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(Thursday, June 20; 9 p.m.)

That same evening, after a Turkish bath and dinner, Markham, grim and weary, and Vance, bland and debonair, and myself were sitting together in the alcove of the Stuyvesant Club’s lounge-room.

We had smoked in silence for half an hour or more, when Vance, as if giving articulation to his thoughts, remarked:

“And it’s stubborn, unimag’native chaps like Heath who constitute the human barrage between the criminal and society! . . . Sad, sad.”

“We have no Napoleons to-day,” Markham observed. “And if we had, they’d probably not be detectives.”

“But even should they have yearnings toward that profession,” said Vance, “they would be rejected on their physical measurements. As I understand it, your policemen are chosen by their height and weight; they must meet certain requirements as to heft—as though the only crimes they had to cope with were riots and gang feuds. Bulk,—the great American ideal, whether in art, architecture, table d’hôte meals, or detectives. An entrancin’ notion.”

“At any rate, Heath has a generous nature,” said Markham palliatingly. “He has completely forgiven you for everything.”

Vance smiled.

“The amount of credit and emulsification he received in the afternoon papers would have mellowed anyone. He should even forgive the Major for hitting him.—A clever blow, that; based on rotary leverage. Heath’s constitution must be tough, or he wouldn’t have recovered so quickly. . . . And poor Phelps! He’ll have a horror of knees the rest of his life.”

“You certainly guessed the Major’s reaction,” said Markham. “I’m almost ready to grant there’s something in your psychological flummery, after all. Your æsthetic deductions seemed to put you on the right track.”

After a pause he turned and looked inquisitively at Vance.

“Tell me exactly why, at the outset, you were convinced of the Major’s guilt?”

Vance settled back in his chair.

“Consider, for a moment, the characteristics—the outstanding features—of the crime. Just before the shot was fired Benson and the murderer undoubtedly had been talking or arguing—the one seated, the other standing. Then Benson had pretended to read: he had said all he had to say. His reading was his gesture of finality; for one doesn’t read when conversing with another unless for a purpose. The murderer, seeing the hopelessness of the situation, and having come prepared to meet it heroically, took out a gun, aimed it at Benson’s temple, and pulled the trigger. After that, he turned out the lights and went away. . . . Such are the facts, indicated and actual.”

He took several puffs on his cigarette.

“Now, let’s analyze ’em. . . . As I pointed out to you, the murderer didn’t fire at the body, where, though the chances of hitting would have been much greater, the chances of death would have been less. He chose the more diff’cult and hazardous—and, at the same time, the more certain and efficient—course. His technique, so to speak, was bold, direct, and fearless. Only a man with iron nerves and a highly developed gambler’s instinct would have done it in just this forthright and audacious fashion. Therefore, all nervous, hot-headed, impulsive, or timid persons were automatically elim’nated as suspects. The neat, business-like aspect of the crime, together with the absence of any material clues that, could possibly have incrim’nated the culprit, indicated unmistakably that it had been premeditated and planned with coolness and precision, by a person of tremendous self-assurance, and one used to taking risks. There was nothing subtle or in the least imag’native about the crime. Every feature of it pointed to an aggressive, blunt mind—a mind at once static, determined and intrepid, and accustomed to dealing with facts and situations in a direct, concrete and unequivocal manner. . . . I say, Markham, surely you’re a good enough judge of human nature to read the indications, what?”

“I think I get the drift of your reasoning,” the other admitted a little doubtfully.

“Very well, then,” Vance continued. “Having determined the exact psychological nature of the deed, it only remained to find some int’rested person whose mind and temp’rament were such that, if he undertook a task of this kind in the given circumst’nces, he would inev’tably do it in precisely the manner in which it was done. As it happened, I had known the Major for a long time; and so it was obvious to me, the moment I had looked over the situation that first morning, that he had done it. The crime, in every respect and feature, was a perfect psychological expression of his character and mentality. But even had I not known him personally, I would have been able—since I possessed so clear and accurate a knowledge of the murderer’s personality—to pick him out from any number of suspects.”

