Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  Vance was unimpressed by the announcement.

  “I rather imagined she’d telephone during her lunch hour.”

  Again Markham gave him one of his searching scrutinies.

  “There’s something damned queer going on around here,” he observed.

  “Oh, quite,” returned Vance carelessly. “Queerer than you could possibly imagine.”

  For fifteen or twenty minutes Markham endeavored to draw him out; but Vance seemed suddenly possessed of an ability to say nothing with the blandest fluency. Markham finally became exasperated.

  “I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion,” he said, “that either you had a hand in Benson’s murder, or you’re a phenomenally good guesser.”

  “There is, y’ know, an alternative,” rejoined Vance. “It might be that my æsthetic hypotheses and metaphysical deductions—as you call ’em—are working out—eh, what?”

  A few minutes before we went to lunch Swacker announced that Tracy had just returned from Long Island with his report.

  “Is he the lad you sent to look into Pfyfe’s affaires du cœur?” Vance asked Markham. “For, if he is, I am all aflutter.”

  “He’s the man. . . . Send him in, Swacker.”

  Tracy entered smiling silkily, his black note-book in one hand, his pince-nez in the other.

  “I had no trouble learning about Pfyfe,” he said. “He’s well known in Port Washington—quite a character, in fact—and it was easy to pick up gossip about him.”

  He adjusted his glasses carefully, and referred to his note-book.

  “He married a Miss Hawthorn in nineteen-ten. She’s wealthy, but Pfyfe doesn’t benefit much by it, because her father sits on the money-bags—”

  “Mr. Tracy, I say,” interrupted Vance; “never mind the néeHawthorn and her doting papa,—Mr. Pfyfe himself has confided in us about his sad marriage. Tell us, if you can, about Mr. Pfyfe’s extra-nuptial affairs. Are there any other ladies?”

  Tracy looked inquiringly at the District Attorney: he was uncertain as to Vance’s locus standi. Receiving a nod from Markham, he turned a page in his note-book and proceeded.

  “I found one other woman in the case. She lives in New York, and often telephones to a drug store near Pfyfe’s house, and leaves messages for him. He uses the same ’phone to call her by. He had made some deal with the proprietor, of course; but I was able to obtain her ’phone number. As soon as I came back to the city I got her name and address from Information, and made a few inquiries. . . . She’s a Mrs. Paula Banning, a widow, and a little fast, I should say; and she lives in an apartment at 268 West Seventy-fifth Street.”

  This exhausted Tracy’s information; and when he went out, Markham smiled broadly at Vance.

  “He didn’t supply you with very much fuel.”

  “My word! I think he did unbelievably well,” said Vance. “He unearthed the very information we wanted.”

  “We wanted?” echoed Markham. “I have more important things to think about than Pfyfe’s amours.”

  “And yet, y’ know, this particular amour of Pfyfe’s is going to solve the problem of Benson’s murder,” replied Vance; and would say no more.

  Markham, who had an accumulation of other work awaiting him and numerous appointments for the afternoon, decided to have his lunch served in the office; so Vance and I took leave of him.

  We lunched at the Élysée, dropped in at Knoedler’s115 to see an exhibition of French Pointillism, and then went to Aeolian Hall116 where a string quartette from San Francisco was giving a programme of Mozart. A little before half past five we were again at the District Attorney’s office, which at that hour was deserted except for Markham.

  Shortly after our arrival Miss Hoffman came in, and told the rest of her story in direct, business-like fashion.

  “I didn’t give you all the particulars this morning,” she said; “and I wouldn’t care to do so now unless you are willing to regard them as confidential, for my telling you might cost me my position.”

  “I promise you,” Markham assured her, “that I will entirely respect your confidence.”

  She hesitated a moment, and then continued.

  “When I told Major Benson this morning about Mr. Pfyfe and his brother, he said at once that I should come with him to your office and tell you also. But on the way over, he suggested that I might omit a part of the story. He didn’t exactly tell me not to mention it; but he explained that it had nothing to do with the case and might only confuse you. I followed his suggestion; but after I got back to the office I began thinking it over, and knowing how serious a matter Mr. Benson’s death was, I decided to tell you anyway. In case it did have some bearing on the situation, I didn’t want to be in the position of having withheld anything from you.”

  She seemed a little uncertain as to the wisdom of her decision.

  “I do hope I haven’t been foolish. But the truth is, there was something else besides that envelope, which Mr. Benson asked me to bring him from the safe the day he and Mr. Pfyfe had their quarrel. It was a square heavy package, and, like the envelope, was marked ‘Pfyfe-Personal’. And it was over this package that Mr. Benson and Mr. Pfyfe seemed to be quarrelling.”

  “Was it in the safe this morning when you went to get the envelope for the Major?” asked Vance.

  “Oh, no. After Mr. Pfyfe left last week, I put the package back in the safe along with the envelope. But Mr. Benson took it home with him last Thursday—the day he was killed.”

  Markham was but mildly interested in the recital, and was about to bring the interview to a close when Vance spoke up.

  “It was very good of you, Miss Hoffman, to take this trouble to tell us about the package; and now that you are here, there are one or two questions I’d like to ask. . . . How did Mr. Alvin Benson and the Major get along together?”

  She looked at Vance with a curious little smile.

  “They didn’t get along very well,” she said. “They were so different. Mr. Alvin Benson was not a very pleasant person, and not very honorable, I’m afraid. You’d never have thought they were brothers. They were constantly disputing about the business; and they were terribly suspicious of each other.”

