New Britain Herald Newspaper, September 19, 1927, Page 3

#EW BRITAIN DAILY HERALD, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 1927, CHAPTER 1 (Friday, June 14; 8:30 a. m.) It happened that, on the morning of the momentous June the fourteenth when the discovery of the murdered body of Alvin H. Benson created a sensation which, to this day, has not entirely died away, I had breakfasted with Philo Vance in his apartment. It was not unusual for me to share Vance's lunchgons and dinners, but to have breakfast with him was something of an occasion. He was a late riser, and it was his habit to remain incomunicado until his midday meal. The reason for this early meeting was a matter of busi- ness—or, rather, of aesthetics. On the afternoon of the previous day Vance had attended a preview of Vollard's col- lection of Cezanne water-colors at the Kessler Gal- leries, and having seen several pictures he particularly want- ed, he had invited me to an early breakfast to give me instruc- tions regarding their purchase. A word concerning my relationship with Vance is neces- sary to clarify my role of narrator in this chronicle. The legal tradition is deeply imbedded in my family, and when my preparatory-school days were over, I was sent, almost as a matter of course, to Harvard to study law. It was there T met Vance, a reserved, cynical and caustic freshman who was the bane of his professors and the fear of his fellow- classmen. Why he should have chosen me, of all the stu- dents at the university, for his extra-scholastic association, I have never heen able to understand fully. My own liking for Vance was simply explained: he fascinated and inter- ested me, and supplied me with a novel kind of intellectual diversion. Opon graduation 1 entered my father's law firm—Van Dine and Davis—and after five years of dull apprenticeship T was taken ifito the firm as the junior partner. At present I am the second Van Dine of Van Dine, Davis and Van Dine, with offices at 120 Broadway. At about the time my name first appeared on the letter-heads “of the firm, Vance re- turned from Europe, where he had been living during my legal novitiate, and, an aunt of his having died and made him her principal beneficiary, I was called upon to discharge the technical obligations involved in putting him in posses- sion of his inherited property. < This work was the beginning of a new and somewhat un- usual relationship between us. Vance had a strong distaste for any kind of business transaction, and in time, I became the custodian of all his monetary interests and his agent at large. 1 found that his affairs were various enough to oc- cupy as much of my time as I cared to give to legal matters, and as Vance was able to indulge the luxury of having a personal legal factotum, o to speak, I permanently closed my desk at the office, and devoted myself exclusively to his needs and whims. If, up to the time when Vance summoned me to discuss the purchase of the Cezannes. I had harboved any sceret or repressed regrets for having deprived the firm of Van Dine, Davis and Van Dine of my modest legal talents, they were permanently hanished on that eventful morning: for, be- ginning with the notorious Benson murder, and extending over a period of nearly four vears, it was my privilege to be a spectator of what I believe was the most amazing series of criminal cases that ever passed before the eves of a young lawyer. Indeed, the grim dramas I witnessed during that period constitute one of the most astonishing secret docu- ments in the police history of this country. Of these dramas Vance was the central character. By an analytical and interpretative process which, as far as T know, has never before heen applied to criminal activitics, he succeeded in solving many of the important which both the police and the distriet attorney’s hopelessly fallen down Due to my peculiai relations with Vance it happened {hat not only did I participate in all the cases with which he wa connected, but T was also present at most of the informal discussions concerning them wlhich took place hetween him and the distriet attorney: and, being of methodical tempera- ment, I kept a fairly complete record of them. In addition, I noted down (as accurately as memory permitted) Vance's unique psychological methods of determining guiit, as he ex- plained them from time to time. The first case to draw Vance into its ramifications was that of Alvin Be murder. The case intruded upon Vance's life suddenly and unexpectedly, zlthough he him- self had, by a casual request made to the district attorney over a month hefore, heen the involuntary ent of this destruction of his normal routine. The thing, in fact, burst upon us before we had quite finished our breakfast on that mid-June morning. As I was ushered into the living room 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 suede slippers, with Vollard’s bhook on Cezanne open across his knees. “Forgive my not rising, Van,” he greeted me casually. “I have the whole weight of the modern evolution in art rest- ing on my legs. Furthermore, this plebeian early fatigues me, y’know.” g “This chap Vollard,” he remarked at length, “has been rather liberal with our art-fearing country. He has sent a really goodish collection of his Cezannes here. I viewed 'em vesterday