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(Saturday, September 15; 10 a. m.)

Heath returned to the office, shaking his head hopelessly.

“There musta been a regular wake at Odell’s Monday night.”

“Quite,” agreed Vance. “A midnight conclave of the lady’s admirers. Mannix was there, unquestionably; and he saw Cleaver; and Cleaver saw Lindquist; and Lindquist saw Spotswoode——”

“Humph! But nobody saw Skeel.”

“The trouble is,” said Markham, “we don’t know how much of Cleaver’s story is true.—And, by the way, Vance, do you believe he really bought his letters back in August?”

“If only we knew! Dashed confusin’, ain’t it?”

“Anyway,” argued Heath, “Cleaver’s statement about phoning Odell at twenty minutes to twelve, and a man answering, is verified by Jessup’s testimony. And I guess Cleaver saw Lindquist all right that night, for it was him who first tipped us off about the doc. He took a chance doing it, because the doc was liable to tell us he saw Cleaver.”

“But if Cleaver had an allurin’ alibi,” said Vance, “he could simply have said the doctor was lying. However, whether you accept Cleaver’s absorbin’ legend or not, you can take my word for it there was a visitor, other than Skeel, in the Odell apartment that night.”

“That’s all right, too,” conceded Heath reluctantly. “But, even so, this other fellow is only valuable to us as a possible source of evidence against Skeel.”

“That may be true, Sergeant.” Markham frowned perplexedly. “Only, I’d like to know how that side door was unbolted and then rebolted on the inside. We know now that it was open around midnight, and that Mannix and Cleaver both used it.”

“You worry so over trifles,” said Vance negligently. “The door problem will solve itself once we discover who was keeping company with Skeel in the Canary’s gilded cage.”

“I should say it boils down to Mannix, Cleaver, and Lindquist. They were the only three at all likely to be present; and if we accept Cleaver’s story in its essentials, each of them had an opportunity of getting into the apartment between half past eleven and midnight.”

“True. But you have only Cleaver’s word that Lindquist was in the neighborhood. And that evidence, uncorroborated, can’t be accepted as the lily-white truth.”

Heath stirred suddenly and looked at the clock.

“Say, what about that nurse you wanted at eleven o’clock?”

“I’ve been worrying horribly about her for an hour.” Vance appeared actually troubled. “Really, y’ know, I haven’t the slightest desire to meet the lady. I’m hoping for a revelation, don’t y’ know. Let’s wait for the doctor until half past ten, Sergeant.”

He had scarcely finished speaking when Swacker informed Markham that Doctor Lindquist had arrived on a mission of great urgency. It was an amusing situation. Markham laughed outright, while Heath stared at Vance with uncomprehending astonishment.

“It’s not necromancy, Sergeant,” smiled Vance. “The doctor realized yesterday that we were about to catch him in a falsehood; so he decided to forestall us by explaining personally. Simple, what?”

“Sure.” Heath’s look of wonderment disappeared.

As Doctor Lindquist entered the room I noted that his habitual urbanity had deserted him. His air was at once apologetic and apprehensive. That he was laboring under some great strain was evident.

“I’ve 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 clinched. “I had learned that Miss Odell was going to dinner and the theatre 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 débâcle? . . .”

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 theatre 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 co-ordination, 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. “Some one 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 some one 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.

Swaeker 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 said to Markham, “couldn’t we get an indictment against Skeel, now that we know the door was unlocked Monday night?”

“We might, Sergeant. But our chief snag would be to show how it was originally unlocked and then rebolted after Skeel left. And Abe Rubin would concentrate on that point.—No, we’d better wait a while and see what develops.”

Something “developed” at once. Swacker entered and informed the Sergeant that Snitkin wanted to see him immediately.

Snitkin came in, visibly agitated, accompanied by a wizened, shabbily dressed little man of about sixty, who appeared awed and terrified. In the detective’s hand was a small parcel wrapped in newspaper, which he laid on the District Attorney’s desk with an air of triumph.

“The Canary’s jewellery,” he announced. “I’ve checked it up from the list the maid gave me, and it’s all there.”

Heath sprang forward, but Markham was already untying the package with nervous fingers. When the paper had been opened, there lay before us a small heap of dazzling trinkets—several rings of exquisite workmanship, three magnificent bracelets, a sparkling sunburst, and a delicately wrought lorgnette. The stones were all large and of unconventional cut.

Markham looked up from them inquisitively, and Snitkin, not waiting for the inevitable question, explained.

“This man Potts found ’em. He’s a street-cleaner, and he says they were in one of the D. S. C. cans at 23d Street near the Flatiron Building. He found ’em yesterday afternoon, so he says, and took ’em home. Then he got scared and brought ’em to Police Headquarters this morning.”

Mr. Potts, the “white-wing,” was trembling visibly.

