The Philo Vance Megapack. S.S. Van Dine

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СКАЧАТЬ say here you were satisfied that Mr. Benson had wronged you, and you went to his house at about half past twelve on the night of the thirteenth.… When you speak of his wronging you, do you refer to his attentions to Miss St. Clair?”

      Leacock’s face betrayed a sulky belligerence.

      “It doesn’t matter why I shot him. Can’t you leave Miss St. Clair out of it?”

      “Certainly,” agreed Vance. “I promise you she shall not be brought into it. But we must understand your motive thoroughly.”

      After a brief silence Leacock said, “Very well, then. That was what I referred to.”

      “How did you know Miss St. Clair went to dinner with Mr. Benson that night?”

      “I followed them to the Marseilles.”

      “And then you went home?”

      “Yes.”

      “What made you go to Mr. Benson’s house later?”

      “I got to thinking about it more and more, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I began to see red, and at last I took my Colt and went out, determined to kill him.”

      A note of passion had crept into his voice. It seemed unbelievable that he could be lying.

      Vance again referred to the confession.

      “You dictated: ‘I went to 87 West Forty-eighth Street and entered the house by the front door.’… Did you ring the bell? Or was the front door unlatched?”

      Leacock was about to answer but hesitated. Evidently he recalled the newspaper accounts of the housekeeper’s testimony in which she asserted positively that the bell had not rung that night.

      “What difference does it make?” He was sparring for time.

      “We’d like to know—that’s all,” Vance told him. “But no hurry.”

      “Well, if it’s so important to you: I didn’t ring the bell; and the door was unlocked.” His hesitancy was gone. “Just as I reached the house, Benson drove up in a taxicab—”

      “Just a moment. Did you happen to notice another car standing in front of the house? A gray Cadillac?”

      “Why—yes.”

      “Did you recognize its occupant?”

      There was another short silence.

      “I’m not sure. I think it was a man named Pfyfe.”

      “He and Mr. Benson were outside at the same time, then?”

      Leacock frowned. “No—not at the same time. There was nobody there when I arrived.… I didn’t see Pfyfe until I came out a few minutes later.”

      “He arrived in his car when you were inside—is that it?”

      “He must have.”

      “I see.… And now to go back a little: Benson drove up in a taxicab. Then what?”

      “I went up to him and said I wanted to speak to him. He told me to come inside, and we went in together. He used his latchkey.”

      “And now, Captain, tell us just what happened after you and Mr. Benson entered the house.”

      “He laid his hat and stick on the hatrack, and we walked into the living room. He sat down by the table, and I stood up and said—what I had to say. Then I drew my gun and shot him.”

      Vance was closely watching the man, and Markham was leaning forward tensely.

      “How did it happen that he was reading at the time?”

      “I believe he did pick up a book while I was talking.… Trying to appear indifferent, I reckon.”

      “Think now: you and Mr. Benson went into the living room directly from the hall, as soon as you entered the house?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then how do you account for the fact, Captain, that when Mr. Benson was shot, he had on his smoking jacket and slippers?”

      Leacock glanced nervously about the room. Before he answered, he wet his lips with his tongue.

      “Now that I think of it, Benson did go upstairs for a few minutes first.… I guess I was too excited,” he added desperately, “to recollect everything.”

      “That’s natural,” Vance said sympathetically. “But when he came downstairs, did you happen to notice anything peculiar about his hair?”

      Leacock looked up vaguely. “His hair? I—don’t understand.”

      “The color of it, I mean. When Mr. Benson sat before you under the table lamp, didn’t you remark some—difference, let us say—in the way his hair looked?”

      The man closed his eyes, as if striving to visualize the scene. “No—I don’t remember.”

      “A minor point,” said Vance indifferently. “Did Benson’s speech strike you as peculiar when he came downstairs—that is, was there a thickness, or slight impediment of any kind, in his voice?”

      Leacock was manifestly puzzled.

      “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “He seemed to talk the way he always talked.”

      “And did you happen to see a blue jewel case on the table?”

      “I didn’t notice.”

      Vance smoked a moment thoughtfully.

      “When you left the room after shooting Mr. Benson, you turned out the lights, of course?”

      When no immediate answer came, Vance volunteered the suggestion: “You must have done so, for Mr. Pfyfe says the house was dark when he drove up.”

      Leacock then nodded an affirmative. “That’s right. I couldn’t recollect for the moment.”

      “Now that you remember the fact, just how did you turn them off?”

      “I—” he began, and stopped. Then, finally: “At the switch.”

      “And where is that switch located, Captain?”

      “I can’t just recall.”

      “Think a moment. Surely you can remember.”

      “By the door leading into the hall, I think.”

      “Which side of the door?”

      “How can I tell?” the man asked piteously. “I was too—nervous.… But I think it was on the right-hand side of the door.”

      “The right-hand side when entering or leaving the room?”

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