of this morning. The case was pried open with a specially-made cold chisel such as only a professional burglar would carry or would know how to use. It had an inch-and-three-eighths beveled bit and a one-inch flat handle. It was an old instrument—there was a peculiar nick in the blade—and is the same one that was used in a successful housebreak on upper Park Avenue early last summer.… Does that highly exciting information ameliorate your anxiety?”
“Can’t say that it does.” Vance had again become serious and perplexed. “In fact, it makes the situation still more fantastic.… I could see a glimmer of light—eerie and unearthly, perhaps, but still a perceptible illumination—in all this murkiness if it wasn’t for that jewel case and the steel chisel.”
Markham was about to answer when Swacker again looked in and informed him that Sergeant Heath had arrived and wanted to see him.
Heath’s manner was far less depressed than when we had taken leave of him that morning. He accepted the cigar Markham offered him, and seating himself at the conference table in front of the district attorney’s desk, drew out a battered notebook.
“We’ve had a little good luck,” he began. “Burke and Emery—two of the men I put on the case—got a line on Odell at the first place they made inquiries. From what they learned, she didn’t run around with many men—limited herself to a few live wires, and played the game with what you’d call finesse.… The principal one—the man who’s been seen most with her—is Charles Cleaver.”
Markham sat up. “I know Cleaver—if it’s the same one.”
“It’s him, all right,” declared Heath. “Former Brooklyn Tax Commissioner; been interested in a poolroom for pony-betting over in Jersey City ever since. Hangs out at the Stuyvesant Club, where he can hobnob with his old Tammany Hall cronies.”
“That’s the one,” nodded Markham. “He’s a kind of professional gay dog—known as Pop, I believe.”
Vance gazed into space.
“Well, well,” he murmured. “So old Pop Cleaver was also entangled with our subtle and sanguine Dolores. She certainly couldn’t have loved him for his beaux yeux.”
“I thought, sir,” went on Heath, “that, seeing as how Cleaver is always in and out of the Stuyvesant Club, you might ask him some questions about Odell. He ought to know something.”
“Glad to, Sergeant.” Markham made a note on his pad. “I’ll try to get in touch with him tonight.… Anyone else on your list?”
“There’s a fellow named Mannix—Louis Mannix—who met Odell when she was in the ‘Follies’; but she chucked him over a year ago, and they haven’t been seen together since. He’s got another girl now. He’s the head of the firm of Mannix and Levine, fur importers, and is one of your nightclub rounders—a heavy spender. But I don’t see much use of barking up that tree—his affair with Odell went cold too long ago.”
“Yes,” agreed Markham; “I think we can eliminate him.”
“I say, if you keep up this elimination much longer,” observed Vance, “you won’t have anything left but the lady’s corpse.”
“And then, there’s the man who took her out last night,” pursued Heath. “Nobody seems to know his name—he must’ve been one of those discreet, careful old boys. I thought at first he might have been Cleaver, but the descriptions don’t tally.… And by the way, sir, here’s a funny thing: when he left Odell last night he took the taxi down to the Stuyvesant Club and got out there.”
Markham nodded. “I know all about that, Sergeant. And I know who the man was; and it wasn’t Cleaver.”
Vance was chuckling. “The Stuyvesant Club seems to be well in the forefront of this case,” he said. “I do hope it doesn’t suffer the sad fate of the Knickerbocker Athletic.”33
Heath was intent on the main issue.
“Who was the man, Mr. Markham?”
Markham hesitated, as if pondering the advisability of taking the other into his confidence. Then he said: “I’ll tell you his name, but in strict confidence. The man was Kenneth Spotswoode.”
He then recounted the story of his being called away from lunch, and of his failure to elicit any helpful suggestions from Spotswoode. He also informed Heath of his verification of the man’s statements regarding his movements after meeting Judge Redfern at the club.
“And,” added Markham, “since he obviously left the girl before she was murdered, there’s no necessity to bother him. In fact, I gave him my word I’d keep him out of it for his family’s sake.”
“If you’re satisfied, sir, I am.” Heath closed his notebook and put it away. “There’s just one other little thing. Odell used to live on 110th Street, and Emery dug up her former landlady and learned that this fancy guy the maid told us about used to call on her regularly.”
“That reminds me, Sergeant.” Markham picked up the memorandum he had made during Inspector Brenner’s phone call. “Here’s some data the Professor gave me about the forcing of the jewel case.”
Heath studied the paper with considerable eagerness. “Just as I thought!” He nodded his head with satisfaction. “Clear-cut professional job, by somebody who’s been in the line of work before.”
Vance roused himself. “Still, if such is the case,” he said, “why did this experienced burglar first use the insufficient poker? And why did he overlook the living room clothes press?”
“I’ll find all that out, Mr. Vance, when I get my hands on him,” asserted Heath, with a hard look in his eyes. “And the guy I want to have a nice quiet little chat with is the one with the pleated silk shirt and the chamois gloves.”
“Chacun à son goût,” sighed Vance. “For myself, I have no yearning whatever to hold converse with him. Somehow, I can’t just picture a professional looter trying to rend a steel box with a cast iron poker.”
“Forget the poker,” Heath advised gruffly. “He jimmied the box with a steel chisel; and that same chisel was used last summer in another burglary on Park Avenue. What about that?”
“Ah! That’s what torments me, Sergeant. If it wasn’t for that disturbin’ fact, d’ ye see, I’d be lightsome and sans souci this afternoon, inviting my soul over a dish of tea at Claremont.”
Detective Bellamy was announced, and Heath sprang to his feet. “That’ll mean news about those fingerprints,” he prophesied hopefully.
Bellamy entered unemotionally and walked up to the district attorney’s desk.
“Cap’n Dubois sent me over,” he said. “He thought you’d want the report on those Odell prints.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a small flat folder which, at a sign from Markham, he handed to Heath. “We identified ’em. Both made by the same hand, like Cap’n Dubois said: and that hand belonged to Tony Skeel.”
“‘Dude’ Skeel, eh?” The sergeant’s tone was vibrant with suppressed excitement. “Say, Mr. Markham, that gets us somewhere. Skeel’s an ex-convict and an artist in his line.”
He opened the folder and took out an oblong card and a sheet of blue paper containing eight or ten lines of typewriting. He studied the card, gave a satisfied grunt, and handed it to Markham. Vance and I stepped up and looked at it. At the top was the familiar rogues’ gallery photograph showing the full face and profile of a regular-featured youth with thick hair and a square chin. His eyes were wide-set and pale, and he wore a small, evenly trimmed moustache with waxed, needlepoint ends. Below the double photograph was a brief tabulated description of its sitter, giving his name, aliases, residence, and Bertillon measurements, and designating the character of his illegal profession. Underneath were ten little squares arranged in two rows, each containing a fingerprint impress made in black ink—the