The man’s face was now crimson; the veins stood out on his forehead.
“And I found Mrs. Banning’s jewels.… How did they get there, Major?”
“It’s none of your damned business how they got there,” he said, his voice as cold and even as ever.
“Why did you tell Miss Hoffman not to mention them to me?”
“That’s none of your damned business either.”
“Is it any of my business,” asked Markham quietly, “that the bullet which killed your brother was fired from your gun?”
The major looked at him steadily, his mouth a sneer.
“That’s the kind of double-crossing you do!—invite me here to arrest me and then ask me questions to incriminate myself when I’m unaware of your suspicions. A fine dirty sport you are!”
Vance leaned forward. “You fool!” His voice was very low, but it cut like a whip. “Can’t you see he’s your friend and is asking you these questions in a last desp’rate hope that you’re not guilty?”
The major swung round on him hotly. “Keep out of this—you damned sissy!”
“Oh, quite,” murmured Vance.
“And as for you”—he pointed a quivering finger at Markham—“I’ll make you sweat for this!…”
Vituperation and profanity poured from the man. His nostrils were expanded, his eyes blazing. His wrath seemed to surpass all human bounds; he was like a person in an apoplectic fit—contorted, repulsive, insensate.
Markham sat through it patiently, his head resting on his hands, his eyes closed. When, at length, the major’s rage became inarticulate, he looked up and nodded to Heath. It was the signal the detective had been watching for.
But before Heath could make a move, the major sprang to his feet. With the motion of rising he swung his body swiftly about and brought his fist against Heath’s face with terrific impact. The sergeant went backward in his chair and lay on the floor dazed. Phelps leaped forward, crouching; but the major’s knee shot upward and caught him in the lower abdomen. He sank to the floor, where he rolled back and forth groaning.
The major then turned on Markham. His eyes were glaring like a maniac’s, and his lips were drawn back. His nostrils dilated with each stertorous breath. His shoulders were hunched, and his arms hung away from his body, his fingers rigidly flexed. His attitude was the embodiment of a terrific, uncontrolled malignity.
“You’re next!” The words, guttural and venomous, were like a snarl.
As he spoke he sprang forward.
Vance, who had sat quietly during the melee, looking on with half-closed eyes and smoking indolently, now stepped sharply round the end of the table. His arms shot forward. With one hand he caught the major’s right wrist; with the other he grasped the elbow. Then he seemed to fall back with a swift pivotal motion. The major’s pinioned arm was twisted upward behind his shoulder blades. There was a cry of pain, and the man suddenly relaxed in Vance’s grip.
By this time Heath had recovered. He scrambled quickly to his feet and stepped up. There was the click of handcuffs, and the major dropped heavily into a chair, where he sat moving his shoulder back and forth painfully.
“It’s nothing serious,” Vance told him. “The capsular ligament is torn a little. It’ll be all right in a few days.”
Heath came forward and, without a word, held out his hand to Vance. The action was at once an apology and a tribute. I liked Heath for it.
When he and his prisoner had gone, and Phelps had been assisted into an easy chair, Markham put his hand on Vance’s arm.
“Let’s get away,” he said. “I’m done up.”
CHAPTER 25
VANCE EXPLAINS HIS METHODS
(Thursday, June 20; 9 P.M.)
That same evening, after a Turkish bath and dinner, Markham, grim and weary, and Vance, bland and debonair, and myself were sitting together in the alcove of the Stuyvesant Club’s lounge room.
We had smoked in silence for half an hour or more, when Vance, as if giving articulation to his thoughts, remarked, “And it’s stubborn, unimag’native chaps like Heath who constitute the human barrage between the criminal and society!… Sad, sad.”
“We have no Napoleons today,” Markham observed. “And if we had, they’d probably not be detectives.”
“But even should they have yearnings toward that profession,” said Vance, “they would be rejected on their physical measurements. As I understand it, your policemen are chosen by their height and weight; they must meet certain requirements as to heft—as though the only crimes they had to cope with were riots and gang feuds. Bulk—the great American ideal, whether in art, architecture, table d’hôte meals, or detectives. An entrancin’ notion.”
“At any rate, Heath has a generous nature,” said Markham palliatingly. “He has completely forgiven you for everything.”
Vance smiled. “The amount of credit and emulsification he received in the afternoon papers would have mellowed anyone. He should even forgive the major for hitting him. A clever blow, that, based on rotary leverage. Heath’s constitution must be tough, or he wouldn’t have recovered so quickly.… And poor Phelps! He’ll have a horror of knees the rest of his life.”
“You certainly guessed the major’s reaction,” said Markham. “I’m almost ready to grant there’s something in your psychological flummery, after all. Your aesthetic deductions seemed to put you on the right track.”
After a pause he turned and looked inquisitively at Vance. “Tell me exactly why, at the outset, you were convinced of the major’s guilt?”
Vance settled back in his chair.
“Consider, for a moment, the characteristics—the outstanding features—of the crime. Just before the shot was fired, Benson and the murderer undoubtedly had been talking or arguing, the one seated, the other standing. Then Benson had pretended to read, he had said all he had to say. His reading was his gesture of finality; for one doesn’t read when conversing with another unless for a purpose. The murderer, seeing the hopelessness of the situation and having come prepared to meet it heroically, took out a gun, aimed it at Benson’s temple, and pulled the trigger. After that, he turned out the lights and went away.… Such are the facts indicated and actual.”
He took several puffs on his cigarette.
“Now, let’s analyze ’em.… As I pointed out to you, the murderer didn’t fire at the body, where, though the chances of hitting would have been much greater, the chances of death would have been less. He chose the more diff’cult and hazardous—and, at the same time, the more certain and efficient—course. His technique, so to speak, was bold, direct, and fearless. Only a man with iron nerves and a highly developed gambler’s instinct would have done it in just this forthright and audacious fashion. Therefore, all nervous, hotheaded, impulsive, or timid persons were automatically elim’nated as suspects. The neat, businesslike aspect of the crime, together with the absence of any material clues that could possibly have imcrim’nated the culprit, indicated unmistakably that it had been premeditated and planned with coolness and precision, by a person of tremendous self-assurance, and one used to taking risks. There was nothing subtle or in the least imag’native about the crime. Every feature of it pointed to an aggressive, blunt mind—a mind at once static, determined, and intrepid, and accustomed to dealing with facts and situations in a direct, concrete, and unequivocal manner.… I say, Markham, surely you’re a good enough judge of human nature to read the indications, what?”
“I think I get the drift of your reasoning,” the other admitted a little doubtfully.
“Very well, then,” Vance continued. “Having determined the exact psychological nature of the deed,