A film came over her eyes.
"And--poor boy!--he confessed because he thought that I was guilty."
"That's precisely the harrowin' situation," nodded Vance. "But where did he think you had obtained a weapon?"
"I know many army men, friends of his and of Major Benson's. And last summer at the mountains I did considerable pistol practice for the fun of it. Oh, the idea was reasonable enough."
Vance rose and made a courtly bow.
"You've been most gracious--and most helpful," he said. "Y' see, Mr. Markham had various theories about the murder. The first, I believe, was that you alone were the Madam Borgia. The second was that you and the captain did the deed together--à quatre mains, as it were. The third was that the captain pulled the trigger a cappella. And the legal mind is so exquisitely developed that it can believe in several conflicting theories at the same time. The sad thing about the present case is that Mr. Markham still leans toward the belief that both of you are guilty, individually and collectively. I tried to reason with him before coming here; but I failed. Therefore, I insisted upon his hearing from your own charming lips your story of the affair."
He went up to Markham, who sat glaring at him with lips compressed.
"Well, old chap," he remarked pleasantly, "surely you are not going to persist in your obsession that either Miss St. Clair or Captain Leacock is guilty, what? . . . And won't you relent and unshackle the captain as I begged you to?"
He extended his arms in a theatrical gesture of supplication.
Markham's wrath was at the breaking point, but he got up deliberately and, going to the woman, held out his hand. "Miss St. Clair," he said kindly--and again I was impressed by the bigness of the man--, "I wish to assure you that I have dismissed the idea of your guilt, and also Captain Leacock's, from what Mr. Vance terms my incredibly rigid and unreceptive mind. . . . I forgive him, however, because he has saved me from doing you a very grave injustice. And I will see that you have your captain back as soon as the papers can be signed for his release."
As we walked out onto Riverside Drive, Markham turned savagely on Vance.
"So! I was keeping her precious captain locked up, and you were pleading with me to let him go! You know damned well I didn't think either one of them was guilty--you--you lounge lizard!"
Vance sighed. "Dear me! Don't you want to be of any help at all in this case?" he asked sadly.
"What good did it do you to make an ass of me in front of that woman?" spluttered Markham. "I can't see that you got anywhere, with all your tomfoolery."
"What!" Vance registered utter amazement. "The testimony you've heard today is going to help immeasurably in convicting the culprit. Furthermore, we now know about the gloves and handbag, and who the lady was that called at Benson's office, and what Miss St. Clair did between twelve and one, and why she dined alone with Alvin, and why she first had tea with him, and how the jewels came to be there, and why the captain took her his gun and then threw it away, and why he confessed. . . . My word! Doesn't all this knowledge soothe you? It rids the situation of so much debris."
He stopped and lit a cigarette.
"The really important thing the lady told us was that her friends knew she invariably departed at midnight when she went out of an evening. Don't overlook or belittle that point, old dear; it's most pert'nent. I told you long ago that the person who shot Benson knew she was dining with him that night."
"You'll be telling me next you know who killed him," Markham scoffed.
Vance sent a ring of smoke circling upward.
"I've known all along who shot the blighter."
Markham snorted derisively.
"Indeed! And when did this revelation burst upon you?"
"Oh, not more than five minutes after I entered Benson's house that first morning," replied Vance.
"Well, well! Why didn't you confide in me and avoid all these trying activities?"
"Quite impossible," Vance explained jocularly. "You were not ready to receive my apocryphal knowledge. It was first necess'ry to lead you patiently by the hand out of the various dark forests and morasses into which you insisted upon straying. You're so dev'lishly unimag'native, don't y' know."
A taxicab was passing and he hailed it.
"Eighty-seven West Forty-eighth Street," he directed.
Then he took Markham's arm confidingly. "Now for a brief chat with Mrs. Platz. And then--then I shall pour into your ear all my maidenly secrets."
21
SARTORIAL REVELATIONS
(Wednesday, June 19, 5:30 P.M.)
The housekeeper regarded our visit that afternoon with marked uneasiness. Though she was a large, powerful woman, her body seemed to have lost some of its strength, and her face showed signs of prolonged anxiety. Snitkin informed us, when we entered, that she had carefully read every newspaper account of the progress of the case and had questioned him interminably on the subject.
