Street and walked up West End Avenue to Mrs. Paula Banning’s address. She lived in a small apartment house just around the corner in Seventy-fifth Street. As we stood before her door, waiting for an answer to our ring, a strong odor of Chinese incense drifted out to us.
“Ah! That facilitates matters,” said Vance, sniffing. “Ladies who burn joss sticks are invariably sentimental.”
Mrs. Banning was a tall, slightly adipose woman of indeterminate age, with straw-colored hair and a pink-and-white complexion. Her face in repose possessed a youthful and vacuous innocence; but the expression was only superficial. Her eyes, a very light blue, were hard; and a slight puffiness about her cheekbones and beneath her chin attested to years of idle and indulgent living. She was not unattractive, however, in a vivid, flamboyant way; and her manner, when she ushered us into her overfurnished and rococo living room, was one of easygoing good-fellowship.
When we were seated and Markham had apologized for our intrusion, Vance at once assumed the role of interviewer. During his opening explanatory remarks he appraised the woman carefully, as if seeking to determine the best means of approaching her for the information he wanted.
After a few minutes of verbal reconnoitering, he asked permission to smoke and offered Mrs. Banning one of his cigarettes, which she accepted. Then he smiled at her in a spirit of appreciative geniality and relaxed comfortably in his chair. He conveyed the impression that he was fully prepared to sympathize with anything she might tell him.
“Mr. Pfyfe strove very hard to keep you entirely out of this affair,” said Vance; “and we fully appreciate his delicacy in so doing. But certain circumst’nces connected with Mr. Benson’s death have inadvertently involved you in the case; and you can best help us and yourself—and particularly Mr. Pfyfe—by telling us what we want to know and trusting to our discretion and understanding.”
He had emphasized Pfyfe’s name, giving it a significant intonation; and the woman had glanced down uneasily. Her apprehension was apparent, and when she looked up into Vance’s eyes, she was asking herself: How much does he know? as plainly as if she had spoken the words audibly.
“I can’t imagine what you want me to tell you,” she said, with an effort at astonishment. “You know that Andy was not in New York that night.” (Her designating of the elegant and superior Pfyfe as “Andy” sounded almost like lèse-majesté.) “He didn’t arrive in the city until nearly nine the next morning.”
“Didn’t you read in the newspapers about the gray Cadillac that was parked in front of Benson’s house?” Vance, in putting the question, imitated her own astonishment.
She smiled confidently. “That wasn’t Andy’s car. He took the eight o’clock train to New York the next morning. He said it was lucky that he did, seeing that a machine just like his had been at Mr. Benson’s the night before.”
She had spoken with the sincerity of complete assurance. It was evident that Pfyfe had lied to her on this point.
Vance did not disabuse her; in fact, he gave her to understand that he accepted her explanation and consequently dismissed the idea of Pfyfe’s presence in New York on the night of the murder.
“I had in mind a connection of a somewhat diff’rent nature when I mentioned you and Mr. Pfyfe as having been drawn into the case. I referred to a personal relationship between you and Mr. Benson.”
She assumed an attitude of smiling indifference.
“I’m afraid you’ve m’ade another mistake.” She spoke lightly. “Mr. Benson and I were not even friends. Indeed, I scarcely knew him.”
There was an overtone of emphasis in her denial—a slight eagerness which, in indicating a conscious desire to be believed, robbed her remark of the complete casualness she had intended.
“Even a business relationship may have its personal side,” Vance reminded her; “especially when the intermediary is an intimate friend of both parties to the transaction.”
She looked at him quickly, then turned her eyes away. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she affirmed; and her face for a moment lost its contours of innocence and became calculating. “You’re surely not implying that I had any business dealings with Mr. Benson?”
“Not directly,” replied Vance. “But certainly Mr. Pfyfe had business dealings with him; and one of them, I rather imagined, involved you consid’rably.”
“Involved me?” She laughed scornfully, but it was a strained laugh.
“It was a somewhat unfortunate transaction, I fear,” Vance went on, “—unfortunate in that Mr. Pfyfe was necessitated to deal with Mr. Benson; and doubly unfortunate, y’ know, in that he should have had to drag you into it.”
His manner was easy and assured, and the woman sensed that no display of scorn or contempt, however well simulated, would make an impression upon him. Therefore, she adopted an attitude of tolerantly incredulous amusement.
“And where did you learn about all this?” she asked playfully.
“Alas! I didn’t learn about it,” answered Vance, falling in with her manner. “That’s the reason, d’ ye see, that I indulged in this charming little visit. I was foolish enough to hope that you’d take pity on my ignorance and tell me all about it.”
“But I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing,” she said, “even if this mysterious transaction had really taken place.”
“My word!” sighed Vance. “That is disappointin’.… Ah, well. I see that I must tell you what little I know about it and trust to your sympathy to enlighten me further.”
Despite the ominous undercurrent of his words, his levity acted like a sedative to her anxiety. She felt that he was friendly, however much he might know about her.
“Am I bringing you news when I tell you that Mr. Pfyfe forged Mr. Benson’s name to a check for ten thousand dollars?” he asked.
She hesitated, gauging the possible consequences of her answer. “No, that isn’t news. Andy tells me everything.”
“And did you also know that Mr. Benson, when informed of it, was rather put out?—that, in fact, he demanded a note and a signed confession before he would pay the check?”
The woman’s eyes flashed angrily.
“Yes, I knew that too. And after all Andy had done for him! If ever a man deserved shooting, it was Alvin Benson. He was a dog. And he pretended to be Andy’s best friend. Just think of it—refusing to lend Andy the money without a confession!… You’d hardly call that a business deal, would you? I’d call it a dirty, contemptible, underhand trick.”
She was enraged. Her mask of breeding and good-fellowship had fallen from her; and she poured out vituperation on Benson with no thought of the words she was using. Her speech was devoid of all the ordinary reticencies of intercourse between strangers.
Vance nodded consolingly during her tirade.
“Y’ know, I sympathize fully with you.” The tone in which he made the remark seemed to establish a closer rapprochement.
After a moment he gave her a friendly smile. “But, after all, one could almost forgive Benson for holding the confession, if he hadn’t also demanded
