The Philo Vance Megapack Page 5

  Heath grinned good-naturedly. “That’s one on us, Mr. Markham.” And he carefully put the cigarette and the stub in an envelope, which he marked and pocketed.

  “You now see, Vance,” observed Markham, “the importance of those cigarette butts.”

  “Can’t say that I do,” responded the other. “Of what possible value is a cigarette butt? You can’t smoke it, y’ know.”

  “It’s evidence, my dear fellow,” explained Markham patiently. “One knows that the owner of this bag returned with Benson last night and remained long enough to smoke two cigarettes.”

  Vance lifted his eyebrows in mock amazement. “One does, does one? Fancy that, now.”

  “It only remains to locate her,” interjected Heath.

  “She’s a rather decided brunette, at any rate—if that fact will facilitate your quest any,” said Vance easily; “though why you should desire to annoy the lady, I can’t for the life of me imagine—really I can’t, don’t y’ know.”

  “Why do you say she’s a brunette?” asked Markham.

  “Well, if she isn’t,” Vance told him, sinking listlessly back in his chair, “then she should consult a cosmetician as to the proper way to make up. I see she uses ‘Rachel’ powder and Guerlain’s dark lipstick. And it simply isn’t done among blondes, old dear.”

  “I defer, of course, to your expert opinion,” smiled Markham. Then, to Heath: “I guess we’ll have to look for a brunette, Sergeant.”

  “It’s all right with me,” agreed Heath jocularly. By this time, I think, he had entirely forgiven Vance for destroying the cigarette butt.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE HOUSEKEEPER’S STORY

  (Friday, June 14; 11 A.M.)

  “Now,” suggested Markham, “suppose we take a look over the house. I imagine you’ve done that pretty thoroughly already, Sergeant, but I’d like to see the layout. Anyway, I don’t want to question the housekeeper until the body has been removed.”

  Heath rose. “Very good, sir. I’d like another look myself.”

  The four of us went into the hall and walked down the passageway to the rear of the house. At the extreme end, on the left, was a door leading downstairs to the basement; but it was locked and bolted.

  “The basement is only used for storage now,” Heath explained; “and the door which opens from it into the street areaway is boarded up. The Platz woman sleeps upstairs—Benson lived here alone, and there’s plenty of spare room in the house—and the kitchen is on this floor.”

  He opened a door on the opposite side of the passageway, and we stepped into a small, modern kitchen. Its two high windows, which gave into the paved rear yard at a height of about eight feet from the ground, were securely guarded with iron bars, and, in addition, the sashes were closed and locked. Passing through a swinging door, we entered the dining room, which was directly behind the living room. The two windows here looked upon a small stone court, really no more than a deep airwell between Benson’s house and the adjoining one; and these also were iron-barred and locked.

  We now reentered the hallway and stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs leading above.

  “You can see, Mr. Markham,” Heath pointed out, “that whoever shot Benson must have gotten in by the front door. There’s no other way he could have entered. Living alone, I guess Benson was a little touchy on the subject of burglars. The only window that wasn’t barred was the rear one in the living room; and that was shut and locked. Anyway, it only leads into the inside court. The front windows of the living room have that ironwork over them; so they couldn’t have been used even to shoot through, for Benson was shot from the opposite direction.… It’s pretty clear the gunman got in the front door.”

  “Looks that way,” said Markham.

  “And pardon me for saying so,” remarked Vance, “but Benson let him in.”

  “Yes?” retorted Heath unenthusiastically. “Well, we’ll find all that out later, I hope.”

  “Oh, doubtless,” Vance drily agreed.

  We ascended the stairs and entered Benson’s bedroom, which was directly over the living room. It was severely but well furnished and in excellent order. The bed was made, showing it had not been slept in that night; and the window shades were drawn. Benson’s dinner jacket and white piqué waistcoat were hanging over a chair. A winged collar and a black bowtie were on the bed, where they had evidently been thrown when Benson had taken them off on returning home. A pair of low evening shoes were standing by the bench at the foot of the bed. In a glass of water on the night table was a platinum plate of four false teeth; and a toupee of beautiful workmanship was lying on the chiffonier.

