The Benson Murder Case (15 page)

“I'm convinced that you
think
you know something.”

“
Cogito, ergo sum,
” murmured Vance. “Y'know, the naturalistic philosophy of Descartes has always rather appealed to me. It was a departure from universal doubt and a seeking for positive knowledge in self-consciousness. Spinoza, in his pantheism, and Berkeley, in his idealism, quite misunderstood the significance of their precursor's favourite enthymeme. Even Descartes' errors were brilliant. His method of reasoning, for all its scientific inaccuracies, gave new signif'cation to the symbols of the analyst. The mind, after all, if it is to function effectively, must combine the mathematical precision of a natural science with such pure speculations as astronomy. For instance, Descartes' doctrines of Vortices—”

“Oh, be quiet,” growled Markham. “I'm not insisting
that you reveal your precious information. So why burden me with a dissertation on seventeenth-century philosophy?”

“Anyhow, you'll admit, won't you,” asked Vance lightly, “that, in eliminating those disturbing cigarette butts, so to speak, I've elim'nated Miss St. Clair as a suspect?”

Markham did not answer at once. There was no doubt that the developments of the past hour had made a decided impression upon him. He did not underestimate Vance, despite his persistent opposition; and he knew that, for all his flippancy, Vance was fundamentally serious. Furthermore, Markham had a finely developed sense of justice. He was not narrow, even though obstinate at times; and I have never known him to close his mind to the possibilities of truth, however opposed to his own interests. It did not, therefore, surprise me in the least when, at last, he looked up with a gracious smile of surrender.

“You've made your point,” he said; “and I accept it with proper humility. I'm most grateful to you.”

Vance walked indifferently to the window and looked out.

“I am happy to learn that you are capable of accepting such evidence as the human mind could not possibly deny.”

I had always noticed, in the relationship of these two men, that whenever either made a remark that bordered on generosity, the other answered in a manner which ended all outward show of sentiment. It was as if they washed to keep this more intimate side of their mutual regard hidden from the world.

Markham, therefore, ignored Vance's thrust.

“Have you perhaps any enlightening suggestions, other than negative ones, to offer as to Benson's murderer?” he asked.

“Rather!” said Vance. “No end of suggestions.”

“Could you spare me a good one?” Markham imitated the other's playful tone.

Vance appeared to reflect.

“Well, I should advise that, as a beginning, you look for a rather tall man, cool-headed, familiar with firearms, a good shot, and fairly well known to the deceased—a man who was aware that Benson was going to dinner with Miss St. Clair, or who had reason to suspect the fact.”

Markham looked narrowly at Vance for several moments.

“I think I understand…. Not a bad theory, either.
You know, I'm going to suggest immediately to Heath that he investigates more thoroughly Captain Leacock's activities on the night of the murder.”

“Oh, by all means,” said Vance carelessly, going to the piano.

Markham watched him with an expression of puzzled interrogation. He was about to speak when Vance began playing a rollicking French café song which opens, I believe, with

“
Ils sont dans les vignes, les moineaux
.”

(
Sunday
,
June
16;
afternoon
)

The following day, which was Sunday, we lunched with Markham at the Stuyvesant Club. Vance had suggested the appointment the evening before; for, as he explained to me, he wished to be present in case Leander Pfyfe should arrive from Long Island.

“It amuses me tremendously,” he had said, “the way human beings delib'rately complicate the most ordin'ry issues. They have a downright horror of anything simple and direct. The whole modern commercial system is nothing but a colossal mechanism for doing things in the most involved and roundabout way. If one makes a recent purchase at a department store nowadays, a complete history of the transaction is written out in triplicate, checked by a dozen floor-walkers and clerks, signed and countersigned, entered into innum'rable ledgers with various coloured inks, and then elab'rately secreted in steel filing cabinets. And not content with all this superfluous
chinoiserie
, our business men have created a large and expensive army of efficiency experts whose sole duty is to complicate and befuddle this system still further…. It's the same with everything else in modern life. Regard that insup'rable mania called golf. It consists merely of knocking a ball into a hole with a stick. But the devotees of this pastime have developed a unique
and distinctive livery in which to play it. They concentrate for twenty years on the correct angulation of their feet and the proper method of entwining their fingers about the stick. Moreover, in order to discuss the pseudo-intr'cacies of this idiotic sport, they've invented an outlandish vocabulary which is unintelligible even to an English scholar.”

