occasion.
'The mystery was never solved. The printing - press used to print the letter - heading and label couldn't be traced, though the police visited every printing - works in the whole of America. The very motive for the murder was never even satisfactorily ascertained. A typical open murder. The bottle arrived out of the blue, and the murderer remained in it.
'You see the close resemblance to this case, particularly in the supposed sample. As Mrs. Fielder - Flemming has pointed out, it's almost too good to be a coincidence. Our murderer must have had that case in mind, with its (for the murderer) most successful outcome. As a matter of fact there was a possible motive. Wilson was a notorious abortionist, and somebody may have wanted to stop his activities. Conscience, I suppose. There are people who have such a thing. That's another parallel with this affair, you see. Sir Eustace is a notorious evil - liver. And that goes to support the police view, of an anonymous fanatic. There's a good deal to be said for that view, I think.
'But I must get on with my own exposition.
'Well, having reached this stage I tabulated my conclusions and drew up a list of conditions which this criminal of ours must fulfil. Now I should like to point out that these conditions of mine were so many and so varied that if anybody could be found to fit them the chances, Sir Charles, would not be a mere million to one but several million to one that he or she must be the guilty person. This isn't just haphazard statement, it's cold mathematical fact.
'I have twelve conditions, and the mathematical odds against their all being fulfilled in one person are actually (if my arithmetic stands the test) four hundred and seventy nine million, one thousand and six hundred to one. And that, mark you, is if all the chances were even ones. But they're not. That he should have some knowledge of criminology is at least a ten to one chance. That he should be able to get hold of Mason's notepaper must be more than a hundred to one against.
'Well, taking it all in all,' opined Mr. Bradley, 'I should think the real odds must be somewhere about four billion, seven hundred and ninety thousand million, five hundred and sixteen thousand, four hundred and fifty - eight to one. In other words, it's a snip. Does every one agree?'
Every one was far too stunned to disagree.
'Right; then we're all of one mind,' said Mr. Bradley cheerfully. 'So I'll read you my list.'
He shuffled the pages of a little pocket - book and began to read: -
CONDITIONS TO BE FILLED BY THE CRIMINAL
1. Must have at least an elementary amount of chemical knowledge.
2. Must have at least an elementary knowledge of criminology.
3. Must have had a reasonably good education, but not public school or university.
4. Must have possession of, or access to, Mason's notepaper.
5. Must have possession of, or access to, a Hamilton No. 4 typewriter.
6. Must have been in the neighbourhood of Southampton Street, Strand, during the critical hour, 8.30 - 9.30, on the evening before the murder.
7. Must be in possession of, or had access to, an Onyx fountain - pen, fitted with a medium - broad nib.
8. Must be in possession of, or had access to, Harfield's Fountain - Pen Ink.
9. Must have something of a creative mind, but not above adapting the creations of others.
10. Must be more than ordinarily neat with the fingers.
11. Must be a person of methodical habits, probably with a strong feeling for symmetry.
12. Must have the cold inhumanity of the poisoner.
'By the way,' said Mr. Bradley, stowing away his pocket - book again, 'you see that I've agreed with you too, Sir Charles, that the murderer would never have entrusted the posting of the parcel to another person. Oh, and one other point. For purposes of reference. If anybody wants to see an Onyx pen, and fitted with a medium - broad nib as well, take a look at mine. And curiously enough it's filled with Harfield's Fountain - Pen Ink too.' The pen circulated slowly round the table while Mr. Bradley, leaning back in his chair, surveyed its progress with a fatherly smile.
'And that,' said Mr. Bradley, when the pen had been restored to him, 'is that.'
Roger thought he saw the explanation of the glint that had appeared from time to time in Mr. Bradley's eye. 'You mean, the problem's still to solve. The four billion chances were too much for you. You couldn't find any one to fit your own conditions?'
'Well,' said Mr. Bradley, apparently most reluctant all of a sudden, 'if you must know, I have found some one who does.'
'You have? Good man! Who?'
'Hang it all, you know,' said the coy Mr. Bradley, 'I hardly like to tell you. It's really too ridiculous.'
A chorus of expostulation, cajolement, and encouragement was immediately directed at him. Never had Mr. Bradley found himself so popular.
'You'll laugh at me if I do tell you.'
It appeared that everybody would rather suffer the tortures of the Inquisition than laugh at Mr. Bradley. Never can five people less disposed to mirth at Mr. Bradley's expense have been gathered together.
Mr. Bradley seemed to take heart. 'Well, it's very awkward. Upon my soul I don't know what to do about it. If I can show you that the person I have in mind not only fulfils each of my conditions exactly, but also had a certain interest (remote I admit, but capable of proof) in sending those chocolates to Sir Eustace, have I your assurance, Mr. President, that the meeting will give me its serious advice as to what my duty is in the matter?'
'Good gracious, yes,' at once agreed Roger, much excited. Roger had thought that he might be on the verge of solving the problem himself, but he was quite sure that he and Bradley had not hit upon the same solution. And if the fellow really had got some one . . . 'Good Lord, yes!' said Roger.
Mr. Bradley looked round the table in a worried way. 'Well, can't you see who I mean? Dear me, I thought I'd told you in almost every other sentence.'
Nobody had seen whom he meant.
'The only possible person, so far as I can see, who could ever be expected to fulfil all those twelve conditions?' said this harassed version of Mr. Bradley, dishevelling his carefully flattened hair. 'Why, dash it, not my sister at all, but - but - but me, of course!'
There was a stupefied silence.
'D - did you say, you?' finally ventured Mr. Chitterwick.
Mr. Bradley turned gloomy eyes on him. 'Obviously, I'm afraid. I have more than an elementary knowledge of chemistry. I can make nitrobenzene and often have. I'm a criminologist. I've had a reasonably good education, but not public - school or University. I had access to Mason's notepaper. I possess a Hamilton No. 4 typewriter. I was in Southampton Street itself during the critical hour. I possess an Onyx pen, fitted with a medium - broad nib and filled with Harfield's ink. I have something of a creative mind, but I'm not above adapting the ideas of other people. I'm far more than ordinarily neat with my fingers. I'm a person of methodical habits, with a strong feeling for symmetry. And apparently I have the cold inhumanity of the poisoner.
'Yes,' sighed Mr. Bradley, 'there's simply no getting away from it. I sent those chocolates to Sir Eustace.
'I must have done. I've proved it conclusively. And the extraordinary thing is that I don't remember a single jot about it. I suppose I did it when I was thinking about something else. I've noticed I'm getting a little absent - minded at times.'
Roger was struggling with an inordinate wish to laugh. However he managed to ask gravely enough; 'And what do you imagine was your motive, Bradley?'
Mr. Bradley brightened a little. 'Yes, that was a difficulty. For quite a time I couldn't establish my motive at all. I couldn't even connect myself with Sir Eustace Pennefather. I'd heard of him of course, as anybody who's ever been to the Rainbow must. And I'd gathered he was somewhat savoury. But I'd no grudge against the man. He could be as savoury as he liked so far as I cared. I don't think I'd ever even seen him. Yes, the motive was a real stumbling - block, because of course there must be one. What should I have tried to kill him for otherwise?'
'And you've found it?'
'I think I've managed to ferret out what must be the real cause,' said Mr. Bradley, not without pride. 'After puzzling for a long time I remembered that I had heard myself once say to a friend, in a discussion on detective -
