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

character in her bearing; but one sensed the potentialities of powerful emotions beneath her exterior calm. Her clothes harmonised with her personality; they were quiet and apparently in the conventional style, but a touch of colour and originality here and there conferred on them a fascinating distinction.
    Markham rose and, bowing with formal courtesy, indicated a comfortable upholstered chair directly in front of his desk. With a barely perceptible nod, she glanced at the chair, and then seated herself in a straight armless chair standing next to it.
    â€œYou won’t mind, I’m sure,” she said, “if I choose my own chair for the inquisition.”
    Her voice was low and resonant—the speaking voice of the highly-trained singer. She smiled as she spoke, but it was not a cordial smile: it was cold and distant, yet somehow indicative of levity.
    â€œMiss St. Clair,” began Markham, in a tone of polite severity, “the murder of Mr. Alvin Benson has intimately involved yourself. Before taking any definite steps. I have invited you here to ask you a few questions, I can, therefore, advise you quite honestly that frankness will best serve your interests.”
    He paused, and the woman looked at him with an ironically questioning gaze.
    â€œAm I supposed to thank you for your generous advice?”
    Markham’s scowl deepened as he glanced down at a typewritten page on his desk.
    â€œYou are probably aware that your gloves and handbag were found in Mr. Benson’s house the morning after he was shot?”
    â€œI can understand how you might have traced the handbag to me,” she said: “but how did you arrive at the conclusion that the gloves were mine?”
    Markham looked up sharply.
    â€œDo you mean to say the gloves are not yours?”
    â€œOh, no.” She gave him another wintry smile. “I merely wondered how you knew they belonged to me, since you couldn’t have known either my taste in gloves or the size I wore.”
    â€œThey’re your gloves, then?”
    â€œIf they are Tréfousse, size five-and-three-quarters, of white kid and elbow length, they are certainly mine. And I’d so like to have them back, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Markham, “but it is necessary that I keep them for the present.”
    She dismissed the matter with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
    â€œDo you mind if I smoke?” she asked.
    Markham instantly opened a drawer of his desk, and took out a box of Benson and Hedges cigarettes.
    â€œI have my own, thank you,” she informed him. “But I would so appreciate my holder. I’ve missed it horribly.”
    Markham hesitated. He was manifestly annoyed by the woman’s attitude.
    â€œI’ll be glad to lend it to you,” he compromised; and reaching into another drawer of his desk, he laid the holder on the table before her.
    â€œNow, Miss St. Clair,” he said, resuming his gravity of manner, “will you tell me how these personal articles of yours happened to be in Mr. Benson’s living-room?”
    â€œNo, Mr. Markham, I will not,” she answered.
    â€œDo you realise the serious construction your refusal places upon the circumstances?”
    â€œI really hadn’t given it much thought.” Her tone was indifferent.
    â€œIt would be well if you did,” Markham advised her. “Your position is not an enviable one; and the presence of your belongings in Mr. Benson’s room is, by no means, the only thing that connects you directly with the crime.”
    The woman raised her eyes inquiringly, and again the enigmatic smile appeared at the corners of her mouth.
    â€œPerhaps you have sufficient evidence to accuse me of the murder?”
    Markham ignored this question.
    â€œYou were well acquainted with Mr. Benson, I believe?”
    â€œThe finding of my handbag and gloves in his apartment might lead one to assume as much,