The Canary Murder Case. S.S. Van Dine
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he leaves, and unbolts it in the morning. I never touch it.”
Markham leaned back and turned to Heath.
“The testimony of the janitor and Jessup here,” he said, “seems to limit the situation pretty narrowly to Miss Odell’s escort. If, as seems reasonable to assume, the side door was bolted all night, and if no other caller came or went through the front door, it looks as if the man we wanted to find was the one who brought her home.”
Heath gave a short mirthless laugh.
“That would be fine, sir, if something else hadn’t happened around here last night.” Then, to Jessup: “Tell the District Attorney the rest of the story about this man.”
Markham looked toward the operator with expectant interest; and, Vance, lifting himself on one elbow, listened attentively.
Jessup spoke in a level voice, with the alert and careful manner of a soldier reporting to his superior officer.
“It was just this, sir. When the gentleman came out of Miss Odell’s apartment at about half past eleven, he stopped at the switchboard and asked me to get him a Yellow Taxicab. I put the call through, and while he was waiting for the car, Miss Odell screamed and called for help. The gentleman turned and rushed to the apartment door, and I followed quickly behind him. He knocked; but at first there was no answer. Then he knocked again, and at the same time called out to Miss Odell and asked her what was the matter. This time she answered. She said everything was all right, and told him to go home and not to worry. Then he walked back with me to the switchboard, remarking that he guessed Miss Odell must have fallen asleep and had a nightmare. We talked for a few minutes about the war, and then the taxicab came. He said good night, and went out, and I heard the car drive away.”
It was plain to see that this epilogue of the departure of Miss Odell’s anonymous escort completely upset Markham’s theory of the case. He looked down at the floor with a baffled expression, and smoked vigorously for several moments. At last he asked:
“How long was it after this man came out of the apartment that you heard Miss Odell scream?”
“About five minutes. I had put my connection through to the taxicab company, and it was a minute or so later that she screamed.”
“Was the man near the switchboard?”
“Yes, sir. In fact, he had one arm resting on it.”
“How many times did Miss Odell scream? And just what did she say when she called for help?”
“She screamed twice, and then cried ‘Help! Help!’ ”
“And when the man knocked on the door the second time, what did he say?”
“As near as I can recollect, sir, he said: ‘Open the door, Margaret! What’s the trouble?’ ”
“And can you remember her exact words when she answered him?”
Jessup hesitated, and frowned reflectively.
“As I recall, she said: ‘There’s nothing the matter. I’m sorry I screamed. Everything’s all right, so please go home, and don’t worry.’ . . . Of course, that may not be exactly what she said, but it was something very close to it.”
“You could hear her plainly through the door, then?”
“Oh, yes. These doors are not very thick.”
Markham rose, and began pacing meditatively. At length, halting in front of the operator, he asked another question:
“Did you hear any other suspicious sounds in this apartment after the man left?”
“Not a sound of any kind, sir,” Jessup declared. “Some one from outside the building, however, telephoned Miss Odell about ten minutes later, and a man’s voice answered from her apartment.”
“What’s this!” Markham spun round, and Heath sat up at attention, his eyes wide. “Tell me every detail of that call.”
Jessup complied unemotionally.
“About twenty minutes to twelve a trunk-light flashed on the board, and when I answered it, a man asked for Miss Odell. I plugged the connection through, and after a short wait the receiver was lifted from her phone—you can tell when a receiver’s taken off the hook, because the guide-light on the board goes out—and a man’s voice answered ‘Hello.’ I pulled the listening-in key over, and, of course, didn’t hear any more.”
There was silence in the apartment for several minutes. Then Vance, who had been watching Jessup closely during the interview, spoke.
“By the bye, Mr. Jessup,” he asked carelessly, “were you yourself, by any chance, a bit fascinated—let us say—by the charming Miss Odell?”
For the first time since entering the room the man appeared ill at ease. A dull flush overspread his cheeks.
“I thought she was a very beautiful lady,” he answered resolutely.
Markham gave Vance a look of disapproval, and then addressed himself abruptly to the operator.
“That will be all for the moment, Jessup.”
The man bowed stiffly and limped out.
“This case is becoming positively fascinatin’,” murmured Vance, relaxing once more upon the davenport.
“It’s comforting to know that some one’s enjoying it.” Markham’s tone was irritable. “And what, may I ask, was the object of your question concerning Jessup’s sentiments toward the dead woman?”
“Oh, just a vagrant notion struggling in my brain,” returned Vance. “And then, y’ know, a bit of boudoir racontage always enlivens a situation, what?”
Heath, rousing himself from gloomy abstraction, spoke up.
“We’ve still got the finger-prints, Mr. Markham. And I’m thinking that they’re going to locate our man for us.”
“But even if Dubois does identify those prints,” said Markham, “we’ll have to show how the owner of them got into this place last night. He’ll claim, of course, they were made prior to the crime.”
“Well, it’s a sure thing,” declared Heath stubbornly, “that there was some man in here last night when Odell got back from the theatre, and that he was still here until after the other man left at half past eleven. The woman’s screams and the answering of that phone call at twenty minutes to twelve prove it. And since Doc Doremus said that the murder took place before midnight, there’s no getting away from the fact that the guy who was hiding in here did the job.”
“That appears incontrovertible,” agreed Markham. “And I’m inclined to think it was some one she knew. She probably screamed when he first revealed himself, and then, recognizing him, calmed down and told the other man out in the hall that nothing was the matter. . . . Later on he strangled her.”
“And, I might suggest,” added Vance, “that his place of hiding was that clothes-press.”
“Sure,” the Sergeant concurred. “But what’s bothering me is how he got in here. The day operator who was at the switchboard until ten last night told me that the man who called and took Odell out to dinner was the only visitor she had.”
Markham gave a grunt of exasperation.
“Bring the day man in here,” he ordered. “We’ve got to straighten this thing out. Somebody got in here last night, and before I leave I’m going to find out how it was done.”
Vance gave him a look of patronizing amusement.
“Y’ know, Markham,” he said, “I’m not blessed with the gift of psychic inspiration, but I have one of those strange, indescribable feelings, as the minor poets say, that if you really contemplate remaining in this bestrewn boudoir till you’ve discovered how the mysterious visitor gained admittance here last night, you’d do jolly well to send