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(Sunday, p. m., Monday, a. m.; September 16-17)

The investigation into Skeel’s death was pushed with great vigor by the authorities. Doctor Doremus, the Medical Examiner, arrived promptly and declared that the crime had taken place between ten o’clock and midnight. Immediately Vance insisted that all the men who were known to have been intimately acquainted with the Odell girl—Mannix, Lindquist, Cleaver, and Spotswoode—be interviewed at once and made to explain where they were during these two hours. Markham agreed without hesitation, and gave the order to Heath, who at once put four of his men on the task.

Mallory, the detective who had shadowed Skeel the previous night, was questioned regarding possible visitors; but inasmuch as the house where Skeel lived accommodated over twenty roomers, who were constantly coming and going at all hours, no information could be gained through that channel. All that Mallory could say definitely was that Skeel had returned home at about ten o’clock, and had not come out again. The landlady, sobered and subdued by the tragedy, repudiated all knowledge of the affair. She explained that she had been “ill” in her room from dinner-time until we had disturbed her recuperation the next morning. The front door, it seemed, was never locked, since her tenants objected to such an unnecessary inconvenience. The tenants themselves were questioned, but without result: they were not of a class likely to give information to the police, even had they possessed any.

The finger-print experts made a careful examination of the room, but failed to find any marks except Skeel’s own. A thorough search through the murdered man’s effects occupied several hours; but nothing was discovered that gave any hint of the murderer’s identity. A .38 Colt automatic, fully loaded, was found under one of the pillows on the bed; and eleven hundred dollars, in bills of large denomination, was taken from a hollow brass curtain-rod. Also, under a loose board in the hall, the missing steel chisel, with the fissure in the blade, was found. But these items were of no value in solving the mystery of Skeel’s death; and at four o’clock in the afternoon the room was closed with an emergency padlock and put under guard.

Markham and Vance and I had remained several hours after our discovery of the body. Markham had taken immediate charge of the case, and had conducted the interrogation of the tenants. Vance had watched the routine activities of the police with unwonted intentness, and had even taken part in the search. He had seemed particularly interested in Skeel’s evening clothes, and had examined them garment by garment. Heath had looked at him from time to time, but there had been neither contempt nor amusement in the Sergeant’s glances.

At half past two Markham departed, after informing Heath that he would be at the Stuyvesant Club during the remainder of the day; and Vance and I went with him. We had a belated luncheon in the empty grill.

“This Skeel episode rather knocks the foundation from under everything,” Markham said dispiritedly, as our coffee was served.

“Oh, no—not that,” Vance answered. “Rather, let us say that it has added a new column to the edifice of my giddy theory.”

“Your theory—yes. It’s about all that’s left to go on.” Markham sighed. “It has certainly received substantiation this morning. . . . Remarkable how you called the turn when Skeel failed to show up.”

Again Vance contradicted him.

“You overestimate my little flutter in forensics, Markham dear. You see, I assumed that the lady’s strangler knew of Skeel’s offer to you. That offer was probably a threat of some kind on Skeel’s part; otherwise he wouldn’t have set the appointment a day ahead. He no doubt hoped the victim of his threat would become amenable in the meantime. And that money hidden in the curtain-rod leads me to think he was blackmailing the Canary’s murderer, and had been refused a further donation just before he phoned you yesterday. That would account, too, for his having kept his guilty knowledge to himself all this time.”

“You may be right. But now we’re worse off than ever, for we haven’t even Skeel to guide us.”

“At least we’ve forced our elusive culprit to commit a second crime to cover up his first, don’t y’ know. And when we have learned what the Canary’s various amorists were doing last night between ten and twelve, we may have something suggestive on which to work.—By the bye, when may we expect this thrillin’ information?”

“It depends upon what luck Heath’s men have. To-night some time, if everything goes well.”

It was, in fact, about half past eight when Heath telephoned the reports. But here again Markham seemed to have drawn a blank. A less satisfactory account could scarcely be imagined. Doctor Lindquist had suffered a “nervous stroke” the preceding afternoon, and had been taken to the Episcopal Hospital. He was still there under the care of two eminent physicians whose word it was impossible to doubt; and it would be a week at least before he would be able to resume his work. This report was the only definite one of the four, and it completely exonerated the doctor from any participation in the previous night’s crime.

