The End
(Tuesday, September 18; 3.30 p. m.)
It was exactly half past three when we entered the rotunda of the
Stuyvesant Club. Markham at once sent for the manager, and held a few
words of private conversation with him. The manager then hastened
away, and was gone about five minutes.
“Mr. Spotswoode is in his rooms,” he informed Markham, on returning.
“I sent the electrician up to test the light bulbs. He reports that
the gentleman is alone, writing at his desk.”
“And the room number?”
“Three forty-one.” The manager appeared perturbed. “There won’t be any
fuss, will there, Mr. Markham?”
“I don’t look for any.” Markham’s tone was chilly. “However, the
present matter is considerably more important than your club.”
“What an exaggerated point of view!” sighed Vance when the manager had
left us. “The arrest of Spotswoode, I’d say, was the acme of futility.
The man isn’t a criminal, don’t y’ know; he has nothing in common with
Lombroso’s _Uomo Delinquente_. He’s what one might term a philosophic
behaviorist.”
Markham grunted but did not answer. He began pacing up and down
agitatedly, keeping his eyes expectantly on the main entrance. Vance
sought a comfortable chair, and settled himself in it with placid
unconcern.
Ten minutes later Heath and Snitkin arrived. Markham at once led them
into an alcove and briefly explained his reason for summoning them.
“Spotswoode’s up-stairs now,” he said. “I want the arrest made as
quietly as possible.”
“Spotswoode!” Heath repeated the name in astonishment. “I don’t see——”
“You don’t have to see—yet,” Markham cut in sharply. “I’m taking all
responsibility for the arrest. And you’re getting the credit—if you
want it. That suit you?”
Heath shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s all right with me . . . anything you say, sir.” He shook his
head uncomprehendingly. “But what about Jessup?”
“We’ll keep him locked up. Material witness.”
We ascended in the elevator and emerged at the third floor.
Spotswoode’s rooms were at the end of the hall, facing the Square.
Markham, his face set grimly, led the way.
In answer to his knock Spotswoode opened the door and, greeting us
pleasantly, stepped aside for us to enter.
“Any news yet?” he asked, moving a chair forward.
At this moment he got a clear view of Markham’s face in the light, and
at once he sensed the minatory nature of our visit. Though his
expression did not alter, I saw his body suddenly go taut. His cold,
indecipherable eyes moved slowly from Markham’s face to Heath and
Snitkin. Then his gaze fell on Vance and me, who were standing a
little behind the others, and he nodded stiffly.
No one spoke; yet I felt that an entire tragedy was somehow being
enacted, and that each actor heard and understood every word.
Markham remained standing, as if reluctant to proceed. Of all the
duties of his office, I knew that the arrest of malefactors was the
most distasteful to him. He was a worldly man, with the worldly man’s
tolerance for the misfortunes of evil. Heath and Snitkin had stepped
forward and now waited with passive alertness for the District
Attorney’s order to serve the warrant.
Spotswoode’s eyes were again on Markham.
“What can I do for you, sir?” His voice was calm and without the
faintest quaver.
“You can accompany these officers, Mr. Spotswoode,” Markham told him
quietly, with a slight inclination of his head toward the two
imperturbable figures at his side. “I arrest you for the murder of
Margaret Odell.”
“Ah!” Spotswoode’s eyebrows lifted mildly. “Then you have—discovered
something?”
“The Beethoven _Andante_.”
Not a muscle of Spotswoode’s face moved; but after a short pause he
made a barely perceptible gesture of resignation.
“I can’t say that it was wholly unexpected,” he said evenly, with the
tragic suggestion of a smile; “especially as you thwarted every effort
of mine to secure the record. But then . . . the fortunes of the game
are always uncertain.” His smile faded, and his manner became grave.
“You have acted generously toward me, Mr. Markham, in shielding me
from the _canaille_; and because I appreciate that courtesy I should
like you to know that the game I played was one in which I had no
alternative.”
“Your motive, however powerful,” said Markham, “cannot extenuate your
crime.”
“Do you think I seek extenuation?” Spotswoode dismissed the imputation
with a contemptuous gesture. “I’m not a schoolboy. I calculated the
consequences of my course of action, and after weighing the various
factors involved, decided to risk it. It was a gamble, to be sure; but
it’s not my habit to complain about the misfortunes of a deliberately
planned risk. Furthermore, the choice was practically forced upon me.
Had I not gambled in this instance, I stood to lose heavily
nevertheless.”
His face grew bitter.
“This woman, Mr. Markham, had demanded the impossible of me. Not
content with bleeding me financially, she demanded legal protection,
position, social prestige—such things as only my name could give her.
