The Benson Murder Case (9 page)

“'Pon my word, Markham, you astound me! Permit me to murmur,
privatissime et gratis
, into your innocent ear
that there are many other presumable motives for confessing. A confession may be the result of fear, or duress, or expediency, or mother-love, or chivalry, or what the psycho-analysts call the inferiority complex, or delusions, or a mistaken sense of duty, or a perverted egotism, or sheer vanity, or any other of a hundred causes. Confessions are the most treacherous and unreliable of all forms of evidence; and even the silly and unscientific law repudiates them in murder cases unless, substantiated by other evidence.”

“You are eloquent; you wring me,” said Markham. “But if the law threw out all confessions and ignored all material clues, as you appear to advise, then society might as well close down all its courts and scrap all its jails.”

“A typical
non sequitur
of legal logic,” Vance replied.

“But how would you convict the guilty, may I ask?”

“There is one infallible method of determining human guilt and responsibility,” Vance explained; “but as yet the police are as blissfully unaware of its possibilities as they are ignorant of its operations. The truth can be learned only by an analysis of the pyschological factors of a crime and an application of them to the individual. The only real clues are psychological—not material. Your truly profound art expert, for instance, does not judge and authenticate pictures by an inspection of the underpainting and a chemical analysis of the pigments, but by studying the creative personality revealed in the picture's conception and execution. He asks himself: Does this work of art embody the qualities of form and technique and mental attitude that made up the genius—namely, the personality—of Rubens, or Michelangelo, or Veronese, or Titian, or Tintoretto, or whoever may be the artist to whom the work was tentatively credited.”

“My mind is, I fear,” Markham confessed, “still sufficiently primitive to be impressed by vulgar facts; and in the present instance—unfortunately for your most original and artistic analogy—I possess quite an array of such facts, all of which indicate that a certain young woman is the—shall we say—creator of the criminal
opus
entitled
The Murder of Alvin Benson
.”

Vance shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly.

“Would you mind telling me—in confidence, of course—what these facts are?”

“Certainly not,” Markham acceded. “
Imprimis
: the lady was in the house at the time the shot was fired.”

Vance affected incredibility.

“Eh—my word! She was actu'lly there? Most extr'ordin'ry!”

“The evidence of her presence is unassailable,” pursued Markham. “As you know, the gloves she wore at dinner, and the handbag she carried with her, were both found on the mantel in Benson's living-room.”

“Oh!” murmured Vance, with a faintly deprecating smile. “It was not the lady, then, but her gloves and bag which were present—a minute and unimportant distinction, no doubt, from the legal point of view…. Still,” he added, “I deplore the inability of my layman's untutored mind to accept the two conditions as identical. My trousers are at the dry-cleaners; therefore, I am at the dry-cleaners, what?”

Markham turned on him with considerable warmth.

“Does it mean nothing in the way of evidence, even to your layman's mind, that a woman's intimate and necessary articles, which she has carried throughout the evening, are found in her escort's quarters the following morning?”

“In admitting that it does not.” Vance acknowledged quietly, “I no doubt expose a legal perception lamentably inefficient.”

“But since the lady certainly wouldn't have carried these particular objects during the afternoon, and since she couldn't have called at the house that evening during Benson's absence without the housekeeper knowing it, how, may one ask, did these articles happen to be there the next morning if she herself did not take them there late that night?”

“'Pon my word, I haven't the slightest notion,” Vance rejoined. “The lady herself could doubtless appease your curiosity. But there are any number of possible explanations, y'know. Our departed Chesterfield might have brought them home in his coat pocket—women are eternally handing men all manner of gewgaws and bundles to carry for 'em. with the cooing request: ‘Can you put this in your pocket for me?' … Then again, there is the possibility that the real murderer secured them in some way, and placed them on the mantel delib'rately to mislead the
polizei
. Women, don't
y'know, never put their belongings in such neat, out-of-the-way places as mantels and hat racks. They invariably throw them down on your fav'rite chair or your centre-table.”

“And, I suppose,” Markham interjected, “Benson also brought the lady's cigarette butts home in his pocket?”

“Stranger things have happened,” returned Vance equably; “though I shan't accuse him of it in this instance…. The cigarette butts may, y'know, be evidence of a previous
conversazione
.”

“Even your despised Heath,” Markham informed him, “had sufficient intelligence to ascertain from the housekeeper that she sweeps out the grate every morning.”

Vance smiled admiringly.

“You're
so
thorough, aren't you? … But, I say, that can't be, by any chance, your only evidence against the lady?”

“By no means,” Markham assured him, “But despite your superior distrust it's good corroboratory evidence, nevertheless.”

“I dare say,” Vance agreed, “seeing with what frequency innocent persons are condemned in our courts…. But tell me more.”

Markham proceeded with an air of quiet self-assurance.

“My man learned, first, that Benson dined alone with this woman at the ‘Marseilles,' a little bohemian restaurant in West Fortieth Street; secondly, that they quarrelled, and thirdly, that they departed at midnight, entering a taxicab together…. Now, the murder was committed at twelve-thirty; but since the lady lives on Riverside Drive, in the Eighties, Benson couldn't possibly have accompanied her home—which obviously he would have done had he not taken her to his own house—and returned by the time the shot was fired. But we have further proof prompting to her being at Benson's. My man learned, at the woman's apartment-house, that actually she did not get home until shortly after one. Moreover, she was without her gloves and handbag, and had to be let in to her rooms with a pass-key, because, as she explained, she had lost hers. As you remember, we found the key in her bag. And—to clinch the whole matter—the smoked cigarettes in the grate corresponded to the one you found in her case.”

Markham paused to relight his cigar.

