At seven o’clock the next morning she came downstairs as usual to begin her day’s duties, and, on her way to the front door to bring in the milk and cream, had discovered Benson’s body. All the shades in the living-room were down.
At first she thought Benson had fallen asleep in his chair, but when she saw the bullet hole and noticed that the electric lights had been switched off, she knew he was dead. She had gone at once to the telephone in the hall and, asking the operator for the Police Station, had reported the murder. She had then remembered Benson’s brother, Major Anthony Benson, and had telephoned him also. He had arrived at the house almost simultaneously with the detectives from the West Forty-seventh Street station. He had questioned her a little, talked with the plain-clothes men, and gone away before the men from Headquarters arrived.
“And now, Mrs. Platz,” said Markham, glancing at the notes he had been making, “one or two more questions, and we won’t trouble you further. . . . Have you noticed anything in Mr. Benson’s actions lately that might lead you to suspect that he was worried—or, let us say, in fear of anything happening to him?”
“No, sir,” the woman answered readily. “It looked like he was in special good-humor for the last week or so.”
“I notice that most of the windows on this floor are barred. Was he particularly afraid of burglars, or of people breaking in?”
“Well—not exactly,” was the hesitant reply. “But he did use to say as how the police were no good—begging your pardon, sir—and how a man in this city had to look out for himself if he didn’t want to get held up.”
Markham turned to Heath with a chuckle.
“You might make a special note of that for your files, Sergeant.” Then to Mrs. Platz: “Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against Mr. Benson?”
“Not a soul, sir,” the housekeeper answered emphatically. “He was a queer man in many ways, but everybody seemed to like him. He was all the time going to parties or giving parties. I just can’t see why anybody’d want to kill him.”
Markham looked over his notes again.
“I don’t think there’s anything else for the present. . . . How about it, Sergeant? Anything further you want to ask?”
Heath pondered a moment.
“No, I can’t think of anything more just now. . . . But you, Mrs. Platz,” he added, turning a cold glance on the woman, “will stay here in this house till you’re given permission to leave. We’ll want to question you later. But you’re not to talk to anyone else—understand? Two of my men will be here for a while yet.”
Vance, during the interview, had been jotting down something on the fly-leaf of a small pocket address-book, and as Heath was speaking, he tore out the page and handed it to Markham. Markham glanced at it frowningly and pursed his lips. Then after a few moments’ hesitation, he addressed himself again to the housekeeper.
“You mentioned, Mrs. Platz, that Mr. Benson was liked by everyone. Did you yourself like him?”
The woman shifted her eyes to her lap.
“Well, sir,” she replied reluctantly, “I was only working for him, and I haven’t got any complaint about the way he treated me.”
Despite her words, she gave the impression that she either disliked Benson extremely or greatly disapproved of him. Markham, however, did not push the point.
“And by the way, Mrs. Platz,” he said next, “did Mr. Benson keep any fire-arms about the house? For instance, do you know if he owned a revolver?”
For the first time during the interview, the woman appeared agitated, even frightened.
“Yes, sir, I—think he did,” she admitted, in an unsteady voice.
“Where did he keep it?”
The woman glanced up apprehensively, and rolled her eyes slightly as if weighing the advisability of speaking frankly. Then she replied in a low voice:
“In that hidden drawer there in the center-table. You—you use that little brass button to open it with.”
Heath jumped up, and pressed the button she had indicated. A tiny, shallow drawer shot out; and in it lay a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight revolver with an inlaid pearl handle.48 He picked it up, broke the carriage, and looked at the head of the cylinder.
“Full,” he announced laconically.
An expression of tremendous relief spread over the woman’s features, and she sighed audibly.
Markham had risen and was looking at the revolver over Heath’s shoulder.
“You’d better take charge of it, Sergeant,” he said; “though I don’t see exactly how it fits in with the case.”
He resumed his seat, and glancing at the notation Vance had given him, turned again to the housekeeper.
