the fact that his suggestion of Pfyfe was an apparent afterthought: he wanted to make it appear casual, don’t y’ know.—Astute devil, what?”
Markham, sunk in gloom, was listening closely.
“Now for the opportunity of which he took advantage,” continued Vance. “When you upset his calculations by telling him you knew whom Alvin dined with, and that you had almost enough evidence to ask for an indictment, the idea appealed to him. He knew no charmin’ lady could ever be convicted of murder in this most chivalrous city, no matter what the evidence; and he had enough of the sporting instinct in him to prefer that no one should actu’lly be punished for the crime. Cons’quently, he was willing to switch you back to the lady. And he played his hand cleverly, making it appear that he was most reluctant to involve her.”
“Was that why, when you wanted me to examine his books and to ask him to the office to discuss the confession, you told me to intimate that I had Miss St. Clair in mind?”
“Exactly!”
“And the person the Major was shielding——”
“Was himself. But he wanted you to think it was Miss St. Clair.”
“If you were certain he was guilty, why did you bring Colonel Ostrander into the case?”
“In the hope that he could supply us with faggots for the Major’s funeral pyre. I knew he was acquainted intimately with Alvin Benson and his entire camarilla; and I knew, too, that he was an egregious quidnunc who might have got wind of some enmity between the Benson boys, and have suspected the truth. And I also wanted to get a line on Pfyfe, by way of elim’nating every remote counter possibility.”
“But we already had a line on Pfyfe.”
“Oh, I don’t mean material clues. I wanted to learn about Pfyfe’s nature—his psychology, y’ know,—particularly his personality as a gambler. Y’ see, it was the crime of a calculating, cold-blooded gambler; and no one but a man of that particular type could possibly have committed it.”
Markham apparently was not interested just now in Vance’s theories.
“Did you believe the Major,” he asked, “when he said his brother had lied to him about the presence of the jewels in the safe?”
“The wily Alvin prob’bly never mentioned ’em to Anthony,” rejoined Vance. “An ear at the door during one of Pfyfe’s visits was, I fancy, his source of information. . . . And speaking of the Major’s eavesdropping, it was that which suggested to me a possible motive for the crime. Your man Stitt, I hope, will clarify that point.”
“According to your theory, the crime was rather hastily conceived.” Markham’s statement was in reality a question.
“The details of its execution were hastily conceived,” corrected Vance. “The Major undoubtedly had been contemplating for some time elim’nating his brother. Just how or when he was to do it, he hadn’t decided. He may have thought out and rejected a dozen plans. Then, on the thirteenth, came the opportunity: all the conditions adjusted themselves to his purpose. He heard Miss St. Clair’s promise to go to dinner; and he therefore knew that Alvin would prob’bly be home alone at twelve-thirty, and that, if he were done away with at that hour, suspicion would fall on Captain Leacock. He saw Alvin take home the jewels—another prov’dential circumst’nce. The propitious moment for which he had been waiting, d’ ye see, was at hand. All that remained was to establish an alibi and work out a modus operandi. How he did this, I’ve already eluc’dated.”
Markham sat thinking for several minutes. At last he lifted his head.
“You’ve about convinced me of his guilt,” he admitted. “But damn it, man! I’ve got to prove it; and there’s not much actual legal evidence.”
Vance gave a slight shrug.
“I’m not int’rested in your stupid courts and your silly rules of evidence. But, since I’ve convinced you, you can’t charge me with not having met your challenge, don’t y’ know.”
“I suppose not,” Markham assented gloomily.
Slowly the muscles about his mouth tightened.
“You’ve done your share, Vance. I’ll carry on.”
Heath and Captain Hagedorn were waiting when we arrived at the office, and Markham greeted them in his customary reserved, matter-of-fact way. By now he had himself well in hand, and he went about the task before him with the sombre forcefulness that characterized him in the discharge of all his duties.
“I think we at last have the right man, Sergeant,” he said. “Sit down, and I’ll go over the matter with you in a moment. There are one or two things I want to attend to first.”
He handed Major Benson’s pistol to the fire-arms expert.
“Look that gun over, Captain, and tell me if there’s any way of identifying it as the weapon that killed Benson.”
Hagedorn moved ponderously to the window. Laying the pistol on the sill, he took several tools from the pockets of his voluminous coat, and placed them beside the weapon. Then, adjusting a jeweller’s magnifying glass to his eye, he began what seemed an interminable series of tinkerings. He opened the plates of the stock, and drawing back the sear, took out the firing-pin. He removed the slide, unscrewed the link, and extracted the recoil spring. I thought he was going to take the weapon entirely apart, but apparently he merely wanted to let light into the barrel; for presently he held the gun to the window and placed his eye at the muzzle. He peered into the barrel for nearly five minutes, moving it slightly back and forth to catch the reflection of the sun on different points of the interior.
At last, without a word, he slowly and painstakingly went through the operation of redintegrating the weapon. Then he lumbered back to his chair, and sat blinking heavily for several moments.
“I’ll tell you,” he said, thrusting his head forward and gazing at Markham over the tops of his steel-rimmed spectacles. “This, now, may be the right gun. I wouldn’t say for sure. But when I saw the bullet the other morning I noticed some peculiar rifling marks on it; and the rifling in this gun here looks to me as though it would match up with the marks on the bullet. I’m not certain. I’d like to look at this barrel through my helixometer.21”
“But you believe it’s the gun?” insisted Markham.
“I couldn’t say, but I think so. I might be wrong.”
“Very good, Captain. Take it along, and call me the minute you’ve inspected it thoroughly.”
“It’s the gun, all right,” asserted Heath, when Hagedorn had gone. “I know that bird. He wouldn’t ’ve said as much as he did if he hadn’t been sure. . . . Whose gun is it, sir?”
“I’ll answer you presently.” Markham was still battling against the truth—withholding, even from himself, his pronouncement of the Major’s guilt until every loop-hole of doubt should be closed. “I want to hear from Stitt before I say anything. I sent him to look over Benson and Benson’s books. He’ll be here any moment.”
After a wait of a quarter of an hour, during which time Markham attempted to busy himself with other matters, Stitt came in. He
