The Poisoned Chocolates Case rs-5

by Anthony Berkeley

  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 hundred 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

  1. Must have at least an elementary amount of chemical knowledge.

  2. Must have at least an elementary knowledge of criminology.

  3. Must have had a reasonably good education, but not public school or university.

  4. Must have possession of, or access to, Mason's notepaper.

  5. Must have possession of, or access to, a Hamilton No. 4 typewriter.

  6. Must have been in the neighbourhood of Southampton Street, Strand, during the critical hour, 8.30 - 9.30, on the evening before the murder.

  7. Must be in possession of, or had access to, an Onyx fountain - pen, fitted with a medium - broad nib.

  8. Must be in possession of, or had access to, Harfield's Fountain - Pen Ink.

  9. Must have something of a creative mind, but not above adapting the creations of others.

  10. Must be more than ordinarily neat with the fingers.

  11. Must be a person of methodical habits, probably with a strong feeling for symmetry.

  12. 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 c
riminologist. 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.

  "So much for proof. I built that whole case up against myself out of the one coincidence of my sister having a few sheets of Mason's notepaper. I told you nothing but the truth. But I didn't tell you the whole truth. Artistic proof is, like artistic anything else, simply a matter of selection. If you know what to put in and what to leave out you can prove anything you like, quite conclusively. I do it in every book I write, and no reviewer has ever hauled me over the coals for slipshod argument yet. But then," said Mr. Bradley modestly, "I don't suppose any reviewer has ever read one of my books."

  "Well, it was a very ingenious piece of work," Miss Dammers summed up. "And most instructive."

  "Thank you," murmured Mr. Bradley, with gratitude.

  "And what it all amounts to," Mrs. Fielder - Flemming delivered a somewhat tart verdict, "is that you haven't the faintest idea who is the real criminal."

  "Oh, I know that, of course." said Mr. Bradley languidly. "But I can't prove it. So it's not much good telling you."

  Everybody sat up.

  "You've found some one else, in spite of the odds, to fit those conditions of yours?" demanded Sir Charles.

  "I suppose she must," admitted Mr. Bradley, "as she did it. But unfortunately I haven't been able to check them all."

  "She!" Mr. Chitterwick caught him up.

  "Oh, yes, it was a woman. That was the most obvious thing about the whole case - and incidentally one of the things I was careful to leave out just now. Really, I wonder that's never been mentioned before.

  Surely if there's anything evident about this affair at all it is that it's a woman's crime. It would never occur to a man to send poisoned chocolates to another man. He'd send a poisoned sample razor - blade, or whisky, or beer like the unfortunate Dr. Wilson's friend. Quite obviously it's a woman's crime."

  "I wonder," Roger said softly.

  Mr. Bradley threw him a sharp glance. "You don't agree, Sheringham?"

  "I only wondered," said Roger. "But it's a very defendable point."

  "Impregnable, I should have said," drawled Mr. Bradley.

  "Well," said Miss Dammers, impatient of these minor matters, "aren't you going to tell us who did it, Mr. Bradley?"

  Mr. Bradley looked at her quizzically. "But I said that it wasn't any good, as I can't prove it. Besides, there's a small matter of the lady's honour involved."

  "Are you resuscitating the law of slander, to get you out of a difficulty?"

  "Oh, dear me, no. I wouldn't in the least mind giving her away as a murderess. It's a much more important thing than that. She happens to have been Sir Eustace's mistress at one time, you see, and there's a code governing that sort of thing."

  "Ah!" said Mr. Chitterwick.

  Mr. Bradley turned to him politely. "You were going to say something?"

  "No, no. I was just wondering whether you'd been thinking on the same lines as I have. That's all."

  "You mean the discarded mistress theory?"

  "Well," said Mr. Chitterwick uncomfortably, "yes."

  "Of course. You'd hit on that line of research, too?" Mr. Bradley's tone was that of a benevolent headmaster patting a promising pupil on the head. "It's the right one, obviously. Vi
ewing the crime as a whole, and in the light of Sir Eustace's character, a discarded mistress, radiating jealousy, stands out like a beacon in the middle of it. That's one of the things I conveniently omitted too from my list of conditions - No. 13, the criminal must be a woman. And touching on artistic proof again, both Sir Charles and Mrs. Fielder - Flemming practised it, didn't they? Both of them omitted to establish any connection of nitrobenzene with their respective criminals, though such a connection is vital to both their cases."

  "Then you really think jealousy is the motive? " Mr. Chitterwick suggested.

  "I'm absolutely convinced of it," Mr. Bradley assured him. "But I'll tell you something else of which I'm not by any means convinced, and that is that the intended victim really was Sir Eustace Pennefather."

  "Not the intended victim?" queried Roger, very uneasily. "How do you make that out?"

  "Why, I've discovered," said Mr. Bradley, dissembling his pride, "that Sir Eustace had had an engagement for lunch on the day of the murder. He seems to have been very secretive about it, and it was certainly with a woman; and not only with a woman, but with a woman in whom Sir Eustace was more than a little interested. I think probably not Miss Wildman, but somebody of whom he was anxious that Miss Wildman shouldn't know. But in my opinion the woman who sent the chocolates knew. The appointment was cancelled, but the other woman might not have known that.

  "My suggestion (it's only a suggestion, and I can't substantiate it in any way at all except that it makes chocolates still more reasonable) is that those chocolates were intended not for Sir Eustace at all but for the sender's rival."

  "Ah!" breathed Mrs. Fielder - Flemming. "This is quite a new idea," complained Sir Charles.

  Roger had been hastily conning over the names of Sir Eustace's various ladies. He had been unable to fit one before into the crime, and he was unable now; yet he did not think that any had escaped him. "If the woman you're thinking of, Bradley, the sender," he said tentatively, "really was a mistress of Sir Eustace, I don't think you need worry about being too punctilious. Her name is almost certainly on the lips of the whole Rainbow Club in that connection, if not of every club in London. Sir Eustace is not a reticent man."