The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Someone did—and it certainly wasn’t Miss St. Clair.”

  “All right,” conceded Markham. “And what about this Morris chair?—how did you know she sat in it?”

  “What other chair could she have sat in and still thrown her cigarettes into the fireplace? Women are notoriously poor shots, even if they were given to hurling their cigarette stubs across the room.”

  “That deduction is simple enough,” admitted Markham. “But suppose you tell me how you know she had tea here unless you were privy to some information on the point?”

  “It pos’tively shames me to explain it. But the humiliating truth is that I inferred the fact from the condition of yon samovar. I noted yesterday that it had been used and had not been emptied or wiped off.”

  Markham nodded with contemptuous elation.

  “You seem to have sunk to the despised legal level of material clues.”

  “That’s why I’m blushing so furiously.… However, psychological deductions alone do not determine facts in esse, but only in posse. Other conditions must, of course, be considered. In the present instance the indications of the samovar served merely as the basis for an assumption, or guess, with which to draw out the housekeeper.”

  “Well, I won’t deny that you succeeded,” said Markham. “I’d like to know, though, what you had in mind when you accused the woman of a personal interest in the girl. That remark certainly indicated some preknowledge of the situation.”

  Vance’s face became serious.

  “Markham, I give you my word,” he said earnestly, “I had nothing in mind. I made the accusation, thinking it was false, merely to trap her into a denial. And she fell into the trap. But—deuce take it!—I seemed to hit some nail squarely on the head, what? I can’t for the life of me imagine why she was frightened. But it really doesn’t matter.”

  “Perhaps not,” agreed Markham, but his tone was dubious. “What do you make of the box of jewelry and the disagreement between Benson and the girl?”

  “Nothing yet. They don’t fit in, do they?”

  He was silent a moment. Then he spoke with unusual seriousness. “Markham, take my advice and don’t bother with these side issues. I’m telling you the girl had no part in the murder. Let her alone—you’ll be happier in your old age if you do.”

  Markham sat scowling, his eyes in space. “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 favorite 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’ doctrine 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 elim’nating 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 wished 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 investigate 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.”

  CHAPTER 11

  A MOTIVE AND A THREAT

  (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 ten-cent purchase at a department store nowadays, a complete history of the transaction is written out in triplicate, checked by a dozen floorwalkers and clerks, signed and countersigned, entered into innum’rable ledgers with various colored inks, and then elab’rately secreted in steel filing cabinets. And not content with all this superfluous chinoiserie, our businessmen have created a large and expensive army of efficiency experts whose sole duty it 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 pseudointr’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 he 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 specifications 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 loophole 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 hallboys; 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 tonight, 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 gate of self-approbation. His legs, which were very long and thin, with knees that 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 needlepoints. He was dressed in light gray summer flannels and wore a pale turquoise-green silk shirt, a vivid foulard tie, and gray suede Oxfords. A strong odor 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 patronizing 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.

  “Realizing 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 today.”

  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 recognized 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 can not 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 roadmap. 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.”

  “That, of course, relieves you from any technical breach of confidence,” Markham observed.

  Pfyfe acknowledged the other’s understanding with a slight bow.

  “It happened at a little party of which I was the unfortunate host,” he confessed modestly.

  “Who was the man?” Markham’s tone was polite but firm.

  “You will comprehend my reticence.…” Pfyfe began. Then, with an air of righteous frankness, he leaned forward. “It might prove unfair to Alvin to withhold the gentleman’s name.… He was Captain Philip Leacock.”

  He allowed himself the emotional outlet of a sigh.

  “I trust you won’t ask me for the lady’s name.”

  “It won’t be necessary,” Markham assured him. “But I’d appreciate your telling us a little more of the episode.”

  Pfyfe complied with an expression of patient resignation.

  “Alvin was considerably taken with the lady in question and showed her many attentions which were, I am forced to admit, unwelcome. Captain Leacock resented these attentions; and at the little affair to which I had invited him and Alvin some unpleasant and, I must say, unrefined words passed between them. I fear the wine had been flowing too freely, for Alvin was always punctilious—he was a man, indeed, skilled in the niceties of social intercourse; and the captain, in an outburst of temper, told Alvin that, unless he left the lady strictly alone in the future, he would pay with his life. The captain even went so far as to draw a revolver halfway out of his pocket.”

  “Was it a revolver or an automatic pistol?” asked Heath.

  Pfyfe gave the district attorney a faint smile of annoyance, without deigning even to glance at the sergeant.

  “I misspoke myself; forgive me. It was not a revolver. It was, I believe, an automatic army pistol—though, you understand, I didn’t see it in its entirety.”

  “You say there were others who witnessed the altercation?”

  “Several of my guests were standing about,” Pfyfe explained; “but, on my word, I couldn’t name them. The fact is, I attached little importance to the threat—indeed, it had entirely slipped my memory until I read the account of poor Alvin’s death. Then I thought at once of the unfortunate incident and said to myself: Why not tell the district attorney…?”