The Greatest Works of S. S. Van Dine (Illustrated Edition) - S.S. Van Dine

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And it would have succeeded but for what the insurance companies piously call an act of God. No one can foresee accidents, Markham: they wouldn’t be accidental if one could. But Spotswoode certainly took every precaution that was humanly possible. It never occurred to him that you would thwart his every effort to return here and confiscate the record; and he couldn’t anticipate my taste in music, nor know that I would seek solace in the tonal art. Furthermore, when one calls on a lady, one doesn’t expect that another suitor is going to hide himself in the clothes-press. It isn’t done, don’t y’ know. . . . All in all, the poor johnny was beaten by a run of abominable luck.”

      “You overlook the fiendishness of the crime,” Markham reproached him tartly.

      “Don’t be so confoundedly moral, old thing. Every one’s a murderer at heart. The person who has never felt a passionate hankering to kill some one is without emotions. And do you think it’s ethics or theology that stays the average person from homicide? Dear no! 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.”

      He rose resolutely, and going to the telephone, called up Heath.

      “Sergeant,” he ordered, “get a John-Doe warrant and meet me immediately at the Stuyvesant Club. Bring a man with you—there’s an arrest to be made.”

      “At last the law has evidence after its own heart,” chirped Vance, as he lazily donned his top-coat and picked up his hat and stick. “What a grotesque affair your legal procedure is, Markham! Scientific knowledge—the facts of psychology—mean nothing to you learned Solons. But a phonograph record—ah! There, now, is something convincing, irrefragable, final, what?”

      On our way out Markham beckoned to the officer on guard.

      “Under no conditions,” he said, “is any one to enter this apartment until I return—not even with a signed permit.”

      When we had entered the taxicab, he directed the chauffeur to the club.

      “So the newspapers want action, do they? Well, they’re going to get it. . . . You’ve helped me out of a nasty hole, old man.”

      As he spoke, his eyes turned to Vance. And that look conveyed a profounder gratitude than any words could have expressed.

      CHAPTER XXX

       THE END

       Table of Contents

      (Tuesday, September 18; 3.30 p. m.)

      It was exactly half past three when we entered the rotunda of the Stuyvesant Club. Markham at once sent for the manager, and held a few words of private conversation with him. The manager then hastened away, and was gone about five minutes.

      “Mr. Spotswoode is in his rooms,” he informed Markham, on returning. “I sent the electrician up to test the light bulbs. He reports that the gentleman is alone, writing at his desk.”

      “And the room number?”

      “Three forty-one.” The manager appeared perturbed. “There won’t be any fuss, will there, Mr. Markham?”

      “I don’t look for any.” Markham’s tone was chilly. “However, the present matter is considerably more important than your club.”

      “What an exaggerated point of view!” sighed Vance when the manager had left us. “The arrest of Spotswoode, I’d say, was the acme of futility. The man isn’t a criminal, don’t y’ know; he has nothing in common with Lombroso’s Uomo Delinquente. He’s what one might term a philosophic behaviorist.”

      Markham granted but did not answer. He began pacing up and down agitatedly, keeping his eyes expectantly on the main entrance. Vance sought a comfortable chair, and settled himself in it with placid unconcern.

      Ten minutes later Heath and Snitkin arrived. Markham at once led them into an alcove and briefly explained his reason for summoning them.

      “Spotswoode’s up-stairs now,” he said. “I want the arrest made as quietly as possible.”

      “Spotswoode!” Heath repeated the name in astonishment. “I don’t see——”

      “You don’t have to see—yet,” Markham cut in sharply. “I’m taking all responsibility for the arrest. And you’re getting the credit—if you want it. That suit you?”

      Heath shrugged his shoulders.

      “It’s all right with me . . . anything you say, sir.” He shook his head uncomprehendingly. “But what about Jessup?”

      “We’ll keep him locked up. Material witness.”

      We ascended in the elevator and emerged at the third floor. Spotswoode’s rooms were at the end of the hall, facing the Square. Markham, his face set grimly, led the way.

      In answer to his knock Spotswoode opened the door and, greeting us pleasantly, stepped aside for us to enter.

      “Any news yet?” he asked, moving a chair forward.

      At this moment he got a clear view of Markham’s face in the light, and at once he sensed the minatory nature of our visit. Though his expression did not alter, I saw his body suddenly go taut. His cold, indecipherable eyes moved slowly from Markham’s face to Heath and Snitkin. Then his gaze fell on Vance and me, who were standing a little behind the others, and he nodded stiffly.

      No one spoke; yet I felt that an entire tragedy was somehow being enacted, and that each actor heard and understood every word.

      Markham remained standing, as if reluctant to proceed. Of all the duties of his office, I knew that the arrest of malefactors was the most distasteful to him. He was a worldly man, with the worldly man’s tolerance for the misfortunes of evil. Heath and Snitkin had stepped forward and now waited with passive alertness for the District Attorney’s order to serve the warrant.

      Spotswoode’s eyes were again on Markham.

      “What can I do for you, sir?” His voice was calm and without the faintest quaver.

      “You can accompany these officers, Mr. Spotswoode,” Markham told him quietly, with a slight inclination of his head toward the two imperturbable figures at his side. “I arrest you for the murder of Margaret Odell.”

      “Ah!” Spotswoode’s eyebrows lifted mildly. “Then you have—discovered something?”

      “The Beethoven Andante.”

      Not a muscle of Spotswoode’s face moved; but after a short pause he made a barely perceptible gesture of resignation.

      “I can’t say that it was wholly unexpected,” he said evenly, with the tragic suggestion of a smile; “especially as you thwarted every effort of mine to secure the record. But then . . . the fortunes of the game are always uncertain.” His smile faded, and his manner became grave. “You have acted generously toward me, Mr. Markham, in shielding me from the canaille; and because I appreciate that courtesy I should like you to know that the game I played was one in which I had no alternative.”

      “Your motive, however powerful,” said Markham, “cannot extenuate your crime.”

      “Do you think I seek extenuation?” Spotswoode dismissed the imputation with a contemptuous gesture. “I’m not a schoolboy. I calculated the consequences of my course of action, and after weighing the various factors involved, decided

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