The Guilty Man
(Tuesday, September 18; 1 p. m.)
Vance slept late the following morning, and spent the hour or so
before lunch checking a catalogue of ceramics which were to be
auctioned next day at the Anderson Galleries. At one o’clock we
entered the Stuyvesant Club and joined Markham in the grill.
“The lunch is on you, old thing,” said Vance. “But I’ll make it easy.
All I want is a rasher of English bacon, a cup of coffee, and a
croissant.”
Markham gave him a mocking smile.
“I don’t wonder you’re economizing after your bad luck of last night.”
Vance’s eyebrows went up.
“I rather fancied my luck was most extr’ordin’ry.”
“You held four of a kind twice, and lost both hands.”
“But, y’ see,” blandly confessed Vance, “I happened to know both times
exactly what cards my opponents held.”
Markham stared at him in amazement.
“Quite so,” Vance assured him. “I had arranged before the game, d’ ye
see, to have those particular hands dealt.” He smiled benignly. “I
can’t tell you, old chap, how I admire your delicacy in not referring
to my rather unique guest, Mr. Allen, whom I had the bad taste to
introduce so unceremoniously into your party. I owe you an explanation
and an apology. Mr. Allen is not what one would call a charming
companion. He is deficient in the patrician elegancies, and his
display of jewellery was a bit vulgar—though I infinitely preferred
his diamond studs to his piebald tie. But Mr. Allen has his
points—decidedly he has his points. He ranks with Andy Blakely,
Canfield, and Honest John Kelly as an indoor soldier of fortune. In
fact, our Mr. Allen is none other than Doc Wiley Allen, of fragrant
memory.”
“Doc Allen! Not the notorious old crook who ran the Eldorado Club?”
“The same. And, incidentally, one of the cleverest card manipulators
in a once lucrative but shady profession.”
“You mean this fellow Allen stacked the cards last night?” Markham was
indignant.
“Only for the two hands you mentioned. Allen, if you happen to
remember, was the dealer both times. I, who purposely sat on his
right, was careful to cut the cards in accordance with his
instructions. And you really must admit that no stricture can possibly
attach to my deception, inasmuch as the only beneficiaries of Allen’s
manipulations were Cleaver and Spotswoode. Although Allen did deal me
four of a kind on each occasion, I lost heavily both times.”
Markham regarded Vance for a moment in puzzled silence, and then
laughed good-naturedly.
“You appear to have been in a philanthropic mood last night. You
practically gave Mannix a thousand dollars by permitting him to double
the stakes on each draw. A rather quixotic procedure, I should say.”
“It all depends on one’s point of view, don’t y’ know. Despite my
financial losses—which, by the bye, I have every intention of charging
up to your office budget—the game was most successful. . . . Y’ see, I
attained the main object of my evening’s entertainment.”
“Oh, I remember!” said Markham vaguely, as if the matter, being of
slight importance, had for the moment eluded his memory. “I believe
you were going to ascertain who murdered the Odell girl.”
“Amazin’ memory! . . . Yes, I let fall the hint that I might be able
to clarify the situation to-day.”
“And whom am I to arrest?”
Vance took a drink of coffee and slowly lit a cigarette.
“I’m quite convinced, y’ know, that you won’t believe me,” he
returned, in an even, matter-of-fact voice. “But it was Spotswoode who
killed the girl.”
“You don’t tell me!” Markham spoke with undisguised irony. “So it was
Spotswoode! My dear Vance, you positively bowl me over. I would
telephone Heath at once to polish up his handcuffs, but,
unfortunately, miracles—such as strangling persons from across
town—are not recognized possibilities in this day and age. . . . Do
let me order you another croissant.”
Vance extended his hands in a theatrical gesture of exasperated
despair.
“For an educated, civilized man, Markham, there’s something downright
primitive about the way you cling to optical illusions. I say, y’
know, you’re exactly like an infant who really believes that the
magician generates a rabbit in a silk hat, simply because he sees it
done.”
“Now you’re becoming insulting.”
