THE murder of Matthew Russell continued to upset me terribly, and night and day I could not keep my thoughts away from it. He had been a man of such lovable character and such a general favorite with everyone. Mixing in all the best society of the city and on intimate terms with the highest persons in the State, he had nevertheless worked whole-heartedly under me. Apparently in complete forgetfulness that while he had been an important man in the community, I, after all, was still only a poor office clerk, he had taken orders from me just as the humblest and most insignificant of my patrols, and although many years my senior, had always treated me with the respect and deference due to a superior officer.
I felt his loss terribly and I learned afterwards that it added not a little to my popularity with the special service men that everyone could see how genuinely grieved I was. It made them realise the spirit of camaraderie that there was amongst us.
It was a good thing for me, too, that I was popular with my men, for otherwise I should never have got to know, in the manner that I did, how suddenly the clouds of suspicion had gathered up against me at head-quarters.
Two days after Matthew Russell’s funeral I had just arrived at the office when one of the city patrols, a man called Fraser, rang me up. He said he wanted to speak to me urgently about a very serious matter and asked if he could come round at once.
I was rather annoyed, because I had a lot to do that morning, but still I thought it best to tell him he might come, and so within ten minutes at most he was ushered into my private room.
He was very particular to make sure that the door was shut securely behind him, and then he advanced almost on tiptoe to my desk.
“Mr. Wacks,” he said very quietly when we had shaken hands, “I’m sorry to bother you in business hours, but I’m sure when I’ve told you everything you’ll say I was quite right to come.”
“What is it then?” I asked, feeling almost inclined to smile at the air of mystery in which he was enveloping himself. “For anything urgent you can always come any time.”
He hesitated for a moment, as if not knowing how to commence, and then he blurted his words out as rapidly as he could, at the same time keeping his voice down almost to a whisper.
“It’s those damned police with their jealousy again — they’re trying to make out now that it’s you who are the murderer.”
I almost collapsed.
His words struck at me like a blow; a dreadful shudder ran through my body and my knees shook horribly under the desk. A clammy sweat came over me and my heart hammered so fiercely that I felt as if my very head would burst. But I don’t think my face altered at all. I just stared at him stonily, without the flicker of an eyelash and without saying a word.
“It’s that brute Meadows,” he went on hoarsely. “I heard him tell the Chief Commissioner that you were the man on the roof last Sunday, and that it was you who had committed every murder that had been done.”
I looked at him very calmly, and it was then the beating of my heart seemed suddenly to ease a little. Almost a flutter of relief ran through me and I could almost feel, too, the ghost of a weak smile beginning to gather round my lips. Why should I be so startled, I asked myself? After all, his news was only what I had been expecting, and the mercy of it was that it had come to me from friendly lips. It was no hostile audience that faced me now — no shrewd and critical gathering of my enemies, waiting gleefully to see how I would take the first blow. Just a blundering, honest, and indignant friend, whose very indignation would blind him from the recognition of any guilty feelings I might possibly show.
My luck again! The smile on my face strengthened just a little and I moistened my dry lips with my tongue.
“Dear me,” I said quietly, “and when did you hear all this?”
“Last night,” he replied promptly. “I was hidden in the cupboard of the Specials’ room. Listen and I’ll explain everything.”
“But first sit down comfortably,” I told him, now much more at my ease. “Don’t be in a hurry, I’m most interested, of course.” He sat down at once and leaned towards me over the desk.
“Last night,” he began slowly, “I was late in getting to head-quarters — more than quarter of an hour. I was lucky in meeting no one in the passage and slipped into our room hoping to get my cap and armlet and make off without being seen. I was particularly anxious not to be seen, because I had been late for duty one night also last week, and the Chief had seen me coming in then and jacketed me soundly in front of the grinning policemen in the hall. Last night I saw at once I was the last special to arrive, for our room was in darkness. I didn’t switch on the lights, because I had, of course, my electric torch with me, and, with that I knew I could easily find my things. Well, I was just groping in the cupboard for my cape when suddenly I heard footsteps in the passage and then the voice of the Chief himself. ‘No I can’t see you now,’ I heard him say sharply. ‘I’ve got some people in my room and I shall be very busy for at least an hour.’ ‘But I must see you, sir, at once,’ replied another voice, and I recognised that it was the detective Meadows speaking. ‘It’s extremely urgent or I wouldn’t press it.’ The Chief grumbled something, their voices came nearer, and then I heard him say crossly, ‘Well, come in here.’ I had just time to jump into the cupboard and pull the door to when up went the lights and through the chinks of the door I saw the Chief and Meadows standing in our room. ‘Now, Meadows, be quick,’ said the Chief irritably. ‘I give you two minutes, that’s all,’ and then Meadows came out with what I’ve just told you. The Chief seemed to just gasp in astonishment.
“‘What the hell do you mean?’ he asked, ‘Wacks, the murderer! You silly ass’; but Meadows was as excited as he was, and poured out a long rigmarole of a tale about you. I can’t remember a quarter of what he said, but he told the Chief he had been keeping a diary for ever so long and there were a lot of things in it about you. He said he had just been reading it over and he saw there were seven nights last January when you had come home very late. He said he had been comparing dates, and these late nights of yours all fitted in exactly with some of the nights on which the first murders had been committed. He said there could be no possible mistake about it. Then he went on about your killing someone’s rabbits next door to where you lived and why some dog hadn’t barked because, of course, it knew you. Then he told the Chief that after killing these rabbits — I never heard such a tale — you went mad up at the office here and tried to kill several of the clerks by throwing inkstands at them. He said a man called Waller had told him all about it, and that you had also been seen drinking beer that day. But why don’t you laugh, Mr. Wacks? You look quite pale.”
At last the good fellow was noticing my condition, but it was happy for me that I had now got myself completely under control. I smiled, though I could feel it was only a very sickly smile.
“I should like to laugh,” I replied, “except that it’s really too tragic to be comic. But tell me, what did the Chief say?”
“Oh, at first he didn’t seem to believe a word, but afterwards Meadows had quite talked him over. Meadows kept on insisting that several times you had got hold of inside information that only the police or the murderer himself could possibly have known. He said you must have been there, for instance, on the park lands that night when Police–Constable Holthusen was killed, or you couldn’t possibly have told the Premier what you did when you went up on the deputation. Then the Chief broke in:—‘And, damn it all, that’s how he knew a police bicycle had been stolen that night outside Government House. I can see it all now. He stole it himself. It was a dead secret all along from everyone except the parties actually concerned, and then up gets that Peter Wacks at the public meeting and gives everything away as if he knew all about it, which no doubt the beggar did. Oh damn!”
Fraser’s imitation of the Chief Commissioner was very realistic and for the moment I felt almost amused at what he was telling me.
“So the Chief worked himself up into quite a rage, did he?” I asked my informant, when for a second he paused to take breath.
“A rage? By cripes you should have seen him when Meadows said you were the man hiding on the roof at Prospect last Sunday. He just danced up and down like a cat on hot bricks. ‘No wonder he made us the laughing-stock of the city,’ he swore. ‘Oh, the damned swine!’ Then he went on to give Meadows a good jaw. They must never let you out of sight now, he said, for one single second after nightfall. You must be shadowed everywhere. But they must take damned good care not to make any mistake, for just now you were a sort of idol in the city, and if they made a bloomer it would be good-bye for all heads at Victoria Square. The Chief also said that, meanwhile, he should try to pump you tonight.
“But isn’t it absurd, Mr. Wacks? Doesn’t it just show to what lengths jealousy will take anyone? How they must hate all us specials!”
I shrugged my shoulders contemptuously. “It’s childish,” I said rather b............