The Canary Murder Case Page 11

  Heath was waiting impatiently when we arrived. His eager and covertly triumphant expression plainly indicated good news.

  “Things are breaking fine and dandy,” he announced, when we had sat down. He himself was too elated to relax, and stood before Markham’s desk rolling a large black cigar between his fingers. “We got the Dude—six o’clock yesterday evening—and we got him right. One of the C. O. boys, named Riley, who was patrolling Sixth Avenue in the Thirties, saw him swing off a surface car and head for McAnerny’s Pawn-Shop. Right away Riley wigwags the traffic officer on the corner, and follows the Dude into McAnerny’s. Pretty soon the traffic officer comes in with a patrolman, who he’s picked up; and the three of ’em nab our stylish friend in the act of pawning this ring.”

  He tossed a square solitaire diamond in a filigreed platinum setting on the District Attorney’s desk.

  “I was at the office when they brought him in, and I sent Snitkin with the ring up to Harlem to see what the maid had to say about it, and she identified it as belonging to Odell.”

  “But, I say, it wasn’t a part of the bijouterie the lady was wearing that night, was it, Sergeant?” Vance put the question casually.

  Heath jerked about and eyed him with sullen calculation.

  “What if it wasn’t? It came out of that jimmied jewel-case—or I’m Ben Hur.”

  “Of course it did,” murmured Vance, lapsing into lethargy.

  “And that’s where we’re in luck,” declared Heath, turning back to Markham. “It connects Skeel directly with the murder and the robbery.”

  “What has Skeel to say about it?” Markham was leaning forward intently. “I suppose you questioned him.”

  “I’ll say we did,” replied the Sergeant; but his tone was troubled. “We had him up all night giving him the works. And the story he tells is this: he says the girl gave him the ring a week ago, and that he didn’t see her again until the afternoon of the day before yesterday. He came to her apartment between four and five—you remember the maid said she was out then—and entered and left the house by the side door, which was unlocked at that time. He admits he called again at half past nine that night, but he says that when he found she was out, he went straight home and stayed there. His alibi is that he sat up with his landlady till after midnight playing Khun Khan and drinking beer. I hopped up to his place this morning, and the old girl verified it. But that don’t mean anything. The house he lives in is a pretty tough hang-out, and this landlady, besides being a heavy boozer, has been up the river a coupla times for shoplifting.”

  “What does Skeel say about the finger-prints?”

  “He says, of course, he made ’em when he was there in the afternoon.”

  “And the one on the closet door-knob?”

  Heath gave a derisive grunt.

  “He’s got an answer for that, too—says he thought he heard someone coming in, and locked himself in the clothes-closet. Didn’t want to be seen and spoil any game Odell mighta been playing.”

  “Most considerate of him to keep out of the way of the belles poires,” drawled Vance. “Touchin’ loyalty, what?”

  “You don’t believe the rat, do you, Mr. Vance?” asked Heath, with indignant surprise.

  “Can’t say that I do. But our Antonio at least spins a consistent yarn.”

  “Too damn consistent to suit me,” growled the Sergeant.

  “That’s all you could get out of him?” It was plain that Markham was not pleased with the results of Heath’s third degree of Skeel.

  “That’s about all, sir. He stuck to his story like a leech.”

  “You found no chisel in his room?”

  Heath admitted that he hadn’t.

  “But you couldn’t expect him to keep it around,” he added.

  Markham pondered the facts for several minutes.

  “I can’t see that we’ve got a very good case, however much we may be convinced of Skeel’s guilt. His alibi may be thin, but taken in connection with the phone operator’s testimony, I’m inclined to think it would hold tight in court.”

  “What about the ring, sir?” Heath was desperately disappointed. “And what about his threats, and his finger-prints, and his record of similar burglaries?”

  “Contributory factors only,” Markham explained. “What we need for a murder is more than a prima facie case. A good criminal lawyer could have him discharged in twenty minutes, even if I could secure an indictment. It’s not impossible, you know, that the woman gave him the ring a week ago—you recall that the maid said he was demanding money from her about that time. And there’s nothing to show that the finger-prints were not actually made late Monday afternoon. Moreover, we can’t connect him in any way with the chisel, for we don’t know who did the Park Avenue job last summer. His whole story fits the facts perfectly; and we haven’t anything contradictory to offer.”

