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(Tuesday, September 11; 10.30 a. m.)

Markham and Heath and Vance and I were now alone in the apartment. Dark, low-hanging clouds had drifted across the sun, and the gray spectral light intensified the tragic atmosphere of the rooms. Markham had lighted a cigar, and stood leaning against the piano, looking about him with a disconsolate but determined air. Vance had moved over to one of the pictures on the side wall of the living-room—Boucher’s “La Bergère Endormie,” I think it was—and stood looking at it with cynical contempt.

“Dimpled nudities, gambolling Cupids and woolly clouds for royal cocottes,” he commented. His distaste for all the painting of the French decadence under Louis XV was profound. “One wonders what pictures courtesans hung in their boudoirs before the invention of these amorous eclogues, with their blue verdure and beribboned sheep.”

“I’m more interested at present in what took place in this particular boudoir last night,” retorted Markham impatiently.

“There’s not much doubt about that, sir,” said Heath encouragingly. “And I’ve an idea that when Dubois checks up those finger-prints with our files, we’ll about know who did it.”

Vance turned toward him with a rueful smile.

“You’re so trusting, Sergeant. I, in turn, have an idea that, long before this touchin’ case is clarified, you’ll wish the irascible Captain with the insect-powder had never found those finger-prints.” He made a playful gesture of emphasis. “Permit me to whisper into your ear that the person who left his sign-manuals on yonder rosewood table and cut-glass door-knob had nothing whatever to do with the precipitate demise of the fair Mademoiselle Odell.”

“What is it you suspect?” demanded Markham sharply.

“Not a thing, old dear,” blandly declared Vance. “I’m wandering about in a mental murk as empty of sign-posts as interplanetary space. The jaws of darkness do devour me up; I’m in the dead vast and middle of the night. My mental darkness is Egyptian, Stygian, Cimmerian—I’m in a perfect Erebus of tenebrosity.”

Markham’s jaw tightened in exasperation; he was familiar with this evasive loquacity of Vance’s. Dismissing the subject, he addressed himself to Heath.

“Have you done any questioning of the people in the house here?”

“I talked to Odell’s maid and to the janitor and the switchboard operators, but I didn’t go much into details—I was waiting for you. I’ll say this, though: what they did tell me made my head swim. If they don’t back down on some of their statements, we’re up against it.”

“Let’s have them in now, then,” suggested Markham; “the maid first.” He sat down on the piano-bench with his back to the keyboard.

Heath rose, but instead of going to the door, walked to the oriel window.

“There’s one thing I want to call your attention to, sir, before you interview these people, and that’s the matter of entrances and exits in this apartment.” He drew aside the gold-gauze curtain. “Look at that iron grating. All the windows in this place, including the ones in the bathroom, are equipped with iron bars just like these. It’s only eight or ten feet to the ground here, and whoever built this house wasn’t taking any chances of burglars getting in through the windows.”

He released the curtain, and strode into the foyer.

“Now, there’s only one entrance to this apartment, and that’s this door here opening off the main hall. There isn’t a transom or an air-shaft or a dumb-waiter in the place, and that means that the only way—the only way—that anybody can get in or out of this apartment is through this door. Just keep that fact in your mind, sir, while you’re listening to the stories of these people. . . . Now, I’ll have the maid brought in.”

In response to Heath’s order a detective led in a mulatto woman about thirty years old. She was neatly dressed, and gave one the impression of capability. When she spoke it was with a quiet, clear enunciation which attested to a greater degree of education than is ordinarily found in members of her class.

Her name, we learned, was Amy Gibson; and the information elicited by Markham’s preliminary questioning consisted of the following facts:

She had arrived at the apartment that morning a few minutes after seven, and, as was her custom, had let herself in with her own key, as her mistress generally slept till late.

Once or twice a week she came early to do sewing and mending for Miss Odell before the latter arose. On this particular morning she had come early to make an alteration in a gown.

As soon as she had opened the door she had been confronted by the disorder of the apartment, for the Venetian-glass doors of the foyer were wide open; and almost simultaneously she had noticed the body of her mistress on the davenport.

