“Good God! No wonder he importuned me on every possible occasion to let him visit this apartment again. Such a damning piece of evidence as that record must have kept him awake at night.”
“Still, I rather fancy that if I hadn’t discovered it, he would have succeeded in getting possession of it as soon as your sergent-de-ville was removed. It was annoyin’ to be unexpectedly barred from the apartment, but I doubt if it worried him much. He would have been on hand when the Canary’s aunt took possession, and the retrieving of the record would have been comparatively easy. Of course the record constituted a hazard, but Spotswoode isn’t the type who’d shy at a low bunker of that kind. No, the thing was planned scientifically enough. He was defeated by sheer accident.”
“And Skeel?”
“He was another unfortunate circumstance. He was hiding in the closet there when Spotswoode and the lady came in at eleven. It was Spotswoode whom he saw strangle his erstwhile amoureuse and rifle the apartment. Then, when Spotswoode went out, he came forth from hiding. He was probably looking down at the girl when the phonograph emitted its blood-chilling wails.… My word! Fancy being in a cold funk, gazing at a murdered woman, and then hearing piercing screams behind you! It was a bit too much even for the hardened Tony. I don’t wonder he forgot all caution and put his hand on the table to steady himself.… And then came Spotswoode’s voice through the door, and the record’s answer. This must have puzzled Skeel. I imagine he thought for a moment he’d lost his reason. But pretty soon the significance of it dawned on him; and I can see him grinning to himself. Obviously he knew who the murderer was—it would not have been in keeping with his character had he failed to learn the identities of the Canary’s admirers. And now there had fallen into his lap, like manna from heaven, the most perfect opportunity for blackmail that any such charmin’ young gentleman could desire. He doubtless indulged himself with roseate visions of a life of opulence and ease at Spotswoode’s expense. When Cleaver phoned a few minutes later, he merely said the lady was out, and then set to work planning his own departure.”
“But I don’t see why he didn’t take the record with him.”
“And remove from the scene of the crime the one piece of unanswerable evidence?… Bad strategy, Markham. If he himself had produced the record later, Spotswoode would simply have denied all knowledge of it, and accused the blackmailer of a plot. Oh, no; Skeel’s only course was to leave it and apply for an enormous settlement from Spotswoode at once. And I imagine that’s what he did. Spotswoode no doubt gave him something on account and promised him the rest anon, hoping in the meantime to retrieve the record. When he failed to pay, Skeel phoned you and threatened to tell everything, thinking to spur Spotswoode to action.… Well, he spurred him—but not to the action desired. Spotswoode probably met him by appointment last Saturday night, ostensibly to hand over the money, but instead, throttled the chap. Quite in keeping with his nature, don’t y’ know.… Stout fella, Spotswoode.”
“The whole thing…it’s amazing.”
“I shouldn’t say that, now. Spotswoode had an unpleasant task to perform and he set about it in a cool, logical, forthright, businesslike manner. He had decided that his little Canary must die for his peace of mind; she’d probably made herself most annoyin’. So he arranged the date—like any judge passing sentence on a prisoner at the bar—and then proceeded to fabricate an alibi. Being something of a mechanic, he arranged a mechanical alibi. The device he chose was simple and obvious enough—no tortuosities or complications. And it would have succeeded but for what the insurance companies piously call an act of God. No one can foresee accidents, Markham; they wouldn’t be accidental if one could. But Spotswoode certainly took every precaution that was humanly possible. It never occurred to him that you would thwart his every effort to return here and confiscate the record; and he couldn’t anticipate my taste in music, nor know that I would seek solace in the tonal art. Furthermore, when one calls on a lady, one doesn’t expect that another suitor is going to hide himself in the clothes press. It isn’t done, don’t y’ know.… All in all, the poor johnny was beaten by a run of abominable luck.”
“You overlook the fiendishness of the crime,” Markham reproached him tartly.
“Don’t be so confoundedly moral, old thing. Everyone’s a murderer at heart. The person who has never felt a passionate hankering to kill someone is without emotions. And do you think it’s ethics or theology that stays the average person from homicide? Dear no! It’s lack of courage—the fear of being found out, or haunted, or cursed with remorse. Observe with what delight the people en masse—to wit, the state—put men to death and then gloat over it in the newspapers. Nations declare war against one another on the slightest provocation, so they can, with immunity, vent their lust for slaughter. Spotswoode, I’d say, is merely a rational animal with the courage of his convictions.”
“Society unfortunately isn’t ready for your nihilistic philosophy just yet,” said Markham. “And during the intervening transition human life must be protected.”
He rose resolutely and, going to the telephone, called up Heath.
“Sergeant,” he ordered, “get a John-Doe warrant and meet me immediately at the Stuyvesant Club. Bring a man with you—there’s an arrest to be made.”
“At last the law has evidence after its own heart,” chirped Vance, as he lazily donned his topcoat and picked up his hat and stick. “What a grotesque affair your legal procedure is, Markham! Scientific knowledge—the facts of psychology—mean nothing to you learned Solons. But a phonograph record—ah! There, now, is something convincing, irrefragable, final, what?”
On our way out Markham beckoned to the officer on guard. “Under no conditions,” he said, “is anyone to enter this apartment until I return—not even with a signed permit.”
When we had entered the taxicab, he directed the chauffeur to the club.
“So the newspapers want action, do they? Well, they’re going to get it.… You’ve helped me out of a nasty hole, old man.”
As he spoke, his eyes turned to Vance. And that look conveyed a profounder gratitude than any words could have expressed.
CHAPTER 30
THE END
(Tuesday, September 18; 3:30 P.M.)
It was exactly half past three when we entered the rotunda of the Stuyvesant Club. Markham at once sent for the manager and held a few words of private conversation with him. The manager then hastened away and was gone about five minutes.
“Mr. Spotswoode is in his rooms,” he informed Markham, on returning. “I sent the electrician up to test the light bulbs. He reports that the gentleman is alone, writing at his desk.”
“And the room number?”
“Three forty-one.” The manager appeared perturbed. “There won’t be any fuss, will there, Mr. Markham?”
“I don’t look for any.” Markham’s tone was chilly. “However, the present matter is considerably more important than your club.”
“What an exaggerated point of view!” sighed Vance when the manager had left us. “The arrest of Spotswoode, I’d say, was the acme of futility. The man isn’t a criminal, don’t y’ know; he has nothing in common with Lombroso’s Uomo Delinquente. He’s what one might term a philosophic behaviorist.”
Markham grunted but did not answer. He began pacing up and down agitatedly, keeping his eyes expectantly on
