The Perfect Murder Read online

  At first she seldom spoke to him, but as time went on she would sometimes send for him to relieve her loneliness. Nothing could have been more ingratiating than Paul’s manners in these knowing circumstances. He talked expansively about politics, beforehand his aunt’s views, and just what she would like him to say. Her eyesight was very bad, and he would read her the news of the day, and tell her what was happening in Paris. He humoured her every whim. He was astute enough to see that it would be foolish and dangerous to attempt to borrow money for the moment. He was biding his time, and trying to think out the most profitable plan of campaign. There was no immediate hurry. His bed was comfortable, and Ernestine’s cooking was excellent.

  In another year’s time he had established himself as quite one of the permanent household. He was consulted about the servants, and the doctors, and the management of the house, everything except the control of money, which was jealously guarded by a firm of lawyers. Many a time he would curse his uncle’s foresight. The old man’s spirit seemed to be hovering in the dim recesses of the over-crowded rooms, mocking him. For the old lady, eccentric and foolish in many ways, kept a strict check upon her dividends. It was her absorbing interest in life, that and an old grey perroquet, which she treated like a child. Its name was Anna, and it used to walk up and down her table at mealtimes and feed off her own plate. Finding himself so firmly entrenched Paul’s assurance gradually increased. He began to treat his aunt as an equal, and sometimes even to contradict her, and she did not seem to resent it.

  In the meantime, Henri was eating his heart out with jealousy and sullen rage. The whole thing was unfair. He occasionally saw Paul, who boasted openly of his strong position in the Taillandier household, and he would not believe that Paul was not getting money out of the old lady as well as board and lodging. With no additional expenses Paul was better dressed than he used to be, and he looked fatter and better in health. All—or nearly all—of Henri’s appeals, although pitched in a most pathetic key, were rebuffed. He felt a bitter hatred against his aunt, his brother, and life in general. If only she would die! What was the good of life to a woman at eighty-five or six? And, there was he—four young children, clamouring for food, and clothes, and the ordinary decent comforts. And, there was Paul, idling his days away at cafés and his nights at cabarets—nothing to do, and no responsibilities.

  Meeting Paul one day he said:

  ‘I say, old boy, couldn’t you spring me a hundred francs? I haven’t the money to pay my rent next week.’

  ‘She gives me nothing,’ replied Paul.

  Henri did not believe this, but it would be undiplomatic to quarrel. He said:

  ‘Aren’t there—isn’t there some little thing lying about the villa you could slip in your pocket? We could sell it, see? Go shares. I’m desperately pushed.’

  Paul looked down his nose. Name of a pig! Did Henri think he had never thought of that? Many and many a time the temptation had come to him. But no; every few months people came from the lawyer’s office, and the inventory of the whole household was checked. The servants could not be suspected. They were not selected without irreproachable characters. If he were suspected—well, all kinds of unpleasant things might crop up. Oh, no, he was too well off where he was. The game was to lie in wait. The old lady simply must die soon. She had even been complaining of her chest that morning. She was always playing with the perroquet. Somehow this bird got on Paul’s nerves. He wanted to wring its neck. He imitated the way she would say: ‘There’s a pretty lady! Oh, my sweet! Another nice grape for my little one. There’s a pretty lady!’ He told Henri all about this, and the elder brother went on his way with a grunt that only conveyed doubt and suspicion.

  In view of this position it seemed strange that in the end it was Paul who was directly responsible for the dénouement in the Taillandier household. His success went to his rather weak head like wine. He began to swagger and buster and abuse his aunt’s hospitality. And, curiously enough, the more he advanced the further she withdrew. The eccentric old lady seemed to be losing her powers of resistance so far as he was concerned. And, he began to borrow small sums of money from her, and, as she acquiesced so readily, to increase his demands. He let his travelling business go, and sometimes he would get lost for days at a time. He would spend his time at the races, and drinking with doubtful acquaintances in obscure cafés. Sometimes he won, but in the majority of cases he lost. He ran up bills and got into debt. By cajoling small sums out of his aunt he kept his debtors at bay for nearly nine months.