By a curious coincidence neither Mannix, nor Cleaver, nor Spotswoode could furnish a satisfactory alibi. All three of them, according to their statements, had remained at home the night before. The weather had been inclement; and though Mannix and Spotswoode admitted to having been out earlier in the evening, they stated that they had returned home before ten o’clock. Mannix lived in an apartment-hotel, and, as it was Saturday night, the lobby was crowded, so that no one would have been likely to see him come in. Cleaver lived in a small private apartment-house without a door-man or hallboys to observe his movements. Spotswoode was staying at the Stuyvesant Club, and since his rooms were on the third floor, he rarely used the elevator. Moreover, there had been a political reception and dance at the club the previous night, and he might have walked in and out at random a dozen times without being noticed.

“Not what you’d call illuminatin’,” said Vance, when Markham had given him this information.

“It eliminates Lindquist, at any rate.”

“Quite. And, automatically, it eliminates him as an object of suspicion in the Canary’s death also; for these two crimes are part of a whole—integers of the same problem. They complement each other. The latter was conceived in relation to the first—was, in fact, a logical outgrowth of it.”

Markham nodded.

“That’s reasonable enough. Anyway, I’ve passed the combative stage. I think I’ll drift for a while on the stream of your theory and see what happens.”

“What irks me is the disquietin’ feeling that positively nothing will happen unless we force the issue. The lad who manœuvred those two obits had real bean in him.”

As he spoke Spotswoode entered the room and looked about as if searching for some one. Catching sight of Markham, he came briskly forward, with a look of inquisitive perplexity.

“Forgive me for intruding, sir,” he apologized, nodding pleasantly to Vance and me, “but a police officer was here this afternoon inquiring as to my whereabouts last night. It struck me as strange, but I thought little of it until I happened to see the name of Tony Skeel in the headlines of a ‘special’ to-night and read he had been strangled. I remember you asked me regarding such a man in connection with Miss Odell, and I wondered if, by any chance, there could be any connection between the two murders, and if I was, after all, to be drawn into the affair.”

“No, I think not,” said Markham. “There seemed a possibility that the two crimes were related; and, as a matter of routine, the police questioned all the close friends of Miss Odell in the hope of turning up something suggestive. You may dismiss the matter from your mind. I trust,” he added, “the officer was not unpleasantly importunate.”

“Not at all.” Spotswoode’s look of anxiety disappeared. “He was extremely courteous but a bit mysterious.—Who was this man Skeel?”

“A half-world character and ex-burglar. He had some hold on Miss Odell, and, I believe, extorted money from her.”

A cloud of angry disgust passed over Spotswoode’s face.

“A creature like that deserves the fate that overtook him.”

We chatted on various matters until ten o’clock, when Vance rose and gave Markham a reproachful look.

“I’m going to try to recover some lost sleep. I’m temperamentally unfitted for a policeman’s life.”

Despite this complaint, however, nine o’clock the next morning found him at the District Attorney’s office. He had brought several newspapers with him, and was reading, with much amusement, the first complete accounts of Skeel’s murder. Monday was generally a busy day for Markham, and he had arrived at the office before half past eight in an effort to clean up some pressing routine matters before proceeding with his investigation of the Odell case. Heath, I knew, was to come for a conference at ten o’clock. In the meantime there was nothing for Vance to do but read the newspapers; and I occupied myself in like manner.

Punctually at ten Heath arrived, and from his manner it was plain that something had happened to cheer him immeasurably. He was almost jaunty, and his formal, self-satisfied salutation to Vance was like that of a conqueror to a vanquished adversary. He shook hands with Markham with more than his customary punctility.

“Our troubles are over, sir,” he said, and paused to light his cigar. “I’ve arrested Jessup.”

It was Vance who broke the dramatic silence following this astounding announcement.

“In the name of Heaven—what for?”

Heath turned deliberately, in no wise abashed by the other’s tone.

“For the murder of Margaret Odell and Tony Skeel.”

“Oh, my aunt! Oh, my precious aunt!” Vance sat up and stared at him in amazement. “Sweet angels of heaven, come down and solace me!”

