A Murder Perfect
The holy grail for the detective story writer is a plot for the perfect murder, he told me the moment he had sat down, and if I were a writer I’d probably win an award for my idea, but I ain’t a writer. You’re not? I asked, for want of saying something. No, he said I am a murderer. I pretended not to be shocked. Yes, I have committed the perfect murder. How can I help you? I felt I was expected to ask. I am an impecunious lawyer, probably not a very good one, who hasn’t had a case in two months. And you want me to take your case? Aye, he said, that’s what I want, and if you accept my offer, I will reveal the full story of what happened, but will only do so, once I have your agreement. Perhaps you c-can acquaint me of the facts so I can make up m-my mind, I stammered. He shook his head. To be honest, if I told you the facts, then I would be at your mercy, and my murder would lose its definition. He must have read my brow. Well, he said, shaking his head meaningfully, you could become a witness for the prosecution, it wouldn’t any longer be the perfect murder, and I’d have little choice but to kill you too, and in the same manner you see. Your willingness to take my case first is imperative. As I said, I’m in need of making a living, and as you seem certain that your system is foolproof, I have nothing to lose. He mentioned the honorarium he had in mind for my services, and I readily accepted the brief.
Only then did he proceed to reveal the details. I murdered my business partner, he began. There were two main reasons, one was I wanted his wife, and I knew that he wouldn’t part with her for five million pounds. The other reason is that I had counterfeited his signature on some documents at the early stage of our business partnership, and there was no way I could stop him from discovering my felony now, something which would lead to my ruin. I truly had no alternative. And the facts, are that there were a number of eye-witnesses to serious arguments we have had, who heard the death threats that I made to him, but when I actually committed the killing, I took all possible precautions, I did it in a watertight way. Nobody saw me, and I have perfect alibis. I am not here to judge you, I said, but I would naturally want to know your modus operandi.
I’ll show you, he said, but if you excuse me for a couple of minutes. He stood up, went next door and came back with two small phials, one containing some yellow pills the other slightly larger white ones. Oh, he said when he came back, I should have mentioned that we are into pharmaceuticals. The yellow pills are cyanociles of tantalum, a lethal substance one tenth of a gram, wrapped in a coat of melosucrose which takes a whole hour before it dissolves in the blood. Just an hour after its imbibing, a fatal heart attack will ensue, no ifs no buts. As if he expected me to find a flaw, he raised his hand and shook his head, telling me to tarry my query. I kept my mouth shut. Now this white little fellow, which was incidentally hatched in the brain of my victim, and whose discovery has not been aired, has the unique capacity of disguising the presence of the tantalum compound, to the extent of making the cause of any death that followed the poisoning unidentifiable, leading to the inevitable verdict of death by natural causes. At that juncture, a landline phone next door rang, and he left me to go answer it. When he came back I said, I truly think your case is foolproof. Oh, I knew that, he said.
My client was duly arrested twenty-four hours after he left my office, and he was refused bail and went into custody.
I had three weeks to prepare my case, and I did not have to do much, but find angles to cross-examine the witnesses for the prosecution whom we knew were going to be called. There was the financial adviser who was a close friend of the victim and who was privy to the disputes of his two bosses. There was the victim’s sister who never liked the coveted wife, the odd neighbour, and two other family friends. The pathologist did not have a leg to stand on. He had little choice but to declare that the death resulted from cardiovascular infarction, unusual in one of his age but by no means exceptional, leaving no room for suspicion of foul play.
The court case took under a week, and the verdict (Oh, I forgot to mention, we are in Scotland) was “not proven”, and my client was free to go, albeit with a cloud of doubt hovering over his head. Which bothered him not in the least. Your money is the best filter for your reputation, he had told me once.
He was absolutely delighted, and celebrated by the most lavish banquet I’ve ever been invited (or likely to be invited to). Lobster, caviare, Kruger Champers, you name it. You did a brilliant job, he told me, couldn’t have got away without your help. Thank you. I want to drink a special toast to you, drawing me to the corner of the hall. I daresay after this your career is made, he said tapping me on the back. The waiter poured two glasses of the Champagne. His phone rang just as he was leaning forward to pick up his glass. Have to take this, he said moving a few steps away. This was the moment I needed. When he came back, he winked at me, picked his glass up, and said something banal before emptying it in one go. Between you and me, not the proper way of drinking Kruger. I needed that he said happily. We then each went separately to mingle. Half an hour later, when I passed by him, he was on cloud nine. The world was his oyster. He was going to benefit from the labours of his perfidy, win the woman of his dream, and live happily ever after. Except when five minutes later when we were alone, I drew him to one side. Enjoy your last quarter of hour on earth, I told him. What? I explained about pocketing the yellow pill and the white pill while he was on the phone. I could not let you get away with murder, I said. Think of me as the real judge, sending you to the gallows for your crime. His eyes began to roll, and I smiled.
