A Confession
(Wednesday, June 19; 1 p.m.)
When we were again outside Markham asked:
“How in Heaven’s name did you know she had put up her jewels to help
Pfyfe?”
“My charmin’ metaphysical deductions, don’t y’ know,” answered Vance.
“As I told you, Benson was not the open-handed, big-hearted altruist
who would have lent money without security; and certainly the
impecunious Pfyfe had no collateral worth ten thousand dollars, or he
wouldn’t have forged the check. _Ergo_: someone lent him the security.
Now, who would be so trustin’ as to lend Pfyfe that amount of security
except a sentimental woman who was blind to his amazin’ defects? Y’
know, I was just evil-minded enough to suspect there was a Calypso in
the life of this Ulysses when he told us of stopping over in New York
to murmur _au revoir_ to someone. When a man like Pfyfe fails to
specify the sex of a person, it is safe to assume the feminine gender.
So I suggested that you send a Paul Pry to Port Washington to peer
into his trans-matrimonial activities: I felt certain a _bonne amie_
would be found. Then, when the mysterious package, which obviously was
the security, seemed to identify itself as the box of jewels seen by
the inquisitive housekeeper, I said to myself: ‘Ah! Leander’s
misguided Dulcinea has lent him her gewgaws to save him from the
yawning dungeon.’ Nor did I overlook the fact that he had been
shielding someone in his explanation about the check. Therefore, as
soon as the lady’s name and address were learned by Tracy, I made the
appointment for you. . . .”
We were passing the Gothic-Renaissance Schwab residence which extends
from West End Avenue to Riverside Drive at Seventy-third Street; and
Vance stopped for a moment to contemplate it.
Markham waited patiently. At length Vance walked on.
“ . . . Y’ know, the moment I saw Mrs. Banning I knew my conclusions
were correct. She was a sentimental soul, and just the sort of
professional good sport who would have handed over her jewels to her
_amoroso_. Also, she was bereft of gems when we called,—and a woman of
her stamp always wears her jewels when she desires to make an
impression on strangers. Moreover, she’s the kind that would have
jewellery even if the larder was empty. It was therefore merely a
question of getting her to talk.”
“On the whole, you did very well,” observed Markham.
Vance gave him a condescending bow.
“Sir Hubert is too generous.—But tell me, didn’t my little chat with
the lady cast a gleam into your darkened mind?”
“Naturally,” said Markham. “I’m not utterly obtuse. She played
unconsciously into our hands. She believed Pfyfe did not arrive in New
York until the morning after the murder, and therefore told us quite
frankly that she had ’phoned him that Benson had the jewels at home.
The situation now is: Pfyfe knew they were in Benson’s house, and was
there himself at about the time the shot was fired. Furthermore, the
jewels are gone; and Pfyfe tried to cover up his tracks that night.”
Vance sighed hopelessly.
“Markham, there are altogether too many trees for you in this case.
You simply can’t see the forest, y’ know, because of ’em.”
“There is the remote possibility that you are so busily engaged in
looking at one particular tree that you are unaware of the others.”
A shadow passed over Vance’s face.
“I wish you were right,” he said.
It was nearly half past one, and we dropped into the Fountain Room of
the Ansonia Hotel for lunch. Markham was preoccupied throughout the
meal, and when we entered the subway later, he looked uneasily at his
watch.
“I think I’ll go on down to Wall Street and call on the Major a moment
before returning to the office. I can’t understand his asking Miss
Hoffman not to mention the package to me. . . . It might not have
contained the jewels, after all.”
“Do you imagine for one moment,” rejoined Vance, “that Alvin told the
Major the truth about the package? It was not a very cred’table
transaction, y’ know; and the Major most likely would have given him
what-for.”
Major Benson’s explanation bore out Vance’s surmise. Markham, in
telling him of the interview with Paula Banning, emphasized the jewel
episode in the hope that the Major would voluntarily mention the
package; for his promise to Miss Hoffman prevented him from admitting
that he was aware of the other’s knowledge concerning it.
The Major listened with considerable astonishment, his eyes gradually
growing angry.
“I’m afraid Alvin deceived me,” he said. He looked straight ahead for
a moment, his face softening. “And I don’t like to think it, now that
he’s gone. But the truth is, when Miss Hoffman told me this morning
about the envelope, she also mentioned a small parcel that had been in
Alvin’s private safe-drawer; and I asked her to omit any reference to
it from her story to you. I knew the parcel contained Mrs. Banning’s
jewels, but I thought the fact would only confuse matters if brought
to your attention. You see, Alvin told me that a judgment had been
taken against Mrs. Banning, and that, just before the Supplementary
Proceedings, Pfyfe had brought her jewels here and asked him to
sequester them temporarily in his safe.”
On our way back to the Criminal Courts Building Markham took Vance’s
arm and smiled.
“Your guessing luck is holding out, I see.”
“Rather!” agreed Vance. “It would appear that the late Alvin, like
Warren Hastings, resolved to die in the last dyke of
prevarication. . . . _Splendide mendax_, what?”
