The Case of the Four Friends Read online

  ‘That’s a very fanciful theory,’ Prendergast objected, ‘and really, Gresham, you’ve not played fair. In a field of four you can’t be allowed to back two horses. You’ll have to tell us whether it was Barrick or Sandham.’

  Gresham’s previous confidence deserted him, and he relapsed into his more usual manner of hesitancy. ‘It’s just that point which I cannot decide,’ he declared. ‘On the one hand, Barrick was the younger and more vigorous man, and I think that the motive for action in his case was stronger. On the other hand, I have often observed that older people are more relentless and more callous than their juniors. Didn’t Thiers, the little elderly black-coated civilian, act much more ruthlessly in 1871 than the younger military folk? Besides, Sandham, I fancy, had argued himself into a state of mind when he was likely to break and plunge over the precipice. I really don’t know – Barrick or Sandham? Either could have done it.’

  ‘But you must make a choice.’

  ‘Very well, then,’ said Gresham, suddenly making up his mind. ‘Then I must opt for Barrick. Yes, I think he was the man. He had less fundamental decency than Sandham, and he was more capable of deceiving himself about his own turpitude.’

  ‘And now, Brendel,’ said the General, ‘you must tell us. I think that you are now going to explain to us how you played your Blackwood game in the hotel that night, how you went through the four in turn, how you pre-constructed the whole crime; and finally how you pre-detected the murderer. You need not delay any longer to give us the answer. For the sake of symmetry I rather hope that we are all three wrong and that Sandham was the culprit, but I can’t for the life of me see how you are going to get to that conclusion.’

  Whilst the others had been speaking Brendel had lighted another cigar, and he now removed the ash with deliberate care.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘even now I can’t tell you the answer, but I will tell you what I did that evening. But I fear that I have led you to think that I claim too much for my theory of pre-construction. If you know enough about the persons concerned you can do a great deal, but much must be doubtful and – alas! – you may, after all, be wrong. A detective, however careful and however intelligent, is not always right in his deductions and the “pre-detective” is not always successful either. He has to do his best and (and this is important) like the detective he has to be ready to modify and amend his tentative conclusions as he gains more knowledge and more information. The murderer who is finally condemned is not always the man who, early in the inquiry, appeared to be under the most suspicion. But perhaps that’s all obvious, and I must tell you what happened and how I dealt with my problem. First, you are quite right in thinking that I played my Blackwood game in an attempt to clear my mind.’ As he spoke, he picked the four aces out of one of the packs on the Common Room table and laid them in a row.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I laid the aces out in my bedroom at the Magnifico that evening as I was dressing and I looked at them and thought of them and tried to use them. Let me see, we made the ace of spades opportunity, and we agreed that the opportunity – the end of the fancy-dress ball – was heavensent, or perhaps I should say hell-sent. What I had to do was to decide which, if any, of the suspects held the other three aces in his hand. And the other three aces were – if you recollect – the ace of hearts, which was motive; the ace of diamonds, which was human qualities; and finally the ace of clubs, which I called “pattern”. You remember? Yes, very well, then, I tried this out with each of the four in turn, and I decided, as you know, that I would call my slam if I found all the three missing aces in one hand.’

  He paused a moment, and then continued rather more slowly. ‘I was, if I may say so without seeming to be presumptuous or condescending, very much impressed by the reasons which all three of you gave for your choice, and indeed very much the same thoughts and deductions passed through my own mind that evening. But you must not think that “pre-construction”, as we called it, is magic – in that half-hour before dinner I got a little further, but only a little further, in my search for truth and certainty. Well, let me begin and describe to you what I worked out as I gazed at these aces and played my rather ridiculous little game. Let me start with Gradon, because the General mentioned him first. Did he hold the act of hearts – i.e. motive? Yes, I think he did. He was insanely jealous of Barrick, and though that would not have been sufficient motive in the case of most men, I thought that it might be in his case, for he was wholly without restraint. The ace of diamonds of course he held, for he had audacity and reckless disregard of consequence. But what about the ace of clubs? Did a planned murder fit at all into the pattern of his behaviour? Quite certainly the answer must be “No”! He held two aces, but not three. I did not for that reason wholly rule him out. If by a strange mischance he should run into Tony Barrick just at the moment of opportunity he might well strike, and he might strike with more deadly result than he intended. Indeed, I should not have been surprised if he had assaulted Toby at any time in the evening; what I could not think was that he would plan murder even five or six hours in advance – it just didn’t fit into his pattern. So I put him low on the list of suspects, but with the proviso that he might be the criminal (for had I not seen his face dark with sheer animal rage?) and that if he was the method would be one of unprovoked and physical assault.

  ‘Then I considered Bannister, and there I took a little step further forward in my “pre-construction”. The ace of diamonds of course he held; he had that cold, calculating courage which a murderer would need; and I know of no one who would be better equipped to commit murder successfully if he decided to take the risk. And further it fitted, after his war experiences, exactly into his pattern. In other words, he held the ace of clubs. It was here that I went a little further. If Bannister did murder he would, I felt sure, use poison. If you have followed what I said about his career in the war and about his character and what I called his “pattern”, it will not be necessary for me to explain my reasons for that assumption. Yes, poison, and not a revolver or a knife, would be his weapon. But did he hold the ace of hearts? Or, in other words, had he a strong enough motive?’