  “That’s not unnatural,” commented Vance, “seeing how incompatible their temp’raments were. . . . By the bye, how did this suspicion show itself?”

  “Well, for one thing, they sometimes spied on each other. You see, their offices were adjoining, and they would listen to each other through the door. I did the secretarial work for both of them, and I often saw them listening. Several times they tried to find out things from me about each other.”

  Vance smiled at her appreciatively.

  “Not a pleasant position for you.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mind it,” she smiled back. “It amused me.”

  “When was the last time you caught either one of them listening?” he asked.

  The girl quickly became serious.

  “The very last day Mr. Alvin Benson was alive I saw the Major standing by the door. Mr. Benson had a caller—a lady—and the Major seemed very much interested. It was in the afternoon. Mr. Benson went home early that day—only about half an hour after the lady had gone. She called at the office again later, but he wasn’t there of course, and I told her he had already gone home.”

  “Do you know who the lady was?” Vance asked her.

  “No, I don’t,” she said. “She didn’t give her name.”

  Vance asked a few other questions, after which we rode up town in the subway with Miss Hoffman, taking leave of her at Twenty-third Street.

  Markham was silent and preoccupied during the trip. Nor did Vance make any comment until we were comfortably relaxed in the easy chairs of the Stuyvesant Club’s lounge-room. Then, lighting a cigarette lazily, he said:

  “You grasp the subtle mental processes leading up to my prophecy about Miss Hoffman’s second coming—eh, what, Markham? Y’ see, I knew friend Alvin had not paid that forged check without security, and I a
lso knew that the tiff must have been about the security, for Pfyfe was not really worrying about being jailed by his alter ego. I rather suspect Pfyfe was trying to get the security back before paying off the note, and was told there was ‘nothing doing’. . . . Moreover, Little Goldylocks may be a nice girl and all that; but it isn’t in the feminine temp’rament to sit next door to an altercation between two such rakes and not listen attentively. I shouldn’t care, y’ know, to have to decipher the typing she said she did during the episode. I was quite sure she heard more than she told; and I asked myself: Why this curtailment? The only logical answer was: Because the Major had suggested it. And since the gnädiges Fräulein was a forthright Germanic soul, with an inbred streak of selfish and cautious honesty, I ventured the prognostication that as soon as she was out from under the benev’lent jurisdiction of her tutor, she would tell us the rest, in order to save her own skin if the matter should come up later. . . . Not so cryptic when explained, what?”

  “That’s all very well,” conceded Markham petulantly. “But where does it get us?”

  “I shouldn’t say that the forward movement was entirely imperceptible.”

  Vance smoked a while impassively.

  “You realize, I trust,” he said, “that the mysterious package contained the security.”

  “One might form such a conclusion,” agreed Markham. “But the fact doesn’t dumbfound me—if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

  “And, of course,” pursued Vance easily, “your legal mind, trained in the technique of ratiocination, has already identified it as the box of jewels that Mrs. Platz espied on Benson’s table that fatal afternoon.”

  Markham sat up suddenly; then sank back with a shrug.

  “Even if it was,” he said, “I don’t see how that helps us. Unless the Major knew the package had nothing to do with the case, he would not have suggested to his secretary that she omit telling us about it.”

  “Ah! But if the Major knew that the package was an irrelevant item in the case, then he must also know something about the case—eh, what? Otherwise, he couldn’t determine what was, and what was not, irrelevant. . . . I have felt all along that he knew more than he admitted. Don’t forget that he put us on the track of Pfyfe, and also that he was quite pos’tive Captain Leacock was innocent.”

  Markham thought for several minutes.

  “I’m beginning to see what you’re driving at,” he remarked slowly. “Those jewels, after all, may have an important bearing on the case. . . . I think I’ll have a chat with the Major about things.”

  Shortly after dinner at the Club that night Major Benson came into the lounge-room where we had retired for our smoke; and Markham accosted him at once.

  “Major, aren’t you willing to help me a little more in getting at the truth about your brother’s death?” he asked.

  The other gazed at him searchingly: the inflection of Markham’s voice belied the apparent casualness of the question.

  “God knows it’s not my wish to put obstacles in your way,” he said, carefully weighing each word. “I’d gladly give you any help I could. But there are one or two things I can not tell you at this time. . . . If there was only myself to be considered,” he added, “it would be different.”

  “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, selfsacrificin’ 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.”

  114.“Oh, for the gift of tears, that I might weep,” is a line from a hymn called “The Last Word,” by Lady Catherine Howard Petre, included in Orby Shipley’s Annus Sanctus: Hymns of the Church for the Ecclesiastical Year (1884).

  115.M. Knoedler & Co was a well-known art dealership in New York City; founded in 1846, it operated at 556 Fifth Avenue between 1911 and 1925. The dealership closed in 2011 beset by numerous litigations alleging sales of fakes.

  116.A concert hall on the third floor of 29–33 West 42nd Street, built for the Aeolian Company (a manufacturer of pianos) in 1912; it closed in 1926.

  The Vocalion display room at the Aeolian Hall, 1916.

  CHAPTER XVII

  The Forged Check

  (Wednesday, June 19; forenoon.)

  We rode down town 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 sub-lease beginning to-morrow. 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 get-away.”

  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.

  “Le
t 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 to-day. 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 Éloïse,117 y’ know. I’m pos’tive she’ll be able to dispel some of this inspissated118 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 ravell’d sleeve 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.”