“Leaving that point for a moment,” answered Markham noncommittally, “will you give me more specific information as to your whereabouts Monday night?”
Again I noted a yellow tinge creep over the man’s features, and his body stiffened perceptibly. But when he spoke, it was with his habitual suavity.
“I considered that my note to you covered that question satisfactorily. What did I omit?”
“What was the name of the patient on whom you were calling that night?”
“Mrs. Anna Breedon. She is the widow of the late Amos H. Breedon of the Breedon National Bank of Long Branch.”
“And you were with her, I believe you stated, from eleven until one?”
“That is correct.”
“And was Mrs. Breedon the only witness to your presence at the sanatorium between those hours?”
“I am afraid that is so. You see, after ten o’clock at night I never ring the bell. I let myself in with my own key.”
“And I suppose that I may be permitted to question Mrs. Breedon?”
Doctor Lindquist was profoundly regretful.
“Mrs. Breedon is a very ill woman. She suffered a tremendous shock at the time of her husband’s death last summer, and has been practically in a semiconscious condition ever since. There are times when I even fear for her reason. The slightest disturbance or excitement might produce very serious results.”
He took a newspaper cutting from a gold-edged letter case and handed it to Markham.
“You will observe that this obituary notice mentions her prostration and confinement in a private sanatorium. I have been her physician for years.”
Markham, after glancing at the cutting, handed it back. There was a short silence broken by a question from Vance.
“By the bye, Doctor, what is the name of the night nurse at your sanatorium?”
Doctor Lindquist looked up quickly.
“My night nurse? Why—what has she to do with it? She was very busy Monday night. I can’t understand... Well, if you want her name I have no objection. It’s Finckle—Miss Amelia Finckle.”
Vance wrote down the name and, rising, carried the slip of paper to Heath.
“Sergeant, bring Miss Finckle here to-morrow morning at eleven,” he said, with a slight lowering of one eyelid.
“I sure will, sir. Good idea.” His manner boded no good for Miss Finckle.
A cloud of apprehension spread over Doctor Lindquist’s face.
“Forgive me if I say that I am insensible to the sanity of your cavalier methods.” His tone betrayed only contempt. “May I hope that for the present your inquisition is ended?”
“I think that will be all, Doctor,” returned Markham politely. “May I have a taxicab called for you?”
“Your consideration overwhelms me. But my car is below.” And Doctor Lindquist haughtily withdrew.
Markham immediately summoned Swacker and sent him for Tracy. The detective came at once, polishing his pince-nez and bowing affably. One would have taken him for an actor rather than a detective, but his ability in matters requiring delicate handling was a byword in the department.
“I want you to fetch Mr. Louis Mannix again,” Markham told him. “Bring him here at once; I’m waiting to see him.”
Tracy bowed genially and, adjusting his glasses, departed on his errand.
“And now,” said Markham, fixing Vance with a reproachful look, “I want to know what your idea was in putting Lindquist on his guard about the night nurse. Your brain isn’t at par this afternoon. Do you think I didn’t have the nurse in mind? And now you’ve warned him. He’ll have until eleven to-morrow morning to coach her in her answers. Really, Vance, I can’t conceive of anything better calculated to defeat us in our attempt to substantiate the man’s alibi.”
“I did put a little fright into him, didn’t I?” Vance grinned complacently. “Whenever your antagonist begins talking exaggeratedly about the insanity of your notions, he’s already deuced hot under the collar. But, Markham old thing, don’t burst into tears over my mental shortcomings. If you and I both thought of the nurse, don’t you suppose the wily doctor also thought of her? If this Miss Finckle were the type that could be suborned, he would have enlisted her perjurious services two days ago, and she would have been mentioned, along with the comatose Mrs. Breedon, as a witness to his presence at the sanatorium Monday night. The fact that he avoided all reference to the nurse shows that she’s not to be wheedled into swearing falsely... No, Markham. I deliberately put him on his guard. Now he’ll have to do something before we question Miss Finckle. And I’m vain enough to think I know what it’ll be.”
“Let me get this right,” put in Heath. “Am I, or am I not, to round up the Finckle woman to-morrow morning?”
“There’ll be no need,” said Vance. “We are doomed, I fear, not to gaze upon this Florence Nightingale. A meeting between us is about the last thing the doctor would desire.”
“That may be true,” admitted Markham. “But don’t forget that he may have been up to something Monday night wholly unconnected with the murder, that he simply doesn’t want known.”
