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irrespective of his guilt. Your theory, d’ ye see, would be quite all right if everyone had the same amount of the various internal secretions. But they haven’t. . . . Really, y’ know, you shouldn’t send a man to the electric chair simply because he’s deficient in endocrines. It isn’t cricket.”
Before Markham could reply Swacker appeared at the door and said Heath had arrived.
The Sergeant, beaming with satisfaction, fairly burst into the room. For once he forgot to shake hands.
“Well, it looks like we’d got hold of something workable. I went to this Captain Leacock’s apartment-house last night, and here’s the straight of it:—Leacock was at home the night of the thirteenth all right; but shortly after midnight he went out, headed west—get that!—and he didn’t return till about quarter of one!”
“What about the hall-boy’s original story?” asked Markham.
“That’s the best part of it. Leacock had the boy fixed. Gave him money to swear he hadn’t left the house that night.—What do you think of that, Mr. Markham? Pretty crude—huh? . . . The kid loosened up when I told him I was thinking of sending him up the river for doing the job himself.” Heath laughed unpleasantly. “And he won’t spill anything to Leacock, either.”
Markham nodded his head slowly.
“What you tell me, Sergeant, bears out certain conclusions I arrived at when I talked to Captain Leacock this morning. Ben put a man on him when he left here, and I’m to get a report to-night. To-morrow may see this thing through. I’ll get in touch with you in the morning, and if anything’s to be done, you understand, you’ll have the handling of it.”
When Heath had left us, Markham folded his hands behind his head and leaned back contentedly.
“I think I’ve got the answer,” he said. “The girl dined with Benson and returned to his house afterward. The Captain, suspecting the fact, went out found her there, and shot Benson. That would account not only for her gloves and hand-bag, but for the hour it took her to go from the Marseilles to her home. It would also account for her attitude here Saturday, and for the Captain’s lying about the gun. . . . There, I believe, I have my case. The smashing of the Captain’s alibi about clinches it.”
“Oh, quite,” said Vance airily. “ ‘Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing’.”
Markham regarded him a moment.
“Have you entirely forsworn human reason as a means of reaching a decision? Here we have an admitted threat, a motive, the time, the place, the opportunity, the conduct, and the criminal agent.”
“Those words sound strangely familiar,” smiled Vance. “Didn’t most of ’em fit the young lady also? . . . And you really haven’t got the criminal agent, y’ know. But it’s no doubt floating about the city somewhere.—A mere detail, however.”
“I may not have it in my hand,” Markham countered. “But with a good man on watch every minute, Leacock won’t find much opportunity of disposing of the weapon.”
Vance shrugged indifferently.
“In any event, go easy,” he admonished. “My humble opinion is that you’ve merely unearthed a conspiracy.”
“Conspiracy? . . . Good Lord! What kind?”
“A conspiracy of circumst’nces, don’t y’ know.”
“I’m glad, at any rate, it hasn’t to do with international politics,” returned Markham good-naturedly.
He glanced at the clock.
“You won’t mind if I get to work? I’ve a dozen things to attend to, and a couple of committees to see. . . . Why don’t you go across the hall and have a talk with Ben Hanlon, and then come back at twelve-thirty? We’ll have lunch together at the Bankers’ Club. Ben’s our greatest expert on foreign extradition, and has spent most of his life chasing about the world after fugitives from justice. He’ll spin you some good yarns.”
“How perfectly fascinatin’!” exclaimed Vance, with a yawn.
But instead of taking the suggestion, he walked to the window and lit a cigarette. He stood for a while puffing at it, rolling it between his fingers, and inspecting it critically.
“Y’ know, Markham,” he observed, “everything’s going to pot these days. It’s this silly democracy. Even the nobility is degen’rating. These Régie cigarettes, now: they’ve fallen off frightfully. There was a time when no self-respecting potentate would have smoked such inferior tobacco.”
Markham smiled.
“What’s the favor you want to ask?”
“Favor? What has that to do with the decay of Europe’s aristocracy?”
“I’ve noticed that whenever you want to ask a favor which you consider questionable etiquette, you begin with a denunciation of royalty.”
“Observin’ fella,” commented Vance drily. Then he, too, smiled. “Do you mind if I invite Colonel Ostrander along to lunch?”
Markham gave him a sharp look.
“Bigsby Ostrander, you mean? . . . Is he the mysterious colonel you’ve been asking people about for the past two days?”
“That’s the lad. Pompous ass and that sort of thing. Might prove a bit edifyin’, though. He’s the papa of Benson’s crowd, so to speak; knows all parties. Regular old scandalmonger.”
“Have him along, by all means,” agreed Markham.
Then he picked up the telephone.
“Now I’m going to tell Ben you’re coming over for an hour or so.”
CHAPTER XIII
THE GREY CADILLAC
(Monday, June 17; 12.30 p.m.)
When, at half past twelve, Markham, Vance and I entered the Grill of the Bankers’ Club in the Equitable Building, Colonel Ostrander was already at the bar engaged with one of Charlie’s prohibition clam-broth-and-Worcestershire-sauce cocktails. Vance had telephoned him immediately upon our leaving the District Attorney’s office, requesting him to meet us at the Club; and the Colonel had seemed eager to comply.
“Here is New York’s gayest dog,” said Vance, introducing him to Markham (I had met him before); “a sybarite and a hedonist. He sleeps till noon, and makes no appointments before tiffin-time. I had to knock him up and threaten him with your official ire to get him down town at this early hour.”
“Only too pleased to be of any service,” the Colonel assured Markham grandiloquently. “Shocking affair! Gad! I couldn’t credit it when I read it in the papers. Fact is, though—I don’t mind sayin’ it—I’ve one or two ideas on the subject. Came very near calling you up myself, sir.”
When we had taken our seats at the table Vance began interrogating him without preliminaries.
“You know all the people in Benson’s set, Colonel. Tell us something about Captain Leacock. What sort of chap is he?”
“Ha! So you have your eye on the gallant Captain?”
Colonel Ostrander pulled importantly at his white moustache. He was a large pink-faced man with bushy eyelashes and small blue eyes; and his manner and bearing were those of a pompous light-opera general.
“Not a bad idea. Might possibly have done it. Hot-headed fellow. He’s badly smitten with a Miss St. Clair—fine girl, Muriel. And Benson was smitten, too. If I’d been twenty years younger myself——”
“You’re too fascinatin’ to the ladies, as it is, Colonel,” interrupted