She informed me I must divorce my wife and marry her. I wonder if you
apprehend the enormity of that demand? . . . You see, Mr. Markham, I
love my wife, and I have children whom I love. I will not insult your
intelligence by explaining how, despite my conduct, such a thing is
entirely possible. . . . And yet, this woman commanded me to wreck my
life and crush utterly those I held dear, solely to gratify her petty,
ridiculous ambition! When I refused, she threatened to expose our
relations to my wife, to send her copies of the letters I had written,
to sue me publicly—in fine, to create such a scandal that, in any
event, my life would be ruined, my family disgraced, my home
destroyed.”
He paused and drew a deep inspiration.
“I have never been partial to half-way measures,” he continued
impassively. “I have no talent for compromise. Perhaps I am a victim
of my heritage. But my instinct is to play out a hand to the last
chip—to force whatever danger threatens. And for just five minutes, a
week ago, I understood how the fanatics of old could, with a calm mind
and a sense of righteousness, torture their enemies who threatened
them with spiritual destruction. . . . I chose the only course which
might save those I love from disgrace and suffering. It meant taking a
desperate risk. But the blood within me was such that I did not
hesitate, and I was fired by the agony of a tremendous hate. I staked
my life against a living death, on the remote chance of attaining
peace. And I lost.”
Again he smiled faintly.
“Yes—the fortunes of the game. . . . But don’t think for a minute that
I am complaining or seeking sympathy. I have lied to others perhaps,
but not to myself. I detest a whiner—a self-excuser. I want you to
understand that.”
He reached to the table at his side and took up a small limp-leather
volume.
“Only last night I was reading Wilde’s ‘De Profundis.’ Had I been
gifted with words, I might have made a similar confession. Let me show
you what I mean so that, at least, you won’t attribute to me the final
infamy of cravenness.”
He opened the book, and began reading in a voice whose very fervor
held us all silent:
“‘I brought about my own downfall. No one, be he high or low, need be
ruined by any other hand than his own. Readily as I confess this,
there are many who will, at this time at least, receive the confession
sceptically. And although I thus mercilessly accuse myself, bear in
mind that I do so without offering any excuse. Terrible as is the
punishment inflicted upon me by the world, more terrible is the ruin I
have brought upon myself. . . . In the dawn of manhood I recognized my
position. . . . I enjoyed an honored name, an eminent social
position. . . . Then came the turning-point. I had become tired of
dwelling on the heights—and descended by my own will into the depths.
. . . I satisfied my desires wherever it suited me, and passed on. I
forgot that every act, even the most insignificant act, of daily life,
in some degree, makes or unmakes the character; and every occurrence
which transpires in the seclusion of the chamber will some day be
proclaimed from the housetops. I lost control of myself. I was no
longer at the helm, and knew it not. I had become a slave to
pleasure. . . . One thing only is left to me—complete humility.’”
He tossed the book aside.
“You understand now, Mr. Markham?”
Markham did not speak for several moments.
“Do you care to tell me about Skeel?” he at length asked.
“That swine!” Spotswoode sneered his disgust. “I could murder such
creatures every day and regard myself as a benefactor of
society. . . . Yes, I strangled him, and I would have done it before,
only the opportunity did not offer. . . . It was Skeel who was hiding
in the closet when I returned to the apartment after the theatre, and
he must have seen me kill the woman. Had I known he was behind that
locked closet door, I would have broken it down and wiped him out
then. But how was I to know? It seemed natural that the closet might
have been kept locked—I didn’t give it a second thought. . . . And the
next night he telephoned me to the club here. He had first called my
home on Long Island, and learned that I was staying here. I had never
seen him before—didn’t know of his existence. But, it seems, he had
equipped himself with a knowledge of my identity—probably some of the
money I gave to the woman went to him. What a muck-heap I had fallen
into! . . . When he phoned, he mentioned the phonograph, and I knew he
had found out something. I met him in the Waldorf lobby, and he told
me the truth: there was no doubting his word. When he saw I was
convinced, he demanded so enormous a sum that I was staggered.”
Spotswoode lit a cigarette with steady fingers.
“Mr. Markham, I am no longer a rich man. The truth is, I am on the
verge of bankruptcy. The business my father left me has been in a
receiver’s hands for nearly a year. The Long Island estate on which I
live belongs to my wife. Few people know these things, but
unfortunately they are true. It would have been utterly impossible for
me to raise the amount Skeel demanded, even had I been inclined to
play the coward. I did, however, give him a small sum to keep him
quiet for a few days, promising him all he asked as soon as I could
convert some of my holdings. I hoped in the interim to get possession
of the record and thus spike his guns. But in that I failed; and so,
when he threatened to tell you everything, I agreed to bring the money
to his home late last Saturday night. I kept the appointment, with the
full intention of killing him. I was careful about entering, but he
had helped me by explaining when and how I could get in without being
seen. Once there, I wasted no time. The first moment he was off his
guard I seized him—and gloried in the act. Then, locking the door and
taking the key, I walked out of the house quite openly, and returned
here to the club.—That’s all, I think.”
Vance was watching him musingly.
“So when you raised my bet last night,” he said, “the amount
represented a highly important item in your exchequer.”
Spotswoode smiled faintly.
