The Doctor Explains
(Friday, September 14; 2 p. m.)
We lunched in the District Attorney’s private sanctum; and at two
o’clock Doctor Lindquist was announced. Heath accompanied him, and,
from the expression on the Sergeant’s face, it was plain he did not at
all like his companion.
The doctor, at Markham’s request, seated himself facing the District
Attorney’s desk.
“What is the meaning of this new outrage?” he demanded coldly. “Is it
your prerogative to force a citizen to leave his private affairs in
order to be bullied?”
“It’s my duty to bring murderers to justice,” replied Markham, with
equal coldness. “And if any citizen considers that giving aid to the
authorities is an outrage, that’s _his_ prerogative. If you have
anything to fear by answering my questions, doctor, you are entitled
to have your attorney present. Would you care to phone him to come
here now and give you legal protection?”
Doctor Lindquist hesitated. “I need no legal protection, sir. Will you
be good enough to tell me at once why I was brought here?”
“Certainly; to explain a few points which have been discovered
regarding your relationship with Miss Odell, and to elucidate—if you
care to—your reasons for deceiving me, at our last conference, in
regard to that relationship.”
“You have, I infer, been prying unwarrantably into my private affairs.
I had heard that such practices were once common in Russia. . . .”
“If the prying was unwarranted, you can, Doctor Lindquist, easily
convince me on that point; and whatever we may have learned concerning
you will be instantly forgotten.—It is true, is it not, that your
interest in Miss Odell went somewhat beyond mere paternal affection?”
“Are not even a man’s sacred sentiments respected by the police of
this country?” There was insolent scorn in the doctor’s tone.
“Under some conditions, yes; under others, no.” Markham controlled his
fury admirably. “You need not answer me, of course; but, if you choose
to be frank, you may possibly save yourself the humiliation of being
questioned publicly by the People’s attorney in a court of law.”
Doctor Lindquist winced and considered the matter at some length.
“And if I admit that my affection for Miss Odell was other than
paternal—what then?”
Markham accepted the question as an affirmation.
“You were intensely jealous of her, were you not, doctor?”
“Jealousy,” Doctor Lindquist remarked, with an air of ironic
professionalism, “is not an unusual accompaniment to an infatuation.
Authorities such as Krafft-Ebing, Moll, Freud, Ferenczi, and Adler, I
believe, regard it as an intimate psychological corollary of amatory
attraction.”
“Most instructive,” Markham nodded his head appreciatively. “I am to
assume, then, that you were infatuated with—or, let us say, amatorily
attracted by—Miss Odell, and that on occasions you exhibited the
intimate psychological corollary of jealousy?”
“You may assume what you please. But I fail to understand why my
emotions are any of your affair.”
“Had your emotions not led you to highly questionable and suspicious
acts, I would not be interested in them. But I have it on
unimpeachable authority that your emotions so reacted on your better
judgment that you threatened to take Miss Odell’s life and also your
own. And, in view of the fact that the young woman has since been
murdered, the law naturally—and reasonably—is curious.”
The doctor’s normally pale face seemed to turn yellow, and his long
splay fingers tightened over the arms of his chair; but otherwise he
sat immobile and rigidly dignified, his eyes fixed intently on the
District Attorney.
“I trust,” added Markham, “you will not augment my suspicions by any
attempt at denial.”
Vance was watching the man closely. Presently he leaned forward.
“I say, doctor, what method of extermination did you threaten Miss
Odell with?”
Doctor Lindquist jerked round, thrusting his head toward Vance. He
drew in a long rasping breath, and his whole frame became tense. Blood
suffused his cheeks; and there was a twitching of the muscles about
his mouth and throat. For a moment I was afraid he was going to lose
his self-control. But after a moment’s effort he steadied himself.
“You think perhaps I threatened to strangle her?” His words were
vibrant with the intensity of his passionate anger. “And you would
like to turn my threat into a noose to hang me?—Paugh!” He paused, and
when he spoke again his voice had become calmer. “It is quite true I
once inadvisedly attempted to frighten Miss Odell with a threat to
kill her and to commit suicide. But if your information is as accurate
as you would have me believe, you are aware that I threatened her with
a revolver. It is the weapon, I believe, that is conventionally
mentioned when making empty threats. I certainly would not have
threatened her with thuggee, even had I contemplated so abominable an
act.”
“True,” nodded Vance. “And it’s a rather good point, don’t y’ know.”
The doctor was evidently encouraged by Vance’s attitude. He again
faced Markham and elaborated his confession.
