The Benson Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  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 prying 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 æsthetio credo is: Whatever’s big is beautiful. These depressin’ gargantuan boxes with rectangular holes in ’em, which are called skyscrapers, are worshipped 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-storey 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 to-day, and I feel positively virtuous. Frau Platz will schlafen much better to-night. 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 tree-tops 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 ref’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 over-articulated cheek-bones, an orthognathous jaw, a low flat parietal structure, and a mesorhinian 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?”

  “Three or four, perhaps,” answered Markham. “But I can’t arrest them all.”

  “I’m sure you would if you could. But it won’t be necess’ry.”

  Vance selected another cigarette from his case, and went on:

  “There are other helpful indications, y’know. For instance, the murderer was fairly well acquainted with Benson’s domestic arrangements. He must have known that the housekeeper slept a good distance from the living-room and would not be startled by the shot if her door was closed as usual. Also, he must have known there was no one else in the house at that hour. And another thing; don’t forget his voice was perfectly familiar to Benson. If there had been the slightest doubt about it Benson would not have let him in, in view of his natural fear of housebreakers, and with the Captain’s threat hanging over him.”

  “That’s a tenable hypothesis…. What else?”

  “The jewels, Markham—those orators of love. Have you thought of them? They were on the centre-table when Benson came home that night; and they were gone in the morning. Wherefore, it seem
s inev’table that the murderer took ’em—eh, what? … And may they not have been one reason for the murderer’s coming there that night? If so, who of Benson’s most intimate personœ gratœ knew of their presence in the house? And who wanted ’em particularly?”

  “Exactly, Vance.” Markham nodded his head slowly. “You’ve hit it. I’ve had an uneasy feeling about Pfyfe right along. I was on the point of ordering his arrest today when Heath brought word of Leacock’s confession; and then, when that blew up, my suspicions reverted to him. I said nothing this afternoon because I wanted to see where your ideas had led you. What you’ve been saying checks up perfectly with my own notions. Pfyfe’s our man—”

  He brought the front legs of his chair down suddenly.

  “And now, damn it, you’ve let him get away from us!”

  “Don’t fret, old dear,” said Vance. “He’s safe with Mrs. Pfyfe, I fancy. And anyhow, your friend, Mr. Ben Hanlon, is well versed in retrieving fugitives…. Let the harassed Leander alone for the moment. You don’t need him to-night—and to-morrow you won’t want him.”

  Markham wheeled about.

  “What’s that?—I don’t want him? … And why, pray?”

  “Well,” Vance explained indolently. “He hasn’t a congenial and lovable nature, has he? And he’s not exactly an object of blindin’ beauty. I shouldn’t want him around me more than was necess’ry, don’t y’know…. Incidentally he’s not guilty.”

  Markham was too nonplussed to be exasperated. He regarded Vance searchingly for a full minute.

  “I don’t follow you,” he said. “If you think Pfyfe’s innocent, who in God’s name, do you think is guilty?”

  Vance glanced at his watch.

  “Come to my house to-morrow for breakfast, and bring those alibis you asked Heath for; and I’ll tell you who shot Benson.”

  Something in his tone impressed Markham. He realised that Vance would not have made so specific a promise unless he was confident of his ability to keep it. He knew Vance too well to ignore, or even minimise his statement.

  “Why not tell me now?” he asked.

  “Awf’lly sorry, y’know,” apologised Vance; “but I’m going to the Philharmonic’s ‘special’ to-night. They’re playing César Franck’s D-minor, and Stransky’s temp’rament is em’nently suited to its diatonic sentimentalities…. You’d better come along, old man. Soothin’ to the nerves and all that.”

  “Not me!” grumbled Markham. “What I need is a brandy-and-soda.”

  He walked down with us to the taxicab.

  “Come at nine to-morrow,” said Vance, as we took our seats. “Let the office wait a bit. And don’t forget to ’phone Heath for those alibis.”

  Then, just as we started off, he leaned out of the car.

  “And I say, Markham: how tall would you say Mrs. Platz was?”

  Chapter XXII

  Vance Outlines a Theory

  (Thursday, June 20th; 9 a.m.)

  Markham came to Vance’s apartment at promptly nine o’clock the next morning. He was in bad humour.

  “Now, see here, Vance,” he said, as soon as he was seated at the table; “I want to know what was the meaning of your parting words last night.”

  “Eat your melon, old dear,” said Vance. “It comes from Northern Brazil, and is very delicious. But don’t devitalise its flavour with pepper or salt. An amazin’ practice, that—though not as amazin’ as stuffing a melon with ice-cream. The American does the most dumbfoundin’ things with ice-cream. He puts it on pie; he puts it in soda water; he encases it in hard chocolate like a bon-bon; ho puts it between sweet biscuits and calls the result an ice-cream sandwich; he even uses it instead of whipped cream in a Charlotte-Russe….”

  “What I want to know—” began Markham; but Vance did not permit him to finish.

  “It’s surprisin’, y’know, the erroneous ideas people have about melons. There are only two species—the muskmelon and the watermelon. All breakfast melons—like cantaloups, citrons, nut-megs, Cassabas, and Honey dews—are varieties of the muskmelon. But people have the notion, d’ye see, that cantaloup is a generic term. Philadelphians call all melons cantaloups; whereas this type of muskmelon was first cultivated in Cantalupo, Italy….”

