The Canary Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  Markham frowned and then resumed his questioning.

  “You say you don’t know the name of Miss Odell’s dinner companion last night. Can you tell us the names of any men she was in the habit of going out with?”

  “Miss Odell never mentioned any names to me,” the woman said. “She was very careful about it, too—secretive, you might say. You see, I’m only here in the daytime, and the gentlemen she knew generally came in the evening.”

  “And you never heard her speak of any one of whom she was frightened—any one she had reason to fear?”

  “No, sir—although there was one man she was trying to get rid of. He was a bad character—I wouldn’t have trusted him anywhere—and I told Miss Odell she’d better look out for him. But she’d known him a long time, I guess, and had been pretty soft on him once.”

  “How do you happen to know this?”

  “One day, about a week ago,” the maid explained, “I came in after lunch, and he was with her in the other room. They didn’t hear me, because the portières were drawn. He was demanding money, and when she tried to put him off, he began threatening her. And she said something that showed she’d given him money before. I made a noise, and then they stopped arguing; and pretty soon he went out.”

  “What did this man look like?” Markham’s interest was reviving.

  “He was kind of thin—not very tall—and I’d say he was around thirty. He had a hard face—good-looking, some would say—and pale blue eyes that gave you the shivers. He always wore his hair greased back, and he had a little yellow moustache pointed at the ends.”

  “Ah!” said Vance. “Our gigolo!”

  “Has this man been here since?” asked Markham.

  “I don’t know, sir—not when I was here.”

  “That will be all,” said Markham; and the woman went out.

  “She didn’t help us much,” complained Heath.

  “What!” exclaimed Vance. “I think she did remarkably well. She cleared up several moot points.”

  “And just what portions of her information do you consider particularly illuminating?” asked Markham, with ill-concealed annoyance.

  “We now know, do we not,” rejoined Vance serenely, “that no one was lying perdu in here when the bonne departed yesterevening.”

  “Instead of that fact being helpful,” retorted Markham, “I’d say it added materially to the complications of the situation.”

  “It would appear that way, wouldn’t it, now? But, then—who knows?—it may prove to be your brightest and most comfortin’ clue... Furthermore, we learned that someone evidently locked himself in that clothes-press, as witness the shifting of the key, and that, moreover, this occultation did not occur until the abigail had gone, or, let us say, after seven o’clock.”

  “Sure,” said Heath with sour facetiousness; “when the side door was bolted and an operator was sitting in the front hall, who swears nobody came in that way.”

  “It is a bit mystifyin’,” Vance conceded sadly.

  “Mystifying? It’s impossible!” grumbled Markham.

  Heath, who was now staring with meditative pugnacity into the closet, shook his head helplessly.

  “What I don’t understand,” he ruminated, “is why, if the fellow was hiding in the closet, he didn’t ransack it when he came out, like he did all the rest of the apartment.”

  “Sergeant,” said Vance, “you’ve put your finger on the crux of the matter... Y’ know, the neat, undisturbed aspect of that closet rather suggests that the crude person who rifled these charming rooms omitted to give it his attention because it was locked on the inside and he couldn’t open it.”

  “Come, come!” protested Markham. “That theory implies that there were two unknown persons in here last night.”

  Vance sighed. “Harrow and alas! I know it. And we can’t introduce even one into this apartment logically... Distressin’, ain’t it?”

  Heath sought consolation in a new line of thought.

  “Anyway,” he submitted, “we know that the fancy fellow with the patent-leather pumps who called here last night at half past nine was probably Odell’s lover, and was grafting on her.”

  “And in just what recondite way does that obvious fact help to roll the clouds away?” asked Vance. “Nearly every modern Delilah has an avaricious amoroso. It would be rather singular if there wasn’t such a chap in the offing, what?”

