“In what other quarters have you involved me during my absence?” asked Markham acrimoniously.
“That’s all,” replied Vance, rising and strolling to the window.
He stood looking out, smoking thoughtfully. When he turned back to the room, his bantering air had gone. He sat down facing Markham.
“The Major has practically admitted to us,” he said, “that he knows more about this affair than he has told. You naturally can’t push the point, in view of his hon’rable attitude in the matter. And yet, he’s willing for you to find out what he knows, as long as he doesn’t tell you himself,—that was unquestionably the stand he took last night. Now, I believe there’s a way you can find out without calling upon him to go against his principles. . . . You recall Miss Hoffman’s story of the eavesdropping; and you also recall that he told you he heard a conversation which, in the light of Benson’s murder, became significant. It’s quite prob’ble, therefore, that the Major’s knowledge has to do with something connected with the business of the firm, or at least with one of the firm’s clients.”
Vance slowly lit another cigarette.
“My suggestion is this: call up the Major, and ask permission to send a man to take a peep at his ledger accounts and his purchase and sales books. Tell him you want to find out about the transactions of one of his clients. Intimate that it’s Miss St. Clair—or Pfyfe, if you like. I have a strange mediumistic feeling that, in this way, you’ll get on the track of the person he’s shielding. And I’m also assailed by the premonition that he’ll welcome your interest in his ledger.”
The plan did not appeal to Markham as feasible or fraught with possibilities; and it was evident he disliked making such a request of Major Benson. But so determined was Vance, so earnestly did he argue his point, that in the end Markham acquiesced.
“He was quite willing to let me send a man,” said Markham, hanging up the receiver. “In fact, he seemed eager to give me every assistance.”
“I thought he’d take kindly to the suggestion,” said Vance. “Y’ see, if you discover for yourself whom he suspects, it relieves him of the onus of having tattled.”
Markham rang for Swacker.
“Call up Stitt and tell him I want to see him here before noon—that I have an immediate job for him.”
“Stitt,” Markham explained to Vance, “is the head of a firm of public accountants over in the New York Life Building. I use him a good deal on work like this.”
Shortly before noon Stitt came. He was a prematurely old young man, with a sharp, shrewd face and a perpetual frown. The prospect of working for the District Attorney pleased him.
Markham explained briefly what was wanted, and revealed enough of the case to guide him in his task. The man grasped the situation immediately, and made one or two notes on the back of a dilapidated envelope.
Vance also, during the instructions, had jotted down some notations on a piece of paper.
Markham stood up and took his hat.
“Now, I suppose, I must keep the appointment you made for me,” he complained to Vance. Then: “Come, Stitt, I’ll take you down with us in the judges’ private elevator.”
“If you don’t mind,” interposed Vance, “Mr. Stitt and I will forgo the honor, and mingle with the commoners in the public lift. We’ll meet you downstairs.”
Taking the accountant by the arm, he led him out through the main waiting-room. It was ten minutes, however, before he joined us.
We took the subway to Seventy-second Street and walked up West End Avenue to Mrs. Paula Banning’s address. She lived in a small apartment-house just around the corner in Seventy-fifth Street. As we stood before her door, waiting for an answer to our ring, a strong odor of Chinese incense drifted out to us.
“Ah! That facilitates matters,” said Vance, sniffing. “Ladies who burn joss-sticks are invariably sentimental.”
Mrs. Banning was a tall, slightly adipose woman of indeterminate age, with strawcolored hair and a pink-and-white complexion. Her face in repose possessed a youthful and vacuous innocence; but the expression was only superficial. Her eyes, a very light blue, were hard; and a slight puffiness about her cheekbones and beneath her chin attested to years of idle and indulgent living. She was not unattractive, however, in a vivid, flamboyant way; and her manner, when she ushered us into her over-furnished and rococo living-room, was one of easy-going good-fellowship.
