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this moment the telephone rang, and when Markham answered it a look of startled amusement came into his eyes. He made an appointment with the speaker for half past five that afternoon. Then, hanging up the receiver, he laughed outright at Vance.
“Your auricular researches have been confirmed,” he said. “Miss Hoffman just called me confidentially on an outside ’phone to say she has something to add to her story. She’s coming here at five-thirty.”
Vance was unimpressed by the announcement.
“I rather imagined she’d telephone during her lunch hour.”
Again Markham gave him one of his searching scrutinies.
“There’s something damned queer going on around here,” he observed.
“Oh, quite,” returned Vance carelessly. “Queerer than you could possibly imagine.”
For fifteen or twenty minutes Markham endeavored to draw him out; but Vance seemed suddenly possessed of an ability to say nothing with the blandest fluency. Markham finally became exasperated.
“I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion,” he said, “that either you had a hand in Benson’s murder, or you’re a phenomenally good guesser.”
“There is, y’ know, an alternative,” rejoined Vance. “It might be that my æsthetic hypotheses and metaphysical deductions—as you call ’em—are working out—eh, what?”
A few minutes before we went to lunch Swacker announced that Tracy had just returned from Long Island with his report.
“Is he the lad you sent to look into Pfyfe’s affaires du cœur?” Vance asked Markham. “For, if he is, I am all a-flutter.”
“He’s the man. . . . Send him in, Swacker.”
Tracy entered smiling silkily, his black note-book in one hand, his pince-nez in the other.
“I had no trouble learning about Pfyfe,” he said. “He’s well known in Port Washington—quite a character, in fact—and it was easy to pick up gossip about him.”
He adjusted his glasses carefully, and referred to his note-book.
“He married a Miss Hawthorn in nineteen-ten. She’s wealthy, but Pfyfe doesn’t benefit much by it, because her father sits on the money-bags——”
“Mr. Tracy, I say,” interrupted Vance; “never mind the née-Hawthorn and her doting papa,—Mr. Pfyfe himself has confided in us about his sad marriage. Tell us, if you can, about Mr. Pfyfe’s extra-nuptial affairs. Are there any other ladies?”
Tracy looked inquiringly at the District Attorney: he was uncertain as to Vance’s locus standi. Receiving a nod from Markham, he turned a page in his note-book and proceeded.
“I found one other woman in the case. She lives in New York, and often telephones to a drug store near Pfyfe’s house, and leaves messages for him. He uses the same ’phone to call her by. He had made some deal with the proprietor, of course; but I was able to obtain her ’phone number. As soon as I came back to the city I got her name and address from Information, and made a few inquiries. . . . She’s a Mrs. Paula Banning, a widow, and a little fast, I should say; and she lives in an apartment at 268 West Seventy-fifth Street.”
This exhausted Tracy’s information; and when he went out, Markham smiled broadly at Vance.
“He didn’t supply you with very much fuel.”
“My word! I think he did unbelievably well,” said Vance. “He unearthed the very information we wanted.”
“We wanted?” echoed Markham. “I have more important things to think about than Pfyfe’s amours.”
“And yet, y’ know, this particular amour of Pfyfe’s is going to solve the problem of Benson’s murder,” replied Vance; and would say no more.
Markham, who had an accumulation of other work awaiting him and numerous appointments for the afternoon, decided to have his lunch served in the office; so Vance and I took leave of him.
We lunched at the Élysée, dropped in at Knoedler’s to see an exhibition of French Pointillism, and then went to Aeolian Hall where a string quartette from San Francisco was giving a programme of Mozart. A little before half past five we were again at the District Attorney’s office, which at that hour was deserted except for Markham.
Shortly after our arrival Miss Hoffman came in, and told the rest of her story in direct, business-like fashion.
“I didn’t give you all the particulars this morning,” she said; “and I wouldn’t care to do so now unless you are willing to regard them as confidential, for my telling you might cost me my position.”
“I promise you,” Markham assured her, “that I will entirely respect your confidence.”
She hesitated a moment, and then continued.
“When I told Major Benson this morning about Mr. Pfyfe and his brother, he said at once that I should come with him to your office and tell you also. But on the way over, he suggested that I might omit a part of the story. He didn’t exactly tell me not to mention it; but he explained that it had nothing to do with the case and might only confuse you. I followed his suggestion; but after I got back to the office I began thinking it over, and knowing how serious a matter Mr. Benson’s death was, I decided to tell you anyway. In case it did have some bearing on the situation, I didn’t want to be in the position of having withheld anything from you.”
She seemed a little uncertain as to the wisdom of her decision.
“I do hope I haven’t been foolish. But the truth is, there was something else besides that envelope, which Mr. Benson asked me to bring him from the safe the day he and Mr. Pfyfe had their quarrel. It was a square heavy package, and, like the envelope, was marked ‘Pfyfe-Personal’. And it was over this package that Mr. Benson and Mr. Pfyfe seemed to be quarrelling.”
“Was it in the safe this morning when you went to get the envelope for the Major?” asked Vance.
“Oh, no. After Mr. Pfyfe left last week, I put the package back in the safe along with the envelope. But Mr. Benson took it home with him last Thursday—the day he was killed.”
Markham was but mildly interested in the recital, and was about to bring the interview to a close when Vance spoke up.
“It was very good of you, Miss Hoffman, to take this trouble to tell us about the package; and now that you are here, there are one or two questions I’d like to ask. . . . How did Mr. Alvin Benson and the Major get along together?”
She looked at Vance with a curious little smile.
“They didn’t get along very well,” she said. “They were so different. Mr. Alvin Benson was not a very pleasant person, and not very honorable, I’m afraid. You’d never have thought they were brothers. They were constantly disputing about the business; and they were terribly suspicious of each other.”
“That’s not unnatural,” commented Vance, “seeing how incompatible their temp’raments were. . . . By the bye, how did this suspicion show itself?”
“Well, for one thing, they sometimes spied on each other. You see, their offices were adjoining, and they would listen to each other through the door. I did the secretarial work for both of them, and I often saw them listening. Several times they tried to find out things from me about each other.”
Vance smiled at her appreciatively.
“Not a pleasant position for you.”
“Oh, I didn’t mind it,” she smiled back. “It amused me.”
“When was the last time you caught either one of them listening?” he asked.
The girl quickly became serious.
“The very last day Mr. Alvin Benson was alive I saw the Major