The Case of the Four Friends Read online

  Bannister undressed carefully and put on pyjamas and a dressing-gown and his bedroom slippers. He then took out a bunch of keys and unlocked his despatch-case. In it was another small box and this too Bannister unlocked and extracted from it a small pill-box. He opened it and made sure that two pills were inside, and for a moment he hesitated whether to take both or only one with him. ‘Perhaps two for good measure,’ he murmured to himself, and put the box into the pocket of his dressing-gown. He noted with subconscious self-approval that he was perfectly calm and that, now that the decision was made, he felt neither qualms of conscience nor any sort of nervousness. He listened for a moment, and hearing no sound walked out into the corridor and towards the stairs. He even whistled a bar or two as he walked, for he thought it better, if anyone was about, that he should know it then rather than discover it later. But he saw and heard no one, and arrived in a few moments at the door of Piers’s room. He knocked very gently and, receiving no answer, he turned the handle and entered the room. One of the lights by the bedside was turned on and the fancy dress lay on the floor, but the room was empty. Slowly, calmly Bannister considered the situation. He observed that the jug of liquid and a glass were on the table by the side of the bed; that must be the notorious ‘hangover mixture’, and he noted with approval that the colour of the liquid was a dark amber. Yes, he thought that he could read the situation correctly, and with a grim smile he began to speculate in whose bedroom Piers might be at that moment. Perhaps it was that rather attractive little vivandière or perhaps Marie Antoinette. Piers had danced a good deal with both, and both had seemed easy on the eye. Anyhow, there would be time and to spare. He took the pill-box from his pocket and put in on the table; he opened the lid, being careful to touch nothing except the box.

  It was at that moment that the stillness was suddenly broken by a crash of sound. Electric bells were ringing furiously and shrilly over the hotel. Bannister did not lose his nerve for a moment – on the contrary, all his faculties seemed to be sharpened, and he decided immediately yet without panic what he must do. What the noise was he guessed at once. It was, and must be, a burglar alarm, and someone must be trying to enter the hotel. Well, that was in the highest degree unfortunate and inopportune, but he was in no danger provided that he kept his head. He opened the door, made sure that no one was yet in sight, and then slipped quickly through his danger zone and entered the lounge. When a moment later a half-clad waiter, roused by the alarm, burst into the lounge, Bannister was searching in the arm-chair for his cigarette-case. His finding it and the arrival of the waiter synchronized in admirable fashion. So he was safe, and no harm had been done. But was he? Bannister’s nerves had been under complete control throughout, and he had never allowed himself to be rattled or hurried into a false step. He had, however, drunk a great deal that night, chiefly with the object of encouraging Piers to drink even more, and drink had to some extent dulled his judgement. His head was a strong one, but even so he was not wholly immune from the effects of all the alcohol he had imbibed. So it came about that when the alarm surprised him in Piers’s bedroom and when he made his withdrawal, he left the pill-box standing on the bedside table. Certainly he was not quite so safe as he imagined himself to be.

  ***

  Toby Barrick paced up and down in his room, his mind in a turmoil. For good reasons he had left the ball early – or early compared with the time of departure of the majority. He had danced as much and as often as possible with Dahlia Constant, and he flattered himself that he had succeeded in giving the impression (as he had) to those who watched them that they were on the best and most intimate terms, and that all went well with their romance. Not a few of those present had wagged their heads and opined that the engagement would be announced in the next day’s paper. It is almost universal among ‘know-alls’ to foresee announcements of this kind, and nothing gives greater pleasure than the utterance of the time-worn phrase ‘I told you so’. But Toby, as the evening went on, realized with growing dismay that in fact his suit did not prosper. Dahlia was kind to him and studiously polite, but she made it only too clear that she did not intend to change her mind again. Perhaps the aunts had persuaded her, perhaps her instinct told her that Toby had not proposed for wholly altruistic motives or solely because he had fallen in love with her, perhaps even she was just uncertain and wished to give herself longer time for consideration. Be that as it may, Toby knew with a horrid certainty that his chances of setting things right with her at the Magnifico were hopeless. His dreams of settling all his problems by an engagement to the great heiress had vanished. Quite early Dahlia had complained of a headache, and it was not much after two o’clock when she had decided to leave the party and retire to bed. Toby had not wished to stay on long after she went, for he did not relish oblique questions about his affairs, and so he too went early to his bedroom.

