right, sir. The Dude’s touchy and he can give a swell imitation of an oyster when he feels like it.” The sergeant spoke with feeling.
“I’ll have Swacker here tomorrow to take down his statement,” Markham went on; “and you’d better put one of your men on the elevator. The regular operator is off Sundays. Also, plant a man in the hall outside and put another one in Swacker’s office.”
Vance stretched himself luxuriously and rose.
“Most considerate of the gentleman to call up at this time, don’t y’ know. I had a longing to see the Monets at Durand-Ruel’s this afternoon, and I was afraid I wasn’t going to be able to drag myself away from this fascinatin’ case. Now that the apocalypse has been definitely scheduled for tomorrow, I’ll indulge my taste for Impressionism.… À demain, Markham. Bye-bye, Sergeant.”
CHAPTER 23
THE TEN-O’CLOCK APPOINTMENT
(Sunday, September 16; 10 A.M.)
A fine drizzle was falling the next morning when we rose; and a chill—the first forerunner of winter—was in the air. We had breakfast in the library at half past eight, and at nine o’clock Vance’s car, which had been ordered the night before, called for us. We rode down Fifth Avenue, now almost deserted in its thick blanket of yellow fog, and called for Markham at his apartment in West 12th Street. He was waiting for us in front of the house and stepped quickly into the car with scarcely a word of greeting. From his anxious, preoccupied look I knew that he was depending a good deal on what Skeel had to tell him.
We had turned into West Broadway beneath the Elevated tracks before any of us spoke. Then Markham voiced a doubt which was plainly an articulation of his troubled ruminations.
“I’m wondering if, after all, this fellow Skeel can have any important information to give us. His phone call was very strange. Yet he spoke confidently enough regarding his knowledge. No dramatics, no request for immunity—just a plain, assured statement that he knew who murdered the Odell girl, and had decided to come clean.”
“It’s certain he himself didn’t strangle the lady,” pronounced Vance. “My theory, as you know, is that he was hiding in the clothes press when the shady business was being enacted; and all along I’ve clung lovingly to the idea that he was au secret to the entire proceedings. The keyhole of that closet door is on a direct line with the end of the davenport where the lady was strangled; and if a rival was operating at the time of his concealment, it’s not unreasonable to assume that he peered forth—eh, what? I questioned him on this point, you remember; and he didn’t like it a bit.”
“But, in that case—”
“Oh, I know. There are all kinds of erudite objections to my wild dream. Why didn’t he give the alarm? Why didn’t he tell us about it before? Why this? and why that?… I make no claim to omniscience, y’ know; I don’t even pretend to have a logical explanation for the various traits d’union of my vagary. My theory is only sketched in, as it were. But I’m convinced, nevertheless, that the modish Tony knows who killed his bona roba and looted her apartment.”
“But of the three persons who possibly could have got into the Odell apartment that night—namely, Mannix, Cleaver, and Lindquist—Skeel evidently knows only one—Mannix.”
“Yes, to be sure. And Mannix, it would seem, is the only one of the trio who knows Skeel.… An interestin’ point.”
Heath met us at the Franklin Street entrance to the Criminal Courts Building. He, too, was anxious and subdued and he shook hands with us in a detached manner devoid of his usual heartiness.
“I’ve got Snitkin running the elevator,” he said, after the briefest of salutations. “Burke’s in the hall upstairs, and Emery is with him, waiting to be let into Swacker’s office.”
We entered the deserted and almost silent building and rode up to the fourth floor. Markham unlocked his office door and we passed in.
“Guilfoyle, the man who’s tailing Skeel,” Heath explained, when we were seated, “is to report by phone to the Homicide Bureau as soon as the Dude leaves his rooms.”
It was now twenty minutes to ten. Five minutes later Swacker arrived. Taking his stenographic notebook, he stationed himself just inside of the swinging door of Markham’s private sanctum, where he could hear all that was said without being seen. Markham lit a cigar, and Heath followed suit. Vance was already smoking placidly. He was the calmest person in the room, and lay back languorously in one of the great leather chairs as though immune to all cares and vicissitudes. But I could tell by the overdeliberate way he flicked his ashes into the receiver that he, too, was uneasy.
Five or six minutes passed in complete silence. Then the sergeant gave a grunt of annoyance. “No, sir,” he said, as if completing some unspoken thought, “I can’t get a slant on this business. The finding of that jewelry, now, all nicely wrapped up…and then the Dude offering to squeal.… There’s no sense to it.”
“It’s tryin’, I know, Sergeant; but it’s not altogether senseless.” Vance was gazing lazily at the ceiling. “The chap who confiscated those baubles didn’t have any use for them. He didn’t want them, in fact—they worried him abominably.”
The point was too complex for Heath. The previous day’s developments had shaken the foundation of all his arguments; and he lapsed again into brooding silence.
At ten o’clock he rose impatiently and, going to the hall door, looked out. Returning, he compared his watch with the office clock and began pacing restlessly. Markham was attempting to sort some papers on his desk, but presently he pushed them aside with an impatient gesture.
“He ought to be coming along now,” he remarked, with an effort at cheerfulness.
“He’ll come,” growled Heath, “or he’ll get a free ride.” And he continued his pacing.
A few minutes later he turned abruptly and went out into the hall. We could hear him calling to Snitkin down the elevator shaft, but when he came back into the office, his expression told us that as yet there was no news of Skeel.
“I’ll call up the bureau,” he decided, “and see what Guilfoyle had to report. At least we’ll know then when the Dude left his house.”
But when the sergeant had been connected with police headquarters, he was informed that Guilfoyle had as yet made no report.
“That’s damn funny,” he commented, hanging up the receiver.
It was now twenty minutes past ten. Markham was growing restive. The tenacity with which the Canary murder case had resisted all his efforts toward a solution had filled him with discouragement; and he had hoped, almost desperately, that this morning’s interview with Skeel would clear up the mystery, or at least supply him with information on which definite action could be taken. Now, with Skeel late for this all-important appointment, the strain was becoming tense.
He pushed back his chair nervously and, going to the window, gazed out into the dark haze of fine rain. When he returned to his desk his face was set.
“I’ll give our friend until half past ten,” he said grimly. “If he isn’t here then, Sergeant, you’d better call up the local station house and have them send a patrol wagon for him.”
There was another few minutes of silence. Vance lolled
