“It’s wholly consonant, though, with the psychological reactions which are apt to follow the inhibitions produced by such mortification,” submitted Vance. “But what does he do? Whence cometh his lucre?”
“His father manufactured automobile accessories, made a fortune at it, and left the business to him. He tinkers at it, but not seriously, though I believe he has designed a few appurtenances.”
“I do hope the hideous cut-glass olla for holding paper bouquets is not one of them. The man who invented that tonneau decoration is capable of any fiendish crime.”
“It couldn’t have been Spotswoode then,” said Markham tolerantly, “for he certainly can’t qualify as your potential strangler. We know the girl was alive after he left her, and that, during the time she was murdered, he was with Judge Redfern. … Even you, friend Vance, couldn’t manipulate those facts to the gentleman’s disadvantage.”
“On that, at least, we agree,” conceded Vance. “And that’s all you know of the gentleman?”
“I think that’s all, except that he married a well-to-do woman—a daughter of a Southern senator, I believe.”
“Doesn’t help any. … And now, let’s have Mannix’s history.”
Markham referred to a typewritten sheet of paper.
“Both parents immigrants—came over in the steerage. Original name Mannikiewicz, or something like that. Born on the East Side; learned the fur business in his father’s retail shop in Hester Street; worked for the Sanfrasco Cloak Company, and got to be factory foreman. Saved his money, and sweetened the pot by manipulating real estate; then went into the fur business for himself, and steadily worked up to his present opulent state. Public school, and night commercial college. Married in 1900 and divorced a year later. Lives a gay life—helps support the night clubs, but never gets drunk. I suppose he comes under the head of a spender and wine-opener. Has invested some money in musical comedies, and always has a stage beauty in tow. Runs to blondes.”
“Not very revealin’,” sighed Vance. “The city is full of Mannixes. … What did you garner in connection with our bon-ton medico?”
“The city has its quota of Doctor Lindquists, too, I fear. He was brought up in a small Middle-West bailiwick—French and Magyar extraction; took his M.D. from the Ohio State Medical, practised in Chicago—some shady business there, but never convicted; came to Albany and got in on the X-ray-machine craze; invented a breast-pump and formed a stock company—made a small fortune out of it; went to Vienna for two years—”
“Ah, the Freudian motif!”
“—returned to New York, and opened a private sanitarium; charged outrageous prices, and thereby endeared himself to the nouveau riche. Has been at the endearing process ever since. Was defendant in a breach-of-promise suit some years ago, but the case was settled out of court. He’s not married.”
“He wouldn’t be,” commented Vance. “Such gentry never are. … Interestin’ summary, though—yes, decidedly interestin’. I’m tempted to develop a psychoneurosis and let Ambroise treat me. I do so want to know him better. And where—oh, where—was this egregious healer at the moment of our erring sister’s demise? Ah, who can tell, my Markham: who knows—who knows?”
“In any event, I don’t think he was murdering anyone.”
“You’re so prejudicial!” said Vance. “But let us move reluctantly on.—What’s your portrait parlé of Cleaver? The fact that he’s familiarly called Pop is helpful as a starter. You simply couldn’t imagine Beethoven being called Shorty, or Bismarck being referred to as Snookums.”
“Cleaver has been a politician most of his life—a Tammany Hall ‘regular.’ Was a ward-boss at twenty-five; ran a Democratic club of some kind in Brooklyn for a time; was an alderman for two terms, and practised general law. Was appointed Tax Commissioner; left politics, and raised a small racing-stable. Later secured an illegal gambling concession at Saratoga; and now operates a poolroom in Jersey City. He’s what you might call a professional sport. Loves his liquor.”
“No marriages?”
“None on the records.—But see here: Cleaver’s out of it. He was ticketed in Boonton that night at half past eleven.”
“Is that, by any chance, the watertight alibi you mentioned a moment ago?”
“In my primitive legal way I considered it as such.” Markham resented Vance’s question. “The summons was handed him at half past eleven: it’s so marked and dated. And Boonton is fifty miles from here—a good two hours’ motor ride. Therefore, Cleaver unquestionably left New York about half past nine; and even if he’d driven directly back, he couldn’t have reached here until long after the time the Medical Examiner declared the girl was dead. As a matter of routine, I investigated the summons, and even spoke by phone to the officer who issued it. It was genuine enough—I ought to know: I had it quashed.”
“Did this Boonton Dogberry know Cleaver by sight?”
“No, but he gave me an accurate description of him. And naturally he took the car’s number.”
Vance looked at Markham with open-eyed sorrow.
“My dear Markham—my very dear Markham—can’t you see that all you’ve actually proved is that a bucolic traffic Nemesis handed a speed-violation summons to a smooth-faced, middle-aged, stout man who was driving Cleaver’s car near Boonton at half past eleven on the night of the murder? … And, my word! Isn’t that exactly the sort of alibi the old boy would arrange if he intended taking the lady’s life at midnight or thereabouts?”
“Come, come!” laughed Markham. “That’s a bit too farfetched. You’d give every lawbreaker credit for concocting schemes of the most diabolical cunning.”
“So I would,” admitted Vance apathetically. “And—d’ye know?—I rather fancy that’s just the kind of schemes a lawbreaker would concoct, if he was planning a murder, and his own life was at stake. What really amazes me is the naive assumption of you investigators that a murderer gives no intelligent thought whatever to his future safety. It’s rather touchin’, y’ know.”
Markham grunted.
“Well, you can take it from me, it was Cleaver himself who got that summons.”
“I dare say you’re right,” Vance conceded. “I merely suggested the possibility of deception, don’t y’ know.
