“Why, yes, sir, just because it was so elaborate. A man like Knoll would not have had the mind to invent such a story. It must have been true, on the face of it.”
The commissioner’s eyes sank again, and he did not speak until the detective had reached the end of his story. Then he opened a drawer in his desk and took out a bundle of official blank-forms.
“It is wonderful! Wonderful! Muller, this case will go on record as one of your finest achievements—and we thought it was so simple.”
“Oh, indeed, sir, chance favoured me at every turn,” replied Muller modestly.
“There is no such thing as chance,” said the commissioner. “We might as well be honest with ourselves. Any one might have seen, doubtless did see, all the things you saw, but no one else had the insight to recognise their value, nor the skill to follow them up to such a conclusion. But it’s a sad case, a sad case. I never wrote a warrant with a heavier heart. Thorne is a true-hearted gentleman, while the scoundrel he killed...”
“Yes, sir, I feel that way about it myself. I can confess now that there was one moment when I was ready to—well, just to say nothing.
“And let us blunder on in our official stupidity and blindness?” interrupted the commissioner, a faint smile breaking the gravity of his face. “We certainly gave you every opportunity.”
“But there’s an innocent man accused—suffering fear of death—justice must be done. But, sir,” Muller took the warrant the commissioner handed across the table to him. “May I not make it as easy as I can for Mr. Thorne—I mean, bring him here with as little publicity as possible? His wife is with him in Venice.”
“Poor little woman, it’s terrible! Do whatever you think best, Muller. You’re a queer mixture. Here you’ve hounded this man down, followed hot on his trail when not a soul but yourself connected him in any way with the murder. And now you’re sorry for him! A soft heart like yours is a dangerous possession for a police detective, Muller. It’s no aid to our business.”
“No, sir, I know that.”