Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 1

by S. S. Van Dine

  A strange look came into the man's eyes. The ligaments of his neck tightened, and he took a deep, resolute breath. But he neither glanced at the district attorney nor spoke.

  "You know, of course," pursued Markham's monotonous voice, "that Benson was shot at half past twelve?" He waited, and for a whole minute there was silence in the room.

  "You have nothing more to say, Captain?" he asked at length; "no further explanations to give me?"

  Leacock did not answer. He sat gazing imperturbably ahead of him; and it was evident he had sealed his lips for the time being.

  Markham rose.

  "In that case, let us consider the interview at an end."

  The moment Captain Leacock had gone, Markham rang for one of his clerks.

  "Tell Ben to have that man followed. Find out where he goes and what he does. I want a report at the Stuyvesant Club tonight."

  When we were alone, Vance gave Markham a look of half-bantering admiration.

  "Ingenious, not to say artful. . . . But, y' know, your questions about the lady were shocking bad form."

  "No doubt," Markham agreed. "But it looks now as if we were on the right track. Leacock didn't create an impression of unassailable innocence."

  "Didn't he?" asked Vance. "Just what were the signs of his assailable guilt?"

  "You saw him turn white when I questioned him about the weapon. His nerves were on edge—he was genuinely frightened."

  Vance sighed. "What a perfect ready-made set of notions you have, Markham! Don't you know that an innocent man, when he comes under suspicion, is apt to be more nervous than a guilty one, who, to begin with, had enough nerve to commit the crime and, secondly, realizes that any show of nervousness is regarded as guilt by you lawyer chaps? 'My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure' is a mere Sunday school pleasantry. Touch almost any innocent man on the shoulder and say 'You're arrested,' and his pupils will dilate, he'll break out in a cold sweat, the blood will rush from his face, and he'll have tremors and dyspnea. If he's a hystérique, or a cardiac neurotic, he'll probably collapse completely. It's the guilty person who, when thus accosted, lifts his eyebrows in bored surprise and says, 'You don't mean it, really—here have a cigar.'"

  "The hardened criminal may act as you say," Markham conceded; "but an honest man who's innocent doesn't go to pieces, even when accused."

  Vance shook his head hopelessly. "My dear fellow, Crile and Voronoff might have lived in vain for all of you. Manifestations of fear are the result of glandular secretions—nothing more. All they prove is that the person's thyroid is undeveloped or that his adrenals are subnormal. A man accused of a crime, or shown the bloody weapon with which it was committed, will either smile serenely, or scream, or have hysterics, or faint, or appear disint'rested according to his hormones and irrespective of his guilt. Your theory, d' ye see, would be quite all right if everyone had the same amount of the various internal secretions. But they haven't. . . . Really, y' know, you shouldn't send a man to the electric chair simply because he's deficient in endocrines. It isn't cricket."

  Before Markham could reply, Swacker appeared at the door and said Heath had arrived.

  The sergeant, beaming with satisfaction, fairly burst into the room. For once he forgot to shake hands. "Well, it looks like we've got hold of something workable. I went to this Captain Leacock's apartment house last night, and here's the straight of it:—Leacock was at home the night of the thirteenth all right; but shortly after midnight he went out, headed west—get that!—and he didn't return till about quarter of one!"

  "What about the hallboy's original story?" asked Markham.

  "That's the best part of it. Leacock had the boy fixed. Gave him money to swear he hadn't left the house that night. What do you think of that, Mr. Markham? Pretty crude—huh? . . . The kid loosened up when I told him I was thinking of sending him up the river for doing the job himself." Heath laughed unpleasantly. "And he won't spill anything to Leacock, either."

  Markham nodded his head slowly.

  "What you tell me, Sergeant, bears out certain conclusions I arrived at when I talked to Captain Leacock this morning. Ben put a man on him when he left here, and I'm to get a report tonight. Tomorrow may see this thing through. I'll get in touch with you in the morning, and if anything's to be done, you understand, you'll have the handling of it."

  When Heath had left us, Markham folded his hands behind his head and leaned back contentedly.

