The Benson Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  She admitted hearing the shot, because, if she had denied it, a test might have proved that a shot in the living-room would have sounded loudly in her room; and this would have aroused suspicion against her. Does a person, when awakened, turn on the lights and determine the exact hour? And if she had heard a report which sounded like a shot being fired in the house, would she not have investigated, or given an alarm?

  When first interviewed, she showed plainly she disliked Benson.

  Her apprehension has been pronounced each time she has been questioned.

  She is the hard-headed, shrewd, determined German type, who could both plan and perform such a crime.

  HEIGHT

  She is about five feet ten inches tall—the demonstrated height of the murderer.

  Markham read the précis through several times—he was fully fifteen minutes at the task—and when he had finished he sat silent for ten minutes more.

  Then he rose and walked up and down the room.

  “Not a fancy legal document, that,” remarked Vance. “But I think even a Grand Juror could understand it. You, of course, can rearrange and elab’rate it, and bedeck it with innum’rable meaningless phrases and recondite legal idioms.”

  Markham did not answer at once. He paused by the French windows and looked down into the street. Then he said:

  “Yes, I think you’ve made out a case…. Extraordinary! I’ve wondered from the first what you were getting at; and your questioning of Platz yesterday impressed me as pointless. I’ll admit it never occurred to me to suspect her. Benson must have given her good cause.”

  He turned and came slowly towards us, his head down, his hands behind him.

  “I don’t like the idea of arresting her…. Funny I never thought of her in connection with it.”

  He stopped in front of Vance.

  “And you yourself didn’t think of her at first, despite your boast that you knew who did it after you’d been in Benson’s house five minutes.”

  Vance smiled mirthfully, and sprawled in his chair.

  Markham became indignant.

  “Damn it! You told me the next day that no woman could have done it, no matter what evidence was adduced, and harangued me about art and psychology and God knows what.”

  “Quite right,” murmured Vance, still smiling. “No woman did it.”

  “No woman did it!” Markham’s gorge was rising rapidly.

  “Oh, dear, no!”

  He pointed to the sheet of paper in Markham’s hand.

  “That’s just a bit of spoofing, don’t y’know…. Poor old Mrs. Platz—she’s as innocent as a lamb!”

  Markham threw the paper on the table and sat down. I had never seen him so furious; but he controlled himself admirably.

  “Y’see, my dear old bean,” explained Vance, in his unemotional drawl, “I had an irresistible longing to demonstrate to you how utterly silly your circumst’ntial and material evidence is. I’m rather proud, y’know, of my case against Mrs. Platz. I’m sure you could convict her on the strength of it. But, like the whole theory of your exalted law, it’s wholly specious and erroneous…. Circumst’ntial evidence, Markham, is the utt’rest tommy-rot imag’nable. Its theory is not unlike that of our present-day democracy. The democratic theory is that if you accumulate enough ignorance at the polls you produce intelligence; and the theory of circumst’ntial evidence is that if you accumulate a sufficient number of weak links you produce a strong chain.”

  “Did you get me here this morning,” demanded Markham coldly, “to give me a dissertation on legal theory?”

  “Oh, no,” Vance blithely assured him. “But I simply must prepare you for the acceptance of my revelation; for I haven’t a scrap of material or circumst’ntial evidence against the guilty man. And yet, Markham, I know he’s guilty as well as I know you’re sitting in that chair planning how you can torture and kill me without being punished.”

  “If you have no evidence, how did you arrive at your conclusion?” Markham’s tone was vindictive.

  “Solely by psychological analysis—by what might be called the science of personal possibilities. A man’s psychological nature is as clear a brand to one who can read it as was Hester Prynne’s scarlet letter…. I never read Hawthorne, by the bye. I can’t abide the New England temp’rament.”

  Markham set his jaw, and gave Vance a look of arctic ferocity.

