Superintendent Wilson Thinks It Out
When the inspector had left him, Superintendent Wilson gave himself up
for a time to his thoughts. Leaning back in his chair, with his long
legs stretched out before him, and the tips of his fingers pressed
together before his face, he concentrated his faculties upon the
Brooklyn affair. A heavy frown settled on his brow, and he gave every
now and then an impatient twist of his body, eloquent of his mind’s
discomfort. At length he sighed, looked at the clock, rose, put on his
hat, and started for home. He had made up his mind, as he did when
difficulties beset him, to talk the case over with his wife.
Superintendent Wilson never mentioned business to his wife when things
were going well; but whenever his usually clear brain seemed to be
working amiss, it was his way to unload on her all his trouble. Not
that Mrs. Wilson had a powerful intellect—far from it. She was a
comfortable, motherly woman, inclined to stoutness, and completely
wrapped up in her children and her home. For her husband she had a
profound admiration. He was, to her mind, not merely the finest
detective in Europe, but the cleverest man in the world. But she was
quite content to admire his cleverness without understanding it; and
her husband made no attempt, as a rule, to discuss his cases with her.
He had found, however, that on the rare occasions on which his
thinking got into a blind alley, her very passivity was the best
possible help he could have. As he talked to her, and as she assented
unquestioningly to everything that he said, new ideas somehow arose in
his mind. Doubts were dispelled, new courses of action suggested, the
weak spots in the armour of crime became apparent. He would tell her
that she had been the source of his most brilliant inspirations; and
she would placidly accept the rôle, without bothering to inquire in
what way she contributed to his flashes of insight into the most
abstruse mysteries that came under the notice of the Criminal
Investigation Department.
It was a sign of deep dissatisfaction with the progress of the
Brooklyn case that the superintendent now took his troubles home to
his wife. He found her, in the pleasant sitting-room of their house
facing Clapham Common, placidly knitting woollies for the children in
anticipation of the coming winter. From the garden came the noise of
the children themselves, playing a game which involved repeated shouts
of “Bang, bang, bang!” as the rival armies engaged.
“My dear. I want to consult you,” he said, coming up and kissing her.
Mrs. Wilson laid down her knitting on the table beside her, and
composed herself to listen.
“It’s about this Brooklyn case. I suppose you’ve read about it in the
papers. I’m working on it, you know.”
Mrs. Wilson, who confined her newspaper reading to a glance at the
pictures and headlines in the _Daily Graphic_, had barely heard of the
case, and knew none of the details. Her husband therefore began by
giving her a brief, but perfectly clear, account of the circumstances
of the crimes. It helped to clear his own mind, and to put the
essential facts in their proper focus.
“How dreadful!” was Mrs. Wilson’s appropriate comment at various
points in the story. “And who did it?” she asked when her husband had
done, smiling at him as if he were certain to know.
“My dear, if I knew that, I shouldn’t need to consult you. Blaikie
feels quite certain it was Walter Brooklyn, old Sir Vernon’s brother.
I’d better tell you just what there is against him.” And the
superintendent gave an account of the evidence leading to the
presumption of Walter Brooklyn’s guilt—the walking-stick, his failure
to explain his movements on the night of the murders, his very strong
motive for the crimes, and finally, the telephone message sent from
Liskeard House on the fatal evening.
“But you say he didn’t do it. Then who did?” asked his wife.
“No, my dear, I didn’t say he didn’t do it. All I say is that I’m not
satisfied that he did.”
“But you say he sent the telephone message——”
“Even if he did send the message, that doesn’t prove that he committed
the murders. He may have been there, and yet some one else may be the
murderer. But I’m not even sure that he ever did send the message.”
“If he didn’t send it, some one else did.”
“Yes, my dear, that’s the very point. But if it was some one else,
then that some one was deliberately trying to incriminate Walter
Brooklyn.”
