The Benson Murder Case (30 page)

“There are one or two things that must be done before I can reveal the gentleman's name.” Vance told him. “First, let me have a peep at those alibis.”

Markham took from his pocket a sheaf of typewritten pages and passed them over.

Vance adjusted his monocle, and read through them carefully. Then he stepped out of the room; and I heard him telephoning. When he returned he re-read the reports. One in particular he lingered over, as if weighing its possibilities.

“There's a chance, y'know,” he murmured at length, gazing indecisively into the fireplace.

He glanced at the report again.

“I see here,” he said, “that Colonel Ostrander, accompanied by a Bronx alderman named Moriarty, attended the Midnight Follies at the Piccadilly Theatre in Forty-seventh Street on the night of the thirteenth, arriving there a little before twelve and remaining through the performance, which was over about half-past two a.m…. Are you acquainted with this particular alderman?”

Markham's eyes lifted sharply to the other's face.

“I've met Mr. Moriarty. What about him?” I thought I detected a note of suppressed excitement in his voice.

“Where do Bronx aldermen loll about in the forenoons?” asked Vance.

“At home, I should say. Or possibly at the Samoset
Club…. Sometimes they have business at City Hall.”

“My word—such unseemly activity for a politician! … Would you mind ascertaining if Moriarty is at home or at his club? If it's not too much bother, I'd like to have a brief word with him.”

Markham gave Vance a penetrating gaze. Then, without a word, he went to the telephone in the den.

“Mr. Moriarty was at home, about to leave for City Hall,” he announced, on returning. “I asked him to drop by here on his way down town.”

“I do hope he doesn't disappoint us,”sighed Vance. “But it's worth trying.”

“Are you composing a charade?” asked Markham; but there was neither humour nor good-nature in the question.

“'Pon my word, old man, I'm not trying to confuse the main issue,” said Vance. “Exert a little of that simple faith with which you are so gen'rously supplied—it's more desirable than Norman blood, y'know. I'll give you the guilty man before the morning's over. But, d'ye see, I must make sure that you'll accept him. These alibis are, I trust, going to prove most prof'table to paving the way for my
coup de boutoir
…. An alibi—as I recently confided to you—is a tricky and dang'rous thing, and open to grave suspicion. And the absence of an alibi means nothing at all. For instance, I see by these reports that Miss Hoffman has no alibi for the night of the thirteenth. She says she went to a motion-picture theatre and then home. But no one saw her at any time. She was prob'bly at Benson's, visiting mamma, until late. Looks suspicious—eh, what? And yet, even if she was there, her only crime that night was filial affection…. On the other hand, there are several alibis here which are, as one says, cast-iron—silly metaphor; cast-iron's easily broken—and I happen to know one of 'em is spurious. So be a good fellow and have patience; for it's most necess'ry that these alibis be minutely inspected.”

Fifteen minutes later Mr. Moriarty arrived. He was a serious, good-looking, well-dressed youth in his late twenties—not at all my idea of an alderman—and he spoke clear and precise English with almost no trace of the Bronx accent.

Markham introduced him, and briefly explained why he had been requested to call.

“One of the men from the Homicide Bureau.” answered Moriarty, “was asking me about the matter only yesterday.”

“We have the report,” said Vance, “but it's a bit too general. Will you tell us exactly what you did that night after you met Colonel Ostrander?”

“The Colonel had invited me to dinner and the Follies. I met him at the Marseilles at ten. We had dinner there, and went to the Piccadilly a little before twelve, where we remained until about two-thirty. I walked to the Colonel's apartment with him had a drink and a chat, and then took the subway home about three-thirty.”

“You told the detective yesterday you sat in a box at the theatre?”

“That's correct.”

“Did you and the Colonel remain in the box throughout the performance?”

“No. After the first act a friend of mine came to the box, and the Colonel excused himself and went to the wash-room. After the second act, the Colonel and I stepped outside into the alley-way and had a smoke.”

“What time, would you say, was the first act over?”

