“Three or four, perhaps,” answered Markham. “But I can’t arrest them all.”
“I’m sure you would if you could. But it won’t be necess’ry.”
Vance selected another cigarette from his case, and went on:
“There are other helpful indications, y’ know. For instance, the murderer was fairly well acquainted with Benson’s domestic arrangements. He must have known that the housekeeper slept a good distance from the living-room and would not be startled by the shot if her door was closed as usual. Also, he must have known there was no one else in the house at that hour. And another thing: don’t forget that his voice was perfectly familiar to Benson. If there had been the slightest doubt about it Benson would not have let him in, in view of his natural fear of housebreakers, and with the Captain’s threat hanging over him.”
“That’s a tenable hypothesis. … What else?”
“The jewels, Markham—those orators of love. Have you thought of them? They were on the center-table when Benson came home that night; and they were gone in the morning. Wherefore, it seems inev’table that the murderer took ’em—eh, what? … And may they not have been one reason for the murderer’s coming there that night? If so, who of Benson’s most intimate personae gratae knew of their presence in the house? And who wanted ’em particularly?”
“Exactly, Vance.” Markham nodded his head slowly. “You’ve hit it. I’ve had an uneasy feeling about Pfyfe right along. I was on the point of ordering his arrest today when Heath brought word of Leacock’s confession; and then, when that blew up, my suspicions reverted to him. I said nothing this afternoon because I wanted to see where your ideas had led you. What you’ve been saying checks up perfectly with my own notions. Pfyfe’s our man—”
He brought the front legs of his chair down suddenly.
“And now, damn it, you’ve let him get away from us!”
“Don’t fret, old dear,” said Vance. “He’s safe with Mrs. Pfyfe, I fancy. And anyhow, your friend, Mr. Ben Hanlon, is well versed in retrieving fugitives. … Let the harassed Leander alone for the moment. You don’t need him tonight—and tomorrow you won’t want him.”
Markham wheeled about.
“What’s that!—I won’t want him? … And why, pray?”
“Well,” Vance explained indolently; “he hasn’t a congenial and lovable nature, has he? And he’s not exactly an object of blindin’ beauty. I shouldn’t want him around me more than was necess’ry, don’t y’ know. … Incidentally, he’s not guilty.”
Markham was too nonplussed to be exasperated. He regarded Vance searchingly for a full minute.
“I don’t follow you,” he said. “If you think Pfyfe’s innocent, who, in God’s name, do you think is guilty?”
Vance glanced at his watch.
“Come to my house tomorrow for breakfast, and bring those alibis you asked Heath for; and I’ll tell you who shot Benson.”
Something in his tone impressed Markham. He realized that Vance would not have made so specific a promise unless he was confident of his ability to keep it. He knew Vance too well to ignore, or even minimize, his statement.
“Why not tell me now?” he asked.
“Awf’lly sorry, y’ know,” apologized Vance; “but I’m going to the Philharmonic’s ‘special’ tonight. They’re playing César Franck’s D-minor, and Stransky’s temp’rament is em’nently suited to its diatonic sentimentalities. … You’d better come along, old man. Soothin’ to the nerves and all that.”
“Not me!” grumbled Markham. “What I need is a brandy-and-soda.”
He walked down with us to the taxicab.
“Come at nine tomorrow,” said Vance, as we took our seats. “Let the office wait a bit. And don’t forget to phone Heath for those alibis.”
Then, just as we started off, he leaned out of the car.
“And I say, Markham: how tall would you say Mrs. Platz is?”
XXII
Vance Outlines a Theory
(Thursday, June 20; 9 a.m.)
Markham came to Vance’s apartment at promptly nine o’clock the next morning. He was in bad humor.
“Now, see here, Vance,” he said, as soon as he was seated at the table; “I want to know what was the meaning of your parting words last night.”
“Eat your melon, old dear,” said Vance. “It comes from northern Brazil, and is very delicious. But don’t devitalize its flavor with pepper or salt. An amazin’ practice, that—though not as amazin’ as stuffing a melon with ice-cream. The American does the most dumbfoundin’ things with ice-cream. He puts it on pie; he puts it in soda-water; he encases it in hard chocolate like a bonbon; he puts it between sweet biscuits and calls the result an ice-cream sandwich; he even uses it instead of whipped cream in a Charlotte Russe. …”
“What I want to know—” began Markham; but Vance did not permit him to finish.
“It’s surprisin’, y’ know, the erroneous ideas people have about melons. There are only two species—the muskmelon and the watermelon. All breakfast melons—like cantaloups, citrons, nutmegs, Cassabas, and Honeydews—are varieties of the muskmelon. But people have the notion, d’ ye see, that cantaloup is a generic term. Philadelphians call all melons cantaloups; whereas this type of muskmelon was first cultivated in Cantalupo, Italy. …”
“Very interesting,” said Markham, with only partly disguised impatience. “Did you intend by your remark last night—”
“And after the melon, Currie has prepared a special dish for you. It’s my own gustat’ry chef-d’oeuvre—with Currie’s collaboration, of course. I’ve spent months on its conception—composing and organizing it, so to speak. I haven’t named it yet—perhaps you can suggest a fitting appellation. … To achieve this dish, one first chops up a hard-boiled egg and mixes it with grated Port du Salut cheese, adding a soupçon of tarragon. This paste is then enclosed in a filet of white perch—like a French pancake. It is tied with silk, rolled in a specially prepared almond batter, and cooked in sweet butter.—That, of course, is the barest outline of its manufacture, with all the truly exquisite details omitted.”
“It sounds appetizing.” Markham’s tone was devoid
