Sartorial Revelations
(Wednesday, June 19; 5.30 p.m.)
The housekeeper regarded our visit that afternoon with marked
uneasiness. Though she was a large powerful woman, her body seemed to
have lost some of its strength, and her face showed signs of prolonged
anxiety. Snitkin informed us, when we entered, that she had carefully
read every newspaper account of the progress of the case, and had
questioned him interminably on the subject.
She entered the living-room with scarcely an acknowledgment of our
presence, and took the chair Vance placed for her like a woman
resigning herself to a dreaded but inevitable ordeal. When Vance
looked at her keenly, she gave him a frightened glance and turned her
face away, as if, in the second their eyes met, she had read his
knowledge of some secret she had been jealously guarding.
Vance began his questioning without prelude or protasis.
“Mrs. Platz, was Mr. Benson very particular about his toupee—that is,
did he often receive his friends without having it on?”
The woman appeared relieved.
“Oh, no, sir—never.”
“Think back, Mrs. Platz. Has Mr. Benson never, to your knowledge, been
in anyone’s company without his toupee?”
She was silent for some time, her brows contracted.
“Once I saw him take off his wig and show it to Colonel Ostrander, an
elderly gentleman who used to call here very often. But Colonel
Ostrander was an old friend of his. He told me they lived together
once.”
“No one else?”
Again she frowned thoughtfully.
“No,” she said, after several minutes.
“What about the tradespeople?”
“He was very particular about them. . . . And strangers, too,” she
added. “When he used to sit in here in hot weather without his wig, he
always pulled the shade on that window.” She pointed to the one
nearest the hallway. “You can look in it from the steps.”
“I’m glad you brought up that point,” said Vance. “And anyone standing
on the steps could tap on the window or the iron bars, and attract the
attention of anyone in this room?”
“Oh, yes, sir—easily. I did it myself once, when I went on an errand
and forgot my key.”
“It’s quite likely, don’t you think, that the person who shot Mr.
Benson obtained admittance that way?”
“Yes, sir.” She grasped eagerly at the suggestion.
“The person would have had to know Mr. Benson pretty well to tap on
the window instead of ringing the bell. Don’t you agree with me, Mrs.
Platz?”
“Yes—sir.” Her tone was doubtful: evidently the point was a little
beyond her.
“If a stranger had tapped on the window would Mr. Benson have admitted
him without his toupee?”
“Oh, no—he wouldn’t have let a stranger in.”
“You are sure the bell didn’t ring that night?”
“Positive, sir.” The answer was very emphatic.
“Is there a light on the front steps?”
“No, sir.”
“If Mr. Benson had looked out of the window to see who was tapping,
could he have recognized the person at night?”
The woman hesitated.
“I don’t know—I don’t think so.”
“Is there any way you can see through the front door who is outside,
without opening it?”
“No, sir. Sometimes I wished there was.”
“Then, if the person knocked on the window, Mr. Benson must have
recognized the voice?”
“It looks that way, sir.”
“And you’re certain no one could have got in without a key?”
“How could they? The door locks by itself.”
“It’s the regulation spring-lock, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then it must have a catch you can turn off so that the door will open
from either side even though it’s latched.”
“It did have a catch like that,” she explained, “but Mr. Benson had it
fixed so’s it wouldn’t work. He said it was too dangerous,—I might go
out and leave the house unlocked.”
Vance stepped into the hallway, and I heard him opening and shutting
the front door.
“You’re right, Mrs. Platz,” he observed, when he came back. “Now tell
me: are you quite sure no one had a key?”
“Yes, sir. No one but me and Mr. Benson had a key.”
Vance nodded his acceptance of her statement.
“You said you left your bed-room door open on the night Mr. Benson was
shot. . . . Do you generally leave it open?”
“No, I ’most always shut it. But it was terrible close that night.”
“Then it was merely an accident you left it open?”
“As you might say.”
“If your door had been closed as usual, could you have heard the shot,
do you think?”
“If I’d been awake, maybe. Not if I was sleeping, though. They got
heavy doors in these old houses, sir.”
“And they’re beautiful, too,” commented Vance.
He looked admiringly at the massive mahogany double door that opened
into the hall.
