CHAPTER XXII

       VANCE OUTLINES A THEORY

       Table of Contents

      (Thursday, June 20; 9 a.m.)

      Markham came to Vance’s apartment at promptly nine o’clock the next morning. He was in bad humor.

      “Now, see here, Vance,” he said, as soon as he was seated at the table; “I want to know what was the meaning of your parting words last night.”

      “Eat your melon, old dear,” said Vance. “It comes from northern Brazil, and is very delicious. But don’t devitalize its flavor with pepper or salt. An amazin’ practice, that,—though not as amazin’ as stuffing a melon with ice-cream. The American does the most dumbfoundin’ things with ice-cream. He puts it on pie; he puts it in soda-water; he encases it in hard chocolate like a bon-bon; he puts it between sweet biscuits and calls the result an ice-cream sandwich; he even uses it instead of whipped cream in a Charlotte Russe. . . .”

      “What I want to know——” began Markham; but Vance did not permit him to finish.

      “It’s surprisin’, y’ know, the erroneous ideas people have about melons. There are only two species—the muskmelon and the watermelon. All breakfast melons—like cantaloups, citrons, nutmegs, Cassabas, and Honeydews—are varieties of the muskmelon. But people have the notion, d’ ye see, that cantaloup is a generic term. Philadelphians call all melons cantaloups; whereas this type of muskmelon was first cultivated in Cantalupo, Italy. . . .”

      “Very interesting,” said Markham, with only partly disguised impatience. “Did you intend by your remark last night——”

      “And after the melon, Currie has prepared a special dish for you. It’s my own gustat’ry chef-d’œuvre—with Currie’s collaboration, of course. I’ve spent months on its conception—composing and organizing it, so to speak. I haven’t named it yet,—perhaps you can suggest a fitting appellation. . . . To achieve this dish, one first chops up a hard-boiled egg and mixes it with grated Port du Salut cheese, adding a soupçon of tarragon. This paste is then enclosed in a filet of white perch—like a French pancake. It is tied with silk, rolled in a specially prepared almond batter, and cooked in sweet butter.—That, of course, is the barest outline of its manufacture, with all the truly exquisite details omitted.”

      “It sounds appetizing.” Markham’s tone was devoid of enthusiasm. “But I didn’t come here for a cooking lesson.”

      “Y’ know, you underestimate the importance of your ventral pleasures,” pursued Vance. “Eating is the one infallible guide to a people’s intellectual advancement, as well as the inev’table gauge of the individual’s temp’rament. The savage cooked and ate like a savage. In the early days of the human race, mankind was cursed with one vast epidemic of indigestion. There’s where his devils and demons and ideas of hell came from: they were the nightmares of his dyspepsia. Then, as man began to master the technique of cooking, he became civilized; and when he achieved the highest pinnacles of the culin’ry art, he also achieved the highest pinnacles of cultural and intellectual glory. When the art of the gourmet retrogressed, so did man. The tasteless, standardized cookery of America is typical of our decadence. A perfectly blended soup, Markham, is more ennoblin’ than Beethoven’s C-minor Symphony. . . .”

      Markham listened stolidly to Vance’s chatter during breakfast. He made several attempts to bring up the subject of the crime, but Vance glibly ignored each essay. It was not until Currie had cleared away the dishes that he referred to the object of Markham’s visit.

      “Did you bring the alibi reports?” was his first question.

      Markham nodded.

      “And it took me two hours to find Heath after you’d gone last night.”

      “Sad,” breathed Vance.

      He went to the desk, and took a closely written double sheet of foolscap from one of the compartments.

      “I wish you’d glance this over, and give me your learned opinion,” he said, handing the paper to Markham. “I prepared it last night after the concert.”

      I later took possession of the document, and filed it with my other notes and papers pertaining to the Benson case. The following is a verbatim copy:

      HYPOTHESIS

      Mrs. Anna Platz shot and killed Alvin Benson on the night of June 13th.

      PLACE

      She lived in the house, and admitted being there at the time the shot was fired.

      OPPORTUNITY

      She was alone in the house with Benson.

      All the windows were either barred or locked on the inside. The front door was locked. There was no other means of ingress.

      Her presence in the living-room was natural: she might have entered ostensibly to ask Benson a domestic question.

      Her standing directly in front of him would not necessarily have caused him to look up. Hence, his reading attitude.

      Who else could have come so close to him for the purpose of shooting him, without attracting his attention?

      He would not have cared how he appeared before his housekeeper. He had become accustomed to being seen by her without his teeth and toupee and in négligé condition.

      Living in the house, she was able to choose a propitious moment for the crime.

      TIME

      She waited up for him. Despite her denial, he might have told her when he would return.

      When he came in alone and changed to his smoking-jacket, she knew he was not expecting any late visitors.

      She chose a time shortly after his return because