“Rather!” Vance pleasantly agreed. “But something drastic must be done
to disentangle you from the Lorelei of legal facts. You’re so
deficient in imagination, old thing.”
“I take it that you would have me close my eyes and picture Spotswoode
sitting up-stairs here in the Stuyvesant Club and extending his arms
to 71st Street. But I simply couldn’t do it. I’m a commonplace chap.
Such a vision would strike me as ludicrous; it would smack of a
hasheesh dream. . . . You yourself don’t use _Cannabis indica_, do
you?”
“Put that way, the idea does sound a bit supernatural. And yet:
_Certum est quia impossibile est_. I rather like that maxim, don’t y’
know; for, in the present case, the impossible is true. Oh,
Spotswoode’s guilty—no doubt about it. And I’m going to cling
tenaciously to that apparent hallucination. Moreover, I’m going to try
to lure you into its toils; for your own—as we absurdly say—good name
is at stake. As it happens, Markham, you are at this moment shielding
the real murderer from publicity.”
Vance had spoken with the easy assurance that precludes argument; and
from the altered expression on Markham’s face I could see he was
moved.
“Tell me,” he said, “how you arrived at your fantastic belief in
Spotswoode’s guilt.”
Vance crushed out his cigarette and folded his arms on the table.
“We begin with my quartet of possibilities—Mannix, Cleaver, Lindquist,
and Spotswoode. Realizing, as I did, that the crime was carefully
planned with the sole object of murder, I knew that only some one
hopelessly ensnared in the lady’s net could have done it. And no
suitor outside of my quartet could have been thus enmeshed, or we
would have learned of him. Therefore, one of the four was guilty. Now,
Lindquist was eliminated when we found out that he was bedridden in a
hospital at the time of Skeel’s murder; for obviously the same person
committed both crimes——”
“But,” interrupted Markham, “Spotswoode had an equally good alibi for
the night of the Canary’s murder. Why eliminate one and not the
other?”
“Sorry, but I can’t agree with you. Being prostrated at a known place
surrounded by incorruptible and disinterested witnesses, both
preceding and during an event, is one thing; but being actually on the
ground, as Spotswoode was that fatal evening, within a few minutes of
the time the lady was murdered, and then being alone in a taxicab for
fifteen minutes or so following the event—that is another thing. No
one, as far as we know, actually saw the lady alive after Spotswoode
took his departure.”
“But the proof of her having been alive and spoken to him is
incontestable.”
“Granted. I admit that a dead woman doesn’t scream and call for help,
and then converse with her murderer.”
“I see.” Markham spoke with sarcasm. “You think it was Skeel,
disguising his voice.”
“Lord no! What a priceless notion! Skeel didn’t want any one to know
he was there. Why should he have staged such a masterpiece of idiocy?
That certainly isn’t the explanation. When we find the answer it will
be reasonable and simple.”
“That’s encouraging,” smiled Markham. “But proceed with your reasons
for Spotswoode’s guilt.”
“Three of my quartet, then, were potential murderers,” Vance resumed.
“Accordingly, I requested an evening of social relaxation, that I
might put them under the psychological microscope, as it were.
Although Spotswoode’s ancestry was wholly consistent with his having
been the guilty one, nevertheless I confess I thought that Cleaver or
Mannix had committed the crime; for, by their own statements, either
of them could have done it without contradicting any of the known
circumstances of the situation. Therefore, when Mannix declined your
invitation to play poker last night, I put Cleaver to the first test.
I wig-wagged to Mr. Allen, and he straightway proceeded to perform his
first feat of prestidigitation.”
Vance paused and looked up.
“You perhaps recall the circumstances? It was a jack-pot. Allen dealt
Cleaver a four-straight-flush and gave me three kings. The other hands
were so poor that every one else was compelled to drop out. I opened;
and Cleaver stayed. On the draw, Allen gave me another king, and gave
Cleaver the card he needed to complete his straight-flush. Twice I bet
a small amount, and each time Cleaver raised me. Finally I called him,
and, of course, he won. He couldn’t help but win, d’ ye see. He was
betting on a sure-thing. Since I opened the pot and drew two cards,
the highest hand I could possibly have held would have been four of a
kind. Cleaver knew this, and having a straight-flush, he also knew,
before he raised my bet, that he had me beaten. At once I realized
that he was not the man I was after.”
