Admissions and Suppressions
(Tuesday, June 18; afternoon.)
An hour later Phelps, the operative Markham had sent to 94 Riverside
Drive, came in radiating satisfaction.
“I think I’ve got what you want, Chief.” His raucous voice was
covertly triumphant. “I went up to the St. Clair woman’s apartment and
rang the bell. She came to the door herself, and I stepped into the
hall and put my questions to her. She sure refused to answer. When I
let on I knew the package contained the gun Benson was shot with, she
just laughed and jerked the door open. ‘Leave this apartment, you vile
creature,’ she says to me.”
He grinned.
“I hurried downstairs, and I hadn’t any more than got to the
switchboard when her signal flashed. I let the boy get the number, and
then I stood him to one side, and listened in. . . . She was talking
to Leacock, and her first words were: ‘They know you took the pistol
from here yesterday and threw it in the river.’ That must’ve knocked
him out, for he didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he answered,
perfectly calm and kinda sweet: ‘Don’t worry, Muriel; and don’t say a
word to anybody for the rest of the day. I’ll fix everything in the
morning.’ He made her promise to keep quiet until to-morrow, and then
he said good-bye.”
Markham sat a while digesting the story.
“What impression did you get from the conversation?”
“If you ask me, Chief,” said the detective, “I’d lay ten to one that
Leacock’s guilty and the girl knows it.”
Markham thanked him and let him go.
“This sub-Potomac chivalry,” commented Vance, “is a frightful
nuisance. . . . But aren’t we about due to hold polite converse with
the genteel Leander?”
Almost as he spoke the man was announced. He entered the room with his
habitual urbanity of manner, but for all his suavity, he could not
wholly disguise his uneasiness of mind.
“Sit down, Mr. Pfyfe,” directed Markham brusquely. “It seems you have
a little more explaining to do.”
Taking out the manilla envelope, he laid its contents on the desk
where the other could see them.
“Will you be so good as to tell me about these?”
“With the greatest pleasure,” said Pfyfe; but his voice had lost its
assurance. Some of his poise, too, had deserted him, and as he paused
to light a cigarette I detected a slight nervousness in the way he
manipulated his gold match-safe.
“I really should have mentioned these before,” he confessed,
indicating the papers with a delicately inconsequential wave of the
hand.
He leaned forward on one elbow, taking a confidential attitude, and as
he talked, the cigarette bobbed up and down between his lips.
“It pains me deeply to go into this matter,” he began; “but since it
is in the interests of truth, I shall not complain. . . .
My—ah—domestic arrangements are not all that one could desire. My
wife’s father has, curiously enough, taken a most unreasonable dislike
to me; and it pleases him to deprive me of all but the meagerest
financial assistance, although it is really my wife’s money that he
refuses to give me. A few months ago I made use of certain funds—ten
thousand dollars, to be exact—which, I learned later, had not been
intended for me. When my father-in-law discovered my error, it was
necessary for me to return the full amount to avoid a misunderstanding
between Mrs. Pfyfe and myself—a misunderstanding which might have
caused my wife great unhappiness. I regret to say, I used Alvin’s name
on a check. But I explained it to him at once, you understand,
offering him the note and this little confession as evidence of my
good faith. . . . And that is all, Mr. Markham.”
“Was that what your quarrel with him last week was about?”
Pfyfe gave him a look of querulous surprise.
“Ah, you heard of our little _contretemps_? . . . Yes—we had a slight
disagreement as to the—shall I say terms of the transaction?”
“Did Benson insist that the note be paid when due?”
“No—not exactly.” Pfyfe’s manner became unctuous. “I beg of you, sir,
not to press me as to my little chat with Alvin. It was, I assure you,
quite irrelevant to the present situation. Indeed, it was of a most
personal and private nature.” He smiled confidingly. “I will admit,
however, that I went to Alvin’s house the night he was shot, intending
to speak to him about the check; but, as you already know, I found the
house dark and spent the night in a Turkish bath.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Pfyfe,”—it was Vance who spoke—“but did Mr. Benson
take your note without security?”
