The Benson Murder Case (10 page)

Markham considered a moment.

“It may mean nothing at all, but I'm glad to know it, anyway. St. Clair'll be here in a few minutes, and I'll find out what she has to say. There's nothing else for today…. Tell Swacker to send Tracy in.”

Tracy was the antithesis of Phelps. He was short, a trifle stout, and exuded an atmosphere of studied suavity. His face was rotund and genial; he wore a
pince-nez
; and his clothes were modish and fitted him well.

“Good morning, Chief,” he greeted Markham in a quiet, ingratiating tone. “I understand the St. Clair woman is to call here this afternoon, and there are a few things I've found out that may assist in your questioning.”

He opened a small note-book and adjusted his
pince-nez
.

“I thought I might learn something from her singing teacher, an Italian formerly connected with the Metropolitan, but now running a sort of choral society of his own. He trains aspiring
prima donnas
in their rôles with a chorus and settings, and Miss St. Clair is one of his pet students. He talked to me, without any trouble; and it seems he knew Benson well. Benson attended several of St. Clair's rehearsals, and sometimes called for her in a taxicab. Rinaldo—that's the man's name—thinks he had a bad crush on the girl. Last winter, when she sang at the Criterion in a small part, Rinaldo was back stage, coaching, and Benson sent her enough hot-house flowers to fill the star's dressing-room and have some left
over. I tried to find out if Benson was playing the ‘angel' for her, but Rinaldo either didn't know or pretended he didn't.” Tracy closed his note-book and looked up. “That any good to you, Chief?”

“First-rate,” Markham told him. “Keep at work along that line, and let me hear from you again about this time Monday.”

Tracy bowed, and as he went out the secretary again appeared at the door.

“Springer's here now, sir,” he said. “Shall I send him in?”

Springer proved to be a type of detective quite different from either Phelps or Tracy. He was older, and had the gloomy capable air of a hard-working book-keeper in a bank. There was no initiative in his bearing, but one felt that he could discharge a delicate task with extreme competency.

Markham took from his pocket the envelope on which he had noted the name given him by Major Benson.

“Springer, there's a man down on Long Island that I want to interview as soon as possible. It's in connection with the Benson case, and I wish you'd locate him and get him up here as soon as possible. If you can find him in the telephone-book you needn't go down personally. His name is Leander Pfyfe, and he lives, I think, at Port Washington.”

Markham jotted down the name on a card and handed it to the detective.

“This is Saturday, so if he comes to town to-morrow, have him ask for me at the Stuyvesant Club. I'll be there in the afternoon.”

When Springer had gone, Markham again rang for his secretary and gave instructions that the moment Miss St. Clair arrived she was to be shown in.

“Sergeant Heath is here,” Swacker informed him, “and wants to see you if you're not too busy.”

Markham glanced at the clock over the door.

“I guess I'll have time. Send him in.”

Heath was surprised to see Vance and me in the District Attorney's office, but after greeting Markham with the customary handshake, he turned to Vance with a good-natured smile.

“Still acquiring knowledge, Mr. Vance?”

“Can't say that I am, Sergeant,” returned Vance lightly. “But I'm learning a number of most int'restin' errors…. How goes the sleuthin'?”

Heath's face became suddenly serious.

“That's what I'm here to tell the Chief about.” He addressed himself to Markham. “This case is a jaw-breaker, sir. My men and myself have talked to a dozen of Benson's cronies, and we can't worm a single fact of any value out of 'em. They either don't know anything, or they're giving a swell imitation of a lot of clams. They all appear to be greatly shocked—bowled over, floored, flabbergasted—by the news of the shooting. And have they got any idea as to why or how it happened? They'll tell the world they haven't. You know the line of talk: Who'd want to shoot good old Al? Nobody could've done it but a burglar who didn't know good old Al? If he'd known good old Al, even the burglar wouldn't have done it…. Hell! I felt like killing off a few of those birds myself so they could go and join their good old Al.”

“Any news of the car?” asked Markham.

Heath grunted his disgust.