“So much for that particular evening,” he resumed. “As soon as I learned the woman's identity this morning, I put two more men to work on her private life. Just as I was leaving the office this noon the men 'phoned in their reports. They had learned that the woman has a fiancé, a chap named Leacock, who was a captain in the army, and who would be likely to own just such a gun as Benson was killed with. Furthermore, this Captain Leacock lunched with the woman the day of the murder and also called on her at her apartment the morning after.”

Markham leaned slightly forward, and his next words were emphasised by the tapping of his fingers on the arm of the chair.

“As you see, we have the motive, the opportunity and the means…. Perhaps you will tell me now that I possess no incriminating evidence.”

“My dear Markham,” Vance affirmed calmly, “you haven't brought out a single point which could not easily be explained away by any bright schoolboy.” He shook his head lugubriously. “And on such evidence people are deprived of their life and liberty! 'Pon my word, you alarm me. I tremble for my personal safety.”

Markham was nettled.

“Would you be so good as to point out, from your dizzy pinnacle of sapience, the errors in my reasoning?”

“As far as I can see,” returned Vance evenly, “your particularisation concerning the lady is innocent of reasoning. You've simply taken several unaffined facts, and jumped to a false conclusion. I happen to know the conclusion is false because all the psychological indications of the crime contradict it—that is to say, the only real evidence in the case points unmistakably in another direction.”

He made a gesture of emphasis, and his tone assumed an unwonted gravity.

“And if you arrest any woman for killing Alvin Benson, you will simply be adding another crime—a crime of delib'rate and unpardonable stupidity—to the one already committed. And between shooting a bounder like Benson and ruining an innocent woman's reputation, I'm inclined to regard the latter as the more reprehensible.”

I could see a flash of resentment leap into Markham's eyes; but he did not take offence. Remember: these two
men were close friends; and, for all their divergency of nature, they understood and respected each other. Their frankness—severe and even mordant at times—was, indeed, a result of that respect.

There was a moment's silence; then Markham forced a smile.

“You fill me with misgivings,” he averred mockingly; but, despite the lightness of his tone, I felt that he was half in earnest. “However, I hadn't exactly planned to arrest the lady just yet.”

“You reveal commendable restraint,” Vance complimented him. “But I'm sure you've already arranged to bullyrag the lady and perhaps trick her into one or two of those contradictions so dear to every lawyer's heart—just as if any nervous or high-strung person could help indulging in apparent contradictions while being cross-questioned as a suspect in a crime they had nothing to do with…. To ‘put 'em on the grill'—a most accurate designation. So reminiscent of burning people at the stake, what?”

“Well, I'm most certainly going to question her,” replied Markham firmly, glancing at his watch. “And one of my men is escorting her to the office in half an hour; so I must break up this most delightful and edifying chat.”

“You really expect to learn something incriminating by interrogating her?” asked Vance. “Y'know, I'd jolly well like to witness your humiliation. But I presume your heckling of suspects is a part of the legal arcana.”

Markham had risen and turned towards the door, but at Vance's words he paused and appeared to deliberate.

“I can't see any particular objection to your being present,” he said, “if you really care to come.”

I think he had an idea that the humiliation of which the other had spoken would prove to be Vance's own; and soon we were in a taxicab headed for the Criminal Courts Building.

(
Saturday
,
June
15
th
; 3
p.m.
)

We entered the ancient building, with its discoloured marble pillars and balustrades and its old-fashioned iron scroll-work,
by the Franklin Street door, and went directly to the District Attorney's office on the fourth floor. The office, like the building, breathed an air of former days. Its high ceilings, its massive golden-oak woodwork, its elaborate low-hung chandelier of bronze and china, its dingy bay walls of painted plaster, and its four high narrow windows to the south—all bespoke a departed era in architecture and decoration.

On the floor was a large velvet carpet-rug of dingy brown; and the windows were hung with velour draperies of the same colour. Several large comfortable chairs stood about the walls and before the long oak table in front of the District Attorney's desk. This desk, directly under the windows and facing the room, was broad and flat, with carved uprights and two rows of drawers extending to the floor. To the right of the high-backed swivel desk-chair, was another table of carved oak. There were also several filing cabinets in the room, and a large safe. In the centre of the east wall a leather-covered door, decorated with large brass nail-heads, led into a long narrow room, between the office and the waiting-room, where the District Attorney's secretary and several clerks had their desks. Opposite to this door was another one opening into the District Attorney's inner sanctum; and still another door, facing the windows, gave on the main corridor.

Vance glanced over the room casually.

“So this is the matrix of municipal justice—eh, what?” He walked to one of the windows and looked out upon the grey circular tower of the Tombs opposite. “And there, I take it, are the oubliettes where the victims of our law are incarc'rated so as to reduce the competition of criminal activity among the remaining citizenry. A most distressin' sight, Markham.”

The District Attorney had sat down at his desk and was glancing at several notations on his blotter.

“There are a couple of my men waiting to see me,” he remarked without looking up; “so, if you'll be good enough to take a chair over here, I'll proceed with my humble efforts to undermine society still further.”

He pressed a button under the edge of his desk, and an alert young man with thick-lensed glasses appeared at the door.

“Swacker, tell Phelps to come in,” Markham ordered. “And also tell Springer, if he's back from lunch, that I want to see him in a few minutes.”

The secretary disappeared, and a moment later a tall, hawk-faced man, with stoop-shoulders and an awkward angular gait, entered.

“What news?” asked Markham.

“Well, Chief,” the detective replied in a low, grating voice, “I just found out something I thought you could use right away. After I reported this noon, I ambled round to this Captain Leacock's house, thinking I might learn something from the house-boys, and ran into the Captain coming out. I tailed along; and he went straight up to the lady's house on the Drive, and stayed there over an hour. Then he went back home, looking worried.”