A Confession
Sinclair and Boyce were sitting in the former’s room, waiting for
Collins.
“I wonder how he will like this?” said Boyce.
“Not at all,” said the other, making a face. “He is so fond of a
problem that he dislikes a simple solution to anything.”
He shuffled uncomfortably. He did not altogether like it, himself.
Collins entered and greeted the others.
“Well?” he said. “I got your message.”
Boyce took his cigar from his mouth.
“We have got a confession of the murder of Sir James.” If he expected
Collins to show any feeling, he was disappointed.
“Who is it?” he said, quietly seating himself.
“A man called Jackson. He came into the Vine Street police station
late last night and said he wished to give himself up for the murder.”
“Of course,” said Collins contemptuously, “we shall have plenty of
them.”
“Wait a moment. This man is well known to the police. He has been in
an asylum for years, but unfortunately his people got him certified
sane, and had him out. He had homicidal tendencies. He has made a
complete statement.”
“A statement from a lunatic. Really, Boyce.”
“Well, listen to this, then,” said Boyce, and spread a document out on
the desk.
He began to read:
“I, John Henry Jackson, being of sound mind, and having been warned
by the police, declare the following statement to be a true account
of what I have done. On the afternoon of the ———, I killed that dog,
Sir James Watson, because he is not fit to live. He will not hear the
cry of the prisoner or the oppressed, but his heart has been hardened
like Pharoah. I went to his house in Leveson Square, which I had been
watching for an opportunity, and he opened the door to me. He was
delivered into my hands, but I would not slay him then. I knew that
the time had come, so I wrote to the Central News Agency, with whom I
have often had correspondence, and told them of his death. I had
called at Scotland Yard some days before and seen Superintendent
Sinclair.” Boyce paused, and Sinclair looked up with a start.
“While he was not looking, I took some of his paper, and a letter he
had signed, and so I wrote on the paper to show that it was not
murder. Sir James came out and posted a letter, and I nearly killed
him then, but the time had not come, so I followed him into the
house, and shot him. It is a good deed and I do not mind having done
it.
(Signed) J. H. JACKSON.
“Well, what do you make of that?”
Sinclair and Collins looked up, and their eyes met.
“Absolute rubbish,” said Collins, “the man is obviously a lunatic.”
“What about the reference to you?” said Boyce to Sinclair.
“I do remember a wild man coming here with some grievance. I don’t
know how he got in at all. Lewis let him in, but I have no
recollection of him taking any letter of mine.”
“Still, he may have done,” said Boyce.
“Of course,” said the other. “There is always a tray full of
type-written letters of no great importance, waiting to go out. They
would not be registered till they had been collected and one might
have gone. It’s possible.”
“The whole thing is preposterous. What about the telephone messages
that Sinclair and I had?” said Collins.
“Oh, he says he sent them from a Call Office.”
Collins laughed. “This is all your doing, Boyce. I knew how it would
be. You let the whole story out to the papers, and this lunatic has
been turning it over in his mind till he really believes he has done
it. It’s quite a common phase. I wonder you take the trouble to go
into the matter.”
“Wait a moment. You always think no one can be right but yourself. You
have not heard all. A policeman has identified him. He saw him several
times hanging about Leveson Square. And he has been further examined
and his story hangs together. I don’t think there is any doubt that we
have got the right man.”
“I am perfectly sure you haven’t,” said Collins.
Boyce turned to him. “Of course it will be a disappointment to you. I
know you always like something out of the way, with mystery and
special features. What do you think, Sinclair?”
“I don’t know, sir, I don’t know what to say. I don’t somehow think he
is our man.”
“I am quite sure he is; he’s got to be. You understand. And I expect
loyal support from my Department,” said Boyce, with decision.
“It won’t do, Boyce, old fellow,” said Collins.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you. Have you ever seen the Mikado? If so you may remember
a song beginning, ‘As some day it may happen that a victim must be
found.’ ”
“I am afraid I don’t follow you,” said the other coldly.
“Between us three there is no need for bluff. You are being worried by
all kinds of people to solve the problem. You see that your
professional reputation is at stake and that much hangs on it. And you
see here a good chance of finding a victim, who will not suffer any
hardship in any case, as he obviously ought to be under lock and key.
“It is the Stenie Morrison case over again, only here you will not
have to have an innocent man tried, because this man will not be able
to plead. It will all work out finely. This man will go to Broadmoor,
where he will be quite happy, and there will be much praise for the
smart Commissioner.”
Boyce flushed scarlet. “You mean I should fake up a charge against a
man I knew was not guilty,” he said.
Collins shrugged his shoulders. “I have known it done,” he said, and
turned to Sinclair. “Well, here ends the wonderful mystery of Leveson
Square. There will be no difficulty in getting a case. I have not been
at the Bar for nothing. There will be no defence, because there will
be no trial. Personally, I could drive a horse and cart through the
whole thing. So could you. But it will be beautifully stage-managed.”
Boyce rose in anger. “I suppose because you are a free-lance you think
you can say what you like, unless you are trying to make a joke in
rather doubtful taste. I do not see that any useful purpose would be
served by continuing this discussion,” and he went out.
The other two looked at each other. Collins burst out laughing.
“Cheer up,” he said, “you look as if you had just missed backing the
winner.”
“That’s just what I have done,” said Sinclair gloomily. “It’s all
right for you, but I have to do what I am told. I know this is all
wrong.”
“Do you? So do I,” said Collins quietly.
The other looked up quickly. “You are very certain.”
“Exactly. And so are you.” They both stared hard at each other for a
moment. “I wonder what you have got hold of?” said Sinclair.
“That’s just what I was wondering,” said Collins.
“There’s one thing. This will put the real man right off. He will
think he’s safe and may return,” said Sinclair.
“Return? What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing.”
A clerk entered, and laid an early edition of the “Evening Rag” on the
table. Sinclair picked it up.
“Read that,” he said, indignantly.
Across the page was printed:
‘MURDER OF THE HOME SECRETARY,’
‘SUSPECT ARRESTED,’
‘MAKES FULL CONFESSION.’
There followed an account of how that brilliant Civil Servant, F. D.
Boyce, Commissioner of Police, after devoting his nights and days to
the problem, had at last effected the arrest of a violent lunatic who
had made a full confession of the dastardly crime.
There followed a paragraph in praise of their worthy official, and in
self-laudation of the Press generally, whose co-operation had been so
effectual.
Collins put it down with a smile.
“So that’s that,” he said. “I wash my hands of the case.”
On his way back to his flat he stopped at a Post Office, and sent off
a wire. “Delighted to accept your kind invitation. Will come
tomorrow,” and addressed it to “Miss Watson, The Vale, Holbrook.”