“Not a word. And that's funny, too, seeing all the advertising it got. Those fishing-rods are the only thing we've got…. The Inspector, by the way, sent me the post-mortem report this morning; but it didn't tell us anything we didn't know. Translated into human language, it said Benson died from a shot in the head, with all his organs sound. It's a wonder, though, they didn't discover that he'd been poisoned with a Mexican bean or bit by an African snake, or something, so's to make the case a little more intricate than it already is.”

“Cheer up, Sergeant,” Markham exhorted him. “I've had a little better luck. Tracy ran down the owner of the handbag and found out she'd been to dinner with Benson that night. He and Phelps also learned a few other supplementary facts that fit in well; and I'm expecting the lady here at any minute. I'm going to find out what she has to say for herself.”

An expression of resentment came into Heath's eyes as the District Attorney was speaking, but he erased it at once and began asking questions. Markham gave him every detail, and also informed him of Leander Pfyfe.

“I'll let you know immediately how the interview comes out,” he concluded.

As the door closed on Heath, Vance looked up at Markham with a sly smile.

“Not exactly one of Nietzsche's
Uebermenschen
—eh, what? I fear the subtleties of this complex world bemuse him a bit, y'know…. And he's so disappointin'. I felt pos'tively elated when the bustling lad with the thick glasses announced his presence. I thought surely he wanted to tell you he had jailed at least six of Benson's murderers.”

“Your hopes run too high, I fear,” commented Markham.

“And yet, that's the usual procedure—if the headlines in our great moral dailies are to be credited. I always thought that the moment a crime was committed the police began arresting people promiscuously—to maintain the excitement, don't y'know. Another illusion gone! … Sad, sad,” he murmured. “I shan't forgive our Heath: he has betrayed my faith in him.”

At this point, Markham's secretary came to the door and announced the arrival of Miss St. Clair.

I think we were all taken a little aback at the spectacle presented by this young woman as she came slowly into the room with a firm, graceful step, and with her head held slightly to one side in an attitude of supercilious inquiry. She was small and strikingly pretty, although “pretty” is not exactly the word with which to describe her. She possessed that faintly exotic beauty that we find in the portraits of the Carracci, who sweetened the severity of Leonardo and made it at once intimate and decadent. Her eyes were dark and widely spaced; her nose was delicate and straight, and her forehead broad. Her full, sensuous lips were almost sculpturesque in their linear precision, and her mouth wore an enigmatic smile, or hint of a smile. Her rounded firm chin was a bit heavy when examined apart from the other features, but not in the
ensemble
. There was poise and a certain strength of character in her bearing; but one sensed the potentialities of powerful emotions beneath her exterior calm. Her clothes harmonised with her personality; they were quiet and apparently in the conventional style, but a touch of colour and originality here and there conferred on them a fascinating distinction.

Markham rose and, bowing with formal courtesy, indicated a comfortable upholstered chair directly in front of his desk. With a barely perceptible nod, she glanced at the chair, and then seated herself in a straight armless chair standing next to it.

“You won't mind, I'm sure,” she said, “if I choose my own chair for the inquisition.”

Her voice was low and resonant—the speaking voice of the highly-trained singer. She smiled as she spoke, but it was not a cordial smile: it was cold and distant, yet somehow indicative of levity.

“Miss St. Clair,” began Markham, in a tone of polite severity, “the murder of Mr. Alvin Benson has intimately involved yourself. Before taking any definite steps. I have invited you here to ask you a few questions, I can, therefore, advise you quite honestly that frankness will best serve your interests.”

He paused, and the woman looked at him with an ironically questioning gaze.

“Am I supposed to thank you for your generous advice?”

Markham's scowl deepened as he glanced down at a typewritten page on his desk.

“You are probably aware that your gloves and handbag were found in Mr. Benson's house the morning after he was shot?”

“I can understand how you might have traced the handbag to me,” she said: “but how did you arrive at the conclusion that the gloves were mine?”

Markham looked up sharply.

“Do you mean to say the gloves are not yours?”

“Oh, no.” She gave him another wintry smile. “I merely wondered how you knew they belonged to me, since you couldn't have known either my taste in gloves or the size I wore.”

