The Case of the Four Friends Read online

  This was far more than the worst which Toby had contemplated, and he hardly knew how to make his next move. Something he must get, and somehow he must placate the senior partner.

  ‘My dear Charles,’ he said, ‘I hadn’t the least wish to upset you, and I’m sure you exaggerate the difficulties of my proposal. Of course I knew that you’ve got extra expenses in connexion with Enid’s marriage, but otherwise everything’s surely couleur-de-rose, and we’ve really done awfully well over the last few years. And your own financial position must be as sound as the Bank of England. I was only thinking of using the firm’s credit to help me out of a temporary embarrassment, for I’ve had an expensive time, as you know. When I’m married to Dahlia, I imagine that I shan’t ever have to worry about money again.’ He laughed, but the laugh sounded a little hollow even to himself.

  Sandham shook his head. ‘There’s another thing, Toby,’ he said, ‘which I had not intended to speak of but which I think, in the circumstances, you ought to know.’ He leaned back in his chair and toyed once more with the stiletto. He must find an argument which would prevent Toby from pressing his tiresome and inopportune request and which would leave him free from that entanglement at least. Was not the specialist’s verdict on his health, suitably edited, an ideal weapon for him to use? An acute observer, who knew his character, might well have observed that the actor again took control of the man, for Sandham seemed, as it were, to cast himself for a new part – a part which he could play to admiration.

  ‘You know,’ he said, and his voice was calm and quiet, ‘that Mary would not give me any peace until I went to see this specialist – though I thought myself that it was wholly unnecessary.’

  Toby nodded. ‘But surely his verdict was all right, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say it was not. I must tell you just what he said.’ The specialist would indeed have been amazed had he heard Sandham’s account of what he had said, but any audience would have applauded an actor who could have described the interview with such dignity and such calm courage.

  ‘Briefly, my dear Toby, I was told this. I am, physically, in many ways as hale and strong as any man of my age can hope to be, but – alas – there is a weakness. I spare you the medical details, but it is, of course, the heart which threatens to let me down. I am given to understand that if I exercise great control and avoid any sort of excitement or shock or excessive exertion I may well live for another five or ten or even fifteen years – but – ’ He spread out his hands and smiled at his partner.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Toby, ‘I never dreamed that there was anything wrong with you. You’ll have to go as carefully as you can, and – ’

  But Charles Sandham held up his hand and continued his speech. It was his big scene and he seemed to know it.

  ‘No, no, my dear Toby, you know me very little if you think that I could take it like that. Is life so precious that one would wish to prolong it to the last possible moment at the expense of sacrificing all one’s pleasures and all one’s activities, and at the price, too, of becoming a burden and a responsibility to all one’s friends? A thousand times no! I shall live the years – or months – that remain to me as though this warning had never been given. You will not find me refusing to play a second round of golf because I’m afraid of fatigue, or shirking my work because I fear excitement or strain. I shall live the rest of my life exactly as I have always lived it, and if the end comes suddenly – well, better men than I have had to face the same swift ending. But, my dear fellow, one thing I beg of you. Not a word to Enid or Mary about all this. I have told them that the specialist is quite satisfied with my general condition, and there is nothing else that they need know. You’ll understand that I’m making now all necessary provision for them in case I should drop out all of a sudden. Don’t waste your pity on me; I’m proud to think that I have lived a reasonably good life and done nothing of which I need be ashamed. I intend to finish as I have begun and to make no changes of any kind. But once again – don’t mention all this to anyone. You’ll understand without more words from me why I don’t wish to raise money for you just now – even if you are temporarily pressed. You see, I must make provision for both Enid and Mary in case I pack up suddenly.’

  Toby Barrick was not in the same class as an actor as Charles Sandham, but none the less he was a competent one and he recognized his cue.

