The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
I don’t wonder he forgot all caution and put his hand on the table to steady himself. . . . And then came Spotswoode’s voice through the door, and the record’s answer. This must have puzzled Skeel. I imagine he thought for a moment he’d lost his reason. But pretty soon the significance of it dawned on him; and I can see him grinning to himself. Obviously he knew who the murderer was—it would not have been in keeping with his character had he failed to learn the identities of the Canary’s admirers. And now there had fallen into his lap, like manna from heaven, the most perfect opportunity for blackmail that any such charmin’ young gentleman could desire. He doubtless indulged himself with roseate visions of a life of opulence and ease at Spotswoode’s expense. When Cleaver phoned a few minutes later, he merely said the lady was out, and then set to work planning his own departure.”
“But I don’t see why he didn’t take the record with him.”
“And remove from the scene of the crime the one piece of unanswerable evidence? . . . Bad strategy, Markham. If he himself had produced the record later, Spotswoode would simply have denied all knowledge of it, and accused the blackmailer of a plot. Oh, no; Skeel’s only course was to leave it, and apply for an enormous settlement from Spotswoode at once. And I imagine that’s what he did. Spotswoode no doubt gave him something on account and promised him the rest anon, hoping in the meantime to retrieve the record. When he failed to pay, Skeel phoned you and threatened to tell everything, thinking to spur Spotswoode to action. . . . Well, he spurred him—but not to the action desired. Spotswoode probably met him by appointment last Saturday night, ostensibly to hand over the money, but, instead, throttled the chap. Quite in keeping with his nature, don’t y’ know. . . . Stout fella, Spotswoode.”
“The whole thing . . . it’s amazing.”
“I shouldn’t say that, now. Spotswoode had an unpleasant task to perform, and he set about it in a cool, logical, forthright, businesslike manner. He had decided that his little Canary must die for his peace of mind: she’d probably made herself most annoyin’. So he arranged the date—like any judge passing sentence on a prisoner at the bar—and then proceeded to fabricate an alibi. Being something of a mechanic, he arranged a mechanical alibi. The device he chose was simple and obvious enough—no tortuosities or complications. And it would have succeeded but for what the insurance companies piously call an act of God. No one can foresee accidents, Markham: they wouldn’t be accidental if one could. But Spotswoode certainly took every precaution that was humanly possible. It never occurred to him that you would thwart his every effort to return here and confiscate the record; and he couldn’t anticipate my taste in music, nor know that I would seek solace in the tonal art. Furthermore, when one calls on a lady, one doesn’t expect that another suitor is going to hide himself in the clothes-press. It isn’t done, don’t y’ know. . . . All in all, the poor johnny was beaten by a run of abominable luck.”
“You overlook the fiendishness of the crime,” Markham reproached him tartly.
“Don’t be so confoundedly moral, old thing. Every one’s a murderer at heart. The person who has never felt a passionate hankering to kill some one is without emotions. And do you think it’s ethics or theology that stays the average person from homicide? Dear no! It’s lack of courage—the fear of being found out, or haunted, or cursed with remorse. Observe with what delight the people en masse—to wit, the state—put men to death, and then gloat over it in the newspapers. Nations declare war against one another on the slightest provocation, so they can, with immunity, vent their lust for slaughter. Spotswoode, I’d say, is merely a rational animal with the courage of his convictions.”
“Society unfortunately isn’t ready for your nihilistic philosophy just yet,” said Markham. “And during the intervening transition human life must be protected.”
He rose resolutely, and going to the telephone, called up Heath.
“Sergeant,” he ordered, “get a John-Doe warrant and meet me immediately at the Stuyvesant Club. Bring a man with you—there’s an arrest to be made.”
“At last the law has evidence after its own heart,” chirped Vance, as he lazily donned his top-coat and picked up his hat and stick. “What a grotesque affair your legal procedure is, Markham! Scientific knowledge—the facts of psychology—mean nothing to you learned Solons. But a phonograph record—ah! There, now, is something convincing, irrefragable, final, what?”
On our way out Markham beckoned to the officer on guard.
“Under no conditions,” he said, “is any one to enter this apartment until I return—not even with a signed permit.”
When we had entered the taxicab, he directed the chauffeur to the club.
“So the newspapers want action, do they? Well, they’re going to get it. . . . You’ve helped me out of a nasty hole, old man.”
As he spoke, his eyes turned to Vance. And that look conveyed a profounder gratitude than any words could have expressed.
CHAPTER XXX
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 granted 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