The Philo Vance Megapack. S.S. Van Dine

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СКАЧАТЬ Really, y’ know, ladies don’t go about décolletées in the afternoon.”

      “You assume, then, that Benson himself brought her gloves and handbag back here that night?”

      “Someone did—and it certainly wasn’t Miss St. Clair.”

      “All right,” conceded Markham. “And what about this Morris chair?—how did you know she sat in it?”

      “What other chair could she have sat in and still thrown her cigarettes into the fireplace? Women are notoriously poor shots, even if they were given to hurling their cigarette stubs across the room.”

      “That deduction is simple enough,” admitted Markham. “But suppose you tell me how you know she had tea here unless you were privy to some information on the point?”

      “It pos’tively shames me to explain it. But the humiliating truth is that I inferred the fact from the condition of yon samovar. I noted yesterday that it had been used and had not been emptied or wiped off.”

      Markham nodded with contemptuous elation.

      “You seem to have sunk to the despised legal level of material clues.”

      “That’s why I’m blushing so furiously.… However, psychological deductions alone do not determine facts in esse, but only in posse. Other conditions must, of course, be considered. In the present instance the indications of the samovar served merely as the basis for an assumption, or guess, with which to draw out the housekeeper.”

      “Well, I won’t deny that you succeeded,” said Markham. “I’d like to know, though, what you had in mind when you accused the woman of a personal interest in the girl. That remark certainly indicated some preknowledge of the situation.”

      Vance’s face became serious.

      “Markham, I give you my word,” he said earnestly, “I had nothing in mind. I made the accusation, thinking it was false, merely to trap her into a denial. And she fell into the trap. But—deuce take it!—I seemed to hit some nail squarely on the head, what? I can’t for the life of me imagine why she was frightened. But it really doesn’t matter.”

      “Perhaps not,” agreed Markham, but his tone was dubious. “What do you make of the box of jewelry and the disagreement between Benson and the girl?”

      “Nothing yet. They don’t fit in, do they?”

      He was silent a moment. Then he spoke with unusual seriousness. “Markham, take my advice and don’t bother with these side issues. I’m telling you the girl had no part in the murder. Let her alone—you’ll be happier in your old age if you do.”

      Markham sat scowling, his eyes in space. “I’m convinced that you think you know something.”

      “Cogito, ergo sum,” murmured Vance. “Y’ know, the naturalistic philosophy of Descartes has always rather appealed to me. It was a departure from universal doubt and a seeking for positive knowledge in self-consciousness. Spinoza in his pantheism, and Berkeley in his idealism, quite misunderstood the significance of their precursor’s favorite enthymeme. Even Descartes’ errors were brilliant. His method of reasoning, for all its scientific inaccuracies, gave new signif’cation to the symbols of the analyst. The mind, after all, if it is to function effectively, must combine the mathematical precision of a natural science with such pure speculations as astronomy. For instance, Descartes’ doctrine of Vortices—”

      “Oh, be quiet,” growled Markham. “I’m not insisting that you reveal your precious information. So why burden me with a dissertation on seventeenth-century philosophy?”

      “Anyhow, you’ll admit, won’t you,” asked Vance lightly, “that, in elim’nating those disturbing cigarette butts, so to speak, I’ve elim’nated Miss St. Clair as a suspect?”

      Markham did not answer at once. There was no doubt that the developments of the past hour had made a decided impression upon him. He did not underestimate Vance, despite his persistent opposition; and he knew that, for all his flippancy, Vance was fundamentally serious. Furthermore, Markham had a finely developed sense of justice. He was not narrow, even though obstinate at times; and I have never known him to close his mind to the possibilities of truth, however opposed to his own interests. It did not, therefore, surprise me in the least when, at last, he looked up with a gracious smile of surrender.

      “You’ve made your point,” he said; “and I accept it with proper humility. I’m most grateful to you.”

      Vance walked indifferently to the window and looked out. “I am happy to learn that you are capable of accepting such evidence as the human mind could not possibly deny.”

      I had always noticed, in the relationship of these two men, that whenever either made a remark that bordered on generosity, the other answered in a manner which ended all outward show of sentiment. It was as if they wished to keep this more intimate side of their mutual regard hidden from the world.

      Markham therefore ignored Vance’s thrust. “Have you perhaps any enlightening suggestions, other than negative ones, to offer as to Benson’s murderer?” he asked.

      “Rather!” said Vance. “No end of suggestions.”

      “Could you spare me a good one?” Markham imitated the other’s playful tone.

      Vance appeared to reflect. “Well, I should advise that, as a beginning, you look for a rather tall man, cool-headed, familiar with firearms, a good shot, and fairly well known to the deceased—a man who was aware that Benson was going to dinner with Miss St. Clair, or who had reason to suspect the fact.”

      Markham looked narrowly at Vance for several moments.

      “I think I understand.… Not a bad theory, either. You know, I’m going to suggest immediately to Heath that he investigate more thoroughly Captain Leacock’s activities on the night of the murder.”

      “Oh, by all means,” said Vance carelessly, going to the piano.

      Markham watched him with an expression of puzzled interrogation. He was about to speak when Vance began playing a rollicking French café song which opens, I believe, with “Ils sont dans les vignes les moineaux.”

      CHAPTER 11

      A MOTIVE AND A THREAT

      (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 floorwalkers 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 businessmen have created a large and expensive army of efficiency experts whose sole duty it is to complicate and befuddle СКАЧАТЬ