“Yes,” admitted Mr. Bradley, “that is rather too subtle a point for one of my unpsychological attributes.”
“I think I dealt with most of your other conditions. As regards the methodical habits, which you deduced from the meticulous doses of poison in each chocolate, my point of course is that the doses were exactly equal in order that Bendix could take any two of the chocolates and be sure of having got the right amount of nitrobenzene into his system to produce the symptoms he wanted, and not enough to run any serious risk. That dosing of himself with the poison really was a masterstroke. And it’s so natural that a man shouldn’t have taken so many chocolates as a woman. He exaggerated his symptoms considerably, no doubt, but the effect on everybody was tremendous.
“We must remember, you see, that we’ve only got his word for the conversation in the drawing-room, over the eating of the chocolates, just as we’ve only got his word for it that there ever was a bet at all. Most of that conversation certainly took place, however. Bendix is far too great an artist not to make all possible use of the truth in his lying. But of course he wouldn’t have left her that afternoon till he’d seen her take, or somehow made her take, at least six of the chocolates, which he’d know made up more than a lethal dose. That was another advantage in having the stuff in those exact six-minim quantities.”
“In fact,” Mr. Bradley summed up, “our Uncle Bendix is a great man.”
“He really is,” said Roger, quite solemnly.
“You’ve no doubt at all that he is the criminal?” queried Miss Dammers.
“None at all,” said Roger, astonished.
“Um,” said Miss Dammers.
“Why, have you?”
“Um,” said Miss Dammers.
The conversation then lapsed.
“Well,” said Mr. Bradley, “let’s all tell Sheringham how wrong he is, shall we?”
Mrs. Fielder-Flemming looked tense. “I’m afraid,” she said in a hushed voice, “that he is only too right.”
But Mr. Bradley refused to be impressed. “Oh, I think I can find a hole or two to pick at. You seem to attach a good deal of importance to the motive, Sheringham. Don’t you exaggerate? One doesn’t poison a wife one’s tired of; one leaves her. And really, I find some difficulty in believing (a) that Bendix should have been so set on getting hold of more money to pour down the drainpipe of his businesses as to commit murder for it, and (b) that Mrs. Bendix should have been so close as to refuse to come to her husband’s help if he really was badly pressed.”
“Then I think you fail to estimate the characters of both of them,” Roger told him. “They were both obstinate as the devil. It was Mrs. Bendix, not her husband, who realised that his businesses were a drainpipe. I could give you a list a yard long of murders that have been committed with far less motive than Bendix had.”
“Motive allowed again, then. Now you remember that Mrs. Bendix had had a lunch appointment for the day of her death, which was cancelled. Didn’t Bendix know of that? Because if he did, would he have chosen a day for the delivery of the chocolates when he knew his wife wouldn’t be at home for lunch to receive them?”
“Just the point I had thought of putting to Mr. Sheringham myself,” remarked Miss Dammers.
Roger looked puzzled. “It seems to me a most unimportant point. If it comes to that, why should he necessarily want to give the chocolates to his wife at lunchtime?”
“For two reasons,” responded Mr. Bradley glibly.
“Firstly because he would naturally want to put them to their right purpose as soon as he possibly could, and secondly because his wife being the only person who can contradict his story of the bet, he would obviously want her silenced as soon as practicable.”
“You’re quibbling,” Roger smiled, “and I refuse to be drawn. For that matter, I don’t see why Bendix should have known of his wife’s lunch-appointment at all. They were constantly lunching out, both of them, and I don’t suppose they took any particular care to inform each other beforehand.”
“Humph!” said Mr. Bradley, and stroked his chin.
Mr. Chitterwick ventured to raise his recently crushed head. “You really base your whole case on the bet, Mr. Sheringham, don’t you?”
“And the psychological deduction I drew from the story of it. Yes, I do. Entirely.”
“So that if the bet could be proved after all to have been made, you would have no case left?”
“Why,” exclaimed Roger, in some alarm, “have you any independent evidence that the bet was made?”
“Oh, no. Oh, dear me, no. Nothing of the sort. I was merely thinking that if anyone did want to disprove your case, as Bradley suggested, it is the bet on which he would have to concentrate.”
“You mean, quibbling about the motive, and the lunch-appointment, and such minor matters, is altogether beside the point?” suggested Mr. Bradley amiably. “Oh, I quite agree. But I was only trying to test his case, you know, not disprove it. And for why? Because I think it’s the right one. The Mystery of the Poisoned Chocolates, so far as I’m concerned, is at an end.”
“Thank you, Bradley,” said Mr. Sheringham.
“So three cheers for our sleuth-like President,” continued Mr. Bradley with great heartiness, “coupled with the name of Graham Reynard Bendix for the fine run he’s given us. Hip, hip—”
“And you say you’ve definitely proved the purchase of the typewriter, and the contact of Mr. Bendix with the sample-book at Webster’s, Mr. Sheringham?” remarked Alicia Dammers, who had
