The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  Markham shook his head gravely.

  “Good God! No wonder he importuned me on every possible occasion to let him visit this apartment again. Such a damning piece of evidence as that record must have kept him awake at night.”

  “Still, I rather fancy that if I hadn’t discovered it, he would have succeeded in getting possession of it as soon as your sergent-de-ville was removed. It was annoyin’ to be unexpectedly barred from the apartment, but I doubt if it worried him much. He would have been on hand when the Canary’s aunt took possession, and the retrieving of the record would have been comparatively easy. Of course the record constituted a hazard, but Spotswoode isn’t the type who’d shy at a low bunker of that kind. No, the thing was planned scientifically enough. He was defeated by sheer accident.”

  “And Skeel?”

  “He was another unfortunate circumstance. He was hiding in the closet there when Spotswoode and the lady came in at eleven. It was Spotswoode whom he saw strangle his erstwhile amoureuse and rifle the apartment. Then, when Spotswoode went out, he came forth from hiding. He was probably looking down at the girl when the phonograph emitted its blood-chilling wails.… My word! Fancy being in a cold funk, gazing at a murdered woman, and then hearing piercing screams behind you! It was a bit too much even for the hardened Tony. I don’t wonder he forgot all caution and put his hand on the table to steady himself.… And then came Spotswoode’s voice through the door, and the record’s answer. This must have puzzled Skeel. I imagine he thought for a moment he’d lost his reason. But pretty soon the significance of it dawned on him; and I can see him grinning to himself. Obviously he knew who the murderer was—it would not have been in keeping with his character had he failed to learn the identities of the Canary’s admirers. And now there had fallen into his lap, like manna from heaven, the most perfect opportunity for blackmail that any such charmin’ young gentleman could desire. He doubtless indulged himself with roseate visions of a life of opulence and ease at Spotswoode’s expense. When Cleaver phoned a few minutes later, he merely said the lady was out, and then set to work planning his own departure.”

  “But I don’t see why he didn’t take the record with him.”

  “And remove from the scene of the crime the one piece of unanswerable evidence?… Bad strategy, Markham. If he himself had produced the record later, Spotswoode would simply have denied all knowledge of it, and accused the blackmailer of a plot. Oh, no; Skeel’s only course was to leave it and apply for an enormous settlement from Spotswoode at once. And I imagine that’s what he did. Spotswoode no doubt gave him something on account and promised him the rest anon, hoping in the meantime to retrieve the record. When he failed to pay, Skeel phoned you and threatened to tell everything, thinking to spur Spotswoode to action.… Well, he spurred him—but not to the action desired. Spotswoode probably met him by appointment last Saturday night, ostensibly to hand over the money, but instead, throttled the chap. Quite in keeping with his nature, don’t y’ know.… Stout fella, Spotswoode.”

  “The whole thing…it’s amazing.”

  “I shouldn’t say that, now. Spotswoode had an unpleasant task to perform and he set about it in a cool, logical, forthright, businesslike manner. He had decided that his little Canary must die for his peace of mind; she’d probably made herself most annoyin’. So he arranged the date—like any judge passing sentence on a prisoner at the bar—and then proceeded to fabricate an alibi. Being something of a mechanic, he arranged a mechanical alibi. The device he chose was simple and obvious enough—no tortuosities or complications. And it would have succeeded but for what the insurance companies piously call an act of God. No one can foresee accidents, Markham; they wouldn’t be accidental if one could. But Spotswoode certainly took every precaution that was humanly possible. It never occurred to him that you would thwart his every effort to return here and confiscate the record; and he couldn’t anticipate my taste in music, nor know that I would seek solace in the tonal art. Furthermore, when one calls on a lady, one doesn’t expect that another suitor is going to hide himself in the clothes press. It isn’t done, don’t y’ know.… All in all, the poor johnny was beaten by a run of abominable luck.”

  “You overlook the fiendishness of the crime,” Markham reproached him tartly.

