I shrugged my shoulders and burnt my boats.
'A pale horse…'
'Ah, very good, excellent. You yourself, if I may say so, seem to be rather a dark horse. Ha ha! You mustn't be nervous. There really is no need to be nervous.'
'That's what you say,' I said rather rudely. Mr Bradley's manner became even more bland and soothing.
'I can quite understand your feelings. But I can assure you that you needn't have any anxiety. I'm a lawyer myself – disbarred, of course,' he added parenthetically, in what was really almost an engaging way. 'Otherwise I shouldn't be here. But I can assure you that I know my law. Everything I recommend is perfectly legal and aboveboard. It's just a question of a bet. A man can bet on anything he pleases, whether it will rain tomorrow, whether the Russians can send a man to the moon, or whether your wife's going to have twins. You can bet whether Mr B. will die before Christmas, or whether Mrs C. will live to be a hundred. You back your judgment or your intuition or whatever you like to call it. It's as simple as that.'
I felt exactly as though I were being reassured by a surgeon before an operation. Mr Bradley's consulting- room manner was perfect.
I said slowly:
'I don't really understand this business of the Pale Horse.'
'And that worries you? Yes, it worries a lot of people. More things in heaven and earth, Horatio, and so on and so on. Frankly, I don't understand it myself. But it gets results. It gets results in the most marvellous way.'
'If you could tell me more about it -?'
I had settled on my role now – cautious, eager – but scared. It was obviously an attitude with which Mr Bradley had frequently had to cope.
'Do you know the place at all?'
I made a quick decision. It would be unwise to lie.
'I – well – yes – I was with some friends. They took me there.'
'Charming old pub. Full of historical interest. And they've done wonders in restoring it. You met her, then. My friend, Miss Grey, I mean?'
'Yes – yes, of course. An extraordinary woman.'
'Isn't she? Yes, isn't she? You've hit it exactly. An extraordinary woman. And with extraordinary powers.'
'The things she claims! Surely quite – well – impossible?'
'Exactly. That's the whole point. The things she claims to be able to know and do are impossible! Everybody would say so. In a court of law, for instance -'
The black beady eyes were boring into mine. Mr Bradley repeated the words with designed emphasis.
'In a court of law, for instance – the whole thing would be ridiculed! If that woman stood up and confessed to murder, murder by remote control or 'will power' or whatever nonsensical name she likes to use, that confession couldn't be acted upon! Even if her statement was true (which of course sensible men like you and I don't believe for one moment!) it couldn't be admitted legally. Murder by remote control isn't murder in the eyes of the law. It's just nonsense. That's the whole beauty of the thing – as you'll appreciate if you think for a moment.'
I understood that I was being reassured. Murder committed by occult powers was not murder in an English court of law. If I were to hire a gangster to commit murder with a cosh or a knife, I was committed with him – an accomplice before the fact – I had conspired with him. But if I commissioned Thyrza Grey to use her black arts, those black arts were not admissible. That was what, according to Mr Bradley, was the beauty of the thing.
All my natural scepticism rose up in protest. I burst out heatedly.
'But damn it all, it's fantastic,' I shouted. 'I don't believe it. It's impossible.'
'I agree with you. I really do. Thyrza Grey is an extraordinary woman, and she certainly has some extraordinary powers, but one can't believe all the things she claims for herself. As you say, it's too fantastic. In this age, one really can't credit that someone can send out thought waves or whatever it is, either oneself or through a medium, sitting in a cottage in England and cause someone to sicken and die of a convenient disease out in Capri or somewhere like that.'
'But that is what she claims?'
'Oh yes. Of course she has powers – she is Scottish and what is called second sight is a peculiarity of that race. It really does exist. What I do believe, and believe without a doubt, is this:' he leaned forward, wagging a forefinger impressively, 'Thyrza Grey does know – beforehand – when someone is going to die. It's a gift. And she has it.'
He leaned back, studying me. I waited.
'Let's assume a hypothetical case. Someone, yourself or another, would like very much to know when – let's say Great-Aunt Eliza – is going to die. It's useful, you must admit, to know something like that. Nothing unkind in it, nothing wrong – just a matter of business convenience. What plans to make? Will there be, shall we say, a useful sum of money coming in by next November? If you knew that, definitely, you might take up some valuable option. Death is such a chancy matter. Dear old Eliza might live, pepped up by doctors, for another ten years. You'd be delighted, of course, you're fond of the dear old girl, but how useful, it would be to know.'
He paused and then leaned a little farther forward.
'Now that's where I come in. I'm a betting man. I'll bet on anything – naturally on my own terms. You come to me. Naturally you wouldn't want to bet on the old girl's passing out. That would be repulsive to your finer feelings. So we put it this way. You bet me a certain sum that Aunt Eliza will be hale and hearty still next Christmas, I bet you that she won't.'
The beady eyes were on me, watching…
'Nothing against that, is there? Simple. We have an argument on the subject. I say Aunt E. is lined up for death, you say she isn't. We draw up a contract and sign it. I give you a date. I say that a fortnight either way from that date Auntie E.'s funeral service will be read. You say it won't. If you're right, I pay you. If you're wrong, you – pay me!'
I looked at him. I tried to summon up the feelings of a man who wants a rich old lady out of the way. I shifted it to a blackmailer. Easier to throw oneself into that part. Some man had been bleeding me for years. I couldn't bear it any longer. I wanted him dead. I hadn't the nerve to kill him myself, but I'd give anything – yes, anything.
I spoke – my voice was hoarse. I was acting the part with some confidence.
'What terms?'
Mr Bradley's manner underwent a rapid change. It was gay, almost facetious.
'That's where we came in, isn't it? Or rather where you came in, ha ha. 'How much?' you said. Really quite startled me. Never heard anyone come to the point so soon.'
'What terms?'
'That depends. It depends on several different factors. Roughly it depends on the amount there is at stake. In some cases it depends on the funds available to the client. An inconvenient husband – or a blackmailer or something of that kind – would depend on how much my client could afford to pay. I don't – let me make that clear – bet with poor clients, except in the kind of case I have just been outlining. In that case it would depend on the amount of Aunt Eliza's estate. Terms are by mutual agreement. We both want something out of it, don't we? The odds, however, work out usually at five hundred to one.'
'Five hundred to one? That's pretty steep.'
'My wager is pretty steep. If Aunt Eliza were pretty well booked for the tomb, you'd know it already, and you wouldn't come to me. To prophesy somebody's death to within two weeks means pretty long odds. Five thousand pounds to one hundred isn't at all out of the way.'
'Supposing you lose?'
Mr Bradley shrugged his shoulders.
'That's just too bad. I pay up.'
'And if I lose, I pay up. Supposing I don't?'
Mr Bradley leaned back in his chair. He half closed his eyes.
'I shouldn't advise that,' he said softly. 'I really shouldn't.'
Despite the soft tone, I felt a faint shiver pass over me. He had uttered no direct menace. But the menace
