The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
Читать онлайн книгу.
the impression Vance had given him of knowing more than he cared to reveal.
“Have you tried to figure out just how Pfyfe and his Turtledove fit into the case?” Vance asked.
“Along with a few thousand other enigmas—yes,” was the petulant reply. “But the more I try to reason it out, the more of a mystery the whole thing becomes.”
“Loosely put, my dear Markham,” criticized Vance. “There are no mysteries originating in human beings, y’ know; there are only problems. And any problem originating in one human being can be solved by another human being. It merely requires a knowledge of the human mind, and the application of that knowledge to human acts. Simple, what?”
He glanced at the clock.
“I wonder how your Mr. Stitt is getting along with the Benson and Benson books. I await his report with anticipat’ry excitement.”
This was too much for Markham. The wearing-down process of Vance’s intimations and veiled innuendoes had at last dissipated his self-control. He bent forward and struck the desk angrily with his hand.
“I’m damned tired of this superior attitude of yours,” he complained hotly. “Either you know something or you don’t. If you don’t know anything, do me the favor of dropping these insinuations of knowledge. If you do know anything, it’s up to you to tell me. You’ve been hinting around in one way or another ever since Benson was shot. If you’ve got any idea who killed him, I want to know it.”
He leaned back, and took out a cigar. Not once did he look up as he carefully clipped the end and lit it. I think he was a little ashamed at having given way to his anger.
Vance had sat apparently unconcerned during the outburst. At length he stretched his legs, and gave Markham a long contemplative look.
“Y’ know, Markham old bean, I don’t blame you a bit for your unseemly ebullition. The situation has been most provokin’. But now, I fancy, the time has come to put an end to the comedietta. I really haven’t been spoofing, y’ know. The fact is, I’ve some most int’restin’ ideas on the subject.”
He stood up and yawned.
“It’s a beastly hot day, but it must be done—eh, what?
‘So nigh is grandeur to our dust,
So near is God to man.
When duty whispers low, Thou must,
The youth replies, I can.’
I’m the noble youth, don’t y’ know. And you’re the voice of duty—though you didn’t exactly whisper, did you? . . . Was aber ist deine Pflicht? And Goethe answered: Die Forderung des Tages. But—deuce take it!—I wish the demand had come on a cooler day.”
He handed Markham his hat.
“Come, Postume. To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.17 You are through with the office for to-day,—inform Swacker of the fact, will you?—there’s a dear! We attend upon a lady—Miss St. Clair, no less.”
Markham realized that Vance’s jesting manner was only the masquerade of a very serious purpose. Also, he knew that Vance would tell him what he knew or suspected only in his own way, and that, no matter how circuitous and unreasonable that way might appear, Vance had excellent reasons for following it. Furthermore, since the unmasking of Captain Leacock’s purely fictitious confession, he was in a state of mind to follow any suggestion that held the faintest hope of getting at the truth. He therefore rang at once for Swacker, and informed him he was quitting the office for the day.
In ten minutes we were in the subway on our way to 94 Riverside Drive.
17. This quotation from Ecclesiastes reminds me that Vance regularly read the Old Testament. “When I weary of the professional liter’ry man,” he once said, “I find stimulation in the majestic prose of the Bible. If the moderns feel that they simply must write, they should be made to spend at least two hours a day with the Biblical historians.”
CHAPTER XX
A LADY EXPLAINS
(Wednesday, June 19; 4.30 p.m.)
“The quest for enlightenment upon which we are now embarked,” said Vance, as we rode up town, “may prove a bit tedious. But you must exert your will-power, and bear with me. You can’t imagine what a ticklish task I have on my hands. And it’s not a pleasant one either. I’m a bit too young to be sentimental, and yet, d’ ye know, I’m half inclined to let your culprit go.”
“Would you mind telling me why we are calling on Miss St. Clair?” asked Markham resignedly.
Vance amiably complied.
“Not at all. Indeed, I deem it best for you to know. There are several points connected with the lady that need eluc’dation. First, there are the gloves and the hand-bag. Nor poppy nor mandragora shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep which thou ow’dst yesterday until you have learned about those articles—eh, what?—Then, you recall, Miss Hoffman told us that the Major was lending an ear when a certain lady called upon Benson the day he was shot. I suspect that the visitor was Miss St. Clair; and I am rather curious to know what took place in the office that day, and why she came back later. Also, why did she go to Benson’s for tea that afternoon? And what part did the jewels play in the chit-chat?—But there are other items. For example: Why did the Captain take his gun to her? What makes him think she shot Benson?—he really believes it, y’ know. And why did she think that he was guilty from the first?”
Markham looked sceptical.
“You expect her to tell us all this?”
“My hopes run high,” returned Vance. “With her verray parfit gentil knight jailed as a self-confessed murderer, she will have nothing to lose by unburdening her soul. . . . But we must have no blustering. Your police brand of aggressive cross-examination will, I assure you, have no effect upon the lady.”
“Just how do you propose to elicit your information?”
“With morbidezza, as the painters say. Much more refined and gentlemanly, y’ know.”
Markham considered a moment.
“I think I’ll keep out of it, and leave the Socratic elenctus entirely to you.”
“An extr’ordin’rily brilliant suggestion,” said Vance.
When we arrived Markham announced over the house-telephone that he had come on a vitally important mission; and we were received by Miss St. Clair without a moment’s delay. She was apprehensive, I imagine, concerning the whereabouts of Captain Leacock.
As she sat before us in her little drawing-room overlooking the Hudson, her face was quite pale, and her hands, though tightly clasped, trembled a little. She had lost much of her cold reserve, and there were unmistakable signs of sleepless worry about her eyes.
Vance went directly to the point. His tone was almost flippant in its lightness: it at once relieved the tension of the atmosphere, and gave an air bordering on inconsequentiality to our visit.
“Captain Leacock has, I regret to inform you, very foolishly confessed to the murder of Mr. Benson. But we are not entirely satisfied with his bona fides. We are, alas! awash between Scylla and Charybdis. We can not decide whether the Captain is a deep-dyed villain or a chevalier sans peur et sans reproche. His story of how he accomplished the dark deed is a bit sketchy: he is vague on certain essential details; and—what’s most confusin’—he turned the lights off in Benson’s hideous living-room by a switch which pos’tively doesn’t exist. Cons’quently, the suspicion