  This last item aroused Vance’s special interest. He walked up to it and regarded it closely.

  “Most int’restin’,” he commented. “Our departed friend seems to have worn false hair; did you know that, Markham?”

  “I always suspected it,” was the indifferent answer.

  Heath, who had remained standing on the threshold, seemed a little impatient.

  “There’s only one other room on this floor,” he said, leading the way down the hall. “It’s also a bedroom—for guests, so the housekeeper explained.”

  Markham and I looked in through the door, but Vance remained lounging against the balustrade at the head of the stairs. He was manifestly uninterested in Alvin Benson’s domestic arrangements; and when Markham and Heath and I went up to the third floor, he sauntered down into the main hallway. When at length we descended from our tour of inspection he was casually looking over the titles in Benson’s bookcase.

  We had just reached the foot of the stairs when the front door opened and two men with a stretcher entered. The ambulance from the Department of Welfare had arrived to take the corpse to the Morgue; and the brutal, businesslike way in which Benson’s body was covered up, lifted onto the stretcher, carried out and shoved into the wagon, made me shudder. Vance, on the other hand; after the merest fleeting glance at the two men, paid no attention to them. He had found a volume with a beautiful Humphrey-Milford binding, and was absorbed in its Roger Payne tooling and powdering.

  “I think an interview with Mrs. Platz is indicated now,” said Markham; and Heath went to the foot of the stairs and gave a loud, brisk order.

  Presently a gray-haired, middle-aged woman entered the living room accompanied by a plainclothesman smoking a large cigar. Mrs. Platz was of the simple, old-fashioned, motherly type, with a calm, benevolent countenance. She impressed me as highly capable, and as a woman given little to hysteria—an impression strengthened by her attitude of passive resignation. She seemed, however, to possess that taciturn shrewdness that is so often found among the ignorant.

  “Sit down, Mrs. Platz.” Markham greeted her kindly. “I’m the district attorney, and there are some questions I want to ask you.”

  She took a straight chair by the door and waited, gazing nervously from one to the other of us. Markham’s gentle, persuasive voice, though, appeared to encourage her; and her answers became more and more fluent.

  The main facts that transpired from a quarter-of-an-hour’s examination may be summed up as follows:

  Mrs. Platz had been Benson’s housekeeper for four years and was the only servant employed. She lived in the house, and her room was on the third, or top, floor in the rear.

  On the afternoon of the preceding day Benson had returned from his office at an unusually early hour—around four o’clock—announcing to Mrs. Platz that he would not be home for dinner that evening. He had remained in the living room, with the hall door closed, until half past six and had then gone upstairs to dress.

  He had left the house about seven o’clock but had not said where he was going. He had remarked casually that he would return in fairly good season but had told Mrs. Platz she need not wait up for him—which was her custom whenever he intended bringing guests home. This was the last she had seen him alive. She had not heard him when he returned that night.

  She had retired about half past t
en and, because of the heat, had left the door ajar. She had been awakened some time later by a loud detonation. It had startled her, and she had turned on the light by her bed, noting that it was just half past twelve by the small alarm clock she used for rising. It was, in fact, the early hour which had reassured her. Benson, whenever he went out for the evening, rarely returned home before two, and this fact, coupled with the stillness of the house, had made her conclude that the noise which had aroused her had been merely the backfiring of an automobile in Forty-ninth Street. Consequently, she had dismissed the matter from her mind, and gone back to sleep.

  At seven o’clock the next morning she came downstairs as usual to begin her day’s duties and, on her way to the front door to bring in the milk and cream, had discovered Benson’s body. All the shades in the living room were down.