  “You expect me to go into court, I suppose, leading your victim by the arm, and say to the Judge: ‘Here’s the man that shot Alvin Benson. I have no evidence against him, but I want you to sentence him to death, because my brilliant and sagacious friend, Mr. Philo Vance, the inventor of stuffed perch, says this man has a wicked nature.”

  Vance gave an almost imperceptible shrug.

  “I shan’t wither away with grief if you don’t even arrest the guilty man. But I thought it no more than humane to tell you who he was, if only to stop you from chivvying all these innocent people.”

  “All right—tell me; and let me get on about my business.”

  I don’t believe there was any longer a question in Markham’s mind that Vance actually knew who had killed Benson. But it was not until considerably later in the morning that he fully understood why Vance had kept him for days upon tenterhooks. When, at last, he did understand it, he forgave Vance; but at the moment he was angered to the limit of his control.

  “There are one or two things that must be done before I can reveal the gentleman’s name.” Vance told him. “First, let me have a peep at those alibis.”

  Markham took from his pocket a sheaf of typewritten pages and passed them over.

  Vance adjusted his monocle, and read through them carefully. Then he stepped out of the room; and I heard him telephoning. When he returned he re-read the reports. One in particular he lingered over, as if weighing its possibilities.

  “There’s a chance, y’know,” he murmured at length, gazing indecisively into the fireplace.

  He glanced at the report again.

  “I see here,” he said, “that Colonel Ostrander, accompanied by a Bronx alderman named Moriarty, attended the Midnight Follies at the Piccadilly Theatre in Forty-seventh Street on the night of the thirteenth, arriving there a little before twelve and remaining through the performance, which was over about half-past two a.m…. Are you acquainted with this particular alderman?”

  Markham’s eyes lifted sharply to the other’s face.

  “I’ve met Mr. Moriarty. What about him?” I thought I detected a note of suppressed excitement in his voice.

  “Where do Bronx aldermen loll about in the forenoons?” asked Vance.

  “At home, I should say. Or possibly at the Samoset Club…. Sometimes they have business at City Hall.”

  “My word—such unseemly activity for a politician! … Would you mind ascertaining if Moriarty is at home or at his club? If it’s not too much bother, I’d like to have a brief word with him.”

  Markham gave Vance a penetrating gaze. Then, without a word, he went to the telephone in the den.

  “Mr. Moriarty was at home, about to leave for City Hall,” he announced, on returning. “I asked him to drop by here on his way down town.”

  “I do hope he doesn’t disappoint us,”sighed Vance. “But it’s worth trying.”

  “Are you composing a charade?” asked Markham; but there was neither humour nor good-nature in the question.

  “’Pon my word, old man, I’m not trying to confuse the main issue,” said Vance. “Exert a little of that simple faith with which you are so gen’rously supplied—it’s more desirable than Norman blood, y’know. I’ll give you the guilty man before the morning’s over. But, d’ye see, I must make sure that you’ll accept him. These alibis are, I trust, going to prove most prof’table to paving the way for my coup de boutoir…. An alibi—as I recently confided to you—is a tricky and dang’rous thing, and open to grave suspicion. And the absence of an alibi means nothing at all. For instance, I see by these reports that Miss Hoffman has
no alibi for the night of the thirteenth. She says she went to a motion-picture theatre and then home. But no one saw her at any time. She was prob’bly at Benson’s, visiting mamma, until late. Looks suspicious—eh, what? And yet, even if she was there, her only crime that night was filial affection…. On the other hand, there are several alibis here which are, as one says, cast-iron—silly metaphor; cast-iron’s easily broken—and I happen to know one of ’em is spurious. So be a good fellow and have patience; for it’s most necess’ry that these alibis be minutely inspected.”

  Fifteen minutes later Mr. Moriarty arrived. He was a serious, good-looking, well-dressed youth in his late twenties—not at all my idea of an alderman—and he spoke clear and precise English with almost no trace of the Bronx accent.

  Markham introduced him, and briefly explained why he had been requested to call.

  “One of the men from the Homicide Bureau.” answered Moriarty, “was asking me about the matter only yesterday.”

