A Motive and a Threat
(Sunday, June 16; afternoon.)
The following day, which was Sunday, we lunched with Markham at the
Stuyvesant Club. Vance had suggested the appointment the evening
before; for, as he explained to me, he wished to be present in case
Leander Pfyfe should arrive from Long Island.
“It amuses me tremendously,” he had said, “the way human beings
delib’rately complicate the most ordin’ry issues. They have a
downright horror of anything simple and direct. The whole modern
commercial system is nothing but a colossal mechanism for doing things
in the most involved and roundabout way. If one makes a ten-cent
purchase at a department store nowadays, a complete history of the
transaction is written out in triplicate, checked by a dozen
floor-walkers and clerks, signed and countersigned, entered into
innum’rable ledgers with various colored inks, and then elab’rately
secreted in steel filing-cabinets. And not content with all this
superfluous _chinoiserie_, our business men have created a large and
expensive army of efficiency experts whose sole duty it is to
complicate and befuddle this system still further. . . . It’s the same
with everything else in modern life. Regard that insup’rable mania
called golf. It consists merely of knocking a ball into a hole with a
stick. But the devotees of this pastime have developed a unique and
distinctive livery in which to play it. They concentrate for twenty
years on the correct angulation of their feet and the proper method of
entwining their fingers about the stick. Moreover, in order to discuss
the pseudo-intr’cacies of this idiotic sport, they’ve invented an
outlandish vocabulary which is unintelligible even to an English
scholar.”
He pointed disgustedly at a pile of Sunday newspapers.
“Then here’s this Benson murder—a simple and incons’quential affair.
Yet the entire machinery of the law is going at high pressure and
blowing off jets of steam all over the community, when the matter
could be settled quietly in five minutes with a bit of intelligent
thinking.”
At lunch, however, he did not refer to the crime; and, as if by tacit
agreement, the subject was avoided. Markham had merely mentioned
casually to us as we went into the dining-room that he was expecting
Heath a little later.
The sergeant was waiting for us when we retired to the lounge-room for
our smoke, and by his expression it was evident he was not pleased
with the way things were going.
“I told you, Mr. Markham,” he said, when he had drawn up our chairs,
“that this case was going to be a tough one. . . . Could you get any
kind of a lead from the St. Clair woman?”
Markham shook his head.
“She’s out of it.” And he recounted briefly the happenings at Benson’s
house the preceding afternoon.
“Well, if you’re satisfied,” was Heath’s somewhat dubious comment,
“that’s good enough for me. But what about this Captain Leacock?”
“That’s what I asked you here to talk about,” Markham told him.
“There’s no direct evidence against him, but there are several
suspicious circumstances that tend to connect him with the murder. He
seems to meet the specifications as to height; and we mustn’t overlook
the fact that Benson was shot with just such a gun as Leacock would be
likely to possess. He was engaged to the girl, and a motive might be
found in Benson’s attentions to her.”
“And ever since the big scrap,” supplemented Heath, “these army boys
don’t think anything of shooting people. They got used to blood on the
other side.”
“The only hitch,” resumed Markham, “is that Phelps, who had the job of
checking up on the Captain, reported to me that he was home that night
from eight o’clock on. Of course, there may be a loop-hole somewhere,
and I was going to suggest that you have one of your men go into the
matter thoroughly and see just what the situation is. Phelps got his
information from one of the hall-boys; and I think it might be well to
get hold of the boy again and apply a little pressure. If it was found
that Leacock was not at home at twelve-thirty that night, we might
have the lead you’ve been looking for.”
“I’ll attend to it myself,” said Heath. “I’ll go round there to-night,
and if this boy knows anything, he’ll spill it before I’m through with
him.”
We had talked but a few minutes longer when a uniformed attendant
bowed deferentially at the District Attorney’s elbow and announced
that Mr. Pfyfe was calling.
Markham requested that his visitor be shown into the lounge-room, and
then added to Heath:
“You’d better remain, and hear what he has to say.”
Leander Pfyfe was an immaculate and exquisite personage. He approached
us with a mincing gate of self-approbation. His legs, which were very
long and thin, with knees that seemed to bend slightly inward,
supported a short bulging torso; and his chest curved outward in a
generous arc, like that of a pouter-pigeon. His face was rotund, and
his jowls hung in two loops over a collar too tight for comfort. His
blond sparse hair was brushed back sleekly; and the ends of his
narrow, silken moustache were waxed into needle-points. He was dressed
in light-grey summer flannels, and wore a pale turquoise-green silk
shirt, a vivid foulard tie, and grey suède Oxfords. A strong odor of
oriental perfume was given off by the carefully arranged batiste
handkerchief in his breast pocket.
