The Perfect Murder (9 page)

A murder without a motive holds no more interest for me than a novel without a plot. Indeed, it seems to me to bear a close resemblance to one of those all too numerous bundles of rambling and repetitious typescript which circulate unsolicited from one publisher to another and are instantly perceived by even the most sympathetic reader to be utterly unpublishable.

Oh, I agree that the motiveless murderer may well escape detection, but that is hardly the point. If you were to be told in the last chapter of a detective story that the murder had been committed for no reason at all, would you applaud the author’s skill in concealing the identity of the murderer? No—you would hurl the book across the room in justified indignation, resenting the time you had wasted in reading such fatuous stuff. And this, I must emphasize, not because such an ending is in some merely childish sense “cheating,” but because it is altogether unsatisfying artistically: the climax does not develop from what has preceded it, and is therefore no climax at all.

Let us consider, then, the precise nature of the climax which you are seeking to achieve. It is not, in my opinion, the moment of your wife’s death, though that must of necessity precede it. Nor is it the moment of Blazes’ conviction for her murder, though that if all goes well will certainly follow. No, it is the moment at which he is discovered, by yourself and other witnesses, beside the dead body of your wife, with the fatal weapon in his hand. How is this to be done? I do not say that it will be easy—if it were, it would not be Art; but I will settle for nothing less.

The ideal, I feel bound to say, would be somehow to contrive that Blazes should indeed strike the final blow. Who is the greatest villain in literature? Iago. Does anyone doubt that morally he is guilty of the murder of Desdemona? No. Could any court of law convict him of it? No again. He is a true artist—the unseen director of the drama, not himself descending to the arena of physical action but inexorably propelling the other characters toward the fatal climax.

Do you think there is anything that would provoke Blazes to uncontrollable violence? You are his intimate friend—you should know, if anyone does, his secret fears and passions, the dark and hidden places of his mind. I do not know him and can do no more than speculate; but it occurs to me that many men are irrationally sensitive to any reflection on their virility.

Suppose you tell your wife of a conversation with Blazes in which (you say) he has half-admitted to having an affair with someone. You wonder artlessly who she can be and why he is being so secretive about her identity. Your wife will find this amusing. A few days later you mention a further conversation in which Blazes has hinted (you say) that his mistress is neither so young nor so attractive as he might wish, and that he is continuing the affair only until something better comes along. Your wife will find this less amusing.

When Blazes becomes impotent—you will not need to ask me, I imagine, why this should happen. You are trained, as you have mentioned, in pharmacology, and you drink with him sufficiently often to ensure a regular dosage of some otherwise harmless bromide.

When Blazes becomes impotent, your wife will attribute this to a waning of his desire for her: to the resentment of frustrated appetite will be added the rage of wounded vanity. On the first occasion, perhaps even the second and third, she will no doubt respond with sympathy and good humor—the most unreasonable of women could hardly do less; but unless you have given a most misleading account of her these are not qualities which she has in any abundance. A time will soon come, unless I am greatly mistaken, when she will upbraid his loss of manhood in the most bitter and wounding of terms. It is said that many men have committed murder in such circumstances.

And yet, I suppose, there must be many others who with equal provocation have nonetheless refrained. It may be that your friend Blazes, though American, could not so easily be persuaded to resort to violence—that there are indeed no circumstances in which you could rely on him to murder your wife. It is for you to judge—if you tell me that that is the case, then I will abandon the idea as a mere idle daydream, and set about devising a more practical and realistic solution to your problem.

Very well. Your first step, clearly, must be to persuade your wife that she wishes to attend the Edinburgh Festival. I cannot think that you will have any great difficulty about this; she sounds to me very much the sort of woman who is, or at least would wish to be thought, a passionate lover of the arts. You are adept, I am sure, in matrimonial strategies; you will easily make her believe that it is she who has initiated the project and that you, in agreeing to it, are merely showing the indulgence to be expected of a devoted husband with no independent fortune.

Having set her heart on the expedition, she will naturally wish to be attended by both her husband and her lover—you may rely on her, therefore, to persuade Blazes to accompany you. She may think it indiscreet to single him out, and therefore extend the invitation to several of your old friends; if so, on no account discourage them from accepting—it would be an excellent thing if you could make up a party of half a dozen or so.

An expedition of this kind can hardly be undertaken on impulse. I am assuming that the project will be agreed on at least five or six months in advance, leaving you with ample time to make your other preparations.

The first of these is to acquire a tape recorder, of the smallest size compatible with efficiency and capable of being activated by sound. You will use this to record your wife’s scream.

As to the cause of the scream I do not presume to advise you—you have been married to her for long enough to know whether a mouse in her bedroom, a cockroach in her kitchen, or a caterpillar in her salad is best calculated to produce a satisfactory result. Do please avoid, however, anything involving any element of physical pain or danger: I wish your wife to remain serene and happy, untroubled by any disquiet about what is going on around her.

Three or four months before the Festival you will find some pretext to fly to Europe on business. You will offer, with an air of good-humored martyrdom, to take the opportunity to go to Edinburgh and make the arrangements for your party’s accommodation and entertainment.

I say with perfect confidence that Edinburgh will be an inspiration to you. You will walk down the Gallowgate, from the Castle to Holyrood Palace, and you will reflect on those great figures of the past who in centuries before have trodden the same path.

You will think of Deacon Brodie, respectable burgher by day, criminal by night—the inspiration for Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll. There is still a close which bears his name, for the city treasures his memory.

You will remember that this was the hunting ground of Burke and Hare, and you will think of their paymaster, Dr. Knox. Or do you perhaps believe the distinguished anatomist had felt no curiosity about the sudden improvement in the supply of young and healthy corpses for his dissecting table? I admit he was never charged with complicity. (The Scots have always had a high regard for medical science.)