  “We have the report,” said Vance, “but it’s a bit too general. Will you tell us exactly what you did that night after you met Colonel Ostrander?”

  “The Colonel had invited me to dinner and the Follies. I met him at the Marseilles at ten. We had dinner there, and went to the Piccadilly a little before twelve, where we remained until about two-thirty. I walked to the Colonel’s apartment with him had a drink and a chat, and then took the subway home about three-thirty.”

  “You told the detective yesterday you sat in a box at the theatre?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Did you and the Colonel remain in the box throughout the performance?”

  “No. After the first act a friend of mine came to the box, and the Colonel excused himself and went to the wash-room. After the second act, the Colonel and I stepped outside into the alley-way and had a smoke.”

  “What time, would you say, was the first act over?”

  “Twelve-thirty or thereabouts.”

  “And where is this alley-way situated?” asked Vance. “As I recall, it runs along the side of the theatre to the street.”

  “You’re right.”

  “And isn’t there an ‘exit’ door very near the boxes, which leads into the alley-way?”

  “There is. We used it that night.”

  “How long was the Colonel gone after the first act?”

  “A few minutes—I couldn’t say exactly.”

  “Had he returned when the curtain went up on the second act?”

  Moriarty reflected.

  “I don’t believe he had. I think he came back a few minutes after the act began.”

  “Ten minutes?”

  “I couldn’t say. Certainly no more.”

  “Then allowing for a ten-minute intermission, the Colonel might have been away twenty minutes?”

  “Yes—it’s possible.”

  This ended the interview; and when Moriarty had gone, Vance lay back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully.

  “Surprisin’ luck!” he commented. “The Piccadilly Theatre, y’know, is practically round the corner from Benson’s house. You grasp the possibilities of the situation, what? … The Colonel invites an alderman to the Midnight Follies, and gets box seats near an exit giving on an alley. At a little before half-past twelve he leaves the box, sneaks out via the alley, goes to Benson’s taps, and is admitted, shoots his man, and hurries back to the theatre. Twenty minutes would have been ample.”

  Markham straightened up, but made no comment.

  “And now,” continued Vance, “let’s look at the indicat’ry circumst’nces and the confirmat’ry facts…. Miss St. Clair told us the Colonel had lost heavily in a pool of Benson’s manipulation, and had accused him of crookedness. He hadn’t spoken to Benson for a week; so it’s plain there was bad blood between ’em. He saw Miss St. Clair at the Marseilles with Benson; and, knowing she always went home at midnight, he chose half-past twelve as a propitious hour; although originally he may have intended to wait until much later; say, one-thirty or two—before sneaking out of the theatre. Being an army officer he would have had a Colt forty-five; and he was probably a good shot. He was most anxious to have you arrest someone—he didn’t seem to care who; and he even ’phoned you to inquire about it. He was one of the very few persons in the world whom Benson would have admitted, attired as he was. He’d known Benson int’mately for fifteen years, and Mrs. Platz once saw Benson take off his toupee and show it to him. Moreover, he would have known all about the domestic arrangements of the house; he no doubt had slept there many a time, when showing his old pal the wonders of New York’s night life…. How does all that appeal to you?”

  Markham had risen and was pacing the floor, his eyes almost closed.

  “So that was why you were so interested in the Colonel—asking people if they, knew him, and inviting him to lunch? … What gave you the idea, in the first place, that he was guilty?”

  “Guilty!” exclaimed Vance. “That priceless old dunderhead guilty! Really, Markham, the notion’s prepost’rous. I’m sure he went to the wash-room that night to comb his eyebrows and arrange his tie. Sitting, as he was, in a box, the gels on the stage could see him, y’know.”

  Markham halted abruptly. An ugly colour crept into his cheeks, and his eyes blazed. But before he could speak Vance went on, with serene indifference to his anger.