  “Don’t be so confoundedly moral, old thing. Everyone’s a murderer at heart. The person who has never felt a passionate hankering to kill someone is without emotions. And do you think it’s ethics or theology that stays the average person from homicide? Dear no! It’s lack of courage—the fear of being found out, or haunted, or cursed with remorse. Observe with what delight the people en masse—to wit, the state—put men to death and then gloat over it in the newspapers. Nations declare war against one another on the slightest provocation, so they can, with immunity, vent their lust for slaughter. Spotswoode, I’d say, is merely a rational animal with the courage of his convictions.”

  “Society unfortunately isn’t ready for your nihilistic philosophy just yet,” said Markham. “And during the intervening transition human life must be protected.”

  He rose resolutely and, going to the telephone, called up Heath.

  “Sergeant,” he ordered, “get a John-Doe warrant and meet me immediately at the Stuyvesant Club. Bring a man with you—there’s an arrest to be made.”

  “At last the law has evidence after its own heart,” chirped Vance, as he lazily donned his topcoat and picked up his hat and stick. “What a grotesque affair your legal procedure is, Markham! Scientific knowledge—the facts of psychology—mean nothing to you learned Solons. But a phonograph record—ah! There, now, is something convincing, irrefragable, final, what?”

  On our way out Markham beckoned to the officer on guard. “Under no conditions,” he said, “is anyone to enter this apartment until I return—not even with a signed permit.”

  When we had entered the taxicab, he directed the chauffeur to the club.

  “So the newspapers want action, do they? Well, they’re going to get it.… You’ve helped me out of a nasty hole, old man.”

  As he spoke, his eyes turned to Vance. And that look conveyed a profounder gratitude than any words could have expressed.

  CHAPTER 30

  THE END

  (Tuesday, September 18; 3:30 P.M.)

  It was exactly half past three when we entered the rotunda of the Stuyvesant Club. Markham at once sent for the manager and held a few words of private conversation with him. The manager then hastened away and was gone about five minutes.

  “Mr. Spotswoode is in his rooms,” he informed Markham, on returning. “I sent the electrician up to test the light bulbs. He reports that the gentleman is alone, writing at his desk.”

  “And the room number?”

  “Three forty-one.” The manager appeared perturbed. “There won’t be any fuss, will there, Mr. Markham?”

  “I don’t look for any.” Markham’s tone was chilly. “However, the present matter is considerably more important than your club.”

  “What an exaggerated point of view!” sighed Vance when the manager had left us. “The arrest of Spotswoode, I’d say, was the acme of futility. The man isn’t a criminal, don’t y’ know; he has nothing in common with Lombroso’s Uomo Delinquente. He’s what one might term a philosophic behaviorist.”

  Markham grunted but did not answer. He began pacing up and down agitatedly, keeping his eyes expectantly on the main entrance. Vance sought a comfortable chair and settled himself in it with placid unconcern.

  Ten minutes later Heath and Snitkin arrived. Markham at once led them into an alcove and briefly explained his reason for summoning them.

  “Spotswoode’s upstairs now,” he said. “I want the arrest made as quietly as possible.”

  “Spotswoode!” Heath repeated the name in astonishment. “I don’t see—”

  “You don’t have to see—yet,” Markham cut in sharply. “I’m taking all responsibility for the arrest. And you’re getting the credit—if you want it. That s
uit you?”

  Heath shrugged his shoulders. “It’s all right with me…anything you say, sir.” He shook his head uncomprehendingly. “But what about Jessup?”

  “We’ll keep him locked up. Material witness.”

  We ascended in the elevator and emerged at the third floor. Spotswoode’s rooms were at the end of the hall, facing the Square. Markham, his face set grimly, led the way.

  In answer to his knock Spotswoode opened the door and, greeting us pleasantly, stepped aside for us to enter.

  “Any news yet?” he asked, moving a chair forward.