“By what reasoning?”
“A poker-player, Markham, who would bet on a sure-thing is one who
lacks the egotistical self-confidence of the highly subtle and
supremely capable gambler. He is not a man who will take hazardous
chances and tremendous risks, for he possesses, to some degree, what
the psychoanalysts call an inferiority complex, and instinctively he
grasps at every possible opportunity of protecting and bettering
himself. In short, he is not the ultimate, unadulterated gambler. And
the man who killed the Odell girl was a supreme gambler who would
stake everything on a single turn of the wheel, for, in killing her,
that is exactly what he did. And only a gambler whose paramount
self-confidence would make him scorn, through sheer egotism, to bet on
a sure-thing, could have committed such a crime.—Therefore, Cleaver
was eliminated as a suspect.”
Markham was now listening intently.
“The test to which I put Spotswoode a little later,” Vance went on,
“had originally been intended for Mannix, but he was out of the game.
That didn’t matter, however, for, had I been able to eliminate both
Cleaver and Spotswoode, then Mannix would undoubtedly have been the
guilty man. Of course I would have planned something else to
substantiate the fact; but, as it was, that wasn’t necess’ry. . . .
The test I applied to Spotswoode was pretty well explained by the
gentleman himself. As he said, not one player in a thousand would have
wagered the limit against a pat hand, when he himself held nothing. It
was tremendous—superb! It was probably the most remarkable bluff ever
made in a game of poker. I couldn’t help admiring him when he calmly
shoved forward all his chips, knowing, as I did, that he held nothing.
He staked everything, d’ ye see, wholly on his conviction that he
could follow my reasoning step by step and, in the last analysis,
outwit me. It took courage and daring to do that. And it also took a
degree of self-confidence which would never have permitted him to bet
on a sure-thing. The psychological principles involved in that hand
were identical with those of the Odell crime. I threatened Spotswoode
with a powerful hand—a pat hand—just as the girl, no doubt, threatened
him; and instead of compromising—instead of calling me or laying
down—he outreached me; he resorted to one supreme coup, though it
meant risking everything. . . . My word, Markham! Can’t you see how
the man’s character, as revealed in that amazing gesture, dovetails
with the psychology of the crime?”
Markham was silent for a while; he appeared to be pondering the
matter.
“But you yourself, Vance, were not satisfied at the time,” he
submitted at length. “In fact, you looked doubtful and worried.”
“True, old dear. I was no end worried. The psychological proof of
Spotswoode’s guilt came so dashed unexpectedly—I wasn’t looking for
it, don’t y’ know. After eliminating Cleaver I had a _parti pris_, so
to speak, in regard to Mannix; for all the material evidence in favor
of Spotswoode’s innocence—that is, the seeming physical impossibility
of his having strangled the lady—had, I admit, impressed me. I’m not
perfect, don’t y’ know. Being unfortunately human, I’m still
susceptible to the malicious animal magnetism about facts and
appearances, which you lawyer chaps are continuously exuding over the
earth like some vast asphyxiating effluvium. And even when I found
that Spotswoode’s psychological nature fitted perfectly with all the
factors of the crime, I still harbored a doubt in regard to Mannix. It
was barely possible that he would have played the hand just as
Spotswoode played it. That is why, after the game was over, I tackled
him on the subject of gambling. I wanted to check his psychological
reactions.”
“Still, he staked everything on one turn of the wheel, as you put it.”
“Ah! But not in the same sense that Spotswoode did. Mannix is a
cautious and timid gambler as compared with Spotswoode. To begin with,
he had an equal chance and an even bet, whereas Spotswoode had no
chance at all—his hand was worthless. And yet Spotswoode wagered the
limit on a pure bit of mental calculation. That was gambling in the
higher ether. On the other hand, Mannix was merely tossing a coin,
with an even chance of winning. Furthermore, no calculation of any
kind entered into it; there was no planning, no figuring, no daring.