  “And I played in the most astonishin’ luck. Still, he’s just the kind of ancient popinjay who’d go to the washroom and dandify himself—I rather counted on that, don’t y’know…. My word! We’ve made amazin’ progress this morning, despite your injured feelings. You now have five different people, anyone of whom you can, with a little legal ingenuity, convict of the crime—in any event, you can get indictments against ’em.”

  He leaned his head back meditatively.

  “First there’s Miss St. Clair. You were quite pos’tive she did the deed, and you told the Major you were all ready to arrest her. My demonstration of the murderer’s height could be thrown out on the grounds that it was intelligent and conclusive, and therefore had no place in a court of law. I’m sure the judge would concur. Secondly, I give you Captain Leacock. I actu’lly had to use physical force to keep you from jailing the chap. You had a beautiful case against him—to say nothing of his delightful confession. And if you met with any diff’culties, he’d help you out: he’d adore having you convict him. Thirdly, I submit Leander the Lovely. You had a better case against him than against almost any one of the others—a perfect wealth of circumst’ntial evidence— an embarras de richesse, in fact. And any jury would delight in convicting him—I would, myself, if only for the way he dresses. Fourthly, I point with pride to Mrs. Platz. Another perfect cireumst’ntial case, fairly bulging with clues and inf’rences and legal whatnots. Fifthly, I present the Colonel. I have just rehearsed your case against him; and I could elab’rate it touchin’ly, given a little more time.”

  He paused, and gave Markham a smile of cynical affability.

  “Observe, please, that each member of this quintette meets all the demands of presumptive guilt: each one fulfils the legal requirements as to time, place, opportunity, means, motive, and conduct. The only drawback, d’ye see, is that all five are quite innocent. A most discomposin’ fact—but there you are…. Now, if all the people against whom there’s the slightest suspicion, are innocent, what’s to be done? … Annoyin’, ain’t it?”

  He picked up the alibi reports.

  “There’s pos’tively nothing to be done but to go on checking up these alibis.”

  I could not imagine what goal he was trying to reach by these apparently irrelevant digressions; and Markham, too, was mystified. But neither of us doubted for a moment that there was method in his madness.

  “Let’s see,” he mused. “The Major’s is the next in order. What do you say to tackling it? It shouldn’t take long; he lives near here; and the entire alibi hinges on the evidence of the night-boy at his apartment house. Come!” He got up.

  �
��How do you know the boy is there now?” objected Markham.

  “I ’phoned a while ago and found out.”

  “But this is damned nonsense!”

  Vance now had Markham by the arm, playfully urging him toward the door.

  “Oh, undoubtedly,” he agreed. “But I’ve often told you, old dear, you take life much too seriously.”

  Markham, protesting vigorously, held back, and endeavoured to disengage his arm from the other’s grip. But Vance was determined; and after a somewhat heated dispute, Markham gave in.

  “I’m about through with this hocus-pocus,” he growled, as we got into a taxicab.

  “I’m through already,” said Vance.

  Chapter XXIII

  Checking an Alibi

  (Thursday, June 20th; 10.30 a.m.)

  The Chatham Arms, where Major Benson lived, was a small, exclusive, bachelor apartment-house in Forty-sixth Street, midway between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. The entrance, set in a simple and dignified facade, was flush with the street, and only two steps above the pavement. The front door opened into a narrow hall-way with a small reception room, like a cul-de-sac, on the left. At the rear could be seen the elevator; and beside it, tucked under a narrow flight of steps which led round the elevator shaft, was a telephone switchboard.

  When we arrived two youths in uniform were on duty, one lounging in the door of the elevator, the other seated at the switchboard.

  Vance halted Markham near the entrance.

  “One of these boys, I was informed over the telephone, was on duty the night of the thirteenth. Find out which one it was, and scare him into submission by your exalted title of District Attorney. Then turn him over to me.”

  Reluctantly Markham walked down the hall-way.

  After a brief interrogation of the boys he led one of them into the reception room, and peremptorily explained what he wanted.1

  Vance began his questioning with the confident air of one who has no doubt whatever as to another’s exact knowledge.