“It represented practically every cent I had in the world.”
“Astonishin’! . . . And would you mind if I asked you why you selected
the label of Beethoven’s _Andante_ for your record?”
“Another miscalculation,” the man said wearily. “It occurred to me
that if any one should, by any chance, open the phonograph before I
could return and destroy the record, he wouldn’t be as likely to want
to hear the classics as he would a more popular selection.”
“And one who detests popular music had to find it! I fear, Mr.
Spotswoode, that an unkind fate sat in at your game.”
“Yes. . . . If I were religiously inclined, I might talk poppycock
about retribution and divine punishment.”
“I’d like to ask you about the jewellery,” said Markham. “It’s not
sportsmanlike to do it, and I wouldn’t suggest it, except that you’ve
already confessed voluntarily to the main points at issue.”
“I shall take no offense at any question you desire to ask, sir,”
Spotswoode answered. “After I had recovered my letters from the
document-box, I turned the rooms upside down to give the impression of
a burglary—being careful to use gloves, of course. And I took the
woman’s jewellery for the same reason. Parenthetically, I had paid for
most of it. I offered it as a sop to Skeel, but he was afraid to
accept it; and finally I decided to rid myself of it. I wrapped it in
one of the club newspapers and threw it in a waste-bin near the
Flatiron Building.”
“You wrapped it in the morning _Herald_,” put in Heath. “Did you know
that Pop Cleaver reads nothing but the _Herald_?”
“Sergeant!” Vance’s voice was a cutting reprimand. “Certainly Mr.
Spotswoode was not aware of that fact—else he would not have selected
the Herald.”
Spotswoode smiled at Heath with pitying contempt. Then, with an
appreciative glance at Vance, he turned back to Markham.
“An hour or so after I had disposed of the jewels I was assailed by
the fear that the package might be found and the paper traced. So I
bought another _Herald_ and put it on the rack.” He paused. “Is that
all?”
Markham nodded.
“Thank you—that’s all; except that I must now ask you to go with these
officers.”
“In that case,” said Spotswoode quietly, “there’s a small favor I have
to ask of you, Mr. Markham. Now that the blow has fallen, I wish to
write a certain note—to my wife. But I want to be alone when I write
it. Surely you understand that desire. It will take but a few moments.
Your men may stand at the door—I can’t very well escape. . . . The
victor can afford to be generous to that extent.”
Before Markham had time to reply, Vance stepped forward and touched
his arm.
“I trust,” he interposed, “that you won’t deem it necess’ry to refuse
Mr. Spotswoode’s request.”
Markham looked at him hesitantly.
“I guess you’ve pretty well earned the right to dictate, Vance,” he
acquiesced.
Then he ordered Heath and Snitkin to wait outside in the hall, and he
and Vance and I went into the adjoining room. Markham stood, as if on
guard, near the door; but Vance, with an ironical smile, sauntered to
the window and gazed out into Madison Square.
“My word, Markham!” he declared. “There’s something rather colossal
about that chap. Y’ know, one can’t help admiring him. He’s so
eminently sane and logical.”
Markham made no response. The drone of the city’s mid-afternoon
noises, muffled by the closed windows, seemed to intensify the ominous
silence of the little bedchamber where we waited.
Then came a sharp report from the other room.
Markham flung open the door. Heath and Snitkin were already rushing
toward Spotswoode’s prostrate body, and were bending over it when
Markham entered. Immediately he wheeled about and glared at Vance, who
now appeared in the doorway.
“He’s shot himself!”
“Fancy that,” said Vance.
“You—you knew he was going to do that?” Markham spluttered.
“It was rather obvious, don’t y’ know.”
Markham’s eyes flashed angrily.
“And you deliberately interceded for him—to give him the opportunity?”
“Tut, tut, my dear fellow!” Vance reproached him. “Pray don’t give way
to conventional moral indignation. However unethical—theoretically—it
may be to take another’s life, a man’s own life is certainly his to do
with as he chooses. Suicide is his inalienable right. And under the
paternal tyranny of our modern democracy, I’m rather inclined to think
it’s about the only right he has left, what?”
He glanced at his watch and frowned.
“D’ ye know, I’ve missed my concert, bothering with your beastly
affairs,” he complained amiably, giving Markham an engaging smile;
“and now you’re actually scolding me. ’Pon my word, old fellow, you’re
deuced ungrateful!”
Transcriber’s Notes
This transcription follows the text of the first edition published by
A. L. Burt Company and Charles Scribner’s Sons in 1926. However, the
following alterations have been made to correct what are believed to be
unambiguous errors in the text:
* Two occurrences of missing quotation marks have been corrected.
* The occurrence of “deliberatly” in Chapter XI has been corrected to
“deliberately”.
* The phrase “find and dandy” in Chapter XII has been corrected to
“fine and dandy”.
* The dateline of “Tuesday, September 16” on Chapter XXIX has been
corrected to “Tuesday, September 18”.