“Why were you so positive a woman couldn’t have done it?”
“To begin with: it wasn’t a woman’s crime—that is, no woman would have done it in the way it was done. The most mentalized women are emotional when it comes to a fundamental issue like taking a life. That a woman could have coldly planned such a murder and then executed it with such businesslike efficiency—aiming a single shot at her victim’s temple at a distance of five or six feet—would be contr’ry, d’ ye see, to everything we know of human nature. Again: women don’t stand up to argue a point before a seated antagonist. Somehow they seem to feel more secure sitting down. They talk better sitting; whereas men talk better standing. And even had a woman stood before Benson, she could not have taken out a gun and aimed it without his looking up. A man’s reaching in his pocket is a natural action; but a woman has no pockets and no place to hide a gun except her handbag. And a man is always on guard when an angry woman opens a handbag in front of him—the very uncertainty of women’s natures has made men suspicious of their actions when aroused. … But—above all—it was Benson’s bald pate and bedroom slippers that made the woman hypothesis untenable.”
“You remarked a moment ago,” said Markham, “that the murderer went there that night prepared to take heroic measures if necessary. And yet you say he planned the murder.”
“True. The two statements don’t conflict, y’ know. The murder was planned—without doubt. But the Major was willing to give his victim a last chance to save his life. My theory is this: The Major, being in a tight financial hole with State prison looming before him, and knowing that his brother had sufficient funds in the safe to save him, plotted the crime, and went to the house that night prepared to commit it. First, however, he told his brother of his predic’ment and asked for the money; and Alvin prob’bly told him to go to the devil. The Major may even have pleaded a bit in order to avoid killing him; but when the liter’ry Alvin turned to reading, he saw the futility of appealing further, and proceeded with the dire business.”
Markham smoked a while.
“Granting all you’ve said,” he remarked at length, “I still don’t see how you could know, as you asserted this morning, that the Major had planned the murder so as to throw suspicion deliberately on Captain Leacock.”
“Just as a sculptor, who thoroughly understands the principles of form and composition, can accurately supply any missing integral part of a statue,” Vance explained, “so can the psychologist who understands the human mind, supply any missing factor in a given human action. I might add, parenthetically, that all this blather about the missing arms of the Aphrodite of Melos—the Milo Venus, y’ know—is the utt’rest fiddle-faddle. Any competent artist who knew the laws of aesthetic organization could restore the arms exactly as they were originally. Such restorations are merely a matter of context—the missing factor, d’ ye see, simply has to conform and harmonize with what is already known.”
He made one of his rare gestures of delicate emphasis.
“Now, the problem of circumventing suspicion is an important detail in every deliberated crime. And since the general conception of this particular crime was pos’tive, conclusive and concrete, it followed that each one of its component parts would be pos’tive, conclusive and concrete. Therefore, for the Major merely to have arranged things so that he himself should not be suspected, would have been too negative a conception to fit consistently with the other psychological aspects of the deed. It would have been too vague, too indirect, too indef’nite. The type of literal mind which conceived this crime would logically have provided a specific and tangible object of suspicion. Cons’quently, when the material evidence began to pile up against the Captain, and the Major waxed vehement in defending him, I knew he had been chosen as the dupe. At first, I admit, I suspected the Major of having selected Miss St. Clair as the victim; but when I learned that the presence of her gloves and handbag at Benson’s was only an accident, and remembered that the Major had given us Pfyfe as a source of information about the Captain’s threat, I realized that her projection into the role of murderer was unpremeditated.”
A little later Markham rose and stretched himself.
“Well, Vance,” he said, “your task is finished. Mine has just begun. And I need sleep.”
Before a week had passed, Major Anthony Benson was indicted for the murder of his brother. His trial before Judge Rudolph Hansacker, as you remember, created a nationwide sensation. The Associated Press sent columns daily to its members; and for weeks the front pages of the country’s newspapers were emblazoned with spectacular reports of the proceedings. How the District Attorney’s office won the case after a bitter struggle; how, because of the indirect character of the evidence, the verdict was for murder in the second degree; and how, after a retrial in the Court of Appeals, Anthony Benson finally received a sentence of from twenty years to life—all these facts are a matter of official and public record.
Markham personally did not appear as Public Prosecutor. Having been a lifelong friend of the defendant’s, his
