The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  Vance laid a cigarette on the rug at a point directly beneath the knot.

  “We now know the exact height at which the pistol was held when it was fired.… You grasp the process by which this conclusion was reached, I’m sure.”

  “It seems rather obvious,” answered Markham.

  Vance again went to the door and called Snitkin.

  “The district attorney desires the loan of your gun for a moment,” he said. “He wishes to make a test.”

  Snitkin stepped up to Markham and held out his pistol wonderingly.

  “The safety’s on, sir. Shall I shift it?”

  Markham was about to refuse the weapon when Vance interposed.

  “That’s quite all right. Mr. Markham doesn’t intend to fire it—I hope.”

  When the man had gone, Vance seated himself in the wicker chair and placed his head in juxaposition with the bullet hole.

  “Now, Markham,” he requested, “will you please stand on the spot where the murderer stood, holding the gun directly above that cigarette on the floor, and aim delib’rately at my left temple.… Take care,” he cautioned, with an engaging smile, “not to pull the trigger, or you will never learn who killed Benson.”

  Reluctantly Markham complied. As he stood taking aim Vance asked me to measure the height of the gun muzzle from the floor.

  The distance was four feet and nine inches.

  “Quite so,” he said, rising. “Y’ see, Markham, you are five feet, eleven inches tall; therefore the person who shot Benson was very nearly your own height—certainly not under five feet, ten.… That, too, is rather obvious, what?”

  His demonstration had been simple and clear. Markham was frankly impressed; his manner had become serious. He regarded Vance for a moment with a meditative frown; then he said, “That’s all very well; but the person who fired the shot might have held the pistol relatively higher than I did.”

  “Not tenable,” returned Vance. “I’ve done too much shooting myself not to know that when an expert takes delib’rate aim with a pistol at a small target, he does it with a stiff arm and with a slightly raised shoulder, so as to bring the sight on a straight line between his eye and the object at which he aims. The height at which one holds a revolver, under such conditions, pretty accurately determines his own height.”

  “Your argument is based on the assumption that the person who killed Benson was an expert taking deliberate aim at a small target?”

  “Not an assumption, but a fact,” declared Vance. “Consider: had the person not been an expert shot, he would not—at a distance of five or six feet—have selected the forehead but a larger target—namely, the breast. And having selected the forehead, he most certainly took delib’rate aim, what? Furthermore, had he not been an expert shot, and had he pointed the gun at the breast without taking delib’rate aim, he would, in all prob’bility, have fired more than one shot.”

  Markham pondered. “I’ll grant that, on the face of it, your theory sounds plausible,” he conceded at length. “On the other hand, the guilty man could have been almost any height over five feet, ten; for certainly a man may crouch as much as he likes and still take deliberate aim.”

  “True,” agreed Vance. “But don’t overlook the fact that the murderer’s position, in this instance, was a perfectly natural one. Otherwise, Benson’s attention would have been attracted, and he would not have been taken unawares. That he was shot unawares was indicated by his attitude. Of course, the assassin might have stooped a little without causing Benson to look up.… Let us say, therefore, that the guilty person’s height is somewhere between five feet, ten, and six feet, two. Does that appeal to you?”

  Markham was silent.

  “The delightful Miss St. Clair, y’ know,” remarked Vance, with a japish smile, “can’t possibly be over five feet, five or six.”

  Markham grunted and continued to smoke abstractedly.

  “This Captain Leacock, I take it,” said Vance, “is over six feet—eh, what?”

  Markham’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think so?”

  “You just told me, don’t y’ know.”

  “I told you!”

  “Not in so many words,” Vance pointed out. “But after I had shown you the approximate height of the murderer, and it didn’t correspond at all to that of the young lady you suspected, I knew your active mind was busy looking around for another possibility. And, as the lady’s inamorato was the only other possibility on your horizon, I concluded that you were permitting your thoughts to play about the captain. Had he, therefore, been the stipulated height, you would have said nothing; but when you argued that the murderer might have stooped to fire the shot, I decided that the captain was inord’nately tall.… Thus, in the pregnant silence that emanated from you, old dear, your spirit held sweet communion with mine and told me that the gentleman was a six-footer no less.”

