"Sure," said Heath, "—that he was hiding in the closet when Odell was killed. But where does that get us? It lets Skeel out, although the job was a professional one, and he was caught red-handed with some of the swag."
He turned disgustedly to the District Attorney.
"And now what, sir?"
"I don't like the look of things," Markham complained. "If Skeel has Abe Rubin to defend him, we won't stand a chance with the case we've got. I feel convinced he was mixed up in it; but no judge will accept my personal feelings as evidence."
"We could turn the Dude loose, and have him tailed," suggested Heath grudgingly. "We might catch him doing something that'll give the game away."
Markham considered.
"That might be a good plan," he acceded. "We'll certainly get no more evidence on him as long as he's locked up."
"It looks like our only chance, sir."
"Very well," agreed Markham. "Let him think we're through with him: he may get careless. I'll leave the whole thing to you, Sergeant. Keep a couple of good men on him day and night. Something may happen."
Heath rose, an unhappy man.
"Right, sir. I'll attend to it."
"And I'd like to have more data on Charles Cleaver," added Markham. "Find out what you can of his relations with the Odell girl.—Also, get me a line on Doctor Ambroise Lindquist. What's his history?—what are his habits?—you know the kind
