on you, sir.”
CHAPTER 21
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 were merely threatened with legal procedure if you refused to accept my invitation voluntarily. This is my short day at the office; and there was some explaining I wanted from you without delay.”
“I’m damned if I’ll explain anything to you under these conditions!” For all his nerveless poise, Cleaver was finding it difficult to control himself. “I’m no pickpocket that you can drag in here when it suits your convenience and put through a third degree.”
“That’s eminently satisfactory to me.” Markham spoke ominously. “But since you refuse to do your explaining as a free citizen, I have no other course than to alter your present status.” He turned to Heath. “Sergeant, go across the hall and have Ben swear out a warrant for Charles Cleaver. Then lock this gentleman up.”
Cleaver gave a start and caught his breath sibilantly. “On what charge?” he demanded.
“The murder of Margaret Odell.”
The man sprang to his feet. The color had gone from his face, and the muscles of his jowls worked spasmodically. “Wait! You’re giving me a raw deal. And you’ll lose out, too. You couldn’t make that charge stick in a thousand years.”
“Maybe not. But if you don’t want to talk here, I’ll make you talk in court.”
“I’ll talk here,” Cleaver sat down again. “What do you want to know?”
Markham took out a cigar and lit it with deliberation. “First: why did you tell me you were in Boonton Monday night?”
Cleaver apparently had expected the question. “When I read of the Canary’s death, I wanted an alibi; and my brother had just given me the summons he’d been handed in Boonton. It was a ready-made alibi right in my hand. So I used it.”
“Why did you need an alibi?”
“I didn’t need it; but I thought it might save me trouble. People knew I’d been running round with the Odell girl; and some of them knew she’d been blackmailing me—I’d told ’em, like a damn fool. I told Mannix, for instance. We’d both been stung.”
“Is that your only reason for concocting this alibi?” Markham was watching him sharply.
“Wasn’t it reason enough? Blackmail would have constituted a motive, wouldn’t it?”
“It takes more than a motive to arouse unpleasant suspicion.”
“Maybe so. Only I didn’t want to be drawn into it. You can’t blame me for trying to keep clear of it.”
Markham leaned over with a threatening smile. “The fact that Miss Odell had blackmailed you wasn’t your only reason for lying about the summons. It wasn’t even your main reason.”
Cleaver’s eyes narrowed, but otherwise he was like a graven image. “You evidently know more about it than I do.” He managed to make his words sound casual.
“Not more, Mr. Cleaver,” Markham corrected him, “but nearly as much. Where were you between eleven o’clock and midnight Monday?”
“Perhaps that’s one of the things you know.”
“You’re right. You were in Miss Odell’s apartment.”
Cleaver sneered, but he did not succeed in disguising the shock that Markham’s accusation caused him.
“If that’s what you think, then it happens you don’t know, after all. I haven’t put foot in her apartment for two weeks.”
“I have the testimony of reliable witnesses to the contrary.”
“Witnesses!” The word seemed to force itself from Cleaver’s compressed lips.
Markham nodded. “You were seen coming out of Miss Odell’s apartment and leaving the house by the side door at five minutes to twelve on Monday night.”
Cleaver’s jaw sagged slightly, and his labored breathing was quite audible.
“And between half past eleven and twelve o’clock,” pursued Markham’s relentless voice, “Miss Odell was strangled and robbed. What do you say to that?”
For a long time there was tense silence. Then Cleaver spoke.
“I’ve got to think this thing out.”
Markham waited patiently. After several minutes Cleaver drew himself together and squared his shoulders.
“I’m going to tell you what I did that night, and you can take it or leave it.” Again he was the cold, self-contained gambler. “I don’t care how many witnesses you’ve got; it’s the only story you’ll ever get out of me. I should have told you in the first place, but I didn’t see any sense of stepping into hot water if I wasn’t pushed in. You might have believed me last Tuesday, but now you’ve got something in your head, and you want to make an arrest to shut up the newspapers—”
“Tell your story,” ordered Markham. “If it’s straight, you needn’t worry about the newspapers.”
Cleaver knew in his heart that this was true. No one, not even his bitterest political enemies, had ever accused Markham of buying kudos with any act of injustice, however small.
“There’s not much to tell, as a matter of fact,” the man began. “I went to Miss Odell’s house a little before midnight, but I didn’t enter her apartment; I didn’t even ring her bell.”
“Is that your customary way of paying visits?”
“Sounds fishy, doesn’t it? But it’s the truth, nevertheless. I intended to see her—that is, I wanted to—but when I reached her door, something made me change my mind—”
“Just a moment. How did you enter the house?”
“By