“Of course!” Pfyfe’s tone was a rebuke. “Alvin and I, as I have
explained, were the closest friends.”
“But even a friend, don’t y’ know,” Vance submitted, “might ask for
security on such a large amount. How did Benson know that you’d be
able to repay him?”
“I can only say that he did know,” the other answered, with an air of
patient deliberation.
Vance continued to be doubtful.
“Perhaps it was because of the confession you had given him.”
Pfyfe rewarded him with a look of beaming approval.
“You grasp the situation perfectly,” he said.
Vance withdrew from the conversation, and though Markham questioned
Pfyfe for nearly half an hour, nothing further transpired. Pfyfe clung
to his story in every detail, and politely refused to go deeper into
his quarrel with Benson, insisting that it had no bearing on the case.
At last he was permitted to go.
“Not very helpful,” Markham observed. “I’m beginning to agree with
Heath that we’ve turned up a mare’s-nest in Pfyfe’s frenzied financial
deal.”
“You’ll never be anything but your own sweet trusting self, will you?”
lamented Vance sadly. “Pfyfe has just given you your first intelligent
line of investigation—and you say he’s not helpful! . . . Listen to me
and _nota bene_. Pfyfe’s story about the ten thousand dollars is
undoubtedly true: he appropriated the money and forged Benson’s name
to a check with which to replace it. But I don’t for a second believe
there was no security in addition to the confession. Benson wasn’t the
type of man—friend or no friend—who’d hand over that amount without
security. He wanted his money back—not somebody in jail. That’s why I
put my oar in, and asked about the security. Pfyfe, of course, denied
it; but when pressed as to how Benson knew he’d pay the note, he
retired into a cloud. I had to suggest the confession as the possible
explanation; which showed that something else was in his
mind—something he didn’t care to mention. And the way he jumped at my
suggestion bears out my theory.”
“Well, what of it?” Markham asked impatiently.
“Oh, for the gift of tears!” moaned Vance. “Don’t you see that there’s
someone in the background—someone connected with the security? It must
be so, y’ know; otherwise Pfyfe would have told you the entire tale of
the quarrel, if only to clear himself from suspicion. Yet, knowing
that his position is an awkward one, he refuses to divulge what passed
between him and Benson in the office that day. . . . Pfyfe is
shielding someone—and he is not the soul of chivalry, y’ know.
Therefore, I ask: Why?”
He leaned back and gazed at the ceiling.
“I have an idea, amounting to a cerebral cyclone,” he added, “that
when we put our hands on that security, we’ll also put our hands on
the murderer.”
At this moment the telephone rang, and when Markham answered it a look
of startled amusement came into his eyes. He made an appointment with
the speaker for half past five that afternoon. Then, hanging up the
receiver, he laughed outright at Vance.
“Your auricular researches have been confirmed,” he said. “Miss
Hoffman just called me confidentially on an outside ’phone to say she
has something to add to her story. She’s coming here at five-thirty.”
Vance was unimpressed by the announcement.
“I rather imagined she’d telephone during her lunch hour.”
Again Markham gave him one of his searching scrutinies.
“There’s something damned queer going on around here,” he observed.
“Oh, quite,” returned Vance carelessly. “Queerer than you could
possibly imagine.”
For fifteen or twenty minutes Markham endeavored to draw him out; but
Vance seemed suddenly possessed of an ability to say nothing with the
blandest fluency. Markham finally became exasperated.
“I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion,” he said, “that either you had
a hand in Benson’s murder, or you’re a phenomenally good guesser.”
“There is, y’ know, an alternative,” rejoined Vance. “It might be that
my æsthetic hypotheses and metaphysical deductions—as you call ’em—are
working out—eh, what?”
A few minutes before we went to lunch Swacker announced that Tracy had
just returned from Long Island with his report.
