"It's not the police," Markham informed him. "It was my own investigations that turned up the captain."
The major did not answer, but his silence bespoke his doubt.
"Y' know," put in Vance, "I feel the same way about the captain that you do, Major. It rather pleases me to have my impressions verified by one who has known him so long."
"What, then, was Leacock doing in front of the house that night?" urged Markham acidulously.
"He might have been singing carols beneath Benson's window," suggested Vance.
Before Markham could reply, he was handed a card by the headwaiter. When he glanced at it, he gave a grunt of satisfaction and directed that the caller be sent up immediately. Then, turning back to us, he said, "We may learn something more now. I've been expecting this man Higginbotham. He's the detective that followed Leacock from my office this morning."
Higginbotham was a wiry, pale-faced youth with fishy eyes and a shifty manner. He slouched up to the table and stood hesitantly before the district attorney.
"Sit down and report, Higginbotham," Markham ordered. "These gentlemen are working with me on the case."
"I picked up the bird while he was waiting for the elevator," the man began, eyeing Markham craftily. "He went to the subway and rode uptown to Seventy-ninth and Broadway. He walked through Eightieth to Riverside Drive and went in the apartment-house at No. 94. Didn't give his name to the boy--got right in the elevator. He stayed upstairs a coupla hours, come down at one twenty, and hopped a taxi. I picked up another one and followed him. He went down the Drive to Seventy-second, through Central Park, and east on Fifty-ninth. Got out at Avenue A, and walked out on the Queensborough Bridge. About halfway to Blackwell's Island he stood leaning over the rail for five or six minutes. Then he took a small package out of his pocket and dropped it in the river."
"What size was the package?" There was repressed eagerness in Markham's question.
Higginbotham indicated the measurements with his hands.
"How thick was it?"
"Inch or so, maybe."
Markham leaned forward.
"Could it have been a gun--a Colt automatic?"
"Sure, it could. Just about the right size. And it was heavy, too--I could tell by the way he handled it, and the way it hit the water."
"All right." Markham was pleased. "Anything else?"
"No, sir. After he'd ditched the gun, he went home and stayed. I left him there."
When Higginbotham had gone, Markham nodded at Vance with melancholy elation.
"There's your criminal agent. . . . What more would you like?"
"Oh, lots," drawled Vance.
Major Benson looked up, perplexed.
"I don't quite grasp the situation. Why did Leacock have to go to Riverside Drive for his gun?"
"I have reason to think," said Markham, "that he took it to Miss St. Clair the day after the shooting--for safekeeping probably. He wouldn't have wanted it found in his place."
"Might he not have taken it to Miss St. Clair's before the shooting?"
"I know what you mean," Markham answered. (I, too, recalled the major's assertion the day before that Miss St. Clair was more capable of shooting his brother than was the captain.) "I had the same idea myself. But certain evidential facts have eliminated her as a suspect."
"You've undoubtedly satisfied yourself on the point," returned the major; but his tone was dubious. "However, I can't see Leacock as Alvin's murderer."
He paused and laid a hand on the district attorney's arm. "I don't want to appear presumptuous, or unappreciative of all you've done; but I really wish you'd wait a bit before clapping that boy into prison. The most careful and conscientious of us are liable to error. Even facts sometimes lie damnably; and I can't help believing that the facts in this instance have deceived you."
It was plain that Markham was touched by this request of his old friend; but his instinctive fidelity to duty helped him to resist the other's appeal.
"I must act according to my convictions, Major," he said firmly, but with a great kindness.
15
"PFYFE--PERSONAL"
(Tuesday, June 18; 9 A.M.)
The next day--the fourth of the investigation--was an important and, in some ways, a momentous one in the solution of the problem posed by Alvin Benson's murder. Nothing of a definite nature came to light, but a new element was injected into the case; and this new element eventually led to the guilty person.
Before we parted from Markham after our dinner with Major Benson, Vance had made the request that he be permitted to call at the district attorney's office the next morning. Markham, both disconcerted and impressed by his unwonted earnestness, had complied; although, I think, he would rather have made his arrangements for Captain Leacock's arrest without the disturbing influence of the other's protesting presence. It was evident that, after Higginbotham's report, Markham had decided to place the captain in custody and to proceed with his preparation of data for the grand jury.