He greeted Markham with viscid urbanity, and acknowledged his
introduction to us with a patronizing bow. After posing himself in a
chair the attendant placed for him, he began polishing a gold-rimmed
eye-glass which he wore on a ribbon, and fixed Markham with a
melancholy gaze.
“A very sad occasion, this,” he sighed.
“Realizing your friendship for Mr. Benson,” said Markham, “I deplore
the necessity of appealing to you at this time. It was very good of
you, by the way, to come to the city to-day.”
Pfyfe made a mildly deprecating movement with his carefully manicured
fingers. He was, he explained with an air of ineffable
self-complacency, only too glad to discommode himself to give aid to
servants of the public. A distressing necessity, to be sure; but his
manner conveyed unmistakably that he knew and recognized the
obligations attaching to the dictum of _noblesse oblige_, and was
prepared to meet them.
He looked at Markham with a self-congratulatory air, and his eyebrows
queried: “What can I do for you?” though his lips did not move.
“I understand from Major Anthony Benson,” Markham said, “that you were
very close to his brother, and therefore might be able to tell us
something of his personal affairs, or private social relationships,
that would indicate a line of investigation.”
Pfyfe gazed sadly at the floor.
“Ah, yes. Alvin and I were very close,—we were, in fact, the most
intimate of friends. You can not imagine how broken up I was at
hearing of the dear fellow’s tragic end.” He gave the impression that
here was a modern instance of Æneas and Achates. “And I was deeply
grieved at not being able to come at once to New York to put myself at
the service of those that needed me.”
“I’m sure it would have been a comfort to his other friends,” remarked
Vance, with cool politeness. “But in the circumst’nces you will be
forgiven.”
Pfyfe blinked regretfully.
“Ah, but I shall never forgive myself—though I cannot hold myself
altogether blameworthy. Only the day before the tragedy I had started
on a trip to the Catskills. I had even asked dear Alvin to go along;
but he was too busy.” Pfyfe shook his head as if lamenting the
incomprehensible irony of life. “How much better—ah, how infinitely
much better—if only——”
“You were gone a very short time,” commented Markham, interrupting
what promised to be a homily on perverse providence.
“True,” Pfyfe indulgently admitted. “But I met with a most unfortunate
accident.” He polished his eye-glass a moment. “My car broke down, and
I was necessitated to return.”
“What road did you take?” asked Heath.
Pfyfe delicately adjusted his eye-glass, and regarded the Sergeant
with an intimation of boredom.
“My advice, Mr.—ah—Sneed——”
“Heath,” the other corrected him surlily.
“Ah, yes—Heath. . . . My advice, Mr. Heath, is, that if you are
contemplating a motor trip to the Catskills, you apply to the
Automobile Club of America for a road-map. My choice of itinerary
might very possibly not suit you.”
He turned back to the District Attorney with an air that implied he
preferred talking to an equal.
“Tell me, Mr. Pfyfe,” Markham asked; “did Mr. Benson have any
enemies?”
The other appeared to think the matter over.
“No-o. Not one, I should say, who would actually have killed him as a
result of animosity.”
“You imply nevertheless that he had enemies. Could you not tell us a
little more?”
Pfyfe passed his hand gracefully over the tips of his golden
moustache, and then permitted his index-finger to linger on his cheek
in an attitude of meditative indecision.
“Your request, Mr. Markham,”—he spoke with pained reluctance—“brings
up a matter which I hesitate to discuss. But perhaps it is best that I
confide in you—as one gentleman to another. Alvin, in common with many
other admirable fellows, had a—what shall I say?—a weakness—let me put
it that way—for the fair sex.”
He looked at Markham, seeking approbation for his extreme tact in
stating an indelicate truth.
“You understand,” he continued, in answer to the other’s sympathetic
nod, “Alvin was not a man who possessed the personal characteristics
that women hold attractive.” (I somehow got the impression that Pfyfe
considered himself as differing radically from Benson in this
respect.) “Alvin was aware of his physical deficiency, and the result
was,—I trust you will understand my hesitancy in mentioning this
distressing fact,—but the result was that Alvin used
certain—ah—methods in his dealings with women, which you and I could
never bring ourselves to adopt. Indeed—though it pains me to say it—he
often took unfair advantage of women. He used underhand methods, as it
were.”
