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(Thursday, June 20; noon.)

On leaving the apartment, Markham took with him the pistol and the case of jewels. In the drug store at the corner of Sixth Avenue he telephoned Heath to meet him immediately at the office, and to bring Captain Hagedorn. He also telephoned Stitt, the public accountant, to report as soon as possible.

“You observe, I trust,” said Vance, when we were in the taxicab headed for the Criminal Courts Building, “the great advantage of my methods over yours. When one knows at the outset who committed a crime, one isn’t misled by appearances. Without that foreknowledge, one is apt to be deceived by a clever alibi, for example. . . . I asked you to secure the alibis because, knowing the Major was guilty, I thought he’d have prepared a good one.”

“But why ask for all of them? And why waste time trying to disprove Colonel Ostrander’s?”

“What chance would I have had of securing the Major’s alibi, if I had not injected his name surreptitiously, as it were, into a list of other names? . . . And had I asked you to check the Major’s alibi first, you’d have refused. I chose the Colonel’s alibi to start with because it seemed to offer a loop-hole,—and I was lucky in the choice. I knew that if I could puncture one of the other alibis, you would be more inclined to help me test the Major’s.”

“But if, as you say, you knew from the first that the Major was guilty, why, in God’s name, didn’t you tell me, and save me this week of anxiety?”

“Don’t be ingenuous, old man,” returned Vance. “If I had accused the Major at the beginning, you’d have had me arrested for scandalum magnatum and criminal libel. It was only by deceivin’ you every minute about the Major’s guilt, and drawing a whole school of red herrings across the trail, that I was able to get you to accept the fact even to-day. And yet, not once did I actu’lly lie to you. I was constantly throwing out suggestions, and pointing to significant facts, in the hope that you’d see the light for yourself; but you ignored all my intimations, or else misinterpreted them, with the most irritatin’ perversity.”

Markham was silent a moment.

“I see what you mean. But why did you keep setting up these straw men and then knocking them over?”

“You were bound, body and soul, to circumst’ntial evidence,” Vance pointed out. “It was only by letting you see that it led you nowhere that I was able to foist the Major on you. There was no evidence against him,—he naturally saw to that. No one even regarded him as a possibility: fratricide has been held as inconceivable—a lusus naturæ—since the days of Cain. Even with all my finessing you fought every inch of the way, objectin’ to this and that, and doing everything imag’nable to thwart my humble efforts. . . . Admit, like a good fellow, that, had it not been for my assiduousness, the Major would never have been suspected.”

Markham nodded slowly.

“And yet, there are some things I don’t understand even now. Why, for instance, should he have objected so strenuously to my arresting the Captain?”

Vance wagged his head.

“How deuced obvious you are! Never attempt a crime, my Markham,—you’d be instantly apprehended. I say, can’t you see how much more impregnable the Major’s position would be if he showed no int’rest in your arrests—if, indeed, he appeared actu’lly to protest against your incarc’ration of a victim. Could he, by any other means, have elim’nated so completely all possible suspicion against himself? Moreover, he knew very well that nothing he could say would swerve you from your course. You’re so noble, don’t y’ know.”

“But he did give me the impression once or twice that he thought Miss St. Clair was guilty.”

“Ah! There you have a shrewd intelligence taking advantage of an opportunity. The Major unquestionably planned the crime so as to cast suspicion on the Captain. Leacock had publicly threatened his brother in connection with Miss St. Clair; and the lady was about to dine alone with Alvin. When, in the morning, Alvin was found shot with an army Colt, who but the Captain would be suspected? The Major knew the Captain lived alone, and that he would have diff’culty in establishing an alibi. Do you now see how cunning he was in recommending Pfyfe as a source of information? He knew that if you interviewed Pfyfe, you’d hear of the threat. And don’t ignore the fact that his suggestion of Pfyfe was an apparent afterthought: he wanted to make it appear casual, don’t y’ know.—Astute devil, what?”

