"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. . . ?"
"Thoughts that breathe and words that burn," murmured Vance, who had been sitting through the interview in oppressive boredom.
Pfyfe once more adjusted his eyeglass and gave Vance a withering look.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
Vance smiled disarmingly. "Merely a quotation from Gray. Poetry appeals to me in certain moods, don't y' know. . . . Do you, by any chance, know Colonel Ostrander?"
Pfyfe looked at him coldly, but only a vacuous countenance met his gaze. "I am acquainted with the gentleman," he replied haughtily.
"Was Colonel Ostrander present at this delightful little social affair of yours?" Vance's tone was artlessly innocent.
"Now that you mention it, I believe he was," admitted Pfyfe, and lifted his eyebrows inquisitively.
But Vance was again staring disinterestedly out of the window.
Markham, annoyed at the interruption, attempted to reestablish the conversation on a more amiable and practical basis. But Pfyfe, though loquacious, had little more information to give. He insisted constantly on bringing the talk back to Captain Leacock, and, despite his eloquent protestations, it was obvious he attached more importance to the threat than he chose to admit. Markham questioned him for fully an hour but could learn nothing else of a suggestive nature.
When Pfyfe rose to go, Vance turned from his contemplation of the outside world and, bowing affably, let his eyes rest on the other with ingenuous good nature.
"Now that you are in New York, Mr. Pfyfe, and were so unfortunate as to be unable to arrive earlier, I assume that you will remain until after the investigation."
Pfyfe's studied and habitual calm gave way to a look of oily astonishment. "I hadn't contemplated doing so."
"It would be most desirable if you could arrange it," urged Markham; though I am sure he had no intention of making the request until Vance suggested it.
Pfyfe hesitated and then made an elegant gesture of resignation. "Certainly I shall remain. When you have further need of my services, you will find me at the Ansonia."
He spoke with exalted condescension and magnanimously conferred upon Markham a parting smile. But the smile did not spring from within. It appeared to have been adjusted upon his features by the unseen hands of a sculptor; and it affected only the muscles about his mouth.
When he had gone, Vance gave Markham a look
of suppressed mirth.
"'Elegancy, facility, and golden cadence.' . . . But put not your faith in poesy, old dear. Our Ciceronian friend is an unmitigated fashioner of deceptions."
"If you're trying to say that he's a smooth liar," remarked Heath, "I don't agree with you. I think that story about the captain's threat is straight goods."
"Oh, that! Of course, it's true. . . . And, y' know, Markham, the knightly Mr. Pfyfe was frightfully disappointed when you didn't insist on his revealing Miss St. Clair's name. This Leander, I fear, would never have swum the Hellespont for a lady's sake."
"Whether he's a swimmer or not," said Heath impatiently, "he's given us something to go on."
Markham agreed that Pfyfe's recital had added materially to the case against Leacock.
"I think I'll have the captain down to my office tomorrow, and question him," he said.
A moment later Major Benson entered the room, and Markham invited him to join us.
"I just saw Pfyfe get into a taxi," he said, when he had sat down. "I suppose you've been asking him about Alvin's affairs. . . . Did he help you any?"
"I hope so, for all our sakes," returned Markham kindly. "By the way, Major, what do you know about a Captain Philip Leacock?"
Major Benson lifted his eyes to Markham's in surprise. "Didn't you know? Leacock was one of the captains in my regiment—a first-rate man. He knew Alvin pretty well, I think; but my impression is they didn't hit it off very chummily. . . . Surely you don't connect him with this affair?"
Markham ignored the question. "Did you happen to attend a party of Pfyfe's the night the captain threatened your brother?"
"I went, I remember, to one or two of Pfyfe's parties," said the major. "I don't, as a rule, care for such gatherings, but Alvin convinced me it was a good business policy."
He lifted his head and frowned fixedly into space, like one searching for an elusive memory.
"However, I don't recall—By George! Yes, I believe I do. . . . But if the instance I am thinking of is what you have in mind, you can dismiss it. We were all a little moist that night."
"Did you see the gun?" pursued Heath.
The major pursed his lips. "Now that you mention it, I think he did make some motion of the kind."
"Did you see the gun?" pursued Heath.
"No, I can't say that I did."
Markham put the next question. "Do you think Captain Leacock capable of the act of murder?"
"Hardly," Major Benson answered with emphasis. "Leacock isn't cold-blooded. The woman over whom the tiff occurred is more capable of such an act than he is."
A short silence followed, broken by Vance.
"What do you know, Major, about this glass of fashion and mold of form, Pfyfe? He appears a rare bird. Has he a history, or is his presence his life's document?"
"Leander Pfyfe," said the major, "is a typical specimen of the modern young do-nothing—I say young, though I imagine he's around forty. He was pampered in his upbringing—had everything he wanted, I believe; but he became restless and followed several different fads till he tired of them. He was two years in South Africa hunting big game and, I think, wrote a book recounting his adventures. Since then he has done nothing that I know of. He married a wealthy shrew some years ago—for her money, I imagine. But the woman's father controls the purse strings and holds him down to a rigid allowance. . . . Pfyfe's a waster and an idler, but Alvin seemed to find some attraction in the man."
The major's words had been careless in inflection and undeliberated, like those of a man discussing a neutral matter; but all of us, I think, received the impression that he had a strong personal dislike for Pfyfe.
"Not a ravishing personality, what?" remarked Vance. "And he uses far too much Jicky."
