“No special reason, y’ understand. Just thought it might be him. … No special reason.”
“Did Cleaver ever tell you he’d been blackmailed?”
“Cleaver tell me? … Now, I ask you, Mr. Markham: why should Cleaver tell me such a story—why should he?”
“And you never told Cleaver that the Odell girl had blackmailed you?”
“Positively not!” Mannix gave a scornful laugh which was far too theatrical to have been genuine. “Me tell Cleaver I’d been blackmailed? Now, that’s funny, that is.”
“Then why did you mention Cleaver a moment ago?”
“No reason at all—like I told you. … He knew the Canary; but that ain’t no secret.”
Markham dropped the subject.
“What do you know about Miss Odell’s relations with a Doctor Ambroise Lindquist?”
Mannix was now obviously perplexed.
“Never heard of him—no, never. She didn’t know him when I was taking her around.”
“Whom else besides Cleaver did she know well?”
Mannix shook his head ponderously.
“Now, that I couldn’t say—positively I couldn’t say. Seen her with this man and that, same as everybody saw her; but who they were I don’t know—absolutely.”
“Ever hear of Tony Skeel?” Markham quickly leaned over and met the other’s gaze inquiringly.
Once more Mannix hesitated, and his eyes glittered calculatingly.
“Well, now that you ask me, I believe I did hear of the fellow. But I couldn’t swear to it, y’ understand. … What makes you think I heard of this Skeel fellow?”
Markham ignored the question.
“Can you think of no one who might have borne Miss Odell a grudge, or had cause to fear her?”
Mannix was volubly emphatic on the subject of his complete ignorance of any such person; and after a few more questions, which elicited only denials, Markham let him go.
“Not bad at all, Markham old thing—eh, what?” Vance seemed pleased with the conference. “Wonder why he’s so coy? Not a nice person, this Mannix. And he’s so fearful lest he be informative. Again, I wonder why. He was so careful—oh, so careful.”
“He was sufficiently careful, at any rate, not to tell us anything,” declared Markham gloomily.
“I shouldn’t say that, don’t y’ know.” Vance lay back and smoked placidly. “A ray of light filtered through here and there. Our fur-importing philogynist denied he’d been blackmailed—which was obviously untrue—and tried to make us believe that he and the lovely Margaret cooed like turtledoves at parting.—Tosh! … And then, that mention of Cleaver. That wasn’t spontaneous—dear me, no. Brother Mannix and spontaneity are as the poles apart. He had a reason for bringing Cleaver in; and I fancy that if you knew what that reason was, you’d feel like flinging roses riotously, and that sort of thing. Why Cleaver? That secret-de-Polichinelle explanation was a bit weak. The orbits of these two paramours cross somewhere. On that point, at least, Mannix inadvertently enlightened us. … Moreover, it’s plain that he doesn’t know our fashionable healer with the satyr ears. But, on the other hand, he’s aware of the existence of Mr. Skeel, and would rather like to deny the acquaintance. … So—voilà l’affaire. Plenty of information; but—my word!—what to do with it?”
“I give it up,” acknowledged Markham hopelessly.
“I know: it’s a sad, sad world,” Vance commiserated him. “But you must face the olla podrida with a bright eye. It’s time for lunch, and a fillet of sole Marguéry will cheer you no end.”
Markham glanced at the clock, and permitted himself to be led to the Lawyers Club.
XIV
Vance Outlines a Theory
(Wednesday, September 12; evening)
Vance and I did not return to the District Attorney’s office after lunch, for Markham had a busy afternoon before him, and nothing further was likely to transpire in connection with the Odell case until Sergeant Heath had completed his investigations of Cleaver and Doctor Lindquist. Vance had seats for Giordano’s Madame Sans-Gêne, and two o’clock found us at the Metropolitan. Though the performance was excellent, Vance was too distrait to enjoy it; and it was significant that, after the opera, he directed the chauffeur to the Stuyvesant Club. I knew he had a tea appointment, and that he had planned to motor to Longue Vue for dinner; and the fact that he should have dismissed these social engagements from his mind in order to be with Markham showed how intensely the problem of the murder had absorbed his interest.
It was after six o’clock when Markham came in, looking harassed and tired. No mention of the case was made during dinner, with the exception of Markham’s casual remark that Heath had turned in his reports on Cleaver and Doctor Lindquist and Mannix. (It seemed that, immediately after lunch, he had telephoned to the Sergeant to add Mannix’s name to the two others as a subject for inquiry.) It was not until we had retired to our favorite corner of the lounge-room that the topic of the murder was brought up for discussion.
And that discussion, brief and one-sided, was the beginning of an entirely new line of investigation—a line which, in the end, led to the guilty person.
Markham sank wearily into his chair. He had begun to show the strain of the last two days of fruitless worry. His eyes were a trifle heavy, and there was a grim tenacity in the lines of his mouth. Slowly and deliberately he lighted a cigar, and took several deep inhalations.
“Damn the newspapers!” he grumbled. “Why can’t they let the District Attorney’s office handle its business in its own way? … Have you seen the afternoon papers? They’re all clamoring for the murderer. You’d think I had him up my sleeve.”
“You forget, my dear chap,” grinned Vance, “that we are living under the benign and upliftin’ reign of Democritus, which confers upon every ignoramus the privilege of promiscuously criticising his betters.”
Markham snorted.
“I don’t complain about criticism: it’s the lurid imagination of these bright young reporters that galls me. They’re trying to turn this sordid crime into a spectacular Borgia melodrama, with passion running rampant, and mysterious influences at work, and all the pomp and trappings of a medieval romance. … You’d