“That is what you call laying a false clue, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but the trouble is that, if the telephone and the walking-stick
are false clues, we have to deal with two quite different sets of
false clues, both deliberately laid, and pointing to quite different
conclusions as to the murderer. Is that possible?” The superintendent
paused, and looked at his wife. But instead of answering, she got up
and went to the window. “Georgie,” she said, “you mustn’t pull the
cat’s tail. If you’re not good I shall send you to bed.” Then she came
back to her seat. “Yes, dear, you were saying——”
“I was asking whether it was credible that some one should have laid
two sets of quite inconsistent false clues for the purpose of
misleading us.”
“Two sets of clues, dear. And both to mislead you. It must be very
difficult to see through them both.”
“By George,” exclaimed the superintendent, leaping from his chair and
beginning to pace up and down the room. “By George, you’ve given me
just the idea I wanted. Yes, that must be it.”
“What must be what, dear? I had no idea I’d said anything clever.”
“Why, _both_ sets of clues weren’t meant to mislead us. That’s it. The
criminal laid two sets of false clues. He meant us to see through one
set; but he thought we should never see through the other. He reckoned
it would never occur to us that both sets of clues were false. Oh,
yes. We were to feel awfully bucked up about seeing through the first
set of clues—the obviously false ones—and then we were meant to go on
and hang the wrong man gaily on the strength of the others. It was a
clever idea, too, by Jove.”
“Do you mean——” Mrs. Wilson began; but her husband was now in full
flow, and he cut her short.
“What I mean is that the criminal deliberately laid the set of clues
which pointed to the two men having murdered each other. We were bound
to see through these, because the conclusion to which they pointed was
just physically impossible. Then he laid the clues pointing to Walter
Brooklyn, really meaning this time to get Walter Brooklyn hanged for
the murders. My word, yes, this does throw a new light on the case. My
dear, you’ve done it again. There’s lots to find out yet; but I’m sure
it will come out right now that I know where to begin.”
“Then who was the murderer, dear? Have I told you somehow? I’m sure I
don’t know who it was.”
“Neither do I, my dear. But I think I do know now how to begin looking
for him. When I’ve found him I’ll tell you who he is. And half the
credit of finding him will be yours.” The superintendent was so moved
that he went up and kissed his wife as he kissed her only on occasions
of rare exaltation. Then he got back to business with a sigh.
“If both sets of clues are false, my dear, you see that doesn’t make
them valueless. They may still be used to point to the real murderer.
Yes, I begin to see light already. If Walter Brooklyn did not send
that telephone message, who did? Not much help there, I’m afraid,
except that it was a very daring criminal indeed, and probably one who
knew intimately both Walter Brooklyn and Liskeard House. Ringing up
Brooklyn’s club shows that—he knew the man’s habits. There is
something to go upon at all events. But there’s the walking-stick
too—yes, that may be the point on which the whole case turns.”
By this time Superintendent Wilson was talking to himself, almost
oblivious of his listener. His wife knew too well to interrupt him.
She resumed her knitting, only looking up at him from time to time as
he paced up and down the room.
“The stick. H’m. If Walter Brooklyn didn’t leave it in Prinsep’s room,
who did? It was a very remarkable stick, and quite certain to be
recognised. Just the thing, in fact, for a false clue. Let me see.
Brooklyn said he lost it on the Tuesday afternoon—the day of the
murders. That means that somehow or other the murderer got hold of it.
H’m, h’m. We’re getting warm, my dear. When we know for certain who
got hold of that stick we shall have found the murderer. Yes, we must
certainly find out all about that stick. Left in a taxi, was it? I
think not. I’m beginning to have a very shrewd idea of where it was
left.” The superintendent paused.
“Where was it left, dear?”
“Wait till I know for certain, darling. I’ll find out, never fear. And
then I shall know who the murderer was. But even then I shall be a
long way off getting a conviction.” The superintendent laughed.
“But surely, if you know——”
“Knowing is one thing, and proving a case to a jury quite another. But
that’s enough for the present. I want to sleep on this.” And with
these words Superintendent Wilson went out into the garden to play
with the children.