The Canary Murder Case

In the offices of the Homicide Bureau of the Detective Division of the New York Police Department, on the third floor of the Police Headquarters building in Center Street, there is a large steel filing cabinet; and within it, among thousands of others of its kind, there reposes a small green index-card on which is typed: “Odell, Margaret. 184 West 71st Street. Sept. 10. Murder: Strangled about 11 p.m. Apartment ransacked. Jewelry stolen. Body found by Amy Gibson, maid.”

Here, in a few commonplace words, is the bleak, unadorned statement of one of the most astonishing crimes in the police annals of this country⁠—a crime so contradictory, so baffling, so ingenious, so unique, that for many days the best minds of the Police Department and the District Attorney’s office were completely at a loss as to even a method of approach. Each line of investigation only tended to prove that Margaret Odell could not possibly have been murdered. And yet, huddled on the great silken davenport in her living-room lay the girl’s strangled body, giving the lie to so grotesque a conclusion.

“Take this example: A dozen adults see an animal running across the snow, and testify that it was a chicken; whereas a child sees the same animal, and declares it was a duck. They thereupon examine the animal’s footprints and find them to be the web-footed tracks made by a duck. Is it not conclusive, then, that the animal was a duck and not a chicken, despite the preponderance of direct evidence?”

“I’ll grant you your duck,” acceded Vance indifferently.

“And having gratefully accepted the gift,” pursued Markham, “I propound a corollary: A dozen adults see a human figure crossing the snow, and take oath it was a woman; whereas a child asserts that the figure was a man. Now, will you not also grant that the circumstantial evidence of a man’s footprints in the snow would supply incontrovertible proof that it was, in fact, a man, and not a woman?”

“Not at all, my dear Justinian,” replied Vance, stretching his legs languidly in front of him; “unless, of course, you could show that a human being possesses no higher order of brains than a duck.”

“What have brains to do with it?” Markham asked impatiently. “Brains don’t affect one’s footprints.”

“Not those of a duck, certainly. But brains might very well⁠—and, no doubt, often do⁠—affect the footprints of a human being.”

“Am I having a lesson in anthropology, Darwinian adaptability, or merely metaphysical speculation?”

“In none of those abstruse subjects,” Vance assured him. “I’m merely stating a simple fact culled from observation.”

“It was just this, sir. When the gentleman came out of Miss Odell’s apartment at about half past eleven, he stopped at the switchboard and asked me to get him a Yellow Taxicab. I put the call through, and while he was waiting for the car, Miss Odell screamed and called for help. The gentleman turned and rushed to the apartment door, and I followed quickly behind him. He knocked; but at first there was no answer. Then he knocked again, and at the same time called out to Miss Odell and asked her what was the matter. This time she answered. She said everything was all right, and told him to go home and not to worry. Then he walked back with me to the switchboard, remarking that he guessed Miss Odell must have fallen asleep and had a nightmare. We talked for a few minutes about the war, and then the taxicab came. He said good night, and went out, and I heard the car drive away.”

It was plain to see that this epilogue of the departure of Miss Odell’s anonymous escort completely upset Markham’s theory of the case. He looked down at the floor with a baffled expression, and smoked vigorously for several moments. At last he asked:

“How long was it after this man came out of the apartment that you heard Miss Odell scream?”

“About five minutes. I had put my connection through to the taxicab company, and it was a minute or so later that she screamed.”

“Was the man near the switchboard?”

“Yes, sir. In fact, he had one arm resting on it.”

“How many times did Miss Odell scream? And just what did she say when she called for help?”

“Now, let us consider the Odell murder. You and Heath are agreed that it is a commonplace, brutal, sordid, unimaginative crime. But, unlike you two bloodhounds on the trail, I have ignored its mere appearances, and have analyzed 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 skilful 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 craftsmanship too perfect. The ensemble, as it were, is not convincing⁠—it lacks ‘élan.’ Aesthetically 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 peroration 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 placidly. “Every human action, d’ ye see, conveys unconsciously an impression either of genuineness or of spuriousness⁠—of sincerity or calculation. For example, two men at table eat in a similar way, handle their knives and forks in the same fashion, and apparently do the identical things.

“Oh, my word!” he exclaimed. “It really can’t be, y’ know! And yet”⁠—his face darkened⁠—“and yet, by Jove, that’s it!⁠ ⁠… What an ass I’ve been⁠—what an unutterable ass!⁠ ⁠… Oh!”

He sprang to his feet; then stood looking down at the floor like a man dazed, afraid of his own thoughts.

“Markham, I don’t like it⁠—I don’t like it at all.” He spoke almost as if he were frightened. “I tell you, there’s something terrible going on⁠—something uncanny. The thought of it makes my flesh creep.⁠ ⁠… I must be getting old and sentimental,” he added, with an effort at lightness; but the look in his eyes belied his tone. “Why didn’t I see this thing yesterday?⁠ ⁠… But I let it go on.⁠ ⁠…”

We were all staring at him in amazement. I had never seen him affected in this way before, and the fact that he was habitually so cynical and aloof, so adamant to emotion and impervious to outside influences, gave his words and actions an impelling and impressive quality.

After a moment he shook himself slightly, as if to throw off the pall of horror that had descended upon him, and, stepping to Markham’s desk, he leaned over, resting on both hands.

“Don’t you see?” he asked. “Skeel’s not coming. No use to wait⁠—no use of our having come here in the first place. We have to go to him. He’s waiting for us.⁠ ⁠… Come! Get your hat.”