CHAPTER XI

       SEEKING INFORMATION

       Table of Contents

      (Tuesday, September 11; 9 p. m.)

      Ten minutes later we were ringing the bell of a stately old brownstone house in East 44th Street.

      A resplendently caparisoned butler opened the door, and Markham presented his card.

      “Take this to the doctor at once, and say that it’s urgent.”

      “The doctor is just finishing dinner,” the stately seneschal informed him; and conducted us into a richly furnished reception-room, with deep comfortable chairs, silken draperies, and subdued lights.

      “A typical gynecologist’s seraglio,” observed Vance, looking around. “I’m sure the pasha himself is a majestic and elegant personage.”

      The prediction proved true. Doctor Lindquist entered the room a moment later inspecting the District Attorney’s card as if it had been a cuneiform inscription whose import he could not quite decipher. He was a tall man in his late forties, with bushy hair and eyebrows, and a complexion abnormally pale. His face was long, and, despite the asymmetry of his features, he might easily have been called handsome. He was in dinner clothes, and he carried himself with the self-conscious precision of a man unduly impressed with his own importance. He seated himself at a kidney-shaped desk of carved mahogany, and lifted his eyes with polite inquiry to Markham.

      “To what am I indebted for the honor of this call?” he asked in a studiously melodious voice, lingering over each word caressingly. “You are most fortunate to have found me in,” he added, before Markham could speak. “I confer with patients only by appointment.” One felt that he experienced a certain humiliation at having received us without elaborate ceremonial preliminaries.

      Markham, whose nature was opposed to all circumlocution and pretense, came direct to the point.

      “This isn’t a professional consultation, doctor; but it happens that I want to speak to you about one of your former patients—a Miss Margaret Odell.”

      Doctor Lindquist regarded the gold paper-weight before him with vacantly reminiscent eyes.

      “Ah, yes. Miss Odell. I was just reading of her violent end. A most unfortunate and tragic affair. . . . In just what way can I be of service to you?—You understand, of course, that the relationship between a physician and his patient is one of sacred confidence——”

      “I understand that thoroughly,” Markham assured him abruptly. “On the other hand, it is the sacred duty of every citizen to assist the authorities in bringing a murderer to justice. And if there is anything you can tell me which will help toward that end, I shall certainly expect you to tell me.”

      The doctor raised his hand slightly in polite protestation.

      “I shall, of course, do all I can to assist you, if you will but indicate your desires.”

      “There’s no need to beat about the bush, doctor,” said Markham. “I know that Miss Odell was a patient of yours for a long time; and I realize that it is highly possible, not to say probable, that she told you certain personal things which may have direct bearing on her death.”

      “But, my dear Mr.—“—Doctor Lindquist glanced ostentatiously at the card—“ah—Markham, my relations with Miss Odell were of a purely professional character.”

      “I had understood, however,” ventured Markham, “that, while what you say may be technically true, nevertheless there was an informality, let me say, in that relationship. Perhaps I may state it better by saying that your professional attitude transcended a merely scientific interest in her case.”

      I heard Vance chuckle softly; and I myself could hardly suppress a smile at Markham’s verbose and orbicular accusation. But Doctor Lindquist, it seemed, was in no wise disconcerted. Assuming an air of beguiling pensiveness, he said:

      “I will confess, in the interests of strict accuracy, that during my somewhat protracted treatment of her case, I came to regard the young woman with a certain—shall I say, fatherly liking? But I doubt if she was even aware of this mild sentiment on my part.”

      The corners of Vance’s mouth twitched slightly. He was sitting with drowsy eyes, watching the doctor with a look of studious amusement.

      “And she never at any time told you of any private or personal affairs that were causing her anxiety?” persisted Markham.

      Doctor Lindquist pyramided his fingers, and appeared to give the question his undivided thought.

      “No, I can’t recall a single statement of that nature.” His words were measured and urbane. “I know, naturally, in a general way, her manner of living; but the details, you will readily perceive, were wholly outside my province as a medical consultant. The disorganization of her nerves was due—so my diagnosis led me to conclude—to late hours, excitement, irregular and rich eating—what, I believe, is referred to vulgarly as going the pace. The modern woman, in this febrile age, sir——”

      “When did you see her last, may I ask?” Markham interrupted impatiently.

      The doctor made a pantomime of eloquent surprise.

      “When did I see her last? . . . Let me see.” He could, apparently, recall the occasion only with considerable difficulty. “A fortnight ago, perhaps—though it may have been longer. I really can’t recall. . . . Shall I refer to my files?”

      “That won’t be necessary,” said Markham. He paused, and regarded the doctor with a look of disarming affability. “And was this last visit a paternal or merely a professional one?”

      “Professional, of course.” Doctor Lindquist’s eyes were impassive and only mildly interested; but his face, I felt, was by no means the unedited reflection of his thoughts.

      “Did the meeting take place here or at her apartment?”

      “I believe I called on her at her home.”

      “You called on her a great deal, doctor—so I am informed—and at rather unconventional hours. . . . Is this entirely in accord with your practice of seeing patients only by appointment?”

      Markham’s tone was pleasant, but from the nature of his question I knew that he was decidedly irritated by the man’s bland hypocrisy, and felt that he was deliberately withholding relevant information.

      Before Doctor Lindquist could reply, however, the butler appeared at the door, and silently indicated an extension telephone on a taboret beside the desk. With an unctuously murmured apology, the doctor turned and lifted the receiver.

      Vance took advantage of this opportunity to scribble something on a piece of paper and