“Good-morning, Chief,” he greeted Markham in a quiet, ingratiating tone. “I understand the St. Clair woman is to call here this afternoon, and there are a few things I’ve found out that may assist in your questioning.”
He opened a small note-book and adjusted his pince-nez.
“I thought I might learn something from her singing teacher, an Italian formerly connected with the Metropolitan, but now running a sort of choral society of his own. He trains aspiring prima donnas in their rôles with a chorus and settings, and Miss St. Clair is one of his pet students. He talked to me, without any trouble; and it seems he knew Benson well. Benson attended several of St. Clair’s rehearsals, and sometimes called for her in a taxicab. Rinaldo—that’s the man’s name—thinks he had a bad crush on the girl. Last winter, when she sang at the Criterion in a small part, Rinaldo was back stage coaching, and Benson sent her enough hothouse flowers to fill the star’s dressing-room and have some left over. I tried to find out if Benson was playing the ‘angel’ for her, but Rinaldo either didn’t know or pretended he didn’t.” Tracy closed his note-book and looked up. “That any good to you, Chief?”
“First-rate,” Markham told him. “Keep at work along that line, and let me hear from you again about this time Monday.”
Tracy bowed, and as he went out the secretary again appeared at the door.
“Springer’s here now, sir,” he said. “Shall I send him in?”
Springer proved to be a type of detective quite different from either Phelps or Tracy. He was older, and had the gloomy capable air of a hard-working bookkeeper in a bank. There was no initiative in his bearing, but one felt that he could discharge a delicate task with extreme competency.
Markham took from his pocket the envelope on which he had noted the name given him by Major Benson.
“Springer, there’s a man down on Long Island that I want to interview as soon as possible. It’s in connection with the Benson case, and I wish you’d locate him and get him up here as soon as possible. If you can find him in the telephone book you needn’t go down personally. His name is Leander Pfyfe, and he lives, I think, at Port Washington.”
Markham jotted down the name on a card and handed it to the detective.