Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 1

by S. S. Van Dine

  "But you do suspect someone?" Vance put the question.

  "In a way—yes. I overheard a conversation in Alvin's office one day that took on added significance after his death."

  "You shouldn't let chivalry stand in the way," urged Markham. "If your suspicion is unfounded, the truth will surely come out."

  "But when I don't know, I certainly ought not to hazard a guess," affirmed the major. "I think it best that you solve this problem without me."

  Despite Markham's importunities, he would say no more; and shortly afterward he excused himself and went out.

  Markham, now profoundly worried, sat smoking restlessly, tapping the arm of his chair with his fingers.

  "Well, old bean, a bit involved, what?" commented Vance.

  "It's not so damned funny," Markham grumbled. "Everyone seems to know more about the case than the police or the district attorney's office."

  "Which wouldn't be so disconcertin' if they all weren't so deuced reticent," supplemented Vance cheerfully. "And the touchin' part of it is that each of 'em appears to be keeping still in order to shield someone else. Mrs. Platz began it; she lied about Benson's having any callers that afternoon because she didn't want to involve his tea companion. Miss St. Clair declined point-blank to tell you anything because she obviously didn't desire to cast suspicion on another. The captain became voiceless the moment you suggested his affianced bride was entangled. Even Leander refused to extricate himself from a delicate situation lest he implicate another. And now the major! . . . Most annoyin'. On the other hand, don't y' know, it's comfortin'—not to say upliftin'—to be dealing exclusively with such noble, self-sacrificin' souls."

  "Hell!" Markham put down his cigar and rose. "The case is getting on my nerves. I'm going to sleep on it and tackle it in the morning."

  "That ancient idea of sleeping on a problem is a fallacy," said Vance, as we walked out into Madison Avenue, "—an apologia, as it were, for one's not being able to think clearly. Poetic idea, y' know. All poets believe in it—nature's soft nurse, the balm of woe, childhood's mandragora, tired nature's sweet restorer, and that sort of thing. Silly notion. When the brain is keyed up and alive, it works far better than when apathetic from the torpor of sleep. Slumber is an anodyne—not a stimulus."

  "Well, you sit up and think," was Markham's surly advice.

  "That's what I'm going to do," blithely returned Vance; "but not about the Benson case. I did all the thinking I'm going to do along that line four days ago."

  17. THE FORGED CHECK

  (Wednesday, June 19; forenoon.)

  We rode downtown with Markham the next morning, and though we arrived at his office before nine o'clock, Heath was already there waiting. He appeared worried, and when he spoke, his voice held an ill-disguised reproof for the district attorney.

  "What about this Leacock, Mr. Markham?" he asked. "It looks to me like we'd better grab him quick. We've been tailing him right along; and there's something funny going on. Yesterday morning he went to his bank and spent half an hour in the chief cashier's office. After that he visited his lawyer's and was there over an hour. Then he went back to the bank for another half hour. He dropped in to the Astor Grill for lunch but didn't eat anything—sat staring at the table. About two o'clock he called on the realty agents who have the handling of the building he lives in; and after he'd left, we found out he'd offered his apartment for sublease beginning tomorrow. Then he paid six calls on friends of his and went home. After dinner my man rang his apartment bell and asked for Mr. Hoozitz;—Leacock was packing up! . . . It looks to me like a getaway."

  Markham frowned. Heath's report clearly troubled him; but before he could answer, Vance spoke. "Why this perturbation, Sergeant? You're watching the captain. I'm sure he can't slip from your vigilant clutches."

  Markham looked at Vance a moment, then turned to Heath. "Let it go at that. But if Leacock attempts to leave the city, nab him."

  Heath went out sullenly.

  "By the bye, Markham," said Vance; "don't make an appointment for half past twelve today. You already have one, don't y' know. And with a lady."

  Markham put down his pen and stared. "What new damned nonsense is this?"

  "I made an engagement for you. Called the lady by phone this morning. I'm sure I woke the dear up."

  Markham spluttered, striving to articulate his angry protest.

  Vance held up his hand soothingly.

  "And you simply must keep the engagement. Y' see, I told her it was you speaking; and it would be shocking taste not to appear. . . . I promise, you won't regret meeting her," he added. "Things looked so sadly befuddled last night—I couldn't bear to see you suffering so. Cons'quently, I arranged for you to see Mrs. Paula Banning, Pfyfe's Eloïse, y' know. I'm pos'tive she'll be able to dispel some of this inspissated gloom that's enveloping you."

  "See here, Vance!" Markham growled. "I happen to be running this office—" He stopped abruptly, realizing the hopelessness of making headway against the other's blandness. Moreover, I think, the prospect of interviewing Mrs. Paula Banning was not wholly alien to his inclinations. His resentment slowly ebbed, and when he again spoke, his voice was almost matter-of-fact.

