The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  The mention of the Canary’s name brought Miss La Fosse suddenly to her feet. Her ingratiating air of affected elegance had quickly disappeared. Her eyes flashed, and their lids drooped harshly. A sneer distorted the lines of her cupid’s-bow mouth, and she tossed her head angrily.

  “Say, listen! Who do you think you are? I don’t know nothing, and I got nothing to say. So run along—you and your lawyer.”

  But Vance made no move to obey. He took out his cigarette case and carefully selected a Régie.

  “Do you mind if I smoke? And won’t you have one? I import them direct from my agent in Constantinople. They’re exquisitely blended.”

  The girl snorted, and gave him a look of cold disdain. The doll-baby had become a virago.

  “Get yourself outa my apartment, or I’ll call the house detective.” She turned to the telephone on the wall at her side.

  Vance waited until she had lifted the receiver.

  “If you do that, Miss La Fosse, I’ll order you taken to the district attorney’s office for questioning,” he told her indifferently, lighting his cigarette and leaning back in his chair.

  Slowly she replaced the receiver and turned. “What’s your game, anyway?… Suppose I did know Margy—then what? And where do you fit into the picture?”

  “Alas! I don’t fit in at all.” Vance smiled pleasantly. “But, for that matter, nobody seems to fit in. The truth is, they’re about to arrest a poor blighter for killing your friend, who wasn’t in the tableau, either. I happen to be a friend of the district attorney’s; and I know exactly what’s being done. The police are scouting round in a perfect frenzy of activity, and it’s hard to say what trail they’ll strike next. I thought, don’t y’ know, I might save you a lot of unpleasantness by a friendly little chat.… Of course,” he added, “if you prefer to have me give your name to the police, I’ll do so, and let them hold the audience in their own inimitable but crude fashion. I might say, however, that, as yet, they are blissfully unaware of your relationship with Miss Odell, and that, if you are reasonable, I see no reason why they should be informed of it.”

  The girl had stood, one hand on the telephone, studying Vance intently. He had spoken carelessly and with a genial inflection; and she at length resumed her seat.

  “Now, won’t you have one of my cigarettes?” he asked, in a tone of gracious reconciliation.

  Mechanically she accepted his offer, keeping her eyes on him all the time, as if attempting to determine how far he was to be trusted.

  “Who are they thinking of arresting?” She asked the question with scarcely a movement of her features.

  “A johnny named Skeel. Silly idea, isn’t it?”

  “Him!” Her tone was one of mingled contempt and disgust. “That cheap crook? He hasn’t got nerve enough to strangle a cat.”

  “Precisely. But that’s no reason for sending him to the electric chair, what?” Vance leaned forward and smiled engagingly. “Miss La Fosse, if you will talk to me for five minutes, and forget I’m a stranger, I’ll give you my word of honor not to let the police or the district attorney know anything about you. I’m not connected with the authorities, but somehow I dislike the idea of seeing the wrong man punished. And I’ll promise to forget the source of any information you will be kind enough to give me. If you will trust me, it will be infinitely easier for you in the end.”

  The girl made no answer for several minutes. She was, I could see, trying to estimate Vance; and evidently she decided that, in any case, she had nothing to lose—now that her friendship with the Canary had been discovered—by talking to this man who had promised her immunity from further annoyance.

  “I guess you’re all right,” she said, with a reservation of dubiety; “but I don’t know why I should think so.” She paused. “But, look here: I was told to keep out of this. And if I don’t keep out of it, I’m apt to be back hoofing it in the chorus again. And that’s no life for a sweet young thing like me with extravagant tastes—believe me, my friend!”

  “That calamity will never befall you through any lack of discretion on my part,” Vance assured her, with good-natured earnestness.… “Who told you to keep out of it?”

  “My—fiancé” She spoke somewhat coquettishly. “He’s very well known and he’s afraid there might be scandal if I got mixed up in the case as a witness, or anything like that.”

  “I can readily understand his feelings.” Vance nodded sympathetically. “And who, by the bye, is this luckiest of men?”

  “Say! You’re good.” She complimented him with a coy moue. “But I’m not announcing my engagement yet.”

