The Benson Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Speaking of the ladies,” said Vance, “what was the situation between Benson and Miss St. Clair?”

  “Who can tell?” asked the Colonel sententiously. “Muriel didn’t cotton to Benson—that’s sure. And yet … women are strange creatures—”

  “Oh, no end strange,” agreed Vance, a trifle wearily. “But really, y’know, I wasn’t prying into the lady’s personal relations with Benson. I thought you might know her mental attitude concerning him.”

  “Ah—I see. Would she, in short, have been likely to take desperate measures against him? … Egad! That’s an idea!”

  The Colonel pondered the point.

  “Muriel, now, is a girl of strong character. Works hard at her art. She’s a singer, and—I don’t mind tellin’ you—a mighty fine one. She’s deep, too—deuced deep. And capable. Not afraid of taking a chance. Independent. I myself wouldn’t want to be in her path if she had it in for me. Might stick at nothing.”

  He nodded his head sagely.

  “Women are funny that way. Always surprisin’ you. No sense of values. The most peaceful of ’em will shoot a man in cold blood without warnin’—”

  He suddenly sat up, and his little blue eyes glistened like china.

  “By Gad!” He fairly blurted the ejaculation. “Muriel had dinner alone with Benson the night he was shot—the very night. Saw ’em together myself at the Marseilles.”

  “You don’t say really!” muttered Vance incuriously. “But I suppose we all must eat…. By the bye; how well did you yourself know Benson?”

  The Colonel looked startled, but Vance’s innocuous expression seemed to reassure him.

  “I? My dear fellow! I’ve known Alvin Benson fifteen years. At least fifteen—maybe longer. Showed him the sights in this old town before the lid was put on. A live town it was then. Wide open. Anything you wanted. Gad! what times we had! Those were the days of the old Haymarket. Never thought of toddlin’ home till breakfast—”

  Vance again interrupted his irrelevancies.

  “How intimate are your relations with Major Benson?”

  “The Major? … That’s another matter. He and I belong to different schools. Dissimilar tastes. We never hit it off. Rarely see each other.”

  He seemed to think that some explanation was necessary, for before Vance could speak again, he added:

  “The Major, you know, was never one of the boys, as we say. Disapproved of gaiety. Didn’t mix with our little set. Considered me and Alvin too frivolous. Serious-minded chap.”

  Vance ate in silence for a while, then asked in an off-hand way:

  “Did you do much speculating through Benson and Benson?”

  For the first time the Colonel appeared hesitant about answering. He ostentatiously wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  “Oh—dabbled a bit,” he at length admitted airily. “Not very lucky, though…. We all flirted now and then with the Goddess of Chance in Benson’s office.”

  Throughout the lunch Vance kept plying him with questions along these lines; but at the end of an hour he seemed to be no nearer anything definite than when he began. Colonel Ostrander was voluble, but his fluency was vague and disorganised. He talked mainly in parentheses, and insisted on elaborating his answers with rambling opinions, until it was almost impossible to extract what little information his words contained.

  Vance, however, did not appear discouraged. He dwelt on Captain Leacock’s character, and seemed particularly intarested in his personal relationship with Benson. Pfyfe’s gambling proclivities also occupied his attention, and he let the Colonel ramble on tiresomely about the man’s gambling house on Long Island and his hunting experiences in South Africa. He asked numerous questions about Benson’s other friends, but paid scant attention to the answers.

  The whole interview impressed me as pointless, and I could not help wondering what Vance hoped to learn. Markham, I was convinced was equally at sea. He pretended polite interest, and nodded appreciatively during the Colonel’s incredibly drawn-out periods; but his eyes wandered occasionally and several times I saw him give Vance a look of reproachful inquiry. There was no doubt, however, that Colonel Ostrander knew his people.

  When we were back in the District Attorney’s office, having taken leave of our garrulous guest at the subway entrance, Vance threw himself into one of the easy chairs with an air of satisfaction.

  “Most entertainin’, what? As an elim’nator of suspects the Colonel has his good points.”

  “Eliminator!” retorted Markham. “It’s a good thing he’s not connected with the police; he’d have half the community jailed for shooting Benson.”