“Twelve-thirty or thereabouts.”

“And where is this alley-way situated?” asked Vance. “As I recall, it runs along the side of the theatre to the street.”

“You're right.”

“And isn't there an ‘exit' door very near the boxes, which leads into the alley-way?”

“There is. We used it that night.”

“How long was the Colonel gone after the first act?”

“A few minutes—I couldn't say exactly.”

“Had he returned when the curtain went up on the second act?”

Moriarty reflected.

“I don't believe he had. I think he came back a few minutes after the act began.”

“Ten minutes?”

“I couldn't say. Certainly no more.”

“Then allowing for a ten-minute intermission, the Colonel might have been away twenty minutes?”

“Yes—it's possible.”

This ended the interview; and when Moriarty had gone, Vance lay back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully.

“Surprisin' luck!” he commented. “The Piccadilly Theatre, y'know, is practically round the corner from Benson's house. You grasp the possibilities of the situation, what? … The Colonel invites an alderman to the Midnight Follies, and gets box seats near an exit giving on an alley. At a little before half-past twelve he leaves the box, sneaks out
via
the alley, goes to Benson's taps, and is admitted, shoots his man, and hurries back to the theatre. Twenty minutes would have been ample.”

Markham straightened up, but made no comment.

“And now,” continued Vance, “let's look at the indicat'ry circumst'nces and the confirmat'ry facts…. Miss St. Clair told us the Colonel had lost heavily in a pool of Benson's manipulation, and had accused him of crookedness. He hadn't spoken to Benson for a week; so it's plain there was bad blood between 'em. He saw Miss St. Clair at the Marseilles with Benson; and, knowing she always went home at midnight, he chose half-past twelve as a propitious hour; although originally he may have intended to wait until much later; say, one-thirty or two—before sneaking out of the theatre. Being an army officer he would have had a Colt forty-five; and he was probably a good shot. He was most anxious to have you arrest someone—he didn't seem to care who; and he even 'phoned you to inquire about it. He was one of the very few persons in the world whom Benson would have admitted, attired as he was. He'd known Benson int'mately for fifteen years, and Mrs. Platz once saw Benson take off his toupee and show it to him. Moreover, he would have known all about the domestic arrangements of the house; he no doubt had slept there many a time, when showing his old pal the wonders of New York's night life…. How does all that appeal to you?”

Markham had risen and was pacing the floor, his eyes almost closed.

“So that was why you were so interested in the Colonel—asking people if they, knew him, and inviting him to lunch? … What gave you the idea, in the first place, that he was guilty?”

“Guilty!” exclaimed Vance. “That priceless old dunderhead guilty! Really, Markham, the notion's prepost'rous. I'm sure he went to the wash-room that night to comb his eyebrows and arrange his tie. Sitting, as he was, in a box, the gels on the stage could see him, y'know.”

Markham halted abruptly. An ugly colour crept into his cheeks, and his eyes blazed. But before he could speak Vance went on, with serene indifference to his anger.

“And I played in the most astonishin' luck. Still, he's just the kind of ancient popinjay who'd go to the washroom and dandify himself—I rather counted on that, don't y'know…. My word! We've made amazin' progress this morning, despite your injured feelings. You now have five different people, anyone of whom you can, with a little legal ingenuity, convict of the crime—in any event, you can get indictments against 'em.”

He leaned his head back meditatively.

“First there's Miss St. Clair. You were quite pos'tive she did the deed, and you told the Major you were all ready to arrest her. My demonstration of the murderer's height could be thrown out on the grounds that it was intelligent and conclusive, and therefore had no place in a court of law. I'm sure the judge would concur. Secondly, I give you Captain Leacock. I actu'lly had to use physical force to keep you from jailing the chap. You had a beautiful case against him—to say nothing of his delightful confession. And if you met with any diff'culties, he'd help you out: he'd adore having you convict him. Thirdly, I submit Leander the Lovely. You had a better case against him than against almost any one of the others—a perfect wealth of circumst'ntial evidence— an
embarras de richesse
, in fact. And any jury would delight in convicting him—I would, myself, if only for the way he dresses. Fourthly, I point with pride to Mrs. Platz. Another perfect cireumst'ntial case, fairly bulging with clues and inf'rences and legal whatnots. Fifthly, I present the Colonel. I have just rehearsed your case against him; and I could elab'rate it touchin'ly, given a little more time.”