  "I think I've got the answer," he said. "The girl dined with Benson and returned to his house afterward. The captain, suspecting the fact, went out, found her there, and shot Benson. That would account not only for her gloves and handbag but for the hour it took her to go from the Marseilles to her home. It would also account for her attitude here Saturday and for the captain's lying about the gun. . . . There. I believe, I have my case. The smashing of the captain's alibi about clinches it."

  "Oh, quite," said Vance airily. "'Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing.'"

  Markham regarded him a moment. "Have you entirely forsworn human reason as a means of reaching a decision? Here we have an admitted threat, a motive, the time, the place, the opportunity, the conduct, and the criminal agent."

  "Those words sound strangely familiar," Vance smiled. "Didn't most of 'em fit the young lady also? . . . And you really haven't got the criminal agent, y' know. But it's no doubt floating about the city somewhere. A mere detail, however."

  "I may not have it in my hand," Markham countered. "But with a good man on watch every minute, Leacock won't find much opportunity of disposing of the weapon."

  Vance shrugged indifferently.

  "In any event, go easy," he admonished. "My humble opinion is that you've merely unearthed a conspiracy."

  "Conspiracy? . . . Good Lord! What kind?"

  "A conspiracy of circumst'nces, don't y' know."

  "I'm glad, at any rate, it hasn't to do with international politics," returned Markham good-naturedly.

  He glanced at the clock. "You won't mind if I get to work? I've a dozen things to attend to and a couple of committees to see. . . . Why don't you go across the hall and have a talk with Ben Hanlon and then come back at twelve thirty? We'll have lunch together at the Bankers' Club. Ben's our greatest expert on foreign extradition and has spent most of his life chasing about the world after fugitives from justice. He'll spin you some good yarns."

  "How perfectly fascinatin'!" exclaimed Vance, with a yawn. But instead of taking the suggestion, he walked to the window and lit a cigarette. He stood for a while puffing at it, rolling it between his fingers, and inspecting it critically.

  "Y'know, Markham," he observed, "everything's going to pot these days. It's this silly democracy. Even the nobility is degen'rating. These Régie cigarettes, now; they've fallen off frightfully. There was a time when no self-respecting potentate would have smoked such inferior tobacco."

  Markham smiled. "What's the favor you want to ask?"

  "Favor? What has that to do with the decay of Europe's aristocracy?"

  "I've noticed that whenever you want to ask a favor which you consider questionable etiquette, you begin with a denunciation of royalty."

  "Observin' fella," commented Vance dryly. Then he, too, smiled. "Do you mind if I invite Colonel Ostrander along to lunch?"

  Markham gave him a sharp look. "Bigsby Ostrander, you mean? . . . Is he the mysterious colonel you've been asking people about for the past two days?"

  "That's the lad. Pompous ass and that sort of thing. Might prove a bit edifyin', though. He's the papa of Benson's crowd, so to speak; knows all parties. Regular old scandalmonger."

  "Have him along, by all means," agreed Markham. Then he picked up the telephone. "Now I'm going to tell Ben you're coming over for an hour or so."

  13. THE GRAY CADILLAC

  (Monday, June 17; 12:30 P.M.)

  When, at half past twelve, Markham, Vance, and I entered the Grill of the Bankers' Club in the Equitable Building, Colonel Os
trander was already at the bar engaged with one of Charlie's prohibition clam-broth-and-Worcestershire-sauce cocktails. Vance had telephoned him immediately upon our leaving the district attorney's office, requesting him to meet us at the club; and the colonel had seemed eager to comply.

  "Here is New York's gayest dog," said Vance, introducing him to Markham (I had met him before); "a sybarite and a hedonist. He sleeps till noon, and makes no appointments before tiffin-time. I had to knock him up and threaten him with your official ire to get him downtown at this early hour."

  "Only too pleased to be of any service," the colonel assured Markham grandiloquently. "Shocking affair! Gad! I couldn't credit it when I read it in the papers. Fact is, though—I don't mind sayin' it—I've one or two ideas on the subject. Came very near calling you up myself, sir."

  When we had taken our seats at the table, Vance began interrogating him without preliminaries.

  "You know all the people in Benson's set, Colonel. Tell us something about Captain Leacock. What sort of chap is he?"