  “That’s all right, too,” returned Heath. “But I’ll tell you something, Mr. Vance, that maybe you don’t know. The men that these girls lose their heads over are generally crooks of some kind—professional criminals, you understand. That’s why, knowing that this job was the work of a professional, it don’t leave me cold, as you might say, to learn that this fellow who was threatening Odell and grafting on her was the same one who was prowling round here last night... And I’ll say this, too: the description of him sounds a whole lot like the kind of high-class burglars that hang out at these swell all-night cafés.”

  “You’re convinced, then,” asked Vance mildly, “that this job, as you call it, was done by a professional criminal?”

  Heath was almost contemptuous in his reply. “Didn’t the guy wear gloves and use a jimmy? It was a yeggman’s job, all right.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT The Invisible Murderer

  (Tuesday, September 11; 11.45 a.m.)

  MARKHAM WENT TO the window and stood, his hands behind him, looking down into the little paved rear yard. After several minutes he turned slowly.

  “The situation, as I see it,” he said, “boils down to this:—The Odell girl has an engagement for dinner and the theatre with a man of some distinction. He calls for her a little after seven, and they go out together. At eleven o’clock they return. He goes with her into her apartment and remains half an hour. He leaves at half past eleven and asks the phone operator to call him a taxi. While he is waiting the girl screams and calls for help, and, in response to his inquiries, she tells him nothing is wrong and bids him go away. The taxi arrives, and he departs in it. Ten minutes later someone telephones her, and a man answers from her apartment. This morning she is found murdered, and the apartment ransacked.”

  He took a long draw on his cigar.

  “Now, it is obvious that when she and her escort returned last night, there was another man in this place somewhere; and it is also obvious that the girl was alive after her escort had departed. Therefore, we must conclude that the man who was already in the apartment was the person who murdered her. This conclusion is further corroborated by Doctor Doremus’s report that the crime occurred between eleven and twelve. But since her escort did not leave till half past eleven, and spoke with her after that time, we can put the actual hour of the murder as between half past eleven and midnight... These are the inferable facts from the evidence thus far adduced.”

  “There’s not much getting away from ’em,” agreed Heath.

  “At any rate, they’re interestin’,” murmured Vance.

  Markham, walking up and down earnestly, continued:

  “The features of the situation revolving round these inferable facts are as follows:—There was no one hiding in the apartment at seven o’clock—the hour the maid went home. Therefore, the murderer entered the apartment later. First, then, let us consider the side door. At six o’clock—an hour before the maid’s departure—the janitor bolted it on the inside, and both operators disavow emphatically that they went near it. Moreover, you, Sergeant, found it bolted this morning. Hence, we may assume that the door was bolted on the inside all night, and that nobody could have entered that way. Consequently, we are driven to the inevitable alternative that the murderer entered by the front door. Now, let us consider this other means of entry. The phone operator who was on duty until ten o’clock last night asserts positively that the only person who entered the front door and passed down the main hall to this apartment was a man who rang the bell and, getting no answer, immediately walked out again. The other operator, who was on duty from ten o�
��clock until this morning, asserts with equal positiveness that no one entered the front door and passed the switchboard coming to this apartment. Add to all this the fact that every window on this floor is barred, and that no one from upstairs can descend into the main hall without coming face to face with the operator, and we are, for the moment, confronted with an impasse.”

  Heath scratched his head, and laughed mirthlessly.

  “It don’t make sense, does it, sir?”

  “What about the next apartment?” asked Vance, “the one with the door facing the rear passageway—No. 2, I think?”

  Heath turned to him patronizingly. “I looked into that the first thing this morning. Apartment No. 2 is occupied by a single woman; and I woke her up at eight o’clock and searched the place. Nothing there. Anyway, you have to walk past the switchboard to reach her apartment the same as you do to reach this one; and nobody called on her or left her apartment last night. What’s more, Jessup, who’s a shrewd sound lad, told me this woman is a quiet, ladylike sort, and that she and Odell didn’t even know each other.”

  “You’re so thorough, Sergeant!” murmured Vance.

