The Philo Vance Megapack. S.S. Van Dine

old dear,” he remarked languidly, as he strolled back into the living room, “so much for your irrefutable facts!”

      There came a loud knocking on the door, and the officer on duty outside looked in with a startled face.

      “It’s all right,” Markham informed him in a husky voice. “I’ll call you when I want you.”

      Vance lay down on the davenport and took out another cigarette. Having lighted it, he stretched his arms far over his head and extended his legs, like a man in whom a powerful physical tension had suddenly relaxed.

      “’Pon my soul, Markham, we’ve all been babes in the woods,” he drawled. “An incontrovertible alibi—my word! If the law supposes that, as Mr. Bumble said, the law is a ass, a idiot.—Oh, Sammy, Sammy, vy worn’t there a alleybi!… Markham, I blush to admit it, but it’s you and I who’ve been the unutterable asses.”

      Markham had been standing by the instrument like a man dazed, his eyes riveted hypnotically on the telltale record. Slowly he came into the room and threw himself wearily into a chair.

      “Those precious facts of yours!” continued Vance. “Stripped of their carefully disguised appearance, what are they?—Spotswoode prepared a phonograph record—a simple enough task. Everyone makes ’em nowadays—”

      “Yes. He told me he had a workshop at his home on Long Island where he tinkered a bit.”

      “He really didn’t need it, y’ know. But it facilitated things, no doubt. The voice on the record is merely his own in falsetto—better for the purpose than a woman’s, for it’s stronger and more penetrating. As for the label, he simply soaked it off an ordin’ry record, and pasted it on his own. He brought the lady several new records that night, and concealed this one among them. After the theater he enacted his gruesome little drama and then carefully set the stage so that the police would think it was a typical burglar’s performance. When this had been done, he placed the record on the machine, set it going, and calmly walked out. He had placed the prayer rug and bronze bowl on the cabinet of the machine to give the impression that the phonograph was rarely used. And the precaution worked, for no one thought of looking into it. Why should they?… Then he asked Jessup to call a taxicab—everything quite natural, y’ see. While he was waiting for the car the needle reached the recorded screams. They were heard plainly: it was night, and the sounds carried distinctly. Moreover, being filtered through a wooden door, their phonographic timbre was well disguised. And, if you’ll note, the enclosed horn is directed toward the door, not three feet away.”

      “But the synchronization of his questions and the answers on the record…?”

      “The simplest part of it. You remember Jessup told us that Spotswoode was standing with one arm on the switchboard when the screams were heard. He merely had his eye on his wristwatch. The moment he heard the cry, he calculated the intermission on the record and put his question to the imagin’ry lady at just the right moment to receive the record’s response. It was all carefully figured out beforehand; he no doubt rehearsed it in his laborat’ry. It was deuced simple, and practically proof against failure. The record is a large one—twelve-inch diameter, I should say—and it requires about five minutes for the needle to traverse it. By putting the screams at the end, he allowed himself ample time to get out and order a taxicab. When the car at last came, he rode direct to the Stuyvesant Club, where he met Judge Redfern and played poker till three. If he hadn’t met the judge, rest assured he would have impressed his presence on someone else so as to have established an alibi.”

      Markham shook his head gravely.

      “Good God! No wonder he importuned me on every possible occasion to let him visit this apartment again. Such a damning piece of evidence as that record must have kept him awake at night.”

      “Still, I rather fancy that if I hadn’t discovered it, he would have succeeded in getting possession of it as soon as your sergent-de-ville was removed. It was annoyin’ to be unexpectedly barred from the apartment, but I doubt if it worried him much. He would have been on hand when the Canary’s aunt took possession, and the retrieving of the record would have been comparatively easy. Of course the record constituted a hazard, but Spotswoode isn’t the type who’d shy at a low bunker of that kind. No, the thing was planned scientifically enough. He was defeated by sheer accident.”

      “And Skeel?”

      “He was another unfortunate circumstance. He was hiding in the closet there when Spotswoode and the lady came in at eleven. It was Spotswoode whom he saw strangle his erstwhile amoureuse and rifle the apartment. Then, when Spotswoode went out, he came forth from hiding. He was probably looking down at the girl when the phonograph emitted its blood-chilling wails.… My word! Fancy being in a cold funk, gazing at a murdered woman, and then hearing piercing screams behind you! It was a bit too much even for the hardened Tony. I don’t wonder he forgot all caution and put his hand on the table to steady himself.… And then came Spotswoode’s voice through the door, and the record’s answer. This must have puzzled Skeel. I imagine he thought for a moment he’d lost his reason. But pretty soon the significance of it dawned on him; and I can see him grinning to himself. Obviously he knew who the murderer was—it would not have been in keeping with his character had he failed to learn the identities of the Canary’s admirers. And now there had fallen into his lap, like manna from heaven, the most perfect opportunity for blackmail that any such charmin’ young gentleman could desire. He doubtless indulged himself with roseate visions of a life of opulence and ease at Spotswoode’s expense. When Cleaver phoned a few minutes later, he merely said the lady was out, and then set to work planning his own departure.”

      “But I don’t see why he didn’t take the record with him.”

      “And remove from the scene of the crime the one piece of unanswerable evidence?… Bad strategy, Markham. If he himself had produced the record later, Spotswoode would simply have denied all knowledge of it, and accused the blackmailer of a plot. Oh, no; Skeel’s only course was to leave it and apply for an enormous settlement from Spotswoode at once. And I imagine that’s what he did. Spotswoode no doubt gave him something on account and promised him the rest anon, hoping in the meantime to retrieve the record. When he failed to pay, Skeel phoned you and threatened to tell everything, thinking to spur Spotswoode to action.… Well, he spurred him—but not to the action desired. Spotswoode probably met him by appointment last Saturday night, ostensibly to hand over the money, but instead, throttled the chap. Quite in keeping with his nature, don’t y’ know.… Stout fella, Spotswoode.”

      “The whole thing…it’s amazing.”

      “I shouldn’t say that, now. Spotswoode had an unpleasant task to perform and he set about it in a cool, logical, forthright, businesslike manner. He had decided that his little Canary must die for his peace of mind; she’d probably made herself most annoyin’. So he arranged the date—like any judge passing sentence on a prisoner at the bar—and then proceeded to fabricate an alibi. Being something of a mechanic, he arranged a mechanical alibi. The device he chose was simple and obvious enough—no tortuosities or complications. 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. Everyone’s a murderer at heart. The person who has never felt a passionate hankering to kill someone 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