The Secret Adversary by Agatha Christie

And Tommy came to an abrupt halt.

There was silence for a moment.

“By the way,” said Julius suddenly, “you’re all wrong about that photograph of Jane. It WAS taken from me, but I found it again.”

“Where?” cried Tuppence.

“In that little safe on the wall in Mrs. Vandemeyer’s bedroom.”

“I knew you found something,” said Tuppence reproachfully. “To tell you the truth, that’s what started me off suspecting you. Why didn’t you say?”

“I guess I was a mite suspicious too. It had been got away from me once, and I determined I wouldn’t let on I’d got it until a photographer had made a dozen copies of it!”

“We all kept back something or other,” said Tuppence thoughtfully. “I suppose secret service work makes you like that!”

In the pause that ensued, Mr. Carter took from his pocket a small shabby brown book.

“Beresford has just said that I would not have believed Sir James Peel Edgerton to be guilty unless, so to speak, he was caught in the act. That is so. Indeed, not until I read the entries in this little book could I bring myself fully to credit the amazing truth. This book will pass into the possession of Scotland Yard, but it will never be publicly exhibited. Sir James’s long association with the law would make it undesirable. But to you, who know the truth, I propose to read certain passages which will throw some light on the extraordinary mentality of this great man.”

He opened the book, and turned the thin pages.

“. . . It is madness to keep this book. I know that. It is documentary evidence against me. But I have never shrunk from taking risks. And I feel an urgent need for self-expression…. The book will only be taken from my dead body….

“. . . From an early age I realized that I had exceptional abilities. Only a fool underestimates his capabilities. My brain power was greatly above the average. I know that I was born to succeed. My appearance was the only thing against me. I was quiet and insignificant–utterly nondescript….

“. . . When I was a boy I heard a famous murder trial. I was deeply impressed by the power and eloquence of the counsel for the defence. For the first time I entertained the idea of taking my talents to that particular market…. Then I studied the criminal in the dock…. The man was a fool–he had been incredibly, unbelievably stupid. Even the eloquence of his counsel was hardly likely to save him. I felt an immeasurable contempt for him…. Then it occurred to me that the criminal standard was a low one. It was the wastrels, the failures, the general riff-raff of civilization who drifted into crime…. Strange that men of brains had never realized its extraordinary opportunities…. I played with the idea…. What a magnificent field–what unlimited possibilities! It made my brain reel….

“. . . I read standard works on crime and criminals. They all confirmed my opinion. Degeneracy, disease–never the deliberate embracing of a career by a far-seeing man. Then I considered. Supposing my utmost ambitions were realized–that I was called to the bar, and rose to the height of my profession? That I entered politics–say, even, that I became Prime Minister of England? What then? Was that power? Hampered at every turn by my colleagues, fettered by the democratic system of which I should be the mere figurehead! No–the power I dreamed of was absolute! An autocrat! A dictator! And such power could only be obtained by working outside the law. To play on the weaknesses of human nature, then on the weaknesses of nations–to get together and control a vast organization, and finally to overthrow the existing order, and rule! The thought intoxicated me….

“. . . I saw that I must lead two lives. A man like myself is bound to attract notice. I must have a successful career which would mask my true activities…. Also I must cultivate a personality. I modelled myself upon famous K.C.’s. I reproduced their mannerisms, their magnetism. If I had chosen to be an actor, I should have been the greatest actor living! No disguises–no grease paint–no false beards! Personality! I put it on like a glove! When I shed it, I was myself, quiet, unobtrusive, a man like every other man. I called myself Mr. Brown. There are hundreds of men called Brown–there are hundreds of men looking just like me….