“By all means,” I agreed, with an alacrity which, I fear, was in large measure prompted by purely selfish motives. The Canary! If one had sought the city over for a victim whose murder would stir up excitement, there could have been but few selections better calculated to produce this result.
Hastening to the door, I summoned Currie, and told him to call Vance at once.
“I’m afraid, sir—” began Currie, politely hesitant.
“Calm your fears,” cut in Markham. “I’ll take all responsibility for waking him at this indecent hour.”
Currie sensed an emergency and departed.
A minute or two later Vance, in an elaborately embroidered silk kimono and sandals, appeared at the living-room door.
“My word!” he greeted us, in mild astonishment, glancing at the clock. “Haven’t you chaps gone to bed yet?”
He strolled to the mantel, and selected a gold-tipped Régie cigarette from a small Florentine humidor.
Markham’s eyes narrowed: he was in no mood for levity.
“The Canary has been murdered,” I blurted out.
Vance held his wax vesta poised, and gave me a look of indolent inquisitiveness. “Whose canary?”
“Margaret Odell was found strangled this morning,” amended Markham brusquely. “Even you, wrapped in your scented cotton-wool, have heard of her. And you can realize the significance of the crime. I’m personally going to look for those footprints in the snow; and if you want to come along, as you intimated the other night, you’ll have to get a move on.”
Vance crushed out his cigarette.
“Margaret Odell, eh?—Broadway’s blonde Aspasia—or was it Phryne who had the coiffure d’or[17] … Most distressin’!” Despite his offhand manner, I could see he was deeply interested. “The base enemies of law and order are determined to chivvy you most horribly, aren’t they, old dear? Deuced inconsiderate of ’em! … Excuse me while I seek habiliments suitable to the occasion.”
He disappeared into his bedroom, while Markham took out a large cigar and resolutely prepared it for smoking, and I returned to the library to put away the papers on which I had been working.
In less than ten minutes Vance reappeared, dressed for the street.
“Bien, mon vieux[18],” he announced gaily, as Currie handed him his hat and gloves and a malacca cane. “Allons-y![19]”
We rode up-town along Madison Avenue, turned into Central Park, and came out by the West 72d Street entrance. Margaret Odell’s apartment was at 184 West 71>st Street, near Broadway; and as we drew up to the curb, it was necessary for the patrolman on duty to make a passage for us through the crowd that had already gathered as a result of the arrival of the police.
Feathergill, an assistant District Attorney, was waiting in the main hall for his Chief’s arrival.
“It’s too bad, sir,” he lamented. “A rotten show all round. And just at this time! …” He shrugged his shoulders discouragingly.
“It may collapse quickly,” said Markham, shaking the other’s hand. “How are things going? Sergeant Heath phoned me right after you called, and said that, at first glance, the case looked a bit stubborn.”
“Stubborn?” repeated Feathergill lugubriously. “It’s downright impervious. Heath is spinning round like a turbine. He was called off the Boyle case, by the way, to devote his talents to this new shocker. Inspector Moran arrived ten minutes ago, and gave him the official imprimatur.”
“Well, Heath’s a good man,” declared Markham. “We’ll work it out. … Which is the apartment?”
