The Case of the Four Friends Page 12

  Brendel’s answer was unequivocal. ‘I have never been more sure of anything in my life than I was of that – and at that time. I tell you again that in the Moroccan Bar I felt murder at my very elbow – the breath of murder was in the room.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Gresham, ‘that’s all I wanted to ask.’ He closed his eyes again and relapsed into profound thought. Brendel glanced at the other two.

  ‘I’m glad Gresham asked that,’ said the General. ‘You know, I have sometimes convinced myself that I guessed the winner of the Derby before the race, but somehow I’m only conscious that I know after the result has been announced. But, that being settled, I’m ready to begin. Still, it will be necessary for me to put my ideas in order, and I want my brain to be clear, so I think I will help myself to another whisky and soda before I start.’

  He got up and filled his glass from the side-table. Then he filled his pipe with some deliberation and resumed his seat.

  ‘Now I’m ready,’ he said, ‘and I’m pretty confident that I have the right answer, though I’m not all that sure that you’ll appreciate my line of reasoning. Of course the only fear I have is that Prendergast, with his subtle lawyer’s mind, will be so impressed with my allocution that he’ll change his own bet and pretend that he always backed my man. And I do want to win a bet from him. Money got by fair means from a lawyer is precious, you know.’

  Prendergast pulled one of the bridge markers towards him, pulled off a sheet and wrote a name on the back. He folded the sheet and handed it to Brendel.

  ‘My dear General,’ he said, ‘I have the greatest respect for your acumen and still more for your infernal luck, and I think it quite possible, indeed likely, that you have guessed correctly. I’m reasonably sure that I know the right answer myself, and so I’ve written my fancy on the paper and given it to Brendel. If we are both right, of course, all bets are off.’

  ‘Or if you are both wrong,’ added Gresham.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Prendergast, ‘but that is unlikely.’

  ‘Well, what could be fairer than that? Shoot, General, and may your aim be true.’

  The General had been silent for a long time, and he was now prepared to use his opportunity for speech. He did not therefore try to hurry.

  ‘I thought,’ he began, ‘at the beginning of the story that I should not really have very great difficulty in finding the solution. There were, I learned at the start, four suspects, and, provided that Brendel played fair, as I felt sure he would, it seemed safe to assume that anyone who listened carefully should be able to find the criminal, or, if he could not do that at once, at least to eliminate one by one the innocent parties. After all, the crime was to be “pre-constructed” and for the observer to “pre-construct” or “pre-detect”, the indications must, I submit, be fairly clear – for even the most temerarious “pre-detective” would not dare to act on a hunch or a dubious guess. Somehow I didn’t see Brendel going up, say, to his old friend Sandham and saying, “Charles, are you not about to commit a murder? Don’t”.’

  Brendel nodded. ‘And that was almost exactly my difficulty,’ he murmured.