She entered the living room with scarcely an acknowledgment of our presence and took the chair Vance placed for her like a woman resigning herself to a dreaded but inevitable ordeal. When Vance looked at her keenly, she gave him a frightened glance and turned her face away, as if, in the second their eyes met, she had read his knowledge of some secret she had been jealously guarding.
Vance began his questioning without prelude or protasis.
"Mrs. Platz, was Mr. Benson very particular about his toupee--that is, did he often receive his friends without having it on?"
The woman appeared relieved. "Oh, no, sir--never."
"Think back, Mrs. Platz. Has Mr. Benson never, to your knowledge, been in anyone's company without his toupee?"
She was silent for some time, her brows contracted.
"Once I saw him take off his wig and show it to Colonel Ostrander, an elderly gentleman who used to call here very often. But Colonel Ostrander was an old friend of his. He told me they lived together once."
"No one else?"
Again she frowned thoughtfully. "No," she said, after several minutes.
"What about the tradespeople?"
"He was very particular about them. . . . And strangers, too," she added. "When he used to sit in here in hot weather without his wig, he always pulled the shade on that window." She pointed to the one nearest the hallway. "You can look in it from the steps."
"I'm glad you brought up that point," said Vance. "And anyone standing on the steps could tap on the window or the iron bars, and attract the attention of anyone in this room?"
"Oh, yes, sir--easily. I did it myself once, when I went on an errand and forgot my key."
"It's quite likely, don't you think, that the person who shot Mr. Benson obtained admittance that way?"
"Yes, sir." She grasped eagerly at the suggestion.
"The person would have had to know Mr. Benson pretty well to tap on the window instead of ringing the bell. Don't you agree with me, Mrs. Platz?"
"Yes, sir." Her tone was doubtful; evidently the point was a little beyond her.
"If a stranger had tapped on the window, would Mr. Benson have admitted him without his toupee?"
"Oh, no--he wouldn't have let a stranger in."
"You are sure the bell didn't ring that night?"
"Positive, sir." The answer was very emphatic.
"Is there a light on the front steps?"
"No, sir."
"If Mr. Benson had looked out of the window to see who was tapping, could he have recognized the person at night?"
The woman hesitated. "I don't know--I don't think so."
"Is there any way you can see through the front door who is outside without opening it?"
"No, sir. Sometimes I wished there was."
"Then, if the person knocked on the window, Mr. Benson must have recognized the voice?"
"It looks that way, sir."
"And you're certain no one could have got in without a key?"
"How could they? The door locks by itself."
"It's the regulation spri
ng lock, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then it must have a catch you can turn off so that the door will open from either side even though it's latched."
"It did have a catch like that," she explained, "but Mr. Benson had it fixed so's it wouldn't work. He said it was too dangerous--I might go out and leave the house unlocked."
Vance stepped into the hallway, and I heard him opening and shutting the front door.
"You're right, Mrs. Platz," he observed, when he came back. "Now tell me: are you quite sure no one had a key?"
"Yes, sir. No one but me and Mr. Benson had a key."
Vance nodded his acceptance of her statement.
"You said you left your bedroom door open on the night Mr. Benson was shot. . . . Do you generally leave it open?"
"No, I 'most always shut it. But it was terrible close that night."
"Then it was merely an accident you left it open?"
"As you might say."
"If your door had been closed as usual, could you have heard the shot, do you think?"
"If I'd been awake, maybe. Not if I was sleeping, though. They got heavy doors in these old houses, sir."
"And they're beautiful, too," commented Vance.
He looked admiringly at the massive mahogany double door that opened into the hall.
"Y' know, Markham, our so-called civ'lization is nothing more than the persistent destruction of everything that's beautiful and enduring, and the designing of cheap makeshifts. You should read Oswald Spengler's Untergang des Abendlands--a most penetratin' document. I wonder some enterprisin' publisher hasn't embalmed it in our native argot.* The whole history of this degen'rate era we call modern civ'lization can be seen in our woodwork. Look at that fine old door, for instance, with its beveled panels and ornamented bolection, and its Ionic pilasters and carved lintel. And then compare it with the flat, flimsy, machine-made, shellacked boards which are turned out by the thousand today. Sic transit. . . ."
