“I do hope he doesn’t disappoint us,” sighed Vance. “But it’s worth trying.”
“Are you composing a charade?” asked Markham; but there was neither humor nor good-nature in the question.
“’Pon my word, old man, I’m not trying to confuse the main issue,” said Vance. “Exert a little of that simple faith with which you are so gen’rously supplied,—it’s more desirable than Norman blood, y’ know. I’ll give you the guilty man before the morning’s over. But, d’ ye see, I must make sure that you’ll accept him. These alibis are, I trust, going to prove most prof’table in paving the way for my coup de boutoir. . . . An alibi—as I recently confided to you—is a tricky and dang’rous thing, and open to grave suspicion. And the absence of an alibi means nothing at all. For instance, I see by these reports that Miss Hoffman has no alibi for the night of the thirteenth. She says she went to a motion-picture theatre and then home. But no one saw her at any time. She was prob’bly at Benson’s visiting mama until late. Looks suspicious—eh, what? And yet, even if she was there, her only crime that night was filial affection. . . . On the other hand, there are several alibis here which are, as one says, cast-iron,—silly metaphor: cast-iron’s easily broken—, and I happen to know one of ’em is spurious. So be a good fellow and have patience; for it’s most necess’ry that these alibis be minutely inspected.”
Fifteen minutes later Mr. Moriarty arrived. He was a serious, good-looking, well-dressed youth in his late twenties—not at all my idea of an alderman—, and he spoke clear and precise English with almost no trace of the Bronx accent.
Markham introduced him, and briefly explained why he had been requested to call.
“One of the men from the Homicide Bureau,” answered Moriarty, “was asking me about the matter, only yesterday.”
“We have the report,” said Vance, “but it’s a bit too general. Will you tell us exactly what you did that night after you met Colonel Ostrander?”
“The Colonel had invited me to dinner and the Follies. I met him at the Marseilles at ten. We had dinner there, and went to the Piccadilly a little before twelve, where we remained until about two-thirty. I walked to the Colonel’s apartment with him, had a drink and a chat, and then took the subway home about three-thirty.”
“You told the detective yesterday you sat in a box at the theatre.”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you and the Colonel remain in the box throughout the performance?”
“No. After the first act a friend of mine came to the box, and the Colonel excused himself and went to the wash-room. After the second act, the Colonel and I stepped outside into the alleyway and had a smoke.”
“What time, would you say, was the first act over?”
“Twelve-thirty or thereabouts.”
“And where is this alley-way situated?” asked Vance. “As I recall, it runs along the side of the theatre to the street.”
“You’re right.”
“And isn’t there an ‘exit’ door very near the boxes, which leads into the alleyway?”
“There is. We used it that night.”
“How long was the Colonel gone after the first act?”
“A few minutes—I couldn’t say exactly.”
“Had he returned when the curtain went up on the second act?”
Moriarty reflected.
“I don’t believe he had. I think he came back a few minutes after the act began.”
“Ten minutes?”
“I couldn’t say. Certainly no more.”
“Then, allowing for a ten-minute intermission, the Colonel might have been away twenty minutes?”
“Yes—it’s possible.”
This ended the interview; and when Moriarty had gone, Vance lay back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully.
“Surprisin’ luck!” he commented. “The Piccadilly Theatre, y’ know, is practically round the corner from Benson’s house. You grasp the possibilities of the situation, what? . . . The Colonel invites an alderman to the Midnight Follies, and gets box seats near an exit giving on an alley. At a little before half past twelve he leaves the box, sneaks out via the alley, goes to Benson’s, taps and is admitted, shoots his man, and hurries back to the theatre. Twenty minutes would have been ample.”
Markham straightened up, but made no comment.
