“The case with which we’re dealing has this peculiarity, that one can’t place it quite definitely in either category. The police say that it’s an open murder; both our previous speakers here seem to regard it as a closed one.
“It’s a question of the motive. If one agrees with the police that it is the work of some fanatic or criminal lunatic, then it certainly is an open murder; anybody without an alibi in London that night might have posted the parcel. If one’s of the opinion that the motive was a personal one, connected with Sir Eustace himself, then the murderer is confined to the closed circle of people who have had relations of one sort or another with Sir Eustace.
“And talking of posting that parcel, I must just make a diversion to tell you something really interesting. For all I know to the contrary, I might have seen the murderer with my own eyes, in the very act of posting it! As it happened, I was passing through Southampton Street that evening at just about a quarter to nine. Little did I guess, as Mr. Edgar Wallace would say, that the first act of this tragic drama was possibly being unfolded at that very minute under my unsuspecting nose. Not even a premonition of disaster caused me to falter in my stride. Providence was evidently being somewhat close with premonitions that night. But if only my sluggish instincts had warned me, how much trouble I might have saved us all. Alas,” said Mr. Bradley sadly, “such is life.
“However, that’s neither here nor there. We were discussing closed and open murders.
“I was determined to form no definite opinions either way, so to be on the safe side I treated this as an open murder. I then had the position that every one in the whole wide world was under suspicion. To narrow down the field a little, I set to work to build up the one individual who really did it, out of the very meagre indications he or she had given us.
“I had the conclusions drawn already from the choice of nitrobenzene, which I’ve explained to you. But as a corollary to the good education, I added the very significant postscript: but not public-school or university. Don’t you agree, Sir Charles? It simply wouldn’t be done.”
“Public-school men have been known to commit murders before now,” pointed out Sir Charles, somewhat at sea.
“Oh, granted. But not in such an underhand way as this. The public-school code does stand for something, surely, even in murder. So, I am sure, any public-school man would tell me. This isn’t a gentlemanly murder at all. A public-school man, if he could ever bring himself to anything so unconventional as murder, would use an axe or a revolver or something which would bring him and his victim face to face. He would never murder a man behind his back, so to speak. I’m quite sure of that.
“Then another obvious conclusion is that he’s exceptionally neat with his fingers. To unwrap those chocolates, drain them, re-fill them, plug up the holes with melted chocolate, and wrap them up in their silver paper again to look as if they’ve never been tampered with—I can tell you, that’s no easy job. And all in gloves too, remember.
“I thought at first that the beautiful way it was done pointed strongly to a woman. However, I carried out an experiment and got a dozen or so of my friends to try their hands at it, men and women, and out of the whole lot I was the only one (I say it without any particular pride) who made a really good job of it. So it wasn’t necessarily a woman. But manual dexterity’s a good point to establish.
“Then there was the matter of the exact six-minim dose in each chocolate. That’s very illuminating, I think. It argues a methodical turn of mind amounting to a real passion for symmetry. There are such people. They can’t bear that the pictures on a wall don’t balance each other exactly. I know, because I’m rather that way myself. Symmetry is synonymous with order, to my mind. I can quite see how the murderer came to fill the chocolates in that way. I should probably have done so myself. Unconsciously.
“Then I think we can credit him or her with a creative mind. A crime like this isn’t done on the spur of the moment. It’s deliberately created, bit by bit, scene by scene, built up exactly as a play is built up. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Fielder-Flemming?”
“It wouldn’t have occurred to me, but it may be true.”
“Oh, yes; a lot of thought must have gone to the carrying of it through. I don’t think we need worry about the plagiarism from other crimes. The greatest creative minds aren’t above adapting the ideas of other people to their own uses. I do myself. So do you, I expect, Sheringham; so do you, no doubt, Miss Dammers; so do you at times, I should imagine, Mrs. Fielder-Flemming. Be honest now, all of you.”
A subdued murmur of honesty acknowledged occasional lapses in this direction.
“Of course. Look how Sullivan used to adapt old church music, and turn a Gregorian chant into A Pair of Sparkling Eyes, or something equally unchantlike. It’s permissible. Well, there’s all that to help with the portrait of our unknown and, lastly, there must be present in his or her mental make-up the particular cold, relentless inhumanity of the poisoner. That’s all, I think. But it’s something, isn’t it? One ought to be able to go a fair way towards recognising our criminal if one ever ran across a person with these varied characteristics.
“Oh, and there’s one other point I mustn’t forget. The parallel crime. I’m surprised nobody’s mentioned this. To my mind it’s a closer parallel than any we’ve had yet. It isn’t a well-known case, but you’ve all probably heard of it. The murder of Dr. Wilson, at Philadelphia, just twenty years ago.
“I’ll run through it briefly. This man Wilson received one morning what purported to be a sample bottle of ale, sent to him by a well-known brewery. There was a letter with it, written apparently on their official notepaper, and the address-label had the firm’s name printed on it. Wilson drank the beer at lunch, and died immediately. The stuff was saturated with cyanide of potassium.
