Philo Vance Omnibus Vol 1

by S. S. Van Dine

  The major went quickly to him and touched him on the arm. "It's all right, Leacock," he said softly. "I can't think that you really shot Alvin."

  The captain turned apprehensive eyes upon him. "Of course, I shot him." His voice was flat. "I told him I was going to."

  Vance came forward and indicated a chair.

  "Sit down, Captain. The district attorney wants to hear your story of the shooting. The law, you understand, does not accept murder confessions without corroborat'ry evidence. And since, in the present case, there are suspicions against others than yourself, we want you to answer some questions in order to substantiate your guilt. Otherwise, it will be necess'ry for us to follow up our suspicions."

  Taking a seat facing Leacock, he picked up the confession.

  "You say here you were satisfied that Mr. Benson had wronged you, and you went to his house at about half past twelve on the night of the thirteenth. . . . When you speak of his wronging you, do you refer to his attentions to Miss St. Clair?"

  Leacock's face betrayed a sulky belligerence

  "It doesn't matter why I shot him. Can't you leave Miss St. Clair out of it?"

  "Certainly," agreed Vance. "I promise you she shall not be brought into it. But we must understand your motive thoroughly."

  After a brief silence Leacock said, "Very well, then. That was what I referred to."

  "How did you know Miss St. Clair went to dinner with Mr. Benson that night?"

  "I followed them to the Marseilles."

  "And then you went home?"

  "Yes."

  "What made you go to Mr. Benson's house later?"

  "I got to thinking about it more and more, until I couldn't stand it any longer. I began to see red, and at last I took my Colt and went out, determined to kill him."

  A note of passion had crept into his voice. It seemed unbelievable that he could be lying.

  Vance again referred to the confession.

  "You dictated: 'I went to 87 West Forty-eighth Street and entered the house by the front door.' . . . Did you ring the bell? Or was the front door unlatched?"

  Leacock was about to answer but hesitated. Evidently he recalled the newspaper accounts of the housekeeper's testimony in which she asserted positively that the bell had not rung that night.

  "What difference does it make?" He was sparring for time.

  "We'd like to know—that's all," Vance told him. "But no hurry."

  "Well, if it's so important to you: I didn't ring the bell; and the door was unlocked." His hesitancy was gone. "Just as I reached the house, Benson drove up in a taxicab—"

  "Just a moment. Did you happen to notice another car standing in front of the house? A gray Cadillac?"

  "Why—yes."

  "Did you recognize its occupant?"

  There was another short silence.

  "I'm not sure. I think it was a man named Pfyfe."

  "He and Mr. Benson were outside at the same time, then?"

  Leacock frowned. "No—not at the same time. There was nobody there when I arrived. . . . I didn't see Pfyfe until I came out a few minutes later."

  "He arrived in his car when you were inside—is that it?"

  "He must have."

  "I see. . . . And now to go back a little: Benson drove up in a taxicab. Then what?"

  "I went up to him and said I wanted to speak to him. He told me to come inside, and we went in together. He used his latchkey."

  "And now, Captain, tell us just what happened after you and Mr. Benson entered the house."

  "He laid his hat and stick on the hatrack, and we walked into the living room. He sat down by the table, and I stood up and said—what I had to say. Then I drew my gun and shot him."

  Vance was closely watching the man, and Markham was leaning forward tensely.

  "How did it happen that he was reading at the time?"

  "I believe he did pick up a book while I was talking. . . . Trying to appear indifferent, I reckon."

  "Think now: you and Mr. Benson went into the living room directly from the hall, as soon as you entered the house?"

  "Yes."

  "Then how do you account for the fact, Captain, that when Mr. Benson was shot, he had on his smoking jacket and slippers?"

  Leacock glanced nervously about the room. Before he answered, he wet his lips with his tongue.

  "Now that I think of it, Benson did go upstairs for a few minutes first. . . . I guess I was too excited," he added desperately, "to recollect everything."

