The Philo Vance Megapack. S.S. Van Dine

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      Vance appeared satisfied.

      “Now, there’s the question of the gun,” he said. “Why did you take it to Miss St. Clair?”

      “I was a coward,” the man replied. “I was afraid they might find it at my apartment. And I never imagined she would be suspected.”

      “And when she was suspected, you at once took the gun away and threw it into the East River?”

      “Yes.”

      “I suppose there was one cartridge missing from the magazine, too—which in itself would have been a suspicious circumstance.”

      “I thought of that. That’s why I threw the gun away.”

      Vance frowned. “That’s strange. There must have been two guns. We dredged the river, y’ know, and found a Colt automatic, but the magazine was full.… Are you sure, Captain, that it was your gun you took from Miss St. Clair’s and threw over the bridge?”

      I knew no gun had been retrieved from the river and I wondered what he was driving at. Was he, after all, trying to involve the girl? Markham, too, I could see, was in doubt.

      Leacock made no answer for several moments. When he spoke, it was with dogged sullenness.

      “There weren’t two guns. The one you found was mine.… I refilled the magazine myself.”

      “Ah, that accounts for it.” Vance’s tone was pleasant and reassuring. “Just one more question, Captain. Why did you come here today and confess?”

      Leacock thrust his chin out, and for the first time during the cross-examination his eyes became animated. “Why? It was the only honorable thing to do. You have unjustly suspected an innocent person; and I didn’t want anyone else to suffer.”

      This ended the interview. Markham had no questions to ask; and the deputy sheriff led the captain out.

      When the door had closed on him, a curious silence fell over the room. Markham sat smoking furiously, his hands folded behind his head, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The major had settled back in his chair, and was gazing at Vance with admiring satisfaction. Vance was watching Markham out of the corner of his eye, a drowsy smile on his lips. The expressions and attitudes of the three men conveyed perfectly their varying individual reactions to the interview—Markham troubled, the major pleased, Vance cynical.

      It was Vance who broke the silence. He spoke easily, almost lazily. “You see how silly the confession is, what? Our pure and lofty captain is an incredibly poor Munchausen. No one could lie as badly as he did who hadn’t been born into the world that way. It’s simply impossible to imitate such stupidity. And he did so want us to think him guilty. Very affectin’. He prob’bly imagined you’d merely stick the confession in his shirtfront and send him to the hangman. You noticed, he hadn’t even decided how he got into Benson’s house that night. Pfyfe’s admitted presence outside almost spoiled his impromptu explanation of having entered bras dessus bras dessous with his intended victim. And he didn’t recall Benson’s semi-négligé attire. When I reminded him of it, he had to contradict himself and send Benson trotting upstairs to make a rapid change. Luckily, the toupee wasn’t mentioned by the newspapers. The captain couldn’t imagine what I meant when I intimated that Benson had dyed his hair when changing his coat and shoes.… By the bye, Major, did your brother speak thickly when his false teeth were out?”

      “Noticeably so,” answered the major. “If Alvin’s plate had been removed that night—as I gathered it had been from your question—Leacock would surely have noticed it.”

      “There were other things he didn’t notice,” said Vance: “the jewel case, for instance, and the location of the electric light switch.”

      “He went badly astray on that point,” added the major. “Alvin’s house is old-fashioned, and the only switch in the room is a pendant one attached to the chandelier.”

      “Exactly,” said Vance. “However, his worst break was in connection with the gun. He gave his hand away completely there. He said he threw the pistol into the river largely because of the missing cartridge, and when I told him the magazine was full, he explained that he had refilled it, so I wouldn’t think it was anyone else’s gun that was found.… It’s plain to see what’s the matter. He thinks Miss St. Clair is guilty, and is determined to take the blame.”

      “That’s my impression,” said Major Benson.

      “And yet,” mused Vance, “the captain’s attitude bothers me a little. There’s no doubt he had something to do with the crime, else why should he have concealed his pistol the next day in Miss St. Clair’s apartment? He’s just the kind of silly beggar, d’ ye see, who would threaten any man he thought had designs on his fiancée and then carry out the threat if anything happened. And he has a guilty conscience—that’s obvious. But for what? Certainly not the shooting. The crime was planned; and the captain never plans. He’s the kind that gets an idée fixe, girds up his loins, and does the deed in knightly fashion, prepared to take the cons’quences. That sort of chivalry, y’ know, is sheer beau geste: its acolytes want everyone to know of their valor. And when they go forth to rid the world of a Don Juan, they’re always clear-minded. The captain, for instance, wouldn’t have overlooked his Lady Fair’s gloves and handbag, he would have taken ’em away. In fact, it’s just as certain he would have shot Benson as it is he didn’t shoot him. That’s the beetle in the amber. It’s psychologically possible he would have done it, and psychologically impossible he would have done it the way it was done.”

      He lit a cigarette and watched the drifting spirals of smoke.

      “If it wasn’t so fantastic, I’d say he started out to do it and found it already done. And yet, that’s about the size of it. It would account for Pfyfe’s seeing him there, and for his secreting the gun at Miss St. Clair’s the next day.”

      The telephone rang: Colonel Ostrander wanted to speak to the district attorney. Markham, after a short conversation, turned a disgruntled look upon Vance.

      “Your bloodthirsty friend wanted to know if I’d arrested anyone yet. He offered to confer more of his invaluable suggestions upon me in case I was still undecided as to who was guilty.”

      “I heard you thanking him fulsomely for something or other.… What did you give him to understand about your mental state?”

      “That I was still in the dark.”

      Markham’s answer was accompanied by a somber, tired smile. It was his way of telling Vance that he had entirely rejected the idea of Captain Leacock’s guilt.

      The major went to him and held out his hand.

      “I know how you feel,” he said. “This sort of thing is discouraging; but it’s better that the guilty person should escape altogether than that an innocent man should be made to suffer.… Don’t work too hard, and don’t let these disappointments get to you. You’ll soon hit on the right solution, and when you do”—his jaw snapped shut, and he uttered the rest of the sentence between clenched teeth—“you’ll meet with no opposition from me. I’ll help you put the thing over.”

      He gave Markham a grim smile and took up his hat.

      “I’m going back to the office now. If you want me at any time, let me know. I may be able to help you—later on.”

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