  “Of course,” put in Markham, “it would have been possible for someone from the other apartment to have slipped in here behind the operator’s back between seven and eleven, and then to have slipped back after the murder. But as Sergeant Heath’s search this morning failed to uncover any one, we can eliminate the possibility of our man having operated from that quarter.”

  “I dare say you’re right,” Vance indifferently admitted. “But it strikes me, Markham old dear, that your own affectin’ recapitulation of the situation jolly well eliminates the possibility of your man’s having operated from any quarter... And yet he came in, garroted the unfortunate damsel, and departed—eh, what?... It’s a charmin’ little problem. I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds.”

  “It’s uncanny,” pronounced Markham gloomily.

  “It’s positively spiritualistic,” amended Vance. “It has the caressin’ odor of a séance. Really, y’ know, I’m beginning to suspect that some medium was hovering in the vicinage last night doing some rather tip-top materializations... I say, Markham, could you get an indictment against an ectoplasmic emanation?”

  “It wasn’t no spook that made those finger-prints,” growled Heath, with surly truculence.

  Markham halted his nervous pacing and regarded Vance irritably.

  “Damn it! This is rank nonsense. The man got in some way, and he got out, too. There’s something wrong somewhere. Either the maid is mistaken about someone being here when she left, or else one of those phone operators went to sleep and won’t admit it.”

  “Or else one of ’em’s lying,” supplemented Heath.

  Vance shook his head. “The dusky fille de chambre, I’d say, is eminently trustworthy. And if there was any doubt about any one’s having come in the front door unnoticed, the lads on the switchboard would, in the present circumstances, be only too eager to admit it... No, Markham, you’ll simply have to approach this affair from the astral plane, so to speak.”

  Markham grunted his distaste of Vance’s jocularity.

  “That line of investigation I leave to you with your metaphysical theories and esoteric hypotheses.”

  “But, consider,” protested Vance banteringly. “You’ve proved conclusively—or, rather, you’ve demonstrated legally—that no one could have entered or departed from this apartment last night; and, as you’ve often told me, a court of law must decide all matters, not in accord with the known or suspected facts, but according to the evidence; and the evidence in this case would prove a sound alibi for every corporeal being extant. And yet, it’s not exactly tenable, d’ ye see, that the lady strangled herself. If only it had been poison, what an exquisite and satisfyin’ suicide case you’d have!... Most inconsiderate of her homicidal visitor not to have used arsenic instead of his hands!”

  “Well, he strangled her,” pronounced Heath. “Furthermore, I’ll lay my money on the fellow who called here last night at half past nine and couldn’t get in. He’s the bird I want to talk to.”

  “Indeed?” Vance produced another cigarette. “I shouldn’t say, to judge from our description of him, that his conversation would prove particularly fascinatin’.”

  An ugly light came into Heath’s eyes.

  “We’ve got ways,” he said through his teeth, “of getting damn interesting conversation outta people who haven’t no great reputation for repartee.”

  Vance sighed. “How the Four Hundred needs you, my Sergeant!”

  Markham looked at his watch.

  “I’ve got pressing work at the office,” he said, “and all this talk isn’t getting us anywhere.” He put his hand on Heath’s shoulder. “I leave you to go ahead. This afternoon I’ll have these people brought down to my office for another questioning—maybe I can jog their memories a bit... You’ve got some line of investigation planned?”

  “The usual routine,” replied Heath drearily. “I’ll go through Odell’s papers, and I’ll have three or four of my men check up on her.”

  “You’d better get after the Yellow Taxicab Company right away,” Markham suggested. “Find out, if you can, who the man was who left here at half past eleven last night, and where he went.”

  “Do you imagine for one moment,” asked Vance, “that if this man knew anything about the murder, he would have stopped in the hall and asked the operator to call a taxi for him?”

  “Oh, I don’t look for much in that direction.” Markham’s tone was almost listless. “But the girl may have said something to him that’ll give us a lead.”

