"You must think of something," David Hopkins had urged.
Being methodical, he went to the British Newspaper Library and spent many hours rotating the microfilm, studying accounts of Sir Jacob’s death. It only depressed him more, reading about the involvement of Special Branch, the Anti-Terrorist Squad and MI5 in the official investigation. Nothing he had read, up to and including the final pronouncement in the papers that the death had been ruled a heart attack and the investigation closed, proved helpful to him. How in the world would he be able to acquire the evidence the club insisted on seeing?
More months went by.
Duncan weighed the possibility of pointing out to the members that they’d made a mistake. Surely, he thought (in rare optimistic moments), they would see that it wasn’t his fault. He was just an ordinary bloke caught up in something out of his league. He could promise not to say anything to anyone, in return for a guarantee of personal safety. Then he remembered the eyes of some of those people around the table, and he knew how unrealistic that idea was.
One morning in May, out of desperation, he had a brilliant idea. It arose from something David Hopkins had said in the car on the way home from the club: "Do you mean you’re a serial killer?" At the time it had sounded preposterous. Now, it could be his salvation. Instead of striving to link himself to the murder of Sir Jacob, he would claim another killing-and show them some evidence they couldn’t challenge. He’d satisfy the rules of the club and put everyone at their ease.
The brilliant part was this. He didn’t need to kill anyone. He would claim to have murdered some poor wretch who had actually committed suicide. All he needed was a piece of evidence from the scene. Then he’d tell the Perfectionists he was a serial killer who dressed up his murders as suicides. They would be forced to agree how clever he was and admit him to the club. After a time, he’d give up going to the meetings and no one would bother him because they’d think their secrets were safe with him.
It was just a matter of waiting. Somebody, surely, would do away with himself before the July meeting of the club.
Each day Duncan studied The Telegraph, and no suicide-well, no suicide he could claim was a murder-was reported. At the end of June, he found an expensive-looking envelope on his doormat and knew with a sickening certainty who it was from.
The most perfect club in the world
takes pleasure in inviting
Mr. Duncan Driffield
a prime candidate for membership
to present his credentials
after dinner on July 19th, 7:30 for 8pm
Contact will be made later
This time the wording didn’t pamper his ego at all. It filled him with dread. In effect it was a sentence of death. His only chance of a reprieve rested on some fellow creature committing suicide in the next two weeks.
He took to buying three newspapers instead of one, still with no success. It seemed as if there was no way out. Mercifully, and in the nick of time, however, his luck changed. News of a suicide reached him, but not through the press. He was phoned on the afternoon of the 19th by an old civil service colleague, Harry Hitchman. They’d met occasionally since retiring, but they weren’t the closest of buddies, so the call came out of the blue.
"Some rather bad news," said Harry. "Remember Billy Fisher?"
"Of course I remember him," said Duncan. "We were in the same office for twelve years. What’s happened?"
"He jumped off a hotel balcony last night. Killed himself."
"Billy? I can’t believe it!"
"Nor me when I heard. Seems he was being treated for depression. I had no idea. He was always cracking jokes in the office. A bit of a comedian, I always thought."
"They’re the people who crack, aren’t they? All that funny stuff is just a front. His wife must be devastated."
"That’s why I’m phoning round. She’s with her sister. She understands that everyone will be wanting to offer sympathy and help if they can, but for the present she’d like to be left to come to terms with this herself."
"Okay." Duncan hesitated. "This happened only last night, you said?"
Already, an idea was forming in his troubled brain.
"Yes. He was staying overnight at some hotel in Mayfair. A reunion of some sort."
"Do you happen to know which one?"
"Which reunion?"
"No. Which hotel."
"The Excelsior… 1313. People talk about thirteen being unlucky. It was in Billy’s case."
Sad as it was, this had to be Duncan’s salvation. Billy Fisher was as suitable a murder victim as he could have wished for. Someone he’d actually worked with. He could think of a motive later-make up some story of an old feud. For once in his life, he needed to throw caution to the winds and act immediately. The police would have sealed Billy’s hotel room pending some kind of investigation. Surely a proven perfectionist could think of a way to get inside and pick up some personal item that would pass as evidence that he had murdered his old colleague.
He took the 5:25 to London. Most of the other travellers were going up to town for an evening’s entertainment. Duncan sat alone, avoiding eye contact and working out his plan. Through the two-hour journey he was deep in concentration, applying his brain to the challenge. By the time they reached Waterloo, he knew exactly what to do.
A taxi ride brought him to the hotel, a high-rise building near Shepherd Market. He glanced up, counted the wrought-iron balconies until he reached number thirteen, and thought of Billy’s leap. Personally, he wouldn’t have gone up so high. A fall from the sixth floor would have done the job just as well, and more quickly, too.
Doing his best to look like one of the guests, he walked briskly through the revolving doors into the spacious, carpeted foyer and over to the lift, which was waiting unoccupied. No one gave him a second glance. It was a huge relief when the door slid across and he was alone and rising.
So far, the plan was working beautifully. He got out at the 12th level and used the stairs to reach the 13th. It was now around 7:30, and he was wary of meeting people on their way out to dinner. He paused on the landing to let a couple pass by him on their way downstairs. They didn’t seem to notice him. He moved along, looking for room 1313.