  ‘My dear Charles,’ he said, ‘this is a terrible shock to me. I had no idea at all that things were like that, but, by Jove, I take off my hat to you. It isn’t everyone who would face that sort of situation as you do. Naturally, I’m not going to worry you with my own very unimportant affairs when you have all this on your mind, but we might perhaps have a chat about things in the course of our holiday.’

  Sandham gravely inclined his head.

  ‘But naturally, and gladly. We’ll have a good talk about everything when we get to the Magnifico. Meantime I’ll meet you at Paddington soon after ten tomorrow.’

  Words can conceal thoughts as well as express them. In Charles’s mind was the clear impression that he had made it difficult – if not impossible – for Toby to press his plan for raising money. He realized not at all the danger in which he had placed himself. For one over-mastering idea had filled Toby’s mind as he listened to Charles’s account of his visit to the specialist. Was not there a simple solution to all his difficulties. No one ever had a more vivid imagination than Toby Barrick, and no one was more prone than he to see the future in a golden haze of optimism. The intervening steps which had to be taken he simply disregarded. And so, in a flash, he saw all the possibilities suggested by the information he had just received. If Charles Sandham was to die suddenly, would not everyone be the gainer? Charles would be spared the anxiety of a few years of semi-invalidism and the constant fear of a collapse – and he, Toby, would naturally take charge of the firm, and could arrange all his affairs quickly and satisfactorily. There would be no one to question his actions or criticize his decisions. What exactly had the specialist said? ‘Any sudden shock, or undue exertion, or something like that.’ Almost it seemed to Toby that his partner had already died, and that he was left with all the threads in his own hands. It would be strange indeed if he could not persuade Dahlia to marry him once he had tided over the immediate crisis. But suppose Charles did not die! Suppose that he was frightened into taking care of himself, and lived on, a useless encumbrance, for the ten or fifteen years he had mentioned. What would become of Toby Barrick then? Unbidden, yet irresistible, the black thought forced its way into Toby’s mind. There Charles stood on the edge of the abyss – the smallest push, the slightest assistance might take him over the edge. Suppose, for example, that he suddenly and brutally told his partner – perhaps at the end of a long and tiring day – that he had embezzled the funds of the firm and that at any moment a criminal prosecution might be begun? Suppose again that he threatened Charles’s life if he would not come to his rescue? Surely, surely, surely that would provide a tenfold greater shock than any that the specialist had envisaged. In vain Toby tried to banish such thoughts from his mind; his imagination was too strong for him. If only Sandham would die just now and without any additional aid from him! But if not? Could he really be considered guilty if he helped, ever so little, to bring about that desirable result? Would he really be to blame if he exposed Sandham to the sudden realization of all that he had done? Would he really be guilty if he went a little further still, if he threatened, if he… ? Try as he would, he could not quiet his mind. He would have exclaimed aloud at the mention of murder, but was not murder in his heart? From out of such fancies as his, murder can surely grow.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Charles Sandham and Toby Barrick – these, then,’ said Brendel, ‘are two of my four friends; now I must tell you something of the other two. But here I find myself in a great difficulty, and I must ask for – what do you call it? – your, yes, your forbearance. Even more than before, I have to take advantage of what I called the
storyteller’s privilege – the right to know everything, even though his knowledge is in fact based on guess-work or gradually and painfully accumulated, or even discovered later and after the event. You see, I want to be quite fair with you and tell you all that – and indeed more than – I knew myself about these people whilst I was “pre-constructing” the crime. (You are right – my four friends were also my four suspects.) But the trouble is that I knew Charles Sandham and Toby Barrick well in their ordinary social milieu, whilst my acquaintance with Bannister and his nephew Piers Gradon was of a different nature. Gradon I really did not know at all, for I had met him but a couple of times, and then only at large and noisy parties. Bannister I had indeed met and had some intercourse with; but that was in wartime and in circumstances wholly different from those in which I had met Sandham and Barrick. Besides there’s another difficulty which cannot be shirked; I mentioned just now that Bannister was a blackmailer, and as soon as I had used that word I realized that I had condemned him hopelessly and irrevocably with you all. In a tale where the crime is committed and investigation follows, the damning fact that one of the characters is a blackmailer is not revealed until the last or the penultimate chapter, and once it is revealed the goose is cooked.’

