The Complete Simon Iff (2 page)

A hundred such parallels were at the service of Flynn, and he hammered them into the head of the public week by week, while srupulously avoiding any reference to Marsden. As the courts had no idea, officially, of the line of the defense, they could say nothing. But Flynn moulded the opinion of the public soundly and shrewdly, and in the end the jury had acquitted Robinson after a bare quarter of an hour’s deliberation.

Ffoulkes guests had complimented him on the ingenuity of his theory of an accident, but the lawyer had not been pleased. “That was a frill,” he had replied; “the real defense was Absence of Motive. Grant the police their theory of Robinson’s movements; put the knife in his hand, and a certain get-away-which he had not got, mind you; the light might have come on any second-but allow everything, and then ask yourselves: “Why should he stab the man?” There was no quarrel; his marriage with Miss Marsden was not opposed; on the contrary he risked that marriage by a mix-up of this sort; yet we are to suppose that he did it on the mere chance that there would be no fuss, and that his fiancée would have twelve thousand a year instead of four. Why, a sane man would hardly kill a rabbit on such motive!”

But now the guests were gone; Ffoulkes and Flynn lit fresh cigars, and settled down for an honest talk. At the elbow of each stood a bottle of the Green Seal ’63, one of the soundest wines that ever came out of Oporto. For some time they smoked in silence.

“This is capital wine, Dick,” said Flynn presently.

“Ah, cher ami, it is only ten years older that we are. We are getting to the port and portly stage of life.”

“Well, there are thrills left. This has been a great case.”

“Yes. I’m glad you stayed. I thought you might care to hear about it.”

“Hear about it!”

“Yes, there were interesting features.”

“But we need hardly recapitulate.”

“Oh, I don’t mean what came out at the trial.”

“No? … I suppose nothing ever does come out at a trial!”

“Just as nothing ever gets into the newspapers.”

“All right. Spit it out. I suppose Robinson did it, for a start.”

“Of course. There was an accident in it, but one of a different kind. When the elevator put him out on Marsden’s floor, he was amazed to recognize an old flame in that very prepossessing floor clerk Maud Duval. They had been members of some kind of devil-worship club, and one of their games was cocaine. Robinson’s a perfect fiend, by the way; we had to smuggle the stuff in to him all the time he was in prison, or he’d have gone crazy. Well, the old passion lit like tinder. They had lost each other somehow-you know how such things happen-both had made desperate efforts to renew the link, but in vain. So he told her his plans in ten words. Her answer was equally sweet and to the point. ‘Kill the old man—I’ll cover your tracks; marry the old girl; and meet me at our old trysting-place at midnight a year from to-day. We’ll find a way to be rid of her. Don’t risk another word till then.’ Great and successful criminals have always this faculty of firmness of character and promptitude of decision. The rest of the story is short. The knife incident was intentional; for Robinson had brought no weapon. He left the hotel openly at nine-thirty; came in again by the bar entrance, went unnoticed to the mezzanine floor, and thence to Marsden’s floor, thus avoiding the notice of the main office. The failure of the electricity had nothing to do with it—happened twenty minutes later. He walked in, killed the old man, and left as he had come. Pretty bold? “Only cocaine. So now he’s off to marry old Miss Marsden’s money.”

“I begin to see some sort of motive! Maud is what they call ‘some peach’ across the Straits of America.”

“Yes; a perfect devil, with the face of a baby, and the manners of the jeune fille bien élevée. Just such a woman as you are a man, Jack, you old scoundrel.”

“Many thanks. I think your own morals—in this case—have been a trifle open to criticism. I suppose it’s your fifteen years of law.”

“No; it’s being under the influence of dear old Jack, with his fifteen years of journalism!”

“Stop rotting! I’m a bit staggered, you know, straight. Let’s have another bottle of port.”

Ffoulkes went to the buttery, and returned with a couple. For ten minutes neither spoke.

“I’ve a damned funny feeling,” said Flynn at last. “Do you remember the night we put the iodide of nitrogen in the Doctor’s nighties?”

“By the soft leather of this chair, I do!”

“Yes; we caught it! But it’s the spirit, not the flesh, which goads me now. I’ve loved skating around the judges, these last weeks. The best thing in life is the feeling of escape. It’s the one real thrill. Perhaps that’s why I’ve always been so keen on solitary climbing and big game shooting.”

