The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
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moment had arrived. Before she could gain her equilibrium or dispel the momentary fear which had assailed her, he said, with suave deliberation:
“The day Mr. Benson was shot he took home with him from the office a small blue box of jewels.”
She caught her breath, but otherwise gave no outward sign of emotion.
“Do you think he had stolen them?”
The moment she had uttered the question she realized that it was a mistake in technique. An ordinary man might have been momentarily diverted from the truth by it. But by Vance’s smile she recognized that he had accepted it as an admission.
“It was rather fine of you, y’ know, to lend Mr. Pfyfe your jewels to cover the note with.”
At this she threw her head up. The blood had left her face, and the rouge on her cheeks took on a mottled and unnatural hue.
“You say I lent my jewels to Andy! I swear to you——”
Vance halted her denial with a slight movement of the hand and a coup d’œil. She saw that his intention was to save her from the humiliation she might feel later at having made too emphatic and unqualified a statement; and the graciousness of his action, although he was an antagonist, gave her more confidence in him.
She sank back into her chair, and her hands relaxed.
“What makes you think I lent Andy my jewels?”
Her voice was colorless, but Vance understood the question. It was the end of her deceptions. The pause which followed was an amnesty—recognized as such by both. The next spoken words would be the truth.
“Andy had to have them,” she said, “or Benson would have put him in jail.” One read in her words a strange, self-sacrificing affection for the worthless Pfyfe. “And if Benson hadn’t done it, and had merely refused to honor the check, his father-in-law would have done it. . . . Andy is so careless, so unthinking. He does things without weighing the consequences: I am all the time having to hold him down. . . . But this thing has taught him a lesson—I’m sure of it.”
I felt that if anything in the world could teach Pfyfe a lesson, it was the blind loyalty of this woman.
“Do you know what he quarrelled about with Mr. Benson in his office last Wednesday?” asked Vance.
“That was all my fault,” she explained, with a sigh. “It was getting very near to the time when the note was due, and I knew Andy didn’t have all the money. So I asked him to go to Benson and offer him what he had, and see if he couldn’t get my jewels back. . . . But he was refused,—I thought he would be.”
Vance looked at her for a while sympathetically.
“I don’t want to worry you any more than I can help,” he said; “but won’t you tell me the real cause of your anger against Benson a moment ago?”
She gave him an admiring nod.
“You’re right—I had good reason to hate him.” Her eyes narrowed unpleasantly. “The day after he had refused to give Andy the jewels, he called me up—it was in the afternoon—and asked me to have breakfast with him at his house the next morning. He said he was home and had the jewels with him; and he told me—hinted, you understand—that maybe—maybe I could have them.—That’s the kind of beast he was! . . . I telephoned to Port Washington to Andy and told him about it, and he said he’d be in New York the next morning. He got here about nine o’clock, and we read in the paper that Benson had been shot that night.”
Vance was silent for a long time. Then he stood up and thanked her.
“You have helped us a great deal. Mr. Markham is a friend of Major Benson’s, and, since we have the check and the confession in our possession, I shall ask him to use his influence with the Major to permit us to destroy them—very soon.”
CHAPTER XVIII
A CONFESSION
(Wednesday, June 19; 1 p.m.)
When we were again outside Markham asked:
“How in Heaven’s name did you know she had put up her jewels to help Pfyfe?”
“My charmin’ metaphysical deductions, don’t y’ know,” answered Vance. “As I told you, Benson was not the open-handed, big-hearted altruist who would have lent money without security; and certainly the impecunious Pfyfe had no collateral worth ten thousand dollars, or he wouldn’t have forged the check. Ergo: someone lent him the security. Now, who would be so trustin’ as to lend Pfyfe that amount of security except a sentimental woman who was blind to his amazin’ defects? Y’ know, I was just evil-minded enough to suspect there was a Calypso in the life of this Ulysses when he told us of stopping over in New York to murmur au revoir to someone. When a man like Pfyfe fails to specify the sex of a person, it is safe to assume the feminine gender. So I suggested that you send a Paul Pry to Port Washington to peer into his trans-matrimonial activities: I felt certain a bonne amie would be found. Then, when the mysterious package, which obviously was the security, seemed to identify itself as the box of jewels seen by the inquisitive housekeeper, I said to myself: ‘Ah! Leander’s misguided Dulcinea has lent him her gewgaws to save him from the yawning dungeon.’ Nor did I overlook the fact that he had been shielding someone in his explanation about the check. Therefore, as soon as the lady’s name and address were learned by Tracy, I made the appointment for you. . . .”
We were passing the Gothic-Renaissance Schwab residence which extends from West End Avenue to Riverside Drive at Seventy-third Street; and Vance stopped for a moment to contemplate it.
Markham waited patiently. At length Vance walked on.
“ . . . Y’ know, the moment I saw Mrs. Banning I knew my conclusions were correct. She was a sentimental soul, and just the sort of professional good sport who would have handed over her jewels to her amoroso. Also, she was bereft of gems when we called,—and a woman of her stamp always wears her jewels when she desires to make an impression on strangers. Moreover, she’s the kind that would have jewellery even if the larder was empty. It was therefore merely a question of getting her to talk.”
“On the whole, you did very well,” observed Markham.
Vance gave him a condescending bow.
“Sir Hubert is too generous.—But tell me, didn’t my little chat with the lady cast a gleam into your darkened mind?”
“Naturally,” said Markham. “I’m not utterly obtuse. She played unconsciously into our hands. She believed Pfyfe did not arrive in New York until the morning after the murder, and therefore told us quite frankly that she had ’phoned him that Benson had the jewels at home. The situation now is: Pfyfe knew they were in Benson’s house, and was there himself at about the time the shot was fired. Furthermore, the jewels are gone; and Pfyfe tried to cover up his tracks that night.”
Vance sighed hopelessly.
“Markham, there are altogether too many trees for you in this case. You simply can’t see the forest, y’ know, because of ’em.”
“There is the remote possibility that you are so busily engaged in looking at one particular tree that you are unaware of the others.”
A shadow passed over Vance’s face.
“I wish you were right,” he said.
It was nearly half past one, and we dropped into the Fountain Room of the Ansonia Hotel for lunch. Markham was preoccupied throughout the meal, and when we entered the subway later, he looked uneasily at his watch.
“I think I’ll go on down to Wall Street and call on the Major a moment before returning to the office. I can’t understand his asking Miss Hoffman not to mention the package to me. . . . It might not have contained the