  “Don’t be horrid,” begged Vance. “You know perfectly well that I could find out his name by making a few inquiries. And if you drove me to learn the facts elsewhere, then my promise to keep your name a secret would no longer bind me.”

  Miss La Fosse considered this point.

  “I guess you could find out all right…so I might as well tell you—only I’m trusting to your word to protect me.” She opened her eyes wide and gave Vance a melting look. “I know you wouldn’t let me down.”

  “My dear Miss La Fosse!” His tone was one of pained surprise.

  “Well, my fiancé is Mr. Mannix, and he’s the head of a big fur-importing house.… You see”—she became clingingly confidential—“Louey—that is, Mr. Mannix—used to go round with Margy. That’s why he didn’t want me to get mixed up in the affair. He said the police might bother him with questions, and his name might get into the papers. And that would hurt his commercial standing.”

  “I quite understand,” murmured Vance. “And do you happen to know where Mr. Mannix was Monday night?”

  The girl looked startled.

  “Of course I know. He was right here with me from half past ten until two in the morning. We were discussing a new musical show he was interested in; and he wanted me to take the leading role.”

  “I’m sure it will be a success.” Vance spoke with disarming friendliness. “Were you home alone all Monday evening?”

  “Hardly.” The idea seemed to amuse her. “I went to the Scandals—but I came home early. I knew Louey—Mr. Mannix—was coming.”

  “I trust he appreciated your sacrifice.” Vance, I believe, was disappointed by this unexpected alibi of Mannix’s. It was, indeed, so final that further interrogation concerning it seemed futile. After a momentary pause; he changed the subject.

  “Tell me; what do you know about a Mr. Charles Cleaver? He was a friend of Miss Odell’s.”

  “Oh, Pop’s all right.” The girl was plainly relieved by this turn in the conversation. “A good scout. He was certainly gone on Margy. Even after she threw him over for Mr. Spotswoode, he was faithful, as you might say—always running after her, sending her flowers and presents. Some men are like that. Poor old Pop! He even phoned me Monday night to call up Margy for him and try to arrange a party. Maybe if I’d done it, she wouldn’t be dead now.… It’s a funny world, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, no end funny.” Vance smoked calmly for a minute; I could not help admiring his self-control. “What time did Mr. Cleaver phone you Monday night—do you recall?” From his voice one would have thought the question of no importance.

  “Let me see.…” She pursed her lips prettily. “It was just ten minutes to twelve. I remember that the little chime clock on the mantel over there was striking midnight, and at first I couldn’t hear Pop very well. You see, I always keep my clock ten minutes fast so I’ll never be late for an appointment.”

  Vance compared the clock with his watch.

  “Yes, it’s ten minutes fast. And what about the party?”

  “Oh, I was too busy talking about the new show, and I had to refuse. Anyway, Mr. Mannix didn’t want to have a party that night.… It wasn’t my fault was it?”

  “Not a bit of it,” Vance assured her. “Work comes before pleasure—especially work as important as yours.… And now, there is one other man I want to ask you about, and then I won’t bother you any
more.—What was the situation between Miss Odell and Doctor Lindquist?”

  Miss La Fosse became genuinely perturbed.

  “I was afraid you were going to ask me about him.” There was apprehension in her eyes. “I don’t know just what to say. He was wildly in love with Margy; and she led him on, too. But she was sorry for it afterward, because he got jealous—like a crazy person. He used to pester the life out of her. And once—do you know!—he threatened to shoot her and then shoot himself. I told Margy to look out for him. But she didn’t seem to be afraid. Anyway, I think she was taking awful chances.… Oh! Do you think it could have been—do you really think—?”

  “And wasn’t there anyone else,” Vance interrupted, “who might have felt the same way? Anyone Miss Odell had reason to fear?”

  “No.” Miss La Fosse shook her head. “Margy didn’t know many men intimately. She didn’t change often, if you know what I mean. There wasn’t anybody else outside of those you’ve mentioned, except, of course, Mr. Spotswoode. He cut Pop out several months ago. She went to dinner with him Monday night, too. I wanted her to go to the Scandals with me—that’s how I know.”

  Vance rose and held out his hand.

