a unique and distinctive livery in which to play it. They concentrate for twenty years on the correct angulation of their feet and the proper method of entwining their fingers about the stick. Moreover, in order to discuss the pseudointr’cacies of this idiotic sport, they’ve invented an outlandish vocabulary which is unintelligible even to an English scholar.”
He pointed disgustedly at a pile of Sunday newspapers.
“Then here’s this Benson murder—a simple and incons’quential affair. Yet the entire machinery of the law is going at high pressure and blowing off jets of steam all over the community, when the matter could be settled quietly in five minutes with a bit of intelligent thinking.”
At lunch, however, he did not refer to the crime; and, as if by tacit agreement, the subject was avoided. Markham had merely mentioned casually to us as we went into the dining room that he was expecting Heath a little later.
The sergeant was waiting for us when we retired to the lounge room for our smoke, and by his expression it was evident he was not pleased with the way things were going.
“I told you, Mr. Markham,” he said, when he had drawn up our chairs, “that this case was going to be a tough one.… Could you get any kind of a lead from the St. Clair woman?”
Markham shook his head.
“She’s out of it.” And he recounted briefly the happenings at Benson’s house the preceding afternoon.
“Well, if you’re satisfied,” was Heath’s somewhat dubious comment, “that’s good enough for me. But what about this Captain Leacock?”
“That’s what I asked you here to talk about,” Markham told him. “There’s no direct evidence against him, but there are several suspicious circumstances that tend to connect him with the murder. He seems to meet the specifications as to height; and we mustn’t overlook the fact that Benson was shot with just such a gun as Leacock would be likely to possess. He was engaged to the girl, and a motive might be found in Benson’s attentions to her.”
“And ever since the big scrap,” supplemented Heath, “these Army boys don’t think anything of shooting people. They got used to blood on the other side.”
“The only hitch,” resumed Markham, “is that Phelps, who had the job of checking up on the captain, reported to me that he was home that night from eight o’clock on. Of course, there may be a loophole somewhere, and I was going to suggest that you have one of your men go into the matter thoroughly and see just what the situation is. Phelps got his information from one of the hallboys; and I think it might be well to get hold of the boy again and apply a little pressure. If it was found that Leacock was not at home at twelve-thirty that night, we might have the lead you’ve been looking for.”
“I’ll attend to it myself,” said Heath. “I’ll go round there tonight, and if this boy knows anything, he’ll spill it before I’m through with him.”
We had talked but a few minutes longer when a uniformed attendant bowed deferentially at the district attorney’s elbow and announced that Mr. Pfyfe was calling.
Markham requested that his visitor be shown into the lounge room, and then added to Heath, “You’d better remain, and hear what he has to say.”
Leander Pfyfe was an immaculate and exquisite personage. He approached us with a mincing gate of self-approbation. His legs, which were very long and thin, with knees that seemed to bend slightly inward, supported a short bulging torso; and his chest curved outward in a generous arc, like that of a pouter pigeon. His face was rotund, and his jowls hung in two loops over a collar too tight for comfort. His blond sparse hair was brushed back sleekly; and the ends of his narrow, silken moustache were waxed into needlepoints. He was dressed in light gray summer flannels and wore a pale turquoise-green silk shirt, a vivid foulard tie, and gray suede Oxfords. A strong odor of oriental perfume was given off by the carefully arranged batiste handkerchief in his breast pocket.
He greeted Markham with viscid urbanity and acknowledged his introduction to us with a patronizing bow. After posing himself in a chair the attendant placed for him, he began polishing a gold-rimmed eyeglass which he wore on a ribbon, and fixed Markham with a melancholy gaze.
“A very sad occasion, this,” he sighed.
“Realizing your friendship for Mr. Benson,” said Markham, “I deplore the necessity of appealing to you at this time. It was very good of you, by the way, to come to the city today.”
Pfyfe made a mildly deprecating movement with his carefully manicured fingers. He was, he explained with an air of ineffable self-complacency, only too glad to discommode himself to give aid to servants of the public. A distressing necessity, to be sure; but his manner conveyed unmistakably that he knew and recognized the obligations attaching to the dictum of noblesse oblige and was prepared to meet them.
He looked at Markham with a self-congratulatory air, and his eyebrows queried: “What can I do for you?” though his lips did not move.
“I understand from Major Anthony Benson,” Markham said, “that you were very close to his brother and therefore might be able to tell us something of his personal affairs, or private social relationships, that would indicate a line of investigation.”
Pfyfe gazed sadly at the floor. “Ah, yes. Alvin and I were very close—we were, in fact, the most intimate of friends. You can not imagine how broken up I was at hearing of the dear fellow’s tragic end.” He gave the impression that here was a modern instance of Aeneas and Achates. “And I was deeply grieved at not being able to come at once to New York to put myself at the service of those that needed me.”
“I’m sure it would have been a comfort to his other friends,” remarked Vance, with cool politeness. “But in the circumst’nces you will be forgiven.”
Pfyfe blinked regretfully. “Ah, but I shall never forgive myself—though I cannot hold myself altogether blameworthy. Only the day before the tragedy I had started on a trip to the Catskills. I had even asked dear Alvin to go along; but he was too busy.” Pfyfe shook his head as if lamenting the incomprehensible irony of life. “How much better—ah, how infinitely much better—if only—”
“You were gone a very short time,” commented Markham, interrupting what promised to be a homily on perverse providence.
“True,” Pfyfe indulgently admitted. “But I met with a most unfortunate accident.” He polished his eyeglass a moment. “My car broke down, and I was necessitated to return.”
“What road did you take?” asked Heath.
Pfyfe delicately adjusted his eyeglass and regarded the sergeant with an intimation of boredom.
“My advice, Mr.—ah—Sneed—”
“Heath,” the other corrected him surlily.
“Ah, yes—Heath.… My advice, Mr. Heath, is that if you are contemplating a motor trip to the Catskills, you apply to the Automobile Club of America for a roadmap. My choice of itinerary might very possibly not suit you.”
He turned back to the district attorney with an air that implied he preferred talking to an equal.
“Tell me, Mr. Pfyfe,” Markham asked; “did Mr. Benson have any enemies?”
The other appeared to think the matter over. “No-o.
