The Philo Vance Megapack. S.S. Van Dine

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СКАЧАТЬ were bright and crafty; his nose was bibative, and appeared disproportionately small above his thick, sensual lips and prognathous jaw. There was an oiliness and shrewdness in the man’s manner which were at once repulsive and arresting.

      At a gesture from Markham he sat down on the edge of a chair, placing a podgy hand on each knee. His attitude was one of alert suspicion.

      “Mr. Mannix,” said Markham, an engaging note of apology in his voice, “I am sorry to have discommoded you; but the matter in hand is both serious and urgent.… A Miss Margaret Odell was murdered night before last, and in the course of inquiries we learned that you had at one time known her quite well. It occurred to me that you might be in possession of some facts about her that would assist us in our investigation.”

      A saponaceous smile, meant to be genial, parted the man’s heavy lips.

      “Sure, I knew the Canary—a long time ago, y’ understand.” He permitted himself a sigh. “A fine, high-class girl, if I do say so. A good looker and a good dresser. Too damn bad she didn’t go on with the show business. But”—he made a repudiative motion with his hand—“I haven’t seen the lady, y’ understand, for over a year—not to speak to, if you know what I mean.”

      Mannix clearly was on his guard, and his beady little eyes did not once leave the district attorney’s face.

      “You had a quarrel with her perhaps?” Markham asked the question incuriously.

      “Well, now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say we quarreled. No.” Mannix paused, seeking the correct word. “You might say we disagreed—got tired of the arrangement and decided to separate; kind of drifted apart. Last thing I told her was, if she ever needed a friend, she’d know where to find me.”

      “Very generous of you,” murmured Markham. “And you never renewed your little affair?”

      “Never—never. Don’t remember ever speaking to her from that day to this.”

      “In view of certain things I’ve learned, Mr. Mannix”—Markham’s tone was regretful—“I must ask you a somewhat personal question. Did she ever make an attempt to blackmail you?”

      Mannix hesitated, and his eyes seemed to grow even smaller, like those of a man thinking rapidly.

      “Certainly not!” he replied, with belated emphasis. “Not at all. Nothing of the kind.” He raised both hands in protest against the thought. Then he asked furtively: “What gave you such an idea?”

      “I have been told,” explained Markham, “that she had extorted money from one or two of her admirers.”

      Mannix made a wholly unconvincing grimace of astonishment. “Well well! You don’t tell me! Can it be possible?” He peered shrewdly at the district attorney. “Maybe it was Charlie Cleaver she blackmailed—yes?”

      Markham picked him up quickly.

      “Why do you say Cleaver?”

      Again Mannix waved his thick hand, this time deprecatingly.

      “No special reason, y’ understand. Just thought it might be him.… No special reason.”

      “Did Cleaver ever tell you he’d been blackmailed?”

      “Cleaver tell me?… Now, I ask you, Mr. Markham: why should Cleaver tell me such a story—why should he?”

      “And you never told Cleaver that the Odell girl had blackmailed you?”

      “Positively not!” Mannix gave a scornful laugh which was far too theatrical to have been genuine. “Me tell Cleaver I’d been blackmailed? Now, that’s funny, that is.”

      “Then, why did you mention Cleaver a moment ago?”

      “No reason at all—like I told you.… He knew the Canary; but that ain’t no secret.”

      Markham dropped the subject. “What do you know about Miss Odell’s relations with a Doctor Ambroise Lindquist?”

      Mannix was now obviously perplexed. “Never heard of him—no, never. She didn’t know him when I was taking her around.”

      “Whom else besides Cleaver did she know well?”

      Mannix shook his head ponderously.

      “Now, that I couldn’t say—positively I couldn’t say. Seen her with this man and that, same as everybody saw her; but who they were I don’t know—absolutely.”

      “Ever hear of Tony Skeel?” Markham quickly leaned over and met the other’s gaze inquiringly.

      Once more Mannix hesitated, and his eyes glittered calculatingly. “Well, now that you ask me, I believe I did hear of the fellow. But I couldn’t swear to it, y’ understand.… What makes you think I heard of this Skeel fellow?”

      Markham ignored the question.

      “Can you think of no one who might have borne Miss Odell a grudge, or had cause to fear her?”

      Mannix was volubly emphatic on the subject of his complete ignorance of any such person; and after a few more questions, which elicited only denials, Markham let him go.

      “Not bad at all, Markham old thing—eh, what?” Vance seemed pleased with the conference. “Wonder why he’s so coy? Not a nice person, this Mannix. And he’s so fearful lest he be informative. Again, I wonder why. He was so careful—oh, so careful.”

      “He was sufficiently careful, at any rate, not to tell us anything,” declared Markham gloomily.

      “I shouldn’t say that, don’t y’ know.” Vance lay back and smoked placidly. “A ray of light filtered through here and there. Our fur-importing philogynist denied he’d been blackmailed—which was obviously untrue—and tried to make us believe that he and the lovely Margaret cooed like turtledoves at parting—Tosh!… And then, that mention of Cleaver. That wasn’t spontaneous—dear me, no. Brother Mannix and spontaneity are as the poles apart. He had a reason for bringing Cleaver in; and I fancy that if you knew what that reason was, you’d feel like flinging roses riotously, and that sort of thing. Why Cleaver? That secret-de-Polichinelle explanation was a bit weak. The orbits of these two paramours cross somewhere. On that point, at least, Mannix inadvertently enlightened us.… Moreover, it’s plain that he doesn’t know our fashionable healer with the satyr ears. But, on the other hand, he’s aware of the existence of Mr. Skeel, and would rather like to deny the acquaintance.… So—voilà l’affaire. Plenty of information; but—my word!—what to do with it?”

      “I give it up,” acknowledged Markham hopelessly.

      “I know; it’s a sad sad world,” Vance commiserated him. “But you must face the olla podrida with a bright eye. It’s time for lunch, and a fillet of sole Marguéry will cheer you no end.”

      Markham glanced at the clock and permitted himself to be led to the Lawyers Club.

      CHAPTER 14

      VANCE OUTLINES A THEORY

      (Wednesday, September 12; evening)

      Vance СКАЧАТЬ