The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
history?—what are his habits?—you know the kind of thing. He treated the girl for some mysterious or imaginary ailment; and I think he has something up his sleeve. But don’t go near him personally—yet.”
Heath jotted the name down in his note-book, without enthusiasm.
“And before you set your stylish captive free,” put in Vance, yawning, “you might, don’t y’ know, see if he carries a key that fits the Odell apartment.”
Heath jerked up short, and grinned.
“Now, that idea’s got some sense to it. . . . Funny I didn’t think of it myself.” And shaking hands with all of us, he went out.
13. Abe Rubin was at that time the most resourceful and unscrupulous criminal lawyer in New York. Since his disbarment two years ago, little has been heard from him.
CHAPTER XIII
AN ERSTWHILE GALLANT
(Wednesday, September 12; 10.30 a. m.)
Swacker was evidently waiting for an opportunity to interrupt, for, when Sergeant Heath had passed through the door, he at once stepped into the room.
“The reporters are here, sir,” he announced, with a wry face. “You said you’d see them at ten-thirty.”
In response to a nod from his Chief, he held open the door, and a dozen or more newspaper men came trooping in.
“No questions, please, this morning,” Markham begged pleasantly. “It’s too early in the game. But I’ll tell you all I know. . . . I agree with Sergeant Heath that the Odell murder was the work of a professional criminal—the same who broke into Arnheim’s house on Park Avenue last summer.”
Briefly he told of Inspector Brenner’s findings in connection with the chisel.
“We’ve made no arrests, but one may be expected in the very near future. In fact, the police have the case well in hand, but are going carefully in order to avoid any chance of an acquittal. We’ve already recovered some of the missing jewellery. . . .”
He talked to the reporters for five minutes or so, but he made no mention of the testimony of the maid or the phone operators, and carefully avoided the mention of any names.
When we were again alone, Vance chuckled admiringly.
“A masterly evasion, my dear Markham! Legal training has its advantages—decidedly it has its advantages. . . . ‘We’ve recovered some of the missing jewellery!’ Sweet wingèd words! Not an untruth—oh, no!—but how deceivin’! Really, y’ know, I must devote more time to the caressin’ art of suggestio falsi and suppressio veri. You should be crowned with an anadem of myrtle.”
“Leaving all that to one side,” Markham rejoined impatiently, “suppose you tell me, now that Heath’s gone, what was in your mind when you applied your verbal voodooism to Skeel. What was all the conjurer-talk about dark closets, and alarums, and pressing thumbs, and peering through keyholes?”
“Well, now, I didn’t think my little chit-chat was so cryptic,” answered Vance. “The recherché Tony was undoubtedly ambuscaded à la sourdine in the clothes-press at some time during the fatal evening; and I was merely striving, in my amateurish way, to ascertain the exact hour of his concealment.”
“And did you?”
“Not conclusively.” Vance shook his head sadly. “Y’ know, Markham, I’m the proud possessor of a theory—it’s vague and obscure and unsubstantial; and it’s downright unintelligible. And even if it were verified, I can’t see how it would help us any, for it would leave the situation even more incomprehensible than it already is. . . . I almost wish I hadn’t questioned Heath’s Beau Nash. He upset my ideas frightfully.”
“From what I could gather, you seem to think it possible that Skeel witnessed the murder. That couldn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, be your precious theory?”
“That’s part of it, anyway.”
“My dear Vance, you do astonish me!” Markham laughed outright. “Skeel, then, according to you, is innocent; but he keeps his knowledge to himself, invents an alibi, and doesn’t even tattle when he’s arrested. . . . It won’t hold water.”
“I know,” sighed Vance. “It’s a veritable sieve. And yet, the notion haunts me—it rides me like a hag—it eats into my vitals.”
“Do you realize that this mad theory of yours presupposes that, when Spotswoode and Miss Odell returned from the theatre, there were two men hidden in the apartment—two men unknown to each other—namely Skeel and your hypothetical murderer?”
“Of course I realize it; and the thought of it is breaking down my reason.”
“Furthermore, they must have entered the apartment separately, and hidden separately. . . . How, may I ask, did they get in? And how did they get out? And which one caused the girl to scream after Spotswoode had left? And what was the other one doing in the meantime? And if Skeel was a passive spectator, horrified and mute, how do you account for his breaking open the jewel-case and securing the ring——?”
“Stop! Stop! Don’t torture me so,” Vance pleaded. “I know I’m insane. Been given to hallucinations since birth; but—Merciful Heaven!—I’ve never before had one as crazy as this.”
“On that point at least, my dear Vance, we are in complete and harmonious agreement,” smiled Markham.
Just then Swacker came in and handed Markham a letter.
“Brought by messenger, and marked ‘immediate,’ ” he explained.
The letter, written on heavy engraved stationery, was from Doctor Lindquist, and explained that between the hours of 11 P. M. and 1 A. M. on Monday night he had been in attendance on a patient at his sanitarium. It also apologized for his actions when asked regarding his whereabouts, and offered a wordy, but not particularly convincing, explanation of his conduct. He had had an unusually trying day, it seemed—neurotic cases were trying, at best—and the suddenness of our visit, together with the apparently hostile nature of Markham’s questions, had completely upset him. He was more than sorry for his outburst, he said, and stood ready to assist in any way he could. It was unfortunate for all concerned, he added, that he had lost his temper, for it would have been a simple matter for him to explain about Monday night.
“He has thought the situation over calmly,” said Vance, “and hereby offers you a neat little alibi which, I think, you will have difficulty in shaking. . . . An artful beggar—like all these unbalanced pseudo-psychiatrists. Observe: he was with a patient. To be sure! What patient? Why, one too ill to be questioned. . . . There you are. A cul-de-sac masquerading as an alibi. Not bad, what?”
“It doesn’t interest me overmuch.” Markham put the letter away. “That pompous professional ass could never have got into the Odell apartment without having been seen; and I can’t picture him sneaking in by devious means.” He reached for some papers. . . . “And now, if you don’t object, I’ll make an effort to earn my $15,000 salary.”
But Vance, instead of making a move to go, sauntered to the table and opened a telephone directory.
“Permit me a suggestion, Markham,” he said, alter a moment’s search. “Put off your daily grind for a bit, and let’s hold polite converse with Mr. Louis Mannix. Y’ know, he’s the only presumptive swain of the inconstant Margaret, so far mentioned, who hasn’t been given an audience. I hanker to gaze upon him and hearken to his rune. He’d make the family circle complete, so to speak. . . . He still holds forth in Maiden Lane, I see; and it wouldn’t take long to fetch him here.”
Markham