  But one evening he came to see Henri in a great state of distress. His face, which had taken on a healthier glow when he first went to live with his aunt, had become puffy and livid. His eyes were bloodshot.

  ‘Old boy,’ he said, ‘I’m at my wits’ end. I’ve got to find seven thousand francs by the twenty-first of the month, or they’re going to foreclose. How do you stand? I’ll pay you back.’

  To try to borrow money from Henri was like appealing to the desert for a cooling draught. He also had to find money by the twenty-first, and he was overdrawn at the bank. They exchanged confidences, and in their mutual distress they felt sorry for each other and for themselves. It was a November evening, and the rain was driving along the boulevards in fitful gusts. After trudging a long way they turned into a little café in the Rue de la Roquette, and sat down and ordered two cognacs. The café was almost deserted. A few men in mackintoshes were scattered around reading the evening papers. They sat at a marble table in the corner and tried to think of ways and means. But after a time a silence fell between them. There seemed nothing more to suggest. They could hear the rain beating on the skylight. An old man four tables away was poring over La Patrie.

  Suddenly, Henri looked furtively around the room and clutched his brother’s arm.

  ‘Paul!’ he whispered.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do you remember—it has all come back to me—suddenly—one night, a night something like this—it must be give or six years ago—we were seated here in this same café—do you remember?’

  ‘No. I don’t remember. What was it?’

  ‘It was the night of that murder in the Landes district. We got talking about—don’t you remember?’

  Paul scratched his temple and sipped the cognac. Henri leant closer to him.

  ‘You said—you said that if you lived with anyone, it was the easiest thing in the world to murder them. An accident, you know. And, you go screaming into the street—’

  Paul started, and stared at his brother, who continued:

  ‘You said that if ever you—you had to do it, you would guarantee that you would take every trouble. You wouldn’t leave a trace behind.’

  Paul was acting. He pretended to half-remember, to half-understand. But his eyes narrowed. Imbecile! Hadn’t he been through it all in imagination a hundred times? Hadn’t he already been planning and scheming an act for which his brother would reap half the benefit? Nevertheless, he was staggered. He never imagined that the suggestion would come from Henri. He was secretly relieved. If Henri was to receive half the benefit, let him also share half the responsibilities. The risk in any case would be wholly his. He grinned enigmatically, and they put their heads together. And so, in that dim corner of the café was planned the perfect murder.

  Coining up against the actual proposition, Paul had long since realized that the affair was not so easy of accomplishment as he had so airily suggested. For the thing must be done without violence, without clues, without a trace. Such ideas as leaving the window open at night were out of the question, as the companion slept in the same room. Moreover, the old lady was quite capable of getting out of bed and shutting it herself if she felt a draught. Some kind of accident? Yes, but what? Suppose she slipped and broke her neck when Paul was in the room. It would be altogether too suspicious. Besides, she would probably only partially break her neck. She would regain sufficient consciousness to tell. To drown her in her bath? The door was always locked or the c
ompanion hovering around.

  ‘You’ve always got to remember,’ whispered Paul, ‘if any suspicion falls on me, there’s the motive. There’s strong motive why I should—it’s got to be absolutely untraceable. I don’t care if some people do suspect afterwards—when we’ve got the money.’

  ‘What about her food?’

  ‘The food is cooked by Ernestine, and the companion serves it. Besides, suppose I got a chance to tamper with the food, how am I going to get hold of—you know?’

  ‘Weed-killer?’

  ‘Yes, I should he in a pretty position if they traced the fact that I had bought weed-killer. You might buy some and let me have a little on the quiet.

  Henri turned pale. ‘No, no; the motive applies to me, too. They’d get us both.’

