The Canary Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “He has thought the situation over calmly,” said Vance, “and hereby offers you a neat little alibi which, I think, you will have difficulty in shaking... An artful beggar—like all these unbalanced pseudo-psychiatrists. Observe: he was with a patient. To be sure! What patient? Why, one too ill to be questioned... There you are. A cul-de-sac masquerading as an alibi. Not bad, what?”

  “It doesn’t interest me overmuch.” Markham put the letter away. “That pompous professional ass could never have got into the Odell apartment without having been seen; and I can’t picture him sneaking in by devious means.” He reached for some papers... “And now, if you don’t object, I’ll make an effort to earn my $15,000 salary.”

  But Vance, instead of making a move to go, sauntered to the table and opened a telephone directory.

  “Permit me a suggestion, Markham,” he said, after a moment’s search. “Put off your daily grind for a bit, and let’s hold polite converse with Mr. Louis Mannix. Y’ know, he’s the only presumptive swain of the inconstant Margaret, so far mentioned, who hasn’t been given an audience. I hanker to gaze upon him and hearken to his rune. He’d make the family circle complete, so to speak... He still holds forth in Maiden Lane, I see; and it wouldn’t take long to fetch him here.”

  Markham had swung half round in his chair at the mention of Mannix’s name. He started to protest, but he knew from experience that Vance’s suggestions were not the results of idle whims; and he was silent for several moments weighing the matter. With practically every other avenue of inquiry closed for the moment, I think the idea of questioning Mannix rather appealed to him.

  “All right,” he consented, ringing for Swacker; “though I don’t see how he can help. According to Heath, the Odell girl gave him his congé a year ago.”

  “He may still have hay on his horns, or, like Hotspur, be drunk with choler. You can’t tell.” Vance resumed his chair. “With such a name, he’d bear investigation ipso facto.”

  Markham sent Swacker for Tracy; and when the latter arrived, suave and beaming, he was given instructions to take the District Attorney’s car and bring Mannix to the office.

  “Get a subpœna,” said Markham; “and use it if necessary.”

  Half an hour or so later Tracy returned.

  “Mr. Mannix made no difficulty about coming,” he reported. “Was quite agreeable, in fact. He’s in the waiting-room now.”

  Tracy was dismissed, and Mannix was ushered in.

  He was a large man, and he walked with the forced elasticity of gait which epitomizes the silent struggle of incipiently corpulent middle age to deny the on-rush of the years and cling to the semblance of youth. He carried a slender wanghee cane; and his checkered suit, brocaded waistcoat, pearl-gray gaiters, and beribboned Homburg hat gave him an almost foppish appearance. But these various indications of sportiveness were at once forgotten when one inspected his features. His small eyes were bright and crafty; his nose bibative, and appeared disproportionately small above his sensual lips and prognathous jaw. There was an oiliness in his manner which was repulsive and arresting.

  At a gesture from Markham he sat down on the edge of a chair, placing a podgy hand on each knee. His attitude was one of alert suspicion.

  “Mr. Mannix,” said Markham, an engaging note of apology in his voice, “I am sorry to have discommoded you; but the matter in hand is both serious and urgent... A Miss Margaret Odell was murdered night before last, and in the course of our inquiries we learned that you had at one time known her quite well. It occurred to me that you might be in possession of some facts about her that would assist us in our investigation.”

  A saponaceous smile, meant to be genial, parted the man’s heavy lips.

  “Sure, I knew the Canary—a long time ago, y’ understand.” He permitted himself a sigh. “A fine, high-class girl, if I do say so. A good looker and a good dresser. Too damn bad she didn’t go on with the show business. But”—he made a repudiative motion with his hand—“I haven’t seen the lady, y’ understand, for over a year—not to speak to, if you know what I mean.”

  Mannix clearly was on his guard, and his beady little eyes did not once leave the District Attorney’s face.

  “You had a quarrel with her perhaps?” Markham asked the question incuriously.

  “Well, now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say we quarrelled. No.” Mannix paused, seeking the correct word. “You might say we disagreed—got tired of the arrangement and decided to separate; kind of drifted apart. Last thing I told her was, if she ever needed a friend, she’d know where to find me.”

