The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
wasn’t having any. He lay doggo. And I can’t say that I blame the beggar, what?”
He made a gesture of interrogation.
“What did the strangler do next? Well, well; we’ll probably never know, now that Skeel, the horrified witness, has gone to his Maker. But I rather imagine he got out that black document-box, opened it with a key he had taken from the lady’s hand-bag, and extracted a goodly number of incriminating documents. Then, I fancy, the fireworks began. The gentleman proceeded to wreck the apartment in order to give the effect of a professional burglary. He tore the lace on the lady’s gown and severed the shoulder-strap; snatched her orchid corsage and threw it in her lap; stripped off her rings and bracelets; and tore the pendant from its chain. After that he upset the lamp, rifled the escritoire, ransacked the Boule cabinet, broke the mirror, overturned the chairs, tore the draperies. . . . And all the time Skeel kept his eye glued to the keyhole with fascinated horror, afraid to move, terrified lest he be discovered and sent to join his erstwhile inamorata, for by now he was no doubt thoroughly convinced that the man outside was a raving lunatic.—I can’t say that I envy Skeel his predicament: it was ticklish, y’ know. Rather!—And the devastation went on. He could hear it even when the operations had passed from out his radius of vision. And he himself was caught like a rat in a trap, with no means of escape. A harrowin’ situation—my word!”
Vance smoked a moment, and then shifted his position slightly.
“Y’ know, Markham, I imagine that the worst moment in the whole of Skeel’s checkered career came when that mysterious wrecker tried to open the closet door behind which he was crouching. Fancy! There he was cornered, and not two inches from him stood, apparently, a homicidal maniac trying to get to him, rattling that thin barricade of white pine. . . . Can you picture the blighter’s relief when the murderer finally released the knob and turned away? It’s a wonder he didn’t collapse from the reaction. But he didn’t. He listened and watched in a sort of hypnotic panic, until he heard the invader leave the apartment. Then, weak-kneed and in a cold sweat, he came forth and surveyed the battlefield.”
Vance glanced about him.
“Not a pretty sight—eh, what? And there on the davenport reclined the lady’s strangled body. That corpse was Skeel’s dominant horror. He staggered to the table to look at it, and steadied himself with his right hand—that’s how you got your finger-prints, Sergeant. Then the realization of his own position suddenly smote him. Here he was alone with a murdered person. He was known to have been intimate with the lady; and he was a burglar with a record. Who would believe that he was innocent? And though he had probably recognized the man who had negotiated the business, he was in no position to tell his story. Everything was against him—his sneaking in, his presence in the house at half past nine, his relations with the girl, his profession, his reputation. He hadn’t a chance in the world. . . . I say, Markham, would you have credited his tale?”
“Never mind that,” retorted Markham. “Go on with your theory.” He and Heath had been listening with rapt interest.
“My theory from this point on,” resumed Vance, “is what you might term self-developing. It proceeds on its own inertia, so to speak.—Skeel was confronted by the urgent problem of getting away and covering up his tracks. His mind in this emergency became keen and highly active: his life was forfeit if he didn’t succeed. He began to think furiously. He could have left by the side door at once without being seen; but then, the door would have been found unbolted. And this fact, taken in connection with his earlier visit that night, would have suggested his manner of unbolting the door. . . . No, that method of escape wouldn’t do—decidedly it wouldn’t do. He knew he was likely, in any event, to be suspected of the murder, in view of his shady association with the lady and his general character. Motive, place, opportunity, time, means, conduct, and his own record—all were against him. Either he must cover up his tracks, don’t y’ know, or else his career as a Lothario was at an end. A sweet dilemma! He realized, of course, that if he could get out and leave that side door bolted on the inside, he’d be comparatively safe. No one could then explain how he had come in or gone out. It would establish his only possible alibi—a negative one, to be sure; but, with a good lawyer, he could probably make it hold. Doubtless he searched for other means of escape, but found himself confronted with obstacles on every hand. The side door was his only hope. How could it be worked?”
Vance rose and yawned.
“That’s my caressin’ theory. Skeel was caught in a trap, and with his shrewd, tricky brain he figured his way out. He may have roamed up and down these two rooms for hours before he hit on his plan; and it’s not unlikely that he appealed to the Deity with an occasional ‘Oh, my God!’ As for his using the tweezers, I’m inclined to think the mechanism of the idea came to him almost immediately.—Y’ know, Sergeant, this locking of a door on the inside is an old trick. There are any number of recorded cases of it in the criminal literature of Europe. Indeed, in Professor Hans Gross’s handbook of criminology there’s a whole chapter on the devices used by burglars for illegal entries and exits.15 But all such devices have had to do with the locking—not the bolting—of doors. The principle, of course, is the same, but the technic is different. To lock a door on the inside, a needle, or strong slender pin, is inserted through the bow of the key, and pulled downward with a string. But on the side door of this house there is no lock and key; nor is there a bow in the bolt-handle.—Now, the resourceful Skeel, while pacing nervously about, looking for something that might offer a suggestion, probably espied the tweezers on the lady’s dressing-table—no lady nowadays is without these little eyebrow-pluckers, don’t y’ know—and immediately his problem was solved. It remained only to test the device. Before departing, however, he chiselled open the jewel-case which the other chap had merely dinted, and found the solitaire diamond ring that he later attempted to pawn. Then he erased, as he thought, all his finger-prints, forgetting to wipe off the inside door-knob of the closet, and overlooking the hand-mark on the table. After that, he let himself out quietly, and rebolted the side door the same as I did, stuffing the tweezers in his waistcoat pocket and forgetting them.”
Heath nodded his head oracularly.
“A crook, no matter how clever he is, always overlooks something.”
“Why single out crooks for your criticism, Sergeant?” asked Vance lazily. “Do you know of anybody in this imperfect world who doesn’t always overlook something?” He gave Heath a benignant smile. “Even the police, don’t y’ know, overlooked the tweezers.”
Heath grunted. His cigar had gone out, and he relighted it slowly and thoroughly.
“What do you think, Mr. Markham?”
“The situation doesn’t become much clearer,” was Markham’s gloomy comment.
“My theory isn’t exactly a blindin’ illumination,” said Vance. “Yet I wouldn’t say that it left things in pristine darkness. There are certain inferences to be drawn from my vagaries. To wit: Skeel either knew or recognized the murderer; and once he had made good his escape from the apartment and had regained a modicum of self-confidence, he undoubtedly blackmailed his homicidal confrère. His death was merely another manifestation of our inconnu’s bent for ridding himself of persons who annoyed him. Furthermore, my theory accounts for the chiselled jewel-case, the finger-prints, the unmolested closet, the finding of the gems in the refuse-tin—the person who took them really didn’t want them, y’ know—and Skeel’s silence. It also explains the unbolting and bolting of the side door.”
“Yes,” sighed Markham. “It seems to clarify everything but the one all-important point—the identity of the murderer.”
“Exactly,” said Vance. “Let’s go to lunch.”
Heath, morose and confused, departed for Police Headquarters; and Markham, Vance, and I rode to Delmonico’s, where we chose the main dining-room in preference to the grill.
“The case now would seem to centre in Cleaver and Mannix,” said Markham, when we had finished our luncheon. “If your theory that the same man killed