Heath, who was now staring with meditative pugnacity into the closet, shook his head helplessly.
“What I don’t understand,” he ruminated, “is why, if the fellow was hiding in the closet, he didn’t ransack it when he came out, like he did all the rest of the apartment.”
“Sergeant,” said Vance, “you’ve put your finger on the crux of the matter. . . . Y’ know, the neat, undisturbed aspect of that closet rather suggests that the crude person who rifled these charming rooms omitted to give it his attention because it was locked on the inside and he couldn’t open it.”
“Come, come!” protested Markham. “That theory implies that there were two unknown persons in here last night.”
Vance sighed. “Harrow and alas! I know it. And we can’t introduce even one into this apartment logically. . . . Distressin’, ain’t it?”
Heath sought consolation in a new line of thought.
“Anyway,” he submitted, “we know that the fancy fellow with the patent-leather pumps who called here last night at half past nine was probably Odell’s lover, and was grafting on her.”
“And in just what recondite way does that obvious fact help to roll the clouds away?” asked Vance. “Nearly every modern Delilah has an avaricious amoroso. It would be rather singular if there wasn’t such a chap in the offing, what?”
“That’s all right, too,” returned Heath. “But I’ll tell you something, Mr. Vance, that maybe you don’t know. The men that these girls lose their heads over are generally crooks of some kind—professional criminals, you understand. That’s why, knowing that this job was the work of a professional, it don’t leave me cold, as you might say, to learn that this fellow who was threatening Odell and grafting on her was the same one who was prowling round here last night. . . . And I’ll say this, too: the description of him sounds a whole lot like the kind of high-class burglars that hang out at these swell all-night cafés.”
“You’re convinced, then,” asked Vance mildly, “that this job, as you call it, was done by a professional criminal?”