Talmage Powell

Every Possible Motive

Bigby Rassman had given the simple; intimate dinner in the smaller of the two dining rooms of his manorial home. It was a snug room, but it made no pretensions of humility. The walls were panelled in hand-rubbed Honduran mahogany; the carpeting came from Iran; the draperies were of pure silk.

The room effectively shut away the world beyond these walls.

As Gaspard cleared the china from the snowy linen, Bigby said, “We’ll have brandy in here, I think.”

Lean and faultlessly efficient, Gaspard in a matter of moments had crystal snifters before Bigby and the three dinner guests.

“That will be all, Gaspard.”

“Very good, Mr. Rassman.”

Gaspard carried his dark, well-cut personage out of the room. The heavy door closed. In the silence, the click of the lock tumbler was inordinately loud.

A heavy, powerful, balding man whose features looked as if they had been carved from solid bone, Rassman surveyed the two men and the young woman who shared his table.

They weren’t alarmed, not yet; merely puzzled by the locking of the door.

“Are we in for a game, Uncle Big?”

Elise, Rassman’s niece, was lovely tonight, a flawless, lacquered blonde with green eyes and a body for which bikinis had been designed. She was looking at her uncle with a certain insolence, a haughty and predatory image in a black dinner dress of expensive simplicity.

At the far end of the table, Evan Payne was still looking at the closed door. A porcine bulk with softening edges, Evan’s bulbous, sagging face looked damp, clammy. He felt Bigby’s gaze and managed a weak smile.

“Last time I was behind a locked dining room door was at a stag party,” said Payne.

“Maybe Bigby is afraid we won’t pay the check,” Roger Lawrence said. He sat across the table from Elise, at Rassman’s left. At thirty, Roger was handsome in a cold, cruel way. Looking at Bigby with hard, steady eyes, Roger lifted his brandy and sipped. He managed to make it a gesture of disdain.

“One of you will pick up the check before the evening is over,” Rassman said calmly.

“Whatever are you talking about, Uncle Big?”

“Murder, my dear niece.”

Roger Lawrence set his brandy glass down slowly. Elise’s chair tipped as she stood up.

“I’m really in no mood, Uncle Big, to—”

“Sit down, Elise.”

“I really don’t know what’s come over you,” she said. “From the moment Gaspard served the entree, there has been something strange about you. I must say that I haven’t enjoyed the dinner at all!”

“Sit down, Elise,” Rassman said. His tone was conversational. The glitter in his eyes seemed to give him power over her sleek muscles. She eased haltingly into her chair. “Bigby...”

“Yes, Evan?”

“I... do feel you owe us an explanation.”

“Of course, Evan. One of you has tried to murder me.”

Evan Payne stared witlessly. Roger Lawrence said, “Impossible!”

“Killing me might prove difficult,” Rassman said, “but not impossible.”

A measure of hauteur had returned to Elise. “You sound morbid, Uncle Big. What makes you think an attempt has been made on your life?”

“I don’t think it, Elise. I know it. And a clever attempt it was, too.”

Rassman clipped the end from a cigar and lighted it. “Yesterday, as I do frequently at this time of year, I decided to bag a few birds here on the estate. Fortunately, before taking the dogs to the fields, I checked the gun thoroughly. The barrel, I found, had been plugged with hardened clay.”

Rassman’s gaze drifted over the three faces before him. “A pull of the trigger and I should have caught the breech squarely in the face. Yes, there might have been a few questions. But who could actually prove I hadn’t accidentally plugged the barrel by resting or dropping the gun against the ground? I’d have been treated to an excellent funeral, I’m sure, and the crime would have been perfect enough.”

“Maybe you did plug the barrel at some time in the past,” Roger said. “After all, when you’re crawling those old fences, gullies and thickets it would be easy to bump the barrel of the gun in a spot of loam or soft, clay. Why do you think one of us did it?”

“The three of you know my shooting habits,” Rassman said.

“Not a convincing reason,” Roger said.

“There is more, much more. Since I last went shooting, only you three might have had access to the gun. The act in itself would have been simple, quick. A wad of clay carried into the house in purse or pocket. A few seconds to lift down the gun and plug the barrel.”

The clamminess on Evan Payne’s face was congealing into heavy drops of sweat. “Maybe an outsider slipped in, Bigby.”

