The Complete Simon Iff Read Online Free PDF Page A

exploit, I imagine you will not claim to be scrupulous.”
    “You saw through the trick?”
    “Naturally; you knew you had no case, so you preferred to lose on a foul, and claim a moral victory.”
    “Good for you!”
    “Well, this same first-rate intellect is in another respect so feeble that the man takes pleasure, or finds satisfaction, in arranging his crime on a significant date. He must be the sort of man that takes precautions against witches on Walpurgis Night!”
    “Jove, that’s a good point. Never struck me!”
    “Well, frankly, it doesn’t strike me now. There are men with such blind spots, no doubt; but it is easier for me to think that the murderer, with plenty of nights to choose from, chose that one in particular with the idea of leading people astray—of playing on their sense of romance and mystery—of exploiting their love of imaginative detectives stories!”
    “If so, the point is once more in favor of his intellect.”
    “Exactly. But now we are going to narrow the circle. Who is there in whose mind the date of the first murder was so vivid that such a stratagem would occur to him?”
    “Well, there are many. Myself, for example!”
    Iff began to set up the pieces for another game.
    “We must eliminate you,” he said, after a few moments of silence, “you lawyers forget your cases as soon as they are over.”
    “Besides, I had no possible motive.”
    “Oh, that is nothing in the case. You are a rich man, and would never do a murder for greed; you are a cold-blooded man, and would never kill for revenge or jelousy; and these things place you apart from the common run of men. Still, I believe such as you perfectly capable of murder; there are seven deadly sins, not two; why should you not kill, for example, from some motive like pride?”
    “I take pride in aiding the administration of justice. My ambition is a Parliamentary career.”
    “Come,” said Iff, “all this is a digression; we had better play chess. Let me try at Blackburne’s odds!” Iff won the game. “You know,” he said, as Ffoulkes overturned his king in sign of surrender, “however killed Mrs. Robinson, if I read his type of mind aright, has left his queen en prise, after all. There is a very nasty gap in the defenses. He killed the woman from no common motive; he has therefore always to be on his guard against equally uncommon men. Suppose Casablanca dropped into the club, and challenged me to a game, how should I feel if I had any pride in beating you? There may be some one hunting him who is as superior intellectually to him as he is to the police. And there’s a worse threat: he probably took the precaution of killing the old woman in her sleep. He could have no conscience, no remorse. But he would have experience in his own person that such monsters as himself were at large; therefore, I ask you, how does he know, every night, that some one will not kill him in his sleep?”
    Ffoulkes called the waiter, and asked Iff to join him in a drink. “No thank you,” returned the old man, “playing chess is the only type of pleasure I dare permit myself.”
    At this moment Flynn came into the club, and greeted both men warmly. Iff had written many a glowing essay for the Irishman’s review. He wanted both to dine with him, but once again Iff declined, pleading another engagement. After a few moments’ chat he walked off, leaving the two old friends together.
    They dined at the club, and pointedly confined the conversation to the libel case, and politics in general. With their second cigars, Flynn rose. “Come round to Mount Street,” he said. “I’ve a lot to tell you.” So they strolled off in the bright autumn weather to the maisonette where Flynn lived.
V
    They made themselves at ease on the big Chesterfield. It was a strange room, a symphony of green. The walls were covered with panels of green silk; the floor was covered with great green carpet from Algeria; the upholstery was of green morocco; the