  "Since you've committed me, I'll see her. But I'd rather Pfyfe wasn't in such close communication with her. He's apt to drop in—with preconcerted unexpectedness."

  "Funny," murmured Vance. "I thought of that myself. . . . That's why I phoned him last night that he could return to Long Island."

  "You phoned him!"

  "Awf'lly sorry and all that," Vance apologized. "But you'd gone to bed. Sleep was knitting up your raveled sleave of care; and I couldn't bring myself to disturb you. . . . Pfyfe was so grateful, too. Most touchin'. Said his wife also would be grateful. He was pathetically consid'rate about Mrs. Pfyfe. But I fear he'll need all his velvety forensic powers to explain his absence."

  "In what other quarters have you involved me during my absence?" asked Markham acrimoniously.

  "That's all," replied Vance, rising and strolling to the window.

  He stood looking out, smoking thoughtfully. When he turned back to the room, his bantering air had gone. He sat down facing Markham.

  "The major has practically admitted to us," he said, "that he knows more about this affair than he has told. You naturally can't push the point, in view of his hon'rable attitude in the matter. And yet, he's willing for you to find out what he knows, as long as he doesn't tell you himself—that was unquestionably the stand he took last night. Now, I believe there's a way you can find out without calling upon him to go against his principles. . . . You recall Miss Hoffman's story of the eavesdropping; and you also recall that he told you he heard a conversation which, in the light of Benson's murder, became significant. It's quite prob'ble, therefore, that the major's knowledge has to do with something connected with the business of the firm, or at least with one of the firm's clients."

  Vance slowly lit another cigarette.

  "My suggestion is this: Call up the major and ask permission to send a man to take a peep at his ledger accounts and his purchase and sales books. Tell him you want to find out about the transactions of one of his clients. Intimate that it's Miss St. Clair—or Pfyfe, if you like. I have a strange mediumistic feeling that, in this way, you'll get on the track of the person he's shielding. And I'm also assailed by the premonition that he'll welcome your interest in his ledger."

  The plan did not appeal to Markham as feasible or fraught with possibilities; and it was evident he disliked making such a request of Major Benson. But so determined was Vance, so earnestly did he argue his point, that in the end Markham acquiesced.

  "He was quite willing to let me send a man," said Markham, hanging up the receiver. "In fact, he seemed eager to give me every assistance."

  "I thought he'd take kindly to the suggestion," said Vance. "Y' see, if you discover for yourself whom he suspects, it relieves him of the onus of having tattled."

  Markham rang for Swacker. "Call up Sti
tt and tell him I want to see him here before noon—that I have an immediate job for him."

  "Stitt," Markham explained to Vance, "is the head of a firm of public accountants over in the New York Life Building. I use him a good deal on work like this."

  Shortly before noon Stitt came. He was a prematurely old young man, with a sharp, shrewd face and a perpetual frown. The prospect of working for the district attorney pleased him.

  Markham explained briefly what was wanted, and revealed enough of the case to guide him in his task. The man grasped the situation immediately and made one or two notes on the back of a dilapidated envelope.

  Vance also, during the instructions, had jotted down some notations on a piece of paper.

  Markham stood up and took his hat.

  "Now, I suppose, I must keep the appointment you made for me," he complained to Vance. Then: "Come, Stitt, I'll take you down with us in the judges' private elevator."

  "If you don't mind," interposed Vance, "Mr. Stitt and I will forgo the honor and mingle with the commoners in the public lift. We'll meet you downstairs."

  Taking the accountant by the arm, he led him out through the main waiting room. It was ten minutes, however, before he joined us.

  We took the subway to Seventy-second Street and walked up West End Avenue to Mrs. Paula Banning's address. She lived in a small apartment house just around the corner in Seventy-fifth Street. As we stood before her door, waiting for an answer to our ring, a strong odor of Chinese incense drifted out to us.

  "Ah! That facilitates matters," said Vance, sniffing. "Ladies who burn joss sticks are invariably sentimental."

  Mrs. Banning was a tall, slightly adipose woman of indeterminate age, with straw-colored hair and a pink-and-white complexion. Her face in repose possessed a youthful and vacuous innocence; but the expression was only superficial. Her eyes, a very light blue, were hard; and a slight puffiness about her cheekbones and beneath her chin attested to years of idle and indulgent living. She was not unattractive, however, in a vivid, flamboyant way; and her manner, when she ushered us into her overfurnished and rococo living room, was one of easygoing good-fellowship.

  When we were seated and Markham had apologized for our intrusion, Vance at once assumed the role of interviewer. During his opening explanatory remarks he appraised the woman carefully, as if seeking to determine the best means of approaching her for the information he wanted.

