Читать книгу The Greatest Works of S. S. Van Dine (Illustrated Edition) - S.S. Van Dine - Страница 52

Table of Contents

(Wednesday, September 12; evening)

When Vance finished speaking, there was a long silence. Markham, impressed by the other’s earnestness, sat in a brown study. His ideas had been shaken. The theory of Skeel’s guilt, to which he had clung from the moment of the identification of the finger-prints, had, it must be admitted, not entirely satisfied him, although he had been able to suggest no alternative. Now Vance had categorically repudiated this theory and at the same time had advanced another which, despite its indefiniteness, had nevertheless taken into account all the physical points of the case; and Markham, at first antagonistic, had found himself, almost against his will, becoming more and more sympathetic to this new point of view.

“Damn it, Vance!” he said. “I’m not in the least convinced by your theatrical theory. And yet, I feel a curious undercurrent of plausibility in your analyses. . . . I wonder——”

He turned sharply, and scrutinized the other steadfastly for a moment.

“Look here! Have you any one in mind as the protagonist of the drama you’ve outlined?”

“’Pon my word, I haven’t the slightest notion as to who killed the lady,” Vance assured him. “But if you are ever to find the murderer, you must look for a shrewd, superior man with nerves of iron, who was in imminent danger of being irremediably ruined by the girl—a man of inherent cruelty and vindictiveness; a supreme egoist; a fatalist more or less; and—I’m inclined to believe—something of a madman.”

“Mad!”

“Oh, not a lunatic—just a madman, a perfectly normal, logical, calculating madman—same as you and I and Van here. Only, our hobbies are harmless, d’ ye see. This chap’s mania is outside your preposterously revered law. That’s why you’re after him. If his aberration were stamp-collecting, or golf, you wouldn’t give him a second thought. But his perfectly rational penchant for eliminating déclassées ladies who bothered him, fills you with horror: it’s not your hobby. Consequently, you have a hot yearning to flay him alive.”

“I’ll admit,” said Markham coolly, “that a homicidal mania is my idea of madness.”

“But he didn’t have a homicidal mania, Markham old thing. You miss all the fine distinctions in psychology. This man was annoyed by a certain person, and set to work, masterfully and reasonably, to do away with the source of his annoyance. And he did it with surpassin’ cleverness. To be sure, his act was a bit grisly. But when, if ever, you get your hands on him, you’ll be amazed to find how normal he is. And able, too—oh, able no end.”

Again Markham lapsed into a long thoughtful silence. At last he spoke.

“The only trouble with your ingenious deductions is that they don’t accord with the known circumstances of the case. And facts, my dear Vance, are still regarded by a few of us old-fashioned lawyers as more or less conclusive.”

“Why this needless confession of your shortcomings?” inquired Vance whimsically. Then, after a moment: “Let me have the facts which appear to you antagonistic to my deductions.”

“Well, there are only four men of the type you describe who could have had any remote reason for murdering the Odell woman. Heath’s scouts went into her history pretty thoroughly, and for over two years—that is, since her appearance in the ‘Follies’—the only personæ gratæ at her apartment have been Mannix, Doctor Lindquist, Pop Cleaver, and, of course, Spotswoode. The Canary was a bit exclusive, it seems; and no other man got near enough to her even to be considered as a possible murderer.”

“It appears, then, that you have a complete quartet to draw on.” Vance’s tone was apathetic. “What do you crave—a regiment?”

“No,” answered Markham patiently. “I crave only one logical possibility. But Mannix was through with the girl over a year ago; Cleaver and Spotswoode both have water-tight alibis; and that leaves only Doctor Lindquist, whom I can’t exactly picture as a strangler and meretricious burglar, despite his irascibility. Moreover, he, too, has an alibi; and it may be a genuine one.”

Vance wagged his head.

“There’s something positively pathetic about the childlike faith of the legal mind.”

“It does cling to rationality at times, doesn’t it?” observed Markham.

“My dear fellow!” Vance rebuked him. “The presumption implied in that remark is most immodest. If you could distinguish between rationality and irrationality you wouldn’t be a lawyer—you’d be a god. . . . No; you’re going at this thing the wrong way. The real factors in the case are not what you call the known circumstances, but the unknown quantities—the human x’s, so to speak—the personalities, or natures, of your quartet.”