“In any event,” replied Markham, “the Major has unconsciously added
another link in the chain against Pfyfe.”
“You seem to be making a collection of chains,” commented Vance drily.
“What have you done with the ones you forged about Miss St. Clair and
Leacock?”
“I haven’t entirely discarded them—if that’s what you think,” asserted
Markham gravely.
When we reached the office Sergeant Heath was awaiting us with a
beatific grin.
“It’s all over, Mr. Markham,” he announced. “This noon, after you’d
gone, Leacock came here looking for you. When he found you were out,
he ’phoned Headquarters, and they connected him with me. He wanted to
see me—very important, he said; so I hurried over. He was sitting in
the waiting-room when I came in, and he called me over and said: ‘I
came to give myself up. I killed Benson.’ I got him to dictate a
confession to Swacker, and then he signed it. . . . Here it is.” He
handed Markham a typewritten sheet of paper.
Markham sank wearily into a chair. The strain of the past few days had
begun to tell on him. He sighed heavily.
“Thank God! Now our troubles are ended.”
Vance looked at him lugubriously, and shook his head.
“I rather fancy, y’ know, that your troubles are only beginning,” he
drawled.
When Markham had glanced through the confession he handed it to Vance,
who read it carefully with an expression of growing amusement.
“Y’ know,” he said, “this document isn’t at all legal. Any judge
worthy the name would throw it precip’tately out of court. It’s far
too simple and precise. It doesn’t begin with ‘greetings’; it doesn’t
contain a single ‘wherefore-be-it’ or ‘be-it-known’ or ‘do-hereby’; it
says nothing about ‘free will’ or ‘sound mind’ or ‘disposin’ mem’ry’;
and the Captain doesn’t once refer to himself as ‘the party of the
first part’. . . . Utterly worthless, Sergeant. If I were you, I’d
chuck it.”
Heath was feeling too complacently triumphant to be annoyed. He smiled
with magnanimous tolerance.
“It strikes you as funny, doesn’t it, Mr. Vance?”
“Sergeant, if you knew how inord’nately funny this confession is,
you’d pos’tively have hysterics.”
Vance then turned to Markham.
“Really, y’ know, I shouldn’t put too much stock in this. It may,
however, prove a valuable lever with which to prise open the truth. In
fact, I’m jolly glad the Captain has gone in for imag’native
lit’rature. With this entrancin’ fable in our possession, I think we
can overcome the Major’s scruples, and get him to tell us what he
knows. Maybe I’m wrong, but it’s worth trying.”
He stepped to the District Attorney’s desk, and leaned over it
cajolingly.
“I haven’t led you astray yet, old dear; and I’m going to make another
suggestion. Call up the Major and ask him to come here at once. Tell
him you’ve secured a confession,—but don’t you dare say whose. Imply
it’s Miss St. Clair’s, or Pfyfe’s—or Pontius Pilate’s. But urge his
immediate presence. Tell him you want to discuss it with him before
proceeding with the indictment.”
“I can’t see the necessity of doing that,” objected Markham. “I’m
pretty sure to see him at the Club to-night, and I can tell him then.”
“That wouldn’t do at all,” insisted Vance. “If the Major can enlighten
us on any point, I think Sergeant Heath should be present to hear
him.”
“I don’t need any enlightenment,” cut in Heath.
Vance regarded him with admiring surprise.
“What a wonderful man! Even Goethe cried for _mehr Licht_; and here
are you in a state of luminous saturation! . . . Astonishin’!”
“See here, Vance,” said Markham: “why try to complicate the matter? It
strikes me as a waste of time, besides being an imposition, to ask the
Major here to discuss Leacock’s confession. We don’t need his evidence
now, anyway.”
Despite his gruffness there was a hint of reconsideration in his
voice; for though his instinct had been to dismiss the request out of
hand, the experiences of the past few days had taught him that Vance’s
suggestions were not made without an object.
Vance, sensing the other’s hesitancy, said:
“My request is based on something more than an idle desire to gaze
upon the Major’s rubicund features at this moment. I’m telling you,
with all the meagre earnestness I possess, that his presence here now
would be most helpful.”
Markham deliberated, and argued the point at some length. But Vance
was so persistent that in the end he was convinced of the advisability
of complying.
Heath was patently disgusted, but he sat down quietly, and sought
solace in a cigar.
Major Benson arrived with astonishing promptness, and when Markham
handed him the confession, he made little attempt to conceal his
eagerness. But as he read it his face clouded, and a look of
puzzlement came into his eyes.
At length he looked up, frowning.
“I don’t quite understand this; and I’ll admit I’m greatly surprised.
It doesn’t seem credible that Leacock shot Alvin. . . . And yet, I may
be mistaken, of course.”
He laid the confession on Markham’s desk with an air of
disappointment, and sank into a chair.
“Do _you_ feel satisfied?” he asked.
“I don’t see any way around it,” said Markham. “If he isn’t guilty,
why should he come forward and confess? God knows, there’s plenty of
evidence against him. I was ready to arrest him two days ago.”
