The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
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on the steps could tap on the window or the iron bars, and attract the attention of anyone in this room?”
“Oh, yes, sir—easily. I did it myself once, when I went on an errand and forgot my key.”
“It’s quite likely, don’t you think, that the person who shot Mr. Benson obtained admittance that way?”
“Yes, sir.” She grasped eagerly at the suggestion.
“The person would have had to know Mr. Benson pretty well to tap on the window instead of ringing the bell. Don’t you agree with me, Mrs. Platz?”
“Yes—sir.” Her tone was doubtful: evidently the point was a little beyond her.
“If a stranger had tapped on the window would Mr. Benson have admitted him without his toupee?”
“Oh, no—he wouldn’t have let a stranger in.”
“You are sure the bell didn’t ring that night?”
“Positive, sir.” The answer was very emphatic.
“Is there a light on the front steps?”
“No, sir.”
“If Mr. Benson had looked out of the window to see who was tapping, could he have recognized the person at night?”
The woman hesitated.
“I don’t know—I don’t think so.”
“Is there any way you can see through the front door who is outside, without opening it?”
“No, sir. Sometimes I wished there was.”
“Then, if the person knocked on the window, Mr. Benson must have recognized the voice?”
“It looks that way, sir.”
“And you’re certain no one could have got in without a key?”
“How could they? The door locks by itself.”
“It’s the regulation spring-lock, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then it must have a catch you can turn off so that the door will open from either side even though it’s latched.”
“It did have a catch like that,” she explained, “but Mr. Benson had it fixed so’s it wouldn’t work. He said it was too dangerous,—I might go out and leave the house unlocked.”
Vance stepped into the hallway, and I heard him opening and shutting the front door.
“You’re right, Mrs. Platz,” he observed, when he came back. “Now tell me: are you quite sure no one had a key?”
“Yes, sir. No one but me and Mr. Benson had a key.”
Vance nodded his acceptance of her statement.
“You said you left your bed-room door open on the night Mr. Benson was shot. . . . Do you generally leave it open?”
“No, I ’most always shut it. But it was terrible close that night.”
“Then it was merely an accident you left it open?”
“As you might say.”
“If your door had been closed as usual, could you have heard the shot, do you think?”
“If I’d been awake, maybe. Not if I was sleeping, though. They got heavy doors in these old houses, sir.”
“And they’re beautiful, too,” commented Vance.
He looked admiringly at the massive mahogany double door that opened into the hall.
“Y’ know, Markham, our so-called civ’lization is nothing more than the persistent destruction of everything that’s beautiful and enduring, and the designing of cheap makeshifts. You should read Oswald Spengler’s Untergang des Abendlands—a most penetratin’ document. I wonder some enterprisin’ publisher hasn’t embalmed it in our native argot.18 The whole history of this degen’rate era we call modern civ’lization can be seen in our woodwork. Look at that fine old door, for instance, with its bevelled panels and ornamented bolection, and its Ionic pilasters and carved lintel. And then compare it with the flat, flimsy, machine-made, shellacked boards which are turned out by the thousand to-day. Sic transit....”
He studied the door for some time; then turned abruptly back to Mrs. Platz, who was eyeing him curiously and with mounting apprehension.
“What did Mr. Benson do with the box of jewels when he went out to dinner?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir,” she answered nervously. “He left them on the table there.”
“Did you see them after he had gone?”
“Yes; and I was going to put them away. But I decided I’d better not touch them.”
“And nobody came to the door, or entered the house, after Mr. Benson left?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“I’m positive, sir.”
Vance rose, and began to pace the floor. Suddenly, just as he was passing the woman, he stopped and faced her.
“Was your maiden name Hoffman, Mrs. Platz?”
The thing she had been dreading had come. Her face paled, her eyes opened wide, and her lower lip drooped a little.
Vance stood looking at her, not unkindly. Before she could regain control of herself, he said:
“I had the pleasure of meeting your charmin’ daughter recently.”
“My daughter. . . ?” the woman managed to stammer.
“Miss Hoffman, y’ know—the attractive young lady with the blond hair. Mr. Benson’s secret’ry.”
The woman sat erect, and spoke through clamped teeth.
“She’s not my daughter.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Platz!” Vance chided her, as if speaking to a child. “Why this foolish attempt at deception? You remember how worried you were when I accused you of having a personal interest in the lady who was here to tea with Mr. Benson? You were afraid I thought it was Miss Hoffman. . . . But why should you be anxious about her, Mrs. Platz? I’m sure she’s a very nice girl. And you really can’t blame her for preferring the name of Hoffman to that of Platz. Platz means generally a place, though it also means a crash or an explosion; and sometimes a Platz is a bun or a yeast-cake. But a Hoffman is a courtier—much nicer than being a yeast-cake, what?”
He smiled engagingly, and his manner had a quieting effect upon her.
“It isn’t that, sir,” she said, looking at him appealingly. “I made her take the name. In this country any girl who’s smart can get to be a lady, if she’s given a chance. And——”
“I understand perfectly,” Vance interposed pleasantly. “Miss Hoffman is clever, and you feared that the fact of your being a housekeeper, if it became known, would stand in the way of her success. So you elim’nated yourself, as it were, for her welfare. I think it was very generous of you. . . . Your daughter lives alone?”
“Yes, sir—in Morningside Heights. But I see her every week.” Her voice was barely audible.
“Of course—as often as you can, I’m sure. . . . Did you take the position as Mr. Benson’s housekeeper because she was his secret’ry?”
She looked up, a bitter expression in her eyes.
“Yes, sir—I did. She told me the kind of man he was; and he often made her come to the house here in the evenings to do extra work.”
“And