come, sir,” he announced, taking the chair Markham indicated, “to tell you the truth about Monday night.”
“The truth is always welcome, Doctor,” said Markham encouragingly.
Doctor Lindquist bowed agreement.
“I deeply regret that I did not follow that course at our first interview. But at that time I had not weighed the matter sufficiently; and, having once committed myself to a false statement, I felt I had no option but to abide by it. However, after more mature consideration, I have come to the conclusion that frankness is the wiser course. The fact is, sir, I was not with Mrs. Breedon Monday night between the hours I mentioned. I remained at home until about half past ten. Then I went to Miss Odell’s house, arriving a little before eleven. I stood outside in the street until half past eleven; then I returned home.”
“Such a bare statement needs considerable amplification.”
“I realize it, sir; and I am prepared to amplify it.” Doctor Lindquist hesitated, and a strained look came into his white face. His hands were tightly clenched. “I had learned that Miss Odell was going to dinner and the theater with a man named Spotswoode; and the thought of it began to prey on my mind. It was Spotswoode to whom I owed the alienation of Miss Odell’s affections; and it was his interference that had driven me to my threat against the young woman. As I sat at home that night, letting my mind dwell morbidly on the situation, I was seized by the impulse to carry out that threat. Why not, I asked myself, end the intolerable situation at once? And why not include Spotswoode in the debacle?…”
As he talked he became more and more agitated. The nerves about his eyes had begun to twitch, and his shoulders jerked like those of a man attempting vainly to control a chill.
“Remember, sir, I was suffering agonies, and my hatred of Spotswoode seemed to cloud my reason. Scarcely realizing what I was doing, and yet operating under an irresistible determination, I put my automatic in my pocket and hurried out of the house. I thought Miss Odell and Spotswoode would be returning from the theater soon, and I intended to force my way into the apartment and perform the act I had planned.… From across the street I saw them enter the house—it was about eleven then—but, when I came face to face with the actuality, I hesitated. I delayed my revenge; I—I played with the idea, getting a kind of insane satisfaction out of it—knowing they were now at my mercy.…”
His hands were shaking as with a coarse tremor; and the twitching about his eyes had increased.
“For half an hour I waited, gloating. Then, as I was about to go in and have it over with, a man named Cleaver came along and saw me. He stopped and spoke. I thought he might be going to call on Miss Odell, so I told him she already had a visitor. He then went on toward Broadway, and while I was waiting for him to turn the corner, Spotswoode came out of the house and jumped into a taxicab that had just driven up.… My plan had been thwarted—I had waited too long. Suddenly I seemed to awake as from some terrible nightmare. I was almost in a state of collapse, but I managed to get home.… That’s what happened—so help me God!”
He sank back weakly in his chair. The suppressed nervous excitement that had fired him while he spoke had died out, and he appeared listless and indifferent. He sat several minutes breathing stertorously, and twice he passed his hand vaguely across his forehead. He was in no condition to be questioned, and finally Markham sent for Tracy and gave orders that he was to be taken to his home.
“Temporary exhaustion from hysteria,” commented Vance indifferently. “All these paranoia lads are hyperneurasthenic. He’ll be in a psychopathic ward in another year.”
“That’s as may be, Mr. Vance,” said Heath, with an impatience that repudiated all enthusiasm for the subject of abnormal psychology. “What interests me just now is the way all these fellows’ stories hang together.”
“Yes,” nodded Markham. “There is undeniably a groundwork of truth in their statements.”
“But please observe,” Vance pointed out, “that their stories do not eliminate any one of them as a possible culprit. Their tales, as you say, synchronize perfectly; and yet, despite all that neat coordination, any one of the three could have got into the Odell apartment that night. For instance: Mannix could have entered from Apartment 2 before Cleaver came along and listened; and he could have seen Cleaver going away when he himself was leaving the Odell apartment. Cleaver could have spoken to the doctor at half past eleven, walked to the Ansonia, returned a little before twelve, gone into the lady’s apartment, and come out just as Mannix opened Miss Frisbee’s door. Again, the excitable doctor may have gone in after Spotswoode came out at half past eleven, stayed twenty minutes or so, and departed before Cleaver returned from the Ansonia.… No; the fact that their stories dovetail doesn’t in the least tend to exculpate any one of them.”
“And,” supplemented Markham, “that cry of ‘Oh, my God!’ might have been made by either Mannix or Lindquist—provided Cleaver really heard it.”
“He heard it unquestionably,” said Vance. “Someone in the apartment was invoking the Deity around midnight. Cleaver hasn’t sufficient sense of the dramatic to fabricate such a thrillin’ bonne-bouche.”
“But if Cleaver actually heard that voice,” protested Markham, “then, he is automatically eliminated as a suspect.”
“Not at all, old dear. He may have heard it after he had come out of the apartment, and realized then, for the first time, that someone had been hidden in the place during his visit.”
“Your man in the clothes closet, I presume you mean.”
“Yes—of course.… You know, Markham, it might have been the horrified Skeel, emerging from his hiding place upon a scene of tragic wreckage, who let out that evangelical invocation.”
“Except,” commented Markham, with sarcasm, “Skeel doesn’t impress me as particularly religious.”
“Oh, that?” Vance shrugged. “A point in substantiation. Irreligious persons call on God much more than Christians. The only true and consistent theologians, don’t y’ know, are the atheists.”
Heath, who had been sitting in gloomy meditation, took his cigar from his mouth and heaved a heavy sigh.
“Yes,” he rumbled, “I’m willing to admit somebody besides Skeel got into Odell’s apartment, and that the Dude hid in the clothes closet. But, if that’s so, then, this other fellow didn’t see Skeel; and it’s not going to do us a whole lot of good even if we identify him.”
“Don’t fret on that point, Sergeant,” Vance counselled him cheerfully. “When you’ve identified this other mysterious visitor, you’ll be positively amazed how black care will desert you. You’ll rubricate the hour you find him. You’ll leap gladsomely in the air. You’ll sing a roundelay.”
“The hell I will!” said Heath.
Swacker came in with a typewritten memorandum and put it on the district attorney’s desk. “The architect just phoned in this report.”
Markham glanced it over; it was very brief. “No help here,” he said. “Walls solid. No waste space. No hidden entrances.”
“Too bad, Sergeant,” sighed Vance. “You’ll have to drop the cinema idea.… Sad.”
Heath grunted and looked disconsolate. “Even without no other way of getting in or out except that side door,” he