  “He is a bit bloodthirsty,” Vance admitted. “He’s determined to get somebody jailed for the crime.”

  “According to that old warrior, Benson’s coterie was a camorra of gunmen—not forgetting the women. I couldn’t help getting the impression, as he talked, that Benson was miraculously lucky not to have been riddled with bullets long ago.”

  “It’s obvious,” commented Vance, “that you overlooked the illuminatin’ flashes in the Colonel’s thunder.”

  “Were there any?” Markham asked. “At any rate, I can’t say that they exactly blinded me by their brilliance.”

  “And you received no solace from his words?”

  “Only those in which he bade me a fond farewell. The parting didn’t exactly break my heart…. What the old boy said about Leacock, however, might be called a confirmatory opinion. It verified—if verification had been necessary—the case against the Captain.”

  Vance smiled cynically.

  “Oh, to be sure. And what he said about Miss St. Clair would have verified the case against her, too—last Saturday. Also, what he said about Pfyfe would have verified the case against that Beau Sabreur, if you had happened to suspect him—eh, what?”

  Vance had scarcely finished speaking when Swacker came in to say that Emery from the Homicide Bureau had been sent over by Heath, and wished, if possible, to see the District Attorney.

  When the man entered I recognized him at once as the detective who had found the cigarette butts in Benson’s grate.

  With a quick glance at Vance and me, he went directly to Markham.

  “We’ve found the grey Cadillac, sir; and Sergeant Heath thought you might want to know about it right away. It’s in a small, one-man garage on Seventy-fourth Street near Amsterdam Avenue, and has been there three days. One of the men from the Sixth-eighth Street Station located it and ’phoned in to Headquarters; and I hopped up town at once. It’s the right car—fishing-tackle and all, except for the rods; so I guess the ones found in Central Park belonged to the car after all: fell out probably…. It seems a fellow drove the car into the garage about noon last Friday, and gave the garage-man twenty dollars to keep his mouth shut. The man’s a wop, and says he don’t read the papers. Anyway, he came across pronto when I put the screws on.”

  The detective drew out a small notebook.

  “I looked up the car’s number…. It’s listed in the name of Leander Pfyfe, 42 Elm Boulevard, Port Washington, Long Island.”

  Markham received this piece of unexpected information with a perplexed frown. He dismissed Emery almost curtly, and sat tapping thoughtfully on his desk.

  Vance watched him with an amused smile.

  “It’s really not a madhouse, y’know,” he observed comfortingly. “I say, don’t the Colonel’s words bring you any cheer, now that you know Leander was hovering about the neighbourhood at the time Benson was translated into the Beyond?”

  “Damn your old Colonel!” snapped Markham. “What interests me at present is fitting this new development into the situation.”

  “It fits beautifully,” Vance told him. “It rounds out the mosaic, so to speak…. Are you actu’lly disconcerted by learning that Pfyfe was the owner of the mysterious car?”

  “Not having your gift of clairvoyance, I am, I confess, disturbed by the fact.”

  Markham lit a cigar—an indication of worry
.

  “You, of course,” he added, with sarcasm, “knew before Emery came here that it was Pfyfe’s car.”

  “I didn’t know,” Vance corrected him; “but I had a strong suspicion. Pfyfe overdid his distress when he told us of his breakdown in the Catskills. And Heath’s question about his itiner’ry annoyed him frightfully. His hauteur was too melodramatic.”

  “Your ex post facto wisdom is most useful!”

  Markham smoked a while in silence.

  “I think I’ll find out about this matter.”

  He rang for Swacker.

  “Call up the Ansonia,” he ordered angrily; “locate Leander Pfyfe, and say I want to see him at the Stuyvesant Club at six o’clock. And tell him he’s to be there.”

  “It occurs to me,” said Markham, when Swacker had gone, “that this car episode may prove helpful, after all. Pfyfe was evidently in New York that night, and for some reason he didn’t want it known. Why, I wonder? He tipped us off about Leacock’s threat against Benson, and hinted strongly that we’d better get on the fellow’s track. Of course, he may have been sore at Leacock for winning Miss St. Clair away from his friend, and taken this means of wreaking a little revenge on him. On the other hand, if Pfyfe was at Benson’s house the night of the murder, he may have some real information. And now that we’ve found out about the car, I think he’ll tell us what he knows.”

