The «Canary» Murder Case / Смерть Канарейки. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Стивен Ван ДайнЧитать онлайн книгу.
to look specially nice.”
“Ah!” Markham leaned forward. “And who was this gentleman?”
“I don’t know, sir—Miss Odell didn’t say.”
“And you couldn’t suggest who it might have been?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“And when did Miss Odell tell you that she wanted you to come early this morning?”
“When I was leaving last night.”
“So she evidently didn’t anticipate any danger, or have any fear of her companion.”
“It doesn’t look that way.” The woman paused, as if considering. “No, I know she didn’t. She was in good spirits.”
Markham turned to Heath.
“Any other questions you want to ask, Sergeant?”
Heath removed an unlighted cigar from his mouth, and bent forward, resting his hands on his knees.
“What jewellery did this Odell woman have on last night?” he demanded gruffly.
The maid’s manner became cool and a bit haughty.
“Miss Odell”—she emphasized the “Miss,” by way of reproaching him for the disrespect implied in his omission—“wore all her rings, five or six of them, and three bracelets—one of square diamonds, one of rubies, and one of diamonds and emeralds. She also had on a sunburst of pear-shaped diamonds on a chain round her neck, and she carried a platinum lorgnette set with diamonds and pearls.”
“Did she own any other jewellery?”
“A few small pieces, maybe, but I’m not sure.”
“And did she keep ’em in a steel jewel-case in the bedroom?”
“Yes—when she wasn’t wearing them.” There was more than a suggestion of sarcasm in the reply.
“Oh, I thought maybe she kept ’em locked up when she had ’em on.” Heath’s antagonism had been aroused by the maid’s attitude; he could not have failed to note that she had consistently omitted the punctilious “sir” when answering him. He now stood up and pointed loweringly to the black document-box on the rosewood table.
“Ever see that before?”
The woman nodded indifferently. “Many times.”
“Where was it generally kept?”
“In that thing.” She indicated the Boule cabinet with a motion of the head.
“What was in the box?”
“How should I know?”
“You don’t know—huh?” Heath thrust out his jaw, but his bullying attitude had no effect upon the impassive maid.
“I’ve got no idea,” she replied calmly. “It was always kept locked, and I never saw Miss Odell open it.”
The Sergeant walked over to the door of the living-room closet.
“See that key?” he asked angrily.
Again the woman nodded; but this time I detected a look of mild astonishment in her eyes.
“Was that key always kept on the inside of the door?”
“No; it was always on the outside.”
Heath shot Vance a curious look. Then, after a moment’s frowning contemplation of the knob, he waved his hand to the detective who had brought the maid in.
“Take her back to the reception-room, Snitkin, and get a detailed description from her of all the Odell jewellery. … And keep her outside; I’ll want her again.”
When Snitkin and the maid had gone out, Vance lay back lazily on the davenport, where he had sat during the interview, and sent a spiral of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling.
“Rather illuminatin’, what?” he remarked. “The dusky demoiselle[27] got us considerably forrader. Now we know that the closet key is on the wrong side of the door, and that our fille de joie[28] went to the theatre with one of her favorite inamorati[29], who presumably brought her home shortly before she took her departure from this wicked world.”
“You think that’s helpful, do you?” Heath’s tone was contemptuously triumphant. “Wait till you hear the crazy story the telephone operator’s got to tell.”
“All right, Sergeant,” put in Markham impatiently. “Suppose we get on with the ordeal.”
“I’m going to suggest, Mr. Markham, that we question the janitor first. And I’ll show you why.” Heath went to the entrance door of the apartment, and opened it. “Look here for just a minute, sir.”
He stepped out into the main hall, and pointed down the little passageway on the left. It was about ten feet in length, and ran between the Odell apartment and the blank rear wall of the reception-room. At the end of it was a solid oak door which gave on the court at the side of the house.
“That door,” explained Heath, “is the only side or rear entrance to this building; and when that door is bolted nobody can get into the house except by the front entrance. You can’t even get into the building through the other apartments, for every window on this floor is barred. I checked up on that point as soon as I got here.”
He led the way back into the living-room.
“Now, after I’d looked over the situation this morning,” he went on, “I figured that our man had entered through that side door at the end of the passageway, and had slipped into this apartment without the night operator seeing him. So I tried the side door to see if it was open. But it was bolted on the inside—not locked, mind you, but bolted. And it wasn’t a slip-bolt, either, that could have been jimmied or worked open from the outside, but a tough old-fashioned turn-bolt of solid brass. … And now I want you to hear what the janitor’s got to say about it.”
Markham nodded acquiescence, and Heath called an order to one of the officers in the hall. A moment later a stolid, middle-aged German, with sullen features and high cheek-bones, stood before us. His jaw was clamped tight, and he shifted his eyes from one to the other of us suspiciously.
Heath straightway assumed the rôle of inquisitor.
“What time do you leave here at night?” He had, for some reason, assumed a belligerent manner.
“Six o’clock—sometimes earlier, sometimes later.” The man spoke in a surly monotone. He was obviously resentful at this unexpected intrusion upon his orderly routine.
“And what time do you get here in the morning?”
“Eight o’clock, regular.”
“What time did you go home last night?”
“About six—maybe quarter past.”
Heath paused and finally lighted the cigar on which he had been chewing at intervals during the past hour.
“Now, tell me about that side door,” he went on, with undiminished aggressiveness. “You told me you lock it every night before you leave—is that right?”
“Ja[30]—that’s right.” The man nodded his head affirmatively several times. “Only I don’t lock it—I bolt it.”
“All right, you bolt it, then.” As Heath talked his cigar bobbed up and down between his lips: smoke and words came simultaneously from his mouth, “And last night you bolted it as usual about six o’clock?”
“Maybe a quarter past,” the janitor amended, with Germanic precision.
“You’re sure you bolted it last night?” The question was almost ferocious.
“Ja, ja. Sure, I am. I do it every night. I never miss.”
The
demoiselle
fille de joie
inamorati
ja