The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Thoughts that breathe and words that burn,” murmured Vance, who had been sitting through the interview in oppressive boredom.

  Pfyfe once more adjusted his eyeglass and gave Vance a withering look.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  Vance smiled disarmingly. “Merely a quotation from Gray. Poetry appeals to me in certain moods, don’t y’ know.… Do you, by any chance, know Colonel Ostrander?”

  Pfyfe looked at him coldly, but only a vacuous countenance met his gaze. “I am acquainted with the gentleman,” he replied haughtily.

  “Was Colonel Ostrander present at this delightful little social affair of yours?” Vance’s tone was artlessly innocent.

  “Now that you mention it, I believe he was,” admitted Pfyfe, and lifted his eyebrows inquisitively.

  But Vance was again staring disinterestedly out of the window.

  Markham, annoyed at the interruption, attempted to reestablish the conversation on a more amiable and practical basis. But Pfyfe, though loquacious, had little more information to give. He insisted constantly on bringing the talk back to Captain Leacock, and, despite his eloquent protestations, it was obvious he attached more importance to the threat than he chose to admit. Markham questioned him for fully an hour but could learn nothing else of a suggestive nature.

  When Pfyfe rose to go, Vance turned from his contemplation of the outside world and, bowing affably, let his eyes rest on the other with ingenuous good nature.

  “Now that you are in New York, Mr. Pfyfe, and were so unfortunate as to be unable to arrive earlier, I assume that you will remain until after the investigation.”

  Pfyfe’s studied and habitual calm gave way to a look of oily astonishment. “I hadn’t contemplated doing so.”

  “It would be most desirable if you could arrange it,” urged Markham; though I am sure he had no intention of making the request until Vance suggested it.

  Pfyfe hesitated and then made an elegant gesture of resignation. “Certainly I shall remain. When you have further need of my services, you will find me at the Ansonia.”

  He spoke with exalted condescension and magnanimously conferred upon Markham a parting smile. But the smile did not spring from within. It appeared to have been adjusted upon his features by the unseen hands of a sculptor; and it affected only the muscles about his mouth.

  When he had gone, Vance gave Markham a look of suppressed mirth.

  “‘Elegancy, facility, and golden cadence.’… But put not your faith in poesy, old dear. Our Ciceronian friend is an unmitigated fashioner of deceptions.”

  “If you’re trying to say that he’s a smooth liar,” remarked Heath, “I don’t agree with you. I think that story about the captain’s threat is straight goods.”

  “Oh, that! Of course, it’s true.… And, y’ know, Markham, the knightly Mr. Pfyfe was frightfully disappointed when you didn’t insist on his revealing Miss St. Clair’s name. This Leander, I fear, would never have swum the Hellespont for a lady’s sake.”

  “Whether he’s a swimmer or not,” said Heath impatiently, “he’s given us something to go on.”

  Markham agreed that Pfyfe’s recital had added materially to the case against Leacock.

  “I think I’ll have the captain down to my office tomorrow, and question him,” he said.

  A moment later Major Benson entered the room, and Markham invited him to join us.

  “I just saw Pfyfe get into a taxi,” he said, when he had sat down. “I suppose you’ve been asking him about Alvin’s affairs.… Did he help you any?”

  “I hope so, for all our sakes,” returned Markham kindly. “By the way, Major, what do you know about a Captain Philip Leacock?”

  Major Benson lifted his eyes to Markham’s in surprise. “Didn’t you know? Leacock was one of the captains in my regiment—a first-rate man. He knew Alvin pretty well, I think; but my impression is they didn’t hit it off very chummily.… Surely you don’t connect him with this affair?”

  Markham ignored the question. “Did you happen to attend a party of Pfyfe’s the night the captain threatened your brother?”

  “I went, I remember, to one or two of Pfyfe’s parties,” said the major. “I don’t, as a rule, care for such gatherings, but Alvin convinced me it was a good business policy.”

  He lifted his head and frowned fixedly into space, like one searching for an elusive memory.