  ‘Very well, then, I thought it would be easy, and I was delighted to think that I should be entitled to speak before and not after Prendergast. But soon I saw that there was a complication – and a serious one. It is not only that we do not know the murderer, but we do not know who will be the victim. I expected, you see, in my youthful innocence, that there would be, for example, a wealthy old gentleman and four potential murderers after his money, and I repeat that I felt supremely confident that I could determine which of them would be guilty. But think how much more difficult it is to decide whether A is more likely to kill B than C to kill D, than to decide whether X or Y is the more likely to kill Z. Yes, if I may say so without offence, I then began to realize the infernal cunning of Dr Ernst Brendel. It’s the uncertainty about the victim which makes it so fiendishly difficult to settle upon the murderer. I began to consider the possible victims, but I soon realized that that would only confuse the issue, so I abandoned that plan. I listened as carefully as I could to the life-histories of the four men, and even more carefully to the description of the conversation in the bar, and I accepted, because his earnestness convinced me – ’ The General stopped and bowed. ‘Forgive me, I intended no vulgar pun – let me say his obvious sincerity and belief convinced me both that murder was contemplated and that the end of the ball gave an almost unbelievably easy opportunity. I therefore considered each of the suspects in turn and came to my conclusion. The answer is Gradon, but I must tell you why I think so. I’ve never had the misfortune to be much mixed up with crime or criminals, but I’ve seen a good deal of human beings and their faults and failings, and I’ve read, as everyone has, not only accounts of trials but also the fiction of crime. Now, it always seems to me that in real life and in literature we tend to be over-subtle – we miss the obvious and overstress the importance of unimportant detail.’ He gave an impish little smile. ‘You see, Brendel, I am the only member of your jury who is not a don, and dons are peculiarly prone to overelaboration or to being what the plain man would call too clever. Now consider your four suspects. All of them, I agree, are of the stuff of which a murderer can be made, but you must never forget this time factor. I’m sorry, that was a short-cut. I mean this fact that the murder would be done that very night. Now, Barrick seemed to me a sort of Hamlet, who would talk and talk and procrastinate as long as he possibly could. Something would turn up, surely, if he waited? So I ruled him out. Then Sandham. I felt that he could indeed be brought to a state in which he might commit murder, and perhaps he was not very far from the precipice; but somehow it seemed to me again that the time factor was all important. Would he not almost certainly make another attempt to come to terms with his old friend the blackmailer? So I ruled him out, too. But the blackmailer himself? For a while I thought he was my man, but I came to see that he wasn’t, and for this reason. I’m trusting, of course, entirely to Brendel’s evidence; but we must all do that. Now, Bannister was relentless, and, if I’ve understood rightly, wholly without scruple. No doubt he would commit a murder if that seemed necessary to him. But Brendel has told us a good deal about him, and he was not wholly bad – what was it? – an amateur of blackmail, I think, and one who was more concerned in giving himself this rather macabre sort of pleasure in power than a man greedy for money. And above anything else he calculated everything and he had a cool head. Now, I said to myself, would he not count the risks, very, very carefully? Murder is ugly and dangerous. Would he not explore every avenue before he took this irrevocable step? After all, he could not know that Cordingly had left any incriminating papers. Surely he was more likely to wait a little in the hope that Gradon, even if he had the energy to pursue his hunt for Cordingly’s blackmailer, would find nothing that could point to Uncle Evelyn. So I gave him the benefit of the doubt, though I admit that I felt uncertain about him. That left me Gradon, and there I felt myself to be on surer ground; for here, you see, comes in my argument about the obvious. Gradon was a murderer, or so I gathered – at least, he had killed two men before and got away with it. I don’t much believe in the talk about natural killers and all that, but I do believe that a man who commits a crime once is more likely to do it again than one who has never committed that sort of crime. Or, at any rate – and this is my bull point – he is much more likely to do it quickly than one like, say, Sandham or Barrick or Bannister. It’s my time factor again, and I base my argument on that. Yes, if the crime was to be committed that night Gradon must have been the man. Now, Brendel, tell me that I’m right? Prendergast, pay up!’

  Prendergast spoke before Brendel could answer the question. Like almost all dons, Prendergast suffered from the affectation of speaking with a slight air of conscious intellectual superiority – in any company he was apt to speak rather de haut en bas, and on this occasion he knew that the General had been trailing his coat for his benefit.

  ‘If
Brendel unfolds that piece of paper,’ he said, ‘he will find written on it the name of the murderer, which is the name – Bannister. I really congratulate you, General, on your argument and the manner in which it was presented. It is only a pity that you did not go quite deep enough. Let me explain to you why you are wrong. I, too, was fully conscious of the difficulty caused by the uncertainty about the victim, and I wholly agree with you in your analysis of this difficulty. I, too, decided that it would be otiose to speculate about the identity of the victim, and I therefore concentrated on discovering what evidence there was about the murderer.’ Prendergast became more didactic and more professional as he proceeded. ‘This is, as anyone with any knowledge can easily perceive, a peculiarly difficult case for a lawyer, because, in a sense, there is, and can be, hardly any evidence. “What the soldier said is not evidence”, and further, the crime has not yet been committed. The law, however, has resources which are not immediately apparent to the generality of persons.’ (‘Meaning me,’ murmured the General.) ‘Now, in this case we have first to consider the conversation in the bar. Let me put it this way. What Brendel told us of the previous lives of these characters is not evidence, but what he told us of the conversation in the bar, when he was present, is. Brendel is the only witness who has been heard, and on his testimony, therefore, and more particularly on the degree of trust which the court reposes in his evidence, the outcome must chiefly depend. Now, what sort of an impression did the witness Brendel make on us?’

  ‘I thought he was a damned fair witness,’ said the General.

