The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
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misspoke myself; forgive me. It was not a revolver. It was, I believe, an automatic army pistol—though, you understand, I didn’t see it in its entirety.”
“You say there were others who witnessed the altercation?”
“Several of my guests were standing about,” Pfyfe explained; “but, on my word, I couldn’t name them. The fact is, I attached little importance to the threat—indeed, it had entirely slipped my memory until I read the account of poor Alvin’s death. Then I thought at once of the unfortunate incident, and said to myself: Why not tell the District Attorney. . . ?”
“Thoughts that breathe and words that burn,” murmured Vance, who had been sitting through the interview in oppressive boredom.
Pfyfe once more adjusted his eye-glass, and gave Vance a withering look.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
Vance smiled disarmingly.
“Merely a quotation from Gray. Poetry appeals to me in certain moods, don’t y’ know. . . . Do you, by any chance, know Colonel Ostrander?”
Pfyfe looked at him coldly, but only a vacuous countenance met his gaze.
“I am acquainted with the gentleman,” he replied haughtily.
“Was Colonel Ostrander present at this delightful little social affair of yours?” Vance’s tone was artlessly innocent.
“Now that you mention it, I believe he was,” admitted Pfyfe, and lifted his eyebrows inquisitively.
But Vance was again staring disinterestedly out of the window.
Markham, annoyed at the interruption, attempted to re-establish the conversation on a more amiable and practical basis. But Pfyfe, though loquacious, had little more information to give. He insisted constantly on bringing the talk back to Captain Leacock, and, despite his eloquent protestations, it was obvious he attached more importance to the threat than he chose to admit. Markham questioned him for fully an hour, but could learn nothing else of a suggestive nature.
When Pfyfe rose to go Vance turned from his contemplation of the outside world and, bowing affably, let his eyes rest on the other with ingenuous good-nature.
“Now that you are in New York, Mr. Pfyfe, and were so unfortunate as to be unable to arrive earlier, I assume that you will remain until after the investigation.”
Pfyfe’s studied and habitual calm gave way to a look of oily astonishment.
“I hadn’t contemplated doing so.”
“It would be most desirable—if you could arrange it,” urged Markham; though I am sure he had no intention of making the request until Vance suggested it.
Pfyfe hesitated, and then made an elegant gesture of resignation.
“Certainly I shall remain. When you have further need of my services, you will find me at the Ansonia.”
He spoke with exalted condescension, and magnanimously conferred upon Markham a parting smile. But the smile did not spring from within. It appeared to have been adjusted upon his features by the unseen hands of a sculptor; and it affected only the muscles about his mouth.
When he had gone Vance gave Markham a look of suppressed mirth.
“ ‘Elegancy, facility and golden cadence.’ . . . But put not your faith in poesy, old dear. Our Ciceronian friend is an unmitigated fashioner of deceptions.”
“If you’re trying to say that he’s a smooth liar,” remarked Heath, “I don’t agree with you. I think that story about the Captain’s threat is straight goods.”
“Oh, that! Of course, it’s true. . . . And, y’ know, Markham, the knightly Mr. Pfyfe was frightfully disappointed when you didn’t insist on his revealing Miss St. Clair’s name. This Leander, I fear, would never have swum the Hellespont for a lady’s sake.”
“Whether he’s a swimmer or not,” said Heath impatiently, “he’s given us something to go on.”
Markham agreed that Pfyfe’s recital had added materially to the case against Leacock.
“I think I’ll have the Captain down to my office to-morrow, and question him,” he said.
A moment later Major Benson entered the room, and Markham invited him to join us.
“I just saw Pfyfe get into a taxi,” he said, when he had sat down. “I suppose you’ve been asking him about Alvin’s affairs. . . . Did he help you any?”
“I hope so, for all our sakes,” returned Markham kindly. “By the way, Major, what do you know about a Captain Philip Leacock?”
Major Benson lifted his eyes to Markham’s in surprise.
“Didn’t you know? Leacock was one of the captains in my regiment,—a first-rate man. He knew Alvin pretty well, I think; but my impression is they didn’t hit it off very chummily. . . . Surely you don’t connect him with this affair?”
Markham ignored the question.
“Did you happen to attend a party of Pfyfe’s the night the Captain threatened your brother?”
“I went, I remember, to one or two of Pfyfe’s parties,” said the Major. “I don’t, as a rule, care for such gatherings, but Alvin convinced me it was a good business policy.”
He lifted his head, and frowned fixedly into space, like one searching for an elusive memory.
“However, I don’t recall—By George! Yes, I believe I do. . . . But if the instance I am thinking of is what you have in mind, you can dismiss it. We were all a little moist that night.”
“Did Captain Leacock draw a gun?” asked Heath.
The Major pursed his lips.
“Now that you mention it, I think he did make some motion of the kind.”
“Did you see the gun?” pursued Heath.
“No, I can’t say that I did.”
Markham put the next question.
“Do you think Captain Leacock capable of the act of murder?”
“Hardly,” Major Benson answered with emphasis. “Leacock isn’t cold-blooded. The woman over whom the tiff occurred is more capable of such an act than he is.”
A short silence followed, broken by Vance.
“What do you know, Major, about this glass of fashion and mould of form, Pfyfe? He appears a rare bird. Has he a history, or is his presence his life’s document?”
“Leander Pfyfe,” said the Major, “is a typical specimen of the modern young do-nothing,—I say young, though I imagine he’s around forty. He was pampered in his upbringing—had everything he wanted, I believe; but he became restless, and followed several different fads till he tired of them. He was two years in South Africa hunting big game, and, I think, wrote a book recounting his adventures. Since then he has done nothing that I know of. He married a wealthy shrew some years ago—for her money, I imagine. But the woman’s father controls the purse-strings, and holds him down to a rigid allowance. . . . Pfyfe’s a waster and an idler, but Alvin seemed to find some attraction in the man.”
The Major’s words had been careless in inflection and undeliberated, like those of a man discussing a neutral matter; but all of us, I think, received the impression that he had a strong personal dislike for Pfyfe.
“Not a ravishing personality, what?” remarked Vance. “And he uses far too much Jicky.”
“Still,” supplied Heath, with a puzzled frown, “a fellow’s got to have a lot of nerve to shoot big game. . . . And, speaking of nerve, I’ve been thinking that the guy who shot your brother, Major, was a mighty cool-headed proposition. He did it from the front when his man was wide awake,