“A threat, I presume you know, is rarely the forerunner of a violent
deed. Even a brief study of the human mind would teach you that a
threat is _prima facie_ evidence of one’s innocence. A threat,
generally, is made in anger, and acts as its own safety-valve.” He
shifted his eyes. “I am not a married man; my emotional life has not
been stabilized, as it were; and I am constantly coming in close
contact with hypersensitive and overwrought people. During a period of
abnormal susceptibility I conceived an infatuation for the young
woman, an infatuation which she did not reciprocate—certainly not with
an ardor commensurate with my own. I suffered deeply; and she made no
effort to mitigate my sufferings. Indeed, I suspected her, more than
once, of deliberately and perversely torturing me with other men. At
any rate, she took no pains to hide her infidelities from me. I
confess that once or twice I was almost distracted. And it was in the
hope of frightening her into a more amenable and considerate attitude
that I threatened her.—I trust that you are a sufficiently discerning
judge of human nature to believe me.”
“Leaving that point for a moment,” answered Markham non-committally,
“will you give me more specific information as to your whereabouts
Monday night?”
Again I noted a yellow tinge creep over the man’s features, and his
body stiffened perceptibly. But when he spoke it was with his habitual
suavity.
“I considered that my note to you covered that question
satisfactorily. What did I omit?”
“What was the name of the patient on whom you were calling that
night?”
“Mrs. Anna Breedon. She is the widow of the late Amos H. Breedon of
the Breedon National Bank of Long Branch.”
“And you were with her, I believe you stated, from eleven until one?”
“That is correct.”
“And was Mrs. Breedon the only witness to your presence at the
sanitarium between those hours?”
“I am afraid that is so. You see, after ten o’clock at night I never
ring the bell. I let myself in with my own key.”
“And I suppose that I may be permitted to question Mrs. Breedon?”
Doctor Lindquist was profoundly regretful.
“Mrs. Breedon is a very ill woman. She suffered a tremendous shock at
the time of her husband’s death last summer, and has been practically
in a semiconscious condition ever since. There are times when I even
fear for her reason. The slightest disturbance or excitement might
produce very serious results.”
He took a newspaper cutting from a gold-edged letter-case and handed
it to Markham.
“You will observe that this obituary notice mentions her prostration
and confinement in a private sanitarium. I have been her physician for
years.”
Markham, after glancing at the cutting, handed it back. There was a
short silence broken by a question from Vance.
“By the bye, doctor, what is the name of the night nurse at your
sanitarium?”
Doctor Lindquist looked up quickly.
“My night nurse? Why—what has she to do with it? She was very busy
Monday night. I can’t understand. . . . Well, if you want her name I
have no objection. It’s Finckle—Miss Amelia Finckle.”
Vance wrote down the name and, rising, carried the slip of paper to
Heath.
“Sergeant, bring Miss Finckle here to-morrow morning at eleven,” he
said, with a slight lowering of one eyelid.
“I sure will, sir. Good idea.” His manner boded no good for Miss
Finckle.
A cloud of apprehension spread over Doctor Lindquist’s face.
“Forgive me if I say that I am insensible to the sanity of your
cavalier methods.” His tone betrayed only contempt. “May I hope that
for the present your inquisition is ended?”
“I think that will be all, doctor,” returned Markham politely. “May I
have a taxicab called for you?”
“Your consideration overwhelms me. But my car is below.” And Doctor
Lindquist haughtily withdrew.
Markham immediately summoned Swacker and sent him for Tracy. The
detective came at once, polishing his _pince-nez_ and bowing affably.
One would have taken him for an actor rather than a detective, but his
ability in matters requiring delicate handling was a byword in the
department.
“I want you to fetch Mr. Louis Mannix again,” Markham told him. “Bring
him here at once; I’m waiting to see him.”
Tracy bowed genially and, adjusting his glasses, departed on his
errand.
“And now,” said Markham, fixing Vance with a reproachful look, “I want
to know what your idea was in putting Lindquist on his guard about the
night nurse. Your brain isn’t at par this afternoon. Do you think I
didn’t have the nurse in mind? And now you’ve warned him. He’ll have
until eleven to-morrow morning to coach her in her answers. Really,
Vance, I can’t conceive of anything better calculated to defeat us in
our attempt to substantiate the man’s alibi.”
“I did put a little fright into him, didn’t I?” Vance grinned
complacently. “Whenever your antagonist begins talking exaggeratedly
about the insanity of your notions, he’s already deuced hot under the
collar. But, Markham old thing, don’t burst into tears over my mental
shortcomings. If you and I both thought of the nurse, don’t you
suppose the wily doctor also thought of her? If this Miss Finckle were
the type that could be suborned, he would have enlisted her perjurious
services two days ago, and she would have been mentioned, along with
the comatose Mrs. Breedon, as a witness to his presence at the
sanitarium Monday night. The fact that he avoided all reference to the
nurse shows that she’s not to be wheedled into swearing falsely. . . .