Markham, sunk in gloom, was listening closely.

“Now for the opportunity of which he took advantage,” continued Vance. “When you upset his calculations by telling him you knew whom Alvin dined with, and that you had almost enough evidence to ask for an indictment, the idea appealed to him. He knew no charmin’ lady could ever be convicted of murder in this most chivalrous city, no matter what the evidence; and he had enough of the sporting instinct in him to prefer that no one should actu’lly be punished for the crime. Cons’quently, he was willing to switch you back to the lady. And he played his hand cleverly, making it appear that he was most reluctant to involve her.”

“Was that why, when you wanted me to examine his books and to ask him to the office to discuss the confession, you told me to intimate that I had Miss St. Clair in mind?”

“Exactly!”

“And the person the Major was shielding——”

“Was himself. But he wanted you to think it was Miss St. Clair.”

“If you were certain he was guilty, why did you bring Colonel Ostrander into the case?”

“In the hope that he could supply us with faggots for the Major’s funeral pyre. I knew he was acquainted intimately with Alvin Benson and his entire camarilla; and I knew, too, that he was an egregious quidnunc who might have got wind of some enmity between the Benson boys, and have suspected the truth. And I also wanted to get a line on Pfyfe, by way of elim’nating every remote counter possibility.”

“But we already had a line on Pfyfe.”

“Oh, I don’t mean material clues. I wanted to learn about Pfyfe’s nature—his psychology, y’ know,—particularly his personality as a gambler. Y’ see, it was the crime of a calculating, cold-blooded gambler; and no one but a man of that particular type could possibly have committed it.”

Markham apparently was not interested just now in Vance’s theories.

“Did you believe the Major,” he asked, “when he said his brother had lied to him about the presence of the jewels in the safe?”

“The wily Alvin prob’bly never mentioned ’em to Anthony,” rejoined Vance. “An ear at the door during one of Pfyfe’s visits was, I fancy, his source of information. . . . And speaking of the Major’s eavesdropping, it was that which suggested to me a possible motive for the crime. Your man Stitt, I hope, will clarify that point.”

“According to your theory, the crime was rather hastily conceived.” Markham’s statement was in reality a question.

“The details of its execution were hastily conceived,” corrected Vance. “The Major undoubtedly had been contemplating for some time elim’nating his brother. Just how or when he was to do it, he hadn’t decided. He may have thought out and rejected a dozen plans. Then, on the thirteenth, came the opportunity: all the conditions adjusted themselves to his purpose. He heard Miss St. Clair’s promise to go to dinner; and he therefore knew that Alvin would prob’bly be home alone at twelve-thirty, and that, if he were done away with at that hour, suspicion would fall on Captain Leacock. He saw Alvin take home the jewels—another prov’dential circumst’nce. The propitious moment for which he had been waiting, d’ ye see, was at hand. All that remained was to establish an alibi and work out a modus operandi. How he did this, I’ve already eluc’dated.”

Markham sat thinking for several minutes. At last he lifted his head.

“You’ve about convinced me of his guilt,” he admitted. “But damn it, man! I’ve got to prove it; and there’s not much actual legal evidence.”

Vance gave a slight shrug.

“I’m not int’rested in your stupid courts and your silly rules of evidence. But, since I’ve convinced you, you can’t charge me with not having met your challenge, don’t y’ know.”

“I suppose not,” Markham assented gloomily.

Slowly the muscles about his mouth tightened.

“You’ve done your share, Vance. I’ll carry on.”

Heath and Captain Hagedorn were waiting when we arrived at the office, and Markham greeted them in his customary reserved, matter-of-fact way. By now he had himself well in hand, and he went about the task before him with the sombre forcefulness that characterized him in the discharge of all his duties.

“I think we at last have the right man, Sergeant,” he said. “Sit down, and I’ll go over the matter with you in a moment. There are one or two things I want to attend to first.”

He handed Major Benson’s pistol to the fire-arms expert.

