Heath was feeling too complacently triumphant to be annoyed. He smiled with magnanimous tolerance.
“It strikes you as funny, doesn’t it, Mr. Vance?”
“Sergeant, if you knew how inord’nately funny this confession is, you’d positively have hysterics.”
Vance then turned to Markham.
“Really, y’know, I shouldn’t put too much stock in this. It may, however, prove a valuable lever with which to prise open the truth. In fact, I’m jolly glad the Captain has gone in for imag’native lit’rature. With this entrancin’ fable in our possession, I think we can overcome the Major’s scruples, and get him to tell us what he knows. Maybe I’m wrong, but it’s worth trying.”
He stepped to the District Attorney’s desk, and leaned over it cajolingly.
“I haven’t led you astray yet, old dear; and I’m going to make another suggestion. Call up the Major and ask him to come here at once. Tell him you’ve secured a confession—but don’t you dare say whose. Imply it’s Miss St. Clair’s, or Pfyfe’s—or Pontius Pilate’s. But urge his immediate presence. Tell him you want to discuss it with him before proceeding with the indictment.”
“I can’t see the necessity of doing that,” objected Markham. “I’m pretty sure to see him at the Club to-night and I can tell him then.”
“That wouldn’t do at all,” insisted Vance. “If the Major can enlighten us on any point, I think Sergeant Heath should be present to hear him.”
“I don’t need any enlightenment,” cut in Heath.
Vance regarded him with admiring surprise.
“What a wonderful man! Even Goethe cried for mehr Licht; and here you are in a state of luminous saturation! … Astonishin’!”
“See here, Vance,” said Markham, “why try to complicate the matter? It strikes me as a waste of time, besides being an imposition, to ask the Major here to discuss Leacock’s confession. We don’t need his evidence now, anyway.”
Despite his gruffness there was a hint of reconsideration in his voice; for, though his instinct had been to dismiss the request out of hand, the experiences of the past few days had taught him that Vance’s suggestions were not made without an object.
Vance, sensing the other’s hesitancy, said:
“My request is based on something more than an idle desire to gaze upon the Major’s rubicund features at this moment. I’m telling you, with all the meagre earnestness I possess, that his presence here now would be most helpful.”
Markham deliberated, and argued the point at some length. But Vance was so persistent that in the end he was convinced of the advisability of complying.
Heath was patently disgusted, but he sat down quietly and sought solace in a cigar.
Major Benson arrived with astonishing promptness, and when Markham handed him the confession, he made little attempt to conceal his eagerness. But as he read it his face clouded, and a look of puzzlement came into his eyes.
At length he looked up, frowning.
“I don’t quite understand this; and I’ll admit I’m greatly surprised. It doesn’t seem credible that Leacock shot Alvin…. And yet, I may be mistaken, of course.”
He laid the confession on Markham’s desk with an air of disappointment, and sank into a chair.
“Do you feel satisfied?” he asked.
“I don’t see any way around it,” said Markham. “If he isn’t guilty, why should he come forward and confess? God knows, there’s plenty of evidence against him. I was ready to arrest him two days ago.”
“He’s guilty all right,” put in Heath. “I’ve had my eye on him from the first.”
Major Benson did not reply at once; he seemed to be framing his next words.
“It might be—that is, there’s the bare possibility—that Leacock had an ulterior motive in confessing.”
We all, I think, recognised the thought which his words strove to conceal.
“I’ll admit,” acceded Markham, “that at first I believed Miss St. Clair guilty, and I intimated as much to Leacock. But later I was persuaded that she was not directly involved.”
“Does Leacock know this?” the Major asked quickly.
Markham thought a moment.
“No, I can’t say that he does. In fact, it’s more than likely he still thinks I suspect her.”
“Ah!”
The Major’s exclamation was almost involuntary.
“But what’s that got to do with it?” asked Heath irritably. “Do you think he’s going to the chair to save her reputation?—Bunk! That sort of thing’s all right in the movies, but no man’s that crazy in real life.”
“I’m not so sure, Sergeant,” ventured Vance lazily. “Women are too sane and practical to make such foolish gestures; but men, y’know, have an illim’table capacity for idiocy.”
He turned an inquiring gaze on Major Benson.
“Won’t you tell us why you think Leacock is playing Sir Galahad?”
But the Major took refuge in generalities, and was disinclined even to follow up his original intimation as to the cause of the Captain’s action. Vance questioned him for some time, but was unable to penetrate his reticence.
Heath, becoming restless, finally spoke up.
“You can’t argue Leacock’s guilt away, Mr. Vance. Look at the facts. He threatened Benson that he’d kill him if he caught him with the girl again. The next time Benson goes out with her, he’s found shot. Then Leacock hides his gun at her house, and when things begin to get hot, he takes it away and ditches it in the river. He bribes the hall-boy to alibi him, and he’s seen at Benson’s house at twelve-thirty that night. When he’s questioned he can’t explain anything…. If that ain’t an open-and-shut case, I’m a mock-turtle.”