  Heath shrugged helplessly; all the wind had been taken out of his sails.

  “What do you want done with him?” he asked desolately.

  Markham considered—he, too, was discomfited.

  “Before I answer I think I’ll have a go at him myself.”

  He pressed a buzzer, and ordered a clerk to fill out the necessary requisition. When it had been signed in duplicate, he sent Swacker with it to Ben Hanlon.

  “Do ask him about those silk shirts,” suggested Vance. “And find out, if you can, if he considers a white waistcoat de rigueur with a dinner-jacket.”

  “This office isn’t a male millinery shop,” snapped Markham.

  “But, Markham dear, you won’t learn anything else from this Petronius.”

  Ten minutes later a deputy sheriff from the Tombs entered with his handcuffed prisoner.

  Skeel’s appearance that morning belied his sobriquet of Dude. He was haggard and pale; his ordeal of the previous night had left its imprint upon him. He was unshaven; his hair was uncombed; the ends of his moustache drooped; and his cravat was awry. But despite his bedraggled condition, his manner was jaunty and contemptuous. He gave Heath a defiant leer and faced the District Attorney with swaggering indifference.

  To Markham’s questions he doggedly repeated the same story he had told Heath. He clung tenaciously to every detail of it with the ready accuracy of a man who had painstakingly memorized a lesson and was thoroughly familiar with it. Markham coaxed, threatened, bullied. All hint of his usual affability was gone; he was like an inexorable dynamic machine. But Skeel, whose nerves seemed to be made of iron, withstood the vicious fire of his cross-questioning without wincing; and, I confess, his resistance somewhat aroused my admiration despite my revulsion toward him and all he stood for.

  After half an hour Markham gave up, completely baffled in his efforts to elicit any damaging admissions from the man. He was about to dismiss him when Vance rose languidly and strolled to the District Attorney’s desk. Seating himself on the edge of it, he regarded Skeel with impersonal curiosity.

  “So you’re a devotee of Khun Khan, eh?” he remarked indifferently. “Silly game, what? More interestin’ than Conquain or Rum, though. Used to be played in the London clubs. Of East Indian origin, I believe... You still play it with two decks, I suppose, and permit round-the-corner mating?”

  An involuntary frown gathered on Skeel’s forehead. He was used to violent District Attorneys and familiar with the bludgeoning methods of the police, but here was a type of inquisitor entirely new to him; and it was plain that he was both puzzled and apprehensive. He decided to meet this novel antagonist with a smirk of arrogant amusement.

  “By the bye,” continued Vance, with no change in tone, “can any one hidden in the clothes-press of the Odell living-room see the davenport through the keyhole?”

  Suddenly all trace of a smile was erased from the man’s features.

  “And I say,” Vance hurried on, his eyes fixed steadily on the other, “why didn’t you give the alarm?”

  I was watching Skeel closely, and, though his set expression did not alter, I saw the pup
ils of his eyes dilate. Markham, also, I think, noted this phenomenon.

  “Don’t bother to answer,” pursued Vance, as the man opened his lips to speak. “But tell me: didn’t the sight shake you up a bit?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Skeel retorted with sullen impertinence. But, for all his sang-froid, one sensed an uneasiness in his manner. There was an overtone of effort in his desire to appear indifferent, which robbed his words of complete conviction.

  “Not a pleasant situation, that.” Vance ignored his retort. “How did you feel, crouching there in the dark, when the closet door-knob was turned and someone tried to get in?” His eyes were boring into the man.

  The muscles of Skeel’s face tightened, but he did not speak.

  “Lucky thing you took the precaution of locking yourself in—eh, what?” Vance went on. “Suppose he’d got the door open—my word! Then what?...”

  He paused and smiled with a kind of silky sweetness more impressive than any glowering aggression.

  “I say, did you have your steel chisel ready for him? Maybe he’d have been too quick and strong for you—maybe there would have been thumbs pressing against your larynx too before you could have struck him—eh?... Did you think of that, there in the dark?... No, not precisely a pleasant situation. A bit gruesome, in fact.”

