We now re-entered the hallway and stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs leading above.
“You can see, Mr. Markham,” Heath pointed out, “that whoever shot Benson must have gotten in by the front door. There’s no other way he could have entered. Living alone, I guess Benson was a little touchy on the subject of burglars. The only window that wasn’t barred was the rear one in the living-room; and that was shut and locked. Anyway, it only leads into the inside court. The front windows of the living-room have that ironwork over them; so they couldn’t have been used even to shoot through, for Benson was shot from the opposite direction. … It’s pretty clear the gunman got in the front door.”
“Looks that way,” said Markham.
“And pardon me for saying so,” remarked Vance, “but Benson let him in.”
“Yes?” retorted Heath unenthusiastically. “Well, we’ll find all that out later, I hope.”
“Oh, doubtless,” Vance drily agreed.
We ascended the stairs, and entered Benson’s bed-room which was directly over the living-room. It was severely but well furnished, and in excellent order. The bed was made, showing it had not been slept in that night; and the window shades were drawn. Benson’s dinner-jacket and white piqué waistcoat were hanging over a chair. A winged collar and a black bow-tie were on the bed, where they had evidently been thrown when Benson had taken them off on returning home. A pair of low evening shoes were standing by the bench at the foot of the bed. In a glass of water on the night-table was a platinum plate of four false teeth; and a toupee of beautiful workmanship was lying on the chiffonier.
This last item aroused Vance’s special interest. He walked up to it and regarded it closely.
“Most int’restin’,” he commented. “Our departed friend seems to have worn false hair; did you know that, Markham?”
“I always suspected it,” was the indifferent answer.
Heath, who had remained standing on the threshold, seemed a little impatient.
“There’s only one other room on this floor,” he said, leading the way down the hall. “It’s also a bed-room—for guests, so the housekeeper explained.”
Markham and I looked in through the door, but Vance remained lounging against the balustrade at the head of the stairs. He was manifestly uninterested in Alvin Benson’s domestic arrangements; and when Markham and Heath and I went up to the third floor, he sauntered down into the main hallway. When at length we descended from our tour of inspection he was casually looking over the titles in Benson’s bookcase.