  At first she thought Benson had fallen asleep in his chair, but when she saw the bullet hole and noticed that the electric lights had been switched off, she knew he was dead. She had gone at once to the telephone in the hall and, asking the operator for the police station, had reported the murder. She had then remembered Benson’s brother, Major Anthony Benson, and had telephoned him also. He had arrived at the house almost simultaneously with the detectives from the West Forty-seventh Street station. He had questioned her a little, talked with the plainclothesmen, and gone away before the men from headquarters arrived.

  “And now, Mrs. Platz,” said Markham, glancing at the notes he had been making, “one or two more questions, and we won’t trouble you further.… Have you noticed anything in Mr. Benson’s actions lately that might lead you to suspect that he was worried—or, let us say, in fear of anything happening to him?”

  “No sir,” the woman answered readily. “It looked like he was in special good humor for the last week or so.”

  “I notice that most of the windows on this floor are barred. Was he particularly afraid of burglars, or of people breaking in?”

  “Well—not exactly,” was the hesitant reply. “But he did use to say as how the police were no good—begging your pardon, sir—and how a man in this city had to look out for himself if he didn’t want to get held up.”

  Markham turned to Heath with a chuckle. “You might make a special note of that for your files, Sergeant.” Then to Mrs. Platz: “Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against Mr. Benson?”

  “Not a soul, sir,” the housekeeper answered emphatically. “He was a queer man in many ways, but everybody seemed to like him. He was all the time going to parties or giving parties. I just can’t see why anybody’d want to kill him.”

  Markham looked over his notes again. “I don’t think there’s anything else for the present.… How about it, Sergeant? Anything further you want to ask?”

  Heath pondered a moment. “No, I can’t think of anything more just now.… But you, Mrs. Platz,” he added, turning a cold glance on the woman, “will stay here in this house till you’re given permission to leave. We’ll want to question you later. But you’re not to talk to anyone else—understand? Two of my men will be here for a while yet.”

  Vance, during the interview, had been jotting down something on the fly-leaf of a small pocket address book and as Heath was speaking he tore out the page and handed it to Markham. Markham glanced at it frowningly and pursed his lips. Then after a few moments’ hesitation, he addressed himself again to the housekeeper.

  “You mentioned, Mrs. Platz, that Mr. Benson was liked by everyone. Did you yourself like him?”

  The woman shifted her eyes to her lap. “Well, sir,” she replied reluctantly, “I was only working for him and I haven’t got any complaint about the way he treated me.”

  Despite her words, she gave the impression that she either disliked Benson extremely or greatly disapproved of him. Markham, however, did not push the point.

  “And, by the way, Mrs. Platz,” he said next, “did Mr. Benson keep any firearms about the house? For instance, do you know if he owned a revolver?”

  For the first time during the interview, the woman appeared agitated, even frightened.

  “Yes, sir, I—think he did,” she admitted, in an unsteady voice.

  “Where did he keep it?”

  The woman glanced up apprehensively and rolled her eyes slightly as if weighing the advisability of speaking frankly. Then she replied in a low voice, “In that hidden drawer there in the center table. You—you use that little brass button to open it with.”

  Heath jumped up, and pressed the button she had indicated. A tiny, shallow drawer shot out; and in it lay a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight revolver with an inlaid pearl handle. He picked it up, broke the carriage, and looked at the head of the cylinder.

  “Full,” he announced laconically.

  An expression of tremendous relief spread over the woman’s features, and she sighed audibly.

  Markham has risen and was looking at the revolver over Heath’s shoulder.

  “You’d better take charge of it, Sergeant,” he said; “though I don’t see exactly how it fits in with the case.”

  He resumed his seat and, glancing at the notation Vance had given him, turned again to the housekeeper.

  “One more question, Mrs. Platz. You said Mr. Benson came home early and spent his time before dinner in this room. Did he have any callers during that time?”

  I was watching the woman closely, and it seemed to me that she quickly compressed her lips. At any rate, she sat up a little straighter in her chair before answering.

  “There wasn’t no one, as far as I know.”

  “But surely you would have known if the bell rang,” insisted Markham. “You would have answered the door, wouldn’t you?”

