The Case of the Four Friends Read online

  ‘I’m not sure of that,’ said Brendel, ‘but no matter. I’m glad at least that my diagnosis was not wholly false, and I hope that I’ve not made three friends into enemies by it. You did almost force me to criticize, didn’t you? So you must forgive me for what I’ve said and forget about it. Come, let us play another rubber, and I shall make so many Dummheiten that you will think me a splendid chap to play against, and all of you (except my unfortunate partner) will entirely recover that good opinion of me which you once had.’

  Gresham, however, had other ideas. Like the true scholar that he was, he hated to leave a subject however small until he had penetrated to its core and satisfied himself that he understood its possibilities and its implications. He had, too, the quality, rare in men of learning, of refusing to allow himself to be side-tracked when once he was on the scent.

  ‘No, no, Brendel,’ he said, ‘you are trying to evade the issue again. I started this discussion by suggesting that you brought to this game of bridge the same qualities and perhaps the same methods which you use in the detection of crime. You’ve told us – and, I must admit, very accurately – what you can deduce about us at the card-table, but you haven’t answered my question about crime. Now, please, indulge me. Is there a similarity, even a connexion, or not?’

  Brendel sighed. ‘I should have liked another rubber,’ he murmured, ‘and consider what you are suggesting. I shall mount on my hobby-horse and talk’ – he opened his arms wide with an expressive gesture – ‘for hours, and at the end you will be tired and sleepy and you will say “That prosy old man – he has bored us to extinction, whyever did we let him start?’”

  The General rallied to Gresham’s support.

  ‘I’m wholly on Gresham’s side,’ he said. ‘It seems to me that the subject is full of possibilities. I speak as an ignorant person, but surely the parallel could be quite close – I mean, you see, that you don’t know when you’re playing the hand what your two opponents hold, but you gradually learn, both from the bidding and from the play of the early cards. You make your deductions as the evidence accumulates, and’ (he added a little sourly) ‘you’re damned often wrong. Anyhow, I’d like to hear what you think of it, Brendel, and don’t worry about the time. Higher Authority in my house knows that when I dine at St Thomas’s I may return at any hour of the night or morning, and, obedient to orders though I am, I always take long leave when I come down here.’

  He collected the cards and packed them into their cases.

  Brendel surrendered with a good grace.

  ‘Very well, then,’ he said, ‘it is on your own distinguished and learned heads. I’ll try to answer your question, but it won’t be easy. First of all, I do think that the qualities needed at the bridge table are in many ways similar to those which are most helpful in the detection of crime. But, then, remember that I’m not a detective. I’m a lawyer with a great interest in criminology, and it’s largely accidental that I have been involved in a good many interesting and sometimes mystifying criminal cases. And I have on occasions been able to help, perhaps considerably, in the elucidation of crime. But, believe me, there is no such thing as a successful amateur detective. Detection and the fixing of guilt on the criminal is the work of professionals; there is no short-cut to success and no sort of likelihood that the amateur will succeed where the official or the professional has failed. No, not once in a hundred times! But I’m digressing. Let us consider only such cases as those in which I have helped the professionals, and in which, owing to special knowledge or special circumstances, I have been able to make suggestions and offer advice. Have I been useful in them because I’ve applied the same tests and the same methods as I employ at the card-table? Yes – yes – on the whole, I think I have.’

  He paused and considered the matter again. “Yes, I’m sure I have, and sometimes even consciously. I used at one time to play a foolish sort of fanciful game with myself, which I called my Blackwood game, and perhaps that will illustrate as well as anything what I am trying to tell you.’

  He smiled benignly at Gresham. ‘You know the main value of the Blackwood Convention is really not to arrive at a slam – for that you get to in many ways – but to save you from calling a slam which you can’t make. Now, I used to play my little game like this.’ He pulled one of the packs of cards from its case and laid the four aces on the table. ‘The basis of the Blackwood Convention is the call of four no-trumps which asks partner how many aces he has in his hand. Very well then – I used to consider my suspects and ask them, so to speak, what aces they had in their hand. The ace of spades I used to think of as opportunity, by which I meant not only an opportunity of time and place, but also an opportunity given when the requisite weapon was at hand. The ace of hearts was motive. The ace of diamonds was human qualities. It is not everyone, you know, who has the ruthlessness or the courage (in some cases), or perhaps even the patience or the intellectual equipment, to plan a murder. The ace of clubs was a rather special card, which I find it difficult to define. It meant, in my mind, just this: Did the murder or the crime fit into the pattern of the alleged criminal? Or do I mean, rather, did the crime and the character and mode of proceeding of the suspect fit into the same pattern? Most criminals, you know, follow a sort of pattern in their crimes, and though they might commit almost any atrocity of a certain type would be incapable of another sort of crime, because it would be out of character. So the ace of clubs might be labelled just “pattern”. Or to put it quite differently again, “Was it psychologically possible for that particular suspect to commit that particular crime?” Read any well-informed book on crime and criminals, and you will find that every criminal falls into his own special category – he is an expert or a potential expert in some form of crime and in that alone. He is, in fact, a specialist, and he would never wish or be able to transfer himself into another criminal class. I am dogmatic about this for the sake of brevity, but I think that you will admit the validity of the argument. Time after time you are able to state categorically: “So-and-so could not have been the criminal, for the crime is outside his pattern.” Of course the whole Blackwood idea was a rather foolish fancy on my part. It isn’t often, as Gresham is itching to remind me, that one calls a Blackwood four no-trumps with no ace in one’s own hand. But that didn’t matter. I did find, now and then, that it clarified my mind, and in more cases than not it saved me from calling the slam. But how silly of me! I haven’t really explained. I used to make it a rule, you see, that I’d never call the slam unless my inquiry brought the answer that all four aces were in a suspect’s hand. If he held them all, then I could feel sure that he was the criminal. I could say to the professionals, concentrate your inquiries on him; unless my indication deceives, he will be your man. That I called bidding the slam.’