And, as I have told you from the start, the Odell murder was
premeditated and carefully worked out with shrewd calculation and
supreme daring. . . . And what true gambler would ask an adversary to
double a bet on the second flip of the coin, and then accept an offer
to redouble on the third flip? I purposely tested Mannix in that way,
so as to preclude any possibility of error. Thus I not only eliminated
him—I expunged him, eradicated him, wiped him out utterly. It cost me
a thousand dollars, but it purged my mind of any lingering doubt. I
then knew, despite all the contr’ry material indications, that
Spotswoode had done away with the lady.”
“You make your case theoretically plausible. But, practically, I’m
afraid I can’t accept it.” Markham was more impressed, I felt, than he
cared to admit. “Damn it, man!” he exploded after a moment. “Your
conclusion demolishes all the established landmarks of rationality and
sane credibility.—Just consider the facts.” He had now reached the
argumentative stage of his doubt. “You say Spotswoode is guilty. Yet
we know, on irrefutable evidence, that five minutes after he came out
of the apartment the girl screamed and called for help. He was
standing by the switchboard, and, accompanied by Jessup, he went to
the door and carried on a brief conversation with her. She was
certainly alive then. Then he went out the front door, entered a
taxicab, and drove away. Fifteen minutes later he was joined by Judge
Redfern as he alighted from the taxicab in front of the club
here—nearly forty blocks away from the apartment-house! It would have
been impossible for him to have made the trip in less time; and,
moreover, we have the chauffeur’s record. Spotswoode simply did not
have either the opportunity or the time to commit the murder between
half past eleven and ten minutes of twelve when Judge Redfern met him.
And, remember, he played poker in the club here until three in the
morning—hours after the murder took place.”
Markham shook his head with emphasis.
“Vance, there’s no human way to get round those facts. They’re firmly
established; and they preclude Spotswoode’s guilt as effectively and
finally as though he had been at the North Pole that night.”
Vance was unmoved.
“I admit everything you say,” he rejoined. “But as I have stated
before, when material facts and psychological facts conflict, the
material facts are wrong. In this case, they may not actually be
wrong, but they’re deceptive.”
“Very well, _magnus Apollo!_” The situation was too much for Markham’s
exacerbated nerves. “Show me how Spotswoode could have strangled the
girl and ransacked the apartment, and I’ll order Heath to arrest him.”
“’Pon my word, I can’t do it,” expostulated Vance. “Omniscience was
denied me. But—deuce take it!—I think I’ve done rather well in
pointing out the culprit. I never agreed to expound his technic, don’t
y’ know.”
“So! Your vaunted penetration amounts only to that, does it? Well,
well! Here and now I become a professor of the higher mental sciences,
and I pronounce solemnly that Doctor Crippen murdered the Odell girl.
To be sure, Crippen’s dead; but that fact doesn’t interfere with my
newly adopted psychological means of deduction. Crippen’s nature, you
see, fits perfectly with all the esoteric and recondite indications of
the crime. To-morrow I’ll apply for an order of exhumation.”
Vance looked at him with waggish reproachfulness, and sighed.
“Recognition of my transcendent genius, I see, is destined to be
posthumous. _Omnia post obitum fingit majora vetustas._ In the
meantime I bear the taunts and jeers of the multitude with a stout
heart. My head is bloody, but unbowed.”
He looked at his watch, and then seemed to become absorbed with some
line of thought.
“Markham,” he said, after several minutes, “I’ve a concert at three
o’clock, but there’s an hour to spare. I want to take another look at
that apartment and its various approaches. Spotswoode’s trick—and I’m
convinced it was nothing more than a trick—was enacted there; and if
we are ever to find the explanation, we shall have to look for it on
the scene.”
I had got the impression that Markham, despite his emphatic denial of
the possibility of Spotswoode’s guilt, was not entirely unconvinced.
Therefore, I was not surprised when, with only a half-hearted protest,
he assented to Vance’s proposal to revisit the Odell apartment.