Although Vance and I arrived at the office at nine o'clock, Markham was already there. As we entered the room, he picked up the telephone receiver and asked to be put through to Sergeant Heath.
At that moment Vance did an amazing thing. He walked swiftly to the district attorney's desk and, snatching the receiver out of Markham's hand, clamped it down on the hook. Then he placed the telephone to one side and laid both hands on the other's shoulders.
Markham was too astonished and bewildered to protest; and before he could recover himself, Vance said in a low, firm voice, which was all the more impelling because of its softness, "I'm not going to let you jail Leacock--that's what I came here for this morning. You're not going to order his arrest as long as I'm in this office and can prevent it by any means whatever. There's only one way you can accomplish this act of unmitigated folly, and that's by summoning your policemen and having me forcibly ejected. And I advise you to call a goodly number of 'em, because I'll give 'em the battle of their bellicose lives!"
The incredible part of this threat was that Vance meant it literally. And Markham knew he meant it.
"If you do call your henchmen," he went on, "you'll be the laughing stock of the city inside of a week; for, by that time, it'll be known who really did shoot Benson. And I'll be a popular hero and a martyr--God save the mark!--for defying the district attorney and offering up my sweet freedom on the altar of truth and justice and that sort of thing. . . ."
The telephone rang, and Vance answered it.
"Not wanted," he said, closing off immediately. Then he stepped back and folded his arms.
At the end of the brief silence Markham spoke, his voice quavering with rage. "If you don't go at once, Vance, and let me run this office myself, I'll have no choice but to call in those policemen."
Vance smiled. He knew Markham would take no such extreme measures. After all, the issue between these two friends was an intellectual one; and though Vance's actions had placed it for a moment on a physical basis, there was no danger of its so continuing.
Markham's belligerent gaze slowly turned to one of profound perplexity. "Why are you so damned interested in Leacock?" he asked gruffly. "Why this irrational insistence that he remain at large?"
"You priceless, inexpressible ass!" Vance strove to keep all hint of affection out of his voice. "Do you think I care particularly what happens to a southern army captain? There are hundreds of Leacocks, all alike--with their square shoulders and square chins, and their knobby clothes, and their totemistic codes of barbaric chivalry. Only a mother could tell 'em apart. . . . I'm int'rested in you, old chap. I don't want to see you make a mistake that's going to injure you more than it will Leacock."
Markham's eyes lost their hardness; he understood Vance's motive and forgave him. But he was still firm in his belief of the captain's guilt. He remained thoughtful for some time. Then, having apparently arrived at a decision, he rang for Swacker and asked that Phelps be sent for.
"I've a plan that may nai
l this affair down tight," he said. "And it'll be evidence that not even you, Vance, can gainsay."
Phelps came in, and Markham gave him instructions.
"Go and see Miss St. Clair at once. Get to her some way, and ask her what was in the package Captain Leacock took away from her apartment yesterday and threw in the East River." He briefly summarized Higginbotham's report of the night before. "Demand that she tell you and intimate that you know it was the gun with which Benson was shot. She'll probably refuse to answer and will tell you to get out. Then go downstairs and wait developments. If she phones, listen in at the switchboard. If she happens to send a note to anyone, intercept it. And if she goes out--which I hardly think likely--follow her and learn what you can. Let me hear from you the minute you get hold of anything."
"I get you, Chief." Phelps seemed pleased with the assignment, and departed with alacrity.
"Are such burglarious and eavesdropping methods considered ethical by your learned profession?" asked Vance. "I can't harmonize such conduct with your other qualities, y' know."
Markham leaned back and gazed up at the chandelier. "Personal ethics don't enter into it. Or, if they do, they are crowded out by greater and graver considerations--by the higher demands of justice. Society must be protected; and the citizens of this county look to me for their security against the encroachments of criminals and evildoers. Sometimes, in the pursuance of my duty, it is necessary to adopt courses of conduct that conflict with my personal instincts. I have no right to jeopardize the whole of society because of an assumed ethical obligation to an individual. . . . You understand, of course, that I would not use any information obtained by these unethical methods, unless it pointed to criminal activities on the part of that individual. And in such case, I would have every right to use it, for the good of the community."