He lit a fresh cigarette, and lay back, closing his eyes.

“Tell me what you know of these four cavalieri serventi—you say Heath has turned in his report. Who were their mamas? What do they eat for breakfast? Are they susceptible to poison-ivy? . . . Let’s have Spotswoode’s dossier first. Do you know anything about him?”

“In a general way,” returned Markham. “Old Puritan stock, I believe—governors, burgomasters, a few successful traders. All Yankee forebears—no intermixture. As a matter of fact, Spotswoode represents the oldest and hardiest of the New England aristocracy—although I imagine the so-called wine of the Puritans has become pretty well diluted by now. His affair with the Odell girl is hardly consonant with the older Puritans’ mortification of the flesh.”

“It’s wholly consonant, though, with the psychological reactions which are apt to follow the inhibitions produced by such mortification,” submitted Vance. “But what does he do? Whence cometh his lucre?”

“His father manufactured automobile accessories, made a fortune at it, and left the business to him. He tinkers at it, but not seriously, though I believe he has designed a few appurtenances.”

“I do hope the hideous cut-glass olla for holding paper bouquets is not one of them. The man who invented that tonneau decoration is capable of any fiendish crime.”

“It couldn’t have been Spotswoode then,” said Markham tolerantly, “for he certainly can’t qualify as your potential strangler. We know the girl was alive after he left her, and that, during the time she was murdered, he was with Judge Redfern. . . . Even you, friend Vance, couldn’t manipulate those facts to the gentleman’s disadvantage.”

“On that, at least, we agree,” conceded Vance. “And that’s all you know of the gentleman?”

“I think that’s all, except that he married a well-to-do woman—a daughter of a Southern senator, I believe.”

“Doesn’t help any. . . . And now, let’s have Mannix’s history.”

Markham referred to a typewritten sheet of paper.

“Both parents immigrants—came over in the steerage. Original name Mannikiewicz, or something like that. Born on the East Side; learned the fur business in his father’s retail shop in Hester Street; worked for the Sanfrasco Cloak Company, and got to be factory foreman. Saved his money, and sweetened the pot by manipulating real estate; then went into the fur business for himself, and steadily worked up to his present opulent state. Public school, and night commercial college. Married in 1900 and divorced a year later. Lives a gay life—helps support the night clubs, but never gets drunk. I suppose he comes under the head of a spender and wine-opener. Has invested some money in musical comedies, and always has a stage beauty in tow. Runs to blondes.”

“Not very revealin’,” sighed Vance. “The city is full of Mannixes. . . . What did you garner in connection with our bon-ton medico?”

“The city has its quota of Doctor Lindquists, too, I fear. He was brought up in a small Middle-West bailiwick—French and Magyar extraction; took his M.D. from the Ohio State Medical, practised in Chicago—some shady business there, but never convicted; came to Albany and got in on the X-ray-machine craze; invented a breast-pump and formed a stock company—made a small fortune out of it; went to Vienna for two years——”

“Ah, the Freudian motif!”

“—returned to New York, and opened a private sanitarium; charged outrageous prices, and thereby endeared himself to the nouveau riche. Has been at the endearing process ever since. Was defendant in a breach-of-promise suit some years ago, but the case was settled out of court. He’s not married.”

“He wouldn’t be,” commented Vance. “Such gentry never are. . . . Interestin’ summary, though—yes, decidedly interestin’. I’m tempted to develop a psychoneurosis and let Ambroise treat me. I do so want to know him better. And where—oh, where—was this egregious healer at the moment of our erring sister’s demise? Ah, who can tell, my Markham: who knows—who knows?”

“In any event, I don’t think he was murdering any one.”

“You’re so prejudicial!” said Vance. “But let us move reluctantly on.—What’s your portrait parlé of Cleaver? The fact that he’s familiarly called Pop is helpful as a starter. You simply couldn’t imagine Beethoven being called Shorty, or Bismarck being referred to as Snookums.”

“Cleaver has been a politician most of his life—a Tammany Hall ‘regular.’ Was a ward-boss at twenty-five; ran a Democratic club of some kind in Brooklyn for a time; was an alderman for two terms, and practised general law. Was appointed Tax Commissioner; left politics, and raised a small racing-stable. Later secured an illegal gambling concession at Saratoga; and now operates a pool-room in Jersey City. He’s what you might call a professional sport. Loves his liquor.”

