He stopped and looked down at his cigar ash. A venomous hatred gleamed from his narrowed eyes, and the muscles of his jowls hardened.
“No use lying about it. She had those letters and things, and she touched me for a neat little sum before I got ’em back. …”
“When was this?”
There was a momentary hesitation. “Last June,” Cleaver replied. Then he hurried on: “Mr. Markham”—his voice was bitter—“I don’t want to throw mud on a dead person; but that woman was the shrewdest, coldest-blooded blackmailer it’s ever been my misfortune to meet. And I’ll say this, too: I wasn’t the only easy mark she squeezed. She had others on her string. … I happen to know she once dug into old Louey Mannix for a plenty—he told me about it.”
“Could you give me the names of any of these other men?” asked Markham, attempting to dissemble his eagerness. “I’ve already heard of the Mannix episode.”
“No, I couldn’t.” Cleaver spoke regretfully. “I’ve seen the Canary here and there with different men; and there’s one in particular I’ve noticed lately. But they were all strangers to me.”
“I suppose the Mannix affair is dead and buried by this time?”
“Yes—ancient history. You won’t get any line on the situation from that angle. But there are others—more recent than Mannix—who might bear looking into, if you could find them. I’m easygoing myself; take things as they come. But there’s a lot of men who’d go redheaded if she did the things to them that she did to me.”
Cleaver, despite his confession, did not strike me as easygoing, but rather as a cold, self-contained, nerveless person whose immobility was at all times dictated by policy and expediency.
Markham studied him closely.
“You think, then, her death may have been due to vengeance on the part of some disillusioned admirer?”
Cleaver carefully considered his answer.
“Seems reasonable,” he said finally. “She was riding for a fall.”
There was a short silence; then Markham asked:
“Do you happen to know of a young man she was interested in—good-looking, small, blond moustache, light blue eyes—named Skeel?”
Cleaver snorted derisively.
“That wasn’t the Canary’s specialty—she let the young ones alone, as far as I know.”
At this moment a pageboy approached Cleaver, and bowed.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s a phone call for your brother. Party said it was important and, as your brother isn’t in the club now, the operator thought you might know where he’d gone.”
“How would I know?” fumed Cleaver. “Don’t ever bother me with his calls.”
“Your brother in the city?” asked Markham casually. “I met him years ago. He’s a San Franciscan, isn’t he?”
“Yes—rabid Californian. He’s visiting New York for a couple of weeks so he’ll appreciate Frisco more when he gets back.”
It seemed to me that this information was given reluctantly; and I got the impression that Cleaver, for some reason, was annoyed. But Markham, apparently, was too absorbed in the problem before him to take notice of the other’s disgruntled air, for he reverted at once to the subject of the murder.
“I happen to know one man who has been interested in the Odell woman recently; he may be the same one you’ve seen her with—tall, about forty-five, and wears a gray, close-cropped moustache.” (He was, I knew, describing Spotswoode.)
“That’s the man,” averred Cleaver. “Saw them together only last week at Mouquin’s.”
Markham was disappointed.
“Unfortunately, he’s checked off the list. … But there must be somebody who was in the girl’s confidence. You’re sure you couldn’t cudgel your brains to any advantage?”
Cleaver appeared to think.
“If it’s merely a question of someone who had her confidence,” he said, “I might suggest Doctor Lindquist—first name’s Ambroise, I think; and he lives somewhere in the Forties near Lexington Avenue. But I don’t know that he’d be of any value to you. Still, he was pretty close to her at one time.”
“You mean that this Doctor Lindquist might have been interested in her otherwise than professionally?”
“I wouldn’t like to say.” Cleaver smoked for a while as if inwardly debating the situation. “Anyway, here are the facts: Lindquist is one of these exclusive society specialists—a neurologist he calls himself—and I believe he’s the head of a private sanitarium of some kind for nervous women. He must have money, and, of course, his social standing is a vital asset to him—just the sort of man the Canary might have selected as a source of income. And I know this: he came to see her a good deal oftener than a doctor of his type would be apt to. I ran into him one night at her apartment, and when she introduced us, he wasn’t even civil.”
“It will at least bear looking into,” replied Markham unenthusiastically. “You’ve no one else in mind who might know something helpful?”
Cleaver shook his head.
“No—no one.”
“And she never mentioned anything to you that indicated she was in fear of anyone, or anticipated trouble?”
“Not a word. Fact is, I was bowled over by the news. I never read any paper but the morning Herald—except, of course, The Daily Racing Form at night. And as there was no account of the murder in this morning’s paper, I didn’t hear about it until just before dinner. The boys in the billiard-room were talking about it, and I went out and looked at an afternoon paper. If it hadn’t been for that, I might not have known of it till tomorrow morning.”
Markham discussed the case with him until half past eight, but could elicit no further suggestions. Finally Cleaver rose to go.
“Sorry I couldn’t give you more help,” he said. His rubicund face was beaming now, and he shook hands
