The Philo Vance Megapack. S.S. Van Dine

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      Markham, with a sudden contraction of the jaw, turned and reached toward a bell button beneath the edge of his desk. But, in doing so, his glance fell upon Vance; and he paused indecisively. The look he had encountered on the other’s face was one of reproachful amazement; not only did it express complete surprise at his apparent decision but it stated, more eloquently than words could have done, that he was about to commit an act of irreparable folly.

      There were several moments of tense silence in the room. Then calmly and unhurriedly Miss St. Clair opened her vanity case and powdered her nose. When she had finished, she turned a serene gaze upon the district attorney.

      “Well, do you want to arrest me now?” she asked.

      Markham regarded her for a moment, deliberating. Instead of answering at once, he went to the window and stood for a full minute looking down upon the Bridge of Sighs which connects the Criminal Courts Building with the Tombs.

      “No, I think not today,” he said slowly.

      He stood awhile longer in absorbed contemplation; then, as if shaking off his mood of irresolution, he swung about and confronted the woman.

      “I’m not going to arrest you—yet,” he reiterated, a bit harshly. “But I’m going to order you to remain in New York for the present. And if you attempt to leave, you will be arrested. I hope that is clear.”

      He pressed a button, and his secretary entered.

      “Swacker, please escort Miss St. Clair downstairs, and call a taxicab for her.… Then you can go home yourself.”

      She rose and gave Markham a little nod.

      “You were very kind to lend me my cigarette holder,” she said pleasantly, laying it on his desk.

      Without another word, she walked calmly from the room.

      The door had no more than closed behind her when Markham pressed another button. In a few moments the door leading into the outer corridor opened, and a white-haired, middle-aged man appeared.

      “Ben,” ordered Markham hurriedly, “have that woman that Swacker’s taking downstairs followed. Keep her under surveillance and don’t let her get lost. She’s not to leave the city—understand? It’s the St. Clair woman Tracy dug up.”

      When the man had gone, Markham turned and stood glowering at Vance.

      “What do you think of your innocent young lady now?” he asked, with an air of belligerent triumph.

      “Nice gel—eh, what?” replied Vance blandly. “Extr’ordin’ry control. And she’s about to marry a professional milit’ry man! Ah, well. De gustibus.… Y’ know, I was afraid for a moment you were actu’lly going to send for the manacles. And if you had, Markham old dear, you’d have regretted it to your dying day.”

      Markham studied him for a few seconds. He knew there was something more than a mere whim beneath Vance’s certitude of manner; and it was this knowledge that had stayed his hand when he was about to have the woman placed in custody.

      “Her attitude was certainly not conducive to one’s belief in her innocence,” Markham objected. “She played her part damned cleverly, though. But it was just the part a shrewd woman, knowing herself guilty, would have played.”

      “I say, didn’t it occur to you,” asked Vance, “that perhaps she didn’t care a farthing whether you thought her guilty or not?—that, in fact, she was a bit disappointed when you let her go?”

      “That’s hardly the way I read the situation,” returned Markham. “Whether guilty or innocent, a person doesn’t ordinarily invite arrest.”

      “By the bye,” asked Vance, “where was the fortunate swain during the hour of Alvin’s passing?”

      “Do you think we didn’t check up on that point?” Markham spoke with disdain. “Captain Leacock was at his own apartment that night from eight o’clock on.”

      “Was he, really?” airily retorted Vance. “A most model young fella!”

      Again Markham looked at him sharply. “I’d like to know what weird theory has been struggling in your brain today,” he mused. “Now that I’ve let the lady go temporarily—which is what you obviously wanted me to do—and have stultified my own better judgment in so doing, why not tell me frankly what you’ve got up your sleeve?”

      “‘Up my sleeve?’ Such an inelegant metaphor! One would think I was a prestidig’tator, what?”

      Whenever Vance answered in this fashion, it was a sign that he wished to avoid making a direct reply; and Markham dropped the matter.

      “Anyway,” he submitted, “you didn’t have the pleasure of witnessing my humiliation, as you prophesied.”

      Vance looked up in simulated surprise. “Didn’t I, now?” Then he added sorrowfully, “Life is so full of disappointments, y’ know.”

      CHAPTER 8

      VANCE ACCEPTS A CHALLENGE

      (Saturday, June 15; 4 P.M.)

      After Markham had telephoned Heath the details of the interview, we returned to the Stuyvesant Club. Ordinarily the district attorney’s office shuts down at one o’clock on Saturdays; but today the hour had been extended because of the importance attaching to Miss St. Clair’s visit. Markham had lapsed into an introspective silence which lasted until we were again seated in the alcove of the club’s lounge-room. Then he spoke irritably.

      “Damn it! I shouldn’t have let her go.… I still have a feeling she’s guilty.”

      Vance assumed an air of gushing credulousness.

      “Oh, really? I daresay you’re so psychic. Been that way all your life, no doubt. And haven’t you had lots and lots of dreams that came true? I’m sure you’ve often had a phone call from someone you were thinking about at the moment. A delectable gift. Do you read palms, also?… Why not have the lady’s horoscope cast?”

      “I have no evidence as yet,” Markham retorted, “that your belief in her innocence is founded on anything more substantial than your impressions.”

      “Ah, but it is,” averred Vance. “I know she’s innocent. Furthermore, I know that no woman could possibly have fired the shot.”

      “Don’t get the erroneous idea in your head that a woman couldn’t have manipulated a .45 army Colt.”

      “Oh, that?” Vance dismissed the notion with a shrug. “The material indications of the crime don’t enter into my calculations, y’ know—I leave ’em entirely to you lawyers and the lads with the bulging deltoids. I have other, and surer, ways of reaching conclusions. That’s why I told you that if you arrested any woman for shooting Benson, you’d be blundering most shamefully.”

      Markham grunted indignantly. “And yet you seem to have repudiated all processes of deduction whereby the truth may be arrived at. Have you, by any chance, entirely renounced your faith in the operations of the human mind?”

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