  ‘I agree,’ Prendergast went on. ‘With perhaps a greater knowledge of witnesses than yours, I came to precisely the same conclusion, and on the assumption that Brendel was a studiously fair and unbiased witness I base my argument.’ He paused and lit a cigarette. ‘Like you, General, I was half inclined to rule out both Sandham and Barrick, but I felt no certainty about this, for it was clear from the conversation in the bar that our witness Brendel thought that he recognized evil intentions in each of the four friends – that, at least, is the impression which he gave us.’ Brendel nodded assent. ‘Very well, then, that being so I had next to consider the accounts given by Brendel of the four, bearing in mind that these accounts were not evidence, but that the manner in which Brendel described them could be. For Brendel knew what had happened, and that knowledge might well colour the description which he gave of each man. He would not wish to deceive us, but he would wish not to give an impression of, say, the actual murderer which was clouded over by his knowledge of that man’s guilt. And here I came to a very clear and positive conclusion. He sketched the character of all four, but the really noticeable point was the care and skill with which he both described and up to a point tried to excuse the blackmailer. I will not go into any detail about my argument, but will put it forward in a few words. Bannister is a blackmailer, and we should therefore naturally be prejudiced against him; Brendel is a fair-minded man and wishes to give an equal chance to all – he is determined that just because Bannister is a blackmailer he shall not therefore be condemned on all other counts. If he had not described Bannister in the way he has, all of you would have said, “Of course Bannister is the criminal”. For my part, I refuse to be hoodwinked; the more Brendel finds excuses for Bannister, the more convinced I am that he is my man. Well, Brendel elaborates his argument and convinces the General that Bannister is not really such a bad chap. Now, I think he was a thoroughly bad chap, and I don’t think I’ve been deceived, but the essence of what I am saying is this. I’ve made up my mind about the murderer solely on the evidence given by Brendel, and I’m convinced that his sense of fair play has made him write up Bannister, in comparison with the others. There are other reasons why I had to eliminate the other three, but I’ve said enough. Bannister is the man for my money. Am I right?’

  ‘Let’s hear what Gresham has to say first,’ said the General. ‘I remember that he would not bet, but it would be interesting to know which he would have backed. Come on, Gresham – am I right, or is Prendergast, or are we both wrong?’

  Gresham began in his precise and rather high-pitched voice. ‘I have never committed a murder,’ he began, and was stopped by the laughter of the rest.

  ‘That remark could only be made in that tone of voice by a don or a judge of the High Court,’ commented the General; but Gresham was undeterred.

  ‘I have never committed a murder,’ he repeated, ‘but I have given a good deal of thought and study to the subject – indeed, in these days it would be difficult not to do so. And perhaps I ought to confess that murder has a sort of fascination for me. I fear that is true of a good many men of my type. But I’m interested for a special reason and in a special way. The mechanics of crime, and still more the mechanics of deduction, have no sort of interest for me at all, any more than the sordid details of the actual act of murder. No, no, what fascinates me is the psychological side – the character of the murderer. When the papers are full of a murder trial, I don’t speculate about the guilt or innocence of the accused – for, indeed, in many cases that is evident – but I do think and ponder over the character of the criminal, and I do, I admit, spend many hours in trying analyse his motives and to explain to myself how he brought himself to commit the crime. The accounts of famous trials of the past, the newspaper reports of trials of the present time – they are the things that fascinate me – not crime fiction and not the ingenuity of detection.’

  Prendergast smiled. ‘I begin to understand why you take in so many Sunday papers,’ he said.

  Gresham nodded. ‘Yes, I admit my weakness, but I cannot agree that it is more culpable than that of constantly reading crime, fiction. For the study of character always repays itself. Have you not noticed that every good tutor is more interested in the characters of his pupils than he is in their performances? He delights to talk about their chances in examinations, and to explain their success or failure by reference to their moral qualities. But I mustn’t digress. I was in the process of telling you that I am, in my own way, if not an expert at least an amateur, perhaps even a connoisseur, of murder.’

  Gresham’s mild eyes twinkled, and he enjoyed seeing that he had surprised his listeners.

  ‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘I have studied the psychology of murder a great deal, and it is for that reason that this case which Brendel has put before us is, in the jargon of the day, “right up my street”. (There’s a good English phrase for you, Brendel!) For the case, as it seems to me, turns entirely upon the characters of the four suspects. There are no tiresome clues and no provoking side-issues. I feel indeed exactly as though I was sitting at a tutors’ meeting and discussing the relative merits, or demerits, of four scholars, and trying to determine which of them was most likely to be awarded a First Class by the examiners.’ Once again he beamed on the rest of them at the table.