"I daresay you're right," yawned Vance. "But society doesn't int'rest me particularly. And I inf'nitely prefer good manners to righteousness."
As he finished speaking Swacker announced Major Benson, who wanted to see Markham at once.
The major was accompanied by a pretty young woman of about twenty-two with yellow bobbed hair, dressed daintily and simply in light blue crêpe de Chine. But for all her youthful and somewhat frivolous appearance, she possessed a reserve and competency of manner that immediately evoked one's confidence.
Major Benson introduced her as his secretary, and Markham placed a chair for her facing his desk.
"Miss Hoffman has just told me something that I think is vital for you to know," said the major; "and I brought her directly to you."
He seemed unusually serious, and his eyes held a look of expectancy colored with doubt.
"Tell Mr. Markham exactly what you told me, Miss Hoffman."
The girl raised her head prettily and related her story in a capable, well-modulated voice.
"About a week ago--I think it was Wednesday--Mr. Pfyfe called on Mr. Alvin Benson in his private office. I was in the next room, where my typewriter is located. There's only a glass partition between the two rooms, and when anyone talks loudly in Mr. Benson's office, I can hear them. In about five minutes, Mr. Pfyfe and Mr. Benson began to quarrel. I thought it was funny, for they were such good friends; but I didn't pay much attention to it and went on with my typing. Their voices got very loud, though, and I caught several words. Major Benson asked me this morning what the words were; so I suppose you want to know, too. Well, they kept referring to a note; and once or twice a check was mentioned. Several times I caught the word father-in-law, and once Mr. Benson said 'nothing doing.' . . . Then Mr. Benson called me in and told me to get him an envelope marked 'Pfyfe-Personal' out of his private drawer in the safe. I got it for him, but right after that our bookeeper wanted me for something, so I didn't hear any more. About fifteen minutes later, when Mr. Pfyfe had gone, Mr. Benson called me to put the envelope back. And he told me that if Mr. Pfyfe ever called again, I wasn't, under any circumstances, to let him into the private office unless he himself was there. He also told me that I wasn't to give the envelope to anybody--not even on a written order. . . . And that is all, Mr. Markham."
During her recital I had been as much interested in Vance's actions as in what she had been saying. When first she had entered the room, his casual glance had quickly changed to one of attentive animation, and he had studied her closely. When Markham had placed the chair for her, he had risen and reached for a book lying on the table near her; and, in doing so, he had leaned unnecessarily close to her in order to inspect--or so it appeared to me--the side of her head. And during her story he had continued his observation, at times bending slightly to the right or left to better his view of her. Unaccountable as his actions had seemed, I knew that some serious consideration had prompted the scrutiny.
When she finished speaking, Major Benson reached in his pocket, and tossed a long manila envelope on the desk before Markham.
"Here it is," he said. "I got Miss Hoffman to bring it to me the moment she told me her story."
Markham picked it up hesitantly, as if doubtful of his right to inspect its contents.
"You'd better look at it," the major advised. "That envelope may very possibly have an important bearing on the case."
Markham removed the elastic band and spread the contents of the envelope before him. They consisted of three items--a canceled check for $10,000 made out to Leander Pfyfe and signed by Alvin Benson; a note for $10,000 to Alvin Benson signed by Pfyfe, and a brief confession, also signed by Pfyfe, saying the check was a forgery. The check was dated March 20th of the current year. The confession and the note were dated two days later. The note--which was for ninety days--fell due on Friday, June 21st, only three days off.
For fully five minutes Markham studied these documents in silence. Their sudden introduction into the case seemed to mystify him. Nor had any of the perplexity left his face when he finally put them back in the envelope.
He questioned the girl carefully and had her repeat certain parts of her story. But nothing more could be learned from her; and at length he turned to the major.
"I'll keep this envelope awhile, if you'll let me. I don't see its significance at present, but I'd like to think it over."
When Major Benson and his secretary had gone, Vance rose and extended his legs.
"À la fin!" he murmured. "'All things journey: sun and moon, morning, noon, and afternoon, night and all her stars.' Videlicet: we begin to make progress.
