it must have a catch you can turn off so that the door will open from either side even though it’s latched.”
“It did have a catch like that,” she explained, “but Mr. Benson had it fixed so’s it wouldn’t work. He said it was too dangerous,—I might go out and leave the house unlocked.”
Vance stepped into the hallway, and I heard him opening and shutting the front door.
“You’re right, Mrs. Platz,” he observed, when he came back. “Now tell me: are you quite sure no one had a key?”
“Yes, sir. No one but me and Mr. Benson had a key.”
Vance nodded his acceptance of her statement.
“You said you left your bed-room door open on the night Mr. Benson was shot. . . . Do you generally leave it open?”
“No, I ’most always shut it. But it was terrible close that night.”
“Then it was merely an accident you left it open?”
“As you might say.”
“If your door had been closed as usual, could you have heard the shot, do you think?”
“If I’d been awake, maybe. Not if I was sleeping, though. They got heavy doors in these old houses, sir.”
“And they’re beautiful, too,” commented Vance.
He looked admiringly at the massive mahogany double door that opened into the hall.
“Y’ know, Markham, our so-called civ’lization is nothing more than the persistent destruction of everything that’s beautiful and enduring, and the designing of cheap makeshifts. You should read Oswald Spengler’s Untergang des Abendlands—a most penetratin’ document. I wonder some enterprisin’ publisher hasn’t embalmed it in our native argot.18 The whole history of this degen’rate era we call modern civ’lization can be seen in our woodwork. Look at that fine old door, for instance, with its bevelled panels and ornamented bolection, and its Ionic pilasters and carved lintel. And then compare it with the flat, flimsy, machine-made, shellacked boards which are turned out by the thousand to-day. Sic transit....”
He studied the door for some time; then turned abruptly back to Mrs. Platz, who was eyeing him curiously and with mounting apprehension.
“What did Mr. Benson do with the box of jewels when he went out to dinner?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir,” she answered nervously. “He left them on the table there.”
“Did you see them after he had gone?”
“Yes; and I was going to put them away. But I decided I’d better not touch them.”
“And nobody came to the door, or entered the house, after Mr. Benson left?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“I’m positive, sir.”
Vance rose, and began to pace the floor. Suddenly, just as he was passing the woman, he stopped and faced her.
“Was your maiden name Hoffman, Mrs. Platz?”
The thing she had been dreading had come. Her face paled, her eyes opened wide, and her lower lip drooped a little.
Vance stood looking at her, not unkindly. Before she could regain control of herself, he said:
“I had the pleasure of meeting your charmin’ daughter recently.”
“My daughter. . . ?” the woman managed to stammer.
“Miss Hoffman, y’ know—the attractive young lady with the blond hair. Mr. Benson’s secret’ry.”
The woman sat erect, and spoke through clamped teeth.
“She’s not my daughter.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Platz!” Vance chided her, as if speaking to a child. “Why this foolish attempt at deception? You remember how worried you were when I accused you of having a personal interest in the lady who was here to tea with Mr. Benson? You were afraid I thought it was Miss Hoffman. . . . But why should you be anxious about her, Mrs. Platz? I’m sure she’s a very nice girl. And you really can’t blame her for preferring the name of Hoffman to that of Platz. Platz means generally a place, though it also means a crash or an explosion; and sometimes a Platz is a bun or a yeast-cake. But a Hoffman is a courtier—much nicer than being a yeast-cake, what?”
He smiled engagingly, and his manner had a quieting effect upon her.
“It isn’t that, sir,” she said, looking at him appealingly. “I made her take the name. In this country any girl who’s smart can get to be a lady, if she’s given a chance. And——”
“I understand perfectly,” Vance interposed pleasantly. “Miss Hoffman is clever, and you feared that the fact of your being a housekeeper, if it became known, would stand in the way of her success. So you elim’nated yourself, as it were, for her welfare. I think it was very generous of you. . . . Your daughter lives alone?”
“Yes, sir—in Morningside Heights. But I see her every week.” Her voice was barely audible.
“Of course—as often as you can, I’m sure. . . . Did you take the position as Mr. Benson’s housekeeper because she was his secret’ry?”
She looked up, a bitter expression in her eyes.
“Yes, sir—I did. She told me the kind of man he was; and he often made her come to the house here in the evenings to do extra work.”
“And you wanted to be here to protect her?”
“Yes, sir—that was it.”
“Why were you so worried the morning after the murder, when Mr. Markham here asked you if Mr. Benson kept any fire-arms around the house?”
The woman shifted her gaze.
“I—wasn’t worried.”
“Yes, you were, Mrs. Platz. And I’ll tell you why. You were afraid we might think Miss Hoffman shot him.”
“Oh, no, sir, I wasn’t!” she cried. “My girl wasn’t even here that night—I swear it!—she wasn’t here. . . .”
She was badly shaken: the nervous tension of a week had snapped, and she looked helplessly about her.
“Come, come, Mrs. Platz,” pleaded Vance consolingly. “No one believes for a moment that Miss Hoffman had a hand in Mr. Benson’s death.”
The woman peered searchingly into his face. At first she was loath to believe him,—it was evident that fear had long been preying on her mind,—and it took him fully a quarter of an hour to convince her that what he had said was true. When, finally, we left the house she was in a comparatively peaceful state of mind.
On our way to the Stuyvesant Club Markham was silent, completely engrossed with his thoughts. It was evident that the new facts educed by the interview with Mrs. Platz troubled him considerably.
Vance sat smoking dreamily, turning his head now and then to inspect the buildings we passed. We drove east through Forty-eighth Street, and when we came abreast of the New York Bible Society House he ordered the chauffeur to stop, and insisted that we admire it.
“Christianity,” he remarked, “has almost vindicated itself by its architecture alone. With few exceptions, the only buildings in this city that are not eyesores, are the churches and their allied structures. The American æsthetic credo is: Whatever’s big is beautiful. These depressin’ gargantuan boxes with rectangular holes in ’em, which are called skyscrapers, are worshipped by Americans simply because they’re huge. A box with forty rows of holes is twice as beautiful as a box with twenty rows. Simple formula, what? . . . Look at