“Is he the lad you sent to look into Pfyfe’s _affaires du cœur_?”
Vance asked Markham. “For, if he is, I am all a-flutter.”
“He’s the man. . . . Send him in, Swacker.”
Tracy entered smiling silkily, his black note-book in one hand, his
_pince-nez_ in the other.
“I had no trouble learning about Pfyfe,” he said. “He’s well known in
Port Washington—quite a character, in fact—and it was easy to pick up
gossip about him.”
He adjusted his glasses carefully, and referred to his note-book.
“He married a Miss Hawthorn in nineteen-ten. She’s wealthy, but Pfyfe
doesn’t benefit much by it, because her father sits on the
money-bags——”
“Mr. Tracy, I say,” interrupted Vance; “never mind the _née_-Hawthorn
and her doting papa,—Mr. Pfyfe himself has confided in us about his
sad marriage. Tell us, if you can, about Mr. Pfyfe’s extra-nuptial
affairs. Are there any other ladies?”
Tracy looked inquiringly at the District Attorney: he was uncertain as
to Vance’s _locus standi_. Receiving a nod from Markham, he turned a
page in his note-book and proceeded.
“I found one other woman in the case. She lives in New York, and often
telephones to a drug store near Pfyfe’s house, and leaves messages for
him. He uses the same ’phone to call her by. He had made some deal
with the proprietor, of course; but I was able to obtain her ’phone
number. As soon as I came back to the city I got her name and address
from Information, and made a few inquiries. . . . She’s a Mrs. Paula
Banning, a widow, and a little fast, I should say; and she lives in an
apartment at 268 West Seventy-fifth Street.”
This exhausted Tracy’s information; and when he went out, Markham
smiled broadly at Vance.
“He didn’t supply you with very much fuel.”
“My word! I think he did unbelievably well,” said Vance. “He unearthed
the very information we wanted.”
“_We_ wanted?” echoed Markham. “I have more important things to think
about than Pfyfe’s amours.”
“And yet, y’ know, this particular amour of Pfyfe’s is going to solve
the problem of Benson’s murder,” replied Vance; and would say no more.
Markham, who had an accumulation of other work awaiting him and
numerous appointments for the afternoon, decided to have his lunch
served in the office; so Vance and I took leave of him.
We lunched at the Élysée, dropped in at Knoedler’s to see an
exhibition of French Pointillism, and then went to Aeolian Hall where
a string quartette from San Francisco was giving a programme of
Mozart. A little before half past five we were again at the District
Attorney’s office, which at that hour was deserted except for Markham.
Shortly after our arrival Miss Hoffman came in, and told the rest of
her story in direct, business-like fashion.
“I didn’t give you all the particulars this morning,” she said; “and I
wouldn’t care to do so now unless you are willing to regard them as
confidential, for my telling you might cost me my position.”
“I promise you,” Markham assured her, “that I will entirely respect
your confidence.”
She hesitated a moment, and then continued.
“When I told Major Benson this morning about Mr. Pfyfe and his
brother, he said at once that I should come with him to your office
and tell you also. But on the way over, he suggested that I might omit
a part of the story. He didn’t exactly tell me not to mention it; but
he explained that it had nothing to do with the case and might only
confuse you. I followed his suggestion; but after I got back to the
office I began thinking it over, and knowing how serious a matter Mr.
Benson’s death was, I decided to tell you anyway. In case it did have
some bearing on the situation, I didn’t want to be in the position of
having withheld anything from you.”
She seemed a little uncertain as to the wisdom of her decision.
“I do hope I haven’t been foolish. But the truth is, there was
something else besides that envelope, which Mr. Benson asked me to
bring him from the safe the day he and Mr. Pfyfe had their quarrel. It
was a square heavy package, and, like the envelope, was marked
‘Pfyfe-Personal’. And it was over this package that Mr. Benson and Mr.
