Gathering Information
(Saturday, June 15; forenoon.)
You will remember the sensation caused by Alvin Benson’s murder. It
was one of those crimes that appeal irresistibly to the popular
imagination. Mystery is the basis of all romance, and about the Benson
case there hung an impenetrable aura of mystery. It was many days
before any definite light was shed on the circumstances surrounding
the shooting; but numerous _ignes fatui_ arose to beguile the public’s
imagination, and wild speculations were heard on all sides.
Alvin Benson, while not a romantic figure in any respect, had been
well-known; and his personality had been a colorful and spectacular
one. He had been a member of New York’s wealthy bohemian social set—an
avid sportsman, a rash gambler, and professional man-about-town; and
his life, led on the borderland of the demimonde, had contained many
high-lights. His exploits in the night clubs and cabarets had long
supplied the subject-matter for exaggerated stories and comments in
the various local papers and magazines which batten on Broadway’s
scandalmongers.
Benson and his brother, Anthony, had, at the time of the former’s
sudden death, been running a brokerage office at 21 Wall Street, under
the name of Benson and Benson. Both were regarded by the other brokers
of the Street as shrewd business men, though perhaps a shade unethical
when gauged by the constitution and by-laws of the New York Stock
Exchange. They were markedly contrasted as to temperament and taste,
and saw little of each other outside the office. Alvin Benson devoted
his entire leisure to pleasure-seeking and was a regular patron of the
city’s leading cafés; whereas Anthony Benson, who was the older and
had served as a major in the late war, followed a sedate and
conventional existence, spending most of his evenings quietly at his
clubs. Both, however, were popular in their respective circles, and
between them they had built up a large clientele.
The glamour of the financial district had much to do with the manner
in which the crime was handled by the newspapers. Moreover, the murder
had been committed at a time when the metropolitan press was
experiencing a temporary lull in sensationalism; and the story was
spread over the front pages of the papers with a prodigality rarely
encountered in such cases.* Eminent detectives throughout the country
were interviewed by enterprising reporters. Histories of famous
unsolved murder cases were revived; and clairvoyants and astrologers
were engaged by the Sunday editors to solve the mystery by various
metaphysical devices. Photographs and detailed diagrams were the daily
accompaniments of these journalistic outpourings.
* Even the famous Elwell case, which came several years
later and bore certain points of similarity to the Benson
case, created no greater sensation, despite the fact that
Elwell was more widely known than Benson, and the persons
involved were more prominent socially. Indeed, the Benson
case was referred to several times in descriptions of the
Elwell case; and one anti-administration paper regretted
editorially that John F.-X. Markham was no longer District
Attorney of New York.
In all the news stories the grey Cadillac and the pearl-handled Smith
and Wesson were featured. There were pictures of Cadillac cars,
“touched up” and reconstructed to accord with Patrolman McLaughlin’s
description, some of them even showing the fishing-tackle protruding
from the tonneau. A photograph of Benson’s center-table had been
taken, with the secret drawer enlarged and reproduced in an “inset”.
One Sunday magazine went so far as to hire an expert cabinet-maker to
write a dissertation on secret compartments in furniture.
The Benson case from the outset had proved a trying and difficult one
from the police standpoint. Within an hour of the time that Vance and
I had left the scene of the crime a systematic investigation had been
launched by the men of the Homicide Bureau in charge of Sergeant
Heath. Benson’s house was again gone over thoroughly, and all his
private correspondence read; but nothing was brought forth that could
throw any light on the tragedy. No weapon was found aside from
Benson’s own Smith and Wesson; and though all the window _grilles_
were again inspected, they were found to be secure, indicating that
the murderer had either let himself in with a key, or else been
admitted by Benson. Heath, by the way, was unwilling to admit this
latter possibility despite Mrs. Platz’s positive assertion that no
other person besides herself and Benson had a key.
Because of the absence of any definite clue, other than the hand-bag
and the gloves, the only proceeding possible was the interrogating of
Benson’s friends and associates in the hope of uncovering some fact
which would furnish a trail. It was by this process also that Heath
hoped to establish the identity of the owner of the hand-bag. A
special effort was therefore made to ascertain where Benson had spent
the evening; but though many of his acquaintances were questioned, and
the cafés where he habitually dined were visited, no one could at once
be found who had seen him that night; nor, as far as it was possible
to learn, had he mentioned to anyone his plans for the evening.
Furthermore, no general information of a helpful nature came to light
immediately, although the police pushed their inquiry with the utmost
thoroughness. Benson apparently had no enemies; he had not quarreled
seriously with anyone; and his affairs were reported in their usual
orderly shape.