“Thass right, sir—thass right,” he assured Markham, with frightened eagerness. “I allus look into any bundles I find. I didn’t mean no harm takin’ ’em home, sir. I wasn’t gonna keep ’em. I laid awake worryin’ all night, an’ this mornin’, as soon as I got a chance, I took ’em to the p’lice.” He shook so violently I was afraid he was going to break down completely.

“That’s all right, Potts,” Markham told him in a kindly voice. Then to Snitkin: “Let the man go—only get his full name and address.”

Vance had been studying the newspaper in which the jewels had been wrapped.

“I say, my man,” he asked, “is this the original paper you found them in?”

“Yes, sir—the same. I ain’t touched nothin’.”

“Right-o.”

Mr. Potts, greatly relieved, shambled out, followed by Snitkin.

“The Flatiron Building is directly across Madison Square from the Stuyvesant Club,” observed Markham, frowning.

“So it is.” Vance then pointed to the left-hand margin of the newspaper that held the jewels. “And you’ll notice that this Herald of yesterday has three punctures evidently made by the pins of a wooden holder such as is generally used in a club’s reading-room.”

“You got a good eye, Mr. Vance,” nodded Heath, inspecting the newspaper.

“I’ll see about this.” Markham viciously pressed a button. “They keep their papers on file for a week at the Stuyvesant Club.”

When Swacker appeared, he asked that the club’s steward be got immediately on the telephone. After a short delay, the connection was made. At the end of five minutes’ conversation Markham hung up the receiver and gave Heath a baffled look.

“The club takes two Heralds. Both of yesterday’s copies are there, on the rack.”

“Didn’t Cleaver once tell us he read nothing but The Herald—that and some racing-sheet at night?” Vance put the question offhandedly.

“I believe he did.” Markham considered the suggestion. “Still, both the club Heralds are accounted for.” He turned to Heath. “When you were checking up on Mannix, did you find out what clubs he belonged to?”

“Sure.” The Sergeant took out his note-book and riffled the pages for a minute or two. “He’s a member of the Furriers’ and the Cosmopolis.”

Markham pushed the telephone toward him.

“See what you can find out.”

Heath was fifteen minutes at the task.

“A blank,” he announced finally. “The Furriers’ don’t use holders, and the Cosmopolis don’t keep any back numbers.”

“What about Mr. Skeel’s clubs, Sergeant?” asked Vance, smiling.

“Oh, I know the finding of that jewellery gums up my theory about Skeel,” said Heath, with surly ill nature. “But what’s the good of rubbing it in? Still, if you think I’m going to give that bird a clean bill of health just because the Odell swag was found in a trash-can, you’re mighty mistaken. Don’t forget we’re watching the Dude pretty close. He may have got leery, and tipped off some pal he’d cached the jewels with.”

“I rather fancy the experienced Skeel would have turned his booty over to a professional receiver. But even had he passed it on to a friend, would this friend have been likely to throw it away because Skeel was worried?”

“Maybe not. But there’s some explanation for those jewels being found, and when we get hold of it, it won’t eliminate Skeel.”

“No; the explanation won’t eliminate Skeel,” said Vance; “but—my word!—how it’ll change his locus standi.”

Heath contemplated him with shrewdly appraising eyes. Something in Vance’s tone had apparently piqued his curiosity and set him to wondering. Vance had too often been right in his diagnoses of persons and things for the Sergeant to ignore his opinions wholly.

But before he could answer, Swacker stepped alertly into the room, his eyes animated.

“Tony Skeel’s on the wire, Chief, and wants to speak to you.”

Markham, despite his habitual reserve, gave a start.

“Here, Sergeant,” he said quickly. “Take that extension phone on the table and listen in.” He nodded curtly to Swacker, who disappeared to make the connection. Then he took up the receiver of his own telephone and spoke to Skeel.

For a minute or so he listened. Then, after a brief argument, he concurred with some suggestion that had evidently been made; and the conversation ended.

“Skeel craves an audience, I gather,” said Vance. “I’ve rather been expecting it, y’ know.”

“Yes. He’s coming here to-morrow at ten.”

“And he hinted that he knew who slew the Canary—eh, what?”

“That’s just what he did say. He promised to tell me the whole story to-morrow morning.”

“He’s the lad that’s in a position to do it,” murmured Vance.

“But, Mr. Markham,” said Heath, who still sat with his hand on the telephone, gazing at the instrument with dazed incredulity, “I don’t see why you don’t have him brought here to-day.”

“As you heard, Sergeant, Skeel insisted on to-morrow, and threatened to say nothing if I forced the issue. It’s just as well not to antagonize him. We might spoil a good chance of getting some light on this case if I ordered him brought here and used pressure. And to-morrow suits me. It’ll be quiet around here then. Moreover, your man’s watching Skeel, and he won’t get away.”

“I guess you’re 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 to-morrow 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 to-morrow, I’ll indulge my taste for Impressionism. . . . À demain, Markham. By-bye, Sergeant.”