When we were seated and Markham had apologized for our intrusion, Vance at once assumed the rôle of interviewer. During his opening explanatory remarks he appraised the woman carefully, as if seeking to determine the best means of approaching her for the information he wanted.
After a few minutes of verbal reconnoitring, he asked permission to smoke, and offered Mrs. Banning one of his cigarettes, which she accepted. Then he smiled at her in a spirit of appreciative geniality, and relaxed comfortably in his chair. He conveyed the impression that he was fully prepared to sympathize with anything she might tell him.
“Mr. Pfyfe strove very hard to keep you entirely out of this affair,” said Vance; “and we fully appreciate his delicacy in so doing. But certain circumst’nces connected with Mr. Benson’s death have inadvertently involved you in the case; and you can best help us and yourself—and particularly Mr. Pfyfe—by telling us what we want to know, and trusting to our discretion and understanding.”
He had emphasized Pfyfe’s name, giving it a significant intonation; and the woman had glanced down uneasily. Her apprehension was apparent, and when she looked up into Vance’s eyes, she was asking herself: How much does he know? as plainly as if she had spoken the words audibly.
“I can’t imagine what you want me to tell you,” she said, with an effort at astonishment. “You know that Andy was not in New York that night.” (Her designating of the elegant and superior Pfyfe as “Andy” sounded almost like lèse-majesté.) “He didn’t arrive in the city until nearly nine the next morning.”
“Didn’t you read in the newspapers about the grey Cadillac that was parked in front of Benson’s house?” Vance, in putting the question, imitated her own astonishment.
She smiled confidently.
“That wasn’t Andy’s car. He took the eight o’clock train to New York the next morning. He said it was lucky that he did, seeing that a machine just like his had been at Mr. Benson’s the night before.”
She had spoken with the sincerity of complete assurance. It was evident that Pfyfe had lied to her on this point.
Vance did not disabuse her; in fact, he gave her to understand that he accepted her explanation, and consequently dismissed the idea of Pfyfe’s presence in New York on the night of the murder.
“I had in mind a connection of a somewhat diff’rent nature when I mentioned you and Mr. Pfyfe as having been drawn into the case. I referred to a personal relationship between you and Mr. Benson.”
She assumed an attitude of smiling indifference.
“I’m afraid you’ve made another mistake.” She spoke lightly. “Mr. Benson and I were not even friends. Indeed, I scarcely knew him.”
There was an overtone of emphasis in her denial—a slight eagerness which, in indicating a conscious desire to be believed, robbed her remark of the complete casualness she had intended.
“Even a business relationship may have its personal side,” Vance reminded her; “especially when the intermediary is an intimate friend of both parties to the transaction.”
She looked at him quickly; then turned her eyes away.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she affirmed; and her face for a moment lost its contours of innocence, and became calculating. “You’re surely not implying that I had any business dealings with Mr. Benson?”
“Not directly,” replied Vance. “But certainly Mr. Pfyfe had business dealings with him; and one of them, I rather imagined, involved you consid’rably.”
“Involved me?” She laughed scornfully, but it was a strained laugh.
“It was a somewha
t unfortunate transaction, I fear,” Vance went on, “—unfortunate in that Mr. Pfyfe was necessitated to deal with Mr. Benson; and doubly unfortunate, y’ know, in that he should have had to drag you into it.”
His manner was easy and assured, and the woman sensed that no display of scorn or contempt, however well simulated, would make an impression upon him. Therefore, she adopted an attitude of tolerantly incredulous amusement.
“And where did you learn about all this?” she asked playfully.
“Alas! I didn’t learn about it,” answered Vance, falling in with her manner. “That’s the reason, d’ ye see, that I indulged in this charming little visit. I was foolish enough to hope that you’d take pity on my ignorance and tell me all about it.”
“But I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing,” she said, “even if this mysterious transaction had really taken place.”
“My word!” sighed Vance. “That is disappointin’. . . . Ah, well. I see that I must tell you what little I know about it, and trust to your sympathy to enlighten me further.”