with the proper reverence and, T might add, un- crimes office had on n's ing concern, for Kessler was watching me; and I've marked the ones I want you to buy for me as soon as the gallery opens this morning.” Vance was what many would call a dilettante. But the designation does him injustice. Ile was a man of unusual culture and brilliance. An aristocrat by birth and instinet, he held himself severely aloof from the common. world of men. In his manner there was an indefinable contempt for inferiority of all kinds. The great majority of those with whom he came in contact regarded him as a snob. Yet there was in his condescension and disdain no trace of spurious- ness. His snobbishness was intellectual as well as social. He detested stupidity even more, I believe, than he did vul- garity or bad taste. BENSON S.S. VA MURDEK © Charles Scribners “Why the haste. old dear?” Vance asked. Vance was frankly a cynie. but he was ravely bitter; his was a flippant. Juvenalian cynicism. Perhaps he may hest be described as a bored and supercilious, but hig scious and penetrating, spectator of life. con He was keenly interested in all human reactions; but it was the interest of the scientist, not the humanitarian. Withal he was a man of rare personal charm. Even people who found it difficuit to admire him, found it equally difficult not to like him. His somewhat quixotic mannerisms and his slightly English ac- cent and inflection heritage of his post-graduate dayvs at Oxford—impress did not know him well, affectations. But the truth is, there was very little of the poseur about him. He was unusually good-looking, although his mouth was ascetic and cruel, like the mouths on some of the Medici portraits; moreover, there was a slightly derisive hauteur in the lift of his evebrows. Despite the aquiline severity of his lineaments his face was highly sensitive. His forehead was full and sloping—it s the artist's, rather than the His cold grey eves were widely spaced. these who as scholar's, brow. His nose was straight and slender, and his chin narrow but prominent, with an unusually deep cleft. Barrymore recently in Hamlet T was somehow reminded of Vance: and once before, in a scene of Caesar and Cleopatra played by Forbes-Robertson, I received a similar impression. When I saw John Vance was slightly under six feet, graceful, and giving the impression of sinewy strenath and nervons endurance. He was an expert fencer, and had been the ¢ university's fencing team. Ie sports, and had a knack of do extensive practice one season ptain of the was mildly fond of outdoor ing thi well without any oniy three; and onr championship polo team His goif handiean was he had playved on againzt England. Nevertheless, he had a positive antipathy to walking, and would not go a hnndred vard foot if on there was any possible means of riding. In his di he was always fashi rect to the smallest detail siderable time at his clubs: le—- scrupulously cor- He spent con- his favorite was the Stuyvesant, | vet unobtrusive. hecause, as he explained to me, its membership was drawn largely from the political and commercial vanks, and he was never drawn into a discussion which required any mental effort. and was a reeular subscriber to the symphony concerts and chamber-musie recital Incidentally. he was one of the most unerring poker play ers I have ever seen. I mention this t not merely becanse it was unusual and significant that a man of Vance's type should have preferred so democratic a game to bridge o1 chess, for instance, but hecause his knowledge of the science of human psychology involved in poker had an intimate hear- ing on the chronicles T am about to set down. Vance's knowledge of psychology was indeed uncanny. He was gifted with an instinctively accurate judgment of people, and his study and reading had co-ordinated and ra- tionalized this gift to an amazing extent. Ile well grounded in the academic principles of psychology, and all his courses at ccllege had either centered about this subject ov been subordinated to it. Vance's mind was basically philosophic. osophical in the more general sense. Being singularly free from the conventional sentimentalities and current super- stititions, he could look beneath the surface of human acts into actuating impulses and motives. Moreover, he was reso- lute both in his avoidance of any attitude that savored of credulousness, and in his adherence to cold, logical exact- ness in his mental processes. “Until we can approach all human problems,” he once re- marked, “with the clinical aloofness and cynical contempt of a doctor examining a guinea-pig strapped to a board, we have little chance of getting at the truth.” Vance led an active, but by no means animated, social life —a concession to various family ties. But he was not a social animal, and when he went forth into the social world it was generally under compulsion. In fact, one of his “duty” affairs had occupied him on the night hefore that memorable June breakfast; otherwise, we would have con- sulted about the Cezannes the evening before; and Vance groused a good deal about it while Currie was serving our He went occasionally to the more modern operas, ac was that is, phil- “The chap's dead, don’t ¥ know; he can't possibly run away.” strawberries and eggs Benedictine. Later