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there any?” Markham asked. “At any rate, I can’t say that they exactly blinded me by their brilliance.”
“And you received no solace from his words?”
“Only those in which he bade me a fond farewell. The parting didn’t exactly break my heart. . . . What the old boy said about Leacock, however, might be called a confirmatory opinion. It verified—if verification had been necessary—the case against the Captain.”
Vance smiled cynically.
“Oh, to be sure. And what he said about Miss St. Clair would have verified the case against her, too—last Saturday.—Also, what he said about Pfyfe would have verified the case against that Beau Sabreur, if you had happened to suspect him—eh, what?”
Vance had scarcely finished speaking when Swacker came in to say that Emery from the Homicide Bureau had been sent over by Heath, and wished, if possible, to see the District Attorney.
When the man entered I recognized him at once as the detective who had found the cigarette butts in Benson’s grate.
With a quick glance at Vance and me, he went directly to Markham.
“We’ve found the grey Cadillac, sir; and Sergeant Heath thought you might want to know about it right away. It’s in a small, one-man garage on Seventy-fourth Street near Amsterdam Avenue, and has been there three days. One of the men from the Sixty-eighth Street station located it and ’phoned in to Headquarters; and I hopped up town at once. It’s the right car—fishing-tackle and all, except for the rods; so I guess the ones found in Central Park belonged to the car after all: fell out probably. . . . It seems a fellow drove the car into the garage about noon last Friday, and gave the garage-man twenty dollars to keep his mouth shut. The man’s a wop, and says he don’t read the papers. Anyway, he came across pronto when I put the screws on.”
The detective drew out a small note-book.
“I looked up the car’s number. . . . It’s listed in the name of Leander Pfyfe, 24 Elm Boulevard, Port Washington, Long Island.”
Markham received this piece of unexpected information with a perplexed frown. He dismissed Emery almost curtly, and sat tapping thoughtfully on his desk.
Vance watched him with an amused smile.
“It’s really not a madhouse, y’ know,” he observed comfortingly. “I say, don’t the Colonel’s words bring you any cheer, now that you know Leander was hovering about the neighborhood at the time Benson was translated into the Beyond?”
“Damn your old Colonel!” snapped Markham. “What interests me at present is fitting this new development into the situation.”
“It fits beautifully,” Vance told him. “It rounds out the mosaic, so to speak. . . . Are you actu’lly disconcerted by learning that Pfyfe was the owner of the mysterious car?”
“Not having your gift of clairvoyance, I am, I confess, disturbed by the fact.”
Markham lit a cigar—an indication of worry.
“You, of course,” he added, with sarcasm, “knew before Emery came here that it was Pfyfe’s car.”
“I didn’t know,” Vance corrected him; “but I had a strong suspicion. Pfyfe overdid his distress when he told us of his breakdown in the Catskills. And Heath’s question about his itiner’ry annoyed him frightfully. His hauteur was too melodramatic.”
“Your ex post facto wisdom is most useful!”
Markham smoked a while in silence.
“I think I’ll find out about this matter.”
He rang for Swacker.
“Call up the Ansonia,” he ordered angrily; “locate Leander Pfyfe, and say I want to see him at the Stuyvesant Club at six o’clock. And tell him he’s to be there.”
“It occurs to me,” said Markham, when Swacker had gone, “that this car episode may prove helpful, after all. Pfyfe was evidently in New York that night, and for some reason he didn’t want it known. Why, I wonder? He tipped us off about Leacock’s threat against Benson, and hinted strongly that we’d better get on the fellow’s track. Of course, he may have been sore at Leacock for winning Miss St. Clair away from his friend, and taken this means of wreaking a little revenge on him. On the other hand, if Pfyfe was at Benson’s house the night of the murder, he may have some real information. And now that we’ve found out about the car, I think he’ll tell us what he knows.”
“He’ll tell you something anyway,” said Vance. “He’s the type of congenital liar that’ll tell anybody anything as long as it doesn’t involve himself unpleasantly.”
“You and the Cumæan Sibyl, I presume, could inform me in advance what he’s going to tell me.”
“I couldn’t say as to the Cumæan Sibyl, don’t y’ know,” Vance returned lightly; “but speaking for myself, I rather fancy he’ll tell you that he saw the impetuous Captain at Benson’s house that night.”
Markham laughed.
“I hope he does. You’ll want to be on hand to hear him, I suppose.”
“I couldn’t bear to miss it.”
Vance was already at the door, preparatory to going, when he turned again to Markham.
“I’ve another slight favor to ask. Get a dossier on Pfyfe—there’s a good fellow. Send one of your innumerable Dogberrys to Port Washington and have the gentleman’s conduct and social habits looked into. Tell your emiss’ry to concentrate on the woman question. . . . I promise you, you sha’n’t regret it.”
Markham, I could see, was decidedly puzzled by this request, and half inclined to refuse it. But after deliberating a few moments, he smiled, and pressed a button on his desk.
“Anything to humor you,” he said. “I’ll send a man down at once.”
CHAPTER XIV
LINKS IN THE CHAIN
(Monday, June 17; 6 p.m.)
Vance and I spent an hour or so that afternoon at the Anderson Galleries looking at some tapestries which were to be auctioned the next day, and afterward had tea at Sherry’s. We were at the Stuyvesant Club a little before six. A few minutes later Markham and Pfyfe arrived; and we went at once into one of the conference rooms.
Pfyfe was as elegant and superior as at the first interview. He wore a ratcatcher suit and Newmarket gaiters of unbleached linen, and was redolent of perfume.
“An unexpected pleasure to see you gentlemen again so soon,” he greeted us, like one conferring a blessing.
Markham was far from amiable, and gave him an almost brusque salutation. Vance had merely nodded, and now sat regarding Pfyfe drearily as if seeking to find some excuse for his existence, but utterly unable to do so.
Markham went directly to the point.
“I’ve found out, Mr. Pfyfe, that you placed your machine in a garage at noon on Friday, and gave the man twenty dollars to say nothing about it.”
Pfyfe looked up with a hurt look.
“I’ve been deeply wronged,” he complained sadly. “I gave the man fifty dollars.”
“I am glad you admit the fact so readily,” returned Markham. “You knew, by the newspapers, of course, that your machine was seen outside Benson’s house the night he was shot.”
“Why else should I have paid so liberally to have its presence in New York kept secret?” His tone indicated that he was pained at the other’s obtuseness.
“In