are you so damned interested in Leacock?” he asked gruffly. “Why this irrational insistence that he remain at large?”
“You priceless, inexpressible ass!” Vance strove to keep all hint of affection out of his voice. “Do you think I care particularly what happens to a Southern army captain? There are hundreds of Leacocks, all alike—with their square shoulders and square chins, and their knobby clothes, and their totemistic codes of barbaric chivalry. Only a mother could tell ’em apart. . . . I’m int’rested in you, old chap. I don’t want to see you make a mistake that’s going to injure you more than it will Leacock.”
Markham’s eyes lost their hardness: he understood Vance’s motive, and forgave him. But he was still firm in his belief of the Captain’s guilt. He remained thoughtful for some time. Then, having apparently arrived at a decision, he rang for Swacker and asked that Phelps be sent for.
“I’ve a plan that may nail this affair down tight,” he said. “And it’ll be evidence that not even you, Vance, can gainsay.”
Phelps came in, and Markham gave him instructions.
“Go and see Miss St. Clair at once. Get to her some way, and ask her what was in the package Captain Leacock took away from her apartment yesterday and threw in the East River.” He briefly summarized Higginbotham’s report of the night before. “Demand that she tell you, and intimate that you know it was the gun with which Benson was shot. She’ll probably refuse to answer, and will tell you to get out. Then go downstairs and wait developments. If she ’phones, listen in at the switchboard. If she happens to send a note to anyone, intercept it. And if she goes out—which I hardly think likely—follow her and learn what you can. Let me hear from you the minute you get hold of anything.”
“I get you, Chief.” Phelps seemed pleased with the assignment, and departed with alacrity.
“Are such burglarious and eavesdropping methods considered ethical by your learned profession?” asked Vance. “I can’t harmonize such conduct with your other qualities, y’ know.”
Markham leaned back and gazed up at the chandelier.
“Personal ethics don’t enter into it. Or, if they do, they are crowded out by greater and graver considerations—by the higher demands of justice. Society must be protected; and the citizens of this county look to me for their security against the encroachments of criminals and evil-doers. Sometimes, in the pursuance of my duty, it is necessary to adopt courses of conduct that conflict with my personal instincts. I have no right to jeopardize the whole of society because of an assumed ethical obligation to an individual. . . . You understand, of course, that I would not use any information obtained by these unethical methods, unless it pointed to criminal activities on the part of that individual. And in such a case, I would have every right to use it, for the good of the community.”
“I dare say you’re right,” yawned Vance. “But society doesn’t int’rest me particularly. And I inf’nitely prefer good manners to righteousness.”
As he finished speaking Swacker announced Major Benson, who wanted to see Markham at once.
The Major was accompanied by a pretty young woman of about twenty-two with yellow bobbed hair, dressed daintily and simply in light blue crêpe de Chine. But for all her youthful and somewhat frivolous appearance, she possessed a reserve and competency of manner that immediately evoked one’s confidence.
Major Benson introduced her as his secretary, and Markham placed a chair for her facing his desk.
“Miss Hoffman has just told me something that I think is vital for you to know,” said the Major; “and I brought her directly to you.”
He seemed unusually serious, and his eyes held a look of expectancy colored with doubt.
“Tell Mr. Markham exactly what you told me, Miss Hoffman.”
The girl raised her head prettily, and related her story in a capable, well-modulated voice.
“About a week ago—I think it was Wednesday—Mr. Pfyfe called on Mr. Alvin Benson in his private office. I was in the next room, where my typewriter is located. There’s only a glass partition between the two rooms, and when anyone talks loudly in Mr. Benson’s office I can hear them. In about five minutes Mr. Pfyfe and Mr. Benson began to quarrel. I thought it was funny, for they were such good friends; but I didn’t pay much attention to it, and went on with my typing. Their voices got very loud, though, and I caught several words. Major Benson asked me this morning what the words were; so I suppose you want to know, too. Well, they kept referring to a note; and once or twice a check was mentioned. Several times I caught the word ‘father-in-law’, and once Mr. Benson said ‘nothing doing’. . . . Then Mr. Benson called me in and told me to get him an envelope marked ‘Pfyfe-Personal’ out of his private drawer in the safe. I got it for him, but right after that our bookkeeper wanted me for something, so I didn’t hear any more. About fifteen minutes later, when Mr. Pfyfe had gone, Mr. Benson called me to put the envelope back. And he told me that if Mr. Pfyfe ever called again, I wasn’t, under any circumstances, to let him into the private office unless he himself was there. He also told me that I wasn’t to give the envelope to anybody—not even on a written order. . . . And that is all, Mr. Markham.”
During her recital I had been as much interested in Vance’s actions as in what she had been saying. When first she had entered the room, his casual glance had quickly changed to one of attentive animation and he had studied her closely. When Markham had placed the chair for her, he had risen and reached for a book lying on the table near her; and, in doing so, he had leaned unnecessarily close to her in order to inspect—or so it appeared to me—the side of her head. And during her story he had continued his observation, at times bending slightly to the right or left to better his view of her. Unaccountable as his actions had seemed, I knew that some serious consideration had prompted the scrutiny.
When she finished speaking Major Benson reached in his pocket, and tossed a long manilla envelope on the desk before Markham.
“Here it is,” he said. “I got Miss Hoffman to bring it to me the moment she told me her story.”
Markham picked it up hesitantly, as if doubtful of his right to inspect its contents.
“You’d better look at it,” the Major advised. “That envelope may very possibly have an important bearing on the case.”
Markham removed the elastic band, and spread the contents of the envelope before him. They consisted of three items—a cancelled check for $10,000 made out to Leander Pfyfe and signed by Alvin Benson; a note for $10,000 to Alvin Benson signed by Pfyfe, and a brief confession, also signed by Pfyfe, saying the check was a forgery. The check was dated March 20th of the current year. The confession and the note were dated two days later. The note—which was for ninety days—fell due on Friday, June 21st, only three days off.
For fully five minutes Markham studied these documents in silence. Their sudden introduction into the case seemed to mystify him. Nor had any of the perplexity left his face when he finally put them back in the envelope.
He questioned the girl carefully, and had her repeat certain parts of her story. But nothing more could be learned from her; and at length he turned to the Major.
“I’ll keep this envelope a while, if you’ll let me. I don’t see its significance at present, but I’d like to think it over.”
When Major Benson and his secretary had gone, Vance rose and extended his legs.
“À la fin!” he murmured. “ ‘All things journey: sun and moon, morning, noon, and afternoon, night and all her stars.’ Videlicet: we begin to make progress.”
“What the devil are you driving at?” The new complication of Pfyfe’s peccadilloes had left Markham irritable.
“Int’restin’ young woman, this Miss Hoffman—eh, what?” Vance rejoined irrelevantly. “Didn’t care especially for the deceased Benson. And she fairly detests the aromatic Leander. He has prob’bly told her he was misunderstood by Mrs. Pfyfe, and invited