on I was to give profound thanks to the God of Coincidence that the blocks had been arranged in just that pattern; for had Vance been slumbering peacefully at 9 o'clock when the district attorney called, 1 would probably have missed four of the most in- teresting and exciting vears of my life; and many of New York's shrewdest and most desperate criminals might still be at large. Vance and T had just settled back in our chairs for our sccond cup of coffee and a cigaret when Currie, answering an impetuous ringing of the front-door bell, ushered the dis- triet attorney into the living room. “By all that's holy!” he exclaimed, raising his hands in “New York's leading art connoisseur mock astonishment. is up and about!” “And T am suffused with blushes at the disgrace of it,” Vance replied. It was evident, however, that the district attorney was not in a jovial mood. His face suddenly sobered. “Vanee, a serious thing has brought me here. I'm in a great hurry, and merely dropped by to keep my promise ... The fact is, Alvin Benson has been murdered.” Vance lifted his eyebrows languidly. “Really, now?” he drawled. “How messy! But he no doubt deserved it. In any event, that's no reason why vou should repine. Take a chair and have a cup of Currie's incomp'rable coffee.” And before the other could protest, he rose and pushed a bull-button. Markham hesitated a second or two. ‘i “Oh, well. A couple of minutes won't make any differ- ence, But only a gulp.” And he sank into a chair facing us. (Friday, June 14; 9 a. m.) John 7.-X. Markham, as vou remember, had been elected district attorney of New York county on the Independent Reform Ticket during one of the city's periodical reactions against Tammany Hall. He served his four years, and would probably have been elected to a second term had not the ticket been hopelessly split by the political juggling of his opponents. He was an indefatigable worker, and projected the district attorney’s office into all manner of criminal and ivil investigations. Being utterly incorruptible, he not only aroused the fervid admiration of his constituents, but pro- duced an almost unprecedented sense of security in those who had opposed him on partisan lines. had been in office only a few months when one of the newspapers referred to him as the Watch Dog; and the sobriquet.clung to him until the end of his administration. Indeed, his record as a successful prosecutor during the four vears of his incumbency was such a remarkable one that even today it is not infrequently referred to in legal and political discussions, Markham was a tall, strongly-built man in the middle forties, with a clean-shaven, somewhat yvouthful face which belied his uniformly gray hair. He was not handsome ac- cording to conventional standards, but he had an amount of social enlture rarely found in our latter-day political office-holders. When his nature was relieved of the stress of duty and care, he was the most gracious of men. But early in my acquaintance with him T had seen his attitude of cordiality suddenly displaced by one of grim authority. It was as if a new personality—hard, indomitable, symbolic of eternal justice—had in that moment been born in Markham's body. I was to witness this transformation many times hefore our association ended. In fact, this very morning, as he sat op- posite to me in Vance’s living room, there was more than a hint of it in the aggressive sternness of his expression; and I knew that he was deeply troubled over Alvin Benson's murder. He swallowed his coffee rapidly, and was setting down the cup, when Vance, who had been watching him with quizzical amusement, remarked: “I say; why this sad preoecupation over the passing of one Benson? You weren't, by any chance, the murderer, what ?” Markham ignored Vance’s levity. “I'm on my way to Benson’s. Do you care to come along? You asked for the experience, and I dropped in to keep my promise.” I then recalled that several weeks before at the Stuyve- sant Club, when the subject of the prevalent homicides in New York was being discussed, Vance had expressed a desire to accompany the district attorney on one of his investigations; CASE Sons. and that Markham had promised to take him on his next ime portant case. You remember everything, don't you?” Vance replied lazily. ““An admirable gift, even if an uncomfortable one.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel; it lacked a few min- utes of nine. “But at an indecent hour! Suppose some- one should see me.” Markham moved forward impatiently in his chair. “Well, if you think the gratification of your curiosity would compensate you for the disgrace of being seen in public at 9 o'clock in the morning, yow'll have to hurry. I certainly won't take you in dressing-gown and bedroom slippers. And 1 most certainly won't wait over five minutes for you to get dressed.” “Why the haste, old dear?” Vance asked, yawning. “The chap's dead, don’t y'know; he can't possibly run away.” “Come, get a move on, vou orchid,” the other urged. affair is no joke. It's damned serious; and from the of it, it's going to cause an ungodly scandal—What are you going to do?” “Do? T shall humbly follow the great avenger of the common people,”” returned Vance, rising and making an obsequious bow. He rang for Currie, and ordered his clothes