“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 Major 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,124 resolved to die in the last dyke of prevarication. . . . Splendide mendax,125 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 signed 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 sighed 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-here-by’; 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 to-night, 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 meagre 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 hall-boy 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 homines126—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.”
Markham nodded, and Heath started for the door. But Vance quickly planted himself in the way.
“Could you keep this thing quiet till to-morrow, Markham?” he asked.
Markham was annoyed.
“I could if I wanted to—yes. But why should I?”
“For your own sake, if for no other reason. You’ve got your prize safely locked up. Control your vanity for twenty-four hours. The Major and I both know that Leacock’s innocent, and by this time to-morrow the whole country’ll know it.”
Again an argument ensued; but the outcome, like that of the former argument, was a foregone conclusion. Markham had realized for some time that Vance had reason to be convinced of something which as yet he was unwilling to divulge. His opposition to Vance’s requests were, I had suspected, largely the result of an effort to ascertain this information; and I was positive of it now as he leaned forward and gravely debated the advisability of making public the Captain’s confession.
Vance, as heretofore, was careful to reveal nothing; but in the end his sheer determination carried his point; and Markham requested Heath to keep his own council until the next day. The Major, by a slight nod, indicated his approbation of the decision.
“You might tell the newspaper lads, though,” suggested Vance, “that you’ll have a rippin’ sensation for ’em to-morrow.”
Heath went out, crestfallen and glowering.
“A rash fella, the Sergeant—so impetuous!”
Vance again picked up the confession, and perused it.
“Now, Markham, I want you to bring your prisoner forth—habeas corpus and that sort of thing. Put him in that chair facing the window, give him one of the good cigars you keep for influential politicians, and then listen attentively while I politely chat with him. . . . The Major, I trust, will remain for the interlocut’ry proceedings.”
“That request, at least, I’ll grant without objections,” smiled Markham. “I had already decided to have a talk with Leacock.”
He pressed a buzzer, and a brisk, ruddy-faced clerk entered.
“A requisition for Captain Philip Leacock,” he ordered.
When it was brought to him he initialed it.
“Take it to Ben, and tell him to hurry.”
The clerk disappeared through the door leading to the outer corridor.
Ten minutes later a deputy sheriff from the Tombs entered with the prisoner.
120.Calypso is the beautiful Titan who, in The Odyssey, attempts to prevent Ulysses from returning to his wife.
121.E. Cobham Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable (1898) identifies “Paul Pry” as “[a]n idle, meddlesome fellow, who has no occupation of his own, and is always interfering with other folks’ business. (John Poole: Paul Pry, a comedy [1825].) The original was Thomas Hill.”
122.The Charles M. Schwab residence (known as Riverside) was a seventy-five-room mansion built in 1902–1906 at a cost of $6 million, the equivalent of over $165 million today. Schwab lost his fortune in the Depression and died nearily penniless in 1939. He left the home to the City of New York, to be used as the mayoral residence, but Fiorello La Guardia refused it; the building was eventually torn down in 1948, and an apartment building was erected on the site.
Charles M. Schwab house, ca. 1925.
123.Who is “Sir Hubert”? Perhaps Vance is alluding to Sir Hubert’s Marriage by Gertrude Townshend Meyer, an 1876 novel in which the title character is apparently unfailingly generous despite covering up a secret. The reference is obscure.
124.Warren Hastings (1732–1818), an English statesman, was the first de facto governor-general of India serving from 1772 to 1785. He was accused of crimes and misdemeanors during his time of office, including the execution of a maharajah. Hastings was impeached; his trial lasted for seven years, and he was ultimately acquitted. The charges, prepared by Edmund Burke, accused him of “palpable prevarication.”
125.“Nobly untruthful,” from Horace’s Odes, Book III.
126.“Good and lawful men”—the longstanding criterion for those eligible for jury service in England.
CHAPTER XIX
Vance Cross-examines
(Wednesday, June 19; 3.30 p.m.)
Captain Leacock walked into the room with a hopeless indifference of bearing. His shoulders drooped; his arms hung listlessly. His eyes were haggard like those of a man who had not slept for days. On seeing Major Benson, he straightened a little and, stepping toward him, extended his hand. It was plain that, however much he may have disliked Alvin Benson, he regarded the Major as a friend. But suddenly, realizing the situation, he turned away, embarrassed.
The Major went quickly to him and touched him on the arm.
“It’s all right, Leacock,” he said softly. “I can’t think that you really shot Alvin.”
The Captain turned apprehensive eyes upon him.
“Of course, I shot him.” His voice was flat. “I told him I was going to.”
Vance came forward, and indicated a chair.
“Sit down, Captain. The District Attorne
y wants to hear your story of the shooting. The law, you understand, does not accept murder confessions without corroborat’ry evidence. And since, in the present case, there are suspicions against others than yourself, we want you to answer some questions in order to substantiate your guilt. Otherwise, it will be necess’ry for us to follow up our suspicions.”
Taking a seat facing Leacock, he picked up the confession.
“You say here you were satisfied that Mr. Benson had wronged you, and you went to his house at about half past twelve on the night of the thirteenth. . . . When you speak of his wronging you, do you refer to his attentions to Miss St. Clair?”
Leacock’s face betrayed a sulky belligerence.
“It doesn’t matter why I shot him.—Can’t you leave Miss St. Clair out of it?”
“Certainly,” agreed Vance. “I promise you she shall not be brought into it. But we must understand your motive thoroughly.”
After a brief silence Leacock said:
“Very well, then. That was what I referred to.”
“How did you know Miss St. Clair went to dinner with Mr. Benson that night?”
“I followed them to the Marseilles.”
“And then you went home?”
“Yes.”
“What made you go to Mr. Benson’s house later?”
“I got to thinking about it more and more, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I began to see red, and at last I took my Colt and went out, determined to kill him.”
A note of passion had crept into his voice. It seemed unbelievable that he could be lying.
Vance again referred to the confession.
“You dictated: ‘I went to 87 West Forty-eighth Street, and entered the house by the front door.’ . . . Did you ring the bell? Or was the front door unlatched?”
Leacock was about to answer, but hesitated. Evidently he recalled the newspaper accounts of the housekeeper’s testimony in which she asserted positively that the bell had not rung that night.
“What difference does it make?” He was sparring for time.
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 53