“Look that gun over, Captain, and tell me if there’s any way of identifying it as the weapon that killed Benson.”

Hagedorn moved ponderously to the window. Laying the pistol on the sill, he took several tools from the pockets of his voluminous coat, and placed them beside the weapon. Then, adjusting a jeweller’s magnifying glass to his eye, he began what seemed an interminable series of tinkerings. He opened the plates of the stock, and drawing back the sear, took out the firing-pin. He removed the slide, unscrewed the link, and extracted the recoil spring. I thought he was going to take the weapon entirely apart, but apparently he merely wanted to let light into the barrel; for presently he held the gun to the window and placed his eye at the muzzle. He peered into the barrel for nearly five minutes, moving it slightly back and forth to catch the reflection of the sun on different points of the interior.

At last, without a word, he slowly and painstakingly went through the operation of redintegrating the weapon. Then he lumbered back to his chair, and sat blinking heavily for several moments.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, thrusting his head forward and gazing at Markham over the tops of his steel-rimmed spectacles. “This, now, may be the right gun. I wouldn’t say for sure. But when I saw the bullet the other morning I noticed some peculiar rifling marks on it; and the rifling in this gun here looks to me as though it would match up with the marks on the bullet. I’m not certain. I’d like to look at this barrel through my helixometer.²¹”

“But you believe it’s the gun?” insisted Markham.

“I couldn’t say, but I think so. I might be wrong.”

“Very good, Captain. Take it along, and call me the minute you’ve inspected it thoroughly.”

“It’s the gun, all right,” asserted Heath, when Hagedorn had gone. “I know that bird. He wouldn’t ’ve said as much as he did if he hadn’t been sure. . . . Whose gun is it, sir?”

“I’ll answer you presently.” Markham was still battling against the truth—withholding, even from himself, his pronouncement of the Major’s guilt until every loop-hole of doubt should be closed. “I want to hear from Stitt before I say anything. I sent him to look over Benson and Benson’s books. He’ll be here any moment.”

After a wait of a quarter of an hour, during which time Markham attempted to busy himself with other matters, Stitt came in. He said a sombre good-morning to the District Attorney and Heath; then, catching sight of Vance, smiled appreciatively.

“That was a good tip you gave me. You had the dope. If you’d kept Major Benson away longer, I could have done more. While he was there he was watching me every minute.”

“I did the best I could,” sighed Vance. He turned to Markham: “Y’ know, I was wondering all through lunch yesterday how I could remove the Major from his office during Mr. Stitt’s investigation; and when we learned of Leacock’s confession, it gave me just the excuse I needed. I really didn’t want the Major here,—I simply wished to give Mr. Stitt a free hand.”

“What did you find out?” Markham asked the accountant.

“Plenty!” was the laconic reply.

He took a sheet of paper from his pocket, and placed it on the desk.

“There’s a brief report. . . . I followed Mr. Vance’s suggestion, and took a look at the stock record and the cashier’s collateral blotter, and traced the transfer receipts. I ignored the journal entries against the ledger, and concentrated on the activities of the firm heads. Major Benson, I found, has been consistently hypothecating securities transferred to him as collateral for marginal trading, and has been speculating steadily in mercantile curb stocks. He has lost heavily—how much, I can’t say.”

“And Alvin Benson?” asked Vance.

“He was up to the same tricks. But he played in luck. He made a wad on a Columbus Motors pool a few weeks back; and he has been salting the money away in his safe—or, at least, that’s what the secretary told me.”

“And if Major Benson has possession of the key to that safe,” suggested Vance, “then it’s lucky for him his brother was shot.”

“Lucky?” retorted Stitt. “It’ll save him from State prison.”

When the accountant had gone, Markham sat like a man of stone, his eyes fixed on the wall opposite. Another straw at which he had grasped in his instinctive denial of the Major’s guilt, had been snatched from him.

