The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
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ergo sum,” murmured Vance. “Y’ know, the naturalistic philosophy of Descartes has always rather appealed to me. It was a departure from universal doubt and a seeking for positive knowledge in self-consciousness. Spinoza in his pantheism, and Berkeley in his idealism, quite misunderstood the significance of their precursor’s favorite enthymeme. Even Descartes’ errors were brilliant. His method of reasoning, for all its scientific inaccuracies, gave new signif’cation to the symbols of the analyst. The mind, after all, if it is to function effectively, must combine the mathematical precision of a natural science with such pure speculations as astronomy. For instance, Descartes’ doctrine of Vortices——”
“Oh, be quiet,” growled Markham. “I’m not insisting that you reveal your precious information. So why burden me with a dissertation on seventeenth-century philosophy?”
“Anyhow, you’ll admit, won’t you,” asked Vance lightly, “that, in elim’nating those disturbing cigarette butts, so to speak, I’ve elim’nated Miss St. Clair as a suspect?”
Markham did not answer at once. There was no doubt that the developments of the past hour had made a decided impression upon him. He did not underestimate Vance, despite his persistent opposition; and he knew that, for all his flippancy, Vance was fundamentally serious. Furthermore, Markham had a finely developed sense of justice. He was not narrow, even though obstinate at times; and I have never known him to close his mind to the possibilities of truth, however opposed to his own interests. It did not, therefore, surprise me in the least when, at last, he looked up with a gracious smile of surrender.
“You’ve made your point,” he said; “and I accept it with proper humility. I’m most grateful to you.”
Vance walked indifferently to the window and looked out.
“I am happy to learn that you are capable of accepting such evidence as the human mind could not possibly deny.”
I had always noticed, in the relationship of these two men, that whenever either made a remark that bordered on generosity, the other answered in a manner which ended all outward show of sentiment. It was as if they wished to keep this more intimate side of their mutual regard hidden from the world.
Markham therefore ignored Vance’s thrust.
“Have you perhaps any enlightening suggestions, other than negative ones, to offer as to Benson’s murderer?” he asked.
“Rather!” said Vance. “No end of suggestions.”
“Could you spare me a good one?” Markham imitated the other’s playful tone.
Vance appeared to reflect.
“Well, I should advise that, as a beginning, you look for a rather tall man, cool-headed, familiar with fire-arms, a good shot, and fairly well known to the deceased—a man who was aware that Benson was going to dinner with Miss St. Clair, or who had reason to suspect the fact.”
Markham looked narrowly at Vance for several moments.
“I think I understand. . . . Not a bad theory, either. You know, I’m going to suggest immediately to Heath that he investigate more thoroughly Captain Leacock’s activities on the night of the murder.”
“Oh, by all means,” said Vance carelessly, going to the piano.
Markham watched him with an expression of puzzled interrogation. He was about to speak when Vance began playing a rollicking French café song which opens, I believe, with
“Ils sont dans les vignes les moineaux.”
CHAPTER XI
A MOTIVE AND A THREAT
(Sunday, June 16; afternoon.)
The following day, which was Sunday, we lunched with Markham at the Stuyvesant Club. Vance had suggested the appointment the evening before; for, as he explained to me, he wished to be present in case Leander Pfyfe should arrive from Long Island.
“It amuses me tremendously,” he had said, “the way human beings delib’rately complicate the most ordin’ry issues. They have a downright horror of anything simple and direct. The whole modern commercial system is nothing but a colossal mechanism for doing things in the most involved and roundabout way. If one makes a ten-cent purchase at a department store nowadays, a complete history of the transaction is written out in triplicate, checked by a dozen floor-walkers and clerks, signed and countersigned, entered into innum’rable ledgers with various colored inks, and then elab’rately secreted in steel filing-cabinets. And not content with all this superfluous chinoiserie, our business men have created a large and expensive army of efficiency experts whose sole duty it is to complicate and befuddle this system still further. . . . It’s the same with everything else in modern life. Regard that insup’rable mania called golf. It consists merely of knocking a ball into a hole with a stick. But the devotees of this pastime have developed a unique and distinctive livery in which to play it. They concentrate for twenty years on the correct angulation of their feet and the proper method of entwining their fingers about the stick. Moreover, in order to discuss the pseudo-intr’cacies of this idiotic sport, they’ve invented an outlandish vocabulary which is unintelligible even to an English scholar.”
He pointed disgustedly at a pile of Sunday newspapers.
“Then here’s this Benson murder—a simple and incons’quential affair. Yet the entire machinery of the law is going at high pressure and blowing off jets of steam all over the community, when the matter could be settled quietly in five minutes with a bit of intelligent thinking.”
At lunch, however, he did not refer to the crime; and, as if by tacit agreement, the subject was avoided. Markham had merely mentioned casually to us as we went into the dining-room that he was expecting Heath a little later.
The sergeant was waiting for us when we retired to the lounge-room for our smoke, and by his expression it was evident he was not pleased with the way things were going.
“I told you, Mr. Markham,” he said, when he had drawn up our chairs, “that this case was going to be a tough one. . . . Could you get any kind of a lead from the St. Clair woman?”
Markham shook his head.
“She’s out of it.” And he recounted briefly the happenings at Benson’s house the preceding afternoon.
“Well, if you’re satisfied,” was Heath’s somewhat dubious comment, “that’s good enough for me. But what about this Captain Leacock?”
“That’s what I asked you here to talk about,” Markham told him. “There’s no direct evidence against him, but there are several suspicious circumstances that tend to connect him with the murder. He seems to meet the specifications as to height; and we mustn’t overlook the fact that Benson was shot with just such a gun as Leacock would be likely to possess. He was engaged to the girl, and a motive might be found in Benson’s attentions to her.”
“And ever since the big scrap,” supplemented Heath, “these army boys don’t think anything of shooting people. They got used to blood on the other side.”
“The only hitch,” resumed Markham, “is that Phelps, who had the job of checking up on the Captain, reported to me that he was home that night from eight o’clock on. Of course, there may be a loop-hole somewhere, and I was going to suggest that you have one of your men go into the matter thoroughly and see just what the situation is. Phelps got his information from one of the hall-boys; and I think it might be well to get hold of the boy again and apply a little pressure. If it was found that Leacock was not at home at twelve-thirty that night, we might have the lead you’ve been looking for.”
“I’ll attend to it myself,” said Heath. “I’ll go round there to-night, and if this boy knows anything, he’ll spill it before I’m through with him.”
We