# The Benson Murder Case/Chapter 7

(Saturday, June 15; 3 p.m.)
We entered the ancient building, with its discolored marble pillars and balustrades and its old-fashioned iron scroll-work, by the Franklin Street door, and went directly to the District Attorney's office on the fourth floor. The office, like the building, breathed an air of former days. Its high ceilings, its massive golden-oak woodwork, its elaborate low-hung chandelier of bronze and china, its dingy bay walls of painted plaster, and its four high narrow windows to the south—all bespoke a departed era in architecture and decoration.
On the floor was a large velvet carpet-rug of dingy brown; and the windows were hung with velour draperies of the same color. Several large comfortable chairs stood about the walls and before the long oak table in front of the District Attorney's desk. This desk, directly under the windows and facing the room, was broad and flat, with carved uprights and two rows of drawers extending to the floor. To the right of the high-backed swivel desk-chair, was another table of carved oak. There were also several filing cabinets in the room, and a large safe. In the center of the east wall a leather-covered door, dec​orated with large brass nail-heads, led into a long narrow room, between the office and the waiting-room, where the District Attorney's secretary and several clerks had their desks. Opposite to this door was another one opening into the District Attorney's inner sanctum; and still another door, facing the windows, gave on the main corridor.
Vance glanced over the room casually.
"So this is the matrix of municipal justice—eh, what?" He walked to one of the windows and looked out upon the grey circular tower of the Tombs opposite. "And there, I take it, are the oubliettes where the victims of our law are incarc'rated so as to reduce the competition of criminal activity among the remaining citizenry. A most distressin' sight, Markham."
The District Attorney had sat down at his desk and was glancing at several notations on his blotter.
"There are a couple of my men waiting to see me," he remarked, without looking up; "so, if you'll be good enough to take a chair over here, I'll proceed with my humble efforts to undermine society still further."
He pressed a button under the edge of his desk, and an alert young man with thick-lensed glasses appeared at the door.
"Swacker, tell Phelps to come in," Markham ordered. "And also tell Springer, if he's back from lunch, that I want to see him in a few minutes."
The secretary disappeared, and a moment later a tall, hawk-faced man, with stoop-shoulders and an awkward, angular gait, entered.
"What news?" asked Markham.
​"Well, Chief," the detective replied in a low grating voice, "I just found out something I thought you could use right away. After I reported this noon, I ambled around to this Captain Leacock's house, thinking I might learn something from the house-boys, and ran into the Captain coming out. I tailed along; and he went straight up to the lady's house on the Drive, and stayed there over an hour. Then he went back home, looking worried."
Markham considered a moment.
"It may mean nothing at all, but I'm glad to know it anyway. St. Clair'll be here in a few minutes, and I'll find out what she has to say.—There's nothing else for to-day. . . . Tell Swacker to send Tracy in."
Tracy was the antithesis of Phelps. He was short, a trifle stout, and exuded an atmosphere of studied suavity. His face was rotund and genial; he wore a pince-nez; and his clothes were modish and fitted him well.
"Good-morning, Chief," he greeted Markham in a quiet, ingratiating tone. "I understand the St. Clair woman is to call here this afternoon, and there are a few things I've found out that may assist in your questioning."
He opened a small note-book and adjusted his pince-nez.
"I thought I might learn something from her singing teacher, an Italian formerly connected with the Metropolitan, but now running a sort of choral society of his own. He trains aspiring prima donnas in their rôles with a chorus and settings, and Miss St. Clair is one of his pet students. He talked to me, ​without any trouble; and it seems he knew Benson well. Benson attended several of St. Clair's rehearsals, and sometimes called for her in a taxicab. Rinaldo—that's the man's name—thinks he had a bad crush on the girl. Last winter, when she sang at the Criterion in a small part, Rinaldo was back stage coaching, and Benson sent her enough hothouse flowers to fill the star's dressing-room and have some left over. I tried to find out if Benson was playing the 'angel' for her, but Rinaldo either didn't know or pretended he didn't." Tracy closed his note-book and looked up. "That any good to you, Chief?"
"First-rate," Markham told him. "Keep at work along that line, and let me hear from you again about this time Monday."
Tracy bowed, and as he went out the secretary again appeared at the door.
"Springer's here now, sir," he said. "Shall I send him in?"
