The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  Vance drew up a chair.

  “I do hope he’s a punctual beggar.”

  “So do I,” returned Markham viciously. “I’m looking forward to your felo-de-se.”

  “‘Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair,’” murmured Vance.

  Less than ten minutes later Cleaver entered the rotunda from the street, paused at the desk, and sauntered into the lounge room. There was no escaping the observation point Markham had chosen; and as he walked by us he paused and exchanged greetings. Markham detained him a moment with a few casual questions; and then Cleaver passed on.

  “That the man you ticketed, Officer?” asked Markham, turning to Phipps.

  Phipps was scowling perplexedly. “It looks something like him, sir; there’s a kind of resemblance. But it ain’t him.” He shook his head. “No, sir; it ain’t him. The fellow I hung a summons on was stouter than this gent and wasn’t as tall.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “Yes, sir—no mistake. The guy I tagged tried to argue with me and then he tried to slip me a flyer to forget it. I had my headlight on him full.”

  Phipps was dismissed with a substantial pourboire.

  “Vae misero mihi!” sighed Vance. “My worthless existence is to be prolonged. Sad. But you must try to bear it.… I say, Markham, what does Pop Cleaver’s brother look like?”

  “That’s it,” nodded Markham. “I’ve met his brother; he’s shorter and stouter.… This thing is getting beyond me. I think I’ll have it out with Cleaver now.”

  He started to rise, but Vance forced him back into his seat.

  “Don’t be impetuous. Cultivate patience. Cleaver’s not going to do a bunk; and there are one or two prelimin’ry steps strongly indicated. Mannix and Lindquist still seduce my curiosity.”

  Markham clung to his point. “Neither Mannix nor Lindquist is here now, and Cleaver is. And I want to know why he lied to me about that summons.”

  “I can tell you that,” said Vance. “He wanted you to think he was in the wilds of New Jersey at midnight Monday. Simple, what?”

  “The inference is a credit to your intelligence! But I hope you don’t seriously think that Cleaver is guilty. It’s possible he knows something; but I certainly cannot picture him as a strangler.”

  “And why?”

  “He’s not the type. It’s inconceivable—even if there were evidence against him.”

  “Ah! The psychological judgment! You eliminate Cleaver because you don’t think his nature harmonizes with the situation. I say, doesn’t that come perilously near being an esoteric hypothesis?—or a metaphysical deduction?… However, I don’t entirely agree with you in your application of the theory to Cleaver. That fish-eyed gambler has unsuspected potentialities for evil. But with the theory itself I am wholly in accord. And behold, my dear Markham: you yourself apply psychology in its abecedarian implications, yet ridicule my application of it in its higher developments. Consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds, y’ know, but it’s nonetheless a priceless jewel.… How about a cup of tea?”

  We sought the Palm Room and sat down at a table near the entrance. Vance ordered oolong tea, but Markham and I took black coffee. A very capable four-piece orchestra was playing Tchaikovsky’s Casse-Noisette Suite, and we sat restfully in the comfortable chairs without speaking. Markham was tired and dispirited, and Vance was busy with the problem that had absorbed him continuously since Tuesday morning. Never before had I seen him so preoccupied.

  We had been there perhaps half an hour when Spotswoode strolled in. He stopped and spoke, and Markham asked him to join us. He, too, appeared depressed, and his eyes showed signs of worry.

  “I hardly dare ask you, Mr. Markham,” he said diffidently, after he had ordered a ginger ale, “but how do my chances stand now of being called as a witness?”

  “That fate is certainly no nearer than when I last saw you,” Markham replied. “In fact, nothing has happened to change the situation materially.”

  “And the man you had under suspicion?”

  “He’s still under suspicion, but no arrest has been made. We’re hoping, however, that something will break before long.”

  “And I suppose you still want me to remain in the city?”

  “If you can arrange it—yes.”

  Spotswoode was silent for a time; then he said, “I don’t want to appear to shirk any responsibility—and perhaps it may seem wholly selfish for me even to suggest it—but, in any event, wouldn’t the testimony of the telephone operator as to the hour of Miss Odell’s return and her calls for help be sufficient to establish the facts, without my corroboration?”