  “You’ve been very kind. And you have nothing whatever to fear. No one shall ever know of our little visit this morning.”

  “Who do you think killed Margy?” There was genuine emotion in the girl’s voice. “Louey says it was probably some burglar who wanted her jewels.”

  “I’m too wise to sow discord in this happy ménage by even questioning Mr. Mannix’s opinion,” said Vance half banteringly. “No one knows who’s guilty; but the police agree with Mr. Mannix.”

  For a moment the girl’s doubts returned, and she gave Vance a searching look. “Why are you so interested? You didn’t know Margy, did you? She never mentioned you.”

  Vance laughed. “My dear child! I only wish I knew why I am so deuced concerned in this affair. ’Pon my word, I can’t give you even the sketchiest explanation.… No, I never met Miss Odell. But it would offend my sense of proportion if Mr. Skeel were punished and the real culprit went free. Maybe I’m getting sentimental. A sad fate, what?”

  “I guess I’m getting soft, too.” She nodded her head, still looking Vance square in the eyes. “I risked my happy home to tell you what I did, because somehow I believed you.… Say, you weren’t stringing me, by any chance?”

  Vance put his hand to his heart, and became serious.

  “My dear Miss La Fosse, when I leave here it will be as though I had never entered. Dismiss me and Mr. Van Dine here from your mind.”

  Something in his manner banished her misgivings, and she bade us a kittenish farewell.

  CHAPTER 17

  CHECKING AN ALIBI

  (Thursday, September 13; afternoon)

  “My sleuthing goes better,” exulted Vance, when we were again in the street. “Fair Alys was a veritable mine of information—eh, what? Only, you should have controlled yourself better when she mentioned her beloved’s name—really, you should, Van old thing. I saw you jump and heard you heave. Such emotion is unbecoming in a lawyer.”

  From a booth in a drugstore near the hotel he telephoned Markham: “I am taking you to lunch. I have numerous confidences I would pour into your ear.” A debate ensued, but in the end Vance emerged triumphant; and a moment later a taxicab was driving us downtown.

  “Alys is clever—there are brains in that fluffy head,” he ruminated. “She’s much smarter than Heath; she knew at once that Skeel wasn’t guilty. Her characterization of the immaculate Tony was inelegant but how accurate—oh, how accurate! And you noticed, of course, how she trusted me. Touchin’, wasn’t it?… It’s a knotty problem, Van. Something’s amiss somewhere.”

  He was silent, smoking, for several blocks.

  “Mannix.… Curious he should crop up again. And he issued orders to Alys to keep mum. Now, why? Maybe the reason he gave her was the real one. Who knows? On the other hand, was he with his chère amie from half past ten till early morning? Well, well. Again, who knows? Something queer about that business discussion.… Then Cleaver. He called up just ten minutes before midnight—oh, yes, he called up. That wasn’t a fairytale. But how could he telephone from a speeding car? He couldn’t. Maybe he really wanted to have a party with his recalcitrant Canary, don’t y’ know. But, then, why the brummagem alibi? Funk? Maybe. But why the circuitousness? Why didn’t he call his lost love direct? Ah, perhaps he did! Someone certainly called her by phone at twenty minutes to twelve. We must look into that, Van.… Yes, he may have called her, and then when a man answered—who the deuce was that man, anyway?—he may have appealed to Alys. Quite natural, y’ know. Anyway, he wasn’t in Boonton. Poor Markham! How upset he’ll be when he finds out!… But what really worries me is that story of the doctor. Jealous mania: it squares with Ambroise’s character perfectly. He’s the kind that does go off his head. I knew his confession of paternalism was a red herring. My word! So the doctor was making threats and flourishing pistols, eh? Bad, bad. I don’t like it. With those ears of his, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Paranoia—that’s it. Delusions of persecution. Probably thought the girl and Pop—or maybe the girl and Spotswoode—were plotting his misery and laughing at him. You can’t tell about those chaps. They’re deep and they’re dangerous. The canny Alys had him sized up—warned the Canary against him.… Taken by and large, it’s a devilish tangle. Anyway, I feel rather bucked. We’re moving—oh, undoubtedly we’re moving—though in what direction I can’t even guess. It’s beastly annoyin’.”

