“Was that what your quarrel with him last week was about?”
Pfyfe gave him a look of querulous surprise.
“Ah, you heard of our little contretemps? … Yes—we had a slight disagreement as to the—shall I say terms of the transaction?”
“Did Benson insist that the note be paid when due?”
“No—not exactly.” Pfyfe’s manner became unctuous. “I beg of you, sir, not to press me as to my little chat with Alvin. It was, I assure you, quite irrelevant to the present situation. Indeed, it was of a most personal and private nature.” He smiled confidingly. “I will admit, however, that I went to Alvin’s house the night he was shot, intending to speak to him about the check; but, as you already know, I found the house dark and spent the night in a Turkish bath.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Pfyfe,”—it was Vance who spoke—“but did Mr. Benson take your note without security?”
“Of course!” Pfyfe’s tone was a rebuke. “Alvin and I, as I have explained, were the closest friends.”
“But even a friend, don’t y’ know,” Vance submitted, “might ask for security on such a large amount. How did Benson know that you’d be able to repay him?”
“I can only say that he did know,” the other answered, with an air of patient deliberation.
Vance continued to be doubtful.
“Perhaps it was because of the confession you had given him.”
Pfyfe rewarded him with a look of beaming approval.
“You grasp the situation perfectly,” he said.
Vance withdrew from the conversation, and though Markham questioned Pfyfe for nearly half an hour, nothing further transpired. Pfyfe clung to his story in every detail, and politely refused to go deeper into his quarrel with Benson, insisting that it had no bearing on the case. At last he was permitted to go.
“Not very helpful,” Markham observed. “I’m beginning to agree with Heath that we’ve turned up a mare’s-nest in Pfyfe’s frenzied financial deal.”
“You’ll never be anything but your own sweet trusting self, will you?” lamented Vance sadly. “Pfyfe has just given you your first intelligent line of investigation—and you say he’s not helpful! … Listen to me and nota bene. Pfyfe’s story about the ten thousand dollars is undoubtedly true: he appropriated the money and forged Benson’s name to a check with which to replace it. But I don’t for a second believe there was no security in addition to the confession. Benson wasn’t the type of man—friend or no friend—who’d hand over that amount without security. He wanted his money back—not somebody in jail. That’s why I put my oar in, and asked about the security. Pfyfe, of course, denied it; but when pressed as to how Benson knew he’d pay the note, he retired into a cloud. I had to suggest the confession as the possible explanation; which showed that something else was in his mind—something he didn’t care to mention. And the way he jumped at my suggestion bears out my theory.”
“Well, what of it?” Markham asked impatiently.
“Oh, for the gift of tears!” moaned Vance. “Don’t you see that there’s someone in the background—someone connected with the security? It must be so, y’ know; otherwise Pfyfe would have told you the entire tale of the quarrel, if only to clear himself from suspicion. Yet, knowing that his position is an awkward one, he refuses to divulge what passed between him and Benson in the office that day. … Pfyfe is shielding someone—and he is not the soul of chivalry, y’ know. Therefore, I ask: Why?”
He leaned back and gazed at the ceiling.
“I have an idea, amounting to a cerebral cyclone,” he added, “that when we put our hands on that security, we’ll also put our hands on the murderer.”
At this moment the telephone rang, and when Markham answered it a look of startled amusement came into his eyes. He made an appointment with the speaker for half past five that afternoon. Then, hanging up the receiver, he laughed outright at Vance.
“Your auricular researches have been confirmed,” he said. “Miss Hoffman just called me confidentially on an outside phone to say she has something to add to her story. She’s coming here at five-thirty.”
Vance was unimpressed by the announcement.
“I rather imagined she’d telephone during her lunch hour.”
Again Markham gave him one of his searching scrutinies.
“There’s something damned queer going on around here,” he observed.
“Oh, quite,” returned Vance carelessly. “Queerer than you could possibly imagine.”
For fifteen or twenty minutes Markham endeavored to draw him out; but Vance seemed suddenly possessed of an ability to say nothing with the blandest fluency. Markham finally became exasperated.
“I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion,” he said, “that either you had a hand in Benson’s murder, or you’re a phenomenally good guesser.”
“There is, y’ know, an alternative,” rejoined Vance. “It might be that my aesthetic hypotheses and metaphysical deductions—as you call ’em—are working out—eh, what?”
A few minutes before we went to lunch Swacker announced that Tracy had just returned from Long Island with his report.
“Is he the lad you sent to look into Pfyfe’s affaires du coeur?” Vance asked Markham. “For, if he is, I am all aflutter.”
“He’s the man. … Send him in, Swacker.”
Tracy entered smiling silkily, his black notebook in one hand, his pince-nez in the other.
“I had no trouble learning about Pfyfe,” he said. “He’s well known in Port Washington—quite a character, in fact—and it was easy to pick up gossip about him.”
He adjusted his glasses carefully, and referred to his notebook.
“He married a Miss Hawthorn in nineteen-ten. She’s wealthy, but Pfyfe doesn’t benefit much by it, because her father sits on the moneybags—”
“Mr. Tracy, I say,” interrupted Vance; “never mind the née-Hawthorn and her doting papa—Mr. Pfyfe himself has confided in us about his sad marriage. Tell us, if you can, about Mr. Pfyfe’s extra-nuptial