The telephone rang. Slowly he took up the receiver, and as he listened I saw a look of complete resignation come into his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, like a man exhausted.

“It was Hagedorn,” he said. “That was the right gun.”

Then he drew himself up, and turned to Heath.

“The owner of that gun, Sergeant, was Major Benson.”

The detective whistled softly, and his eyes opened slightly with astonishment. But gradually his face assumed its habitual stolidity of expression.

“Well, it don’t surprise me any,” he said.

Markham rang for Swacker.

“Get Major Benson on the wire, and tell him—tell him I’m about to make an arrest, and would appreciate his coming here immediately.” His deputizing of the telephone call to Swacker was understood by all of us, I think.

Markham then summarized, for Heath’s benefit, the case against the Major. When he had finished, he rose and rearranged the chairs at the table in front of his desk.

“When Major Benson comes, Sergeant,” he said, “I am going to seat him here.” He indicated a chair directly facing his own. “I want you to sit at his right; and you’d better get Phelps—or one of the other men, if he isn’t in—to sit at his left. But you’re not to make any move until I give the signal. Then you can arrest him.”

When Heath had returned with Phelps and they had taken their seats at the table, Vance said:

“I’d advise you, Sergeant, to be on your guard. The minute the Major knows he’s in for it, he’ll go bald-headed for you.”

Heath smiled with heavy contempt.

“This isn’t the first man I’ve arrested, Mr. Vance—with many thanks for your advice. And what’s more, the Major isn’t that kind; he’s too nervy.”

“Have it your own way,” replied Vance indifferently. “But I’ve warned you. The Major is cool-headed; he’d take big chances, and he could lose his last dollar without turning a hair. But when he is finally cornered, and sees ultimate defeat, all his repressions of a lifetime, having had no safety-valve, will explode physically. When a man lives without passions or emotions or enthusiasms, there’s bound to be an outlet some time. Some men explode, and some commit suicide,—the principle is the same: it’s a matter of psychological reaction. The Major isn’t the self-destructive type,—that’s why I say he’ll blow up.”

Heath snorted.

“We may be short on psychology down here,” he rejoined, “but we know human nature pretty well.”

Vance stifled a yawn, and carelessly lit a cigarette. I noticed, however, that he pushed his chair back a little from the end of the table where he and I were sitting.

“Well, Chief,” rasped Phelps, “I guess your troubles are about over—though I sure did think that fellow Leacock was your man. . . . Who got the dope on this Major Benson?”

“Sergeant Heath and the Homicide Bureau will receive entire credit for the work,” said Markham; and added: “I’m sorry, Phelps, but the District Attorney’s office, and everyone connected with it, will be kept out of it altogether.”

“Oh, well, it’s all in a lifetime,” observed Phelps philosophically.

We sat in strained silence until the Major arrived. Markham smoked abstractedly. He glanced several times over the sheet of notations left by Stitt, and once he went to the water-cooler for a drink. Vance opened at random a law book before him, and perused with an amused smile a bribery-case decision by a Western judge. Heath and Phelps, habituated to waiting, scarcely moved.

When Major Benson entered Markham greeted him with exaggerated casualness, and busied himself with some papers in a drawer to avoid shaking hands. Heath, however, was almost jovial. He drew out the Major’s chair for him, and uttered a ponderous banality about the weather. Vance closed the law book and sat erect with his feet drawn back.

Major Benson was cordially dignified. He gave Markham a swift glance; but if he suspected anything, he showed no outward sign of it.

“Major, I want you to answer a few questions—if you care to.” Markham’s voice, though low, had in it a resonant quality.

“Anything at all,” returned the other easily.

“You own an army pistol, do you not?”

“Yes—a Colt automatic,” he replied, with a questioning lift of the eyebrows.

“When did you last clean and refill it?”

Not a muscle of the Major’s face moved.

“I don’t exactly remember,” he said. “I’ve cleaned it several times. But it hasn’t been refilled since I returned from overseas.”

