“Did Captain Leacock draw a gun?” asked Heath.
The Major pursed his lips.
“Now that you mention it, I think he did make some motion of the kind.”
“Did you see the gun?” pursued Heath.
“No, I can’t say that I did.”
Markham put the next question.
“Do you think Captain Leacock capable of the act of murder?”
“Hardly,” Major Benson answered with emphasis. “Leacock isn’t cold-blooded. The woman over whom the tiff occurred is more capable of such an act than he is.”
A short silence followed, broken by Vance.
“What do you know, Major, about this glass of fashion and mould of form, Pfyfe? He appears a rare bird. Has he a history, or is his presence his life’s document?”
“Leander Pfyfe,” said the Major, “is a typical specimen of the modern young do-nothing—I say young, though I imagine he’s around forty. He was pampered in his upbringing—had everything he wanted, I believe; but he became restless, and followed several different fads till he tired of them. He was two years in South Africa hunting big game, and, I think, wrote a book recounting his adventures. Since then he has done nothing that I know of. He married a wealthy shrew some years ago—for her money, I imagine. But the woman’s father controls the purse-strings, and holds him down to a rigid allowance. … Pfyfe’s a waster and an idler, but Alvin seemed to find some attraction in the man.”
The Major’s words had been careless in inflection and undeliberated, like those of a man discussing a neutral matter; but all of us, I think, received the impression that he had a strong personal dislike for Pfyfe.
“Not a ravishing personality, what?” remarked Vance. “And he uses far too much Jicky.”
“Still,” supplied Heath, with a puzzled frown, “a fellow’s got to have a lot of nerve to shoot big game. … And, speaking of nerve, I’ve been thinking that the guy who shot your brother, Major, was a mighty cool-headed proposition. He did it from the front when his man was wide awake, and with a servant upstairs. That takes nerve.”
“Sergeant, you’re pos’tively brilliant!” exclaimed Vance.
XII
The Owner of a Colt-.45
(Monday, June 17; forenoon.)
Though Vance and I arrived at the District Attorney’s office the following morning a little after nine, the Captain had been waiting twenty minutes; and Markham directed Swacker to send him in at once.
Captain Philip Leacock was a typical army officer, very tall—fully six feet, two inches—clean-shaven, straight and slender. His face was grave and immobile; and he stood before the District Attorney in the erect, earnest attitude of a soldier awaiting orders from his superior officer.
“Take a seat, Captain,” said Markham, with a formal bow. “I have asked you here, as you probably know, to put a few questions to you concerning Mr. Alvin Benson. There are several points regarding your relationship with him, which I want you to explain.”
“Am I suspected of complicity in the crime?” Leacock spoke with a slight Southern accent.
“That remains to be seen,” Markham told him coldly. “It is to determine that point that I wish to question you.”
The other sat rigidly in his chair and waited.
Markham fixed him with a direct gaze.
“You recently made a threat on Mr. Alvin Benson’s life, I believe.”
Leacock started, and his fingers tightened over his knees. But before he could answer, Markham continued:
“I can tell you the occasion on which the threat was made—it was at a party given by Mr. Leander Pfyfe.”
Leacock hesitated; then thrust forward his jaw.
“Very well, sir; I admit I made the threat. Benson was a cad—he deserved shooting. … That night he had become more obnoxious than usual. He’d been drinking too much—and so had I, I reckon.”
He gave a twisted smile, and looked nervously past the District Attorney out of the window.
“But I didn’t shoot him, sir. I didn’t even know he’d been shot until I read the paper next day.”
“He was shot with an army Colt—the kind you fellows carried in the war,” said Markham, keeping his eyes on the man.
“I know it,” Leacock replied. “The papers said so.”
“You have such a gun, haven’t you, Captain?”
Again the other hesitated.
“No, sir.” His voice was barely audible.
“What became of it?”
The man glanced at Markham, and then quickly shifted his eyes.
“I—I lost it … in France.”
Markham smiled faintly.
“Then how do you account for the fact that Mr. Pfyfe saw the gun the night you made the threat?”
“Saw the gun?” He looked blankly at the District Attorney.
“Yes, saw it, and recognized it as an army gun,” persisted Markham, in a level voice. “Also, Major Benson saw you make a motion as if to draw a gun.”
Leacock drew a deep breath, and set his mouth doggedly.
“I tell you, sir, I haven’t a gun. … I lost it in France.”
“Perhaps you didn’t lose it, Captain. Perhaps you lent it to someone.”
“I didn’t, sir!” the words burst from his lips.
“Think a minute, Captain. … Didn’t you lend it to someone?”
“No—I did not!”
“You paid a visit—yesterday—to Riverside Drive. … Perhaps you took it there with you.”
Vance had been listening closely.
“Oh—deuced clever!” he now murmured in my ear.
Captain Leacock moved uneasily. His face, even with its deep coat of tan, seemed to pale, and he sought to avoid the implacable gaze of his questioner by concentrating his attention upon some object on the table. When he spoke his voice, heretofore truculent, was colored by anxiety.
“I didn’t have it with me. … And I didn’t lend it to anyone.”
Markham sat leaning forward over the desk, his chin on his hand, like a minatory graven image.
“It may be you lent it to someone prior to that morning.”
“Prior to … ?” Leacock looked up quickly and paused, as if analyzing the other’s remark.
Markham took advantage of his perplexity.
“Have you lent your gun to anyone since you returned from France?”
“No, I’ve never lent it—” he began, but suddenly halted and flushed. Then he added hastily. “How could I lend it? I just told you, sir—”
“Never mind that!” Markham cut in. “So you had a
