The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
Читать онлайн книгу.
admiring satisfaction. Vance was watching Markham out of the corner of his eye, a drowsy smile on his lips. The expressions and attitudes of the three men conveyed perfectly their varying individual reactions to the interview—Markham troubled, the Major pleased, Vance cynical.
It was Vance who broke the silence. He spoke easily, almost lazily.
“You see how silly the confession is, what? Our pure and lofty Captain is an incredibly poor Munchausen. No one could lie as badly as he did who hadn’t been born into the world that way. It’s simply impossible to imitate such stupidity. And he did so want us to think him guilty. Very affectin’. He prob’bly imagined you’d merely stick the confession in his shirt-front and send him to the hangman. You noticed, he hadn’t even decided how he got into Benson’s house that night. Pfyfe’s admitted presence outside almost spoiled his impromptu explanation of having entered bras dessus bras dessous with his intended victim. And he didn’t recall Benson’s semi-négligé attire. When I reminded him of it, he had to contradict himself, and send Benson trotting upstairs to make a rapid change. Luckily, the toupee wasn’t mentioned by the newspapers. The Captain couldn’t imagine what I meant when I intimated that Benson had dyed his hair when changing his coat and shoes. . . . By the bye, Major, did your brother speak thickly when his false teeth were out?”
“Noticeably so,” answered the Major. “If Alvin’s plate had been removed that night—as I gathered it had been from your question—Leacock would surely have noticed it.”
“There were other things he didn’t notice,” said Vance: “the jewel-case, for instance, and the location of the electric-light switch.”
“He went badly astray on that point,” added the Major. “Alvin’s house is old-fashioned, and the only switch in the room is a pendant one attached to the chandelier.”
“Exactly,” said Vance. “However, his worst break was in connection with the gun. He gave his hand away completely there. He said he threw the pistol into the river largely because of the missing cartridge, and when I told him the magazine was full, he explained that he had refilled it, so I wouldn’t think it was anyone else’s gun that was found. . . . It’s plain to see what’s the matter. He thinks Miss St. Clair is guilty, and is determined to take the blame.”
“That’s my impression,” said Major Benson.
“And yet,” mused Vance, “the Captain’s attitude bothers me a little. There’s no doubt he had something to do with the crime, else why should he have concealed his pistol the next day in Miss St. Clair’s apartment? He’s just the kind of silly beggar, d’ ye see, who would threaten any man he thought had designs on his fiancée, and then carry out the threat if anything happened. And he has a guilty conscience—that’s obvious. But for what? Certainly not the shooting. The crime was planned; and the Captain never plans. He’s the kind that gets an idée fixe, girds up his loins, and does the deed in knightly fashion, prepared to take the cons’quences. That sort of chivalry, y’ know, is sheer beau geste: its acolytes want everyone to know of their valor. And when they go forth to rid the world of a Don Juan, they’re always clear-minded. The Captain, for instance, wouldn’t have overlooked his Lady Fair’s gloves and hand-bag,—he would have taken ’em away. In fact, it’s just as certain he would have shot Benson as it is he didn’t shoot him. That’s the beetle in the amber. It’s psychologically possible he would have done it, and psychologically impossible he would have done it the way it was done.”
He lit a cigarette and watched the drifting spirals of smoke.
“If it wasn’t so fantastic, I’d say he started out to do it, and found it already done. And yet, that’s about the size of it. It would account for Pfyfe’s seeing him there, and for his secreting the gun at Miss St. Clair’s the next day.”
The telephone rang: Colonel Ostrander wanted to speak to the District Attorney. Markham, after a short conversation, turned a disgruntled look upon Vance.
“Your blood-thirsty friend wanted to know if I’d arrested anyone yet. He offered to confer more of his invaluable suggestions upon me in case I was still undecided as to who was guilty.”
“I heard you thanking him fulsomely for something or other. . . . What did you give him to understand about your mental state?”
“That I was still in the dark.”
Markham’s answer was accompanied by a sombre, tired smile. It was his way of telling Vance that he had entirely rejected the idea of Captain Leacock’s guilt.
The Major went to him and held out his hand.
“I know how you feel,” he said. “This sort of thing is discouraging; but it’s better that the guilty person should escape altogether than that an innocent man should be made to suffer. . . . Don’t work too hard, and don’t let these disappointments get to you. You’ll soon hit on the right solution, and when you do——” His jaw snapped shut, and he uttered the rest of the sentence between clenched teeth. “—you’ll meet with no opposition from me. I’ll help you put the thing over.”
He gave Markham a grim smile, and took up his hat.
“I’m going back to the office now. If you want me at any time, let me know. I may be able to help you—later on.”
With a friendly, appreciative bow to Vance, he went out.
Markham sat in silence for several minutes.
“Damn it, Vance!” he said irritably. “This case gets more difficult by the hour. I feel worn out.”
“You really shouldn’t take it so seriously, old dear,” Vance advised lightly. “It doesn’t pay y’ know, to worry over the trivia of existence.
‘Nothing’s new,
And nothing’s true,
And nothing really matters.’
Several million johnnies were killed in the war, and you don’t let the fact bedevil your phagocytes or inflame your brain-cells. But when one rotter is mercifully shot in your district, you lie awake nights perspiring over it, what? My word! You’re deucedly inconsistent.”
“Consistency——” began Markham; but Vance interrupted him.
“Now don’t quote Emerson. I inf’nitely prefer Erasmus. Y’ know, you ought to read his Praise of Folly, it would cheer you no end. That goaty old Dutch professor would never have grieved inconsolably over the destruction of Alvin Le Chauve.”
“I’m not a fruges consumere natus like you,” snapped Markham. “I was elected to this office——”
“Oh, quite,—‘loved I not honor more’ and all that,” Vance chimed in. “But don’t be so sens’tive. Even if the Captain has succeeded in bungling his way out of jail, you have at least five possibilities left. There’s Mrs. Platz . . . and Pfyfe . . . and Colonel Ostrander . . . and Miss Hoffman . . . and Mrs. Banning.—I say! Why don’t you arrest ’em all, one at a time, and get ’em to confess? Heath would go crazy with joy.”
Markham was in too crestfallen a mood to resent this chaffing. Indeed, Vance’s light-heartedness seemed to buoy him up.
“If you want the truth,” he said; “that’s exactly what I feel like doing. I am restrained merely by my indecision as to which one to arrest first.”
“Stout fella!” Then Vance asked: “What are you going to do with the Captain now? It’ll break his heart if you release him.”
“His heart’ll have to break, I’m afraid.” Markham reached for the telephone. “I’d better see to the formalities now.”
“Just a moment!” Vance put forth a restraining hand. “Don’t end his rapturous martyrdom just yet. Let him be happy for another day at least. I’ve a notion he may be most useful to us, pining away in his lonely cell like the prisoner of Chillon.”
Markham put down the telephone without a word. More and more, I had noticed, he was