Jack. With a club foot. A short man, who did not seem easy in good clothes. His face pock-marked. What better marks of identification could a detective desire? I was on the threshold of discovery, and yet some perverse streak kept me from seeing it. Not till the train was a mile from St. Pancras did I suddenly cry aloud—for all the world as though the name flashed itself out on one of the advertisements in the carriage—"Jack Skinner!"
Yes, Jack Skinner. He answered the description perfectly. He was short, he was pock-marked, he had a club foot, he was accustomed to wear fustian. I was really annoyed with myself that I had not thought of him at once. But it happens so sometimes.
Jack was his proper name. I dare say. Skinner was a nickname, bestowed upon him for certain peculiarities by which he was distinguished. The house-agent's clerk heard him say, "I can show 'em a trick or two." I should think he could. No man better. But for all that, he hadn't done any good for himself. Jack and I were old friends. I nicked him once as clean as a whistle, and got him three months. "You're too much for me, guv'nor," he said with a grin. He had a wholesome fear of me, but it was a long time since I had set eyes on him.
The board was before me, with a lot of pieces on it. My next move was to hunt Jack down. I will not waste time by relating how I did it. A fortnight it took me before I had him under my thumb. I don't mind confessing (I didn't tell him as much) that I was not prepared for the disclosures he made. They took me fairly by surprise, and let a lot of light upon the Rye Street Mystery.
I shall let Jack speak for himself. The story he related shall be told in his own words.
[PART III.]
[CHAPTER XXVIII.]
JACK SKINNER MAKES A STATEMENT.
Look 'ere. It ain't a plant, is it? I'm a bad lot, I know, about as bad as they make 'em, but when it comes to committin' a murder, it ain't in me to do it. If I 'ad the 'eart to kill a man, I ain't got the pluck—Wot's that yer say? I 'ad a 'and in it? I'll take my oath on my mother's Bible I 'adn't. I don't remember my mother—I wos chucked on the world wery young, guv'nor—and I don't know as she ever 'ad a Bible, but that don't make no difference, do it? If she did 'ave a Bible, and it was afore me now, I'd take my oath on it. I can't speak fairer nor that, can I? I wos there—I don't deny I wos there when it wos done but I 'adn't no more to do with it than the babby unborn. If it wos the last word I 'ad to speak with my dyin' breath, I'd swear I didn't 'ave no 'and in it, and I couldn't prevent it no more nor you could, guv'nor, bein', as I dessay you wos, a 'undered mile away at the time. Why, it come upon me like a clap of thunder, and upon Mr. Louis, too, pore chap, and there 'e wos—good Lord! I can 'ardly bring my tongue to say it—there 'e wos, layin' on the flore, stone dead, and the blood porein' out of 'im.