he was informed that Guilfoyle had as yet made no report.
“That’s damn funny,” he commented, hanging up the receiver.
It was now twenty minutes past ten. Markham was growing restive. The tenacity with which the Canary murder case had resisted all his efforts toward a solution had filled him with discouragement; and he had hoped, almost desperately, that this morning’s interview with Skeel would clear up the mystery, or at least supply him with information on which definite action could be taken. Now, with Skeel late for this all-important appointment, the strain was becoming tense.
He pushed back his chair nervously and, going to the window, gazed out into the dark haze of fine rain. When he returned to his desk his face was set.
“I’ll give our friend until half past ten,” he said grimly. “If he isn’t here then, Sergeant, you’d better call up the local station-house and have them send a patrol-wagon for him.”
There was another few minutes of silence. Vance lolled in his chair with half-closed eyes, but I noticed that, though he still held his cigarette, he was not smoking. His forehead was puckered by a frown, and he was very quiet. I knew that some unusual problem was occupying him. His lethargy had in it a quality of intentness and concentration.
As I watched him he suddenly sat up straight, his eyes open and alert. He tossed his dead cigarette into the receiver with a jerky movement that attested to some inner excitation.
“Oh, my word!” he exclaimed. “It really can’t be, y’ know! And yet”—his face darkened—“and yet, by Jove, that’s it! . . . What an ass I’ve been—what an unutterable ass! . . . Oh!”
He sprang to his feet; then stood looking down at the floor like a man dazed, afraid of his own thoughts.
“Markham, I don’t like it—I don’t like it at all.” He spoke almost as if he were frightened. “I tell you, there’s something terrible going on—something uncanny. The thought of it makes my flesh creep. . . . I must be getting old and sentimental,” he added, with an effort at lightness; but the look in his eyes belied his tone. “Why didn’t I see this thing yesterday? . . . But I let it go on. . . .”
We were all staring at him in amazement. I had never seen him affected in this way before, and the fact that he was habitually so cynical and aloof, so adamant to emotion and impervious to outside influences, gave his words and actions an impelling and impressive quality.
After a moment he shook himself slightly, as if to throw off the pall of horror that had descended upon him, and, stepping to Markham’s desk, he leaned over, resting on both hands.
“Don’t you see?” he asked. “Skeel’s not coming. No use to wait—no use of our having come here in the first place. We have to go to him. He’s waiting for us. . . . Come! Get your hat.”
Markham had risen, and Vance took him firmly by the arm.
“You needn’t argue,” he persisted. “You’ll have to go to him sooner or later. You might as well go now, don’t y’ know.—My word! What a situation!”
He had led Markham, astonished and but mildly protesting, into the middle of the room, and he now beckoned to Heath with his free hand.
“You, too, Sergeant. Sorry you had all this trouble. My fault. I should have foreseen this thing. A devilish shame; but my mind was on Monets all yesterday afternoon. . . . You know where Skeel lives?”
Heath nodded mechanically. He had fallen under the spell of Vance’s strange and dynamic importunities.
“Then don’t wait.—And, Sergeant! You’d better bring Burke or Snitkin along. They won’t be needed here—nobody’ll be needed here any more to-day.”
Heath looked inquiringly to Markham for counsel; his bewilderment had thrown him into a state of mute indecision. Markham nodded his approval of Vance’s suggestions, and, without a word, slipped into his raincoat. A few minutes later the four of us, accompanied by Snitkin, had entered Vance’s car and were lurching up-town. Swacker had been sent home; the office had been locked up; and Burke and Emery had departed for the Homicide Bureau to await further instructions.
Skeel lived in 35th Street, near the East River, in a dingy, but once pretentious, house which formerly had been the residence of some old family of the better class. It now had an air of dilapidation and decay; there was rubbish in the areaway; and a large sign announcing rooms for rent was posted in one of the ground-floor windows.
As we drew up before it Heath sprang to the street and looked sharply about him. Presently he espied an unkempt man slouching in the doorway of a grocery-store diagonally opposite, and beckoned to him. The man shambled over furtively.
“It’s all right, Guilfoyle,” the Sergeant told him. “We’re paying the Dude a social visit.—What’s the trouble? Why didn’t you report?”
Guilfoyle looked surprised.
“I was told to phone in when he left the house, sir. But he ain’t left yet. Mallory tailed him home last night round ten o’clock, and I relieved Mallory at nine this morning. The Dude’s still inside.”
“Of course he’s still inside, Sergeant,” said Vance, a bit impatiently.
“Where’s his room situated, Guilfoyle?” asked Heath.
“Second floor, at the back.”
“Right. We’re going in.—Stand by.”
“Look out for him,” admonished Guilfoyle. “He’s got a gat.”
Heath took the lead up the worn steps which led from the pavement to the little vestibule. Without ringing, he roughly grasped the door-knob and shook it. The door was unlocked, and we stepped into the stuffy lower hallway.
A bedraggled woman of about forty, in a disreputable dressing-gown, and with hair hanging in strings over her shoulders, emerged suddenly from a rear door and came toward us unsteadily, her bleary eyes focused on us with menacing resentment.
“Say!” she burst out, in a rasping voice. “What do youse mean by bustin’ in like this on a respectable lady?” And she launched forth upon a stream of profane epithets.
Heath, who was nearest her, placed his large hand over her face, and gave her a gentle but firm shove backward.
“You keep outa this, Cleopatra!” he advised her, and began to ascend the stairs.
The second-floor hallway was dimly lighted by a small flickering gas-jet, and at the rear we could distinguish the outlines of a single door set in the middle of the wall.
“That’ll be Mr. Skeel’s abode,” observed Heath.
He walked up to it and, dropping one hand in his right coat-pocket, turned the knob. But the door was locked. He then knocked violently upon it, and placing his ear to the jamb, listened. Snitkin stood directly behind him, his hand also in his pocket. The rest of us remained a little in the rear.
Heath had knocked a second time when Vance’s voice spoke up from the semidarkness.
“I say, Sergeant, you’re wasting time with all that formality.”
“I guess you’re right,” came the answer after a moment of what seemed unbearable silence.
Heath bent down and looked at the lock. Then he took some instrument from his pocket and inserted it into the keyhole.
“You’re right,” he repeated. “The key’s gone.”
He stepped back and, balancing on his toes like a sprinter, sent his shoulders crashing against the panel directly over the knob. But the lock held.
“Come on, Snitkin,” he ordered.
The two detectives hurled themselves against the door. At the third onslaught there was a splintering of wood and a tearing of the lock’s bolt through the moulding. The door swung drunkenly inward.
The