“Recognition of my transcendent genius, I see, is destined to be posthumous. Omnia post obitum fingit majora vetustas. In the meantime I bear the taunts and jeers of the multitude with a stout heart. My head is bloody, but unbowed.”
He looked at his watch, and then seemed to become absorbed with some line of thought.
“Markham,” he said, after several minutes, “I’ve a concert at three o’clock, but there’s an hour to spare. I want to take another look at that apartment and its various approaches. Spotswoode’s trick—and I’m convinced it was nothing more than a trick—was enacted there; and if we are ever to find the explanation, we shall have to look for it on the scene.”
I had got the impression that Markham, despite his emphatic denial of the possibility of Spotswoode’s guilt, was not entirely unconvinced. Therefore, I was not surprised when, with only a half-hearted protest, he assented to Vance’s proposal to revisit the Odell apartment.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Beethoven’s “Andante”
(Tuesday, September 18; 2 p. m.)
Less than half an hour later we again entered the main hall of the little apartment building in 71st Street. Spively, as usual, was on duty at the switchboard. Just inside the public reception-room the officer on guard reclined in an easy chair, a cigar in his mouth. On seeing the District Attorney, he rose with forced alacrity.
“When you going to open things up, Mr. Markham?” he asked. “This rest-cure is ruinin’ my health.”
“Very soon, I hope, officer,” Markham told him. “Any more visitors?”
“Nobody, sir.” The man stifled a yawn.