“And now,” continued Vance, “let’s look at the indicat’ry circumst’nces and the confirmat’ry facts. . . . Miss St. Clair told us the Colonel had lost heavily in a pool of Benson’s manipulation, and had accused him of crookedness. He hadn’t spoken to Benson for a week; so it’s plain there was bad blood between ’em.—He saw Miss St. Clair at the Marseilles with Benson; and, knowing she always went home at midnight, he chose half past twelve as a propitious hour; although originally he may have intended to wait until much later; say, one-thirty or two—before sneaking out of the theatre.—Being an army officer, he would have had a Colt forty-five; and he was probably a good shot.—He was most anxious to have you arrest someone—he didn’t seem to care who; and he even ’phoned you to inquire about it.—He was one of the very few persons in the world whom Benson would have admitted, attired as he was. He’d known Benson int’mately for fifteen years, and Mrs. Platz once saw Benson take off his toupee and show it to him.—Moreover, he would have known all about the domestic arrangements of the house: he no doubt had slept there many a time when showing his old pal the wonders of New York’s night life. . . . How does all that appeal to you?”
Markham had risen, and was pacing the floor, his eyes almost closed.
“So that was why you were so interested in the Colonel—asking people if they knew him, and inviting him to lunch? . . . What gave you the idea, in the first place, that he was guilty?”
“Guilty!” exclaimed Vance. “That priceless old dunderhead guilty! Really, Markham, the notion’s prepost’rous. I’m sure he went to the wash-room that night to comb his eyebrows and arrange his tie. Sitting, as he was, in a box, the gels on the stage could see him, y’ know.”
Markham halted abruptly. An ugly color crept into his cheeks, and his eyes blazed. But before he could speak Vance went on, with serene indifference to his anger.
“And I played in the most astonishin’ luck. Still, he’s just the kind of ancient popinjay who’d go to the wash-room and dandify himself,—I rather counted on that, don’t y’ know. . . . My word! We’ve made amazin’ progress this morning, despite your injured feelings. You now have five different people, any one of whom you can, with a little legal ingenuity, convict of the crime,—in any event, you can get indictments against ’em.”
He leaned his head back meditatively.
“First, there’s Miss St. Clair. You were quite pos’tive she did the deed, and you told the Major you were all ready to arrest her. My demonstration of the murderer’s height could be thrown out on the grounds that it was intelligent and conclusive, and therefore had no place in a court of law. I’m sure the judge would concur.—Secondly, I give you Captain Leacock. I actu’lly had to use physical force to keep you from jailing the chap. You had a beautiful case against him—to say nothing of his delightful confession. And if you met with any diff’culties, he’d help you out: he’d adore having you convict him.—Thirdly, I submit Leander the Lovely. You had a better case against him than against almost any one of the others—a perfect wealth of circumst’ntial evidence—an embarras de richesse, in fact. And any jury would delight in convicting him,—I would, myself, if only for the way he dresses.—Fourthly, I point with pride to Mrs. Platz. Another perfect circumst’ntial case, fairly bulging with clues and inf’rences and legal whatnots.—Fifthly, I present the Colonel. I have just rehearsed your case against him; and I could elab’rate it touchin’ly, given a little more time.”
He paused, and gave Markham a smile of cynical affability.
“Observe, please, that each member of this quintette meets all the demands of presumptive guilt: each one fulfills the legal requirements as to time, place
, opportunity, means, motive, and conduct. The only drawback, d’ ye see, is that all five are quite innocent. A most discomposin’ fact—but there you are. . . . Now, if all the people against whom there’s the slightest suspicion, are innocent, what’s to be done? . . . Annoyin’, ain’t it?”
He picked up the alibi reports.
“There’s pos’tively nothing to be done but to go on checking up these alibis.”
I could not imagine what goal he was trying to reach by these apparently irrelevant digressions; and Markham, too, was mystified. But neither of us doubted for a moment that there was method in his madness.
“Let’s see,” he mused. “The Major’s is the next in order. What do you say to tackling it? It shouldn’t take long: he lives near here; and the entire alibi hinges on the evidence of the night-boy at his apartment-house.—Come!” He got up.
“How do you know the boy is there now?” objected Markham.