“The circumstances are convincing,” admitted Major Benson. “But couldn’t they be accounted for on other grounds?”
Heath did not deign to answer the question.
“The way I see it,” he continued, “is like this: Leacock gets suspicious along about midnight, takes his gun and goes out. He catches Benson with the girl, goes in, and shoots him like he threatened. They’re both mixed up in it, if you ask me; but Leacock did the shooting. And now we got his confession…. There isn’t a jury in the country that wouldn’t convict him.”
“Probi et legales homines—oh, quite!” murmured Vance.
Swacker appeared at the door.
“The reporters are clamouring for attention,” he announced with a wry face.
“Do they know about the confession?” Markham asked Heath.
“Not yet. I haven’t told ’em anything so far—that’s why they’re clamouring, I guess. But I’ll give ’em an earful now, if you say the word.”
Markham nodded, and Heath started for the door. But Vance quickly planted himself in the way.
“Could you keep this thing quiet till to-morrow, Markham?” he asked.
Markham was annoyed.
“I could if I wanted to—yes. But why should I?”
“For your own sake, if for no other reason. You’ve got your prize safely locked up. Control your vanity for twenty-four hours. The Major and I both know that Leacock’s innocent, and by this time to-morrow the whole country’ll know it.”
Again an argument ensued; but the outcome, like that of the former argument, was a foregone conclusion. Markham had realized for some time that Vance had reason to be convinced of something which as yet he was unwilling to divulge. His opposition to Vance’s requests were, I had suspected, largely the result of an effort to ascertain this information; and I was positive of it now as he leaned forward and gravely debated the advisability of making public the Captain’s confession.
Vance, as heretofore, was careful to reveal nothing; but in the end his sheer determination carried his point; and Markham requested Heath to keep his own counsel until the next day. The Major, by a slight nod, indicated his approbation of the decision.
“You might tell the newspaper lads, though,” suggested Vance, “that you’ll have a rip
pin’ sensation for ’em tomorrow.”
Heath went out, crestfallen and glowering.
“A rash fella, the Sergeant—so impetuous!”
Vance again picked up the confession, and perused it.
“Now, Markham, I want you to bring your prisoner forth—habeas corpus and that sort of thing. Put him in that chair facing the window, give him one of the good cigars you keep for influential politicians, and then listen attentively while I politely chat with him…. The Major, I trust, will remain for the interlocut’ry proceedings.”
“That request, at least, I’ll grant without objections,” smiled Markham. “I had already decided to have a talk with Leacock.”
He pressed a buzzer, and a brisk, ruddy-faced clerk entered.
“A requisition for Captain Philip Leacock,” he ordered.
When it was brought to him he initialled it.
“Take it to Ben, and tell him to hurry.”
The clerk disappeared through the door leading to the outer corridor.
Ten minutes later a deputy sheriff from the Tombs entered with the prisoner.
Chapter XIX
Vance Cross-Examines
(Wednesday, June 19th; 3.30 p.m.)
Captain Leacock walked into the room with a hopeless indifference of bearing. His shoulders drooped; his arms hung listlessly. His eyes were haggard like those of a man who had not slept for days. On seeing Major Benson, he straightened a little and, stepping towards him, extended his hand. It was plain that, however much he may have disliked Alvin Benson, he regarded the Major as a friend. But suddenly realising the situation, he turned away, embarrassed.
The Major went quickly to him and touched him on the arm.
“It’s all right, Leacock,” he said softly. “I can’t think that you really shot Alvin.”
The Captain turned apprehensive eyes upon him.
“Of course, I shot him.” His voice was flat. “I told him I was going to.”
Vance came forward, and indicated a chair.
“Sit down, Captain. The District Attorney wants to hear your story of the shooting. The law, you understand, does not accept murder confessions without corroborat’ry evidence. And since, in the present case, there are suspicions against others than yourself, we want you to answer some questions in order to substantiate your guilt. Otherwise, it will be necess’ry for us to follow up our suspicions.”
Taking a seat facing Leacock, he picked up the confession.
“You say here you were satisfied that Mr. Benson had wronged you, and you went to his house at about half-past twelve on the night of the thirteenth…. When you speak of his wronging you, do you refer to his attentions to Miss St. Clair?”
Leacock’s face betrayed a sulky belligerence.
“It doesn’t matter why I shot him. Can’t you leave Miss St. Clair out of it?”
“Certainly,” agreed Vance. “I promise you she shall not be brought into it. But we must understand your motive thoroughly.”
After a brief silence Leacock said:
“Very well, then. That was what I referred to.”
“How did you know Miss St. Clair went to dinner with Mr. Benson that night?”
“I followed them to the Marseilles.”
“And then you went home?”
“Yes.”
“What made you go to Mr. Benson’s house later?”
“I got to thinking about it more and more, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I began to see red, and at last I took my Colt and went out, determined to kill him.”
A note of passion had crept into his voice. It seemed unbelievable that he could be lying.
Vance again referred to the confession.