brought.to him “I'm attending a levee which Mr. Markham is holding over a corpse, and I want something rather spiffy. Is it warm enough for a silk suit? ... And a lavender tie, by all means.” Vance was now dressing, with Currie’s assistance, at a rate of speed I had rarely seen him display in such matters, Beneath his bantering pose I recognized the true eagerness of the man for a new experience and one that promised such dramatic possibilities for his alert and observing mind. “You knew Alvin Benson casually, I believe,” the district attorney said. “Well, early this morning his housekeeper ‘phoned the local precinet station that she had found him shot through the head, fully dressed and sitting in his favor- ite chair in his living room. The message, of course, was put through at once to the telegraph bureau at head- quarters, and my assistant on duty notified me immediately. I was tempted to let the case follow the regular police routine. But half an hour later Major Benson, Alvin's brother, 'phoned me and asked me, as a special favor, to take charge. I've known the major for 20 vears, apd I couldn’t very well refuse. So I took a hurried breakfast and started for Benson's house. He lived in West Forty-eighth street; and as I passed vour corner I remembered your re- quest, and dropped by to see if you cared to go along.” “Most consid'rate,” murmured Vance, adjusting his four- in-hand before a small polychrome mirror by the door. Then he turned to me. “Come, Van. We'll ail gaze upon the defunct Benson. I'm sure some of Markham’s sleuths will unearth the fact that I detested the bounder and accuse me of the crime; and I'll feel safer, don't v'know, with legal talent at hand . . . No objections—eh, what, Markham ?” “Certainly not,” the other agreed readily, although I felt that he would rather not have had me along. But I was too deeply interested in the air to offer any ceremonious ob- jections, and T followed Vance and Markham downstairs. As we rode up town Markham appeared preoccupied and gloomy. No word had been spoken since we left the apart- m(;\nt: but as we turned west into Forty-eighth street Vance asked: “What is the social etiquette of these early-morning mur- der functions, aside from removing one’s hat in the presence of the body?” “You keep vour hat on,” growled Markham. “My word! Most int'restin’! Perhaps one takes off one’s shoes so as not to confuse the footprints.” “No,” Markham told him. “The guests remain fully clothed—in which the function differs from the ordinary eve- ning affairs of vour smart set.” “My dear Markham!"—Vance’s tone was one of melan- choly reproof—“The horrified moralist in your nature is at Markham was too abstracted to follow up Vanee's hadin, here are one or two things,” he said soberly, “that I think T'd better warn you about. From the looks of it, this case is going to cause considerable noise, and there’ll be'a lot of jealousy and battling for honors. I won't be fallen upon and caressed affectionately by the police for coming in at this stage of the game; so be careful not to rub their bristles the wrong way. My assistant, who's there now, tells me he thinks the inspector has put Heath in charge. Heath’s a sergeant in the homicide bureau, and is undoubtedly con= vinced at the present moment that I'm taking hold in order to get the publicity.” “Aren't you his technical superior?” asked Vance. “Of course; and that makes the situation just so mueh more delicate . . . T 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. “Ieath 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 T 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 “T prefer the Llushing rose, if vou don’t mind,” Vance protested. “However. T'll instantly give the hypersensitive Heath one of my choicest Regie cigarets with the rose-petal tips.” “If you do,” smiled Markham, “he’ll probably arrest you as a suspicious character.” We had drawn up abruptly in front of an old brownstone residence on the upper side of Forty-eighth street, near Sixth avenue. It was a house of the better class, built on a 25-foot lot in a day when permanency and beauty were still matters of consideration. The design was conventional, to accord with the other houses in the block, but a touch of luxury and individuality was to be seen in its decorative cop- ings and in the stone carvings about the entrance and above the windows. There was a shallow paved areaway between the street line and the front elevation of the house; but this was en- closed in a high iron railing, and the only entrance was by way of the front door, which was about six feet above the street level at the top of a flight of ten broad stone stairs. Setween the entrance and the right-hand wall were two spacious windows covered with heavy iron grilles. A considerable crowd of morbid onlookers had gathered in front of the house; and on the steps lounged several alert- looking young men whom I took to be newspaper reporters. The door of our taxicab was opened by a uniformed patrol- man who saluted Markham with exaggerated respect and ostentatiously cleared a passage for us through the gaping throng of idlers. Another uniformed patrolman stood in the little vestibule, and on recognizing Markham, held the outer door open for us and saluted with great dignity. (To Be Continued) \ ! \ 4]