“Y’ know, Markham, our so-called civ’lization is nothing more than the
persistent destruction of everything that’s beautiful and enduring,
and the designing of cheap makeshifts. You should read Oswald
Spengler’s _Untergang des Abendlands_—a most penetratin’ document. I
wonder some enterprisin’ publisher hasn’t embalmed it in our native
argot.* The whole history of this degen’rate era we call modern
civ’lization can be seen in our woodwork. Look at that fine old door,
for instance, with its bevelled panels and ornamented bolection, and
its Ionic pilasters and carved lintel. And then compare it with the
flat, flimsy, machine-made, shellacked boards which are turned out by
the thousand to-day. _Sic transit_. . . .”
* The book—or a part of it—has, I believe, been recently
translated into English.
He studied the door for some time; then turned abruptly back to Mrs.
Platz, who was eyeing him curiously and with mounting apprehension.
“What did Mr. Benson do with the box of jewels when he went out to
dinner?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir,” she answered nervously. “He left them on the table
there.”
“Did you see them after he had gone?”
“Yes; and I was going to put them away. But I decided I’d better not
touch them.”
“And nobody came to the door, or entered the house, after Mr. Benson
left?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“I’m positive, sir.”
Vance rose, and began to pace the floor. Suddenly, just as he was
passing the woman, he stopped and faced her.
“Was your maiden name Hoffman, Mrs. Platz?”
The thing she had been dreading had come. Her face paled, her eyes
opened wide, and her lower lip drooped a little.
Vance stood looking at her, not unkindly. Before she could regain
control of herself, he said:
“I had the pleasure of meeting your charmin’ daughter recently.”
“My daughter. . . ?” the woman managed to stammer.
“Miss Hoffman, y’ know—the attractive young lady with the blond hair.
Mr. Benson’s secret’ry.”
The woman sat erect, and spoke through clamped teeth.
“She’s not my daughter.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Platz!” Vance chided her, as if speaking to a child.
“Why this foolish attempt at deception? You remember how worried you
were when I accused you of having a personal interest in the lady who
was here to tea with Mr. Benson? You were afraid I thought it was Miss
Hoffman. . . . But why should you be anxious about her, Mrs. Platz?
I’m sure she’s a very nice girl. And you really can’t blame her for
preferring the name of Hoffman to that of Platz. _Platz_ means
generally a place, though it also means a crash or an explosion; and
sometimes a _Platz_ is a bun or a yeast-cake. But a _Hoffman_ is a
courtier—much nicer than being a yeast-cake, what?”
He smiled engagingly, and his manner had a quieting effect upon her.
“It isn’t that, sir,” she said, looking at him appealingly. “I made
her take the name. In this country any girl who’s smart can get to be
a lady, if she’s given a chance. And——”
“I understand perfectly,” Vance interposed pleasantly. “Miss Hoffman
is clever, and you feared that the fact of your being a housekeeper,
if it became known, would stand in the way of her success. So you
elim’nated yourself, as it were, for her welfare. I think it was very
generous of you. . . . Your daughter lives alone?”
“Yes, sir—in Morningside Heights. But I see her every week.” Her voice
was barely audible.
“Of course—as often as you can, I’m sure. . . . Did you take the
position as Mr. Benson’s housekeeper because she was his secret’ry?”
She looked up, a bitter expression in her eyes.
“Yes, sir—I did. She told me the kind of man he was; and he often made
her come to the house here in the evenings to do extra work.”
“And you wanted to be here to protect her?”
“Yes, sir—that was it.”
“Why were you so worried the morning after the murder, when Mr.
Markham here asked you if Mr. Benson kept any fire-arms around the
house?”
The woman shifted her gaze.
“I—wasn’t worried.”
“Yes, you were, Mrs. Platz. And I’ll tell you why. You were afraid we
might think Miss Hoffman shot him.”
“Oh, no, sir, I wasn’t!” she cried. “My girl wasn’t even here that
night—I swear it!—she wasn’t here. . . .”
She was badly shaken: the nervous tension of a week had snapped, and
she looked helplessly about her.
“Come, come, Mrs. Platz,” pleaded Vance consolingly. “No one believes
for a moment that Miss Hoffman had a hand in Mr. Benson’s death.”
