An Arrest
(Sunday, p. m., Monday, a. m.; September 16-17)
The investigation into Skeel’s death was pushed with great vigor by
the authorities. Doctor Doremus, the Medical Examiner, arrived
promptly and declared that the crime had taken place between ten
o’clock and midnight. Immediately Vance insisted that all the men who
were known to have been intimately acquainted with the Odell
girl—Mannix, Lindquist, Cleaver, and Spotswoode—be interviewed at once
and made to explain where they were during these two hours. Markham
agreed without hesitation, and gave the order to Heath, who at once
put four of his men on the task.
Mallory, the detective who had shadowed Skeel the previous night, was
questioned regarding possible visitors; but inasmuch as the house
where Skeel lived accommodated over twenty roomers, who were
constantly coming and going at all hours, no information could be
gained through that channel. All that Mallory could say definitely was
that Skeel had returned home at about ten o’clock, and had not come
out again. The landlady, sobered and subdued by the tragedy,
repudiated all knowledge of the affair. She explained that she had
been “ill” in her room from dinner-time until we had disturbed her
recuperation the next morning. The front door, it seemed, was never
locked, since her tenants objected to such an unnecessary
inconvenience. The tenants themselves were questioned, but without
result: they were not of a class likely to give information to the
police, even had they possessed any.
The finger-print experts made a careful examination of the room, but
failed to find any marks except Skeel’s own. A thorough search through
the murdered man’s effects occupied several hours; but nothing was
discovered that gave any hint of the murderer’s identity. A .38 Colt
automatic, fully loaded, was found under one of the pillows on the
bed; and eleven hundred dollars, in bills of large denomination, was
taken from a hollow brass curtain-rod. Also, under a loose board in
the hall, the missing steel chisel, with the fissure in the blade, was
found. But these items were of no value in solving the mystery of
Skeel’s death; and at four o’clock in the afternoon the room was
closed with an emergency padlock and put under guard.
Markham and Vance and I had remained several hours after our discovery
of the body. Markham had taken immediate charge of the case, and had
conducted the interrogation of the tenants. Vance had watched the
routine activities of the police with unwonted intentness, and had
even taken part in the search. He had seemed particularly interested
in Skeel’s evening clothes, and had examined them garment by garment.
Heath had looked at him from time to time, but there had been neither
contempt nor amusement in the Sergeant’s glances.
At half past two Markham departed, after informing Heath that he would
be at the Stuyvesant Club during the remainder of the day; and Vance
and I went with him. We had a belated luncheon in the empty grill.
“This Skeel episode rather knocks the foundation from under
everything,” Markham said dispiritedly, as our coffee was served.
“Oh, no—not that,” Vance answered. “Rather, let us say that it has
added a new column to the edifice of my giddy theory.”
“Your theory—yes. It’s about all that’s left to go on.” Markham
sighed. “It has certainly received substantiation this morning. . . .
Remarkable how you called the turn when Skeel failed to show up.”
Again Vance contradicted him.
“You overestimate my little flutter in forensics, Markham dear. You
see, I assumed that the lady’s strangler knew of Skeel’s offer to you.
That offer was probably a threat of some kind on Skeel’s part;
otherwise he wouldn’t have set the appointment a day ahead. He no
doubt hoped the victim of his threat would become amenable in the
meantime. And that money hidden in the curtain-rod leads me to think
he was blackmailing the Canary’s murderer, and had been refused a
further donation just before he phoned you yesterday. That would
account, too, for his having kept his guilty knowledge to himself all
this time.”
“You may be right. But now we’re worse off than ever, for we haven’t
even Skeel to guide us.”
“At least we’ve forced our elusive culprit to commit a second crime to
cover up his first, don’t y’ know. And when we have learned what the
Canary’s various amorists were doing last night between ten and
twelve, we may have something suggestive on which to work.—By the bye,
when may we expect this thrillin’ information?”
“It depends upon what luck Heath’s men have. To-night some time, if
everything goes well.”
It was, in fact, about half past eight when Heath telephoned the
reports. But here again Markham seemed to have drawn a blank. A less
satisfactory account could scarcely be imagined. Doctor Lindquist had
suffered a “nervous stroke” the preceding afternoon, and had been
taken to the Episcopal Hospital. He was still there under the care of
two eminent physicians whose word it was impossible to doubt; and it
would be a week at least before he would be able to resume his work.