  “However, I don’t recall—By George! Yes, I believe I do.… But if the instance I am thinking of is what you have in mind, you can dismiss it. We were all a little moist that night.”

  “Did you see the gun?” pursued Heath.

  The major pursed his lips. “Now that you mention it, I think he did make some motion of the kind.”

  “Did you see the gun?” pursued Heath.

  “No, I can’t say that I did.”

  Markham put the next question. “Do you think Captain Leacock capable of the act of murder?”

  “Hardly,” Major Benson answered with emphasis. “Leacock isn’t cold-blooded. The woman over whom the tiff occurred is more capable of such an act than he is.”

  A short silence followed, broken by Vance.

  “What do you know, Major, about this glass of fashion and mold of form, Pfyfe? He appears a rare bird. Has he a history, or is his presence his life’s document?”

  “Leander Pfyfe,” said the major, “is a typical specimen of the modern young do-nothing—I say young, though I imagine he’s around forty. He was pampered in his upbringing—had everything he wanted, I believe; but he became restless and followed several different fads till he tired of them. He was two years in South Africa hunting big game and, I think, wrote a book recounting his adventures. Since then he has done nothing that I know of. He married a wealthy shrew some years ago—for her money, I imagine. But the woman’s father controls the purse strings and holds him down to a rigid allowance.… Pfyfe’s a waster and an idler, but Alvin seemed to find some attraction in the man.”

  The major’s words had been careless in inflection and undeliberated, like those of a man discussing a neutral matter; but all of us, I think, received the impression that he had a strong personal dislike for Pfyfe.

  “Not a ravishing personality, what?” remarked Vance. “And he uses far too much Jicky.”

  “Still,” supplied Heath, with a puzzled frown, “a fellow’s got to have a lot of nerve to shoot big game.… And, speaking of nerve, I’ve been thinking that the guy who shot your brother, Major, was a mighty cool-headed proposition. He did it from the front when his man was wide awake and with a servant upstairs. That takes nerve.”

  “Sergeant, you’re pos’tively brilliant!” exclaimed Vance.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE OWNER OF A COLT .45

  (Monday, June 17; forenoon.)

  Though Vance and I arrived at the district attorney’s office the following morning a little after nine, the captain had been waiting twenty minutes; and Markham directed Swacker to send him in at once.

  Captain Philip Leacock was a typical army officer, very tall—fully six feet, two inches—clean-shaven, straight, and slender. His face was grave and immobile; and he stood before the district attorney in the erect, earnest attitude of a soldier awaiting orders from his superior officer.

  “Take a seat, Captain,” said Markham, with a formal bow. “I have asked you here, as you probably know, to put a few questions to you concerning Mr. Alvin Benson. There are several points regarding your relationship with him which I want you to explain.”

  “Am I suspected of complicity in the crime?” Leacock spoke with a slight southern accent.

  “That remains to be seen,” Markham told him coldly. “It is to determine that point that I wish to question you.”

  The other sat rigidly in his chair and waited.

  Markham fixed him with a direct gaze.

  “You recently made a threat on Mr. Alvin Benson’s life, I believe.”

  Leacock started, and his fingers tightened over his
knees. But before he could answer, Markham continued: “I can tell you the occasion on which the threat was made—it was at a party given by Mr. Leander Pfyfe.”

  Leacock hesitated, then thrust forward his jaw. “Very well, sir; I admit I made the threat. Benson was a cad—he deserved shooting.… That night he had become more obnoxious than usual. He’d been drinking too much—and so had I, I reckon.”

  He gave a twisted smile and looked nervously past the district attorney out of the window.

  “But I didn’t shoot him, sir. I didn’t even know he’d been shot until I read the paper next day.”

  “He was shot with an army Colt, the kind you fellows carried in the war,” said Markham, keeping his eyes on the man.

  “I know,” Leacock replied. “The papers said so.”

  “You have such a gun, haven’t you, Captain?”

  Again the other hesitated. “No, sir.” His voice was barely audible.

