S. S. Van Dine

“ At length Markham spoke.
“Why this sweeping deprecation of circumstantial evidence? I admit that at times it may be misleading; but it often forms powerful presumptive proof of guilt. Indeed, Vance, one of our greatest legal authorities has demonstrated that it is the most powerful actual evidence in existence. Direct evidence, in the very nature of crime, is almost always unavailable. If the courts had to depend on it, the great majority of criminals would still be at large.” ”

“ 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 theatre, 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? ”

“ The Sergeant walked over to the door of the living-room closet.
“See that key?” he asked angrily.
Again the woman nodded; but this time I detected a look of mild astonishment in her eyes.
“Was that key always kept on the inside of the door?”
“No; it was always on the outside.”
Heath shot Vance a curious look. Then, after a moment’s frowning contemplation of the knob, he waved his hand to the detective who had brought the maid in.
“Take her back to the reception-room, Snitkin, and get a detailed description from her of all the Odell jewellery. . . . And keep her outside; I’ll want her again.” ”

“ Personally, I don’t put much stock in the theory that a malevolent gang of cut-throats have organized an American camorra, and made the silly night clubs their headquarters. The idea is too melodramatic. It smacks too much of the gaudy journalistic imagination: it’s too Eugène Sue-ish. Crime isn’t a mass instinct except during war-time, and then it’s merely an obscene sport. Crime, d’ ye see, is a personal and individual business. One doesn’t make up a partie carrée for a murder as one does for a bridge game. . . . Markham, old dear, don’t let this romantic criminological idea lead you astray. ”

“ I know that you learned lawyers won’t admit a murder without a body; but how, in sweet Heaven’s name, do you get around a corpus delicti without a murder?”
“You’re talking nonsense,” Markham rebuked him, with a show of anger.
“Oh, quite,” agreed Vance. “And yet, it’s a distressin’ thing for a lawyer not to have footprints of some kind, isn’t it, old dear? It leaves one so up in the air.”
Suddenly Markham swung round. “You, of course, don’t need footprints, or any other kind of material clues,” he flung at Vance tauntingly. “You have powers of divination such as are denied ordinary mortals. ”

“ Something, however, seemed to have gone wrong with Vance. For a long while he sat frowning at his cigarette and sipping his high-ball in troubled abstraction. At last he rose and walked to the mantel, where he stood studying a Cézanne water-color he had given Markham years before. His action was a typical indication of his inner puzzlement.
Presently, when there came a lull in the conversation, he turned sharply and looked at Mannix.
“I say, Mr. Mannix”—he spoke with only casual curiosity—“how does it happen you’ve never acquired a taste for poker? All good business men are gamblers at heart.” ”

“ Markham asked impatiently. “Brains don’t affect one’s footprints.”
“Not those of a duck, certainly. But brains might very well—and, no doubt, often do—affect the footprints of a human being.”
“Am I having a lesson in anthropology, Darwinian adaptability, or merely metaphysical speculation?”
“In none of those abstruse subjects,” Vance assured him. “I’m merely stating a simple fact culled from observation.”
“Well, according to your highly and peculiarly developed processes of reasoning, would the circumstantial evidence of those masculine footprints indicate a man or a woman?” ”

“ 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.” ”

“ 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. ”

“ Five or six minutes passed in complete silence. Then the Sergeant gave a grunt of annoyance.
“No, sir,” he said, as if completing some unspoken thought, “I can’t get a slant on this business. The finding of that jewellery, now, all nicely wrapped up . . . and then the Dude offering to squeal. . . . There’s no sense to it.”
“It’s tryin’, I know, Sergeant; but it’s not altogether senseless.” Vance was gazing lazily at the ceiling. “The chap who confiscated those baubles didn’t have any use for them. He didn’t want them, in fact—they worried him abominably.”
The point was too complex for Heath. ”

“ He made a playful gesture of emphasis. “Permit me to whisper into your ear that the person who left his sign-manuals on yonder rosewood table and cut-glass door-knob had nothing whatever to do with the precipitate demise of the fair Mademoiselle Odell.”
“What is it you suspect?” demanded Markham sharply.
“Not a thing, old dear,” blandly declared Vance. “I’m wandering about in a mental murk as empty of sign-posts as interplanetary space. The jaws of darkness do devour me up; I’m in the dead vast and middle of the night. ”

“ However, after I had drawn my one card, the only possible question in Mr. Vance’s mind was whether or not I had made my straight-flush. If I had not made it—or had merely drawn a straight or a flush—Mr. Vance figured, and figured rightly, that I would not have seen his large bet and also have raised it the limit. To have done so, in those circumstances, would have been irrational poker. Not one player in a thousand would have taken such a risk on a mere bluff. Therefore, had Mr. Vance not laid down his four aces when I raised him, he would have been fool-hardy in the extreme. ”

“ He sat down at the switchboard. “When does the curtain go up, Mr. Vance?”
“It’s up, Sergeant.” Vance fell in with Heath’s jocular mood. “Behold! The hour is half past nine on Monday night. You are Spively—not nearly so elegant; and you forgot the moustache—but still Spively. And I am the bedizened Skeel. For the sake of realism, please try to imagine me in chamois gloves and a pleated silk shirt. Mr. Markham and Mr. Van Dine here represent ‘the many-headed monster of the pit.’—And, by the bye, Sergeant, let me have the key to the Odell apartment: Skeel had one, don’t y’ know.” ”

