LITMIR.BIZ

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as innocent as a lamb.”

      Markham threw the paper on the table and sat down. I had never seen him so furious; but he controlled himself admirably.

      “Y’ see, my dear old bean,” explained Vance, in his unemotional drawl, “I had an irresistible longing to demonstrate to you how utterly silly your circumst’ntial and material evidence is. I’m rather proud, y’ know, of my case against Mrs. Platz. I’m sure you could convict her on the strength of it. But, like the whole theory of your exalted law, it’s wholly specious and erroneous.… Circumst’ntial evidence, Markham, is the utt’rest tommyrot imag’nable. Its theory is not unlike that of our present-day democracy. The democratic theory is that if you accumulate enough ignorance at the polls, you produce intelligence; and the theory of circumst’ntial evidence is that if you accumulate a sufficient number of weak links, you produce a strong chain.”

      “Did you get me here this morning,” demanded Markham coldly, “to give me a dissertation on legal theory?”

      “Oh, no,” Vance blithely assured him. “But I simply must prepare you for the acceptance of my revelation; for I haven’t a scrap of material or circumst’ntial evidence against the guilty man. And yet, Markham, I know he’s guilty as well as I know you’re sitting in that chair planning how you can torture and kill me without being punished.”

      “If you have no evidence, how did you arrive at your conclusion?” Markham’s tone was vindictive.

      “Solely by psychological analysis—by what might be called the science of personal possibilities. A man’s psychological nature is as clear a brand to one who can read it as was Hester Prynne’s scarlet letter.… I never read Hawthorne, by the bye. I can’t abide the New England temp’rament.”

      Markham set his jaw, and gave Vance a look of arctic ferocity.

      “You expect me to go into court, I suppose, leading your victim by the arm, and say to the judge, ‘Here’s the man that shot Alvin Benson. I have no evidence against him, but I want you to sentence him to death because my brilliant and sagacious friend, Mr. Philo Vance, the inventor of stuffed perch, says this man has a wicked nature.’”

      Vance gave an almost imperceptible shrug.

      “I sha’n’t wither away with grief if you don’t even arrest the guilty man. But I thought it no more than humane to tell you who he was, if only to stop you from chivvying all these innocent people.”

      “All right—tell me, and let me get on about my business.”

      I don’t believe there was any longer a question in Markham’s mind that Vance actually knew who had killed Benson. But it was not until considerably later in the morning that he fully understood why Vance had kept him for days upon tenterhooks. When at last he did understand it, he forgave Vance; but at the moment he was angered to the limit of his control.

      “There are one or two things that must be done before I can reveal the gentleman’s name,” Vance told him. “First, let me have a peep at those alibis.”

      Markham took from his pocket a sheaf of typewritten pages and passed them over.

      Vance adjusted his monocle and read through them carefully. Then he stepped out of the room; and I heard him telephoning. When he returned, he reread the reports. One in particular he lingered over, as if weighing its possibilities.

      “There’s a chance, y’ know,” he murmured at length, gazing indecisively into the fireplace.

      He glanced at the report again.

      “I see here,” he said, “that Colonel Ostrander, accompanied by a Bronx alderman named Moriarty, attended the Midnight Follies at the Piccadilly Theatre in Forty-seventh Street on the night of the thirteenth, arriving there a little before twelve and remaining through the performance, which was over about half past two A.M.… Are you acquainted with this particular alderman?”

      Markham’s eyes lifted sharply to the other’s face. “I’ve met Mr. Moriarty. What about him?” I thought I detected a note of suppressed excitement in his voice.

      “Where do Bronx aldermen loll about in the forenoons?” asked Vance.

      “At home, I should say. Or possibly at the Samoset Club.… Sometimes they have business at City Hall.”

      “My word!—such unseemly activity for a politician!… Would you mind ascertaining if Mr. Moriarty is at home or at his club. If it’s not too much bother, I’d like to have a brief word with him.”

      Markham gave Vance a penetrating gaze. Then, without a word, he went to the telephone in the den.

      “Mr. Moriarty was at home, about to leave for City Hall,” he announced on returning. “I asked him to drop by here on his way downtown.”

      “I do hope he doesn’t disappoint us,” sighed Vance. “But it’s worth trying.”

      “Are you composing a charade?” asked Markham; but there was neither humor nor good nature in the question.

      “’Pon my word, old man, I’m not trying to confuse the main issue,” said Vance. “Exert a little of that simple faith with which you are so gen’rously supplied—it’s more desirable than Norman blood, y’ know. I’ll give you the guilty man before the morning’s over. But, d’ ye see, I must make sure that you’ll accept him. These alibis are, I trust, going to prove most prof’table in paving the way for my coup de boutoir.… An alibi, as I recently confided to you, is a tricky and dang’rous thing, and open to grave suspicion. And the absence of an alibi means nothing at all. For instance, I see by these reports that Miss Hoffman has no alibi for the night of the thirteenth. She says she went to a motion picture theater and then home. But no one saw her at any time. She was prob’bly at Benson’s visiting mama until late. Looks suspicious—eh, what? And yet, even if she was there, her only crime that night was filial affection.… On the other hand, there are several alibis here which are, as one says, cast iron—silly metaphor: cast iron’s easily broken—and I happen to know one of ’em is spurious. So be a good fellow and have patience; for it’s most necess’ry that these alibis be minutely inspected.”

      Fifteen minutes later Mr. Moriarty arrived. He was a serious, good-looking, well-dressed youth in his late twenties—not at all my idea of an alderman—and he spoke clear and precise English with almost no trace of the Bronx accent.

      Markham introduced him and briefly explained why he had been requested to call.

      “One of the men from the homicide bureau,” answered Moriarty, “was asking me about the matter only yesterday.”

      “We have the report,” said Vance, “but it’s a bit too general. Will you tell us exactly what you did that night after you met Colonel Ostrander?”

      “The colonel had invited me to dinner and the Follies. I met him at the Marseilles at ten. We had dinner there and went to the Picadilly a little before twelve, where we remained until about two thirty. I walked to the colonel’s apartment with him, had a drink and a chat, and then took the subway home about three thirty.”

      “You told the detective yesterday you sat in a box at the theater.”

      “That’s correct.”

      “Did you and the colonel remain in the box throughout the performance?”

      “No. After the first act a friend of mine came to the box, and the colonel excused himself and went to the washroom. After the second act the colonel and I stepped outside into the alleyway and had a smoke.”

      “What time, would you say, was the first act over?”

      “Twelve thirty or thereabouts.”

      “And where is this alleyway situated?” asked Vance. “As I recall, it runs along the side of the theater to the street.”

      “You’re right.”

      “And isn’t there an exit

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