The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
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and a man’s voice answered from her apartment.”
“What’s this!” Markham spun round, and Heath sat up at attention, his eyes wide. “Tell me every detail of that call.”
Jessup complied unemotionally.
“About twenty minutes to twelve a trunk-light flashed on the board, and when I answered it, a man asked for Miss Odell. I plugged the connection through, and after a short wait the receiver was lifted from her phone—you can tell when a receiver’s taken off the hook, because the guide-light on the board goes out—and a man’s voice answered ‘Hello.’ I pulled the listening-in key over, and, of course, didn’t hear any more.”
There was silence in the apartment for several minutes. Then Vance, who had been watching Jessup closely during the interview, spoke.
“By the bye, Mr. Jessup,” he asked carelessly, “were you yourself, by any chance, a bit fascinated—let us say—by the charming Miss Odell?”
For the first time since entering the room the man appeared ill at ease. A dull flush overspread his cheeks.
“I thought she was a very beautiful lady,” he answered resolutely.
Markham gave Vance a look of disapproval, and then addressed himself abruptly to the operator.
“That will be all for the moment, Jessup.”
The man bowed stiffly and limped out.
“This case is becoming positively fascinatin’,” murmured Vance, relaxing once more upon the davenport.
“It’s comforting to know that some one’s enjoying it.” Markham’s tone was irritable. “And what, may I ask, was the object of your question concerning Jessup’s sentiments toward the dead woman?”
“Oh, just a vagrant notion struggling in my brain,” returned Vance. “And then, y’ know, a bit of boudoir racontage always enlivens a situation, what?”
Heath, rousing himself from gloomy abstraction, spoke up.
“We’ve still got the finger-prints, Mr. Markham. And I’m thinking that they’re going to locate our man for us.”
“But even if Dubois does identify those prints,” said Markham, “we’ll have to show how the owner of them got into this place last night. He’ll claim, of course, they were made prior to the crime.”
“Well, it’s a sure thing,” declared Heath stubbornly, “that there was some man in here last night when Odell got back from the theatre, and that he was still here until after the other man left at half past eleven. The woman’s screams and the answering of that phone call at twenty minutes to twelve prove it. And since Doc Doremus said that the murder took place before midnight, there’s no getting away from the fact that the guy who was hiding in here did the job.”
“That appears incontrovertible,” agreed Markham. “And I’m inclined to think it was some one she knew. She probably screamed when he first revealed himself, and then, recognizing him, calmed down and told the other man out in the hall that nothing was the matter. . . . Later on he strangled her.”
“And, I might suggest,” added Vance, “that his place of hiding was that clothes-press.”
“Sure,” the Sergeant concurred. “But what’s bothering me is how he got in here. The day operator who was at the switchboard until ten last night told me that the man who called and took Odell out to dinner was the only visitor she had.”
Markham gave a grunt of exasperation.
“Bring the day man in here,” he ordered. “We’ve got to straighten this thing out. Somebody got in here last night, and before I leave I’m going to find out how it was done.”
Vance gave him a look of patronizing amusement.
“Y’ know, Markham,” he said, “I’m not blessed with the gift of psychic inspiration, but I have one of those strange, indescribable feelings, as the minor poets say, that if you really contemplate remaining in this bestrewn boudoir till you’ve discovered how the mysterious visitor gained admittance here last night, you’d do jolly well to send for your toilet access’ries and several changes of fresh linen—not to mention your pyjamas. The chap who engineered this little soirée planned his entrance and exit most carefully and perspicaciously.”
Markham regarded Vance dubiously, but made no reply.
10. His full name was William Elmer Jessup, and he had been attached to the 308th Infantry of the 77th Division of the Overseas Forces.
CHAPTER VII
A NAMELESS VISITOR
(Tuesday, September 11; 11.15 a. m.)
Heath had stepped out into the hall, and now returned with the day telephone operator, a sallow thin young man who, we learned, was named Spively. His almost black hair, which accentuated the pallor of his face, was sleeked back from his forehead with pomade; and he wore a very shallow moustache which barely extended beyond the alæ of his nostrils. He was dressed in an exaggeratedly dapper fashion, in a dazzling chocolate-colored suit cut very close to his figure, a pair of cloth-topped buttoned shoes, and a pink shirt with a stiff turn-over collar to match. He appeared nervous, and immediately sat down in the wicker chair by the door, fingering the sharp creases of his trousers, and running the tip of his tongue over his lips.
Markham went straight to the point.
“I understand you were at the switchboard yesterday afternoon and last night until ten o’clock. Is that correct?”
Spively swallowed hard, and nodded his head. “Yes, sir.”
“What time did Miss Odell go out to dinner?”
“About seven o’clock. I’d just sent to the restaurant next door for some sandwiches——”
“Did she go alone?” Markham interrupted his explanation.
“No. A fella called for her.”
“Did you know this ‘fella’?”
“I’d seen him a couple of times calling on Miss Odell, but I didn’t know who he was.”
“What did he look like?” Markham’s question was uttered with hurried impatience.
Spively’s description of the girl’s escort tallied with Jessup’s description of the man who had accompanied her home, though Spively was more voluble and less precise than Jessup had been. Patently, Miss Odell had gone out at seven and returned at eleven with the same man.
“Now,” resumed Markham, putting an added stress on his words, “I want to know who else called on Miss Odell between the time she went out to dinner and ten o’clock when you left the switchboard.”
Spively was puzzled by the question, and his thin arched eyebrows lifted and contracted.
“I—don’t understand,” he stammered. “How could any one call on Miss Odell when she was out?”
“Some one evidently did,” said Markham. “And he got into her apartment, and was there when she returned at eleven.”
The youth’s eyes opened wide, and his lips fell apart.
“My God, sir!” he exclaimed. “So that’s how they murdered her!—laid in wait for her! . . .” He stopped abruptly, suddenly realizing his own proximity to the mysterious chain of events that had led up to the crime. “But nobody got into her apartment while I was on duty,” he blurted, with frightened emphasis. “Nobody! I never left the board from the time she went out until quitting time.”
“Couldn’t