"Still," supplied Heath, with a puzzled frown, "a fellow's got to have a lot of nerve to shoot big game. . . . And, speaking of nerve, I've been thinking that the guy who shot your brother, Major, was a mighty cool-headed proposition. He did it from the front when his man was wide awake and with a servant upstairs. That takes nerve."
"Sergeant, you're pos'tively brilliant!" exclaimed Vance.
12. THE OWNER OF A COLT .45
(Monday, June l7; forenoon.)
Though Vance and I arrived at the district attorney's office the following morning a little after nine, the captain had been waiting twenty minutes; and Markham directed Swacker to send him in at once.
Captain Philip Leacock was a typical army officer, very tall—fully six feet, two inches—clean-shaven, straight, and slender. His face was grave and immobile; and he stood before the district attorney in the erect, earnest attitude of a soldier awaiting orders from his superior officer.
"Take a seat, Captain," said Markham, with a formal bow. "I have asked you here, as you probably know, to put a few questions to you concerning Mr. Alvin Benson. There are several points regarding your relationship with him which I want you to explain."
"Am I suspected of complicity in the crime?" Leacock spoke with a slight southern accent.
"That remains to be seen," Markham told him coldly. "It is to determine that point that I wish to question you."
The other sat rigidly in his chair and waited.
Markham fixed him with a direct gaze.
"You recently made a threat on Mr. Alvin Benson's life, I believe."
Leacock started, and his fingers tightened over his knees. But before he could answer, Markham continued: "I can tell you the occasion on which the threat was made—it was at a party given by Mr. Leander Pfyfe."
Leacock hesitated, then thrust forward his jaw. "Very well, sir; I admit I made the threat. Benson was a cad—he deserved shooting. . . . That night he had become more obnoxious than usual. He'd been drinking too much—and so had I, I reckon."
He gave a twisted smile and looked nervously past the district attorney out of the window.
"But I didn't shoot him, sir. I didn't even know he'd been shot until I read the paper next day."
"He was shot with an army Colt, the kind you fellows carried in the war," said Markham, keeping his eyes on the man.
"I know," Leacock replied. "The papers said so."
"You have such a gun, haven't you, Captain?"
Again the other hesitated. "No, sir." His voice was barely audible.
"What became of it?"
The man glanced at Markham and then quickly shifted his eyes. "I—I lost it . . . in France."
Markham smiled faintly.
"Then how do you account for the fact that Mr. Pfyfe saw the gun the night you made the threat?"
"Saw the gun?" He looked blankly at the district attorney.
"Yes, saw it and recognized it as an army gun," persisted Markham, in a level voice. "Also, Major Benson saw you make a motion as if to draw a gun."
Leacock drew a deep breath, and set his mouth doggedly.
"I tell you sir, I haven't a gun. . . . I lost it in France."
"Perhaps you didn't lose it, Captain. Perhaps you lent it to someone."
"I didn't sir!" the words burst from his lips.
"Think a minute, Captain. . . . Didn't you lend it to someone?"
"No—I did not!"
"You paid a visit—yesterday—to Riverside Drive. . . . Perhaps you took it there with you."
Vance had been listening closely. "Oh, deuced clever!" he now murmured in my ear.
Captain Leacock moved uneasily. His face, even with its deep coat of tan, seemed to pale, and he sought to avoid the implacable gaze of his questioner by concentrating his attention upon some object on the table. When he spoke his voice, heretofore truculent, was colored by anxiety.
"I didn't have it with me. . . . And I didn't lend it to anyone."
Markham sat leaning forward over the desk, his chin on his hand, like a minatory graven image. "It may be you lent it to someone prior to that morning."
"Prior to . . . ?" Leacock looked up quickly and paused, as if analyzing the other's remark.
Markham took advantag
e of his perplexity.
"Have you lent your gun to anyone since you returned from France?"
"No, I've never lent it—" he began, but suddenly halted and flushed. Then he added hastily, "How could I lend it? I just told you, sir—"
"Never mind that!" Markham cut in. "So you had a gun, did you, Captain? . . . Have you still got it?"
Leacock opened his lips to speak but closed them again tightly.
Markham relaxed and leaned back in his chair.
"You were aware, of course, that Benson had been annoying Miss St. Clair with his attentions?"
At the mention of the girl's name the captain's body became rigid; his face turned a dull red, and he glared menacingly at the district attorney. At the end of a slow, deep inhalation he spoke through clenched teeth.
"Suppose we leave Miss St. Clair out of this." He looked as though he might spring at Markham.
"Unfortunately, we can't." Markham's words were sympathetic but firm. "Too many facts connect her with the case. Her handbag, for instance, was found in Benson's living room the morning after the murder."
"That's a lie, sir!"
Markham ignored the insult.
"Miss St. Clair herself admits the circumstance." He held up his hand, as the other was about to answer. "Don't misinterpret my mentioning the fact. I am not accusing Miss St. Clair of having anything to do with the affair. I'm merely endeavoring to get some light on your own connection with it."
The captain studied Markham with an expression that clearly indicated he doubted these assurances. Finally he set his mouth and announced with determination:
"I haven't anything more to say on the subject, sir."
"You knew, didn't you," continued Markham, "that Miss St. Clair dined with Benson at the Marseilles on the night he was shot?"
"What of it?" retorted Leacock sullenly.
"And you knew, didn't you, that they left the restaurant at midnight, and that Miss St. Clair did not reach home until after one?"
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