Pfyfe seemed to be quarrelling.”
“Was it in the safe this morning when you went to get the envelope for
the Major?” asked Vance.
“Oh, no. After Mr. Pfyfe left last week, I put the package back in the
safe along with the envelope. But Mr. Benson took it home with him
last Thursday—the day he was killed.”
Markham was but mildly interested in the recital, and was about to
bring the interview to a close when Vance spoke up.
“It was very good of you, Miss Hoffman, to take this trouble to tell
us about the package; and now that you are here, there are one or two
questions I’d like to ask. . . . How did Mr. Alvin Benson and the
Major get along together?”
She looked at Vance with a curious little smile.
“They didn’t get along very well,” she said. “They were so different.
Mr. Alvin Benson was not a very pleasant person, and not very
honorable, I’m afraid. You’d never have thought they were brothers.
They were constantly disputing about the business; and they were
terribly suspicious of each other.”
“That’s not unnatural,” commented Vance, “seeing how incompatible
their temp’raments were. . . . By the bye, how did this suspicion show
itself?”
“Well, for one thing, they sometimes spied on each other. You see,
their offices were adjoining, and they would listen to each other
through the door. I did the secretarial work for both of them, and I
often saw them listening. Several times they tried to find out things
from me about each other.”
Vance smiled at her appreciatively.
“Not a pleasant position for you.”
“Oh, I didn’t mind it,” she smiled back. “It amused me.”
“When was the last time you caught either one of them listening?” he
asked.
The girl quickly became serious.
“The very last day Mr. Alvin Benson was alive I saw the Major standing
by the door. Mr. Benson had a caller—a lady—and the Major seemed very
much interested. It was in the afternoon. Mr. Benson went home early
that day—only about half an hour after the lady had gone. She called
at the office again later, but he wasn’t there of course, and I told
her he had already gone home.”
“Do you know who the lady was?” Vance asked her.
“No, I don’t,” she said. “She didn’t give her name.”
Vance asked a few other questions, after which we rode up town in the
subway with Miss Hoffman, taking leave of her at Twenty-third Street.
Markham was silent and preoccupied during the trip. Nor did Vance make
any comment until we were comfortably relaxed in the easy chairs of
the Stuyvesant Club’s lounge-room. Then, lighting a cigarette lazily,
he said:
“You grasp the subtle mental processes leading up to my prophecy about
Miss Hoffman’s second coming—eh, what, Markham? Y’ see, I knew friend
Alvin had not paid that forged check without security, and I also knew
that the tiff must have been about the security, for Pfyfe was not
really worrying about being jailed by his _alter ego_. I rather
suspect Pfyfe was trying to get the security back before paying off
the note, and was told there was ‘nothing doing’. . . . Moreover,
Little Goldylocks may be a nice girl and all that; but it isn’t in the
feminine temp’rament to sit next door to an altercation between two
such rakes and not listen attentively. I shouldn’t care, y’ know, to
have to decipher the typing she said she did during the episode. I was
quite sure she heard more than she told; and I asked myself: Why this
curtailment? The only logical answer was: Because the Major had
suggested it. And since the _gnädiges Fräulein_ was a forthright
Germanic soul, with an inbred streak of selfish and cautious honesty,
I ventured the prognostication that as soon as she was out from under
the benev’lent jurisdiction of her tutor, she would tell us the rest,
in order to save her own skin if the matter should come up
later. . . . Not so cryptic when explained, what?”
“That’s all very well,” conceded Markham petulantly. “But where does
it get us?”
“I shouldn’t say that the forward movement was entirely
imperceptible.”
Vance smoked a while impassively.
“You realize, I trust,” he said, “that the mysterious package
contained the security.”
“One might form such a conclusion,” agreed Markham. “But the fact
doesn’t dumbfound me—if that’s what you’re hoping for.”
“And, of course,” pursued Vance easily, “your legal mind, trained in
the technique of ratiocination, has already identified it as the box
of jewels that Mrs. Platz espied on Benson’s table that fatal
afternoon.”
