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(Sunday, June 16; afternoon.)

The following day, which was Sunday, we lunched with Markham at the Stuyvesant Club. Vance had suggested the appointment the evening before; for, as he explained to me, he wished to be present in case Leander Pfyfe should arrive from Long Island.

“It amuses me tremendously,” he had said, “the way human beings delib’rately complicate the most ordin’ry issues. They have a downright horror of anything simple and direct. The whole modern commercial system is nothing but a colossal mechanism for doing things in the most involved and roundabout way. If one makes a ten-cent purchase at a department store nowadays, a complete history of the transaction is written out in triplicate, checked by a dozen floor-walkers and clerks, signed and countersigned, entered into innum’rable ledgers with various colored inks, and then elab’rately secreted in steel filing-cabinets. And not content with all this superfluous chinoiserie, our business men have created a large and expensive army of efficiency experts whose sole duty it is to complicate and befuddle this system still further. . . . It’s the same with everything else in modern life. Regard that insup’rable mania called golf. It consists merely of knocking a ball into a hole with a stick. But the devotees of this pastime have developed a unique and distinctive livery in which to play it. They concentrate for twenty years on the correct angulation of their feet and the proper method of entwining their fingers about the stick. Moreover, in order to discuss the pseudo-intr’cacies of this idiotic sport, they’ve invented an outlandish vocabulary which is unintelligible even to an English scholar.”

He pointed disgustedly at a pile of Sunday newspapers.

“Then here’s this Benson murder—a simple and incons’quential affair. Yet the entire machinery of the law is going at high pressure and blowing off jets of steam all over the community, when the matter could be settled quietly in five minutes with a bit of intelligent thinking.”

At lunch, however, he did not refer to the crime; and, as if by tacit agreement, the subject was avoided. Markham had merely mentioned casually to us as we went into the dining-room that he was expecting Heath a little later.

The sergeant was waiting for us when we retired to the lounge-room for our smoke, and by his expression it was evident he was not pleased with the way things were going.

“I told you, Mr. Markham,” he said, when he had drawn up our chairs, “that this case was going to be a tough one. . . . Could you get any kind of a lead from the St. Clair woman?”

Markham shook his head.

“She’s out of it.” And he recounted briefly the happenings at Benson’s house the preceding afternoon.

“Well, if you’re satisfied,” was Heath’s somewhat dubious comment, “that’s good enough for me. But what about this Captain Leacock?”

“That’s what I asked you here to talk about,” Markham told him. “There’s no direct evidence against him, but there are several suspicious circumstances that tend to connect him with the murder. He seems to meet the specifications as to height; and we mustn’t overlook the fact that Benson was shot with just such a gun as Leacock would be likely to possess. He was engaged to the girl, and a motive might be found in Benson’s attentions to her.”

“And ever since the big scrap,” supplemented Heath, “these army boys don’t think anything of shooting people. They got used to blood on the other side.”

“The only hitch,” resumed Markham, “is that Phelps, who had the job of checking up on the Captain, reported to me that he was home that night from eight o’clock on. Of course, there may be a loop-hole somewhere, and I was going to suggest that you have one of your men go into the matter thoroughly and see just what the situation is. Phelps got his information from one of the hall-boys; and I think it might be well to get hold of the boy again and apply a little pressure. If it was found that Leacock was not at home at twelve-thirty that night, we might have the lead you’ve been looking for.”

“I’ll attend to it myself,” said Heath. “I’ll go round there to-night, and if this boy knows anything, he’ll spill it before I’m through with him.”

We had talked but a few minutes longer when a uniformed attendant bowed deferentially at the District Attorney’s elbow and announced that Mr. Pfyfe was calling.

Markham requested that his visitor be shown into the lounge-room, and then added to Heath:

“You’d better remain, and hear what he has to say.”

Leander Pfyfe was an immaculate and exquisite personage. He approached us with a mincing gate of self-approbation. His legs, which were very long and thin, with knees that seemed to bend slightly inward, supported a short bulging torso; and his chest curved outward in a generous arc, like that of a pouter-pigeon. His face was rotund, and his jowls hung in two loops over a collar too tight for comfort. His blond sparse hair was brushed back sleekly; and the ends of his narrow, silken moustache were waxed into needle-points. He was dressed in light-grey summer flannels, and wore a pale turquoise-green silk shirt, a vivid foulard tie, and grey suède Oxfords. A strong odor of oriental perfume was given off by the carefully arranged batiste handkerchief in his breast pocket.

