Allery gave a keen glance at him. “Humph,” he said, “I wonder.”
“The car is waiting, sir,” said John.
Collins took his leave, and was driven to Wilton-on-Sea. At the station he dismissed the chauffeur with a liberal tip, and watched him drive off. He then went to the parcels office and despatched his bag to his flat in London. Having done this he set out for a long walk, with nothing but a stout stick, and a rucksack with a few necessaries for the night. He had a long tour in front of him.
A steady rain was falling through the thick night, but the wind had dropped. The Vale was wrapped in shadow, not a light was showing. In the shrubbery Collins watched, getting what shelter he could. Unless all his calculations were at fault, here was the crisis of the situation. He was in front of the main door, and here it was that something would take place.
The time passed slowly, and he was thankful for the flask he had brought. Away in the distance a clock was striking. It was only nine o’clock.
Presently a familiar sound broke on his ear, the purring of a car. Along the drive came a gaunt, formless mass showing no light. He parted the bushes and looked keenly into the body of the car. It was empty. There was no one but the driver, who was heavily wrapped up. The car drew up at the door, and the driver got down. It was too dark to see further, and Collins came stealthily from the bushes, and turned down the drive. He was stiff from his waiting, but broke into a run, and only paused when he came to the entrance into the main road. The gate was open, but he carefully shut it.
It would be necessary to open it and to light up. He concealed himself.
It was not long before he heard the car coming down the drive.
Silently he drew from his pocket an automatic pistol and stood ready.
At the gate the car came to a stop. He heard a woman’s voice say, “Bother, the gate must have shut. Just open it, will you?”
A man’s voice replied, “Hush, not so loud,” and a figure got out of the car, and went forward.
The gate swung back, and at the same moment the driver turned on the headlights. They were dimmed and did not give much light, but a flicker struck the man, though he tried to dodge out of the way.
In that brief moment Collins recognised him. The next moment the car had swung out into the road.
“Allery, by all that’s holy,” said Collins, “and the other is Mabel, of course.” Then he laughed.
“So that’s it, is it?”
He set out on his long tramp to the nearest town.
XIV
Back in London
Boyce was smoking an excellent cigar, and was generally pleased with himself. He had just received a short note from the Prime Minister, thanking him for his good work in running the murderer of the Home Secretary to earth, and hinting that when the time came for the retirement of that fine old soldier, Sir Thomas Hawley, as Chief Commissioner for London, the new Home Secretary could not do better than appoint so efficient an officer as he had proved himself to be.
This was good reading. He had feared some strong words about his allowing lunatics to be at large, but the truth was that Sir James had never been popular with his colleagues, as he was considered reserved, and had not lent himself to giving soft berths to the nephews and friends of his fellow Cabinet Ministers.
His death had enabled the Premier to reshuffle the Ministry, and bring in an impecunious nephew of his own to a minor post.
So everyone was happy.
Boyce rang the bell and sent for Sinclair.
The latter was not in the same genial mood. None of the reflected glory of Boyce’s triumph had come his way, and he was perfectly convinced that whoever was guilty of the murder, Jackson was not.
“Take a seat, Sinclair,” said Boyce. “You might care to see this letter from the Premier,” and he handed it over with an air of indifference which did not deceive the other.
“Very good, sir, I congratulate you,” he said, simply.
“And now, Sinclair, I want to read you the indictment which Giles, of the Public Prosecutor’s office, has drawn up. I think it is very well done. Of course it is only in the form of notes.
Case against John Jackson, for the murder of Sir James Watson, Bt.
Jackson confesses in three separate statements that he has done the murder. But this without corroboration is of little value, since he has been declared insane by Medical Experts.
We have, therefore, to seek corroboration. Jackson states that he was several times hanging about the house in Leveson Square waiting for his chance.
This is confirmed by P.C. Jenkins and P.C. Whiting, both of whom have identified the man as having been seen in the vicinity of the Square.
Jackson states that he called on Superintendent Sinclair three days previous to the murder, and while in his office, stole writing paper, and a letter signed by the latter, and on this paper wrote to the Central News Agency.
Superintendent Sinclair confirms that such a call was made, but cannot trace any missing letter, though there might have been one.
“Is that so?” said Boyce, glancing at the other.
Sinclair made a face.
“Well, I certainly said I remembered the man calling, but I told them there was no missing letter. When the lawyer asked whether it would have been possible for such a letter to have been taken, I said of course it was possible, but highly improbable. That’s the way the lawyers twist evidence, but go on, sir.”
Boyce looked as though he was about to rebuke him for this heretical sentiment, but continued.
Jackson states that he called Sinclair