This report was the only definite one of the four, and it completely
exonerated the doctor from any participation in the previous night’s
crime.
By a curious coincidence neither Mannix, nor Cleaver, nor Spotswoode
could furnish a satisfactory alibi. All three of them, according to
their statements, had remained at home the night before. The weather
had been inclement; and though Mannix and Spotswoode admitted to
having been out earlier in the evening, they stated that they had
returned home before ten o’clock. Mannix lived in an apartment-hotel,
and, as it was Saturday night, the lobby was crowded, so that no one
would have been likely to see him come in. Cleaver lived in a small
private apartment-house without a door-man or hallboys to observe his
movements. Spotswoode was staying at the Stuyvesant Club, and since
his rooms were on the third floor, he rarely used the elevator.
Moreover, there had been a political reception and dance at the club
the previous night, and he might have walked in and out at random a
dozen times without being noticed.
“Not what you’d call illuminatin’,” said Vance, when Markham had given
him this information.
“It eliminates Lindquist, at any rate.”
“Quite. And, automatically, it eliminates him as an object of
suspicion in the Canary’s death also; for these two crimes are part of
a whole—integers of the same problem. They complement each other. The
latter was conceived in relation to the first—was, in fact, a logical
outgrowth of it.”
Markham nodded.
“That’s reasonable enough. Anyway, I’ve passed the combative stage. I
think I’ll drift for a while on the stream of your theory and see what
happens.”
“What irks me is the disquietin’ feeling that positively nothing will
happen unless we force the issue. The lad who manœuvred those two
obits had real bean in him.”
As he spoke Spotswoode entered the room and looked about as if
searching for some one. Catching sight of Markham, he came briskly
forward, with a look of inquisitive perplexity.
“Forgive me for intruding, sir,” he apologized, nodding pleasantly to
Vance and me, “but a police officer was here this afternoon inquiring
as to my whereabouts last night. It struck me as strange, but I
thought little of it until I happened to see the name of Tony Skeel in
the headlines of a ‘special’ to-night and read he had been strangled.
I remember you asked me regarding such a man in connection with Miss
Odell, and I wondered if, by any chance, there could be any connection
between the two murders, and if I was, after all, to be drawn into the
affair.”
“No, I think not,” said Markham. “There seemed a possibility that the
two crimes were related; and, as a matter of routine, the police
questioned all the close friends of Miss Odell in the hope of turning
up something suggestive. You may dismiss the matter from your mind. I
trust,” he added, “the officer was not unpleasantly importunate.”
“Not at all.” Spotswoode’s look of anxiety disappeared. “He was
extremely courteous but a bit mysterious.—Who was this man Skeel?”
“A half-world character and ex-burglar. He had some hold on Miss
Odell, and, I believe, extorted money from her.”
A cloud of angry disgust passed over Spotswoode’s face.
“A creature like that deserves the fate that overtook him.”
We chatted on various matters until ten o’clock, when Vance rose and
gave Markham a reproachful look.
“I’m going to try to recover some lost sleep. I’m temperamentally
unfitted for a policeman’s life.”
Despite this complaint, however, nine o’clock the next morning found
him at the District Attorney’s office. He had brought several
newspapers with him, and was reading, with much amusement, the first
complete accounts of Skeel’s murder. Monday was generally a busy day
for Markham, and he had arrived at the office before half past eight
in an effort to clean up some pressing routine matters before
proceeding with his investigation of the Odell case. Heath, I knew,
was to come for a conference at ten o’clock. In the meantime there was
nothing for Vance to do but read the newspapers; and I occupied myself
in like manner.
Punctually at ten Heath arrived, and from his manner it was plain that
something had happened to cheer him immeasurably. He was almost
jaunty, and his formal, self-satisfied salutation to Vance was like
that of a conqueror to a vanquished adversary. He shook hands with
Markham with more than his customary punctility.
“Our troubles are over, sir,” he said, and paused to light his cigar.
“I’ve arrested Jessup.”
It was Vance who broke the dramatic silence following this astounding
announcement.
“In the name of Heaven—what for?”
Heath turned deliberately, in no wise abashed by the other’s tone.
“For the murder of Margaret Odell and Tony Skeel.”
“Oh, my aunt! Oh, my precious aunt!” Vance sat up and stared at him in
amazement. “Sweet angels of heaven, come down and solace me!”