He paused, apparently shocked by this heinous imperfection of his
friend, and by the necessity of his own seemingly disloyal revelation.
“Was it one of these women whom Benson had dealt with unfairly, that
you had in mind?” asked Markham.
“No—not the woman herself,” Pfyfe replied; “but a man who was
interested in her. In fact, this man threatened Alvin’s life. You will
appreciate my reluctance in telling you this; but my excuse is that
the threat was made quite openly. There were several others besides
myself who heard it.”
“That, of course, relieves you from any technical breach of
confidence,” Markham observed.
Pfyfe acknowledged the other’s understanding with a slight bow.
“It happened at a little party of which I was the unfortunate host,”
he confessed modestly.
“Who was the man?” Markham’s tone was polite but firm.
“You will comprehend my reticence. . . .” Pfyfe began. Then, with an
air of righteous frankness, he leaned forward. “It might prove unfair
to Alvin to withhold the gentleman’s name. . . . He was Captain Philip
Leacock.”
He allowed himself the emotional outlet of a sigh.
“I trust you won’t ask me for the lady’s name.”
“It won’t be necessary,” Markham assured him. “But I’d appreciate your
telling us a little more of the episode.”
Pfyfe complied with an expression of patient resignation.
“Alvin was considerably taken with the lady in question, and showed
her many attentions which were, I am forced to admit, unwelcome.
Captain Leacock resented these attentions; and at the little affair to
which I had invited him and Alvin, some unpleasant and, I must say,
unrefined words passed between them. I fear the wine had been flowing
too freely, for Alvin was always punctilious—he was a man, indeed,
skilled in the niceties of social intercourse; and the Captain, in an
outburst of temper, told Alvin that, unless he left the lady strictly
alone in the future, he would pay with his life. The Captain even went
so far as to draw a revolver half-way out of his pocket.”
“Was it a revolver, or an automatic pistol?” asked Heath.
Pfyfe gave the District Attorney a faint smile of annoyance, without
deigning even to glance at the Sergeant.
“I misspoke myself; forgive me. It was not a revolver. It was, I
believe, an automatic army pistol—though, you understand, I didn’t see
it in its entirety.”
“You say there were others who witnessed the altercation?”
“Several of my guests were standing about,” Pfyfe explained; “but, on
my word, I couldn’t name them. The fact is, I attached little
importance to the threat—indeed, it had entirely slipped my memory
until I read the account of poor Alvin’s death. Then I thought at once
of the unfortunate incident, and said to myself: Why not tell the
District Attorney. . . ?”
“Thoughts that breathe and words that burn,” murmured Vance, who had
been sitting through the interview in oppressive boredom.
Pfyfe once more adjusted his eye-glass, and gave Vance a withering
look.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
Vance smiled disarmingly.
“Merely a quotation from Gray. Poetry appeals to me in certain moods,
don’t y’ know. . . . Do you, by any chance, know Colonel Ostrander?”
Pfyfe looked at him coldly, but only a vacuous countenance met his
gaze.
“I am acquainted with the gentleman,” he replied haughtily.
“Was Colonel Ostrander present at this delightful little social affair
of yours?” Vance’s tone was artlessly innocent.
“Now that you mention it, I believe he was,” admitted Pfyfe, and
lifted his eyebrows inquisitively.
But Vance was again staring disinterestedly out of the window.
Markham, annoyed at the interruption, attempted to re-establish the
conversation on a more amiable and practical basis. But Pfyfe, though
loquacious, had little more information to give. He insisted
constantly on bringing the talk back to Captain Leacock, and, despite
his eloquent protestations, it was obvious he attached more importance
to the threat than he chose to admit. Markham questioned him for fully
an hour, but could learn nothing else of a suggestive nature.
When Pfyfe rose to go Vance turned from his contemplation of the
outside world and, bowing affably, let his eyes rest on the other with
ingenuous good-nature.
“Now that you are in New York, Mr. Pfyfe, and were so unfortunate as
to be unable to arrive earlier, I assume that you will remain until
after the investigation.”
Pfyfe’s studied and habitual calm gave way to a look of oily
astonishment.
“I hadn’t contemplated doing so.”
“It would be most desirable—if you could arrange it,” urged Markham;
though I am sure he had no intention of making the request until Vance
suggested it.
Pfyfe hesitated, and then made an elegant gesture of resignation.