  “I have thought of that, of course; and if it is at all possible to prepare the case for the prosecution without summoning you to appear, I assure you it will be done. At the moment, I can see no necessity of your being called as a witness. But one never knows what may turn up. If the defense hinges on a question of exact time, and the operator’s testimony is questioned or disqualified for any reason, you may be required to come forward. Otherwise not.”

  Spotswoode sipped his ginger ale. A little of his depression seemed to have departed.

  “You’re very generous, Mr. Markham. I wish there was some adequate way of thanking you.” He looked up hesitantly. “I presume you are still opposed to my visiting the apartment.… I know you think me unreasonable and perhaps sentimental; but the girl represented something in my life that I find very difficult to tear out. I don’t expect you to understand it—I hardly understand it myself.”

  “I think it’s easily understandable, don’t y’ know,” remarked Vance, with a sympathy I had rarely seen him manifest. “Your attitude needs no apology. History and fable are filled with the same situation, and the protagonists have always exhibited sentiments similar to yours. Your most famous prototype, of course, was Odysseus on the citron-scented isle of Ogygia with the fascinatin’ Calypso. The soft arms of sirens have gone snaking round men’s necks ever since the red-haired Lilith worked her devastatin’ wiles on the impressionable Adam. We’re all sons of that racy old boy.”

  Spotswoode smiled. “You at least give me an historic background,” he said. Then he turned to Markham. “What will become of Miss Odell’s possessions—her furniture and so forth?”

  “Sergeant Heath heard from an aunt of hers in Seattle,” Markham told him. “She’s on her way to New York, I believe, to take over what there is of the estate.”

  “And everything will be kept intact until then?”

  “Probably longer, unless something unexpected happens. Anyway, until then.”

  “There are one or two little trinkets I’d like to keep,” Spotswoode confessed, a bit shamefacedly, I thought.

  After a few more minutes of desultory talk he rose and, pleading an engagement, bade us good afternoon.

  “I hope I can keep his name clear of the case,” said Markham, when he had gone.

  “Yes; his situation is not an enviable one,” concurred Vance. “It’s always sad to be found out. The moralist would set it down to retribution.”

  “In this instance chance was certainly on the side of righteousness. If he hadn’t chosen Monday night for the Winter Garden, he might now be in the bosom of his family, with nothing more troublesome to bother him than a guilty conscience.”

  “It certainly looks that way.” Vance glanced at his watch. “And your mention of the Winter Garden reminds me. Do you mind if we dine early? Frivolity beckons me tonight. I’m going to the Scandals.”

  We both looked at him as though he had taken leave of his senses.

  “Don’t be so horrified, my Markham. Why should I not indulge an impulse?… And, incidentally, I hope to have glad tidings for you by lunchtime tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 18

  THE TRAP

  (Friday, September 14; noon)

  Vance slept late the following day. I had accompanied him to the Scandals the night before, utterly at a loss to understand his strange desire to attend a type of ente
rtainment which I knew he detested. At noon he ordered his car, and instructed the chauffeur to drive to the Belafield Hotel.

  “We are about to call again on the allurin’ Alys,” he said. “I’d bring posies to lay at her shrine, but I fear dear Mannix might question her unduly about them.”

  Miss La Fosse received us with an air of crestfallen resentment.

  “I might’ve known it!” She nodded her head with sneering perception. “I suppose you’ve come to tell me the cops found out about me without the slightest assistance from you.” Her disdain was almost magnificent. “Did you bring ’em with you?… A swell guy you are!—But it’s my own fault for being a damn fool.”

  Vance waited unmoved until she had finished her contemptuous tirade. Then he bowed pleasantly.

  “Really, y’ know, I merely dropped in to pay my respects, and to tell you that the police have turned in their report of Miss Odell’s acquaintances, and that your name was not mentioned on it. You seemed a little worried yesterday on that score, and it occurred to me I could set your mind wholly at ease.”

  The vigilance of her attitude relaxed. “Is that straight?… My God! I don’t know what would happen if Louey’d find out I’d been blabbing.”

  “I’m sure he won’t find out, unless you choose to tell him.… Won’t you be generous and ask me to sit down a moment?”

