The Philo Vance Megapack. S.S. Van Dine
place at the small table on Markham’s right where he was able to face Mannix obliquely.
It was patent that Mannix did not relish the idea of another interview. His little eyes shifted quickly about the office, lingered suspiciously for a moment on Heath, and at last came to rest on the district attorney. He was more vigilant even than during his first visit; and his greeting to Markham, while fulsome, had in it a note of trepidation. Nor was Markham’s air calculated to put him at ease. It was an ominous, indomitable Public Prosecutor who motioned him to be seated. Mannix laid his hat and cane on the table and sat down on the edge of his chair, his back as perpendicular as a flagpole.
“I’m not at all satisfied with what you told me Wednesday, Mr. Mannix,” Markham began, “and I trust you won’t necessitate me to take drastic steps to find out what you know about Miss Odell’s death.”
“What I know!” Mannix forced a smile intended to be disarming. “Mr. Markham—Mr. Markham!” He seemed oilier than usual as he spread his hands in hopeless appeal. “If I knew anything, believe me, I would tell you—positively I would tell you.”
“I’m delighted to hear it. Your willingness makes my task easier. First, then, please tell me where you were at midnight Monday.”
Mannix’s eyes slowly contracted until they looked like two tiny shining disks, but otherwise the man did not move. After what seemed an interminable pause, he spoke.
“I should tell you where I was Monday? Why should I have to do that?… Maybe I’m suspected of the murder—yes?”
“You’re not suspected now. But your apparent unwillingness to answer my question is certainly suspicious. Why don’t you care to have me know where you were?”
“I got no reason to keep it from you, y’ understand.” Mannix shrugged. “I got nothing to be ashamed of—absolutely!… I had a lot of accounts to go over at the office—winter-season stocks. I was down at the office until ten o’clock—maybe later. Then at half past ten—”
“That’ll do!” Vance’s voice cut in tartly. “No need to drag anyone else into this thing.”
He spoke with a curious significance of emphasis, and Mannix studied him craftily, trying to read what knowledge, if any, lay behind his words. But he received no enlightenment from Vance’s features. The warning, however, had been enough to halt him.
“You don’t want to know where I was at half past ten?”
“Not particularly,” said Vance. “We want to know where you were at midnight. And it won’t be necess’ry to mention anyone who saw you at that time. When you tell us the truth, we’ll know it.” He himself had assumed the air of wisdom and mystery that he had deputed to Markham earlier in the afternoon. Without breaking faith with Alys La Fosse, he had sowed the seeds of doubt in Mannix’s mind.
Before the man could frame an answer, Vance stood up and leaned impressively over the district attorney’s desk.
“You know a Miss Frisbee. Lives in 71st Street; accurately speaking—at number 184; to be more exact—in the house where Miss Odell lived; to put it precisely—in Apartment Number 2. Miss Frisbee was a former model of yours. Sociable girl: still charitable to the advances of her erstwhile employer—meanin’ yourself. When did you see her last, Mr. Mannix?… Take your time about answering. You may want to think it over.”
Mannix took his time. It was a full minute before he spoke, and then it was to put another question.
“Haven’t I got a right to call on a lady—haven’t I?”
“Certainly. Therefore, why should a question about so obviously correct and irreproachable an episode make you uneasy?”
“Me uneasy?” Mannix, with considerable effort, produced a grin. “I’m just wondering what you got in your mind, asking me about my private affairs.”
“I’ll tell you. Miss Odell was murdered at about midnight Monday. No one came or went through the front door of the house, and the side door was locked. The only way any one could have entered her apartment was by way of Apartment 2; and nobody who knew Miss Odell ever visited Apartment 2 except yourself.”
At these words Mannix leaned over the table, grasping the edge of it with both hands for support. His eyes were wide and his sensual lips hung open. But it was not fear that one read in his attitude; it was sheer amazement. He sat for a moment staring at Vance, stunned and incredulous.
“That’s what you think, is it? No one could’ve got in or out except by Apartment 2, because the side door was locked?” He gave a short, vicious laugh. “If that side door didn’t happen to be locked Monday night, where’d I stand then—huh? Where’d I stand?”
“I rather think you’d stand with us—with the district attorney.” Vance was watching him like a cat.
“Sure I would!” spat Mannix. “And let me tell you something, my friend: that’s just where I stand—absolutely!” He swung heavily about and faced Markham. “I’m a good fellow, y’ understand, but I’ve kept my mouth shut long enough.… That side door wasn’t locked Monday night. And I know who sneaked out of it at five minutes to twelve!”
“Ça marche!” murmured Vance, reseating himself and calmly lighting a cigarette.
Markham was too astonished to speak at once; and Heath sat stock-still, his cigar halfway to his mouth.
At length Markham leaned back and folded his arms.
“I think you’d better tell us the whole story, Mr. Mannix.” His voice held a quality which made the request an imperative.
Mannix, too, settled back in his chair.
“Oh, I’m going to tell it—believe me, I’m going to tell it. You had the right idea. I spent the evening with Miss Frisbee. No harm in that, though.”
“What time did you go there?”
“After office hours—half past five, quarter to six. Came up in the subway, got off at 72d, and walked over.”
“And you entered the house through the front door?”
“No. I walked down the alleyway and went in the side door—like I generally do. It’s nobody’s business who I call on, and what the telephone operator in the front hall don’t know don’t hurt him.”
“That’s all right so far,” observed Heath. “The janitor didn’t bolt the side door until after six.”
“And did you stay the entire evening, Mr. Mannix?” asked Markham.
“Sure—till just before midnight. Miss Frisbee cooked the dinner, and I’d brought along a bottle of wine. Social little party—just the two of us. And I didn’t go outside the apartment, understand, until five minutes to twelve. You can get the lady down here and ask her. I’ll call her up now and tell her to explain the exact situation about Monday night. I’m not asking you to take my word for it—positively not.”
Markham made a gesture dismissing the suggestion.
“What took place at five minutes to twelve?”
Mannix hesitated, as if loath to come to the point.
“I’m a good fellow, y’ understand. And a friend’s a friend. But—I ask you—is that any reason why I should get in wrong for something I didn’t have absolutely nothing to do with?”
He waited for an answer, but receiving none, continued.
“Sure, I’m right. Anyway, here’s what happened. As I said, I was calling on the lady. But I had another date for later that night; so a few minutes before midnight I said good-bye and started to go. Just as I opened the door I saw someone sneaking away from the Canary’s apartment down the little back hall to the side door. There was a light in the hall, and the door of Apartment 2 faces that side door. I saw the fellow as plain as I see you—positively as plain.”