  “What are you raving about?” Skeel spat out insolently. “You’re balmy.” But his swagger had been forgotten, and a look akin of horror had passed across his face. This slackening of pose was momentary, however; almost at once his smirk returned, and his head swayed in contempt.

  Vance sauntered back to his chair and stretched himself in it listlessly, as if all his interest in the case had again evaporated.

  Markham had watched the little drama attentively, but Heath had sat smoking with ill-concealed annoyance. The silence that followed was broken by Skeel.

  “Well, I suppose I’m to be railroaded. Got it all planned, have you?... Try and railroad me!” He laughed harshly. “My lawyer’s Abe Rubin, and you might phone him that I’d like to see him.”*

  Markham, with a gesture of annoyance, waved to the deputy sheriff to take Skeel back to the Tombs.

  “What were you trying to get at?” he asked Vance, when the man was gone.

  “Just an elusive notion in the depths of my being struggling for the light.” Vance smoked placidly a moment. “I thought Mr. Skeel might be persuaded to pour out his heart to us. So I wooed him with words.”

  “That’s bully,” gibed Heath. “I was expecting you any minute to ask him if he played mumbly-peg or if his grandmother was a hoot-owl.”

  “Sergeant, dear Sergeant,” pleaded Vance, “don’t be unkind. I simply couldn’t endure it... And really, now, didn’t my chat with Mr. Skeel suggest a possibility to you?”

  “Sure,” said Heath, “—that he was hiding in the closet when Odell was killed. But where does that get us? It lets Skeel out, although the job was a professional one, and he was caught red-handed with some of the swag.”

  He turned disgustedly to the District Attorney.

  “And now what, sir?”

  “I don’t like the look of things,” Markham complained. “If Skeel has Abe Rubin to defend him, we won’t stand a chance with the case we’ve got. I feel convinced he was mixed up in it; but no judge will accept my personal feelings as evidence.”

  “We could turn the Dude loose, and have him tailed,” suggested Heath grudgingly. “We might catch him doing something that’ll give the game away.”

  Markham considered.

  “That might be a good plan,” he acceded. “We’ll certainly get no more evidence on him as long as he’s locked up.”

  “It looks like our only chance, sir.”

  “Very well,” agreed Markham. “Let him think we’re through with him: he may get careless. I’ll leave the whole thing to you, Sergeant. Keep a couple of good men on him day and night. Something may happen.”

  Heath rose, an unhappy man.

  “Right, sir. I’ll attend to it.”

  “And I’d like to have more data on Charles Cleaver,” added Markham. “Find out what you can of his relations with the Odell girl.—Also, get me a line on Doctor Ambroise Lindquist. What’s his history?—what are his habits?—you know the kind of thing. He treated the girl for some mysterious or imaginary ailment; and I think he has something up his sleeve. But don’t go near him personally—yet.”

  Heath jotted the name down in his note-book, without enthusiasm.

  “And before you set your stylish captive free,” put in Vance, yawning, “you might, don’t y’ know, see if he carries a key that fits the Odell apartment.”

  Heath jerked up short, and grinned.

  “Now, that idea’s got some sense to it... Funny I didn’t think of it myself.” And, shaking hands with all of us, he went out.

  Footnote

  * Abe Rubin was at that time the most resourceful and unscrupulous criminal lawyer in New York. Since his disbarment two years ago, little has been heard from him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN An Erstwhile Gallant

  (Wednesday, September 12; 10.30 a.m.)

  SWACKER WAS EVIDENTLY waiting for an opportunity to interrupt, for, when Sergeant Heath had passed through the door, he at once stepped into the room.

  “The reporters are here, sir,” he announced, with a wry face. “You said you’d see them at ten-thirty.”

  In response to a nod from his Chief, he held open the door, and a dozen or more newspaper men came trooping in.

  “No questions, please, this morning,” Markham begged pleasantly. “It’s too early in the game. But I’ll tell you all I know... I agree with Sergeant Heath that the Odell murder was the work of a professional criminal—the same who broke into Arnheim’s house on Park Avenue last summer.”

