“Where you are, d—n it!”
Landis had flushed a little. “When I offered not to denounce you that day I felt very skilful and very magnanimous. Since then I’ve felt less so, on each count. There wasn’t a link missing in the chain that led to you. You confessed readily—too blamed readily. A man of your character and achievements simply couldn’t commit a cold-blooded murder and try to hide it. I don’t know your motive. But if you know who did murder Carson, for the love of Mike, tell me!”
“What steps will you take?” smiled Bernard. “You’re in harness yet, remember, while I’m out to graze.”
“If you haven’t taken any, I won’t!”
Thereupon, preceded by a brief, slightly apologetic explanation of his own reason for confessing, Bernard named the real murderer of Henry Carson.
Landis was too surprised to offer any immediate comment. Moreover, he was busy with a swift readjustment of the evidence in the light of what he had heard.
At length he laughed. “So simple we never thought of it! Well, I’m glad you didn’t guess either, until you were told. It was a pretty white thing you did.”
Bernard frowned and fumbled with his pipe.
“That heart attack you had on the stairs!” cried Landis suddenly. “It was fake after all!”
“If there’s anything wrong with me,” growled Bernard, “it isn’t my heart!”