“Come now, Evan. That’s too far-fetched. An intruder would have a tough time crossing the entire estate, entering the house and leaving again, all unnoticed. Neither would an outsider be sufficiently acquainted with my habits to know that a plugged gun barrel would have every chance of killing me — and only me, I might add, since I permit no one else to fire the gun. Also, we can’t suppose it was a guest. I’ve had no house guests since the gun was fired last, other than the three of you.”

Rassman stood up, crossed to the sideboard, and added an ounce of brandy to his snifter. “Having established that only you three had opportunity, we come now to the clincher. Motive. I am heartily disliked in many quarters. I don’t mind. As a matter of fact, it gives me a certain pleasure. The truly strong are never liked.”

Rassman strolled easily to the table, reseated himself. “Mere dislike is hardly enough to inspire murder. The reason must be much deeper, much more urgent. Only the three of you have such reasons.”

Evan Payne had half risen, his bulk quivering. “Bigby, you know I’d never—”

“Oh, sit down,” Rassman said crossly. “Who knows what the coward will do when his mental worms have gnawed deeply enough? And plugging a gun barrel was indeed a cowardly act.”

“But I’ve no reason,” Payne said. “Others, perhaps, but not I.”

“Your reasons are sufficient,” Rassman said.

A glint of enjoyment came to his eyes.

“Every murder in the history of mankind,” he said, “has been motivated by one of four motives or a combination of them.

“There is the murder resulting from insanity, including the momentary aberration as in a crime of passion.

“Since you are all reasonably sane, we’re concerned with the three broad categories of motives which have filled graveyards from time immemorial. Shall we start with you, Elise?”

She lighted a cigarette. “Why not? What is my category, Uncle?”

“Gain,” Rassman said. “The subdivisions are many. To gain time for an undertaking. To gain directly through a will, insurance, the death of a business partner, as an heir. To create the opportunity for gain. To remove an obstacle in the path of gain, as in the commission of an armed robbery and the appearance or resistance of another person. I could go on and on.

“You, Elise, are weary to death of the tight budget I keep you on, the sort of life I insist you lead. You see time slipping from you, your youth melting away while an enticing fortune remains out of reach. You are my only heir. You would gain both the fortune and the opportunity to use it, should I die. You must admit that you’ve wished fervently for my funeral.”

Rassman shifted his gaze to Roger Lawrence’s handsome face. “Category number two, Roger. Escape. Murder as an escape from the destructive results of a past action or fact. A witness must be silence by death. A marriage becomes a trap, and a spouse is killed. A man fleeing a crime must destroy his nemesis. A woman feels impelled to keep her secret life a continued secret.

“The threat from which you must escape, Roger, is hard and brutal. Both of us recognize it. I’ve kept silent this long because of a promise I made years ago on the beaches of Normandy. Your father was the one real friend I’ve ever had, Roger. He offered me ultimate proof, by risking himself to save another. I made him a promise, as he died, and I’ve abided by its letter, even though I’ve never liked you at all.

“I’ve treated you like a son, Roger, but if the girl in the hospital dies, I’ll have to tell the police who the drunken hit-run driver was.”

“Would you, if I were actually your son?” Lawrence asked.

Rassman looked at him a moment.

“Yes,” he said, “and I’m sure you already knew the answer.”

“It was,” Roger conceded, his face slightly haggard, “a rather pointless question on my part.”

Evan Payne moistened his lips to speak. He made a motion with his hand. It reminded Rassman of a fawning beggar seeking alms.

Before Evan could speak, Rassman said, “Your category, Evan, is perhaps the most interesting of all. Jealousy and. hatred. The motive that degenerates a man, if latent degeneration were in him. The motive that tests a man. He is strengthened, if he conquers and rises above it. He is morally destroyed, if he does not.

“You were a weakling, Evan, who inherited a family business. I bought in. Soon I was in control. You became a despised lackey who took my orders and performed grubby little routine tasks where you were of some value.

“You learned long ago to fear me, Evan, my power over your well-being and future. The jealousy and hatred has distilled in you day by day, year by year. Even now, as you cower before me, the motive lies deep in your eyes.”

Payne made a despairing effort to smile, to laugh it off. “Bigby, you know, while I might envy you, I wouldn’t try to murder you.”

“None of you will try again,” Rassman said. “My man servant Gaspard is not without his price. Tonight before dinner, I gave him instructions and the means to carry out his task. The poison was odorless and tasteless. It will leave no trace. You see, I too now have a motive. Category number two. I wish to escape being murdered.”