She had called at once to Jessup, the night telephone operator then on duty, who, after one glance into the living-room, had notified the police. She had then sat down in the public reception-room and waited for the arrival of the officers.

Her testimony had been simple and direct and intelligently stated. If she was nervous or excited, she managed to keep her feelings well under control.

“Now,” continued Markham, after a short pause, “let us go back to last night.—At what time did you leave Miss Odell?”

“A few minutes before seven, sir,” the woman answered, in a colorless, even tone which seemed to be characteristic of her speech.

“Is that your usual hour for leaving?”

“No; I generally go about six. But last night Miss Odell wanted me to help her dress for dinner.”

“Don’t you always help her dress for dinner?”

“No, sir. But last night she was going with some gentleman to dinner and the theatre, and wanted to look specially nice.”

“Ah!” Markham leaned forward. “And who was this gentleman?”

“I don’t know, sir—Miss Odell didn’t say.”

“And you couldn’t suggest who it might have been?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“And when did Miss Odell tell you that she wanted you to come early this morning?”

“When I was leaving last night.”

“So she evidently didn’t anticipate any danger, or have any fear of her companion.”

“It doesn’t look that way.” The woman paused, as if considering. “No, I know she didn’t. She was in good spirits.”

Markham turned to Heath.

“Any other questions you want to ask, Sergeant?”

Heath removed an unlighted cigar from his mouth, and bent forward, resting his hands on his knees.

“What jewellery did this Odell woman have on last night?” he demanded gruffly.

The maid’s manner became cool and a bit haughty.

“Miss Odell”—she emphasized the “Miss,” by way of reproaching him for the disrespect implied in his omission—“wore all her rings, five or six of them, and three bracelets—one of square diamonds, one of rubies, and one of diamonds and emeralds. She also had on a sunburst of pear-shaped diamonds on a chain round her neck, and she carried a platinum lorgnette set with diamonds and pearls.”

“Did she own any other jewellery?”

“A few small pieces, maybe, but I’m not sure.”

“And did she keep ’em in a steel jewel-case in the bedroom?”

“Yes—when she wasn’t wearing them.” There was more than a suggestion of sarcasm in the reply.

“Oh, I thought maybe she kept ’em locked up when she had ’em on.” Heath’s antagonism had been aroused by the maid’s attitude; he could not have failed to note that she had consistently omitted the punctilious “sir” when answering him. He now stood up and pointed loweringly to the black document-box on the rosewood table.

“Ever see that before?”

The woman nodded indifferently. “Many times.”

“Where was it generally kept?”

“In that thing.” She indicated the Boule cabinet with a motion of the head.

“What was in the box?”

“How should I know?”

“You don’t know—huh?” Heath thrust out his jaw, but his bullying attitude had no effect upon the impassive maid.

“I’ve got no idea,” she replied calmly. “It was always kept locked, and I never saw Miss Odell open it.”

The Sergeant walked over to the door of the living-room closet.

“See that key?” he asked angrily.

Again the woman nodded; but this time I detected a look of mild astonishment in her eyes.

“Was that key always kept on the inside of the door?”

“No; it was always on the outside.”

Heath shot Vance a curious look. Then, after a moment’s frowning contemplation of the knob, he waved his hand to the detective who had brought the maid in.

“Take her back to the reception-room, Snitkin, and get a detailed description from her of all the Odell jewellery. . . . And keep her outside; I’ll want her again.”

When Snitkin and the maid had gone out, Vance lay back lazily on the davenport, where he had sat during the interview, and sent a spiral of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling.

“Rather illuminatin’, what?” he remarked. “The dusky demoiselle got us considerably forrader. Now we know that the closet key is on the wrong side of the door, and that our fille de joie went to the theatre with one of her favorite inamorati, who presumably brought her home shortly before she took her departure from this wicked world.”

“You think that’s helpful, do you?” Heath’s tone was contemptuously triumphant. “Wait till you hear the crazy story the telephone operator’s got to tell.”