  “I see that you include mind reading among your gifts,” said Markham. “I now await an exhibition of slate writing.”

  His tone was irritable, but his irritation was that of a man reluctant to admit the alteration of his beliefs. He felt himself yielding to Vance’s guiding rein, but he still held stubbornly to the course of his own previous convictions.

  “Surely you don’t question my demonstration of the guilty person’s height?” asked Vance mellifluously.

  “Not altogether,” Markham replied. “It seems colorable enough.… But why, I wonder, didn’t Hagedorn work the thing out, if it was so simple?”

  “Anaxagoras said that those who have occasion for a lamp supply it with oil. A profound remark, Markham—one of those seemingly simple quips that contain a great truth. A lamp without oil, y’ know, is useless. The police always have plenty of lamps—every variety, in fact—but no oil, as it were. That’s why they never find anyone unless it’s broad daylight.”

  Markham’s mind was now busy in another direction, and he rose and began to pace the floor. “Until now I hadn’t thought of Captain Leacock as the actual agent of the crime.”

  “Why hadn’t you thought of him? Was it because one of your sleuths told you he was at home like a good boy that night?”

  “I suppose so.” Markham continued pacing thoughtfully. Then suddenly he swung about. “That wasn’t it, either. It was the amount of damning circumstantial evidence against the St. Clair woman.… And, Vance, despite your demonstration here today, you haven’t explained away any of the evidence against her. Where was she between twelve and one? Why did she go with Benson to dinner? How did her handbag get here? And what about those burned cigarettes of hers in the grate?—they’re the obstacle, those cigarette butts; and I can’t admit that your demonstration wholly convinces me—despite the fact that it is convincing—as long as I’ve got the evidence of those cigarettes to contend with, for that evidence is also convincing.”

  “My word!” sighed Vance. “You’re in a pos’tively ghastly predic’ment. However, maybe I can cast illumination on those disquietin’ cigarette butts.”

  Once more he went to the door and, summoning Snitkin, returned the pistol.

  “The district attorney thanks you,” he said. “And will you be good enough to fetch Mrs. Platz. We wish to chat with her.”

  Turning back to the room, he smiled amiably at Markham. “I desire to do all the conversing with the lady this time, if you don’t mind. There are potentialities in Mrs. Platz which you entirely overlooked when you questioned her yesterday.”

  Markham was interested, though sceptical. “You have the floor,” he said.

  CHAPTER 10

  ELIMINATING A SUSPECT

  (Saturday, June 15, 5:30 P.M.)

  When the housekeeper entered, she appeared even more composed than when Markham had first questioned her. There was something at once sullen and indomitable in her manner, and she looked at me with a slightly challenging expression. Markham merely nodded to her, but Vance stood up and indicated a low tufted Morris chair near the fireplace, facing the front windows. She sat
down on the edge of it, resting her elbows on its broad arms.

  “I have some questions to ask you, Mrs. Platz,” Vance began, fixing her sharply with his gaze; “and it will be best for everyone if you tell the whole truth. You understand me—eh, what?”

  The easygoing, half-whimsical manner he had taken with Markham had disappeared. He stood before the woman, stern and implacable.

  At his words she lifted her head. Her face was blank, but her mouth was set stubbornly, and a smouldering look in her eyes told of a suppressed anxiety.

  Vance waited a moment and then went on, enunciating each word with distinctness.

  “At what time, on the day Mr. Benson was killed, did the lady call here?”

  The woman’s gaze did not falter, but the pupils of her eyes dilated. “There was nobody here.”

  “Oh, yes, there was, Mrs. Platz.” Vance’s tone was assured. “What time did she call?”

  “Nobody was here, I tell you,” she persisted.