“Poison?” Evan Payne stumbled to his feet.

“It came with the dessert,” Rassman said.

Payne stumbled backward, away from the table. “You... you’d kill us?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Evan,” Rassman said with contempt. “I’m merely giving you the chance to insure your own life by insuring mine.”

From the side pocket of his dinner jacket, Rassman took three small vials of pale tan liquid and set them on the table. “This is the antidote;” he said.

As Payne rushed forward, Rassman rose and motioned him back. “Not so fast, Evan. There is a price.” He reached to the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew a thin sheaf of folded papers. “Each of you will sign the proper copy of this.” He dropped the papers on the table. “In return, you get the antidote which immediately will counteract and neutralize the poison.”

Elise and Roger were standing now. Payne pulled his shirt collar with his finger, looking longingly at the three small bottles.

Roger touched the papers. “What are we putting our names to?”

“A statement that one of the three of you has already made an attempt on my life, that no one else has sufficient motive for my murder,” Rassman said. “The reasons that inspire your murderous intentions are detailed. When you have signed, I shall place the papers beyond your slightest possibility of obtaining them. I shall make arrangements for delivery of the papers to the proper authorities if I happen to die violently.”

“You’re bluffing,” Roger said. “You wouldn’t take the chance on killing us!”

“I’m not killing you,” Rassman said. “I’m merely giving a potential murderer the chance to commit suicide.”

“I’ll sign,” Payne said, a sob in his voice. “Give me a pen, a—”

“Just a minute,” Elise broke in. “How do we know we’re not putting ourselves in the hands of a man who can ruin us any time he likes?”

“You’ll have to take my word, my dear,” Rassman said. “You have no other choice. You know that I never give my word lightly. And the word I give you is this: If I die peacefully in bed at a ripe old age, my last will and testament will contain all the necessary directions and instructions. Sealed envelopes containing your respective statements will be delivered to each of you.”

“Please,” Payne was gasping. “The antidote—”

Rassman uncapped a pen, picked up the papers, chose one, handed pen and paper to Evan Payne. The corpulent man bent over the table and put a shaky signature to the statement.

Rassman handed Payne one of the small bottles. Payne opened it, swallowed the liquid at a gulp. He grimaced against the bitter taste. “Bigby, are you sure—”

“You’re as safe as a babe in its mother’s arms,” Rassman said, “and you may now go if you like.”

He jingled a key from his pocket and tossed it to Payne. “You can unlock the door from this side. Gaspard removed his own key.”

Payne rushed to the door. It opened, closed. He was gone.

Roger Lawrence had slowly picked up the pen. He studied the statement for a moment, and then signed it and threw the pen on the table. He lifted the antidote, drank it.

“Good night, Roger,” Rassman said quietly.

Roger looked at him for one more moment, the muscles working in his face. He turned abruptly and walked out.

A silence came to the dining room. Elise moved slowly, reaching out to touch the pen and the remaining statement. She didn’t pick either up.

“Tell me, Uncle Big, why all this bother? When the attempt was made on your life, didn’t you think of the police?”

“But immediately,” Rassman said.

“Yet you didn’t call them in.”

“I had a second thought,” he said. “They are not always successful. They might never have found which of you three plugged the gun barrel. They might have decided on the wrong one. I didn’t relish the thought of my potential murderer remaining free to try again. I was determined not to have my life ruined from living under such a shadow day by day. This way, not one of the three of you will ever dare to lift a finger against me again.”

“But only two of us have signed your statements, Uncle.”

“You will sign, Elise.”

“Will I?” she said softly.

Her tone brought his glance to her, quickly.

The pain hit him high in the stomach, almost as if the jerking of his head had triggered it.

He gasped, went crashing away from the table as the first convulsion doubled him to the floor. He thrashed violently. But not for very long.

When Elise looked away from Uncle Big, she saw Gaspard standing in the dining room doorway. They moved with a rush toward each other. He folded his arms about her.

Elise shivered slightly. “It really was deadly, the poison you told me that he planned to use.”

“Very deadly,” Gaspard said in his rich baritone. “It will leave no trace, as he said. It will appear that an aging man has died of apoplexy. We can be together at last.”

“Yes, my darling,” Elise whispered. She lifted her face and kissed Gaspard- with fervor.

And the thought crossed her mind that in all his analysis of the reasons for murder Uncle Big had overlooked one. Gaspard’s motive. Murder for love.

Content

Talmage Powell
Every Possible Motive