“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 anyone to fit your own conditions?”
“Well,” said Mr. Bradley, apparently most reluctant all of a sudden, “if you must know, I have found someone 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 someone … “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 absentminded 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-work, that the ambition of my life was to commit a murder, because I was perfectly certain that I could do so without ever being found out. And the excitement, I pointed out, must be stupendous; no gambling game ever invented can come anywhere near it. A murderer is really making a magnificent bet with the police, I demonstrated, with the lives of himself and his victim as the stakes; if he gets away with it, he wins both; if he’s caught, he loses both. For a man like myself, who has the misfortune to be extremely bored by the usual type of popular recreation, murder should be the hobby par excellence.”
“Ah!” Roger nodded portentously.
“This conversation, when I recalled it,” pursued Mr. Bradley very seriously, “seemed to me significant in the extreme. I at once went to see my friend and asked him if he remembered it and was prepared to swear that it took place at all. He was. In fact he was able to add further details, more damning still. I was so impressed that I took a statement from
