Chapter XX.Superintendent Wilson Thinks It OutWhen 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 theDaily 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,bothsets 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.
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 theDaily 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,bothsets 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.