“You dictated: ‘I went to 87 West Forty-eighth Street, and entered the house by the front door.’… Did you ring the bell? Or was the front door unlatched?”
Leacock was about to answer, but hesitated. Evidently he recalled the newspaper accounts of the housekeeper’s testimony in which she asserted positively that the bell had not rung that night.
“What difference does it make?” He was sparring for time.
“We’d like to know—that’s all,” Vance told him. “But no hurry.”
“Well, if it’s so important to you: I didn’t ring the bell; and the door wasn’t unlocked.” His hesitancy was gone. “Just as I reached the house, Benson drove up in a taxicab—”
“Just a moment. Did you happen to notice another car standing in front of the house? A grey Cadillac?”
“Why—yes.”
“Did you recognise its occupant?”
There was another short silence.
“I’m not sure. I think it was a man named Pfyfe.”
“He and Mr. Benson were outside at the same time, then?”
Leacock frowned.
“No—not at the same time. There was nobody there when I arrived…. I didn’t see Pfyfe until I came out a few minutes later.”
“He arrived in his car when you were inside—is that it?”
“He must have.”
“I see…. And now to go back a little: Benson drove up in a taxicab. Then what?”
“I went up to him and said I wanted to speak to him. He told me to come inside, and we went in together. He used his latch-key.”
“And now, Captain, tell us just what happened after you and Mr. Benson entered the house.”
“He laid his hat and stick on the hat rack, and we walked into the living-room. He sat down by the table, and I stood up and said—what I had to say. Then I drew my gun and shot him.”
Vance was closely watching the man, and Markham was leaning forward tensely.
“How did it happen that he was reading at the time?”
“I believe he did pick up a book while I was talking.… Trying to appear indifferent, I reckon.”
“Think now: you and Mr. Benson went into the living-room directly from the hall, as soon as you entered the house?”
“Yes.”
“Then how do you account for the fact, Captain, that when Mr. Benson was shot he had on his smoking-jacket and slippers?”
Leacock glanced nervously about the room. Before he answered he wet his lips with his tongue.
“Now that I think of it, Benson did go upstairs for a few minutes first…. I guess I was too excited,” he added desperately, “to recollect everything.”
“That’s natural,” Vance said sympathetically. “But when he came downstairs did you happen to notice anything peculiar about his hair?”
Leacock looked up vaguely.
“His hair? I—don’t understand.”
“The colour of it, I mean. When Mr. Benson sat before you under the table lamp, didn’t you remark some—difference let us say—in the way his hair looked?”
The man closed his eyes, as if striving to visualise the scene.
“No—I don’t remember.”
“A minor point,” said Vance indifferently. “Did Benson’s speech strike you as peculiar when he came downstairs—that is, was there a thickness, or slight impediment of any kind, in his voice?”
Leacock was manifestly puzzled.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “He seemed to talk the way he always talked.”
“And did you happen to see a blue jewel-case on the table?”
“I didn’t notice.”
Vance smoked a moment thoughtfully.
“When you left the room after shooting Mr. Benson, you turned out the lights, of course?”
When no immediate answer came, Vance volunteered the suggestion:
“You must have done so, for Mr. Pfyfe says the house was dark when he drove up.”
Leacock then nodded an affirmative.
“That’s right. I couldn’t recollect for the moment.”
“Now that you remember the fact, just how did you turn them off?”
“I—” he began, and stopped. Then, finally: “At the switch.”
“And where is that switch located, Captain?”
> “I can’t just recall.”
“Think a moment. Surely you can remember.”
“By the door leading into the hall, I think.”
“Which side of the door?”
“How can I tell?” the man asked piteously. “I was too—nervous…. But I think it was on the right-hand side of the door.”
“The right-hand side when entering or leaving the room?”
“As you go out.”
“That would be where the bookcase stands?”
“Yes.”
Vance appeared satisfied.
“Now, there’s the question about the gun,” he said. “Why did you take it to Miss St. Clair?”
“I was a coward,” the man replied. “I was afraid they might find it at my apartment. And I never imagined she would be suspected.”
“And when she was suspected, you at once took the gun away and threw it into the East River?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose there was one cartridge missing from the magazine, too—which in itself would have been a suspicious circumstance.”
“I thought of that. That’s why I threw the gun away.”
Vance frowned.
“That’s strange. There must have been two guns. We dredged the river, y’know, and found a Colt automatic, but the magazine was full…. Are you sure, Captain, that it was your gun you took from Miss St. Clair’s and threw over the bridge?”
I knew no gun had been retrieved from the river, and I wondered what he was driving at. Was he, after all, trying to involve the girl? Markham, too, I could see, was in doubt.
Leacock made no answer for several moments. When he spoke, it was with dogged sullenness.
“There weren’t two guns. The one you found was mine…. I refilled the magazine myself.”
“Ah, that accounts for it.” Vance’s tone was pleasant and reassuring. “Just one more question, Captain. Why did you come here to-day and confess?”
The Benson Murder Case Page 19
