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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Philip Leacock was a typical army officer, very tall—fully six feet, two inches,—clean-shaven, straight and slender. His face was grave and immobile; and he stood before the District Attorney in the erect, earnest attitude of a soldier awaiting orders from his superior officer.

      “Take a seat, Captain,” said Markham, with a formal bow. “I have asked you here, as you probably know, to put a few questions to you concerning Mr. Alvin Benson. There are several points regarding your relationship with him, which I want you to explain.”

      “Am I suspected of complicity in the crime?” Leacock spoke with a slight Southern accent.

      “That remains to be seen,” Markham told him coldly. “It is to determine that point that I wish to question you.”

      The other sat rigidly in his chair and waited.

      Markham fixed him with a direct gaze.

      “You recently made a threat on Mr. Alvin Benson’s life, I believe.”

      Leacock started, and his fingers tightened over his knees. But before he could answer, Markham continued:

      “I can tell you the occasion on which the threat was made,—it was at a party given by Mr. Leander Pfyfe.”

      Leacock hesitated; then thrust forward his jaw.

      “Very well, sir; I admit I made the threat. Benson was a cad—he deserved shooting. . . . That night he had become more obnoxious than usual. He’d been drinking too much—and so had I, I reckon.”

      He gave a twisted smile, and looked nervously past the District Attorney out of the window.

      “But I didn’t shoot him, sir. I didn’t even know he’d been shot until I read the paper next day.”

      “He was shot with an army Colt—the kind you fellows carried in the war,” said Markham, keeping his eyes on the man.

      “I know it,” Leacock replied. “The papers said so.”

      “You have such a gun, haven’t you, Captain?”

      Again the other hesitated.

      “No, sir.” His voice was barely audible.

      “What became of it?”

      The man glanced at Markham, and then quickly shifted his eyes.

      “I—I lost it . . . in France.”

      Markham smiled faintly.

      “Then how do you account for the fact that Mr. Pfyfe saw the gun the night you made the threat?”

      “Saw the gun?” He looked blankly at the District Attorney.

      “Yes, saw it, and recognized it as an army gun,” persisted Markham, in a level voice. “Also, Major Benson saw you make a motion as if to draw a gun.”

      Leacock drew a deep breath, and set his mouth doggedly.

      “I tell you, sir, I haven’t a gun. . . . I lost it in France.”

      “Perhaps you didn’t lose it, Captain. Perhaps you lent it to someone.”

      “I didn’t, sir!” the words burst from his lips.

      “Think a minute, Captain. . . . Didn’t you lend it to someone?”

      “No—I did not!”

      “You paid a visit—yesterday—to Riverside Drive. . . . Perhaps you took it there with you.”

      Vance had been listening closely.

      “Oh—deuced clever!” he now murmured in my ear.

      Captain Leacock moved uneasily. His face, even with its deep coat of tan, seemed to pale, and he sought to avoid the implacable gaze of his questioner by concentrating his attention upon some object on the table. When he spoke his voice, heretofore truculent, was colored by anxiety.

      “I didn’t have it with me. . . . And I didn’t lend it to anyone.”

      Markham sat leaning forward over the desk, his chin on his hand, like a minatory graven image.

      “It may be you lent it to someone prior to that morning.”

      “Prior to . . ?” Leacock looked up quickly and paused, as if analyzing the other’s remark.

      Markham took advantage of his perplexity.

      “Have you lent your gun to anyone since you returned from France?”

      “No, I’ve never lent it——” he began, but suddenly halted and flushed. Then he added hastily. “How could I lend it? I just told you, sir——”

      “Never mind that!” Markham cut in. “So you had a gun, did you, Captain? . . . Have you still got it?”

      Leacock opened his lips to speak, but closed them again tightly.

      Markham relaxed, and leaned back in his chair.

      “You were aware, of course, that Benson had been annoying Miss St. Clair with his attentions?”

      At the mention of the girl’s name the Captain’s body became rigid; his face turned a dull red, and he glared menacingly at the District Attorney. At the end of a slow, deep inhalation he spoke through clenched teeth.

      “Suppose we leave Miss St. Clair out of this.” He looked as though he might spring at Markham.

      “Unfortunately, we can’t.” Markham’s words were sympathetic but firm. “Too many facts connect her with the case. Her hand-bag, for instance, was found in Benson’s living-room the morning after the murder.”

      “That’s a lie, sir!”

      Markham ignored the insult.

      “Miss St. Clair herself admits the circumstance.” He held up his hand, as the other was about to answer. “Don’t misinterpret my mentioning the fact. I am not accusing Miss St. Clair of having anything to do with the affair. I’m merely endeavoring to get some light on your own connection with it.”

      The Captain studied Markham with an expression that clearly indicated he doubted these assurances. Finally he set his mouth, and announced with determination:

      “I haven’t anything more to say on the subject, sir.”

      “You knew, didn’t you,” continued Markham, “that Miss St. Clair dined with Benson at the Marseilles on the night he was shot?”

      “What of it?” retorted Leacock sullenly.

      “And you knew, didn’t you, that they left the restaurant at midnight, and that Miss St. Clair did not reach home until after one?”

      A strange look came into the man’s eyes. The ligaments of his neck tightened, and he took a deep, resolute breath. СКАЧАТЬ