  ‘After these brief introductory remarks,’ said Prendergast dryly, ‘you will doubtless tell us whether the General is correct in his guess, or whether he is wrong and I am right.’

  ‘But of course you are both wrong,’ said Gresham, as though any other answer was unthinkable.

  ‘With the greatest respect,’ said the General, ‘I should beg you, my dear Gresham, to be a little more explicit. No doubt you have good reason for your judgement; but I should like to know how you arrive at it, and who, in your view, was the murderer.’

  ‘Certainly. In all the murders which I have studied, or rather in all the interesting murders that I have studied, one quality in the murderer seems to me to appear again and again – indeed, almost invariably. It’s the histrionic quality Every time the murderer appears to dramatize himself – and when he does so he takes the centre of the stage. Brendel knows more of all this than I do, but I feel confident that he will agree with me that this histrionic quality is of the stuff of all great murderers, and that even in the case of lesser practitioners it is often present too. Are not these callow youths that we read about as committing crimes of violence
egged on by the wish to play, for a brief moment, the leading part? Don’t murderers of a higher standard see themselves as the avengers of wrong or as the instruments of fate? Are they not, in fact, actors? That, at any rate, is my view, and I considered our four suspects in the light of it. Now, it is clear that each of them was capable of murder, but in different degrees. I was impressed by the General’s sound common-sense when he said that we were too prone to ignore the obvious and indulge in over-subtle ratiocination. That’s a fault of all arm-chair critics. But, none the less, I rule Gradon out. It’s true that he was an actor of a sort, but only a film actor, the wild villain of an extravagant American film – not, I think, an actor in the leading part of a planned murder. Bannister, too, I rejected, though I admit the force of Prendergast’s analysis of Brendel’s account of him. I reject him because he seems to me essentially a calculator and not an actor. I wonder if I am making my meaning clear? I reason much as the General did. Was not the stake too high for him, the risk too great for a dubious gain? But now consider the other two – Barrick and Sandham. There, I said to myself, are the men who fit into my picture of the murderer, for both have just that histrionic quality which I look for. It stood out as clearly as could be when Brendel described them, even to the point that both were fond of amateur theatricals. Consider Barrick – why, the man lives in a world of make-believe! He persuades himself that some dramatic moment will swing his whole career. He imagines the scene when he will suddenly reveal the whole business of his defalcations to Sandham, and when the latter’s heart will collapse under the strain. And how great the stake is for Barrick – how great the stake and how small, in his eyes, the risk! And then Sandham – an actor through and through – the outraged and betrayed friend, the suffering husband and father, who will rather commit a great crime than let Bannister live to break and destroy the lives of other victims. A great tragic part, and he will play it. Yes, I’m as sure as I can be that Barrick or Sandham was the murderer. Besides, there’s another point of the greatest importance. You said, General, that dons tended to be too clever, and that may well be true, but are you not yourself in danger of oversimplification? No, that’s not exactly what I mean. It’s rather, I think, that you have a preconceived idea of what a murderer is like, and then pitch on the suspect who most nearly resembles your murderer type. And my esteemed colleague, Prendergast, falls into the same error. You think of Gradon as a reckless, violent killer who may be expected to commit a murder, or, perhaps I should say, to commit another murder. Prendergast thinks of Bannister as ruthless, relentless, and inflexible in his purpose. The point is that both of them, in their way, are strong men. Yet to my mind the majority of murderers are not strong men – on the contrary, they’re weak men. Men who get dragged along towards the final crime because they are weak, and who have not the power to call a halt. In nine cases out of ten it’s the weak man and not the strong man who, almost without knowing it, slides down the path which leads him into crime, and then, because he loses his head or his nerve, seeks the abrupt way out of his difficulties. Now, Sandham and Barrick were both weak men, in contrast with the other two. Aren’t all, or nearly all, actors weak characters? I think they are, for their art is essentially imitation, and they divest themselves of their own personalities in order to assume first one part and then another. Oh dear, I’m theorizing much too much, but still I repeat that I’m sure, as sure as I can be, that it was one of the weak men who was the murderer and not one. of the strong. Yes, Barrick or Sandham was the murderer.’