He greeted Markham with viscid urbanity, and acknowledged his introduction to us with a patronizing bow. After posing himself in a chair the attendant placed for him, he began polishing a gold-rimmed eye-glass which he wore on a ribbon, and fixed Markham with a melancholy gaze.

“A very sad occasion, this,” he sighed.

“Realizing your friendship for Mr. Benson,” said Markham, “I deplore the necessity of appealing to you at this time. It was very good of you, by the way, to come to the city to-day.”

Pfyfe made a mildly deprecating movement with his carefully manicured fingers. He was, he explained with an air of ineffable self-complacency, only too glad to discommode himself to give aid to servants of the public. A distressing necessity, to be sure; but his manner conveyed unmistakably that he knew and recognized the obligations attaching to the dictum of noblesse oblige, and was prepared to meet them.

He looked at Markham with a self-congratulatory air, and his eyebrows queried: “What can I do for you?” though his lips did not move.

“I understand from Major Anthony Benson,” Markham said, “that you were very close to his brother, and therefore might be able to tell us something of his personal affairs, or private social relationships, that would indicate a line of investigation.”

Pfyfe gazed sadly at the floor.

“Ah, yes. Alvin and I were very close,—we were, in fact, the most intimate of friends. You can not imagine how broken up I was at hearing of the dear fellow’s tragic end.” He gave the impression that here was a modern instance of Æneas and Achates. “And I was deeply grieved at not being able to come at once to New York to put myself at the service of those that needed me.”

“I’m sure it would have been a comfort to his other friends,” remarked Vance, with cool politeness. “But in the circumst’nces you will be forgiven.”

Pfyfe blinked regretfully.

“Ah, but I shall never forgive myself—though I cannot hold myself altogether blameworthy. Only the day before the tragedy I had started on a trip to the Catskills. I had even asked dear Alvin to go along; but he was too busy.” Pfyfe shook his head as if lamenting the incomprehensible irony of life. “How much better—ah, how infinitely much better—if only——”

“You were gone a very short time,” commented Markham, interrupting what promised to be a homily on perverse providence.

“True,” Pfyfe indulgently admitted. “But I met with a most unfortunate accident.” He polished his eye-glass a moment. “My car broke down, and I was necessitated to return.”

“What road did you take?” asked Heath.

Pfyfe delicately adjusted his eye-glass, and regarded the Sergeant with an intimation of boredom.

“My advice, Mr.—ah—Sneed——”

“Heath,” the other corrected him surlily.

“Ah, yes—Heath. . . . My advice, Mr. Heath, is, that if you are contemplating a motor trip to the Catskills, you apply to the Automobile Club of America for a road-map. My choice of itinerary might very possibly not suit you.”

He turned back to the District Attorney with an air that implied he preferred talking to an equal.

“Tell me, Mr. Pfyfe,” Markham asked; “did Mr. Benson have any enemies?”

The other appeared to think the matter over.

“No-o. Not one, I should say, who would actually have killed him as a result of animosity.”

“You imply nevertheless that he had enemies. Could you not tell us a little more?”

Pfyfe passed his hand gracefully over the tips of his golden moustache, and then permitted his index-finger to linger on his cheek in an attitude of meditative indecision.

“Your request, Mr. Markham,”—he spoke with pained reluctance—“brings up a matter which I hesitate to discuss. But perhaps it is best that I confide in you—as one gentleman to another. Alvin, in common with many other admirable fellows, had a—what shall I say?—a weakness—let me put it that way—for the fair sex.”

He looked at Markham, seeking approbation for his extreme tact in stating an indelicate truth.

“You understand,” he continued, in answer to the other’s sympathetic nod, “Alvin was not a man who possessed the personal characteristics that women hold attractive.” (I somehow got the impression that Pfyfe considered himself as differing radically from Benson in this respect.) “Alvin was aware of his physical deficiency, and the result was,—I trust you will understand my hesitancy in mentioning this distressing fact,—but the result was that Alvin used certain—ah—methods in his dealings with women, which you and I could never bring ourselves to adopt. Indeed—though it pains me to say it—he often took unfair advantage of women. He used underhand methods, as it were.”