“One more question, Mrs. Platz. You said Mr. Benson came home early and spent his time before dinner in this room. Did he have any callers during that time?”
I was watching the woman closely, and it seemed to me that she quickly compressed her lips. At any rate, she sat up a little straighter in her chair before answering.
“There wasn’t no one, as far as I know.”
“But surely you would have known if the bell rang,” insisted Markham. “You would have answered the door, wouldn’t you?”
“There wasn’t no one,” she repeated, with a trace of sullenness.
“And last night: did the door-bell ring at all after you had retired?”
“No, sir.”
“You would have heard it, even if you’d been asleep?”
“Yes, sir. There’s a bell just outside my door, the same as in the kitchen. It rings in both places. Mr. Benson had it fixed that way.”
Markham thanked her and dismissed her. When she had gone, he looked at Vance questioningly.
“What idea did you have in your mind when you handed me those questions?”
“I might have been a bit presumptuous, y’ know,” said Vance; “but when the lady was extolling the deceased’s popularity, I rather felt she was overdoing it a bit. There was an unconscious implication of antithesis in her eulogy, which suggested to me that she herself was not ardently enamored of the gentleman.”
“And what put the notion of fire-arms into your mind?”
“That query,” explained Vance, “was a corollary of your own questions about barred windows and Benson’s fear of burglars. If he was in a funk about house-breakers or enemies, he’d be likely to have weapons at hand—eh, what?”
“Well, anyway, Mr. Vance,” put in Heath, “your curiosity unearthed a nice little revolver that’s probably never been used.”
“By the bye, Sergeant,” returned Vance, ignoring the other’s good-humored sarcasm, “just what do you make of that nice little revolver?”
“Well, now,” Heath replied, with ponderous facetiousness, “I deduct that Mr. Benson kept a pearl-handled Smith and Wesson in a secret drawer of his center-table.”
“You don’t say—really!” exclaimed Vance in mock admiration. “Pos’tively illuminatin’!”
Markham broke up this raillery.
“Why did you want to know about visitors, Vance? There obviously hadn’t been anyone here.”
“Oh, just a whim of mine. I was assailed by an impulsive yearning to hear what La Platz would say.”
Heath was studying Vance curiously. His first impressions of the man were being dispelled, and he had begun to suspect that beneath the other’s casual and debonair exterior there was something of a more solid nature than he had at first imagined. He was not altogether satisfied with Vance’s explanations to Markham, and seemed to be endeavoring to penetrate to his real reasons for supplementing the District Attorney’s interrogation of the housekeeper. Heath was astute, and he had the worldly man’s ability to read people; but Vance, being different from the men with whom he usually came in contact, was an enigma to him.
At length he relinquished his scrutiny, and drew up his chair to the table with a spirited air.
“And now, Mr. Markham,” he said crisply, “we’d better outline our activities so as not to duplicate our efforts. The
sooner I get my men started, the better.”
Markham assented readily.
“The investigation is entirely up to you, Sergeant. I’m here to help wherever I’m needed.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” Heath returned. “But it looks to me as though there’d be enough work for all parties. . . . Suppose I get to work on running down the owner of the hand-bag, and send some men out scouting among Benson’s night-life cronies,—I can pick up some names from the housekeeper, and they’ll be a good starting point. And I’ll get after that Cadillac, too. . . . Then we ought to look into his lady friends—I guess he had enough of ’em.”
“I may get something out of the Major along that line,” supplied Markham. “He’ll tell me anything I want to know. And I can also look into Benson’s business associates through the same channel.”
“I was going to suggest that you could do that better than I could,” Heath rejoined. “We ought to run into something pretty quick that’ll give us a line to go on. And I’ve got an idea that when we locate the lady he took to dinner last night and brought back here, we’ll know a lot more than we do now.”
“Or a lot less,” murmured Vance.
Heath looked up quickly, and grunted with an air of massive petulance.
“Let me tell you something, Mr. Vance,” he said, “—since I understand you want to learn something about these affairs: when anything goes seriously wrong in this world, it’s pretty safe to look for a woman in the case.”
