(Wednesday, September 12; evening)
Vance and I did not return to the District Attorney’s office after lunch, for Markham had a busy afternoon before him, and nothing further was likely to transpire1 in connection with the Odell case until Sergeant2 Heath had completed his investigations4 of Cleaver5 and Doctor Lindquist. Vance had seats for Giordano’s “Madame Sans-Gêne,” and two o’clock found us at the Metropolitan6. Though the performance was excellent, Vance was too distrait7 to enjoy it; and it was significant that, after the opera, he directed the chauffeur8 to the Stuyvesant Club. I knew he had a tea appointment, and that he had planned to motor to Longue Vue for dinner; and the fact that he should have dismissed these social engagements from his mind in order to be with Markham showed how intensely the problem of the murder had absorbed his interest.
It was after six o’clock when Markham came in, looking harassed9 and tired. No mention of the case was made during dinner, with the exception of Markham’s casual remark that Heath had turned in his reports on Cleaver and Doctor Lindquist and Mannix. (It seemed that, immediately after lunch, he had telephoned to the Sergeant to add Mannix’s name to the two others as a subject for inquiry10.) It was not until we had retired11 to our favorite corner of the lounge-room that the topic of the murder was brought up for discussion.
And that discussion, brief and one-sided, was the beginning of an entirely12 new line of investigation3—a line which, in the end, led to the guilty person.
Markham sank wearily into his chair. He had begun to show the strain of the last two days of fruitless worry. His eyes were a trifle heavy, and there was a grim tenacity14 in the lines of his mouth. Slowly and deliberately15 he lighted a cigar, and took several deep inhalations.
“Damn the newspapers!” he grumbled16. “Why can’t they let the District Attorney’s office handle its business in its own way? . . . Have you seen the afternoon papers? They’re all clamoring for the murderer. You’d think I had him up my sleeve.”
“You forget, my dear chap,” grinned Vance, “that we are living under the benign17 and upliftin’ reign18 of Democritus, which confers upon every ignoramus the privilege of promiscuously19 criticising his betters.”
Markham snorted.
“I don’t complain about criticism: it’s the lurid20 imagination of these bright young reporters that galls21 me. They’re trying to turn this sordid22 crime into a spectacular Borgia melodrama23, with passion running rampant24, and mysterious influences at work, and all the pomp and trappings of a mediæval romance. . . . You’d think even a schoolboy could see that it was only an ordinary robbery and murder of the kind that’s taking place regularly throughout the country.”
Vance paused in the act of lighting25 a cigarette, and his eyebrows26 lifted. Turning, he regarded Markham with a look of mild incredulity.
“I say! Do you really mean to tell me that your statement for the press was given out in good faith?”
Markham looked up in surprise.
“Certainly it was. . . . What do you mean by ‘good faith’?”
Vance smiled indolently.
“I rather thought, don’t y’ know, that your oration27 to the reporters was a bit of strategy to lull28 the real culprit into a state of false security, and to give you a clear field for investigation.”
Markham contemplated29 him a moment.
“Nothing at all—really, old fellow,” the other assured him affably. “I knew that Heath was deadly sincere about his belief in Skeel’s guilt13, but it never occurred to me, d’ ye see, that you yourself actually regarded the crime as one committed by a professional burglar. I foolishly thought that you let Skeel go this morning in the hope that he would lead you somehow to the guilty person. I rather imagined you were spoofing the trusting Sergeant by pretending to fall in with his silly notion.”
“Ah, I see! Still clinging to your weird31 theory that a brace32 of villains33 were present, hiding in separate clothes-closets, or something of the kind.” Markham made no attempt to temper his sarcasm34. “A sapient35 idea—so much more intelligent than Heath’s!”
“And for what reason, pray,” persisted Markham, with considerable warmth, “do you consider the yeggman theory weird?”
“For the simple reason that it was not the crime of a professional thief at all, but the wilfully38 deceptive39 act of a particularly clever man who doubtless spent weeks in its preparation.”
“Vance, you have contributed the one ray of sunshine to an otherwise gloomy and depressing case.”
“It gives me great pleasure,” was his dulcet42 rejoinder, “to be able to bring even a wisp of light into so clouded a mental atmosphere.”
A brief silence followed. Then Markham asked:
“Is this fascinating and picturesque43 conclusion of yours regarding the highly intellectual character of the Odell woman’s murderer based on your new and original psychological methods of deduction45?” There was no mistaking the ridicule46 in his voice.
“I arrived at it,” explained Vance sweetly, “by the same processes of logic44 I used in determining the guilt of Alvin Benson’s murderer.”
Markham smiled.
“Touché! . . . Don’t think I’m so ungrateful as to belittle47 the work you did in that case. But this time, I fear, you’ve permitted your theories to lead you hopelessly astray. The present case is what the police call an open-and-shut affair.”
“Particularly shut,” amended48 Vance dryly. “And both you and the police are in the distressin’ situation of waiting inactively for your suspected victim to give the game away.”