He paused, apparently shocked by this heinous imperfection of his friend, and by the necessity of his own seemingly disloyal revelation.

“Was it one of these women whom Benson had dealt with unfairly, that you had in mind?” asked Markham.

“No—not the woman herself,” Pfyfe replied; “but a man who was interested in her. In fact, this man threatened Alvin’s life. You will appreciate my reluctance in telling you this; but my excuse is that the threat was made quite openly. There were several others besides myself who heard it.”

“That, of course, relieves you from any technical breach of confidence,” Markham observed.

Pfyfe acknowledged the other’s understanding with a slight bow.

“It happened at a little party of which I was the unfortunate host,” he confessed modestly.

“Who was the man?” Markham’s tone was polite but firm.

“You will comprehend my reticence. . . .” Pfyfe began. Then, with an air of righteous frankness, he leaned forward. “It might prove unfair to Alvin to withhold the gentleman’s name. . . . He was Captain Philip Leacock.”

He allowed himself the emotional outlet of a sigh.

“I trust you won’t ask me for the lady’s name.”

“It won’t be necessary,” Markham assured him. “But I’d appreciate your telling us a little more of the episode.”

Pfyfe complied with an expression of patient resignation.

“Alvin was considerably taken with the lady in question, and showed her many attentions which were, I am forced to admit, unwelcome. Captain Leacock resented these attentions; and at the little affair to which I had invited him and Alvin, some unpleasant and, I must say, unrefined words passed between them. I fear the wine had been flowing too freely, for Alvin was always punctilious—he was a man, indeed, skilled in the niceties of social intercourse; and the Captain, in an outburst of temper, told Alvin that, unless he left the lady strictly alone in the future, he would pay with his life. The Captain even went so far as to draw a revolver half-way out of his pocket.”

“Was it a revolver, or an automatic pistol?” asked Heath.

Pfyfe gave the District Attorney a faint smile of annoyance, without deigning even to glance at the Sergeant.

“I misspoke myself; forgive me. It was not a revolver. It was, I believe, an automatic army pistol—though, you understand, I didn’t see it in its entirety.”

“You say there were others who witnessed the altercation?”

“Several of my guests were standing about,” Pfyfe explained; “but, on my word, I couldn’t name them. The fact is, I attached little importance to the threat—indeed, it had entirely slipped my memory until I read the account of poor Alvin’s death. Then I thought at once of the unfortunate incident, and said to myself: Why not tell the District Attorney. . . ?”

“Thoughts that breathe and words that burn,” murmured Vance, who had been sitting through the interview in oppressive boredom.

Pfyfe once more adjusted his eye-glass, and gave Vance a withering look.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

Vance smiled disarmingly.

“Merely a quotation from Gray. Poetry appeals to me in certain moods, don’t y’ know. . . . Do you, by any chance, know Colonel Ostrander?”

Pfyfe looked at him coldly, but only a vacuous countenance met his gaze.

“I am acquainted with the gentleman,” he replied haughtily.

“Was Colonel Ostrander present at this delightful little social affair of yours?” Vance’s tone was artlessly innocent.

“Now that you mention it, I believe he was,” admitted Pfyfe, and lifted his eyebrows inquisitively.

But Vance was again staring disinterestedly out of the window.

Markham, annoyed at the interruption, attempted to re-establish the conversation on a more amiable and practical basis. But Pfyfe, though loquacious, had little more information to give. He insisted constantly on bringing the talk back to Captain Leacock, and, despite his eloquent protestations, it was obvious he attached more importance to the threat than he chose to admit. Markham questioned him for fully an hour, but could learn nothing else of a suggestive nature.

When Pfyfe rose to go Vance turned from his contemplation of the outside world and, bowing affably, let his eyes rest on the other with ingenuous good-nature.

“Now that you are in New York, Mr. Pfyfe, and were so unfortunate as to be unable to arrive earlier, I assume that you will remain until after the investigation.”

Pfyfe’s studied and habitual calm gave way to a look of oily astonishment.

“I hadn’t contemplated doing so.”

“It would be most desirable—if you could arrange it,” urged Markham; though I am sure he had no intention of making the request until Vance suggested it.

Pfyfe hesitated, and then made an elegant gesture of resignation.