“Quite—quite. And yet, nearly everyone who knew the Canary seems to have selected Monday night for the indulgence of sub-rosa peccadilloes. It’s a bit thick, what? Skeel tries to make us believe he was immersed in Khun Khan. Cleaver was—if you take his word for it—touring the countryside in Jersey’s lake district. Lindquist wants us to picture him as comforting the afflicted. And Mannix, I happen to know, has gone to some trouble to build up an alibi in case we get nosey. All of ’em, in fact, were doing something they don’t want us to know about. Now, what was it? And why did they, of one accord, select the night of the murder for mysterious affairs which they don’t dare mention, even to clear themselves of suspicion? Was there an invasion of efreets in the city that night? Was there a curse on the world, driving men to dark bawdy deeds? Was there Black Magic abroad? I think not.”
“I’m laying my money on Skeel,” declared Heath stubbornly. “I know a professional job when I see it. And you can’t get away from those finger-prints and the Professor’s report on the chisel.”
Markham was sorely perplexed. His belief in Skeel’s guilt had, I knew, been undermined in some measure by Vance’s theory that the crime was the carefully premeditated act of a shrewd and educated man. But now he seemed to swing irresolutely back to Heath’s point of view.
“I’ll admit,” he said, “that Lindquist and Cleaver and Mannix don’t inspire one with a belief in their innocence. But since they’re all tarred with the same stick, the force of suspicion against them is somewhat dispersed. After all, Skeel is the only logical aspirant for the rôle of strangler. He’s the only one with a visible motive; and he’s the only one against whom there’s any evidence.”
Vance sighed wearily.
“Yes, yes. Finger-prints—chisel marks. You’re such a trustin’ soul, Markham. Skeel’s finger-prints are found in the apartment; therefore, Skeel strangled the lady. So beastly simple. Why bother further? A chose jugée—an adjudicated case. Send Skeel to the chair, and that’s that!... It’s effective, y’ know, but is it art?”
“In your critical enthusiasm you understate our case against Skeel,” Markham reminded him testily.
“Oh, I’ll grant that your case against him is ingenious. It’s so deuced ingenious I just haven’t the heart to reject it. But most popular truth is mere ingenuity—that’s why it’s so wrong-headed. Your theory would appeal strongly to the popular mind. And yet, y’ know, Markham, it isn’t true.”
The practical Heath was unmoved. He sat stolidly, scowling at the table. I doubt if he had even heard the exchange of opinions between Markham and Vance.
“You know, Mr. Markham,” he said, like one unconsciously voicing an obscure line of thought, “if we could show how Skeel got in and out of Odell’s apartment, we’d have a better case against him. I can’t figure it out—it’s got me stopped. So, I’ve been thinking we oughta get an archit
ect to go over those rooms. The house is an old-timer—God knows when it was originally built—and there may be some way of getting into it that we haven’t discovered yet.”
“’Pon my soul!” Vance stared at him in satirical wonderment. “You’re becoming downright romantic! Secret passageways—hidden doors—stairways between the walls. So that’s it, is it? Oh, my word!... Sergeant, beware of the cinema. It has ruined many a good man. Try grand opera for a while—it’s more borin’ but less corruptin’.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Vance.” Apparently Heath himself did not relish the architectural idea particularly. “But as long as we don’t know how Skeel got in, it’s just as well to make sure of a few ways he didn’t get in.”
“I agree with you, Sergeant,” said Markham. “I’ll get an architect on the job at once.” He rang for Swacker, and gave the necessary instructions.
Vance extended his legs and yawned.
“All we need now is a Favourite of the Harem, a few blackamoors with palm-leaf fans, and some pizzicato music.”
“You will joke, Mr. Vance.” Heath lit a fresh cigar. “But even if the architect don’t find anything wrong with the apartment, Skeel’s liable to give his hand away ’most any time.”
“I’m pinnin’ my childish faith on Mannix,” said Vance. “I don’t know why I should; but he’s not a nice man, and he’s suppressing something.—Markham, don’t you dare let him go until he tells you where he was Monday night. And don’t forget to hint mysteriously about the fur model.”
CHAPTER TWENTY A Midnight Witness
(Friday, September 14; 3.30 p.m.)
IN LESS THAN half an hour Mannix arrived. Heath relinquished his seat to the newcomer, and moved to a large chair beneath the windows. Vance had taken a 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 flag-pole.
“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 any one 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 any one 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 72nd, 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.”
The Canary Murder Case Page 17