  At this moment he got a clear view of Markham’s face in the light, and at once he sensed the minatory nature of our visit. Though his expression did not alter, I saw his body suddenly go taut. His cold, indecipherable eyes moved slowly from Markham’s face to Heath and Snitkin. Then his gaze fell on Vance and me, who were standing a little behind the others, and he nodded stiffly.

  No one spoke; yet I felt that an entire tragedy was somehow being enacted, and that each actor heard and understood every word.

  Markham remained standing, as if reluctant to proceed. Of all the duties of his office, I knew that the arrest of malefactors was the most distasteful to him. He was a worldly man, with the worldly man’s tolerance for the misfortunes of evil. Heath and Snitkin had stepped forward and now waited with passive alertness for the district attorney’s order to serve the warrant.

  Spotswoode’s eyes were again on Markham. “What can I do for you, sir?” His voice was calm and without the faintest quaver.

  “You can accompany these officers, Mr. Spotswoode,” Markham told him quietly, with a slight inclination of his head toward the two imperturbable figures at his side. “I arrest you for the murder of Margaret Odell.”

  “Ah!” Spotswoode’s eyebrows lifted mildly. “Then you have—discovered something?”

  “The Beethoven Andante.”

  Not a muscle of Spotswoode’s face moved; but after a short pause he made a barely perceptible gesture of resignation. “I can’t say that it was wholly unexpected,” he said evenly, with the tragic suggestion of a smile; “especially as you thwarted every effort of mine to secure the record. But then…the fortunes of the game are always uncertain.” His smile faded, and his manner became grave. “You have acted generously toward me, Mr. Markham, in shielding me from the canaille; and because I appreciate that courtesy I should like you to know that the game I played was one in which I had no alternative.”

  “Your motive, however powerful,” said Markham, “cannot extenuate your crime.”

  “Do you think I seek extenuation?” Spotswoode dismissed the imputation with a contemptuous gesture. “I’m not a schoolboy. I calculated the consequences of my course of action and, after weighing the various factors involved, decided to risk it. It was a gamble, to be sure; but it’s not my habit to complain about the misfortunes of a deliberately planned risk. Furthermore, the choice was practically forced upon me. Had I not gambled in this instance, I stood to lose heavily nevertheless.”

  His face grew bitter.

  “This woman, Mr. Markham, had demanded the impossible of me. Not content with bleeding me financially, she demanded legal protection, position, social prestige—such things as only my name could give her. She informed me I must divorce my wife and marry her. I wonder if you apprehend the enormity of that demand?… You see, Mr. Markham, I love my wife, and I have children whom I love. I will not insult your intelligence by explaining how, despite my conduct, such a thing is entirely possible.… And yet, this woman commanded me to wreck my life and crush utterly those I held dear, solely to gratify her petty, ridiculous ambition! When I refused, she threatened to expose our relations to my wife, to send her copies of the letters I had written, to sue me publicly—in fine, to create such a scandal that, in any event, my life would be ruined, my family disgraced, my home destroyed.”

  He paused and drew a deep inspiration.

  “I have never been partial to halfway measures,” he continued impassively. “I have no talent for compromise. Perhaps I am a victim of my heritage. But my instinct is to play out a hand to the last chip—to force whatever danger threatens. And for just five minutes, a week ago, I understood how the fanatics of old could, with a calm mind and a sense of righteousness, torture their enemies who threatened them with spiritual destruction.… I chose the only course which might save those I love from disgrace and suffering. It meant taking a desperate risk. But the blood within me was such that I did not hesitate, and I was fired by the agony of a tremendous hate. I staked my life against a living death, on the remote chance of attaining peace. And I lost.”

  Again he smiled faintly.

  “Yes—the fortunes of the game.… But don’t think for a minute that I am complaining or seeking sympathy. I have lied to others perhaps, but not to myself. I detest a whiner—a self-excuser. I want you to understand that.”