  “There wasn’t no one,” she repeated, with a trace of sullenness.

  “And last night—did the doorbell ring at all after you had retired?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You would have heard it, even if you’d been asleep?”

  “Yes, sir. There’s a bell just outside my door, the same as in the kitchen. It rings in both places. Mr. Benson had it fixed that way.”

  Markham thanked her and dismissed her. When she had gone, he looked at Vance questioningly. “What idea did you have in your mind when you handed me those questions?”

  “I might have been a bit presumptuous, y’ know,” said Vance; “but when the lady was extolling the deceased’s popularity, I rather felt she was overdoing it a bit. There was an unconscious implication of antithesis in her eulogy, which suggested to me that she herself was not ardently enamored of the gentleman.”

  “And what put the notion of firearms into your mind?”

  “That query,” explained Vance, “was a corollary of your own questions about barred windows and Benson’s fear of burglars. If he was in a funk about housebreakers or enemies, he’d be likely to have weapons at hand—eh, what?”

  “Well, anyway, Mr. Vance,” put in Heath, “your curiosity unearthed a nice little revolver that’s probably never been used.”

  “By the bye, Sergeant,” returned Vance, ignoring the other’s good-humored sarcasm, “just what do you make of that nice little revolver?”

  “Well, now,” Heath replied, with ponderous facetiousness, “I deduct that Mr. Benson kept a pearl-handled Smith and Wesson in a secret drawer of his center table.”

  “You don’t say—really!” exclaimed Vance in mock admiration. “Pos’tively illuminatin’!”

  Markham broke up this raillery. “Why did you want to know about visitors, Vance? There obviously hadn’t been anyone here.”

  “Oh, just a whim of mine. I was assailed by an impulsive yearning to hear what La Platz would say.”

  Heath was studying Vance curiously. His first impressions of the man were being dispelled, and he had begun to suspect that beneath the other’s casual and debonair exterior there was something of a more solid nature than he had at first imagined. He was not altogether satisfied with Vance’s explanations to Markham and seemed to be endeavoring to penetra
te to his real reasons for supplementing the district attorney’s interrogation of the housekeeper. Heath was astute, and he had the worldly man’s ability to read people; but Vance, being different from the men with whom he usually came in contact, was an enigma to him.

  At length he relinquished his scrutiny and drew up his chair to the table with a spirited air.

  “And now, Mr. Markham,” he said crisply, “we’d better outline our activities so as not to duplicate our efforts. The sooner I get my men started, the better.”

  Markham assented readily. “The investigation is entirely up to you, Sergeant. I’m here to help wherever I’m needed.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir,” Heath returned. “But it looks to me as though there’d be enough work for all parties.… Suppose I get to work on running down the owner of the handbag, and send some men out scouting among Benson’s night-life cronies—I can pick up some names from the housekeeper, and they’ll be a good starting point. And I’ll get after that Cadillac, too.… Then we ought to look into his lady friends—I guess he had enough of ’em.”

  “I may get something out of the major along that line,” supplied Markham. “He’ll tell me anything I want to know. And I can also look into Benson’s business associates through the same channel.”

  “I was going to suggest that you could do that better than I could,” Heath rejoined. “We ought to run into something pretty quick that’ll give us a line to go on. And I’ve got an idea that when we locate the lady he took to dinner last night and brought back here, we’ll know a lot more than we do now.”

  “Or a lot less,” murmured Vance.

  Heath looked up quickly and grunted with an air of massive petulance.

  “Let me tell you something, Mr. Vance,” he said, “since I understand you want to learn something about these affairs: when anything goes seriously wrong in this world, it’s pretty safe to look for a woman in the case.”

  “Ah, yes,” smiled Vance. “Cherchez la femme—an aged notion. Even the Romans labored under the superstition. They expressed it with Dux femina facti.”

  “However they expressed it,” retorted Heath, “they had the right idea. And don’t let ’em tell you different.”