(Wednesday, June 19; 3.30 p.m.)
Captain Leacock walked into the room with a hopeless indifference of bearing. His shoulders drooped; his arms hung listlessly. His eyes were haggard like those of a man who had not slept for days. On seeing Major Benson, he straightened a little and, stepping toward him, extended his hand. It was plain that, however much he may have disliked Alvin Benson, he regarded the Major as a friend. But suddenly, realizing the situation, he turned away, embarrassed.
The Major went quickly to him and touched him on the arm.
“It’s all right, Leacock,” he said softly. “I can’t think that you really shot Alvin.”
The Captain turned apprehensive eyes upon him.
“Of course, I shot him.” His voice was flat. “I told him I was going to.”
Vance came forward, and indicated a chair.
“Sit down, Captain. The District Attorney wants to hear your story of the shooting. The law, you understand, does not accept murder confessions without corroborat’ry evidence. And since, in the present case, there are suspicions against others than yourself, we want you to answer some questions in order to substantiate your guilt. Otherwise, it will be necess’ry for us to follow up our suspicions.”
Taking a seat facing Leacock, he picked up the confession.
“You say here you were satisfied that Mr. Benson had wronged you, and you went to his house at about half past twelve on the night of the thirteenth. . . . When you speak of his wronging you, do you refer to his attentions to Miss St. Clair?”
Leacock’s face betrayed a sulky belligerence.
“It doesn’t matter why I shot him.—Can’t you leave Miss St. Clair out of it?”
“Certainly,” agreed Vance. “I promise you she shall not be brought into it. But we must understand your motive thoroughly.”
After a brief silence Leacock said:
“Very well, then. That was what I referred to.”
“How did you know Miss St. Clair went to dinner with Mr. Benson that night?”
“I followed them to the Marseilles.”
“And then you went home?”
“Yes.”
“What made you go to Mr. Benson’s house later?”
“I got to thinking about it more and more, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I began to see red, and at last I took my Colt and went out, determined to kill him.”
A note of passion had crept into his voice. It seemed unbelievable that he could be lying.
Vance again referred to the confession.
“You dictated: ‘I went to 87 West Forty-eighth Street, and entered the house by the front door.’ . . . Did you ring the bell? Or was the front door unlatched?”
Leacock was about to answer, but hesitated. Evidently he recalled the newspaper accounts of the housekeeper’s testimony in which she asserted positively that the bell had not rung that night.
“What difference does it make?” He was sparring for time.
“We’d like to know—that’s all,” Vance told him. “But no hurry.”
“Well, if it’s so important to you: I didn’t ring the bell; and the door wasn’t unlocked.” His hesitancy was gone. “Just as I reached the house, Benson drove up in a taxicab——”
“Just a moment. Did you happen to notice another car standing in front of the house? A grey Cadillac?”
“Why—yes.”
“Did you recognize its occupant?”
There was another short silence.
“I’m not sure. I think it was a man named Pfyfe.”
“He and Mr. Benson were outside at the same time, then?”
Leacock frowned.
“No—not at the same time. There was nobody there when I arrived. . . . I didn’t see Pfyfe until I came out a few minutes later.”
“He arrived in his car when you were inside,—is that it?”
“He must have.”
“I see. . . . And now to go back a little: Benson drove up in a taxicab. Then what?”
“I went up to him and said I wanted to speak to him. He told me to come inside, and we went in together. He used his latch-key.”
“And now, Captain, tell us just what happened after you and Mr. Benson entered the house.”
“He laid his hat and stick on the hat-rack, and we walked into the living-room. He sat down by the table, and I stood up and said—what I had to say. Then I drew my gun, and shot him.”
Vance was closely watching the man, and Markham was leaning forward tensely.
“How did it happen that he was reading at the time?”
“I believe he did pick up a book while I was talking. . . . Trying to appear indifferent, I reckon.”
“Think now: you and Mr. Benson went into the living-room directly from the hall, as soon as you entered the house?”
“Yes.”
“Then how do you account for the fact, Captain, that when Mr. Benson was shot he had on his smoking-jacket and slippers?”
Leacock glanced nervously about the room. Before he answered he wet his lips with his tongue.
“Now that I think of it, Benson did go upstairs for a few minutes first. . . . I guess I was too excited,” he added desperately, “to recollect everything.”
“That’s natural,” Vance said sympathetically. “But when he came downstairs did you happen to notice anything peculiar about his hair?”
Leacock looked up vaguely.
“His hair? I—don’t understand.”
“The color of it, I mean. When Mr. Benson sat before you under the table-lamp, didn’t you remark some—difference, let us say—in the way his hair looked?”
The man closed his eyes, as if striving to visualize the scene.
“No—I don’t remember.”
“A minor point,” said Vance indifferently. “Did Benson’s speech strike
