The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine

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      “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 theatre?”

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

      “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 XII

       CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE

       Table of Contents

      (Wednesday, September 12; 9 a. m.)

      The following day, which was Wednesday, not only brought forth an important and, as it appeared, conclusive development in the Odell case, but marked the beginning of Vance’s active co-operation in the proceedings. The psychological elements in the case had appealed to him irresistibly, and he felt, even at this stage of the investigation, that a final answer could never be obtained along the usual police lines. At his request Markham had called for him at a little before nine o’clock, and we had driven direct to the District Attorney’s office.

      Heath was waiting impatiently when we arrived. His eager and covertly triumphant expression plainly indicated good news.

      “Things are breaking find and dandy,” he announced, when we had sat down. He himself was too elated to relax, and stood before Markham’s desk rolling a large black cigar between his fingers. “We got the Dude—six o’clock yesterday evening—and we got him right. One of the C. O. boys, named Riley, who was patrolling Sixth Avenue in the Thirties, saw him swing off a surface car and head for McAnerny’s Pawn-Shop. Right away Riley wig-wags the traffic officer on the corner, and follows the Dude into McAnerny’s. Pretty soon the traffic officer comes in with a patrolman, who he’s picked up; and the three of ’em nab our stylish friend in the act of pawning this ring.”

      He tossed a square solitaire diamond in a filigreed platinum setting on the District Attorney’s desk.

      “I was at the office when they brought him in, and I sent Snitkin with the ring up to Harlem to see what the maid had to say about it, and she identified it as belonging to Odell.”

      “But, I say, it wasn’t a part of the bijouterie the lady was wearing that night, was it, Sergeant?” Vance put the question casually.

      Heath jerked about and eyed him with sullen calculation.

      “What if it wasn’t? It came out of that jimmied jewel-case—or I’m Ben Hur.”

      “Of course it did,” murmured Vance, lapsing into lethargy.

      “And that’s where we’re in luck,” declared Heath, turning back to Markham. “It connects Skeel directly with the murder and the robbery.”

      “What has Skeel to say about it?” Markham was leaning forward intently. “I suppose you questioned him.”

      “I’ll say we did,” replied the Sergeant; but his tone was troubled. “We had him up all night giving him the works. And the story he tells is this: he says the girl gave him the ring a week ago, and that he didn’t see her again until the afternoon of day before yesterday. He came to her apartment between four and five—you remember the maid said she was out then—and entered and left the house by the side door, which was unlocked at that time. He admits he called again at half past nine that night, but he says that when he found she was out, he went straight home and stayed there. His alibi is that he sat up with his landlady till after midnight playing Khun Khan and drinking beer. I hopped up to his place this morning, and the old girl verified it. But that don’t mean anything. The house he lives in is a pretty tough hang-out, and СКАЧАТЬ