Springer proved to be a type of detective quite different from either Phelps or Tracy. He was older, and had the gloomy capable air of a hard-working bookkeeper in a bank. There was no initiative in his bearing, but one felt that he could discharge a delicate task with extreme competency.
Markham took from his pocket the envelope on which he had noted the name given him by Major Benson.
"Springer, there's a man down on Long Island that I want to interview as soon as possible. It's in connection with the Benson case, and I wish you'd locate him and get him up here as soon as possible. ​If you can find him in the telephone book you needn't go down personally. His name is Leander Pfyfe, and he lives, I think, at Port Washington."
Markham jotted down the name on a card and handed it to the detective.
"This is Saturday, so if he comes to town to-morrow, have him ask for me at the Stuyvesant Club. I'll be there in the afternoon."
When Springer had gone, Markham again rang for his secretary and gave instructions that the moment Miss St. Clair arrived she was to be shown in.
"Sergeant Heath is here," Swacker informed him, "and wants to see you if you're not too busy."
Markham glanced at the clock over the door.
"I guess I'll have time. Send him in."
Heath was surprised to see Vance and me in the District Attorney's office, but after greeting Markham with the customary handshake, he turned to Vance with a good-natured smile.
"Still acquiring knowledge, Mr. Vance?"
"Can't say that I am, Sergeant," returned Vance lightly. "But I'm learning a number of most int'restin' errors. . . . How goes the sleuthin'?"
Heath's face became suddenly serious.
"That's what I'm here to tell the Chief about." He addressed himself to Markham. "This case is a jaw-breaker, sir. My men and myself have talked to a dozen of Benson's cronies, and we can't worm a single fact of any value out of 'em. They either don't know anything, or they're giving a swell imitation of a lot of clams. They all appear to be greatly shocked—bowled over, floored, flabbergasted—by the news of the shooting. And have they got ​any idea as to why or how it happened? They'll tell the world they haven't. You know the line of talk: Who'd want to shoot good old Al? Nobody could've done it but a burglar who didn't know good old Al. If he'd known good old Al, even the burglar wouldn't have done it. . . . Hell! I felt like killing off a few of those birds myself so they could go and join their good old Al."
"Any news of the car?" asked Markham.
Heath grunted his disgust.
"Not a word. And that's funny, too, seeing all the advertising it got. Those fishing-rods are the only thing we've got. . . . The Inspector, by the way, sent me the post-mortem report this morning; but it didn't tell us anything we didn't know. Translated into human language, it said Benson died from a shot in the head, with all his organs sound. It's a wonder, though, they didn't discover that he'd been poisoned with a Mexican bean or bit by an African snake, or something, so's to make the case a little more intrikkit than it already is."
"Cheer up, Sergeant," Markham exhorted him. "I've had a little better luck. Tracy ran down the owner of the hand-bag and found out she'd been to dinner with Benson that night. He and Phelps also learned a few other supplementary facts that fit in well; and I'm expecting the lady here at any minute. I'm going to find out what she has to say for herself."
An expression of resentment came into Heath's eyes as the District Attorney was speaking, but he erased it at once and began asking questions. Mark​ham gave him every detail, and also informed him of Leander Pfyfe.
"I'll let you know immediately how the interview comes out," he concluded.
As the door closed on Heath Vance looked up at Markham with a sly smile.
"Not exactly one of Nietzche's Übermenschen—eh, what? I fear the subtleties of this complex world bemuse him a bit, y' know. . . . And he's so disappointin'. I felt pos'tively elated when the bustling lad with the thick glasses announced his presence. I thought surely he wanted to tell you he had jailed at least six of Benson's murderers."
"Your hopes run too high, I fear," commented Markham.
"And yet, that's the usual procedure—if the headlines in our great moral dailies are to be credited. I always thought that the moment a crime was committed the police began arresting people promiscuously—to maintain the excitement, don't y' know. Another illusion gone! . . . Sad, sad," he murmured. "I sha'n't forgive our Heath: he has betrayed my faith in him."
At this point Markham's secretary came to the door and announced the arrival of Miss St. Clair.
