Philo Vance - The Canary Murder Case Part 12

Markham studied him closely.

"You think, then, her death may have been due to vengeance on the part of some disillusioned admirer?"

Cleaver carefully considered his answer. "Seems reasonable," he said finally. "She was riding for a fall."

There was a short silence; then Markham asked: "Do you happen to know of a young man she was interested in, good-looking, small, blond moustache, light blue eyes, named Skeel?"

Cleaver snorted derisively. "That wasn't the Canary's specialty, she let the young ones alone, as far as I know."

At this moment a pageboy approached Cleaver and bowed. "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but there's a phone call for your brother. Party said it was important and, as your brother isn't in the club now, the operator thought you might know where he'd gone."

"How would I know?" fumed Cleaver. "Don't ever bother me with his calls."

"Your brother in the city?" asked Markham casually. "I met him years ago. He's a San Franciscan, isn't he?"

"Yes, rabid Californian. He's visiting New York for a couple of weeks so he'll appreciate Frisco more when he gets back."

It seemed to me that this information was given reluctantly; and I got the impression that Cleaver, for some reason, was annoyed. But Markham, apparently, was too absorbed in the problem before him to take notice of the other's disgruntled air, for he reverted at once to the subject of the murder. "I happen to know one man who has been interested in the Odell woman recently; he may be the same one you've seen her with, tall, about forty-five, and wears a gray, closed-cropped moustache." (He was, I knew, describing Spotswoode.) "That's the man," averred Cleaver. "Saw them together only last week at Mouquin's."

Markham was disappointed. "Unfortunately, he's checked off the list. . . . But there must be somebody who was in the girl's confidence. You're sure you couldn't cudgel your brains to my advantage?"

Cleaver appeared to think.

"If it's merely a question of someone who had her confidence," he said, "I might suggest Doctor Lindquist, first name's Ambroise, I think; and he lives somewhere in the Forties near Lexington Avenue.

But I don't know that he'd be of any value to you. Still, he was pretty close to her at one time."

"You mean that this Doctor Lindquist might have been interested in her otherwise than professionally?"

"I wouldn't like to say." Cleaver smoked for a while as if inwardly debating the situation. "Anyway, here are the facts: Lindquist is one of these exclusive society specialists, a neurologist he calls himself, and I believe he's the head of a private sanitarium of some kind for nervous women. He must have money, and, of course, his social standing is a vital a.s.set to him, just the sort of man the Canary might have selected as a source of income. And I know this: he came to see her a good deal oftener than a doctor of his type would be apt to. I ran into him one night at her apartment, and when she introduced us, he wasn't even civil."

"It will at least bear looking into," replied Markham unenthusiastically. "You've no one else in mind who might know something helpful?"

Cleaver shook his head.

"No, no one."

"And she never mentioned anything to you that indicated she was in fear of anyone, or antic.i.p.ated trouble?"

"Not a word. Fact is, I was bowled over by the news. I never read any paper but the morning Herald, except, of course, The Daily Racing Form at night. And as there was no account of the murder in this morning's paper, I didn't hear about it until just before dinner. The boys in the billiard room were talking about it, and I went out and looked at an afternoon paper. If it hadn't been for that, I might not have known of it till tomorrow morning."

Markham discussed the case with him until half past eight but could elicit no further suggestions. Finally Cleaver rose to go.

"Sorry I couldn't give you more help," he said. His rubicund face was beaming now, and he shook hands with Markham in the friendliest fashion.

"You w.a.n.gled that viscid old sport rather cleverly, don't y' know remarked Vance, when Cleaver had gone. "But there's something deuced queer about him. The transition from his gambler's gla.s.sy stare to his garrulous confidences was too sudden, suspiciously sudden, in fact. I may be evil-minded, but he didn't impress me as a luminous pillar of truth. Maybe it's because I don't like those cold, boiled eyes of his, somehow they didn't harmonize with his gushing imitation of openhearted frankness."

"We can allow him something for his embarra.s.sing position suggested Markham charitably. "It isn't exactly pleasant to admit having been taken in and blackmailed by a charmer."

"Still, if he got his letters back in June, why did he continue paying court to the lady? Heath reported he was active in that sector right up to the end."

"He may be the complete amorist," smiled Markham.

"Some like Abra, what?, 'Abra was ready ere I call'd her name; And, though I call'd another, Abra came.' Maybe, yes. He might qualify as a modern Cayley Drummle."

"At any rate, he gave us, in Doctor Lindquist, a possible source of information."

"Quite so," agreed Vance. "And that's about the only point of his whole pa.s.sionate unfoldment that I particularly put any stock in, because it was the only point he indicated with any decent reticence. . . . My advice is that you interview this Aesculapius of the fair s.e.x without further delay."

"I'm dog-tired," objected Markham. "Let it wait till tomorrow."

Vance glanced at the great clock over the stone mantel.

"It's latish, I'll admit, but why not, as Pittacus advised, seize time by the forelock?

'Who lets slip fortune, her shall never find: Occasion once past by, is a bald behind.' But the elder Cato antic.i.p.ated Cowley. In his 'Disticha de Moribus' he wrote: Fronte capillata, "

"Come!" pleaded Markham, rising. "Anything to dam this flow of erudition."

SEEKING INFORMATION (Tuesday September 11; 9 P.M.) Ten minutes later we were ringing the bell of a stately old brownstone house in East 44th Street.