  Brendel gave the usual little triumphant smile which informed his audience that he made the right use of some English idiom.

  ‘Yes, the goose is cooked. You English, you are all the same. A single word and alles ist erledigt. What, General, do you think of when I mention a blackmailer?’

  ‘Well, frankly, I write the fellow off. Who wouldn’t? I suppose I think of a sort of cold-blooded human fiend, without any bowels of compassion, who simply exploits his victims until he has sucked them dry, and then leaves them to perish in any way they will. Why, dash it all, one blackmailer’s much the same as another so far as my reading goes.’

  ‘Precisely, that’s just it. “As far as my reading goes.” The blackmailer’s a literary convention, like so many other characters. I doubt if any of you have ever really known a blackmailer well, though perhaps you may have met some unawares. Ah – I thought as much – no one of you has known a blackmailer well. I proceed with my argument. It’s just that convention which makes all blackmailers the same that I quarrel with. Always remorseless, utterly unprincipled and amoral, hard as steel, ruthless and cool, arid as inevitable as death. You think of a great spider in the middle of his web, battening on his victims and destroying them one by one. Yet, you know, human nature is infinitely varied, and I cannot believe that all blackmailers are the same or even that they all come from the same mould. Are they really all equally monstrous or even equally guilty? You read a book or you see a film which depicts a highwayman or a pirate. Now they are men who prey upon their fellows, and who should, surely, be regarded with detestation by all right-thinking persons. But no, the event is quite otherwise, for another convention is brought in. Sooner or later, as the story proceeds, you will be told that the pirate, who is ready to make half a dozen unfortunates walk the plank before dinner or blow out the brains of a whole boat-load of captives, is yet invariably courteous to ladies – or some such nonsense – and before you know where you are he has become the hero instead of the villain of the piece. Or your highwayman! One little sentence which explains that he only robbed those who could well afford to pay and he, too, is a figure of chivalry and the hero of the tale. Even other and worse criminals have their defenders. “I’ve heard that poor Dr Crippen was really a most agreeable man.” No doubt he was, but he was none the less a murderer. And Landru – can you read the account of his trial and ponder on his humour and his finesse without some sort of sneaking sympathy for him? And as for thieves – why, whole books have been written in which they appear as glamorous and skilful exponents of a dangerous and adventurous art, not unworthy of our respect. Yet never, so far as I know, never once has the smallest benefit of the doubt been accorded to the blackmailer. The word alone suffices to damn and to damn utterly. Keep your eyes open, my dear General, when you read your next thriller for the first mention of the word blackmail. You may be very sure that the character to whom that word is applied is the villain of the piece, and that he will certainly come to a bad end in the last, or even the penultimate, chapter. And yet, and yet – I wonder. Human nature, as we are always saying, is full of contradictions, and I cannot believe that any man is wholly and irretrievably bad. Doesn’t even the blackmailer have his good side and his worthier moments; hasn’t he, too, other qualities besides those which we connect with this fatal word? It’s much too simple to be true when we write a man off by attaching a one-word label to him.’

  Gresham began to hum softly to himself.

  ‘When the enterprising burglar’s not a-burgling,

  When the cut-throat isn’t occupied in crime,

  He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling

  And listen to the merry village chime.’