  A slow smile flitted across the face of the General, but it was the smile which might have belonged to a hunter who had successfully stalked his prey.

  ‘Now, Brendel,’ he said, ‘you mustn’t let this donnish company corrupt you. They love to talk of theories and generalities, and never get down to practical things. But I’m a simple man, and I’m quite sure that all you’ve said about your Blackwood game refers to some particular case. So, for Heaven’s sake, forget the theory and let us have the story. There is one, isn’t there? And you’ll surely tell it to us.’

  Brendel shook his head. ‘Oh no, I’m ready to discuss the theory of crime and the problems of detection – really, there’s nothing that I enjoy more, but telling a story is a wholly different matter. There’s every sort of objection to that.’

  Gresham’s eyes twinkled. ‘I can make deductions, too,’ he said, ‘although I’m only a middle-aged scholar and out of touch with everyday life. What you’ve said amounts to an admission that you have a story which is concerned with your Blackwood game, and I can’t for the life of me see why you cannot tell it. What is the objection to telling the story which illustrates your theories – and, I suggest, illuminates it as no mere theoretical dis
cussion can? Come, make an effort, and we’ll be the judges whether it does support your argument or not.’

  Brendel considered for several moments, and his reply when it came was both careful and hesitant.

  ‘I think’, he said, ‘that the first objection is one of time. A story isn’t an anecdote which can be thrown into a discussion to illustrate some small point or to bolster up some dubious argument. For a story, or at any rate a story like this one, you’ve got – well, you’ve got to develop the characters of those who play a part in it. Now, you can’t develop characters, in the plural, just by describing them. Think of any good or even reputable novelist; he doesn’t describe his characters to the reader – he shows or presents them. He presents them at different times and at crises in their careers; you hear them speaking and you note their actions. And so gradually you get to know them, and understand them, and – almost always – to sympathize a good deal with most of them. That’s what I mean by saying that there really isn’t time to develop this particular story – for I admit that there is a story. Much better let us continue our debate – or even, as I proposed before, play just one more quick rubber.’

  Three men, however, who are determined to have their way are generally too strong for one who is of the contrary opinion.

  ‘That won’t do, Brendel,’ said the General crisply. ‘You’ll have to tell the story in the end, so you may as well make up your mind now to give way to us. Dash it all, we’ll give you any licence you need and as much time as you want. Present your characters by all means if you can’t describe them, but do let us have the story.’

  ‘Yes, after all, you can compromise a little,’ Gresham added. ‘A description of a man may be inadequate, but in that case you can add some scene from his back-history if you will – what, I think, they call a flash-back on the films.’

  ‘Well,’ said Brendel, a little grudgingly, ‘if it must be so, it must be. But I claim in advance all the privileges of the story-teller, just as though this were a piece of fiction and not an experience of my own.’

  ‘And what are these privileges?’

  ‘First and foremost the story-teller is like God. He knows what has happened, and furthermore he knows the motives and the reasons which caused his characters to act as they did. Nothing is hidden from him, but he releases to his audience only such facts as seem good to him, and at the time which he judges to be appropriate. Now, I was intimately concerned in this affair, but I didn’t know all about it till afterwards. Some of the facts came to my knowledge later, and some were really the result of intelligent guess-work. I’m not sure even now about the motives of some of the actors, but I must be allowed to state dogmatically what can really only be matter of conjecture.’

  ‘There – is – much – too – much – theorizing,’ said the General. ‘You have been put in orders to tell a story, Brendel – get cracking.’

  But Brendel would not be hurried. ‘I see another difficulty,’ he said. ‘In the ordinary detective story the scene is described and the events as they take place, and then the work of detection begins. But I can’t proceed quite like that. You see, I cannot start by describing a murder and then showing you how I discovered the murderer. That’s simple detection, and we are concerned here with a much more complicated and delicate affair than that. I thought that I foresaw the crime, and I was anxious if I could to make all my deductions in advance and so be able to avert the catastrophe. Preventive medicine is so much more important than any number of cures. Don’t you feel much more sympathy with Sherlock Holmes in the Speckled Band or the Hound of the Baskervilles than you do in any of the stories in which he does not start work till the crime has actually been committed? In many detective stories we have that final chapter when all the loose ends are tied up and all the dubieties made clear; it’s generally called the “reconstruction of the crime”. But it’s not reconstruction that I’m concerned with. Dear me, no! There’s nothing wonderful about reconstruction. The highest art lies in pre-construction, if I can use that term – “pre-construction of the crime”. To work out the crime before it is committed, to foresee how it will be arranged, and then to prevent it! That’s a triumph indeed, and is worth more than all the convictions in the world. Preventive medicine – preventive detection – you see what I mean? In the particular case I’m thinking of, I have to show you the whole affair in its early stages and as it presented itself to my mind at the time – then perhaps we shall see if you make the same deductions as I did. But –’

  The General, though the best-tempered of men, was growing, understandably, a little peevish.