  “He’ll tell you something anyway,” said Vance. “He’s the type of congenital liar that’ll tell anybody anything as long as it doesn’t involve himself unpleasantly.”

  “You and the Cumsean Sibyl, I presume, could inform me in advance what he’s going to tell me.”

  “I couldn’t say as to the Cumsean Sibyl, don’t y’know,” Vance returned lightly; “but speaking for myself, I rather fancy he’ll tell you that he saw the impetuous Captain at Benson’s house that night.”

  Markham laughed.

  “I hope he does. You’ll want to be on hand to hear him, I suppose.”

  “I couldn’t bear to miss it.”

  Vance was already at the door, preparatory to going, when he turned again to Markham.

  “I’ve another slight favour to ask. Get a dossier on Pfyfe—there’s a good fellow. Send one of your innumerable Dogberrys to Port Washington and have the gentleman’s conduct and social habits looked into. Tell your emiss’ry to concentrate on the woman question…. I promise you, you shan’t regret it.”

  Markham, I could see, was decidedly puzzled by this request, and half inclined to refuse it. But after deliberating a few moments, he smiled, and pressed a button on his desk.

  “Anything to humour you,” he said. “I’ll send a man down at once.”

  Chapter XIV

  Links in the Chain

  (Monday, June 17; 6 p.m.)

  Vance and I spent an hour or so that afternoon at the Anderson Galleries looking at some tapestries which were to be auctioned the next day, and afterwards had tea at Sherry’s. We were at the Stuyvesant Club a little before six. A few minutes later, Markham and Pfyfe arrived, and we went at once into one of the conference rooms.

  Pfyfe was as elegant and superior as at the first interview. He wore a rat-catcher suit and Newmarket gaiters of unbleached linen, and was redolent of perfume.

  “An unexpected pleasure to see you gentlemen again so soon,” he greeted us, like one conferring a blessing.

  Markham was far from amiable, and gave him an almost brusque salutation. Vance had merely nodded, and now sat regarding Pfyfe drearily as if seeking to find some excuse for his existence, but utterly unable to do so.

  Markham went directly to the point.

  “I’ve found out, Mr. Pfyfe, that you placed your machine in a garage at noon on Friday, and gave the man twenty dollars to say nothing about it.”

  Pfyfe looked up with a hurt look.

  “I’ve been deeply wronged,” he complained sadly. “I gave the man fifty dollars.”

  “I am glad you admit the fact so readily,” returned Markham. “You knew, by the newspapers, of course, that your machine was seen outside Benson’s house the night he was shot.”

  “Why else should I have paid so liberally to have its presence in New York kept secret?” His tone indicated that he was pained at the other’s obtuseness.

  “In that case, why did you keep it in the city at all?” asked Markham. “You could have driven it back to Long Island.”

  Pfyfe shook his head sorrowfully, a look of commiseration in his eyes. Then he leaned forward with an air of benign patience: he would be gentle with this dull-witted District Attorney, like a fond teacher with a backward child, and would strive to lead him out of the tangle of his uncertainties.

  “I am a married man, Mr. Markham.” He pronounced the fact as if some special virtue attached to it. “I started on my trip for the Catskills Thursday after dinner, intending to stop a day in New York to make my adieux to someone residing here. I arrived quite late—after midnight—and decided to call on Alvin. But when I drove up, the house was dark. So, without even ringing the bell, I walked to Pietro’s in Forty-third Street to get a night-cap—I keep a bit of my own pinch-bottle Haig and Haig there—but, alas, the place was closed, and I strolled back to my car…. To think, that while I was away poor Alvin was shot?”

  He stopped and polished his eye-glass.