Despite the ominous undercurrent of his words, his levity acted like a sedative to her anxiety. She felt that he was friendly, however much he might know about her.
“Am I bringing you news when I tell you that Mr. Pfyfe forged Mr. Benson’s name to a check for ten thousand dollars?” he asked.
She hesitated, gauging the possible consequences of her answer.
“No, that isn’t news. Andy tells me everything.”
“And did you also know that Mr. Benson, when informed of it, was rather put out?—that, in fact, he demanded a note and a signed confession before he would pay the check?”
The woman’s eyes flashed angrily.
“Yes, I knew that too.—And after all Andy had done for him! If ever a man deserved shooting, it was Alvin Benson. He was a dog. And he pretended to be Andy’s best friend. Just think of it,—refusing to lend Andy the money without a confession! . . . You’d hardly call that a business deal, would you? I’d call it a dirty, contemptible, underhand trick.”
She was enraged. Her mask of breeding and good-fellowship had fallen from her; and she poured out vituperation on Benson with no thought of the words she was using. Her speech was devoid of all the ordinary reticencies of intercourse between strangers.
Vance nodded consolingly during her tirade.
“Y’ know, I sympathize fully with you.” The tone in which he made the remark seemed to establish a closer rapprochement.
After a moment he gave her a friendly smile.
“But, after all, one could almost forgive Benson for holding the confession, if he hadn’t also demanded security.”
“What security?”
Vance was quick to sense the change in her tone. Taking advantage of her rage, he had mentioned the security while the barriers of her pose were down. Her frightened, almost involuntary query told him that the right moment had arrived. Before she could gain her equilibrium or dispel the momentary fear which had assailed her, he said, with suave deliberation:
“The day Mr. Benson was shot he took home with him from the office a small blue box of jewels.”
She caught her breath, but otherwise gave no outward sign of emotion.
“Do you think he had stolen them?”
The moment she had uttered the question she realized that it was a mistake in technique. An ordinary man might have been momentarily diverted from the truth by it. But by Vance’s smile she recognized that he had accepted it as an admission.
“It was rather fine of you, y’ know, to lend Mr. Pfyfe your jewels to cover the note with.”
At this she threw her head up. The blood had left her face, and the rouge on her cheeks took on a mottled and unnatural hue.
“You say I lent my jewels to Andy! I swear to you—”
Vance halted her denial with a slight movement of the hand and a coup d’œil.119 She saw that his intention was to save her from the humiliation she might feel later at having made too emphatic and unqualified a statement; and the graciousness of his action, although he was an antagonist, gave her more confidence in him.
She sank back into her chair, and her hands relaxed.
“What makes you think I lent Andy my jewels?”
Her voice was colorless, but Vance understood the question. It was the end of her deceptions. The pause which followed was an amnesty—recognized as such by both. The next spoken words would be the truth.
“Andy had to have them,” she said, “or Benson would have put him in jail.” One read in her words a strange, self-sacrificing affection for the worthless Pfyfe. “And if Benson hadn’t done it, and had merely refused to honor the check, his father-in-law would have done it. . . . Andy is so careless, so unthinking. He does things without weighing the consequences: I am all the time having to hold him down. . . . But this thing has taught him a lesson—I’m sure of it.”
I felt that if anything in the world could teach Pfyfe a lesson, it was the blind loyalty of this woman.
“Do you know what he quarrelled about with Mr. Benson in his office last Wednesday?” asked Vance.
“That was all my fault,” she explained, with a sigh. “It was getting very near to the time when the note was due, and I knew Andy didn’t have all the money. So I asked him to go to Benson and offer him what he had, and see if he couldn’t get my jewels back. . . . But he was refused,—I thought he would be.”
Vance looked at her for a while sympathetically.
“I don’t want to worry you any more than I can help,” he said; “but won’t you tell me the real cause of your anger against Benson a moment ago?”
She gave him an admiring nod.
