Lanagan headed back for Oakland to round up the loose ends of the story. He found police headquarters jammed with newspaper men and the smell of many flash powders heavy on the air.
“All right, Mr. Lanagan of the Enquirer,” quoth Henley. “You can talk to Watson now.” His tone was triumph.
Watson had confessed. He was sitting in a chair in the Inspector’s room, a huddled figure of misery. The mantle of age seemed to have settled on him overnight.
Lanagan was a hard loser. He stepped over to the huddled man.
“Do you mean to tell me, Watson,” he said so low that no one but Watson heard him; “do you mean to tell me that you are not lying, putting your neck in the noose—to save your wife?”
“No! No!” the denial was a shriek. “I killed him! I killed him for his money, I tell you!” He fell back, shivering.
Lanagan drove in on him. “You lie, I tell you,” he hissed. “You lie! You fool! It’s bound to come out! Tell the truth!”
“No, no,” moaned Watson. “I did it alone. God! I can feel his skull crunching yet!”
“You’ve got more imagination than I credited you with,” sneered Lanagan savagely. “That last was a good touch.”
There was a hustle as Quinlan and Pryor came through the prison gates from the detinue cells surrounded by an eager coterie of newspaper men.