Heath’s complacency was unshaken.

“You won’t need no angels, or aunts either, when you hear what I’ve found out about this fellow. I’ve got him tied up in a sack, ready to hand to the jury.”

The first wave of Markham’s astonishment had subsided.

“Let’s have the story, Sergeant.”

Heath settled himself in a chair. He took a few moments to arrange his thoughts.

“It’s like this, sir. Yesterday afternoon I got to thinking. Here was Skeel murdered, same like Odell, after he’d promised to squeal; and it certainly looked as though the same guy had strangled both of ’em. Therefore, I concluded that there musta been two guys in the apartment Monday night—the Dude and the murderer—just like Mr. Vance has been saying all along. Then I figured that they knew each other pretty well, because not only did the other fellow know where the Dude lived, but he musta been wise to the fact that the Dude was going to squeal yesterday. It looked to me, sir, like they had pulled the Odell job together—which is why the Dude didn’t squeal in the first place. But after the other fellow lost his nerve and threw the jewellery away, Skeel thought he’d play safe by turning state’s evidence, so he phoned you.”

The Sergeant smoked a moment.

“I never put much stock in Mannix and Cleaver and the doc. They weren’t the kind to do a job like that, and they certainly weren’t the kind that would be mixed up with a jailbird like Skeel. So I stood all three of ’em to one side, and began looking round for a bad egg—somebody who’d have been likely to be Skeel’s accomplice. But first I tried to figure out what you might call the physical obstacles in the case—that is, the snags we were up against in our reconstruction of the crime.”

Again he paused.

“Now, the thing that’s been bothering us most is that side door. How did it get unbolted after six o’clock? And who bolted it again after the crime? Skeel musta come in by it before eleven, because he was in the apartment when Spotswoode and Odell returned from the theatre; and he probably went out by it after Cleaver had come to the apartment at about midnight. But that wasn’t explaining how it got bolted again on the inside. Well, sir, I studied over this for a long time yesterday, and then I went up to the house and took another look at the door. Young Spively was running the switchboard, and I asked him where Jessup was, for I wanted to ask him some questions. And Spively told me he’d quit his job the day before—Saturday afternoon!”

Heath waited to let this fact sink in.

“I was on my way down-town before the idea came to me. Then it hit me sudden-like; and the whole case broke wide open.—Mr. Markham, nobody but Jessup coulda opened that side door and locked it again—nobody. Figure it out for yourself, sir—though I guess you’ve pretty well done it already. Skeel couldn’t’ve done it. And there wasn’t nobody else to do it.”

Markham had become interested, and leaned forward.

“After this idea had hit me,” Heath continued, “I decided to take a chance; so I got outa the Subway at the Penn Station, and phoned Spively for Jessup’s address. Then I got my first good news: Jessup lived on Second Avenue, right around the corner from Skeel! I picked up a coupla men from the local station, and went to his house. We found him packing up his things, getting ready to go to Detroit. We locked him up, and I took his finger-prints and sent ’em to Dubois. I thought I might get a line on him that way, because crooks don’t generally begin with a job as big as the Canary prowl.”

Heath permitted himself a grin of satisfaction.

“Well, sir, Dubois nailed him up! His name ain’t Jessup at all. The William part is all right, but his real moniker is Benton. He was convicted of assault and battery in Oakland in 1909, and served a year in San Quentin when Skeel was a prisoner there. He was also grabbed as a lookout in a bank robbery in Brooklyn in 1914, but didn’t come to trial—that’s how we happen to have his finger-prints at Headquarters. When we put him on the grill last night, he said he changed his name after the Brooklyn racket, and enlisted in the army. That’s all we could get outa him; but we didn’t need any more.—Now, here are the facts: Jessup has served time for assault and battery. He was mixed up in a bank robbery. Skeel was a fellow prisoner of his. He’s got no alibi for Saturday night when Skeel was killed, and he lives round the corner. He quit his job suddenly Saturday afternoon. He’s husky and strong and could easily have done the business. He was planning his getaway when we nabbed him. And—he’s the only person who could’ve unbolted and rebolted that side door Monday night. . . . Is that a case, or ain’t it, Mr. Markham?”