I think we were all taken a little aback at the spectacle presented by this young woman as she came slowly into the room with a firm graceful step, and with her head held slightly to one side in an attitude of supercilious inquiry. She was small and strikingly pretty, although "pretty" is not exactly the word with which to describe her. She possessed that faintly exotic beauty that we find in the portraits ​of the Carracci, who sweetened the severity of Leonardo and made it at once intimate and decadent. Her eyes were dark and widely spaced; her nose was delicate and straight, and her forehead broad. Her full sensuous lips were almost sculpturesque in their linear precision, and her mouth wore an enigmatic smile, or hint of a smile. Her rounded firm chin was a bit heavy when examined apart from the other features, but not in the ensemble. There was poise and a certain strength of character in her bearing; but one sensed the potentialities of powerful emotions beneath her exterior calm. Her clothes harmonized with her personality: they were quiet and apparently in the conventional style, but a touch of color and originality here and there conferred on them a fascinating distinction.
Markham rose and, bowing with formal courtesy, indicated a comfortable upholstered chair directly in front of his desk. With a barely perceptible nod, she glanced at the chair, and then seated herself in a straight armless chair standing next to it.
"You won't mind, I'm sure," she said, "if I choose my own chair for the inquisition."
Her voice was low and resonant—the speaking voice of the highly trained singer. She smiled as she spoke, but it was not a cordial smile: it was cold and distant, yet somehow indicative of levity.
"Miss St. Clair," began Markham, in a tone of polite severity, "the murder of Mr. Alvin Benson has intimately involved yourself. Before taking any definite steps, I have invited you here to ask you a few questions. I can, therefore, advise you quite ​honestly that frankness will best serve your interests."
He paused, and the woman looked at him with an ironically questioning gaze.
"Am I supposed to thank you for your generous advice?"
Markham's scowl deepened as he glanced down at a typewritten page on his desk.
"You are probably aware that your gloves and hand-bag were found in Mr. Benson's house the morning after he was shot."
"I can understand how you might have traced the hand-bag to me," she said; "but how did you arrive at the conclusion that the gloves were mine?"
Markham looked up sharply.
"Do you mean to say the gloves are not yours?"
"Oh, no." She gave him another wintry smile. "I merely wondered how you knew they belonged to me, since you couldn't have known either my taste in gloves or the size I wore."
"They're your gloves, then?"
"If they are Tréfousse, size five-and-three-quarters, of white kid and elbow length, they are certainly mine. And I'd so like to have them back, if you don't mind."
"I'm sorry," said Markham; "but it is necessary that I keep them for the present."
She dismissed the matter with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" she asked.
Markham instantly opened a drawer of his desk, and took out a box of Benson and Hedges cigarettes.
"I have my own, thank you," she informed him. ​"But I would so appreciate my holder. I've missed it horribly."
Markham hesitated. He was manifestly annoyed by the woman's attitude.
"I'll be glad to lend it to you," he compromised; and reaching into another drawer of his desk, he laid the holder on the table before her.
"Now, Miss St. Clair," he said, resuming his gravity of manner, "will you tell me how these personal articles of yours happened to be in Mr. Benson's living-room?"
"No, Mr. Markham, I will not," she answered.
"Do you realize the serious construction your refusal places upon the circumstances?"
"I really hadn't given it much thought." Her tone was indifferent.
"It would be well if you did," Markham advised her. "Your position is not an enviable one; and the presence of your belongings in Mr. Benson's room is, by no means, the only thing that connects you directly with the crime."
The woman raised her eyes inquiringly, and again the enigmatic smile appeared at the corners of her mouth.
"Perhaps you have sufficient evidence to accuse me of the murder?"
Markham ignored this question.
"You were well acquainted with Mr. Benson, I believe?"
"The finding of my hand-bag and gloves in his apartment might lead one to assume as much, mightn't it?" she parried.
​"He was, in fact, much interested in you?" persisted Markham.
She made a moue, and sighed.
"Alas, yes! Too much for my peace of mind. . . . Have I been brought here to discuss the attentions this gentleman paid me?"
Again Markham ignored her query.
"Where were you, Miss St. Clair, between the time you left the Marseilles at midnight and the time you arrived home—which, I understand, was after one o'clock?"
"You are simply wonderful!" she exclaimed. "You seem to know everything. . . . Well, I can only say that during that time I was on my way home."
"Did it take you an hour to go from Fortieth Street to Eighty-first and Riverside Drive?"
"Just about, I should say,—a few minutes more or less, perhaps."
