanks for
the information, Sergeant.”
“By the bye,” said Vance dulcetly, when Heath had left us, “I’m
feeling tophole. No pains in the head; no dizzy spells. Knee-jerks
perfect.”
“Delighted. Still, I can’t charge a man with murder because he calls
on his fur model.”
“You’re so hasty! Why should you charge him with murder?” Vance rose
and yawned. “Come, Van. I’d rather like to gaze on Perneb’s tomb at
the Metropolitan this afternoon. Could you bear it?” At the door he
paused. “I say, Markham, what about the Boonton bailiff?”
Markham rang for Swacker.
“I’ll see to it at once. Drop in at the club around five, if you feel
like it. I’ll have the officer there then, as Cleaver is sure to come
in before dinner.”
When Vance and I returned to the club late that afternoon, Markham was
stationed in the lounge-room facing the main door of the rotunda; and
beside him sat a tall, heavy-set, bronzed man of about forty, alert
but ill at ease.
“Traffic Officer Phipps arrived from Boonton a little while ago,” said
Markham, by way of introduction. “Cleaver is expected at any moment
now. He has an appointment here at half past five.”
Vance drew up a chair.
“I do hope he’s a punctual beggar.”
“So do I,” returned Markham viciously. “I’m looking forward to your
_felo-de-se_.”
“‘Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair,’” murmured Vance.
Less than ten minutes later Cleaver entered the rotunda from the
street, paused at the desk, and sauntered into the lounge-room. There
was no escaping the observation point Markham had chosen; and as he
walked by us he paused and exchanged greetings. Markham detained him a
moment with a few casual questions; and then Cleaver passed on.
“That the man you ticketed, officer?” asked Markham, turning to
Phipps.
Phipps was scowling perplexedly.
“It looks something like him, sir; there’s a kind of resemblance. But
it ain’t him.” He shook his head. “No, sir; it ain’t him. The fellow I
hung a summons on was stouter than this gent, and wasn’t as tall.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yes, sir—no mistake. The guy I tagged tried to argue with me, and
then he tried to slip me a fiver to forget it. I had my headlight on
him full.”
Phipps was dismissed with a substantial _pourboire_.
“_Væ misero mihi!_” sighed Vance. “My worthless existence is to be
prolonged. Sad. But you must try to bear it. . . . I say, Markham,
what does Pop Cleaver’s brother look like?”
“That’s it,” nodded Markham. “I’ve met his brother; he’s shorter and
stouter. . . . This thing is getting beyond me. I think I’ll have it
out with Cleaver now.”
He started to rise, but Vance forced him back into his seat.
“Don’t be impetuous. Cultivate patience. Cleaver’s not going to do a
bunk; and there are one or two prelimin’ry steps strongly indicated.
Mannix and Lindquist still seduce my curiosity.”
Markham clung to his point.
“Neither Mannix nor Lindquist is here now, and Cleaver is. And I want
to know why he lied to me about that summons.”
“I can tell you that,” said Vance. “He wanted you to think he was in
the wilds of New Jersey at midnight Monday.—Simple, what?”
“The inference is a credit to your intelligence! But I hope you don’t
seriously think that Cleaver is guilty. It’s possible he knows
something; but I certainly cannot picture him as a strangler.”
“And why?”
“He’s not the type. It’s inconceivable—even if there were evidence
against him.”
“Ah! The psychological judgment! You eliminate Cleaver because you
don’t think his nature harmonizes with the situation. I say, doesn’t
that come perilously near being an esoteric hypothesis?—or a
metaphysical deduction? . . . However, I don’t entirely agree with you
in your application of the theory to Cleaver. That fish-eyed gambler
has unsuspected potentialities for evil. But with the theory itself I
am wholly in accord. And behold, my dear Markham: you yourself apply
psychology in its abecedarian implications, yet ridicule my
application of it in its higher developments. Consistency may be the
hobgoblin of little minds, y’ know, but it’s none the less a priceless
jewel. . . . How about a cup of tea?”
We sought the Palm Room, and sat down at a table near the entrance.