“All right, Sergeant,” put in Markham impatiently. “Suppose we get on with the ordeal.”

“I’m going to suggest, Mr. Markham, that we question the janitor first. And I’ll show you why.” Heath went to the entrance door of the apartment, and opened it. “Look here for just a minute, sir.”

He stepped out into the main hall, and pointed down the little passageway on the left. It was about ten feet in length, and ran between the Odell apartment and the blank rear wall of the reception-room. At the end of it was a solid oak door which gave on the court at the side of the house.

“That door,” explained Heath, “is the only side or rear entrance to this building; and when that door is bolted nobody can get into the house except by the front entrance. You can’t even get into the building through the other apartments, for every window on this floor is barred. I checked up on that point as soon as I got here.”

He led the way back into the living-room.

“Now, after I’d looked over the situation this morning,” he went on, “I figured that our man had entered through that side door at the end of the passageway, and had slipped into this apartment without the night operator seeing him. So I tried the side door to see if it was open. But it was bolted on the inside—not locked, mind you, but bolted. And it wasn’t a slip-bolt, either, that could have been jimmied or worked open from the outside, but a tough old-fashioned turn-bolt of solid brass. . . . And now I want you to hear what the janitor’s got to say about it.”

Markham nodded acquiescence, and Heath called an order to one of the officers in the hall. A moment later a stolid, middle-aged German, with sullen features and high cheek-bones, stood before us. His jaw was clamped tight, and he shifted his eyes from one to the other of us suspiciously.

Heath straightway assumed the rôle of inquisitor.

“What time do you leave here at night?” He had, for some reason, assumed a belligerent manner.

“Six o’clock—sometimes earlier, sometimes later.” The man spoke in a surly monotone. He was obviously resentful at this unexpected intrusion upon his orderly routine.

“And what time do you get here in the morning?”

“Eight o’clock, regular.”

“What time did you go home last night?”

“About six—maybe quarter past.”

Heath paused and finally lighted the cigar on which he had been chewing at intervals during the past hour.

“Now, tell me about that side door,” he went on, with undiminished aggressiveness. “You told me you lock it every night before you leave—is that right?”

“Ja—that’s right.” The man nodded his head affirmatively several times. “Only I don’t lock it—I bolt it.”

“All right, you bolt it, then.” As Heath talked his cigar bobbed up and down between his lips: smoke and words came simultaneously from his mouth, “And last night you bolted it as usual about six o’clock?”

“Maybe a quarter past,” the janitor amended, with Germanic precision.

“You’re sure you bolted it last night?” The question was almost ferocious.

“Ja, ja. Sure, I am. I do it every night. I never miss.”

The man’s earnestness left no doubt that the door in question had indeed been bolted on the inside at about six o’clock of the previous evening. Heath, however, belabored the point for several minutes, only to be reassured doggedly that the door had been bolted. At last the janitor was dismissed.

“Really, y’ know, Sergeant,” remarked Vance with an amused smile, “that honest Rheinlander bolted the door.”

“Sure, he did,” spluttered Heath; “and I found it still bolted this morning at quarter of eight. That’s just what messes things up so nice and pretty. If that door was bolted from six o’clock last evening until eight o’clock this morning, I’d appreciate having some one drive up in a hearse and tell me how the Canary’s little playmate got in here last night. And I’d also like to know how he got out.”

“Why not through the main entrance?” asked Markham. “It seems the only logical way left, according to your own findings.”

“That’s how I had it figured out, sir,” returned Heath. “But wait till you hear what the phone operator has to say.”

“And the phone operator’s post,” mused Vance, “is in the main hall half-way between the front door and this apartment. Therefore, the gentleman who caused all the disturbance hereabouts last night would have had to pass within a few feet of the operator both on arriving and departing—eh, what?”

“That’s it!” snapped Heath. “And, according to the operator, no such person came or went.”

Markham seemed to have absorbed some of Heath’s irritability.

“Get the fellow in here, and let me question him,” he ordered.

Heath obeyed with a kind of malicious alacrity.