The woman peered searchingly into his face. At first she was loath to
believe him,—it was evident that fear had long been preying on her
mind,—and it took him fully a quarter of an hour to convince her that
what he had said was true. When, finally, we left the house she was in
a comparatively peaceful state of mind.
On our way to the Stuyvesant Club Markham was silent, completely
engrossed with his thoughts. It was evident that the new facts educed
by the interview with Mrs. Platz troubled him considerably.
Vance sat smoking dreamily, turning his head now and then to inspect
the buildings we passed. We drove east through Forty-eighth Street,
and when we came abreast of the New York Bible Society House he
ordered the chauffeur to stop, and insisted that we admire it.
“Christianity,” he remarked, “has almost vindicated itself by its
architecture alone. With few exceptions, the only buildings in this
city that are not eyesores, are the churches and their allied
structures. The American æsthetic credo is: Whatever’s big is
beautiful. These depressin’ gargantuan boxes with rectangular holes in
’em, which are called skyscrapers, are worshipped by Americans simply
because they’re huge. A box with forty rows of holes is twice as
beautiful as a box with twenty rows. Simple formula, what? . . . Look
at this little five-story affair across the street. It’s inf’nitely
lovelier—and more impressive, too—than any skyscraper in the
city. . . .”
Vance referred but once to the crime during our ride to the Club, and
then only indirectly.
“Kind hearts, y’ know, Markham, are more than coronets. I’ve done a
good deed to-day, and I feel pos’tively virtuous. Frau Platz will
_schlafen_ much better to-night. She has been frightfully upset about
little Gretchen. She’s a doughty old soul; motherly and all that. And
she couldn’t bear to think of the future Lady Vere de Vere being
suspected. . . . Wonder why she worried so?” And he gave Markham a sly
look.
Nothing further was said until after dinner, which we ate in the Roof
Garden. We had pushed back our chairs, and sat looking out over the
tree-tops of Madison Square.
“Now, Markham,” said Vance, “give over all prejudices, and consider
the situation judiciously—as you lawyers euphemistically put it. . . .
To begin with, we now know why Mrs. Platz was so worried at your
question regarding fire-arms, and why she was upset by my ref’rence to
her personal int’rest in Benson’s tea-companion. So, those two
mysteries are elim’nated. . . .”
“How did you find out about her relation to the girl?” interjected
Markham.
“’T was my ogling did it.” Vance gave him a reproving look. “You
recall that I ‘ogled’ the young lady at our first meeting,—but I
forgive you. . . . And you remember our little discussion about
cranial idiosyncrasies? Miss Hoffman, I noticed at once, possessed all
the physical formations of Benson’s housekeeper. She was
brachycephalic; she had over-articulated cheek-bones, an orthognathous
jaw, a low flat parietal structure, and a mesorrhinian nose. . . .
Then I looked for her ear, for I had noted that Mrs. Platz had the
pointed, lobeless, ‘satyr’ ear—sometimes called the Darwin ear. These
ears run in families; and when I saw that Miss Hoffman’s were of the
same type, even though modified, I was fairly certain of the
relationship. But there were other similarities—in pigment, for
instance; and in height,—both are tall, y’ know. And the central
masses of each were very large in comparison with the peripheral
masses: the shoulders were narrow and the wrists and ankles small,
while the hips were bulky. . . . That Hoffman was Platz’s maiden name
was only a guess. But it didn’t matter.”
Vance adjusted himself more comfortably in his chair.
“Now for your judicial considerations. . . . First, let us assume that
at a little before half past twelve on the night of the thirteenth the
villain came to Benson’s house, saw the light in the living-room,
tapped on the window, and was instantly admitted. . . . What, would
you say, do these assumptions indicate regarding the visitor?”
“Merely that Benson was acquainted with him,” returned Markham. “But
that doesn’t help us any. We can’t extend the _sus. per coll._ to
everybody the man knew.”
“The indications go much further than that, old chap,” Vance retorted.