  There he paced up and down as he had done for the last hour or more, turning over in his mind a problem to which he could find no answer. Money he must have, and he must have it quickly; but whence was it to come? If he failed to get it, all his difficulties would overwhelm him at the same time, and his career would be finished. And worse – if his dealings with the firm’s money came to light he might find himself facing a criminal charge. That idea, as soon as it reared its ugly head, he resolutely put out of his mind, for he was never a man to face up to an awkward situation. He always persuaded himself that something would turn up to rescue him at the last moment. But what? He must have money, or at least the promise of a large sum of money in a very short time. He thought of Bannister, only to reject the idea, for Bannister, he felt, would only refer him to Charles Sandham. Charles, then, must be his only hope, but what sort of a hope was that? Too often for his liking in the course of the evening he had heard his partner declare how tight money was. That was nonsense, of course, yet Charles had spoken as though he meant it, and how would it be possible to shift him from the position he had taken up? Angrily, as he paced up and down, Toby kicked the leg of his table, for his thoughts seemed to go round in a perpetual circle and always to bring him to the point whence he had started.

  Something must be done – of that he was sure – and that something he saw more and more clearly must be an appeal to, or even an attack upon, Charles Sandham. It was a small chance, but it was the only chance. He must go to his partner and confess what he had done; he must tell him that unless he came to his assistance the name and reputation of the firm were irretrievably ruined. That might work, but again it might not. And if it didn’t? Again ugly thoughts forced their way into Toby’s mind. God knew he wished old Charles no harm, but he couldn’t last for ever, and if only his wretched heart would give out now everything would be saved. It couldn’t be much fun for him, if what the specialist said was correct, to hang on for a few more years; whilst, if he went off now, he would save Toby and the firm from disaster. Could it be so awfully wrong to push him ever so little? To give him just that shock which would cause him to collapse? To help him over the edge? He had thought all that before, and had tried to keep it out of his mind, but the thought insisted on coming back. Now he was desperate, and he must act if he was to save himself. Supposing that he told Charles Sandham the whole story suddenly and brutally, would not the shock be too much for him? And if not, could he not threaten? And was not this the right, the only possible moment? In his mind’s eye he saw himself springing to his feet in front of his partner and threatening to kill him then and there if he did not help him; then he saw his partner clutching at his heart and falling to the ground. It happened like that on the stage, in all justice it must so happen to Charles Sandham now. But how could he threaten him? He did not carry a revolver in his luggage, and iron pokers and such-like weapons were not to be found in the rooms of the Magnifico. It was then, with a kind of inevitable clarity, that the stiletto flashed into his mind. He knew his partner’s habits so well that he was certain that, as soon as his luggage was unpacked, Charles Sandham would place it on his writi
ng-table beside his books and his papers. Yes, that must be the weapon; he could pick it up and stand like avenging Jove before his victim. Yes, he saw it all. The long evening of gaiety and drinking – the sudden shock, the still more sudden collapse! And if he did not collapse, what then? Was it possible that he, Toby Barrick, was actually playing with the thought of murder? No! no! no! he could not do that – yet he hovered like a moth round that dangerous yet attractive light. Time was passing and he must act. He moved towards the door – but then returned. Supposing it did all fall out as he half hoped, half expected, would it be altogether healthy for him if it was known that he was in his partner’s room when the tragedy happened? Better, safer not. With an instinctive wish for concealment he pulled on a pair of gloves which he had used for the dance; then he opened his door, made sure that no one was in sight, and stepped quickly into the lift. He pushed the button for the first floor, and as though impelled by some force stronger than himself made his way to his partner’s room.

