my dearest friend foully murdered? How could one have the heart to seek diversion at such a sad moment?… I returned home and informed Mrs. Pfyfe that my car had broken down.”
“You might have driven home in your car, it seems to me,” observed Markham.
Pfyfe offered a look of infinite forbearance for the other’s inspection and took a deep sigh, which conveyed the impression that, though he could not sharpen the world’s perceptions, he at least could mourn for its deplorable lack of understanding.
“If I had been in the Catskills away from any source of information, where Mrs. Pfyfe believed me to be, how would I have heard of Alvin’s death until, perhaps, days afterward? You see, unfortunately I had not mentioned to Mrs. Pfyfe that I was stopping over in New York. The truth is, Mr. Markham, I had reason for not wishing my wife to know I was in the city. Consequently, if I had driven back at once, she would, I regret to say, have suspected me of breaking my journey. I therefore pursued the course which seemed simplest.”
Markham was becoming annoyed at the man’s fluent hypocrisy. After a brief silence he asked abruptly, “Did the presence of your car at Benson’s house that night have anything to do with your apparent desire to implicate Captain Leacock in the affair?”
Pfyfe lifted his eyebrows in pained astonishment and made a gesture of polite protestation.
“My dear sir!” His voice betokened profound resentment of the other’s unjust imputation. “If yesterday you detected in my words an undercurrent of suspicion against Captain Leacock, I can account for it only by the fact that I actually saw the captain in front of Alvin’s house when I drove up that night.”
Markham shot a curious look at Vance, then said to Pfyfe, “You are sure you saw Leacock?”
“I saw him quite distinctly. And I would have mentioned the fact yesterday had it not involved the tacit confession of my own presence there.”
“What if it had?” demanded Markham. “It was vital information, and I could have used it this morning. You were placing your comfort ahead of the legal demands of justice; and your attitude puts a very questionable aspect on your own alleged conduct that night.”
“You are pleased to be severe, sir,” said Pfyfe with self-pity. “But having placed myself in a false position, I must accept your criticism.”
“Do you realize,” Markham went on, “that many a district attorney, if he knew what I know about your movements and had been treated the way you’ve treated me, would arrest you on suspicion?”
“Then I can only say,” was the suave response, “that I am most fortunate in my inquisitor.”
Markham rose.
“That will be all for today, Mr. Pfyfe. But you are to remain in New York until I give you permission to return home. Otherwise, I will have you held as a material witness.”
Pfyfe made a shocked gesture in deprecation of such acerbities and bade us a ceremonious good-afternoon.
When we were alone, Markham looked seriously at Vance. “Your prophecy was fulfilled, though I didn’t dare hope for such luck. Pfyfe’s evidence puts the final link in the chain against the captain.”
Vance smoked languidly.
“I’ll admit your theory of the crime is most satisfyin’. But alas! the psychological objection remains. Everything fits, with the one exception of the captain; and he doesn’t fit at all.… Silly idea, I know. But he has no more business being cast as the murderer of Benson than the bisonic Tetrazzini had being cast as the phthisical Mimi.”16
“In any other circumstances,” Markham answered, “I might defer reverently to your charming theories. But with all the circumstantial and presumptive evidence I have against Leacock, it strikes my inferior legal mind as sheer nonsense to say, ‘He just couldn’t be guilty because his hair is parted in the middle and he tucks his napkin in his collar.’ There’s too much logic against it.”
“I’ll grant your logic is irrefutable—as all logic is, no doubt. You’ve prob’bly convinced many innocent persons by sheer reasoning that they were guilty.”
Vance stretched himself wearily.
“What do you say to a light repast on the roof? The unutt’rable Pfyfe has tired me.”
In the summer dining room on the roof of the Stuyvesant Club we found Major Benson sitting alone, and Markham asked him to join us.
“I have good news for you, Major,” he said, when we had given our order. “I feel confident I have my man; everything points to him. Tomorrow will see the end, I hope.”
The major gave Markham a questioning frown.
“I don’t understand exactly. From what you told me the other day, I got the impression there was a woman involved.”
Markham smiled awkwardly and avoided Vance’s eyes. “A lot of water has run under the bridge since then,” he said. “The woman I had in mind was eliminated as soon as we began to check up on her. But in the process I was led to the man. There’s little doubt of his guilt. I felt pretty sure about it this morning, and just now I learned that he was seen by a credible witness in front of your brother’s house within a few minutes of the time the shot was fired.”
“Is there any objection to your telling me who it was?” The major was still frowning.
“None whatsoever. The whole city will probably know it tomorrow.… It was Captain Leacock.”
Major Benson stared at him in unbelief. “Impossible! I simply can’t credit it. That boy was with me three years on the other side, and I got to know him pretty well. I can’t help feeling there’s a mistake somewhere.… The police,” he added quickly, “have got on the wrong track.”
“It’s not the police,” Markham informed him. “It was my own investigations that turned up the captain.”
The major did not answer, but his silence bespoke his doubt.
“Y’ know,” put in Vance, “I feel the same way about the captain that you do, Major. It rather pleases me to have my impressions verified by one who has known him so long.”
“What, then, was Leacock doing in front of the house that night?” urged Markham acidulously.
“He might have been singing carols beneath Benson’s window,” suggested Vance.
Before Markham could reply, he was handed a card by the headwaiter. When he glanced at it, he gave a grunt of satisfaction and directed that the caller be sent up immediately. Then, turning back to us, he said, “We may learn something more now. I’ve been expecting this man Higginbotham. He’s the detective that followed Leacock from my office this morning.”
Higginbotham was a wiry, pale-faced youth with fishy eyes and a shifty manner. He slouched up to the table and stood hesitantly before the district attorney.
“Sit down and report, Higginbotham,” Markham ordered. “These gentlemen are working with me on the case.”
“I picked