“They show unmistakably that Benson’s murderer was a most intimate
crony, or, at least, a person before whom he didn’t care how he
looked. The absence of the toupee, as I once suggested to you, was a
prime essential of the situation. A toupee, don’t y’ know, is the
sartorial _sine qua non_ of every middle-aged Beau Brummel afflicted
with baldness. You heard Mrs. Platz on the subject. Do you think for a
second that Benson, who hid his hirsute deficiency even from the
grocer’s boy, would visit with a mere acquaintance thus bereft of his
crowning glory? And besides being thus denuded, he was without his
full complement of teeth. Moreover, he was without collar or tie, and
attired in an old smoking-jacket and bed-room slippers! Picture the
spectacle, my dear fellow. . . . A man does not look fascinatin’
without his collar and with his shirt-band and gold stud exposed. Thus
attired he is the equiv’lent of a lady in curl-papers. . . . How many
men do you think Benson knew with whom he would have sat down to a
_tête-à-tête_ in this undress condition?”
“Three or four, perhaps,” answered Markham. “But I can’t arrest them
all.”
“I’m sure you would if you could. But it won’t be necess’ry.”
Vance selected another cigarette from his case, and went on:
“There are other helpful indications, y’ know. For instance, the
murderer was fairly well acquainted with Benson’s domestic
arrangements. He must have known that the housekeeper slept a good
distance from the living-room and would not be startled by the shot if
her door was closed as usual. Also, he must have known there was no
one else in the house at that hour. And another thing: don’t forget
that his voice was perfectly familiar to Benson. If there had been the
slightest doubt about it Benson would not have let him in, in view of
his natural fear of house-breakers, and with the Captain’s threat
hanging over him.”
“That’s a tenable hypothesis. . . . What else?”
“The jewels, Markham—those orators of love. Have you thought of them?
They were on the center-table when Benson came home that night; and
they were gone in the morning. Wherefore, it seems inev’table that the
murderer took ’em—eh, what? . . . And may they not have been one
reason for the murderer’s coming there that night? If so, who of
Benson’s most intimate _personæ gratæ_ knew of their presence in the
house? And who wanted ’em particularly?”
“Exactly, Vance.” Markham nodded his head slowly. “You’ve hit it. I’ve
had an uneasy feeling about Pfyfe right along. I was on the point of
ordering his arrest to-day when Heath brought word of Leacock’s
confession; and then, when that blew up, my suspicions reverted to
him. I said nothing this afternoon because I wanted to see where your
ideas had led you. What you’ve been saying checks up perfectly with my
own notions. Pfyfe’s our man——”
He brought the front legs of his chair down suddenly.
“And now, damn it, you’ve let him get away from us!”
“Don’t fret, old dear,” said Vance. “He’s safe with Mrs. Pfyfe, I
fancy. And anyhow, your friend, Mr. Ben Hanlon, is well versed in
retrieving fugitives. . . . Let the harassed Leander alone for the
moment. You don’t need him to-night—and to-morrow you won’t want him.”
Markham wheeled about.
“What’s that!—I won’t want him? . . . And why, pray?”
“Well,” Vance explained indolently; “he hasn’t a congenial and lovable
nature, has he? And he’s not exactly an object of blindin’ beauty. I
shouldn’t want him around me more than was necess’ry, don’t y’
know. . . . Incidentally, he’s not guilty.”
Markham was too nonplussed to be exasperated. He regarded Vance
searchingly for a full minute.
“I don’t follow you,” he said. “If you think Pfyfe’s innocent, who, in
God’s name, do you think is guilty?”
Vance glanced at his watch.
“Come to my house to-morrow for breakfast, and bring those alibis you
asked Heath for; and I’ll tell you who shot Benson.”
Something in his tone impressed Markham. He realized that Vance would
not have made so specific a promise unless he was confident of his
ability to keep it. He knew Vance too well to ignore, or even
minimize, his statement.
“Why not tell me now?” he asked.
“Awf’lly sorry, y’ know,” apologized Vance; “but I’m going to the
Philharmonic’s ‘special’ to-night. They’re playing César Franck’s
D-minor, and Stransky’s temp’rament is em’nently suited to its
diatonic sentimentalities. . . . You’d better come along, old man.
Soothin’ to the nerves and all that.”
“Not me!” grumbled Markham. “What I need is a brandy-and-soda.”
He walked down with us to the taxicab.
“Come at nine to-morrow,” said Vance, as we took our seats. “Let the
office wait a bit. And don’t forget to ’phone Heath for those alibis.”
Then, just as we started off, he leaned out of the car.
“And I say, Markham: how tall would you say Mrs. Platz is?”