  "Ha! So you have your eye on the gallant captain?"

  Colonel Ostrander pulled importantly at his white moustache. He was a large pink-faced man with bushy eyelashes and small blue eyes; and his manner and bearing were those of a pompous light-opera general.

  "Not a bad idea. Might possibly have done it. Hotheaded fellow. He's badly smitten with a Miss St. Clair—fine girl, Muriel. And Benson was smitten, too. If I'd been twenty years younger myself—"

  "You're too fascinatin' to the ladies, as it is, Colonel," interrupted Vance. "But tell us about the captain."

  "Ah, yes—the captain. Comes from Georgia originally. Served in the war—some kind of decoration. He didn't care for Benson—disliked him, in fact. Quick-tempered, single-track-minded sort of person. Jealous, too. You know the type—a product of that tribal etiquette below the Mason and Dixon line. Puts women on a pedestal—not that they shouldn't be put there, God bless 'em! But he'd go to jail for a lady's honor. A shielder of womanhood. Sentimental cuss, full of chivalry; just the kind to blow out a rival's brains:—no questions asked—pop—and it's all over. Dangerous chap to monkey with. Benson was a confounded idiot to bother with the girl when he knew she was engaged to Leacock. Playin' with fire. I don't mind sayin' I was tempted to warn him. But it was none of my affair—I had no business interferin'. Bad taste."

  "Just how well did Captain Leacock know Benson?" asked Vance. "By that I mean, how intimate were they?"

  "Not intimate at all," the colonel replied.

  He made a ponderous gesture of negation, and added, "I should say not! Formal, in fact. They met each other here and there a good deal, though. Knowing 'em both pretty well, I've often had 'em to little affairs at my humble diggin's."

  "You wouldn't say Captain Leacock was a good gambler—levelheaded and all that?"

  "Gambler—huh!" The colonel's manner was heavily contemptuous. "Poorest I ever saw. Played poker worse than a woman. Too excitable—couldn't keep his feelin's to himself. Altogether too rash."

  Then, after a momentary pause: "By George! I see what you're aimin' at. . . . And you're dead right. It's rash young puppies just like him that go about shootin' people they don't like."

  "The captain, I take it, is quite different in that regard from your friend, Leander Pfyfe," remarked Vance.

  The colonel appeared to consider. "Yes and no," he decided. "Pfyfe's a cool gambler—that I'll grant you. He once ran a private gambling place of his own down on Long Island—roulette, monte, baccarat, that sort of thing. And he popped tigers and wild boars in Africa for a while. But Pfyfe's got his sentimental side, and he'd plunge on a pair of deuces with all the betting odds against him. Not a good scientific gambler. Flighty in his impulses, if you understand me. I don't mind admittin', though, that he could shoot a man and forget all about it in five minutes. But he'd need a lot of provocation. . . . He may have had it—you can't tell."

  "Pfyfe and Benson were rather intimate, weren't they?"

  "Very—very. Always saw 'em together when Pfyfe was in New York. Known each other years. Boon companions, as they called 'em in the old days. Actually lived together before Pfyfe got married. An exacting woman, Pfyfe's wife; makes him toe the mark. But loads of money."

  "Speaking of the ladies," said Vance, "what was the situation between Benson and Miss St. Clair?"

  "Who can tell?" asked the colonel sententiously. "Muriel didn't cotton to Benson—that's sure. And yet . . . women are strange creatures—"

  "Oh, no end strange," agreed Vance, a trifle wearily. "But really, y' know, I wasn't prying into the lady's personal relations with Benson. I thought you might know her mental attitude concerning him."

  "Ah—I see. Would she, in short, have been likely to take desperate measures against him? . . . Egad! That's an idea!"

  The colonel pondered the point.

  "Muriel, now, is a girl of strong character. Works hard at her art. She's a singer and, I don't mind tellin' you, a mighty fine one. She's deep, too—deuced deep. And capable. Not afraid of taking a chance. Independent. I myself wouldn't want to be in her path if she had it in for me. Might stick at nothing."

  He nodded his head sagely.