"How do you account for that?" Markham was becoming impatient.
"I can't account for it," she said, "except by the passage of time. Time does fly, doesn't it, Mr. Markham?"
"By your attitude you are only working detriment to yourself," Markham warned her, with a show of irritation. "Can you not see the seriousness of your position? You are known to have dined with Mr. Benson, to have left the restaurant at midnight, and to have arrived at your own apartment after one o'clock. At twelve-thirty, Mr. Benson was shot; and your personal articles were found in the same room the morning after."
"It looks terribly suspicious, I know," she admit​ted, with whimsical seriousness. "And I'll tell you this, Mr. Markham: if my thoughts could have killed Mr. Benson, he would have died long ago. I know I shouldn't speak ill of the dead—there's a saying about it begining 'de mortuis,' isn't there?—but the truth is, I had reason to dislike Mr. Benson exceedingly."
"Then why did you go to dinner with him?"
"I've asked myself the same question a dozen times since," she confessed dolefully. "We women are such impulsive creatures—always doing things we shouldn't. . . . But I know what you're thinking:—if I had intended to shoot him, that would have been a natural preliminary. Isn't that what's in your mind? I suppose all murderesses do go to dinner with their victims first."
While she spoke she opened her vanity-case and looked at her reflection in its mirror. She daintily adjusted several imaginary stray ends of her abundant dark-brown hair, and touched her arched eyebrows gently with her little finger as if to rectify some infinitesimal disturbance in their pencilled contour. Then she tilted her head, regarded herself appraisingly, and returned her gaze to the District Attorney only as she came to the end of her speech. Her actions had perfectly conveyed to her listeners the impression that the subject of the conversation was, in her scheme of things, of secondary importance to her personal appearance. No words could have expressed her indifference so convincingly as had her little pantomime.
Markham was becoming exasperated. A different type of district attorney would no doubt have at​tempted to use the pressure of his office to force her into a more amenable frame of mind. But Markham shrank instinctively from the bludgeoning, threatening methods of the ordinary Public Prosecutor, especially in his dealings with women. In the present case, however, had it not been for Vance's strictures at the Club, he would no doubt have taken a more aggressive stand. But it was evident he was laboring under a burden of uncertainty superinduced by Vance's words and augmented by the evasive deportment of the woman herself.
After a moment's silence he asked grimly:
"You did considerable speculating through the firm of Benson and Benson, did you not?"
A faint ring of musical laughter greeted this question.
"I see that the dear Major has been telling tales. . . . Yes, I've been gambling most extravagantly. And I had no business to do it. I'm afraid I'm avaricious."
"And is it not true that you've lost heavily of late—that, in fact, Mr. Alvin Benson called upon you for additional margin and finally sold out your securities?"
"I wish to Heaven it were not true," she lamented, with a look of simulated tragedy. Then: "Am I supposed to have done away with Mr. Benson out of sordid revenge, or as an act of just retribution?" She smiled archly and waited expectantly, as if her question had been part of a guessing game.
Markham's eyes hardened as he coldly enunciated his next words.
"Is it not a fact that Captain Philip Leacock ​owned just such a pistol as Mr. Benson was killed with—a forty-five army Colt automatic?"
At the mention of her fiancé's name she stiffened perceptibly and caught her breath. The part she had been playing fell from her, and a faint flush suffused her cheeks and extended to her forehead. But almost immediately she had reassumed her rôle of playful indifference.
"I never inquired into the make or calibre of Captain Leacock's fire-arms," she returned carelessly.
"And is it not a fact," pursued Markham's imperturbable voice, "that Captain Leacock lent you his pistol when he called at your apartment on the morning before the murder?"
"It's most ungallant of you, Mr. Markham," she reprimanded him coyly, "to inquire into the personal relations of an engaged couple; for I am betrothed to Captain Leacock—though you probably know it already."
Markham stood up, controlling himself with effort.
"Am I to understand that you refuse to answer any of my questions, or to endeavor to extricate yourself from the very serious position you are in?"
She appeared to consider.
"Yes," she said slowly, "I haven't anything I care especially to say just now."
Markham leaned over and rested both hands on the desk.
"Do you realize the possible consequences of your attitude?" he asked ominously. "The facts I know regarding your connection with the case, coupled with your refusal to offer a single extenuating ​explanation, give me more grounds than I actually need to order your being held."
