my inquisitor.”
Markham rose.
“That will be all for today, Mr. Pfyfe. But you are to remain in New York until I give you permission to return home. Otherwise, I will have you held as a material witness.”
Pfyfe made a shocked gesture in deprecation of such acerbities and bade us a ceremonious good-afternoon.
When we were alone, Markham looked seriously at Vance. “Your prophecy was fulfilled, though I didn’t dare hope for such luck. Pfyfe’s evidence puts the final link in the chain against the captain.”
Vance smoked languidly.
“I’ll admit your theory of the crime is most satisfyin’. But alas! the psychological objection remains. Everything fits, with the one exception of the captain; and he doesn’t fit at all.… Silly idea, I know. But he has no more business being cast as the murderer of Benson than the bisonic Tetrazzini had being cast as the phthisical Mimi.”16
“In any other circumstances,” Markham answered, “I might defer reverently to your charming theories. But with all the circumstantial and presumptive evidence I have against Leacock, it strikes my inferior legal mind as sheer nonsense to say, ‘He just couldn’t be guilty because his hair is parted in the middle and he tucks his napkin in his collar.’ There’s too much logic against it.”
“I’ll grant your logic is irrefutable—as all logic is, no doubt. You’ve prob’bly convinced many innocent persons by sheer reasoning that they were guilty.”
Vance stretched himself wearily.
“What do you say to a light repast on the roof? The unutt’rable Pfyfe has tired me.”
In the summer dining room on the roof of the Stuyvesant Club we found Major Benson sitting alone, and Markham asked him to join us.
“I have good news for you, Major,” he said, when we had given our order. “I feel confident I have my man; everything points to him. Tomorrow will see the end, I hope.”
The major gave Markham a questioning frown.
“I don’t understand exactly. From what you told me the other day, I got the impression there was a woman involved.”
Markham smiled awkwardly and avoided Vance’s eyes. “A lot of water has run under the bridge since then,” he said. “The woman I had in mind was eliminated as soon as we began to check up on her. But in the process I was led to the man. There’s little doubt of his guilt. I felt pretty sure about it this morning, and just now I learned that he was seen by a credible witness in front of your brother’s house within a few minutes of the time the shot was fired.”
“Is there any objection to your telling me who it was?” The major was still frowning.
“None whatsoever. The whole city will probably know it tomorrow.… It was Captain Leacock.”
Major Benson stared at him in unbelief. “Impossible! I simply can’t credit it. That boy was with me three years on the other side, and I got to know him pretty well. I can’t help feeling there’s a mistake somewhere.… The police,” he added quickly, “have got on the wrong track.”
“It’s not the police,” Markham informed him. “It was my own investigations that turned up the captain.”
The major did not answer, but his silence bespoke his doubt.
“Y’ know,” put in Vance, “I feel the same way about the captain that you do, Major. It rather pleases me to have my impressions verified by one who has known him so long.”
“What, then, was Leacock doing in front of the house that night?” urged Markham acidulously.
“He might have been singing carols beneath Benson’s window,” suggested Vance.
Before Markham could reply, he was handed a card by the headwaiter. When he glanced at it, he gave a grunt of satisfaction and directed that the caller be sent up immediately. Then, turning back to us, he said, “We may learn something more now. I’ve been expecting this man Higginbotham. He’s the detective that followed Leacock from my office this morning.”
Higginbotham was a wiry, pale-faced youth with fishy eyes and a shifty manner. He slouched up to the table and stood hesitantly before the district attorney.
“Sit down and report, Higginbotham,” Markham ordered. “These gentlemen are working with me on the case.”
“I picked up the bird while he was waiting for the elevator,” the man began, eyeing Markham craftily. “He went to the subway and rode uptown to Seventy-ninth and Broadway. He walked through Eightieth to Riverside Drive and went in the apartment-house at No. 94. Didn’t give his name to the boy—got right in the elevator. He stayed upstairs a coupla hours, come down at one twenty, and hopped a taxi. I picked up another one and followed him. He went down the Drive to Seventy-second, through Central Park, and east on Fifty-ninth. Got out at Avenue A, and walked out on the Queensborough Bridge. About halfway to Blackwell’s Island he stood leaning over the rail for five or six minutes. Then he took a small package out of his pocket and dropped it in the river.”
“What size was the package?” There was repressed eagerness in Markham’s question.
Higginbotham indicated the measurements with his hands.
“How thick was it?”
“Inch or so, maybe.”
Markham leaned forward.
“Could it have been a gun—a Colt automatic?”
“Sure, it could. Just about the right size. And it was heavy, too—I could tell by the way he handled it, and the way it hit the water.”
“All right.” Markham was pleased. “Anything else?”
“No, sir. After he’d ditched the gun, he went home and stayed. I left him there.”
When Higginbotham had gone, Markham nodded at Vance with melancholy elation.
“There’s your criminal agent.… What more would you like?”
“Oh, lots,” drawled Vance.
Major Benson looked up, perplexed.
“I don’t quite grasp the situation. Why did Leacock have to go to Riverside Drive for his gun?”
“I have reason to think,” said Markham, “that he took it to Miss St. Clair the day after the shooting—for safekeeping probably. He wouldn’t have wanted it found in his place.”
“Might he not have taken it to Miss St. Clair’s before the shooting?”
“I know what you mean,” Markham answered. (I, too, recalled the major’s assertion the day before that Miss St. Clair was more capable of shooting his brother than was the captain.) “I had the same idea myself. But certain evidential facts have eliminated her as a suspect.”
“You’ve undoubtedly satisfied yourself on the point,” returned the major; but his tone was dubious. “However, I can’t see Leacock as Alvin’s murderer.”
He paused and laid a hand on the district attorney’s arm. “I don’t want to appear presumptuous, or unappreciative of all you’ve done; but I really wish you’d wait a bit before clapping that boy into prison. The most careful and conscientious of us are liable to error. Even facts sometimes lie damnably; and I can’t help believing that the facts in this instance have deceived you.”
It was plain that Markham was touched by this request of his old friend; but his instinctive fidelity to duty helped him to resist the other’s appeal.
“I must act according to my convictions, Major,” he said firmly, but with a great kindness.
CHAPTER 15
“PFYFE—PERSONAL”