  “The irony of it…. I didn’t even guess that anything had happened to the dear fellow—how could I? I drove, all unsuspecting of the tragedy, to a Turkish bath, and remained there the night. The next morning I read of the murder; and in the later editions I saw the mention of my car. It was then I became—shall I say worried? But no. ‘Worried’ is a misleading word. Let me say, rather, that I became aware of the false position I might be placed in if the car were traced to me. So I drove it to the garage and paid the man to say nothing of its whereabouts, lest its discovery confuse the issue of Alvin’s death.”

  One might have thought, from his tone and the self-righteous way he looked at Markham, that he had bribed the garage-man wholly out of consideration for the District Attorney and the police.

  “Why didn’t you continue on your trip?” asked Markham. “That would have made the discovery of the car even less likely.”

  Pfyfe adopted an air of compassionate surprise.

  “With my dearest friend foully murdered? How could one have the heart to seek diversion at such a sad moment? … I returned home, and informed Mrs. Pfyfe that my car had broken down.”

  “You might have driven home in your car, it seems to me,” observed Markham.

  Pfyfe offered a look of infinite forbearance for the other’s inspection, and took a deep sigh, which conveyed the impression, that though he could not sharpen the world’s perceptions, he at least could mourn for its deplorable lack of understanding.

  “If I had been in the Catskills away from any source of information, where Mrs. Pfyfe believed me to be, how would I have heard of Alvin’s death until, perhaps, days afterward? You see, unfortunately I had not mentioned it to Mrs. Pfyfe that I was stopping over in New York. The truth is, Mr. Markham, I had reason for not wishing my wife to know I was in the city. Consequently, if I had driven back at once, she would, I regret to say, have suspected me of breaking my journey. I therefore pursued the course which seemed simplest.”

  Markham was becoming annoyed at the man’s fluent hypocrisy. After a brief silence he asked abruptly:

  “Did the presence of your car at Benson’s house that night have anything to do with your apparent desire to implicate Captain Leacock in the affair?”

  Pfyfe lifted his eyebrows in pained astonishment, and made a gesture of polite protestation.

  “My dear sir!” His voice betokened profound resentment of the other’s unjust imputation. “If yesterday you detected in my words an undercurrent of suspicion against Captain Leacock, I can account for it only by the fact that I actually saw the Captain in front of Alvin’s house when I drove up that night.”

  Markham shot a curious loo
k at Vance; then said to Pfyfe:

  “You are sure you saw Leacock?”

  “I saw him quite distinctly. And I would have mentioned the fact yesterday had it not involved the tacit confession of my own presence there.”

  “What if it had?” demanded Markham. “It was vital information, and I could have used it this morning. You were placing your comfort ahead of the legal demands of justice; and your attitude puts a very questionable aspect on your own alleged conduct that night.”

  “You are pleased to be severe, sir,” said Pfyfe with self-pity. “But, having placed myself in a false position, I must accept your criticism.”

  “Do you realise,” Markham went on, “that many a district attorney, if he knew what I now know about your movements, and had been treated the way you’ve treated me, would arrest you on suspicion?”

  “Then I can only say,” was the suave response, “that I am most fortunate in my inquisitor.”

  Markham rose.

  “That will be all for to-day, Mr. Pfyfe. But you are to remain in New York until I give you permission to return home. Otherwise, I will have you held as a material witness.”

  Pfyfe made a shocked gesture in deprecation of such acerbities, and bade us a ceremonious good afternoon.

  When we were alone, Markham looked seriously at Vance.

  “Your prophecy was fulfilled, though I didn’t dare hope for such luck. Pfyfe’s evidence puts the final link in the chain against the Captain.”

  Vance smoked languidly.

  “I’ll admit your theory of the crime is most satisfyin’. But alas, the psychological objection remains. Everything fits, with the one exception of the Captain; and he doesn’t fit at all…. Silly idea, I know. But he has no more business being cast as the murderer of Benson than the bisonic Tetrazzini had being cast as the phthisical Mimi.”1

  “In any other circumstances,” Markham answered, “I might defer reverently to your charming theories. But with all the circumstantial and presumptive evidence I have against Leacock, it strikes my inferior legal mind as sheer nonsense to say, ‘He just couldn’t be guilty because his hair is parted in the middle and he tucks his napkin in his collar.’ There’s too much logic against it.”