  When the two pleasant gentlemen parted at midnight their plans were still very immature, but they arranged to meet the following evening. It was the thirteenth of the month. To save the situation the deed must be accomplished within eight days. Of course, they wouldn’t get the money at once, but, knowing the circumstances, creditors would be willing to wait. When they met the following evening in the Café des Sentiers, Paul appeared flushed and excited, and Henri was pale and on edge. He hadn’t slept. He wanted to wash the whole thing out.

  ‘And, sell up your home, I suppose?’ sneered Paul.

  ‘Listen, my little cabbage. I’ve got it. Don’t distress yourself. You proposed this last night. I’ve been thinking about it and watching for months. Ernestine is a good cook, and very methodical. Oh, very methodical! She does everything every day in the same way exactly to schedule. My apartment is on the same floor, so I am able to appreciate her punctuality and exactness. The old woman eats sparingly and according to routine. One night she has fish. The next night she has a soufflé made with two eggs. Fish, soufflé, fish, soufflé, regular as the beat of a clock. Now, listen. After lunch every day Ernestine washes up the plates and pans. After that she prepares roughly the evening meal. If it is a fish night, she prepares the fish ready to pop into the pan. If it is a soufflé night, she beats up two eggs and puts them ready in a basin. Having done that, she changes her frock, powders her nose, and goes over to the convent to see her sister who is working there. She is away an hour and a half. She returns punctually at four o’clock. You could set your watch by her movements.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘It is difficult to insert what I propose in fish, but I don’t see any difficulty in dropping it into two beaten-up eggs, and giving an extra twist to the egg-whisk, or whatever they call it.’

  Henri’s face was quite grey.

  ‘But—but—Paul, how are you going to get hold of the poison?’

  ‘Who said anything about poison?’

  ‘Well, but what?’

  ‘That’s where you come in.’

  ‘Yes, you’re in it, too, aren’t you? You get half the spoils, don’t you? Why shouldn’t you—some time tomorrow when your wife’s out—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just grind up a piece of glass.’

  ‘Glass!’

  ‘Yes, you’ve heard of glass, haven’t you? An ordinary piece of broken wine-glass will do. Grind it up as fine as a powder, the finer the better, the finer the more-effective.’

  Henri gasped. No, no, he couldn’t do this thing. Very well, then; if he was such a coward Paul would have to do it himself. And perhaps, when the time came Henri would also be too frightened to draw his dividends. Perhaps, he would like to make them over to his dear brother Paul? Come, it was only a little thing to do. Eight days to the twenty-first. Tomorrow, fishday, but Wednesday would be soufflé. So easy, so untraceable, so safe.

  ‘But you,’ whined Henri, ‘they will suspect you.’

  ‘Even if they do they can prove nothing. But in order to avoid this unpleasantness I propose to leave home soon after breakfast. I shall return at a quarter-past three, letting myself in through the stable yard. The stables, as you know, are not used. There is no one else on that floor. Ernestine is upstairs. She only comes down to answer the front-door bell. I shall be in and out of the house within five minutes, and I shan’t return till late at night, when perhaps—I may be too late to render assistance.’

  Henri was terribly agitated. On one hand was—just murder, a thing he had never connected himself within his life. On the other hand was comfort for himself and his family, an experience he had given up hoping for. It was in any case not exactly murder on his part. It was Paul’s murder. At the same time, knowing all about it, being an accessory before the fact, it would seem contemptible to a degree to put the whole onus on Paul. Grinding up a piece of glass was such a little thing. It couldn’t possibly incriminate him. Nobody could ever prove that he’d done it. But it was a terrible step to take.

  ‘Have another cognac, my little cabbage.’

  It was Paul’s voice that jerked him back to actuality. He said: ‘All right, yes, yes,’ but whether this referred to the cognac or to the act of grinding up a piece of glass he hardly knew himself.

  From that moment to twenty-four hours later, when he handed over a white packet to his brother across the same table at the Café des Sentiers, Henri seemed to be in a nightmarish dream. He had no recollection of how he had passed the time. He seemed to pass from that last cognac to this one, and the interval was a blank.