Markham sat up suddenly; then sank back with a shrug.
“Even if it was,” he said, “I don’t see how that helps us. Unless the
Major knew the package had nothing to do with the case, he would not
have suggested to his secretary that she omit telling us about it.”
“Ah! But if the Major knew that the package was an irrelevant item in
the case, then he must also know something about the case—eh, what?
Otherwise, he couldn’t determine what was, and what was not,
irrelevant. . . . I have felt all along that he knew more than he
admitted. Don’t forget that he put us on the track of Pfyfe, and also
that he was quite pos’tive Captain Leacock was innocent.”
Markham thought for several minutes.
“I’m beginning to see what you’re driving at,” he remarked slowly.
“Those jewels, after all, may have an important bearing on the
case. . . . I think I’ll have a chat with the Major about things.”
Shortly after dinner at the Club that night Major Benson came into the
lounge-room where we had retired for our smoke; and Markham accosted
him at once.
“Major, aren’t you willing to help me a little more in getting at the
truth about your brother’s death?” he asked.
The other gazed at him searchingly: the inflection of Markham’s voice
belied the apparent casualness of the question.
“God knows it’s not my wish to put obstacles in your way,” he said,
carefully weighing each word. “I’d gladly give you any help I could.
But there are one or two things I can not tell you at this time. . . .
If there was only myself to be considered,” he added, “it would be
different.”
“But you do suspect someone?” Vance put the question.
“In a way—yes. I overheard a conversation in Alvin’s office one day,
that took on added significance after his death.”
“You shouldn’t let chivalry stand in the way,” urged Markham. “If your
suspicion is unfounded, the truth will surely come out.”
“But when I don’t _know_, I certainly ought not to hazard a guess,”
affirmed the Major. “I think it best that you solve this problem
without me.”
Despite Markham’s importunities, he would say no more; and shortly
afterward he excused himself and went out.
Markham, now profoundly worried, sat smoking restlessly, tapping the
arm of his chair with his fingers.
“Well, old bean, a bit involved, what?” commented Vance.
“It’s not so damned funny,” Markham grumbled. “Everyone seems to know
more about the case than the police or the District Attorney’s
office.”
“Which wouldn’t be so disconcertin’ if they all weren’t so deuced
reticent,” supplemented Vance cheerfully. “And the touchin’ part of it
is that each of ’em appears to be keeping still in order to shield
someone else. Mrs. Platz began it: she lied about Benson’s having any
callers that afternoon, because she didn’t want to involve his tea
companion. Miss St. Clair declined point-blank to tell you anything,
because she obviously didn’t desire to cast suspicion on another. The
Captain became voiceless the moment you suggested his affianced bride
was entangled. Even Leander refused to extricate himself from a
delicate situation lest he implicate another. And now the Major! . . .
Most annoyin’.—On the other hand, don’t y’ know, it’s comfortin’—not
to say upliftin’—to be dealing exclusively with such noble,
self-sacrificin’ souls.”
“Hell!” Markham put down his cigar and rose. “The case is getting on
my nerves. I’m going to sleep on it, and tackle it in the morning.”
“That ancient idea of sleeping on a problem is a fallacy,” said Vance,
as we walked out into Madison Avenue, “—an _apologia_, as it were, for
one’s not being able to think clearly. Poetic idea, y’ know. All poets
believe in it—nature’s soft nurse, the balm of woe, childhood’s
mandragora, tired nature’s sweet restorer, and that sort of thing.
Silly notion. When the brain is keyed up and alive, it works far
better than when apathetic from the torpor of sleep. Slumber is an
anodyne—not a stimulus.”
“Well, you sit up and think,” was Markham’s surly advice.
“That’s what I’m going to do,” blithely returned Vance; “but not about
the Benson case. I did all the thinking I’m going to do along that
line four days ago.”