“Ah!” nodded Mr. Bradley. “Oh, very pretty.”
“Just so. It is (with apologies to Sir Charles) a psychological impossibility. It really is, you know, Sir Charles; one simply can’t see her doing such a thing, in fun or out of it; and I gather that fun wasn’t her strong suit, by any means.
“Ergo,” concluded Roger briskly, “she didn’t. Ergo, that bet was never made. Ergo, there never was such a bet. Ergo, Bendix was lying. Ergo, Bendix wanted to get hold of those chocolates for some reason other than he stated. And the chocolates being what they were, there was only one other reason.
“That’s my case.”
XIV
When the excitement that greeted this revolutionary reading of the case had died down, Roger went on to defend his theory in more detail.
“It is something of a shock, of course, to find oneself contemplating Bendix as the very cunning murderer of his own wife, but really, once one has been able to rid one’s mind of all prejudice, I don’t see how the conclusion can possibly be avoided. Every item of evidence, however minute, goes to support it.”
“But the motive!” ejaculated Mrs. Fielder-Flemming.
“Motive? Good heavens, he’d motive enough. In the first place he was frankly—no, not frankly; secretly!—tired of her. Remember what we were told of his character. He’d sown his wild oats. But apparently he hadn’t finished sowing them, because his name has been mentioned in connection with more than one woman even since his marriage, usually, in the good old-fashioned way, actresses. So Bendix wasn’t such a solemn stick by any means. He liked his fun. And his wife, I should imagine, was just about the last person in the world to sympathise with such feelings.
“Not that he hadn’t liked her well enough when he married her, quite possibly, though it was her money he was after all the time. But she must have bored him dreadfully very soon. And really,” said Roger impartially, “I think one can hardly blame him there. Any woman, however charming otherwise, is bound to bore a normal man if she does nothing but prate continually about honour and duty and playing the game; and that, I have on good authority, was Mrs. Bendix’s habit.
“Just look at the ménage in this new light. The wife would never overlook the smallest peccadillo. Every tiny lapse would be thrown up at him for years. Everything she did would be right and everything he did wrong. Her sanctimonious righteousness would be forever being contrasted with his vileness. She might even work herself into the state of those half-mad creatures who spend the whole of their married lives reviling their husbands for having been attracted by other women before they even met the girl it was their misfortune to marry. Don’t think I’m trying to blacken Mrs. Bendix. I’m just showing you how intolerable life with her might have been.
“But that’s only the incidental motive. The real trouble was that she was too close with her money, and that too I know for a fact. That’s where she sentenced herself to death. He wanted it, or some of it, badly (it’s what he married her for), and she wouldn’t part.
“One of the first things I did was to consult a Directory of Directors and make a list of the firms he’s interested in, with a view to getting a confidential report on their financial condition. The report reached me just before I left my rooms. It told me exactly what I expected—that every single one of those firms is rocky, some only a little but some within sight of a crash. They all need money to save them. It’s obvious, isn’t it? He’s run through all his own money, and he had to get more. I found time to run down to Somerset House and again it was as I expected: her will was entirely in his favour. The really important point (which no one seems to have suspected) is that he isn’t a good businessman at all; he’s a rotten one. And half-a-million … Well!
“Oh, yes. There’s motive enough.”
“Motive allowed,” said Mr. Bradley. “And the nitrobenzene? You said, I think, that Bendix has some knowledge of chemistry.”
Roger laughed. “You remind me of a Wagner opera, Bradley. The nitrobenzene motif crops up regularly from you whenever a possible criminal is mentioned. However, I think I can satisfy even you in this instance. Nitrobenzene as you know, is used in perfumery. In the list of Bendix’s businesses is the Anglo-Eastern Perfumery Company. I made a special, and dreadful, journey out to Acton for the express purpose of finding out whether the Anglo-Eastern Company used nitrobenzene at all, and, if so, whether its poisonous qualities were thoroughly recognised. The answer to both questions was in the affirmative. So there can be no doubt that Bendix is thoroughly acquainted with the stuff.
“He might easily enough have got his supply from the factory, but I’m inclined to doubt that. I think he’d be cleverer than that. He probably made the stuff himself, if the process is as easy as Bradley told us. Because I happen to know that he was on the modern side at Selchester (that I heard quite by chance too), which presupposes at any rate an elementary knowledge of chemistry. Do you pass that, Bradley?”
“Pass, friend nitrobenzene,” conceded Mr. Bradley.
Roger drummed thoughtfully on the table with his fingertips. “It was a well-planned affair, wasn’t it?” he meditated. “And so extremely easy to reconstruct. Bendix must have thought he’d provided against every possible contingency. And so he very nearly had. It was just that little bit of unlucky grit that gets into the smooth machinery of so many clever crimes: he didn’t know that his wife had seen the play before. He’d decided on the mild alibi of his presence at the theatre, you see, just in case suspicion should ever impossibly arise, and no doubt
