The Perfectionist

square.

'Straight up the steps,' said David. 'The door is open.'

They went in, through a hallway with mirrors, brightly lit by a crystal chandelier. The dazzling effect, after the dim lighting in the car, made him blink. David took Duncan’s coat and handed it to a manservant and then opened a door.

'Gentlemen,' he said. 'May I present our guest, Mr. Duncan Driffield.'

It was a smallish anteroom, and four men stood waiting with glasses of wine. Two looked quite elderly, the others about forty or so. One of the younger men was wearing a kilt.

The one who was probably the senior member extended a bony hand. 'Joe Franks. I’m president, through a process of elimination.'

There were some smiles at this that David didn’t fully understand.

Joe Franks went on to say, 'I qualified for membership in 1934, when I was only nineteen, but I didn’t officially join until after the war.'

David, at Duncan’s side, murmured something that made no sense about a body left in a trunk at Brighton railway station.

'And this well set-up fellow on my right,' said Joe Franks, 'is Wally Winthrop, the first private individual to put ricin to profitable use. Wally now owns one of the largest supermarket chains in Europe.'

'Did you say rice?' asked Duncan.

'No, ricin. A vegetable poison.'

It was difficult to see the connection between a vegetable poison and a supermarket chain. Wally Winthrop grinned and shook Duncan’s hand.

'Tell you about it one of these days,' he said.

Joe Franks indicated the man in the kilt. 'Alex McPhee is our youngest member and our most prolific. Is it seven, Alex?'

'So far,' said McPhee, and this caused more amusement.

'His skene-dhu has more than once come to the aid of the club,' added Joe Franks.

Duncan wasn’t too familiar with Gaelic, but he had a faint idea that the skene-dhu was the ornamental dagger worn by a Highlander in his stocking. He supposed the club used this one as part of some ritual.

'And now meet Michael Pitt-Struthers, who advises the SAS on the martial arts. His knowledge of pressure points is unrivalled. Shake hands very carefully with Michael.'

More smiles, the biggest from Pitt-Struthers, who squeezed Duncan’s hand in a way that left no doubt as to his expertise.

'And of course you’ve already met our doctor member, David Hopkins, who knows more about allergic reactions than any man alive.'

With a huge effort to be sociable, Duncan remarked, 'Such a variety of talents. I can’t think what you all have in common.'

Joe Franks answered, 'Each of us has committed a perfect murder.'

Duncan played the statement over in his head. He thought he’d heard it right. It had been spoken with some pride. This time no one smiled. More disturbingly, no one disputed it.

'Shall we go in to dinner, gentlemen?' Joe Franks suggested.

At a round table in the next room, Duncan tried to come to terms with the sensational claim he had just heard. If it was true, what on earth was he doing sharing a meal with a bunch of killers? And why had they chosen to take him into their confidence? If he shopped them to the police, they wouldn’t be perfect murderers any longer. Maybe it was wise not to mention this while he was seated between the martial arts expert and the Scot with the skene-dhu tucked into his sock.

The wineglasses were filled with claret by an elderly waiter.

'Hungarian,' Joe Franks confided. 'He understands no English.' He raised his glass. 'At this point, gentlemen, I propose a toast to Thomas de Quincey, author of that brilliant essay, 'On Murder,Considered as one of the Fine Arts', who esteemed the killing of Sir Edmund Godfrey as the finest work of the eighteenth century for the excellent reason that no one was able to determine who had done it.'

'Thomas de Quincey,' said everyone, with Duncan just a half-beat slower than the rest.

'You’re probably wondering what brings us together,' said Wally Winthrop across the table. 'You might think we’d be uncomfortable sharing our secrets. In fact, it works the other way. It’s a tremendous relief. I don’t have to tell you, Duncan, what it’s like after you commit your first-living in fear of being found out, waiting for the police siren and the knock on the door. As the months pass, this panicky stage fades and is replaced by a feeling of isolation. You’ve set yourself apart from others by your action. You can only look forward to keeping your secret bottled up for the rest of your life. It’s horrible. We’ve all been through it. Five years have to pass-five years without being charged with murder-before you’re contacted by the club and invited to join us for a meal.'

David Hopkins briskly took up the conversation. 'It’s such a break in the clouds, to discover that you’re not alone in the world. To find that what you’ve done is valued, in some circles, as an achievement which can be openly discussed. Wonderful. After all, there is worth in having committed a perfect murder.'

'How do you know you can trust each other?' Duncan asked, without giving anything away.

'Mutual self-interest. If any one of us betrayed the others, he’d take himself down as well. We’re all in the same boat.'

Joe Franks explained, 'It’s a safeguard that’s worked for over a hundred years. One of our first members was the man better known as Jack the Ripper, who was, in fact, a pillar of the establishment. If his identity could be protected all these years, then the rest of us can breathe easy.'

'That’s amazing. You know who the Ripper was?'

'Aye,' said McPhee calmly. 'And no one has ever named the laddie.'

'Can I ask?'

'Not till you join,' said Joe Franks.

Duncan hesitated. He was about to say he had no chance of joining, not having committed a murder, when some inner voice prompted him to shut up. These people were acting as if he was one of them. Maybe, through some ghastly mistake, they’d been told he’d once done away with a fellow human being. And maybe it was in his interest not to disillusion them.

'We have to keep to the rules,' Wally Winthrop was explaining.

'Certain information is only passed on to full members.'

Joe Franks added, 'And we are confident you will want to join. All we ask is that you respect the rules. Not a word must be spoken to anyone else about this evening, or the existence of the club. The ultimate sanction is at our disposal for anyone foolish enough to betray us.'

'The ultimate sanction-what’s that?' Duncan huskily enquired.

No one answered, but the Scot beside him grinned in a way Duncan didn’t care for.

'The skene-dhu…?' said Duncan.

'… or the pressure point,' said Joe Franks, 'or the allergic reaction, or whatever we decide is tidiest. But it won’t happen in your case.'

'No chance,' Duncan affirmed. 'My lips are sealed.'

The starters were served, and he was pleased when the conversation shifted to murders in fiction, and some recent crime novels. Faintly he listened as they discussed The Silence of the Lambs, but he was trying to think what to say if someone asked about the murder he was supposed to have committed. They were sure to return to him before the evening ended, and then it was essential to sound convincing. If they got the idea he was a mild man who wouldn’t hurt a fly he was in real trouble.

Towards the end of the meal, he spoke up. It seemed a good idea to take the initiative. 'This has been a brilliant evening. Is there any chance I could join?'

'You’ve enjoyed yourself?' said Joe Franks. 'That’s excellent. A kindred spirit.'

'It will take more than that for you to become a member,' Winthrop put in. 'You’ve got to provide some evidence that you’re one of us.'

Duncan swallowed hard. 'Don’t you have that? I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t found something out.'