“But suppose another person of the Major’s type had done it?” asked Markham.

“We all differ in our natures—however similar two persons may appear at times,” Vance explained. “And while, in the present case, it is barely conceivable that another man of the Major’s type and temp’rament might have done it, the law of probability must be taken into account. Even supposing there were two men almost identical in personality and instincts in New York, what would be the chance of their both having had a reason to kill Benson? However, despite the remoteness of the possibility, when Pfyfe came into the case, and I learned he was a gambler and a hunter, I took occasion to look into his qualifications. Not knowing him personally, I appealed to Colonel Ostrander for my information; and what he told me put Pfyfe at once hors de propos.”

“But he had nerve: he was a rash plunger; and he certainly had enough at stake,” objected Markham.

“Ah! But between a rash plunger and a bold, level-headed gambler like the Major, there is a great difference—a psychological abyss. In fact, their animating impulses are opposites. The plunger is actuated by fear and hope and desire; the cool-headed gambler is actuated by expediency and belief and judgment. The one is emotional, the other mental. The Major, unlike Pfyfe, is a born gambler, and inf’nitely self-confident. This kind of self-confidence, however, is not the same as recklessness, though superficially the two bear a close resemblance. It is based on an instinctive belief in one’s own infallibility and safety. It’s the reverse of what the Freudians call the inferiority complex,—a form of egomania, a variety of folie de grandeur. The Major possessed it, but it was absent from Pfyfe’s composition; and as the crime indicated its possession by the perpetrator, I knew Pfyfe was innocent.”

“I begin to grasp the thing in a nebulous sort of way,” said Markham after a pause.

“But there were other indications, psychological and otherwise,” went on Vance, “—the undress attire of the body, the toupee and teeth upstairs, the inferred familiarity of the murderer with the domestic arrangements, the fact that he had been admitted by Benson himself, and his knowledge that Benson would be at home alone at that time—all pointing to the Major as the guilty person. Another thing: the height of the murderer corresponded to the Major’s height. This indication, though, was of minor importance; for had my measurements not tallied with the Major, I would have known that the bullet had been deflected, despite the opinions of all the Captain Hagedorns in the universe.”

“Why were you so positive a woman couldn’t have done it?”

“To begin with: it wasn’t a woman’s crime—that is, no woman would have done it in the way it was done. The most mentalized women are emotional when it comes to a fundamental issue like taking a life. That a woman could have coldly planned such a murder and then executed it with such business-like efficiency—aiming a single shot at her victim’s temple at a distance of five or six feet—, would be contr’ry, d’ ye see, to everything we know of human nature. Again: women don’t stand up to argue a point before a seated antagonist. Somehow they seem to feel more secure sitting down. They talk better sitting; whereas men talk better standing. And even had a woman stood before Benson, she could not have taken out a gun and aimed it without his looking up. A man’s reaching in his pocket is a natural action; but a woman has no pockets and no place to hide a gun except her hand-bag. And a man is always on guard when an angry woman opens a hand-bag in front of him,—the very uncertainty of women’s natures has made men suspicious of their actions when aroused. . . . But—above all—it was Benson’s bald pate and bed-room slippers that made the woman hypothesis untenable.”

“You remarked a moment ago,” said Markham, “that the murderer went there that night prepared to take heroic measures if necessary. And yet you say he planned the murder.”

“True. The two statements don’t conflict, y’ know. The murder was planned—without doubt. But the Major was willing to give his victim a last chance to save his life. My theory is this: The Major, being in a tight financial hole with State prison looming before him, and knowing that his brother had sufficient funds in the safe to save him, plotted the crime, and went to the house that night prepared to commit it. First, however, he told his brother of his predic’ment and asked for the money; and Alvin prob’bly told him to go to the devil. The Major may even have pleaded a bit in order to avoid killing him; but when the liter’ry Alvin turned to reading, he saw the futility of appealing further, and proceeded with the dire business.”