“Certainly I shall remain. When you have further need of my services,
you will find me at the Ansonia.”
He spoke with exalted condescension, and magnanimously conferred upon
Markham a parting smile. But the smile did not spring from within. It
appeared to have been adjusted upon his features by the unseen hands
of a sculptor; and it affected only the muscles about his mouth.
When he had gone Vance gave Markham a look of suppressed mirth.
“‘Elegancy, facility and golden cadence.’ . . . But put not your faith
in poesy, old dear. Our Ciceronian friend is an unmitigated fashioner
of deceptions.”
“If you’re trying to say that he’s a smooth liar,” remarked Heath, “I
don’t agree with you. I think that story about the Captain’s threat is
straight goods.”
“Oh, that! Of course, it’s true. . . . And, y’ know, Markham, the
knightly Mr. Pfyfe was frightfully disappointed when you didn’t insist
on his revealing Miss St. Clair’s name. This Leander, I fear, would
never have swum the Hellespont for a lady’s sake.”
“Whether he’s a swimmer or not,” said Heath impatiently, “he’s given
us something to go on.”
Markham agreed that Pfyfe’s recital had added materially to the case
against Leacock.
“I think I’ll have the Captain down to my office to-morrow, and
question him,” he said.
A moment later Major Benson entered the room, and Markham invited him
to join us.
“I just saw Pfyfe get into a taxi,” he said, when he had sat down. “I
suppose you’ve been asking him about Alvin’s affairs. . . . Did he
help you any?”
“I hope so, for all our sakes,” returned Markham kindly. “By the way,
Major, what do you know about a Captain Philip Leacock?”
Major Benson lifted his eyes to Markham’s in surprise.
“Didn’t you know? Leacock was one of the captains in my regiment,—a
first-rate man. He knew Alvin pretty well, I think; but my impression
is they didn’t hit it off very chummily. . . . Surely you don’t
connect him with this affair?”
Markham ignored the question.
“Did you happen to attend a party of Pfyfe’s the night the Captain
threatened your brother?”
“I went, I remember, to one or two of Pfyfe’s parties,” said the
Major. “I don’t, as a rule, care for such gatherings, but Alvin
convinced me it was a good business policy.”
He lifted his head, and frowned fixedly into space, like one searching
for an elusive memory.
“However, I don’t recall—By George! Yes, I believe I do. . . . But if
the instance I am thinking of is what you have in mind, you can
dismiss it. We were all a little moist that night.”
“Did Captain Leacock draw a gun?” asked Heath.
The Major pursed his lips.
“Now that you mention it, I think he did make some motion of the
kind.”
“Did you see the gun?” pursued Heath.
“No, I can’t say that I did.”
Markham put the next question.
“Do you think Captain Leacock capable of the act of murder?”
“Hardly,” Major Benson answered with emphasis. “Leacock isn’t
cold-blooded. The woman over whom the tiff occurred is more capable of
such an act than he is.”
A short silence followed, broken by Vance.
“What do you know, Major, about this glass of fashion and mould of
form, Pfyfe? He appears a rare bird. Has he a history, or is his
presence his life’s document?”
“Leander Pfyfe,” said the Major, “is a typical specimen of the modern
young do-nothing,—I say young, though I imagine he’s around forty. He
was pampered in his upbringing—had everything he wanted, I believe;
but he became restless, and followed several different fads till he
tired of them. He was two years in South Africa hunting big game, and,
I think, wrote a book recounting his adventures. Since then he has
done nothing that I know of. He married a wealthy shrew some years
ago—for her money, I imagine. But the woman’s father controls the
purse-strings, and holds him down to a rigid allowance. . . . Pfyfe’s
a waster and an idler, but Alvin seemed to find some attraction in the
man.”
The Major’s words had been careless in inflection and undeliberated,
like those of a man discussing a neutral matter; but all of us, I
think, received the impression that he had a strong personal dislike
for Pfyfe.
“Not a ravishing personality, what?” remarked Vance. “And he uses far
too much _Jicky_.”
“Still,” supplied Heath, with a puzzled frown, “a fellow’s got to have
a lot of nerve to shoot big game. . . . And, speaking of nerve, I’ve
been thinking that the guy who shot your brother, Major, was a mighty
cool-headed proposition. He did it from the front when his man was
wide awake, and with a servant upstairs. That takes nerve.”
“Sergeant, you’re pos’tively brilliant!” exclaimed Vance.