No, Markham. I deliberately put him on his guard. Now he’ll have to do
something before we question Miss Finckle. And I’m vain enough to
think I know what it’ll be.”
“Let me get this right,” put in Heath. “Am I, or am I not, to round up
the Finckle woman to-morrow morning?”
“There’ll be no need,” said Vance. “We are doomed, I fear, not to gaze
upon this Florence Nightingale. A meeting between us is about the last
thing the doctor would desire.”
“That may be true,” admitted Markham. “But don’t forget that he may
have been up to something Monday night wholly unconnected with the
murder, that he simply doesn’t want known.”
“Quite—quite. And yet, nearly every one who knew the Canary seems to
have selected Monday night for the indulgence of _sub-rosa_
peccadilloes. It’s a bit thick, what? Skeel tries to make us believe
he was immersed in Khun Khan. Cleaver was—if you take his word for
it—touring the countryside in Jersey’s lake district. Lindquist wants
us to picture him as comforting the afflicted. And Mannix, I happen to
know, has gone to some trouble to build up an alibi in case we get
nosey. All of ’em, in fact, were doing something they don’t want us to
know about. Now, what was it? And why did they, of one accord, select
the night of the murder for mysterious affairs which they don’t dare
mention, even to clear themselves of suspicion? Was there an invasion
of efreets in the city that night? Was there a curse on the world,
driving men to dark bawdy deeds? Was there Black Magic abroad? I think
not.”
“I’m laying my money on Skeel,” declared Heath stubbornly. “I know a
professional job when I see it. And you can’t get away from those
finger-prints and the Professor’s report on the chisel.”
Markham was sorely perplexed. His belief in Skeel’s guilt had, I knew,
been undermined in some measure by Vance’s theory that the crime was
the carefully premeditated act of a shrewd and educated man. But now
he seemed to swing irresolutely back to Heath’s point of view.
“I’ll admit,” he said, “that Lindquist and Cleaver and Mannix don’t
inspire one with a belief in their innocence. But since they’re all
tarred with the same stick, the force of suspicion against them is
somewhat dispersed. After all, Skeel is the only logical aspirant for
the rôle of strangler. He’s the only one with a visible motive; and
he’s the only one against whom there’s any evidence.”
Vance sighed wearily.
“Yes, yes. Finger-prints—chisel marks. You’re such a trustin’ soul,
Markham. Skeel’s finger-prints are found in the apartment; therefore,
Skeel strangled the lady. So beastly simple. Why bother further? A
_chose jugée_—an adjudicated case. Send Skeel to the chair, and that’s
that! . . . It’s effective, y’ know, but is it art?”
“In your critical enthusiasm you understate our case against Skeel,”
Markham reminded him testily.
“Oh, I’ll grant that your case against him is ingenious. It’s so
deuced ingenious I just haven’t the heart to reject it. But most
popular truth is mere ingenuity—that’s why it’s so wrong-headed. Your
theory would appeal strongly to the popular mind. And yet, y’ know,
Markham, it isn’t true.”
The practical Heath was unmoved. He sat stolidly, scowling at the
table. I doubt if he had even heard the exchange of opinions between
Markham and Vance.
“You know, Mr. Markham,” he said, like one unconsciously voicing an
obscure line of thought, “if we could show how Skeel got in and out of
Odell’s apartment we’d have a better case against him. I can’t figure
it out—it’s got me stopped. So, I’ve been thinking we oughta get an
architect to go over those rooms. The house is an old-timer—God knows
when it was originally built—and there may be some way of getting into
it that we haven’t discovered yet.”
“’Pon my soul!” Vance stared at him in satirical wonderment. “You’re
becoming downright romantic! Secret passageways—hidden doors—stairways
between the walls. So that’s it, is it? Oh, my word! . . . Sergeant,
beware of the cinema. It has ruined many a good man. Try grand opera
for a while—it’s more borin’ but less corruptin’.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Vance.” Apparently Heath himself did not relish
the architectural idea particularly. “But as long as we don’t know how
Skeel got in, it’s just as well to make sure of a few ways he didn’t
get in.”
“I agree with you, Sergeant,” said Markham. “I’ll get an architect on
the job at once.” He rang for Swacker, and gave the necessary
instructions.
Vance extended his legs and yawned.
“All we need now is a Favorite of the Harem, a few blackamoors with
palm-leaf fans, and some pizzicato music.”
“You will joke, Mr. Vance.” Heath lit a fresh cigar. “But even if the
architect don’t find anything wrong with the apartment, Skeel’s liable
to give his hand away ’most any time.”
“I’m pinnin’ my childish faith on Mannix,” said Vance. “I don’t know
why I should; but he’s not a nice man, and he’s suppressing
something.—Markham, don’t you dare let him go until he tells you where
he was Monday night. And don’t forget to hint mysteriously about the
fur model.”