“ Nine-tenths of poker, Markham, is psychology; and if one understands the game, one can learn more of a man’s inner nature at a poker table in an hour than during a year’s casual association with him. You rallied me once when I said I could lead you to the perpetrator of any crime by examining the factors of the crime itself. But naturally I must know the man to whom I am to lead you; otherwise I cannot relate the psychological indications of the crime to the culprit’s nature. In the present case, I know the kind of man who committed the crime ”

“ Cleaver replied. Then he hurried on: “Mr. Markham”—his voice was bitter—“I don’t want to throw mud on a dead person; but that woman was the shrewdest, coldest-blooded blackmailer it’s ever been my misfortune to meet. And I’ll say this, too: I wasn’t the only easy mark she squeezed. She had others on her string. . . . I happen to know she once dug into old Louey Mannix for a plenty—he told me about it.”
“Could you give me the names of any of these other men?” asked Markham, attempting to dissemble his eagerness. “I’ve already heard of the Mannix episode.” ”

“ Now he’ll have to do something before we question Miss Finckle. And I’m vain enough to think I know what it’ll be.”
“Let me get this right,” put in Heath. “Am I, or am I not, to round up the Finckle woman to-morrow morning?”
“There’ll be no need,” said Vance. “We are doomed, I fear, not to gaze upon this Florence Nightingale. A meeting between us is about the last thing the doctor would desire.”
“That may be true,” admitted Markham. “But don’t forget that he may have been up to something Monday night wholly unconnected with the murder, that he simply doesn’t want known.” ”

“ You’d give every law-breaker credit for concocting schemes of the most diabolical cunning.”
“So I would,” admitted Vance apathetically. “And—d’ye know?—I rather fancy that’s just the kind of schemes a law-breaker would concoct, if he was planning a murder, and his own life was at stake. What really amazes me is the naïve assumption of you investigators that a murderer gives no intelligent thought whatever to his future safety. It’s rather touchin’, y’ know.”
Markham grunted. ”

“ Markham was shaken also. He set his jaw rigidly.
“You’re right, Vance.” His voice was strained and unnatural. “Something sinister and terrible has been going on here. . . . There’s a fiend loose in this town—a werewolf.”
“I wouldn’t say that, old man.” Vance regarded the murdered Skeel critically. “No, I wouldn’t say that. Not a werewolf. Just a desperate human being. A man of extremes, perhaps—but quite rational, and logical—oh, how deuced logical!” ”

“ Markham,” warned Heath. “I’ve sent for the finger-print experts—they’ll be here any minute now.”
Vance looked up in mock astonishment.
“Finger-prints? You don’t say—really! How delightful!—Imagine a johnnie in this enlightened day leaving his finger-prints for you to find.”
“All crooks aren’t clever, Mr. Vance,” declared Heath combatively.
“Oh, dear, no! They’d never be apprehended if they were. But, after all, Sergeant, even an authentic finger-print merely means that the person who made it was dallying around at some time or other. It doesn’t indicate guilt.” ”

“ And why did they, of one accord, select the night of the murder for mysterious affairs which they don’t dare mention, even to clear themselves of suspicion? Was there an invasion of efreets in the city that night? Was there a curse on the world, driving men to dark bawdy deeds? Was there Black Magic abroad? I think not.”
“I’m laying my money on Skeel,” declared Heath stubbornly. “I know a professional job when I see it. And you can’t get away from those finger-prints and the Professor’s report on the chisel.”
Markham was sorely perplexed. ”

“ Markham spoke with undisguised irony. “So it was Spotswoode! My dear Vance, you positively bowl me over. I would telephone Heath at once to polish up his handcuffs, but, unfortunately, miracles—such as strangling persons from across town—are not recognized possibilities in this day and age. . . . Do let me order you another croissant.”
Vance extended his hands in a theatrical gesture of exasperated despair.
“For an educated, civilized man, Markham, there’s something downright primitive about the way you cling to optical illusions. ”

“ Doctor Lindquist regarded the gold paper-weight 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 assured him abruptly. “On the other hand, it is the sacred duty of every citizen to assist the authorities in bringing a murderer to justice. ”

“ Vance sighed wearily.
“Yes, yes. Finger-prints—chisel marks. You’re such a trustin’ soul, Markham. Skeel’s finger-prints are found in the apartment; therefore, Skeel strangled the lady. So beastly simple. Why bother further? A chose jugée—an adjudicated case. Send Skeel to the chair, and that’s that! . . . It’s effective, y’ know, but is it art?” ”

“ 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.” ”

“ A professional burglar’s jimmy wielded by an experienced hand doesn’t fit into your æsthetic hypothesis—it is, in fact, diametrically opposed to such a theory.”
“I know it only too well.” Vance nodded slowly. “And I’ve been harried and hectored by that steel chisel ever since I beheld the evidence of its work that first morning. . . . Markham, that chisel is the one genuine note in an otherwise spurious performance. It’s as if the real artist had come along at the moment the copyist had finished his faked picture, and painted in a single small object with the hand of a master.” ”