  He knocked and received no answer. He tried the door and found it open, and in he went. Sandham had a small suite, a little ante-room, and behind it a large bedroom and his bathroom. Toby’s nerves were on edge, and he hardly knew what he was doing. His actions appeared to him to be governed by an outside force stronger than himself. He looked round the room and tried to realize why his partner was not there, for he never even considered the possibility that he would not find him seated in his room. And there, sure enough, was the stiletto lying upon the table, the symbol of temptation and of destruction. Toby picked it up and held it clutched in his hand. How, in fact, did you use a dagger? Did you hold it pointing forward, or did you hold it with your knuckles away from you, so that the point, as you held it, was pointing towards the floor? Did you give an upward thrust, or did you strike downwards as though you were hitting with a hammer? He realized that he did not know. It was all very well to speak of stabbing a man to the heart, but how exactly did you do it? But what nonsense this was; the longer he stood there the more wholly impossible did it appear to him that he could ever really stab anyone. But could he not threaten to do so, and would not that be enough? And why should he be surprised that Charles Sandham was not in the ante-room? Wasn’t the simple and obvious explanation that he had gone to bed, and was probably now fast asleep in the next room? Bracing himself, Toby opened the bedroom door and turned on the light, but once again he was surprised and disappointed, for the room was empty.

  Toby’s first instinctive feeling was one of relief. This ugly act, with which his mind had been toying, was impossible and the crisis must of necessity be postponed. His second thoughts were less happy, for he had keyed himself to action only to find that action was impossible. His thoughts seemed to be racing in his head, crowding upon one another and refusing to allow him to be quiet and think. What, he wondered, did a murderer actually feel as he struck his blow? Did he feel nothing but a ghastly satisfaction, or did he feel sudden and overwhelming remorse? Did he perhaps even wish that the blow could stop half-way when in fact it was too late to check its downward course? Clutching the stiletto, Toby bent over the bed and pulled the pillow down into the middle of it. Suppose that the pillow was the sleeping form of Charles Sandham, could he ever, in any circumstances, have plunged the dagger into the body? No, he knew that he could not, however desperate his case might be. Still, he might at least enlarge his experience, and lifting the dagger aloft he plunged it into the middle of the pillow. How oddly simple it would be, and how curious that you strike in that way without any feeling of excitement. Twice more he plunged his weapon into the pillow, not knowing what he was doing or why he did it. Then, of a sudden, his whole attitude of mind changed, for a wild and strident ringing of electric bells seemed to fill the whole room with noise. Toby stood, still clutching his dagger as though frozen into immobility. His mind refused to function, his reasoning faculty deserted him. He had no idea what the danger was, but he realized instinctively that he was in danger, and the primitive urge to escape to safety possessed him. He gazed hastily round the room, and his eye fell on a large hanging cupboard built into the wall. Without thinking and without pausing, he opened it and crouched inside. The stiletto was still in his hand.

  ***

  If Toby had suffered a crisis of nerves that night, the nervous tension in the mind of Charles Sandham was certainly no less acute. He, too, had left the ball comparatively early, and he, too, had spent an hour of anxious and wretched uncertainty in his room. The more he considered his situation, the more utterly hopeless did the outlook appear. At times in his wretchedness he felt inclined to throw up the sponge, but the thought of his wife, and still more of his daughter, made him hesitate. Was there no way of averting the catastrophe at least until Enid was safely married? Could he not, in some way, hold Bannister at bay till then? Yet the longer he thought and the more carefully he considered all the implications, the more clearly did he realize that Bannister alone could save him, and that unless Bannister relented he was irreparably ruined. More than once his eyes strayed to the stiletto, but it did not rest there. Instead, it moved on to his dispatch-case, and at that he looked and looked as though it fascinated him. Finally he got up and unlocked it, and then put the little gleaming revolver on the table. Ah – it had all the appearance of a small deadly snake – a krait perhaps – so small, so flashing, and so beautiful, yet the very symbol of sudden death. He remembered that he had packed it because he felt that he must; he remembered how his hand had trembled as he had put the ammunition for it in his case beside it. Could he ever bring himself to use it? He did not, and could not, know – what he did know was that he had been unable to leave it behind.