  ‘There are no “buts”,’ he said. ‘Is this a murder story?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose it could be so described.’

  ‘And are there several suspects, any of whom might have committed the murder?’

  ‘Yes, that is so.’

  ‘And did you apply your precious Blackwood test to these suspects?’

  ‘Yes I did.’

  ‘Very well, then, you may proceed. Tell us the story, and tell us fairly about all the facts of which you were cognisant at the time. Then at the appropriate moment we’ll all tell you which of the suspects we pitch on. Prendergast, I’ll bet you an even half-crown that I spot the murderer and that you don’t. And what about you, Gresham?’

  ‘Done,’ said Prendergast – but Gresham shook his head, remarking a little primly that he didn’t bet on murder.

  The General helped himself to a whisky and soda, and settled himself comfortably in his seat, with the air of a man who had successfully disposed of all possible difficulties.

  ‘What do you call the story?’ Gresham asked. ‘A story should have a name.’

  A gentle little reminiscent smile flitted over Brendel’s face. ‘I call it,’ he said, ‘The Case of the Four Friends, though perhaps I ought to put the word Friends in inverted commas. You shall judge.’ He smiled again. ‘Yes, the four friends, and each of them in his own way a man of substance and even of some distinction – but to me the interesting common factor was that each was a potential murderer. Nothing could have seemed more unlikely; yet such was the fact. Once more it shall be for you to judge.’

  Chapter Two

  Charles Sandham was sitting in his office in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. To be more precise he was sitting in the chair in his private room and in the same chair in which his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather had in their turn sat before him, for the firm of Sandham, Sandham and Bovis was an old-established firm of solicitors, honoured, respected, and admired through four generations. No hint of scandal had ever touched them, and respectability and security seemed to be imprinted on every piece of furniture in the room and on every engraving or portrait on the walls. The mahogany furniture, the fine mezzotints, the thick Turkey carpet, all gave the impression that they had grown in their appointed places, and that change or modernity would have been impossible in such a setting. ‘Nothing has altered here, and nothing will,’ they seemed to say. ‘Above all, nothing can ever go wrong here. World wars may come and go; great inventions or great disasters or great discoveries may profoundly affect the lives of millions of human beings, but in this room things will be as they always have been – here at least calm and assured confidence will always reign, and scandal will never enter. For every wrong the law will find a remedy. Trust in the law, trust in order and tradition, trust in Sandham, Sandham and Bovis.’ The tin boxes on the shelves, many with famous names painted on them, gave the impression that a good few of the aristocratic families in England must at one time have listened to that call and have entrusted the conduct of their affairs to Sandham, Sandham and Bovis, and an observer might have been excused had he hesitated whether he should place the head of the firm above or just below Caesar’s wife and the Archbishop of Canterbury in the official table of respectability. That Sandham was above reproach and beyond criticism seemed at the least a law of nature. Yet on that morning at the end of December the head of the firm was far fro
m giving the wonted impression either of unquestioned impeccability or of almost divine placidity. Had he been a lesser man, a critic might even have ventured to suggest that he was ruffled – or, if not ruffled, at least insecure. He had not opened the letters nor yet The Times, which lay beside them; instead, he sat plunged in thought and played idly with an Italian stiletto which had lain, as it always did, on his desk. The stiletto was, in a manner, indicative of Sandham’s habits. It had played a part, thirty years earlier, in a famous or notorious trial. The firm of Sandham, Sandham and Bovis did not often or willingly touch criminal proceedings, but in this case a valued and titled client had been involved and the young Sandham had been of considerable assistance to him. The stiletto had been given to him as a graceful acknowledgement of his services, and from that day onwards he had always used it, whether at home or abroad, to slit open his letters or cut the pages of a book. A purist might perhaps have declared that the dagger was not correctly termed a stiletto, for that instrument has a blade thick in proportion to its width, whereas Sandham’s dagger had a flat and slender blade, which made it specially suitable as a paper-cutter. None the less, it was or could be a deadly weapon, and to Sandham himself it was always ‘the stiletto’ – not only a memento of a past triumph but also a part of his daily life. He was by nature a man of habit, and his ordered life never deviated from its accustomed course. He would have felt that the natural order of things had been interrupted and that the foundations of his existence had been shaken if the stiletto had not laid in its appointed place on his desk at the beginning of the day. So now he played absent-mindedly with it, almost unceasingly, whilst a frown contracted his usually smooth and candid face.