“No marriages?”

“None on the records.—But see here: Cleaver’s out of it. He was ticketed in Boonton that night at half past eleven.”

“Is that, by any chance, the water-tight alibi you mentioned a moment ago?”

“In my primitive legal way I considered it as such.” Markham resented Vance’s question. “The summons was handed him at half past eleven: it’s so marked and dated. And Boonton is fifty miles from here—a good two hours’ motor ride. Therefore, Cleaver unquestionably left New York about half past nine; and even if he’d driven directly back, he couldn’t have reached here until long after the time the Medical Examiner declared the girl was dead. As a matter of routine, I investigated the summons, and even spoke by phone to the officer who issued it. It was genuine enough—I ought to know: I had it quashed.”

“Did this Boonton Dogberry know Cleaver by sight?”

“No, but he gave me an accurate description of him. And naturally he took the car’s number.”

Vance looked at Markham with open-eyed sorrow.

“My dear Markham—my very dear Markham—can’t you see that all you’ve actually proved is that a bucolic traffic Nemesis handed a speed-violation summons to a smooth-faced, middle-aged, stout man who was driving Cleaver’s car near Boonton at half past eleven on the night of the murder? . . . And, my word! Isn’t that exactly the sort of alibi the old boy would arrange if he intended taking the lady’s life at midnight or thereabouts?”

“Come, come!” laughed Markham. “That’s a bit too far-fetched. You’d give every law-breaker credit for concocting schemes of the most diabolical cunning.”

“So I would,” admitted Vance apathetically. “And—d’ye know?—I rather fancy that’s just the kind of schemes a law-breaker would concoct, if he was planning a murder, and his own life was at stake. What really amazes me is the naïve assumption of you investigators that a murderer gives no intelligent thought whatever to his future safety. It’s rather touchin’, y’ know.”

Markham grunted.

“Well, you can take it from me, it was Cleaver himself who got that summons.”

“I dare say you’re right,” Vance conceded. “I merely suggested the possibility of deception, don’t y’ know. The only point I really insist on is that the fascinatin’ Miss Odell was killed by a man of subtle and superior mentality.”

“And I, in turn,” irritably rejoined Markham, “insist that the only men of that type who touched her life intimately enough to have had any reason to do it are Mannix, Cleaver, Lindquist, and Spotswoode. And I further insist that not one of them can be regarded as a promising possibility.”

“I fear I must contradict you, old dear,” said Vance serenely. “They’re all possibilities—and one of them is guilty.”

Markham glared at him derisively.

“Well, well! So the case is settled! Now, if you’ll but indicate which is the guilty one, I’ll arrest him at once, and return to my other duties.”

“You’re always in such haste,” Vance lamented. “Why leap and run? The wisdom of the world’s philosophers is against it. Festina lente, says Cæsar; or, as Rufus has it, Festinatio tarda est. And the Koran says quite frankly that haste is of the Devil. Shakespeare was constantly belittling speed:

‘He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes’;

and

‘Wisely, and slow; they stumble that run fast.’

Then there was Molière—remember ‘Sganarelle’?—: ‘Le trop de promptitude à l’erreur nous expose.’ Chaucer also held similar views. ‘He hasteth wel,’ said he, ‘that wysely can abyde.’ Even God’s common people have embalmed the idea in numberless proverbs: ‘Good and quickly seldom meet’; and ‘Hasty men never want woe——’ ”

Markham rose with a gesture of impatience.

“Hell! I’m going home before you start a bedtime story,” he growled.

The ironical aftermath of this remark was that Vance did tell a “bedtime story” that night; but he told it to me in the seclusion of his own library; and the gist of it was this:

“Heath is committed, body and soul, to a belief in Skeel’s guilt; and Markham is as effectively strangled with legal red tape as the poor Canary was strangled with powerful hands. Eheu, Van! There’s nothing left for me but to set forth to-morrow a cappella, like Gaboriau’s Monsieur Lecoq, and see what can be done in the noble cause of justice. I shall ignore both Heath and Markham, and become as a pelican of the wilderness, an owl of the desert, a sparrow alone upon the housetop. . . . Really, y’ know, I’m no avenger of society, but I do detest an unsolved problem.”