Just then Swacker came in and handed Markham a letter.
“Brought by messenger, and marked ‘immediate,’ ” he explained.
The letter, written on heavy engraved stationery, was from Doctor Lindquist, and explained that between the hours of 11 P. M. and 1 A. M. on Monday night he had been in attendance on a patient at his sanitarium. It also apologized for his actions when asked regarding his whereabouts, and offered a wordy, but not particularly convincing, explanation of his conduct. He had had an unusually trying day, it seemed—neurotic cases were trying, at best—and the suddenness of our visit, together with the apparently hostile nature of Markham’s questions, had completely upset him. He was more than sorry for his outburst, he said, and stood ready to assist in any way he could. It was unfortunate for all concerned, he added, that he had lost his temper, for it would have been a simple matter for him to explain about Monday night.
“He has thought the situation over calmly,” said Vance, “and hereby offers you a neat little alibi which, I think, you will have difficulty in shaking. . . . An artful beggar—like all these unbalanced pseudo-psychiatrists. Observe: he was with a patient. To be sure! What patient? Why, one too ill to be questioned. . . . There you are. A cul-de-sac masquerading as an alibi. Not bad, what?”
“It doesn’t interest me overmuch.” Markham put the letter away. “That pompous professional ass could never have got into the Odell apartment without having been seen; and I can’t picture him sneaking in by devious means.” He reached for some papers. . . . “And now, if you don’t object, I’ll make an effort to earn my $15,000 salary.”
But Vance, instead of making a move to go, sauntered to the table and opened a telephone directory.
“Permit me a suggestion, Markham,” he said, after a moment’s search. “Put off your daily grind for a bit, and let’s hold polite converse with Mr. Louis Mannix. Y’ know, he’s the only presumptive swain of the inconstant Margaret, so far mentioned, who hasn’t been given an audience. I hanker to gaze upon him and hearken to his rune. He’d make the family circle complete, so to speak. . . . He still holds forth in Maiden Lane, I see; and it wouldn’t take long to fetch him here.”
Markham had swung half round in his chair at the mention of Mannix’s name. He started to protest, but he knew from experience that Vance’s suggestions were not the results of idle whims; and he was silent for several moments weighing the matter. With practically every other avenue of inquiry closed for the moment, I think the idea of questioning Mannix rather appealed to him.
“All right,” he consented, ringing for Swacker; “though I don’t see how he can help. According to Heath, the Odell girl gave him his congé a year ago.”
“He may still have hay on his horns, or, like Hotspur, be drunk with choler. You can’t tell.” Vance resumed his chair. “With such a name, he’d bear investigation ipso facto.”