despite his confession, did not strike me as easy-going, 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 page-boy 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, close-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 any advantage?”
Cleaver appeared to think.
“If it’s merely a question of some one 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, of course, his social standing is a vital asset to him—just the sort of man the Canary might have selected as a source of income. And I know this: he came to see her a good deal oftener than a doctor of his type would be apt to. I ran into him one night at her apartment, and when she introduced us, he wasn’t even civil.”
“It will at least bear looking into,” replied Markham unenthusiastically. “You’ve no one else in mind who might know something helpful?”
Cleaver shook his head.
“No—no one.”
“And she never mentioned anything to you that indicated she was in fear of any one, or anticipated trouble?”
“Not a word. Fact is, I was bowled over by the news. I never read any paper but the morning Herald—except, of course, The Daily Racing Form at night. And as there was no account of the murder in this morning’s paper, I didn’t hear about it until just before dinner. The boys in the billiard-room were talking about it, and I went out and looked at an afternoon paper. If it hadn’t been for that, I might not have known of it till to-morrow morning.”
Markham discussed the case with him until half past eight, but could elicit no further suggestions. Finally Cleaver rose to go.
“Sorry I couldn’t give you more help,” he said. His rubicund face was beaming now, and he shook hands with Markham in the friendliest fashion.
“You wangled that viscid old sport rather cleverly, don’t y’ know,” remarked Vance, when Cleaver had gone. “But there’s something deuced queer about him. The transition from his gambler’s glassy stare to his garrulous confidences was too sudden—suspiciously sudden, in fact. I may be evil-minded, but he didn’t impress me as a luminous pillar of truth. Maybe it’s because I don’t like those cold, boiled eyes of his—somehow they didn’t harmonize with his gushing imitation of open-hearted frankness.”
“We can allow him something for his embarrassing position,” suggested Markham charitably. “It isn’t exactly pleasant to admit having been taken in and blackmailed by a charmer.”
“Still, if he got his letters back in June, why did he continue paying court to the lady? Heath reported he was active in that sector right up to the end.”
“He may be the complete amorist,” smiled Markham.
“Some like Abra, what?——
‘Abra was ready ere I call’d her name;
And, though I call’d another, Abra came.’
Maybe—yes. He might qualify as a modern Cayley Drummle.”
“At any rate, he gave us, in Doctor Lindquist, a possible source of information.”
“Quite so,” agreed Vance. “And that’s about the only point of his whole passionate unfoldment that I particularly put any stock in, because it was the only point he indicated with any decent reticence. . . . My advice is that you interview this Æsculapius of the fair sex without further delay.”
“I’m dog-tired,” objected Markham. “Let it wait till to-morrow.”
Vance glanced at the great clock over the stone mantel.
“It’s latish, I’ll admit, but why not, as Pittacus advised, seize time by the forelock?
‘Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find:
Occasion once past by, is bald behind.’
But the elder Cato anticipated Cowley. In his ‘Disticha de Moribus’ he wrote: Fronte capillata——”
“Come!” pleaded Markham, rising. “Anything to dam this flow of erudition.”
CHAPTER XI
SEEKING INFORMATION
(Tuesday, September 11; 9 p. m.)
Ten minutes later we were ringing the bell of a stately old brownstone house in East 44th Street.
A resplendently caparisoned butler opened the door, and Markham presented his card.
“Take this to the doctor at once, and say that it’s urgent.”
“The doctor is just finishing dinner,” the stately seneschal informed him; and conducted us into a richly furnished reception-room, with deep comfortable chairs, silken draperies, and subdued lights.
“A