"What the devil are you driving at?" The new complication of Pfyfe's peccadilloes had left Markham irritable.
"Int'restin' young woman, this Miss Hoffman--eh, what?" Vance rejoined irrelevantly. "Didn't care especially for the deceased Benson. And she fairly detests the aromatic Leander. He has prob'bly told her he was misunderstood by Mrs. Pfyfe and invited her to dinner."
"Well, she's pretty enough," commented Markham indifferently. "Benson, too, may have made advances--which is why she disliked him."
"Oh, absolutely." Vance mused a moment. "Pretty--yes; but misleadin'. She's an ambitious gel and capable, too--knows her business. She's no ball of fluff. She has a solid, honest streak in her--a bit of Teutonic blood, I'd say." He paused meditatively. "Y' know, Markham, I have a suspicion you'll hear from little Miss Katinka again."
"Crystal-gazing, eh?" mumbled Markham.
"Oh, dear no!" Vance was looking lazily out of the window. "But I did enter the silence, so to speak, and indulged in a bit of craniological contemplation."
"I thought I noticed you ogling the girl," said Markham. "But since her hair was bobbed and she had her hat on, how could you analyze the bumps?--if that's the phrase you phrenologists use."
"Forget not Goldsmith's preacher," Vance admonished. "Truth from his lips prevailed, and those who came to scoff remained et cetera. . . . To begin with, I'm no phrenologist. But I believe in epochal, racial, and heredit'ry variations in skulls. In that respect I'm merely an old-fashioned Darwinian. Every child knows that the skull of the Piltdown man differ
s from that of the Cromagnard; and even a lawyer could distinguish an Aryan head from a Ural-Altaic head, or a Maylaic from a Negrillo. And, if one is versed at all in the Mendelian theory, heredit'ry cranial similarities can be detected. . . . But all this erudition is beyond you, I fear. Suffice it to say that, despite the young woman's hat and hair, I could see the contour of her head and the bone structure in her face; and I even caught a glimpse of her ear."
"And thereby deduced that we'd hear from her again," added Markham scornfully.
"Indirectly--yes," admitted Vance. Then, after a pause: "I say, in view of Miss Hoffman's revelation, do not Colonel Ostrander's comments of yesterday begin to take on a phosph'rescent aspect?"
"Look here!" said Markham impatiently. "Cut out these circumlocutions and get to the point."
Vance turned slowly from the window and regarded him pensively. "Markham--I put the question academically--doesn't Pfyfe's forged check, with its accompanying confession and its shortly due note, constitute a rather strong motive for doing away with Benson?"
Markham sat up suddenly. "You think Pfyfe guilty--is that it?"
"Well, here's the touchin' situation: Pfyfe obviously signed Benson's name to a check, told him about it, and got the surprise of his life when his dear old pal asked him for a ninety-day note to cover the amount and also for a written confession to hold over him to insure payment. . . . Now consider the subs'quent facts:--First, Pfyfe called on Benson a week ago and had a quarrel in which the check was mentioned--Damon was prob'bly pleading with Pythias to extend the note and was vulgarly informed that there was 'nothing doing.' Secondly, Benson was shot two days later, less than a week before the note fell due. Thirdly, Pfyfe was at Benson's house the hour of the shooting, and not only lied to you about his whereabouts but bribed a garage owner to keep silent about his car. Fourthly, his explanation, when caught, of his unrewarded search for Haig and Haig was, to say the least, a bit thick. And don't forget that the original tale of his lonely quest for nature's solitudes in the Catskills--with his mysterious stopover in New York to confer a farewell benediction upon some anonymous person--was not all that one could have hoped for in the line of plausibility. Fifthly, he is an impulsive gambler, given to taking chances; and his experiences in South Africa would certainly have familiarized him with firearms. Sixthly, he was rather eager to involve Leacock and did a bit of caddish talebearing to that end, even informing you that he saw the captain on the spot at the fatal moment. Seventhly--but why bore you? Have I not supplied you with all the factors you hold so dear--what are they now?--motive, time, place, opportunity, conduct? All that's wanting is the criminal agent. But then, the captain's gun is at the bottom of the East River; so you're not very much better off in his case, what?"
Philo Vance 12 Novels Complete Bundle Page 15
