The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
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“Ah!” The Major’s exclamation was almost involuntary.
“But what’s that got to do with it?” asked Heath irritably. “Do you think he’s going to the chair to save her reputation?—Bunk! That sort of thing’s all right in the movies, but no man’s that crazy in real life.”
“I’m not so sure, Sergeant,” ventured Vance lazily. “Women are too sane and practical to make such foolish gestures; but men, y’ know, have an illim’table capacity for idiocy.”
He turned an inquiring gaze on Major Benson.
“Won’t you tell us why you think Leacock is playing Sir Galahad?”
But the Major took refuge in generalities, and was disinclined even to follow up his original intimation as to the cause of the Captain’s action. Vance questioned him for some time, but was unable to penetrate his reticence.
Heath, becoming restless, finally spoke up.
“You can’t argue Leacock’s guilt away, Mr. Vance. Look at the facts. He threatened Benson that he’d kill him if he caught him with the girl again. The next time Benson goes out with her, he’s found shot. Then Leacock hides his gun at her house, and when things begin to get hot, he takes it away and ditches it in the river. He bribes the hall-boy to alibi him; and he’s seen at Benson’s house at twelve-thirty that night. When he’s questioned he can’t explain anything. . . . If that ain’t an open-and-shut case, I’m a mock-turtle.”
“The circumstances are convincing,” admitted Major Benson. “But couldn’t they be accounted for on other grounds?”
Heath did not deign to answer the question.
“The way I see it,” he continued, “is like this: Leacock gets suspicious along about midnight, takes his gun and goes out. He catches Benson with the girl, goes in, and shoots him like he threatened. They’re both mixed up in it, if you ask me; but Leacock did the shooting. And now we got his confession. . . . There isn’t a jury in the country that wouldn’t convict him.”
“Probi et legales homines—oh, quite!” murmured Vance.
Swacker appeared at the door.
“The reporters are clamoring for attention,” he announced with a wry face.
“Do they know about the confession?” Markham asked Heath.
“Not yet. I haven’t told ’em anything so far—that’s why they’re clamoring, I guess. But I’ll give ’em an earful now, if you say the word.”
Markham nodded, and Heath started for the door. But Vance quickly planted himself in the way.
“Could you keep this thing quiet till to-morrow, Markham?” he asked.
Markham was annoyed.
“I could if I wanted to—yes. But why should I?”
“For your own sake, if for no other reason. You’ve got your prize safely locked up. Control your vanity for twenty-four hours. The Major and I both know that Leacock’s innocent, and by this time to-morrow the whole country’ll know it.”
Again an argument ensued; but the outcome, like that of the former argument, was a foregone conclusion. Markham had realized for some time that Vance had reason to be convinced of something which as yet he was unwilling to divulge. His opposition to Vance’s requests were, I had suspected, largely the result of an effort to ascertain this information; and I was positive of it now as he leaned forward and gravely debated the advisability of making public the Captain’s confession.
Vance, as heretofore, was careful to reveal nothing; but in the end his sheer determination carried his point; and Markham requested Heath to keep his own council until the next day. The Major, by a slight nod, indicated his approbation of the decision.
“You might tell the newspaper lads, though,” suggested Vance, “that you’ll have a rippin’ sensation for ’em to-morrow.”
Heath went out, crestfallen and glowering.
“A rash fella, the Sergeant—so impetuous!”
Vance again picked up the confession, and perused it.
“Now, Markham, I want you to bring your prisoner forth—habeas corpus and that sort of thing. Put him in that chair facing the window, give him one of the good cigars you keep for influential politicians, and then listen attentively while I politely chat with him. . . . The Major, I trust, will remain for the interlocut’ry proceedings.”
“That request, at least, I’ll grant without objections,” smiled Markham. “I had already decided to have a talk with Leacock.”
He pressed a buzzer, and a brisk, ruddy-faced clerk entered.
“A requisition for Captain Philip Leacock,” he ordered.
When it was brought to him he initialed it.
“Take it to Ben, and tell him to hurry.”
The clerk disappeared through the door leading to the outer corridor.
Ten minutes later a deputy sheriff from the Tombs entered with the prisoner.
CHAPTER XIX
VANCE CROSS-EXAMINES
(Wednesday, June 19; 3.30 p.m.)
Captain Leacock walked into the room with a hopeless indifference of bearing. His shoulders drooped; his arms hung listlessly. His eyes were haggard like those of a man who had not slept for days. On seeing Major Benson, he straightened a little and, stepping toward him, extended his hand. It was plain that, however much he may have disliked Alvin Benson, he regarded the Major as a friend. But suddenly, realizing the situation, he turned away, embarrassed.
The Major went quickly to him and touched him on the arm.
“It’s all right, Leacock,” he said softly. “I can’t think that you really shot Alvin.”
The Captain turned apprehensive eyes upon him.
“Of course, I shot him.” His voice was flat. “I told him I was going to.”
Vance came forward, and indicated a chair.
“Sit down, Captain. The District Attorney wants to hear your story of the shooting. The law, you understand, does not accept murder confessions without corroborat’ry evidence. And since, in the present case, there are suspicions against others than yourself, we want you to answer some questions in order to substantiate your guilt. Otherwise, it will be necess’ry for us to follow up our suspicions.”
Taking a seat facing Leacock, he picked up the confession.
“You say here you were satisfied that Mr. Benson had wronged you, and you went to his house at about half past twelve on the night of the thirteenth. . . . When you speak of his wronging you, do you refer to his attentions to Miss St. Clair?”
Leacock’s face betrayed a sulky belligerence.
“It doesn’t matter why I shot him.—Can’t you leave Miss St. Clair out of it?”
“Certainly,” agreed Vance. “I promise you she shall not be brought into it. But we must understand your motive thoroughly.”
After a brief silence Leacock said:
“Very well, then. That was what I referred to.”
“How did you know Miss St. Clair went to dinner with Mr. Benson that night?”
“I followed them to the Marseilles.”
“And then you went home?”
“Yes.”
“What