Major Anthony Benson was naturally the principal person looked to for
information, because of his intimate knowledge of his brother’s
affairs; and it was in this connection that the District Attorney’s
office did its chief functioning at the beginning of the case. Markham
had lunched with Major Benson the day the crime was discovered, and
though the latter had shown a willingness to co-operate—even to the
detriment of his brother’s character—his suggestions were of little
value. He explained to Markham that, though he knew most of his
brother’s associates, he could not name anyone who would have any
reason for committing such a crime, or anyone who, in his opinion,
would be able to help in leading the police to the guilty person. He
admitted frankly, however, that there was a side to his brother’s life
with which he was unacquainted, and regretted that he was unable to
suggest any specific way of ascertaining the hidden facts. But he
intimated that his brother’s relations with women were of a somewhat
unconventional nature; and he ventured the opinion that there was a
bare possibility of a motive being found in that direction.
Pursuant of the few indefinite and unsatisfactory suggestions of Major
Benson, Markham had immediately put to work two good men from the
Detective Division assigned to the District Attorney’s office, with
instructions to confine their investigations to Benson’s women
acquaintances so as not to appear in any way to be encroaching upon
the activities of the Central Office men. Also, as a result of Vance’s
apparent interest in the housekeeper at the time of the interrogation,
he had sent a man to look into the woman’s antecedents and
relationships.
Mrs. Platz, it was learned, had been born in a small Pennsylvania
town, of German parents both of whom were dead; and had been a widow
for over sixteen years. Before coming to Benson, she had been with one
family for twelve years, and had left the position only because her
mistress had given up housekeeping and moved into a hotel. Her former
employer, when questioned, said she thought there had been a daughter,
but had never seen the child, and knew nothing of it. In these facts
there was nothing to take hold of, and Markham had merely filed the
report as a matter of form.
Heath had instigated a city-wide search for the grey Cadillac,
although he had little faith in its direct connection with the crime;
and in this the newspapers helped considerably by the extensive
advertising given the car. One curious fact developed that fired the
police with the hope that the Cadillac might indeed hold some clue to
the mystery. A street-cleaner, having read or heard about the
fishing-tackle in the machine, reported the finding of two jointed
fishing-rods, in good condition, at the side of one of the drives in
Central Park near Columbus Circle. The question was: were these rods
part of the equipment Patrolman McLaughlin had seen in the Cadillac?
The owner of the car might conceivably have thrown them away in his
flight; but, on the other hand, they might have been lost by someone
else while driving through the park. No further information was
forthcoming, and on the morning of the day following the discovery of
the crime the case, so far as any definite progress toward a solution
was concerned, had taken no perceptible forward step.
That morning Vance had sent Currie out to buy him every available
newspaper; and he had spent over an hour perusing the various accounts
of the crime. It was unusual for him to glance at a newspaper, even
casually, and I could not refrain from expressing my amazement at his
sudden interest in a subject so entirely outside his normal routine.
“No, Van old dear,” he explained languidly, “I am not becoming
sentimental or even human, as that word is erroneously used to-day. I
can not say with Terence, ‘_Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum
puto_’, because I regard most things that are called human as
decidedly alien to myself. But, y’ know, this little flurry in crime
has proved rather int’restin’, or, as the magazine writers say,
intriguing—beastly word! . . . Van, you really should read this
precious interview with Sergeant Heath. He takes an entire column to
say ‘I know nothing’. A priceless lad! I’m becoming pos’tively fond of
him.”
“It may be,” I suggested, “that Heath is keeping his true knowledge
from the papers, as a bit of tactical diplomacy.”
“No,” Vance returned, with a sad wag of the head; “no man has so
little vanity that he would delib’rately reveal himself to the world
as a creature with no perceptible powers of human reasoning—as he does
in all these morning journals—for the mere sake of bringing one
murderer to justice. That would be martyrdom gone mad.”
“Markham, at any rate, may know or suspect something that hasn’t been
revealed,” I said.
Vance pondered a moment.
“That’s not impossible,” he admitted. “He has kept himself modestly in
the background in all this journalistic palaver. Suppose we look into
the matter more thoroughly—eh, what?”
Going to the telephone he called the District Attorney’s office, and I
heard him make an appointment with Markham for lunch at the Stuyvesant
Club.
“What about that Nadelmann statuette at Stieglitz’s,” I asked,
remembering the reason for my presence at Vance’s that morning.
“I ain’t* in the mood for Greek simplifications to-day,” he answered,
turning again to his newspapers.
* Vance, who had lived many years in England, frequently
said “ain’t”—a contraction which is regarded there more
leniently than in this country. He also pronounced _ate_
as if it were spelled _et_; and I can not remember his
ever using the word “stomach” or “bug”, both of which are
under the social ban in England.
To say that I was surprised at his attitude is to express it mildly.
In all my association with him I had never known him to forgo his
enthusiasm for art in favor of any other divertisement; and heretofore
anything pertaining to the law and its operations had failed to
interest him. I realized, therefore, that something of an unusual
nature was at work in his brain, and I refrained from further comment.
Markham was a little late for the appointment at the Club, and Vance
and I were already at our favorite corner table when he arrived.
“Well, my good Lycurgus,” Vance greeted him, “aside from the fact that
several new and significant clues have been unearthed and that the
public may expect important developments in the very near future, and
all that sort of tosh, how are things really going?”
Markham smiled.
“I see you have been reading the newspapers. What do you think of the
accounts?”