Vance ordered oolong tea, but Markham and I took black coffee. A very
capable four-piece orchestra was playing Tchaikovsky’s
_Casse-Noisette_ Suite, and we sat restfully in the comfortable chairs
without speaking. Markham was tired and dispirited, and Vance was busy
with the problem that had absorbed him continuously since Tuesday
morning. Never before had I seen him so preoccupied.
We had been there perhaps half an hour when Spotswoode strolled in. He
stopped and spoke, and Markham asked him to join us. He, too, appeared
depressed, and his eyes showed signs of worry.
“I hardly dare ask you, Mr. Markham,” he said diffidently, after he
had ordered a ginger ale, “but how do my chances stand now of being
called as a witness?”
“That fate is certainly no nearer than when I last saw you,” Markham
replied. “In fact, nothing has happened to change the situation
materially.”
“And the man you had under suspicion?”
“He’s still under suspicion, but no arrest has been made. We’re
hoping, however, that something will break before long.”
“And I suppose you still want me to remain in the city?”
“If you can arrange it—yes.”
Spotswoode was silent for a time; then he said:
“I don’t want to appear to shirk any responsibility—and perhaps it may
seem wholly selfish for me even to suggest it—but, in any event,
wouldn’t the testimony of the telephone operator as to the hour of
Miss Odell’s return and her calls for help be sufficient to establish
the facts, without my corroboration?”
“I have thought of that, of course; and if it is at all possible to
prepare the case for the prosecution without summoning you to appear,
I assure you it will be done. At the moment, I can see no necessity of
your being called as a witness. But one never knows what may turn up.
If the defense hinges on a question of exact time, and the operator’s
testimony is questioned or disqualified for any reason, you may be
required to come forward. Otherwise not.”
Spotswoode sipped his ginger ale. A little of his depression seemed to
have departed.
“You’re very generous, Mr. Markham. I wish there was some adequate way
of thanking you.” He looked up hesitantly. “I presume you are still
opposed to my visiting the apartment. . . . I know you think me
unreasonable and perhaps sentimental; but the girl represented
something in my life that I find very difficult to tear out. I don’t
expect you to understand it—I hardly understand it myself.”
“I think it’s easily understandable, don’t y’ know,” remarked Vance,
with a sympathy I had rarely seen him manifest. “Your attitude needs
no apology. History and fable are filled with the same situation, and
the protagonists have always exhibited sentiments similar to yours.
Your most famous prototype, of course, was Odysseus on the
citron-scented isle of Ogygia with the fascinatin’ Calypso. The soft
arms of sirens have gone snaking round men’s necks ever since the
red-haired Lilith worked her devastatin’ wiles on the impressionable
Adam. We’re all sons of that racy old boy.”
Spotswoode smiled.
“You at least give me an historic background,” he said. Then he turned
to Markham. “What will become of Miss Odell’s possessions—her
furniture and so forth?”
“Sergeant Heath heard from an aunt of hers in Seattle,” Markham told
him. “She’s on her way to New York, I believe, to take over what there
is of the estate.”
“And everything will be kept intact until then?”
“Probably longer, unless something unexpected happens. Anyway, until
then.”
“There are one or two little trinkets I’d like to keep,” Spotswoode
confessed, a bit shamefacedly, I thought.
After a few more minutes of desultory talk he rose, and, pleading an
engagement, bade us good afternoon.
“I hope I can keep his name clear of the case,” said Markham, when he
had gone.
“Yes; his situation is not an enviable one,” concurred Vance. “It’s
always sad to be found out. The moralist would set it down to
retribution.”
“In this instance chance was certainly on the side of righteousness.
If he hadn’t chosen Monday night for the Winter Garden, he might now
be in the bosom of his family, with nothing more troublesome to bother
him than a guilty conscience.”
“It certainly looks that way.” Vance glanced at his watch. “And your
mention of the Winter Garden reminds me. Do you mind if we dine early?
Frivolity beckons me to-night. I’m going to the ‘Scandals.’”
We both looked at him as though he had taken leave of his senses.
“Don’t be so horrified, my Markham. Why should I not indulge an
impulse? . . . And, incidentally, I hope to have glad tidings for you
by lunch-time to-morrow.”