  Vance shook his head facetiously. “O welcome pure-ey’d Faith, white-handed Hope, thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings!”

  Markham was in no mood for chaffing. He turned to Heath, and spoke with forced cheeriness.

  “Call me up later this afternoon. I may get some new evidence out of the outfit we’ve just interviewed... And,” he added, “be sure to put a man on guard here. I want this apartment kept just as it is until we see a little more light.”

  “I’ll attend to that,” Heath assured him.

  Markham and Vance and I went out and entered the car. A few minutes later we were winding rapidly across town through Central Park.

  “Recall our recent conversazione about footprints in the snow?” asked Vance, as we emerged into Fifth Avenue and headed south.

  Markham nodded abstractedly.

  “As I remember,” mused Vance, “in the hypothetical case you presented there were not only footprints but a dozen or more witnesses—including a youthful prodigy—who saw a figure of some kind cross the hibernal landscape... Grau, teurer Freund, ist alle Theorie! Here you are in a most beastly bother because of the disheartenin’ fact that there are neither footprints in the snow nor witnesses who saw a fleeing figure. In short, you are bereft of both direct and circumstantial evidence... Sad, sad.”

  He wagged his head dolefully.

  “Y’ know, Markham, it appears to me that the testimony in this case constitutes conclusive legal proof that no one could have been with the deceased at the hour of her passing, and that, ergo, she is presumably alive. The strangled body of the lady is, I take it, simply an irrelevant circumstance from the standpoint of legal procedure. I know that you learned lawyers won’t admit a murder without a body; but how, in sweet Heaven’s name, do you get around a corpus delicti without a murder?”

  “You’re talking nonsense,” Markham rebuked him, with a show of anger.

  “Oh, quite,” agreed Vance. “And yet, it’s a distressin’ thing for a lawyer not to have footprints of some kind, isn’t it, old dear? It leaves one so up in the air.”

  Suddenly Markham swung round. “You, of course, don’t need footprints, or any other kind of material clues,” he flung at Vance tauntingly. “You have powers of divination such as are denied ordinary mortals. If I remember correctly, you informed me, somewhat grandiloquently, that, knowing
the nature and conditions of a crime, you could lead me infallibly to the culprit, whether he left footprints or not. You recall that boast?... Well, here’s a crime, and the perpetrator left no footprints coming or going. Be so kind as to end my suspense by confiding in me who killed the Odell girl.”

  Vance’s serenity was not ruffled by Markham’s ill-humored challenge. He sat smoking lazily for several minutes; then he leaned over and flicked his cigarette ash out of the window.

  “’Pon my word, Markham,” he rejoined evenly, “I’m half inclined to look into this silly murder. I think I’ll wait, though, and see whom the nonplussed Heath turns up with his inquiries.”

  Markham grunted scoffingly, and sank back on the cushions.

  “Your generosity wrings me,” he said.

  CHAPTER NINE The Pack in Full Cry

  (Tuesday, September 11; afternoon)

  ON OUR WAY down-town that morning we were delayed for a considerable time in the traffic congestion just north of Madison Square, and Markham anxiously looked at his watch.

  “It’s past noon,” he said. “I think I’ll stop at the club and have a bite of lunch... I presume that eating at this early hour would be too plebeian for so exquisite a hothouse flower as you.”

  Vance considered the invitation.

  “Since you deprived me of my breakfast,” he decided, “I’ll permit you to buy me some eggs Bénédictine.”

  A few minutes later we entered the almost empty grill of the Stuyvesant Club, and took a table near one of the windows looking southward over the tree-tops of Madison Square.

  Shortly after we had given our order a uniformed attendant entered and, bowing deferentially at the District Attorney’s elbow, held out an unaddressed communication sealed in one of the club’s envelopes. Markham read it with an expression of growing curiosity, and as he studied the signature a look of mild surprise came into his eyes. At length he looked up and nodded to the waiting attendant. Then, excusing himself, he left us abruptly. It was fully twenty minutes before he returned.