  “Very generous of you,” murmured Markham. “And you never renewed your little affair?”

  “Never—never. Don’t remember ever speaking to her from that day to this.”

  “In view of certain things I’ve learned, Mr. Mannix”—Markham’s tone was regretful—“I must ask you a somewhat personal question. Did she ever make an attempt to blackmail you?”

  Mannix hesitated, and his eyes seemed to grow even smaller, like those of a man thinking rapidly.

  “Certainly not!” he replied, with belated emphasis. “Not at all. Nothing of the kind.” He raised both hands in protest against the thought. Then he asked furtively: “What gave you such an idea?”

  “I have been told,” explained Markham, “that she had extorted money from one or two of her admirers.”

  Mannix made a wholly unconvincing grimace of astonishment.

  “Well, well! You don’t tell me! Can it be possible?” He peered shrewdly at the District Attorney. “Maybe it was Charlie Cleaver she blackmailed—yes?”

  Markham picked him up quickly.

  “Why do you say Cleaver?”

  Again Mannix waved his thick hand, this time deprecatingly.

  “No special reason, y’ understand. Just thought it might be him... No special reason.”

  “Did Cleaver ever tell you he’d been blackmailed?”

  “Cleaver tell me?... Now, I ask you, Mr. Markham: why should Cleaver tell me such a story—why should he?”

  “And you never told Cleaver that the Odell girl had blackmailed you?”

  “Positively not!” Mannix gave a scornful laugh which was far too theatrical to have been genuine. “Me tell Cleaver I’d been blackmailed? Now, that’s funny, that is.”

  “Then why did you mention Cleaver a moment ago?”

  “No reason at all—like I told you... He knew the Canary; but that ain’t no secret.”

  Markham dropped the subject.

  “What do you know about Miss Odell’s relations with a Doctor Ambroise Lindquist?”

  Mannix was now obviously perplexed.

  “Never heard of him—no, never. She didn’t know him when I was taking her around.”

  “Whom else besides Cleaver did she know well?”

  Mannix shook his head ponderously.

  “Now, that I couldn’t say—positively I couldn’t say. Seen her with this man and that, same as everybody saw her; but who they were I don’t know—absolutely.”

  “Ever hear of Tony Skeel?” Markham quickly leaned over and met the other’s gaze inquiringly.

  Once more Mannix hesitated, and his eyes glittered calculatingly.

  “Well, now that you ask me, I believe I did hear of the fellow. But I couldn’t swear to it, y’ understand...What makes you think I heard of this Skeel fellow?”

  “Can you think of no one who might have borne Miss Odell a grudge, or had cause to fear her?”

  Mannix was volubly emphatic on the subject of his complete ignorance of any such person; and after a few more questions, which elicited only denials, Markham let him go.

  “Not bad at all, Markham old thing—eh, what?” Vance seemed pleased with the conference. “Wonder why he’s so coy? Not a nice person, this Mannix. And he’s so fearful lest he be informative. Again, I wonder why. He was so careful.”

  “He was sufficiently careful, at any rate, not to tell us anything,” declared Markham gloomily.

&nbs
p; “I shouldn’t say that, don’t y’ know.” Vance lay back and smoked placidly. “A ray of light filtered through here and there. Our fur-importing philogynist denied he’d been blackmailed—which was obviously untrue—and tried to make us believe that he and the lovely Margaret cooed like turtledoves at parting.—Tosh!... And then, that mention of Cleaver. That wasn’t spontaneous—dear me, no. Brother Mannix and spontaneity are as the poles apart. He had a reason for bringing Cleaver in; and I fancy that if you knew what that reason was, you’d feel like flinging roses riotously, and that sort of thing. Why Cleaver? That secret-de-Polichinelle explanation was a bit weak. The orbits of these two paramours cross somewhere. On that point, at least, Mannix inadvertently enlightened us... Moreover, it’s plain that he doesn’t know our fashionable healer with the satyr ears. But, on the other hand, he’s aware of the existence of Mr. Skeel, and would rather like to deny the acquaintance... So—voilà l’affaire. Plenty of information; but—my word!—what to do with it?”

  “I give it up,” acknowledged Markham hopelessly.

