The Benson Murder Case by S. S. Van Dine

Author:S. S. Van Dine [Van Dine, S. S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Private investigators--New York (State)--New York--Fiction, Vance, Philo (Fictitious character)--Fiction
Published: 2023-06-04T04:27:31+00:00

XIV

LINKS IN THE CHAIN

(Monday, June 17; 6 p.m.)

Vance and I spent an hour or so that afternoon at the Anderson Galleries looking at some tapestries which were to be auctioned the next day, and afterward had tea at Sherry’s. We were at the Stuyvesant Club a little before six. A few minutes later Markham and Pfyfe arrived; and we went at once into one of the conference rooms.

Pfyfe was as elegant and superior as at the first interview. He wore a ratcatcher suit and Newmarket gaiters of unbleached linen, and was redolent of perfume.

“An unexpected pleasure to see you gentlemen again so soon,” he greeted us, like one conferring a blessing.

Markham was far from amiable, and gave him an almost brusque salutation. Vance had merely nodded, and now sat regarding Pfyfe drearily as if seeking to find some excuse for his existence, but utterly unable to do so.

Markham went directly to the point.

“I’ve found out, Mr. Pfyfe, that you placed your machine in a garage at noon on Friday, and gave the man twenty dollars to say nothing about it.”

Pfyfe looked up with a hurt look.

“I’ve been deeply wronged,” he complained sadly. “I gave the man fifty dollars.”

“I am glad you admit the fact so readily,” returned Markham. “You knew, by the newspapers, of course, that your machine was seen outside Benson’s house the night he was shot.”

“Why else should I have paid so liberally to have its presence in New York kept secret?” His tone indicated that he was pained at the other’s obtuseness.

“In that case, why did you keep it in the city at all?” asked Markham. “You could have driven it back to Long Island.”

Pfyfe shook his head sorrowfully, a look of commiseration in his eyes. Then he leaned forward with an air of benign patience:⁠—he would be gentle with this dull-witted District Attorney, like a fond teacher with a backward child, and would strive to lead him out of the tangle of his uncertainties.

“I am a married man, Mr. Markham.” He pronounced the fact as if some special virtue attached to it. “I started on my trip for the Catskills Thursday after dinner, intending to stop a day in New York to make my adieus to someone residing here. I arrived quite late⁠—after midnight⁠—and decided to call on Alvin. But when I drove up, the house was dark. So, without even ringing the bell, I walked to Pietro’s in Forty-third Street to get a nightcap⁠—I keep a bit of my own pinch-bottle Haig and Haig there⁠—but, alas! the place was closed, and I strolled back to my car.⁠ ⁠… To think, that while I was away poor Alvin was shot!”

He stopped and polished his eyeglass.

“The irony of it!⁠ ⁠… I didn’t even guess that anything had happened to the dear fellow⁠—how could I? I drove, all unsuspecting of the tragedy, to a Turkish bath, and remained there the night. The next morning I read of the murder; and in the later editions I saw the mention of my car.

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