S. S. Van Dine

“ Have you, by any chance, entirely renounced your faith in the operations of the human mind?”
“Ah, there speaks the voice of God’s great common people!” exclaimed Vance. “Your mind is so typical, Markham. It works on the principle that what you don’t know isn’t knowledge, and that, since you don’t understand a thing, there is no explanation. A comfortable point of view. It relieves one from all care and uncertainty. Don’t you find the world a very sweet and wonderful place?”
Markham adopted an attitude of affable forbearance. ”

“ I happen to know the conclusion is false because all the psychological indications of the crime contradict it—that is to say, the only real evidence in the case points unmistakably in another direction.”
He made a gesture of emphasis, and his tone assumed an unwonted gravity.
“And if you arrest any woman for killing Alvin Benson, you will simply be adding another crime—a crime of delib’rate and unpardonable stupidity—to the one already committed. And between shooting a bounder like Benson and ruining an innocent woman’s reputation, I’m inclined to regard the latter as the more reprehensible.” ”

“ Presently Vance turned and contemplated the District Attorney with a faintly sardonic smile.
“I say, Markham,” he drawled; “it has always been a source of amazement to me how easily you investigators of crime are misled by what you call clues. You find a footprint, or a parked automobile, or a monogrammed handkerchief, and then dash off on a wild chase with your eternal Ecce signum! ’Pon my word, it’s as if you chaps were all under the spell of shillin’ shockers. Won’t you ever learn that crimes can’t be solved by deductions based merely on material clues and circumst’ntial evidence?” ”

“ This was too much for Markham. The wearing-down process of Vance’s intimations and veiled innuendoes had at last dissipated his self-control. He bent forward and struck the desk angrily with his hand.
“I’m damned tired of this superior attitude of yours,” he complained hotly. “Either you know something or you don’t. If you don’t know anything, do me the favor of dropping these insinuations of knowledge. If you do know anything, it’s up to you to tell me. You’ve been hinting around in one way or another ever since Benson was shot. If you’ve got any idea who killed him, I want to know it.” ”

“ As we rode up town that morning Markham appeared preoccupied and gloomy. No word had been spoken since we left the apartment; but as we turned west into Forty-eighth Street Vance asked:
“What is the social etiquette of these early-morning murder functions, aside from removing one’s hat in the presence of the body?”
“You keep your hat on,” growled Markham.
“My word! Like a synagogue, what? Most int’restin’! Perhaps one takes off one’s shoes so as not to confuse the footprints.” ”

“ The great trouble with you chaps, d’ ye see, is that you approach every crime with a fixed and unshakable assumption that the criminal is either half-witted or a colossal bungler. I say, has it never by any chance occurred to you that if a detective could see a clue, the criminal would also have seen it, and would either have concealed it or disguised it, if he had not wanted it found? And have you never paused to consider that anyone clever enough to plan and execute a successful crime these days, is, ipso facto, clever enough to manufacture whatever clues suit his purpose? ”

“ Just as an expert æsthetician can analyze a picture and tell you who painted it, or the personality and temp’rament of the person who painted it, so can the expert psychologist analyze a crime and tell you who committed it—that is, if he happens to be acquainted with the person—, or else can describe to you, with almost mathematical surety, the criminal’s nature and character. . . . And that, my dear Markham, is the only sure and inev’table means of determining human guilt. All others are mere guess-work, unscientific, uncertain, and—perilous. ”

“ Vance asked.
“Along with a few thousand other enigmas—yes,” was the petulant reply. “But the more I try to reason it out, the more of a mystery the whole thing becomes.”
“Loosely put, my dear Markham,” criticized Vance. “There are no mysteries originating in human beings, y’ know; there are only problems. And any problem originating in one human being can be solved by another human being. It merely requires a knowledge of the human mind, and the application of that knowledge to human acts. ”

“ The office, like the building, breathed an air of former days. Its high ceilings, its massive golden-oak woodwork, its elaborate low-hung chandelier of bronze and china, its dingy bay walls of painted plaster, and its four high narrow windows to the south—all bespoke a departed era in architecture and decoration.
On the floor was a large velvet carpet-rug of dingy brown; and the windows were hung with velour draperies of the same color. Several large comfortable chairs stood about the walls and before the long oak table in front of the District Attorney’s desk. ”

“ Vance settled back in his chair.
“Consider, for a moment, the characteristics—the outstanding features—of the crime. Just before the shot was fired Benson and the murderer undoubtedly had been talking or arguing—the one seated, the other standing. Then Benson had pretended to read: he had said all he had to say. His reading was his gesture of finality; for one doesn’t read when conversing with another unless for a purpose. The murderer, seeing the hopelessness of the situation, and having come prepared to meet it heroically, took out a gun, aimed it at Benson’s temple, and pulled the trigger. ”

“ And, when anyone is murdered, there are dozens of innocent people who had just as strong a motive for doing it as had the actual murderer. Really, y’ know, the fact that a man has a motive is no evidence whatever that he’s guilty,—such motives are too universal a possession of the human race. Suspecting a man of murder because he has a motive is like suspecting a man of running away with another man’s wife because he has two legs. The reason that some people kill and others don’t, is a matter of temp’rament—of individual psychology. ”

“ Vance’s tone was unruffled. “The needle would bob up and down just the same—but not because he was guilty. If he was stupid, for instance, the needle would jump as a result of his resentment at a seemingly newfangled third-degree torture. And if he was intelligent, the needle would jump because of his suppressed mirth at the puerility of the legal mind for indulging in such nonsense.”
“You move me deeply,” said Markham. “My head is spinning like a turbine. But there are those of us poor worldlings who believe that criminality is a defect of the brain.” ”