  “I know: it’s a sad, sad world,” Vance commiserated with him. “But you must face the olla podrida with a bright eye. It’s time for lunch, and a fillet of sole Marguéry will cheer you no end.”

  Markham glanced at the clock and permitted himself to be led to the Lawyers Club.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN Vance Outlines a Theory

  (Wednesday, September 12; evening)

  VANCE AND I did not return to the District Attorney’s office after lunch, for Markham had a busy afternoon before him, and nothing further was likely to transpire in connection with the Odell case until Sergeant Heath had completed his investigations of Cleaver and Doctor Lindquist. Vance had seats for Giordano’s “Madame Sans-Gêne,” and two o’clock found us at the Metropolitan. Though the performance was excellent, Vance was too distrait to enjoy it; and it was significant that, after the opera, he directed the chauffeur to the Stuyvesant Club. I knew he had a tea appointment, and that he had planned to motor to Longue Vue for dinner; and the fact that he should have dismissed these social engagements from his mind in order to be with Markham showed how intensely the problem of the murder had absorbed his interest.

  It was after six o’clock when Markham came in, looking harassed and tired. No mention of the case was made during dinner, with the exception of Markham’s casual remark that Heath had turned in his reports on Cleaver and Doctor Lindquist and Mannix. (It seemed that, immediately after lunch, he had telephoned to the Sergeant to add Mannix’s name to the two others as a subject for inquiry.) It was not until we had retired to our favorite corner of the lounge-room that the topic of the murder was brought up for discussion.

  And that discussion, brief and one-sided, was the beginning of an entirely new line of investigation—a line which, in the end, led to the guilty person.

  Markham sank wearily into his chair. He had begun to show the strain of the last two days of fruitless worry. His eyes were a trifle heavy, and there was a grim tenacity in the lines of his mouth. Slowly and deliberately he lighted a cigar, and took several deep inhalations.

  “Damn the newspapers!” he grumbled. “Why can’t they let the District Attorney’s office handle its business in its own way?... Have you seen the afternoon papers? They’re all clamoring for the murderer. You’d think I had him up my sleeve.”

  “You forget, my dear chap,” grinned Vance, “that we are living under the benign and upliftin’ reign of Democritus, which confers upon every ignoramus the privilege of promiscuously criticising his betters.”

  Markham snorted.

  “I don’t complain about criticism; it’s the lurid imagination of these bright young reporters that galls me. They’re trying to turn this sordid crime into a spectacular Borgia melodrama, with passion running rampant, and mysterious influences at work, and all the pomp and trappings of a medieval romance... You’d think even a schoolboy could see that it was only an ordinary robbery and murder of the kind that’s taking place regularly throughout the country.”

  Vance paused in the act of lighting a cigarette, and his eyebrows lifted. Turning, he regarded Markham with a look of mild incredulity.

  “I say! Do you really mean to tell me that your statement for the press was given out in good faith?”

  Markham looked up in surprise.

  “Certainly it was... What do you mean by ‘good faith’?”

  Vance smiled indolently.

  “I rather thought, don’t y’ know, that your oration to the reporters was a bit of strategy to lull the real culprit into a state of false security, and to give you a clear field for investigation.”

  Markham contemplated him a moment.

  “See here, Vance,” he demanded irritably, “what are you driving at?”

  “Nothing at all—really, old fellow,” the other assured him affably. “I knew that Heath was deadly sincere about his belief in Skeel’s guilt, but it never occurred to me, d’ ye see, that you yourself actually regarded the crime as one committed by a professional burglar. I foolishly thought that you let Skeel go this morning in the hope that he would lead you somehow to the guilty person. I rather imagined you were spoofing the trusting Sergeant by pretending to fall in with his silly notion.”

  “Ah, I see! Still clinging to your weird theory that a brace of villains were present, hiding in separate clothes-closets, or something of the kind.” Markham made no attempt to temper his sarcasm. “A sapient idea—so much more intelligent than Heath’s!”

  “I know it’s weird. But it happens not to be any weirder than your theory of a lone yeggman.”

  “And for what reason, pray,” persisted Markham, with considerable warmth, “do you consider the yeggman theory weird?”

