“Is he the lad you sent to look into Pfyfe’s affaires du cœur?” Vance asked Markham. “For, if he is, I am all a-flutter.”
“He’s the man. . . . Send him in, Swacker.”
Tracy entered smiling silkily, his black note-book in one hand, his pince-nez in the other.
“I had no trouble learning about Pfyfe,” he said. “He’s well known in Port Washington—quite a character, in fact—and it was easy to pick up gossip about him.”
He adjusted his glasses carefully, and referred to his note-book.
“He married a Miss Hawthorn in nineteen-ten. She’s wealthy, but Pfyfe doesn’t benefit much by it, because her father sits on the money-bags⸺”
“Mr. Tracy, I say,” interrupted Vance; “never mind the née-Hawthorn and her doting papa,—Mr. Pfyfe himself has confided in us about his sad marriage. Tell us, if you can, about Mr. Pfyfe’s extra-nuptial affairs. Are there any other ladies?”
Tracy looked inquiringly at the District Attorney: he was uncertain as to Vance’s locus standi. Receiving a nod from Markham, he turned a page in his note-book and proceeded.
“I found one other woman in the case. She lives in New York, and often telephones to a drug store near Pfyfe’s house, and leaves messages for him. He uses the same ’phone to call her by. He had made some deal with the proprietor, of course; but I was able to obtain her ’phone number. As soon as I came back to the city I got her name and address from Information, and made a few inquiries. . . . She’s a Mrs. Paula Banning, a widow, and a little fast, I should say; and she lives in an apartment at 268 West Seventy-fifth Street.”
This exhausted Tracy’s information; and when he went out, Markham smiled broadly at Vance.