LITMIR.BIZ

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of the crime. Jewelry amounting to over $50,000 was stolen from the Quiggly apartment.

27 The Stuyvesant was a large club, somewhat in the nature of a glorified hotel; and its extensive membership was drawn largely from the political, legal, and financial ranks.

28 The case to which Vance referred, I ascertained later, was Shatterham v. Shatterham, 417 Mich., 79—a testamentary case.

29 Heath had become acquainted with Vance during the investigation of the Benson murder case two months previously.

30 It is an interesting fact that for the nineteen years he had been connected with the New York Police Department, he had been referred to, by his superiors and subordinates alike, as “the Professor.”

31 His full name was William Elmer Jessup, and he had been attached to the 308th Infantry of the 77th Division of the Overseas Forces.

32 “Ben” was Colonel Benjamin Hanlon, the commanding officer of the Detective Division attached to the district attorney’s office.

33 Vance was here referring to the famous Molineux case, which, in 1898, sounded the death knell of the old Knickerbocker Athletic Club at Madison Avenue and 45th Street. But it was commercialism that ended the Stuyvesant’s career. This club, which stood on the north side of Madison Square, was razed a few years later to make room for a skyscraper.

34 Abe Rubin was at that time the most resourceful and unscrupulous criminal lawyer in New York. Since his disbarment two years ago, little has been heard from him.

35 I sent a proof of the following paragraphs to Vance, and he edited and corrected them; so that, as they now stand, they represent his theories in practically his own words.

      THE “CANARY” MURDER CASE (Part 2)

      CHAPTER 16

      SIGNIFICANT DISCLOSURES

      (Thursday, September 13; forenoon)

      Greatly to Currie’s astonishment Vance gave instructions to be called at nine o’clock the following morning; and at ten o’clock we were sitting on his little roof garden having breakfast in the mellow mid-September sunshine.

      “Van,” he said to me, when Currie had brought us our second cup of coffee, “however secretive a woman may be, there’s always someone to whom she unburdens her soul. A confidant is an essential to the feminine temperament. It may be a mother, or a lover, or a priest, or a doctor, or, more generally, a girl chum. In the Canary’s case we haven’t a mother or a priest. Her lover, the elegant Skeel, was a potential enemy; and we’re pretty safe in ruling out her doctor—she was too shrewd to confide in such a creature as Lindquist. The girl chum, then, remains. And today we seek her.” He lit a cigarette and rose. “But, first, we must visit Mr. Benjamin Browne of Seventh Avenue.”

      Benjamin Browne was a well-known photographer of stage celebrities, with galleries in the heart of the city’s theatrical district; and as we entered the reception room of his luxurious studio later that morning my curiosity as to the object of our visit was at the breaking point. Vance went straight to the desk, behind which sat a young woman with flaming red hair and mascaro-shaded eyes, and bowed in his most dignified manner. Then, taking a small unmounted photograph from his pocket, he laid it before her.

      “I am producing a musical comedy, mademoiselle,” he said, “and I wish to communicate with the young lady who left this picture of herself with me. Unfortunately I’ve misplaced her card; but as her photograph bore the imprint of Browne’s, I thought you might be good enough to look in your files and tell me who she is and where I may find her.”

      He slipped a five-dollar bill under the edge of the blotter, and waited with an air of innocent expectancy.

      The young woman looked at him quizzically, and I thought I detected the hint of a smile at the corners of her artfully rouged lips. But after a moment she took the photograph without a word and disappeared through a rear door. Ten minutes later she returned and handed Vance the picture. On the back of it she had written a name and address.

      “The young lady is Miss Alys La Fosse, and she lives at the Belafield Hotel.” There was now no doubt as to her smile. “You really shouldn’t be so careless with the addresses of your applicants—some poor girl might lose an engagement.” And her smile suddenly turned into soft laughter.

      “Mademoiselle,” replied Vance, with mock seriousness, “in the future I shall be guided by your warning.” And with another dignified bow, he went out.

      “Good Lord!” he said, as we emerged into Seventh Avenue. “Really, y’ know, I should have disguised myself as an impresario, with a gold-headed cane, a derby, and a purple shirt. That young woman is thoroughly convinced that I’m contemplating an intrigue.… A jolly smart tête-rouge, that.”

      He turned into a florist’s shop at the corner, and selecting a dozen American Beauties, addressed them to “Benjamin Browne’s Receptionist.”

      “And now,” he said, “let us stroll to the Belafield, and seek an audience with Alys.”

      As we walked across town Vance explained.

      “That first morning, when we were inspecting the Canary’s rooms, I was convinced that the murder would never be solved by the usual elephantine police methods. It was a subtle and well-planned crime, despite its obvious appearances. No routine investigation would suffice. Intimate information was needed. Therefore, when I saw this photograph of the xanthous Alys half hidden under the litter of papers on the escritoire, I reflected: ‘Ah! A girl friend of the departed Margaret’s. She may know just the things that are needed.’ So, when the Sergeant’s broad back was turned, I put the picture in my pocket. There was no other photograph about the place, and this one bore the usual sentimental inscription. ‘Ever thine,’ and was signed ‘Alys.’ I concluded, therefore, that Alys had played Anactoria to the Canary’s Sappho. Of course I erased the inscription before presenting the picture to the penetrating sibyl at Browne’s.… And here we are at the Belafield, hopin’ for a bit of enlightenment.”

      The Belafield was a small, expensive apartment-hotel in the East Thirties, which, to judge from the guests to be seen in the Americanized Queen Anne lobby, catered to the well-off sporting set. Vance sent his card up to Miss La Fosse, and received the message that she would see him in a few minutes. The few minutes, however, developed into three-quarters of an hour, and it was nearly noon when a resplendent bellboy came to escort us to the lady’s apartment.

      Nature had endowed Miss La Fosse with many of its arts, and those that Nature had omitted, Miss La Fosse herself had supplied. She was slender and blond. Her large blue eyes were heavily lashed, but though she looked at one with a wide-eyed stare, she was unable to disguise their sophistication. Her toilet had been made with elaborate care; and as I looked at her, I could not help thinking what an excellent model she would have been for Chéret’s pastel posters.

      “So you are Mr. Vance,” she cooed. “I’ve often seen your name in Town Topics.”

      Vance gave a shudder.

      “And this is Mr. Van Dine,” he said sweetly, “—a mere attorney, who, thus far, has been denied the pages of that fashionable weekly.”

      “Won’t you sit down?” (I am sure Miss La Fosse had spoken the line in a play; she made of the invitation

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