The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
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(Thursday, September 13; afternoon)
“My sleuthing goes better,” exulted Vance, when we were again in the street. “Fair Alys was a veritable mine of information—eh, what? Only, you should have controlled yourself better when she mentioned her beloved’s name—really, you should, Van old thing. I saw you jump and heard you heave. Such emotion is most unbecoming in a lawyer.”
From a booth in a drug-store near the hotel he telephoned Markham: “I am taking you to lunch. I have numerous confidences I would pour into your ear.” A debate ensued, but in the end Vance emerged triumphant; and a moment later a taxicab was driving us down-town.
“Alys is clever—there are brains in that fluffy head,” he ruminated. “She’s much smarter than Heath; she knew at once that Skeel wasn’t guilty. Her characterization of the immaculate Tony was inelegant but how accurate—oh, how accurate! And you noticed, of course, how she trusted me. Touchin’, wasn’t it? . . . It’s a knotty problem, Van. Something’s amiss somewhere.”
He was silent, smoking, for several blocks.
“Mannix. . . . Curious he should crop up again. And he issued orders to Alys to keep mum. Now, why? Maybe the reason he gave her was the real one. Who knows?—On the other hand, was he with his chère amie from half past ten till early morning? Well, well. Again, who knows? Something queer about that business discussion. . . . Then Cleaver. He called up just ten minutes before midnight—oh, yes, he called up. That wasn’t a fairy-tale. But how could he telephone from a speeding car? He couldn’t. Maybe he really wanted to have a party with his recalcitrant Canary, don’t y’ know. But then, why the brummagem alibi? Funk? Maybe. But why the circuitousness?—why didn’t he call his lost love direct? Ah, perhaps he did! Some one certainly called her by phone at twenty minutes to twelve. We must look into that, Van. . . . Yes, he may have called her, and then when a man answered—who the deuce was that man, anyway?—he may have appealed to Alys. Quite natural, y’ know. Anyway, he wasn’t in Boonton.—Poor Markham! How upset he’ll be when he finds out! . . . But what really worries me is that story of the doctor. Jealous mania: it squares with Ambroise’s character perfectly. He’s the kind that does go off his head. I knew his confession of paternalism was a red herring. My word! So the doctor was making threats and flourishing pistols, eh? Bad, bad. I don’t like it. With those ears of his, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Paranoia—that’s it. Delusions of persecution. Probably thought the girl and Pop—or maybe the girl and Spotswoode—were plotting his misery and laughing at him. You can’t tell about those chaps. They’re deep—and they’re dangerous. The canny Alys had him sized up—warned the Canary against him. . . . Taken by and large, it’s a devilish tangle. Anyway, I feel rather bucked. We’re moving—oh, undoubtedly we’re moving—though in what direction I can’t even guess. It’s beastly annoyin’.”
Markham was waiting for us at the Bankers’ Club. He greeted Vance irritably.
“What have you got to tell me that’s so damned important?”
“Now, don’t get ratty.” Vance was beaming. “How’s your lode-star, Skeel, behaving?”
“So far he’s done everything that’s pure and refined except join the Christian Endeavor Society.”
“Sunday’s coming. Give him time. . . . So you’re not happy, Markham dear?”
“Was I dragged away from another engagement to report on my state of mind?”
“No need. Your state of mind’s execrable. . . . Cheerio! I’ve brought you something to think about.”
“Damn it! I’ve got too much to think about now.”
“Here, have some brioche.” Vance gave the order for lunch without consulting either of us. “And now for my revelations. Imprimis: Pop Cleaver wasn’t in Boonton last Monday night. He was very much in the midst of our modern Gomorrah, trying to arrange a midnight party.”
“Wonderful!” snorted Markham. “I lave in the font of your wisdom. His alter ego, I take it, was on the road to Hopatcong. The supernatural leaves me cold.”
“You may be as pancosmic as you choose. Cleaver was in New York at midnight Monday, craving excitement.”
“What about the summons for speeding?”
“That’s for you to explain. But if you’ll take my advice you’ll send for this Boonton catchpole, and let him have a look at Pop. If he says Cleaver is the man he ticketed, I’ll humbly do away with myself.”
“Well! That makes it worth trying. I’ll have the officer at the Stuyvesant Club this afternoon, and I’ll point out Cleaver to him. . . . What other staggering revelations have you in store?”
“Mannix will bear looking into.”
Markham put down his knife and fork and leaned back.
“I’m overcome! Such Himalayan sagacity! With that evidence against him, he should be arrested at once. . . . Vance, my dear old friend, are you feeling quite normal? No dizzy spells lately? No shooting pains in the head? Knee-jerks all right?”
“Furthermore, Doctor Lindquist was wildly infatuated with the Canary, and insanely jealous. Recently threatened to take a pistol and hold a little pogrom of his own.”
“That’s better.” Markham sat up. “Where did you get this information?”
“Ah! That’s my secret.”
Markham was annoyed.
“Why so mysterious?”
“Needs must, old chap. Gave my word, and all that sort of thing. And I’m a bit quixotic, don’t y’ know—too much Cervantes in my youth.” He spoke lightly, but Markham knew him too well to push the question.
In less than five minutes after we had returned to the District Attorney’s office Heath came in.
“I got something else on Mannix, sir; thought you might want to add it to the report I turned in yesterday. Burke secured a picture of him, and showed it to the phone operators at Odell’s house. Both of ’em recognized it. He’s been there several times, but it wasn’t the Canary he called on. It was the woman in Apartment 2. She’s named Frisbee, and used to be one of Mannix’s fur models. He’s been to see her several times during the past six months, and has taken her out once or twice; but he hasn’t called on her for a month or more. . . . Any good?”
“Can’t tell.” Markham shot Vance an inquisitive look. “But thanks for the information, Sergeant.”
“By the bye,” said Vance dulcetly, when Heath had left us, “I’m feeling tophole. No pains in the head; no dizzy spells. Knee-jerks perfect.”
“Delighted. Still, I can’t charge a man with murder because he calls on his fur model.”
“You’re so hasty! Why should you charge him with murder?” Vance rose and yawned. “Come, Van. I’d rather like to gaze on Perneb’s tomb at the Metropolitan this afternoon. Could you bear it?” At the door he paused. “I say, Markham, what about the Boonton bailiff?”
Markham rang for Swacker.
“I’ll see to it at once. Drop in at the club around five, if you feel like it. I’ll have the officer there then, as Cleaver is sure to come in before dinner.”
When Vance and I returned to the club late that afternoon, Markham was stationed in the lounge-room facing the main door of the rotunda; and beside him sat a tall, heavy-set, bronzed man of about forty, alert but ill at ease.
“Traffic Officer Phipps arrived from Boonton a little while ago,” said Markham, by way of introduction. “Cleaver is expected at any moment now. He has an appointment here at half past five.”
Vance drew up a chair.
“I