At the end of five minutes’ conversation Markham hung up the receiver and gave Heath a baffled look.
“The club takes two Heralds. Both of yesterday’s copies are there, on the rack.”
“Didn’t Cleaver once tell us he read nothing but The Herald—that and some racing sheet at night?” Vance put the question offhandedly.
“I believe he did.” Markham considered the suggestion. “Still, both the club Heralds are accounted for.” He turned to Heath. “When you were checking up on Mannix, did you find out what clubs he belonged to?”
“Sure.” The sergeant took out his notebook and riffled the pages for a minute or two. “He’s a member of the Furriers’ and the Cosmopolis.”
Markham pushed the telephone toward him.
“See what you can find out.”
Heath was fifteen minutes at the task. “A blank,” he announced finally. “The Furriers’ don’t use holders, and the Cosmopolis don’t keep any back numbers.”
“What about Mr. Skeel’s clubs, Sergeant?” asked Vance, smiling.
“Oh, I know the finding of that jewelry gums up my theory about Skeel,” said Heath, with surly ill nature. “But what’s the good of rubbing it in? Still, if you think I’m going to give that bird a clean bill of health just because the Odell swag was found in a trashcan, you’re mighty mistaken. Don’t forget we’re watching the Dude pretty close. He may have got leery, and tipped off some pal he’d cached the jewels with.”
“I rather fancy the experienced Skeel would have turned his booty over to a professional receiver. But even had he passed it on to a friend, would this friend have been likely to throw it away because Skeel was worried?”
“Maybe not. But there’s some explanation for those jewels being found, and when we get hold of it, it won’t eliminate Skeel.”
“No; the explanation won’t eliminate Skeel,” said Vance; “but—my word!—how it’ll change his locus standi.”
Heath contemplated him with shrewdly appraising eyes. Something in Vance’s tone had apparently piqued his curiosity and set him to wondering. Vance had too often been right in his diagnoses of persons and things for the sergeant to ignore his opinions wholly.
But before he could answer, Swacker stepped alertly into the room, his eyes animated.
“Tony Skeel’s on the wire, Chief, and wants to speak to you.”
Markham, despite his habitual reserve, gave a start. “Here, Sergeant,” he said quickly. “Take that extension phone on the table and listen in.” He nodded curtly to Swacker, who disappeared to make the connection. Then he took up the receiver of his own telephone and spoke to Skeel.
For a minute or so he listened. Then, after a brief argument, he concurred with some suggestion that had evidently been made; and the conversation ended.
“Skeel craves an audience, I gather,” said Vance. “I’ve rather been expecting it, y’ know.”
“Yes. He’s coming here tomorrow at ten.”
“And he hinted that he knew who slew the Canary—eh, what?”
“That’s just what he did say. He promised to tell me the whole story tomorrow morning.”
“He’s the lad that’s in a position to do it,” murmured Vance.
“But, Mr. Markham,” said Heath, who still sat with his hand on the telephone, gazing at the instrument with dazed incredulity, “I don’t see why you don’t have him brought here today.”
“As you heard, Sergeant, Skeel insisted on tomorrow and threatened to say nothing if I forced the issue. It’s just as well not to antagonize him. We might spoil a good chance of getting some light on this case if I ordered him brought here and used pressure. And tomorrow suits me. It’ll be quiet around here then. Moreover, your man’s watching Skeel, and he won’t get away.”
“I guess you’re right, sir. The Dude’s touchy and he can give a swell imitation of an oyster when he feels like it.” The sergeant spoke with feeling.
“I’ll have Swacker here tomorrow to take down his statement,” Markham went on; “and you’d better put one of your men on the elevator. The regular operator is off Sundays. Also, plant a man in the hall outside and put another one in Swacker’s office.”
Vance stretched himself luxuriously and rose.
“Most considerate of the gentleman to call up at this time, don’t y’ know. I had a longing to see the Monets at Durand-Ruel’s this afternoon, and I was afraid I wasn’t going to be able to drag myself away from this fascinatin’ case. Now that the apocalypse has been definitely scheduled for tomorrow, I’ll indulge my taste for Impressionism.… À demain, Markham. Bye-bye, Sergeant.”
CHAPTER 23
THE TEN-O’CLOCK APPOINTMENT
(Sunday, September 16; 10 A.M.)
A fine drizzle was falling the next morning when we rose; and a chill—the first forerunner of winter—was in the air. We had breakfast in the library at half past eight, and at nine o’clock Vance’s car, which had been ordered the night before, called for us. We rode down Fifth Avenue, now almost deserted in its thick blanket of yellow fog, and called for Markham at his apartment in West 12th Street. He was waiting for us in front of the house and stepped quickly into the car with scarcely a word of greeting. From his anxious, preoccupied look I knew that he was depending a good deal on what Skeel had to tell him.
We had turned into West Broadway beneath the Elevated tracks before any of us spoke. Then Markham voiced a doubt which was plainly an articulation of his troubled ruminations.
“I’m wondering if, after all, this fellow Skeel can have any important information to give us. His phone call was very strange. Yet he spoke confidently enough regarding his knowledge. No dramatics, no request for immunity—just a plain, assured statement that he knew who murdered the Odell girl, and had decided to come clean.”
“It’s certain he himself didn’t strangle the lady,” pronounced Vance. “My theory, as you know, is that he was hiding in the clothes press when the shady business was being enacted; and all along I’ve clung lovingly to the idea that he was au secret to the entire proceedings. The keyhole of that closet door is on a direct line with the end of the davenport where the lady was strangled; and if a rival was operating at the time of his concealment, it’s not unreasonable to assume that he peered forth—eh, what? I questioned him on this point, you remember; and he didn’t like it a bit.”
“But, in that case—”
“Oh, I know. There are all kinds of erudite objections to my wild dream. Why didn’t he give the alarm? Why didn’t he tell us about it before? Why this? and why that?… I make no claim to omniscience, y’ know; I don’t even pretend to have a logical explanation for the various traits d’union of my vagary. My theory is only sketched in, as it were. But I’m convinced, nevertheless, that the modish Tony knows who killed his bona roba and looted her apartment.”
“But of the three persons who possibly could have got into the Odell apartment that night—namely, Mannix, Cleaver, and Lindquist—Skeel evidently knows only one—Mannix.”
“Yes, to be sure. And Mannix, it would seem, is the only one of the trio who knows Skeel.… An interestin’ point.”
Heath met us at the Franklin Street entrance to the Criminal Courts Building. He, too, was anxious and subdued and he shook hands with us in a detached manner devoid of his usual heartiness.
“I’ve got Snitkin running the elevator,” he said, after the briefest of salutations. “Burke’s in the hall upstairs, and Emery is with him, waiting to be let into Swacker’s office.”
We entered the deserted and almost silent