  A talk with Bannister, a last appeal, a threat – that was the only course which was open to him, and somehow or other he must brace himself to the task of seeking that interview that night. Like all weak men, he could not bear to wait; he must have certainty even if that meant only that he would learn that his fate was sealed. His actual course of proceeding he had rehearsed a dozen times. He would beard Bannister in his room, he would appeal to their old friendship, he would refuse to embark on the hopeless and miserable course which the blackmailer suggested. Then, if Bannister refused to be moved, he would pull the revolver from his pocket and level it at Bannister. And Bannister, he knew, would keep quite cool and sneer at him. ‘Don’t be an ass, Charles,’ he would say; ‘if you shoot me you’ll only hang and what good will that do you?’ And his answer? ‘No, I’m serious. I shall shoot you, and then I shall shoot myself. Those who find us can draw their own conclusions.’ But could he convince Bannister of his determination, and would his nerve hold or would it give way? Why were his hands shaking? If he could not control them, it was unlikely that he could outface Bannister and bend him to his will. He must master himself, he must hold his nerves in control. How many chambers of the revolver should he load? He pushed cartridges into two of the chambers with the grim thought that each would be the cause of a man’s death, but then he thought again, and loaded two more chambers. He knew that he was a bungler and he might miss. How awful if he needed all his ammunition to kill Bannister, and was left with no means of destroying himself! That would mean prison and the hangman’s rope. Another idea struck him. How impossible it would be to commit this crime whilst still in fancy dress. All his training and all his conventional ideas of propriety rebelled against the idea. Slowly and methodically he removed the dress of Metternich and put on a dressing-gown. Then once more he hesitated. Was he really positive that he, Charles Sandham, the senior partner of a respectable firm of solicitors, actually contemplated murder? And – an even more disturbing thought – was it possible that he could carry out his intention if he made up his mind to do so? The revolver slipped from his hand and lay upon the table, for in a moment of self-understanding he had realized with despairing conviction that he could not, when the crisis came, shoot another man. Yet he must act. Was it not just possible that Bannister might yield either to his entreaties
or to his threats? And if he did not, Sandham could still, perhaps, nerve himself to turn the revolver on himself in Bannister’s room. That would be the revenge of a weakling, but still it would be revenge.

  Vaguely and very indistinctly he thought that he heard a clock in the distance strike four. With a great effort he nerved himself to start on his mission. He put the revolver in the pocket of his dressing-gown and very cautiously opened the door of his room. No human being seemed to be moving in the corridor, and no sound broke the silence. Cautiously and very quietly he walked towards Bannister’s room.

  He knocked at the door, at first quietly and then more loudly; but he received no answer, and he realized with a sort of feeble irritation that he was trembling and that he could not control the movements of his limbs. At length he could wait no longer; he tried the handle and the door opened. To his surprise the room was in darkness, and, to his still greater surprise, when he had switched on the light he found that the room was empty. Now indeed he was totally uncertain as to what his next move should be, and he stood perplexed and bewildered in the middle of the room. His right hand in the pocket of his dressing-gown had been holding the butt of the revolver – he now without thinking drew it from the pocket and stood holding it. What should he do next? Should he put off this hateful interview till the next day? No, that would mean that he could never bring himself to force the issue at all. He must act that night. Should he, then, wait for Bannister, who must surely come to his bedroom in a very short while? Yes, that might be the better plan, but if the delay was prolonged, would not his courage, such as it was, ooze away from him? Perhaps he could return to his own room, and then later … It was at that moment that the bells rang, and if their effect had caused Toby to lose his head, they were at least equally destructive of the nerve of Charles Sandham. If the specialist had seen him then, he might well have feared that the shock would be too much for him. Charles himself did not think of that, he only knew that all power of thought and action seemed to have left him. He turned as pale as death and stood as though rooted to the ground.