A resplendently caparisoned butler opened the door, and Markham presented his card.

"Take this to the doctor at once and say that it's urgent."

"The doctor is just finishing dinner," the stately seneschal informed him, and conducted us into a richly furnished reception room, with deep, comfortable chairs, silken draperies, and subdued lights.

"A typical gynecologist's seraglio," observed Vance, looking around.

"I'm sure the pasha himself is a majestic and elegant personage."

The prediction proved true. Doctor Lindquist entered the room a moment later inspecting the district attorney's card as if it had been a cuneiform inscription whose import he could not quite decipher. He was a tall man in his late forties, with bushy hair and eyebrows, and a complexion abnormally pale. His face was long, and, despite the asymmetry of his features, he might easily have been called handsome. He was in dinner clothes, and he carried himself with the self-conscious precision of a man unduly impressed with his own importance. He seated himself at a kidney-shaped desk of carved mahogany and lifted his eyes with polite inquiry to Markham.

"To what am I indebted for the honor of this call?" he asked in a studiously melodious voice, lingering over each word caressingly.

"You are most fortunate to have found me in," he added, before Markham could speak. "I confer with patients only by appointment."

One felt that he experienced a certain humiliation at having received us without elaborate ceremonial preliminaries.

Markham, whose nature was opposed to all circ.u.mlocution and pretense, came direct to the point.

"This isn't a professional consultation, Doctor; but it happens that I want to speak to you about one of your former patients, a Miss Margaret Odell."

Doctor Lindquist regarded the gold paperweight before him with vacantly reminiscent eyes.

"Ah, yes. Miss Odell. I was just reading of her violent end. A most unfortunate and tragic affair. . . . In just what way can I be of service to you?, You understand, of course, that the relationship between a physician and his patient is one of sacred confidence, "

"I understand that thoroughly," Markham a.s.sured him abruptly. "On the other hand, it is the sacred duty of every citizen to a.s.sist the authorities in bringing a murderer to justice. And if there is anything you can tell me which will help toward that end, I shall certainly expect you to tell me."

The doctor raised his hand slightly in polite protestation. "I shall, of course, do all I can to a.s.sist you, if you will but indicate your desires."

"There's no need to beat about the bush, Doctor," said Markham. "I know that Miss Odell was a patient of yours for a long time; and I realize that it is highly possible, not to say probable, that she told you certain personal things which may have direct bearing on her death."

"But, my dear Mr., ," Doctor Lindquist glanced ostentatiously at the card, "ah, Markham, my relations with Miss Odell were of a purely professional character."

"I had understood, however," ventured Markham, "that, while what you say may be technically true, nevertheless there was an informality, let me say, in that relationship. Perhaps I may state it better by saying that your professional att.i.tude transcended a merely scientific interest in her case."

I heard Vance chuckle softly; and I myself could hardly suppress a smile at Markham's verbose and orbicular accusation. But Doctor Lindquist, it seemed, was in no wise disconcerted. a.s.suming an air of beguiling pensiveness, he said: "I will confess, in the interests of strict accuracy, that during my somewhat protracted treatment of her case, I came to regard the young woman with a certain, shall I say, fatherly liking? But I doubt if she was even aware of this mild sentiment on my part."

The corners of Vance's mouth twitched slightly. He was sitting with drowsy eyes, watching the doctor with a look of studious amus.e.m.e.nt.

"And she never at any time told you of any private or personal affairs that were causing her anxiety?" persisted Markham.

Doctor Lindquist pyramided his fingers, and appeared to give the question his undivided thought.

"No, I can't recall a single statement of that nature." His words were measured and urbane. "I know, naturally, in a general way, her manner of living; but the details, you will readily perceive, were wholly outside my province as a medical consultant. The disorganization of her nerves was due, so my diagnosis led me to conclude, to late hours, excitement, irregular and rich eating, what, I believe, is referred to vulgarly as going the pace. The modern woman, in this febrile age, sir, "

"When did you see her last, may I ask?" Markham interrupted impatiently.

The doctor made a pantomime of eloquent surprise.

"When did I see her last? . . . Let me see." He could, apparently, recall the occasion only with considerable difficulty. "A fortnight ago, perhaps, though it may have been longer. I really can't recall. . . . Shall I refer to my files?"

"That won't be necessary," said Markham. He paused and regarded the doctor with a look of disarming affability. "And was this last visit a paternal or merely a professional one?"

"Professional, of course." Doctor Lindquist's eyes were impa.s.sive and only mildly interested; but his face, I felt, was by no means the unedited reflection of his thoughts.

"Did the meeting take place here or at her apartment?"

"I believe I called on her at her home."

"You called on her a great deal, Doctor, so I am informed, and at rather unconventional hours. . . . Is this entirely in accord with your practice of seeing patients only by appointment?"

Markham's tone was pleasant; but from the nature of his question I knew that he was decidedly irritated by the man's bland hypocrisy, and felt that he was deliberately withholding relevant information.

Before Doctor Lindquist could reply, however, the butler appeared at the door and silently indicated an extension telephone on a taboret beside the desk. With an unctuously murmured apology, the doctor turned and lifted the receiver.

Vance took advantage of this opportunity to scribble something on a piece of paper and pa.s.s it surrept.i.tiously to Markham.

His call completed, Doctor Lindquist drew himself up haughtily and faced Markham with chilling scorn.