“Ah, yes,” smiled Vance. “Cherchez la femme—an aged notion. Even the Romans labored under the superstition,—they expressed it with Dux femina facti.”49
“However they expressed it,” retorted Heath, “they had the right idea. And don’t let ’em tell you different.”
Again Markham diplomatically intervened.
“That point will be settled very soon, I hope. . . . And now, Sergeant, if you’ve nothing else to suggest, I’ll be getting along. I told Major Benson I’d see him at lunch time; and I may have some news for you by to-night.”
“Right,” assented Heath. “I’m going to stick around here a while and see if there’s anything I overlooked. I’ll arrange for a guard outside and also for a man inside to keep an eye on the Platz woman. Then I’ll see the reporters and let them in on the disappearing Cadillac and Mr. Vance’s mysterious revolver in the secret drawer. I guess that ought to hold ’em. If I find out anything, I’ll ’phone you.”
When he had shaken hands with the District Attorney, he turned to Vance.
“Good-bye, sir,” he said pleasantly, much to my surprise, and to Markham’s too, I imagine. “I hope you learned something this morning.”
“You’d be pos’tively dumfounded, Sergeant, at all I did learn,” Vance answered carelessly.
Again I noted the look of shrewd scrutiny in Heath’s eyes; but in a second it was gone.
“Well, I’m glad of that,” was his perfunctory reply.
Markham, Vance and I went out, and the patrolman on duty hailed a taxicab for us.
“So that’s the way our lofty gendarmerie approaches the mysterious wherefores of criminal enterprise—eh?” mused Vance, as we started on our way across town. “Markham, old dear, how do those robust lads ever succeed in running down a culprit?”
“You have witnessed only the barest preliminaries,” Markham explained. “There are certain things that must be done as a matter of routine—ex abundantia cautelæ,50 as we lawyers say.”
“But, my word!—such technique!” sighed Vance. “Ah, well, quantum est in rebus inane!51 as we laymen say.”
“You don’t think much of Heath’s capacity, I know,”—Markham’s voice was patient—“but he’s a clever man, and one that it’s very easy to underestimate.”
“I dare say,” murmured Vance. “Anyway, I’m deuced grateful to you, and all that, for letting me behold the solemn proceedings. I’ve been vastly amused, even if not uplifted. Your official Æsculapius rather appealed to me, y’ know—such a brisk, unemotional chap, and utterly unimpressed with the corpse. He really should have taken up crime in a serious way, instead of studying medicine.”
Markham lapsed into gloomy silence, and sat looking out of the window in troubled meditation until we reached Vance’s house.
“I don’t like the looks of things,” he remarked, as we drew up to the curb. “I have a curious feeling about this case.”
Vance regarded him a moment from the corner of his eye.
“See here, Markham,” he said with unwonted seriousness; “haven’t you any idea who shot Benson?”
Markham forced a faint smile.
“I wish I had. Crimes of wilful murder are not so easily solved. And this case strikes me as a particularly complex one.”
“Fancy, now!” said Vance, as he stepped out of the machine. “And I thought it extr’ordin’rily simple.”
47.Properly “Humphrey Milford”—Milford was the publisher of Oxford University Press from 1913 to 1945 and supervised many beautiful editions of classic literature. Roger Payne (1739–1797) was a noted English bookbinder, and Milford may have published a replica of a book bound by Payne.
48.This was a standard model 6-shot .38-caliber revolver made by Smith & Wesson at the time, available with mother-of-pearl handles.
A pearl-handled Smith & Wesson revolver.
49.Roughly translated as “The woman was the leader of the exploit,” the phrase is from Virgil’s Aeneid, Book I, Line 364.
50.“Out of an abundance of caution.”
51.“Ah, how much futility in the world!” (said to be from to the satires of Persius and quoted by many other writers, including Voltaire).
CHAPTER V
Gathering Information
(Saturday, June 15; forenoon.)