  "That's natural," Vance said sympathetically. "But when he came downstairs, did you happen to notice anything peculiar about his hair?"

  Leacock looked up vaguely. "His hair? I—don't understand."

  "The color of it, I mean. When Mr. Benson sat before you under the table lamp, didn't you remark some—difference, let us say—in the way his hair looked?"

  The man closed his eyes, as if striving to visualize the scene. "No—I don't remember."

  "A minor point," said Vance indifferently. "Did Benson's speech strike you as peculiar when he came downstairs—that is, was there a thickness, or slight impediment of any kind, in his voice?"

  Leacock was manifestly puzzled.

  "I don't know what you mean," he said. "He seemed to talk the way he always talked."

  "And did you happen to see a blue jewel case on the table?"

  "I didn't notice."

  Vance smoked a moment thoughtfully.

  "When you left the room after shooting Mr. Benson, you turned out the lights, of course?"

  When no immediate answer came, Vance volunteered the suggestion: "You must have done so, for Mr. Pfyfe says the house was dark when he drove up."

  Leacock then nodded an affirmative. "That's right. I couldn't recollect for the moment."

  "Now that you remember the fact, just how did you turn them off?"

  "I—" he began, and stopped. Then, finally: "At the switch."

  "And where is that switch located, Captain?"

  "I can't just recall."

  "Think a moment. Surely you can remember."

  "By the door leading into the hall, I think."

  "Which side of the door?"

  "How can I tell?" the man asked piteously. "I was too—nervous. . . . But I think it was on the right-hand side of the door."

  "The right-hand side when entering or leaving the room?"

  "As you go out."

  "That would be where the bookcase stands?"

  "Yes."

  Vance appeared satisfied.

  "Now, there's the question of the gun," he said. "Why did you take it to Miss St. Clair?"

  "I was a coward," the man replied. "I was afraid they might find it at my apartment. And I never imagined she would be suspected."

  "And when she was suspected, you at once took the gun away and threw it into the East River?"

  "Yes."

  "I suppose there was one cartridge missing from the magazine, too—which in itself would have been a suspicious circumstance."

  "I thought of that. That's why I threw the gun away."

  Vance frowned. "That's strange. There must have been two guns. We dredged the river, y' know, and found a Colt automatic, but the magazine was full. . . . Are you sure, Captain, that it was your gun you took from Miss St. Clair's and threw over the bridge?"

  I knew no gun had been retrieved from the river and I wondered what he was driving at. Was he, after all, trying to involve the girl? Markham, too, I could see, was in doubt.

  Leacock made no answer for several moments. When he spoke, it was with dogged sullenness.

  "There weren't two guns. The one you found was mine. . . . I refilled the magazine myself."

  "Ah, that accounts for it." Vance's tone was pleasant and reassuring. "Just one more question, Captain. Why did you come here today and confess?"

  Leacock thrust his chin out, and for the first time during the cross-examination his eyes became animated. "Why? It was the only honorable thing to do. You have unjustly suspected
an innocent person; and I didn't want anyone else to suffer."

  This ended the interview. Markham had no questions to ask; and the deputy sheriff led the captain out.

  When the door had closed on him, a curious silence fell over the room. Markham sat smoking furiously, his hands folded behind his head, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The major had settled back in his chair, and was gazing at Vance with admiring satisfaction. Vance was watching Markham out of the corner of his eye, a drowsy smile on his lips. The expressions and attitudes of the three men conveyed perfectly their varying individual reactions to the interview—Markham troubled, the major pleased, Vance cynical.

  It was Vance who broke the silence. He spoke easily, almost lazily. "You see how silly the confession is, what? Our pure and lofty captain is an incredibly poor Munchausen. No one could lie as badly as he did who hadn't been born into the world that way. It's simply impossible to imitate such stupidity. And he did so want us to think him guilty. Very affectin'. He prob'bly imagined you'd merely stick the confession in his shirtfront and send him to the hangman. You noticed, he hadn't even decided how he got into Benson's house that night. Pfyfe's admitted presence outside almost spoiled his impromptu explanation of having entered bras dessus bras dessous with his intended victim. And he didn't recall Benson's semi-négligé attire. When I reminded him of it, he had to contradict himself and send Benson trotting upstairs to make a rapid change. Luckily, the toupee wasn't mentioned by the newspapers. The captain couldn't imagine what I meant when I intimated that Benson had dyed his hair when changing his coat and shoes. . . . By the bye, Major, did your brother speak thickly when his false teeth were out?"