“I’ll admit the situation is not all one could desire.” Markham spoke49 morosely50. “But even so, I can’t see that there’s any opportunity in this affair for your recondite51 psychological methods. The thing’s too obvious—that’s the trouble. What we need now is evidence, not theories. If it wasn’t for the spacious52 and romantic imaginings of the newspaper men, public interest in the case would already have died out.”
“Markham,” said Vance quietly, but with unwonted seriousness, “if that’s what you really believe, then you may as well drop the case now; for you’re foredoomed to failure. You think it’s an obvious crime. But let me tell you, it’s a subtle crime, if ever there was one. And it’s as clever as it is subtle. No common criminal committed it—believe me. It was done by a man of very superior intellect and astoundin’ ingenuity53.”
Vance’s assured, matter-of-fact tone had a curiously54 convincing quality; and Markham, restraining his impulse to scoff55, assumed an air of indulgent irony56.
“With pleasure.” Vance took a few puffs58 on his cigarette, and lazily watched the smoke curl upward.14
“Y’ know, Markham,” he began, in his emotionless drawl, “every genuine work of art has a quality which the critics call élan—namely, enthusiasm and spontaneity. A copy, or imitation, lacks that distinguishing characteristic; it’s too perfect, too carefully done, too exact. Even enlightened scions59 of the law, I fancy, are aware that there is bad drawing in Botticelli and disproportions in Rubens, what? In an original, d’ ye see, such flaws don’t matter. But an imitator never puts ’em in: he doesn’t dare—he’s too intent on getting all the details correct. The imitator works with a self-consciousness and a meticulous60 care which the artist, in the throes of creative labor61, never exhibits. And here’s the point: there’s no way of imitating that enthusiasm and spontaneity—that élan—which an original painting possesses. However closely a copy may resemble an original, there’s a vast psychological difference between them. The copy breathes an air of insincerity, of ultra-perfection, of conscious effort. . . . You follow me, eh?”
“Most instructive, my dear Ruskin.”
“Now, let us consider the Odell murder. You and Heath are agreed that it is a commonplace, brutal65, sordid, unimaginative crime. But, unlike you two bloodhounds on the trail, I have ignored its mere66 appearances, and have analyzed67 its various factors—I have looked at it psychologically, so to speak. And I have discovered that it is not a genuine and sincere crime—that is to say, an original—but only a sophisticated, self-conscious and clever imitation, done by a skilful68 copyist. I grant you it is correct and typical in every detail. But just there is where it fails, don’t y’ know. Its technic is too good, its craftsmanship69 too perfect. The ensemble70, as it were, is not convincing—it lacks élan. Æsthetically speaking, it has all the earmarks of a tour de force. Vulgarly speaking, it’s a fake.” He paused and gave Markham an engaging smile. “I trust this somewhat oracular peroration71 has not bored you.”
“Pray continue,” urged Markham, with exaggerated politeness. His manner was jocular, but something in his tone led me to believe that he was seriously interested.
“What is true of art is true of life,” Vance resumed placidly72. “Every human action, d’ ye see, conveys unconsciously an impression either of genuineness or of spuriousness—of sincerity62 or calculation. For example, two men at table eat in a similar way, handle their knives and forks in the same fashion, and apparently73 do the identical things. Although the sensitive spectator cannot put his finger on the points of difference, he none the less senses at once which man’s breeding is genuine and instinctive74 and which man’s is imitative and self-conscious.”
He blew a wreath of smoke toward the ceiling, and settled more deeply into his chair.
“Now, Markham, just what are the universally recognized features of a sordid crime of robbery and murder? . . . Brutality75, disorder76, haste, ransacked77 drawers, cluttered78 desks, broken jewel-cases, rings stripped from the victim’s fingers, severed79 pendant chains, torn clothing, tipped-over chairs, upset lamps, broken vases, twisted draperies, strewn floors, and so forth80. Such are the accepted immemorial indications—eh, what? But—consider a moment, old chap. Outside of fiction and the drama, in how many crimes do they all appear—all in perfect ordination81, and without a single element to contradict the general effect? That is to say, how many actual crimes are technically82 perfect in their settings? . . . None! And why? Simply because nothing actual in this life—nothing that is spontaneous and genuine—runs to accepted form in every detail. The law of chance and fallibility invariably steps in.”
He made a slight indicative gesture.
“But regard this particular crime: look at it closely. What do you find? You will perceive that its mise-en-scène has been staged, and its drama enacted83, down to every minute detail—like a Zola novel. It is almost mathematically perfect. And therein, d’ ye see, lies the irresistible84 inference of its having been carefully premeditated and planned. To use an art term, it is a tickled-up crime. Therefore, its conception was not spontaneous. . . . And yet, don’t y’ know, I can’t point out any specific flaw; for its great flaw lies in its being flawless. And nothing flawless, my dear fellow, is natural or genuine.”
Markham was silent for a while.
