and respected each other. Their frankness—severe and even mordant at times—was, indeed, a result of that respect.
There was a moment’s silence; then Markham forced a smile. “You fill me with misgivings,” he averred mockingly; but, despite the lightness of his tone, I felt that he was half in earnest. “However, I hadn’t exactly planned to arrest the lady just yet.”
“You reveal commendable restraint,” Vance complimented him. “But I’m sure you’ve already arranged to ballyrag the lady and perhaps trick her into one or two of those contradictions so dear to every lawyer’s heart—just as if any nervous or high-strung person could help indulging in apparent contradictions while being cross-questioned as a suspect in a crime they had nothing to do with.… To ‘put ’em on the grill’—a most accurate designation. So reminiscent of burning people at the stake, what?”
“Well, I’m most certainly going to question her,” replied Markham firmly, glancing at his watch. “And one of my men is escorting her to the office in half an hour; so I must break up this most delightful and edifying chat.”
“You really expect to learn something incriminating by interrogating her?” asked Vance. “Y’ know, I’d jolly well like to witness your humiliation. But I presume your heckling of suspects is a part of the legal arcana.”
Markham had risen and turned toward the door, but at Vance’s words he paused and appeared to deliberate. “I can’t see any particular objection to your being present,” he said, “if you really care to come.”
I think he had an idea that the humiliation of which the other had spoken would prove to be Vance’s own; and soon we were in a taxicab headed for the Criminal Courts Building.
CHAPTER 7
REPORTS AND AN INTERVIEW
(Saturday, June 15; 3 P.M.)
We entered the ancient building, with its discolored marble pillars and balustrades and its old-fashioned iron scrollwork, by the Franklin Street door and went directly to the district attorney’s office on the fourth floor. The office, like the building, breathed an air of former days. Its high ceilings, its massive golden-oak woodwork, its elaborate low-hung chandelier of bronze and china, its dingy bay walls of painted plaster, and its four high narrow windows to the south—all bespoke a departed era in architecture and decoration.
On the floor was a large velvet carpet-rug of dingy brown; and the windows were hung with velour draperies of the same color. Several large, comfortable chairs stood about the walls and before the long oak table in front of the district attorney’s desk. This desk, directly under the windows and facing the room, was broad and flat, with carved uprights and two rows of drawers extending to the floor. To the right of the high-backed swivel desk-chair, was another table of carved oak. There were also several filing cabinets in the room and a large safe. In the center of the east wall a leather-covered door, decorated with large brass nailheads, led into a long narrow room, between the office and the waiting room, where the district attorney’s secretary and several clerks had their desks. Opposite to this door was another one opening into the district attorney’s inner sanctum; and still another door, facing the windows, gave on the main corridor.
Vance glanced over the room casually.
“So this is the matrix of municipal justice—eh, what?” He walked to one of the windows and looked out upon the gray circular tower of the Tombs opposite. “And there, I take it, are the oubliettes where the victims of our law are incarc’rated so as to reduce the competition of criminal activity among the remaining citizenry. A most distressin’ sight, Markham.”
The district attorney had sat down at his desk and was glancing at several notations on his blotter.
“There are a couple of my men waiting to see me,” he remarked, without looking up; “so, if you’ll be good enough to take a chair over here, I’ll proceed with my humble efforts to undermine society still further.”
He pressed a button under the edge of his desk, and an alert young man with thick-lensed glasses appeared at the door.
“Swacker, tell Phelps to come in,” Markham ordered. “And also tell Springer, if he’s back from lunch, that I want to see him in a few minutes.”
The secretary disappeared, and a moment later a tall, hawk-faced man, with stoop shoulders and an awkward, angular gait, entered.
“What news?” asked Markham.
“Well, Chief,” the detective replied in a low, grating voice, “I just found out something I thought you could use right away. After I reported this noon, I ambled around to this Captain Leacock’s house, thinking I might learn something from the houseboys, and ran into the captain coming out. I tailed along; and he went straight up to the lady’s house on the Drive and stayed there over an hour. Then he went back home, looking worried.”
Markham considered a moment.
“It may mean nothing at all, but I’m glad to know it anyway. St. Clair’ll be here in a few minutes, and I’ll find out what she has to say. There’s nothing else for today.… Tell Swacker to send Tracy in.”
Tracy was the antithesis of Phelps. He was short, a trifle stout, and exuded an atmosphere of studied suavity. His face was rotund and genial; he wore a pince nez; and his clothes were modish and fitted him well.
“Good-morning, Chief.” He greeted Markham in a quiet, ingratiating tone. “I understand the St. Clair woman is to call here this afternoon, and there are a few things I’ve found out that may assist in your questioning.”
He opened a small notebook and adjusted his pince nez.
“I thought I might learn something from her singing teacher, an Italian formerly connected with the Metropolitan but now running a sort of choral society of his own. He trains aspiring prima donnas in their roles with a chorus and settings, and Miss St. Clair is one of his pet students. He talked to me without any trouble; and it seems he knew Benson well. Benson attended several of St. Clair’s rehearsals and sometimes called for her in a taxicab. Rinaldo—that’s the man’s name—thinks he had a bad crush on the girl. Last winter when she sang at the Criterion in a small part, Rinaldo was back stage coaching, and Benson sent her enough hothouse flowers to fill the star’s dressing room and have some left over. I tried to find out if Benson was playing ‘angel’ for her, but Rinaldo either didn’t know or pretended he didn’t.” Tracy closed his notebook and looked up. “That any good to you Chief?”
“First-rate,” Markham told him. “Keep at work along that line and let me hear from you again about this time Monday.”
Tracy bowed, and as he went out the secretary again appeared at the door. “Springer’s here now, sir,” he said. “Shall I send him in?”
Springer proved to be a type of detective quite different from either Phelps or Tracy. He was older, and had the gloomy capable air of a hardworking bookkeeper in a bank. There was no initiative in his bearing, but one felt that he could discharge a delicate task with extreme competency.
Markham took from his pocket the envelope on which he had noted the name given him by Major Benson.
“Springer, there’s a man down on Long Island that I want to interview as soon as possible. It’s in connection with the Benson case, and I wish you’d locate him and get him up here as soon as possible. If you can find him in the telephone book, you needn’t go down