  “Of course—I’m so sorry. I’m just having my coffee. Please join me.” She rang for two extra services.

  Vance had drunk two cups of coffee less than half an hour before, and I marveled at his enthusiasm for this atrocious hotel beverage.

  “I was a belated spectator of the Scandals last night,” he remarked in a negligent, conversational tone. “I missed the revue earlier in the season. How is it you yourself were so late in seeing it?”

  “I’ve been so busy,” she confided. “I was rehearsing for ‘A Pair of Queens’; but the production’s been postponed. Louey couldn’t get the theater he wanted.”

  “Do you like revues?” asked Vance. “I should think they’d be more difficult for the principals than the ordin’ry musical comedy.”

  “They are.” Miss La Fosse adopted a professional air. “And they’re unsatisfactory. The individual is lost in them. There’s no real scope for one’s talent. They’re breathless if you know what I mean.”

  “I should imagine so.” Vance bravely sipped his coffee. “And yet, there were several numbers in the Scandals that you could have done charmingly; they seemed particularly designed for you. I thought of you doing them, and—d’ ye know?—the thought rather spoiled my enjoyment of the young lady who appeared in them.”

  “You flatter me, Mr. Vance. But, really, I have a good voice. I’ve studied very hard. And I learned dancing with Professor Markoff.”

  “Indeed!” (I’m sure Vance had never heard the name before, but his exclamation seemed to imply that he regarded Professor Markoff as one of the world’s most renowned ballet masters.) “Then, you certainly should have been starred in the Scandals. The young lady I have in mind sang rather indifferently, and her dancing was most inadequate. Moreover, she was many degrees your inferior in personality and attractiveness.… Confess: didn’t you have just a little desire Monday night to be singing the ‘Chinese Lullaby’ song?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Miss La Fosse carefully considered the suggestion. “They kept the lights awfully low; and I don’t look so well in cerise. But the costumes were adorable, weren’t they?”

  “On you they certainly would have been adorable.… What color are you partial to?”

  “I love the orchid shades,” she told him enthusiastically; “though I don’t look at all bad in turquoise blue. But an artist once told me I should always wear white. He wanted to paint my portrait, but the gentleman I was engaged to then didn’t like him.”

  Vance regarded her appraisingly.

  “I think your artist friend was right. And, y’ know, the St. Moritz scene in the Scandals would have suited you perfectly. The little brunette who sang the snow song, all in white, was delightful; but really, now, she should have had golden hair. Dusky beauties belong to the southern climes. And she impressed me as lacking the sparkle and vitality of a Swiss resort in midwinter. You could have supplied those qualities admirably.”

  “Yes; I’d have liked that better than the Chinese number, I think. White fox is my favorite fur, too. But, even so, in a revue you’re on in one number and off in another. When it’s all over, you’re forgotten.” She sighed unhappily.

  Vance set down his cup and looked at her with whimsically reproachful eyes. After a moment he said, “My dear, why did you fib to me about the time Mr. Mannix returned to you last Monday night? It wasn’t a bit nice of you.”

  “What do you mean?” Miss La Fosse exclaimed in frightened indignation, drawing herself up into an attitude of withering hauteur.

  “You see,” explained Vance, “the St. Moritz scene of the Scandals doesn’t go on until nearly eleven, and it closes the bill. So you couldn’t possible have seen it and also received Mr. Mannix here at half past ten. Come. What time did he arrive here Monday night?”

  The girl flushed angrily. “You’re pretty slick, aren’t you? You shoulda been a cop.… Well, what if I didn’t get home till after the show? Any crime in that?”

  “None whatever,” answered Vance mildly. “Only a little breach of good faith in telling me you came home early.” He bent forward earnestly. “I’m not here to make you trouble. On the contr’ry, I’d like to protect you from any distress or bother. You see, if the police go nosing round, they may run on to you. But if I’m able to give the district attorney accurate information about certain things connected with Monday night, there’ll be no danger of the police being sent to look for you.”

