a little more?”
Pfyfe passed his hand gracefully over the tips of his golden moustache and then permitted his index-finger to linger on his cheek in an attitude of meditative indecision.
“Your request, Mr. Markham,”—he spoke with pained reluctance—“brings up a matter which I hesitate to discuss. But perhaps it is best that I confide in you—as one gentleman to another. Alvin, in common with many other admirable fellows, had a—what shall I say?—a weakness let me put it that way—for the fair sex.”
He looked at Markham, seeking approbation for his extreme tact in stating an indelicate truth.
“You understand,” he continued, in answer to the other’s sympathetic nod, “Alvin was not a man who possessed the personal characteristics that women hold attractive. (I somehow got the impression that Pfyfe considered himself as differing radically from Benson in this respect.) Alvin was aware of his physical deficiency, and the result was—I trust you will understand my hesitancy in mentioning this distressing fact—but the result was that Alvin used certain—ah—methods in his dealings with women, which you and I could never bring ourselves to adopt. Indeed—though it pains me to say it—he often took unfair advantage of women. He used underhand methods, as it were.”
He paused, apparently shocked by this heinous imperfection of his friend and by the necessity of his own seemingly disloyal revelation.
“Was it one of these women whom Benson had dealt with unfairly that you had in mind?” asked Markham.
“No—not the woman herself,” Pfyfe replied; “but a man who was interested in her. In fact, this man threatened Alvin’s life. You will appreciate my reluctance in telling you this; but my excuse is that the threat was made quite openly. There were several others besides myself who heard it.”
“That, of course, relieves you from any technical breach of confidence,” Markham observed.
Pfyfe acknowledged the other’s understanding with a slight bow.
“It happened at a little party of which I was the unfortunate host,” he confessed modestly.
“Who was the man?” Markham’s tone was polite but firm.
“You will comprehend my reticence.…” Pfyfe began. Then, with an air of righteous frankness, he leaned forward. “It might prove unfair to Alvin to withhold the gentleman’s name.… He was Captain Philip Leacock.”
He allowed himself the emotional outlet of a sigh.
“I trust you won’t ask me for the lady’s name.”
“It won’t be necessary,” Markham assured him. “But I’d appreciate your telling us a little more of the episode.”
Pfyfe complied with an expression of patient resignation.
“Alvin was considerably taken with the lady in question and showed her many attentions which were, I am forced to admit, unwelcome. Captain Leacock resented these attentions; and at the little affair to which I had invited him and Alvin some unpleasant and, I must say, unrefined words passed between them. I fear the wine had been flowing too freely, for Alvin was always punctilious—he was a man, indeed, skilled in the niceties of social intercourse; and the captain, in an outburst of temper, told Alvin that, unless he left the lady strictly alone in the future, he would pay with his life. The captain even went so far as to draw a revolver halfway out of his pocket.”
“Was it a revolver or an automatic pistol?” asked Heath.
Pfyfe gave the district attorney a faint smile of annoyance, without deigning even to glance at the sergeant.
“I misspoke myself; forgive me. It was not a revolver. It was, I believe, an automatic army pistol—though, you understand, I didn’t see it in its entirety.”
“You say there were others who witnessed the altercation?”
“Several of my guests were standing about,” Pfyfe explained; “but, on my word, I couldn’t name them. The fact is, I attached little importance to the threat—indeed, it had entirely slipped my memory until I read the account of poor Alvin’s death. Then I thought at once of the unfortunate incident and said to myself: Why not tell the district attorney…?”
“Thoughts that breathe and words that burn,” murmured Vance, who had been sitting through the interview in oppressive boredom.
Pfyfe once more adjusted his eyeglass and gave Vance a withering look.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
Vance smiled disarmingly. “Merely a quotation from Gray. Poetry appeals to me in certain moods, don’t y’ know.… Do you, by any chance, know Colonel Ostrander?”
Pfyfe looked at him coldly, but only a vacuous countenance met his gaze. “I am acquainted with the gentleman,” he replied haughtily.
“Was Colonel Ostrander present at this delightful little social affair of yours?” Vance’s tone was artlessly innocent.
“Now that you mention it, I believe he was,” admitted Pfyfe, and lifted his eyebrows inquisitively.
But Vance was again staring disinterestedly out of the window.
Markham, annoyed at the interruption, attempted to reestablish the conversation on a more amiable and practical basis. But Pfyfe, though loquacious, had little more information to give. He insisted constantly on bringing the talk back to Captain Leacock, and, despite his eloquent protestations, it was obvious he attached more importance to the threat than he chose to admit. Markham questioned him for fully an hour but could learn nothing else of a suggestive nature.
When Pfyfe rose to go, Vance turned from his contemplation of the outside world and, bowing affably, let his eyes rest on the other with ingenuous good nature.
“Now that you are in New York, Mr. Pfyfe, and were so unfortunate as to be unable to arrive earlier, I assume that you will remain until after the investigation.”
Pfyfe’s studied and habitual calm gave way to a look of oily astonishment. “I hadn’t contemplated doing so.”
“It would be most desirable if you could arrange it,” urged Markham; though I am sure he had no intention of making the request until Vance suggested it.
Pfyfe hesitated and then made an elegant gesture of resignation. “Certainly I shall remain. When you have further need of my services, you will find me at the Ansonia.”
He spoke with exalted condescension and magnanimously conferred upon Markham a parting smile. But the smile did not spring from within. It appeared to have been adjusted upon his features by the unseen hands of a sculptor; and it affected only the muscles about his mouth.
When he had gone, Vance gave Markham a look of suppressed mirth.
“‘Elegancy, facility, and golden cadence.’… But put not your faith in poesy, old dear. Our Ciceronian friend is an unmitigated fashioner of deceptions.”
“If you’re trying to say that he’s a smooth liar,” remarked Heath, “I don’t agree with you. I think that story about the captain’s threat is straight goods.”
“Oh,
