The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  Vance nodded consolingly during her tirade.

  “Y’ know, I sympathize fully with you.” The tone in which he made the remark seemed to establish a closer rapprochement.

  After a moment he gave her a friendly smile. “But, after all, one could almost forgive Benson for holding the confession, if he hadn’t also demanded security.”

  “What security?”

  Vance was quick to sense the change in her tone. Taking advantage of her rage, he had mentioned the security while the barriers of her pose were down. Her frightened, almost involuntary query told him that the right moment had arrived. Before she could gain her equilibrium or dispel the momentary fear which had assailed her, he said, with suave deliberation:

  “The day Mr. Benson was shot, he took home with him from the office a small blue box of jewels.”

  She caught her breath but otherwise gave no outward sign of emotion. “Do you think he had stolen them?”

  The moment she had uttered the question, she realized that it was a mistake in technique. An ordinary man might have been momentarily diverted from the truth by it. But by Vance’s smile she recognized that he had accepted it as an admission.

  “It was rather fine of you, y’ know, to lend Mr. Pfyfe your jewels to cover the note with.”

  At this she threw her head up. The blood had left her face, and the rouge on her cheeks took on a mottled and unnatural hue.

  “You say I lent my jewels to Andy! I swear to you—”

  Vance halted her denial with a slight movement of the hand and a coup d’oeil. She saw that his intention was to save her from the humiliation she might feel later at having made too emphatic and unqualified a statement; and the graciousness of his action, although he was an antagonist, gave her more confidence in him.

  She sank back into her chair, and her hands relaxed.

  “What makes you think I lent Andy my jewels?”

  Her voice was colorless, but Vance understood the question. It was the end of her deceptions. The pause which followed was an amnesty—recognized as such by both. The next spoken words would be the truth.

  “Andy had to have them,” she said, “or Benson would have put him in jail.” One read in her words a strange, self-sacrificing affection for the worthless Pfyfe. “And if Benson hadn’t done it, and had merely refused to honor the check, his father-in-law would have done it.… Andy is so careless, so unthinking. He does things without weighing the consequences. I am all the time having to hold him down.… But this thing has taught him a lesson—I’m sure of it.”

  I felt that if anything in the world could teach Pfyfe a lesson, it was the blind loyalty of this woman.

  “Do you know what he quarreled about with Mr. Benson in his office last Wednesday?” asked Vance.

  “That was all my fault,” she explained, with a sigh. “It was getting very near to the time when the note was due, and I knew Andy didn’t have all the money. So I asked him to go to Benson and offer him what he had, and see if he couldn’t get my jewels back.… But he was refused—I thought he would be.”

  Vance looked at her for a while sympathetically.

  “I don’t want to worry you any more than I can help,” he said; “but won’t you tell me the real cause of your anger against Benson a moment ago?”

  She gave him an admiring nod. “You’re right—I had good reason to hate him.” Her eyes narrowed unpleasantly. “The day after he had refused to give Andy the jewels, he called me up—it was in the afternoon—and asked me to have breakfast with him at his house the next morning. He said he was home and had the jewels with him; and he told me—hinted, you understand—that maybe—maybe I could have them. That’s the kind of beast he was!… I telephoned to Port Washington to Andy and told him about it, and he said he’d be in New York the next morning. He got here about nine o’clock, and we read in the paper that Benson had been shot that night.”

  Vance was silent for a long time. Then he stood up and thanked her.

  “You have helped us a great deal. Mr. Markham is a friend of Major Benson’s, and, since we have the check and the confession in our possession, I shall ask him to use his influence with the major to permit us to destroy them—very soon.”

  CHAPTER 18

  A CONFESSION

  (Wednesday, June 19; 1 P.M.)

  When we were again outside Markham asked, “How in Heaven’s name did you know she had put up her jewels to help Pfyfe?”

  “My charmin’ metaphysical deductions, don’t y’ know,” answered Vance. “As I told you, Benson was not the openhanded, bighearted altruist who would have lent money without security; and certainly the impecunious Pfyfe had no collateral worth ten thousand dollars or he wouldn’t have forged the check. Ergo: someone lent him the security. Now, who would be so trustin’ as to lend Pfyfe that amount of security except a sentimental woman who was blind to his amazin’ defects? Y’know, I was just evil-minded enough to suspect there was a Calypso in the life of this Ulysses when he told us of stopping over in New York to murmur au revoir to someone. When a man like Pfyfe fails to specify the sex of a person, it is safe to assume the feminine gender. So I suggested that you send a Paul Pry to Port Washington to peer into his trans-matrimonial activities; I felt certain a bonne amie would be found. Then, when the mysterious package, which obviously was the security, seemed to identify itself as the box of jewels seen by the inquisitive housekeeper, I said to myself: ‘Ah! Leander’s misguided Dulcinea has lent him her gewgaws to save him from the yawning dungeon.’ Nor did I overlook the fact that he had been shielding someone in his explanation about the check. Therefore, as soon as the lady’s name and address were learned by Tracy, I made the appointment for you.…”

  We were passing the Gothic-Renaissance Schwab residence which extends from West End Avenue to Riverside Drive at Seventy-third Street; and Vance stopped for a moment to contemplate it.

