CHAPTER X

       ELIMINATING A SUSPECT

       Table of Contents

      (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 sullen and indomitable in her manner, and she looked at me with a slightly challenging expression. Markham merely nodded to her, but Vance stood up and indicated a low tufted Morris chair near the fireplace, facing the front windows. She sat down on the edge of it, resting her elbows on its broad arms.

      “I have some questions to ask you, Mrs. Platz,” Vance began, fixing her sharply with his gaze; “and it will be best for everyone if you tell the whole truth. You understand me—eh, what?”

      The easy-going, half-whimsical manner he had taken with Markham had disappeared. He stood before the woman, stern and implacable.

      At his words she lifted her head. Her face was blank, but her mouth was set stubbornly, and a smouldering look in her eyes told of a suppressed anxiety.

      Vance waited a moment and then went on, enunciating each word with distinctness.

      “At what time, on the day Mr. Benson was killed, did the lady call here?”

      The woman’s gaze did not falter, but the pupils of her eyes dilated.

      “There was nobody here.”

      “Oh, yes, there was, Mrs. Platz.” Vance’s tone was assured. “What time did she call?”

      “Nobody was here, I tell you,” she persisted.

      Vance lit a cigarette with interminable deliberation, his eyes resting steadily on hers. He smoked placidly until her gaze dropped. Then he stepped nearer to her, and said firmly:

      “If you tell the truth no harm will come to you. But if you refuse any information you will find yourself in trouble. The withholding of evidence is a crime, y’ know, and the law will show you no mercy.”

      He made a sly grimace at Markham, who was watching the proceedings with interest.

      The woman now began to show signs of agitation. She drew in her elbows, and her breathing quickened.

      “In God’s name, I swear it!—there wasn’t anybody here.” A slight hoarseness gave evidence of her emotion.

      “Let us not invoke the Deity,” suggested Vance carelessly. “What time was the lady here?”

      She set her lips stubbornly, and for a whole minute there was silence in the room. Vance smoked quietly, but Markham held his cigar motionless between his thumb and forefinger in an attitude of expectancy.

      Again Vance’s impassive voice demanded: “What time was she here?”

      The woman clinched her hands with a spasmodic gesture, and thrust her head forward.

      “I tell you—I swear it——”

      Vance made a peremptory movement of his hand, and smiled coldly.

      “It’s no go,” he told her. “You’re acting stupidly. We’re here to get the truth—and you’re going to tell us.”

      “I’ve told you the truth.”

      “Is it going to be necess’ry for the District Attorney here to order you placed in custody?”

      “I’ve told you the truth,” she repeated.

      Vance crushed out his cigarette decisively in an ash-receiver on the table.

      “Right-o, Mrs. Platz. Since you refuse to tell me about the young woman who was here that afternoon, I’m going to tell you about her.”

      His manner was easy and cynical, and the woman watched him suspiciously.

      “Late in the afternoon of the day your employer was shot, the door-bell rang. Perhaps you had been informed by Mr. Benson that he was expecting a caller, what? Anyhow, you answered the door and admitted a charming young lady. You showed her into this room . . . and—what do you think, my dear Madam!—she took that very chair on which you are resting so uncomfortably.”

      He paused, and smiled tantalizingly.

      “Then,” he continued, “you served tea to the young lady and Mr. Benson. After a bit she departed, and Mr. Benson went upstairs to dress for dinner. . . . Y’ see, Mrs. Platz, I happen to know.”

      He lit another cigarette.

      “Did you notice the young lady particularly? If not, I’ll describe her to you. She was rather short—petite is the word. She had dark hair and dark eyes, and she was dressed quietly.”

      A change had come over the woman. Her eyes stared; her cheeks were now grey; and her breathing had become audible.

      “Now, Mrs. Platz,” demanded Vance sharply, “what have you to say?”

      She drew a deep breath.

      “There wasn’t anybody here,” she said doggedly. There was something almost admirable in her obstinacy.

      Vance considered a moment. Markham was about to speak, but evidently thought better of it, and sat watching the woman fixedly.

      “Your attitude is understandable,” Vance observed finally. “The young lady, of course, was well known to you, and you had a personal reason for not wanting it known she was here.”

      At these words she sat up straight, a look of terror in her face.

      “I never saw her before!” she cried; then stopped abruptly.

      “Ah!” Vance gave her an amused leer. “You had never seen the young lady before—eh, what? . . . That’s quite possible. But it’s immaterial. She’s a nice girl, though, I’m sure—even if she did have a dish of tea with your employer alone in his home.”

      “Did she tell you she was here?” The woman’s voice was listless. The reaction to her tense obduracy had left her apathetic.

      “Not exactly,” Vance replied. “But it wasn’t necess’ry: I knew without her informing me. . . . Just when did she arrive, Mrs. Platz?”

      “About a half-hour after Mr. Benson got here from the office.” She had at last given over