  Brendel glanced almost apologetically at Prendergast. ‘You know, Prendergast,’ he said, ‘I really agreed with most of what you said about Bannister, but in fact when I described him to you I was not only fair but over-fair. I told you that most of his victims had come to him through the introduction of his nephew – of Piers Gradon – and that it was the fear of the discovery of that fact by Gradon which terrified him. But I must confess to you that I did not know that fact at that time. I think I ought to have guessed it, but in fact I did not. I did guess that he was blackmailing Sandham, and I did guess that he had other victims, but I did not find the decisive clue, because I did not realize, or even surmise, that his clientele was built up out of friends or acquaintances of Gradon’s. In fact, I slipped up, and that was a bad blunder.’

  Prendergast smiled a little superciliously. It seemed clear that his answer would turn out to be the correct one.

  ‘Yes, it was a blunder,’ Brendel continued, ‘even if an excusable one. Without that clue I could not feel that Bannister had sufficient motive to risk murder – in my view the ace of hearts was certainly not in his hand. He, too, had two of the three aces only, and again I could not call my slam. Then I thought of Barrick and of Sandham – and here let me say, Gresham, how strongly my experience confirms your views about the histrionic quality in the murderer. It was about Barrick that I was most in doubt, and for a rather different reason. It was not, in his case, that I felt sure that he had two aces and lacked the third, but that I thought that he might have all three, yet I was not quite sure in any single case. I knew that he was in real trouble, and I felt convinced, both from the information that Mary had given me and from his behaviour in the bar, that he had embezzled the firm’s money; but I wasn’t quite sure that the motive was strong enough for murder. He probably held the ace of hearts, but there was a doubt. And the ace of diam
onds? Yes, I think yes, but again a very slight doubt obtruded itself. Was he, in the last analysis quite tough enough? And finally the ace of clubs. Did murder fit into his pattern? I thought a long time about that, and the result was the same as in the other two cases. I did not believe that a planned murder was in keeping with his character, but I did believe that his histrionic quality might well bring him into such a situation that, if a weapon was at his hand, he might use it on a sudden impulse. If the dagger was indeed before him he might, so to speak, surrender to fate and use it. Or if he had a revolver he might shoot almost before he realized what he was doing. So, once again, I could not call my slam, but I did put Barrick high on my list of suspects – nor was I very far wrong.

  ‘And then, finally, my old friend Charles Sandham. I knew, or felt sure that I knew, that he was being blackmailed in some form or another, and what stronger motive could there be than that? He held the ace of hearts without doubt. And I believed that he held the ace of clubs. His histrionic quality and his powers as an actor were so strong that I felt that he could cast himself for the part of a murderer, of a sort of Brutus, who had persuaded himself that assassination was the only right action for him to take, whatever sacrifice for himself it might entail. And if he did commit murder, how would he do it? He would never be a poisoner, and I thought he would flinch from using the knife; but he might shut his eyes and press the trigger. But did he hold the ace of diamonds? No, I thought he did not. I knew him so well that I could detect the streak of weakness in his composition. The more I considered it, the more I felt that he would draw back at the critical moment. But supposing that he did draw back at the last moment, what would happen? Would he not turn the revolver on himself and commit suicide? Yes, as I went thoughtfully down to dinner that night, I found myself weighing up the chances of suicide. That wasn’t a pleasant feeling at all. Remember that I had started with the intention – at Mary’s wish – of helping Charles in his difficulty, and now that murder threatened, my first duty was in some way to prevent it, and, above all, as I saw it, to protect Charles Sandham. But what ought I to do?’

  ‘In fact,’ said Prendergast dryly, ‘you were no further on when you went down to dinner than you had been already in the bar.’

  ‘In a way that is true, but in my own defence I must say that I had gone some way towards my pre-construction in a couple of hours. I had at least fixed the time of the crime within narrow limits; I had convinced myself that one of the four must be the murderer, and I had come to the firm conclusion that the victim of the killing, when it took place, would indicate the killer. A crude bludgeoning blow and Gradon would be guilty; poison and it would be Bannister; a knife and I should suspect Barrick; shooting and I should fear that Sandham was guilty, though it might be Barrick. Moreover, I had arrived at the conclusion that my four suspects were not all equally to be feared. As I explained, I was least afraid of Gradon and, as I have confessed, I had also made the blunder of underestimating the danger from Bannister. That left me with Barrick and Sandham. But the threat to Sandham came from Barrick, or so I thought, and in that case Sandham must be either criminal or victim. So you see I had narrowed down the problem considerably, for it was clear to me that I must concentrate on Sandham, even if that meant taking risks with the others. But somehow I had to contrive to go further than this, and prevent the crime. Yet what could I do?’