  “What became of it?”

  The man glanced at Markham and then quickly shifted his eyes. “I—I lost it…in France.”

  Markham smiled faintly.

  “Then how do you account for the fact that Mr. Pfyfe saw the gun the night you made the threat?”

  “Saw the gun?” He looked blankly at the district attorney.

  “Yes, saw it and recognized it as an army gun,” persisted Markham, in a level voice. “Also, Major Benson saw you make a motion as if to draw a gun.”

  Leacock drew a deep breath, and set his mouth doggedly.

  “I tell you sir, I haven’t a gun.… I lost it in France.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t lose it, Captain. Perhaps you lent it to someone.”

  “I didn’t sir!” the words burst from his lips.

  “Think a minute, Captain.… Didn’t you lend it to someone?”

  “No—I did not!”

  “You paid a visit—yesterday—to Riverside Drive.… Perhaps you took it there with you.”

  Vance had been listening closely. “Oh, deuced clever!” he now murmured in my ear.

  Captain Leacock moved uneasily. His face, even with its deep coat of tan, seemed to pale, and he sought to avoid the implacable gaze of his questioner by concentrating his attention upon some object on the table. When he spoke his voice, heretofore truculent, was colored by anxiety.

  “I didn’t have it with me.… And I didn’t lend it to anyone.”

  Markham sat leaning forward over the desk, his chin on his hand, like a minatory graven image. “It may be you lent it to someone prior to that morning.”

  “Prior to…?” Leacock looked up quickly and paused, as if analyzing the other’s remark.

  Markham took advantage of his perplexity.

  “Have you lent your gun to anyone since you returned from France?”

  “No, I’ve never lent it—” he began, but suddenly halted and flushed. Then he added hastily, “How could I lend it? I just told you, sir—”

  “Never mind that!” Markham cut in. “So you had a gun, did you, Captain?… Have you still got it?”

  Leacock opened his lips to speak but closed them again tightly.

  Markham relaxed and leaned back in his chair.

  “You were aware, of course, that Benson had been annoying Miss St. Clair with his attentions?”

  At the mention of the girl’s name the captain’s body became rigid; his face turned a dull red, and he glared menacingly at the district attorney. At the end of a slow, deep inhalation he spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Suppose we leave Miss St. Clair out of this.” He looked as though he might spring at Markham.

  “Unfortunately, we can’t.” Markham’s words were sympathetic but firm. “Too many facts connect her with the case. Her handbag, for instance, was found in Benson’s living room the morning after the murder.”

  “That’s a lie, sir!”

  Markham ignored the insult.

  “Miss St. Clair herself admits the circumstance.” He held up his hand, as the other was about to answer. “Don’t misinterpret my mentioning the fact. I am not accusing Miss St. Clair of having anything to do with the affair. I’m merely endeavoring to get some light on your own connection with it.”

  The captain studied Markham with an expression that clearly indicated he doubted these assurances. Finally he set his mouth and announced with determination:

  “I haven’t anything more to say on the subject, sir.”

  “You knew, didn’t you,” continued Markham, “that Miss St. Clair dined with Benson at the Marseilles on the night he was shot?”

  “What of it?” retorted Leacock sullenly.

  “And you knew, didn’t you, that they left the restaurant at midnight, and that Miss St. Clair did not reach home until after one?”

  A strange look came into the man’s eyes. The ligaments of his neck tightened, and he took a deep, resolute breath. But he neither glanced at the district attorney nor spoke.

  “You know, of course,” pursued Markham’s monotonous voice, “that Benson was shot at half past twelve?” He waited, and for a whole minute there was silence in the room.

  “You have nothing more to say, Captain?” he asked at length; “no further explanations to give me?”

  Leacock did not answer. He sat gazing imperturbably ahead of him; and it was evident he had sealed his lips for the time being.

  Markham rose.

  “In that case, let us consider the interview at an end.”

  The moment Captain Leacock had gone, Markham rang for one of his clerks.