Markham smoked a while.

“Granting all you’ve said,” he remarked at length, “I still don’t see how you could know, as you asserted this morning, that the Major had planned the murder so as to throw suspicion deliberately on Captain Leacock.”

“Just as a sculptor, who thoroughly understands the principles of form and composition, can accurately supply any missing integral part of a statue,” Vance explained, “so can the psychologist who understands the human mind, supply any missing factor in a given human action. I might add, parenthetically, that all this blather about the missing arms of the Aphrodite of Melos—the Milo Venus, y’ know—is the utt’rest fiddle-faddle. Any competent artist who knew the laws of æsthetic organization could restore the arms exactly as they were originally. Such restorations are merely a matter of context,—the missing factor, d’ ye see, simply has to conform and harmonize with what is already known.”

He made one of his rare gestures of delicate emphasis.

“Now, the problem of circumventing suspicion is an important detail in every deliberated crime. And since the general conception of this particular crime was pos’tive, conclusive and concrete, it followed that each one of its component parts would be pos’tive, conclusive and concrete. Therefore, for the Major merely to have arranged things so that he himself should not be suspected, would have been too negative a conception to fit consistently with the other psychological aspects of the deed. It would have been too vague, too indirect, too indef’nite. The type of literal mind which conceived this crime would logically have provided a specific and tangible object of suspicion. Cons’quently, when the material evidence began to pile up against the Captain, and the Major waxed vehement in defending him, I knew he had been chosen as the dupe. At first, I admit, I suspected the Major of having selected Miss St. Clair as the victim; but when I learned that the presence of her gloves and hand-bag at Benson’s was only an accident, and remembered that the Major had given us Pfyfe as a source of information about the Captain’s threat, I realized that her projection into the rôle of murderer was unpremeditated.”

A little later Markham rose and stretched himself.

“Well, Vance,” he said, “your task is finished. Mine has just begun. And I need sleep.”

Before a week had passed, Major Anthony Benson was indicted for the murder of his brother. His trial before Judge Rudolph Hansacker, as you remember, created a nation-wide sensation. The Associated Press sent columns daily to its members; and for weeks the front pages of the country’s newspapers were emblazoned with spectacular reports of the proceedings. How the District Attorney’s office won the case after a bitter struggle; how, because of the indirect character of the evidence, the verdict was for murder in the second degree; and how, after a retrial in the Court of Appeals, Anthony Benson finally received a sentence of from twenty years to life,—all these facts are a matter of official and public record.

Markham personally did not appear as Public Prosecutor. Having been a life-long friend of the defendant’s, his position was an unenviable and difficult one, and no word of criticism was directed against his assignment of the case to Chief Assistant District Attorney Sullivan. Major Benson surrounded himself with an array of counsel such as is rarely seen in our criminal courts. Both Blashfield and Bauer were among the attorneys for the defense—Blashfield fulfilling the duties of the English solicitor, and Bauer acting as advocate. They fought with every legal device at their disposal, but the accumulation of evidence against their client overwhelmed them.

After Markham had been convinced of the Major’s guilt, he had made a thorough examination of the business affairs of the two brothers, and found the situation even worse than had been indicated by Stitt’s first report. The firm’s securities had been systematically appropriated for private speculations; but whereas Alvin Benson had succeeded in covering himself and making a large profit, the Major had been almost completely wiped out by his investments. Markham was able to show that the Major’s only hope of replacing the diverted securities and saving himself from criminal prosecution lay in Alvin Benson’s immediate death. It was also brought out at the trial that the Major, on the very day of the murder, had made emphatic promises which could have been kept only in the event of his gaining access to his brother’s safe. Furthermore, these promises had involved specific amounts in the other’s possession; and, in one instance, he had put up, on a forty-eight-hour note, a security already pledged—a fact which, in itself, would have exposed his hand, had his brother lived.

Miss Hoffman was a helpful and intelligent witness for the prosecution. Her knowledge of conditions at the Benson and Benson offices went far toward strengthening the case against the Major.

