The Philo Vance Megapack. S.S. Van Dine

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СКАЧАТЬ statement that he had just read of the murder; his wholly insincere homily on the sacredness of professional confidences; the cautious and Pecksniffian confession of his fatherly regard for the girl; his elaborate struggle to remember when he had last seen her—this particularly, I think, made me suspicious; and then, the psychopathic indicants of his physiognomy.”

      “Well,” admitted Markham, “the question had its effect.… I feel that I shall see this fashionable M.D. again.”

      “You will,” iterated Vance. “We took him unawares. But when he has had time to ponder the matter and concoct an appealin’ tale, he’ll become downright garrulous.… Anyhow, the evening is over, and you can meditate on buttercups till the morrow.”

      But the evening was not quite over as far as the Odell case was concerned. We had been back in the lounge room of the club but a short time when a man walked by the corner in which we sat, and bowed with formal courtesy to Markham. Markham, to my surprise, rose and greeted him, at the same time indicating a chair.

      “There’s something further I wanted to ask you, Mr. Spotswoode,” he said, “if you can spare a moment.”

      At the mention of the name I regarded the man closely, for, I confess, I was not a little curious about the anonymous escort who had taken the girl to dinner and the theater the night before. Spotswoode was a typical New England aristocrat, inflexible, slow in his movements, reserved, and quietly but modishly dressed. His hair and moustache were slightly gray—which, no doubt, enhanced the pinkness of his complexion. He was just under six feet tall and well proportioned, but a trifle angular.

      Markham introduced him to Vance and me, and briefly explained that we were working with him on the case and that he had thought it best to take us fully into his confidence.

      Spotswoode gave him a dubious look but immediately bowed his acceptance of the decision.

      “I’m in your hands, Mr. Markham,” he replied, in a well-bred but somewhat high-pitched voice, “and I concur, of course, with whatever you think advisable.” He turned to Vance with an apologetic smile. “I’m in a rather unpleasant position and naturally feel a little sensitive about it.”

      “I’m something of an antinomian,” Vance pleasantly informed him. “At any rate, I’m not a moralist; so my attitude in the matter is quite academic.”

      Spotswoode laughed softly. “I wish my family held a similar point of view; but I’m afraid they would not be so tolerant of my foibles.”

      “It’s only fair to tell you, Mr. Spotswoode,” interposed Markham, “that there is a bare possibility I may have to call you as a witness.”

      The man looked up quickly, his face clouding over, but he made no comment.

      “The fact is,” continued Markham, “we are about to make an arrest, and your testimony may be needed to establish the time of Miss Odell’s return to her apartment, and also to substantiate the fact that there was presumably someone in her room after you had left. Her screams and calls for help, which you heard, may prove vital evidence in obtaining a conviction.”

      Spotswoode seemed rather appalled at the thought of his relations with the girl becoming public, and for several minutes he sat with averted eyes.

      “I see your point,” he acknowledged at length. “But it would be a terrible thing for me if the fact of my delinquencies became known.”

      “That contingency may be entirely avoided,” Markham encouraged him. “I promise you that you will not be called upon unless it is absolutely necessary.… And now, what I especially wanted to ask you is this: do you happen to know a Doctor Lindquist, who, I understand, was Miss Odell’s personal physician?”

      Spotswoode was frankly puzzled. “I never heard the name,” he answered. “In fact, Miss Odell never mentioned any doctor to me.”

      “And did you ever hear her mention the name of Skeel…or refer to any one as Tony?”

      “Never.” His answer was emphatic.

      Markham lapsed into a disappointed silence. Spotswoode, too, was silent; he sat as if in a revery.

      “You know, Mr. Markham,” he said, after several minutes, “I ought to be ashamed to admit it, but the truth is I cared a good deal for the girl. I suppose you’ve kept her apartment intact.…” He hesitated, and a look almost of appeal came into his eyes. “I’d like to see it again if I could.”

      Markham regarded him sympathetically but finally shook his head.

      “It wouldn’t do. You’d be sure to be recognized by the operator—or there might be a reporter about—and then I’d be unable to keep you out of the case.”

      The man appeared disappointed but did not protest; and for several minutes no one spoke. Then Vance raised himself slightly in his chair.

      “I say, Mr. Spotswoode, do you happen to remember anything unusual occurring last night during the half hour you remained with Miss Odell after the theater?”

      “Unusual?” the man’s manner was eloquent of his astonishment. “To the contrary. We chatted awhile, and then, as she seemed tired, I said good night and came away, making a luncheon appointment with her for today.”

      “And yet, it now seems fairly certain that some other man was hiding in the apartment when you were there.”

      “There’s little doubt on that point,” agreed Spotswoode, with the suggestion of a shudder. “And her screams would seem to indicate that he came forth from hiding a few minutes after I went.”

      “And you had no suspicion of the fact when you heard her call for help?”

      “I did at first—naturally. But when she assured me that nothing was the matter, and told me to go home, I attributed her screams to a nightmare. I knew she had been tired, and I had left her in the wicker chair near the door, from where her screams seemed to come; so I naturally concluded she had dozed off and called out in her sleep.… If only I hadn’t taken so much for granted!”

      “It’s a harrowin’ situation.” Vance was silent for a while; then he asked: “Did you, by any chance, notice the door of the living room closet? Was it open or closed?”

      Spotswoode frowned, as if attempting to visualize the picture; but the result was a failure.

      “I suppose it was closed. I probably would have noticed it if it had been open.”

      “Then, you couldn’t say if the key was in the lock or not?”

      “Good Lord, no! I don’t even know if it ever had a key.”

      The case was discussed for another half hour; then Spotswoode excused himself and left us.

      “Funny 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 12

      CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE

      (Wednesday, СКАЧАТЬ