* The book--or a part of it--has, I believe, been recently translated into English.
He studied the door for some time; then turned abruptly back to Mrs. Platz, who was eyeing him curiously and with mounting apprehension.
"What did Mr. Benson do with the box of jewels when he went out to dinner?" he asked.
"Nothing, sir," she answered nervously. "He left them on the table there."
"Did you see them after he had gone?"
"Yes; and I was going to put them away. But I decided I'd better not touch them."
"And nobody came to the door, or entered the house, after Mr. Benson left?"
"No, sir."
"You're quite sure?"
"I'm positive, sir."
Vance rose, and began to pace the floor. Suddenly, just as he was passing the woman, he stopped and faced her.
"Was your maiden name Hoffman, Mrs. Platz?"
The thing she had been dreading had come. Her face paled, her eyes opened wide, and her lower lip drooped a little.
Vance stood looking at her, not unkindly. Before she could regain control of herself, he said, "I had the pleasure of meeting your charmin' daughter recently."
"My daughter. . . ?" the woman managed to stammer.
"Miss Hoffman, y' know--the attractive young lady with the blond hair. Mr. Benson's secret'ry."
The woman sat erect and spoke through clamped teeth. "She's not my daughter."
"Now, now, Mrs. Platz!" Vance chided her, as if speaking to a child. "Why this foolish attempt at deception? You remember how worried you were when I accused you of having a personal interest in the lady who was here to tea with Mr. Benson? You were afraid I thought it was Miss Hoffman. . . . But why should you be anxious about her, Mrs. Platz? I'm sure she's a very nice girl. And you really can't blame her for preferring the name of Hoffman to that of Platz. Platz means generally a place, though it also means a crash or an explosion; and sometimes a Platz is a bun or a yeast cake. But a Hoffman is a courtier--much nicer than being a yeast cake, what?"
He smiled engagingly, and his manner had a quieting effect upon her.
"It isn't that, sir," she said, looking at him appealingly. "I made her take the name. In this country any girl who's smart can get to be a lady if she's given a chance. And--"
"I understand perfectly," Vance interposed pleasantly. "Miss Hoffman is clever, and you feared that the fact of your being a housekeeper, if it became known, would stand in the way of her success. So you elim'nated yourself, as it were, for her welfare. I think it was very generous of you. . . . Your daughter lives alone?"
"Yes, sir--in Morningside Heights. But I see her every week." Her voice was barely audible.
"Of course--as often as you can, I'm sure. . . . Did you take the position as Mr. Benson's housekeeper because she was his secret'ry?"
She looked up, a bitter expression in her eyes. "Yes, sir--I did. She told me the kind of man he was; and he often made her come to the house here in the evenings to do extra work."
"And you wanted to be here to protect her?"
"Yes, sir--that was it."
"Why were you so worried the morning after the murder, when Mr. Markham here asked you if Mr. Benson kept any firearms around the house?"
The woman shifted her gaze. "I--wasn't worried."
"Yes, you were, Mrs. Platz. And I'll tell you why. You were afraid we might think Miss Hoffman shot him."
"Oh, no, sir, I wasn't!" she cried. "My girl wasn't even here that night--I swear it!--she wasn't here. . . ."
She was badly shaken; the nervous tension of a week had snapped, and she looked helplessly about her.
"Come, come, Mrs. Platz," pleaded Vance consolingly. "No one believes for a moment that Miss Hoffman had a hand in Mr. Benson's death."
The woman peered searchingly into his face. At first she was loath to believe him--it was evident that fear had long been preying on her mind--and it took him fully a quarter of an hour to convince her that what he had said was true. When, finally, we left the house, she was in a comparatively peaceful state of mind.
On our way to the Stuyvesant Club Markham was silent, completely engrossed with his thoughts. It was evident that the new facts educed by the interview with Mrs. Platz troubled him considerably.
Vance sat smoking dreamily, turning his head now and then to inspect the buildings we passed. We drove east through Forty-eighth Street, and when we came abreast of the New York Bible Society House, he ordered the chauffeur to stop and insisted that we admire it.