“Certainly I shall remain. When you have further need of my services, you will find me at the Ansonia.”

He spoke with exalted condescension, and magnanimously conferred upon Markham a parting smile. But the smile did not spring from within. It appeared to have been adjusted upon his features by the unseen hands of a sculptor; and it affected only the muscles about his mouth.

When he had gone Vance gave Markham a look of suppressed mirth.

“ ‘Elegancy, facility and golden cadence.’ . . . But put not your faith in poesy, old dear. Our Ciceronian friend is an unmitigated fashioner of deceptions.”

“If you’re trying to say that he’s a smooth liar,” remarked Heath, “I don’t agree with you. I think that story about the Captain’s threat is straight goods.”

“Oh, that! Of course, it’s true. . . . And, y’ know, Markham, the knightly Mr. Pfyfe was frightfully disappointed when you didn’t insist on his revealing Miss St. Clair’s name. This Leander, I fear, would never have swum the Hellespont for a lady’s sake.”

“Whether he’s a swimmer or not,” said Heath impatiently, “he’s given us something to go on.”

Markham agreed that Pfyfe’s recital had added materially to the case against Leacock.

“I think I’ll have the Captain down to my office to-morrow, and question him,” he said.

A moment later Major Benson entered the room, and Markham invited him to join us.

“I just saw Pfyfe get into a taxi,” he said, when he had sat down. “I suppose you’ve been asking him about Alvin’s affairs. . . . Did he help you any?”

“I hope so, for all our sakes,” returned Markham kindly. “By the way, Major, what do you know about a Captain Philip Leacock?”

Major Benson lifted his eyes to Markham’s in surprise.

“Didn’t you know? Leacock was one of the captains in my regiment,—a first-rate man. He knew Alvin pretty well, I think; but my impression is they didn’t hit it off very chummily. . . . Surely you don’t connect him with this affair?”

Markham ignored the question.

“Did you happen to attend a party of Pfyfe’s the night the Captain threatened your brother?”

“I went, I remember, to one or two of Pfyfe’s parties,” said the Major. “I don’t, as a rule, care for such gatherings, but Alvin convinced me it was a good business policy.”

He lifted his head, and frowned fixedly into space, like one searching for an elusive memory.

“However, I don’t recall—By George! Yes, I believe I do. . . . But if the instance I am thinking of is what you have in mind, you can dismiss it. We were all a little moist that night.”

“Did Captain Leacock draw a gun?” asked Heath.

The Major pursed his lips.

“Now that you mention it, I think he did make some motion of the kind.”

“Did you see the gun?” pursued Heath.

“No, I can’t say that I did.”

Markham put the next question.

“Do you think Captain Leacock capable of the act of murder?”

“Hardly,” Major Benson answered with emphasis. “Leacock isn’t cold-blooded. The woman over whom the tiff occurred is more capable of such an act than he is.”

A short silence followed, broken by Vance.

“What do you know, Major, about this glass of fashion and mould of form, Pfyfe? He appears a rare bird. Has he a history, or is his presence his life’s document?”

“Leander Pfyfe,” said the Major, “is a typical specimen of the modern young do-nothing,—I say young, though I imagine he’s around forty. He was pampered in his upbringing—had everything he wanted, I believe; but he became restless, and followed several different fads till he tired of them. He was two years in South Africa hunting big game, and, I think, wrote a book recounting his adventures. Since then he has done nothing that I know of. He married a wealthy shrew some years ago—for her money, I imagine. But the woman’s father controls the purse-strings, and holds him down to a rigid allowance. . . . Pfyfe’s a waster and an idler, but Alvin seemed to find some attraction in the man.”

The Major’s words had been careless in inflection and undeliberated, like those of a man discussing a neutral matter; but all of us, I think, received the impression that he had a strong personal dislike for Pfyfe.

“Not a ravishing personality, what?” remarked Vance. “And he uses far too much Jicky.”

“Still,” supplied Heath, with a puzzled frown, “a fellow’s got to have a lot of nerve to shoot big game. . . . And, speaking of nerve, I’ve been thinking that the guy who shot your brother, Major, was a mighty cool-headed proposition. He did it from the front when his man was wide awake, and with a servant upstairs. That takes nerve.”

“Sergeant, you’re pos’tively brilliant!” exclaimed Vance.