  “Tell Ben to have that man followed. Find out where he goes and what he does. I want a report at the Stuyvesant Club tonight.”

  When we were alone, Vance gave Markham a look of half-bantering admiration.

  “Ingenious, not to say artful.… But, y’ know, your questions about the lady were shocking bad form.”

  “No doubt,” Markham agreed. “But it looks now as if we were on the right track. Leacock didn’t create an impression of unassailable innocence.”

  “Didn’t he?” asked Vance. “Just what were the signs of his assailable guilt?”

  “You saw him turn white when I questioned him about the weapon. His nerves were on edge—he was genuinely frightened.”

  Vance sighed. “What a perfect ready-made set of notions you have, Markham! Don’t you know that an innocent man, when he comes under suspicion, is apt to be more nervous than a guilty one, who, to begin with, had enough nerve to commit the crime and, secondly, realizes that any show of nervousness is regarded as guilt by you lawyer chaps? ‘My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure’ is a mere Sunday school pleasantry. Touch almost any innocent man on the shoulder and say ‘You’re arrested,’ and his pupils will dilate, he’ll break out in a cold sweat, the blood will rush from his face, and he’ll have tremors and dyspnea. If he’s a hystérique, or a cardiac neurotic, he’ll probably collapse completely. It’s the guilty person who, when thus accosted, lifts his eyebrows in bored surprise and says, ‘You don’t mean it, really—here have a cigar.’”

  “The hardened criminal may act as you say,” Markham conceded; “but an honest man who’s innocent doesn’t go to pieces, even when accused.”

  Vance shook his head hopelessly. “My dear fellow, Crile and Voronoff might have lived in vain for all of you. Manifestations of fear are the result of glandular secretions—nothing more. All they prove is that the person’s thyroid is undeveloped or that his adrenals are subnormal. A man accused of a crime, or shown the bloody weapon with which it was committed, will either smile serenely, or scream, or have hysterics, or faint, or appear disint’rested according to his hormones and irrespective of his guilt. Your theory, d’ ye see, would be quite all right if everyone had the same amount of the various internal secretions. But they haven’t.… Really, y’ know, you shouldn’t send a man to the electric chair simply because he’s deficient in endocrines. It isn’t cricket.”

  Before Markham could reply, Swacker appeared at the door
and said Heath had arrived.

  The sergeant, beaming with satisfaction, fairly burst into the room. For once he forgot to shake hands. “Well, it looks like we’ve got hold of something workable. I went to this Captain Leacock’s apartment house last night, and here’s the straight of it:—Leacock was at home the night of the thirteenth all right; but shortly after midnight he went out, headed west—get that!—and he didn’t return till about quarter of one!”

  “What about the hallboy’s original story?” asked Markham.

  “That’s the best part of it. Leacock had the boy fixed. Gave him money to swear he hadn’t left the house that night. What do you think of that, Mr. Markham? Pretty crude—huh?… The kid loosened up when I told him I was thinking of sending him up the river for doing the job himself.” Heath laughed unpleasantly. “And he won’t spill anything to Leacock, either.”

  Markham nodded his head slowly.

  “What you tell me, Sergeant, bears out certain conclusions I arrived at when I talked to Captain Leacock this morning. Ben put a man on him when he left here, and I’m to get a report tonight. Tomorrow may see this thing through. I’ll get in touch with you in the morning, and if anything’s to be done, you understand, you’ll have the handling of it.”

  When Heath had left us, Markham folded his hands behind his head and leaned back contentedly.

  “I think I’ve got the answer,” he said. “The girl dined with Benson and returned to his house afterward. The captain, suspecting the fact, went out, found her there, and shot Benson. That would account not only for her gloves and handbag but for the hour it took her to go from the Marseilles to her home. It would also account for her attitude here Saturday and for the captain’s lying about the gun.… There. I believe, I have my case. The smashing of the captain’s alibi about clinches it.”

  “Oh, quite,” said Vance airily. “‘Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing.’”