“Typical, no doubt,” replied Vance. “They carefully and painstakingly
omit nothing but the essentials.”
“Indeed?” Markham’s tone was jocular. “And what, may I ask, do you
regard as the essentials of the case?”
“In my foolish amateur way,” said Vance, “I looked upon dear Alvin’s
toupee as a rather conspicuous essential, don’t y’ know.”
“Benson, at any rate, regarded it in that light, I imagine. . . .
Anything else?”
“Well, there was the collar and the tie on the chiffonier.”
“And,” added Markham chaffingly, “don’t overlook the false teeth in
the tumbler.”
“You’re pos’tively coruscatin’!” Vance exclaimed. “Yes, they, too,
were an essential of the situation. And I’ll warrant the incomp’rable
Heath didn’t even notice them. But the other Aristotles present were
equally sketchy in their observations.”
“You weren’t particularly impressed by the investigation yesterday, I
take it,” said Markham.
“On the contrary,” Vance assured him. “I was impressed to the point of
stupefaction. The whole proceedings constituted a masterpiece of
absurdity. Everything relevant was sublimely ignored. There were at
least a dozen _points de départ_, all leading in the same direction,
but not one of them apparently was even noticed by any of the
officiating _pourparleurs_. Everybody was too busy at such silly
occupations as looking for cigarette-ends and inspecting the ironwork
at the windows.—Those _grilles_, by the way, were rather
attractive—Florentine design.”
Markham was both amused and ruffled.
“One’s pretty safe with the police, Vance,” he said. “They get there
eventually.”
“I simply adore your trusting nature,” murmured Vance. “But confide in
me: what do you know regarding Benson’s murderer?”
Markham hesitated.
“This is, of course, in confidence,” he said at length; “but this
morning, right after you ’phoned, one of the men I had put to work on
the amatory end of Benson’s life, reported that he had found the woman
who left her hand-bag and gloves at the house that night,—the initials
on the handkerchief gave him the clue. And he dug up some interesting
facts about her. As I suspected, she was Benson’s dinner companion
that evening. She’s an actress—musical comedy, I believe. Muriel St.
Clair by name.”
“Most unfortunate,” breathed Vance. “I was hoping, y’ know, your
myrmidons wouldn’t discover the lady. I haven’t the pleasure of her
acquaintance, or I’d send her a note of commiseration. . . . Now, I
presume, you’ll play the _juge d’instruction_ and chivvy her most
horribly, what?”
“I shall certainly question her, if that’s what you mean.”
Markham’s manner was preoccupied, and during the rest of the lunch we
spoke but little.
As we sat in the Club’s lounge-room later having our smoke, Major
Benson, who had been standing dejectedly at a window close by, caught
sight of Markham and came over to us. He was a full-faced man of about
fifty, with grave kindly features and a sturdy, erect body.
He greeted Vance and me with a casual bow, and turned at once to the
District Attorney.
“Markham, I’ve been thinking things over constantly since our lunch
yesterday,” he said, “and there’s one other suggestion I think I might
make. There’s a man named Leander Pfyfe who was very close to Alvin;
and it’s possible he could give you some helpful information. His name
didn’t occur to me yesterday, for he doesn’t live in the city; he’s on
Long Island somewhere—Port Washington, I think.—It’s just an idea. The
truth is, I can’t seem to figure out anything that makes sense in this
terrible affair.”
He drew a quick, resolute breath, as if to check some involuntary sign
of emotion. It was evident that the man, for all his habitual
passivity of nature, was deeply moved.
“That’s a good suggestion, Major,” Markham said, making a notation on
the back of a letter. “I’ll get after it immediately.”
Vance, who, during this brief interchange, had been gazing
unconcernedly out of the window, turned and addressed himself to the
Major.
“How about Colonel Ostrander? I’ve seen him several times in the
company of your brother.”
Major Benson made a slight gesture of deprecation.
“Only an acquaintance. He’d be of no value.”
Then he turned to Markham.
“I don’t imagine it’s time even to hope that you’ve run across
anything.”
Markham took his cigar from his mouth, and turning it about in his
fingers, contemplated it thoughtfully.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he remarked, after a moment. “I’ve managed to
find out whom your brother dined with Thursday night; and I know that
this person returned home with him shortly after midnight.” He paused
as if deliberating the wisdom of saying more. Then: “The fact is, I
don’t need a great deal more evidence than I’ve got already to go
before the Grand Jury and ask for an indictment.”
A look of surprised admiration flashed in the Major’s sombre face.
“Thank God for that, Markham!” he said. Then, setting his heavy jaw,
he placed his hand on the District Attorney’s shoulder. “Go the
limit—for my sake!” he urged. “If you want me for anything, I’ll be
here at the Club till late.”
With this he turned and walked from the room.
“It seems a bit cold-blooded to bother the Major with questions so
soon after his brother’s death,” commented Markham. “Still, the world
has got to go on.”
Vance stifled a yawn.
“Why—in Heaven’s name?” he murmured listlessly.