  “For the simple reason that it was not the crime of a professional thief at all, but the wilfully deceptive act of a particularly clever man who doubtless spent weeks in its preparation.”

  Markham sank back in his chair and laughed heartily.

  “Vance, you have contributed the one ray of sunshine to an otherwise gloomy and depressing case.”

  Vance bowed with mock humility.

  “It gives me great pleasure,” was his dulcet rejoinder, “to be able to bring even a wisp of light into so clouded a mental atmosphere.”

  A brief silence followed. Then Markham asked:

  “Is this fascinating and picturesque conclusion of yours regarding the highly intellectual character of the Odell woman’s murderer based on your new and original psychological methods of deduction?” There was no mistaking the ridicule in his voice.

  “I arrived at it,” explained Vance sweetly, “by the same process of logic I used in determining the guilt of Alvin Benson’s murderer.”

  Markham smiled.

  “Touché!... Don’t think I’m so ungrateful as to belittle the work you did in that case. But this time, I fear, you’ve permitted your theories to lead you hopelessly astray. The present case is what the police call an open-and-shut affair.”

  “Particularly shut,” amended Vance dryly. “And both you and the police are in the distressin’ situation of waiting inactively for your suspected victim to give the game away.”

  “I’ll admit the situation is not all one could desire.” Markham spoke morosely. “But even so, I can’t see that there’s any opportunity in this affair for your recondite psychological methods. The thing’s too obvious—that’s the trouble. What we need now is evidence, not theories. If it wasn’t for the spacious and romantic imaginings of the newspaper men, public interest in the case would already have died out.”

  “Markham,” said Vance quietly, but with unwonted seriousness, “if that’s what you really believe, then you may as well drop the case now; for you’re foredoomed to failure. You think it’s an obvious crime. But let me tell you, it’s a subtle crime, if ever there was one. And it’s as clever as it is subtle. No common criminal committed it—believe me. It was done by a man of very superior intellect and astoundin’ ingenuity.”<
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  Vance’s assured, matter-of-fact tone had a curiously convincing quality; and Markham, restraining his impulse to scoff, assumed an air of indulgent irony.

  “Tell me,” he said, “by what cryptic mental process you arrived at so fantastic a conclusion.”

  “With pleasure.” Vance took a few puffs on his cigarette and lazily watched the smoke curl upward.*

  “Y’ know, Markham,” he began, in his emotionless drawl, “every genuine work of art has a quality which the critics call élan—namely, enthusiasm and spontaneity. A copy, or imitation, lacks that distinguishing characteristic; it’s too perfect, too carefully done, too exact. Even enlightened scions of the law, I fancy, are aware that there is bad drawing in Botticelli and disproportions in Rubens, what? In an original, d’ ye see, such flaws don’t matter. But an imitator never puts ’em in: he doesn’t dare—he’s too intent on getting all the details correct. The imitator works with a self-consciousness and a meticulous care which the artist, in the throes of creative labor, never exhibits. And here’s the point: there’s no way of imitating that enthusiasm and spontaneity—that élan—which an original painting possesses. However closely a copy may resemble an original, there’s a vast psychological difference between them. The copy breathes an air of insincerity, of ultra-perfection, of conscious effort... You follow me, eh?”

  “Most instructive, my dear Ruskin.”

  Vance meekly bowed his appreciation, and proceeded pleasantly.

  “Now, let us consider the Odell murder. You and Heath are agreed that it is a commonplace, brutal, sordid, unimaginative crime. But, unlike you two bloodhounds on the trail, I have ignored its mere appearances and have analyzed its various factors—I have looked at it psychologically, so to speak. And I have discovered that it is not a genuine and sincere crime—that is to say, an original—but only a sophisticated, self-conscious and clever imitation, done by a skilled copyist. I grant you it is correct and typical in every detail. But just there is where it fails, don’t y’ know. Its technic is too good, its craftsmanship too perfect. The ensemble, as it were, is not convincing—it lacks élan. Æsthetically speaking, it has all the earmarks of a tour de force. Vulgarly speaking, it’s a fake.” He paused and gave Markham an engaging smile. “I trust this somewhat oracular peroration has not bored you.”