  “Very interesting,” said Markham, with only partly disguised impatience. “Did you intend by your remark last night—”

  “And after the melon, Currie has prepared a special dish for you. It’s my own gustat’ry chef-d’œuvre—with Currie’s collaboration, of course. I’ve spent months on its conception—composing and organising it, so to speak. I haven’t named it yet—perhaps you can suggest a fitting appellation…. To achieve this dish, one first chops a hard-boiled egg and mixes it with grated Por du Salut cheese, adding a soupçon of tarragon. This paste is then enclosed in a filet of white perch—like a French pancake. It is tied with silk, rolled in a specially prepared almond batter, and cooked in sweet butter. That, of course, is the barest outline of its manufacture, with all the truly exquisite details omitted.”

  “It sounds appetising.” Markham’s tone was devoid of enthusiasm. “But I didn’t come here for a cooking lesson.”

  “Y’know, you underestimate the importance of your ventral pleasures,” pursued Vance. “Eating is the one infallible guide to a people’s intellectual advancement, as well as the inev’table gauge of the individual’s temp’rament. The savage cooked and ate like a savage. In the early days of the human race, mankind was cursed with one vast epidemic of indigestion. There’s where his devils and demons and ideas of hell came from; they were the nightmares of his dyspepsia. Then, as man began to master the technique of cooking, he became civilised; and when he achieved the highest pinnacles of the culin’ry art, he also achieved the highest pinnacles of cultural and intellectual glory. When the art of the gourmet retrogressed, so did man. The tasteless, standardised cookery of America is typical of our decadence. A perfectly blended soup, Markham, is more ennoblin’ than Beethoven’s C-minor Symphony….”

  Markham listened stolidly to Vance’s chatter during breakfast. He made several attempts to bring up the subject of the crime, but Vance glibly ignored each essay. It was not until Currie had cleared away the dishes that he referred to the object of Markham’s visit.

  “Did you bring the alibi reports?” was his first question.

  Markham nodded.

  “And it took me five hours to find Heath after you’d gone last night.”

  “Sad,” breathed Vance.

  He went to the desk, and took a closely-written double sheet of foolscap from one of the compartments.

  “I wish you’d glance this over and give me your learned opinion.” he said, handing the paper to Markham. “I prepared it last night after the concert.”

  I later took possession of the document, and filed it with my other notes and papers pertaining to the Benson case. The following is a verbatim copy:

  HYPOTHESIS

  Mrs. Anna Platz shot and killed Alvin Benson on the night of June 13th.

  PLACE

  She lived in the house, and admitted being there at the time the shot was fired.

  OPPORTUNITY

  She was alone in the house with Benson.

  All the windows were either barred or locked on the inside. The front door was locked. There was no other means of ingress.

  Her presence in the living-room was natural; she might have entered ostensibly to ask Benson a domestic question.

  Her standing directly in front of him would not necessarily have caused him to look up. Hence, his reading attitude.

  Who else could have come so close to him for the purpose of shooting him, without attracting his attention?

  He would not have cared how he appeared before his housekeeper. He had become accustomed to being seen by her without his teeth and toupee and in négligé condition.

  Living in the house, she was able to choose a propitious moment for the crime.

  TIME

  She waited up for him. Despit
e her denial, he might have told her when he would return.

  When he came in alone and changed to his smoking-jacket, she knew he was not expecting any late visitors.

  She chose a time shortly after his return because it would appear that he had brought someone home with him, and that this other person had killed him.

  MEANS

  She used Benson’s own gun. Benson undoubtedly had more than one; for he would have been more likely to keep a gun in his bedroom than in his living-room; and since a Smith and Wesson was found in the living-room, there probably was another in the bedroom.

  Being his housekeeper, she knew of the gun upstairs. After he had gone down to the living-room to read, she secured it, and took it with her, concealed under her apron.

  She threw the gun away or hid it after the shooting. She had all night in which to dispose of it.

  She was frightened when asked what firearms Benson kept about the house, for she was not sure whether or not we knew of the gun in the bedroom.

  MOTIVE

  She took up the position of housekeeper because she feared Benson’s conduct towards her daughter. She always listened when her daughter came to his house at night to work.

  Recently she discovered that Benson had dishonourable intentions and believed her daughter to be in imminent danger.

  A mother who would sacrifice herself for her daughter’s future, as she has done, would not hesitate at killing to save her.

  And: there are the jewels. She has them hidden and is keeping them for her daughter. Would Benson have gone out and left them on the table? And if he had put them away, who but she, familiar with the house and having plenty of time, could have found them?

  CONDUCT

  She lied about St. Clair’s coming to tea, explaining later that she knew St. Clair could not have had anything to do with the crime. Was this feminine intuition? No. Sho could know St. Clair was innocent only because she herself was guilty. She was too motherly to want an innocent person suspected.

  She was markedly frightened yesterday when her daughter’s name was mentioned because she feared the discovery of the relationship might reveal her motive for shooting Benson.