protesting vigorously, held back, and endeavored to disengage his arm from the other’s grip. But Vance was determined; and after a somewhat heated dispute, Markham gave in.
“I’m about through with this hocus-pocus,” he growled, as we got into a taxicab.
“I’m through already,” said Vance.
CHAPTER XXIII
CHECKING AN ALIBI
(Thursday, June 20; 10.30 a.m.)
The Chatham Arms, where Major Benson lived, was a small exclusive bachelor apartment-house in Forty-sixth Street, midway between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. The entrance, set in a simple and dignified façade, was flush with the street, and only two steps above the pavement. The front door opened into a narrow hallway with a small reception room, like a cul-de-sac, on the left. At the rear could be seen the elevator; and beside it, tucked under a narrow flight of iron stairs which led round the elevator shaft, was a telephone switchboard.
When we arrived two youths in uniform were on duty, one lounging in the door of the elevator, the other seated at the switchboard.
Vance halted Markham near the entrance.
“One of these boys, I was informed over the telephone, was on duty the night of the thirteenth. Find out which one it was, and scare him into submission by your exalted title of District Attorney. Then turn him over to me.”
Reluctantly Markham walked down the hallway. After a brief interrogation of the boys, he led one of them into the reception room, and peremptorily explained what he wanted.19
First floor of Chatham Arms Apartment in West Forty-sixth Street
Vance began his questioning with the confident air of one who has no doubt whatever as to another’s exact knowledge.
“What time did Major Benson get home the night his brother was shot?”
The boy’s eyes opened wide.
“He came in about ’leven—right after show time,” he answered, with only a momentary hesitation.
(I have set down the rest of the questions and answers in dramatic-dialogue form, for purposes of space economy.)
Vance: He spoke to you, I suppose?
Boy: Yes, sir. He told me he’d been to the theatre, and said what a rotten show it was—and that he had an awful headache.
Vance: How do you happen to remember so well what he said a week ago?
Boy: Why, his brother was murdered that night!
Vance: And the murder caused so much excitement that you naturally recalled everything that happened at the time in connection with Major Benson?
Boy: Sure—he was the murdered guy’s brother.
Vance: When he came in that night did he say anything about the day of the month?
Boy: Nothin’ except that he guessed his bad luck in pickin’ a bum show was on account of it bein’ the thirteenth.
Vance: Did he say anything else?
Boy (grinning): He said he’d make the thirteenth my lucky day, and he gave me all the silver he had in his pocket—nickels and dimes and quarters and one fifty-cent piece.
Vance: How much altogether?
Boy: Three dollars and forty-five cents.
Vance: And then he went to his room?
Boy: Yes, sir—I took him up. He lives on the third floor.
Vance: Did he go out again later?
Boy: No, sir.
Vance: How do you know?
Boy: I’d ’ve seen him. I was either answerin’ the switchboard or runnin’ the elevator all night. He couldn’t ’ve got out without my seein’ him.
Vance: Were you alone on duty?
Boy: After ten o’clock there’s never but one boy on.
Vance: And there’s no other way a person could leave the house except by the front door?
Boy: No, sir.
Vance: When did you next see Major Benson?
Boy (after thinking a moment): He rang for some cracked ice, and I took it up.
Vance: What time?
Boy: Why—I don’t know exactly. . . . Yes, I do! It was half past twelve.
Vance (smiling faintly): He asked you the time, perhaps?
Boy: Yes, sir, he did. He asked me to look at his clock in his parlor.
Vance: How did he happen to do that?
Boy: Well, I took up the ice, and he was in bed; and he asked me to put it in his pitcher in the parlor. When I was doin’ it he called to me to look at the clock on the mantel and tell him what time it was. He said his watch had stopped and he wanted to set it.
Vance: What did he say then?
Boy: Nothin’ much. He told me not to ring his bell, no matter who called up. He said he wanted to sleep, and didn’t want to be woke up.
Vance: Was he emphatic about it?
Boy: Well—he meant it, all right.
Vance: Did he say anything else?
Boy: No. He just said good-night and turned out the light, and I came on downstairs.
Vance: What light did he turn out?
Boy: The one in his bed-room.
Vance: Could you see into his bed-room from the parlor?
Boy: No. The bed-room’s off the hall.
Vance: How could you tell the light was turned off then?
Boy: The bed-room door was open, and the light was shinin’ into the hall.
Vance: Did you pass the bed-room door when you went out?
Boy: Sure—you have to.
Vance: And was the door still open?
Boy: Yes.
Vance:
