The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
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boudoir last night,” retorted Markham impatiently.
“There’s not much doubt about that, sir,” said Heath encouragingly. “And I’ve an idea that when Dubois checks up those finger-prints with our files, we’ll about know who did it.”
Vance turned toward him with a rueful smile.
“You’re so trusting, Sergeant. I, in turn, have an idea that, long before this touchin’ case is clarified, you’ll wish the irascible Captain with the insect-powder had never found those finger-prints.” He made a playful gesture of emphasis. “Permit me to whisper into your ear that the person who left his sign-manuals on yonder rosewood table and cut-glass door-knob had nothing whatever to do with the precipitate demise of the fair Mademoiselle Odell.”
“What is it you suspect?” demanded Markham sharply.
“Not a thing, old dear,” blandly declared Vance. “I’m wandering about in a mental murk as empty of sign-posts as interplanetary space. The jaws of darkness do devour me up; I’m in the dead vast and middle of the night. My mental darkness is Egyptian, Stygian, Cimmerian—I’m in a perfect Erebus of tenebrosity.”
Markham’s jaw tightened in exasperation; he was familiar with this evasive loquacity of Vance’s. Dismissing the subject, he addressed himself to Heath.
“Have you done any questioning of the people in the house here?”
“I talked to Odell’s maid and to the janitor and the switchboard operators, but I didn’t go much into details—I was waiting for you. I’ll say this, though: what they did tell me made my head swim. If they don’t back down on some of their statements, we’re up against it.”
“Let’s have them in now, then,” suggested Markham; “the maid first.” He sat down on the piano-bench with his back to the keyboard.
Heath rose, but instead of going to the door, walked to the oriel window.
“There’s one thing I want to call your attention to, sir, before you interview these people, and that’s the matter of entrances and exits in this apartment.” He drew aside the gold-gauze curtain. “Look at that iron grating. All the windows in this place, including the ones in the bathroom, are equipped with iron bars just like these. It’s only eight or ten feet to the ground here, and whoever built this house wasn’t taking any chances of burglars getting in through the windows.”
He released the curtain, and strode into the foyer.
“Now, there’s only one entrance to this apartment, and that’s this door here opening off the main hall. There isn’t a transom or an air-shaft or a dumb-waiter in the place, and that means that the only way—the only way—that anybody can get in or out of this apartment is through this door. Just keep that fact in your mind, sir, while you’re listening to the stories of these people. . . . Now, I’ll have the maid brought in.”
In response to Heath’s order a detective led in a mulatto woman about thirty years old. She was neatly dressed, and gave one the impression of capability. When she spoke it was with a quiet, clear enunciation which attested to a greater degree of education than is ordinarily found in members of her class.
Her name, we learned, was Amy Gibson; and the information elicited by Markham’s preliminary questioning consisted of the following facts:
She had arrived at the apartment that morning a few minutes after seven, and, as was her custom, had let herself in with her own key, as her mistress generally slept till late.
Once or twice a week she came early to do sewing and mending for Miss Odell before the latter arose. On this particular morning she had come early to make an alteration in a gown.
As soon as she had opened the door she had been confronted by the disorder of the apartment, for the Venetian-glass doors of the foyer were wide open; and almost simultaneously she had noticed the body of her mistress on the davenport.
She had called at once to Jessup, the night telephone operator then on duty, who, after one glance into the living-room, had notified the police. She had then sat down in the public reception-room and waited for the arrival of the officers.
Her testimony had been simple and direct and intelligently stated. If she was nervous or excited, she managed to keep her feelings well under control.
“Now,” continued Markham, after a short pause, “let us go back to last night.—At what time did you leave Miss Odell?”
“A few minutes before seven, sir,” the woman answered, in a colorless, even tone which seemed to be characteristic of her speech.
“Is that your usual hour for leaving?”
“No; I generally go about six. But last night Miss Odell wanted me to help her dress for dinner.”
“Don’t you always help her dress for dinner?”
“No, sir. But last night she was going with some gentleman to dinner and the theatre, and wanted to look specially nice.”
“Ah!” Markham leaned forward. “And who was this gentleman?”
“I don’t know, sir—Miss Odell didn’t say.”
“And you couldn’t suggest who it might have been?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“And when did Miss Odell tell you that she wanted you to come early this morning?”
“When I was leaving last night.”
“So she evidently didn’t anticipate any danger, or have any fear of her companion.”
“It doesn’t look that way.” The woman paused, as if considering. “No, I know she didn’t. She was in good spirits.”
Markham turned to Heath.
“Any other questions you want to ask, Sergeant?”
Heath removed an unlighted cigar from his mouth, and bent forward, resting his hands on his knees.
“What jewellery did this Odell woman have on last night?” he demanded gruffly.
The maid’s manner became cool and a bit haughty.
“Miss Odell”—she emphasized the “Miss,” by way of reproaching him for the disrespect implied in his omission—“wore all her rings, five or six of them, and three bracelets—one of square diamonds, one of rubies, and one of diamonds and emeralds. She also had on a sunburst of pear-shaped diamonds on a chain round her neck, and she carried a platinum lorgnette set with diamonds and pearls.”
“Did she own any other jewellery?”
“A few small pieces, maybe, but I’m not sure.”
“And did she keep ’em in a steel jewel-case in the bedroom?”
“Yes—when she wasn’t wearing them.” There was more than a suggestion of sarcasm in the reply.
“Oh, I thought maybe she kept ’em locked up when she had ’em on.” Heath’s antagonism had been aroused by the maid’s attitude; he could not have failed to note that she had consistently omitted the punctilious “sir” when answering him. He now stood up and pointed loweringly to the black document-box on the rosewood table.
“Ever see that before?”
The woman nodded indifferently. “Many times.”
“Where was it generally kept?”
“In that thing.” She indicated the Boule cabinet with a motion of the head.
“What was in the box?”
“How should I know?”
“You don’t know—huh?” Heath thrust out his jaw, but his bullying attitude had no effect upon the impassive maid.
“I’ve got no idea,” she replied calmly. “It was always