was just half past two when Swacker announced the return of Tracy with the four witnesses; and for two hours Markham questioned and cross-questioned them with a thoroughness and an insight that even I, as a lawyer, had rarely seen equalled. His interrogation of the two phone operators was quite different from his casual questioning of them earlier in the day; and if there had been a single relevant omission in their former testimony, it would certainly have been caught now by Markham’s gruelling catechism. But when, at last, they were told they could go, no new information had been brought to light. Their stories now stood firmly grounded: no one—with the exception of the girl herself and her escort, and the disappointed visitor at half past nine—had entered the front door and passed down the hall to the Odell apartment from seven o’clock on; and no one had passed out that way. The janitor reiterated stubbornly that he had bolted the side door a little after six, and no amount of wheedling or aggression could shake his dogged certainty on that point. Amy Gibson, the maid, could add nothing to her former testimony. Markham’s intensive examination of her produced only repetitions of what she had already told him.
Not one new possibility—not one new suggestion—was brought out. In fact, the two hours’ interlocutory proceedings resulted only in closing up every loophole in a seemingly incredible situation. When, at half past four, Markham sat back in his chair with a weary sigh, the chance of unearthing a promising means of approach to the astonishing problem seemed more remote than ever.
Vance closed his treatise on arson, and threw away his cigarette.
“I tell you, Markham old chap,” he grinned, “this case requires umbilicular contemplation, not routine. Why not call in an Egyptian seeress with a flair for crystal-gazing?”
“If this sort of thing goes on much longer,” returned Markham dispiritedly, “I’ll be tempted to take your advice.”
Just then Swacker looked in through the door to say that Inspector Brenner was on the wire. Markham picked up the telephone receiver, and as he listened he jotted down some notes on a pad. When the call had ended, he turned to Vance.
“You seemed disturbed over the condition of the steel jewel-case we found in the bedroom. Well, the expert on burglar tools just called up; and he verifies his opinion 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 bevelled 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 house-break 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 note-book.
“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 pool-room 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 to-night. . . . Any one 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 night-club 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.”12
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 note-book 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