“And, I might suggest,” added Vance, “that his place of hiding was that clothes press.”
“Sure,” the sergeant concurred. “But what’s bothering me is how he got in here. The day operator who was at the switchboard until ten last night told me that the man who called and took Odell out to dinner was the only visitor she had.”
Markham gave a grunt of exasperation.
“Bring the day man in here,” he ordered. “We’ve got to straighten this thing out. Somebody got in here last night, and before I leave, I’m going to find out how it was done.”
Vance gave him a look of patronizing amusement.
“Y’ know, Markham,” he said, “I’m not blessed with the gift of psychic inspiration, but I have one of those strange, indescribable feelings, as the minor poets say, that if you really contemplate remaining in this bestrewn boudoir till you’ve discovered how the mysterious visitor gained admittance here last night, you’d do jolly well to send for your toilet access’ries and several changes of fresh linen—not to mention your pyjamas. The chap who engineered this little soiree planned his entrance and exit most carefully and perspicaciously.”
Markham regarded Vance dubiously but made no reply.
CHAPTER 7
A NAMELESS VISITOR
(Tuesday, September 11; 11:15 A.M.)
Heath had stepped out into the hall, and now returned with the day telephone operator, a sallow, thin young man who, we learned, was named Spively. His almost black hair, which accentuated the pallor of his face, was sleeked back from his forehead with pomade; and he wore a very shallow moustache which barely extended beyond the alae of his nostrils. He was dressed in an exaggeratedly dapper fashion, in a dazzling chocolate-colored suit cut very close to his figure, a pair of cloth-topped buttoned shoes, and a pink shirt with a stiff turn-over collar to match. He appeared nervous, and immediately sat down in the wicker chair by the door, fingering the sharp creases of his trousers, and running the tip of his tongue over his lips.
Markham went straight to the point.
“I understand you were at the switchboard yesterday afternoon and last night until ten o’clock. Is that correct?”
Spively swallowed hard and nodded his head. “Yes, sir.”
“What time did Miss Odell go out to dinner?”
“About seven o’clock. I’d just sent to the restaurant next door for some sandwiches—”
“Did she go alone?” Markham interrupted his explanation.
“No. A fella called for her.”
“Did you know this ‘fella’?”
“I’d seen him a couple of times calling on Miss Odell, but I didn’t know who he was.”
“What did he look like?” Markham’s question was uttered with hurried impatience.
Spively’s description of the girl’s escort tallied with Jessup’s description of the man who had accompanied her home, though Spively was more voluble and less precise than Jessup had been. Patently, Miss Odell had gone out at seven and returned at eleven with the same man.
“Now,” resumed Markham, putting an added stress on his words, “I want to know who else called on Miss Odell between the time she went out to dinner and ten o’clock when you left the switchboard.”
Spively was puzzled by the question, and his thin arched eyebrows lifted and contracted. “I—don’t understand,” he stammered. “How could any one call on Miss Odell when she was out?”
“Someone evidently did,” said Markham. “And he got into her apartment and was there when she returned at eleven.”
The youth’s eyes opened wide, and his lips fell apart. “My God, sir!” he exclaimed. “So that’s how they murdered her!—laid in wait for her!…” He stopped abruptly, suddenly realizing his own proximity to the mysterious chain of events that had led up to the crime. “But nobody got into her apartment while I was on duty,” he blurted, with frightened emphasis. “Nobody! I never left the board from the time she went out until quitting time.”
“Couldn’t anyone have come in the side door?”
“What! Was it unlocked?” Spively’s tone was startled. “It never is unlocked at night. The janitor bolts it when he leaves at six.”
“And you didn’t unbolt it last night for any purpose? Think!”
“No, sir, I didn’t!” He shook his head earnestly.
“And you are positive that no one got into the apartment through the front door after Miss Odell left?”
“Positive! I tell you I didn’t leave the board the whole time, and nobody could’ve got by me without my knowing it. There was only one person that called and asked for her—”
“Oh! So someone did call!” snapped Markham. “When was it? And what happened?—Jog your memory before you answer.”
“It wasn’t anything important,” the youth assured him, genuinely frightened. “Just a fella who came in and rang her bell and went right out again.”
“Never mind whether it was important or not.” Markham’s tone was cold and peremptory. “What time did he call?”
“About half past nine.”
“And who was he?”
“A young fella I’ve seen come here several times to see Miss Odell. I don’t know his name.”
“Tell me exactly what took place,” pursued Markham.
Again Spively swallowed hard and wetted his lips.
“It was like this,” he began, with effort. “The fella came in and started walking down the hall and I said to him, ‘Miss Odell isn’t in.’ But he kept on going and said, ‘Oh, well, I’ll ring the bell anyway to make sure.’ A telephone call came through just then, and I let him go on. He rang the bell and knocked on the door, but of course there wasn’t any answer; and pretty soon he came on back and said, ‘I guess you were right.’ Then he tossed me half a dollar and went out.”
“You actually saw him go out?” There was a note of disappointment in Markham’s voice.
“Sure, I saw him go out. He stopped just inside the front door and lit a cigarette. Then he opened the door and turned toward Broadway.”
“‘One by one the rosy petals fall,’” came Vance’s indolent voice. “A most amusin’ situation!”
Markham was loath to relinquish his hope in the criminal possibilities of this one caller who had come and gone at half past nine.
“What was this man like?” he asked. “Can you describe him?”
Spively sat up straight, and when he answered, it was with an enthusiasm that showed he had taken special note of the visitor.
“He was good-looking, not so old—maybe thirty. And he had on a full-dress suit and patent-leather pumps, and a pleated silk shirt—”
“What, what?” demanded Vance, in simulated unbelief, leaning over the back of the davenport. “A silk shirt with evening dress! Most extr’ordin’ry!”
“Oh, a lot of the best dressers are wearing them,” Spively explained, with condescending pride. “It’s all the fashion for dancing.”
“You don’t say—really!” Vance appeared dumbfounded. “I must look into this.… And, by the bye, when this Beau Brummel of the