“Leaving that point for a moment,” answered Markham non-committally, “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 sanitarium 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 sanitarium. 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 by, doctor, what is the name of the night nurse at your sanitarium?”
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 tomorrow 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 tomorrow 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 sanitarium 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 tomorrow 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 afreets in the city that