“It was soon established that the beer hadn’t come from the brewery at all, which had sent out no samples. It had been delivered through the local express company, but all they could say was that it had been sent to them for delivery by a man. The printed label and the letter-paper had been forged, printed specially for the occasion.
“The mystery was never solved. The printing-press used to print the letter-heading and label couldn’t be traced, though the police visited every printing-works in the whole of America. The very motive for the murder was never even satisfactorily ascertained. A typical open murder. The bottle arrived out of the blue, and the murderer remained in it.
“You see the close resemblance to this case, particularly in the supposed sample. As Mrs. Fielder-Flemming has pointed out, it’s almost too good to be a coincidence. Our murderer must have had that case in mind, with its (for the murderer) most successful outcome. As a matter of fact there was a possible motive. Wilson was a notorious abortionist, and somebody may have wanted to stop his activities. Conscience, I suppose. There are people who have such a thing. That’s another parallel with this affair, you see. Sir Eustace is a notorious evil-liver. And that goes to support the police view, of an anonymous fanatic. There’s a good deal to be said for that view, I think.
“But I must get on with my own exposition.
“Well, having reached this stage I tabulated my conclusions and drew up a list of conditions which this criminal of ours must fulfil. Now I should like to point out that these conditions of mine were so many and so varied that if anybody could be found to fit them the chances, Sir Charles, would not be a mere million to one but several million to one that he or she must be the guilty person. This isn’t just haphazard statement, it’s cold mathematical fact.
“I have twelve conditions, and the mathematical odds against their all being fulfilled in one person are actually (if my arithmetic stands the test) four hundred and seventy nine million, one thousand and six hundred to one. And that, mark you, is if all the chances were even ones. But they’re not. That he should have some knowledge of criminology is at least a ten to one chance. That he should be able to get hold of Mason’s notepaper must be more than a hun
dred to one against.
“Well, taking it all in all,” opined Mr. Bradley, “I should think the real odds must be somewhere about four billion, seven hundred and ninety thousand million, five hundred and sixteen thousand, four hundred and fifty-eight to one. In other words, it’s a snip. Does every one agree?”
Every one was far too stunned to disagree.
“Right; then we’re all of one mind,” said Mr. Bradley cheerfully. “So I’ll read you my list.”
He shuffled the pages of a little pocket-book and began to read:—
CONDITIONS TO BE FILLED
BY THE CRIMINAL
Must have at least an elementary amount of chemical knowledge.
Must have at least an elementary knowledge of criminology.
Must have had a reasonably good education, but not public school or university.
Must have possession of, or access to, Mason’s notepaper.
Must have possession of, or access to, a Hamilton No. 4 typewriter.
Must have been in the neighbourhood of Southampton Street, Strand, during the critical hour, 8.30—9.30, on the evening before the murder.
Must be in possession of, or had access to, an Onyx fountain-pen, fitted with a medium-broad nib.
Must be in possession of, or had access to, Harfield’s Fountain-Pen Ink.
Must have something of a creative mind, but not above adapting the creations of others.
Must be more than ordinarily neat with the fingers.
Must be a person of methodical habits, probably with a strong feeling for symmetry.
Must have the cold inhumanity of the poisoner.
“By the way,” said Mr. Bradley, stowing away his pocket-book again, “you see that I’ve agreed with you too, Sir Charles, that the murderer would never have entrusted the posting of the parcel to another person. Oh, and one other point. For purposes of reference. If anybody wants to see an Onyx pen, and fitted with a medium-broad nib as well, take a look at mine. And curiously enough it’s filled with Harfield’s Fountain-Pen Ink too.” The pen circulated slowly round the table while Mr. Bradley, leaning back in his chair, surveyed its progress with a fatherly smile.
“And that,” said Mr. Bradley, when the pen had been restored to him, “is that.”
Roger thought he saw the explanation of the glint that had appeared from time to time in Mr. Bradley’s eye. “You mean, the problem’s still to solve. The four billion chances were too much for you. You couldn’t find any one to fit your own conditions?”
“Well,” said Mr. Bradley, apparently most reluctant all of a sudden, “if you must know, I have found some one who does.”
“You have? Good man! Who?”
“Hang it all, you know,” said the coy Mr. Bradley, “I hardly like to tell you. It’s really too ridiculous.”
A chorus of expostulation, cajolement, and encouragement was immediately directed at him. Never had Mr. Bradley found himself so popular.
“You’ll laugh at me if I do tell you.”
It appeared that everybody would rather suffer the tortures of the Inquisition than laugh at Mr. Bradley. Never can five people less disposed to mirth at Mr. Bradley’s expense have been gathered together.
Mr. Bradley seemed to take heart. “Well, it’s very awkward. Upon my soul I don’t know what to do about it. If I can show you that the person I have in mind not only fulfils each of my conditions exactly, but also had a certain interest (remote I admit, but capable of proof) in sending those chocolates to Sir Eustace, have I your assurance, Mr. President, that the meeting will give me its serious advice as to what my duty is in the matter?”
“Good gracious, yes,” at once agreed Roger, much excited. Roger had thought that he might be on the verge of solving the problem himself, but he was quite sure that he and Bradley had not hit upon the same solution. And if the fellow really had got some one … “Good Lord, yes!” said Roger.