  ‘Precisely, Gresham, you interpret my thoughts. The blackmailer, too, has his good side and, I suspect, his attractive side also. How otherwise could he inspire confidence among his victims, and how could he collect a clientele unless he was able to persuade the more gullible of his acquaintances that he was a man who could be trusted? I fancy that the successful blackmailers must have been men who have invited confidences and inspired a good deal of sympathy. Besides – if I may go even a little further – must we not agree that there are degrees of guilt, even in blackmail? Where, if we are honest, do we draw the line between, let us say, a little gentle personal pressure exercised on individuals and a crude ultimatum which presents the alternatives of exposure or the payment of a few thousand pounds? I wonder (though, as important people are fond of saying, you mustn’t quote me) whether a good many great careers in business or even in politics have not been founded on the use of private knowledge of persons which is, at the best, not very far removed from blackmail. The job which is given to the young and enterprising recruit because he knows a little too much of the early life of his patron – what of that? No word need be spoken, but the bargain is made, and no doubt it is often honourably observed on both sides. Yes, I think there are degrees of moral obliquity, and that it is sometimes hard to determine when shrewdness and the ability to make the most of an opportunity end and when the commission of crime and the pursuit of evil begin. Alas! I know to my cost of some countries where such things are true – more often true than here in your stable country, where for the most part men are honourable and direct.’

  For a moment Brendel seemed to lose his vivacity and the sad look of the exile clouded his face.

  ‘Well, all this is a hobby of mine,’ he went on, ‘and I mustn’t ride it to death, but it is essential to my purpose that I should present Evelyn Bannister to you as fairly and fully as I can, and not let you write him off (that is the right expression, is it not?) because he had dabbled in blackmail. For my part, I did not even know at the beginning that he was a blackmailer – I only came to the conclusion gradually that he was, or rather I deduced it from what I gathered from other persons. And how did he come to be such a man? That, I admit, puzzled me then and puzzles me now, and even at this present moment I cannot be sure that I have rightly understood his nature and his motives. I think I have, but I don’t know. Let me see – what can I tell you of his life, and how can I analyse his character at the time of my story?

  ‘He must, I think, have always been to some extent a lonely man. Not lonely in the sense that he had no friends, for he had many and he shared in every sort of social activity – but lonely in the sense that he was a secret man, with his own ideas and his own plans and his own life – a life to which no other was admitted. At school he must always have given the impression of being older than his contemporaries and mentally being a step ahead of all the rest. At the University it was the same. When his fellow undergraduates were full of… what are undergraduates full of, Gresham?’

  Gresham laughed. ‘Oh, every kind of thing. If they’re intellectua
ls, perhaps the latest trends in philosophy or nuclear physics, or perhaps acting or politics or religion – or maybe if they’re of a different stamp, sport and – ’

  Brendel nodded his head sagely. ‘Ah yes, I know,’ he said. ‘Your boat-race, your rugger match. More important to some than the fall of a government or the loss of a battle. Well, Bannister seemed to have grown out of such things before his time. It is hard to think of him watching a University contest without a faintly depreciatory smile or listening to a debate at the Union without giving the impression to the percipient that he was watching the proceeding a little, but ever so little, de haut en bas. He never criticized, but he thought his thoughts. As I see it, he was already thinking in terms of London and Paris and New York when his friends’ thoughts were still bounded by the limits of their University town. Yes, he was always ahead of the rest, always older than his age. In particular, he knew about money, and that is knowledge which seldom comes to the young. Money fascinated him, and he appeared to understand it and its problems by instinct. Some men have that gift. You, Gresham, can study a text, as I know, and suggest some emendation which would never have occurred to anyone who was not a scholar. Well, Bannister could look at a balance-sheet or a company prospectus, and read from it or into it every sort of hint or suggestion that others would miss. You must have seen a good retriever following the scent of a wounded bird, or a pointer sniffing the breeze and indicating where the game is. Well, there was something instinctive or intuitive in Bannister’s behaviour where financial matters were concerned. I verily believe that he could smell a fraudulent balance-sheet or a bogus company prospectus without even opening or reading them! And always he seemed to know how to follow where money was to be made. Everything he touched turned to money, and his judgement in financial matters was seemingly impeccable. You talk of green fingers among gardeners who can make all things grow, but believe me there are men who can turn to gold all things that they touch.