The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
requested that his visitor be shown into the lounge-room, and then added to Heath:
“You’d better remain, and hear what he has to say.”
Leander Pfyfe was an immaculate and exquisite personage. He approached us with a mincing gate of self-approbation. His legs, which were very long and thin, with knees that seemed to bend slightly inward, supported a short bulging torso; and his chest curved outward in a generous arc, like that of a pouter-pigeon. His face was rotund, and his jowls hung in two loops over a collar too tight for comfort. His blond sparse hair was brushed back sleekly; and the ends of his narrow, silken moustache were waxed into needle-points. He was dressed in light-grey summer flannels, and wore a pale turquoise-green silk shirt, a vivid foulard tie, and grey suède Oxfords. A strong odor of oriental perfume was given off by the carefully arranged batiste handkerchief in his breast pocket.
He greeted Markham with viscid urbanity, and acknowledged his introduction to us with a patronizing bow. After posing himself in a chair the attendant placed for him, he began polishing a gold-rimmed eye-glass which he wore on a ribbon, and fixed Markham with a melancholy gaze.
“A very sad occasion, this,” he sighed.
“Realizing your friendship for Mr. Benson,” said Markham, “I deplore the necessity of appealing to you at this time. It was very good of you, by the way, to come to the city to-day.”
Pfyfe made a mildly deprecating movement with his carefully manicured fingers. He was, he explained with an air of ineffable self-complacency, only too glad to discommode himself to give aid to servants of the public. A distressing necessity, to be sure; but his manner conveyed unmistakably that he knew and recognized the obligations attaching to the dictum of noblesse oblige, and was prepared to meet them.
He looked at Markham with a self-congratulatory air, and his eyebrows queried: “What can I do for you?” though his lips did not move.
“I understand from Major Anthony Benson,” Markham said, “that you were very close to his brother, and therefore might be able to tell us something of his personal affairs, or private social relationships, that would indicate a line of investigation.”
Pfyfe gazed sadly at the floor.
“Ah, yes. Alvin and I were very close,—we were, in fact, the most intimate of friends. You can not imagine how broken up I was at hearing of the dear fellow’s tragic end.” He gave the impression that here was a modern instance of Æneas and Achates. “And I was deeply grieved at not being able to come at once to New York to put myself at the service of those that needed me.”
“I’m sure it would have been a comfort to his other friends,” remarked Vance, with cool politeness. “But in the circumst’nces you will be forgiven.”
Pfyfe blinked regretfully.
“Ah, but I shall never forgive myself—though I cannot hold myself altogether blameworthy. Only the day before the tragedy I had started on a trip to the Catskills. I had even asked dear Alvin to go along; but he was too busy.” Pfyfe shook his head as if lamenting the incomprehensible irony of life. “How much better—ah, how infinitely much better—if only——”
“You were gone a very short time,” commented Markham, interrupting what promised to be a homily on perverse providence.
“True,” Pfyfe indulgently admitted. “But I met with a most unfortunate accident.” He polished his eye-glass a moment. “My car broke down, and I was necessitated to return.”
“What road did you take?” asked Heath.
Pfyfe delicately adjusted his eye-glass, and regarded the Sergeant with an intimation of boredom.
“My advice, Mr.—ah—Sneed——”
“Heath,” the other corrected him surlily.
“Ah, yes—Heath. . . . My advice, Mr. Heath, is, that if you are contemplating a motor trip to the Catskills, you apply to the Automobile Club of America for a road-map. My choice of itinerary might very possibly not suit you.”
He turned back to the District Attorney with an air that implied he preferred talking to an equal.
“Tell me, Mr. Pfyfe,” Markham asked; “did Mr. Benson have any enemies?”
The other appeared to think the matter over.
“No-o. Not one, I should say, who would actually have killed him as a result of animosity.”
“You imply nevertheless that he had enemies. Could you not tell us a little more?”
Pfyfe passed his hand gracefully over the tips of his golden moustache, and then permitted his index-finger to linger on his cheek in an attitude of meditative indecision.
“Your request, Mr. Markham,”—he spoke with pained reluctance—“brings up a matter which I hesitate to discuss. But perhaps it is best that I confide in you—as one gentleman to another. Alvin, in common with many other admirable fellows, had a—what shall I say?—a weakness—let me put it that way—for the fair sex.”
He looked at Markham, seeking approbation for his extreme tact in stating an indelicate truth.
“You understand,” he continued, in answer to the other’s sympathetic nod, “Alvin was not a man who possessed the personal characteristics that women hold attractive.” (I somehow got the impression that Pfyfe considered himself as differing radically from Benson in this respect.) “Alvin was aware of his physical deficiency, and the result was,—I trust you will understand my hesitancy in mentioning this distressing fact,—but the result was that Alvin used certain—ah—methods in his dealings with women, which you and I could never bring ourselves to adopt. Indeed—though it pains me to say it—he often took unfair advantage of women. He used underhand methods, as it were.”
He paused, apparently shocked by this heinous imperfection of his friend, and by the necessity of his own seemingly disloyal revelation.
“Was it one of these women whom Benson had dealt with unfairly, that you had in mind?” asked Markham.
“No—not the woman herself,” Pfyfe replied; “but a man who was interested in her. In fact, this man threatened Alvin’s life. You will appreciate my reluctance in telling you this; but my excuse is that the threat was made quite openly. There were several others besides myself who heard it.”
“That, of course, relieves you from any technical breach of confidence,” Markham observed.
Pfyfe acknowledged the other’s understanding with a slight bow.
“It happened at a little party of which I was the unfortunate host,” he confessed modestly.
“Who was the man?” Markham’s tone was polite but firm.
“You will comprehend my reticence. . . .” Pfyfe began. Then, with an air of righteous frankness, he leaned forward. “It might prove unfair to Alvin to withhold the gentleman’s name. . . . He was Captain Philip Leacock.”
He allowed himself the emotional outlet of a sigh.
“I trust you won’t ask me for the lady’s name.”
“It won’t be necessary,” Markham assured him. “But I’d appreciate your telling us a little more of the episode.”
Pfyfe complied with an expression of patient resignation.
“Alvin was considerably taken with the lady in question, and showed her many attentions which were, I am forced to admit, unwelcome. Captain Leacock resented these attentions; and at the little affair to which I had invited him and Alvin, some unpleasant and, I must say, unrefined words passed between them. I fear the wine had been flowing too freely, for Alvin was always punctilious—he was a man, indeed, skilled in the niceties of social intercourse; and the Captain, in an outburst of temper, told Alvin that, unless he left the lady strictly alone in the future, he would pay with his life. The Captain even went so far as to draw a revolver half-way out of his pocket.”