The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
had crept into his voice. It seemed unbelievable that he could be lying.
Vance again referred to the confession.
“You dictated: ‘I went to 87 West Forty-eighth Street, and entered the house by the front door.’ . . . Did you ring the bell? Or was the front door unlatched?”
Leacock was about to answer, but hesitated. Evidently he recalled the newspaper accounts of the housekeeper’s testimony in which she asserted positively that the bell had not rung that night.
“What difference does it make?” He was sparring for time.
“We’d like to know—that’s all,” Vance told him. “But no hurry.”
“Well, if it’s so important to you: I didn’t ring the bell; and the door wasn’t unlocked.” His hesitancy was gone. “Just as I reached the house, Benson drove up in a taxicab——”
“Just a moment. Did you happen to notice another car standing in front of the house? A grey Cadillac?”
“Why—yes.”
“Did you recognize its occupant?”
There was another short silence.
“I’m not sure. I think it was a man named Pfyfe.”
“He and Mr. Benson were outside at the same time, then?”
Leacock frowned.
“No—not at the same time. There was nobody there when I arrived. . . . I didn’t see Pfyfe until I came out a few minutes later.”
“He arrived in his car when you were inside,—is that it?”
“He must have.”
“I see. . . . And now to go back a little: Benson drove up in a taxicab. Then what?”
“I went up to him and said I wanted to speak to him. He told me to come inside, and we went in together. He used his latch-key.”
“And now, Captain, tell us just what happened after you and Mr. Benson entered the house.”
“He laid his hat and stick on the hat-rack, and we walked into the living-room. He sat down by the table, and I stood up and said—what I had to say. Then I drew my gun, and shot him.”
Vance was closely watching the man, and Markham was leaning forward tensely.
“How did it happen that he was reading at the time?”
“I believe he did pick up a book while I was talking. . . . Trying to appear indifferent, I reckon.”
“Think now: you and Mr. Benson went into the living-room directly from the hall, as soon as you entered the house?”
“Yes.”
“Then how do you account for the fact, Captain, that when Mr. Benson was shot he had on his smoking-jacket and slippers?”
Leacock glanced nervously about the room. Before he answered he wet his lips with his tongue.
“Now that I think of it, Benson did go upstairs for a few minutes first. . . . I guess I was too excited,” he added desperately, “to recollect everything.”
“That’s natural,” Vance said sympathetically. “But when he came downstairs did you happen to notice anything peculiar about his hair?”
Leacock looked up vaguely.
“His hair? I—don’t understand.”
“The color of it, I mean. When Mr. Benson sat before you under the table-lamp, didn’t you remark some—difference, let us say—in the way his hair looked?”
The man closed his eyes, as if striving to visualize the scene.
“No—I don’t remember.”
“A minor point,” said Vance indifferently. “Did Benson’s speech strike you as peculiar when he came downstairs—that is, was there a thickness, or slight impediment of any kind, in his voice?”
Leacock was manifestly puzzled.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “He seemed to talk the way he always talked.”
“And did you happen to see a blue jewel-case on the table?”
“I didn’t notice.”
Vance smoked a moment thoughtfully.
“When you left the room after shooting Mr. Benson, you turned out the lights, of course?”
When no immediate answer came, Vance volunteered the suggestion:
“You must have done so, for Mr. Pfyfe says the house was dark when he drove up.”
Leacock then nodded an affirmative.
“That’s right. I couldn’t recollect for the moment.”
“Now that you remember the fact, just how did you turn them off?”
“I——” he began, and stopped. Then, finally:
“At the switch.”
“And where is that switch located, Captain?”
“I can’t just recall.”
“Think a moment. Surely you can remember.”
“By the door leading into the hall, I think.”
“Which side of the door?”
“How can I tell?” the man asked piteously. “I was too—nervous. . . . But I think it was on the right-hand side of the door.”
“The right-hand side when entering or leaving the room?”
“As you go out.”
“That would be where the bookcase stands?”
“Yes.”
Vance appeared satisfied.
“Now, there’s the question of the gun,” he said. “Why did you take it to Miss St. Clair?”
“I was a coward,” the man replied. “I was afraid they might find it at my apartment. And I never imagined she would be suspected.”
“And when she was suspected, you at once took the gun away and threw it into the East River?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose there was one cartridge missing from the magazine, too—which in itself would have been a suspicious circumstance.”
“I thought of that. That’s why I threw the gun away.”
Vance frowned.
“That’s strange. There must have been two guns. We dredged the river, y’ know, and found a Colt automatic, but the magazine was full. . . . Are you sure, Captain, that it was your gun you took from Miss St. Clair’s and threw over the bridge?”
I knew no gun had been retrieved from the river, and I wondered what he was driving at. Was he, after all, trying to involve the girl? Markham, too, I could see, was in doubt.
Leacock made no answer for several moments. When he spoke, it was with dogged sullenness.
“There weren’t two guns. The one you found was mine. . . . I refilled the magazine myself.”
“Ah, that accounts for it.” Vance’s tone was pleasant and reassuring. “Just one more question, Captain. Why did you come here to-day and confess?”
Leacock thrust his chin out, and for the first time during the cross-examination his eyes became animated.
“Why? It was the only honorable thing to do. You had unjustly suspected an innocent person; and I didn’t want anyone else to suffer.”
This ended the interview. Markham had