The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine

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СКАЧАТЬ end.” He gave the impression that here was a modern instance of Æneas and Achates. “And I was deeply grieved at not being able to come at once to New York to put myself at the service of those that needed me.”

      “I’m sure it would have been a comfort to his other friends,” remarked Vance, with cool politeness. “But in the circumst’nces you will be forgiven.”

      Pfyfe blinked regretfully.

      “Ah, but I shall never forgive myself—though I cannot hold myself altogether blameworthy. Only the day before the tragedy I had started on a trip to the Catskills. I had even asked dear Alvin to go along; but he was too busy.” Pfyfe shook his head as if lamenting the incomprehensible irony of life. “How much better—ah, how infinitely much better—if only——”

      “You were gone a very short time,” commented Markham, interrupting what promised to be a homily on perverse providence.

      “True,” Pfyfe indulgently admitted. “But I met with a most unfortunate accident.” He polished his eye-glass a moment. “My car broke down, and I was necessitated to return.”

      “What road did you take?” asked Heath.

      Pfyfe delicately adjusted his eye-glass, and regarded the Sergeant with an intimation of boredom.

      “My advice, Mr.—ah—Sneed——”

      “Heath,” the other corrected him surlily.

      “Ah, yes—Heath. . . . My advice, Mr. Heath, is, that if you are contemplating a motor trip to the Catskills, you apply to the Automobile Club of America for a road-map. My choice of itinerary might very possibly not suit you.”

      He turned back to the District Attorney with an air that implied he preferred talking to an equal.

      “Tell me, Mr. Pfyfe,” Markham asked; “did Mr. Benson have any enemies?”

      The other appeared to think the matter over.

      “No-o. Not one, I should say, who would actually have killed him as a result of animosity.”

      “You imply nevertheless that he had enemies. Could you not tell us a little more?”

      Pfyfe passed his hand gracefully over the tips of his golden moustache, and then permitted his index-finger to linger on his cheek in an attitude of meditative indecision.

      “Your request, Mr. Markham,”—he spoke with pained reluctance—“brings up a matter which I hesitate to discuss. But perhaps it is best that I confide in you—as one gentleman to another. Alvin, in common with many other admirable fellows, had a—what shall I say?—a weakness—let me put it that way—for the fair sex.”

      He looked at Markham, seeking approbation for his extreme tact in stating an indelicate truth.

      “You understand,” he continued, in answer to the other’s sympathetic nod, “Alvin was not a man who possessed the personal characteristics that women hold attractive.” (I somehow got the impression that Pfyfe considered himself as differing radically from Benson in this respect.) “Alvin was aware of his physical deficiency, and the result was,—I trust you will understand my hesitancy in mentioning this distressing fact,—but the result was that Alvin used certain—ah—methods in his dealings with women, which you and I could never bring ourselves to adopt. Indeed—though it pains me to say it—he often took unfair advantage of women. He used underhand methods, as it were.”

      He paused, apparently shocked by this heinous imperfection of his friend, and by the necessity of his own seemingly disloyal revelation.

      “Was it one of these women whom Benson had dealt with unfairly, that you had in mind?” asked Markham.

      “No—not the woman herself,” Pfyfe replied; “but a man who was interested in her. In fact, this man threatened Alvin’s life. You will appreciate my reluctance in telling you this; but my excuse is that the threat was made quite openly. There were several others besides myself who heard it.”

      “That, of course, relieves you from any technical breach of confidence,” Markham observed.

      Pfyfe acknowledged the other’s understanding with a slight bow.

      “It happened at a little party of which I was the unfortunate host,” he confessed modestly.

      “Who was the man?” Markham’s tone was polite but firm.

      “You will comprehend my reticence. . . .” Pfyfe began. Then, with an air of righteous frankness, he leaned forward. “It might prove unfair to Alvin to withhold the gentleman’s name. . . . He was Captain Philip Leacock.”

      He allowed himself the emotional outlet of a sigh.

      “I trust you won’t ask me for the lady’s name.”

      “It won’t be necessary,” Markham assured him. “But I’d appreciate your telling us a little more of the episode.”

      Pfyfe complied with an expression of patient resignation.

      “Alvin was considerably taken with the lady in question, and showed her many attentions which were, I am forced to admit, unwelcome. Captain Leacock resented these attentions; and at the little affair to which I had invited him and Alvin, some unpleasant and, I must say, unrefined words passed between them. I fear the wine had been flowing too freely, for Alvin was always punctilious—he was a man, indeed, skilled in the niceties of social intercourse; and the Captain, in an outburst of temper, told Alvin that, unless he left the lady strictly alone in the future, he would pay with his life. The Captain even went so far as to draw a revolver half-way out of his pocket.”

      “Was it a revolver, or an automatic pistol?” asked Heath.

      Pfyfe gave the District Attorney a faint smile of annoyance, without deigning even to glance at the Sergeant.

      “I misspoke myself; forgive me. It was not a revolver. It was, I believe, an automatic army pistol—though, you understand, I didn’t see it in its entirety.”

      “You say there were others who witnessed the altercation?”

      “Several of my guests were standing about,” Pfyfe explained; “but, on my word, I couldn’t name them. The fact is, I attached little importance to the threat—indeed, it had entirely slipped my memory until I read the account of poor Alvin’s death. Then I thought at once of the unfortunate incident, and said to myself: Why not tell the District Attorney. . . ?”

      “Thoughts that breathe and words that burn,” murmured Vance, who had been sitting through the interview in oppressive boredom.

      Pfyfe once more adjusted his eye-glass, and gave Vance a withering look.

      “I beg your pardon, sir?”

      Vance smiled disarmingly.

      “Merely a quotation from Gray. Poetry appeals to me in certain moods, don’t y’ know. . . . Do you, by any chance, know Colonel Ostrander?”

      Pfyfe looked at him coldly, but only a vacuous countenance met his gaze.

      “I am acquainted with СКАЧАТЬ