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 to-morrow 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 to-morrow 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 to-day.”
“As you heard, Sergeant, Skeel insisted on to-morrow, 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 to-morrow 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 to-morrow 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 to-morrow, I’ll indulge my taste for Impressionism. . . . À demain, Markham. By-bye, Sergeant.”
CHAPTER XXIII
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 up-stairs, and Emery is with him, waiting to be let into Swacker’s office.”
We entered the deserted and almost silent building and rode up to the fourth floor. Markham unlocked his office door and we passed in.
“Guilfoyle, the man who’s tailing Skeel,” Heath explained, when we were seated, “is to report by phone to the Homicide Bureau as soon as the Dude leaves his rooms.”
It was now twenty minutes to ten. Five minutes later Swacker arrived. Taking his stenographic note-book, he stationed himself just inside of the swinging door of Markham’s private sanctum, where he could hear all that was said without being seen. Markham lit a cigar, and Heath followed suit. Vance was already smoking placidly. He was the calmest person in the room, and lay back languorously in one of the great leather chairs as though immune to all cares and vicissitudes. But I could tell by the over-deliberate way he flicked his ashes into the receiver that he, too, was uneasy.
Five or six minutes passed in complete silence. Then the Sergeant gave a grunt of annoyance.
“No, sir,” he said, as if completing some unspoken thought, “I can’t get a slant on this business. The finding of that jewellery, now, all nicely wrapped up . . . and then the Dude offering to squeal. . . . There’s no sense to it.”
“It’s tryin’, I know, Sergeant; but it’s not altogether senseless.” Vance was gazing lazily at the ceiling. “The chap who confiscated those baubles didn’t have any use for them. He didn’t want them, in fact—they worried him abominably.”
The point was too complex for Heath. The previous day’s developments had shaken the foundation of all his arguments; and he lapsed again into brooding silence.
At ten o’clock he rose impatiently and, going to the hall door, looked out. Returning, he compared his watch with the office clock and began pacing restlessly. Markham was attempting to sort some papers on his desk, but presently he pushed them aside with an impatient gesture.
“He ought to be coming along now,” he remarked, with an effort at cheerfulness.
“He’ll come,” growled Heath, “or he’ll get a free ride.” And he continued his pacing.
A few minutes later he turned abruptly and went out into the hall. We could hear him calling to Snitkin down the elevator shaft, but when he came back into the office his expression told us that as yet there was no news of Skeel.
“I’ll