“Well! That makes it worth trying. I’ll have the officer at the Stuyvesant Club this afternoon, and I’ll point out Cleaver to him. … What other staggering revelations have you in store?”
“Mannix will bear looking into.”
Markham put down his knife and fork and leaned back.
“I’m overcome! Such Himalayan sagacity! With that evidence against him, he should be arrested at once. … Vance, my dear old friend, are you feeling quite normal? No dizzy spells lately? No shooting pains in the head? Knee-jerks all right?”
“Furthermore, Doctor Lindquist was wildly infatuated with the Canary, and insanely jealous. Recently threatened to take a pistol and hold a little pogrom of his own.”
“That’s better.” Markham sat up. “Where did you get this information?”
“Ah! That’s my secret.”
Markham was annoyed.
“Why so mysterious?”
“Needs must, old chap. Gave my word, and all that sort of thing. And I’m a bit quixotic, don’t y’ know—too much Cervantes in my youth.” He spoke lightly, but Markham knew him too well to push the question.
In less than five minutes after we had returned to the District Attorney’s office Heath came in.
“I got something else on Mannix, sir; thought you might want to add it to the report I turned in yesterday. Burke secured a picture of him, and showed it to the phone operators at Odell’s house. Both of ’em recognized it. He’s been there several times, but it wasn’t the Canary he called on. It was the woman in Apartment 2. She’s named Frisbee, and used to be one of Mannix’s fur models. He’s been to see her several times during the past six months, and has taken her out once or twice; but he hasn’t called on her for a month or more. … Any good?”
“Can’t tell.” Markham shot Vance an inquisitive look. “But thanks for the information, Sergeant.”
“By the by,” said Vance dulcetly, when Heath had left us, “I’m feeling tophole. No pains in the head; no dizzy spells. Knee-jerks perfect.”
“Delighted. Still, I can’t charge a man with murder because he calls on his fur model.”
“You’re so hasty! Why should you charge him with murder?” Vance rose and yawned. “Come, Van. I’d rather like to gaze on Perneb’s tomb at the Metropolitan this afternoon. Could you bear it?” At the door he paused. “I say, Markham, what about the Boonton bailiff?”
Markham rang for Swacker.
“I’ll see to it at once. Drop in at the club around five, if you feel like it. I’ll have the officer there then, as Cleaver is sure to come in before dinner.”
When Vance and I returned to the club late that afternoon, Markham was stationed in the lounge-room facing the main door of the rotunda; and beside him sat a tall, heavyset, bronzed man of about forty, alert but ill at ease.
“Traffic Officer Phipps arrived from Boonton a little while ago,” said Markham, by way of introduction. “Cleaver is expected at any moment now. He has an appointment here at half past five.”
Vance drew up a chair.
“I do hope he’s a punctual beggar.”
“So do I,” returned Markham viciously. “I’m looking forward to your felo-de-se.”
“ ‘Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair,’ ” murmured Vance.
Less than ten minutes later Cleaver entered the rotunda from the street, paused at the desk, and sauntered into the lounge-room. There was no escaping the observation point Markham had chosen; and as he walked by us he paused and exchanged greetings. Markham detained him a moment with a few casual questions; and then Cleaver passed on.
“That the man you ticketed, officer?” asked Markham, turning to Phipps.
Phipps was scowling perplexedly.
“It looks something like him, sir; there’s a kind of resemblance. But it ain’t him.” He shook his head. “No, sir; it ain’t him. The fellow I hung a summons on was stouter than this gent, and wasn’t as tall.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yes, sir—no mistake. The guy I tagged tried to argue with me, and then he tried to slip me a fiver to forget it. I had my headlight on him full.”
Phipps was dismissed with a substantial pourboire.
“Vae misero mihi!” sighed Vance. “My worthless existence is to be prolonged. Sad. But you must try to bear it. … I say, Markham, what does Pop Cleaver’s brother look like?”
“That’s it,” nodded Markham. “I’ve met his brother; he’s shorter and stouter. … This thing is getting beyond me. I think I’ll have it out with Cleaver now.”
He started to rise, but Vance forced him back into his seat.
“Don’t be impetuous. Cultivate patience. Cleaver’s not going to do a bunk; and there are one or two prelimin’ry steps strongly indicated. Mannix and Lindquist still seduce my curiosity.”
Markham clung to his point.
“Neither Mannix nor Lindquist is here now, and Cleaver is. And I want to know why he lied to me about that summons.”
“I can tell you that,” said Vance. “He wanted you to think he was in the wilds of New Jersey at midnight Monday.—Simple, what?”
“The inference is a credit to your intelligence! But I hope you don’t seriously think that Cleaver is guilty. It’s possible he knows something; but I certainly cannot picture him as a strangler.”
“And why?”
“He’s not the type. It’s inconceivable—even if there were evidence against him.”
“Ah! The psychological judgment! You eliminate Cleaver because you don’t think his nature harmonizes with the situation. I say, doesn’t that come perilously near being an esoteric hypothesis?—or a metaphysical deduction? … However, I don’t entirely agree with you in your application of the theory to Cleaver. That fish-eyed gambler has unsuspected potentialities for evil. But with the theory itself I am wholly in accord. And behold, my dear Markham: you yourself apply psychology in its abecedarian implications, yet ridicule my application of it in its higher developments. Consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds, y’ know, but it’s none the less a priceless jewel. … How about a cup of tea?”
We sought the Palm Room, and sat down at a table near the entrance. Vance ordered oolong tea, but Markham and I took black coffee. A very capable four-piece orchestra was playing Tchaikovsky’s
