Captain.) “I had the same idea myself. But certain evidential facts have eliminated her as a suspect.”
“You’ve undoubtedly satisfied yourself on the point,” returned the Major; but his tone was dubious. “However, I can’t see Leacock as Alvin’s murderer.”
He paused, and laid a hand on the District Attorney’s arm.
“I don’t want to appear presumptuous, or unappreciative of all you’ve done; but I really wish you’d wait a bit before clapping that boy into prison. The most careful and conscientious of us are liable to error: even facts sometimes lie damnably; and I can’t help believing that the facts in this instance have deceived you.”
It was plain that Markham was touched by this request of his old friend; but his instinctive fidelity to duty helped him to resist the other’s appeal.
“I must act according to my convictions, Major,” he said firmly, but with a great kindness.
16. Obviously a reference to Tetrazzini’s performance in La Bohème at the Manhattan Opera House in 1908.
CHAPTER XV
“PFYFE—PERSONAL”
(Tuesday, June 18; 9 a.m.)
The next day—the fourth of the investigation—was an important and, in some ways, a momentous one in the solution of the problem posed by Alvin Benson’s murder. Nothing of a definite nature came to light, but a new element was injected into the case; and this new element eventually led to the guilty person.
Before we parted from Markham after our dinner with Major Benson, Vance had made the request that he be permitted to call at the District Attorney’s office the next morning. Markham, both disconcerted and impressed by his unwonted earnestness, had complied; although, I think, he would rather have made his arrangements for Captain Leacock’s arrest without the disturbing influence of the other’s protesting presence. It was evident that, after Higginbotham’s report, Markham had decided to place the Captain in custody, and to proceed with his preparation of data for the Grand Jury.
Although Vance and I arrived at the office at nine o’clock Markham was already there. As we entered the room, he picked up the telephone receiver, and asked to be put through to Sergeant Heath.
At that moment Vance did an amazing thing. He walked swiftly to the District Attorney’s desk and, snatching the receiver out of Markham’s hand, clamped it down on the hook. Then he placed the telephone to one side, and laid both hands on the other’s shoulders. Markham was too astonished and bewildered to protest; and before he could recover himself, Vance said in a low, firm voice, which was all the more impelling because of its softness:
“I’m not going to let you jail Leacock,—that’s what I came here for this morning. You’re not going to order his arrest as long as I’m in this office and can prevent it by any means whatever. There’s only one way you can accomplish this act of unmitigated folly, and that’s by summoning your policemen and having me forcibly ejected. And I advise you to call a goodly number of ’em, because I’ll give ’em the battle of their bellicose lives!”
The incredible part of this threat was that Vance meant it literally. And Markham knew he meant it.
“If you do call your henchmen,” he went on, “you’ll be the laughing stock of the city inside of a week; for, by that time, it’ll be known who really did shoot Benson. And I’ll be a popular hero and a martyr—God save the mark!—for defying the District Attorney and offering up my sweet freedom on the altar of truth and justice and that sort of thing. . . .”
The telephone rang, and Vance answered it.
“Not wanted,” he said, closing off immediately. Then he stepped back and folded his arms.
At the end of a brief silence, Markham spoke, his voice quavering with rage.
“If you don’t go at once, Vance, and let me run this office myself, I’ll have no choice but to call in those policemen.”
Vance smiled. He knew Markham would take no such extreme measures. After all, the issue between these two friends was an intellectual one; and though Vance’s actions had placed it for a moment on a physical basis, there was no danger of its so continuing.
Markham’s belligerent gaze slowly turned to one of profound perplexity.
“Why are you so damned interested in Leacock?” he asked gruffly. “Why this irrational insistence that he remain at large?”
“You priceless, inexpressible ass!” Vance strove to keep all hint of affection out of his voice. “Do you think I care particularly what happens to a Southern army captain? There are hundreds of Leacocks, all alike—with their square shoulders and square chins, and their knobby clothes, and their totemistic codes of barbaric chivalry. Only a mother could tell ’em apart. . . . I’m int’rested in you, old chap. I don’t want to see you make a mistake that’s going to injure you more than it will Leacock.”
Markham’s eyes lost their hardness: he understood Vance’s motive, and forgave him. But he was still firm in his belief of the Captain’s guilt. He remained thoughtful for some time. Then, having apparently arrived at a decision, he rang for Swacker and asked that Phelps be sent for.
“I’ve a plan that may nail this affair down tight,” he said. “And it’ll be evidence that not even you, Vance, can gainsay.”
Phelps came in, and Markham gave him instructions.
“Go and see Miss St. Clair at once. Get to her some way, and ask her what was in the package Captain Leacock took away from her apartment yesterday and threw in the East River.” He briefly summarized Higginbotham’s report of the night before. “Demand that she tell you, and intimate that you know it was the gun with which Benson was shot. She’ll probably refuse to answer, and will tell you to get out. Then go downstairs and wait developments. If she ’phones, listen in at the switchboard. If she happens to send a note to anyone, intercept it. And if she goes out—which I hardly think likely—follow her and learn what you can. Let me hear from you the minute you get hold of anything.”
“I get you, Chief.” Phelps seemed pleased with the assignment, and departed with alacrity.
“Are such burglarious and eavesdropping methods considered ethical by your learned profession?” asked Vance. “I can’t harmonize such conduct with your other qualities, y’ know.”
Markham leaned back and gazed up at the chandelier.
“Personal ethics don’t enter into it. Or, if they do, they are crowded out by greater and graver considerations—by the higher demands of justice. Society must be protected; and the citizens of this county look to me for their security against the encroachments of criminals and evil-doers. Sometimes, in the pursuance of my duty, it is necessary to adopt courses of conduct that conflict with my personal instincts. I have no right to jeopardize the whole of society because of an assumed ethical obligation to an individual. . . . You understand, of course, that I would not use any information obtained by these unethical methods, unless it pointed to criminal activities on the part of that individual.