  ‘In my opinion,’ said the General, ‘you should have warned them. You were convinced that murder was planned – you should therefore have said so, in the hope that the warning would stop the murderer. An anonymous letter isn’t usually effective or justifiable, but in this case it might have worked – or perhaps I should say four anonymous letters. Dash it all, I’m no lawyer, but if you know a crime’s going to be committed and do nothing about it, aren’t you some sort of an accessory before the fact – morally anyhow?’

  ‘I did consider that plan,’ Brendel replied, ‘but I rejected it, and I rejected it for two reasons. In the first place, that such a plan would probably be ineffective. The murderer, if warned, would probably not strike in the manner and at the time which I expected, but what was the guarantee for the future? No one would know how near we had been to catastrophe at the Magnifico that night, and was it not probable that the murderer would lay another plan when a better opportunity occurred? I think that a warning such as you suggest was likely to postpone and not to prevent the crime. And I had a second reason. Supposing that Charles Sandham was contemplating resolving all his difficulties by shooting Bannister or by committing suicide, would not this sudden and unexpected anonymous warning be the final push which would send him over the edge? Would he not be likely to put an end to it all by shooting himself? Yes, I was coming more and more to the belief that Sandham’s suicide was the greatest and most probable danger.’

  ‘So you did exactly nothing!’ said the General. ‘It does seem to me that you were taking pretty big risks.’

  ‘No,’ said Brendel. ‘I cannot altogether admit that. Remember, please, that it was eight o’clock, and that, if my surmises were correct, I had seven or eight hours still at my disposal. Much might happen in that time, and I should be in a favourable position to watch them during the evening. Remember, too, that I was actually to join their party for a time at midnight. Yes, General, I did not intend to be wholly inactive that night.’

  Prendergast was growing a little impatient.

  ‘But what did happen?’ he asked. ‘Come, Brendel, I think the time has arrived when you can tell us what actually occurred, and whether or not your pre-construction went far enough for you to prevent the crime, or only to point your avenging finger with certainty at the murderer. You’ve had to confess already that you misjudged Bannister and missed his motives, so I feel pretty confident that sooner or later you will have to admit that my guess was right and that Bannister was the criminal. Come, be a man! Cough it up, spill the beans, get it off your chest – or, to put it less crudely, make up your mind to tell us the answer, even if you have to admit that one of us was nearer to the truth than you were at the time. Besides, my pocket’s still gaping for the General’s half-crown.’

  ‘And I am quite sure that you’re wrong,’ said the General in an oddly confident tone of voice, ‘so all the more I support your plea for Brendel to finish his story.’

  Brendel smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I thought that you might perhaps regret having forced me to tell this story. You did not quite realize what you were letting yourselves in for, did you? And I agree that I must now come to the point and tell you what happened, but I’d like to do so in my own way. If you’ll allow me I must now reassume my mantle as narrator, and forget again that I am Ernst Brendel. You see, I want to tell the happenings of that night, as they were seen by those who took part, and so you’ll have to give me the benefit again of the privileges of the novelist who knows what his characters are thinking and why they are acting as they do. The privilege, in fact, of temporary omniscience. May I do that, and I’m sure that, if I forget myself, and talk about “I” again, Prendergast will be quick to pull me up.’

  ‘By all means,’ Prendergast answered. ‘If you are still adding to your store of English expressions, let me put our saying to you, “Cut the cackle, and get to the ’osses”.’

  ‘But was it not American?’ queried Brendel. ‘No matter, in either case I’ll obey.’

  Chapter Eight

  It was much nearer four than three in the morning, and Brendel wriggled himself, not for the first time, into the corner of the large arm-chair in which he was sitting. No – sitting is not the right word. The arm-chair stood with others in an alcove at the head of the stairs on the first floor, and Brendel had indeed seated himself there half an hour previously, but since then the lights had been extinguished and more and more Brendel and his chair had ceased to be two entities and had gradually merged into one. Together they formed a dark mass indeterminate in form, and Brendel himself seemed to have become nothing more than an obese patch of da
rker colour in the middle of the amorphous mass of shadow. It would have needed a keen eye to discern him had anyone passed by, but indeed a passer-by was a rare phenomemon, for the patrons of the Magnifico were by an overwhelming majority users of lifts rather than climbers of stairs. So, as time passed, Brendel melted more and more into his background. Was it a conversation piece without figures, or a landscape without human beings in it, or did, perhaps, that dark shadowy mass conceal a living and waking man? Yes, it did – Brendel seemed asleep and motionless, but he was in truth very much awake, and from time to time he stirred ever so slightly, always sinking farther into the obscurity of his background – awake, and watching the long corridor, now lighted by only a couple of heavily shaded lights, but he himself was not to be observed by any other eye. One late reveller had stumbled over his feet five or ten minutes before, but he had certainly not been conscious of Brendel’s existence, and after he had, with some difficulty, found the door of his room and opened it with more difficulty still, ‘no other tiger had passed that way that night’.