He pointed disgustedly at a pile of Sunday newspapers.

“Then here's this Benson murder—a simple and incons'quential affair. Yet the entire machinery of the law is going at high pressure and blowing off jets of steam all over the community, when the matter could be settled quietly in five minutes with a bit of intelligent thinking.”

At lunch, however, he did not refer to the crime; and, as if by tacit agreement, the subject was avoided. Markham had merely mentioned casually to us as we went into the dining-room that he was expecting Heath a little later.

The Sergeant was waiting for us when we retired to the lounge-room for our smoke, and by his expression it was evident he was not pleased with the way things were going.

“I told you, Mr. Markham,” he said, when we had drawn up our chairs, “that this case was going to be a tough one…. Could you get any kind of a lead from the St. Clair woman?”

Markham shook his head.

“She's out of it.” And he recounted briefly the happenings at Benson's house the preceding afternoon.

“Well, if you're satisfied,” was Heath's somewhat dubious comment, “that's good enough for me. But what about this Captain Leacock?”

“That's what I asked you here to talk about,” Markham told him. “There's no direct evidence against him, but there are several suspicious circumstances that tend to connect him with the murder. He seems to meet the specification as to height; and we mustn't overlook the fact that Benson was shot with just such a gun as Leacock would be likely to possess. He was engaged to the girl, and a motive might be found in Benson's attentions to her.”

“And ever since the big scrap,” supplemented Heath, “these army boys don't think anything of shooting people. They got used to blood on the other side.”

“The only hitch,” resumed Markham, “is that Phelps,
who had the job of checking up on the Captain, reported to me that he was home that night from eight o'clock on. Of course, there may be a loop-hole somewhere, and I was going to suggest, that you have one of your men go into the matter thoroughly and see just what the situation is. Phelps got his information from one of the hall-boys; and I think it might be well to get hold of the boy again and apply a little pressure. If it was found that Leacock was not at home at twelve-thirty that night, we might have the lead you've been looking for.”

“I'll attend to it myself,” said Heath. “I'll go round there to-night, and if this boy knows anything he'll spill it before I'm through with him.”

We had talked but a few minutes longer when a uniformed attendant bowed deferentially at the District Attorney's elbow and announced that Mr. Pfyfe was calling.

Markham requested that his visitor be shown into the lounge-room, and then added to Heath:

“You'd better remain, and hear what he has to say.”

Leander Pfyfe was an immaculate and exquisite personage. He approached us with a mincing gait of self-approbation. His legs, which were very long and thin, with knees which seemed to bend slightly inward, supported a short bulging torso; and his chest curved outward in a generous arc, like that of a pouter-pigeon. His face was rotund, and his jowls hung in two loops over a collar too tight for comfort. His blond sparse hair was brushed back sleekly; and the ends of his narrow, silken moustache were waxed into needle-points. He was dressed in light-grey summer flannels, and wore a pale turquoise-green silk shirt, a vivid foulard tie, and grey suede Oxfords. A strong odour of oriental perfume was given off by the carefully arranged batiste handkerchief in his breast pocket.

He greeted Markham with viscid urbanity, and acknowledged his introduction to us with a patronising bow. After posing himself in a chair the attendant placed for him, he began polishing a gold-rimmed eyeglass which he wore on a ribbon, and fixed Markham with a melancholy gaze.

“A very sad occasion, this,” he sighed.

“Realising your friendship for Mr. Benson,” said Markham, “I deplore the necessity of appealing to you at this
time. It was very good of you, by the way, to come to the city to-day.”