“They're your gloves, then?”

“If they are Tréfousse, size five-and-three-quarters, of white kid and elbow length, they are certainly mine. And I'd so like to have them back, if you don't mind.”

“I'm sorry,” said Markham, “but it is necessary that I keep them for the present.”

She dismissed the matter with a slight shrug of the shoulders.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked.

Markham instantly opened a drawer of his desk, and took out a box of Benson and Hedges cigarettes.

“I have my own, thank you,” she informed him. “But I would so appreciate my holder. I've missed it horribly.”

Markham hesitated. He was manifestly annoyed by the woman's attitude.

“I'll be glad to lend it to you,” he compromised; and reaching into another drawer of his desk, he laid the holder on the table before her.

“Now, Miss St. Clair,” he said, resuming his gravity of manner, “will you tell me how these personal articles of yours happened to be in Mr. Benson's living-room?”

“No, Mr. Markham, I will not,” she answered.

“Do you realise the serious construction your refusal places upon the circumstances?”

“I really hadn't given it much thought.” Her tone was indifferent.

“It would be well if you did,” Markham advised her. “Your position is not an enviable one; and the presence of your belongings in Mr. Benson's room is, by no means, the only thing that connects you directly with the crime.”

The woman raised her eyes inquiringly, and again the enigmatic smile appeared at the corners of her mouth.

“Perhaps you have sufficient evidence to accuse me of the murder?”

Markham ignored this question.

“You were well acquainted with Mr. Benson, I believe?”

“The finding of my handbag and gloves in his apartment might lead one to assume as much, mightn't it?” she parried.

“He was, in fact, much interested in you?” persisted Markham.

She made a
moue
, and sighed.

“Alas, yes! Too much for my peace of mind…. Have I been brought here to discuss the attentions this gentleman paid me?”

Again Markham ignored her query.

“Where were you, Miss St. Clair, between the time you left the ‘Marseilles' at midnight and the time you arrived home—which, I understand, was after one o'clock?”

“You are simply wonderful!” she exclaimed. “You seem
to know everything…. Well, I can only say that during that time I was on my way home.”

“Did it take you an hour to go from Fortieth Street to Eighty-first and Riverside Drive?”

“Just about that, I should say—a few minutes more or less, perhaps.”

“How do you account for that?” Markham was becoming impatient.

“I can't account for it,” she said, “except by the passage of time. Time does fly, doesn't it, Mr. Markham?”

“By your attitude you are only working detriment to yourself,” Markham warned her, with a show of irritation. “Can you not see the seriousness of your position? You are known to have dined with Mr. Benson, to have left the restaurant at midnight, and to have arrived at your own apartment after one o'clock. At twelve-thirty, Mr. Benson was shot; and your personal articles were found in the same room the morning after.”

“It looks terribly suspicious, I know,” she admitted, with whimsical seriousness. “And I'll tell you this, Mr. Markham, if my thoughts could have killed Mr. Benson, he would have died long ago. I know I shouldn't speak ill of the dead—there's a saying about it beginning ‘
de mortuis
,' isn't there?—but the truth is, I had reason to dislike Mr. Benson exceedingly.”

“Then why did you go to dinner with him?”

“I've asked myself the same question a dozen times since,” she confessed dolefully. “We women are such impulsive creatures—always doing things we shouldn't…. But I know what you're thinking: if I had intended to shoot him, that would have been a natural preliminary. Isn't that what's in your mind? I suppose all murderesses do go to dinner with their victims first.”

While she spoke she opened her vanity-case and looked at her reflection in its mirror. She daintily adjusted several imaginary stray ends of her abundant dark-brown hair, and touched her arched eye-brows gently with her little finger as if to rectify some infinitesimal disturbance in their pencilled contour. Then she tilted her head, regarded herself appraisingly, and returned her gaze to the District Attorney only as she came to the end of her speech. Her actions had
perfectly conveyed to her listeners the impression that the subject of the conversation was, in her scheme of things, of secondary importance to her personal appearance. No words could have expressed her indifference so convincingly as had her little pantomime.