Mrs. Platz also testified to overhearing acrimonious arguments between the brothers. She stated that less than a fortnight before the murder the Major, after an unsuccessful attempt to borrow $50,000 from Alvin, had threatened him, saying: “If I ever have to choose between your skin and mine, it won’t be mine that’ll suffer.”

Theodore Montagu, the man who, according to the story of the elevator boy at the Chatham Arms, had returned at half past two on the night of the murder, testified that, as his taxicab turned in front of the apartment house, the head-lights flashed on a man standing in a tradesmen’s entrance across the street, and that the man looked like Major Benson. This evidence would have had little effect had not Pfyfe come forward after the arrest and admitted seeing the Major crossing Sixth Avenue at Forty-sixth Street when he had walked to Pietro’s for his drink of Haig and Haig. He explained that he had attached no importance to it at the time, thinking the Major was merely returning home from some Broadway restaurant. He himself had not been seen by the Major.

This testimony, in connection with Mr. Montagu’s, annihilated the Major’s carefully planned alibi; and though the defense contended stubbornly that both witnesses had been mistaken in their identification, the jury was deeply impressed by the evidence, especially when Assistant District Attorney Sullivan, under Vance’s tutoring, painstakingly explained, with diagrams, how the Major could have gone out and returned that night without being seen by the boy.

It was also shown that the jewels could not have been taken from the scene of the crime except by the murderer; and Vance and I were called as witnesses to the finding of them in the Major’s apartment. Vance’s demonstration of the height of the murderer was shown in court, but, curiously, it carried little weight, as the issue was confused by a mass of elaborate scientific objections. Captain Hagedorn’s identification of the pistol was the most difficult obstacle with which the defense had to contend.

The trial lasted three weeks, and much evidence of a scandalous nature was taken, although, at Markham’s suggestion, Sullivan did his best to minimize the private affairs of those innocent persons whose lives unfortunately touched upon the episode. Colonel Ostrander, however, has never forgiven Markham for not having had him called as a witness.

During the last week of the trial Miss Muriel St. Clair appeared as prima donna in a large Broadway light-opera production which ran successfully for nearly two years. She has since married her chivalrous Captain Leacock, and they appear perfectly happy.

Pfyfe is still married and as elegant as ever. He visits New York regularly, despite the absence of his “dear old Alvin”; and I have occasionally seen him and Mrs. Banning together. Somehow, I shall always like that woman. Pfyfe raised the $10,000—how, I have no idea—and reclaimed her jewels. Their ownership, by the way, was not divulged at the trial, for which I was very glad.

On the evening of the day the verdict was brought in against the Major, Vance and Markham and I were sitting in the Stuyvesant Club. We had dined together, but no word of the events of the past few weeks had passed between us. Presently, however, I saw an ironic smile creep slowly to Vance’s lips.

“I say, Markham,” he drawled; “what a grotesque spectacle the trial was! The real evidence, y’ know, wasn’t even introduced. Benson was convicted entirely on suppositions, presumptions, implications and inf’rences. . . . God help the innocent Daniel who inadvertently falls into a den of legal lions!”

Markham, to my surprise, nodded gravely.

“Yes,” he concurred; “but if Sullivan had tried to get a conviction on your so-called psychological theories, he’d have been adjudged insane.”

“Doubtless,” sighed Vance. “You illuminati of the law would have little to do if you went about your business intelligently.”

“Theoretically,” replied Markham at length, “your theories are clear enough; but I’m afraid I’ve dealt too long with material facts to forsake them for psychology and art. . . . However,” he added lightly, “if my legal evidence should fail me in the future, may I call on you for assistance?”

“I’m always at your service, old chap, don’t y’ know,” Vance rejoined. “I rather fancy, though, that it’s when your legal evidence is leading you irresistibly to your victim that you’ll need me most, what?”

And the remark, though intended merely as a good-natured sally, proved strangely prophetic.