it—I hope.”
When the man had gone Vance seated himself in the wicker chair, and placed his head in juxtaposition with the bullet-hole.
“Now, Markham,” he requested, “will you please stand on the spot where the murderer stood, holding the gun directly above that cigarette on the floor, and aim delib’rately at my left temple. . . . Take care,” he cautioned, with an engaging smile, “not to pull the trigger, or you will never learn who killed Benson.”
Diagram of shooting.
Reluctantly Markham complied. As he stood taking aim, Vance asked me to measure the height of the gun’s muzzle from the floor.
The distance was four feet and nine inches.
“Quite so,” he said, rising. “Y’ see, Markham, you are five feet, eleven inches tall; therefore the person who shot Benson was very nearly your own height—certainly not under five feet, ten. . . . That, too, is rather obvious, what?”
His demonstration had been simple and clear. Markham was frankly impressed; his manner had become serious. He regarded Vance for a moment with a meditative frown; then he said:
“That’s all very well; but the person who fired the shot might have held the pistol relatively higher than I did.”
“Not tenable,” returned Vance. “I’ve done too much shooting myself not to know that when an expert takes delib’rate aim with a pistol at a small target, he does it with a stiff arm and with a slightly raised shoulder, so as to bring the sight on a straight line between his eye and the object at which he aims. The height at which one holds a revolver, under such conditions, pretty accurately determines his own height.”
“Your argument is based on the assumption that the person who killed Benson was an expert taking deliberate aim at a small target?”
“Not an assumption, but a fact,” declared Vance. “Consider: had the person not been an expert shot, he would not—at a distance of five or six feet—have selected the forehead, but a larger target—namely, the breast. And having selected the forehead, he most certainly took delib’rate aim, what? Furthermore, had he not been an expert shot, and had he pointed the gun at the breast without taking delib’rate aim, he would, in all prob’bility, have fired more than one shot.”
Markham pondered.
“I’ll grant that, on the face of it, your theory sounds plausible,” he conceded at length. “On the other hand, the guilty man could have been almost any height over five feet, ten; for certainly a man may crouch as much as he likes and still take deliberate aim.”
“True,” agreed Vance. “But don’t overlook the fact that the murderer’s position, in this instance, was a perfectly natural one. Otherwise, Benson’s attention would have been attracted, and he would not have been taken unawares. That he was shot unawares was indicated by his attitude. Of course, the assassin might have stooped a little without causing Benson to look up. . . . Let us say, therefore, that the guilty person’s height is somewhere between five feet, ten, and six feet, two. Does that appeal to you?”
Markham was silent.
“The delightful Miss St. Clair, y’ know,” remarked Vance, with a japish smile, “can’t possibly be over five feet, five or six.”
Markham grunted, and continued to smoke abstractedly.
“This Captain Leacock, I take it,” said Vance, “is over six feet—eh, what?”
Markham’s eyes narrowed.
“What makes you think so?”
“You just told me, don’t y’ know.”
“I told you!”
“Not in so many words,” Vance pointed out. “But after I had shown you the approximate height of the murderer, and it didn’t correspond at all to that of the young lady you suspected, I knew your active mind was busy looking around for another possibility. And, as the lady’s inamorato was the only other possibility on your horizon, I concluded that you were permitting your thoughts to play about the Captain. Had he, therefore, been the stipulated height, you would have said nothing; but when you argued that the murderer might have stooped to fire the shot, I decided that the Captain was inord’nately tall. . . . Thus, in the pregnant silence that emanated from you, old dear, your spirit held sweet communion with mine, and told me that the gentleman was a six-footer no less.”
“I see that you include mind-reading among your gifts,” said Markham. “I now await an exhibition of slate-writing.”
His tone was irritable, but his irritation was that of a man reluctant to admit the alteration of his beliefs. He felt himself yielding to Vance’s guiding rein, but he still held stubbornly to the course of his own previous convictions.
“Surely you don’t question my demonstration of the guilty person’s height?” asked Vance mellifluously.
“Not altogether,” Markham replied. “It seems colorable enough. . . . But why, I wonder, didn’t Hagedorn work the thing out, if it was so simple?”
“Anaxagoras said that those who have occasion for a lamp, supply it with oil. A profound remark, Markham—one of those seemingly simple quips that contain a great truth. A lamp without oil, y’ know, is useless. The police always have plenty of lamps—every variety, in fact—but no oil, as it were. That’s why they never find anyone unless it’s broad daylight.”
Markham’s mind was now busy in another direction, and he rose and began to pace the floor.
“Until now I hadn’t thought of Captain Leacock as the actual agent of the crime.”
“Why hadn’t you thought of him? Was it because one of your sleuths told you he was at home like a good boy that night?”
“I suppose so.” Markham continued pacing thoughtfully. Then suddenly he swung about. “That wasn’t it, either. It was the amount of damning circumstantial evidence against the St. Clair woman. . . . And, Vance, despite your demonstration here to-day, you haven’t explained away any of the evidence against her.—Where was she between twelve and one? Why did she go with Benson to dinner? How did her hand-bag get here? And what about those burned cigarettes of hers in the grate?—they’re the obstacle, those cigarette butts; and I can’t admit that your demonstration wholly convinces me—despite the fact that it is convincing—as long as I’ve got the evidence of those cigarettes to contend with, for that evidence is also convincing.”
“My word!” sighed Vance. “You’re in a pos’tively ghastly predic’ment. However, maybe I can cast illumination on those disquietin’ cigarette butts.”
Once more he went to the door, and summoning Snitkin, returned the pistol.
“The District Attorney thanks you,” he said. “And will you be good enough to fetch Mrs. Platz. We wish to chat with her.”
Turning back to the room, he smiled amiably at Markham.
“I desire to do all the conversing with the lady this time, if you don’t mind. There are potentialities in Mrs. Platz which you entirely overlooked when you questioned her yesterday.”
Markham was interested, though sceptical.
“You have the floor,” he said.
CHAPTER X
ELIMINATING A SUSPECT
(Saturday, June 15; 5.30 p.m.)
When the housekeeper entered she appeared even more composed than when Markham had first questioned her. There was something at once