Vance began his questioning without prelude or protasis.
"Mrs. Platz, was Mr. Benson very particular about his toupee—that is, did he often receive his friends without having it on?"
The woman appeared relieved. "Oh, no, sir—never."
"Think back, Mrs. Platz. Has Mr. Benson never, to your knowledge, been in anyone's company without his toupee?"
She was silent for some time, her brows contracted.
"Once I saw him take off his wig and show it to Colonel Ostrander, an elderly gentleman who used to call here very often. But Colonel Ostrander was an old friend of his. He told me they lived together once."
"No one else?"
Again she frowned thoughtfully. "No," she said, after several minutes.
"What about the tradespeople?"
"He was very particular about them. . . . And strangers, too," she added. "When he used to sit in here in hot weather without his wig, he always pulled the shade on that window." She pointed to the one nearest the hallway. "You can look in it from the steps."
"I'm glad you brought up that point," said Vance. "And anyone standing on the steps could tap on the window or the iron bars, and attract the attention of anyone in this room?"
"Oh, yes, sir—easily. I did it myself once, when I went on an errand and forgot my key."
"It's quite likely, don't you think, that the person who shot Mr. Benson obtained admittance that way?"
"Yes, sir." She grasped eagerly at the suggestion.
"The person would have had to know Mr. Benson pretty well to tap on the window instead of ringing the bell. Don't you agree with me, Mrs. Platz?"
"Yes, sir." Her tone was doubtful; evidently the point was a little beyond her.
"If a stranger had tapped on the window, would Mr. Benson have admitted him without his toupee?"
"Oh, no—he wouldn't have let a stranger in."
"You are sure the bell didn't ring that night?"
"Positive, sir." The answer was very emphatic.
"Is there a light on the front steps?"
"No, sir."
"If Mr. Benson had looked out of the window to see who was tapping, could he have recognized the person at night?"
The woman hesitated. "I don't know—I don't think so."
"Is there any way you can see through the front door who is outside without opening it?"
"No, sir. Sometimes I wished there was."
"Then, if the person knocked on the window, Mr. Benson must have recognized the voice?"
"It looks that way, sir."
"And you're certain no one could have got in without a key?"
"How could they? The door locks by itself."
"It's the regulation spring lock, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then it must have a catch you can turn off so that the door will open from either side even though it's latched."
"It did have a catch like that," she explained, "but Mr. Benson had it fixed so's it wouldn't work. He said it was too dangerous—I might go out and leave the house unlocked."
Vance stepped into the hallway, and I heard him opening and shutting the front door.
"You're right, Mrs. Platz," he observed, when he came back. "Now tell me: are you quite sure no one had a key?"
"Yes, sir. No one but me and Mr. Benson had a key."
Vance nodded his acceptance of her statement.
"You said you left your bedroom door open on the night Mr. Benson was shot. . . . Do you generally leave it open?"
"No, I 'most always shut it. But it was terrible close that night."
"Then it was merely an accident you left it open?"
"As you might say."
"If your door had been closed as usual, could you have heard the shot, do you think?"
"If I'd been awake, maybe. Not if I was sleeping, though. They got heavy doors in these old houses, sir."
"And they're beautiful, too," commented Vance.
He looked admiringly at the massive mahogany double door that opened into the hall.
"Y' know, Markham, our so-called civ'lization is nothing more than the persistent destruction of everything that's beautiful and enduring, and the designing of cheap makeshifts. You should read Oswald Spengler's Untergang des Abendlands—a most penetratin' document. I wonder some enterprisin' publisher hasn't embalmed it in our native argot.[18] The whole history of this degen'rate era we call modern civ'lization can be seen in our woodwork. Look at that fine old door, for instance, with its beveled panels and ornamented bolection, and its Ionic pilasters and carved lintel. And then compare it with the flat, flimsy, machine-made, shellacked boards which are turned out by the thousand today. Sic transit. . . ."
He studied the door for some time; then turned abruptly back to Mrs. Platz, who was eyeing him curiously and with mounting apprehension.
"What did Mr. Benson do with the box of jewels when he went out to dinner?" he asked.
"Nothing, sir," she answered nervously. "He left them on the table there."
"Did you see them after he had gone?"
"Yes; and I was going to put them away. But I decided I'd better not touch them."
"And nobody came to the door, or entered the house, after Mr. Benson left?"
"No, sir."
"You're quite sure?"
"I'm positive, sir."
Vance rose, and began to pace the floor. Suddenly, just as he was passing the woman, he stopped and faced her.
"Was your maiden name Hoffman, Mrs. Platz?"
The thing she had been dreading had come. Her face paled, her eyes opened wide, and her lower lip drooped a little.
Vance stood looking at her, not unkindly. Before she could regain control of herself, he said, "I had the pleasure of meeting your charmin' daughter recently."
"My daughter. . . ?" the woman managed to stammer.
"Miss Hoffman, y' know—the attractive young lady with the blond hair. Mr. Benson's secret'ry."
The woman sat erect and spoke through clamped teeth. "She's not my daughter."
"Now, now, Mrs. Platz!" Vance chided her, as if speaking to a child. "Why this foolish attempt at deception? You remember how worried you were when I accused you of having a personal interest in the lady who was here to tea with Mr. Benson? You were afraid I thought it was Miss Hoffman. . . . But why should you be anxious about her, Mrs. Platz? I'm sure she's a very nice girl. And you really can't blame her for preferring the name of Hoffman to that of Platz. Platz means generally a place, though it also means a crash or an explosion; and sometimes a Platz is a bun or a yeast cake. But a Hoffman is a courtier—much nicer than being a yeast cake, what?"
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 thin
k 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 preying 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 aesthetic credo is: Whatever's big is beautiful. These depressin' gargantuan boxes with rectangular holes in 'em, which are called skyscrapers, are worshiped 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-story 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 today and I feel pos'tively virtuous. Frau Platz will schlafen much better tonight. 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 treetops 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 overarticulated cheekbones, an orthognathous jaw, a low, flat parietal structure, and a mesorrhinian 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 that 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 center table when Benson came home that night; and they were gone in the morning. Wherefore, it seems 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 personae gratae 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 tonight—and tomorrow you won't want him."
Markham wheeled about.
"What's that! I won'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?"
&
nbsp; Vance glanced at his watch.
"Come to my house tomorrow 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 realized 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 minimize, his statement.
"Why not tell me now?" he asked.
"Awf'lly sorry, y' know," apologized Vance; "but I'm going to the Philharmonic's 'special' tonight. 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 tomorrow," 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 is?"
22. VANCE OUTLINES A THEORY
(Thursday, June 20, 9 A.M.)
Markham came to Vance's apartment at promptly nine o'clock the next morning. He was in a bad humor.
"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 devitalize its flavor 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 bonbon; he 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. . . ."
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