Pfyfe made a mildly deprecating movement with his carefully manicured fingers. He was, he explained with an air of ineffable self-complacency, only too glad to discommode himself to give aid to servants of the public. A distressing necessity, to be sure; but his manner conveyed unmistakably that he knew and recognised the obligations attaching to the dictum of
noblesse oblige
, and was prepared to meet them.

He looked at Markham with a self-congratulatory air, and his eyebrows queried: “What can I do for you?” though his lips did not move.

“I understand from Major Anthony Benson,” Markham said, “that you were very close to his brother, and therefore might be able to tell us something of his personal affairs, or private social relationships, that would indicate a line of investigation.”

Pfyfe gazed sadly at the floor.

“Ah, yes. Alvin and I were very close—we were, in fact, the most intimate of friends. You cannot imagine how broken up I was at hearing of the dear fellow's tragic end.” He gave the impression that here was a modern instance of Aeneas and Achates. “And I was deeply grieved at not being able to come at once to New York to put myself at the service of those that needed me.”

“I'm sure it would have been a comfort to his other friends,” remarked Vance, with cool politeness. “But in the circumst'nces you will be forgiven.”

Pfyfe blinked regretfully.

“Ah, but I shall never forgive myself—though I cannot hold myself altogether blameworthy. Only the day before the tragedy I had started on a trip to the Catskills. I had even asked dear Alvin to go along; but he was too busy.” Pfyfe shook his head as if lamenting the incomprehensible irony of life. “How much better—ah, how infinitely much better—if only—”

“You were gone a very short time,” commented Markham, interrupting what promised to be a homily on perverse providence.

“True,” Pfyfe indulgently admitted. “But I met with a most unfortunate accident.” He polished his eyeglass a
moment. “My car broke down, and I was necessitated to return.”

“What road did you take?” asked Heath.

Pfyfe delicately adjusted his eyeglass, and regarded the Sergeant with an intimation of boredom.

“My advice, Mr.—ah—Sneed—”

“Heath,” the other corrected him surlily.

“Ah, yes—Heath…. My advice, Mr. Heath, is, that if you are contemplating a motor trip to the Catskills, you apply to the Automobile Club of America for a road-map. My choice of itinerary might very possibly not suit you.”

He turned back to the District Attorney with an air that implied he preferred talking to an equal.

“Tell me, Mr. Pfyfe,” Markham asked: “did Mr. Benson have any enemies?”

The other appeared to think the matter over.

“No-o. Not one, I should say, who would actually have killed him as a result of animosity.”

“You imply nevertheless that he had enemies. Could you not tell us a little more?”

Pfyfe passed his hand gracefully over the tips of his golden moustache, and then permitted his index-finger to linger on his cheek in an attitude of meditative indecision.

“Your request, Mr. Markham”—he spoke with pained reluctance—“brings up a matter which I hesitate to discuss. But perhaps it is best that I confide in you—as one gentleman to another. Alvin, in common with many other admirable fellows, had a—what shall I say?—a weakness—let me put it that way—for the fair sex.”

He looked at Markham, seeking approbation for his extreme tact in stating an indelicate truth.

“You understand,” he continued, in answer to the other's sympathetic nod, “Alvin was not a man who possessed the personal characteristics that women hold attractive.” (I somehow got the impression that Pfyfe considered himself as differing radically from Benson in this respect.) “Alvin was aware of his physical deficiency, and the result was—I trust you will understand my hesitancy in mentioning this distressing fact—but the result was that Alvin used certain—ah, methods in his dealings with women, which you and I could never bring ourselves to adopt. Indeed—though it
pains me to say it—he often took unfair advantage of women. He used underhand methods, as it were.”

He paused, apparently shocked by this heinous imperfection of his friend, and by the necessity of his own seemingly disloyal revelation.

“Was it one of these women whom Benson had dealt with unfairly, that you had in mind?” asked Markham.

“No—not the woman herself,” Pfyfe replied; “but a man who was interested in her. In fact, this man threatened Alvin's life. You will appreciate my reluctance in telling you this; but my excuse is that the threat was made quite openly. There were several others besides myself who heard it.”