He paused, and gave Markham a smile of cynical affability.

“Observe, please, that each member of this quintette meets all the demands of presumptive guilt: each one fulfils the legal requirements as to time, place, opportunity, means,
motive, and conduct. The only drawback, d'ye see, is that all five are quite innocent. A most discomposin' fact—but there you are…. Now, if all the people against whom there's the slightest suspicion, are innocent, what's to be done? … Annoyin', ain't it?”

He picked up the alibi reports.

“There's pos'tively nothing to be done but to go on checking up these alibis.”

I could not imagine what goal he was trying to reach by these apparently irrelevant digressions; and Markham, too, was mystified. But neither of us doubted for a moment that there was method in his madness.

“Let's see,” he mused. “The Major's is the next in order. What do you say to tackling it? It shouldn't take long; he lives near here; and the entire alibi hinges on the evidence of the night-boy at his apartment house. Come!” He got up.

“How do you know the boy is there now?” objected Markham.

“I 'phoned a while ago and found out.”

“But this is damned nonsense!”

Vance now had Markham by the arm, playfully urging him toward the door.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” he agreed. “But I've often told you, old dear, you take life much too seriously.”

Markham, protesting vigorously, held back, and endeavoured to disengage his arm from the other's grip. But Vance was determined; and after a somewhat heated dispute, Markham gave in.

“I'm about through with this hocus-pocus,” he growled, as we got into a taxicab.

“I'm through already,” said Vance.

(
Thursday
,
June
20
th
; 10.30
a.m.
)

The Chatham Arms, where Major Benson lived, was a small, exclusive, bachelor apartment-house in Forty-sixth Street,
midway between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. The entrance, set in a simple and dignified facade, was flush with the street, and only two steps above the pavement. The front door opened into a narrow hall-way with a small reception room, like a
cul-de-sac
, on the left. At the rear could be seen the elevator; and beside it, tucked under a narrow flight of steps which led round the elevator shaft, was a telephone switchboard.

When we arrived two youths in uniform were on duty, one lounging in the door of the elevator, the other seated at the switchboard.

Vance halted Markham near the entrance.

“One of these boys, I was informed over the telephone, was on duty the night of the thirteenth. Find out which one it was, and scare him into submission by your exalted title of District Attorney. Then turn him over to me.”

Reluctantly Markham walked down the hall-way.

After a brief interrogation of the boys he led one of them into the reception room, and peremptorily explained what he wanted.
¹

Vance began his questioning with the confident air of one who has no doubt whatever as to another's exact knowledge.

“What time did Major Benson get home the night his brother was shot?”

The boy's eyes opened wide.

“He came in about 'leven—right after show time,” he answered, with only a momentary hesitation.

(I have set down the rest of the questions and answers in dramatic-dialogue form, for the purposes of space economy.)

VANCE: He spoke to you, I suppose?

BOY: Yes, sir. He told me he'd been to the theatre, and said what a rotten show it was—and that he had an awful headache.

VANCE: How do you happen to remember so well what he said a week ago?

BOY: Why, his brother was murdered that night!

VANCE: And the murder caused so much excitement that you naturally recalled everything that happened at the time in connection with Major Benson?

BOY: Sure—he was the murdered guy's brother.

VANCE: When he came in that night did he say anything about the day of the month?

BOY: Nothin' except that he guessed his bad luck in pickin' a bum show was on account of it bein' the thirteenth.

VANCE: Did he say anything else?

Boy (
grinning
): He said he'd make the thirteenth my lucky day, and he gave me all the silver he had in his pocket—nickels and dimes and quarters and one fifty-cent piece.