Was there a curse on the world, driving men to dark bawdy deeds? Was there Black Magic abroad? I think not.”
“I’m laying my money on Skeel,” declared Heath stubbornly. “I know a professional job when I see it. And you can’t get away from those finger-prints and the Professor’s report on the chisel.”
Markham was sorely perplexed. His belief in Skeel’s guilt had, I knew, been undermined in some measure by Vance’s theory that the crime was the carefully premeditated act of a shrewd and educated man. But now he seemed to swing irresolutely back to Heath’s point of view.
“I’ll admit,” he said, “that Lindquist and Cleaver and Mannix don’t inspire one with a belief in their innocence. But since they’re all tarred with the same stick, the force of suspicion against them is somewhat dispersed. After all, Skeel is the only logical aspirant for the rôle of strangler. He’s the only one with a visible motive; and he’s the only one against whom there’s any evidence.”
Vance sighed wearily.
“Yes, yes. Finger-prints—chisel marks. You’re such a trustin’ soul, Markham. Skeel’s finger-prints are found in the apartment; therefore, Skeel strangled the lady. So beastly simple. Why bother further? A chose jugée—an adjudicated case. Send Skeel to the chair, and that’s that! . . . It’s effective, y’ know, but is it art?”
“In your critical enthusiasm you understate our case against Skeel,” Markham reminded him testily.
“Oh, I’ll grant that your case against him is ingenious. It’s so deuced ingenious I just haven’t the heart to reject it. But most popular truth is mere ingenuity—that’s why it’s so wrong-headed. Your theory would appeal strongly to the popular mind. And yet, y’ know, Markham, it isn’t true.”
The practical Heath was unmoved. He sat stolidly, scowling at the table. I doubt if he had even heard the exchange of opinions between Markham and Vance.
“You know, Mr. Markham,” he said, like one unconsciously voicing an obscure line of thought, “if we could show how Skeel got in and out of Odell’s apartment we’d have a better case against him. I can’t figure it out—it’s got me stopped. So, I’ve been thinking we oughta get an architect to go over those rooms. The house is an old-timer—God knows when it was originally built—and there may be some way of getting into it that we haven’t discovered yet.”
“’Pon my soul!” Vance stared at him in satirical wonderment. “You’re becoming downright romantic! Secret passageways—hidden doors—stairways between the walls. So that’s it, is it? Oh, my word! . . . Sergeant, beware of the cinema. It has ruined many a good man. Try grand opera for a while—it’s more borin’ but less corruptin’.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Vance.” Apparently Heath himself did not relish the architectural idea particularly. “But as long as we don’t know how Skeel got in, it’s just as well to make sure of a few ways he didn’t get in.”
“I agree with you, Sergeant,” said Markham. “I’ll get an architect on the job at once.” He rang for Swacker, and gave the necessary instructions.
Vance extended his legs and yawned.
“All we need now is a Favorite of the Harem, a few blackamoors with palm-leaf fans, and some pizzicato music.”
“You will joke, Mr. Vance.” Heath lit a fresh cigar. “But even if the architect don’t find anything wrong with the apartment, Skeel’s liable to give his hand away ’most any time.”
“I’m pinnin’ my childish faith on Mannix,” said Vance. “I don’t know why I should; but he’s not a nice man, and he’s suppressing something.—Markham, don’t you dare let him go until he tells you where he was Monday night. And don’t forget to hint mysteriously about the fur model.”
CHAPTER XX
A MIDNIGHT WITNESS
(Friday, September 14; 3.30 p. m.)
In less than half an hour Mannix arrived. Heath relinquished his seat to the newcomer, and moved to a large chair beneath the windows. Vance had taken a place at the small table on Markham’s right where he was able to face Mannix obliquely.
It was patent that Mannix did not relish the idea of another interview. His little eyes shifted quickly about the office, lingered suspiciously for a moment on Heath, and at last came to rest on the District Attorney. He was more vigilant even than during his first visit; and his greeting to Markham, while fulsome, had in it a note of trepidation. Nor was Markham’s air calculated to put him at ease. It was an ominous, indomitable Public Prosecutor who motioned him to be seated. Mannix laid his hat and cane on the table, and sat down on the edge of his chair, his back as perpendicular as a flag-pole.
“I’m not at all satisfied with what you told me Wednesday, Mr. Mannix,” Markham began, “and I trust you won’t necessitate me to take drastic steps to find out what you know about Miss Odell’s death.”
“What I know!” Mannix forced a smile intended to be disarming. “Mr. Markham—Mr. Markham!” He seemed oilier than usual as he spread his hands in hopeless appeal. “If I knew anything, believe me, I would tell you—positively I would tell you.”
“I’m delighted to hear it. Your willingness makes my task easier. First, then, please tell me where you were at midnight Monday.”
Mannix’s eyes slowly contracted until they looked like two tiny shining disks, but otherwise the man did not move. After what seemed an interminable pause, he spoke.
“I should tell you where I was Monday? Why should I have to do that? . . . Maybe I’m suspected of the murder—yes?”
“You’re not suspected now. But your apparent unwillingness to answer my question is certainly suspicious. Why don’t you care to have me know where you were?”
“I got no reason to keep it from you, y’ understand.” Mannix shrugged. “I got nothing to be ashamed of—absolutely! . . . I had a lot of accounts to go over at the office—winter-season stocks. I was down at the office until ten o’clock—maybe later. Then at half past ten——”
“That’ll do!” Vance’s voice cut in tartly. “No need to drag any one else into this thing.”
He spoke with a curious significance of emphasis, and Mannix studied him craftily, trying to read what knowledge, if any, lay behind his words. But he received no enlightenment from Vance’s features. The warning, however, had been enough to halt him.
“You don’t want to know where I was at half past ten?”
“Not particularly,” said Vance. “We want to know where you were at midnight. And it won’t be necess’ry to mention any one who saw you at that time. When you tell us the truth, we’ll know it.” He himself had assumed the air of wisdom and mystery that he had deputed to Markham earlier in the afternoon. Without breaking faith with Alys La Fosse, he had sowed the seeds of doubt in Mannix’s mind.
Before the man could frame an answer, Vance stood up and leaned impressively over the District Attorney’s desk.
“You know a Miss Frisbee. Lives in 71st Street; accurately speaking—at number 184; to be more exact—in the house where Miss Odell lived; to put it precisely—in Apartment Number 2. Miss Frisbee was a former model of yours. Sociable girl: still charitable to the advances of her erstwhile employer—meanin’ yourself.—When did you see her last, Mr. Mannix? . . . Take your time about answering. You may want to think it over.”
Mannix took his time. It was a full minute before he spoke, and then it was to put another question.
“Haven’t I got a right to call on a lady—haven’t I?”
“Certainly.