  Markham was waiting for us at the Bankers’ Club. He greeted Vance irritably. “What have you got to tell me that’s so damned important?”

  “Now, don’t get ratty.” Vance was beaming. “How’s your lodestar, Skeel, behaving?”

  “So far he’s done everything that’s pure and refined except join the Christian Endeavor Society.”

  “Sunday’s coming. Give him time.… So you’re not happy, Markham dear?”

  “Was I dragged away from another engagement to report on my state of mind?”

  “No need. Your state of mind’s execrable.… Cheerio! I’ve brought you something to think about.”

  “Damn it! I’ve got too much to think about now.”

  “Here, have some brioche.” Vance gave the order for lunch without consulting either of us. “And now for my revelations. Imprimis: Pop Cleaver wasn’t in Boonton last Monday night. He was very much in the midst of our modern Gomorrah, trying to arrange a midnight party.”

  “Wonderful!” snorted Markham. “I lave in the font of your wisdom. His alter ego, I take it, was on the road to Hopatcong. The supernatural leaves me cold.”

  “You may be as pancosmic as you choose. Cleaver was in New York at midnight Monday, craving excitement.”

  “What about the summons for speeding?”

  “That’s for you to explain. But if you’ll take my advice, you’ll send for this Boonton catchpole and let him have a look at Pop. If he says Cleaver is the man he ticketed, I’ll humbly do away with myself.”

  “Well! That makes it worth trying. I’ll have the officer at the Stuyvesant Club this afternoon and I’ll point out Cleaver to him.… What other staggering revelations have you in store?”

  “Mannix will bear looking into.”

  Markham put down his knife and fork and leaned back. “I’m overcome! Such Himalayan sagacity! With that evidence against him, he should be arrested at once.… Vance, my dear old friend, are you feeling quite normal? No dizzy spells lately? No shooting pains in the head? Knee jerks all right?”

  “Furthermore, Doctor Lindquist was wildly infatuated with the Canary, and insanely jealous. Recently threatened to take a pistol and hold a little pogrom of his own.”

  “That’s better.” Markham sat up. “Where did you get this information?”

  “Ah! That’s my secret.”

  Markham was annoyed.

  “Why so mysterious?”

&
nbsp; “Needs must, old chap. Gave my word and all that sort of thing. And I’m a bit quixotic, don’t y’ know—too much Cervantes in my youth.” He spoke lightly, but Markham knew him too well to push the question.

  In less than five minutes after we had returned to the district attorney’s office, Heath came in.

  “I got something else on Mannix, sir; thought you might want to add it to the report I turned in yesterday. Burke secured a picture of him and showed it to the phone operators at Odell’s house. Both of ’em recognized it. He’s been there several times, but it wasn’t the Canary he called on. It was the woman in Apartment 2. She’s named Frisbee and used to be one of Mannix’s fur models. He’s been to see her several times during the past six months and has taken her out once or twice; but he hasn’t called on her for a month or more.… Any good?”

  “Can’t tell.” Markham shot Vance an inquisitive look. “But thanks for the information, Sergeant.”

  “By the bye,” said Vance dulcetly, when Heath had left us, “I’m feeling tophole. No pains in the head; no dizzy spells. Knee jerks perfect.”

  “Delighted. Still, I can’t charge a man with murder because he calls on his fur model.”

  “You’re so hasty! Why should you charge him with murder?” Vance rose and yawned. “Come, Van. I’d rather like to gaze on Perneb’s tomb at the Metropolitan this afternoon. Could you bear it?” At the door he paused. “I say, Markham, what about the Boonton bailiff?” Markham rang for Swacker. “I’ll see to it at once. Drop in at the club around five, if you feel like it. I’ll have the officer there then, as Cleaver is sure to come in before dinner.”

  When Vance and I returned to the club late that afternoon, Markham was stationed in the lounge room facing the main door of the rotunda; and beside him sat a tall, heavyset, bronzed man of about forty, alert but ill at ease.

  “Traffic Officer Phipps arrived from Boonton a little while ago,” said Markham, by way of introduction. “Cleaver is expected at any moment now. He has an appointment here at half past five.”