  ‘Fish today, soufflé tomorrow,’ he heard Paul chuckling. ‘Brother, you have done your work well.’

  When Paul went he wanted to call after him to come back, but he was frightened of the sound of his own voice. He was terribly frightened. He went to bed very late and could not sleep. The next morning he awoke with a headache, and he got his wife to telegraph to the office to say that he was too ill to come. He lay in bed all day, visualizing over and over and over again the possible events of the evening.

  Paul would be caught. Someone would catch him actually putting the powder into the eggs. He would be arrested. Paul would give him away. Why did Paul say it was so easy to murder anyone if you lived with them? It wasn’t easy at all. The whole thing was chock-a-block with dangers and pitfalls. Pitfalls! At half-past three he started up in bed. He had a vision of himself and Paul being guillotined side by side! He must stop it at any cost. He began to get up. Then he realized that it was already too late. The deed had been done. Paul had said that he would be in and out of the house within five minutes at three-fifteen—a quarter of an hour ago! Where was Paul? Would he be coming to see him? He was going to spend the evening out somewhere, ‘returning late at night’.

  He dressed feverishly. There was still time. He could call at his aunt’s. Rush down to the kitchen, seize the basin of beaten-up eggs, and throw them away. But where? How? By the time he got there Ernestine would have returned. She would want to know all about it. The egg mixture would be examined, analysed. God in Heaven! It was too late! The thing would have to go on, and he suffer and wait.

  Having dressed, he went out after saying to his wife: ‘It’s all right. It’s going to be all right,’ not exactly knowing what he meant. He walked rapidly along the streets with no fixed destination in his mind. He found himself in the Café Rue de la Roquette, where the idea was first conceived, where he had reminded his brother.

  He sat there drinking, waiting for the hours to pass.

  Soufflé day, and the old lady dined at seven! It was now not quite five. He hoped Paul would turn up. A stranger tried to engage him in conversation. The stranger apparently had some grievance against a railway company. He wanted to tell him all the details about a contract for rivets, over which he had been disappointed. Henri didn’t understand a word he was talking about. He didn’t listen. He wanted the stranger to drop down dead or vanish into thin air. At last he called the waiter and paid for his reckoning, indicated by a small pile of saucers. From there he walked rapidly to the Café des Sentiers, looking for Paul. He was not there. Six o’clock. One hour more. He could not keep still. He paid and went on again, calling at café after caf�
�. A quarter to seven. Pray God that she threw it away. Had he ground it fine enough?

  Five minutes to seven. Seven o’clock. Now. He picked up his hat and went again. The brandy had gone to his head. At half-past seven he laughed recklessly. After all, what was the good of life to this old woman of eighty-six? He tried to convince himself that he had done it for the sake of his wife and children. He tried to concentrate on the future, how he could manage on eight or ten thousand francs a year. He would give notice at the office, be rude to people who had been bullying him for years—that old blackguard Mocquin!

  At ten o’clock he was drunk, torpid, and indifferent. The whole thing was over for good or ill. What did it matter? He terribly wanted to see Paul, but he was too tired to care very much. The irrevocable step had been taken. He went home to bed and fell into a heavy drunken sleep.

  ‘Henri! Henri, wake up! What is the matter with you?’ His wife was shaking him. He blinked his way into a partial condition of consciousness. November sunlight was pouring into the room.

  ‘It’s late, isn’t it?’ he said, involuntarily.

  ‘It’s past eight. You’ll be late at the office. You didn’t go yesterday. If you go on like this you’ll get the sack, and then what shall we do?’

  Slowly the recollection of last night’s events came back to him.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ he said. ‘I’m too ill to go today. Send them another telegram. It’ll be all right.’

  His wife looked at him searchingly. ‘You’ve been drinking,’ she said. ‘Oh, you men! God knows what will become of us.’

  She appeared to be weeping in her apron. It struck him forcibly at that instant how provoking and small women are. Here was Jeannette crying over her petty troubles. Whereas he—