The Forged Check
(Wednesday, June 19; forenoon.)
We rode down town with Markham the next morning, and though we arrived
at his office before nine o’clock, Heath was already there waiting. He
appeared worried, and when he spoke his voice held an ill-disguised
reproof for the District Attorney.
“What about this Leacock, Mr. Markham?” he asked. “It looks to me like
we’d better grab him quick. We’ve been tailing him right along; and
there’s something funny going on. Yesterday morning he went to his
bank and spent half an hour in the chief cashier’s office. After that
he visited his lawyer’s, and was there over an hour. Then he went back
to the bank for another half-hour. He dropped in to the Astor Grill
for lunch, but didn’t eat anything—sat staring at the table. About two
o’clock he called on the realty agents who have the handling of the
building he lives in; and after he’d left, we found out he’d offered
his apartment for sub-lease beginning to-morrow. Then he paid six
calls on friends of his, and went home. After dinner my man rang his
apartment bell and asked for Mr. Hoozitz:—Leacock was packing
up! . . . It looks to me like a get-away.”
Markham frowned. Heath’s report clearly troubled him; but before he
could answer, Vance spoke.
“Why this perturbation, Sergeant? You’re watching the Captain. I’m
sure he can’t slip from your vigilant clutches.”
Markham looked at Vance a moment; then turned to Heath.
“Let it go at that. But if Leacock attempts to leave the city, nab
him.”
Heath went out sullenly.
“By the bye, Markham,” said Vance; “don’t make an appointment for half
past twelve to-day. You already have one, don’t y’ know. And with a
lady.”
Markham put down his pen, and stared.
“What new damned nonsense is this?”
“I made an engagement for you. Called the lady by ’phone this morning.
I’m sure I woke the dear up.”
Markham spluttered, striving to articulate his angry protest.
Vance held up his hand soothingly.
“And you simply must keep the engagement. Y’ see, I told her it was
you speaking; and it would be shocking taste not to appear. . . . I
promise, you won’t regret meeting her,” he added. “Things looked so
sadly befuddled last night,—I couldn’t bear to see you suffering so.
Cons’quently, I arranged for you to see Mrs. Paula Banning—Pfyfe’s
Éloïse, y’ know. I’m pos’tive she’ll be able to dispel some of this
inspissated gloom that’s enveloping you.”
“See here, Vance!” Markham growled. “I happen to be running this
office——” He stopped abruptly, realizing the hopelessness of making
headway against the other’s blandness. Moreover, I think, the prospect
of interviewing Mrs. Paula Banning was not wholly alien to his
inclinations. His resentment slowly ebbed, and when he again spoke his
voice was almost matter-of-fact.
“Since you’ve committed me, I’ll see her. But I’d rather Pfyfe wasn’t
in such close communication with her. He’s apt to drop in—with
preconcerted unexpectedness.”
“Funny,” murmured Vance. “I thought of that myself. . . . That’s why I
’phoned him last night that he could return to Long Island.”
“You ’phoned him——!”
“Awf’lly sorry and all that,” Vance apologized. “But you’d gone to
bed. Sleep was knitting up your ravell’d sleave of care; and I
couldn’t bring myself to disturb you. . . . Pfyfe was so grateful,
too. Most touchin’. Said his wife also would be grateful. He was
pathetically consid’rate about Mrs. Pfyfe. But I fear he’ll need all
his velvety forensic powers to explain his absence.”
“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 straw-colored 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 cheek-bones 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 somewhat 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_. 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.”