  Briefly he told of Inspector Brenner’s findings in connection with the chisel.

  “We’ve made no arrest, but one may be expected in the very near future. In fact, the police have the case well in hand, but are going carefully in order to avoid any chance of an acquittal. We’ve already recovered some of the missing jewellery...”

  He talked to the reporters for five minutes or so, but he made no mention of the testimony of the maid or the phone operators, and carefully avoided the mention of any names.

  When we were again alone, Vance chuckled admiringly.

  “A masterly evasion, my dear Markham! Legal training has its advantages—decidedly it has its advantages... ‘We’ve recovered some of the missing jewellery!’ Sweet wingèd words! Not an untruth—oh, no!—but how deceivin’! Really, y’ know, I must devote more time to the caressin’ art of suggestio falsi and suppressio veri. You should be crowned with an anadem of myrtle.”

  “Leaving all that to one side,” Markham rejoined impatiently, “suppose you tell me, now that Heath’s gone, what was in your mind when you applied your verbal voodooism to Skeel. What was all the conjurer-talk about dark closets, and alarums, and pressing thumbs, and peering through keyholes?”

  “Well, now, I didn’t think my little chit-chat was so cryptic,” answered Vance. “The recherché Tony was undoubtedly ambuscaded à la sourdine in the clothes-press at some time during the fatal evening; and I was merely striving, in my amateurish way, to ascertain the exact hour of his concealment.”

  “And did you?”

  “Not conclusively.” Vance shook his head sadly. “Y’ know, Markham, I’m the proud possessor of a theory—it’s vague and obscure and unsubstantial; and it’s downright unintelligible. And even if it were verified, I can’t see how it would help us any, for it would leave the situation even more incomprehensible than it already is... I almost wish I hadn’t questioned Heath’s Beau Nash. He upset my ideas frightfully.”

  “From what I could gather, you seem to think it possible that Skeel witnessed the murder. That couldn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, be your precious theory?”

  “That’s part of it, anyway.”

&
nbsp; “My dear Vance, you do astonish me!” Markham laughed outright. “Skeel, then, according to you, is innocent; but he keeps his knowledge to himself, invents an alibi, and doesn’t even tattle when he’s arrested... It won’t hold water.”

  “I know,” sighed Vance. “It’s a veritable sieve. And yet, the notion haunts me—it rides me like a hag—it eats into my vitals.”

  “Do you realize that this mad theory of yours presupposes that, when Spotswoode and Miss Odell returned from the theatre, there were two men hidden in the apartment—two men unknown to each other—namely Skeel and your hypothetical murderer?”

  “Of course I realize it; and the thought of it is breaking down my reason.”

  “Furthermore, they must have entered the apartment separately, and hidden separately... How, may I ask, did they get in? And how did they get out? And which one caused the girl to scream after Spotswoode had left? And what was the other one doing in the meantime? And if Skeel was a passive spectator, horrified and mute, how do you account for his breaking open the jewel-case and securing the ring—?”

  “Stop! Stop! Don’t torture me so,” Vance pleaded. “I know I’m insane. Been given to hallucinations since birth; but—Merciful Heaven!—I’ve never before had one as crazy as this.”

  “On that point at least, my dear Vance, we are in complete and harmonious agreement,” smiled Markham.

  Just then Swacker came in and handed Markham a letter.

  “Brought by messenger, and marked ‘immediate,’ ” he explained.

  The letter, written on heavy engraved stationery, was from Doctor Lindquist, and explained that between the hours of 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. on Monday night he had been in attendance on a patient at his sanatorium. It also apologized for his actions when asked regarding his whereabouts, and offered a wordy, but not particularly convincing, explanation of his conduct. He had had an unusually trying day, it seemed—neurotic cases were trying, at best—and the suddenness of our visit, together with the apparently hostile nature of Markham’s questions, had completely upset him. He was more than sorry for his outburst, he said, and stood ready to assist in any way he could. It was unfortunate for all concerned, he added, that he had lost his temper, for it would have been a simple matter for him to explain about Monday night.