  "Women are funny that way. Always surprisin' you. No sense of values. The most peaceful of 'em will shoot a man in cold blood without warnin'—"

  He suddenly sat up, and his little blue eyes glistened like china. "By gad!" He fairly blurted the ejaculation. "Muriel had dinner alone with Benson the night he was shot—the very night. Saw 'em together myself at the Marseilles."

  "You don't say, really!" muttered Vance incuriously. "But I suppose we all must eat. . . . By the bye, how well did you yourself know Benson?"

  The colonel looked startled, but Vance's innocuous expression seemed to reassure him.

  "I? My dear fellow! I've known Alvin Benson fifteen years. At least fifteen—maybe longer. Showed him the sights in this old town before the lid was put on. A live town it was then. Wide open. Anything you wanted. Gad—what times we had! Those were the days of the old Haymarket. Never thought of toddlin' home till breakfast—"

  Vance again interrupted his irrelevancies.

  "How intimate are your relations with Major Benson?"

  "The major? . . . That's another matter. He and I belong to different schools. Dissimilar tastes. We never hit it off. Rarely see each other."

  He seemed to think that some explanation was necessary, for before Vance could speak again, he nodded, "The major, you know, was never one of the boys, as we say. Disapproved of gaiety. Didn't mix with our little set. Considered me and Alvin too frivolous. Serious-minded chap."

  Vance ate in silence for a while, then asked in an offhand way, "Did you do much speculating through Benson and Benson?"

  For the first time the colonel appeared hesitant about answering. He ostentatiously wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  "Oh—dabbled a bit," he at length admitted airily. "Not very lucky, though. . . . We all flirted now and then with the Goddess of Chance in Benson's office."

  Throughout the lunch Vance kept plying him with questions along these lines; but at the end of an hour he seemed to be no nearer anything definite than when he began. Colonel Ostrander was voluble, but his fluency was vague and disorganized. He talked mainly in parentheses and insisted on elaborating his answers with rambling opinions, until it was almost impossible to extract what little information his words contained.

  Vance, however, did not appear discouraged. He dwelt on Captain Leacock's character and seemed particularly interested in his personal relationship with Benson. Pfyfe's gambling proclivities also occupied his attention, and he let the colonel ramble on tiresomely about the man's gambling house on Long Island and his hunting experiences in South Africa. He asked numerous questions about Benson's other friends but paid scant attention to the answers.

  The whole interview impressed me as pointless, and I could not help wondering what Vance hoped to learn. Markham, I was convinced,
was equally at sea. He pretended polite interest and nodded appreciatively during the colonel's incredibly drawn-out periods; but his eyes wandered occasionally, and several times I saw him give Vance a look of reproachful inquiry. There was no doubt, however, that Colonel Ostrander knew his people.

  When we were back in the district attorney's office, having taken leave of our garrulous guest at the subway entrance, Vance threw himself into one of the easy chairs with an air of satisfaction.

  "Most entertainin', what? As an elim'nator of suspects the colonel has his good points."

  "Eliminator!" retorted Markham. "It's a good thing he's not connected with the police; he'd have half the community jailed for shooting Benson."

  "He is a bit bloodthirsty," Vance admitted. "He's determined to get somebody jailed for the crime."

  "According to that old warrior, Benson's coterie was a camorra of gunmen—not forgetting the women. I couldn't help getting the impression, as he talked, that Benson was miraculously lucky not to have been riddled with bullets long ago."

  "It's obvious," commented Vance, "that you overlooked the illuminatin' flashes in the colonel's thunder."

  "Were there any?" Markham asked. "At any rate, I can't say that they exactly blinded me by their brilliance."

  "And you received no solace from his words?"

  "Only those in which he bade me a fond farewell. The parting didn't exactly break my heart. . . . What the old boy said about Leacock, however, might be called a confirmatory opinion. It verified—if verification had been necessary—the case against the captain."

  Vance smiled cynically. "Oh, to be sure. And what he said about Miss St. Clair would have verified the case against her, too—last Saturday. Also, what he said about Pfyfe would have verified the case against that Beau Sabreur, if you had happened to suspect him—eh, what?"

  Vance had scarcely finished speaking when Swacker came in to say that Emery from the homicide bureau had been sent over by Heath and wished, if possible, to see the district attorney.