Heath’s complacency was unshaken.
“You won’t need no angels, or aunts either, when you hear what I’ve
found out about this fellow. I’ve got him tied up in a sack, ready to
hand to the jury.”
The first wave of Markham’s astonishment had subsided.
“Let’s have the story, Sergeant.”
Heath settled himself in a chair. He took a few moments to arrange his
thoughts.
“It’s like this, sir. Yesterday afternoon I got to thinking. Here was
Skeel murdered, same like Odell, after he’d promised to squeal; and it
certainly looked as though the same guy had strangled both of ’em.
Therefore, I concluded that there musta been two guys in the apartment
Monday night—the Dude and the murderer—just like Mr. Vance has been
saying all along. Then I figured that they knew each other pretty
well, because not only did the other fellow know where the Dude lived,
but he musta been wise to the fact that the Dude was going to squeal
yesterday. It looked to me, sir, like they had pulled the Odell job
together—which is why the Dude didn’t squeal in the first place. But
after the other fellow lost his nerve and threw the jewellery away,
Skeel thought he’d play safe by turning state’s evidence, so he phoned
you.”
The Sergeant smoked a moment.
“I never put much stock in Mannix and Cleaver and the doc. They
weren’t the kind to do a job like that, and they certainly weren’t the
kind that would be mixed up with a jailbird like Skeel. So I stood all
three of ’em to one side, and began looking round for a bad
egg—somebody who’d have been likely to be Skeel’s accomplice. But
first I tried to figure out what you might call the physical obstacles
in the case—that is, the snags we were up against in our
reconstruction of the crime.”
Again he paused.
“Now, the thing that’s been bothering us most is that side door. How
did it get unbolted after six o’clock? And who bolted it again after
the crime? Skeel musta come in by it before eleven, because he was in
the apartment when Spotswoode and Odell returned from the theatre; and
he probably went out by it after Cleaver had come to the apartment at
about midnight. But that wasn’t explaining how it got bolted again on
the inside. Well, sir, I studied over this for a long time yesterday,
and then I went up to the house and took another look at the door.
Young Spively was running the switchboard, and I asked him where
Jessup was, for I wanted to ask him some questions. And Spively told
me he’d quit his job the day before—Saturday afternoon!”
Heath waited to let this fact sink in.
“I was on my way down-town before the idea came to me. Then it hit me
sudden-like; and the whole case broke wide open.—Mr. Markham, nobody
but Jessup coulda opened that side door and locked it again—nobody.
Figure it out for yourself, sir—though I guess you’ve pretty well done
it already. Skeel couldn’t’ve done it. And there wasn’t nobody else to
do it.”
Markham had become interested, and leaned forward.
“After this idea had hit me,” Heath continued, “I decided to take a
chance; so I got outa the Subway at the Penn Station, and phoned
Spively for Jessup’s address. Then I got my first good news: Jessup
lived on Second Avenue, right around the corner from Skeel! I picked
up a coupla men from the local station, and went to his house. We
found him packing up his things, getting ready to go to Detroit. We
locked him up, and I took his finger-prints and sent ’em to Dubois. I
thought I might get a line on him that way, because crooks don’t
generally begin with a job as big as the Canary prowl.”
Heath permitted himself a grin of satisfaction.
“Well, sir, Dubois nailed him up! His name ain’t Jessup at all. The
William part is all right, but his real moniker is Benton. He was
convicted of assault and battery in Oakland in 1909, and served a year
in San Quentin when Skeel was a prisoner there. He was also grabbed as
a lookout in a bank robbery in Brooklyn in 1914, but didn’t come to
trial—that’s how we happen to have his finger-prints at Headquarters.
When we put him on the grill last night, he said he changed his name
after the Brooklyn racket, and enlisted in the army. That’s all we
could get outa him; but we didn’t need any more.—Now, here are the
facts: Jessup has served time for assault and battery. He was mixed up
in a bank robbery. Skeel was a fellow prisoner of his. He’s got no
alibi for Saturday night when Skeel was killed, and he lives round the
corner. He quit his job suddenly Saturday afternoon. He’s husky and
strong and could easily have done the business. He was planning his
getaway when we nabbed him. _And_—he’s the only person who could’ve
unbolted and rebolted that side door Monday night. . . . Is that a
case, or ain’t it, Mr. Markham?”
