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 gray 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 Sixty-eighth Street station located it and phoned in to headquarters; and I hopped uptown 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, 24 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 neighborhood 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 awhile 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 Cumean Sibyl, I presume, could inform me in advance what he’s going to tell me.”
“I couldn’t say as to the Cumean 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 favor 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 sha’n’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 humor you,” he said. “I’ll send a man down at once.”
CHAPTER 14
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 afterward 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 adieus 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 nightcap,—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 eyeglass.
“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 garageman 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 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 look 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 realize,” Markham went on, “that many a district attorney, if he knew what I 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 today, 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.”16
“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.”
“I’ll grant your logic is irrefutable—as all logic is, no doubt. You’ve prob’bly convinced many innocent persons by sheer reasoning that they were guilty.”
Vance stretched himself wearily.
“What do you say to a light repast on the roof? The unutt’rable Pfyfe has tired me.”
In the summer dining room on the roof of the Stuyvesant Club we found Major Benson sitting alone, and Markham asked him to join us.
“I have good news for you, Major,” he said, when we had given our order. “I feel confident I have my man; everything points to him. Tomorrow will see the end, I hope.”
The major gave Markham a questioning frown.
“I don’t understand exactly. From what you told me the other day, I got the impression there was a woman involved.”
Markham smiled awkwardly and avoided Vance’s eyes. “A lot of water has run under the bridge since then,” he said. “The woman I had in mind was eliminated as soon as we began to check up on her. But in the process I was led to the man. There’s little doubt of his guilt. I felt pretty sure about it this morning, and just now I learned that he was seen by a credible witness in front of your brother’s house within a few minutes of the time the shot was fired.”
“Is there any objection to your telling me who it was?” The major was still frowning.
“None whatsoever. The whole city will probably know it tomorrow.… It was Captain Leacock.”
Major Benson stared at him in unbelief. “Impossible! I simply can’t credit it. That boy was with me three years on the other side, and I got to know him pretty well. I can’t help feeling there’s a mistake somewhere.… The police,” he added quickly, “have got on the wrong track.”
“It’s not the police,” Markham informed him. “It was my own investigations that turned up the captain.”
The major did not answer, but his silence bespoke his doubt.
“Y’ know,” put in Vance, “I feel the same way about the captain that you do, Major. It rather pleases me to have my impressions verified by one who has known him so long.”
“What, then, was Leacock doing in front of the house that night?” urged Markham acidulously.
“He might have been singing carols beneath Benson’s window,” suggested Vance.
Before Markham could reply, he was handed a card by the headwaiter. When he glanced at it, he gave a grunt of satisfaction and directed that the caller be sent up immediately. Then, turning back to us, he said, “We may learn something more now. I’ve been expecting this man Higginbotham. He’s the detective that followed Leacock from my office this morning.”
Higginbotham was a wiry, pale-faced youth with fishy eyes and a shifty manner. He slouched up to the table and stood hesitantly before the district attorney.
“Sit down and report, Higginbotham,” Markham ordered. “These gentlemen are working with me on the case.”
“I picked up the bird while he was waiting for the elevator,” the man began, eyeing Markham craftily. “He went to the subway and rode uptown to Seventy-ninth and Broadway. He walked through Eightieth to Riverside Drive and went in the apartment-house at No. 94. Didn’t give his name to the boy—got right in the elevator. He stayed upstairs a coupla hours, come down at one twenty, and hopped a taxi. I picked up another one and followed him. He went down the Drive to Seventy-second, through Central Park, and east on Fifty-ninth. Got out at Avenue A, and walked out on the Queensborough Bridge. About halfway to Blackwell’s Island he stood leaning over the rail for five or six minutes. Then he took a small package out of his pocket and dropped it in the river.”
“What size was the package?” There was repressed eagerness in Markham’s question.
Higginbotham indicated the measurements with his hands.
“How thick was it?”
<
br /> “Inch or so, maybe.”
Markham leaned forward.
“Could it have been a gun—a Colt automatic?”
“Sure, it could. Just about the right size. And it was heavy, too—I could tell by the way he handled it, and the way it hit the water.”
“All right.” Markham was pleased. “Anything else?”
“No, sir. After he’d ditched the gun, he went home and stayed. I left him there.”
When Higginbotham had gone, Markham nodded at Vance with melancholy elation.
“There’s your criminal agent.… What more would you like?”
“Oh, lots,” drawled Vance.
Major Benson looked up, perplexed.
“I don’t quite grasp the situation. Why did Leacock have to go to Riverside Drive for his gun?”
“I have reason to think,” said Markham, “that he took it to Miss St. Clair the day after the shooting—for safekeeping probably. He wouldn’t have wanted it found in his place.”
“Might he not have taken it to Miss St. Clair’s before the shooting?”
“I know what you mean,” Markham answered. (I, too, recalled the major’s assertion the day before that Miss St. Clair was more capable of shooting his brother than was the captain.) “I had the same idea myself. But certain evidential facts have eliminated her as a suspect.”
“You’ve undoubtedly satisfied yourself on the point,” returned the major; but his tone was dubious. “However, I can’t see Leacock as Alvin’s murderer.”
He paused and laid a hand on the district attorney’s arm. “I don’t want to appear presumptuous, or unappreciative of all you’ve done; but I really wish you’d wait a bit before clapping that boy into prison. The most careful and conscientious of us are liable to error. Even facts sometimes lie damnably; and I can’t help believing that the facts in this instance have deceived you.”
It was plain that Markham was touched by this request of his old friend; but his instinctive fidelity to duty helped him to resist the other’s appeal.
The Philo Vance Megapack Page 15