“ Vance led the way to the living-room, and stood for five minutes inspecting the various pieces of furniture, while Markham remained in the doorway watching him through narrowed lids, his hands crowded deep into his pockets.
“We could, of course, have an expert searcher rake the apartment over inch by inch,” observed Vance. “But I don’t think it necess’ry. The Major’s a bold, cunning soul: witness his wide square forehead, the dominating stare of his globular eyes, the perpendicular spine, and the indrawn abdomen. He’s forthright in all his mental operations. ”

“ I wish to God the Major hadn’t called me up.”
“Eheu!” sighed Vance. “The world is full of Heaths. Beastly nuisances.”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Markham hastened to assure him. “Heath is a good man—in fact, as good a man as we’ve got. The mere fact that he was assigned to the case shows how seriously the affair is regarded at Headquarters. There’ll be no unpleasantness about my taking charge, you understand; but I want the atmosphere to be as halcyon as possible. Heath’ll resent my bringing along you two chaps as spectators, anyway; so I beg of you, Vance, emulate the modest violet.” ”

“ As I was ushered into the living-room that morning by Currie, a rare old English servant who acted as Vance’s butler, valet, major-domo and, on occasions, specialty cook, Vance was sitting in a large armchair, attired in a surah silk dressing-gown and grey suède slippers, with Vollard’s book on Cézanne open across his knees.
“Forgive my not rising, Van,” he greeted me casually. “I have the whole weight of the modern evolution in art resting on my legs. Furthermore, this plebeian early rising fatigues me, y’ know.” ”

“ Markham put down his cigar and rose. “The case is getting on my nerves. I’m going to sleep on it, and tackle it in the morning.”
“That ancient idea of sleeping on a problem is a fallacy,” said Vance, as we walked out into Madison Avenue, “—an apologia, as it were, for one’s not being able to think clearly. Poetic idea, y’ know. All poets believe in it—nature’s soft nurse, the balm of woe, childhood’s mandragora, tired nature’s sweet restorer, and that sort of thing. Silly notion. When the brain is keyed up and alive, it works far better than when apathetic from the torpor of sleep. ”

“ Vance smoked his cigarette in silence, looking thoughtfully out through the window up at the hazy June sky.
“Markham,” he said at length, “the number of fantastic ideas extant about criminals is pos’tively amazing. How a sane person can subscribe to that ancient hallucination that ‘murder will out’ is beyond me. It rarely ‘outs’, old dear. And, if it did ‘out’, why a Homicide Bureau? Why all this whirlin’-dervish activity by the police whenever a body is found? ”

“ Vance sighed.
“What a perfect ready-made set of notions you have, Markham! Don’t you know that an innocent man, when he comes under suspicion, is apt to be more nervous than a guilty one, who, to begin with, had enough nerve to commit the crime, and, secondly, realizes that any show of nervousness is regarded as guilt by you lawyer chaps? ‘My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure’ is a mere Sunday-school pleasantry. ”

“ Take it along, and call me the minute you’ve inspected it thoroughly.”
“It’s the gun, all right,” asserted Heath, when Hagedorn had gone. “I know that bird. He wouldn’t ’ve said as much as he did if he hadn’t been sure. . . . Whose gun is it, sir?”
“I’ll answer you presently.” Markham was still battling against the truth—withholding, even from himself, his pronouncement of the Major’s guilt until every loop-hole of doubt should be closed. “I want to hear from Stitt before I say anything. I sent him to look over Benson and Benson’s books. He’ll be here any moment.” ”

“ His interest in art was an important—one might almost say the dominant—factor in his personality. I have never met a man quite like him—a man so apparently diversified, and yet so fundamentally consistent.
Vance was what many would call a dilettante. But the designation does him injustice. He was a man of unusual culture and brilliance. An aristocrat by birth and instinct, he held himself severely aloof from the common world of men. ”

“ A man’s reaching in his pocket is a natural action; but a woman has no pockets and no place to hide a gun except her hand-bag. And a man is always on guard when an angry woman opens a hand-bag in front of him,—the very uncertainty of women’s natures has made men suspicious of their actions when aroused. . . . But—above all—it was Benson’s bald pate and bed-room slippers that made the woman hypothesis untenable.”
“You remarked a moment ago,” said Markham, “that the murderer went there that night prepared to take heroic measures if necessary. And yet you say he planned the murder.” ”

“ Markham asked impatiently.
“Oh, for the gift of tears!” moaned Vance. “Don’t you see that there’s someone in the background—someone connected with the security? It must be so, y’ know; otherwise Pfyfe would have told you the entire tale of the quarrel, if only to clear himself from suspicion. Yet, knowing that his position is an awkward one, he refuses to divulge what passed between him and Benson in the office that day. . . . Pfyfe is shielding someone—and he is not the soul of chivalry, y’ know. Therefore, I ask: Why?” ”

“ Van, you really should read this precious interview with Sergeant Heath. He takes an entire column to say ‘I know nothing’. A priceless lad! I’m becoming pos’tively fond of him.”
“It may be,” I suggested, “that Heath is keeping his true knowledge from the papers, as a bit of tactical diplomacy.”
“No,” Vance returned, with a sad wag of the head; “no man has so little vanity that he would delib’rately reveal himself to the world as a creature with no perceptible powers of human reasoning—as he does in all these morning journals—for the mere sake of bringing one murderer to justice. ”

“ Markham’s answer was accompanied by a sombre, tired smile. It was his way of telling Vance that he had entirely rejected the idea of Captain Leacock’s guilt.
The Major went to him and held out his hand.
“I know how you feel,” he said. “This sort of thing is discouraging; but it’s better that the guilty person should escape altogether than that an innocent man should be made to suffer. . . . Don’t work too hard, and don’t let these disappointments get to you. ”