“I say to you gentlemen, nothing is priceless, not even a man’s soul. Some may put theirs at a higher price than common, and some at a discount—I have even known men who would sell in bulk if they could—but there is, as you gentlemen must surely know, a market for every thing.”

The five most renowned economists in Europe lounged in deep chairs at the most exclusive gentlemen’s club on St. James Street, where all the affairs of the world were decided. The club was open long after its ordinary closing time simply because no one dared suggest the gentlemen leave. A man came round bearing Port, another gently opened a box of cigars for their perusal.

“I agree that almost anything can be purchased in a free market, but surely you must admit some limit? Any man becomes a murderer, only name a high enough price? An unallowable thought,” said Mr. Whiting, as he cut the end off of his cigar.
“A positively vulgar thought. The social contract simply would not allow it,” agreed Mr. Bentley-Snoutcomb, “for as we have seen, men fear punishment even more than they covet wealth.”
“Dash the social contract. I do not recall signing any social contract,” said Mr. Cogswell, whose proposal this was, after all. “And besides, the only signature that matters is the one on the certified cheque. I tell you, the most civilized man is only an instant removed from the jungle, and just as the lion will kill a member of his pride for a scrap of zebra or water-buffalo, so will man kill for a scrap of paper that means he is wealthy. Any man, gentlemen, no matter how he protests it, does finally have his price.”

Then Mr. Kestrel, who had for some time been silent, spoke from the recesses of his leather chair. “What then, Mr. Cogswell, would you say is your price?”

“Oh, I say, very good!” chortled Bentley-Snoutcomb.

Cogswell swept the air with his hand. “The theory presupposes that a man needs something badly enough. As you know, Mr. Kestrel, I am obscenely wealthy, and thus it would be quite impossible to offer me anything worth killing for.”
“Just so,” said Mr. Kestrel, who might have been smiling, “but for your theory to hold true, every man must be susceptible to greed. Therefore, if he cannot be tempted with money, there must be something else which holds sway over him. For you, I believe it is your pride. That is why my payment to you, in exchange for the murder of one innocent man, shall be to admit that your theory concerning man’s fallen nature is correct.”

Everything was quiet save for the rain drumming on the window.

“Naturally, I do not believe it is correct,” Kestrel added, “but the only possible way to prove me wrong is to enter into this deal. Therefore, I say you must kill the waiter when he comes round to fill our Port. You may use the knife that Whiting recently cut his cigar with.”
“We shall all be damned if you are wrong,” said Whiting, as he passed the knife to Cogswell.

They all sat in awkward silence for several minutes, unable to think of proper conversation as they waited for the waiter to make his final round. Cogswell unfolded the penknife and turned it in his hands, thinking of how harmless a thing it looked, and how he would have to bury it very deeply indeed in the lad’s chest if, after all, he had the will to go through with the dark deed.

“I say,” said Mr. Bentley-Snoutcomb, “what is keeping that waiter?”

Mr. Cogswell looked at the billiard table, and with a terrified thrill, thought that if the waiter saw the knife coming toward him, he might stagger backwards and trip over the table, and that would be the end of him. Is that what it would be like, he wondered, is it really that easy?

After a few more minutes, as the gentlemen were getting quite anxious, the lights suddenly dimmed and the sound of a door locking was heard. The club floor went completely dark.

“I say,” said one of them, “I do believe they’ve forgotten we were still here.”
“Yes, they’ve locked the place up for the night,” said one.
“I hear this club is haaaauuuunnted,” said another, “Woooooooo! Woooooooo! Say, did you hear that? Quite scary!”