“You may be right. But now we’re worse off than ever, for we haven’t even Skeel to guide us.”
“At least we’ve forced our elusive culprit to commit a second crime to cover up his first, don’t y’ know. And when we have learned what the Canary’s various amorists were doing last night between ten and twelve, we may have something suggestive on which to work.—By the by, when may we expect this thrillin’ information?”
“It depends upon what luck Heath’s men have. Tonight some time, if everything goes well.”
It was, in fact, about half past eight when Heath telephoned the reports. But here again Markham seemed to have drawn a blank. A less satisfactory account could scarcely be imagined. Doctor Lindquist had suffered a “nervous stroke” the preceding afternoon, and had been taken to the Episcopal Hospital. He was still there under the care of two eminent physicians whose word it was impossible to doubt; and it would be a week at least before he would be able to resume his work. This report was the only definite one of the four, and it completely exonerated the doctor from any participation in the previous night’s crime.
By a curious coincidence neither Mannix, nor Cleaver, nor Spotswoode could furnish a satisfactory alibi. All three of them, according to their statements, had remained at home the night before. The weather had been inclement; and though Mannix and Spotswoode admitted to having been out earlier in the evening, they stated that they had returned home before ten o’clock. Mannix lived in an apartment-hotel, and, as it was Saturday night, the lobby was crowded, so that no one would have been likely to see him come in. Cleaver lived in a small private apartment-house without a doorman or hallboys to observe his movements. Spotswoode was staying at the Stuyvesant Club, and since his rooms were on the third floor, he rarely used the elevator. Moreover, there had been a political reception and dance at the club the previous night, and he might have walked in and out at random a dozen times without being noticed.
“Not what you’d call illuminatin’,” said Vance, when Markham had given him this information.
“It eliminates Lindquist, at any rate.”
“Quite. And, automatically, it eliminates him as an object of suspicion in the Canary’s death also; for these two crimes are part of a whole—integers of the same problem. They complement each other. The latter was conceived in relation to the first—was, in fact, a logical outgrowth of it.”
Markham nodded.
“That’s reasonable enough. Anyway, I’ve passed the combative stage. I think I’ll drift for a while on the stream of your theory and see what happens.”
“What irks me is the disquietin’ feeling that positively nothing will happen unless we force the issue. The lad who maneuvered those two obits had real bean in him.”
As he spoke Spotswoode entered the room and looked about as if searching for someone. Catching sight of Markham, he came briskly forward, with a look of inquisitive perplexity.
“Forgive me for intruding, sir,” he apologized, nodding pleasantly to Vance and me, “but a police officer was here this afternoon inquiring as to my whereabouts last night. It struck me as strange, but I thought little of it until I happened to see the name of Tony Skeel in the headlines of a ‘special’ tonight and read he had been strangled. I remember you asked me regarding such a man in connection with Miss Odell, and I wondered if, by any chance, there could be any connection between the two murders, and if I was, after all, to be drawn into the affair.”
“No, I think not,” said Markham. “There seemed a possibility that the two crimes were related; and, as a matter of routine, the police questioned all the close friends of Miss Odell in the hope of turning up something suggestive. You may dismiss the matter from your mind. I trust,” he added, “the officer was not unpleasantly importunate.”
“Not at all.” Spotswoode’s look of anxiety disappeared. “He was extremely courteous but a bit mysterious.—Who was this man Skeel?”
“A half-world character and ex-burglar. He had some hold on Miss Odell, and, I believe, extorted money from her.”
A cloud of angry disgust passed over Spotswoode’s face.
“A creature like that deserves the fate that overtook him.”
We chatted on various matters until ten o’clock, when Vance rose and gave Markham a reproachful look.
“I’m going to try to recover some lost sleep. I’m temperamentally unfitted for a policeman’s life.”
Despite this complaint, however, nine o’clock the next morning found him at the District Attorney’s office. He had brought several newspapers with him, and was reading, with much amusement, the first complete accounts of Skeel’s murder. Monday was generally a busy day for Markham, and he had arrived at the office before half past eight in an effort to clean up some pressing routine matters before proceeding with his investigation of the Odell case. Heath, I knew, was to come for a conference at ten o’clock. In the meantime there was nothing for Vance to do but read the newspapers; and I occupied myself in like manner.
Punctually at ten Heath arrived, and from his manner it was plain that something had happened to cheer him immeasurably. He was almost jaunty, and his formal, self-satisfied salutation to Vance was like that of a conqueror to a vanquished adversary. He shook hands with Markham with more than his customary punctility.
“Our troubles are over, sir,” he said, and paused to light his cigar. “I’ve arrested Jessup.”
It was Vance who broke the dramatic silence following this astounding announcement.
“In the name of Heaven—what for?”
Heath turned deliberately, in no wise abashed by the other’s tone.
“For the murder of Margaret Odell and Tony Skeel.”
“Oh, my aunt! Oh, my precious aunt!” Vance sat up and stared at him in amazement. “Sweet angels of heaven, come down and solace me!”
Heath’s complacency was unshaken.
“You won’t need no angels, or