“He’s guilty all right,” put in Heath. “I’ve had my eye on him from
the first.”
Major Benson did not reply at once: he seemed to be framing his next
words.
“It might be—that is, there’s the bare possibility—that Leacock had an
ulterior motive in confessing.”
We all, I think, recognized the thought which his words strove to
conceal.
“I’ll admit,” acceded Markham, “that at first I believed Miss St.
Clair guilty, and I intimated as much to Leacock. But later I was
persuaded that she was not directly involved.”
“Does Leacock know this?” the Major asked quickly.
Markham thought a moment.
“No, I can’t say that he does. In fact, it’s more than likely he still
thinks I suspect her.”
“Ah!” The Major’s exclamation was almost involuntary.
“But what’s that got to do with it?” asked Heath irritably. “Do you
think he’s going to the chair to save her reputation?—Bunk! That sort
of thing’s all right in the movies, but no man’s that crazy in real
life.”
“I’m not so sure, Sergeant,” ventured Vance lazily. “Women are too
sane and practical to make such foolish gestures; but men, y’ know,
have an illim’table capacity for idiocy.”
He turned an inquiring gaze on Major Benson.
“Won’t you tell us why you think Leacock is playing Sir Galahad?”
But the Major took refuge in generalities, and was disinclined even to
follow up his original intimation as to the cause of the Captain’s
action. Vance questioned him for some time, but was unable to
penetrate his reticence.
Heath, becoming restless, finally spoke up.
“You can’t argue Leacock’s guilt away, Mr. Vance. Look at the facts.
He threatened Benson that he’d kill him if he caught him with the girl
again. The next time Benson goes out with her, he’s found shot. Then
Leacock hides his gun at her house, and when things begin to get hot,
he takes it away and ditches it in the river. He bribes the hall-boy
to alibi him; and he’s seen at Benson’s house at twelve-thirty that
night. When he’s questioned he can’t explain anything. . . . If that
ain’t an open-and-shut case, I’m a mock-turtle.”
“The circumstances are convincing,” admitted Major Benson. “But
couldn’t they be accounted for on other grounds?”
Heath did not deign to answer the question.
“The way I see it,” he continued, “is like this: Leacock gets
suspicious along about midnight, takes his gun and goes out. He
catches Benson with the girl, goes in, and shoots him like he
threatened. They’re both mixed up in it, if you ask me; but Leacock
did the shooting. And now we got his confession. . . . There isn’t a
jury in the country that wouldn’t convict him.”
“_Probi et legales homines_—oh, quite!” murmured Vance.
Swacker appeared at the door.
“The reporters are clamoring for attention,” he announced with a wry
face.
“Do they know about the confession?” Markham asked Heath.
“Not yet. I haven’t told ’em anything so far—that’s why they’re
clamoring, I guess. But I’ll give ’em an earful now, if you say the
word.”
Markham nodded, and Heath started for the door. But Vance quickly
planted himself in the way.
“Could you keep this thing quiet till to-morrow, Markham?” he asked.
Markham was annoyed.
“I could if I wanted to—yes. But why should I?”
“For your own sake, if for no other reason. You’ve got your prize
safely locked up. Control your vanity for twenty-four hours. The Major
and I both know that Leacock’s innocent, and by this time to-morrow
the whole country’ll know it.”
Again an argument ensued; but the outcome, like that of the former
argument, was a foregone conclusion. Markham had realized for some
time that Vance had reason to be convinced of something which as yet
he was unwilling to divulge. His opposition to Vance’s requests were,
I had suspected, largely the result of an effort to ascertain this
information; and I was positive of it now as he leaned forward and
gravely debated the advisability of making public the Captain’s
confession.
Vance, as heretofore, was careful to reveal nothing; but in the end
his sheer determination carried his point; and Markham requested Heath
to keep his own counsel until the next day. The Major, by a slight
nod, indicated his approbation of the decision.
“You might tell the newspaper lads, though,” suggested Vance, “that
you’ll have a rippin’ sensation for ’em to-morrow.”
Heath went out, crestfallen and glowering.
“A rash fella, the Sergeant—so impetuous!”
Vance again picked up the confession, and perused it.
“Now, Markham, I want you to bring your prisoner forth—_habeas corpus_
and that sort of thing. Put him in that chair facing the window, give
him one of the good cigars you keep for influential politicians, and
then listen attentively while I politely chat with him. . . . The
Major, I trust, will remain for the interlocut’ry proceedings.”
“That request, at least, I’ll grant without objections,” smiled
Markham. “I had already decided to have a talk with Leacock.”
He pressed a buzzer, and a brisk, ruddy-faced clerk entered.
“A requisition for Captain Philip Leacock,” he ordered.
When it was brought to him he initialed it.
“Take it to Ben, and tell him to hurry.”
The clerk disappeared through the door leading to the outer corridor.
Ten minutes later a deputy sheriff from the Tombs entered with the
prisoner.