of Madison Square.
“Now, Markham,” said Vance, “give over all prejudices, and consider the situation judiciously—as you lawyers euphemistically put it.… To begin with, we now know why Mrs. Platz was so worried at your question regarding firearms and why she was upset by my ref’rence to her personal int’rest in Benson’s tea companion. So, those two mysteries are elim’nated.…”
“How did you find out about her relation to the girl?” interjected Markham.
“’Twas my ogling did it.” Vance gave him a reproving look. “You recall that I ‘ogled’ the young lady at our first meeting—but I forgive you.… And you remember our little discussion about cranial idiosyncrasies? Miss Hoffman, I noticed at once, possessed all the physical formations of Benson’s housekeeper. She was brachycephalic; she had overarticulated cheekbones, an orthognathous jaw, a low, flat parietal structure, and a mesorrhinian nose.… Then I looked for her ear, for I had noted that Mrs. Platz had the pointed, lobeless, ‘satyr’ ear—sometimes called the Darwin ear. These ears run in families; and when I saw that Miss Hoffman’s were of the same type, even though modified, I was fairly certain of the relationship. But there were other similarities—in pigment, for instance, and in height—both are tall, y’ know. And the central masses of each were very large in comparison with the peripheral masses; the shoulders were narrow and the wrists and ankles small, while the hips were bulky.… That Hoffman was Platz’s maiden name was only a guess. But it didn’t matter.”
Vance adjusted himself more comfortably in his chair.
“Now for your judicial considerations.… First, let us assume that at a little before half past twelve on the night of the thirteenth the villain came to Benson’s house, saw the light in the living room, tapped on the window, and was instantly admitted.… What, would you say, do these assumptions indicate regarding the visitor?”
“Merely that Benson was acquainted with him,” returned Markham. “But that doesn’t help us any. We can’t extend the sus. per coll. to everybody the man knew.”
“The indications go much further than that, old chap,” Vance retorted. “They show unmistakably that Benson’s murderer was a most intimate crony, or, at least, a person before whom he didn’t care how he looked. The absence of the toupee, as I once suggested to you, was a prime essential of the situation. A toupee, don’t y’ know, is the sartorial sine qua non of every middle-aged Beau Brummel afflicted with baldness. You heard Mrs. Platz on the subject. Do you think for a second that Benson, who hid his hirsute deficiency even from the grocer’s boy, would visit with a mere acquaintance thus bereft of his crowning glory? And besides being thus denuded, he was without his full complement of teeth. Moreover, he was without collar or tie, and attired in an old smoking jacket and bedroom slippers! Picture the spectacle, my dear fellow.… A man does not look fascinatin’ without his collar and with his shirtband and gold stud exposed. Thus attired, he is the equiv’lent of a lady in curl papers.… How many men do you think Benson knew with whom he would have sat down to a tête-à-tête in this undress condition?”
“Three or four, perhaps,” answered Markham. “But I can’t arrest them all.”
“I’m sure you would if you could. But it won’t be necess’ry.”
Vance selected another cigarette from his case and went on. “There are other helpful indications, y’ know. For instance, the murderer was fairly well acquainted with Benson’s domestic arrangements. He must have known that the housekeeper slept a good distance from the living room and would not be startled by the shot if her door was closed as usual. Also, he must have known there was no one else in the house at that hour. And another thing: don’t forget that his voice was perfectly familiar to Benson. If there had been the slightest doubt about it, Benson would not have let him in, in view of his natural fear of housebreakers and with the captain’s threat hanging over him.”
“That’s a tenable hypothesis.… What else?”
“The jewels, Markham—those orators of love. Have you thought of them? They were on the center table when Benson came home that night; and they were gone in the morning. Wherefore, it seems inev’table that the murderer took ’em—eh, what?… And may they not have been one reason for the murderer’s coming there that night? If so, who of Benson’s most intimate personae gratae knew of their presence in the house? And who wanted ’em particularly?”
“Exactly, Vance.” Markham nodded his head slowly. “You’ve hit it. I’ve had an uneasy feeling about Pfyfe right along. I was on the point of ordering his arrest today when Heath brought word of Leacock’s confession; and then, when that blew up, my suspicions reverted to him. I said nothing this afternoon because I wanted to see where your ideas had led you. What you’ve been saying checks up perfectly with my own notions. Pfyfe’s our man—”
He brought the front legs of his chair down suddenly.
“And now, damn it, you’ve let him get away from us!”
“Don’t fret, old dear,” said Vance. “He’s safe with Mrs. Pfyfe, I fancy. And anyhow, your friend, Mr. Ben Hanlon, is well versed in retrieving fugitives.… Let the harassed Leander alone for the moment. You don’t need him tonight—and tomorrow you won’t want him.”
Markham wheeled about.
“What’s that! I won’t want him? And why, pray?”
“Well,” Vance explained indolently, “he hasn’t a congenial and lovable nature, has he? And he’s not exactly an object of blindin’ beauty. I shouldn’t want him around me more than was necess’ry, don’t y’ know.… Incidentally, he’s not guilty.”
Markham was too nonplussed to be exasperated. He regarded Vance searchingly for a full minute.
“I don’t follow you,” he said. “If you think Pfyfe’s innocent, who, in God’s name, do you think is guilty?”
Vance glanced at his watch.
“Come to my house tomorrow for breakfast and bring those alibis you asked Heath for; and I’ll tell you who shot Benson.”
Something in his tone impressed Markham. He realized that Vance would not have made so specific a promise unless he was confident of his ability to keep it. He knew Vance too well to ignore, or even minimize, his statement.
“Why not tell me now?” he asked.
“Awf’lly sorry, y’ know,” apologized Vance; “but I’m going to the Philharmonic’s ‘special’ tonight. They’re playing César Franck’s D-Minor, and Stransky’s temp’rament is em’nently suited to its diatonic sentimentalities.… You’d better come along, old man. Soothin’ to the nerves and all that.”
“Not me!” grumbled Markham. “What I need is a brandy-and-soda”
He walked down with us to the taxicab.
“Come at nine tomorrow,” said Vance, as we took our seats. “Let the office wait a bit. And don’t forget to phone Heath for those alibis.”
Then, just as we started off, he leaned out of the car. “And I say, Markham: how tall would you say Mrs. Platz is?”
CHAPTER 22
VANCE OUTLINES A THEORY
(Thursday, June 20, 9 A.M.)
Markham