  Miss La Fosse’s eyes grew suddenly hard, and her brow crinkled with determination. “Listen! I haven’t got anything to hide, and neither has Louey. But if Louey asks me to say he’s somewhere at half past ten, I’m going to say it—see? That’s my idea of friendship. Louey had some good reason to ask it, too, or he wouldn’t have done it. However, since you’re so smart, and have accused me of playing unfair, I’m going to tell you that he didn’t get in till after midnight. But if anybody else asks me about it, I’ll see ’em in hell before I tell ’em anything but the half-past-ten story. Get that?”

  Vance bowed. “I get it; and I like you for it.”

  “But don’t go away with the wrong idea,” she hurried on, her eyes sparkling with fervor. “Louey may not have got here till after midnight, but if you think he knows anything about Margy’s death, you’re crazy. He was through with Margy a year ago. Why, he hardly knew she was on earth. And if any fool cop gets the notion in his head that Louey was mixed up in the affair, I’ll alibi him—so help me God!—if it’s the last thing I do in this world.”

  “I like you more and more,” said Vance; and when she gave him her hand at parting he lifted it to his lips.

  As we rode downtown Vance was thoughtful. We were nearly to the Criminal Courts Building before he spoke.

  “The primitive Alys rather appeals to me,” he said. “She’s much too good for the oleaginous Mannix.… Women are so shrewd—and so gullible. A woman can read a man with almost magical insight; but, on the other hand, she is inexpressibly blind when it comes to her man. Witness sweet Alys’s faith in Mannix. He probably told her he was slaving at the office Monday night. Naturally, she doesn’t believe it; but she knows—knows, mind you—that her Louey just couldn’t have been concerned in the Canary’s death. Ah, well, let us hope she’s right and that Mannix is not apprehended—at least not until her new show is financed.… My word! If this being a detective involves many more revues, I shall have to resign. Thank Heaven, though, the lady didn’t attend the cinema Monday night!”

  When we arrived at the District Attorney’s office we found Heath and Markham in consultation. Markham had a pad before him, several pages of which were covered with tabulated and annotated entrie
s. A cloud of cigar smoke enveloped him. Heath sat facing him, his elbows on the table, his chin resting in his hands. He looked pugnacious but disconsolate.

  “I’m going over the case with the sergeant,” Markham explained, with a brief glance in our direction. “We’re trying to get all the salient points down in some kind of order, to see if there are any connecting links we’ve overlooked. I’ve told the sergeant about the doctor’s infatuation and his threats, and of the failure of Traffic Officer Phipps to identify Cleaver. But the more we learn, the worse, apparently, the jumble grows.”

  He picked up the sheets of paper and fastened them together with a clip. “The truth is, we haven’t any real evidence against anybody. There are suspicious circumstances connected with Skeel and Doctor Lindquist and Cleaver; and our interview with Mannix didn’t precisely allay suspicions in his direction, either. But when we come right down to it, what’s the situation! We’ve got some fingerprints of Skeel, which might have been made late Monday afternoon. Doctor Lindquist goes berserk when we ask him where he was Monday night, and then offers us a weak alibi. He admits a fatherly interest in the girl, whereas he’s really in love with her—a perfectly natural bit of mendacity. Cleaver lent his car to his brother and lied about it, so that I’d think he was in Boonton Monday at midnight. And Mannix gives us a number of shifty answers to our questions concerning his relations with the girl.… Not an embarrassment of riches.”

  “I wouldn’t say your information was exactly negligent,” observed Vance, taking a chair beside the sergeant. “It may all prove devilish valuable if only it could be put together properly. The difficulty, it appears to me, is that certain parts of the puzzle are missing. Find ’em, and I’ll warrant everything will fit beautifully—like a mosaic.”

  “Easy enough to say ‘find ’em,’” grumbled Markham. “The trouble is to know where to look.”

  Heath relighted his dead cigar and made an impatient gesture.

  “You can’t get away from Skeel. He’s the boy that did it, and, if it wasn’t for Abe Rubin, I’d sweat the truth outa him. And by the way, Mr. Vance, he had his own private key to the Odell apartment, all right.” He glanced at Markham hesitantly. “I don’t want to look as if I was criticising, sir, but I got a feeling we’re wasting time chasing after these gentlemen friends of Odell—Cleaver and Mannix and this here doctor.”