You will think above all of young Lord Darnley, the husband of Mary, Queen of Scots, sitting at dinner with her in Holyrood, paying her charming and affectionate compliments, and knowing that in a few moments his fellow conspirators, armed with daggers, would burst into the room and murder her secretary Rizzio before her eyes. He had had other opportunities to murder Rizzio, and with a good deal less trouble to himself; but he was anxious that the event should take place in the presence of his young bride, six months with child, and in the circumstances most calculated to cause her terror.

Do you begin to understand what I mean about the particular flavor of the Scottish murder? With such examples to follow, your courage and resolution cannot fail you. But I must not allow you to spend all your time sightseeing—there is work to be done.

First you must find a suitable hotel—I do not only mean one which will satisfy your wife’s no doubt exacting standards of comfort, though that is of course essential. It is also of crucial importance, however, that it should have two adjoining bedrooms, not obviously constituting a suite, with a ready means of private access from one to the other; a shared terrace or balcony would be very pleasing, but if this is unobtainable a connecting door of some kind will sufficiently answer our purpose. Ideally, I should also like them to have a good view of the Castle, though I suppose, if that proves impossible, that I cannot insist on it.

You will reserve these two rooms for yourself and your wife, and another for Blazes on a different floor of the hotel. You will also indicate to the hotel management that on the last evening of your visit to the festival you intend to hold a rather elegant late-night supper party for about a dozen guests, and wish to reserve for that purpose one of the rooms in the same corridor as your bedroom.

The impression you should give is of a man of great wealth arranging a special treat for a wife to whom he is almost foolishly devoted. I am sure it is a role you will play with the utmost ease. You will make it clear that if your instructions are strictly adhered to you will be more than generous, but that any unauthorized departure from them will incur your deep displeasure.

You will go next to one of the shops in Princes Street which specialize in making traditional Scottish costume and order two sets of Scottish evening dress—kilt, plaid shawl, and traditional accessories—to be made in time for the Festival. One is for yourself, the other for Blazes—I assume that you know his measurements. I do hope, Tim, that you are not going to be difficult about this: the kilt is a magnificent garment, and I have no doubt that you will appear to advantage in it. It is not, however, on aesthetic grounds alone that I wish you to be wearing such a costume on the final evening: it is because the accessories include a dagger, known as the skene-dhu.

Be careful to show a great concern for authenticity, so that no sinister significance will be attached to your insisting on genuine daggers. The choice of tartan I leave to your discretion—if you have any Scottish ancestors, no doubt you will wish to honor them; but please make sure that it is of a predominantly dark color, with no white in it.

Finally, I should like you to make some friends of a kind suitable to be invited to your supper party. They should be men of standing, whose word will carry some weight; but they must also be of convivial disposition, who can be relied on not to leave while the wine and whiskey are still flowing freely at your expense. Come provided with introductions to one or two of my learned friends at the Scottish Bar, and you will be sure of meeting the right sort of person.

Is there anything else to be done before you leave? Well, you will of course make sure of securing tickets for all the plays, concerts, and operas which your wife is anxious to attend—she is looking forward to them, and I should not like her to be disappointed. In the choice of entertainment it is right that her wishes should be paramount; but for the final evening I hope that you can guide her to a choice of something of artistic relevance. Perhaps a performance of Verdi’s
Otello?

Apart from that—no, I really think that is everything. You can return home with the consciousness of a task well done, and devote the summer to innocent recreation.

September, however, will find you in Edinburgh once more, accompanied by your wife and Blazes and perhaps other old friends, and surrounded by a glorious hubbub of creative enthusiasm. You will be moving quietly and modestly through noisy and gossiping groups of writers, directors, and composers, secretly cherishing the thought that none of their contributions to the Festival will be so original and daring as your own.

Initially, of course, the two adjoining rooms will be occupied by yourself and your wife. I fancy, however, that it will not be long before she and Blazes find some pretext for suggesting that you exchange rooms with him. You will good-naturedly comply.

Blazes may perhaps be surprised to find that the treats you have arranged for him include an evening costume in the traditional Scottish style, but will hardly be so ungracious as to refuse to wear it in public at least once. If, for some reason, he declines to wear it again, that is of no great consequence: it will have been sufficiently impressed on the minds of your intended witnesses that there are two daggers, one his, one yours.

On the last day—the day of the supper party—you will steal Blazes’ dagger from his room. If in the evening he decides to wear his Scottish costume no doubt he will notice that it is missing; but he will hardly risk making you late for the opera by instituting a thorough search.

You yourself will of course be wearing your own Scottish costume, with your dagger prominently displayed. The stolen dagger will be secreted about your person.

Your wife, I have no doubt, can be counted on to be looking her very best for the occasion. I am hoping—I am almost sure—that she will have chosen to buy a new evening dress, something of richly colored velvet, designed to make her look just a little like Mary Queen of Scots. Yes, I am certain of it. And you, my dear Tim, will have thought it right to make her a present of jewelry to wear with it—let us say a necklace of rubies. Yes, rubies would be admirable. I realize, of course, that it will be her money which pays for them—but she will feel, as I do, that it is the thought that counts.

At the supper party she will look superb, her eyes still sparkling with the pleasure of the opera, her color a little heightened by champagne, the jewels on her snow-white bosom glowing in the candlelight, the unchallenged focus of admiration and desire. The evening will be a triumph for her, and surely she will not wish to linger while it dwindles into a masculine drinking session. Everything depends on her leaving before your other guests—she must not, she cannot do otherwise.

“Gentlemen,” she says, “I must ask you to excuse me—I am a little tired, and tomorrow we have to travel.” She bestows her final smile on Blazes—a subtle and shameless smile, assuring him that she is not in the least tired—and she is gone.