The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
Читать онлайн книгу.
“Did you see any one else that night in the halls or alleyway?”
“Nobody—absolutely nobody.”
“Did you hear any one in the Odell apartment—any one speaking or moving about, perhaps?”
“Didn’t hear a thing.” Mannix shook his head emphatically.
“And you’re certain of the time you saw Cleaver go out—five minutes to twelve?”
“Positively. I looked at my watch, and I said to the lady: ‘I’m leaving the same day I came; it won’t be to-morrow for five minutes yet.’ ”
Markham went over his story point by point, attempting by various means to make him admit more than he had already told. But Mannix neither added to his statement nor modified it in any detail; and after half an hour’s cross-examination he was permitted to go.
“We’ve found one missing piece of the puzzle, at any rate,” commented Vance. “I don’t see now just how it fits into the complete pattern, but it’s helpful and suggestive. And, I say, how beautifully my intuition about Mannix was verified, don’t y’ know!”
“Yes, of course—your precious intuition.” Markham looked at him sceptically. “Why did you shut him up twice when he was trying to tell me something?”
“O, tu ne sauras jamais,” recited Vance. “I simply can’t tell you, old dear. Awfully sorry, and all that.”
His manner was whimsical, but Markham knew that at such times Vance was at heart most serious, and he did not press the question. I could not help wondering if Miss La Fosse realized just how secure she had been in putting her faith in Vance’s integrity.
Heath had been considerably shaken by Mannix’s story.
“I don’t savvy that side door being unlocked,” he complained. “How the hell did it get bolted again on the inside after Mannix went out? And who unbolted it after six o’clock?”
“In God’s good time, my Sergeant, all things will be revealed,” said Vance.
“Maybe—and maybe not. But if we do find out, you can take it from me that the answer’ll be Skeel. He’s the bird we gotta get the goods on. Cleaver is no expert jimmy artist; and neither is Mannix.”
“Just the same, there was a very capable technician on hand that night, and it wasn’t your friend the Dude—though he was probably the Donatello who sculptured open the jewel-case.”
“A pair of ’em, was there? That’s your theory, is it, Mr. Vance? You said that once before; and I’m not saying you’re wrong. But if we can hang any part of it on Skeel, we’ll make him come across as to who his pal was.”
“It wasn’t a pal, Sergeant. It was more likely a stranger.”
Markham sat glowering into space.
“I don’t at all like the Cleaver end of this affair,” he said. “There’s been something damned wrong about him ever since Monday.”
“And I say,” put in Vance, “doesn’t the gentleman’s false alibi take on a certain shady significance now, what? You apprehend, I trust, why I restrained you from questioning him about it at the club yesterday. I rather fancied that if you could get Mannix to pour out his heart to you, you’d be in a stronger position to draw a few admissions from Cleaver. And behold! Again the triumph of intuition! With what you now know about him, you can chivvy him most unconscionably—eh, what?”
“And that’s precisely what I’m going to do.” Markham rang for Swacker. “Get hold of Charles Cleaver,” he ordered irritably. “Phone him at the Stuyvesant Club and also his home—he lives round the corner from the club in West 27th Street. And tell him I want him to be here in half an hour, or I’ll send a couple of detectives to bring him in handcuffs.”
For five minutes Markham stood before the window, smoking agitatedly, while Vance, with a smile of amusement, busied himself with The Wall Street Journal. Heath got himself a drink of water, and took a turn up and down the room. Presently Swacker re-entered.
“Sorry, Chief, but there’s nothing doing. Cleaver’s gone into the country somewhere. Won’t be back till late to-night.”
“Hell! . . . All right—that’ll do.” Markham turned to Heath. “You have Cleaver rounded up to-night, Sergeant, and bring him in here to-morrow morning at nine.”
“He’ll be here, sir!” Heath paused in his pacing and faced Markham. “I’ve been thinking, sir; and there’s one thing that keeps coming up in my mind, so to speak. You remember that black document-box that was setting on the living-room table? It was empty; and what a woman generally keeps in that kind of a box is letters and things like that. Well, now, here’s what’s been bothering me: that box wasn’t jimmied open—it was unlocked with a key. And, anyway, a professional crook don’t take letters and documents. . . . You see what I mean, sir?”
“Sergeant of mine!” exclaimed Vance. “I abase myself before you! I sit at your feet! . . . The document-box—the tidily opened, empty document-box! Of course! Skeel didn’t open it—never in this world! That was the other chap’s handiwork.”
“What was in your mind about that box, Sergeant?” asked Markham.
“Just this, sir. As Mr. Vance has insisted right along, there mighta been some one besides Skeel in that apartment during the night. And you told me that Cleaver admitted to you he’d paid Odell a lot of money last June to get back his letters. But suppose he never paid that money; suppose he went there Monday night and took those letters. Wouldn’t he have told you just the story he did about buying ’em back? Maybe that’s how Mannix happened to see him there.”
“That’s not unreasonable,” Markham acknowledged. “But where does it lead us?”
“Well, sir, if Cleaver did take ’em Monday night, he mighta held on to ’em. And if any of those letters were dated later than last June, when he says he bought ’em back, then we’d have the goods on him.”
“Well?”
“As I say, sir, I’ve been thinking. . . . Now, Cleaver is outa town to-day; and if we could get hold of those letters. . . .”
“It might prove helpful, of course,” said Markham coolly, looking the Sergeant straight in the eye. “But such a thing is quite out of the question.”
“Still and all,” mumbled Heath, “Cleaver’s been pulling a lot of raw stuff on you, sir.”
CHAPTER XXI
A CONTRADICTION IN DATES
(Saturday, September 15; 9 a. m.)
The next morning Markham and Vance and I breakfasted together at the Prince George, and arrived at the District Attorney’s office a few minutes past nine. Heath, with Cleaver in tow, was waiting in the reception-room.
To judge by Cleaver’s manner as he entered, the Sergeant had been none too considerate of him. He strode belligerently to the District Attorney’s desk and fixed a cold, resentful eye on Markham.
“Am I, by any chance, under arrest?” he demanded softly, but it was the rasping, suppressed softness of wrathful indignation.
“Not yet,” said Markham curtly. “But if you were, you’d have only yourself to blame.—Sit down.”
Cleaver hesitated, and took the nearest chair.
“Why was I routed out of bed at seven-thirty by this detective of yours”—he jerked his thumb toward Heath—“and threatened with patrol-wagons and warrants because I objected to such high-handed and illegal methods?”
“You