Markham sat several minutes in thought.

“It’s a good case as far as it goes,” he said slowly. “But what was his motive in strangling the girl?”

“That’s easy. Mr. Vance here suggested it the first day. You remember he asked Jessup about his feelings for Odell; and Jessup turned red and got nervous.”

“Oh, Lord!” exclaimed Vance. “Am I to be made responsible for any part of this priceless lunacy? . . . True, I pried into the chap’s emotions toward the lady; but that was before anything had come to light. I was bein’ careful—tryin’ to test each possibility as it arose.”

“Well, that was a lucky question of yours, just the same.” Heath turned back to Markham. “As I see it: Jessup was stuck on Odell, and she told him to trot along and sell his papers. He got all worked up over it, sitting there night after night, seeing these other guys calling on her. Then Skeel comes along, and, recognizing him, suggests burglarizing Odell’s apartment. Skeel can’t do the job without help, for he has to pass the phone operator coming and going; and as he’s been there before, he’d be recognized. Jessup sees a chance of getting even with Odell and putting the blame on some one else; so the two of ’em cook up the job for Monday night. When Odell goes out Jessup unlocks the side door, and the Dude lets himself into the apartment with his own key. Then Odell and Spotswoode arrive unexpectedly. Skeel hides in the closet, and after Spotswoode has gone, he accidentally makes a noise, and Odell screams. He steps out, and when she sees who he is, she tells Spotswoode it’s a mistake. Jessup now knows Skeel has been discovered, and decides to make use of the fact. Soon after Spotswoode has gone, he enters the apartment with a pass-key. Skeel, thinking it’s somebody else, hides again in the closet; and then Jessup grabs the girl and strangles her, intending to let Skeel get the credit for it. But Skeel comes out of hiding and they talk it over. Finally they come to an agreement, and proceed with their original plan to loot the place. Jessup tries to open the jewel-case with the poker, and Skeel finishes the job with his chisel. They then go out. Skeel leaves by the side door, and Jessup rebolts it. The next day Skeel hands the swag to Jessup to keep till things blow over; and Jessup gets scared and throws it away. Then they have a row. Skeel decides to tell everything, so he can get out from under; and Jessup, suspecting he’s going to do it, goes round to his house Saturday night and strangles him like he did Odell.”

Heath made a gesture of finality and sank back in his chair.

“Clever—deuced clever,” murmured Vance. “Sergeant, I apologize for my little outburst a moment ago. Your logic is irreproachable. You’ve reconstructed the crime beautifully. You’ve solved the case. . . . It’s wonderful—simply wonderful. But it’s wrong.”

“It’s right enough to send Mr. Jessup to the chair.”

“That’s the terrible thing about logic,” said Vance. “It so often leads one irresistibly to a false conclusion.”

He stood up and walked across the room and back, his hands in his coat-pockets. When he came abreast of Heath he halted.

“I say, Sergeant; if somebody else could have unlocked that side door, and then rebolted it again after the crime, you’d be willing to admit that it would weaken your case against Jessup—eh, what?”

Heath was in a generous mood.

“Sure. Show me some one else who coulda done that, and I’ll admit that maybe I’m wrong.”

“Skeel could have done it, Sergeant. And he did do it—without any one knowing it.”

“Skeel!—This ain’t the age of miracles, Mr. Vance.”

Vance swung about and faced Markham.

“Listen! I’m telling you Jessup’s innocent.” He spoke with a fervor that amazed me. “And I’m going to prove it to you—some way. My theory is pretty complete; it’s deficient only in one or two small points; and, I’ll confess, I haven’t yet been able to put a name to the culprit. But it’s the right theory, Markham, and it’s diametrically opposed to the Sergeant’s. Therefore, you’ve got to give me an opportunity to demonstrate it before you proceed against Jessup. Now, I can’t demonstrate it here; so you and Heath must come with me to the Odell house. It won’t take over an hour. But if it took a week, you’d have to come just the same.”

He stepped nearer to the desk.

“I know that it was Skeel, and not Jessup, who unbolted that door before the crime, and rebolted it afterward.”

Markham was impressed.

“You know this—you know it for a fact?”

“Yes! And I know how he did it!”