  "Noticeably so," answered the major. "If Alvin's plate had been removed that night—as I gathered it had been from your question—Leacock would surely have noticed it."

  "There were other things he didn't notice," said Vance: "the jewel case, for instance, and the location of the electric light switch."

  "He went badly astray on that point," added the major. "Alvin's house is old-fashioned, and the only switch in the room is a pendant one attached to the chandelier."

  "Exactly," said Vance. "However, his worst break was in connection with the gun. He gave his hand away completely there. He said he threw the pistol into the river largely because of the missing cartridge, and when I told him the magazine was full, he explained that he had refilled it, so I wouldn't think it was anyone else's gun that was found. . . . It's plain to see what's the matter. He thinks Miss St. Clair is guilty, and is determined to take the blame."

  "That's my impression," said Major Benson.

  "And yet," mused Vance, "the captain's attitude bothers me a little. There's no doubt he had something to do with the crime, else why should he have concealed his pistol the next day in Miss St. Clair's apartment? He's just the kind of silly beggar, d' ye see, who would threaten any man he thought had designs on his fiancée and then carry out the threat if anything happened. And he has a guilty conscience—that's obvious. But for what? Certainly not the shooting. The crime was planned; and the captain never plans. He's the kind that gets an idée fixe, girds up his loins, and does the deed in knightly fashion, prepared to take the cons'quences. That sort of chivalry, y' know, is sheer beau geste: its acolytes want everyone to know of their valor. And when they go forth to rid the world of a Don Juan, they're always clear-minded. The captain, for instance, wouldn't have overlooked his Lady Fair's gloves and handbag, he would have taken 'em away. In fact, it's just as certain he would have shot Benson as it is he didn't shoot him. That's the beetle in the amber. It's psychologically possible he would have done it, and psychologically impossible he would have done it the way it was done."

  He lit a cigarette and watched the drifting spirals of smoke.

  "If it wasn't so fantastic, I'd say he started out to do it and found it already done. And yet, that's about the size of it. It would account for Pfyfe's seeing him there, and for his secreting the gun at Miss St. Clair's the next day."

  The telephone rang: Colonel Ostrander wanted to speak to the district attorney. Markham, after a short conversation, turned a disgruntled look upon Vance.

  "Your bloodthirsty friend wanted to know if I'd arrested anyone yet. He offered to confer more of his invaluable suggestions upon me in case I was still undecided as to who was guilty."

  "I heard you thanking him fulsomely for something or other. . . . What did you give him to understand about your mental state?"

  "That I was still in the dark."

  Markham's answer was accompanied by a somber, tired smile. It was his way of telling Vance that he had entirely rejected the idea of Captain Leacock's guilt.

  The major went to him and held out his hand.

  "I know how you feel," he said. "This sort of thing is discouraging; but it's better that the guilty person should escape altogether than that an innocent man should be made to suffer. . . . Don't work too hard, and don't let these disappointments get to you. You'll soon hit on the right solution, and when you do"—his jaw snapped shut, and he uttered the rest of the sentence between clenched teeth—"you'll meet with no opposition from me. I'll help you put the thing over."

  He gave Markham a grim smile and took up his hat.

  "I'm going back to the office now. If you want me at any time, let me know. I may be able to help you—later on."

  With a friendly, appreciative bow to Vance, he went out.

  Markham sat in silence for several minutes.

  "Damn it, Vance!" he said irritably. "This case gets more difficult by the hour. I feel worn out."

