CHAPTER III

       THE MURDER

       Table of Contents

      (Tuesday, September 11; 8.30 a. m.)

      It was barely half past eight on that momentous morning of September the 11th when Markham brought word to us of the event.

      I was living temporarily with Vance at his home in East 38th Street—a large remodelled apartment occupying the two top floors of a beautiful mansion. For several years I had been Vance’s personal legal representative and adviser, having resigned from my father’s law firm of Van Dine, Davis and Van Dine to devote myself to his needs and interests. His affairs were by no means voluminous, but his personal finances, together with his numerous purchases of paintings and objets d’art, occupied my full time without burdening me. This monetary and legal stewardship was eminently congenial to my tastes; and my friendship with Vance, which had dated from our undergraduate days at Harvard, supplied the social and human element in an arrangement which otherwise might easily have degenerated into one of mere drab routine.

      On this particular morning I had risen early and was working in the library when Currie, Vance’s valet and majordomo, announced Markham’s presence in the living-room. I was considerably astonished at this early-morning visit, for Markham well knew that Vance, who rarely rose before noon, resented any intrusion upon his matutinal slumbers. And in that moment I received the curious impression that something unusual and portentous was toward.

      I found Markham pacing restlessly up and down, his hat and gloves thrown carelessly on the centre-table. As I entered he halted and looked at me with harassed eyes. He was a moderately tall man, clean-shaven, gray-haired, and firmly set up. His appearance was distinguished, and his manner courteous and kindly. But beneath his gracious exterior there was an aggressive sternness, an indomitable, grim strength, that gave one the sense of dogged efficiency and untiring capability.

      “Good morning, Van,” he greeted me, with impatient perfunctoriness. “There’s been another half-world murder—the worst and ugliest thus far. . . .” He hesitated, and regarded me searchingly. “You recall my chat with Vance at the club the other night? There was something damned prophetic in his remarks. And you remember I half promised to take him along on the next important case. Well, the case has broken—with a vengeance. Margaret Odell, whom they called the Canary, has been strangled in her apartment; and from what I just got over the phone, it looks like another night-club affair. I’m headed for the Odell apartment now. . . . What about rousing out the sybarite?”

      “By all means,” I agreed, with an alacrity which, I fear, was in large measure prompted by purely selfish motives. The Canary! If one had sought the city over for a victim whose murder would stir up excitement, there could have been but few selections better calculated to produce this result.

      Hastening to the door, I summoned Currie, and told him to call Vance at once.

      “I’m afraid, sir——” began Currie, politely hesitant.

      “Calm your fears,” cut in Markham. “I’ll take all responsibility for waking him at this indecent hour.”

      Currie sensed an emergency and departed.

      A minute or two later Vance, in an elaborately embroidered silk kimono and sandals, appeared at the living-room door.

      “My word!” he greeted us, in mild astonishment, glancing at the clock. “Haven’t you chaps gone to bed yet?”

      He strolled to the mantel, and selected a gold-tipped Régie cigarette from a small Florentine humidor.

      Markham’s eyes narrowed: he was in no mood for levity.

      “The Canary has been murdered,” I blurted out.

      Vance held his wax vesta poised, and gave me a look of indolent inquisitiveness. “Whose canary?”

      “Margaret Odell was found strangled this morning,” amended Markham brusquely. “Even you, wrapped in your scented cotton-wool, have heard of her. And you can realize the significance of the crime. I’m personally going to look for those footprints in the snow; and if you want to come along, as you intimated the other night, you’ll have to get a move on.”

      Vance crushed out his cigarette.

      “Margaret Odell, eh?—Broadway’s blonde Aspasia—or was it Phryne who had the coiffure d’or . . . Most distressin’!” Despite his offhand manner, I could see he was deeply interested. “The base enemies of law and order are determined to chivvy you most horribly, aren’t they, old dear? Deuced inconsiderate of ’em! . . . Excuse me while I seek habiliments suitable to the occasion.”

      He disappeared into his bedroom, while Markham took out a large cigar and resolutely prepared it for smoking, and I returned to the library to put away the papers on which I had been working.

      In less than ten minutes Vance reappeared, dressed for the street.

      “Bien, mon vieux,” he announced gaily, as Currie handed him his hat and gloves and a malacca cane. “Allons-y!”

      We rode up-town along Madison Avenue, turned into Central Park, and came out by the West 72d Street entrance. Margaret Odell’s apartment was at 184 West 71st Street, near Broadway; and as we drew up to the curb, it was necessary for the patrolman on duty to make a passage for us through the crowd that had already gathered as a result of the arrival of the police.

      Feathergill, an assistant District Attorney, was waiting in the main hall for his Chief’s arrival.

      “It’s too bad, sir,” he lamented. “A rotten show all round. And just at this time! . . .” He shrugged his shoulders discouragingly.

      “It may collapse quickly,” said Markham, shaking the other’s hand. “How are things going? Sergeant Heath phoned me right after you called, and said that, at first glance, the case looked a bit stubborn.”

      “Stubborn?” repeated Feathergill lugubriously. “It’s downright impervious. Heath is spinning round like a turbine. He was called off the Boyle case, by the way, to devote his talents to this new shocker. Inspector Moran arrived ten minutes ago, and gave him the official imprimatur.”

      “Well, Heath’s a good man,” declared Markham. “We’ll work it out. . . . Which is the apartment?”

      Feathergill led the way to a door at the rear of the main hall.

      “Here you are, sir,” he announced. “I’ll be running along now. I need sleep. Good luck!” And he was gone.

      It will be necessary to give a brief description of the house and its interior arrangement, for the somewhat peculiar structure of the building played a vital part in the seemingly insoluble problem posed by the murder.

      The house, which was a four-story