The Benson Murder Case by S. S. Van Dine Page B

deprecating smile. “It was not the lady, then, but her gloves and bag which were present—a minute and unimportant distinction, no doubt, from the legal point of view…. Still,” he added, “I deplore the inability of my layman’s untutored mind to accept the two conditions as identical. My trousers are at the dry-cleaners; therefore, I am at the dry-cleaners, what?”
    Markham turned on him with considerable warmth.
    â€œDoes it mean nothing in the way of evidence, even to your layman’s mind, that a woman’s intimate and necessary articles, which she has carried throughout the evening, are found in her escort’s quarters the following morning?”
    â€œIn admitting that it does not.” Vance acknowledged quietly, “I no doubt expose a legal perception lamentably inefficient.”
    â€œBut since the lady certainly wouldn’t have carried these particular objects during the afternoon, and since she couldn’t have called at the house that evening during Benson’s absence without the housekeeper knowing it, how, may one ask, did these articles happen to be there the next morning if she herself did not take them there late that night?”
    â€œâ€™Pon my word, I haven’t the slightest notion,” Vance rejoined. “The lady herself could doubtless appease your curiosity. But there are any number of possible explanations, y’know. Our departed Chesterfield might have brought them home in his coat pocket—women are eternally handing men all manner of gewgaws and bundles to carry for ’em. with the cooing request: ‘Can you put this in your pocket for me?’ … Then again, there is the possibility that the real murderer secured them in some way, and placed them on the mantel delib’rately to mislead the
polizei
. Women, don’ty’know, never put their belongings in such neat, out-of-the-way places as mantels and hat racks. They invariably throw them down on your fav’rite chair or your centre-table.”
    â€œAnd, I suppose,” Markham interjected, “Benson also brought the lady’s cigarette butts home in his pocket?”
    â€œStranger things have happened,” returned Vance equably; “though I shan’t accuse him of it in this instance…. The cigarette butts may, y’know, be evidence of a previous
conversazione
.”
    â€œEven your despised Heath,” Markham informed him, “had sufficient intelligence to ascertain from the housekeeper that she sweeps out the grate every morning.”
    Vance smiled admiringly.
    â€œYou’re
so
thorough, aren’t you? … But, I say, that can’t be, by any chance, your only evidence against the lady?”
    â€œBy no means,” Markham assured him, “But despite your superior distrust it’s good corroboratory evidence, nevertheless.”
    â€œI dare say,” Vance agreed, “seeing with what frequency innocent persons are condemned in our courts…. But tell me more.”
    Markham proceeded with an air of quiet self-assurance.
    â€œMy man learned, first, that Benson dined alone with this woman at the ‘Marseilles,’ a little bohemian restaurant in West Fortieth Street; secondly, that they quarrelled, and thirdly, that they departed at midnight, entering a taxicab together…. Now, the murder was committed at twelve-thirty; but since the lady lives on Riverside Drive, in the Eighties, Benson couldn’t possibly have accompanied her home—which obviously he would have done had he not taken her to his own house—and returned by the time the shot was fired. But we have further proof prompting to her being at Benson’s. My man learned, at the woman’s apartment-house, that actually she did not get home until shortly after one. Moreover, she was without her gloves and handbag, and had to be let in to her rooms with a pass-key, because, as she explained, she had lost hers.