  Markham waited patiently. At length Vance walked on.

  “…Y’ know, the moment I saw Mrs. Banning, I knew my conclusions were correct. She was a sentimental soul and just the sort of professional good sport who would have handed over her jewels to her amoroso. Also, she was bereft of gems when we called—and a woman of her stamp always wears her jewels when she desires to make an impression on strangers. Moreover, she’s the kind that would have jewelry even if the larder was empty. It was therefore merely a question of getting her to talk.”

  “On the whole, you did very well,” observed Markham.

  Vance gave him a condescending bow. “Sir Hubert is too generous. But tell me, didn’t my little chat with the lady cast a gleam into your darkened mind?”

  “Naturally,” said Markham. “I’m not utterly obtuse. She played unconsciously into our hands. She believed Pfyfe did not arrive in New York until the morning after the murder, and therefore told us quite frankly that she had phoned him that Benson had the jewels at home. The situation now is: Pfyfe knew they were in Benson’s house and was there himself at about the time the shot was fired. Furthermore, the jewels are gone; and Pfyfe tried to cover up his tracks that night.”

  Vance sighed hopelessly. “Markham, there are altogether too many trees for you in this case. You simply can’t see the forest, y’ know, because of ’em.”

  “There is the remote possibility that you are so busily engaged in looking at one particular tree that you are unaware of the others.”

  A shadow passed over Vance’s face. “I wish you were right,” he said.

  It was nearly half past one, and we dropped into the Fountain Room of the Ansonia Hotel for lunch. Markham was preoccupied throughout the meal, and when we entered the subway later, he looked uneasily at his watch.

  “I think I’ll go on down to Wall Street and call on the major a moment before returning to the office. I can’t understand his asking Miss Hoffman not to mention the package to me.… It might not have contained the jewels, after all.”

  “Do you imagine for one moment,” rejoined Vance, “that Alvin told the maj
or the truth about the package? It was not a very cred’table transaction, y’ know; and the major most likely would have given him what-for.”

  Major Benson’s explanation bore out Vance’s surmise. Markham, in telling him of the interview with Paula Banning, emphasized the jewel episode in the hope that the major would voluntarily mention the package; for his promise to Miss Hoffman prevented him from admitting that he was aware of the other’s knowledge concerning it.

  The major listened with considerable astonishment, his eyes gradually growing angry. “I’m afraid Alvin deceived me,” he said. He looked straight ahead for a moment, his face softening. “And I don’t like to think it, now that he’s gone. But the truth is, when Miss Hoffman told me this morning about the envelope, she also mentioned a small parcel that had been in Alvin’s private safe-drawer; and I asked her to omit any reference to it from her story to you. I knew the parcel contained Mrs. Banning’s jewels, but I thought the fact would only confuse matters if brought to your attention. You see, Alvin told me that a judgment had been taken against Mrs. Banning, and that, just before the Supplementary Proceedings, Pfyfe had brought her jewels here and asked him to sequester them temporarily in his safe.”

  On our way back to the Criminal Courts Building, Markham took Vance’s arm and smiled. “Your guessing luck is holding out, I see.”

  “Rather!” agreed Vance. “It would appear that the late Alvin, like Warren Hastings, resolved to die in the last dyke of prevarication.… Splendide mendax, what?”

  “In any event,” replied Markham, “the major has unconsciously added another link in the chain against Pfyfe.”

  “You seem to be making a collection of chains,” commented Vance drily. “What have you done with the ones you forged about Miss St. Clair and Leacock?”

  “I haven’t entirely discarded them—if that’s what you think,” asserted Markham gravely.

  When we reached the office, Sergeant Heath was awaiting us with a beatific grin.

  “It’s all over, Mr. Markham,” he announced. “This noon, after you’d gone, Leacock came here looking for you. When he found you were out, he phoned headquarters, and they connected him with me. He wanted to see me—very important, he said; so I hurried over. He was sitting in the waiting room when I came in and he called me over and said: ‘I came to give myself up. I killed Benson.’ I got him to dictate a confession to Swacker, and then he sighed it.… Here it is.” He handed Markham a typewritten sheet of paper.

  Markham sank wearily into a chair. The strain of the past few days had begun to tell on him. He signed heavily. “Thank God! Now our troubles are ended.”

  Vance looked at him lugubriously and shook his head.

  “I rather fancy, y’ know, that your troubles are only beginning,” he drawled.

  When Markham had glanced through the confession, he handed it to Vance, who read it carefully with an expression of growing amusement.

  “Y’ know,” he said, “this document isn’t at all legal. Any judge worthy the name would throw it precip’tately out of court. It’s far too simple and precise. It doesn’t begin with ‘greetings’; it doesn’t contain a single ‘wherefore-be-it’ or ‘be-it-known’ or ‘do-hereby’; it says nothing about ‘free will’ or ‘sound mind’ or ‘disposin’ mem’ ry’; and the captain doesn’t once refer to himself as ‘the party of the first part’.… Utterly worthless, Sergeant. If I were you, I’d chuck it.”

  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 pos’tively 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 tonight 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 are you 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 meager 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, recognized 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 hallboy 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 clamoring 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 clamoring, I guess. But I’ll give ’em an earful now, if you say the word.”