“I talked to him before he died. We picked him up in a boat when we went to the fire. He had been badly beaten but before he died he regained consciousness. He talked plenty, too.”
“What did he say? Tell who beat him up?” Skinner was plainly anxious.
“No, strange to say he didn’t.”
“Well then...?”
“Just this.” Inspector Jones whipped out his gun. “Put ’em up Skinner and keep ’em up. I’m arresting you and I’m going to charge you with the murder of Josiah Flint.”
“Why—why—that’s—that’s ridiculous, Inspector. You can’t make a charge like that stand up on the ravings of a dying man.”
“I didn’t tell you that Beasell made any such charges. But I’m tellin’ you now that he made a dying statement that he was in the kicker off the yacht when Skippy and his father came along, that he had been there some time, and hearing you and Flint quarreling, he watched through the porthole, saw you two struggling after Flint charged you with cheating him—saw you shoot the old man in the back when you twisted him around as he tried to snatch the gun you drew in your anger. He also saw you sit old Flint up again, scatter papers all over the place and take what money there was in his desk. Beasell’s blackmailed you plenty since, threatening to turn you in.”
“But—but——”
“And that isn’t all,” the Inspector went on relentlessly. “Buck Flint has been giving you a free hand and staying away, but he’s had accountants working on your books and he’s got plenty of evidence as to how you’ve ben cheating him and how you cheated the old man.”
“No jury will ever convict me on evidence like that.” Skinner seemed to have regained his composure. “Beasell was only a cheap crook anyway and he’s dead, too. Stealing money isn’t murder.”