I was watching her closely as he spoke, and it seemed to me that her eyelids drooped involuntarily the merest fraction of an inch. But she gave no other indication of being affected by the pronouncement, and merely looked at the District Attorney with an air of defiant amusement.
Markham, with a sudden contraction of the jaw, turned and reached toward a bell-button beneath the edge of his desk. But, in doing so, his glance fell upon Vance; and he paused indecisively. The look he had encountered on the other's face was one of reproachful amazement: not only did it express complete surprise at his apparent decision, but it stated, more eloquently than words could have done, that he was about to commit an act of irreparable folly.
There were several moments of tense silence in the room. Then calmly and unhurriedly Miss St. Clair opened her vanity-case and powdered her nose. When she had finished, she turned a serene gaze upon the District Attorney.
"Well, do you want to arrest me now?" she asked.
Markham regarded her for a moment, deliberating. Instead of answering at once, he went to the window and stood for a full minute looking down upon the Bridge of Sighs which connects the Criminal Courts Building with the Tombs.
"No, I think not to-day," he said slowly.
He stood a while longer in absorbed contemplation; then, as if shaking off his mood of irresolution, he swung about and confronted the woman.
"I'm not going to arrest you—yet," he reiterated, ​a bit harshly. "But I'm going to order you to remain in New York for the present. And if you attempt to leave, you will be arrested. I hope that is clear."
He pressed a button, and his secretary entered.
"Swacker, please escort Miss St. Clair downstairs, and call a taxicab for her. . . . Then you can go home yourself."
She rose and gave Markham a little nod.
"You were very kind to lend me my cigarette-holder," she said pleasantly, laying it on his desk.
Without another word, she walked calmly from the room.
The door had no more than closed behind her when Markham pressed another button. In a few moments the door leading into the outer corridor opened, and a white-haired, middle-aged man appeared.
"Ben," ordered Markham hurriedly, "have that woman that Swacker's taking downstairs followed. Keep her under surveillance, and don't let her get lost. She's not to leave the city—understand? It's the St. Clair woman Tracy dug up."
When the man had gone, Markham turned and stood glowering at Vance.
"What do you think of your innocent young lady now?" he asked, with an air of belligerent triumph.
"Nice gel—eh, what?" replied Vance blandly. "Extr'ordin'ry control. And she's about to marry a professional milit'ry man! Ah, well. De gustibus. . . . Y' know, I was afraid for a moment you were actu'lly going to send for the manacles. And if you ​had, Markham old dear, you'd have regretted it to your dying day."
Markham studied him for a few seconds. He knew there was something more than a mere whim beneath Vance's certitude of manner; and it was this knowledge that had stayed his hand when he was about to have the woman placed in custody.
"Her attitude was certainly not conducive to one's belief in her innocence," Markham objected. "She played her part damned cleverly, though. But it was just the part a shrewd woman, knowing herself guilty, would have played."
"I say, didn't it occur to you," asked Vance, "that perhaps she didn't care a farthing whether you thought her guilty or not?—that, in fact, she was a bit disappointed when you let her go?"
"That's hardly the way I read the situation," returned Markham. "Whether guilty or innocent, a person doesn't ordinarily invite arrest."
"By the bye," asked Vance, "where was the fortunate swain during the hour of Alvin's passing?"
"Do you think we didn't check up on that point?" Markham spoke with disdain. "Captain Leacock was at his own apartment that night from eight o'clock on."
"Was he, really?" airily retorted Vance. "A most model young fella!"
Again Markham looked at him sharply.
"I'd like to know what weird theory has been struggling in your brain to-day," he mused. "Now that I've let the lady go temporarily—which is what you obviously wanted me to do—, and have stul​tified my own better judgment in so doing, why not tell me frankly what you've got up your sleeve?"
"'Up my sleeve?' Such an inelegant metaphor! One would think I was a prestidig'tator, what?"
Whenever Vance answered in this fashion it was a sign that he wished to avoid making a direct reply; and Markham dropped the matter.
"Anyway," he submitted, "you didn't have the pleasure of witnessing my humiliation, as you prophesied."
Vance looked up in simulated surprise.
"Didn't I, now?" Then he added sorrowfully: "Life is so full of disappointments, y' know."