him ask for me at the Stuyvesant Club. I’ll be there in the afternoon.”
When Springer had gone, Markham again rang for his secretary and gave instructions that the moment Miss St. Clair arrived she was to be shown in.
“Sergeant Heath is here,” Swacker informed him, “and wants to see you if you’re not too busy.”
Markham glanced at the clock over the door. “I guess I’ll have time. Send him in.”
Heath was surprised to see Vance and me in the district attorney’s office, but after greeting Markham with the customary handshake, he turned to Vance with a good-natured smile.
“Still acquiring knowledge, Mr. Vance?”
“Can’t say that I am, Sergeant,” returned Vance lightly. “But I’m learning a number of most int’restin’ errors.… How goes the sleuthin’?”
Heath’s face became suddenly serious.
“That’s what I’m here to tell the chief about.” He addressed himself to Markham. “This case is a jawbreaker, sir. My men and myself have talked to a dozen of Benson’s cronies, and we can’t worm a single fact of any value out of ’em. They either don’t know anything or they’re giving a swell imitation of a lot of clams. They all appear to be greatly shocked—bowled over, floored, flabbergasted—by the news of the shooting. And have they got any idea as to why or how it happened? They’ll tell the world they haven’t. You know the line of talk: Who’d want to shoot good old Al? Nobody could’ve done it but a burglar who didn’t know good old Al. If he’d known good old Al, even the burglar wouldn’t have done it.… Hell! I felt like killing off a few of those birds myself so they could go and join their good old Al.”
“Any news of the car?” asked Markham.
Heath grunted his disgust. “Not a word. And that’s funny, too, seeing all the advertising it got. Those fishing rods are the only thing we’ve got.… The inspector, by the way, sent me the postmortem report this morning; but it didn’t tell us anything we didn’t know. Translated into human language, it said Benson died from a shot in the head, with all his organs sound. It’s a wonder, though, they didn’t discover that he’d been poisoned with a Mexican bean or bit by an African snake, or something, so’s to make the case a little more intrikkit than it already is.”
“Cheer up, Sergeant,” Markham exhorted him. “I’ve had a little better luck. Tracy ran down the owner of the handbag and found out she’d been to dinner with Benson that night. He and Phelps also learned a few other supplementary facts that fit in well; and I’m expecting the lady here at any minute. I’m going to find out what she has to say for herself.”
An expression of resentment came into Heath’s eyes as the district attorney was speaking, but he erased it at once and began asking questions. Markham gave him every detail and also informed him of Leander Pfyfe.
“I’ll let you know immediately how the interview comes out,” he concluded.
As the door closed on Heath, Vance looked up at Markham with a sly smile.
“Not exactly one of Nietzsche’s Übermenschen—eh, what? I fear the subtleties of this complex world bemuse him a bit, y’ know.… And he’s so disappointin’. I felt pos’tively elated when the bustling lad with the thick glasses announced his presence. I thought surely he wanted to tell you he had jailed at least six of Benson’s murderers.”
“Your hopes run too high, I fear,” commented Markham.
“And yet, that’s the usual procedure—if the headlines in our great moral dailies are to be credited. I always thought that the moment a crime was committed the police began arresting people promiscuously—to maintain the excitement, don’t y’ know. Another illusion gone!… Sad, sad,” he murmured. “I sha’n’t forgive our Heath; he has betrayed my faith in him.”
At this point Markham’s secretary came to the door and announced the arrival of Miss St. Clair.
I think we were all taken a little aback at the spectacle presented by this young woman as she came slowly into the room with a firm graceful step, and with her head held slightly to one side in an attitude of supercilious inquiry. She was small and strikingly pretty, although “pretty” is not exactly the word with which to describe her. She possessed that faintly exotic beauty that we find in the portraits of the Carracci, who sweetened the severity of Leonardo and made it at once intimate and decadent. Her eyes were dark and widely spaced; her nose was delicate and straight, and her forehead broad. Her full sensuous lips were almost sculpturesque in their linear precision, and her mouth wore an enigmatic smile, or hint of a smile. Her rounded, firm chin was a bit heavy when examined apart from the other features, but not in the ensemble. There was poise and a certain strength of character in her bearing; but one sensed the potentialities of powerful emotions beneath her exterior calm. Her clothes harmonized with her personality; they were quiet and apparently in the conventional style, but a touch of color and originality here and there conferred on them a fascinating distinction.
Markham rose and bowing, with formal courtesy, indicated a comfortable upholstered chair directly in front of his desk. With a barely perceptible nod, she glanced at the chair and then seated herself in a straight armless chair standing next to it.
“You won’t mind, I’m sure,” she said, “if I choose my own chair for the inquisition.”
Her voice was low and resonant—the speaking voice of the highly trained singer. She smiled as she spoke, but it was not a cordial smile; it was cold and distant, yet somehow indicative of levity.
“Miss St. Clair,” began Markham, in a tone of polite severity, “the murder of Mr. Alvin Benson has intimately involved yourself. Before taking any definite steps, I have invited you here to ask you a few questions. I can, therefore, advise you quite honestly that frankness will best serve your interests.”
He paused, and the woman looked at him with an ironically questioning gaze. “Am I supposed to thank you for your generous advice?”
Markham’s scowl deepened as he glanced down at a typewritten page on his desk.
“You are probably aware that your gloves and handbag were found in Mr. Benson’s house the morning after he was shot.”
“I can understand how you might have traced the handbag to me,” she said; “but how did you arrive at the conclusion that the gloves were mine?”
Markham looked up sharply. “Do you mean to say the gloves are not yours?”
“Oh, no.” She gave him another wintry smile. “I merely wondered how you knew they belonged to me, since you couldn’t have known either my taste in gloves or the size I wore.”
“They’re your gloves, then?”
“If they are Tréfousse, size five-and-three-quarters, of white kid and elbow length, they are certainly mine. And I’d so like to have them back, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m sorry,” said Markham, “but it is necessary that I keep them for the present.”
She dismissed the matter with a slight shrug of the shoulders. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked.
Markham instantly opened a drawer of his desk and took out a box of Benson and Hedges cigarettes.