You will remember the sensation caused by Alvin Benson’s murder. It was one of those crimes that appeal irresistibly to the popular imagination. Mystery is the basis of all romance, and about the Benson case there hung an impenetrable aura of mystery. It was many days before any definite light was shed on the circumstances surrounding the shooting; but numerous ignes fatui52 arose to beguile the public’s imagination, and wild speculations were heard on all sides.
Alvin Benson, while not a romantic figure in any respect, had been well-known; and his personality had been a colorful and spectacular one. He had been a member of New York’s wealthy bohemian social set—an avid sportsman, a rash gambler, and professional man-about-town; and his life, led on the borderland of the demimonde, had contained many high-lights. His exploits in the night clubs and cabarets had long supplied the subject-matter for exaggerated stories and comments in the various local papers and magazines which batten on Broadway’s scandalmongers.53
Benson and his brother, Anthony, had, at the time of the former’s sudden death, been running a brokerage office at 21 Wall Street, under the name of Benson and Benson. Both were regarded by the other brokers of the Street as shrewd business men, though perhaps a shade unethical when gauged by the constitution and by-laws of the New York Stock Exchange. They were markedly contrasted as to temperament and taste, and saw little of each other outside the office. Alvin Benson devoted his entire leisure to pleasure-seeking and was a regular patron of the city’s leading cafés; whereas Anthony Benson, who was the older and had served as a major in the late war,54 followed a sedate and conventional existence, spending most of his evenings quietly at his clubs. Both, however, were popular in their respective circles, and between them they had built up a large clientele.
The glamour of the financial district had much to do with the manner in which the crime was handled by the newspapers. Moreover, the murder had been committed at a time when the metropolitan press was experiencing a temporary lull in sensationalism; and the story was spread over the front pages of the papers with a prodigality rarely encountered in such cases.* Eminent detectives throughout the country were interviewed by enterprising reporters. Histories of famous unsolved murder cases were revived; and
clairvoyants55 and astrologers were engaged by the Sunday editors to solve the mystery by various metaphysical devices. Photographs and detailed diagrams were the daily accompaniments of these journalistic outpourings.
In all the news stories the grey Cadillac and the pearl-handled Smith and Wesson were featured. There were pictures of Cadillac cars, “touched up” and reconstructed to accord with Patrolman McLaughlin’s description, some of them even showing the fishingtackle protruding from the tonneau. A photograph of Benson’s center-table had been taken, with the secret drawer enlarged and reproduced in an “inset”. One Sunday magazine went so far as to hire an expert cabinet-maker to write a dissertation on secret compartments in furniture.
The Benson case from the outset had proved a trying and difficult one from the police standpoint. Within an hour of the time that Vance and I had left the scene of the crime a systematic investigation had been launched by the men of the Homicide Bureau in charge of Sergeant Heath. Benson’s house was again gone over thoroughly, and all his private correspondence read; but nothing was brought forth that could throw any light on the tragedy. No weapon was found aside from Benson’s own Smith and Wesson; and though all the window grilles were again inspected, they were found to be secure, indicating that the murderer had either let himself in with a key, or else been admitted by Benson. Heath, by the way, was unwilling to admit this latter possibility despite Mrs. Platz’s positive assertion that no other person besides herself and Benson had a key.
Because of the absence of any definite clue, other than the hand-bag and the gloves, the only proceeding possible was the interrogating of Benson’s friends and associates in the hope of uncovering some fact which would furnish a trail. It was by this process also that Heath hoped to establish the identity of the owner of the hand-bag. A special effort was therefore made to ascertain where Benson had spent the evening; but though many of his acquaintances were questioned, and the cafés where he habitually dined were visited, no one could at once be found who had seen him that night; nor, as far as it was possible to learn, had he mentioned to anyone his plans for the evening. Furthermore, no general information of a helpful nature came to light immediately, although the police pushed their inquiry with the utmost thoroughness. Benson apparently had no enemies; he had not quarreled seriously with anyone; and his affairs were reported in their usual orderly shape.
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 38
