doesn’t matter particularly,” he remarked indifferently, “whether you discuss the matter or not here in the club tonight. If you prefer to be brought to my office in the morning by a sheriff with a subpoena, I’ll be only too glad to accommodate you.”
“That’s up to you,” Cleaver told him hostilely.
“And what’s printed in the newspapers about it will be up to the reporters,” rejoined Markham. “I’ll explain the situation to them and give them a verbatim report of the interview.”
“But I’ve nothing to tell you.” The other’s tone was suddenly conciliatory; the idea of publicity was evidently highly distasteful to him.
“So you informed me before,” said Markham coldly. “Therefore I wish you good evening.”
He turned to Vance and me with the air of a man who had terminated an unpleasant episode.
Cleaver, however, made no move to go. He smoked thoughtfully for a minute or two; then he gave a short, hard laugh which did not even disturb the contours of his face.
“Oh, hell!” he grumbled, with forced good nature. “As you said, I’m not on the witness stand.… What do you want to know?”
“I’ve told you the situation.” Markham’s voice betrayed a curious irritation. “You know the sort of thing I want. How did this Odell girl live? Who were her intimates? Who would have been likely to want her out of the way? What enemies had she?—Anything that might lead us to an explanation of her death.… And incidentally,” he added with tartness, “anything that’ll eliminate yourself from any suspected participation, direct or indirect, in the affair.”
Cleaver stiffened at these last words and started to protest indignantly. But immediately he changed his tactics. Smiling contemptuously, he took out a leather pocket case and, extracting a small folded paper, handed it to Markham.
“I can eliminate myself easily enough,” he proclaimed, with easy confidence. “There’s a speeding summons from Boonton, New Jersey. Note the date and the time: September the tenth—last night—at half past eleven. Was driving down to Hopatcong, and was ticketed by a motorcycle cop just as I had passed Boonton and was heading for Mountain Lakes. Got to appear in court there tomorrow morning. Damn nuisance, these country constables.” He gave Markham a long, calculating look. “You couldn’t square it for me, could you? It’s a rotten ride to Jersey, and I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”
Markham, who had inspected the summons casually, put it in his pocket.
“I’ll attend to it for you,” he promised, smiling amiably. “Now tell me what you know.”
Cleaver puffed meditatively on his cigar. Then, leaning back and crossing his knees, he spoke with apparent candor.
“I doubt if I know much that’ll help you.… I liked the Canary, as she was called—in fact, was pretty much attached to her at one time. Did a number of foolish things; wrote her a lot of damn-fool letters when I went to Cuba last year. Even had my picture taken with her down at Atlantic City.” He made a self-condemnatory grimace. “Then she began to get cool and distant; broke several appointments with me. I raised the devil with her, but the only answer I got was a demand for money.…”
He stopped and looked down at his cigar ash. A venomous hatred gleamed from his narrowed eyes, and the muscles of his jowls hardened.
“No use lying about it. She had those letters and things, and she touched me for a neat little sum before I got ’em back.…”
“When was this?”
There was a momentary hesitation. “Last June,” Cleaver replied. Then he hurried on: “Mr. Markham”—his voice was bitter—“I don’t want to throw mud on a dead person; but that woman was the shrewdest, coldest-blooded blackmailer it’s ever been my misfortune to meet. And I’ll say this, too: I wasn’t the only easy mark she squeezed. She had others on her string.… I happen to know she once dug into old Louey Mannix for a plenty—he told me about it.”
“Could you give me the names of any of these other men?” asked Markham, attempting to dissemble his eagerness. “I’ve already heard of the Mannix episode.”
“No, I couldn’t.” Cleaver spoke regretfully. “I’ve seen the Canary here and there with different men; and there’s one in particular I’ve noticed lately. But they were all strangers to me.”
“I suppose the Mannix affair is dead and buried by this time?”
“Yes—ancient history. You won’t get any line on the situation from that angle. But there are others—more recent than Mannix—who might bear looking into, if you could find them. I’m easygoing myself; take things as they come. But there’s a lot of men who’d go red-headed if she did the things to them that she did to me.”
Cleaver, despite his confession, did not strike me as easygoing, but rather as a cold, self-contained, nerveless person whose immobility was at all times dictated by policy and expediency.
Markham studied him closely.
“You think, then, her death may have been due to vengeance on the part of some disillusioned admirer?”
Cleaver carefully considered his answer. “Seems reasonable,” he said finally. “She was riding for a fall.”
There was a short silence; then Markham asked: “Do you happen to know of a young man she was interested in—good-looking, small, blond moustache, light blue eyes—named Skeel?”
Cleaver snorted derisively. “That wasn’t the Canary’s specialty—she let the young ones alone, as far as I know.”
At this moment a pageboy approached Cleaver and bowed. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s a phone call for your brother. Party said it was important and, as your brother isn’t in the club now, the operator thought you might know where he’d gone.”
“How would I know?” fumed Cleaver. “Don’t ever bother me with his calls.”
“Your brother in the city?” asked Markham casually. “I met him years ago. He’s a San Franciscan, isn’t he?”
“Yes—rabid Californian. He’s visiting New York for a couple of weeks so he’ll appreciate Frisco more when he gets back.”
It seemed to me that this information was given reluctantly; and I got the impression that Cleaver, for some reason, was annoyed. But Markham, apparently, was too absorbed in the problem before him to take notice of the other’s disgruntled air, for he reverted at once to the subject of the murder. “I happen to know one man who has been interested in the Odell woman recently; he may be the same one you’ve seen her with—tall, about forty-five, and wears a gray, closed-cropped moustache.” (He was, I knew, describing Spotswoode.)
“That’s the man,” averred Cleaver. “Saw them together only last week at Mouquin’s.”
Markham was disappointed. “Unfortunately, he’s checked off the list.… But there must be somebody who was in the girl’s confidence. You’re sure you couldn’t cudgel your brains to my advantage?”
Cleaver appeared to think.
“If it’s merely a question of someone who had her confidence,” he said, “I might suggest Doctor Lindquist—first name’s Ambroise, I think; and he lives somewhere in the Forties near Lexington Avenue. But I don’t know that he’d be of any value to you. Still, he was pretty close to her at one time.”
“You mean that this Doctor Lindquist might have been interested in her otherwise than professionally?”
“I wouldn’t like to say.” Cleaver smoked for a while as if inwardly debating the situation. “Anyway, here are the facts: Lindquist is one of these exclusive society specialists—a neurologist he calls himself—and I believe he’s the head of a private sanitarium of some kind for nervous women. He must have money, and,