Peter Lovesey: The Perfectionist

The invitation dropped on the doormat of The Laurelsalong with a bank statement and a Guide Dogs for the Blind appeal. It was in a cream-coloured envelope made from thick, expensive-looking paper. Duncan left it to open after the others. His custom was to leave the most promising letters while he worked steadily through the others, using a paper knife that cut the envelopes tidily. Eventually he took out a gold-edged card with his name inscribed in the centre in fine italic script. It read:

The most perfect club in the world

has the good sense to invite

Mr. Duncan Driffield

a proven perfectionist

to be an honoured guest at its biannual dinner

Friday, January 31st, 7:30 for 8pm

Contact will be made later

He was wary. This could be an elaborate marketing ploy. In the past he’d been invited-by motor dealers and furniture retailers-to parties that had turned out to be sales pitches, nothing more. Just because no product or company was mentioned, he wasn’t going to be taken in. He read the invitation through several times. It has to be said, he liked the designation "a proven perfectionist." Couldn’t fault their research. He was a Virgo-orderly, a striver for perfection. To see this written down as if he’d already achieved the ideal was especially pleasing. And to see his name in such elegant script was another fine touch.

Yet it troubled him that the club was not named. Nor was there an address, nor any mention of where the function was to be held. Being a thorough and cautious man, he would normally have looked these things up before deciding what to do about the invitation.

The phone call came about 8:30 the next evening. A voice that didn’t need to announce it had been to a very good school spoke his name.

"Yes?"

"You received an invitation to the dinner on January 31st, I trust?"

"Which invitation was that?" Duncan said as if he received invitations by every post.

"A gold-edged card naming you a proven perfectionist. May we take it that you will accept?"

"Who are you, exactly?"

"A group of like-minded people. We know you’ll fit in."

"Is there some mystery about it? I don’t wish to join the Freemasons."

"We’re not Freemasons, Mr. Driffield."

"How did you get my name?"

"It was put to the committee. You were the outstanding candidate."

"Really?" He glowed inwardly before his level-headedness returned.

"Is there any obligation?"

"You mean are we trying to sell something? Absolutely not."

"I don’t have to make a speech?"

"We don’t go in for speeches. It isn’t like that at all. We’ll do everything possible to welcome you and make you feel relaxed. Transport is provided."

"Are you willing to tell me your name?"

"Of course. It’s David Hopkins. I do hope you’re going to say yes."

Why not, he thought. "All right, Mr. Hopkins."

"Excellent. I’m sure if I ask you to be ready at 6:30, that as a proven perfectionist, you will be-to the minute. In case you were wondering, it’s a dinner jacket and black tie affair. I’ll come for you myself. The drive takes nearly an hour at that time of day, I’m afraid. And it’s Dr. Hopkins actually, but please call me David."

After the call, Duncan, in his systematic way, tried to track down David Hopkins in the phone directory and the Medical Register. He found three people by that name and called them on the phone, but their voices had nothing like the honeyed tone of the David Hopkins he had spoken to.

He wondered who had put his name forward. Someone must have. It would be interesting to see if he recognised David Hopkins.

He did not. Precisely on time, on the last Friday in January, Dr. David Hopkins arrived-a slim, dark man in his forties, of average height. They shook hands.

"Is there anything I can bring? A bottle of whisky?"

"No. You’re our guest, Duncan."

He liked the look of David. He felt that an uncommonly special evening was in prospect.

They walked out to the car-a large black Daimler, chauffeur-driven.

"We can enjoy the wine with a clear conscience," David explained, "but I would be dishonest if I led you to think that was the only reason we are being driven."

When they were both inside, David leaned across and pulled down a blind. There was one on each window and across the partition between the driver and themselves. Duncan couldn’t see out at all. "This is in your interest."

"Why is that?"

"We ask our guests to be good enough to respect the privacy of the club. If you don’t know where we meet, you can’t upset anyone."

"I see. Now that we’re alone, and I’m committed to coming, can you tell me some more?"

"A little. We’re all of your cast of mind, actually."

"Perfectionists?"

He smiled. "That’s one of our attributes."

"I wondered why I was asked. Do I know any of the members?"

"I doubt it."

"Then how…"

"Your crowning achievement."

Duncan tried to think which achievement could have come to their notice. He’d had an unremarkable career in the civil service. Sang a bit with a local choir. Once won first prize for his sweet peas in the town flower show, but he’d given up growing them now. He could think of nothing of enough merit to interest this high-powered club.

"How many members are there?"

"Fewer than we would like. Not many meet the criteria."

"So how many is that?"

"Currently, five."

"Oh-as few as that?"

"We’re small and exclusive."

"I can’t think why you invited me."

"It will become clear."

More questions from Duncan elicited little else, except that club had been in existence for over a hundred years. He assumed-but had the tact not to ask-that he would be invited to join if the members approved of him that evening. How he wished he was one of those people with a fund of funny stories. He feared he was dull company.

In just under the hour, the car came to a halt and the chauffeur opened the door. Duncan glanced about him as he stepped out, wanting to get some sense of where he was. It was dark, of course, but they were clearly in a London square-with street lights, a park in the centre, and plane trees at intervals in front of the houses. He couldn’t put a name to it. The houses were terraced, and Georgian, just as they are in almost every other London square.

"Straight up the steps," said David. "The door is open."

They went in, through a hallway with mirrors, brightly lit by a crystal chandelier. The dazzling effect, after the dim lighting in the car, made him blink. David took Duncan’s coat and handed it to a manservant and then opened a door.

"Gentlemen," he said. "May I present our guest, Mr. Duncan Driffield."

It was a smallish anteroom, and four men stood waiting with glasses of wine. Two looked quite elderly, the others about forty or so. One of the younger men was wearing a kilt.

The one who was probably the senior member extended a bony hand. "Joe Franks. I’m president, through a process of elimination."

There were some smiles at this that David didn’t fully understand.

Joe Franks went on to say, "I qualified for membership in 1934, when I was only nineteen, but I didn’t officially join until after the war."

David, at Duncan’s side, murmured something that made no sense about a body left in a trunk at Brighton railway station.

"And this well set-up fellow on my right," said Joe Franks, "is Wally Winthrop, the first private individual to put ricin to profitable use. Wally now owns one of the largest supermarket chains in Europe."