“I always preferred fishing. My thrill comes from proving my intellectual stamina or subtlety.” There was a pause.

“What do you think of murder, anyhow?” suddenly blurted out the journalist.

“The most serious crime, except high treason, known to the English law.”

“True, O wise judge! But what is it morally?”

“An art, according to that ass Wilde.”

“When I rite an essay on it, I shall treat it as a sport. And between you and me, that is why I have never written one.”

“Why?”

“Why, old intellectual stamina and subtlety, because if I ever do take it up, I don’t want some fool to fix me up with a motive. But after your story of to-night, I don’t mind telling you; if I’m caught, I’ll brief you! Observe, O man of motives, the analysis. Man is no longer killed for food, except in distant countries, or in rare emergencies such as shipwreck.”

“He is only killed nowadays for one of two motives, gain or revenge.”

“Add love.”

“That’s psychopathic.”

“Well, we’re all psychopaths; it’s only a term of endearment in common use among doctors.”

“Get on!”

“But there’s the greatest motive of all—adventure. We’ve standardized life too much; and those of us who love life are more and more driven to seek adventure in crime.”

“Or journalism.”

“Which is only one of the meaner crimes. But you needn’t talk; the practice of law is the nearest thing we have to man-hunting.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Of course it’s true. But it’s a mere pheasant-shoot, with all your police for beaters. The game hasn’t a chance. No. The motivless murderer has the true spirit of sport; to kill a man is more dangerous than to follow a wounded gaur into the jungle. The anarchist goes after the biggest game of all: but he’s not a sportsman; he has a genuine grievance.”

“Your essay on murder will make some very pleasant reading.”

“But doesn’t it attract you too, with your passion to prove your mental superiority to others? Think of the joy of baffling the stupid police, fooling the detectives with false clues, triumphantly proving yourself innocent when you know you are guilty!”

“Are you tempting me? You always did, you know.”

“Anyhow, you always fell!”

“Cher ami, for that alone I could forgive you everything!”

“Sarcastic to the last!”

“You have me to thank that we usually escaped the consequences!”

“Pride, my poor friend!”

“Truth, comrade in misfortune!”

“No. Seriously. I’m crazy to-night, and I really am going to tempt you. Don’t prove it’s my fault, blame your own good port, and also certain qualities in your own story of the Marsden case. One or two little remarks of yours on the subject of Miss Maud Duval—”

“I knew something would come of that.”

“Yes, that’s my weak point. I’m absurdly feminine in vanity and love of power over—a friend.”

“Now I’m warned; so fire ahead. What’s the proposal?”

“Oh, I haven’t thought of that yet!”

“You big baby!”

“Yes, it’s my bedtime; I’ll roll home, I think.”

“No, don’t go. Let’s sober up on coffee, and the ’48 brandy.”

“It’s a damned extraordinary thing that a little brandy makes you drunk, and a lot of it straightens you out again.”

“It’s Providence!”

“Then call upon it in the time of trouble!”

Ffoulkes went in search of the apparatus. Jack rose lazily and went to the window; he threw it open, and the cold damp air came in with a rush. It was infinitely pleasurable, the touch on his heated, wine-flushed face.

He stood there for perhaps ten minutes. A voice recalled him to himself.

“Café noir, Gamiani!”

He started as if he had been shot. Ffoulkes, in an embroidered dressing gown of black silk, was seated on cushions on the floor, gravely pouring Turkish coffee from a shining pot of hammered brass.

At one side of him was a great silver hookah, its bowl already covered by a coal from the fire.

Jack took a second dressing-gown that had been thrown across his chair, and rapidly made himself at ease. Then he seated himself opposite to his friend; bowed deeply, with joined hands upon his forehead, and said with mock solemnity: “Be pleased to say thy pleasure, O most puissant king!”

“Let Scherezade recount the mirific tale of the Two Thousand and Second Night, wherein it is narrated how the wicked journalist tempted the good lawyer in the matter of murder regarded as a pastime and as a debating society!”

“Hearing and obedience! ›ut I must have oh! such a lot of this coffee before I get wound up!”