  After a few minutes of verbal reconnoitering, he asked permission to smoke and offered Mrs. Banning one of his cigarettes, which she accepted. Then he smiled at her in a spirit of appreciative geniality and relaxed comfortably in his chair. He conveyed the impression that he was fully prepared to sympathize with anything she might tell him.

  "Mr. Pfyfe strove very hard to keep you entirely out of this affair," said Vance; "and we fully appreciate his delicacy in so doing. But certain circumst'nces connected with Mr. Benson's death have inadvertently involved you in the case; and you can best help us and yourself—and particularly Mr. Pfyfe—by telling us what we want to know and trusting to our discretion and understanding."

  He had emphasized Pfyfe's name, giving it a significant intonation; and the woman had glanced down uneasily. Her apprehension was apparent, and when she looked up into Vance's eyes, she was asking herself: How much does he know? as plainly as if she had spoken the words audibly.

  "I can't imagine what you want me to tell you," she said, with an effort at astonishment. "You know that Andy was not in New York that night." (Her designating of the elegant and superior Pfyfe as "Andy" sounded almost like lèse-majesté.) "He didn't arrive in the city until nearly nine the next morning."

  "Didn't you read in the newspapers about the gray Cadillac that was parked in front of Benson's house?" Vance, in putting the question, imitated her own astonishment.

  She smiled confidently. "That wasn't Andy's car. He took the eight o'clock train to New York the next morning. He said it was lucky that he did, seeing that a machine just like his had been at Mr. Benson's the night before."

  She had spoken with the sincerity of complete assurance. It was evident that Pfyfe had lied to her on this point.

  Vance did not disabuse her; in fact, he gave her to understand that he accepted her explanation and consequently dismissed the idea of Pfyfe's presence in New York on the night of the murder.

  "I had in mind a connection of a somewhat diff'rent nature when I mentioned you and Mr. Pfyfe as having been drawn into the case. I referred to a personal relationship between you and Mr. Benson."

  She assumed an attitude of smiling indifference.

  "I'm afraid you've m'ade another mistake." She spoke lightly. "Mr. Benson and I were not even friends. Indeed, I scarcely knew him."

  There was an overtone of emphasis in her denial—a slight eagerness which, in indicating a conscious desire to be believed, robbed her remark of the complete casualness she had intended.

  "Even a business relationship may have its personal side," Vance reminded her; "especially when the intermediary is an intimate friend of both parties to the transaction."

  She looked at him quickly, then turned her eyes away. "I really don't know what you're talking about," she affirmed; and her face for a moment lost its contours of innocence and became calculating. "You're surely not implying that I had any business dealings with Mr. Benson?"

  "Not directly," replied Vance. "But certainly Mr. Pfyfe had business dealings with him; and one of them, I rather imagined, involved you consid'rably."

  "Involved me?" She laughed scornfully, but it was a strained laugh.

  "It was a somewhat unfortunate transaction, I fear," Vance went on, "—unfortunate in that Mr. Pfyfe was necessitated to deal with Mr. Benson; and doubly unfortunate, y' know, in that he should have had to drag you into it."

  His manner was easy and assured, and the woman sensed that no display of scorn or contempt, however well simulated, would make an impression upon him. Therefore, she adopted an attitude of tolerantly incredulous amusement.

  "And where did you learn about all this?" she asked playfully.

  "Alas! I didn't learn about it," answered Vance, falling in with her manner. "That's the reason, d' ye see, that I indulged in this charming little visit. I was foolish enough to hope that you'd take pity on my ignorance and tell me all about it."

  "But I wouldn't think of doing such a thing," she said, "even if this mysterious transaction had really taken place."

  "My word!" sighed Vance. "That is disappointin'. . . . Ah, well. I see that I must tell you what little I know about it and trust to your sympathy to enlighten me further."

  Despite the ominous undercurrent of his words, his levity acted like a sedative to her anxiety. She felt that he was friendly, however much he might know about her.

  "Am I bringing you news when I tell you that Mr. Pfyfe forged Mr. Benson's name to a check for ten thousand dollars?" he asked.

  She hesitated, gauging the possible consequences of her answer. "No, that isn't news. Andy tells me everything."

  "And did you also know that Mr. Benson, when informed of it, was rather put out?—that, in fact, he demanded a note and a signed confession before he would pay the check?"

  The woman's eyes flashed angrily.

  "Yes, I knew that too. And after all Andy had done for him! If ever a man deserved shooting, it was Alvin Benson. He was a dog. And he pretended to be Andy's best friend. Just think of it—refusing to lend Andy the money without a confession! . . . You'd hardly call that a business deal, would you? I'd call it a dirty, contemptible, underhand trick."

  She was enraged. Her mask of breeding and good-fellowship had fallen from her; and she poured out vituperation on Benson with no thought of the words she was using. Her speech was devoid of all the ordinary reticencies of intercourse between strangers.

  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.
<
br />   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.