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 today. … 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 notebook 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 roles 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 notebook 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 hardworking 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 tomorrow, 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 jawbreaker, 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 postmortem 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