“You’re right—I had good reason to hate him.” Her eyes narrowed unpleasantly. “The day after he had refused to give Andy the jewels, he called me up—it was in the afternoon—and asked me to have breakfast with him at his house the next morning. He said he was home and had the jewels with him; and he told me—hinted, you understand—that maybe—maybe I could have them.—That’s the kind of beast he was! . . . I telephoned to Port Washington to Andy and told him about it, and he said he’d be in New York the next morning. He got here about nine o’clock, and we read in the paper that Benson had been shot that night.”
Vance was silent for a long time. Then he stood up and thanked her.
“You have helped us a great deal. Mr. Markham is a friend of Major Benson’s, and, since we have the check and the confession in our possession, I shall ask him to use his influence with the Major to permit us to destroy them—very soon.”
117.Vance is facetiously referring to the legendary romance of Heloise and Abelard. Peter Abelard, a twelfth-century theologian, fell in love with his student Heloise, and their romance has been the subject of ballads for centuries.
118.Congealed.
119.A “stroke of the eye,” a quick, meaningful glance.
CHAPTER XVIII
A Confession
(Wednesday, June 19; 1 p.m.)
When we were again outside Markham asked:
“How in Heaven’s name did you know she had put up her jewels to help Pfyfe?”
“My charmin’ metaphysical deductions, don’t y’ know,” answered Vance. “As I told you, Benson was not the open-handed, big-hearted altruist who would have lent money without security; and certainly the impecunious Pfyfe had no collateral worth ten thousand dollars, or he wouldn’t have forged the check. Ergo: someone lent him the security. Now, who would be so trustin’ as to lend Pfyfe that amount of security except a sentimental woman who was blind to his amazin’ defects? Y’ know, I was just evil-minded enough to suspect there was a Calypso in the life of this Ulysses120 when he told us of stopping over in New York to murmur au revoir to someone. When a man like Pfyfe fails to specify the sex of a person, it is safe to assume the feminine gender. So I suggested that you send a Paul Pry121 to Port Washington to peer into his trans-matrimonial activities: I felt certain a bonne amie would be found. Then, when the mysteri
ous package, which obviously was the security, seemed to identify itself as the box of jewels seen by the inquisitive housekeeper, I said to myself: ‘Ah! Leander’s misguided Dulcinea has lent him her gewgaws to save him from the yawning dungeon.’ Nor did I overlook the fact that he had been shielding someone in his explanation about the check. Therefore, as soon as the lady’s name and address were learned by Tracy, I made the appointment for you. . . .”
We were passing the Gothic-Renaissance Schwab residence122 which extends from West End Avenue to Riverside Drive at Seventy-third Street; and Vance stopped for a moment to contemplate it.
Markham waited patiently. At length Vance walked on.
“ . . . Y’ know, the moment I saw Mrs. Banning I knew my conclusions were correct. She was a sentimental soul, and just the sort of professional good sport who would have handed over her jewels to her amoroso. Also, she was bereft of gems when we called,—and a woman of her stamp always wears her jewels when she desires to make an impression on strangers. Moreover, she’s the kind that would have jewellery even if the larder was empty. It was therefore merely a question of getting her to talk.”
“On the whole, you did very well,” observed Markham.
Vance gave him a condescending bow.
“Sir Hubert is too generous.123—But tell me, didn’t my little chat with the lady cast a gleam into your darkened mind?”
“Naturally,” said Markham. “I’m not utterly obtuse. She played unconsciously into our hands. She believed Pfyfe did not arrive in New York until the morning after the murder, and therefore told us quite frankly that she had ’phoned him that Benson had the jewels at home. The situation now is: Pfyfe knew they were in Benson’s house, and was there himself at about the time the shot was fired. Furthermore, the jewels are gone; and Pfyfe tried to cover up his tracks that night.”
Vance sighed hopelessly.
“Markham, there are altogether too many trees for you in this case. You simply can’t see the forest, y’ know, because of ’em.”
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 52