The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
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to get the envelope for the Major?” asked Vance.
“Oh, no. After Mr. Pfyfe left last week, I put the package back in the safe along with the envelope. But Mr. Benson took it home with him last Thursday—the day he was killed.”
Markham was but mildly interested in the recital, and was about to bring the interview to a close when Vance spoke up.
“It was very good of you, Miss Hoffman, to take this trouble to tell us about the package; and now that you are here, there are one or two questions I’d like to ask. . . . How did Mr. Alvin Benson and the Major get along together?”
She looked at Vance with a curious little smile.
“They didn’t get along very well,” she said. “They were so different. Mr. Alvin Benson was not a very pleasant person, and not very honorable, I’m afraid. You’d never have thought they were brothers. They were constantly disputing about the business; and they were terribly suspicious of each other.”
“That’s not unnatural,” commented Vance, “seeing how incompatible their temp’raments were. . . . By the bye, how did this suspicion show itself?”
“Well, for one thing, they sometimes spied on each other. You see, their offices were adjoining, and they would listen to each other through the door. I did the secretarial work for both of them, and I often saw them listening. Several times they tried to find out things from me about each other.”
Vance smiled at her appreciatively.
“Not a pleasant position for you.”
“Oh, I didn’t mind it,” she smiled back. “It amused me.”
“When was the last time you caught either one of them listening?” he asked.
The girl quickly became serious.
“The very last day Mr. Alvin Benson was alive I saw the Major standing by the door. Mr. Benson had a caller—a lady—and the Major seemed very much interested. It was in the afternoon. Mr. Benson went home early that day—only about half an hour after the lady had gone. She called at the office again later, but he wasn’t there of course, and I told her he had already gone home.”
“Do you know who the lady was?” Vance asked her.
“No, I don’t,” she said. “She didn’t give her name.”
Vance asked a few other questions, after which we rode up town in the subway with Miss Hoffman, taking leave of her at Twenty-third Street.
Markham was silent and preoccupied during the trip. Nor did Vance make any comment until we were comfortably relaxed in the easy chairs of the Stuyvesant Club’s lounge-room. Then, lighting a cigarette lazily, he said:
“You grasp the subtle mental processes leading up to my prophecy about Miss Hoffman’s second coming—eh, what, Markham? Y’ see, I knew friend Alvin had not paid that forged check without security, and I also knew that the tiff must have been about the security, for Pfyfe was not really worrying about being jailed by his alter ego. I rather suspect Pfyfe was trying to get the security back before paying off the note, and was told there was ‘nothing doing’. . . . Moreover, Little Goldylocks may be a nice girl and all that; but it isn’t in the feminine temp’rament to sit next door to an altercation between two such rakes and not listen attentively. I shouldn’t care, y’ know, to have to decipher the typing she said she did during the episode. I was quite sure she heard more than she told; and I asked myself: Why this curtailment? The only logical answer was: Because the Major had suggested it. And since the gnädiges Fräulein was a forthright Germanic soul, with an inbred streak of selfish and cautious honesty, I ventured the prognostication that as soon as she was out from under the benev’lent jurisdiction of her tutor, she would tell us the rest, in order to save her own skin if the matter should come up later. . . . Not so cryptic when explained, what?”
“That’s all very well,” conceded Markham petulantly. “But where does it get us?”
“I shouldn’t say that the forward movement was entirely imperceptible.”
Vance smoked a while impassively.
“You realize, I trust,” he said, “that the mysterious package contained the security.”
“One might form such a conclusion,” agreed Markham. “But the fact doesn’t dumbfound me—if that’s what you’re hoping for.”
“And, of course,” pursued Vance easily, “your legal mind, trained in the technique of ratiocination, has already identified it as the box of jewels that Mrs. Platz espied on Benson’s table that fatal afternoon.”
Markham sat up suddenly; then sank back with a shrug.
“Even if it was,” he said, “I don’t see how that helps us. Unless the Major knew the package had nothing to do with the case, he would not have suggested to his secretary that she omit telling us about it.”
“Ah! But if the Major knew that the package was an irrelevant item in the case, then he must also know something about the case—eh, what? Otherwise, he couldn’t determine what was, and what was not, irrelevant. . . . I have felt all along that he knew more than he admitted. Don’t forget that he put us on the track of Pfyfe, and also that he was quite pos’tive Captain Leacock was innocent.”
Markham thought for several minutes.
“I’m beginning to see what you’re driving at,” he remarked slowly. “Those jewels, after all, may have an important bearing on the case. . . . I think I’ll have a chat with the Major about things.”
Shortly after dinner at the Club that night Major Benson came into the lounge-room where we had retired for our smoke; and Markham accosted him at once.
“Major, aren’t you willing to help me a little more in getting at the truth about your brother’s death?” he asked.
The other gazed at him searchingly: the inflection of Markham’s voice belied the apparent casualness of the question.
“God knows it’s not my wish to put obstacles in your way,” he said, carefully weighing each word. “I’d gladly give you any help I could. But there are one or two things I can not tell you at this time. . . . If there was only myself to be considered,” he added, “it would be different.”
“But you do suspect someone?” Vance put the question.
“In a way—yes. I overheard a conversation in Alvin’s office one day, that took on added significance after his death.”
“You shouldn’t let chivalry stand in the way,” urged Markham. “If your suspicion is unfounded, the truth will surely come out.”
“But when I don’t know, I certainly ought not to hazard a guess,” affirmed the Major. “I think it best that you solve this problem without me.”
Despite Markham’s importunities, he would say no more; and shortly afterward he excused himself and went out.
Markham, now profoundly worried, sat smoking restlessly, tapping the arm of his chair with his fingers.
“Well, old bean, a bit involved, what?” commented Vance.
“It’s not so damned funny,” Markham grumbled. “Everyone seems to know more about the case than the police or the District Attorney’s office.”
“Which wouldn’t be so disconcertin’ if they all weren’t so deuced reticent,” supplemented Vance cheerfully. “And the touchin’ part of it is that each of ’em appears to be keeping still in order to shield someone else. Mrs. Platz began it: she lied about Benson’s having any callers that afternoon, because she didn’t want to involve his tea companion. Miss St. Clair declined point-blank to tell you anything, because she obviously didn’t desire to cast suspicion on another. The Captain became voiceless the moment you suggested his affianced bride was entangled. Even Leander refused to extricate himself from a delicate situation lest he implicate another. And