The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [71]
“I agree,” Jacqueline said.
Scoville sat up in his chair. Andy, stopped in mid-peroration, stared stupidly. Jacqueline said wearily,
“Of course all this is worthless legally. But the motive isn’t.”
“What motive? What reason could anyone have—”
“We go back,” said Jacqueline, “to the saints. They kept cropping up, didn’t they? There was one fact, at the very beginning, that would have made me wonder about the theory of suicide even if Jean hadn’t started having accidents. When the police searched Albert’s room, they found only a pitiable scrawl which presumably represented his total output after a year or more of work. It was incoherent and rambling—the product of a sick mind.
“We’ve all agreed that Albert was peculiar. But mental illness is not a discrete disease with a single set of symptoms, like chicken pox. I questioned—as did Jean—whether Albert’s eccentricities were those of a man who might develop suicidal tendencies. Never once did he indicate any doubt of the value of his work. Fanatics of that type don’t kill themselves. They cannot be convinced of the worthlessness of their life’s work, because their belief in it is not based on rational premises. Up till the end Albert was enthusiastic, cocksure, contemptuous of critics.
“These attributes characterize the screwballs who hang around the lunatic fringes of scholarship. But they are also characteristic of scholars who are regarded as fanatics by their contemporaries. Classical scholars jeered at Schliemann and his dreams of Troy. Galileo and Semmelweis fought all their lives for recognition. I needn’t go on; there are many examples.
“The fact that Albert had an idée fixe did not prove his idea was wrong. If he wasn’t mad, if he didn’t commit suicide—then what of his behavior on the night of the party? Was it possible that his wild accusation was not a sign of paranoia, but a statement of fact? Was this, in short, a crime for gain?
“We theorized about a family heirloom, a genuine treasure, which could have been possessed by a man who was grindingly poor in every other way. And all the while the answer was staring us in the face. Albert did own one thing of supreme value to him—his treasure. His work, in other words.
“To my surprise, I found a single assumption answered all my questions. It explained Albert’s accusation and the discrepancy between the scanty sheaf of papers found in his room and the bulging briefcase he carried—a briefcase so heavy it made him walk lopsided. It also provided a motive for murder. If Albert had stumbled on something important, a discovery worth stealing, it could not be stolen with impunity. Albert was not stupid; if another scholar had published his discovery he would have recognized it. And while he might not have been able to prove it was originally his, he could raise enough fuss to seriously discredit the thief. Scholarly reputations are fragile.”
“But,” Jean said, “I thought you said it was murder for gain. Doesn’t that mean—”
“Killing to gain possession of something which is not rightfully yours. Our trouble is that we think in material terms. Yet you of all people—scholars and artists—should realize that there are desires much more compulsive than the desire for mere money. Someone needed an idea, a piece of original work. Good God, a man can earn money, or steal it in comparative safety these days; it is much less logical to kill for monetary gain than for an intangible which cannot be procured by such simple means. You’ve got it or you haven’t got it, as the saying goes. The one thing a man cannot produce on demand is a genuine creative idea. And if he needs it badly enough…”
“You speak in riddles now,” said José. “I admit your point; you are right, we can surely comprehend the hunger for scholarly fame. But you do not speak of Ann. She is a sculptor. She could not use the work of a man like Albert.”
“That is true. Yet Albert thought his attacker was Ann.”
“A disguise,” Andy said