The Benson Murder Case by S. S. Van Dine

’em. They either don’t know anything, or they’re giving a swell imitation of a lot of clams. They all appear to be greatly shocked—bowled over, floored, flabbergasted—by the news of the shooting. And have they got any idea as to why or how it happened? They’ll tell the world they haven’t. You know the line of talk: Who’d want to shoot good old Al? Nobody could’ve done it but a burglar who didn’t know good old Al? If he’d known good old Al, even the burglar wouldn’t have done it…. Hell! I felt like killing off a few of those birds myself so they could go and join their good old Al.”
    â€œAny news of the car?” asked Markham.
    Heath grunted his disgust.
    â€œNot a word. And that’s funny, too, seeing all the advertising it got. Those fishing-rods are the only thing we’ve got…. The Inspector, by the way, sent me the post-mortem report this morning; but it didn’t tell us anything we didn’t know. Translated into human language, it said Benson died from a shot in the head, with all his organs sound. It’s a wonder, though, they didn’t discover that he’d been poisoned with a Mexican bean or bit by an African snake, or something, so’s to make the case a little more intricate than it already is.”
    â€œCheer up, Sergeant,” Markham exhorted him. “I’ve had a little better luck. Tracy ran down the owner of the handbag and found out she’d been to dinner with Benson that night. He and Phelps also learned a few other supplementary facts that fit in well; and I’m expecting the lady here at any minute. I’m going to find out what she has to say for herself.”
    An expression of resentment came into Heath’s eyes as the District Attorney was speaking, but he erased it at once and began asking questions. Markham gave him every detail, and also informed him of Leander Pfyfe.
    â€œI’ll let you know immediately how the interview comes out,” he concluded.
    As the door closed on Heath, Vance looked up at Markham with a sly smile.
    â€œNot exactly one of Nietzsche’s
Uebermenschen
—eh, what? I fear the subtleties of this complex world bemuse him a bit, y’know…. And he’s so disappointin’. I felt pos’tively elated when the bustling lad with the thick glasses announced his presence. I thought surely he wanted to tell you he had jailed at least six of Benson’s murderers.”
    â€œYour hopes run too high, I fear,” commented Markham.
    â€œAnd yet, that’s the usual procedure—if the headlines in our great moral dailies are to be credited. I always thought that the moment a crime was committed the police began arresting people promiscuously—to maintain the excitement, don’t y’know. Another illusion gone! … Sad, sad,” he murmured. “I shan’t forgive our Heath: he has betrayed my faith in him.”
    At this point, Markham’s secretary came to the door and announced the arrival of Miss St. Clair.
    I think we were all taken a little aback at the spectacle presented by this young woman as she came slowly into the room with a firm, graceful step, and with her head held slightly to one side in an attitude of supercilious inquiry. She was small and strikingly pretty, although “pretty” is not exactly the word with which to describe her. She possessed that faintly exotic beauty that we find in the portraits of the Carracci, who sweetened the severity of Leonardo and made it at once intimate and decadent. Her eyes were dark and widely spaced; her nose was delicate and straight, and her forehead broad. Her full, sensuous lips were almost sculpturesque in their linear precision, and her mouth wore an enigmatic smile, or hint of a smile. Her rounded firm chin was a bit heavy when examined apart from the other features, but not in the
ensemble
. There was poise and a certain strength of