The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
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than ten minutes later Cleaver entered the rotunda from the street, paused at the desk, and sauntered into the lounge-room. There was no escaping the observation point Markham had chosen; and as he walked by us he paused and exchanged greetings. Markham detained him a moment with a few casual questions; and then Cleaver passed on.
“That the man you ticketed, officer?” asked Markham, turning to Phipps.
Phipps was scowling perplexedly.
“It looks something like him, sir; there’s a kind of resemblance. But it ain’t him.” He shook his head. “No, sir; it ain’t him. The fellow I hung a summons on was stouter than this gent, and wasn’t as tall.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yes, sir—no mistake. The guy I tagged tried to argue with me, and then he tried to slip me a fiver to forget it. I had my headlight on him full.”
Phipps was dismissed with a substantial pourboire.
“Væ misero mihi!” sighed Vance. “My worthless existence is to be prolonged. Sad. But you must try to bear it. . . . I say, Markham, what does Pop Cleaver’s brother look like?
“That’s it,” nodded Markham. “I’ve met his brother; he’s shorter and stouter. . . . This thing is getting beyond me. I think I’ll have it out with Cleaver now.”
He started to rise, but Vance forced him back into his seat.
“Don’t be impetuous. Cultivate patience. Cleaver’s not going to do a bunk; and there are one or two prelimin’ry steps strongly indicated. Mannix and Lindquist still seduce my curiosity.”
Markham clung to his point.
“Neither Mannix nor Lindquist is here now, and Cleaver is. And I want to know why he lied to me about that summons.”
“I can tell you that,” said Vance. “He wanted you to think he was in the wilds of New Jersey at midnight Monday.—Simple, what?”
“The inference is a credit to your intelligence! But I hope you don’t seriously think that Cleaver is guilty. It’s possible he knows something; but I certainly cannot picture him as a strangler.”
“And why?”
“He’s not the type. It’s inconceivable—even if there were evidence against him.”
“Ah! The psychological judgment! You eliminate Cleaver because you don’t think his nature harmonizes with the situation. I say, doesn’t that come perilously near being an esoteric hypothesis?—or a metaphysical deduction? . . . However, I don’t entirely agree with you in your application of the theory to Cleaver. That fish-eyed gambler has unsuspected potentialities for evil. But with the theory itself I am wholly in accord. And behold, my dear Markham: you yourself apply psychology in its abecedarian implications, yet ridicule my application of it in its higher developments. Consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds, y’ know, but it’s none the less a priceless jewel. . . . How about a cup of tea?”
We sought the Palm Room, and sat down at a table near the entrance. Vance ordered oolong tea, but Markham and I took black coffee. A very capable four-piece orchestra was playing Tchaikovsky’s Casse-Noisette Suite, and we sat restfully in the comfortable chairs without speaking. Markham was tired and dispirited, and Vance was busy with the problem that had absorbed him continuously since Tuesday morning. Never before had I seen him so preoccupied.
We had been there perhaps half an hour when Spotswoode strolled in. He stopped and spoke, and Markham asked him to join us. He, too, appeared depressed, and his eyes showed signs of worry.
“I hardly dare ask you, Mr. Markham,” he said diffidently, after he had ordered a ginger ale, “but how do my chances stand now of being called as a witness?”
“That fate is certainly no nearer than when I last saw you,” Markham replied. “In fact, nothing has happened to change the situation materially.”
“And the man you had under suspicion?”
“He’s still under suspicion, but no arrest has been made. We’re hoping, however, that something will break before long.”
“And I suppose you still want me to remain in the city?”
“If you can arrange it—yes.”
Spotswoode was silent for a time; then he said:
“I don’t want to appear to shirk any responsibility—and perhaps it may seem wholly selfish for me even to suggest it—but, in any event, wouldn’t the testimony of the telephone operator as to the hour of Miss Odell’s return and her calls for help be sufficient to establish the facts, without my corroboration?”
“I have thought of that, of course; and if it is at all possible to prepare the case for the prosecution without summoning you to appear, I assure you it will be done. At the moment, I can see no necessity of your being called as a witness. But one never knows what may turn up. If the defense hinges on a question of exact time, and the operator’s testimony is questioned or disqualified for any reason, you may be required to come forward. Otherwise not.”
Spotswoode sipped his ginger ale. A little of his depression seemed to have departed.
“You’re very generous, Mr. Markham. I wish there was some adequate way of thanking you.” He looked up hesitantly. “I presume you are still opposed to my visiting the apartment. . . . I know you think me unreasonable and perhaps sentimental; but the girl represented something in my life that I find very difficult to tear out. I don’t expect you to understand it—I hardly understand it myself.”
“I think it’s easily understandable, don’t y’ know,” remarked Vance, with a sympathy I had rarely seen him manifest. “Your attitude needs no apology. History and fable are filled with the same situation, and the protagonists have always exhibited sentiments similar to yours. Your most famous prototype, of course, was Odysseus on the citron-scented isle of Ogygia with the fascinatin’ Calypso. The soft arms of sirens have gone snaking round men’s necks ever since the red-haired Lilith worked her devastatin’ wiles on the impressionable Adam. We’re all sons of that racy old boy.”
Spotswoode smiled.
“You at least give me an historic background,” he said. Then he turned to Markham. “What will become of Miss Odell’s possessions—her furniture and so forth?”
“Sergeant Heath heard from an aunt of hers in Seattle,” Markham told him. “She’s on her way to New York, I believe, to take over what there is of the estate.”
“And everything will be kept intact until then?”
“Probably longer, unless something unexpected happens. Anyway, until then.”
“There are one or two little trinkets I’d like to keep,” Spotswoode confessed, a bit shamefacedly, I thought.
After a few more minutes of desultory talk he rose, and, pleading an engagement, bade us good afternoon.
“I hope I can keep his name clear of the case,” said Markham, when he had gone.
“Yes; his situation is not an enviable one,” concurred Vance. “It’s always sad to be found out. The moralist would set it down to retribution.”
“In this instance chance was certainly on the side of righteousness. If he hadn’t chosen Monday night for the Winter Garden, he might now be in the bosom of his family, with nothing more troublesome to bother him than a guilty conscience.”
“It certainly looks that way.” Vance glanced at his watch. “And your mention of the Winter Garden reminds me. Do you mind if we dine early? Frivolity beckons me to-night. I’m going to the ‘Scandals.’ ”
We both looked at him as though he had taken leave of his senses.
“Don’t be so horrified, my Markham. Why should I not indulge an impulse? . . . And, incidentally,