thing,” ruminated Markham, “how a man of his upbringing could be so attracted by the empty-headed, butterfly type.”
“I’d say it was quite natural,” returned Vance. . . . “You’re such an incorrigible moralist, Markham.”
CHAPTER XII
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
(Wednesday, September 12; 9 a. m.)
The following day, which was Wednesday, not only brought forth an important and, as it appeared, conclusive development in the Odell case, but marked the beginning of Vance’s active co-operation in the proceedings. The psychological elements in the case had appealed to him irresistibly, and he felt, even at this stage of the investigation, that a final answer could never be obtained along the usual police lines. At his request Markham had called for him at a little before nine o’clock, and we had driven direct to the District Attorney’s office.
Heath was waiting impatiently when we arrived. His eager and covertly triumphant expression plainly indicated good news.
“Things are breaking find and dandy,” he announced, when we had sat down. He himself was too elated to relax, and stood before Markham’s desk rolling a large black cigar between his fingers. “We got the Dude—six o’clock yesterday evening—and we got him right. One of the C. O. boys, named Riley, who was patrolling Sixth Avenue in the Thirties, saw him swing off a surface car and head for McAnerny’s Pawn-Shop. Right away Riley wig-wags the traffic officer on the corner, and follows the Dude into McAnerny’s. Pretty soon the traffic officer comes in with a patrolman, who he’s picked up; and the three of ’em nab our stylish friend in the act of pawning this ring.”
He tossed a square solitaire diamond in a filigreed platinum setting on the District Attorney’s desk.
“I was at the office when they brought him in, and I sent Snitkin with the ring up to Harlem to see what the maid had to say about it, and she identified it as belonging to Odell.”
“But, I say, it wasn’t a part of the bijouterie the lady was wearing that night, was it, Sergeant?” Vance put the question casually.
Heath jerked about and eyed him with sullen calculation.
“What if it wasn’t? It came out of that jimmied jewel-case—or I’m Ben Hur.”
“Of course it did,” murmured Vance, lapsing into lethargy.
“And that’s where we’re in luck,” declared Heath, turning back to Markham. “It connects Skeel directly with the murder and the robbery.”
“What has Skeel to say about it?” Markham was leaning forward intently. “I suppose you questioned him.”
“I’ll say we did,” replied the Sergeant; but his tone was troubled. “We had him up all night giving him the works. And the story he tells is this: he says the girl gave him the ring a week ago, and that he didn’t see her again until the afternoon of day before yesterday. He came to her apartment between four and five—you remember the maid said she was out then—and entered and left the house by the side door, which was unlocked at that time. He admits he called again at half past nine that night, but he says that when he found she was out, he went straight home and stayed there. His alibi is that he sat up with his landlady till after midnight playing Khun Khan and drinking beer. I hopped up to his place this morning, and the old girl verified it. But that don’t mean anything. The house he lives in is a pretty tough hang-out, and this landlady, besides being a heavy boozer, has been up the river a coupla times for shoplifting.”
“What does Skeel say about the finger-prints?”
“He says, of course, he made ’em when he was there in the afternoon.”
“And the one on the closet door-knob?”
Heath gave a derisive grant.
“He’s got an answer for that, too—says he thought he heard some one coming in, and locked himself in the clothes-closet. Didn’t want to be seen and spoil any game Odell mighta been playing.”
“Most considerate of him to keep out of the way of the belles poires,” drawled Vance. “Touchin’ loyalty, what?”
“You don’t believe the rat, do you, Mr. Vance?” asked Heath, with indignant surprise.
“Can’t say that I do. But our Antonio at least spins a consistent yarn.”
“Too damn consistent to suit me,” growled the Sergeant.
“That’s all you could get out of him?” It was plain that Markham was not pleased with the results of Heath’s third degree of Skeel.
“That’s about all, sir. He stuck to his story like a leech.”
“You found no chisel in his room?”
Heath admitted that he hadn’t.
“But you couldn’t expect him to keep it around,” he added.
Markham pondered the facts for several minutes.
“I can’t see that we’ve got a very good case, however much we may be convinced of Skeel’s guilt. His alibi may be thin, but taken in connection with the phone operator’s testimony, I’m inclined to think it would hold tight in court.”
“What about the ring, sir?” Heath was desperately disappointed. “And what about his threats, and his finger-prints, and his record of similar burglaries?”
“Contributory factors only,” Markham explained. “What we need for a murder is more than a prima facie case. A good criminal lawyer could have him discharged in twenty minutes, even if I could secure an indictment. It’s not impossible, you know, that the woman gave him the ring a week ago—you recall that the maid said he was demanding money from her about that time. And there’s nothing to show that the finger-prints were not actually made late Monday afternoon. Moreover, we can’t connect him in any way with the chisel, for we don’t know who did the Park Avenue job last summer. His whole story fits the facts perfectly; and we haven’t anything contradictory to offer.”
Heath shrugged helplessly: all the wind had been taken out of his sails.
“What do you want done with him?” he asked desolately.
Markham considered—he, too, was discomfited.
“Before I answer I think I’ll have a go at him myself.”
He pressed a buzzer, and ordered a clerk to fill out the necessary requisition. When it had been signed in duplicate, he sent Swacker with it to Ben Hanlon.
“Do ask him about those silk shirts,” suggested Vance. “And find out, if you can, if he considers a white waistcoat de rigueur with a dinner-jacket.”
“This office isn’t a male millinery shop,” snapped Markham.
“But, Markham dear, you won’t learn anything else from this Petronius.”
Ten minutes later a Deputy Sheriff from the Tombs entered with his handcuffed prisoner.
Skeel’s appearance that morning belied his sobriquet of Dude. He was haggard and pale: his ordeal of the previous night had left its imprint upon him. He was unshaven; his hair was uncombed; the ends of his moustache drooped; and his cravat was awry. But despite his bedraggled condition, his manner was jaunty and contemptuous. He gave Heath a defiant leer, and faced the District Attorney with swaggering indifference.
To Markham’s questions he doggedly repeated the same story he had told Heath. He clung tenaciously to every detail of it with the ready accuracy of a man who had painstakingly memorized a lesson and was thoroughly familiar with it. Markham coaxed, threatened, bullied. All hint of his usual affability was gone: he was