“I ’phoned a while ago and found out.”
“But this is damned nonsense!”
Vance now had Markham by the arm, playfully urging him toward the door.
“Oh, undoubtedly,” he agreed. “But I’ve often told you, old dear, you take life much too seriously.”
Markham, protesting vigorously, held back, and endeavored to disengage his arm from the other’s grip. But Vance was determined; and after a somewhat heated dispute, Markham gave in.
“I’m about through with this hocus-pocus,” he growled, as we got into a taxicab.
“I’m through already,” said Vance.
148.What happened to Vance’s pince-nez? Or is this a second affectation?
CHAPTER XXIII
Checking an Alibi
(Thursday, June 20; 10.30 a.m.)
The Chatham Arms, where Major Benson lived, was a small exclusive bachelor apartment-house in Forty-sixth Street, midway between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. The entrance, set in a simple and dignified façade, was flush with the street, and only two steps above the pavement. The front door opened into a narrow hallway with a small reception room, like a cul-de-sac, on the left. At the rear could be seen the elevator; and beside it, tucked under a narrow flight of iron stairs which led round the elevator shaft, was a telephone switchboard.
When we arrived two youths in uniform were on duty, one lounging in the door of the elevator, the other seated at the switchboard.
Vance halted Markham near the entrance.
“One of these boys, I was informed over the telephone, was on duty the night of the thirteenth. Find out which one it was, and scare him into submission by your exalted title of District Attorney. Then turn him over to me.”
Reluctantly Markham walked down the hallway. After a brief interrogation of the boys, he led one of them into the reception room, and peremptorily explained what he wanted.*
Vance began his questioning with the confident air of one who has no doubt whatever as to another’s exact knowledge.
Diagram of the first floor of Major Benson’s apartment-house, from The Benson Murder Case, artist unknown.
“What time did Major Benson get home the night his brother was shot?”
The boy’s eyes opened wide.
“He came in about ’leven—right after show time,” he answered, with only a momentary hesitation.
(I have set down the rest of the questions and answers in dramatic-dialogue form, for purposes of space economy.)
VANCE: He spoke to you, I suppose?
BOY: Yes, sir. He told me he’d been to the theatre, and said what a rotten show it was—and that he had an awful headache.
VANCE: How do you happen to remember so well what he said a week ago?
BOY: Why, his brother was murdered that night!
VANCE: And the murder caused so much excitement that you naturally recalled everything that happened at the time in connection with Major Benson?
BOY: Sure—he was the murdered guy’s brother.
VANCE: When he came in that night did he say anything about the day of the month?
BOY: Nothin’ except that he guessed his bad luck in pickin’ a bum show was on account of it bein’ the thirteenth.
VANCE: Did he say anything else?
BOY (grinning): He said he’d make the thirteenth my lucky day, and he gave me all the silver he had in his pocket—nickels and dimes and quarters and one fifty-cent piece.
VANCE: How much altogether?
BOY: Three dollars and forty-five cents.
VANCE: And then he went to his room?
BOY: Yes, sir—I took him up. He lives on the third floor.
VANCE: Did he go out again later?
BOY: No, sir.
VANCE: How do you know?
BOY: I’d ’ve seen him. I was either answerin’ the switchboard or runnin’ the elevator all night. He couldn’t ’ve got out without my seein’ him.
VANCE: Were you alone on duty?
BOY: After ten o’clock there’s never but one boy on.
VANCE: And there’s no other way a person could leave the house except by the front door?
BOY: No, sir.
VANCE: When did you next see Major Benson?
BOY (after thinking a moment): He rang for some cracked ice, and I took it up.
VANCE: What time?
BOY: Why—I don’t know exactly. . . . Yes, I do! It was half past twelve.
VANCE (smiling faintly): He asked you the time, perhaps?
BOY: Yes, sir, he did. He asked me to look at his clock in his parlor.
VANCE: How did he happen to do that?
