I stretched out the line, and then
sank my hand in the damp grass to mark the spot.
'Good God!' I cried, aghast, 'what is this?'
'It is the pistol,' said Kombs quietly.
It was!!
* * * * *
Journalistic London will not soon forget the sensation that was caused
by the record of the investigations of Sherlaw Kombs, as printed at
length in the next day's _Evening Blade_. Would that my story ended
here. Alas! Kombs contemptuously turned over the pistol to Scotland
Yard. The meddlesome officials, actuated, as I always hold, by
jealousy, found the name of the seller upon it. They investigated. The
seller testified that it had never been in the possession of Mr
Kipson, as far as he knew. It was sold to a man whose description
tallied with that of a criminal long watched by the police. He was
arrested, and turned Queen's evidence in the hope of hanging his pal.
It seemed that Mr. Kipson, who was a gloomy, taciturn man, and usually
came home in a compartment by himself, thus escaping observation, had
been murdered in the lane leading to his house. After robbing him, the
miscreants turned their thoughts towards the disposal of the body--a
subject that always occupies a first-class criminal mind before the
deed is done.
Pages:
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385