“You deny even the remote possibility of a common thief having murdered the girl?” he asked at length; and now there was no hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“If a common thief did it,” contended Vance, “then there’s no science of psychology85, there are no philosophic86 truths, and there are no laws of art. If it was a genuine crime of robbery, then, by the same token, there is no difference whatever between an old master and a clever technician’s copy.”
“The robbery,” Vance affirmed, “was only a manufactured detail. The fact that the crime was committed by a highly astute88 person indicates unquestionably that there was a far more potent89 motive behind it. Any man capable of so ingenious and clever a piece of deception90 is obviously a person of education and imagination; and he most certainly would not have run the stupendous risk of killing91 a woman unless he had feared some overwhelming disaster—unless, indeed, her continuing to live would have caused him greater mental anguish92, and would have put him in greater jeopardy93, even than the crime itself. Between two colossal94 dangers, he chose the murder as the lesser95.”
Markham did not speak at once: he seemed lost in reflection. But presently he turned and, fixing Vance with a dubious96 stare, said:
“What about that chiselled98 jewel-box? A professional burglar’s jimmy wielded99 by an experienced hand doesn’t fit into your æsthetic hypothesis—it is, in fact, diametrically opposed to such a theory.”
“I know it only too well.” Vance nodded slowly. “And I’ve been harried100 and hectored by that steel chisel97 ever since I beheld101 the evidence of its work that first morning. . . . Markham, that chisel is the one genuine note in an otherwise spurious performance. It’s as if the real artist had come along at the moment the copyist had finished his faked picture, and painted in a single small object with the hand of a master.”
“But doesn’t that bring us back inevitably102 to Skeel?”
“Skeel—ah, yes. That’s the explanation, no doubt; but not the way you conceive it. Skeel ripped the box open—I don’t question that; but—deuce take it!—it’s the only thing he did do: it’s the only thing that was left for him to do. That’s why he got only a ring which La Belle103 Marguerite was not wearing that night. All her other baubles—to wit, those that adorned104 her—had been stripped from her and were gone.”
“Why are you so positive on this point?”
“The poker105, man—the poker! . . . Don’t you see? That amateurish106 assault upon the jewel-case with a cast-iron coal-prodder couldn’t have been made after the case had been prized open—it would have had to be made before. And that seemingly insane attempt to break steel with cast iron was part of the stage-setting. The real culprit didn’t care if he got the case open or not. He merely wanted it to look as if he had tried to get it open; so he used the poker and then left it lying beside the dinted box.”
“I see what you mean.” This point, I think, impressed Markham more strongly than any other Vance had raised; for the presence of the poker on the dressing-table had not been explained away either by Heath or Inspector107 Brenner. . . . “Is that the reason you questioned Skeel as if he might have been present when your other visitor was there?”
“Exactly. By the evidence of the jewel-case I knew he either was in the apartment when the bogus crime of robbery was being staged, or else had come upon the scene when it was over and the stage-director had cleared out. . . . From his reactions to my questions I rather fancy he was present.”
“Hiding in the closet?”
“Yes. That would account for the closet not having been disturbed. As I see it, it wasn’t ransacked, for the simple and rather grotesque108 reason that the elegant Skeel was locked within. How else could that one clothes-press have escaped the rifling activities of the pseudo-burglar? He wouldn’t have omitted it deliberately, and he was far too thorough-going to have overlooked it accidentally.—Then there are the finger-prints on the knob. . . .”
Vance lightly tapped on the arm of his chair.
“I tell you, Markham old dear, you simply must build your conception of the crime on this hypothesis, and proceed accordingly. If you don’t, each edifice109 you rear will come toppling about your ears.”
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1
transpire
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| v.(使)蒸发，(使)排出 ；泄露，公开 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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cleaver
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| n.切肉刀 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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promiscuously
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| adv.杂乱地，混杂地 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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galls
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的第三人称单数 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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eyebrows
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oration
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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sapient
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| adj.有见识的，有智慧的 | |
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weirder
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| 怪诞的( weird的比较级 )； 神秘而可怕的； 超然的； 古怪的 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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dulcet
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| adj.悦耳的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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belittle
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| v.轻视，小看，贬低 | |
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Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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58
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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scions
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| n.接穗，幼枝( scion的名词复数 )；（尤指富家）子孙 | |
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meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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64
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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67
analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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69
craftsmanship
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| n.手艺 | |
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70
ensemble
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| n.合奏(唱)组；全套服装；整体，总效果 | |
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peroration
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| n.（演说等之）结论 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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cluttered
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| v.杂物，零乱的东西零乱vt.( clutter的过去式和过去分词 )；乱糟糟地堆满，把…弄得很乱；（以…） 塞满… | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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81
ordination
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| n.授任圣职 | |
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82
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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86
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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87
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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88
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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90
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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91
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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92
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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93
jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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100
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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101
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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102
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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103
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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104
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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105
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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106
amateurish
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| n.业余爱好的，不熟练的 | |
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107
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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108
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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109
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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