  Vance lit a cigarette with interminable deliberation, his eyes resting steadily on hers. He smoked placidly until her gaze dropped. Then he stepped nearer to her, and said firmly, “If you tell the truth, no harm will come to you. But if you refuse any information you will find yourself in trouble. The withholding of evidence is a crime, y’ know, and the law will show you no mercy.”

  He made a sly grimace at Markham, who was watching the proceedings with interest.

  The woman now began to show signs of agitation. She drew in her elbows, and her breathing quickened. “In God’s name, I swear it!—there wasn’t anybody here.” A slight hoarseness gave evidence of her emotion.

  “Let us not invoke the Deity,” suggested Vance carelessly. “What time was the lady here?”

  She set her lips stubbornly, and for a whole minute there was silence in the room. Vance smoked quietly, but Markham held his cigar motionless between his thumb and forefinger in an attitude of expectancy.

  Again Vance’s impassive voice demanded: “What time was she here?”

  The woman clinched her hands with a spasmodic gesture, and thrust her head forward.

  “I tell you—I swear it—”

  Vance made a peremptory movement of his hand and smiled coldly. “It’s no go,” he told her. “You’re acting stupidly. We’re here to get the truth—and you’re going to tell us.”

  “I’ve told you the truth.”

  “Is it going to be necess’ry for the district attorney here to order you placed in custody?”

  “I’ve told you the truth,” she repeated.

  Vance crushed out his cigarette decisively in an ash receiver on the table.

  “Right-o, Mrs. Platz. Since you refuse to tell me about the young woman who was here that afternoon, I’m going to tell you about her.”

  His manner was easy and cynical, and the woman watched him suspiciously.

  “Late in the afternoon of the day your employer was shot the doorbell rang. Perhaps you had been informed by Mr. Benson that he was expecting a caller, what? Anyhow, you answered the door and admitted a charming young lady. You showed her into this room…and—what do you think, my dear Madam!—she took that very chair on which you are resting so uncomfortably.”

  He paused and smiled tantalizingly.

  “Then,” he continued, “you served tea to the young lady and Mr. Benson. After a bit she departed, and Mr. Benson went upstairs to dress for dinner.… Y’ see, Mrs. Platz, I happen to know.”

  He lit another cigarette.

  “Did you notice the young lady particularly? If not, I’ll describe her to you. She was rather short—petite is the word. She had dark hair and dark eyes and she was dressed quietly.”

  A change had come over the woman. Her eyes stared; her cheeks were now gray; and her breathing had become audible.

  “Now, Mrs. Platz,” demanded Vance sharply, “what have you to say?”

  She drew a deep breath. “There wasn’t anybody here,” she said doggedly. There was something almost admirable in her obstinacy.

  Vance considered a moment. Markham was about to speak but evidently thought better of it and sat watching the woman fixedly.

  “Your attitude is understandable,” Vance observed finally. “The young lady, of course, was well known to you, and you had a personal reason for not wanting it known she was here.”

  At these words she sat up straight, a look of terror in her face. “I never saw her before!” she cried, then stopped abruptly.

  “Ah!” Vance gave her an amused leer. “You had never seen the young lady before—eh, what?… That’s quite possible. But it’s immaterial. She’s a nice girl, though, I’m sure—even if she did have a dish of tea with your employer alone in his home.”

  “Did she tell you she was here?” The woman’s voice was listless. The reaction to her tense obduracy had left her apathetic.

  “Not exactly,” Vance replied. “But it wasn’t necess’ry. I knew without her informing me.… Just when did she arrive, Mrs. Platz?”

  “About a half hour after Mr. Benson got here from the office.” She had at last given over all denials and evasions. “But he didn’t expect her—that is, he didn’t say anything to me about her coming; and he didn’t order tea until after she came.”

  Markham thrust himself forward. “Why didn’t you tell me she’d been here when I asked you yesterday morning?”

  The woman cast an uneasy glance about the room.

  “I rather fancy,” Vance intervened pleasantly, “that Mrs. Platz was afraid you might unjustly suspect the young lady.”