Markham sat several minutes in thought.
“It’s a good case as far as it goes,” he said slowly. “But what was
his motive in strangling the girl?”
“That’s easy. Mr. Vance here suggested it the first day. You remember
he asked Jessup about his feelings for Odell; and Jessup turned red
and got nervous.”
“Oh, Lord!” exclaimed Vance. “Am I to be made responsible for any part
of this priceless lunacy? . . . True, I pried into the chap’s emotions
toward the lady; but that was before anything had come to light. I was
bein’ careful—tryin’ to test each possibility as it arose.”
“Well, that was a lucky question of yours, just the same.” Heath
turned back to Markham. “As I see it: Jessup was stuck on Odell, and
she told him to trot along and sell his papers. He got all worked up
over it, sitting there night after night, seeing these other guys
calling on her. Then Skeel comes along, and, recognizing him, suggests
burglarizing Odell’s apartment. Skeel can’t do the job without help,
for he has to pass the phone operator coming and going; and as he’s
been there before, he’d be recognized. Jessup sees a chance of getting
even with Odell and putting the blame on some one else; so the two of
’em cook up the job for Monday night. When Odell goes out Jessup
unlocks the side door, and the Dude lets himself into the apartment
with his own key. Then Odell and Spotswoode arrive unexpectedly. Skeel
hides in the closet, and after Spotswoode has gone, he accidentally
makes a noise, and Odell screams. He steps out, and when she sees who
he is, she tells Spotswoode it’s a mistake. Jessup now knows Skeel has
been discovered, and decides to make use of the fact. Soon after
Spotswoode has gone, he enters the apartment with a pass-key. Skeel,
thinking it’s somebody else, hides again in the closet; and then
Jessup grabs the girl and strangles her, intending to let Skeel get
the credit for it. But Skeel comes out of hiding and they talk it
over. Finally they come to an agreement, and proceed with their
original plan to loot the place. Jessup tries to open the jewel-case
with the poker, and Skeel finishes the job with his chisel. They then
go out. Skeel leaves by the side door, and Jessup rebolts it. The next
day Skeel hands the swag to Jessup to keep till things blow over; and
Jessup gets scared and throws it away. Then they have a row. Skeel
decides to tell everything, so he can get out from under; and Jessup,
suspecting he’s going to do it, goes round to his house Saturday night
and strangles him like he did Odell.”
Heath made a gesture of finality and sank back in his chair.
“Clever—deuced clever,” murmured Vance. “Sergeant, I apologize for my
little outburst a moment ago. Your logic is irreproachable. You’ve
reconstructed the crime beautifully. You’ve solved the case. . . .
It’s wonderful—simply wonderful. But it’s wrong.”
“It’s right enough to send Mr. Jessup to the chair.”
“That’s the terrible thing about logic,” said Vance. “It so often
leads one irresistibly to a false conclusion.”
He stood up and walked across the room and back, his hands in his
coat-pockets. When he came abreast of Heath he halted.
“I say, Sergeant; if somebody else could have unlocked that side door,
and then rebolted it again after the crime, you’d be willing to admit
that it would weaken your case against Jessup—eh, what?”
Heath was in a generous mood.
“Sure. Show me some one else who coulda done that, and I’ll admit that
maybe I’m wrong.”
“Skeel could have done it, Sergeant. And he did do it—without any one
knowing it.”
“Skeel!—This ain’t the age of miracles, Mr. Vance.”
Vance swung about and faced Markham.
“Listen! I’m telling you Jessup’s innocent.” He spoke with a fervor
that amazed me. “And I’m going to prove it to you—some way. My theory
is pretty complete; it’s deficient only in one or two small points;
and, I’ll confess, I haven’t yet been able to put a name to the
culprit. But it’s the right theory, Markham, and it’s diametrically
opposed to the Sergeant’s. Therefore, you’ve got to give me an
opportunity to demonstrate it before you proceed against Jessup. Now,
I can’t demonstrate it here; so you and Heath must come with me to the
Odell house. It won’t take over an hour. But if it took a week, you’d
have to come just the same.”
He stepped nearer to the desk.
“I know that it was Skeel, and not Jessup, who unbolted that door
before the crime, and rebolted it afterward.”
Markham was impressed.
“You know this—you know it for a fact?”
“Yes! And I know how he did it!”