Mr. Bradley looked round the table in a worried way. “Well, can’t you see who I mean? Dear me, I thought I’d told you in almost every other sentence.”
Nobody had seen whom he meant.
“The only possible person, so far as I can see, who could ever be expected to fulfil all those twelve conditions?” said this harassed version of Mr. Bradley, dishevelling his carefully flattened hair. “Why, dash it, not my sister at all, but—but—but me, of course!”
There was a stupefied silence.
“D-did you say, you?” finally ventured Mr. Chitterwick.
Mr. Bradley turned gloomy eyes on him. “Obviously, I’m afraid. I have more than an elementary knowledge of chemistry. I can make nitrobenzene and often have. I’m a criminologist. I’ve had a reasonably good education, but not public-school or University. I had access to Mason’s notepaper. I possess a Hamilton No. 4 typewriter. I was in Southampton Street itself during the critical hour. I possess an Onyx pen, fitted with a medium-broad nib and filled with Harfield’s ink. I have something of a creative mind, but I’m not above adapting the ideas of other people. I’m far more than ordinarily neat with my fingers. I’m a person of methodical habits, with a strong feeling for symmetry. And apparently I have the cold inhumanity of the poisoner.
“Yes,” sighed Mr. Bradley, “there’s simply no getting away from it. I sent those chocolates to Sir Eustace.
“I must have done. I’ve proved it conclusively. And the extraordinary thing is that I don’t remember a single jot about it. I suppose I did it when I was thinking about something else. I’ve noticed I’m getting a little absent-minded at times.”
Roger was struggling with an inordinate wish to laugh. However he managed to ask gravely enough; “And what do you imagine was your motive, Bradley?”
Mr. Bradley brightened a little. “Yes, that was a difficulty. For quite a time I couldn’t establish my motive at all. I couldn’t even connect myself with Sir Eustace Pennefather. I’d heard of him of course, as anybody who’s ever been to the Rainbow must. And I’d gathered he was somewhat savoury. But I’d no grudge against the man. He could be as savoury as he liked so far as I cared. I don’t think I’d ever even seen him. Yes, the motive was a real stumbling-block, because of course there must be one. What should I have tried to kill him for otherwise?”
“And you’ve found it?”
“I think I’ve managed to ferret out what must be the real cause,” said Mr. Bradley, not without pride. “After puzzling for a long time I remembered that I had heard myself once say to a friend, in a discussion on detective-work, that the ambition of my life was to commit a murder, because I was perfectly certain that I could do so without ever being found out. And the excitement, I pointed out, must be stupendous; no gambling game ever invented can come anywhere near it. A murderer is really making a magnificent bet with the police, I demonstrated, with the lives of himself and his victim as the stakes; if he gets away with it, he wins both; if he’s caught, he loses both. For a man like myself, who has the misfortune to be extremely bored by the usual type of popular recreation, murder should be the hobby par excellence.”
“Ah!” Roger nodded portentously.
“This conversation, when I recalled it,” pursued Mr. Bradley very seriously, “seemed to me significant in the extreme. I at once went to see my friend and asked him if he remembered it and was prepared to swear that it took place at all. He was. In fact he was able to add further details, more damning still. I was so impressed that I took a statement from him.
“Amplifying my notion (according to his statement), I had gone on to consider how it could best be carried out. The obvious thing, I had decided, was to select some figure of whom the world would be well rid, not necessarily a politician (I was at some pains to avoid the obvious, apparently), and simply murder him at a distance. To play the game, one should leave a clue or two, more or less obscure. Apparently I left rather more than I intended.
“My friend concluded by saying that I went away from him that evening expressing the firmest intention of carrying out my first murder at the
earliest opportunity. Not only would the practice make such an admirable hobby, I told him, but the experience would be invaluable to a writer of detective-stories such as myself.
“That, I think,” said Mr. Bradley with dignity, “establishes my motive only too certainly.”
“Murder for experiment,” remarked Roger. “A new category. Most interesting.”
“Murder for jaded pleasure-seekers,” Mr. Bradley corrected him. “There is a precedent, you know. Loeb and Leopold. Well, there you have it. Have I proved my case, Mr. President?”
“Completely, so far as I can see. I can’t detect a flaw in your argument.”
“I’ve been at some pains to make it a good deal more water-tight than I ever bother to do in my books. You could argue a very nasty case against me in court on those lines, couldn’t you, Sir Charles?”
“Well, I should want to go into it a little more closely, but at first sight, Bradley, I admit that so far as circumstantial evidence is worth (and in my opinion, as you know, it is worth everything), I can’t see room for very much doubt that you sent those chocolates to Sir Eustace.”
“And if I said here and now that in sober truth I did send them?” persisted Mr. Bradley.
“I couldn’t disbelieve you.”
“And yet I didn’t. But given time, I’m quite prepared to prove to you just as convincingly that the person who really sent them was the Archbishop of Canterbury, or Sybil Thorndike, or Mrs. Robinson-Smythe of The Laurels, Acacia Road, Upper Tooting, or the President of the United States, or anybody else in this world you like to name.
The Poisoned Chocolates Case Page 12