BOY: Well, I took up the ice, and he was in bed; and he asked me to put it in his pitcher in the parlor. When I was doin’ it he called to me to look at the clock on the mantel and tell him what time it was. He said his watch had stopped and he wanted to set it.
VANCE: What did he say then?
BOY: Nothin’ much. He told me not to ring his bell, no matter who called up. He said he wanted to sleep, and didn’t want to be woke up.
VANCE: Was he emphatic about it?
BOY: Well—he meant it, all right.
VANCE: Did he say anything else?
BOY: No. He just said good-night and turned out the light, and I came on downstairs.
VANCE: What light did he turn out?
BOY: The one in his bed-room.
VANCE: Could you see into his bed-room from the parlor?
BOY: No. The bed-room’s off the hall.
VANCE: How could you tell the light was turned off then?
BOY: The bed-room door was open, and the light was shinin’ into the hall.
VANCE: Did you pass the bed-room door when you went out?
BOY: Sure—you have to.
VANCE: And was the door still open?
BOY: Yes.
VANCE: Is that the only door to the bed-room?
BOY: Yes.
VANCE: Where was Major Benson when you entered the apartment?
BOY: In bed.
VANCE: How do you know?
BOY (mildly indignant): I saw him.
VANCE (after a pause): You’re quite sure he didn’t come downstairs again?
BOY: I told you I’d ’ve seen him if he had.
VANCE: Couldn’t he have walked down at some time when you had the elevator upstairs, without your seeing him?
BOY: Sure, he could. But I didn’t take the elevator up after I’d took the Major his cracked ice until round two-thirty, when Mr. Montagu came in.
VANCE: You took no one up in the elevator, then, between the time you brought Major Benson the ice and when Mr. Montagu came in at two-thirty?
BOY: Nobody.
VANCE: And you didn’t leave the hall here between those hours?
BOY: No. I was sittin’ here all the time.
VANCE: Then the last time you saw him was in bed at twelve-thirty?
BOY: Yes—until early in the morning when some dame* ’phoned him and said his brother had been murdered. He came down and went out about ten minutes after.
VANCE (giving the boy a dollar): That’s all. But don’t you open your mouth to anyone about our being here, or you may find yourself in the lock-up—understand? . . . Now, get back to your job.
Diagram of the third floor of Chatham Arms Apartment, from The Benson Murder Case, artist unknown.
When the boy had left us, Vance turned a pleading gaze upon Markham.
“Now, old man, for the protection of society, and the higher demands of justice, and the greatest good for the greatest number, and pro bono publico, and that sort of thing, you must once more adopt a course of conduct contr’ry to your innate promptings—or whatever the phrase you used. Vulgarly put, I want to snoop through the Major’s apartment at once.”149
“What for?” Markham’s tone was one of exclamatory protest. “Have you completely lost your senses? There’s no getting round the boy’s testimony. I may be weak-minded, but I know when a witness like that is telling the truth.”
“Certainly, he’s telling the truth,” agreed Vance serenely. “That’s just why I want to go up.—Come, my Markham. There’s no danger of the Major returning en surprise at this hour. . . . And”—he smiled cajolingly—“you promised me every assistance, don’t y’ know.”
Markham was vehement in his remonstrances, but Vance was equally vehement in his insistence; and a few minutes later we were trespassing, by means of a pass-key, in Major Benson’s apartment.
The only entrance was a door leading from the public hall into a narrow passageway which extended straight ahead into the living-room at the rear. On the right of this passageway, near the entrance, was a door opening into the bed-room.
Vance walked directly back into the living-room. On the right-hand wall was a fireplace and a mantel on which sat an oldfashioned mahogany clock. Near the mantel, in the far corner, stood a small table containing a silver ice-water service consisting of a pitcher and six goblets.
“There is our very convenient clock,” said Vance. “And there is the pitcher in which the boy put the ice—imitation Sheffield plate.”
Going to the window he glanced down into the paved rear court twenty-five or thirty feet below.
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 58