  She grasped eagerly at his words. “Yes sir—that was all. I was afraid you might think she—did it. And she was such a quiet, sweet-looking girl.… That was the only reason, sir.”

  “Quite so,” agreed Vance consolingly. “But tell me: did it not shock you to see such a quiet, sweet-looking young lady smoking cigarettes?”

  Her apprehension gave way to astonishment. “Why—yes, sir, it did.… But she wasn’t a bad girl—I could tell that. And most girls smoke nowadays. They don’t think anything of it, like they used to.”

  “You’re quite right,” Vance assured her. “Still young ladies really shouldn’t throw their cigarettes in tiled, gas-log fireplaces, should they, now?”

  The woman regarded him uncertainly; she suspected him of jesting. “Did she do that?” She leaned over and looked into the fireplace. “I didn’t see any cigarettes there this morning.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have,” Vance informed her. “One of the district attorney’s sleuths, d’ ye see, cleaned it all up nicely for you yesterday.”

  She shot Markham a questioning glance. She was not sure whether Vance’s remark was to be taken seriously; but his casualness of manner and pleasantness of voice tended to put her at ease.

  “Now that we understand each other, Mrs. Platz,” he was saying, “was there anything else you particularly noticed when the young lady was here? You will be doing her a good service by telling us, because both the district attorney and I happen to know she is innocent.”

  She gave Vance a long, shrewd look, as if appraising his sincerity. Evidently the results of her scrutiny were favorable, for her answer left no doubt as to her complete frankness.

  “I don’t know if it’ll help, but when I came in with the toast, Mr. Benson looked like he was arguing with her. She seemed worried about something that was going to happen and asked him not to hold her to some promise she’d made. I was only in the room a minute and I didn’t hear much. But just as I was going out he laughed and said it was only a bluff and that nothing was going to happen.”

  She stopped and waited anxiously. She seemed to fear that her revelation might, after all, prove injurious rather than helpful to the girl.

  “Was that all?” Vance’s tone indicated that the matter was of no consequence.

  The woman demurred.

  “That was all I heard; but…there was a small blue box of jewelry sitting on the table.”

  “My word!—a bo
x of jewelry! Do you know whose it was?”

  “No, sir, I don’t. The lady hadn’t brought it, and I never saw it in the house before.”

  “How did you know it was jewelry?”

  “When Mr. Benson went upstairs to dress, I came in to clear the tea things away, and it was still sitting on the table.”

  Vance smiled. “And you played Pandora and took a peep—eh, what? Most natural—I’d have done it myself.”

  He stepped back and bowed politely.

  “That will be all, Mrs. Platz.… And you needn’t worry about the young lady. Nothing is going to happen to her.”

  When she had left us, Markham leaned forward and shook his cigar at Vance. “Why didn’t you tell me you had information about the case unknown to me?”

  “My dear chap!” Vance lifted his eyebrows in protestation. “To what do you refer specifically?”

  “How did you know this St. Clair woman had been here in the afternoon?”

  “I didn’t; but I surmised it. There were cigarette butts of hers in the grate; and, as I knew she hadn’t been here on the night Benson was shot, I thought it rather likely she had been here earlier in the day. And since Benson didn’t arrive from his office until four, I whispered into my ear that she had called sometime between four and the hour of his departure for dinner.… An element’ry syllogism, what?”

  “How did you know she wasn’t here that night?”

  “The psychological aspects of the crime left me in no doubt. As I told you, no woman committed it—my metaphysical hypotheses again; but never mind.… Furthermore, yesterday morning I stood on the spot where the murderer stood and sighted with my eye along the line of fire, using Benson’s head and the mark on the wainscot as my points of coinc’dence. It was evident to me then, even without measurements, that the guilty person was rather tall.”

  “Very well.… But how did you know she left here that afternoon before Benson did?” persisted Markham.

  “How else could she have changed into an evening gown? Really, y’ know, ladies don’t go about décolletées in the afternoon.”

  “You assume, then, that Benson himself brought her gloves and handbag back here that night?”