  "You really shouldn't take it so seriously, old dear," Vance advised lightly. "It doesn't pay, y' know, to worry over the trivia of existence.

  'Nothing's new,

  And nothing's true,

  And nothing really matters.'

  Several million johnnies were killed in the war, and you don't let the fact bedevil your phagocytes or inflame your brain cells. But when one rotter is mercifully shot in your district, you lie awake nights perspiring over it, what? My word! You're deucedly inconsistent."

  "Consistency—" began Markham; but Vance interrupted him.

  "Now don't quote Emerson. I inf'nitely prefer Erasmus. Y' know, you ought to read his Praise of Folly; it would cheer you no end. That goaty old Dutch professor would never have grieved inconsolably over the destruction of Alvin Le Chauve."

  "I'm not a fruges consumere natus like you," snapped Markham. "I was elected to this office—"

  "Oh, quite—'loved I not honor more' and all that," Vance chimed in. "But don't be so sens'tive. Even if the captain has succeeded in bungling his way out of jail, you have at least five possibilities left. There's Mrs. Platz . . . and Pfyfe . . . and Colonel Ostrander . . . and Miss Hoffman . . . and Mrs. Banning.—I say! Why don't you arrest 'em all, one at a time, and get 'em to confess? Heath would go crazy with joy."

  Markham was in too crestfallen a mood to resent this chaffing. Indeed, Vance's lightheartedness seemed to buoy him up.

  "If you want the truth," he said; "that's exactly what I feel like doing. I am restrained merely by my indecision as to which one to arrest first."

  "Stout fella!" Then Vance asked: "What are you going to do with the captain now? It'll break his heart if you release him."

  "His heart'll have to break, I'm afraid." Markham reached for the telephone. "I'd better see to the formalities now.

  "Just a moment!" Vance put forth a restraining hand. "Don't end his rapturous martyrdom just yet. Let him be happy for another day at least. I've a notion he may be most useful to us, pining away in his lonely cell like the prisoner of Chillon."

  Markham put down the telephone without a word. More and more, I had noticed, he was becoming inclined to accept Vance's leadership. This attitude was not merely the result of the hopeless confusion in his mind, though his uncertainty probably influenced him to some extent; but it was due in large measure to the impression Vance had given him of knowing more than he cared to
reveal.

  "Have you tried to figure out just how Pfyfe and his Turtledove fit into the case?" Vance asked.

  "Along with a few thousand other enigmas—yes," was the petulant reply. "But the more I try to reason it out, the more of a mystery the whole thing becomes."

  "Loosely put, my dear Markham," criticized Vance. "There are no mysteries originating in human beings, y' know; there are only problems. And any problem originating in one human being can be solved by another human being. It merely requires a knowledge of the human mind, and the application of that knowledge to human acts. Simple, what?"

  He glanced at the clock.

  "I wonder how your Mr. Stitt is getting along with the Benson and Benson books. I await his report with anticipat'ry excitement."

  This was too much for Markham. The wearing-down process of Vance's intimations and veiled innuendoes had at last dissipated his self-control. He bent forward and struck the desk angrily with his hand.

  "I'm damned tired of this superior attitude of yours," he complained hotly. "Either you know something or you don't. If you don't know anything, do me the favor of dropping these insinuations of knowledge. If you do know anything, it's up to you to tell me. You've been hinting around in one way or another ever since Benson was shot. If you've got any idea who killed him, I want to know it."

  He leaned back and took out a cigar. Not once did he look up as he carefully clipped the end and lit it. I think he was a little ashamed at having given way to his anger.

  Vance had sat apparently unconcerned during the outburst. At length he stretched his legs and gave Markham a long contemplative look.

  "Y' know, Markham old bean, I don't blame you a bit for your unseemly ebullition. The situation has been most provokin'. But now, I fancy, the time has come to put an end to the comedietta. I really haven't been spoofing, y' know. The fact is, I've some most int'restin' ideas on the subject."

  He stood up and yawned.

  "It's a beastly hot day, but it must be done—eh, what?