As it happened, it was two hours before Jack deigned to speak. “To use the phrase of Abdullah El Haji i-Shiraz,” he began, “I remove the silken tube of the rose-perfumed huqqa from my mouth. When King Brahmadatta reigned in Benares, there were two brothers named Chuckerrbutty Lal and Hari Ramkrishna. For short we shall call them Pork and Beans. Now Pork, who was a poet and a devil of a fine fellow, was tempted by the reprobate Beans, a lawyer, whose only quality was low cunning, to join him in a wager. And these were the terms thereof. During the season of the monsoon each was to go away from Benares to a far country, and there he was, feloniously and of his malice aforethought, to kill and murder a liege of the Sultan of that land. And when they returned, they were to compare their stories. It was agreed that such murder should be a real murder in the legal sense—act for which they would be assuredly hanged if they were caught; and also that it would be contrary to the spirit of sport to lay false trails deliberately, and so put in peril the life of some innocent person, not being the game desired to fill the bag. But it must be an undoubted murder, with no possibility of suicide or accident. The murder, moreover, must be of a purely adventurous nature, not a crime inspired by greed or animosity. The idea was to prove that it would be perfectly safe, since there would be no motive to draw suspicion upon them. Yet if either were suspected of the mamelukes, the Sbirri, the janissaries, or the proggins, he should take refuge with the other; but—mark this, O king!—for being so clumsy he should pay to him a camel-load of gold, which in our money is one thousand pounds. Is it a bet?”

Ffoulkes extended his hand. “It’s a bet” 

“You’re really game?”

“Dying oath.”

“Dying oath. And now, O king, for I perceive that thou art weary, hie thee to thy chaste couch, and thy faitful slave shall doss it on the sofa.”

In the morning Ffoulkes said, over the breakfast-table, “About that bet.” “It’s on?” cried Flynn in alarm. “Oh, yes! Only—er—I suppose I need about another seven or eight of law; I stipulate that—what is thrown away—shall be as worthless as possible.” “Certainly,” said Flynn, “I’m going to Ostend.” “Good for you. Newspaper accounts shall be evidence; but send me the whole paper, and mark another passage, not the one referring to the bet.”

“O intellectual subtley and stamina!”

“Have some more coffee?”

“Thanks.”

An hour later each, in his appointed lighthouse, was indicating the sure path of virtue and justice to the admiring English.

The Trinity sittings were over. Sir Richard Ffoulkes—for the king’s birthday had not left him without honor—was contemplating his wig and gown with disgust. On the table before him was a large leather book, containing many colored flies; and he had just assured himself that his seventeen-foot split cane was in good order. In fact, he had been boyish enough to test the check on his Hardy reel by practicing casts out of the window, to the alarm of the sparrows. It was the common routine for him on the brink of a holiday, but it never lost its freshness.

Then there came back to him the realization that this was to be no ordinary holiday. He was pledged to do murder.

He went over to the mirror, and studied his face steadily. He was perfectly calm; no trace of excitement showed in his keen features. “I have always thought,” he mused, “That the cries of life are usually determined by accident. It is not possible to foresee events with mathematical accuracy, and in big things it is the small things that count. Hence the cleverest criminal may always make some slip, and the clumsiest by a piece of luck. Let me never forget the story of the officer at Gibraltar who, focussing a new field-glass, chanced to pick up a shepard in the very act of crime. On the other hand, how many men have got clear away through stupid people disturbing the clues: from Jack the Ripper downwards! But it is the motive that counts. Where that does not exist, the strongest clues lead nowhere. For our surest faith is that men’s actions are founded upon reason or upon desire. Hence the utter impossibility of guarding against lunatics or anarchists. I should hardly believe the evidence of my senses in such a case as this: Suppose the Master of the Rolls dropped in to see me, and in the course of a perfectly sound conversation, broke up my fishing-rod without explanation or apology, and, when questioned, calmly denied that he had done so. Who would believe my story? Hence I think that I could walk into the Strand, shoot a perfect stranger in the crowd, and throw away the gun, with no danger of being caught, provided only that the gun could not be traced to me. The evidence of those who saw me fire would be torn to pieces in cross-examination; they could even be made to disbelieve their own eyes.

“From this I draw these conclusions as to the proper conditions for my murder: First, there must be no conceivable reason for the act; second, there must be no way of tracing the weapon to my possession. I need not trouble to hide my traces, except in obvious matters like blood; for it is exceedingly stupid to attempt to prove a false alibi. In fact, there is no bigger booby-trap for a criminal, pace the indignant ghost of Mr. Weller, Senior.