Poisoned Chocolates Case by Anthony Berkeley Read Free Book Online Page B

not to be telling you; it's to go no further than this room, mind.”
    “Good heavens, no,” Roger said eagerly.
    “Well, then, it's my private opinion that Farrar was driven to the other conclusion in self - defence. And the chief had to agree with it in self - defence too. But if you want to get to the bottom of the business, Mr. Sheringham (and nobody would be more pleased if you did than Farrar himself) my advice to you is to concentrate on Sir Eustace's private life. You've a better chance than any of us there: you're on his level, you'll know members of his club, you'll know his friends personally, and the friends of his friends. And that,” concluded Moresby, “is the tip I really came round to give you.”
    “That's very decent of you, Moresby,” Roger said with warmth. “Very decent indeed. Have another spot.”
    “Well, thank you, Mr. Sheringham, sir,” said Chief Inspector Moresby. “I don't mind if I do.”
    Roger was meditating as he mixed the drinks. “I believe you're right, Moresby,” he said slowly. “In fact, I've been thinking along those lines ever since I read the first full account. The truth lies in Sir Eustace's private life, I feel sure. And if I were superstitious, which I'm not, do you know what I should believe? That the murderer's aim misfired and Sir Eustace escaped death for an express purpose of Providence: so that he, the destined victim, should be the ironical instrument of bringing his own intended murderer to justice.”
    “Well, Mr. Sheringham, would you really?” said the sarcastic Chief Inspector, who was not superstitious either.
    Roger seemed rather taken with the idea. "Chance, the Avenger. Make a good film title, wouldn't it? But there's a terrible lot of truth in it.
    “ How often don't you people at the Yard stumble on some vital piece of evidence out of pure chance? How often isn't it that you're led to the right solution by what seems a series of mere coincidences? I'm not belittling your detective work; but just think how often a piece of brilliant detective - work which has led you most of the way but not the last vital few inches, meets with some remarkable stroke of sheer luck (thoroughly well - deserved luck, no doubt, but luck}, which just makes the case complete for you. I can think of scores of instances. The Milsom and Fowler murder, for example. Don't you see what I mean? Is it chance every time, or is it Providence avenging the victim?”
    “Well, Mr. Sheringham,” said Chief Inspector Moresby, “to tell you the truth, I don't mind what it is, so long as it lets me put my hands on the right man.”
    “Moresby,” laughed Roger, “you're hopeless.”

The Poisoned Chocolates Case

CHAPTER V
    SIR CHARLES WILDMAN, as he has said, cared more for honest facts than for psychological fiddle - faddle. Facts were very dear to Sir Charles. More, they were meat and drink to him. His income of roughly thirty thousand pounds a year was derived entirely from the masterful way in which he was able to handle facts. There was no one at the bar who could so convincingly distort an honest but awkward fact into carrying an entirely different interpretation from that which any ordinary person (counsel for the prosecution, for instance) would have put upon it. He could take that fact, look it boldly in the face, twist it round, read a message from the back of its neck, turn it inside out and detect auguries in its entrails, dance triumphantly on its corpse, pulverise it completely, re - mould it if necessary into an utterly different shape, and finally, if the fact still had the temerity to retain any vestige of its primary aspect, bellow at it in the most terrifying manner. If that failed he was quite prepared to weep at it in open court.
    No wonder that Sir Charles Wildman, K.C., was paid that amount of money every year to transform facts of menacing appearance to his clients into so many sucking - doves, each cooing those very clients' tender innocence. If the reader