“Have you lent it to anyone recently?”

“Not that I recall.”

Markham took up Stitt’s report, and looked at it a moment.

“How did you hope to satisfy your clients if suddenly called upon for their marginal securities?”

The Major’s upper lip lifted contemptuously, exposing his teeth.

“So! That was why—under the guise of friendship—you sent a man to look over my books!” I saw a red blotch of color appear on the back of his neck, and swell upward to his ears.

“It happens that I didn’t send him there for that purpose.” The accusation had cut Markham. “But I did enter your apartment this morning.”

“You’re a house-breaker, too, are you?” The man’s face was now crimson; the veins stood out on his forehead.

“And I found Mrs. Banning’s jewels. . . . How did they get there, Major?”

“It’s none of your damned business how they got there,” he said, his voice as cold and even as ever.

“Why did you tell Miss Hoffman not to mention them to me?”

“That’s none of your damned business either.”

“Is it any of my business,” asked Markham quietly, “that the bullet which killed your brother was fired from your gun?”

The Major looked at him steadily, his mouth a sneer.

“That’s the kind of double-crossing you do!—invite me here to arrest me, and then ask me questions to incriminate myself when I’m unaware of your suspicions. A fine dirty sport you are!”

Vance leaned forward.

“You fool!” His voice was very low, but it cut like a whip. “Can’t you see he’s your friend, and is asking you these questions in a last desp’rate hope that you’re not guilty?”

The Major swung round on him hotly.

“Keep out of this—you damned sissy!”

“Oh, quite,” murmured Vance.

“And as for you,”—he pointed a quivering finger at Markham—“I’ll make you sweat for this! . . .”

Vituperation and profanity poured from the man. His nostrils were expanded, his eyes blazing. His wrath seemed to surpass all human bounds: he was like a person in an apoplectic fit—contorted, repulsive, insensate.

Markham sat through it patiently, his head resting on his hands, his eyes closed. When, at length, the Major’s rage became inarticulate, he looked up and nodded to Heath. It was the signal the detective had been watching for.

But before Heath could make a move, the Major sprang to his feet. With the motion of rising he swung his body swiftly about, and brought his fist against Heath’s face with terrific impact. The Sergeant went backward in his chair, and lay on the floor dazed. Phelps leaped forward, crouching; but the Major’s knee shot upward and caught him in the lower abdomen. He sank to the floor, where he rolled back and forth groaning.

The Major then turned on Markham. His eyes were glaring like a maniac’s, and his lips were drawn back. His nostrils dilated with each stertorous breath. His shoulders were hunched, and his arms hung away from his body, his fingers rigidly flexed. His attitude was the embodiment of a terrific, uncontrolled malignity.

“You’re next!” The words, guttural and venomous, were like a snarl.

As he spoke he sprang forward.

Vance, who had sat quietly during the mêlée, looking on with half-closed eyes and smoking indolently, now stepped sharply round the end of the table. His arms shot forward. With one hand he caught the Major’s right wrist; with the other he grasped the elbow. Then he seemed to fall back with a swift pivotal motion. The Major’s pinioned arm was twisted upward behind his shoulder-blades. There was a cry of pain, and the man suddenly relaxed in Vance’s grip.

By this time Heath had recovered. He scrambled quickly to his feet and stepped up. There was the click of handcuffs, and the Major dropped heavily into a chair, where he sat moving his shoulder back and forth painfully.

“It’s nothing serious,” Vance told him. “The capsular ligament is torn a little. It’ll be all right in a few days.”

Heath came forward and, without a word, held out his hand to Vance. The action was at once an apology and a tribute. I liked Heath for it.

When he and his prisoner had gone, and Phelps had been assisted into an easy chair, Markham put his hand on Vance’s arm.

“Let’s get away,” he said. “I’m done up.”

21. A helixometer, I learned later, is an instrument that makes it possible to examine every portion of the inside of a gun’s barrel through a microscope.