  He reached to the table at his side and took up a small limp-leather volume. “Only last night I was reading Wilde’s De Profundis. Had I been gifted with words, I might have made a similar confession. Let me show you what I mean so that, at least, you won’t attribute to me the final infamy of cravenness.”

  He opened the book, and began reading in a voice whose very fervor held us all silent:

  “‘I brought about my own downfall. No one, be he high or low, need be ruined by any other hand than his own. Readily as I confess this, there are many who will, at this time at least, receive the confession sceptically. And although I thus mercilessly accuse myself, bear in mind that I do so without offering any excuse. Terrible as is the punishment inflicted upon me by the world, more terrible is the ruin I have brought upon myself.… In the dawn of manhood I recognized my position.… I enjoyed an honored name, an eminent social position.… Then came the turning-point. I had become tired of dwelling on the heights—and descended by my own will into the depths.… I satisfied my desires wherever it suited me, and passed on. I forgot that every act, even the most insignificant act of daily life, in some degree, makes or unmakes the character; and every occurrence which transpires in the seclusion of the chamber will some day be proclaimed from the housetops. I lost control of myself. I was no longer at the helm, and knew it not. I had become a slave to pleasure.… One thing only is left to me—complete humility.’”

  He tossed the book aside.

  “You understand now, Mr. Markham?”

  Markham did not speak for several moments.

  “Do you care to tell me about Skeel?” he at length asked.

  “That swine!” Spotswoode sneered his disgust. “I could murder such creatures every day and regard myself as a benefactor of society.… Yes, I strangled him, and I would have done it before, only the opportunity did not offer.… It was Skeel who was hiding in the closet when I returned to the apartment after the theater, and he must have seen me kill the woman. Had I known he was behind that locked closet door, I would have broken it down and wiped him out then. But how was I to know? It seemed natural that the closet might have been kept locked—I didn’t give it a second thought.… And the next night he telephoned me to the club here. He had first called my home on Long Island and learned that I was staying here. I had never seen him before—didn’t know of his existence. But, it seems, he had equipped himself with a knowledge of my identity—probably some of the money I gave to the woman went to him. What a muck heap I had fallen into!… When he phoned, he mentioned the phonograph, and I knew he had found out something. I met him in the Waldorf lobby, and he told me the truth: there was no doubting his word. When he saw I was convinced, he demanded so enormous a sum that I was staggered.”

  Spotswoode lit a cigarette with steady fingers.

  “Mr. Markham, I am no longer a rich man. The truth is, I am on the verge of bankruptcy. The business my father left me has been in a receiver’s hands for nearly a year. The Long Island estate on which I live belongs to my wife. Few people know these things, but unfortunately they are true.
It would have been utterly impossible for me to raise the amount Skeel demanded, even had I been inclined to play the coward. I did, however, give him a small sum to keep him quiet for a few days, promising him all he asked as soon as I could convert some of my holdings. I hoped in the interim to get possession of the record and thus spike his guns. But in that I failed; and so, when he threatened to tell you everything, I agreed to bring the money to his home late Saturday night. I kept the appointment, with the full intention of killing him. I was careful about entering, but he had helped me by explaining when and how I could get in without being seen. Once there, I wasted no time. The first moment he was off his guard I seized him—and gloried in the act. Then, locking the door and taking the key, I walked out of the house quite openly, and returned here to the club.—That’s all, I think.”

  Vance was watching him musingly.

  “So when you raised my bet last night,” he said, “the amount represented a highly important item in your exchequer.”

  Spotswoode smiled faintly. “It represented practically every cent I had in the world.”

  “Astonishin’! And would you mind if I asked you why you selected the label of Beethoven’s Andante for your record?”

  “Another miscalculation,” the man said wearily. “It occurred to me that if anyone should, by any chance, open the phonograph before I could return and destroy the record, he wouldn’t be as likely to want to hear the classics as he would a more popular selection.”