"Christianity," he remarked, "has almost vindicated itself by its architecture alone. With few exceptions, the only buildings in this city that are not eyesores are the churches and their allied structures. The American aesthetic credo is: Whatever's big is beautiful. These depressin' gargantuan boxes with rectangular holes in 'em, which are called skyscrapers, are worshiped by Americans simply because they're huge. A box with forty rows of holes is twice as beautiful as a box with twenty rows. Simple formula, what? . . . Look at this little five-story affair across the street. It's inf'nitely lovelier--and more impressive, too--than any skyscraper in the city. . . ."
Vance referred but once to the crime during our ride to the club and then only indirectly.
"Kind hearts, y' know, Markham, are more than coronets. I've done a good deed today and I feel pos'tively virtuous. Frau Platz will schlafen much better tonight. She has been frightfully upset about little Gretchen. She's a doughty old soul; motherly and all that. And she couldn't bear to think of the future Lady Vere de Vere being suspected. . . . Wonder why she worried so?" And he gave Markham a sly look.
Nothing further was said until after dinner, which we ate in the Roof Garden. We had pushed back our chairs, and sat looking out over the treetops of Madison Square.
"Now, Markham," said Vance, "give over all prejudices, and consider the situation judiciously--as you lawyers euphemistically put it. . . . To begin with, we now know why Mrs. Platz was so worried at your question regarding firearms and why she was upset by my r
ef'rence to her personal int'rest in Benson's tea companion. So, those two mysteries are elim'nated. . . ."
"How did you find out about her relation to the girl?" interjected Markham.
"'Twas my ogling did it." Vance gave him a reproving look. "You recall that I 'ogled' the young lady at our first meeting--but I forgive you. . . . And you remember our little discussion about cranial idiosyncrasies? Miss Hoffman, I noticed at once, possessed all the physical formations of Benson's housekeeper. She was brachycephalic; she had overarticulated cheekbones, an orthognathous jaw, a low, flat parietal structure, and a mesorrhinian nose. . . . Then I looked for her ear, for I had noted that Mrs. Platz had the pointed, lobeless, 'satyr' ear--sometimes called the Darwin ear. These ears run in families; and when I saw that Miss Hoffman's were of the same type, even though modified, I was fairly certain of the relationship. But there were other similarities--in pigment, for instance, and in height--both are tall, y' know. And the central masses of each were very large in comparison with the peripheral masses; the shoulders were narrow and the wrists and ankles small, while the hips were bulky. . . . That Hoffman was Platz's maiden name was only a guess. But it didn't matter."
Vance adjusted himself more comfortably in his chair.
"Now for your judicial considerations. . . . First, let us assume that at a little before half past twelve on the night of the thirteenth the villain came to Benson's house, saw the light in the living room, tapped on the window, and was instantly admitted. . . . What, would you say, do these assumptions indicate regarding the visitor?"
"Merely that Benson was acquainted with him," returned Markham. "But that doesn't help us any. We can't extend the sus. per coll. to everybody the man knew."
"The indications go much further than that, old chap," Vance retorted. "They show unmistakably that Benson's murderer was a most intimate crony, or, at least, a person before whom he didn't care how he looked. The absence of the toupee, as I once suggested to you, was a prime essential of the situation. A toupee, don't y' know, is the sartorial sine qua non of every middle-aged Beau Brummel afflicted with baldness. You heard Mrs. Platz on the subject. Do you think for a second that Benson, who hid his hirsute deficiency even from the grocer's boy, would visit with a mere acquaintance thus bereft of his crowning glory? And besides being thus denuded, he was without his full complement of teeth. Moreover, he was without collar or tie, and attired in an old smoking jacket and bedroom slippers! Picture the spectacle, my dear fellow. . . . A man does not look fascinatin' without his collar and with his shirtband and gold stud exposed. Thus attired, he is the equiv'lent of a lady in curl papers. . . . How many men do you think Benson knew with whom he would have sat down to a tête-à-tête in this undress condition?"
Philo Vance 12 Novels Complete Bundle Page 21